Nerdy Here Too

You instinctively do as he says, gulping down a drink that’s mainly cream, just the way you like it. You look up at him with a weakly grateful smile.

For a moment you wonder, idly, if he might poison you. You drink anyway. That’s not the sort of man you think he is, and if you’re wrong about that... would it even really matter?

“How did you know?” You can’t help but ask, even though you know you shouldn’t.

He leans forward with his palms on his knees. “Vince,” he says flatly, “We’ve been training for months. With the number of techniques we’ve been going through, it’s not hard to figure out your favorites. Vindicator’s little stunt this afternoon felt a lot like something you would do. And try to play it off. And then when you were ‘busy’ and ‘hurt your shoulder’ the same afternoon Vindicator was nearly crushed interfering in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he says with a cynical glance, “it’s hard not to draw conclusions.”

Well, “crushed” is a bit much. Some scratches, a few deep ones, and a dent that’ll need hammering out - if not a full repair by someone much more talented. Ironically, it was the dent that got you. A lucky shot when you were thrown through a collapsing wall which happened to catch the plating at just the right angle to bend it inward and warp it into a cutting edge. Could’ve been worse.

“And that’s why you invited me over.”

“Well, we can still have dinner later, if that’s how I lured you in,” he says with nonchalant shrug and a sarcastic twinge to his voice, “But yeah. You kept trying to brush me off, and it was too much of a coincidence that it all happened at once. And if it was you,” he admits, wiping his palms on his thighs, “I was worried about you.” A tired smile escapes him with an outward sigh. “Suspicion and worry aren’t too far apart.”

“And you’re... Are you not-” mad about it? - He waits patiently while you reformulate your question. “What... do you still need to know?”

He laughs, a wheezy sort of scoff, and finally takes a sip of his drink, as well. “Well, ‘Why?’ would be a big one, of course, but anything you want to-” he huffs out another laugh, “ -anything you can tell me would be appreciated. And before you ask: I know, I haven’t told anyone, and-” He takes another drink to calm himself. “Vindicator’s no longer considered a high-level threat. Which makes me wonder...” Another swallow, then another, looking over his mug to you, a buzz of suspicion still managing to seep past his shields. “Did you already tell the others?”

The Rangers? Of course not. He knows you better than that, doesn’t he? You shake your head without thinking. You haven’t told anyone. Except- “Well,” you correct yourself, with a wince. “Argent knows. And a-... business associate.”

“Argent?” He asks, setting his cup down and leaning forward in one quick motion, before leaning back again. “Argent? Not Steel, not Ortega, but Argent?” The confusion is clear in his eyes, before he blinks it back. “Wait, ‘business associate’?”

“Yeah, well-,” you start again - and if you had any good sense you’d be relieved that the conversation seems painfully awkward, rather than just painful.

Daniel wipes a hand over his face, but with a wincing smile, nods for you to continue.

“More like, a friend of a friend, except... that friend... was also me. And now that she knows...” Daniel’s hand rubs continually over his brow. “I’m not sure if we’re still friends.” You press your thumb soothingly into the palm of your other hand. “I hope so,” you reluctantly admit.

There’s a deep sigh from the other side of the table. “Okay,” says Daniel, ever-patiently. “Okay. We’ll come back to that.” His hand finally removes itself from his face, moving instead to drum his fingers on his thigh. “...But Argent? You told Argent before-”

There’s a moment where his shields - the ones you helped him build, the ones that still need reinforcing- fail. A moment of hurt, soon surpassed by another.

A moment where you see a newspaper clipping on the fridge. A moment where you - not you, no, just the lingering effects of mingled consciousness - remember wondering what possibly could have possessed her to - in public, with a villain, no less! A moment where he remembers things you have told him. A moment where he considers the word “possessed” - a moment where he’s so angry and so worried and so - and it’s gone. In a instant. With the widening of his eyes. And the slamming of mental shutters.

A split-second during which you could have lost everything.

But you’re lucky. You’re so lucky. You’re lucky you’re having this conversation here, and now, after Vindicator’s already been beaten for the day, and by someone else. After you “stumbled into” breaking up a larger battle, and everyone left alive. After Daniel’s already decided to help you.

“How long has Argent known?,” is the question that finally comes, and nowhere near as tersely as you’d expected.

“Not long before you,” you hurry to answer. “Neither of them,” you quickly reassure, for his sake or yours, wincing as you turn your shoulder. “Maybe a month or two?”

“Did Argent know when she-“ Annoyance briefly slips past his shields, before he quickly sweeps it back under, adding up the facts. “A month. So she didn’t know you were Vindicator when she kissed you. ‘Him,’ I guess.” he asks, he states, while you consider the “Technically-” building at the base of your subconscious.

You shake your head, both as an answer and to knock that stupid “Technically-” back where it belongs. In that moment, no, she didn’t. And later was a different thing entirely.

“No,” you say simply. “No, she didn’t. And I can promise you-” for whatever that’s worth, you think “- I had no idea that she was going to do that. Especially with reporters around.”

Your eyes meet, both of you out of your element. “...Honestly, I don’t think I really understand her,” you admit, with all the quiet awkwardness that belongs to that admission.

He smiles yet another tired, patient smile, and collects his mug again, relying on caffeine to make it all make sense. He scoffs softly. “You wouldn’t be the only one.”

You take another gulp from your mug, as well. Then you do the only thing you can do, with your cup mostly empty and your head still swimming with “Technically-”.

You blurt.

“She did kiss me again after I told her, though. I didn’t expect that either.” Before either of you has a chance to process, you barrel right on ahead. “She bit me, too.” You finally pause to think. “...Even though she told me she might.”

Daniel blinks. “She told you she was going to bite you?”

Once again, you are so, so lucky that you have someone so accustomed to your peculiarities. Someone who can parse the information you throw down one piece at a time. Someone who takes the time to do so. Someone who doesn’t react until they’ve wrung the truth from you. Someone who’s patient enough to do the wringing.

“No, she told me she might kiss me, but I didn’t really believe her. And then when she did kiss me, she bit me.” You take in a quick breath for a complicated clarification, blurting away. “...I had the helmet on, and I asked what she’d do if I took it off, and she said she might kiss me, and that sounded pretty unbelievable - and then when I took it off, she seemed angry, which I had expected, but then she kissed me... which I hadn’t. And then midway through that she bit me.”

You unconsciously suck in your lip, your eyes again finding Daniel’s. You swallow hard. “She bit through my lip.”

Which is why your lip hurt the next time you visited the Rangers. And the night he took you to dinner.

He draws in a breath and sighs.

“So why did you take the helmet off? If you expected she’d react badly, I mean.”

“I thought she’d react badly either way,” you admit with a shrug. (Shortly followed by a wince, as again, you are quickly reminded of your stitches.) “If I didn’t tell her - if I didn’t give her anything to work with, in the situation we were in, we’d have to fight. If I did tell her, there’s a chance she’d figure things out, and probably kill me, but there was also a chance she might not kill me? So I took that chance.” You blink, still somehow piecing it together for yourself. “...I didn’t actually think she’d kiss me.”

Daniel’s face shows his thoughts, but it’s yours that you still have trouble parsing.

“People have a way of surprising me,” you tell him.

“And you them, I’m sure.” His scripted accent falls, tone shifting curiously close to yours as he follows your jumps in logic. “You expected she’d kill you, but she likes Vindicator - or at least she used to. She wouldn’t kill Vindicator just for jerking her around,” he supposes aloud.

Under his unwavering gaze, you shake your head. “Probably not.”

“You did something worse.”

Gone are the butterflies. Gone are the questions. He knows. He knows what he’s already suspected. What he never wanted to ask.

“...Yeah.”

“You don’t just influence or suggest. You can do a lot more than what we did in there.” He jerks his head toward the hall. “You can make people do things against their will, not just work around it.” He keeps his eyes locked with yours. “Can’t you?”

You nod, lips twitching, not quite a wince. “I’m a pretty powerful telepath.” You try not to wince, at least. What is there to feel guilty about, just admitting that? It’s a skill. It’s useful. You’d be a fool not to use it.

You’re a fool anyway.

He takes in another deep, centering breath, and sighs. “What was the situation?”

“Pardon?”

“The ‘situation’ you were in, when you told Argent.”

“Oh. That.” You blink, but quickly adjust to his change of topics. “We were both after something, and there were a number of other villains in the way.” You shrug, to try to alleviate his concerns. “She was fighting villains, and I was robbing them. It was in both our best interest not to waste time fighting each other.”

It’s not quite a lie. Everything you’ve said is true.

“What was she there for?”

And isn’t it odd that that’s the question that makes you feel guilty?

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I don’t want to know. I don’t need to. I haven’t asked, and she’s told me to stay out of her head.” Daniel shifts in his seat. “It’s not like I want to lie to you, but-” He squirms again, and you can tell from his expression that your discomfort must register on your face. He’s still uncomfortable pushing.

And you love him for that. It’s why you bother trying to explain at all.

You love him, as much as someone like you can, anyway. And you want him to know. And you want him to love you in spite of it.

You’re trying to be better, and you can only hope it’s working. Without him, you’d have no way of knowing.

You take in a deep breath, and you keep trying.

“It’s none of my business, and I’m trying to respect that. I don’t want to make things difficult for her or anyone. I know that probably sounds odd, coming from me, but I mean it. I can tell you what I was after, and why, and I can guess why she’d want it, too, but you have to keep this under wraps.”

That piques his curiosity. He floats over, perching next to you on the couch.

“Alright,” he encourages, squeezing your joined hands. You haven’t lost him yet.

“I’m serious. You can’t ask her about it, you can’t let anyone know that you know. Can you - can you do that? For her, at least, even if-?”

He stops you, squeezing your hands again.

“I’m not-... It’s alright, Vince, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

You nod at him.

“There’s a machine. Supposedly, it can regenerate damaged tissue. Revert changes, in a way, maybe. I don’t know how the science works.” Your pulse jumps with nervous energy. “But this is my chance at being normal. At being human-” Daniel takes in a breath to correct you, but you need to say this much, at least. “-on the outside, where it counts.”

He’s silent for a moment then. He allows one of your hands to escape to shakily grip your knee, but he takes your other again in his grasp, weaving your fingers together.

You don’t bother trying to find out how he feels; you can guess from his face. He doesn’t bother objecting, either.

You might be human enough for him, but what does that matter, in the grand scheme of things? No amount of optimism would ever fix this.

“And could it work?” He’s breathless, on your behalf.

“I don’t know,” you admit, softly, suddenly afraid to speak any louder. “I hope so. Argent was after it, so I think she thinks it does. Which makes it seem more promising, even if it doesn’t wind up that way.” You chew your lip, smile at his reassurances, and remind him of his not-quite promise. “Please don’t let her know I’ve told you this. Danny,” you practically beg, which can’t be a good look for you, “You can’t tell anyone.”

He frowns. “I won’t.”

A sudden beeping trill accompanied by a sloshing ‘clunk’ nearly scares you out of your skin. Both of you let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding. The spin cycle has finished. The laundry is clean.

“Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head. He laughs and goes to pat you on the shoulder, awkwardly settling for resting a hand at the base of your neck, when he remembers your injury.

“I should put that in the dryer,” he says, floating to his feet.

“I’ll help.” You volunteer without thinking, and follow him down the hall. You’ve never been comfortable just sitting and waiting.

“You don’t have to, you know. It’s just laundry; I can manage.”

“It’s my mess anyway.”

