#catastrofiend

[kidhellion]

hes just standing there... menacingly!!

[harbingersecho]

[".S.Zo..fT.?"]

[sunsetno4]

Color me curious. How long did it take before your Sidestep fully revealed their face? To Ortega, Anathema or whoever was the first? o:

[breadharmskoi]

the casino chapter, or as i like to call it, "john doe has a no good, VERY BAD day"

[silvery-bluish]

Contents: Sometimes all it takes to share personal information with your best friend is a little bit of alcohol, the promise of shitty movies, and him almost dying.

Word count: 2901

Pairing: Chargestep

Warnings: Reference to injury

[noahlivingston]

attacking the casino kinda limits your opportunities later in the game but I do love that option. it's so hyped up like ooooh this casino is owned by halloowwwww grouuund and then u blow up one room, walk in, get mortums little briefcase, and then turn around and walk back out

[punkranger]

Baby villain taking inspiration from grandpa villian

[aro-ortega]

o:

[ianthedebonair]

they're gonna eat catastrofiend

[phantomrush]

actually, im curious-- what do people usually imagine the catastrofiend to look like? we get a few descriptors (tall, weird eye mods, mouth isn't normal, vestigial arms, can run on all fours, can be very quiet while mobile, the iconic extra scythe arms from the back, looks like a monster/demon/whatever and so on) but im not sure if theres any consensus how thats supposed to look all put together. does it wear shorts

[glitchy-npc]

bonus points for explanations!

[kidhellion]

fiend fight aftermath

[kittlesandbugs]

As always, plz reblog for moar data and feel free to share other moments in the tags! 😘

[dogueteeth-fhr]

29 for the whump prompt? 👀

29. “It’s not your fault. Come here.”

(Remy & Chen, Post-Catastrofiend)

"Where did I go wrong?"

Remy's eyes haven't left the sign since Chen got here ten minutes ago. No flicker from them, no response as Chen asked if he has been seen yet (he knew the answer, but asked anyways). No habitual flinch as Chen moved to sit beside him on the bench, still no response as Chen grimaced at the sticky substance that coated the metal joints of his fingers when he sat down. Chen couldn't tell if it was Remy's or...

Well. Remy can be surprisingly stoic for one so soft and timid. Shirking off damage like it's nothing, fighting on in reckless abandon like a cornered mouse. Maybe that's another reason he doesn't trust Remy.

"... there was nothing you could've done," Chen says, letting his eyes leave the tear in black and bloody teal uniform where he suspects the liquid is leaking from. Letting them stare up at the bright vermillion sign.

In Operation.

It makes his stomach churn. He hates it. Hates staring at it. Hates not knowing if it will black out or turn green. Hates not knowing if it will be Julia carted out of there, worse for wear but patched up, or a corpse.

"Nothing is ever certain when we're sent out against an enemy like that. I'm... sure you did everything you could to protect Ortega."

Does he believe it? He wants to, despite every logical neuron in his brain telling him that maybe he's wrong, maybe he's reading Remy wrong, it's just a trap to make him think that Remy could care. He's not even upset, not even angry, or sad. Just staring, staring, staring, face blank, saying nothing but this, staring at the neon sign.

"Bullshit."

"Excuse m—"

"Bullshit!" Remy barks, and Chen is embarrassed that he's startled, embarrassed that he balks a bit as Remy shoots up. For all the delicate frame and short stature of the vigilante, there's something in his stance that screams danger in Chen's lungs, his fists, his hackles, raising his hair on end. Remy's stormy eyes look mad, the crimson light a halo on ink-black hair. He looks inhuman.

And for a moment, Chen pauses and wonders if he's ever seen Remy angry.

"You're so full of bullshit, Chen," his name is spat in his face as Remy grabs his shirt collar, and not even the glare that usually sends Remy into a submissive hunker can stop his eyes from burning through Chen's soul now. "I've already heard this stupid spiel from Themmy. How I did everything I could. How she's 'going to be okay,' that I can't tear myself up over what I did or didn't do. I know you, you know every little mistake I do, see every little bad decision I make on the field, you've torn me a-fucking-part before, so don't you dare hold back on me now."

