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erintoknow · 4 years

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everything and nothing

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Funding a one-woman revenge mission isn’t cheap. You might work for free but Rosie doesn’t. Or Mortum. Or Marcie. The list goes on. [Feed Me Diamonds]

[Read on AO3]

It was the incident at Joes that gave you the initial idea: you need money to fund your operation. And where is flush with – conveniently untraceable – funds, but Los Diablos’s criminal underground?

Using Jane’s luck to gamble your way through the casino circuit would be suicide. She’d end up in a ditch or worse. But you don’t need to. You’ve got a state-of-the-art power armor suit.

In a way, it’s a return to the old days, to being Sidestep. You could never manage to hold down a job back then, but the guilt over skimming kept you from being able to afford much of anything. So, you know, occasionally when busting a villain’s lair or rounding up drug dealers, maybe some of their funds were… misplaced. It was either that or starve.

Or worse, admit your situation to somebody and ask for help.

But it wasn’t really stealing, was it? The money was probably wrongfully gotten to begin with. And it’s not like the city paid vigilantes.

Whatever. You were stealing the whole time. You can admit it to yourself now. It doesn’t matter who it was from. It was still theft. You’ve always been a liar and a fraud. Those last moments before throwing yourself out a fourth-story window crystalized it for you. People lauding Sidestep as some sort of ‘hero’ when she was barely any better than the people she beat up. She just stuck to the government approved list of acceptable targets.

But if you did it before, you can do it again. You know who the real villains are, and it’s not Larry Ray selling weed at the corner of Market Street.

Once more now, with feeling.

Check the seal on your helmet. The Rat-King curls around you. Paul Howard Koch’s penthouse is in the heart of the city. Technically not inside the bounds of Los Diablos proper itself. More a richie-rich enclave. Great view, above the air pollution, slightly less likely to die in a horrific one-two earthquake/tsunami punch.

To his neighbors on the floors above and below, Mr. Koch is a reclusive retired businessman who made his fortune in the early days of the chaos following the establishment of the Free Economic Zone over southern California. Back when anything really did fly.

And maybe there’s a truth in that.

Or maybe he’s just a self-hyped boost with magnetic powers with the audacity to hide in plain sight who robbed a bunch of banks and also maybe the Rangers HQ one time and okay okay fine, maybe there’s an element of revenge to tonight, so what?

Start with the small ones.

Work your way up.

Getting inside is easy enough. It reminds you of Marconi’s mansion that way. Amazing how much security is just theatre. Wall? Climb over. Guards? Walk between the patrols. CCTV? Oh, what a shame, the woman watching fell asleep at her desk, and oh, the whole system needs to be rebooted now? Technology these days, tsk tsk.

The building doesn’t even have dampeners.

Closing the door to the camera room, you let your hand linger on the doorknob. It takes some finesse to control the Nanovores this tightly but you’re able to collapse the mechanism. They’ll have to break the door down.

You’ve got two targets today. Koch, and his fortune. You know where Koch is. He’s up in his bedroom, half-asleep watching TV. Play the right notes, and he’ll stay that way until you need him.

So, then, where’s the goods?

It’s been, what, a decade since Pennybags was active. Had a big spree robbing banks, culminating in an attack on Rangers HQ. You were – Sidestep was still pretty new to the scene, but even she knew it took some guts to pants the Rangers like that. And then he was never heard from again.

Almost have to admire the restraint of the man. To realize he peaked and it was time to get out. Can’t say it’s an example you intend to follow.

The penthouse is a split-level deal. Whole lot of empty space for a man who lives alone. The second floor and you find his office. Very fancy looking computer. And of course, there’s the password in the middle drawer. Man’s gotten lax. You plug in a USB stick as you log in. Search through the files. Records, transactions. Looks like Mr. Koch has been busy in his ‘retirement.’ Blackmail material? Not the pile of cash you were aiming for but it’s something to start with. Another crack in the city’s shell. Another point of attack.

One file name catches your attention: Regenerator sale? It’s been awhile since you’ve gotten a lead on that name, and here it is. Just waiting for you. Opening the file and it’s a text document. At first glance there doesn’t seem to be much you don’t already know. PharmaCore, shut down by the government, confiscated, then ‘vanished.’ Oh, here’s something new: an actual description of what it does…

Ugh. There’s no time to stand here and parse all this. You copy everything that looks even remotely promising and move on to the rest of the room.

An oddly spaced bookshelf, by the window, draws your attention. Push the texts away and there’s a safe. Have to smile at that. At least it’s not behind a portrait. The metal melts into dust under the Nanovores and you’re free to reach inside. A gun, some rolled up hundred dollar bills and a collection of black unmarked USB looking bits of plastic and silicon.

Jackpot.

DS Chips. Or ‘Dark Script’ if you want to be wordy. Criminal computer scientists are disappointingly lacking in imagination. Physical bills can be traced by serial number, and digital transactions through bank and credit systems. Cryptocurrencies like these DS chips are the current fashion du jour for avoiding surveillance.

The exchanges aren’t cheap, and Hollow Ground keeps a tight grip on Los Diablos’s little corner. But attach a ‘wallet’ to a specific chip and you carry thousands of dollars in a little box of plastic and silicone smaller than your palm.

That’s business sorted then.

Time for the pleasure half.

When you reach the bedroom, you don’t need to kick the door in. The hinges disintegrate into dust and it falls over, all on it’s own. The crash against the floor breaks Koch out of his stupor. With a cry of alarm he scrambles to his feet, tripping on his own night robe.

“Evening, Pennybags.”

“Who the blazes let you in here?” His heart is pounding. Scenarios running through his mind. Scrambling for an answer. Really? You’d have expected someone a little more paranoid.

You fold your hands behind your back. Nod towards the door. “I did.”

He narrows his eyes, not seeing the humor. Oh well, his loss.

You’re on him before he can even finish his thought about using his power on you. Is enough of the suit metal for it to be a problem? You’re not sure and you’d rather not find out. His head cracks against the wall as you shove him up off the ground with an arm against his neck.

You tap your head. “Don’t even think about it.”

He doesn’t stop struggling. Bare feet kicking against your armor. Up close he doesn’t look as old as you pictured. Bald, sure. But… how old is he? Maybe he just has one of those faces. “You’re–” He wheezes, “you’re going to regret this.”

He’s already plotting your death. Cute. Have to laugh. “I’ll add it to the list.”

...now what are you going to do?

Maybe you should have thought of that before barging in here.

You press against his neck a little harder. Not enough to choke him, but to give you some room to think.

“Alright… Here’s what’s going to happen,” You growl, lacing your words with a telepathic push. An urgency to be followed.

It’s not mind control, not technically.

Just a push.

You’re not even going to make him jump out a window.

–––

You don’t need to hear the stomping of boots in the hallway to know your time is almost up. You drop Koch to the floor. “Consider what we’ve talked about tonight.” Walking over to his desk, you rip off a piece of his day planner and turn it over. Write out the list of instructions.

Three simple suggestions. They’re in his own best interest, really.

You return to him, holding the paper out to take. He hesitates so you reach into his mind and give him a push before stepping away. By the time the riot police show up the scrap paper is gone, inside his pocket. You watch the police fill the other end of the room, shields up and guns drawn. The idiots. They’ll kill Koch if they shoot like this.

You don’t see or sense any of the Rangers.

That’s fine with you, if maybe a little strange. The man in charge steps forward, hand on the trigger finger. “Ghost, you’re under arrest. We have you surrounded.” You don’t need to read his mind to know from the look on his face and the way he’s holding his gun that he’s seriously regretting coming in to work tonight. What does the LDPD think they’re doing? They’re no match for you. Sure, you aren’t immune to bullets, but when has that ever stopped you?

