#chargestep (implied)

[pyroclaststan]

For a prompt. No editing, no rereading, I’m 80% I didn’t conjugate things correctly but it was 3am when I wrote it and I am too frustrated with technical complications to try now. POV Ortega, post-HB, just going through it.

Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the effort and exertion, or maybe it’s the creeping frustration that always seems to catch up to you at some point of the day, the weeping wound of remembrance of your world being off axis. With a growl of annoyance you launch the hay off of your shoulder and into the trough with more force than necessary: it feels good to hit something in the few ways you can—to make something else the punching bag for once while you lick your own wounds. A trough is no villain, but you can resent it all the same, which is to say for no real reason at all.

That alone burns you up inside, that there’s no real reason for any of this.

Loud, sharp whistling like a songbird from hell draws your attention to the edge of the pen: mamá stands with a foot up on the fence, frowning pointedly in your direction. The patented Ortega look of disappointment or the street disapproval of a mother, both cutting.

“¿Te pedí que alimentarán a los animales o que los asustaras hasta la mierda?” she reprimands, shaking her head.

It’s no fault of hers that you’re irritated, frustrated, and struggling. You know that. But you can’t help the constant crawling that makes you want to curse and scream and fight the world. You can’t tune out all the ways in which everything demands your attention.

Battered by sensations of the sweat dripping down your spine, the way your denim rubs against your legs, the loose string in your work glove incessantly catching on a broken nail, and the pigs pushing you about you let out a string of rapid-fire curses—everything is too much and too little. Too numb and too sensitive.

So overwhelming without that familiar weight by your side.

Stomping feels like the only way to get anything out of your system, so you step heavily towards the gate to talk with your mother before catching yourself, trying to cool off first in a repeating tread back and forth to calm yourself before you come to your mother in any disrespectful fashion. It’s like you’re a child again, a silly little tantrum that boils in your blood but you can find no other escape for—it’s the only way you can get out whatever’s trying to worm its way in. You’ve got to get it out somehow and this is the only place you can safely do so so you let the pot boil over, the cork pop, the dam break.

You let out another stream of curses, fully aware of the weight of your mother’s gaze on you, prickling your skin further.

Not the right gaze.

“Fucking… FUCK!” you shout so loud it holds you in place and echoes out, the desert around you carrying the sentiment all the way back to Kingsley’s hometown, wherever that was.

Mamá however, just chuckles at your outburst, shaking her head and pulling her cream and turquoise stetson lower. “Fucking fuck? If I’d known Mi Rey had possessed you, I’d have put a pot of coffee on.”

“It’s not funny, none of this—“ you’re interrupted by a feeling like your stomach wants to escape up and out of your throat and mouth, and the mindfulness that you’re talking to your own mother. None of this is how it should be, none of this was how it was supposed to go. You’re washed up and retired and even that would’ve been manageable with a bitter shadow beside you chiding you along the way, but you’ve lost your best friend. All you can do is make more annoyed noises, willing yourself to get your shit together before you kick your own ass, trying to express something you haven’t fully fathomed.

Your mother just looks at you knowingly, ever-patient, ever kind. “Vamos, joder joder, lucky for you I did put a pot on ‘cause I’m always prepared for mi Flora.” Without further word she throws a tea towel at you and turns to walk away, back to the house proper.

There’s a small shake of her head, a tiny rise and fall of her shoulders as she goes: you know Kingsley’s loss had affected her, too, but she had chosen to remain strong for her remaining child—for you.

You use the cloth to mop up the sweat that’s gathered on your face and neck from the day’s chores before moving on to your bare arms and chest on your way back. A proper shower will be required to remove the grime and grit but even that little bit of cleaning has made you feel a bit more human, and pulling off your offending gloves and shoving them into your pocket removes a bit of tension.

Making your way through the well-loved ranch home you breathe deep: the smells of leathers and furs and spices as they sit in the heat, despite the windows being left open to keep a drafting breeze. Or maybe all of that is you, but you’re not willing to give yourself a sniff to find out.

She sits at a table, bathed in sepia sunlight, looking far older than you remember her ever being, or maybe just tired… like you’re tired. Silently, your steaming mug is pushed towards you, telling you where to sit. “I know that feeling well,” she warbles, voice sounding full to the brim with emotion as she gently spins and turns the jewellery on her fingers. “Vamos, sientate.”

You take your seat silently, equally drained and somber, but you can’t touch that cup. That mug that isn’t yours. Someone else’s. Theirs.

Before you, your mother steels herself, and within her you see all of the focus of the woman who was almost an Olympian, the woman who was once a wife, the woman who will always be your mother.

“This is the last thing that any child wants to hear, mi amor, but you’re going to hear it: I know what you’re going through. How you’re feeling. Perder a un ser querido, a un ser cercano, nunca es fácil. Especialmente cuando son parte de nosotros mismos... I went through the same thing when we lost your father—do not make that face, because no matter what he was to you, you must think of what he was to me.” Your heart hurts at how her voice cracks but she’ll say her piece through it, you know.

“So you can be mad, be angry—ser un matón si es necesario—but you must get it out before that, like poison, seeps into your bones.” She pushes the mug towards you roughly, guiding you to look down into black depths. “You need to learn to take what’s bitter, and to accept it and appreciate it for what it is, and for how it reminds you to appreciate the sweet. Es una cosa cursi decirlo, lo sé, pero nunca preparé mucha sabiduría para algo como esto.”

She looks you in the eye, taking a sip of coffee before crossing her arms.

“Este es el comienzo, la resta depende de ti.”

[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.

[witchfall]

spectator sport

[Fallen Hero. Set pre-Heartbreak, early Sidestep days. That one time Owl punched Sidestep and Sidestep had some Thoughts about it.]

[Implied Chargestep. River Basri and Ricardo Ortega. 1104 words. CW: implied past sexual assault near the beginning.]

[or read on ao3.]

2009

The pain is straightforward.

The agenda is known: she struck you so you’d know to stay away. That’s better than the smiles that come before smarmy hands; the grins that only come when they think they’ll get everything you have to give.

They would smile at you and then hit you hard enough your cheekbones would ache for hours, just for the sake of it. Never let your guard down, asset. Always be ready.

This is not that, you whisper to yourself. This is not that.

But the logic doesn’t hold, despite the calculated mantra. The rest of you is rearing back, spinning up for a kick right to her middle, because no one gets to touch you like that. Not here. Not like this. Not as Sidestep, as River Basri, not as this person you are, maybe, to some of them — and anyone who thinks otherwise should maybe be stabbed by the broken ballerina stand from which you fell, should right between the ribs to make them die—

A deep-blue arm snakes around you, locking you in place so that your hips can’t rotate in full. You can’t kick.

The tension in your body roils, but whoever pinned you knows you too damn well; they got one of your arms, and so you stop moving and bite back a scream because you know they loved it when you screamed. Control yourself. Don’t give them an iota of satisfaction.

And then, in the yawning space of a moment, you are behind Ortega, hands braced on his tensing back.

Did he pull you from another universe?

“What the fuck, Owl?” You can feel Ortega rumble beneath your fingertips, and it startles you back into this world. You yank your hands back into yourself.

Circle back. Think. Owl punched you because you were behind her and she didn’t want you there — you felt her terror in the same moment your nose crunched into bloody pulp — and in another moment Ortega was next to you, pulling you behind him protectively.

What happened in the middle?

Blood drips into your mouth in hot, thick rivulets. Pain buzzes like a kicked nest of hornets, curling your stomach with its intensity, but you ignore it in favor of peeling away your bloody mask from your nose, hiding your wince beneath your lenses. You push your fingers into your forehead to focus the pain inwards, and then wrangle the heat simmering dangerously beneath your heart.

“Get this kid out of here,” the woman snaps, hard as a glacier. “What are you goddamn thinking, Marshal?”

“This is Sidestep, you—”

Owl’s face comes around Ortega’s side. “Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that!”

You bite your lip. Bite your tongue. Don’t let them have the satisfaction of an apology or resistance. You are the water that rolls down the mountain. You turn away. That’s all you’ll give, your back, because you don’t care. Owl is not a threat worth considering. She can’t do anything to you.