He hasn't, hasn't ever seen him angry before, and maybe that's why he finds himself tongue-tied. Brain on mute, memorizing every detail, every wrinkle carved into that alabaster face, curved around bared teeth, framing the gap in the front. How strong those thin hands grasp the cloth of his shirt in a death grip. How those hurricane eyes look, watery, clouded, dripping onto his shirt, hands shaking and mouth shuddering around a barely-swallowed sob.

"I failed. I failed to protect her, and now I'm going to lose her."

Chen is not prepared for this.

"I should have run faster. I should have been smarter. Oh, god, did I ever suggest that we split up?"

Anathema should be here for this, not him.

"Fuck, Chen... I did this to her. I fucked up, and it got to her, spilled her guts open, and oh god, I- they were so warm in my hands, I- fuck, oh god, I killed her. I messed up, I was too late, and I killed her and I'm never going to see her again and I—"

"Shh," Chen whispers, slowly, gently, enough for Remy to bolt if he wanted, to shove him away and disappear, circling his arms around Remy. Pulling him closer as the youngster gasps for breath amidst his sobs, feeling all of his years as Remy curls into him. Like his little sister used to. "It's not your fault. Come here."

He doesn't know how long he stays there. Arms around Remy, holding him close, listening to him sob. Miserable. Unsure if he's helping. Feeling conflicted that he cares enough to want to. Wishing he just knew if Julia is going to be alright. Wishing that stupid red sign would turn green. Wishing he could believe it when he says it's not Remy's fault. Being glad the hospital has built-in dampeners so Remy can't pick that thought up while he's sniffling and cradled in Chen's arms.

He really is the worst person for this.

[cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal]

WIP Wednesday (Just a Day Late)

So, I lied. When @idlenight tagged me with this, I wasn't really working on anything enough to show off at the time. It's been [checks calendar] about 20 days since then, but I'm actually making decent progress on some of my works now, so here are some excepts for a few.

Stand Tall for the Beast (Ch2: Charge)

“You still haven't even told me why you're doing this?” Panting has become full on gasping as he runs ever lower on steam. He really doesn't have the strength to stall, but there are no other options. “All this destruction and for what? What did you even gain?”

The armored villain doesn't seem to have the same problem. There's no hint of fatigue through the voice modulator as they say, "This wasn't for me. This was to send a message."

Ricardo winces as a blow glances off his dislocated arm. He needs to put space between them, but every jump back is pursued, every inch taken by the behemoth trying to take him apart. Another scan across the crowd. Still no Argent.

"A message?" The smoke and dust is starting to get to him. His throat burns, eyes stinging, and he stifles a cough. "Not very coherent. I don't think I get it."

A shift in the villain's weight spikes Ricardo's heart up and he turns on the balls of his feet. No more being coy about it, he needs to run. Hard metal crashes into his spine, knocking the breath out of him with the scream it pulls from his lips. The roll he folds into is a messy mistake. His form is off and the way it jostles his arm makes his vision go white.

Get up. He needs to get up. And then he is, weightless and half limp as sharp edged fingers take hold of his collar and lift him upright. His knees scrape the pavement, his nice trousers torn beyond saving. The villain leans down until the mirror mask is inches from his face, reflecting back a mix of blood and dirt and fear. For a split second, Ricardo is on his knees in a different time, surrounded by similar destruction and grime. Machinery and gore glaring down at him, telling him to beg as he pressed his hand against the ragged tear in his abdomen.

But there is no blood in the villain's fangs and their voices are less discordant than the Catastrofiend's had been. "It isn't meant for you, either," they growl.

Try to Stop This Feeling

Ortega doesn't flinch when an electric shock jumps between his fingers and his apartment lock as he turns the key. He should've turned his mods off, but reason told him that he'd best keep them on if he's inviting Xiao into his home. Best to be on his guard with a known criminal. And yet he can't quite stifle the growing excitement of inviting him in. When's the last time he had a date in his own home?