You reach out to the captain’s mind and coax him to lower his gun before he sets off the whole room. “Ghost?” You fake a laugh, the distortion hollowing it out, then say innocently, “Don’t know anyone by that name.”

You crouch down, bracing yourself, placing a hand on the floor. You’ll only have a second before the tension of the situation wakes them up again. “More of a Banshee.” There’s a moment where it seems like nothing is going to happen and then the Nanovores eat a hole in the floor directly beneath you, dropping you down. You grunt, letting the armor absorb most of the shock, though the landing still plays hell on your knees. Going to regret that in the morning.

Above you the room erupts in shouts of alarm and someone fires their gun, setting off another gunshot, then another. You grimace in frustration and, telepathically reach back up to give them a metaphorical shake of the shoulders. You can’t have them killing your new informant.

You break into a run, following your thread to the nearest elevator shaft and breaking the door open with a mixture of force and Nanovores. As you make your escape sliding down the elevator cable you can’t help humming a few bars aloud as you try to steady your nerves.

The chittering of the Rat-King creates an accompaniment in the back of your head.

It’s getting scary just how comfortable with this life you’re starting to get.

Hitting the basement level you barely manage to clear the doors when Lady Argent is on you, all knives and quicksilver. Her claws dig into your arm before you’re able to get her to back off with an uppercut to the head. Argent flexes her jaw and gives you a predatory grin. “I had a feeling I’d find you down here Ghost.”

You study her face, waiting for a sign of any sudden movement. Getting out predicted like this is embarrassing but you need to save the over-analysis for when a woman capable of opening you up like a can-opener isn’t staring you down. You’ve got to reassert control of the situation. You make sure to put an edge to your voice, “It’s Banshee now. If you’re going to play lap dog, at least remember to fill in the incident report form correctly this time.”

Her eyes widen and then Argent leans down, her grin deepening into a scowl. “Ugh. I don’t care,” and she moves in.

Can feel your heart in your throat as the two of you exchange blows. When you try to slide past her, Lady Argent is ready for you, raking claws against the side of your armor, trying to find a point of purchase to pry you apart. Grab her wrist and pull her down on top of you. It’s a stupid move, and you pay for it with razor filings running down your sides but because it’s stupid she doesn’t expect it and you’re able to knee her in the gut and kick her away.

You hate fighting Argent in enclosed spaces like this. It’ll be a game of attrition as to whether you can get away before she can land a clean hit. The two of you are back to circling each other when you bump up against a support pillar.

Maybe….? You mentally check your map.

You’ll need to stall Argent. “So, what was your plan, if I went a different route?” As you talk you rest your hand on the concrete pillar beside you, coaxing the Nanovores to get to work. “Not a good look, hiding in a basement.”

Lady Argent narrows her eyes, “The Handyman’s watching the front door.”

“He’s out of the hospital now?” You sigh. “Are you really that eager to put him back in there?”

There’s a shark-toothed grin and the distinct feeling that she’s sizing you up. “You’re awfully concerned for being the bastard that put him there.”

“Healthcare’s not cheap in this city. Should we hold a fundraiser for him?” You give a theatrical flip of your free hand. “Any suggestions?” Too flippant? You’re never really sure how to approach Argent.

There’s always the temptation; in the back of your head. Let her know who you are, what you’ve done. See if she’ll kill you. But you always end up holding back. Why is that? You don’t understand yourself.

“My only ‘suggestion’ is bringing you to justice.” She keeps her focus trained on you, ready for the moment you make a move. Part of you is surprised she’s still letting you talk. Is backup on the way? That’s not Argent’s style.

“That’s a good thought about justice.” You rap your armored fingers against the pillar, testing to see if it’s hollowed out yet. “But who gets to decide what justice is?”

Would Argent feel bad, if she did kill you? Or would it just make things worse for her? How do you atone for something like this? Is revenge justice? Is it really enough to just make someone hurt?

You used to be sure.

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk.”

You tsk. “Oh and now you’re hurting my feelings?” You can’t keep operating like this. Need to compartmentalize better. Remember the goal. Remember revenge. The damage to Argent is done. Don’t fuck this up and make it be in vain.

Argent eyes your hand, still pressed to the pillar, and growls. “What are you up to?”

“Are you talking about, in general or just right now?” You smirk under your helmet. “Care to find out?” You push hard against the concert. The stone breaks like glass and the ceiling sags from the sudden lack of support, tiles crashing down around you. You jump backwards as the ceiling starts to give in.

No time for any last-minute taunts. You book it for the sewer entrance before Argent can realize the whole building isn’t going to collapse.

In the back of your head, she's still there, watching through the dust.

Smile like a shark.

Reminding.

---

“So, this isn’t what I had planned on talking about; but you’ll never guess what happened last night.” Ortega looks at you, leaning in, an edge to her smile. The two of you are meeting for an early lunch before heading up to the Children’s Hospital again.

You’d half a mind to order something alcoholic, but resisted. Instead, you’re watching Ortega over the rim of your milkshake, straw in your mouth. “Mm?”

“You remember Pennybags?”

You drum the side of the glass with your fingers, making a show of thinking back. “The magnetic guy?”

Ortega nods. “Yeah. Big bank robber, stole a bunch of things from the old Rangers HQ too, remember?”

You nod, grimacing. “Yeah, that was a mess.” Of course you remember. One of the few times you had actually seen Julia really upset. The first time actually. Didn’t know what to do, how to handle it. Ortega was always so confident, so in control of herself and the situation all the time. And there she was, tears and snot yelling at cardboard boxes about failing and… you did the only thing you could think of to do.

“Well, did you see the news this morning?” Ortega’s excitement pulls you back to the present. She leans in further over the table.

You sit back, shaking your head. “I was a little busy last night.” You wince, “This morning. I mean. Uh.” Shit shit shit. “Well. Both? Long night. Working.” You shrug, try to keep your face blank.

Ortega tilts her head, side-eyeing you. “Yeah, I still need to ask you about that job of yours.” She waves it off with a hand. “Anyway, Banshee made a mess again. North end of Beverly Hills this time.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Was anyone hurt?” You bite your lip, looking away. “Did… um. Did anyone else…?”

You know Banshee didn’t kill anyone last night. But…

Don’t breathe, don’t relax until Ortega shakes her head, “One guy had some minor injuries, but that’s it.”

Oh thank god. “That’s a relief.” You match Ortega’s smile, swipe a fry from the basket in front of her.

“I’m more convinced than ever that Marconi’s murder was something else.”

“That’s…” You look away, watch the window, fingers worrying the fry in your hand. Shit. What do you say to that? Fuck fuck fuck. “If you say so.” You look back at her. Need to push this conversation along before she can think about that response. “So, uh, are you just this excited that no one was hurt or did the Rangers finally bring Banshee in, or – or what?”

“No, they got away. Again.” Ortega gives you a curious look, eyes flickering down to the fry in your hand and then back up to your face. With an air of deliberate purpose, you put the fry in your mouth. She politely doesn’t say anything.

“So then…?”

“You’ll never guess.”

You shrug, steal another fry. “Okay.”

She frowns. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

You keep your face blank, only raising an eyebrow as you silently eat your ill-gotten prize.

“Fine.” She huffs. “The guy Banshee attacked, the one that had to go to the hospital… It’s Pennybags. Bastard was hiding under our noses the whole time.”

“Money’s a pretty good cover.”

“Believe me, I’m wildly aware.” The tired expression on Ortega’s face is only there for a brief second and then it’s gone. “He practically turned himself in. It was… kind of creepy, actually. Reading the report.”

You swallow, goosebumps on the back of your neck. “Creepy?”