“It might as well be ‘our’ mess at this point.”

He has a point, but that only makes you feel more awkward. And then, inevitably, you overcorrect.

“Look, Danny, just because you’re sleeping with the enemy doesn’t mean-”

“Vince.” He stops you with a look.

“Sorry,” you mutter, your gaze darting away.

“You’re not ‘the enemy,’ you’re just being an ass. You don’t have to pick fights.” He stands there - floats there - waiting for your eyes to turn back to him. When they eventually do, he adds, “You know that, right?”

“I know. I’m just not sure I know what else I should do.”

“Just talk to me,” he says, so simply. So absolutely sure of himself.

Wonder what that feels like?

You nod slowly.

“If you’d really rather help, you can.” A small concession.

“I’d like to.”

He shrugs good-naturedly. “That’s fine. I’ll grab it out of the washer; you sort. I don’t want you wrenching that shoulder.”

“Okay, deal.”

Taking inventory, all things considered, there’s not much damage. Not to you, your friends, your armor, or even the laundry.

Soaking everything in the tub managed to get the blood out of most things before washing- and the few things that required bleaching don’t look too bad after a cycle or two.

The shower curtains - “Those are hang dry,” he tells you - have some interesting splotches, but they aren’t too obvious unless you’re looking for them.

“I can replace those.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Silence falls, momentarily, as he hands you the last of your clothes, and you pass the shower curtains back to him. He disappears down the hallway, “I’ll hang those. No reaching.” The dryer shuts more loudly than you’d like, and he reappears to re-fiddle the settings before pressing Start.

He chews his lip in thought, leaning against the doorframe.

“What would it mean,” he begins, softly “- if the machine worked?”

“Well, for starters, I could take my shirt off more often.” You laugh, and he starts to laugh, too, but your voice becomes softer, more serious, and he breaks off, watching you. “I could exist in public, without being any more or less at risk than anybody else out there. I could be nobody.”

There’s a pause, a moment where you can actually think. You shrug. “I could quit.”

“Would you?”

“Well, I’d think about it, at least. I’d have a lot less reason to keep getting armored up, if I didn’t have to worry about who might be kicking down my door.”

“Is that why-?”

“I mean- it’s a pretty good reason to want to be prepared.”

“Good as any,” he mutters good-naturedly. His eyes unfocus slightly as he stares past you into nothing.

You aren’t sure if he’s fully conscious of what he’s saying, or if he only said it conversationally.

He sounds tired. Looks tired. You’ve dumped a lot on his shoulders today. Ha! His shoulders, huh? A literal wall came down on yours.

You hadn’t even intended the joke, but it does make you snicker. Softly, but still loud enough to break him from his reverie.

He shakes his head. “So, dinner? I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

Your answer is always the same. “I could eat.”

He puts his arm around your waist and smiles down at you, guiding you kitchenward. “Alright, then.”

“...I heard you had dinner with Daniel.”

“You didn’t ‘hear it,’” you scoff. “I told you that I was going to.”

“I know. ...But he told me-“

“Gossiping about me now?”

“I just... What am I missing here, Caroline?”

You wince when she uses your name. It’s hard not to.

“There was a misunderstanding. He needed to know.“

“Needed to know what?,” she presses.

“That I wasn’t interested.”

“Why put it off, then?”

It’s a good question. You could have kept blowing him off. You could have just told him to knock it off with the breathless enthusiasm. You could have told him you didn’t feel that way about him, with no other explanation. Why?

“It would be awkward.” Plus, free dinner. And even if he had taken it hard, he wouldn’t make a show of it in public. He seems like the “cry at home” type.

Julia furrows her brow, but doesn’t say anything. It’s gone soon enough. Face swept blank and expressions tucked under the rug.

“You never told me.”

Oh. He told her that, did he? Of course he did. Pretty boy with a bleeding heart. Ortega being nosy. Probably made him chattier.

Well, maybe that was his take away from the evening, and can you blame him? You spelled it out pretty clear: “We have a misunderstanding here. I’m interested in women.”

“You never needed to know.”

“It might have helped.”

“How?,” You snort. The word slips out before you can stop it. Luckily, it wasn’t meant as a question, but as a refutation.

If it had been a question, Julia would have pounced on it, and you could guess how she might respond. With her usual bravado and a smirk, or with something lewd and laviscious. Something that would likely lead to an argument, or something more sincere, a helpless shrug...

“...You wanna come over for a drink?”

Trust that to be Ortega’s solution.

“You know I don’t drink.”

“Coffee’s a drink, isn’t it?” She keeps pushing. Why?

You frown. “I can’t just jump into things.”

“I know. I remember. I’m still okay with waiting-” She casually puts her hands on her hips, looking so much like her mother that it almost makes you laugh. “-but you kissed me first, and I still don’t know what that means.”

“On the forehead, you dork. And I told you at the hospital, that was just for you to get better.”

“And I did.”

You grimace and stomp away down an alley. You need to get off the street.

She follows, all too close, and steps in front of you midway down the alley, giving you enough space to make a decision.

You’ve already stopped before you realize that was the decision you made.

She reaches for your hand, but thinks better of it. Too easy to pull away. Instead she puts her hands gently on your shoulders, to ease you into looking into her eyes.

You narrow yours at her.

“I’m fine,” You grumble.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Fine. Fine, you’re fine. Emotionally mature and fully in control of yourself and perfectly capable of making mature decisions. So! What would you say if I told you I wanted to kiss you?”

“Don’t know yet,” you admit. “You haven’t tried.”

“I mean - I have.”

“And it’s gotten you nowhere. Feel like giving up yet?”

“You’d be surprised.” She grins, but you can see the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the shine in her eyes.

“Look, I don’t know what you expect. I mean, what do you want from this? What are you hoping will happen?”

She hesitates. Leans in. Hesitates again, then closes her eyes, stands on her toes, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“For you to get better.”

It doesn’t matter what you used to be; it doesn’t matter how you act when you’re around him or anyone else... none of that changes the simple fact that you are a villain.

You know it, you feel like the Rangers should know it, if they were any good at their jobs... but you have to admit they don’t. Otherwise they would have said something. Done something.

You’re available enough. They wouldn’t even have to track you down because you’d just show up again. A phone call would be a sufficient trap by now. It’s been almost a year. They’ve had chances. Plenty.

They don’t know. And, in this particular instance, what they don’t know won’t hurt you, but it still kind of stings.

Well. Argent knows, but that’s it’s own thing. She’s not likely to share unless you really screw up. And apparently you haven’t screwed up too much already, because the chats stay friendly - friendly enough by villain standards at least, and again, that’s what you are.

You’re a villain, which is better than a victim, but both is what you’re going to be. You knew that’s how it would go from the moment you got out.

It’s the in-between that went sideways.

You know - you knew - you don’t fight friends. And whatever else your senses tell you... that’s what Ortega is. That’s what he’s always been. That’s what he wants to be.

You can tell yourself it wasn’t personal, but Argent’s right. Just because it wasn’t for you doesn’t mean it won’t be for everyone else.

And wasn’t it personal? At least a little bit? It could have been anyone, but it wasn’t. And you knew it wouldn’t be. If anyone was going to be at the gala, it was going to be Ortega. And you went ahead anyway.

Of course you regret it, but do you feel guilty? As guilty as you should? Guilty enough to do anything about it?

You’ve known they’d find out eventually. You haven’t had reason to rush it along.

Steel won’t care. For once he’ll be right about you, and that’ll be the end of it. Shortly followed by the end of you, probably, too. Oh well. No great loss.

Ortega’s gonna be hurt, maybe, but he’ll bounce back one way or another. Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he won’t. But Ortega doesn’t hesitate, and he can make up his own mind, so he will in the moment. No point worrying about that, either. It is what it will be.

You’d always kind of assumed that Argent would kill you - and probably at the first chance she’d get - but that reaction’s at least been delayed. She’s... friendlier than she’s ever been to you, which isn’t saying much, but still confuses the hell out of you.

And Daniel... Herald. You hadn’t thought about him at all.

Certainly not about Herald. What would it matter how he’d react? What would he matter?

He wouldn’t. They don’t trust him to plan, which really means they don’t trust him to think, when it’s “Rangers” business.

He’d go along with Steel, if the fight ever came back to you. It’d be his job, with the added bonus of a little payback for making a fool out of him last time.

But on his own, you could always take him, no matter how much training or heart or whatever he put into it. And he’d know it. So he wouldn’t move unless someone else was with him - and it’d be their decision you’d have to worry about.

Herald would always be the tag-along. You’d put money on it, even.

It’s different, knowing Daniel. Knowing uncomfortable things.

He got in this mess because of you. Because you screwed up and showed off and let yourself be seen, all sly and silver and sharp. Because you were bitter, and arrogant, and finally had an audience.

He got hurt because of you. Because you hurt him. Because you were leagues ahead of him, and he should know it, and by God, he was going to learn. If he was going to put himself in the way, you were going to go through him.

Hell, from what he’s said, he might have boosted because of you, though you hope that’s just irrational guilt talking. There’s plenty of rational things to feel guilty about; you don’t need to add to it.

But do you feel guilty? You’re sorry he got hurt, but you’re not sorry that you did it. ...Should you be? Shouldn’t you? Why?

Hell, what did you do? You crashed a party. You stole some cash. You threw some insults.

He’s the one that rushed in. All you did was move out of the way.

He’s the one that lost control. The car was the thing that got him, and it was parked.

Yeah, you said some things you shouldn’t... or at least, that you wouldn’t say to him now, knowing what you do... but at the time you had something to say, and someone was going to listen. And damned if you don’t regret that, but the idiot who got himself pinned under a car was the definition of a captive audience, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to pick at every last thread of frayed confidence.

Never once wondering why they had been frayed in the first place.

That was stupid of you. Petty. Mean.

And you could have done worse, if you hadn’t been wrong; if he really had been alone. And that’s a thought you’re not ready for. You were both lucky it only went that far.

The things you said were mean, petty, rude... and honest. But lacking greater context.

He’s not a failure. He’s just been set up for it. He’s not ready. And that’s no fault of his own. And he is good at his job. You just didn’t know what his job was, at first.

He’s the one who has to answer to the press, to uncomfortable, inappropriate questions; and answer for the ones he can’t answer, because he’s not told enough. And above all, he’s there to distract: to look good, to draw attention, to generate the necessary emotional response to spin the story, whatever it might be.

But at the time it made sense: he got hurt, and for what? No good reason. And all he did was make it worse for himself. And you thought he should know it.

Eventually you’ll have to apologize, though. Eventually you’ll want to.

...But it’s not like they did a great job, either. And there’s that last bout of anger that squirms and snakes around the guilty thoughts, preventing your attention from sinking into them for too long.

The Rangers screwed up.

What were they even doing there? With all the back-patting and porcelain-smile speeches and all that cash just there for the taking, just there to show off...

Hit the rich bastards where it hurts. Remind them they can’t ignore the rest of you for long.

You know, probably, if they had been called in from headquarters, it would have gone better. Even with the traffic. If you had already left the scene, they wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and if you were stupid enough to still be there by the time they arrived, making dumb speeches or frightening self-important fools... the Rangers would have taken you apart. No question.

That’s the whole point of a team: strength in numbers. Make up for individual shortcomings.

You did something stupidly reckless; something that, in hindsight, you never should have gotten away with, even with all your planning... and they let you get away with it.

Well, they didn’t let you. But it’s not like it was all that hard, since they lined up single file.

