#oc: wren serrano

[aurriearts]

area sidestep is a lying liar who lies + ortega is suffering

( @ma-setheneran ‘s wren serrano :’D)

[sky-scribbles]

Have ~1500 words of post-Heartbreak Chargestep sadness. m!Ortega x nb!Sidestep. Retribution spoilers.

[Text messages sent from the phone of Ricardo Ortega to a phone in the possession of infiltration unit CCT-525. To be provided to those responsible for CCT-525’s reconditioning.]

[Sent the evening after Sidestep’s funeral]

 Hey

This is probably a really bad idea. And not just because I’m still awful at texting, shut up. 

They say you should never text your ex, but there’s no advice for texting someone who’s dead. Someone who meant the world to you.  Reaching for someone I’ve already lost, someone I’ve just buried... that’s hardly anyone’s idea of moving on and letting go.

But you’re dead. You can’t say anything back that could hurt me. And even if you could, you couldn’t say anything that hurts me more than you being gone.

So, yeah. To hell with it.

To hell with moving on and to hell with letting go. To to hell with looking after myself. I don’t want to feel better and I don’t want to let you go because this? This grief?

It’s all I have left of you.

It’s with me all the time. I can’t forget it for more than a few minutes before I get this little nudge against my mind, like, haven’t I forgotten something? And then I remember that you’re gone and it hits me again. You hit me again.

You won’t stop

I keep seeing you fall and I keep feeling it happen all over again

I feel you die a hundred times every day and every time I’m left alive.

I should want it to stop. But I don’t. Because then I have to keep living and then I’ll change. I changed when Hood died and now I’ll change again. I won’t be the person you knew anymore, and I want to be your version of me forever, because then part of me will still be you. You’ll still be here.

And you’ll recognise me if you come back.

Because that’s why I’m really doing this, isn’t it? I keep thinking you’re going to send something back, any second now. I never saw a body, and you always had a backup plan, a way out.

Please send something back

I miss you so much and you deserved more than this

Please

Please

[Sent a week after the previous]

Hey, Wren.

I keep thinking about what you’d say if you could respond to these. Probably ‘fuck off, Ortega. You got me killed.’

Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Writing that, I got this little voice in my head, saying you wouldn’t feel that way about me. That you wouldn’t blame me. Am I texting a dead person because I want to give myself absolution?  Am I really that selfish?

But that’s just it. It’s not about me and who I am. It’s about you and Themmy, and about who you were, because you deserved better. You deserved someone who wouldn’t make those bad calls.

You deserved to live.

You were so young and you were so good. So real. You had this awkward little smile that I couldn’t see without feeling like the whole world had got a little bit kinder. I can still remember the way you laughed, and… no one’s ever going to laugh like that again.

All of that’s gone. All of you is gone, and I’m sitting here texting you to make myself feel better, or to punish myself, when everything that was beautiful about you doesn’t exist in the world anymore? I’m not even crying for you, I’m crying for myself.

So, because you can’t say it, I will. Fuck off, Ortega. You got them killed.

[Sent two weeks after the previous]

I don’t want to keep going back to that tower

Not in my head. Not in my dreams. No more.

Make it stop

MAKE IT STOP

[Sent three hours after the previous]

Hey wrenbird

So first of all I’m drunk right now an t his is going to be a mess

I know I said is houldn’t send any more of these to you but I was thinking about you tonight. I mean I think about you all the time. But tonight it was too much and I went out and hit the bear and now I’m home and thr getting drunk thing didn’t work because in thinking of you more

The Bar. I hit the bar. Fuck autocorre t

Anyway I kept thinking about how once iwould have got less drunk k and probably flirted wih someone there or so.ething. But I can’t do that anymore and I don’t even want to because he only person I actually want isyou

I just want to have you here an I want to hold you

I want to be able to kiss you one more time and see your face. You know I can renember where all your moles and little scars were? and I remember how warm you were hose times we did missions tgether overnight and selpt in shifts? You were so warm

I want you back. So much

Because I love you

I love you

I love you and I never said it and I don’t think you knw and now is when I sa it? Drun k texting you when your fucking dead and I’m finally fuck ig brave enough to say it?

I’m sorry I letyou die. I’m sorry I pretty much killed you.

I’m so sorry

[Sent a week after the previous]

Hey, Wren.

So, yeah, that was a mess all right. If there’s an afterlife, I hope you got a good laugh at my drunken inability to handle a keypad. Not that I can ever handle one even when I haven’t been drinking.

Seriously. You don’t want to know how long it takes me to write these.