“Like he felt… compelled.” Ortega jabs a fry in your direction. “You’re the expert, what do you think? Can telepathy force a confession like that?”

“Ortega…” You make yourself meet her eyes. “You’re as much of an expert as me, at uh, at this point. M–maybe more.”

“Maybe.” She meets your gaze. “But I want to know what you think.”

Goddamnit, why does she keep doing this?

You focus on the basket of fries instead, it’s safer. “It’s… possible.” You concede. Would it be better to lie? It already feels like you’re lying about so much. It’s better to minimize the amount of bullshit you have to keep track of. “How are you… sure it’s a confession, and not like… uh, a delusion or something? False suggestion?”

“Yeah, that’s fair. That was my first assumption but uh…” She lowers her voice. “We uh, we found some stuff when searching the apartment. The signed Marshall Hood figure Pennybags stole actually…”

“Oh.” You say. You hadn’t expected her to actually talk about this.

“I… don’t really have a lot left of him. I thought I’d lost that one for good.”

“I remember.” You remember seeing the front door of its hinges, running through wrecked room after room, finding an alarmingly sobbing Ortega.

The first time you willingly hugged someone.

“There’s maybe five people who know about that figure, Ari, and two of them are dead now.” Ortega’s voice is quiet, her hand on the table balled into a fist.

“Do…” You fish for an idea, “do you think they’re trying to send you a message?”

Ortega looks you straight in the face, half-eaten hamburger now completely forgotten. You wish she wouldn’t. “A message? For what?”

You look back, willing yourself not to look away, not to look guilty. “I don’t know… I mean, it’s no secret you and Hood were close, is it?”

The look on Ortega’s face only intensifies. “You think maybe it was a threat?”

Your face blanches, and you shake your head. This is not at all going how you thought it would. “I’m not in this game anymore, remember?” You shrug your shoulders theatrically, “for all I know it could be a love letter.” You freeze. Face threatening warmth. Oh god. What the fuck, Ariadne?

The absurdity of the idea gets a laugh out of Ortega and you both relax. “Mierda,” she shakes her head. “That’s a hell of a way to send a letter.”

You steal another fry. She lets you.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne

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erintoknow · 4 years

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murder lives forever

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

[Read on AO3]

This is who you are now. Better get to work. Tw: death, self-harm [Savages]

“Rosie – position?”

Her voice crackles over the helmet radio, “Yeah, I’ve got clear sights.” Can hear the little hesitation of held breath.

Wait for it.

“You sure about this, Ghost?” She’s already switched to your new moniker, you note. Say what you will about Rosie; the woman is a professional. After tonight the rest of the city will know to mark ‘Puppetmaster’ as out of date.

“It’s – it’s not like you’re going to kill him. Just… flush the game if I give the signal.”

“...right. Okay, you’re the boss, boss.”

“Don’t forget it.”

Tucking your chin down you drop over the edge of the roof you’ve been hiding on. Jet boosters cushion your fall to a light landing. Fastening your cape close around you, you make a difficult figure to spot in the gloom. An impossibly dark shape blending into the larger shadow. Lou Marconi is a career bureaucrat who’s had a job working for the city for almost as long as it’s been called ‘Los Diablos.’ Long-lived and well-paid to be able to afford living in his own private mansion up on celebrity row.

This part of town, houses are further apart and street lighting is reduced. There’s a cool satisfaction to be had in how Marconi’s eagerness to flaunt his wealth only makes it easier for you to infiltrate. A brick wall delineates the edge of the lot. About as tall as you are.

It’s like he’s not even trying to keep you out.

A scramble over the top and you drop into a row of bushes. Tap the side of your helmet to switch into low-light vision. One of Mortum’s handy little programs starts tagging likely laser detectors. Under everything the pulsing thrum of a telepathic dampener blankets the minds in the building.

That’s your first target. With the Rat-King buffering you against the worst of it, you pull a song tight against your head – keep focused. Push forward to where the psychic chaff is the loudest. If you’re lucky, it’ll be a security station for the whole complex. Make your job easier.

So many shadows, so many nooks and crannies for you to stick to as you move along the perimeter of the building. It’s an open secret that Marconi makes his living as one of Los Diablos’s most bribable officials. If you’re going to reshape the city’s politics then the knowledge in his balding, wrinkled head is going to be invaluable.

Breaking into locked city hall safes, or cracking encrypted files is risky and time consuming. So you’ll break into his mind instead. He’s been avoiding public functions for a while now – paranoid little sleazeball. It’s like he thinks someone’s after him or something.

As you get closer to the dampener the pounding in your head intensifies. Can feel it in your teeth. A pressure pushing down, or something like the hiss of a CRT screen, a hissing pain that pierces through your skull with all the precision of a mortar round. Stripping away everything.

The Rat-King chitters in irritation. Sorry guys, we’re almost through this part, you promise. A small security station, wooden walls, windows. Hah. You were worried it would be inside the main building. But this? Marconi may have been around a few blocks but it’s clearly made him arrogant more than it has anything else.

Quick check up and down the walkway, no incoming patrols. Gritting your teeth you slide inside, stepping over the laser detect across the threshold. Inside, a bank of monitor screens takes up one wall while a bored looking man in a blue guard outfit reclines in a chair with his back to the door, feet up on the desk. There in the corner, the stainless steel tube about as thick as your torso rises from floor to ceiling. Take that out and you can finally breathe.

But first the guard.

He doesn’t even register you behind him until you’ve got your arm around his neck, crushing his windpipe. Your other hand claps over his mouth. He tries to pull free, slip out, fight back. But you’re the one in control here.

Finally the man goes limp and you let go. Immediately you get to work examining the control board. Dampeners consume a lot of electricity. You doubt they keep it live all the time, so…. There, the dail. Turn it down and the oppressive weight on your head easies up and fades away. It’s like standing up in the open desert after a week in confinement. Laughing you stretch out your awareness, casting wide and mentally tagging the notes of the guards patrolling the building. And… there’s Marconi in the dining hall, with some guests and… is that?

You sigh. So much for joy. Well, he’s the sole Ranger you haven’t fought yet. Suppose it was time.

Before you leave, you press your left hand to the dampener. The nanovores don’t need much coaxing to reduce the damn thing to dust. You’ll take no chances tonight.

As for the guard… He’ll wake up soon on his own. Raise the alarm. Grabbing his mind, currently placid in unconsciousness, you drag it down deeper, wrap it in a dream. On a whim you coax it to be something nice. Ice cream with his daughters.

There.

That should at least buy you time until the next check in.

Dining Hall is towards the back. You’ll swing around, wait for the bastard to go to the bathroom and snag him on the way back. If it goes well, you won’t even be noticed.

It’s not going to happen like that, but you can hope.

Sure enough, Rosie cuts in on the radio. “Uh, hey, Boss?”

“What?”

“I’m seeing some weird movement.”

“Police?” Was there a tip-off? Who? How? You didn’t even tell Rosie the actual mission until this evening.

“No, I don’t know what. It’s just… bad vibes, man.”

You grit your teeth. ‘Bad vibes’ huh. Well, you only have yourself to blame for encouraging Rosie to be candid. “I’ll take it under advisement. Keep your eyes on the roof.”

“Roger.”

The voice in your ear goes silent again. You hang at the corner. So far, you’ve stuck between the pair of patrols circling the grounds. Not much time left until someone discovers your work at the security station. Marconi is on the other side of those windows. Just his bodyguard with him still…

Fuck it.

Ducking your head down you break into a run, jumping over the hedge and crashing through the window. Alarms immediately start blaring as people start screaming. The Rat-King pulls your attention and you throw yourself down to the ground. Something flies over your head and explodes in a burst of light and sound outside.