You don’t hear their conversation, carried in terse, sharp syllables. Ortega’s voice rises like storm clouds. You just keep walking. Focus on your feet. You had already saved the day. You were just supposed to be talking about where to go from there, which would probably be Owl’s bar, anyway, and you just wanted to ask Owl about the alloy in her sword, but you miscalculated. People don’t like it when you walk right up to them, usually just approaching via the side is better, because you can ignore each other if you’d both prefer it, but perhaps Owl was too keyed up, and perhaps you should stop wearing your weird bug lens mask every single place you go, but if you don’t, what will stop the world from—

Breathe.

Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her.

The words feel bad in your mouth, like sticky marbles. But that’s part of the satisfaction. You will hold them in your teeth until they melt back into sugar and water and you’ll use it to sustain you. You don’t care what anyone thinks. Even fury can feed you, if you tend it right, but that is not the same as caring.

It’s not.

A hand grips your arm. The gasp leaves you before you can stop it.

“Red. Hey. River.”

Not Sidestep. Work is over for the day.

Ortega steps in front of you. His fingers wrap around your shoulders, now, and by instinct you shrug hard enough that his knuckles nearly brush your ear before he gets the message and pulls back.

Only to grab your hands. Sticky with your own blood.

Gloves are on. It’s okay.

“River? Dios mio, your nose—oh, Red, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

No. No, he only says that when he thinks you are about to cry, which you do not do.

“Nose injuries sting,” you say, as flat as you can, but the words come out choked and nasally.

“You froze up so hard, I thought...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, which makes you want to explode. You don’t need this. The tightness of uncertainty doesn’t become him.

“I didn’t,” you snap, but to what? You shake your hands free. “I didn’t know,” you decide.

He has white gauze from somewhere. When did he get that? He dabs your face with it, and it makes you wince so hard you nearly slap him.

Where does the time go, in moments like this? You swear you tried to fight back. But thoughts aren’t reality — until they are and you’re somewhere else, and maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s all so mutable.

Everything.

“Owl can go to hell,” you mutter.

Ortega’s shoulders relax at that. He lets himself laugh. “Yeah, well.”

Your mouth twitches into a sticky frown. “I’m going home.”

“I’ll take you.”

“No.” The word is hard. “Just me.”

There it is again — that sudden rigidity to his body. The way the whites of his eyes become stark against his skin. You would call it fear, but the static doesn’t give you any hint. Besides. That doesn’t make any sense.

He takes your hand again. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“Whatever.” Acquiescence. He won’t stop otherwise. You’ve gotten good at this dance.

“And text me when you’re home.”

“Stop marshaling me.”

“I’m—”

You turn away, so he stops making that gaunt expression at you. “I will. It’s fine.”

Fury doesn’t mean caring, and thoughts are not reality. But hands say what people really mean.

He lets yours go at the very last moment.

You wish it made you mad, when he touched you. It would be so much easier.

[mercuraybird]

red touches yellow, kills a fellow,

an all disclaimers to @fallenhero-rebirth fic, ~400 words, chargestep, sidestep pov, mlm, retribution spoilers, soft nsfw, tw implied self harm (one sentence mention)

You’ve started wearing less clothes around Ortega. Stripped down to your undermost layers, just tank-tops and boxers when you’re in his apartment. He thinks this is a victory—a concession of trust. But it’s not. Not really. It’s only you, displaying your body, letting him see the tattoos that cover your skin, orange and industrial. Circles, concentric and hypnotizing.

It is a warning sign. 

Stay away, don’t touch.

I’m dangerous.

Sometimes, it works. Ortega keeps his distance. 

These are the times you catch him looking at you, hesitant and nervous. As if you are a precious ceramic dish he’s taken out of his mother’s china cabinet. One his clumsy hands have dropped, shattered into the pieces he’s foolishly trying to glue together, hoping no one will notice. But they will. 

All they have to do is peer through the glass and see. 

So you’ve made it easy for them. For him. And when he doesn’t notice you noticing him, you see the true thoughts written on his face. That you are the Other. Freakish and dangerous.

Stay away. Don’t touch.

But when your colors fail to scare, your body not enough to warn him away, you find yourself on the couch, like this, with Ortega in between your legs.

He slides his hands up under them, guiding you apart, planting gentle kisses up your thighs. Following the ink like it’s some kind of perverted map up to you. 

And when he reaches the edge of your clothes, he pauses, but because he’s an idiot who’s always wanted more since the day you first met (half a face in the beginning, and then a name, and then accidentally more and more until he had you in your civvies, going to restaurants and getting your nose broken by hot-headed bartenders, even kissing on his stupid, beat-up couch)—because of that, he’s pushing up the hem of your boxers, wanting you. Kissing each scar he finds, knowing you’ve put them there yourself.

But he doesn’t pull them down, despite that want in his eyes. He lets you expose yourself at your own pace, content with knowing what the waiting does to you. 

He leaves you aching as he and his hands travel up your body, slowly, sensually, until he’s flush on top of you and your mouths are pressed together. Tasting, testing each other.

Ortega pulls away when he feels the first tear fall down your cheek, tastes it hit your lips.

He kisses away the second.

God, why doesn’t he realize you’re poisonous?

[rowdyrhapsody]

my body can have a lil serotonin... as a treat. 

redraw from one of my favourite videos ever.

[thecosmicsleep]

There's a reason Chen doesn't like them together.

Edit: Tumblr, stop killing my quality challenge!!!

[gingerbreton]

OH. Hmm. If that floats your boat, "your bed after travelling [or getting beat up or getting kidnapped for 3 years—so many possibilities, thank you Sidestep)" for Lila?

Home

Fandom: FHR (past Chargestep)

Warning: implied past selfharm

Notes: this is all angst. all hurt, no comfort! sometimes the angst just has to happen

Summary: Lila arrives back in Los Diablos, feet inevitably carrying her back to a home that isn't hers anymore.

Rating: T Word Count: 934 [AO3 link]

--

You dumped the stolen car on the edge of town and walked the rest of the way, miles with hood up and feet rubbed raw in shoes that don’t fit.

Muscle memory and an aimless mind brought you to this door.  The same old chipped paint and brass numberplate.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Do you want to get caught?  But better here than another apartment you know.

You press your hand to the wood, stretching your mind as you flex your fingers against the grain.  There’s nobody home.  And there’s things in there you need.

Nothing else.  Just items.

The lock is an easy pick and the woman across the hall has an easy enough mind to twist into thinking you’re the owner.  You try to smile at her, but how many years has it been?  Your muscles don’t even remember how to fake it.  The last one to touch them was—

Fingers running up your spine.  Strings pulling.  Lips twitching and —

NO.  Not now.

You claw the smile onto your face.  Bright and false and venomous, but she doesn’t see that.  And you make sure to not catch your reflection, because smiles will forever haunt you.  They aren’t yours anymore.

Beyond the door that used to be your haven, there’s not so much as a shadow of your former existence.  There’s an ache in your chest that you shut down hard when you see the walls have been painted.  Careful neutrality to erase the sun bleaching of where your photos and posters used to cover the walls.  To erase you from this space.

You move through the rooms, a spirit unable to let go of what isn’t yours anymore, fingers trailing over the spaces where your life used to be.

You’d forgotten how loud Los Diablos was.  So many voices clamouring to get in your head, leaving your shields straining under the weight.

When did you last rest?

Oh God, you’re tired.  Bones-deep tired.  Weary to the inky depths of that soul the world collectively decided you didn’t have.  You shouldn’t (but you could) just sit down.  Lay down a little while.

Afternoon sunlight pours warmth into the pinks and the patterns of what used to be your plain old room.  The bed is covered in pillows and throws.  The air smells like perfume.

It’s indulgent in a way you never knew how to be.

The ceiling spins a moment before your eyes settle on a stain in the corner above your head.  The remnants of a burst pipe upstairs.  The first truly unchanged thing you’ve seen since setting foot here.

The tears catch you off guard, spilling down your cheeks onto someone else’s pillow.  It’s not like you never cried.  Oh no, you’ve wept over and over to the silent darkness of your cell over the things they did to you.  Over the sights scarred into your memory, the ones that wait for you behind your eyelids.  The pain you endured.