And you are too old for all this nonsense. They’re old enough to know better. You’re old enough to take responsibility for your actions. And you’re still dragging your feet.

God, he’s only 25.

“He’s a good kid,” Ortega said.

And he’s not a kid, he’s not, and you weren’t either... but he still feels so young.

He’s got his whole life ahead of him, could do anything he wants... and he wants to do this, because it’s all he’s ever learned. And maybe he thinks his life is already half over, or a third over, or mostly over, and he should just stick with it, do what he can, hope for the best...

And maybe you’re just projecting.

You don’t feel older, perceptions aside. Well. You feel older, but not like you’ve aged. The joints creak, things seem to ache more than they used to... but what’s different? What’s the distinction?

You haven’t had any time for growth. The interim wasn’t really a time for growing. Your whole life got put on hold. More than that, it ended.

You can pretend and reminisce, but it won’t do you any good. You’re just different. You didn’t grow, you changed, and there’s nothing you can do about any of that.

You shouldn’t have to, either. It wasn’t your fault. There are explanations, but you shouldn’t have to explain. They’re fine. You’re doing better. It’s fine. Everyone has years they’d rather forget.

But there’s no such thing as a clean break. You’ve been broken enough to know it.

And you still should know better. You knew better seven years ago, and if you can draw on that enough to pretend, it means you haven’t forgotten. Eventually, you’re going to have to reconcile your expectations: who you want to be, with who you have to be, with who you are regardless.

And you have to ask. And you have to share.

Get some context. Get some answers. Retrace the steps that got you this far into this mess, how you both got into it, and find how you’ll make it out.

Not sure how it went for him, but the “carefree” crap seems like... well, crap, by now. Mr. “Easy, breezy, beautiful” doesn’t seem like he’s quite as “born with it” as you’d been led to believe.

That’s probably a good thing. Makes him easier to talk to, at least.

Makes the rest of it a little sad. Uncomfortably close to home. Being who you’re made to be. Think you’re getting somewhere, but you’re just making the same mistakes in more creative ways. That’s life.

He looks the part, at least. Doesn’t have to dress up too much to make it believable. (Not like you, with the armor that says you’re definitely compensating for something. But it’s armor; compensating’s the entire point of it. Without it you’re just so... squishy.) Coaching aside, stylists had a lot to work with. With a face like that, he’d look good just wearing a smile.

Wait... Not “just” a smile, just. You know! He’d look good in anything. He makes things look good.

That’s what they hired him for, right?

Shame they didn’t actually want a hero - that had to hurt - but it happens to the best of ‘em.

And it happened you. Can’t always get what you want, but knowing doesn’t always stop the wanting.

It’s a hard lesson, but he’ll learn. Fall in line or leave. He’s got nothing to bargain with.

“Not meant to engage in hand-to-hand combat” - no shit, Steel. Had anyone bothered to tell Herald that? That he’s a glorified spokesmodel, meant to look pretty, parrot back lines to answer scripted questions, and ask none of his own?

Doubtful. Not with the way he rushes in, still thinking he’ll make a difference. Foolish.

It’s a stupid thought, but no less admirable. Unfortunate. Sweet. Brave.

It will get him killed.

And you’re the one getting dad-speeches from Ortega. He’s barely over 40. And he never treated you like that before. ...Did he? Would you have known it if he did, while you were trying to pick and choose which aspects of his personality to make yours?

Can you believe that was a man you thought knew what he was doing?

And now that you’re actually thinking, instead of congratulating yourself for sheer dumb luck... you’re worried. You can’t help it that you’re worried.

There’s so much that could go wrong.

Ortega’s still hung up on Hollow Ground, and you’ve got Daniel distracted, and Argent’s wrapped up in two near-villainous endeavors, at least, by your count. (She’s working with you, and if that wasn’t enough, you might introduce her to the Doctor... and she already had the costume...)

At this point, it doesn’t matter if you’re being friendly. It doesn’t matter if you’re helping with individual projects, or whatever promise you’ve made yourself about keeping it fair, or taking it slow, or trying to stay out of their business while taking care of yours... As much as you hate to admit it, for once, Steel’s right: you are interfering. And you should know better.

It’s not funny. And it won’t be, when this comes to a head. And you’ve kept to the boundaries, instead of heading straight for the middle, but guess what? You’ve still painted yourself into a corner.

Anywhere you go, you’re going to leave tracks. And with loverboy at your heels, you know he’ll follow any trails you leave.

You’re pretty sure he’s followed some you weren’t even aware you were making.

If he asked... If Daniel asked, you’d tell him. No question.

Will he ask? Is that what you’re waiting for? Will you simply confirm or deny whatever he brings to confront you?

At this point, there are so many facets to the truth that you’re not sure you could raise one above the other.

You are guilty, regardless of how you feel.

If you quit, the Rangers might let you go, same as any other villain that quit the scene or vanished before going too far... but it’s not the Rangers you’re worried about, and it never has been.

It’s who they might answer to. It’s who’s coming, no matter what you do.

If you take off the armor, you’re just as exposed as you’ve ever been.

And if you tell him... even if he deserves to know... If you tell him, everyone else will know. If they know where to look. If they know how to look. Daniel’s an open book to everyone that knows how to read it.

Does he know too much already?

Of course he does.

He already knows the one thing nothing can get rid of. No amount of good deeds, or bad ones, or science experiments... Nothing yet, at least. But that part he’ll keep secret. He doesn’t know what to think of it, which hopefully means he won’t think about it - and that’s the safest thing for him. For both of you.

If you keep adding to that, he’ll start thinking, wondering, looking for reasons why... And he might eventually find them. And that doesn’t really bother you, not as much as you thought it would... but just as likely, someone else might find you.

You know what you’ve always known: you can’t tell anyone. You can’t trust anyone, no matter how much you like them, or how much you want to.

You have to wait. Wait, until it doesn’t matter. Wait, until there’s nothing else to do. Wait until there’s nothing left to say. Then you can say the wrong things - the honest things - and convince yourself you ever had any choice about any of it.

This will hurt, eventually. It doesn’t have to hurt now.

You like him. He likes you, for whatever reason. If you asked he’d tell you. You’re not sure you’re ready to hear it.

He’s a sweet kid - 25. Not a kid. - about as old as you were supposed to be when you kicked it, maybe a little younger.

Just like you.

He’s been a hero for a while now, too. Longer than you would have thought. And if he’s a little over-enthusiastic, so what? You did reckless things starting out, too - you still do - and he manages to somehow sound more mature and still less jaded.

So he should know better.

And, as you have to remind yourself, he’s been human longer than you have, so. So that’s something.

So he should really know better.

What you mean to say is that he’s not as dumb as he looks - he doesn’t look dumb, some part of you over-eagerly protests - he’s quick on the uptake and he’s happy to listen and he’s... sweet.

And you’ll know. If you’ve said the wrong thing. If something’s wrong with you. If you’ve lost touch, if you’re losing it...

There won’t be Ortega’s weird comments or pained “You know,” smiles - because No, you don’t know if Ortega won’t tell you, the unreadable bastard, so why doesn’t he come out and say it? - or the cold shoulder Chen’s always given you, metal or not.

Daniel will tell you. And even if he doesn’t, you’ll know. If there’s something wrong with you. With the way you act, or the way you are.

If the machine works, it’ll be a moot point, but that’s a long ways off. There’s business to discuss first, and this is feeling like more of a “now” issue.

If this is going anywhere, even if you’re just going along with it... You need to know. If you can trust him. If this is workable. Reasonable. Excusable, even.

You need to know if you’re somebody - anybody - under the marks etched by time and other forces, or if the important stuff, in your case, really is just skin deep. You need to know where that leaves you.

Nothing’s going a way you could expect. You never thought you’d end up here, if you’re being honest.

And you are. Being honest.

You’ve kind of forgotten how to do it, haven’t you? At some point it just got easier to roll with whatever came out of your mouth. Not that you ever put that much faith in lying - too easy to slip up - but it’s been so long since anyone just... believed you.

And maybe that’s what you like most about him. And that’s what makes this difficult. Because he just. Believes you. Without bothering to double-check.

He holds the access door for you, wraps an arm around you, and then you don’t have a choice about it.

(You do, but you refuse to make it.)

You cross the roof together, until he steps - floats? - (you weren’t paying attention) - forward to unlock the access door.

And there’s this weirdly familiar feeling you get while staring at his shoulder blades.

That was, of course, the first thing you saw, the first time you ever really looked at him. In the elevator, going up.

Months ago, after you and Argent - after Vindicator and Argent - had their very public little spat. ...And other interactions.

He had actually stepped between you. No one asked him to - both you and Argent could have kicked his ass if you wanted to, just as easily as you could have kicked each other’s - but damned if he didn’t do it anyway.

“Vince has nothing to do with this.” And he said it with such confidence that for a moment there, you nearly believed him. And yeah, oh yeah, he was wrong about that. You were entirely to blame for her bad mood, and Ortega’s teasing, and the newspaper clipping posted on - then ripped off of - the fridge.

But you didn’t have to let him know that. Didn’t have to rub it in.

Not when he’d been so... nice? Nice, right? That’s what it was? Hadn’t really thought about it before. He’d been nice. Chatting while you waited, pointing out leftover snacks. Decent-type guy. Didn’t even mind when your attitude broke.

And you never even noticed, because it’s not like you were there for him. You were there for Ortega.

But even Ortega doesn’t believe you. Oh sure, Ortega still likes you, and he wants to think the best, so he decides he will... but he doesn’t believe you. And that’s fine! He doesn’t think the worst either, which is good, and it’s not like he’s honest all the time.

You’re a good actor, when you make an effort. And Ortega is your best friend. He’s worth that much effort, at least.

You’re friends; you don’t have to worry. You’ll see him next week. There’s no timetable for hard discussions, because there’s always a next week, and by the time there isn’t a next week, you’ll have more immediate concerns.

So why ruin a good thing while it’s still good?

But with Dan, it’s different. It moves too fast, and it keeps moving forward. Like there’s a forward you’re moving toward. A destination. You haven’t had one of those for a long time.

Once, you thought you’d arrived already. And after that, you were just trying to get back - to somewhere, at someone - didn’t matter which. Up until now it’s been easy: switching tracks when you need to, or when it stops being fun.

This is different. It’s still fun, but it’s a terrible risk.

Trust is a dangerous thing. For both of you. And some part of you loves that. Because it makes it even. Makes it fair.

And Daniel listens. To all the crap you say, and the crap you shouldn’t say, and he smiles about it. All of it.

Even when you’re angry, he still smiles. And it’s not like Ortega’s, where it’s practically a wince, or like Finch’s, where it’s just meant to keep you talking... he’s happy. And it’s not even Schadenfreude; that’s the weirdest part. You start rambling, you let off steam, and Daniel’s happy about it. Not because you’re angry, but because you care, about something, and he cares about what’s important to you.

And you have no idea what to do with that.

Taking the stairs down from the rooftop feels surprisingly like sneaking in through a window: you weren’t supposed to, but you could, so you did - but you can, so you are.

And you’re nervous.

It seems like it should be less of a scandal - the stairs were built to give access, after all - but somehow it’s stranger because you were invited; because someone’s with you every step of the way. Taking the time. Making coffee. Believing you. Long after you’d stopped believing yourself. Long after anyone else did. Long after you told yourself that it didn’t matter what you said any more, and that that made it okay to just do whatever. To just have fun. ...That what you were doing was fun.