As you get to your feet, you find yourself face-to-face with the bodyguard. “Marshal Steel.” You grit your teeth. “Playing private bodyguard?” Not even the inflexible Wei Chen is above making money on the side you guess. Disappointing.

Chen watches you, hands at the ready, a shoulder-mounted mini-missile system attached to his power armor. Great. “I can’t say I care what you think of me, Puppetmaster.”

“It’s Ghost.” You do your best sneer with a mirrored helmet. “Try to keep up, Marshal.” This is your only second time out, and first time using the name, but he doesn’t need to know that. Let them sweat a little.

“I’d heard the rumors, but you disappoint me, Puppetmaster.”

Rumors? So there was a tip-off. Who squealed?

You shake your head. Stay focused. Stay in control. “Just going to ask our friend here some questions. That’s all.”

Marconi bristles at that, presses himself back against the dining table, a half-eaten roll of bread in one hand. His face is bright red as he raises his voice “What are you doing!? Protect me!”

Chen frowns, a note of irritation spiking across his mind. What’s the matter Chen? Don’t like taking orders? He plants his feet, and you tense up, waiting for the missile you’ll have to dodge.

“No!” Marconi shouts, “Don’t blow up my house you idiot!”

“My orders are only to keep you safe.” Catch the briefest glimpse of a smile on Chens face as another rocket goes flying your way. You throw yourself sideways, crashing through the dinner table, the wood snapping in half under the sudden weight of your suit. Your helmet flashes black in response to the burst of light, ears ringing. Stun bombs? What is with these assholes and treating you with kids gloves? You’d think at least Chen would be willing to go for the kill.

Noise – people talking you can’t make out while your ears keep ringing. But, fuck. Marconi’s running. The roof. He’s going to the roof.

You grin.

Great.

You’d give Rosie a head’s up, but the fist coming down on your torso takes priority. You roll out of the way, scramble to your feet. Shake your head, think the ringing is calming down. “Alright. Fine.” You raise your fists. “Only fair I treat the Marshal too.”

“Hrm.” Chen frowns, staring at you. What’s he looking at? Seeing something – fuck – You push off, taking a swing at him. Force him to focus on the fight. He staggers backward. Gets his bearings and then swings his arm around at an unnatural angle. A plated fist catches you in the throat, knocking you to the floor.

Coughing, you sputter, pushing yourself backwards to put space between the two of you as you catch your breath. Damn, when could he extend his arm like that? The Marshal has some new tricks.

“So you’re just another contract killer after all.”

You dodge his fist as you get up, duck under his arm as you get behind him. “What are–” You cut yourself off, hiss, “Don’t think y–you can distract me. I know your tricks, Chen.”

He twists around as you dodge around him, “Do you?.”

Oh fucking goddamnit.

You grit your teeth. This. This is why you should just keep fucking quiet on operations. Don’t get mouthy, you idiot. The two of you trade blows as you dance around each other. This is not good. Not a good match up at all. You’re fast enough that Chen can’t really touch you save for the occasional lucky hit. But are any of your blows getting through that armor? He’s showing no signs of slowing down. You need to disengage. Grab Marconi before he gets away.

The Nanovores? Could they crack the armor? But what if they…? Steel is your enemy. Killing him is part of the end-game. Taking him out shouldn’t be sending your stomach into knots. Why did you even get these damn things if you weren’t going to use them?

Fuck it.

Gritting your teeth you catch his arm with your left hand. Start to coax the Nanovores to life and –

An explosion shakes the building, the chandelier above you both jostling in a chime of clattering glass.

You let go, jumping back. Heart in your throat.

Chen doesn’t press the advantage, glaring at you. “What did you do.”

“I didn’t do anything!” You raise your hands. Under your breath you activate the radio, “Rosie?”

“Boss! Something on the roof just went–”

“I know!” You hiss.

Chen narrows his eyes. “Who are you talking to–”

“Shut up!” You hold up a hand, tuck in your chin, not taking your eyes off Chen. “Keep an eye on the fucking roof. Don’t let him leave.” You jump backwards out of the way of Chen’s fist. “Goddamnit Chen, I’m not here to f–f–fucking kill anybody!��

“Then who set off that bomb, Ghost?”

“I don’t fucking know!” You grit your teeth. Fire is spreading through the building. Was it a bomb or a missile? Which would be better? And then there’s… “Shit.” You look away from Chen, run through the map in your head. “There’s people trapped.”

“What?” Chen tenses up, staring you down. “How do you know?”

“Don’t act stupid.” You snap back. “I know you know I’m a telepath.” You move towards the far end of the hall. “We need to get them out of here.” You put your hand against the wall, frown, glance back at Chen. “Don’t just f–fucking stand there, you idiot. Use your plasma cutter. Help me get through this wall.”

Chen frowns. Some sort of internal debate. Then he nods and follows you. “Roger.”

Fuck, this isn’t going to help you at all. It’s too like the days you and Chen worked emergency relief. But– “Why are you doing this?” Chen cuts through the wall, kicking it down.

“W–what?” You take stock of the other side. Looks like some kind of guestroom? Still not far enough.

“You could have left this to me. It’s not your problem.” Chen follows your direction to the next wall you indicate with a tap of your hand.

“Don’t be stupid. I’m – I’m not a killer.”

Things would be so much easier if you were.

“Still.” Chen grunts, knocking down the weakened square of wall. “Not killing and actively saving are two different things.”

“S–shut up.” You hiss.

Now here’s a room with some damage. One wall is gone, open to the outside air as flames lick the edges, spreading across the ground and burning the furniture. There’s a hole in the floor where part of the basement roof caved in. With a hand gesture you take the lead, hopping down first into the cellar.

Some kind of storage room. More collapsed ceiling blocks the way out. Two panicking employees freeze in their efforts to dig their way out, looking up at you with dread. Ah shit.

Catch sight of a woman trapped under a toppled shelving unit at the far end. Ignoring the two men you push through the rubble towards her. Can hear the ‘thud’ of Chen following you down. Clearing out the rubble.

A broken gas pipe catches your attention and you divert to twist it closed at the nearest valve. Would be just your luck if there’s still enough gas to blow the room up when the flames get here.

Back to the woman. Grit your teeth as you strain to lift the shelf. Chen catches up with you and you jerk your head towards the woman, unconscious against the ground. “Get – get her out of here.”

Chen bends down, cradles her between his arms. As soon as he’s clear you let the shelf drop with a gasp of relief. Jesus. Those exercises are paying off. You shoo him away, as you catch your breath. “Go, idiot!”

He hesitates. Face unreadable. “Be careful.”

“Y–yeah whatever, just go!” You sag backwards as Chen finally turns, shielding his charge under his body as he shoulders through the collapsing rubble.

If you were smart you’d make your own exit now.

You aren’t smart.

Race to the hole up. Boost-jet jump back to the ground floor. The room is fully ablaze now. A second explosion rocks the building, sending you scrambling to keep your balance as you race through the hallway. Rosie’s voice crackles back over the static. “Holy shit, you alive down there?”

“I’m fine. Report.”

Rosie’s voice is frantic, speech rushed. “Guy was gonna fly out. I scared him into cover, then his damn chopper blew up.”

“Shit. Is he still alive?” You stretch out your awareness, canvas the dozen panicking minds fleeing the building.

“I don’t know! I can’t see anything in the smoke.”

“You did your job.” You job up the stairwell, run down the hallway to the roof access. “Pull out. Wait at the rendezvous.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. Every damn cop in the city is going to be on you any second.”

“Consider me appraised.” You cut the connection, up another round of steps and then – oh. A chunk of the building has already collapsed. Well fuck. That’s not a good sign. Gritting your teeth you peer through the smoke and flame, try to appraise a chunk of roof that’s still stable. There!