But this is different.

This is grief.

And it hits like a fist to the solar plexus.  Leaves you gulping down sobs as you lie in the grave of your former life, aching and hollow from what you’ve lost.  Grieving for yourself— Lila —for Sidestep, for innocence lost.

Because you were innocent; for as much as you thought you were cynical and worldly-wise, you were a child.  You had no idea how much worse it could get.  How hope and trust would ruin you.

Not this time.

You smear away the tears on scarred wrists, leaving trails of mascara black, and set about the real (liar) reason you’re here.

Two loose skirting boards and a pried floorboard later and all your old secrets are found.  A habit first learned in your mind—hide the precious thoughts and memories where no one else can find them no matter how deep they dig.  It only stands to reason you’d do the same with the physical.

The cash and the burner phone are what (you tell yourself) you came here for.  Your emergency stash you never got to use because you never saw them coming.  The other things you’d forgotten you had.

Amongst newspaper clippings and ticket stubs strewn on the floor in front of you, there’s a polaroid, and you watch it like a loaded gun.  They say nostalgia is a drug, but to you it’s a knife, burying itself deeper into your chest the longer you stare at that thing.

The woman in the picture is you.  But not the same you who stared back from the bathroom mirror with haunted eyes as you wiped away the remnants of two day old eyeliner from ghostly pale skin.  She’s smiling and warm.  So very warm.  Not like now.   (96.2. cyanosis setting in. and you don’t think you’ve warmed up since) .  You can see it radiating from her eyes and in a smile you just can’t make anymore.

And she’s looking at him.  Gaze locked on warm brown eyes.  You can practically see her heart bleeding on her sleeve.  And now you’re looking at him.

Fools, the pair of you.

The scratch of keys in the lock drag you back from the point of crushing the photo.  You would have otherwise (liar).  But instead you get to your feet, stuffing the remnants of your old life into your pockets.  Glancing towards the door, you lazily wrap your mind around fingertips.  Making movements sloppy.  Tired.  Why won’t the key fit in the lock?

As the key finally clicks, you slip out the window into the gathering darkness, like the ghost that you are.

[bitterotter]

Tagged by @curiousstrawberry <3 <3 <3 so I’ll do this for Mordred (my sidestep). Gonna tag: @mimabeann @inspirelocked @the-desert-dancer @crackinglamb and @atomirotta and anyone else who wants to do it!

B A S I C S

·         full name: Mordred Banes, no middle name he had a hard enough time picking the first and last.

·         gender: transgender male

·         sexuality: a little complicated – definite mlm. Not sure if/how much he’s in to anyone else

·         pronouns: he/him

O T H E R S

·         family: None

·         birthplace: [redacted]

·         job: Formerly: hero/vigilante. Currently: officially retired, unofficial troublemaker/anarchist (although, I haven’t totally decided this)

·         phobias: confined spaces, darkness, medical procedures

·         guilty pleasures: implying he has shame, nvm he’s got a lot… He likes music in general, but 90s grunge is his favorite, plays it way too loud. Drinks that are equally part horrifyingly sweet and alcoholic. Cuddling, he just… really likes being held. Loves animals, secretly feeds stray cats

·         hobbies: Literature, mythology. He really likes the escape that reading brings, he’ll read about anything. Movies are acceptable too.

M O R A L S

·         morality alignment? According to a quiz, chaotic neutral but he might be closer to chaotic evil

·         sins: Desire / Despair / Envy / Fear / Hunger / Pride / Rage / Sloth

·         virtues: Charity / Chastity / Diligence / Humility / Justice / Kindness / Patience  (these are like… take them with a grain of salt lmao, his ideas are a little skewed)

T H I S - O R - T H A T

·         introvert/extrovert: Introvert, but it’s a very close tie

·         organized/disorganized: disorganized

·         close minded/open-minded: Pretty open-minded

·         calm/anxious: anxious, not even close

·         disagreeable/agreeable: mm, tends to land on disagreeable

·         cautious/reckless: reckless, as much as he likes to think he isn’t

·         patient/impatient: impatient

·         outspoken/reserved: generally reserved

·         leader/follower: ehhh. Follower, but he’s pretty independent in general

·         empathetic/unempathic: empathetic

·         optimistic/pessimistic: pessimistic

·         traditional/modern: I guess more modern?

·         hard-working/lazy: more hard-working, I think?

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

·         otp: Mordred/Ortega (chargestep)…. Or Mordred/Herald (flystep)

·         acceptable ships: Mordred/Steel

·         ot3: honestly, I’ve got NO CLUE. Could go for Mordred/Ortega/Steel tho.

·         brotp: Mordred & Argent, Mordred & Mortum (hopefully), Mordred & Steel

·         notp: ehhhhhh don’t really have one?

[ladyintheattic]

yo i’ve been writing alot this month and all i can think of is my poor pre-heartbreak sidestep dealing with the fact she actually has friends haha

_______________ ship: none (barely implied chargestep) words: 1,541 tags: f!sidestep, pre-heartbreak, pre-psycopathor battle, canon typical violence tw: trauma?? possibly ptsd stuff?? ————————–

It was a mistake. You messed up. Misstepped.

The man was probably drunk. Seemed like an alright guy, if your careful scan of all the bar’s patronages upon your entering can be trusted. If it can be trusted. He must have been tripping, falling over his laces, grabbed for your elbow, wanting to be steady, wanting the room to stop spinning.

You bet it spun worse when you flipped him, throwing him over your shoulder into another patron’s table, cracking it in two. You hadn’t meant to; it had been instinct. Reflex.

Your heart stops, your mind finally catching up with your body. The table had hardly finished breaking into splinters before you felt someone’s hand gather up your collar, yanking you upwards, upwards into the face of a man twice your size. The drunk man has a friend. Your feet dangle inches off the floor, and you taste his breath as he snarls at you, his face too close. You also taste ozone.

Ortega’s fist is a blur, and so’s your new enemy’s head. You hear Anathema yelling on your right, and you wonder for a split second if you can somehow stop this imbroglio: halt the ensuing chaos. A foolish thought. You’ve messed up. You’ve messed up, and now you have to pay for it.

Mistakes are not to be tolerated.

You tug your bandana over your nose, hearing the man’s head make a painful sound as it collides with the bar. Chairs scraping the floor as others stand, every muscle in every body in the filthy old bar tense and ready to fight. They don’t know what they’re in for: who they’re looking at. Or maybe they do, and are just too excited or stupid to understand how outmatched they are.

“Come and get it, pendejos.” Ortega’s grinning, but it’s not the same gleeful one he normally wears to bar-fights. He’s usually the one who picks them, so often you swear it’s damn near a hobby or a pastime for him. This grin is wrong, manic. Angry.

They do. They do ‘come and get it’. The noise is overwhelming: fists everywhere, chairs flying, bottles breaking against skulls, screams as Anathema’s acid eats through someone’s skin. Reflexes kicking in once more, you find yourself landing hits; surface-reading the minds of your combatants just fast enough for you to dodge, block, dance around the damage. You’re good at this, at fighting multiple opponents, it’s what you’ve trained for, but even you would’ve ended up a bloody smear on the floor without the Rangers’ help.

You make out the solid presence of Steel behind you as your kick sends someone somersaulting over another table. Ortega on your left, Anathema on your right. You’re boxed in. Defended.

Protected.

The crack of wood against body startles you out of your reflections. To the far left, past a pile of chairs and bodies, you catch the last moments of a man crumbling, collapsing onto the cold floor, the remains of a table laying in pieces all around him. Ortega’s work no doubt.

You freeze. Everyone freezes. The room is silent but for the odd shuffle of nervous feet or the huffing of a particularly heavy breather nearby. It seems Ortega’s last act of brutality sent them back to their senses. You’re still not sure if you’re back to yours.

Almost before your mind can catch up with this second wave of shifting mood, Steel steps out form behind you, fists already unclenched and a face passive, but firm. “Everyone stay put,” he pulls his badge from his pocket and nudges Ortega to do the same. Anathema follows. “We need to sort this out.” His eyes flick to Ortega’s a for a split moment. “Officially this time.”