He knows the answer to that immediately and it takes real effort to keep the easy smile on his face. Dark eyes framed by long lashes and even darker curls flash through his mind. He shakes his head to dispel the thought of Rashad. That was a lifetime and a death away and they've made it clear that whatever spark had been between them, dragging them on late night motorcycle rides and early morning coffee and mid day spars, is gone. Even if it doesn't feel like it. Even when Rashad's hands still linger on his and their eyes find his when they think he's not looking at them, when the way he says Ricardo's name makes something deep in his chest ache-

He needs to stop thinking about Rashad.

Instead, he turns his eyes to Xiao, who dips his head slightly as he walks in. It's a weird quirk of his, though even in his heels, he doesn't approach the top of the frame. He brushes his hair back from his face as he looks around. It looks freshly dyed, silver and shiny, and Ricardo wonders again how he manages to keep it that color without frying his hair.

Untitled Gift (Sidestep Redacted)

Ricardo tries not to resent the way Daniel seems to be ever encroaching on their old habits and hobbies, things shared only between Ricardo and Sidestep for so long that he'd gotten it in his head that it was their thing, and how quickly, as well. But it's unfair to be grouchy about the whole ordeal on Daniel's birthday.

It's technically the third of Daniel's birthday celebrations and the only that's clearly to celebrate it with Sidestep specifically. Perhaps that's why they're so nervous, their fingers fiddling with the dishware. Or maybe it's the card enveloped in teal, sitting on the coffee table next to Ricardo's gift wrapped in traditional shiny sky blue. Ricardo steals another glance at it through the breakfast nook.

There's a bite of bitterness on his tongue that he swallows down quickly, returning his attention to clearing the food from the cookery. It's an ugly beast in his head, thinking about how well Daniel and Sidestep seem to get along. They move around each other fluidly, handing things to each other with almost instinctive grace and sense of spatial awareness. Is it the lack of static and shields that gives them that edge so quickly? Or is it the natural synergy that develops when people spar regularly. He knows Sidestep's been training Daniel for months now.

Untitled Hauville Birthday Prompt

Julian blinks down at the mess of yarn hastily sewn together scarf in his hands, his jaw working as he tries to find exactly how to say what he wants without hurting Tina's feelings. She stands in front of him, only slightly wringing her wrists, as she waits for him to respond. He must take too long to think, because she sighs in the next second. "You hate it, don't you?"

"I didn't say that," Julian protests. He runs his thumbs across the yarn sutures, thick lines disrupting and squashing the pattern of falling leaves together like a puckered scar. They're the wrong texture as well as being slightly the wrong color and Felix is bound to notice. "I just thought it would look better."

Tina crosses her arms, "I never said I could make it good as new again."

Julian fights the urge to roll his eyes, instead taking a deep breath. "You said you were crafty," he says slowly, keeping his tone level.

"Yeah like 'I can figure it out' crafty, not like 'I can crochet'!" Tina throws her arms out wide. She only looks half as frustrated as she sounds.

I'm tagging @disastersteps, @autistic-sidestep, @silvery-bluish, @swordsandspectacles, @serenpedac, @salem-wilde, and @idlenight right back because I'm sure you're working on something new. No pressure if y'all aren't up to it

[silvery-bluish]

34 w/ arisone :) for the whump prompt

prompts from here

trips. falls. catfiend fight fallout spills out of my arms.

Contents: 34 - "You promised not to leave." In the immediate aftermath of that one time Ricardo tried to solo the Catastrofiend.

Wordcount: 852

Relationships: Chargestep, ft Arsinoe. But this is TECHNICALLY in the limbo of them having kissed but not talked about it for like a year.

Warnings: Blood? Gore implied, but I don't go too hard on the descriptions of it.

There's blood on their hands. It's not something they think they'll ever get used to, something they can't stand the thought of getting used to, bright red. Like spilled paint. Never getting used to the feeling of holding someone's organs into their body, of pleading with deities they don't even believe in, anyone who will listen, that help will get there faster.