A running jump with boosters flaring puts your hands just in range to grab the edge. Smoldering wood creaks under your weight as you swing in the open air. Arms scream complaints as you pull yourself up. Wheeze for breath once you’re on your feet. Shit. Not in total shape just yet you guess.

Firelight coats the ruins of the roof in a dozen criss-crossing shadows. Chunks of scattered metal litter the ground. You foot catches on something and you glance down. Dead body. Kick it over, and it looks like a guard. Blue uniform. Damn. Dead for an asshole like this? Not worth it.

Speaking of which…

There! The Rat-King directs your attention. Weak, stunned thoughts. You race across the roof to find a prone Lou Marconi on the ground. Blood gushes out of his nose. Broken? But still alive. That’s all you need. Who doesn’t want the two of you talking this badly?

Well, too bad. They failed.

Maybe – maybe wait until you’re somewhere safe before you say that.

With a grimace you pick up the bleeding man. Only one way off the roof from here. Can your booster jets handle both of your weights?

Fucking hell.

Holding the limp body against you, you take another running jump. Jets flaring against the pull of gravity as you plumet. Slowed, but not by enough. You crash into the brush, white fire cascading up your legs and into your spine. Momentum carries you forward still, sending you crashing against the perimeter wall and

fuck

fuck no no no…

You shake Marconi. Where’d his mind go? It was still there. However faint. However dim. Can’t check for a pulse or breath with your gloves on. Press a hand to his chest as tight as you can bear. Nothing.

You drop the body to the ground with a thud.

He… he was going to die stuck on that roof anyway right? So – so you didn’t really – you were trying to save him. Sure you were planning to rifle through his memories like a thief through cabinets, but you weren’t – you weren’t going to kill him.

Fuck.

fuck fuck fuck

–––

Watch your reflection in the mirror. Only minor bruises and sore muscles from tonight, but you’ll fix that.

The face in the reflection is empty, it’s eyes a rancid green, partially obscured under a veil of curling red threads twisted out of shape. Skin paler than anything has a right to be under Californian sun. Whoever you jacked your genes from clearly was never meant to see the light of day.

Don’t look down, stare ahead at that grimace, gritted teeth. The sharp pain. The knife clatters out of a hand as steam from the faucet brushes the silver, condensing against the glass. With a hiss you shift position, pressed against the counter. Too hot – too warm. You jerk the arm out from under the spray. Pat it down with a towel. Distant screaming alarm bells in the back of your head. Grab a stretch of bandage and wrap the wound.

You’re here. This is real.

Almost.

Almost fooled yourself back there. Sneaking in where you shouldn’t, dropping everything to get someone out of trouble. It’s not you anymore. Let it go.You put two Rangers in the hospital and humiliated a third. You destroyed priceless exhibits and ensured no one would ever remember your old alter ego ever again. Now someone’s died – directly because of you.

‘He was going to die up there anyway,’ ‘it wasn’t your fault.’ Excuses. If you hadn’t had Rosie keep him from the helicopter, then at least his death wouldn’t literally be on your hands.

There’s no turning back from this, only pressing forward. However far you can get before the end.

You’re not going to burn alone.

–––

Jane shades her eyes from the afternoon sun as she looks down at the business card in her hand, frowning. ‘Mia Ochoa.’ A reporter for LD Confidential. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

The deceptively small Fillipino woman sitting across from her huffs at that. “It’s the most respected independent newspaper in Los Diablos.”

“Uh-huh.” Jane slides the card into her purse, making a show of thinking it over. Wound her professional pride. Make her think she has something to prove. “And… how can I help you, Miss Ochoa?”

Ochoa flips over to a blank page in her penpad, chewing on her pencil eraser. A serious look settles over her face. “I know you were at the Gala the night of Puppetmaster’s debut… and…” She hesitates, watching her lunch partner carefully. “I have reason to suspect you know more about what happened that night then anyone else.”

Jane’s eyebrows shoot up. She ducks down her head, hissing angrily. “And where do you get off making that kind of claim?”

From you, of course. You sent her the anonymous tip-off. Something to whet her appetite. Mia Ochoa is exactly what you need to start working the media angle. An established reporter with a respected reputation for pushing the edge, but not so famous as to be unapproachable by a nobody.

“I have my sources.” Ochoa answers, tactfully. “As I trust you have yours.”

Jane sits back, frowning. Drums her hand on the table. “Suppose I did. What’s your angle?”

Ochoa leans over the table, dropping her voice. “There’s something going on with this city. Something weird. I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

Hrrm… Jane hums to herself and shifts in her seat. Pulls out photocopied piece of paper. Ochoa’s eyes watch the paper as Jane spins it between her fingers. “You hear about Marconi?”

“You’re going to tell me it wasn’t a house fire.”

Jane purses her lips, puts the paper down on the table between the two of them. “Nooope.”

Ochoa picks up the paper, brow creasing as she tries to read the smudged print. “So the whole Puppetmaster arson thing was just a cover-up.”

“Oh, Ghost was there.”

She looks up at Jane. “Ghost?” Blinks. “Oh.” Looks back at the paper in her hands.

“And somebody wanted our friend dead. But it wasn’t Ghost.”

“Who?”

Jane spreads her arms wide, leaning back in her chair. “You’re the famed investigative reporter. Investigate.”

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne #tw: death #tw: self harm

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erintoknow · 4 years

Text

one by one

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Nights drinking with Dr. Mortum have become equal parts business and pleasure. You never know where you’ll find a new lead. [Fake]

[Read on AO3]

“Jane…?” Dr. Mortum’s voice is quiet compared to the noise of the bar. Busy night at Joes again.

“Mm?” Jane blinks, jerking her head up. “Sorry, sorry. I was a million miles away.” You need to stop thinking about Ortega. This is getting dangerous.

“Penny for your thoughts, mon amie?”

“Oh, uh…” She scans the floor, looking for something to sidetrack the conversation. “What do you make of that modded woman over there?” Jane nods her head in the direction of the game tables. A heavily scarred Latina woman with mods down the back of her head is in a heated argument with an Asian man with a crisp pressed suit. South-east Asian maybe? “Does she have any sense of self-preservation? That’s not the kind of guy I’d want to cross, personally.”

“Not the kind of person you would cross?” Mortum laughs, “What makes you say that?”

“Look at him.” Jane gestures in their direction, a quick motion. Hopefully not noticed by anyone but the doctor. “That suit? In this dive? Guy’s some kind of made-man.” She shakes her head. “Just asking for trouble.”

“You are not wrong.” Mortum nods her head in agreement. “I do believe that is one of Hollow Ground’s men.”

“Hollow Ground?” Jane frowns, drumming her fingers on the table. “Huh.”

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen him around here once or twice. Hollow Ground has a finger in just about every criminal enterprise in Los Diablos, so it’s to be expected, really.

“Do you think Hollow Ground is a real person, or is he like… some sort of shadow cabal?”

Mortum shrugs, suddenly interested in her drink. “I find it does not pay to ask that kind of question, mon amie.”

“Hrmmm…” Sooner or later, you’re going to end up crossing paths with Hollow Ground, whatever they are. In another life, you’d listen to Ortega talk about her theories, try to help her track down likely clues. Not once did either of you turn up anything material. Who or whatever they are, their grip was rock solid. Anyone that wanted to talk had a habit of catching a case of sudden death.

Ortega was convinced there was a singular person behind it. Someone that had murdered her mentor, Marshal Hood.

It was never your favorite subject. Something about the whole thing just… seemed off.

Funny to think you might stand a better chance of finding out the truth now, when you could never tell Ortega. “What are the odds you think it’ll escalate into a fight?”