You can’t help it:  you feel yourself slinking back behind Steel and Ortega’s taller, more noticeable forms. It’s no good. Face still covered, you still feel the heat of the stares, hot like high-powered laser pistols. Your skin crawls, prickling like needles. You don’t produce a badge like your compatriots, you can’t, and you can feel the whole crowd taking note if it. Fuck.

Steel has already moved into action, Ortega at his hip, standing at the bar talking to the barkeep, who is also probably the owner, and probably wanting to keep this whole Rangers incident as off-the-books as possible; Ranger fights in your pub can’t be good for business. You wonder if they will oblige him. You wonder if they’ll clean this up. Clean up your blunder. You doubt it.

“This will not do.” A cold sweat breaks out over your brow. A mistake. An error. A mess. The Directive will not stand of it. Many more of these, and you will be up for some reeducation. Up for poking, prodding, cutting. Cutting away. Changing you.

“Your performance was… less than adequate. You make mistakes like this out there… well, we can’t have that.” No movement. Hardly even breathing. You know better than to try and excuse it or explain yourself. Or attempt to apologize. Apologies don’t happen here. Being sorry isn’t encouraged. After all, tools can’t be sorry.

“Never. Again. Do you understand, Unit B74-”

Hand on your shoulder, you nearly jump, nearly attempt the same over-the-shoulder move you had implemented on the stumbling drunk man. You’re glad you don’t, although you feel your heart in your throat. It’s Anathema, looking at you with an odd, pinched look across her features. “You alright Becky?” She tugs gently on your bandana, though not enough to pull it down, she knows better. “Are you hurt?”

“I understa- I mean. Yeah I’m. Fine.” The cracks in your voice surprise you, as does the hammering of your heartbeat in your ears.

“You look really pale,” her hands find yours as she attempts to lead you to one of the few upright chairs. “And you’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.” You pull your hands from hers; you can’t sit down yet. Too much adrenaline still pumps through your veins. Too much fear. No one had a camera on did they? No one pulled out their phone and started recording the fight for some soon-to-be-chain-email, right? Did anyone note your face? Would any of them recognize you if they say you on the street now? What about the bar’s security cameras? What if someone-

“You’re not fine,” startling again, you feel her sharp gaze looking your face over despite most of it still being covered. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I-”

“Beck!” Ortega is at your side, his arm gently brushing against you. You can practically feel the effort he’s exerting to keep his hand out of yours. “We think we’ve got all this sorted out,” his mouth spreads into an all-too-familiar smug smile. “The Rangers gotta shell out a bit of cash for the chairs and tables, but other than that it’s like nothing even happened here.”

You’re frozen again. Wait, so the Rangers are going to waste money on this? Is that even allowed: you aren’t even a Ranger, and only debuted as Sidestep a few months ago. It’s not like you’re particularly valuable to them, at least not yet.

“But… Can you? Do that?”

“Of course!” He raises his hand to his chest in mock indignation. “I’m the marshal, and I’ve had a few more bar-fights than you I’ll bet. Not the first time Wei’s had to deal with cleanup either.” He winks past you, at Steel, who only gives an annoyed grunt in return.

“Yeah, but-” You stop yourself. Why are you arguing with them? Probably because you don’t believe it; when you do things wrong you get punished for them, not just by the Directive, but also by life in general. Life doesn’t work like this, at least not for you.

No one has ever done something like this for you… but then again, you’ve never had friends that would jump headlong into a bar-fight for you either. Never had friends before.

“It’s really okay Becky,” Anathema nods over to Steel. “We saw the whole thing. We know how it is: sometimes you get jumpy, instincts kick in and, well, this is usually the result.” She shrugs, as though she were talking about breaking a mug or slipping on ice. As though it was fine, expected, normal.

“I was getting tired of this dive-bar anyway,” Ortega claps and hand on your shoulder, almost knocking you over for how faint you feel. “And it’s still pretty early, so lets try the next place! I heard one opened last week a few blocks down!

Nod. You’re trying to nod, or smile under the bandana, or do anything. You can’t. You’re body is still waiting. Waiting for the punishment. The fear still hasn’t run its coarse, but something new is blooming in your chest. You can’t name the feeling, or even describe it.

All you know is that you want to cry.

“Th… Thank you, guys.” You swallow hard. “And… sorry. About the mess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he gives you a light shake and a wink before letting your shoulder free, heading for his jacket he has slung over the bar. “We’re a team nowadays aren’t we?”

Finally. Finally, you smile. “If you say so, old man.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

👏🏻 fluffy! 👏🏻 chargestep! 👏🏻 forehead kisses + making breakfast

Aw heck yeah I can do that Vi! :D

chargestep (nb!sidestep + m!ortega) | retribution era | fluff!

–

Feet dangling off of the stool, swaying back and forth, toes touching the cabinet and bouncing back off, a steady thump thump thump along to the TV idly droning in the living room. Head bobbing down for the fifth time and Pollux puts his chin in his hand, eyes still closed. A curl hangs down between his eyes and moving it’s too much work. Picking up and drinking the coffee set in front him is also too much work even if it does smell absolutely wonderful. The whole kitchen smells fantastic, Ricardo busy at the stove, putting far too much work into anything this early in the morning. He would certainly call it slaving over breakfast while Pollux would call it fun to watch.

“Pollux?”

“Hmmmmmm?” He lifts his head from his chin, squinting through blurry eyes at Ricardo. He half smiles when he hears the sigh and it only gets bigger when Ricardo leans over the counter to get closer

“Pollux…” He says quietly and Pollux snickers, still looking at him through half open eyes. This close and Pollux picks out the subtle shadow of how Ricardo hasn’t shaved yet today, the warm look in his brown eyes, sunshine from the windows lighting messy hair aglow.

“You said you were making me breakfast….” He mumbles and Ricardo rolls his eyes.

“I did, but that doesn’t mean falling asleep at the table.” He teases and Pollux blows a raspberry.

“I’m sitting at your kitchen bar, but I can relocate to your comfortable couch if that is more your style.” Pollux teases back and Ricardo snickers this time. “Spill my coffee on your nice couch.” He adds and he can’t tell if the wince is fake or real.

“Mierda, you are insufferable.” Ricardo clicks his tongue and Pollux snorts, hand falling from his chin to fuss with his coffee. The creamer is already there beside the cup along with the sugar too. He’s spoiling him at this rate, setting it all out for him

“It’s 9am Ricardo…” Pollux laments, stirring the sugar and cream, taking a long sip even if it does burn his tongue. It’s the good kind, the stuff Pollux doesn’t bother to buy because it isn’t about the flavor–it’s the caffeine. But he can take time to appreciate good coffee.

“A perfectly decent time to wake up and eat breakfast.”

“And then go back to bed.” Pollux gestures with his coffee. “Since when did you get so good at this adult stuff? The keep a normal schedule stuff, making breakfast at a reasonable time.” He takes another sip and Ricardo chuckles, grabbing a few plates.

He doesn’t say what they’re both thinking, why he grew up, why he changed so much. The reason why he asks and thanks him, says the things he needs to say even when Pollux won’t say it back. Its the reason behind so many of the gaps and chasms between them, parts of their lives they’re trying to knit back together—build bridges instead of burning them for once. It’s harder to lay bricks than to light a fuse.

“Since I’m getting old.” He grumbles.

“Got that part right.” Pollux snaps with a finger gun, ketchup and hot sauce put in front of him--because it wouldn’t be breakfast without them--along with a plate. He doesn’t know how he’ll go back to having to get up to get his own food and condiments again.

“Hey,” Ricardo wipes his hands off as he walks around the counter and Pollux pauses garnishing his food, spinning the stool around to face him. “I’m not too old for you to like my smug ass.”

A terrible snort follows that dissolves into laughter and Pollux is smiling. The whole crooked lips and tooth gap, cheeks almost round enough to convince him that he the bags under his eyes aren’t the worst Ricardo has ever seen them, or that he hasn’t seen him smile in far too long.