Anyway, thought I’d let you now that I cleared out your apartment out today. Took a while to get the paperwork through, since I couldn’t find any next of kin. It’s the Free Zone, though. Not many questions got asked.

I’d seen your place before, but taking a real look around… it was like you were ready to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. Maybe you were. It was so bare, like a shelter, not a home. I wish I’d done more to make you feel like it was safe to put down roots. Like you belonged.

Part of me wanted to hold onto everything there, but that felt creepy, so in the end I just kept some of your books.

I'm probably going to stay up all night reading them. Maybe I can feel a little closer to you by holding things you held. Reading words you loved. I don't know if you'd want me to hold onto them, but you’ve written little notes in the margins, and left coffee stains on the pages and creases on the spines. I guess it feels like these these pages are the only place where you let your roots dig deep, and I can still find you there.

I’ve been selfish far too often when it comes to you. But I really, really want to hold onto these. So I hope you can forgive me for being selfish, just one more time.

[Sent one year after the previous]

Hey, little bird.

Here’s a cheerful sentence: I’m sitting next to your grave right now. I took some flowers, because tradition, and some birdseed and coffee, because I knew that’s what you’d really appreciate. I’m watching the sparrows going nuts over the food while I write this.

I hope you’re getting some rest. I miss you. I love you.

And no, I’m not okay, not really. I mean, I grew a mustache and you’re not even here to make fun of it.

I’ve stopped hoping for a response when I send these. I guess that part of me that was holding on… it finally got the message. You’re not coming back. And that's such a lonely thing to know. Maybe that’s why I was sending these, all along, so I could keep you with me. I could pretend that I didn't have to face that loneliness.

But, hey. I’m sitting here watching the pigeons and sparrows have a great time, and I guess that’s happening because of you. I did that because of you, because it would have made you happy. I keep doing things because I think they’re what you would have done, I see things you would have liked and I smile. Every thought and want and hope I have comes back to you in the end, and it hurts, but it fills a space in the world that shouldn’t be left empty.

All those beautiful things about you? I guess I can make sure the world still has a trace of them. Because you’re with me. You’re in me.

I guess you could get into my mind after all, huh?

Sleep well, wrenbird.

<3

[sky-scribbles]

Some Chargestep cuddling for warmth because it’s cold, I’m sappy, and I was begged to write it. ~1400 words, nb!Sidestep x m!Ortega, Sidestep days, Ortega POV. Tw: mentions of canon-typical injury.

You hate waking from unconsciousness. But this isn’t so bad.

There’s no pitched battle seething around you, like usual. Instead there are arms, familiar arms, holding you still as you move to rise. A groan slops from your lips and the arms squeeze tighter. A voice says, ‘It’s okay. I got you.’

You breathe, blink, and the grey fuzz of your vision resolves itself. Into Wren. They’re kneeling, mask off, face smeared with bruises, and you’re draped over their lap with your head against their arm. The dull concrete walls of a warehouse surround you, and the air against your face is cold - but Wren, Wren is warm.

‘Hey,’ you manage, and their lips flicker into a smile.

‘Don’t move,’ they say.

Their eyes are fixed not on your face, but on your arms, where they’ve peeled back your suit to above your elbows. A tangle of cables snakes from the exposed ports across the room and into a fuse box. It’s a bizarre awakening, finding yourself at the centre of a labyrinth of wires, like you’re the product of a bizarre summoning circle.

(Your suit is unzipped at the back, too, baring the spinal ports. Which means the skin there is separated from Wren’s skin only by their coat and suit. Your breathing hitches in a way that’s nothing to do with the beating you took.)

‘Your mods went into overload.’ Wren’s arms uncoil from around you, and you almost grab them before they can let go. But they move too fast, and your limbs are too heavy, and a second later they’ve propped you against the cold of the wall, not the warmth of their lap. ‘I dragged you here, dug up some cables, and plugged you into the mains. Switched on your emergency venting.’

‘Mierda,’ you say, with feeling. Because that’s closer than even you usually come to death. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘All kinds of dumb shit.’

This time, you catch the nervous tremble of their lip, so you squeeze their arm. ‘Wouldn’t want that. Thanks, Wren.’

They look away, wrapping their arms around their body as if your gratitude is somehow dangerous. ‘Epsilon got away. You fried her armour with that last hit, and she ran. I could have gone after her, but you were…’

They gesture at your jury-rigged charging ports, your bloodied knuckles, your bruised face.

‘Don’t beat yourself up. Not for saving my ass.’ You give their arm one last squeeze before letting them go. ‘I mean, it’s a good one. Someone’s gotta keep it intact.’

