#but sidestep is believed to be dead by the general populace

[bosspigeon]

ooh, for a prompt how about a role swap with ortega and hawthorn? ortega as the villain and hawthorn as the hero.

so, this prompt has been sitting in my inbox for a Very Long Time, and i don't even know if anyone who follows me still cares about fhr anymore, but, uh.... have Ortega being an unhinged villain with a side of angst and also hints of potential Thorn/Ortega/Steel~

Considering Overdrive all but invited him to his lair the last time they fought, Graves doesn’t think stealth is entirely necessary. However, if he didn't at least make an effort to be stealthy, Steel would be up his ass about it later. He was going to be regardless, because he makes it exceedingly clear whenever he can that he is not the biggest fan of the Rangers' "independent contractor's" more unorthodox methods. But, well...

Steel's not here, is he?

Hellebore goes in first for a reason, after all.

He slips along a rickety metal catwalk like the ghost the world knows him to be, the shadows clinging to his matte black armor. He keeps the glow of his eyes dimmed, and his padded metal feet make no sound on the battered steel.

Overdrive knows he’s there, regardless. “You’ve got such a presence, Hellebore,” he calls out. His modulated voice sounds pleased as it echoes in the open warehouse. “You never make a sound, but somehow I always know when you’re here...”

Graves rolls his eyes beneath his mask, but at least now he doesn’t have to expend the effort of hiding his presence. He does it anyway, because god forbid he makes it too easy on the bastard. His own voice is modulated, a low rasping purr, and it bounces from the dark corners and makes him impossible to track.

“How many times did you say that to an empty room before I actually got here?” he asks dryly.

Cheerfully, Overdrive answers, “Only twice, and I think that’s pretty impressive, honestly.”

“Is there anything about yourself that you don’t find impressive?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t like the confidence,” Overdrive teases, strutting back and forth in the midst of whatever contraption he's working on like an oversized goddamned peacock.

Graves sighs. And then Overdrive oh-so casually kicks a switch on the ground, and the catwalk collapses beneath Graves’s feet.

He expects it the same as he expects any of Overdrive's little gimmicks. Which is to say, he never guesses the specifics, but he goes into any interaction with the villain expecting some sort of mischief. So the catwalk falls, and so does Graves, twisting around and lashing out with the segmented tail attached to his suit, catching on the broken-off railing. His suit absorbs most of the shock of the tail snapping straight with him hanging upside-down a good twenty feet off the oil-stained concrete floor, but it is still plugged directly into his spine to allow him to control it the same as any of his limbs, so it fucking hurts regardless.

He curls up into a midair crunch and grabs the broken railing, swinging off it like an expert gymnast and using the "borrowed" warehouse's assorted crates, broken machinery, and other detritus to make his way nimbly to the ground.

Overdrive slow-claps theatrically his entire descent.

“You should be proud of me,” the villain says when Graves lands, catlike, on the ground a few feet away. He seems entirely unconcerned that his little trap didn’t cause the vigilante any lasting damage. “I could have made a really bad joke, and I didn’t.”

“I am awed by your restraint,” Graves drawls. “Now, if you’re done with the obnoxious flirting, is there a reason you invited me here? If it’s the reason I think it is, I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.”

Overdrive laughs, but there is very little mirth to it. It’s harsh, and cracked, and something cold prickles under Graves’s skin. “I think I’m more your type than you’d care to admit,” he purrs, his tone dropping into something that would be sultry, if there wasn’t a strange air of melancholy to it.

Graves takes a step back, cocking his head and looking at the villain critically. His face isn’t showing, naturally. Only amateurs and heroes with more bravado than sense don’t cover their faces, obscure their identities from the public, from their enemies, and even from their friends and families. It’s a rookie mistake, if not a sure-fire way to get yourself or someone you care about killed.

Graves’s never had anyone he cared about enough to let them know who he is, and there’s no one alive who knows who he is. What he is.

Except—

No. Absolutely not. He only barely resists the urge to shake his head, to physically eject the unwelcome thoughts, and he masks the moment of weakness with a rough, annoyed sigh. “If you’re just going to be a pain in the ass, I’m leaving. I’m in no mood for games today.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, and though he has no illusions the asshole is going to just let him leave without some sort of smartass comment, or a fight, or a trap, he heads for the nearest exit.