“Oh woe is me.” Pollux shakes his head and takes Ricardo’s hands in his, his fingers always cold. Cold versus warm, blue to orange, the sun to the moon, dichotomies clearly painted between them. A chasm miles and miles apart, but it’s mending with each smile, every second Pollux stays and doesn’t run away, quiet admissions of the truth. How he takes his hand instead, fingers knitting together, forehead to forehead, lips sharing the same air.

“Thank you.”

He’s getting better at saying that and Ricardo smiles, kissing his forehead, lips trailing to his cheeks and finally his lips. Almost sweet enough to hurt his teeth and oh Pollux has got it bad.

Had it bad since too many days ago, too many months too count, a lifetime ago when they played heroes complete with masks of grey and electric blue. When the script was different, when it was too hard to say soft words, too hard to admit it all until it was almost lost in broken bodies and broken glass

Now Ricardo can’t say it enough and Pollux didn’t know how much he ached to hear all the sweet little nothings. Everything implied now exposed—vulnerable in their hands. Pollux’s hands weren’t made to hold soft things, precious things. But here he is, stealing glances at Ricardo as they eat in the quiet, TV still droning on the background. He could almost call it comfortable, almost say it feels like it was before, but it isn’t. It tastes different, sits different in his skin and its good. It feels good.

“Hey Lover boy?” His voice is softer than he means and he doesn’t curse it, looking over at him with a smile on his face.

“Hmm?” Ricardo glances back at him, brow cocked and still chewing.

“You make good breakfast.”

[sky-scribbles]

I was thinking about how people must have a distinct telepathic feel to Sidestep, and I got carried away. ~1000 words, nonspecific Sidestep, m!Ortega, f!Mortum, implied Chargestep. Retribution spoilers.

 Everyone in the world is, inherently, a mess. But even more so to a telepath.

People are a tangle of desires and impressions and memories, their thoughts a half-structured blur that slams into you whenever someone walks into a room. You don’t look close unless you want to, no matter what Chen thinks – but you still get their background noise. Like music drifting from someone else's headphones, except the music’s a thousand voices whispering at once, all those animal instincts and logical patterns and bursts of personality.

And you hear it. You can’t stop hearing it. If you tried to wrap your head around every detail, you’d drown.

So you don’t try. You simplify people, sorting the mess into snapshots. You make lists in your head, one for everyone you know, stocked with images: what their thoughts remind you of and how they make you feel. It’s not quite perfect, but it works. It helps you make sense of them, lets you process their mental mess.

Sometimes, it’s even beautiful.

Argent, for instance. You’ve dug into her mind so intimately that it makes your stomach twist with shame. You’ve stolen her limbs, gone diving in her mental landscape. And yet the impressions you gathered, the snapshots… all of them tell you one thing. You don’t know her.

She’s an alloy of things too strong, too slippery, to be defined or understood. In your head, she’s liquid metal and fog over water. Steel spires, like in the depths of her mind. Barbed wire. The slice of angular fins through the ocean and the flash of daggerlike teeth.

Beneath that, perhaps, a flash of softer things. Familiar things. Pastel-coloured chalk smeared over fingertips. The crunch of frosting as you bite into a cake. The stillness of a cold evening. Blankets. Laughter.

And buried even further, under all of that –

The threat and the beauty of seeing a shadow stirring beneath the surface of water. Something huge and magnificent and alien. Something completely unknown.

(Who is she?)

Steel is full of walls. But no one’s shields are impenetrable, and you’ve filed away your snapshots of him, like you have with everyone else.

Despite his name, Steel isn’t metal. He’s earth. And anyone who lives in Los Diablos knows that the earth is dangerous. Whenever he looks at you and fails to trust you, you feel something fierce swell behind his walls. The trembling of tectonic plates. The simmering of magma. The heavy gathering of snow on a mountainside, ready for the avalanche.

But it happens less often now. A tentative olive branch has been extended between you, and your snapshots are becoming gentler.

The roughness of stone – solid, steady, strong. The hard crust of sun-baked ground, and the rich soil beneath. Roots once ripped from the soil digging back down, finding purchase again.

Wei Chen is a patient man. Constant. He might shudder when he’s damaged – and you’re sure he has been damaged – but he doesn’t break. You understand that. Maybe enough to lay down your resentment, and learn to respect him.

Humans have never been skilled at respecting the earth. But then again, you’re not human.

Herald, of course, is movement and light.

A dust-filled sunray piercing curtains. The lurching swoop in your gut as you run down a slope. The reflection on a plane’s wing, too bright to look at sometimes. The billowing of air in a flag. The pink sweep of dawn on the horizon.

His mind is a kind, warm place, so easy to get lost in. His thoughts are contagious as laughter, a bright current spilling over and carrying you along with it.

It took you a while to notice that there are shadows underneath it all. It shouldn’t have surprised you; everyone has shadows, and his taste of ash and chlorine and the clinical tang of hospital rooms. You don’t know why they’re there, but think you understand him better for having seen them.

You think, perhaps, that Daniel shines because he’s determined to steel himself against the darkness, to answer harshness with warmth.

He moves forward because he doesn’t want to look back.

You have never glimpsed Doctor Mortum’s thoughts.

You know what you think you’d hear from her. The confident whirr of a device springing to life, purposeful and full of potential. The background noise of machinery. The flow of energy through a cable, ready to redirect as many times as is necessary to reach its destination (but it will reach it, no doubt about that, because electricity cannot be stopped once it’s in motion.)

It’s soothing to think that her thoughts are like her creations. Strong and subtle, powering away. But knowing for sure, hearing her thoughts… that would require her knowing you and trusting you.

So you will never find out.

And then there’s Ortega.

Ortega, whose mind is unknowable. Whose thoughts are obscured behind a hum of electricity. The man who must seem so loud to the rest of the world – bright smile, easy laugh, white-hot lightning lancing from his hands – but who, to you, is silent as a phantom.

But he isn’t empty. God, he’s anything but empty. He’s full of echoes and shadows. Absences. Endings.

His silent, static brain is this: the warm thrum you feel when you press your hand against an electrical device, the ghost of the mechanisms roaring away within. An eddy of calm water amid rapids. The afterglow of a bright light when you close your eyes.  The relief of an unsteady heartbeat and racing breath settling back to normal. The silence after thunder or music or shouting. The smell of the ground after rain.

You’ve complained a thousand times about his stupid mental fuzz. He terrifies you, the way his motives lie buried, leaving you fumbling, bewildered, lost.

But in the moments when the world is so loud that you can barely breathe, when you feel like cramming your hands over your ears and locking yourself somewhere dark and silent – in those moments, you feel Ortega’s hand on your shoulder. His voice close to your ear. His mind and its hazy edges, softening the sharpness of the noise.

In those moments, he’s an oasis. A quiet place.

In those moments, you can breathe.

[pyroclaststan]

I said I’d do Kingsley’s half, and I did! (Very late) I might touch this one up later? Not sure. This is pre-Rebirth, some cursing, nothing really needing a CW other than feelings.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 2317 PST, August 27th 2017] *heavy, laboured breathing* A-answer… this f-f-fucking phone! You fucking c-coward! Bastard! W-w-w— *loud groan and quickened breathing* Where are you! I’m h-here, I’m f-f-fr-free! Come g-get me! I’m here!

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0247 PST, August 28th 2017] *muffled sobbing* I’m g-gonna fucking… f-fucking kill you… I would n-n-n….. never have left you b-behind… you all l-l-left me behind.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 2040 PST, September 4th 2017] Ricardo…… ¿L-lo sabías? ¿P-planeaste esto? Sabes que—saves que n-nunca podría resistir la oportunid-dad de p-p-probar que estás equivocado. ¿Era una trampa?

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0401 PST, September 5th 2017] L-Les-saviez-vous? Je t-t-t-t'ai appelé.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0405 PST, September 5th 2017] *quiet breathing*…Je t'ai appelé tant de fois.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 1412 PST, September 20th 2017] W-when I get b-back there…

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0833 PST, November 2nd 2017] It’s my b-b-birthday today. The one you gave me. Not that you care, you haven’t for y-ye-years. I’ve only been gone, what? Th-three? It’s only been three years… h-how did you forget me in three years?