Wren rolls their eyes, but there’s the faintest of smiles on their face as they reach down to detach the wires. ‘You’re back to full capacity. If you’re okay to move, and you’re not too worried about your ass, we should get after her.’

You push yourself a little more upright. ‘Wait. How long was I out?’

‘A few hours. It’s past midnight.’ Wren doesn’t look up from the cables. ‘I let her get away, and now she’s ahead of us, we need to –’

‘Have you slept?’

This time they do look up, and you know those eyes well enough to see the tiredness in them. ‘No. She might have come back to finish the job.’

You’re still groggy, because your body feels how nearly it died – but that’s not what makes you shake your head. It’s the darkness seeping in through the windows, the fact that you’re close enough to the desert and deep enough into winter that the night is biting. That Wren’s shivering under their coat. That they stayed awake for hours, cradling you, guarding you, keeping you warm.

‘Not a chance,’ you say, and pat the floor beside you. ‘You need to sleep.’

‘That could give her time to fix her armour -’

‘And it gives you a chance to not fight her half-asleep.’ They hesitate, and you roll your eyes. ‘Jesus, Wren. You don’t get to keep my dumb ass alive if you won’t let me keep your dumb ass alive.’

A half-second where they hover, biting their lip, watching you. Then they tuck their gun back into their belt and slump onto the floor beside you. ‘Ricardo Ortega, are you seriously arguing for caution?’

‘Where you’re concerned, yeah. Always.’

They raise their eyebrows, and you shrug and smile. Some things are not negotiable. Wren’s safety is one of them.

(You found that out after Psycopathor. After the way they screamed as the wreckage shifted and crushed them further into the ground.

Did they feel like that today? Burn like that, hearing you cry out, watching you fall?)

They fold their mask into a pillow and curl into a ball, drawing their knees against their chest. Still shivering, and you roll your eyes. ‘Wren. Don’t lie there on your own, it’s freezing.’

‘I’m good.’

You’re not having that. ‘Well, I’m cold.’

You lift one arm, and they glare at you for a second, then huff. ‘Do not make this weird.’

Which, fair. You kissed those bruised lips, after you dug Wren from the rubble. And then you never talked about it, because you were too afraid to hear them tell you it was a mistake, a brief madness, it won’t happen again. You’ve kept up the flirting and the grins, and Wren hasn’t stopped you. But every day you both act as if you never found out what it was like to feel the other’s breath in your lungs. That definitely qualifies as weird. 

But Wren shifts over anyway, rests their head against you, lets you drape your arm over their shoulders.

They’re a quick sleeper. A few minutes and their breathing’s different, slower, softer. And you hold them against you, wishing things weren’t weird so that you could play with their hair a little. You settle for watching their face, mapping out imaginary constellation-lines between their moles. An hour in, and the rhythm of your breathing has steadied to match theirs. You’re not close enough to feel their heartbeat but you can somehow sense it, as if every inch of your body has attuned to them.

It occurs to you that you’d really, really like to kiss them again.

But even more, you want to not do it, so they can sleep. You want to let Wren rest, hold them and feel their heartbeat, not because you think they’re fragile but because you know they’re strong. And you want them to be strong when you find Epsilon again, because then they can’t be hurt. You want them to never hurt again. You want  –

Shit, you want so much. You want everything. You don’t ever want your lungs to stop matching Wren’s breathing. You want to stroke their hair away from their face. You want to warm their body against yours until they forget what it was ever like to be cold.

A breath leaves you, slow, crystallising in the air before dispersing. It’s cold, and Wren’s warm, and you –

- You’re in love with them, of course.

Now how the hell did that happen?

Wren stirs in their sleep, and you let out another breath. Later. Later, you’ll give a damn. Later you’ll second-guess and soul-search and flail over what you’re supposed to do about this. But right now Wren is asleep against you and there are goosebumps running through your insides, and you’re smiling, you’re full, and you love them.

And maybe you run your thumb over their cheek. Ever so slightly. Barely enough to feel the friction of their skin against yours.

When they stir awake a few hours later, there’s a moment where they look at you. And you’re still looking at them, and you both know why you’re looking, and it would be so easy to lean a little closer and –

But you’re pretty sure that would qualify as making it weird, so you just smile and bop their forehead with one finger.

And it doesn’t feel all that strange, walking out into the morning together, laughing with them and fighting with them and knowing that you love them. You’ll deal with it later, so for now it just feels a little breathless, and a little cosy. Like jolting from unconsciousness into warm and waiting arms.