That’s something you’ll have to deal with eventually, but it’s a ways off. And for now, you’ll have to stop blushing. He just wants to kiss you. That’s fine.

Except he doesn’t just want to kiss you.

He’s looking at you. Too much of you. Won’t stop looking at you. Doesn’t want to. Stops talking because he wants to listen.

And if you’re being honest, that should worry you. And it clearly does - why else would you just stand here, letting your coffee burn your fingers and scald your tongue?

You like him. Of course you do. He’s adorable, and brave, and determined - annoyingly so on all three counts - and he’s good with banter, and he makes you feel like... You don’t even know what. But you like it.

He likes you. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t know. And he’ll figure it out eventually, but that doesn’t excuse what happens in the meantime. What you haven’t told him. What you won’t.

It’s really not fair, you know. Putting this all on him. Making him initiate. Making him decide. Stringing him along.

...Huh. Guess you are.

Well. Shit. Now you have to tell him. You really shouldn’t be one more person that keeps him in the dark. It won’t help either of you.

And even if it weren’t for that... You don’t back down from a challenge. And facing Daniel’s reassurances on the one front and Ortega’s goading on the other... you’d be the asshole if you backed out now. And if you’re going to be the asshole, it’ll be because of your own bad decisions, thank you very much. Not something as stupid as appearances or hurt feelings.

You work on a grander scale. This is beneath you. It doesn’t scare you. You’ve come this far. Might as well see it through while you still have the adrenaline to react.

It’s not so bad. Not as hard as you thought it would be. You choke down your coffee, set down your mug... Hell, the tie comes off a lot easier than it went on, and you even have the good sense to set the pin down on the side table so it won’t get lost in the carpet.

Then go the jacket(s), which land on the couch. Shirt to follow... undersh-... there’s still a bit of hesitation there. You swallow too hard, and he notices.

He doesn’t understand, but that’s okay, because he will. And you’ll figure this out. Gauge his reaction, and measure your own against it.

Part of you is angry with yourself for taking unnecessary risks, and about something as silly as this. For setting yourself up to fail, and not even because of indifference. For caring too much what he thinks of you, and not caring enough about what happens next.

What you know happens next. What it will inevitably lead to.

This will end badly. You will end badly. But you already know that part, so there’s no point worrying.

And you really hope you can. Trust him.

...But you don’t necessarily have to, if you don’t want to. Not after this part.

Because then he’ll know.

And then you will.

And then you’ll deal with the consequences.

Even with a running start, eventually you still have to jump.

You remembered to have lunch, you took a nice warm shower, and everything up until now has been fine and uneventful because you really didn’t want to double-book your appearances today.

You’re fine. Yeah, your hand is acting up a little - got the jitters again - but that doesn’t explain why the rest of you has them, too.

It’s just a suit. You wear one every day. This one’s a little nicer, not too much nicer, but it should work just the same.

...You say that, but you know it doesn’t really work that way. This is different. It’s important. You have to match. Blend. Fit. You don’t want to seem out of place.

So, you dress up a little. You pick a nicer suit; something a little more modern with a better fit, tailored to you. You even stood still for it, a monumental undertaking, and the tailor was polite enough not to mention your ticks.

Eden could do this with his eyes closed, but this isn’t a job for Eden. It’s not really meant for you, either, but you’re going to do it anyway.

...Which would be a lot easier without this stupid tie. Too thin, too much like a noose, too- It’s the tie, not. Not you. Not anything.

Your fingers tear into the knot as you rip the tie free from your collar, pulling it straight across your fist.

“Stop stringing him along.” That’s not what this is.

You glare at your reflection as your fists slowly unclench and you unfurl the tie once more.

“Stop stringing him along.” Ortega’s one to talk. He breaks hearts for breakfast. All you’re doing is not being pushy - what’s wrong with that?

You place the tie around your shoulders, ease it around your collar, down around your neck. It’s uneven to start, but that’s how it always goes. Cross one end over the other.

The clock ticks chidingly across the hall.

“Stop stringing him along.” If anyone’s being strung along, it’s you. This was Daniel’s idea anyway. This was Daniel’s idea, and Daniel’s plan, and it only made sense to follow Daniel’s schedule.

Daniel’s the one who won’t tell you what this is.

Ortega’s supposed to be on your side, here. This is supposed to be your bonding moment. You’re “getting out there,” you’re “meeting people.” Not that you’re gonna ask him for advice or anything, but... shouldn’t he be more supportive?

He seemed excited when you told him the first time. What’s wrong with it now? What’s wrong with you now? A decade ago you were suspicious, but he never suspected. Nine months ago you were broken but fine. Seven months ago you were friends again, like you never left. Four months ago you were harangued into therapy. And going. And trying. And laughing over lunch afterward.

Whatever happensed to “I'll give you two time to figure things out”?

And what, would it be so bad if you actually were asking for advice? It’s not like you have any experience here.

...Ridiculous.

Shrug. Shake it out. Cool off.

It’s just dinner. How many times do you have to say it? Just training, just coffee, just dinner. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing would ever happen. You’re not stupid enough to believe otherwise.

No matter how stupid they think you are.

Chen’s all, “Just don’t hurt him,” the asshole. What’s that supposed to mean?

No threats, no accusations? “Just” don’t hurt him? And why does he sound so resigned about it? He gave you more crap for tagging along back in the day, and now the bar’s dropped down to “just” don’t hurt him?

Tie. Over. Cross. Behind. Up. Over. Through. Straighten, re-straighten.

And then there’s... whatever it was he was saying about Ortega. You’re acting like Ortega? And that’s a bad thing? Chen likes Ortega, shiftiness and all. Why shouldn’t the same rules apply to you? Does he just like being annoyed? Does he enjoy confusing you? He probably does. Jerk.

Doesn’t matter. That ship has sailed, and resigned’s at least better than passive-aggressive. (Never understood why he bothered with passive-aggressive when he could have just been aggressive. If you had ever really fought, then... things would have been different. Resolved more quickly, at least.)

Chen’s being weird. Ortega’s being vague and judgey. Argent’s... something. You don’t have enough information but it still feels off.

The way she had scrunched her face - “That’s weird.” - and what’s weird about it? Is it you, or Herald, or you and Herald?

She knows you’re training, right? Everyone does. Even the lady at the front desk didn’t seem surprised. (At some point you’ll need to ask her name. That’s a thing people do, apparently. You asked for Argent’s - but that was only because she already had yours. Same with Daniel. Makes it even. Makes it fair.)

But Argent... Argent you thought knew enough about you not to be surprised. She’s always got a new move, or a counter, or a shot from left field... She kissed you, and that’s not weird, but going to see Daniel is?

Glad she’s not insulted, though. Not sure how you’d handle it if she was. Awkwardly, no doubt.

The tie twists again. Behind. Over. Down. In. Through. Now it looks backwards, but it’s supposed to. You’re not done yet.

And Daniel’s... got the most confusing sense of priorities. And the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Quit stringing him along.” Asshole.

Hold the dimple. (Or what’s going to be the dimple.) Notice how dumb it looks. Fidget some more. Your arms are getting tired.

Chen thinks you’re moving too fast and Ortega thinks you’re moving too slow and Argent just thinks it’s weird and you really thought you were doing well “just going with it,” and HOW IS IT THIS DIFFICULT TO TIE A TIE?

Hurry up. Hard to the side, straight across. Behind. Under. Contort. Through. Over. Back through the front loop for the last time.

There. It’s tied. Again. Now just fix it.

Ortega’s supposed to be predictable. That’s what you like about him. He never changes. That’s why you’ve been doing this whole thing with the not kicking his ass and the helping and the talking and the therapy and the training that somehow gets Daniel’s attention, and now it’s your fault?

“Quit stringing him along.”

Shows what Finch knows. Eight sessions of “What are you so angry about?” And “it’s okay to like people and to let them like you,” and “not everybody needs a reason,” and it’s all a load of bull and you knew it.

They all think you want something. That you have to.

Sure, fine. You have to want something? How ‘bout everything? That enough for them? Just as soon as you finish making nice, you can go right back to making headlines. You can play the game just as well as the rest of them.

Vindicator’s getting big. Drawing attention. See? That’s the sort of intention that’s fun to guess about. That’s the sort of thing they should be worrying about, not your social life. If they wanna be suspicious, you can probably find something for them to be suspicious about.

But first you’re gonna have dinner. Just dinner.

You’ll look nice. You’ll be nice. It’ll be nice. And you’ll think of what to do after that.

Finish adjusting the length of your tie. Keep it nice and even. Give yourself room to breathe. Won’t do to pass out now.

That part should be easy, fashion disasters pending. There’s nothing to rehearse. Just dinner. Get a carb, put it in your mouth, chew and swallow. Try not to spill anything on this stupid tie that you’re going to pin in place because God help you, you are not doing this again.

You’re gonna get a cab, you’re going to dinner, you’re gonna eat food, you’re gonna talk a little, and you’re going to figure this out - whatever this is.

...It’s a date. You know it is.

He wants it to be a date; he thinks it is but doesn’t want to call it that, in case you’d disagree, so it’s “dinner,” because that’s a point that can’t be argued.

It’s a date and you want to look like you fit, like you belong. You want to look at him and he wants to look at you and you want to talk and you don’t want the questions or raised eyebrows from any of your coffee “dates.”

(He called them that, you know. Coffee dates, but this is dinner.)

It’s a date unless it isn’t. It’s dinner no matter what.

He’s being gentle with it for you - he’s being gentle with you - and you can probably manage to do the same.

See? If you were “stringing him along,” you would have made him think it was one or the other. You’re leaving him the option of backing out once he changes his mind.

If he changes his mind. If you change yours. You won’t have to change his. He’ll do that on his own. He’s good like that. He listens.

And if this goes badly, you’ll drop it and figure out what to do next.

And if it goes well... that’s a problem for Future Vince. Right now you’re hung up on looking nice, eating on someone else’s dime, and, if necessary, various outlets of damage control.

And what about?

Part of you wants them to know they have nothing to feel guilty for; that they’re here, and you care, and you missed them, and that’s enough.

But it isn’t enough... not like this - with their dead eyes and caustic speeches, with both of you dancing around topics that are too painful to talk about, yet too glaring to ignore...

Something has to give. That much is true.

But too much of you still likes winning. And the cleverest, realest part of you remembers: a win by any means is still a win. (And part of you is sick of it.)

And you’ve had a drink or two to make all of those parts be quiet.

They’re here. So are you. That’s a win. That should be enough.

And now there’s a person in your lap, and a hand in your hair, and lips on your cheek (“They could be elsewhere,” you think, despite yourself and your “good intentions” and “friendly concern”), and arms that pull you closer.

And it’s still not right.

Because there’s a million things they could say, here, like this, in this moment, pressed together, warm, intwined - and you’d know, because you’ve heard most of those things before - but the thing they say isn’t what you want to hear. It doesn’t belong to moments like these.

“It’s okay,” they say, and mean it.

And it’s not. Not if that’s the way this is going to go.

And there’s a hand in your hair but it’s not pulling. And there’s lips on your cheek, but they’re moving up. There’s a hand in your hair and it’s stroking gently. There are lips pressed to your temple. There’s a person in your lap and there are arms around you pulling closer so that you have no choice but to lean against their shoulder and it’s not right.