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0607 PST, December 8th 2017] I see that you’re replacing us. F-fuck you. I’m surprised they let you even hire people with how good you are at getting them killed. With how few you leave behind, if they’re even whole anymore. More meat for the R-Rangers grinder, huh? Hope they know how quickly you’ll leave them behind. I hope they don’t trust you like I did.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0000PST, January 1st 2018] Happy New Year, Elena, I still owe you champagne. Ricardo… good fucking luck this year.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 1727 PST, February 14th 2018] Five years ago today, we were very different people in a very different position. We were so young back then, it’s strange to think about it. I used to think you were the sun of Los Diablos: so bright, the centre of anything and everything in the universe.

But just like back then, in those final moments, as I watch sunset… you’re not here. It’s almost funny.

I mean, this whole situation—our whole deal: it’s come full-circle. I started all of this, all of my work, because I hated you and the Rangers. You were the centrifugal fucking force I wanted to stay away from no matter the pull. Because of what you let slip through your fingers—what you took from me, who you allow to get killed. And here I am again, preparing myself to go out there and fight, to face you. Once again motivated by what you’ve taken from me and how much I hate you.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 2200 PST, February 14th 2018] I hate that I still—

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0023 PST, February 15th 2018]

I promised my real family I wouldn’t let you get away with it: I wouldn’t let shit excuses for heroes like you all let this city down. I wouldn’t let you all get away with this fucking mediocrity and laziness. I wouldn’t let you rest on your laurels while this city spirals because of what you’re told you can and can’t do. I promised them, and now I promise Anathema, too—and every other person you’ve gotten killed.

…I will always keep that promise…

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 0256 PST, June 12th 2019] I don’t know why I’m still calling or messaging this stupid fucking thing. It’s my own program: I can see how long it’s been since anyone ever touched it. I’m the only one on it. I guess I’m kinda hoping that I find you before you find me. I have been dreaming of the look on your face when you’re finally forced to look at the mess you’ve made, what you’ve created. Your grandest fucking masterpiece. You’ll regret having never retired. You’re getting old, slow, and weak: and I’m coming for you.

I can’t wait for the day I find you.

[Unread Voice Message: Chrysantamum Anonymous. 1124 PST, June 12th 2019] Correction: we’re coming for you. I have a feeling you’re going to love my new friend. Not that that’ll matter in the end. And the end is coming soon. Just you fucking wait.

Good luck, you’re gonna fucking need it: you won’t be forgetting me ever again.

[silvery-bluish]

Contents: Arsinoe gets punched. This goes poorly.

Word count: 1089

Pairing: Pre-chargestep, once again. Early Sidestep days.

Warnings: Implied past abuse, panic attack. It's that time Owl punched Sidestep.

[onereallygoodlambonastick]

dust and bone, pocket holes

Fandom: fh:r (disclaimers: @fallenhero-rebirth​)

Pairing: Chargestep

Tags: vague retribution spoilers, implied/referenced suicide, delusions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, survivor guilt!!, first person POV: ortega, m!sidestep but ambiguous enough 

He looks scared, as if you wouldn’t have come for him. Relief nearly cripples you by the time you reach him, or when he reaches for you. The chunk of rubble gives when you lift it and he tries not to scream as he comes free.

He comes away like this: spilling from the wreckage, his trajectory looking too much like a half-met tragedy. You catch him on reflex, kind of, grounding him or you or him, him with his hands that drag you downward. The both of you trying to gain ground. Hook, line, sinker. No, that’s not quite right.

The line; where’s the line?

“I’m fine,“ he says, a scrape of sound hoarse off screams. Hook, fingers on your suit. Flaying. When he takes off his mask, he peels it off: disgusted almost, stricken with battle-blood confusion and a silence that tells you nothing. His face twists when you try to catch his eyes, and you wonder how long he’s been suffocating under there. He smothers his face with your shoulder. (His face, a wet streak of sweat and blood and other things he would not admit to you.) He lets you wind your arms around him, bodies seeking alignment. A sinking weight.

The distance between silence and silence, yours and his, bared. A fine line that you want to be traceable, his against yours, hands along skin, parted from suit to suit to scars.  

(A finer line is the way moths take into fire, light pitched to black. He’s the thing that runs headlong into storm, perished by his own will. Free. Frantic. Hook—-sinker. Maybe you two have that in common.)

You don’t fall. He leans back a little, and you follow. You can’t tell the difference between the acrid smoke from fried armor or the loose hang of cigarettes in his teeth. Blood slides between your mouths like metal in bones like yours like rust along windpipes like old screws coming loose. If this is a dream, at all, lips becoming love and finding it, new and naked and hopeless, would you press forward as if to seal something there, in this place he has allowed you? (You aren’t scared, no; you have him now. His palms shift and shed ash as they crease across your chest.)

He is dry, lingering the way smoke is; you inhale whatever is left of him, and you can’t breathe when he smirks a little against your mouth. Like the break of a windpipe, made breathless.  

The line, you wonder. The thing between him and the next. A line, you do not cross. You leak. 

He doesn’t fall. He puts the gun in his mouth, bows, caving around metal. Teeth clattering against the bone of the barrel, sounding like a clock on countdown click, click, click even when you pry it away from him. It doesn’t stop, even though you should have stopped him.

He doesn’t fall. He slips past you. 

So, pain. It comes, occasionally so violently it shakes you from your skin, or forcibly perishes the common misconception of invulnerability by ways of lost blood, quite extraordinary amounts of it. You are cold and dying, sometimes, but you are cold mostly because cables run into you, tuning the clock. Extending it. That does not concern you. In order to survive yourself, to survive further: the line that ceased to be.

You can still die, though, an important bit to keep in mind. It’s one of the most human parts of you. Reminder: he always said no. Chen said something did not add up. You didn’t look. How could you? How dare you? (Your heart, another. A difficulty. This is flesh, muscle, the least unchanged out of all of you and physically-speaking the thing should not be such an elaborate metaphor, an irony locked into a machine or man or something else entirely. It kills you. Makes you that martyr that everyone else believes he is.)

The past and present feel displaced, forced apart in brief resentments, wave into wave into wave. Lost to the rhythmic and undying stillness that you do not want. No line to keep, a bunch of sharp nothings. (“You survived,” says the therapist, without irony.)

So, pain. You live with it, it being formless in the same way Guilt is: viscous and boneless. It takes place closest to home, to heart. It piles into your old settlement and greases over, too unclean to be called pure or ice but it bites, clatters your teeth together like spoons and scraped knees. Your soul is wooden, wounded, and you creak. Rickety, like a decrepit cabin spread on sand, and you were made to last, weren’t you. How you have, you think before his body-void casket: outlasted him and them and even yourself.

So strong. My hero, is his voice in macabre tones, careening into laughter strange and terrible. Grotesque, the way he has gotten in you, the way he is, run down edges and chafing. The way he was: underneath your skin. A thin viscous marrow, running into you.

It doesn’t take long for you to buy a pack of cigarettes. An old brand, a cheap vice, one you remember. You use it to remember (he breathes through you). Chen sees and says nothing. You never listened to him, anyway.

(“So sentimental,” he says, sneers. “You will make an old man yet.”)  

He couldn’t read your mind. Your brain wasn’t open for interpretation, but the rest of you had been.

But isn’t that why he lingered? Your brain, wired wrong in just the right way so that he could not hear you, like he did others. He stayed for it, your presence which did not give way to unwanted thoughts. He was not haunted by you.

The heart is in the mind, reflected there like an opaque rhythm. The two are not totalities a dichotomy apart. Maybe then it was, in an implicit and unkind sense. He could not sense you and therefore could not see you, understand you and your–what. What.

("Spit it out,” he demands, eyes wide and ragged–ripped open, vehemence pried out like fingers choked along skin-suits. As if suddenly unclenched, or caught. As if mauled. “What do you have to say?” He looks angry. He looks sad. You don’t remember him like this. You don’t. Remember.