"D'd you see me?" Ricardo asks, and they almost laugh, because only he'd be worried about if they saw him fighting some…thing. Terrorbeast, creature, monster, they don't understand the Catastrofiend and it frightens them. Slick, sticky mind.

"Yeah I saw you," they say, and he grins at them, slumped in the alleyway. There's red in his teeth. "Stick with me, okay? That was impressive, but that was dumb, Ricardo, you--" almost died, but they aren't sure if it's an almost, because this is bad. Sentinel in their ear, telling them it's just a couple more minutes. To hold on.

"Nowhere else I'd rather stick," Ricardo says, and then, "You hurt your hand?"

You're not supposed to get blood in someone's open wound, but it'd mostly cauterized, and they were clean last time they got their blood checked. "I'm fine," they say, "I'm not the one who decided to fight the Catastrofiend one-on-one, Ricardo, what the fuck."

"Wasn't one on one," he's stubborn, brow furrowing. Eyes fighting to focus on them. Blood loss. Not… good. "I knew you were working on something."

"I wasn't going to leave you," they say, almost offended. You don't leave a teammate behind. Even if he's doing something practically suicidal.

"Promise?" Lucidity back, for a moment, and they nod. How can they do anything else?

"Yeah," they say, and they mean it. Had meant it before, but they're freer now. They get to choose when they leave a situation. And they won't leave a teammate behind again.

He smiles, and leans against them. Fuck, it's bad if someone goes unconscious, if they lose too much blood? Grasp for remembered percentages-- most people can lose fourteen percent of their blood without many adverse side effects. Past that… most people don't survive losing forty percent. So. Somewhere between fifteen and forty percent, and that's all they've got. His heart beats a fevered pitch against them, they can feel his pulse because they've basically got their hands in his guts.

They still can't feel past the static to get a better bead on him, even now. Is he going unconscious, or just going quiet?

"Hey," they say, jostling him slightly. "Ricardo?"

"Hmm," he just hums against them. "Stay with me?"

"I said I would. You stay with me. Don't you dare die on me, Ricardo Ortega."

"Yeah, trying not to."

Prying words out of him is slow, and it's all they can do to keep themself from panicking. But if they panic, they can't help him. So they shut it down, shove it in a box they'll deal with later. Not now.

Eventually, hands pry him out of their arms, their hands out of his stomach. They almost punch one of them, too, almost bite, vicious clawing until they realize these people are here to help, dressed in their EMT uniforms. Maybe it really had only been a couple of minutes.

It felt longer.

They get Ricardo up on a stretcher, real gauze and real professionals saying panicked, half-comprehended things to each other in low tones as Arsinoe watches. Blood bag hooked up to his arm nearly as soon as they get Arsinoe clear. Ricardo blinks slow at them, and that's all that matters.

"You hurt too?" one of the paramedic asks, a young woman with cropped short hair and Ricardo's blood on her arm, from-- probably from having to pry them off him, really. They startle, hadn't thought any of them would talk to them. Sidestep doesn't do doctors. Sidestep doesn't do paramedics, either.

"I'll be fine," they say, brushing her off. It doesn't hurt. They can deal with it later.

"We need to go. Do you want to ride in with Charge, then?" she asks, and they do, is the thing. But the idea of locking themself in a box with medical professionals, and having to explain why they won't let them touch their injured hand, or why they won't go into the hospital itself. She's worried about their hand, wants the chance to get a better look at it, and they can't.

They know the paramedics don't want to cause them harm. They know that. But they can't make themself believe it, is the thing.

He's fighting them, some, enough to get the oxygen mask they strap to his face back off. Like he can sense them faltering in the doorway of the ambulance. "You promised not to leave," not as loud as he was probably trying to make it, but he's… not in great shape.

They steel themself. "Only as far as the hospital," they say, firmly, and when they climb in, him grasping to hold their bloody hand in his is almost enough to offset the slam of the metal doors behind them.