Mortum doesn’t even look up. “Seventy-six precent.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“Of course, mon amie.” She winks at Jane. “Did you expect me to say something like, ‘somewhat likely’ like some kind of hack?”

“Ugh. Scientists.” Jane rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how much of your stuff is just bullshit.”

“Madam, you wound me.”

Jane doesn’t offer a retort, watching the argument slowly escalate in volume. Maybe you can get a sense of this guy’s abilities. Two-to-one he’s some kind of Enhanced. Rosie approaches the modded Latina, trying to talk her down.

To little success.

With a sigh, Jane pushes herself up from her seat. “Alright, I’m gonna go pull Rosie’s ass out of the fire.”

“I would have thought she could handle herself, but suit yourself mon amie.” Mortum eyes the scene, then flickers back to Jane with barely concealed curiosity.

“You know me.” Jane winks, a smile on her face.

Sauntering over to the table, Jane keeps her hands on hips as she surveys the scene. It’s a quantum roulette table. Numbers generated using quantum uncertainty to make an ‘uncheatable’ game. The wide variety of different boost abilities out there have forced gambling to take a few extra steps in order for casinos to stay on top.

The scarred Latina has left her seat to come around and prod Hollow Ground’s guy, who has in turn gotten out of his seat and is staring down at the shorter woman with an air of bored amusement.

Hrm. Doesn’t look like she had much money left. Good sign.

Rosie tries to reach for her friend’s shoulder, pull her back. “Mecha… please. Don’t start anything.”

“I don’t care! I’m sick of this cheater!”

Jane siddles up next to Rosie. No one else looks about to interview. The Croupier watches with a blank expression, as if expecting things to resolve themselves. The other players look to be quietly collecting their winnings. “Hey, Rosie.”

“–Jane?” Rosie glances to the side, face brightening up once catching sight of her friend. “Oh, hey Janey.”

“How’s the luck running?”

“Not bad – well, not as bad as…” Rosie makes a face, nodding towards Mecha.

“I heard. Along with the rest of the bar.” Jane eyes Mecha, who has not once stopped ranting at her supposed ‘cheater.’ “What’s the problem here anyway?”

Rosie drops her voice into a whisper, guarding her mouth with a hand. “Mecha thinks Jake here is cheating.” ‘Jake’ huh?

“Seriously?” Jane raises her voice. “She’s really going to accuse Joes of running a crooked game?”

That gets Mecha to turn, snarling. “No I’m not.” She jabs a finger at Jake’s chest. “I’m saying he is cheating!”

To your relief, Jake brushes the finger off, his expression unchanging.

“So… let me get this straight,” Jane frowns. “You’re saying–”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business!”

“You’re loud enough to make it my business.”

Rosie winces, “She’s not wrong.”

“Look.” You sigh, shoot a glance at Jake. “You really want to say someone that works for Hollow Ground has to stoop to cheating? Really?”

“I…” Mecha grinds her teeth, balling her hands into fists and then letting go. “I see your point.” Oh good, so she’s not suicidal. That’s nice. Mecha spares one last glance at Jake. “But…”

“It was a bad losing streak.” Rosie cuts in. “Legendary.”

“I… guess.” Mecha groans.

Jake shrugs, “Bad luck. It happens.”

“Whatever.” Mecha throws up her hands, stepping away from the table. “I’m out of here.” She doesn’t even stop to collect her meager winnings.

Rosie watches her leave with a sigh. “Well, that could have gone better.”

“Hey,” Jane winks. “It could have gone a lot worse too.”

Jake sits back down at the table, taking stock of his large pile of tokens. “You gonna play then?”

Would it be weirder to say yes or no? Jane glances at Rosie who shrugs, unhelpful. “Alright, well. There’s a free seat, so why not?” With a smile she takes the open seat and sits down. Guess maybe a round or two won’t hurt right?

It’s a weird sensation as Jane sits down. Like this has all happened before. Someone laughs as a new song comes on the radio. The numbers finish cycling, landing on red twelve.

Okay.

That was unsettling.

The croupier looks at Jane, blank faced. “Place your bet miss.”

Jane pulls a few bills out of her purse. As she does, someone laughs in the background, a new song cycling onto the radio. Okay. That’s weird.

A moment of hesitation and then –

Jane puts the fifty dollar bill on the table. “Put in on red twelve.” You did this before, didn’t you? Or were going to? Or was always going to have done? It doesn’t quite feel real.

“Jesus.” Rosie groans behind Jane, watching over her shoulder. “You don’t put that much on a single number, Janey.”

“Beginner’s luck.” Jane can’t stop the grin as she watches the numbers cycle. It’s all for show. The actual randomization takes an instant. But what is gambling without pagenty?

Hrm. No wonder so many villains gamble.

The croupier does not sound surprised as he speaks, but he looks in Jane’s direction, curious. “Red twelve, Miss Jane wins.”

Behind her, Rosie gasps, slaps Jane on the back. “Hot damn! I can’t believe it.”

“...neither can I.” Jane watches the small fortune shoved her way, wide-eyed. “I was just… the beginner’s luck thing was bravado.”

“Hey, guess drinks on you tonight, huh Janey?”

“...sure.” Sitting across from her, Jake watches Jane intently. He’s not the only one. Might have outstayed your welcome sooner than you expected. Robotically, she splits off a handful of bills and presses them into Rosie’s hands as she gets up from the table. “Have ten of them.”

“See, this is why we’re friends.”

“Uh-huh.” Swallow hard, throat dry. What the fuck was that?

Dr. Mortum is still waiting when Jane returns. Face a little more ashen then when she left. Purse significantly fuller.

Mortum raises her glass in greeting. “Still in one piece, I see?”

Jane’s smile as she sits back down is more brittle than you’d planned. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not, mon amie!” Dr. Mortum looks genuine enough as she says it. “I was mostly… curious what you were up to.”

“Worried?”

“More…” She takes a drink to stall for time. “Wondering why, I suppose.”

Jane shrugs. Would prefer to move on from this topic sooner rather than later. “I guess I wasn’t eager to see a friend of Rosie’s get put in an early grave.”

“Is that so?” Mortum raises eyebrows, not buying it. “That is a noble goal.”

“Probably futile, if we’re honest.”

“I was not going to say anything.”

Jane shrugs, keeps her back turned on the roulette table. Could swear you feel Jake’s eyes digging into Jane’s back. Without your telepathy, you can’t actually know that if that’s true or if you’re just being paranoid.

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer.

“Do I really need a goal?” What Jane needs is a new drink. “It was fun, I guess. Nothing more to it.”

“Fun?” Dr. Mortum winks. “Perhaps you are in the wrong line of work, mon amie.”

“Oh don’t start with that again.” Jane scowls, “I felt like doing it, so I did.”

“Fair enough.” Mortum leans back in her chair. “I suppose that’s just life. Chaos and impulse until it all goes black.”

“Bleak.”

“But true.”

“I don’t know about that.” Jane’s smile is grim. “Nothing’s truly random.”

What was up with that table? How did you know that? Come to think of it, haven’t you felt that before? In the past. It was always easy to brush off before.

“There’s always a pattern,” Jane presses on. “Someone pulling the strings. If you know where to look.”

“And you do, mon amie?” Mortum smiles back.

It’s an open question how much the doctor knows. Enough, at least. More than you’d like, almost certainly. Concerns for the future. As long as her friendship with Jane keeps her on your side, you’ll make use of her skills. And there’s always a call for that. Each new day offers new opportunities. New strings to pull.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne #i'll post a bonus chapter tomorrow for my birthday i think

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erintoknow · 5 years

Text

Family

i had things i wanted to do today that weren’t writing, but okay brain, go off? fallen hero fanfic, chargestep, content warning for some sucidal thinking, but not much i hope? also; kissing!? oh no | ~3.1k words

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

You ought to be using Jane: to scope out your next hit, to maintain her network of contacts, to catch up with Dr. Mortum. That would be a productive use of your time.