“Oh, but you used to like when I teased you,” Overdrive purrs.

Icy claws dig into Graves’s spine and drag him to a sharp, shuddering halt. He doesn’t turn around. He can’t.

There’s an electric crackle behind him, the soft buzz of static. When Overdrive continues, his voice isn’t modulated to thwart possible vocal recognition. It’s soft and rumbling. Human. “Sure, you acted all huffy and annoyed. Rolled your eyes and sighed at me, but you always got this little wrinkle to your nose when you were trying not to smile...” It’s a familiar voice. One that Graves hasn’t heard in years.

One he didn’t think he’d ever hear again.

“I remember every one of the smiles I earned.” Overdrive is right behind him now, practically whispering in his ear. He almost jumps, but he feels paralyzed. He didn’t even hear footsteps, not over the ringing in his ears. “Like you never quite learned how.”

Frozen in place, he hears a click, and he can’t be sure how he knows, but he knows it’s the sound of Overdrive disengaging his face plate.

He knows, in the same way, who the face beneath belongs to.

“Look at me, Hawthorn,” Overdrive whispers, and his voice echoes hollowly somewhere behind Graves’s ribs, waking an ache he’s tried for a decade to bury. “Look at me,” Overdrive says again, louder, more desperate.

Graves doesn’t. He can’t.

A gloved hand curls around his arm, and he feels the tingle of ambient energy, a humming undercurrent, skitter across his skin beneath his armor. He jerks away as if burned.

Or electrocuted.

He never questioned the silence in Overdrive’s head. Every now and then, there is a villain with the combined technology and paranoia to protect their thoughts from being tampered with or spied on. Psychic dampeners don’t come cheap, and most don’t really think of telepathy as a common enough threat to warrant the expense. Overdrive was just eccentric, dramatic, and unhinged enough that the silence never gave the vigilante pause.

Maybe it should have. Maybe he should have questioned the fact that he couldn’t hear his thoughts, couldn’t push or influence, but he could somehow, against all odds, still anticipate his every move, fight with him like every step was choreographed, like he’d done it dozens of times before.

Maybe… maybe he didn’t want to question it.

Overdrive reaches for him again, and instead of words, a sharp cry rips its way out of his throat, and through his voice modulator it sounds raw and animalistic.

He runs, and he doesn’t look back. And Overdrive lets him go.

Steel finds him well over an hour later, when he finally stops running. Running from what? He wasn’t being chased. Not by anything tangible, anyway. Not by anything he can give a name.

He’s sitting on a rooftop, somewhere well above the noise and lights of the city below. He can see the bridge, but he can’t make his eyes focus on it as more than an abstract shape. His mask is cast aside on the concrete, its bared teeth glinting in the murky light of the sunset.

He doesn’t know where he dropped his comm. He had to have run for miles before he stopped.

“What happened?” Steel growls at him. Sharp. Accusing. Regretting that he sent Hellebore in alone, like he always does.

Graves doesn’t answer. His throat is too tight, his chest aches. His vision is swimming, painting Los Diablos in grim grey splattered messily with the colors of neon signs, lights, and twisting lines of flashy cars stuck in rush-hour traffic.

Steel approaches. Every heavy, clunking step makes Graves grit his teeth and dig his clawed gauntlets into his knees. He’s seconds away from prying off the carbon plating of his armor just to feel something that makes sense.

His every muscle is aware of the man behind him, quietly assessing him. Some things never change.

He can’t make sense of his own thoughts, much less Steel’s. His legs dangle against the side of the building. He feels like the wind could carry him away.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and he nearly startles right off the edge.

Steel catches him, pulls him back, cursing roughly under his breath. “What happened, Hellebore?” he asks. He’s making a game effort to sound neutral. No, not neutral. Almost… gentle?

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Steel has to practically set him on his feet, turn him around to face him. Graves is about as responsive to his grip as a ragdoll. A robot with no orders.

When he manages to raise his heavy eyes to Steel’s face, he’s almost blinded by the genuine concern he sees there. In all fairness, he probably looks like shit. And they both know damn well he’d never willingly let anyone see him this way, this weak, especially not Steel.

The hands on his arms are broad, strong. They could crush him so easily. But they hold him steady as he finally manages to force himself to speak, to ask the question he’s never had the courage to before, because he thought he knew the answer.

“What happened to Ortega?”