It’s pointless, but you answer him anyway. A barb that your tongue cuts in two: “I was in love with you.” )

In your dreams, he does not die wrecked in speechless silence. There is no scream or an abused voice, so maybe this is how you know that this isn’t yours. (“You’ll regret this,” and he looks at you like you are the thing moths fly to and die in.)

In your dreams, you seal a promise there, in the place he has allowed you. It transforms, tumbling through you and him, colliding. Breathless, the point at which ghost meets chest. He topples, tumbles, breaks away–and he doesn’t fall. 

You are still left with nothing to save.

The point is, you lose. And lose. Blood, face, pride, limbs, sanity, friends, lovers, heart and whatever it is that keeps you up at night. All rendered to nothing. It doesn’t matter what they meant, if they were going to mean something.

There is always something. (Him; redundant; as natural in the way you breathe, sucker, stupid, sentimental. Repeat.)

You go back because you want to save someone or some-thing. The crumpled pack of cigarettes sits in your pocket. (That is what is wrong here. Nothing is as it seems.) Chen almost smiles when you come through the door.

“Here,” he says, offering a cigarette in your direction. You look at it, then at his face, lifted towards you. “I don’t smoke,” you say dumbly.

He only raises an eyebrow and doesn’t withdraw. Neither of you move; you are putting weight on your injured leg, a minor thing with pain leftover. There wasn’t much of a battle this time. You shift, and it hurts, but only just. He looks at you, expectant. You take the cigarette, two fingers pinching it, trying to hold it naturally. You don’t bring it to your lips (press the thing between your teeth where you can taste him). He makes a small noise of triumph, and you hold back a similar sound, like concession.

“Like this.” He lights his own, then presses close to light yours. They catch on fire, and he motions towards his lips, where he slots the cigarette. You do the same and immediately choke.

“No,” He is saying, snorting, collapsing into a small series of hiccuping sounds. A laugh. He is laughing at you, through the veil that covers his face, seething under a blank sky. “Wrong,” he manages to choke out in the in-between. The cigarette burns, and you let it burn. “What?” You try to say. “Why?” You try to ask. It smells like him. You are breathing in, burning it along your throat. Vague, acrid, a line or this trace of him. The smoke is up your nose, sliding over your tongue.

Sinker. Sucker, he says in a voice you can no longer hear.

[erintoknow]

Jamais Vu: follow the thread

fallen hero: rebirth fanfic, chargestep / puppet/ortega ~1.9k words

dialogue adapted from the actual, canon, scene - so... apologies to malin

previously: put salt in your wound

––––––

      Jane tries to smile, but it feels wrong– fake. “Well, you seem a bit more distracted than usual.” She flashes her eyes to the Castrofiend display and grimaces, not the reassuring sight she was looking for. Then, she says: “Actually, well– I saw you with someone else a while back. In the park?” She tilts her head, inquisitive, suspicious. “It looked– she looked pretty intense.”

      What are you doing? You idiot. You moron. You fool.

      “The park? Oh. Ariadne…” Jane’s heart sinks hearing her say ‘Ariadne’ in that tone of voice. Ortega sighs, shaking her head. It’s hard to get a read on her expression. “That’s…”

      “Your ex?” Jane asks, slipping the word in like a sharpened knife. Her heart is pounding in her throat, but she does a good job of hiding it, keeping her face only just south of neutral.

      Stay focused. Don’t get distracted, damn it.

      Ortega shrugs, is… is she embarrassed? “Not exactly.” She reaches an arm up to scratch at the back of her head, not meeting Jane’s gaze. “We were friends…? Years ago. I had thought she died.”

      She did die, you want to correct her.

      Jane narrows her eyes. “And she can tell that you’re just, ‘being friendly’?”

      Her response is a single sharp ‘hah’. “Honestly? I think she’d rather I leave her alone.”

      “So why don’t you?” Jane frowns. God. Why doesn’t she? “Like you said–it was years ago.” Jane crosses her arms, leans in towards Ortega.

      “I’m worried about her,” Ortega’s response comes a little too fast. She won’t look at Jane, resumes walking down the hallway. You know that tell. That’s your tell.

      Jane has to pick up the pace to keep up with her, gritting her teeth. “You’re worried? So. Should I be worried as well then?” Power-walking in heels? Your own body would be wobbling all over, but Jane has no issues keeping up.

      “Why? Oh.” Ortega stops and you almost step right into her. “Oh, Jane,” She turns to face her, shaking her head. “No, you don’t have to be worried about anything, it’s not like that. We’re just…” There’s  a strange expression on Ortega’s face, one you can’t read. “We’re just old friends, there’s nothing there.”

      Of course there’s nothing there. In fact, why are you having this conversation? What are you trying to do here? Jane can have a relationship with Ortega. You can’t. That’s basic inescapable reality.

      Jane softens her expression, lowers her voice. “What did she use to be like?”

      What does she really know or care about you anyway?

      Ortega starts walking again, slow enough for Jane to keep pace now. There’s a suggestion of a smile on her face. “Difficult. I mean, it was difficult to get close to her at all. And… it’s not like were were an official item back then.” It’s lucky Ortega isn’t looking at your face– Jane’s face when she says that. Ortega hesitates, “I just… really cared about her.”

      “So…” Jane drags out the ‘o’, looking around. There’s nobody else this far into the museum yet it looks like. Probably all too busy drinking their tits off. God. You could use a drink yourself.

      This would be excellent chance to change the subject, get back on track. Ask her about how things are as hero, transition to the rest of the Rangers. Easy-peasy.

      Instead of doing any of that, Jane asks, curious, “why didn’t it work out, then? What, didn’t she like women?”

      Oh God damnit. But of course you have to pursue this now. Jane doesn’t let things go. Her woman might have divided loyalties? Gotta follow that thread.

      “You know what?” Ortega looks thoughtful for a brief moment, “I’m… not sure? I thought she did, but it’s hard to tell. She’s a very private woman. And well, I was… scared, I suppose.”

      Jane covers her mouth, trying not to laugh. “You? Scared?”

     Scared?

     Scared??

      Ortega raises her hands, defensive. “I wasn’t exactly out then. And I was dating men at the time.” She tilts her head. “I felt like I had a role to live up to, I was told I needed a boyfriend for the newspapers.”

      “Oh?” Jane frowns at that, raises an eyebrow. “You always do what people tell you to do?”

      “I’m not the woman I used to be.” Ortega laughs, bitter, or are you projecting? Wishing? “I don’t let other people run my life. …Anymore.”

      “So… what? What’s your goal there?” Jane crosses her arms, leans to the side. “You planning on fixing what you screwed up back then? Is that what this is about?” 

      Ortega gives Jane a look, equal parts hurt and shocked. “I…” Ortega flinches, shakes her head. “I’m here with you, the past is the past.” She sounds uncomfortable as she says it. Uncertain?

      Wait.

      Are… are you sabotaging… yourself here?

      You can feel a need to scream from deep within Jane’s body. You’ve wanted to scream throughout this entire conversation in second-hand embarrassment for yourself. Why are you doing this!?

     Ortega abandoned you, threw you away.

      You don’t want anything from her anymore.

      You don’t.

      Absolutely not.

      Whatever the two of you might have had died with Ariadne, thrown out a window. 

      She means nothing.

      She’s been nothing but a pain.

      She thought she could just walk her way back in your life, and what?

      Does she really feel guilty? For what? Failing you? Turning you in?

      You don’t know.

      You can’t know.

      Years ago not knowing Ortega’s thoughts was a comfort. She was someone you could pretend to have a normal ‘human’ relationship with.  Someone who’s thoughts wouldn’t immediately betray every nasty little observation about you. Now it’s another log in the fuel for your nightmares.

      You might want to scream, but Jane doesn’t– can’t. Jane just purses her lips in a tight slash, not buying Ortega’s assurances. “If you say so.”

        Jane turns away from Ortega, and whatever she might have said next goes out the window at the sight of it: Sidestep’s display.

      Your display?

      You steal a quick glance at Ortega, did she bring you here on purpose? No. No, it’s just a coincidence. It has to be.