This is exactly how you planned it and it’s not going the way it’s supposed to. And you’re fumbling, falling, trying to keep a grip. Trying to keep up? No, you’re still running; fast enough but you’ve lost the trail. And there’s things you could do, but if you did, you’d lose the rest of it, too.

You could joke and they wouldn’t believe you. You could rearrange your angles and move in any of the ways that usually get the right kind of reaction with the right kind of people and the wrong ones, too... but this isn’t anyone else and they’d just leave.

Again.

If you’re well enough to tease them, you’re well enough to be left alone. That’s what they’d think. And they would leave. And who knows how long they’ll be gone this time, or if-

It’s not right. It’s not fair. It’s not how this is supposed to go.

You’re serious about them, aren’t you? You know it. Why don’t they? Why do you still have to prove it? Again and again and again? Why don’t they know by now?

This is different. This is real. This time you mean it.

What more do they need? What is it that they want from you?

“It’s okay,” they shush again.

It isn’t.

“You trying to make me cry?” Your grin is confident, but pained at best. It’s not really what you meant to say and it’s even less of a joke than it should be.

And they still don’t believe you.

“I’m trying to let you know it would be okay if you did.” Their tone is insufferably even. Not even smug. Just... understanding. Seeing through the curtain of lies that’s there for your joint benefit. The things you put up - the things you put up with - for them.

Don’t they know? You care because you have to. You “don’t care” because you have to, too. Someone has to be the adult here. Someone has to remember how to have fun. And since they’re capable of neither - both fall to you.

And they won’t let you.

And soon, all too soon, you are crying.

It doesn’t start out that way, but it escalates quickly. A mumbled rebuttal, a grin that twitches too much to stay in place, a breath that goes wrong, something that was supposed to be a laugh but sounds nothing like it, a too-sharp sniffle, and you’re already buzzed because that makes most things go easier but this shouldn’t be one of them... not with that look they’re giving you and that shine in your eyes that gives you away with the welling of-

And then you’re angry.

Because it isn’t supposed to go this way and they lied and where were they and how could they and why did it take so long and why do you have to keep proving-

And you need this. And they know it. And if you denied it they would leave.

Because that’s the game the two of you are playing: “Why can’t you be honest with me?,” while holding back your own. A game of chicken that ends with a fight.

Because of course they want you to cry. They want you to cry and they want you to hurt and that never stopped, did it?

You’re honest when you’re angry. When you’re too pissed to shrug and smile it off. And you’re so tired of crying over them. Dead or dying or neither or both. And you hate crying in front of them.

But it would be so much worse without them.

And they want you to be honest.

(Isn’t that what you want, too? Too many secrets already.)

That’s them, isn’t it? Since forever. As long as you’ve known them. Always a sharp comment or a sharper elbow. Roll their eyes at every flirt, at every joke just shy of sincere emotion. Insult your advances. Poke your soft spots. Wipe the smile from your face, knock you off balance... Keep you honest. Make you feel. Make you act serious. Make you want to be serious, about things that were never serious before, and why should they be now?, but all the same they have to be...

And that’s exactly what you did, too, wasn’t it? Tore down the barriers, made them vulnerable, made them want to be serious, made them believe you - made them want to, anyway - and then you weren’t there when... when...

Promises you couldn’t - didn’t - keep.

And you’ve sunk further into the couch, and further into their chest, and there’s lips on your forehead and arms right around you and words whispered as a promise that can’t be kept.

“It’s okay,” they tell you. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.”

And it’s the last one that worries you.

“You’ll be fine.” How could you be?

...Why you?

Later you get what you want. You always do, don’t you?

Because turnabout’s fair play and it’s only fair, they’d think, to trade one moment of discomfort, of vulnerable not-quite-what-you-wanted intimacy for another.

You won’t have to look at each other.

They don’t want you to see them.

Is that why... is that how it was? Wasn’t it different before? You think so.

And, secretly, you’re grateful for the darkness. You don’t want them to keep looking at you like that: only in the eyes when they don’t believe you.

It used to be different, didn’t it? You hate to admit you can’t remember.

You’re both in the dark, here, in more ways than just the literal.

There’s nothing you can say to convince them. To make this better. To make it more real or less real or the right kind of real...

You want it to be. You think they do, too. But they listened the last time you convinced them and look how that turned out for the both of you.

Dead or dying or neither or both.

You try anyway. To make it right. To make it real.

“There was never anyone after you.”

You fail.

The jokes hadn’t landed, so you tried for honesty, but in too close proximity, coloring the edges. You can’t even believe yourself, at this point. Not quite a lie, but close enough.

Not a joke, though. Not a joke at all.

You still don’t think they believe you.

You backtrack immediately, as if you expect them to call you out on it. “ ...Not anyone that mattered.”

They should call you out on it. There should be a joke here. Chastisement. Anything.

They don’t stiffen in your arms, and you’re grateful for that, but the silence is charged with... something. Unused energy. It should be kinetic, but it isn’t.

Things always make more sense laid bare and physical.

They don’t now. Expectation fails you.

“If it didn’t matter, then why do it?”

You don’t have an answer.

Why did you do it? To feel something? Anything? To have a chance to do something you’re good at, that feels good; something where no one gets hurt and which makes sense and doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is?

Haven’t you asked yourself that before? Didn’t you find an answer, and found it insufficient? Isn’t that why you stopped? Why don’t you have a clear answer for them? Why can’t you answer now?

“They mattered,” they say simply, to fill your silence. “I want them to matter.”

You find the meaning there, the significance, confirmation.

If the others mattered, maybe this does too.

They want to believe you. They can’t.

But that’s not what you meant, not what you’re trying to say, what you want them to understand- It’s different. They’re different. That means something. They mean something - to you - that no one else does.

“They weren’t you.”

“They shouldn’t have to be.”

You don’t know what to say to that, something that simple and matter-of-fact, sealed with a kiss that still feels foreign, out of place.

The words are dreamlike, prophetic. You’re not sure if you’re dreaming, or if you want to wake up. It’s not like what you’d hoped for. It’s still not something you want to lose.

Something has changed. This is different. They’re different, and different from how they used to be, different from what you expected, even of them.

You still don’t want to lose.

But more than that, you still don’t want to lose them.

It’s not what Sidestep told him, either. Not that you said it outright, even though you thought you had. He asked for a name. You gave him one. You told them who you were, which should have told them why, if they had listened.

You’ve always been Sidestep. You still are. You always will be. Who that is isn’t for anyone else to decide. Shouldn’t that have been clear enough?

The villain is Sidestep: a fact that’s been begrudgingly accepted. But there’s still this barrier, some mental disconnect, as if Sidestep can’t be the villain.

Compartmentalizations, despite your best effort. You realized. You made the connection. Why can’t they? It’s been a long time coming, and it’s still your name.

It used to be easier to let people think what they wanted. To just be yourself. To be determined not to care. Now it seems like it’s all you have left: what they think of you, who you are. Those need to be one and the same. You’re done letting anyone else speak for you.

...With one notable exception.

“Sidestep is dead, but you’re not.”

It’s a compromise you’ve made; one of many you don’t like, but have to accept all the same, if only to avoid another argument with Ortega. Try as you might, you can’t quite shake her good intentions.

You never thought she’d take it quite like this.

It was a joke. You were a joke. You knew it. Everyone knew it. That display at the museum was even less.

You weren’t hurting anyone, just... correcting a mistake. Balancing a ledger - this time, your own. Evening a score against literal fabrications of yourself and your one-time friends and enemies. Just dolls. Didn’t hurt you to do it. Didn’t hurt at all.

You never thought you’d take it like that, either. Personally. As if you were one. As if you used to be.

Sidestep is dead. If she wasn’t, someone would have looked for her, right? Wouldn’t have given up so easy. So Sidestep is dead. If she wasn’t, no one could tell lies about her, convenient or not. So Sidestep is dead. Sidestep was dead and if that was what it would take to get them to leave her alone, you’d kill what was left of her yourself.

Sidestep is dead and she was only a sidekick anyway and she didn’t deserve any of this. Not the attention, not the suspicion, not the lies, the false praise after she died - as if dying’s what made her important in the first place.

Maybe it was. Maybe it will be. But that’s your business, and no one else’s concern.

Whoever, whatever they think you are, they’re wrong. But they’ll learn. If you were dead, you wouldn’t be angry. And you have plenty to be angry about.

Leave it alone. Leave it behind. No more lies. Take it back. Take it with you. Bury it with you, when the time comes.

You were no one’s hero. You were a joke. And nobody was laughing, but they believed it all the same.

Like the museum, that monstrosity. That cosmic joke. You die, you fail, and you still don’t get any peace. No one ever let you have a place in the outside world, but sure, they’ll put you in a museum. Behind glass, where you belong.

...Funny thing about belonging. They’re only ever happy with “belong to.” Never let you “belong with.”

And whose were you? What what were you? “Property,” first: a thing, belonging to the Special Directive. “Sidekick,” after: Julia’s. “Auxiliary support,” belonging to the city. Always a note in someone else’s ledger.

“Symbol,” finally... belonging to whoever claimed it.

Unfortunately.

He’s the pretender. What gave him the right to be angry? To be incensed on “your” behalf? To claim something as ephemeral as a memory? A reputation? You never had one. Nothing to defend, let alone claim.

He thinks he knows you? Knows who you are, what you’d do? Like he’s the expert just because he grew up with a VCR. Bet he taped it, didn’t he? Bet it was some spectacle. Fun for the whole family.

Like you don’t know better. Like you didn’t live it.

Just how far beyond the museum has this nonsense spread? How’d they package it, the idea of you, for every moment you were out there fighting for your life? With smiles and speculation, a guessing game of “Who’s behind the mask?” With apprehension, judging the actions of some mysterious stranger taking the law in their own hands? Did they make it look easy for you, like you knew what you were doing? Were you endearingly bumbling, full of heart and promise, tragically following good intentions to your death?

When did the retrospective start? When did you “earn” that place in the museum? With the funeral - “yours” - that ruined the Marshal’s reputation? Afterward, when she came back into the fold, and everything that was hers needed to be made palatable again? Or was it as soon as the ambulance doors slammed behind you, when you were out of sight and mind and no one had to worry what you’d do next?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. They can have their Heroic Heritage; they can’t have yours. It’s yours. You’ll take it all back. Eventually.

And Daniel’s been cheating. Using names he has no right to, without showing you the same courtesy.

(Nevermind that you gave it to him. “Just Aerin,” remember?)

“Herald” - what a load of crap. That’s “who he is now”, and “he has to pay a price for it”... Name’s a name. If he didn’t like it, he could have gotten a new one. If you’re Aerin, he’s Daniel.

What gave him the right to play at familiarity? To use names and faulty memories he has no right to?

Julia at least had claim to you - “Sidekick,” and all. She was there. She knows, even if she overstates, misremembers. You were friends. You loved her. You do.

And Julia might be a problem you’re willing to compromise on, but “Herald” is an unknown. A threat. A kid. You hate that part.

You hate that he can’t take a hint; that he won’t leave you alone. You hate that it’s because of her that you’re entertaining his notions of you. You hate that she encourages him.

She has to, right? Where’d he get any of this, if not from her?

Ortega never could resist a chance to tell a story.

And Sidestep was dead, so maybe she needed that. A reason to remember happier times.

But you’re not dead now, and you don’t have to be happy about anything. You’ve earned the right to be bitter.

No one was ever happy to see you - that’s the part the two of them have conveniently ignored.