[sky-scribbles]

Have some Sidestep backstory angst... which becomes Chargestep softness, with a certain reveal getting a good ending. ~1400 words, nb!Sidestep x m!Ortega. Many, many Retribution spoilers. Tw for the kind of dehumanising treatment implicit in Sidestep's backstory. 

You’ll remember this, always. Being born.

Out of the warm dark, you surface into the cold, the light, the hands. It’s this – the hands – that you’ll remember most. Hands that clasp tight and pull hard, dragging you upright in the same moment that you fill your lungs for the first time. No chance to flounder and cry like any new-born, because the hands are on you, holding you still.

Faces swim around you. Bodies in white coats crowd you. Mouths make short, clipped vocalisations.

Buried deep in your newly-awake brain, a chip stirs into activity, supplying you with the information you should have learned over fifteen years of childhood that you will never have. Your binary systems match the sounds to entries in a data bank - and suddenly the vocalisations are more than noise. Over the sound of your own wailing, you hear words for the first time.

What you hear is this: ‘For fuck’s sake. Someone shut it up.’

You are born like everyone else, screaming.

Unlike everyone else, you will remember why you screamed.

You will also remember this: new hands on your skin, different hands. Careful hands. Ortega’s.

His fingertip trails over your skin, following the lines of your tattoos like a child with a puzzle book tracing a path through a maze. And you let him. Hunched on the couch beside him, you let him do it. You’re light-headed, your muscles pulled taut by nervous energy, but every time Ortega’s finger finds the end of another tattoo path, your breathing grows a little steadier.

He traces over the series of concentric circles stamped on your shoulder, reaches the end, and looks up at you. ‘Do they do this right away? After you’re…’

‘Decanted.’

His lips press into a terse line. ‘I’m not calling it that. You’re a person, not a wine.’

Your lip twitches, but you’re still too jittery to laugh. Jittery, because you… let him see you. You let him see you and he still wants you here. In his home, in his life. With your skin under his hands.

He’s touched you before, of course, and in ways that made you even more light-headed than this – but that was in the dark. He was in the dark, in more ways than one. He didn’t know what he was touching then, and now the light is unflinching and merciless upon your markings. And he’s still resting scarred, careful fingers on your skin.

Which is a lot to process, so you don’t. For now, you focus on what he said, what he asked you. ‘It’s… it’s just what it’s called. We’re not born. What else are you going to call it?’

Another moment of silence; then he grins. You know his grins, and this one’s the sad-eyed one. The one he uses when he needs to make something funny before it can start hurting too much. ‘Your name’s Wren, so… hatched?’

You still can’t laugh, but you manage an eye-roll and a faint snort. ‘Idiot. And to answer your question, no. The tattoos come later, once they’ve figured out what abilities we have.’  Your hands knot together in your lap. ‘Guess I should be thankful for small mercies. Being decanted was shitty enough without being given the tattoos right after.’

His hands freeze. ‘You remember it? Being taken out of the tank?’

‘Sure. We’d be no use to them if we weren’t born with minds. We’re programmed with skills, knowledge of how to move and speak. They even give us artificial memories, so we feel like we’ve had a life.’ This time you do laugh, a hollow sound that drags itself up from your chest. ‘Makes it worse, really.’

‘Worse?’

‘Being born. It makes it worse.’ You don’t look at him, because his eyes are too full of concern and you don’t know how to deal with that, not like this, not from people who know. ‘I went from not being conscious of anything to… suddenly having to process the whole world at once. It’s different to being born like - like humans. Real people barely have any senses at first, and their brains can hardly process the sensory input they do get. But me, I felt everything. Everything. All my senses were working and my brain was telling me I’d been alive for fifteen years and it was feeding me memories that felt real but which I knew weren’t true because I was being born right there, right then.’

Your hands are shaking. You clasp them tighter together, hard enough that it’s painful – and then you stop. Relax. Because you don’t have to cling to yourself for comfort anymore. You have another option.

So you uncurl your fingers – they’re sweat-sticky and stiff – and reach for Ortega.

He slips his hands over yours and holds. Still gentle. Careful. You close your eyes and focus on the feel of his skin over yours, for one second, two, three. The shaking slows, and finally it stops.

‘You’re okay,’ he whispers, and maybe he’s even right.

‘I was screaming.’ The words slip out like sobs, and you didn’t mean to say them but Ortega knows what you are and he’s cradling your hands in his anyway, and it’s making everything burst out of you. ‘I didn’t know how to stop. And they ran their tests on me and put me in their uniform and locked me in a cell and I’d just been born. I mean. Not born. But –’

Oh. You’re crying now. But it’s okay, because Ortega’s still holding your hands, even lifting one to kiss your knuckles ever so gently. Thumb stroking your fingers, breath against your skin, and you don’t to be able to read his mind, because you can feel how sorry he is through the soft press of his lips. How much he hates that he wasn’t there for you back when you were new-born and screaming.