      There’s a little plaque and then a much larger board on the wall next to the mannequin listing out your– no, her greatest ‘accomplishments.’ There’s a whole cut-out section talking about the Nanosurge. Guess there’s no need to protect the secret of her telepathy now that she’s dead (Doesn’t stop the LDPD from still claiming partial-credit). Assholes. It calls her early death a ‘tragedy.’

      You feel sick and for once Jane feels it too, and you have to grip the guard rail to steady herself. Why aren’t you dead? Why haven’t you been chopped up for spare parts in a hospital somewhere? Why are you still here? Sidestep shouldn’t be up there, she’s no hero. She couldn’t even save herself. All that’s left is echoes; a ghost, a faint hope for revenge to keep you putting one foot in front of the other.

      A revenge that starts tonight if you have anything to say about it. If Sidestep was still alive, she’d be the first in line to punch you in the face. It’s hard to argue you wouldn’t deserve it.

      There’s a hand on your arm and Jane looks up to see Ortega watching her with concern. “Are you alright?”

      “It’s nothing.” Jane shakes her head hard, whipping her hair out of place. An hour’s work taming this hair into curls undone in seconds. Clear the thoughts from your mind. Focus. Don’t get distracted. She chews her lip. “It’s this whole place, I guess. It makes me feel…” Jane frowns, “Insignificant?”

      “Insignificant?” Ortega mirrors back, tilting her head as she looks at Jane.

      “I mean…” Jane gestures a limp hand towards the curve of the exhibits against the wall. Ghosts you might have known once. “All this weird world.” She frowns, grips the railing tighter with her other hand. “I’m just nobody.”

      “That’s not true.” Ortega raises her voice, matching your own. “You are very far from being a nobody.”

      Jane wants to laugh, smile in charmed embarrassment, but you suppress it. “Sorry, sorry.” She sighs. “I didn’t mean for things to get this weird. I just wanted to have a bit of fun.”

      “I know what you mean,” Ortega scratches the back of her head. Embarrassed?

      Well, Jane did just finish implying Ortega might be having a thing with another woman. Ortega herself is kind of your only real-world model here but that does seem like a mood killer.

      “Maybe it wasn’t the best of choices to go looking around in here. I know you said you’re okay with what I do for a living, but actually seeing it is a bit disconcerting.” Ortega offers as a concession, she’s too nice for her own good.

      “It’s just mannequins,” Jane flashes a smile, waving a hand dismissively, “with bad fashion sense at that.”

      “That's true.” Ortega laughs, relaxes. “You have no idea how true that is.” You brace yourself for Ortega to launch into one of her favorite stories about Steel. It doesn’t come. 

      Weird.

      Jane lets go of the guard rail, feeling a little more steady on her feat now. “You have a much more interesting life than I do.” She sweeps a hand at the exhibits for emphasis. You might know better than to glorify hero life, but Jane wouldn’t.  “I mean, you get to be a part of all this.”

      “Honestly, it doesn’t feel that interesting to me. It’s just work. Granted,” Ortega raises a hand in concession, “the uniform is a bit weird than most. But once you live this, it really loses its glamor.”

      “Hmmm. I find that hard to believe.”

      “Honestly, I’m a lot more curious about you.”

      Jane’s face quirks into a smile. “Oh? I find that even harder to believe.”

      “Really?” Ortega returns the smile, lets it go wider. “I mean, that’s partly why I invited you here? To get to know you better.”

      “Only partly?”

      “Well,” Ortega gives Jane a look. “That is traditionally the part that comes first.” You know that look, if only as a kind of second-hand smoke from always being in Ortega’s orbit. The look in her eyes, the twitch of her lips, the way she carries herself, how her full attention shifts…

      Now it’s aimed straight at Jane. Her heart is pounding. She tucks her hair away behind her ear, smiles back with a nervous energy.

      Flirting was one thing, going out on like this was one thing. It was all part of the game. Why not have a little fun if you were going to be keeping tabs on Ortega anyway, right? It was harmless. Was supposed to be harmless.

      Now it’s suddenly become way too real. The way she leans in toward Jane. Jane, doesn’t look away. She wants to lean in, wants to step forward. For a moment you can see yourself doing that; stepping forward, and it's your reflection, not Jane’s, in the mirrored walls, grabbing Ortega by shoulders, head tilted slightly up to kiss her on the lips.

      You don’t do that. Can’t do that. Could never do that. You want to run. But Jane’s not that kind of girl. She’s everything you're not. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t break eye contact. Stands her ground. Dare the other party to blink away first.

      Jane isn’t the type to back down.

      No one blinks

      No one stops.

      It’s not fair:

      Your first kiss; it’s not even yours.

––––––

next: fire, never consuming

[starrypawz]

CW: Implied body horror? Heartbreak Incident

Chargestep

Ronan uses they/them

This almost feels more painful than the nightmares.

It's late, it's always late when this happens.

The drink in your hands is long cold again.

This keeps happening. You can't jump into Eden right now you can't properly focus. All you can do is let this wash over you.

What if

What if

What if

What if

You saw what Anathema was about to do, you shut them down, you saved them from themself. Would that have worked?

That's how it worked in the movies right? Last minute rescues. Impossible odds, everyone gets out and it's all just fine.

The drink is cold but you can't leave it, the cup seems to be tethering you to the world right now.

You try and shake that thought.

Anathema was probably a lost cause.

Another one for St Jude.

Another thought  replaces it despite your efforts.

You're running, you can't stop, the window is a beacon.

You are a moth to a flame

Ortega is reaching, almost, he can't catch you.

You're still fighting, trying to cripple the fingers rammed into your brain and rooting through everything that is you.

It's not going to work, it's not, the window is there, you want this it'll only hurt for a second, stop resisting... you want this.

No I don't.

You want this, stop fighting.

I will never stop fighting

No one really cares about you, give. in.

You are wrong, and I'm stronger.

I want to live.

It hurts, you wrench free and it hurts, those fingers are deep.

Deep, deep, deep, within your core, trying to rip you apart from the inside.

It's a sickening feeling

It's like tinfoil in a microwave

Then nothing.

Nothing.

You can't feel it any more.

You can't feel much at this moment.

It's like static has filled up every part of you.

You overloaded. Like a blown fuse. A spent firework. A lighter to a spray can.

Maybe this was too much. Went too far.

Didn't go out that window but there's nothing left anyway.

Oh wouldn’t that be ironic.

Is this what dying feels like?

"Sidestep!"

Did you hear something? Everything seems slightly muffled.

"Please, please still be there,"

Were your eyes shut? You open them. There's arms around your waist, your hand is resting on the window.

He has you, he caught you,

He saved you. You think he did, maybe it was just coincidence.

He's shaking.

You would be shaking but it seems your body hasn't quite caught up yet.

At least you are breathing.

Your heart still seems to be working.

"Or-" You start, "Charge..."

You dare to look down, right about now your stomach remembers it's a thing and it lurches a bit.

"Oh-"

"It's ok, it's ok," You're not sure if he's saying that to you or him.

"I nearly... oh-" Somehow there's no swearword to sum up how you feel.

You nearly went into the abyss.

Slowly you feel that background hum of humanity come back to your senses.

It's a relief.

"You did it," He's stunned, relived. "Ronan,"

Hopefully no one was paying attention then.

"I... did?"

Ortega sinks to the floor and you follow. Unable to put up a fight and your legs don't want to work right now. You feel his chest shudder you can't tell if that a sob or a laugh.

What would've happened next?

Would Ortega lead you out of the apartment block, a photo caught by a bystander that spurred the rumour mills as you remained in his arms?

They would be right. Maybe maybe you and Ortega would have something. Something good.

Would you have been seen as a hero? Another bright star? Would people finally realise Sidestep had enough mettle to run with the big guns?

You would've remained masked, too risky but would you let the world know about Sidestep? Do this properly. Be a hero, a proper hero.

Would they like you? Would they love you?

Would you actually matter?

Would you be worth something?

You wrench yourself from the thoughts, the cup has left your hands, somehow you didn’t spill it,you're shaking a bit, a pathetic ball on a couch.

Even if that had happened you're sure it would've fallen to pieces anyway.

You'd take the nightmares over this false hope.

You know all too well everything turns to chaos over time.

Entropy.