No one ever believed in you - never believed you at all - not without pages and pages of someone else’s false promises; signatures and handshakes and rubber stamps.

You believed it, once: that you were doing the right thing. You had to believe it. What else was there to do?

Julia believed you, but that was Julia. She never was all that sensible, but so damned good at getting her way.

But that was seven years ago. During which you were left to rot; denied the one option that would have prevented all of this. To be forgotten. To rest. In peace.

All you could ever give was your word; it was all you had to give. And, like an idiot, you gave it. Gave it up. Just like you gave up on hiding. Gave up on fighting. Went out a window and died, closing a very short, poorly-written chapter of someone else’s personal history.

What, out of all that, was there for Daniel to believe?

You don’t get it. You just don’t. Maybe that’s why you hate him.

...Hate is a strong word.

You hate his face. You hate his feelings. You hate his... Touchiness. Wrong word, but it fits. You hate how he touches you. Everyone. How he wants to. How stupid touchy-feely he is, all the time. But you don’t hate him. Just. This. All of this. The games you play because you have to.

Because you still need more practice. Because you’re still dangerous.

You kicked him in his stupid face (the one you hate) and he still asks you out to coffee. Why did you say yes? Why’d you kick him? You already had him down.

And now he’s sitting across from you and he’s still looking at you like he wouldn’t hit you when you’re down, like he’d never hit you and like he wants you to know that and-

What gives him the right? How could he promise that? What gives him the right to expect it from you?

Sidestep doesn’t kill; that’s a rule you’ve made and you don’t care enough to change it - and he’s not nearly enough to be an exception - but there’s something about the way he believes you wouldn’t that rubs you wrong.

Like he thinks you’re incapable of it. Like you couldn’t. Like this isn’t a choice you’ve made, but something that just comes naturally to good people - like you.

And he’s so wrong about that, that it makes you- makes you-

You’re dangerous. It’s a thing you know. And even if you didn’t, it’s still something they’d never let you forget. Everyone else has always thought so. You. Are. Dangerous.

That’s why they never wanted to keep you.

Hell, even Julia knew you were dangerous, she just thought you were the right kind of dangerous; dangerous on the right side.

Your successes were never your own. Your dangers are. That’s why the stories don’t matter; that’s why your actions do.

And the fact that he doesn’t see it is... the fact that he thinks that you wouldn’t hurt him...

It makes you want to prove him wrong.

That’s what he gets for believing someone else’s stories, someone else’s lies, instead of listening- That’s why you told him, the first time. You’re Sidestep. This is who Sidestep is. Maybe that’s who you’ve always been.

You think he’d listen, if you told him again, and by now you think he’d believe you.

Why are you deflecting? Why hesitate? Why does he make you lie? Why do you let him?

Wouldn’t it be easier if it all just stopped? If you did?

But you can’t. You won’t. You talk yourself in circles. Speak yourself back into being.

If you hate your past enough to want to destroy it, why do you care enough to want to protect it from anyone else?

And it was supposed to be so much easier this time, with nothing to lose. Not caring what happens to you. Going down fighting, as who you wanted to be. And, if not that, as who you really are.

You do one thing for yourself (to yourself?) and look how it turns out. Compromised.

Why were you checking in on Julia? And often enough for Daniel to notice? Why were you helping him at all? “So you didn’t kill him,” yeah, yeah. What does it matter? You could have said no. A black eye at the start and you could have kept him from coming back.

Why any of this?

For Julia. Always for Julia. It didn’t matter what anyone thought; you didn’t do it for them. You did it for Julia. And you didn’t care what they thought about that, either. You were partners. That was the important thing.

Right up until you died. ...Or you didn’t.

You should have. That much is clear. It’s just harder to know what to do about it, now.

Whatever happened, it wasn’t about her any more. No matter what she thought about it. It was supposed to be your decision. Yours! You didn’t think she’d take it that way. That hard. That personally. It was just a museum. Just a display. Just a name. Just a sidekick, anyway.

You should have known. She’s always been defensive. Too proud of the things that are hers - friends and vendettas most of all. “Nemesis,” too, maybe. Still part of the job, even after you’ve thrown in the towel. You go where she does. She carries you with her.

It’s different now, though. Sidestep’s a concern but it’s Aerin she chases. It’s the old Sidestep she won’t let go.

Sidestep is dead, but you’re not. She wants you to remember. You wish she’d forget.

She won’t. She can’t. You can’t make her. You took something from her, and Ortega never forgets the score.

She’ll figure it out on her own time. She’ll ask, eventually, and you’ll tell her when she does. It’s easier that way. To let it happen. By the time the question forms, she’ll already have the answer.

Daniel’s not that patient. Maybe that’s why you hate him.

It upends your time table. Pulls past to present, asks questions about the future. Do you even have one? Asking doesn’t provide an answer. It was easier when you knew the answer was no. Do you want one? How should you know? What would it matter if you did?

You have plans. You got yours, and now there’s plenty of people that are going to get what’s coming to them. And you can’t tell him that. Because that will get him killed. Even if not by you, then because of you. And if that happens, it won’t really matter what stupid little rules you’ve set for yourself.

It’s a mess.

You go to kill yourself - past or present, doesn’t matter - you put Ortega in the hospital. You put Ortega in the hospital, you start answering her calls again. You start answering her calls again and she just pulls you in further.

You tell Daniel to screw off and he asks you for help. You help him and you give him a black eye. You give him a black eye and he asks you out for coffee.

How is that supposed to work?

“You can afford to lose,” he says. As if that’s not what this is: a concession. As if you’ve ever been able to do anything other than lose.

“Look,” you finally say, as you empty your coffee. “I expect you to do better.” Do you? Do you mean it?

He believes you, though, so it doesn’t matter. He’ll get better, or he won’t. It’s no fault of your own, but he, at least, should care. It’s his life. How could he not care about it?

“You need to start taking things more seriously”. The words sound right, like it’s the thing someone should tell him, but why does it have to be you? And why does it sound so wrong in your voice?

What does he have to take seriously? His government-assigned hero persona? His joke of a job? Julia’s advice? Julia, who always gets her way, and for whom things still never work out? You?

Who in their right mind would take any of this seriously? Dressing up, putting on a show. Tearing it down again when it doesn’t go right.

You don’t like the games you play.

First time you got a “Thank you” for kicking the crap out of someone. Saving a little old lady’s purse, or something like that.

(Although it wasn’t so much the purse as the till, the lady was middle aged at most, and she certainly wasn’t little.)

Maybe she would have reminded you of your mother, if you had ever had one. Capable enough to handle things herself, and still you had put yourself between her and the punk that was threatening her.

What kind of idiot robs a supply store anyway? Apparently not the kind with any practical training. You took him apart in seconds flat, leaving him disarmed in a crumpled heap. You did it pretty much one-handed, too, since you still had merchandise in the other.

Once the dust had settled, “You wanna buy that?” was all she had asked, gesturing at the skinsuit still in your hands. You had just... punched the guy through it. ...With it? Not its intended purpose, to be sure, but it still held up.

“...Wanted to look at it, at least.” Simple enough to admit.

“Now, I don’t usually do this,” she sighed, unlocking a door behind her, “- but the bathroom’s open, if you want to try it on. I gotta take out the trash.” She gestured tiredly at the heap of moron you left on her counter.

And you hesitated. And she took notice.

“...Do you always wear all that?”

Yes. You did. You used to. Anything left behind would be someone else’s come morning. And besides, “Got things I’d rather keep covered.”

An appraising look. “Don’t we all.”

“...How much for the suit?”

No immediate answer. No questions, either. Small mercies.

“Tell ya what, kid. If you drag him out and leave him on the curb, you can have it. Take the next size up, too, in case you ever put some meat on your bones.”

Done deal.

“Thanks for your business.” She had laughed, but the look in her eyes was something between proud and sad. Seen it all before; nothing new under the sun. (At least as long as you kept yourself covered.) “...And thank you. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” You don’t know why you said it. Just felt like the right thing to do.

You do a lot of stupid things, just because it feels right.

Maybe you do need instruction. Maybe you were built to need a handler. Maybe you were crippled that way. Maybe you’ve just been lucky. Maybe this is what lucky looks like, for something like you.

You remember the first time you ran with Ortega, instead of just running into him.

“Hold up a minute.” He had waved off the people with him, then called out to you with undue enthusiasm. “Hey! We could use some help, maybe.”

Steel, of course, had objected. (Not the first time you had seen ‘Sergeant Steel,’ but the first time you had seen him without the helmet. Some part of you thinks Chen still hasn’t forgiven you for that first moment of weakness.)

“What? Marshal, we can’t take a civilian-”

“He’s not a civilian. He’s a vigilante.” Ortega had shrugged, tossed Chen a coy smile, and jogged up to you anyway. Always encouraging you. Not the smartest thing to do, but it worked.

“Hey! Got reports of a boosted altercation and possible robbery off X-” (You don’t remember the street, just the way he looked standing on the steps with the city behind him.) “We could use someone who can be quiet.”

“I can do quiet.”

“I know you can. That’s why I asked.” He laughed a little. He laughs too much. “You, uh. You want a ride?”

“No, I’ll meet you there.”

“But-”

“There in 5. Corner of X.” (You don’t remember that street either, just the slinking, winding sprint you took to get there.)

You went. You took care of business. The Marshal took out the trash.

“Well...” What are you supposed to say when you’re no longer needed?  “...G’night.”

“Don’t you want your bounty?”

“No bounty if it’s your collar.” He should know that.

“Yeah, but with a little paperwork-”

“Don’t do paperwork, either.” You had crossed your arms, but ‘corrected’ it with a slight lean, so it didn’t look too defensive.

“...Can I at least get a name? For me, I mean. Won’t go down on paper.”

“Sidestep...?” He knew it, right? You were sure he knew it - why else would he have asked you to help?

“Yeah, I know that part, just...” Little huff of a laugh. Twitchy smile. Almost awkward the way he put out his hand. “Hi, Ricardo Ortega.”

You shook it. “Hi.”

...And he was still waiting for something? Oh. Oh. Shit, what’s the name in your wallet? You just got a new one, they never stick - Tim? Tom?

“Vince.” ...Vince?

“Vince...?”

“...Brown.” The color of his eyes. The color of your eyes. Common enough.

“Thanks for the assist, Vince.”

It was his eyes that made you believe him. Little crinkles at the corners - signs of someone too accustomed to smiling. Not that you had ever trusted that, but something about his smile made you want to.

You had never really met anyone that smiled at you like that.

Made you feel useful. Wanted. Necessary. Like you had a purpose, more than just a use.

...When was the last time you felt like that? When was the last time you felt? Years. It’s been years since. Since they reminded you how wrong you were. Since you let them, because you’d cut yourself off already.

Losing that didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. Losing him didn’t hurt at all. Not until you remembered what you had lost.

“Wish we...” He was bleeding and you did it. He choked, because you hadn’t. “...could have met under better circumstances, then.”

First time you fought.

Best fight of your life, somehow sullied by the fact that he hadn’t won. Something you remember, even as you try not to.

Spent so long having forgotten how to feel. Why was anger the first to come back? You could never stay mad at him, so why were you? Why were you mad at any of them?

Had something to say, and you said it. Screamed at him. Told him he was worthless; last year’s model. Parroted back all the lessons they taught you.

(Expensive lessons. The Farm spares no expense when making a point.)

Anger like that is a hard thing to control. Neither one of you was in a position to back down. You wanted him to stay out of it, but you knew that wouldn’t happen.