So of course you aren’t doing that.

You’re in front of your work desk, sleeves rolled up as far as you dare. Your suit doesn’t need repairs, but getting in that marginal improvement to the Rat King’s coolant system is better than sleep. Better than making corpses walk. Better than stupid meaningless dreams of coughing blood and their fuzzy half-memories tasting smoke and death. Don’t think about gunshots and lightning, the smiling reflection dripping shark teeth.

Focus on the soldering torch in your hand and the music in your headphones.

It doesn’t matter what you play. Whatever you can get your hands on, the best genre is free after all. Right now it’s some woman you’ve never heard of before with a low sometimes raspy, sometimes screaming voice. She’s energetic, easy to sing along with while you re-solder wiring for the third time.

You don’t recognize that it’s your phone ringing until the fourth chime. You almost drop the torch into your lap scrambling to pick it up before the call goes to voicemail. “Who’s this?”

“Ari!” Oh, it’s Ortega. Of course it is. Why the haste to pick up the phone anyway? Who else was it going to be? The President? God??

“Ortega.” Don’t sound excited, don’t sound relieved to hear her voice.

“I know it’s short notice, but are you busy right now?”

Say yes you’re busy, way, way, too busy, hang up on her. “No, I’m pretty bored for once, what’s up?”

“Great! Can we meet up?”

Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. “Yeah, sure, where?”

*******************************************

The smell of salt under oil. The water hasn’t been safe to swim in since before you were ‘born.’ Yet, a part of you yearns to run out to the sand and into the crash. Hazy memories of another beach, another shore. Nothing you can remember, more like 0 kb files tucked away in somewhere.

“Careful, with all that fabric on you’ll sink.” Ortega nudges you.

“I’ll just have to push you in first for a raft.” You shoot back.

“You’d think I’d float with all this metal in me?”

“All that hot air makes you a very buoyant old woman.”

You don’t need to look at her to know she’s frowning at that, and just knowing that is enough to bring a small smile. You want to grab her hand, feel the disks of metal that give her namesake. You don’t. You can’t. She’s your enemy even if she doesn’t realize it. Even if you don’t realize it.

The wind pulls at the rat’s nest you call hair. Maybe you’ll start trying to comb it again. Just to keep Ortega from worrying even more about you. You can worry enough for the both of you. “Why’d you want to meet up so suddenly, anyway?”

You can’t read her mind, but you know her enough to pick up on the change in vibe, the way she shifts in how she carries herself. It sets you on full alert. “There’s something I’ve been sitting on for a while actually.”

“Oh?” You try to sound casual, like there aren’t sirens ringing in your head. Like you aren’t glancing around for the best route back up the beach where Ortega can’t follow.

“There’s just never been a good time for it…” She glances at you, and the two of you meet eyes. There’s no hiding your fear that way and she grimaces at it. “Do you have any family? Still around, I mean.”

You can’t take her gaze on you, you step away towards the water, feel the sand crunch under your boots, hide your arms under your shawl. “Family?” You ask, your confusion at least genuine enough. It’s been a long, long, time since Ortega fished that well. “What’s bringing this on?”

“After you…”

“Died?”

“After that. At the funeral–“

*******************************************

I’m in deep shit now. The red and blue of ambulance lights reflect off the wall through the window, as I hunch over in the chair. Honestly, it’s just a broken nose, he’ll live. He deserves worse for what he was saying about you. And yet, I’m the one here hiding in the minister’s office while everyone else loads into their cars. Steel puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, lets go. I’d rather he give a lecture, that would be at least a gasp of normalcy. I nod at him, he nods back, leaves without saying a word. He’d make a better Marshal than I ever did. He wouldn’t punch out a reporter live on national television. He wouldn’t have gotten you killed.

Everyone else has left by now, probably all gossiping about the fiasco. There’s something unnerving about being alone in an empty church. I wonder what you or Themmy would think of all this. You both would probably both be mortified. A church service? With a priest? Well… you don’t get a vote any more, should have stuck around if you had objections.

“H-hello? Excuse me?”

I look up from my hands, wipe at my eyes to clear my vision. Peering around the doorway is a woman in funeral garb and long straight hair dyed a deep shade of blue, an anxious expression on her face. If it wasn’t for the hair job, I’m guessing she was late thirties, early forties, has that soccer-mom build to her. Older the me, at any rate. I try to look normal. Not like the kind of person who loses it and decks the press. “Can I help you?”

“You’re, uh, you were Alex’s friend then, weren’t you?” Alex? Who’s Alex? The woman looks ready to bolt at any moment. “You are, right? Sorry, I don’t normally make a habit of pestering heroes.”

God, I don’t have it in me right now to be normal, never mind deal with fans. Try to smile, it feels fake, offer a handshake to draw her into the room. It’s a limp pantomime and ends mercifully quickly. “Just Ortega is fine. I don’t believe we’ve met…?”

“Chelsea Becker.” She says as we let our hands drop. That gets my attention. No way that’s a coincidence. You never talked about your family, no matter how many times I tried to get you to open up. Hardly the only fortress you kept locked down tight, but here was someone who might open a gate.

I straighten up in my chair, examining Chelsea with renewed interest. There is a slight resemblance, I guess, with the more angular, almost boyish features, but nothing definitive, nothing I could point to say, ‘a-ha.' So instead I start with a “So you knew…?”

“Alex, or um, ‘Sidestep,’ I guess?” Chelsea says, then hesitates before adding, “but maybe sh- they used a different name with you?” A tiredness seeps into her voice. “That would be just like them.” She steps around a box of church candles, rests her hands on the minister’s desk. “They hoarded names like some women hoard jewelry.”

There’s a pain in my chest, I have to force myself to unclench my hands, keep my arms from tensing up. Practice a calming exercise. Stay smooth. I’ll never live it down if a stray spark of static burns down a church. “Yeah, I–” I have to swallow the words first, “–I was Alex’s friend. I’m sorry, she never mentioned…?”

“Oh, I’d be shocked if she had,” Chelsea doesn’t laugh, just forces a small smile as she pushes some papers aside to sit on top of the desk, letting her feet dangle. “If you knew Alex, you know trying to get her to talk about herself was worse than pulling teeth. Never when you wanted, and when she did, always in tears.”

“She was a private woman.” I say in agreement. It feels like a safe enough statement.

“We hadn’t talked in years anyway.” Chelsea says, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “We had a big fight about the whole vigilante thing.”

I don’t say anything, I don’t think I need to, thank God. Just listen as this stranger pours her heart out about you. She’s another hurting woman looking for a confessional, and Marshal Charge is never off-duty.

“I have no idea where she came from. Just one day, I’m suddenly watching out for this stick of a thing too proud- no, I think, too afraid to accept help.” Chelsea lets out a long shaky breath, and tilts her head to look me with red, puffy eyes. “Had to keep tricking her into thinking she was helping me rather the other way around. Wasn’t easy.” She gives a brittle smile.

I find myself returning her smile with an exhausted one of mine own. “Misdirection was definitely the name of the game.” I say. “In more ways than one.”

“She had this whole fantasy about making a difference and I–” Her voice hitches. “I told her. I warned her; she couldn’t afford mods and she wasn’t a boost. She was going to throw her life away for nothing.” She balls her hands into fists as she talks. “It was insane idea and she was an idiot who was going to get herself killed.”

“A lot of people owe her their lives,” I gently counter, saying it as much for myself as for her. I should follow the script, put a hand on hers, or her knee, or her shoulder or something. Say some gentle meaningless comforter. Instead I’m trying to process what she’s saying, how it all fits together in the ‘Ariadne Becker’ puzzle box.