You did it anyway.

What would have happened if you weren’t sloppy? What if Ortega hadn’t pulled you away from Herald? What if Argent hadn’t pulled you away from Ortega? What if you had reached the end of your rant? Worked yourself up? Worked yourself out?

Neither of them deserved it. You don’t regret the rest of it, but you do regret that.

So you wrecked a few displays, so what? Big deal. A few rich pricks had a bad day. Boo-hoo. You robbed a “charity” - one profiting off your likeness, base lies, and propaganda. Whoop-de-doo.

None of that crap mattered.

You put your best friend in the hospital, where you yelled at him again, for being stupid and reckless and arrogant, and where he apologized to you.

He apologized.

To you.

And thanked you for being there.

You were crying, you think. You distinctly remember saying you weren’t, which is a pretty good indication that you probably were.

Never really planned for that, did you? For “after.”

You said your piece. You proved your point. You vented. And somehow you survived, despite your bungling. You had had the armor reinforced to make sure you’d live through it... and it worked. It’s not like you doubted the Doctor. So why were you still surprised?

Maybe that’s not what surprised you.

First time you didn’t really know what you were doing. First time you went off-script from what you thought you wanted to do.

It’s not like you could go back, but what was stopping you?

Hung around headquarters for three months, just waiting to be accused. Long enough to become part of the scenery. Almost long enough to seem like you belong. (Almost.) Waiting for him to get angry, but he never did. “No reason for you to be there,” so he kept reading into it instead. “You’re bored,” he thinks. “You miss me.”  You are. You do.

It’s not real. It should be. You miss it.

You should be real. And some people believe it. And it’s stupid, and they probably shouldn’t, but they do. They believe in you.

That means it’s believable, right? If it can be believed? And clearly it can be, since they do? You could be better, even if you aren’t. You could be real.

The “Thank you”s and “I’m sorry”s... that’s what does it. That’s the only real difference, the one in practice: people that think you’re a person. People that think people have value at all. Those are the ones you believe in, despite yourself.

First time you ever really felt human.

Cream in your coffee, lump in your throat. Watching Dan make breakfast, happy as can be. Starlight with blonde fringe.

“Thank you for trusting me with this.” He had meant it. He had no idea what he was getting into, but he had meant it. Kept looking at you like you were something special. Someone special: a name and a face and more.

What more was there? A lot, as it turns out.

You’re not sure you’re ready to carry all that weight. But you could be, so you will.

You’ve fallen, sure. Stumbled. Not quite gotten back up, but hobbled along.

(It won’t be enough. It wasn’t enough even when you were in your stride.)

You’ve been lucky; that won’t last. See how far “I’m sorry” will get you. No one’s going to save you, if you aren’t worth saving. And you’re not.

The Farm will find you. They did last time, and you haven’t exactly kept a low profile since then.

Get your kicks while you can. Make an effort; it’s all you can do. Know it probably won’t get you anywhere.

You’re too close, right in the thick of it. You had options... there were steps you could have taken, if you were serious. You know the Rangers’ weaknesses. You could have used them, broken them, walled yourself in... but you don’t really have the stomach for it any more.

You haven’t for a long time, now.

That’s a first, too.

You’ve made your choice. There’s people you’d fight, and it’s not going to be the Rangers any more.

See if you live to remember it.

Is he...? No.

No, she tore you away from him before you had a chance to... to... What were you going to do?

She stopped you, but he was bleeding, though. How bad? If you could just see...

He’s still not moving.

It’s not fun any more. Why would that matter?

This is taking too long. You can’t - you don’t - you have to go.

You disorient Argent, throw her for a loop, grab the bag, and run.

---

You have a problem, and it’s timing.

You’re not afraid. No. You’re running late. You already beat them, you did, you won, you just... you just really need to go. And you’re certainly not afraid of her. She’s fun - she is, and deadly, too - but you have to go. If anything, you’re afraid that he’s de-... that you ki-...

You’re not afraid. You’re. You’re busy.

You sprint through the underground, ignoring the scraping sounds behind you. She’s fast, but you’re faster. And you have a head start; you’d be stupid to waste it.

Up and out, over and in. Safe!

---

You have a problem, and you don’t know what it is.

You look at yourself in the rearview mirror, wondering what’s wrong.

It’s the van. That’s what. You let the Nanovores devour it once the job is done. No trace, no loose ends. No problem, right?

You can’t sit still. You get dressed, go downtown, and catch a cab.

---

You have a problem, and it’s Ricardo Ortega.

More specifically, it’s how he looks.

(Dead.)

He looks dead.

You fiddle with the dimmer switch. It makes a small improvement. Everything looks less gruesome when not bathed in dying light.

(Though you’ll have to supply your own rose-colored glasses, you suppose.)

You pace. Chew your lip. You take a chair and sit beside him.

(You can’t be beside yourself. Not now.)

You take his hand and insist to yourself that at least one of you will be alright. You’re not sure who.

He stirs, eventually. He looks down at your hands. Looks relieved, confused.

Oh, and aren’t you, too?

This is the theory you don’t dare map out on the boards, the one you’ve been piecing together in your head for the last seven years; the one that you don’t dare make any more real than the nightmare it is already; the one you wish you could forget.

You know where it leads - where it ended, where it ends, where it might end again, if you get distracted.

You can’t afford to get sloppy. Truth may be the goal here, but this is a theory you can’t afford to present piecemeal - the sort of thing you can’t even hint at until you’re certain. If any piece can be refuted, the whole thing falls apart.

You can’t show the truth until you can prove it, and to be honest, you’re still not sure what the truth is. You suspect the Farm is involved, or some equally-nefarious government or government-adjacent entity, but you can’t be certain.

That’s why it can’t have a place on the wall. It can’t distract. The Farm is real enough and has done enough already. You don’t have to be able to prove they were involved to know they’re guilty. They are guilty. Period. If this wasn’t them - and it might not have been, and you might never have proof that it was - but even if it wasn’t them, they were still involved somehow.

The Farm got to you too quick. Had they known you would have insisted on going, on helping, because the stakes were so high? Because you were stupid and eager and built to help - built to want to help? Had they planned on you making mistakes, knowing you would break, and no one would miss the pieces?

For years you’d wondered if Heartbreak was a trap for you specifically... or if it was just a lucky coincidence you stumbled onto the scene. If your friends had forgotten you and moved on... or if you’d gotten them all killed.

Not all of them. (Not yet at least.)

You still don’t know. Some things take time. Tools aren’t discarded while they still have a use. (Are they still using you?)

You thought it was your fault Anathema died, because you fell behind. Because you couldn’t follow procedure. Because they stood with you, and because you fell behind.

Or maybe Anathema died because they stood with you in the first place. If this was a trap for you, Anathema didn’t know it. Couldn’t know it. They liked you. They always had...

Maybe Ortega and Steel could have been convinced. Maybe they would have given you up, if they knew.

But they didn’t.

You didn’t know. You didn’t know they didn’t know. None of you knew anything.

In a way, it’s a relief. You can’t honestly say you don’t care about them - weakness, distraction that it is - and it’s easier to do that knowing they hadn’t sold you out or forgotten you. One less crisis of conscience.

Because you still worried. Even then. Even when you thought you shouldn’t. Even when you hated yourself for being that weak, that naive... because whatever the reason was, they still weren’t coming for you, knowing or not.

It’s about truth. It’s always been that.

And this was true: No one was coming to save you.

No one was coming to save you, and you were going to have to claw your own way back out, if you wanted to be anything other than what you were made to be.

You tried dying first. It didn’t take. If not one, then the other. You are what you needed to be.

But more and more, you’re realizing this wasn’t your fault. Or Steel’s. Or Ortega’s. You all made the only choices you could, with the information available. You did what you could, to the best of your ability.

You did the only thing you could. You all did. That’s the sad truth of it. (You think.)

You were played. All of you. Maneuvered into scenarios with only one outcome... or with a question.

It’s made of questions. So many unknowns... only now do you think that might have been the point. This was about questions.

Heartbreak was a proof of concept. You’re sure of it. For what purpose... you’re not quite sure. Testing telepathy, of course, but to what end? Which questions? Testing reach, adaptability, how much destruction a single telepath can cause, before they’re stopped?

Was Heartbreak ever meant to be controlled, or was she just set loose? ...An arbitrary distinction, since she got loose anyway. Maybe that was the control: give her an area in which to wreak havoc, and see what happens. If she got loose on her own... that just meant the stage had already been set.

That she killed the researchers and escaped probably wasn’t the intended result, but you doubt steps were taken to prevent it. If the experiments were designed to test the limits of telepathic potential, collateral damage would still provide valuable data: Could she get out? How many people could she control - destroy - at once? What could she do then and there, half-dead already?

It wasn’t that she couldn’t be stopped, she simply hadn’t been. Someone was watching her move. Marking statistics. Expanding the exclusion zone... and bringing in “ambulances” to clear the scene.

And hell - if this had really been about saving lives, why hadn’t she been taken out on the bridge? Once there was an exclusion zone, why not bomb the whole area?

That’s the question, isn’t it? And once you get to that question, you already have your answer.

This was nothing like a real crisis. You’ve seen those. The Nanosurge was a tragedy because it went uncontrolled. The Heartbreak Incident was the opposite.

Someone made a decision to prioritize data collection. To let her keep moving, killing, destroying everything in her path. A trial run always provides better data than a simulation.

Simulations are flawed from the start - limited to the factors introduced based on which questions are asked. Sometimes you don’t know what you should be asking. You get better data when you cast a wide net. It’s more real, if she has decisions to make. All the factors that couldn’t be anticipated, all the decisions she would make on her own. What would she do?

After all, it was the same for you, wasn’t it?

AI don’t think like people do; they think like machines. They don’t sense the world like organic beings - don’t react to it in the same way. (Remember the old research into telepathy, when they still called it ESP? Extra-sensory perception only makes sense if your brain...processing unit... whatever, has the means to process sensory perceptions in the first place. A machine just... can’t.)

That’s why they needed to build people that aren’t people. (People that are people, but never allowed to be.) Individuals are unpredictable, and make their own decisions. But with every not-quite-a-person, the predictive model is improved. The decision that matters is the handler’s. They read the instinct and correct it, catalogue the response and follow procedure. You’re not human, but you’re still an individual, for testing purposes. (Until they can work out the kinks.)

And the others? People that aren’t individuals. All the instincts of an individual, with an automatic override. Not just corrected, reprogrammed. (It’s the eyes, you think. Always the eyes - the inserts... it has to be. Ink, and coloration, and grafts, and testing the limits of organic modification... still human, then. No different from any other Enhanced, vat-grown or not... But the eyes...)

Eventually there will be no distinction. No correction, only control. Eventually there will be no need for blue ones or for handlers. Eventually there will only be cuckoos, and the systems that control them, and the people that own it all. A single system for infiltration and destruction.

Control. That’s what matters.

And that’s just what worries you.

That’s what makes Heartbreak familiar. That’s what makes it so wrong.

She was human - more human than you. Definably human. Visibly human. So the questions must have been even more broad, to justify human tests. Not animal, not lab-grown... human. They needed a human element.

...Which means the questions they were asking must have been monstrous.

Which means they can’t be asked in public.

The fact that it doesn’t feel real, even now, years later... even that feels like an excuse; an explanation skirting the lines between “too technical” and “too horrific” to be discussed.

It reeks of cover-ups.