Chelsea bangs her fist against the side of the desk. “I know that, God damnit. Everyone knows about the damn Nanosurge. I followed every damn report I could. I just wish–“

“That it wasn’t the last thing you said to her.” I finish. The cold comfort of the script finally coming to me. It’s nothing I haven’t had to say a dozen too many times before, and it feels robotic, inadequate, every time.

“The last time I saw her was right after her first big fight in costume. I told her I was leaving Los Diablos to take a job in Atlanta.” Chelsea bangs the desk again, face twisted in anguish, or guilt, or both. “I couldn’t afford to turn it down. It was just a bad coincidence. But… I don’t think she took it that way. She was always so scared, so paranoid, despite everything. I’d have taken her with me if I could have.”

*******************************************

Ortega pauses in mid-sentence, then shakes her head. “Do you know a… Chelsea Becker?” She asks, holding her breath.

A dozen different scenarios run through your head, all of them terrify and paralyze you. “I mean, those are both pretty common names,” you say cautiously, “why?”

“Someone I met at the funeral.” Ortega’s words make you want to sink into the earth, run into the sea. Do anything to get out of this conversation. “Ariadne…” Ortega continues, trepidation in her voice. She’s either oblivious to what’s going on in your head or pushing ahead without mercy. "Is she your mom?”

You blink.

You can’t help it. You start laughing.

Doubled over and clutching your sides. You can’t see straight. Julia calls out, alarmed, and she grabs you by the shoulders before you can fall onto the rocks. “Ariadne!” She taps you lightly on the face. You have to blink the water out of your eyes.

“My mom? You thought she was my mother!?” You repeat, incredulous. No point playing coy after that outburst. You struggle to get a grip on yourself, dig your fingers into Julia’s arms instead. “What did you tell her?”

“I just admitted I knew you, that’s all.” Julia raises her voice, defensive, confused.

“Why was she even there?” You ask, your fascination burning through the absurdity now. There’s nothing Chelsea could possibly know about you that would endanger you now, but it’s never good to get blindsided like this. Past lives, alternate lives, all crashing into each other behind your back. Fuck, what a mess.

Julia gives you a pained look, “It was your funeral, Ariadne. She flew in from Atlanta for it.”

That gets a pang in your chest. You don’t understand it. Stare up at the cloudless sky, the circling seagulls. They don’t have any answers either, brainless feathery assholes. “Ortega, I swear I’m telling the truth, she’s not and i quote, my “mom.” wow, you almost killed me with that.” Of course she’s not, what on earth happened between the two of them to give Julia that impression? Why would she have shown up at all? “Why would she do that?” You whisper, humor giving away to bewilderment.

“She cared about you, of course she came.” Julia insists.

“No she didn’t, you senile old woman. Why would she?” you snap back. You let go of Ortega, try to disentangle yourself from her arms and stand back up again. “Look, you want the truth? Chelsea and I were on the same bus to Los Diablos, like, fourteen years ago.” You shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal, to play it off. “We ran into each other maybe a few times afterwards, I guess? She was just another busybody who never left well-enough alone. And then one day she did up and leave and that was that. Sound familiar to you?” That’s not a fair barb and you know it. You pull away from her, eager to put some distance between the two of you. You don’t want to see her reaction to that. Power-walk down that beach, restless, aimless. Pull yourself together, remember you’re among enemies: always.

Ortega follows behind, dogging your steps. Never taking the hint, or maybe taking it too well? The problem with lying so regularly is that when it comes time to tell the truth, how can you prove it?

“And your last name?” She asks.

You turn around to face her. “Cosmic coincidence.” You lie, staring her in the eye. Is this the closest either of you have come to openly acknowledging ‘Ariadne Becker’ is a name you made up? You don’t know how to feel about that; how to feel about a lot of things right now.

Ortega doesn’t back down. “I think you should know… she was proud of you.”

You resume walking, put distance between the two of you. “She was proud of an imaginary dead woman then.” You spit out. You hunch your shoulders, pull your shawl up over your chin

Ortega grabs your shoulder from behind as she catches up to you. She slides her hand down following the form of your arm under the shawl. “Stop it.”

You stand there, not looking at her. “Stop what?”

“Stop with the brooding hero routine.”

“Well, I’m no hero, so wish granted.” You should push her away, shrug her off. You want to scream at her. She’s being an idiot. Why does she care about this? Why dig up even more corpses? It’s going to kill her. Why did you come here? Why did you answer her phone call? Why do you keep letting her in?

Ortega pulls at you, hard, forcing you to turn around or be knocked over. She glares at you, and you shrink away from it, from her. “Who stopped the Nanosurge? She demands.

“That’s not–“

“Who’s pulled my ass out of the fire over and over?”

“I was just–“

“Who did an emergency repair so I didn’t electrocute myself in Mexico?”

“I couldn’t just–“

“Who stayed up with me all night after every bad break up?”

You stay quiet.

“Who stayed at my Mamá’s house with us every holiday?”

You can’t look at her.

“Who came to visit me in the hospital after the Gala?”

“…that was a mistake.” You say, voice weak.

“Oh? It was a mistake, was it?” Ortega asks, an edge to her voice. “Were you lying then? Or are you lying now?”

You don’t have a response to that. You need to get out of her grip. You need to get out of here.

“Was that kiss in the elevator a mistake? Or the ones on this beach? What about all the rest of them?”

You want to die. To escape. To not be here right now having this conversation.

“Well, Ariadne Becker, which is it?”

You flinch under the weight she puts on your last name. “…I don’t know.”

There’s a hand on your face, and then Ortega is kissing you. You freeze, every instinct screaming at you to run, and then her other hand wraps around you and tell your instincts to take a hike, and kiss Julia back. It’s too hot for this, so you compromise. You unfasten your broach with one hand and shrug off your shawl onto the rocks before reaching up to run a hand through her hair.

Her teeth catch your lip in the quick pause for breath and then the two of you are fighting to push tongues past each other and it’s gross and you are terrible at it and you keep hitting your noses like drunk jousters and you have no idea what you’re doing while her hands run up your body and you cling to hers as if she’s a life preserver.

It’s the shame of the twinge between your legs that finally pulls you out of it enough to disengage. You pull away from her, smoothing down your shirt, making sure nothing rode up. Cast a quick mental check for any possible witnesses. None, save the seagulls, and honestly? Fuck those guys.

Julia looks at you, face flush, mouth slightly agape. Your heart aches at the sight of it. You don’t want to think about what you look like. You both stand there, in an awkward, flushed silence.

Finally, Julia says, “accept that your mom is proud of you, you pendeja.”

You stare at her. “W-what?”

“You heard me.”

Is this what having a stroke is like? Did you die this morning and no one told you? Are you in hell right now? “Did– did you just… make out with me, to– to– to– to– win an argument about my, my…” you choke on the word, pound your fist against Julia’s shoulder. “Damnit, she’s not my mom! Fucking hell! Shit!”

“She cried for you like one.” Julia’s hand is back on your arm, just firm enough to making running difficult. “Don’t throw those feelings away.”

Your brain is short circuiting. Steel’s going to show up in clown make-up and then you’ll wake up screaming again. “I can’t believe you made out with me to win an argument about my mom.” You whisper, your voice strained, throat tight.

Julia’s expression softens a little, finally. Mercifully. “What can I say?” That old familiar grin slips back onto her face, so smug, so punchable. You want to kiss her again. “I have a unique skillset.”

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr #wlw fanfic #moms are important #mc #ortega #fhr/ariadne #tw: some suicidal thoughts #but not too many i hope #found family #trans character

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