This is the truth as you know it, the truth you can’t yet prove: the Heartbreak Incident was a manufactured crisis. Not in the sense that it wasn’t real - because oh, it was real, all right. (...Right?)

It was manufactured in the sense that it was allowed to happen. Manufactured in the sense that Heartbreak was a manufactured villain. Villains have motives; she didn’t have any visible plans beyond destruction. You weren’t fighting a villain, you were fighting a monster - and those are created. It’s not like she had a choice.

So who did?

You hate what she did to you... but she’s not the one that started it. You know that because she made you see. She made her nightmares your nightmares, her pain your pain. She made her questions your questions. You would all pay, because you hadn’t stopped it. That made you responsible, because she didn’t know who else to blame.

Neither do you.

Of course she killed the researchers - that can’t have been a wholly unexpected outcome. They hurt her, they gave her the power to destroy them, and she did.

It didn’t matter. It was never going to matter.

There would always be more researchers, and questions to follow. As long as the research survived, the researchers were replaceable, just like the subjects, and all the people in the way.

...Which means whoever was behind this wasn’t in the way. That means it’s someone big - high enough up whichever ladder that they can afford to burn everything else out from under them. High enough up that they only care about questions and results.

Make the questions broad enough and important enough and any number of atrocities can be excused in the pursuit of knowledge. If data collection is prioritized, then it has to be collected, one way or another.

This was about questions. This was about control.

Heartbreak was made. And someone was watching it happen. Taking notes. Seeing how far she could go, before she was stopped.

No one was ever going to survive it. No one was supposed to. The data comes first, and it has to be protected.

That means there can’t be any witnesses.

This was a trap. For you, for her, for the Rangers... or some combination of the three.

What ended the Heartbreak Incident was an explosion. Kill switch. When the danger finally became unmanageable, due to uncontrolled factors. (You.)

...Well, not you. But the rest of you. Heartbreak. Steel. Ortega.

The experiment ended when data collection was finally completed, or in danger of being exposed. You can’t be certain, but you feel it all the same. No one there was in a position to make that choice. And yet, it was made.

Someone triggered that explosion... you’re not sure it was any of you.

“Steel made the call,” Ortega said. You’re not sure you believe it. Steel could be covering. You’ve never seen Steel shaken and - again according to Ortega - he had to snap Steel out of it.

How could Steel recover that quickly - and just from a few goddamn words? You couldn’t recover from Heartbreak, and you knew what was happening. That’s why you jumped. Mental focus or not... that would have broken him.

You can never trust a story. Even Ortega’s. Especially Ortega’s.

Ortega was too close. He got knocked out. Assuming Steel had recovered, he wouldn’t shy away from sacrifice... but he also wouldn’t want blood on his hands. Not Ortega’s, at least. And Ortega was Marshal, then. If this was something that could be called in, the call should have been Ortega’s. Steel always respected the chain of command. He respected Ortega.

“Steel made the call”... without Ortega’s permission? While he was still recovering himself?

Bullshit.

That’s where time goes... wrong. Where was Ortega? He was snapping Steel out of it (and it worked?)  and then... he would move forward, right? They both would have.

You were dead. Steel wasn’t. He wouldn’t have abandoned you both. Stay together. Stay alive. Keep moving forward; deal with it later.

You all left Anathema. You have to assume he would have left you, too.

As long as Ortega was still standing, moving, functioning... he would have still been calling the shots. And he would have kept going. He would have finished it.

Ortega couldn’t be influenced by telepaths. Steel was recovering. They had a chance.

Unless... had you compromised him, when you decided to end your part in the whole mess? He was knocked out in the blast... the one that supposedly was Steel’s call... How was it Steel’s call? Did Ortega go after you, leave Steel alone? Did Steel have to take over? Would Chen make that call, knowing it would only mean death for the both of them?

No. He wouldn’t. Not while they were both still standing. Not when they had just lost Anathema. You. Stay together. Stay alive.

Or maybe he would. You think alike... you know that, now... And you made the decision to kill yourself, rather than let it have you. Rather than let it go any further. Maybe he would, too.

...Hopefully not. You think he has better sense.

(He could be covering. For whom, for what reason... you can’t be sure. You already know there’s more than he’s telling you. And you know he stopped looking. And you know he’s scared.)

It wasn’t Heartbreak. Of that much you are fairly certain. She wouldn’t have killed herself, not when she was that far gone: angry, wretched, vengeful. The only thoughts in her mind were spreading destruction, nightmares, truth.

She wouldn’t have killed herself - not even to take anyone else out. She would have killed you and kept moving, if it were up to her. Or killed you and taken back her peace. Everyone goes home to die.

Maybe she wanted to die fighting. And if Ortega had gotten there... he might have been able to oblige.

He was prevented.

So then. Not Heartbreak. Not Ortega. You still don’t think it was Steel. And even if it was... a call is only effective if someone’s there to listen to it. Someone with the permission to act on it.

Someone made a decision. Someone with permission. Authority. Control. They called the fight. Decided they’d seen enough. Determined a winner. Flipped a switch. Killed the experiment; the whole operation.

No witnesses - there couldn’t be any witnesses. So... maybe someone thinks there weren’t any. Not reliable ones, anyway. Maybe that’s why the three of you are still alive.

Steel never saw her, and wouldn’t talk anyway. Not even for therapy - legit or not. Ortega was knocked out in the blast. You don’t know what he knows. (You’re not ready to ask. Because when you do... he’ll want something, too. Exchange of information. You’re not ready to give him the truth. Not until you know all of it. Not until you know what he’s after.)

But he still can’t be read, and with all the therapy he’s been through, it would be easy enough to keep an eye on him. (You still don’t know who his therapist is, if the guy’s legit, or reporting to someone higher up. ...Or both.) If there’s information to hide, it’ll stay with Ortega, or be filtered through the therapist. They’d know if Ortega was cracking. They’d know if he had anything to divulge, and whether he would.

Anathema’s dead, and you’re not a person anyway - not a credible witness, at least. It didn’t matter what either of you saw, you were shipped out in the ambulance, and you were going back to the Farm. You were still useful, apparently. And even if you escaped, what were you going to say? What could you ever say, that wouldn’t immediately expose you as well?

There. All loose ends accounted for. No leaks. No witnesses. No one that would go to the press. No one that could be read.

And then the dead were buried. Truth is always the first victim.

None of you were ever going to leave there alive, if you had seen anything. If you’d talk. If you could be believed.

But if Steel and Ortega hadn’t seen anything - or wouldn’t admit that they had - then there was no reason for them to die.

You almost wish you could talk about it. Compare notes. Know how much they knew... how much they’ve found out...

How much of what you remember is real?

Truth is the goal, but there are so many risks.

And then... you don’t want to remember, and you don’t want to make them see. Not the way it was done to you. Her memories - the ones she took, the ones she gave you - you can’t just...

You just want them to know so you can know - without talking, without reliving, without broadcasting... so you can know if you were wrong to hate them.

If you were wrong to believe the people that wanted you to hate them.

...You know you were.

You can never trust the official story.

And there’s always a story.

Take the Rangers, for instance: the heroes of the day, the two that were left. They still had their uses. They were heroes, they were victims. Both of those stories could be useful.

Redirect attention. Control the questions being asked. Propaganda 101: Slap a sympathetic face on the whole scenario.

Since the Rangers were heroes, since they had nothing to reveal... having them there on the front page gave people a reason to move on from the more difficult questions.

Who was Heartbreak? What was Heartbreak? How did this happen? - Irrelevant. Classified.

With two heroes still standing: survivors, scarred; another two dead, who had sacrificed everything... the question became, “Who were they?”

It didn’t matter if the Rangers weren’t the ones that ended the Heartbreak Incident. It was over. It ended after the Rangers got involved. It might not have ended without them. Ergo... they must have saved the day.

...You don’t blame people for wanting to move on. The mind can only handle so much grief. You know that all too well. But grief also makes them complacent - more willing to accept untruths and half-truths.

People just needed a reason to stop looking, to put it behind them. And it was given to them gift-wrapped: permission to mourn, to celebrate heroes... to feel properly scandalized by impropriety.

And Ricardo Ortega - sweet, always emotional Ortega - punched a “conspiracy theorist” at Sidestep’s funeral. That’s Ortega for you. If there’s one thing Ortega can do, it’s make a scene. Intentionally, unintentionally... it’s the most reliable thing about him.

A pretty little bow on top, to complete the package. No need to look inside.

Ortega was news after that. Not Heartbreak, not even the rest of the Rangers. Just Ortega. Another layer of obscurity, safeguarding secrets.

You’re oddly touched, knowing that he would defend your posthumous honor... but now that other pieces have fallen into place, you really wish you knew what Mr. Vernon Browne - Confidential had to say that set him off like that.

Because the story that actually made the news wasn’t whatever the reporter had asked... it was just the fact that Ortega had punched him. How the Marshal lost his cool, the injuries the reporter sustained... blah, blah, blah.

However it was spun: whether Ortega should/shouldn’t have done it, whether the reporter was within his rights to ask or simply harassing a grieving man, whether Ortega was fit to continue to serve such a... “reputable” organization, whether he should be fired or allowed to quit - those were the questions that made the news. Whatever questions Mr. Vernon Browne - Confidential had asked were lost.

...As were any reasons why he asked. Was he a whistle-blower, or a plant? Did he know anything, or was he fishing for information? Just stirring the pot, or keeping things moving?

In any case, Ortega’s outburst was convenient for those responsible, and that convenience trickled down. Ortega was allowed to quit - and “allowed” to come back, when he had to.

(They don’t tell you that joining the Rangers isn’t a job you survive, either. They will use you, as long as they can. You “retire” at their leisure. You can have anything you want... as long as you belong to them.  You don’t leave with your health intact, or with debts outstanding... and the more you hurt, the more you owe.)

Ortega left, he came back... and he might not be the face of the operation any more, but the man still draws attention. That’s still useful, if properly employed, even despite the potential dangers of his personality.

Does Ortega know? That that’s how he’s being used? As an enforcer, a diversion, a scapegoat, if necessary? That he has as little choice as you?

Does Herald know he's being set up the same way? Does he know how easy he’s making it for them? Kid’s still green and unarmored. He’ll be a martyr yet.

Does Argent... she might. She’s got backbone. She’s not playing victim or girlfriend. (Good for her.) But it would be easy enough for her to be painted not merely as insulted, but unhinged. She’s a liability, too.

Does Steel know how many things rely on him falling into line? Keeping quiet? Does he know what they’ll do if-...

He has to. He might not show it, but he has to know, doesn’t he?  And if he doesn’t... do you dare tell him? Would he accept it as an observation, or would that draw him into asking how you know? Who and what you are, to have that level of familiarity?

You are familiar with the concept. Talking is dangerous. Asking is dangerous. Knowing is dangerous.

Are you ready to answer that? To answer for it?

You have to be. Soon.

Heartbreak was about questions. Mercenary will be about answers.

... You just have to get them, first.

But you can’t stop, not now. Heartbreak is a distraction. As are the Rangers. (As is Ortega.)

That’s their job, isn’t it?

You have truth enough to share already. Reason enough to fight. The city is corrupt, as is the government, as are the people in charge - and the people that made you. (What you always were. What you’ve become.)

There’s reason enough to want to crack the walls wide open. Tear it all down, if necessary.

Seek the truth where you must but keep moving. Time waits for no one.

The truth has to get out somehow.

Just like you did.

If you did.