And the absurdity of Ortega kissing your vat-grown hand stuns all the wary tension right out of you, so you lean into his arms and let him pull you against him. His arms close tight and warm around your back (hands against your tattoos, touching them, not flinching away from them) as you cough out words.

‘I can still see them looking at me. The way they always looked at me, every moment I was in that place. Indifferent. So I couldn’t forget what I was. What I am. A machine, a tool, a weapon, a thing, and they looked at me like that from the moment I was made–’

So different to how Ortega looked at you, back when you were a faceless vigilante and he was grinning at you, cracking jokes to make you open up and stop running away from him. So different to how he’s looking at you now, like you’re something precious. Something sacred, something worthy of soft touches and warm arms.

‘Most people get to be… held. When they’re born. Comforted.’ You mumble the words against his shoulder, because if you muffle yourself maybe the words won’t twist into sobs. ‘Why didn’t I get that? I mean, I know why, but… why did it have to be me?’

A shudder runs through Ortega’s body, and his arms close around you a little tighter. ‘You get it now.’

It’s late. He’s late.

But there’s a time and a place to resent him, and it isn’t now. Shit, you don’t want it to be now. You want to give yourself this moment with him in the light, like you gave yourself that first night in the dark. Pretend that his ignorance and drawn blinds can keep the inevitable at bay.

Because maybe this is what being a person is. Letting yourself change as the world changes around you, letting yourself be born again. You’ve had so rebirths in your life already – your escape, your debut as Sidestep, your first meeting with Ortega, your first battle as Myriad. You’ve been born again and again, been broken and made new over and over.

So you want this moment. One more rebirth for the list: Ortega’s arms around you and his breathing stirring your hair. Once again, you’re surfacing into a life that’s bright and frightening and different, because you have no idea what your life looks like in a world where Ortega knows.

But this time, you’re being held through it. Soothed.

This time, it’s a birth you want to remember.

[sky-scribbles]

Progression shots of my Sidestep, Wren! You can tell how much self-confidence they have at any given time by how colourful their hair is.

[sky-scribbles]

So… that Retribution update left me with a few emotions. And my Sidestep with some character development. Massive Retribution spoilers, nb!Sidestep, ~1100 words. 

‘Work with me,’ says Hollow Ground, and smiles.

They keep talking, but you don’t keep listening. There’s a bitter laugh echoing through your mind, drowning out their voice – because oh, this is familiar. So very familiar.

This is no invitation, it’s an order, and it’s spoken in the same tone people have always used to give orders to you. Confident, almost lazy, completely certain that they’ll be obeyed. Unit CCT-525, infiltrate this party, read this person’s mind. CCT-525, keep this crowd under control. 525, report for reconditioning. Unlearn your emotions, forget everything that makes you an individual.

525, understand that the Rangers never cared. Realise that you never belonged.

Do not ever try to be a person again.

The room is suddenly quiet. Hollow Ground has stopped talking, and they’re leaning back in their chair, limbs dangling loose over the sides. Calm. At ease. You dig your fingers into the sleeves of your suit jacket, because you need to remember that you are not in a Farm uniform. The cool voice that has just fallen silent is not your handler’s, even though Hollow Ground is wearing the same smile Regina always wore.The smile of someone who knows they own you, body and soul. Someone who knows you can’t say no.

But you caught that hungry little thread, teased it out of your mind.

You could say no.

You could say no, and then what? They would never let you leave here alive. Even if you survived – unarmed, unarmoured, against three of them – the full might of the underworld would rise against you. They know your face. They could find your name. You have enough enemies in the light already; you cannot afford to make more in the shadows.

But you could still say no.

‘So.’ Hollow Ground folds their arms, one pierced eyebrow quirking upwards. ‘What do you say?’

You have never said no before, not to anyone. Even running from the Farm wasn’t saying no, it was saying no comment. Running instead of planting your feet firm. Sidestepping instead of standing your ground.

Shit, even the name you chose was half a surrender. Wren. You always saw yourself in small birds – free, but always vulnerable. Never strong.

This person could destroy you. You can’t pull the truth into the open, can’t free your people, your siblings, if one reckless act of defiance gets you killed. Hollow Ground thinks you’re bound, so you should let them keep thinking that, work their system from the inside. You’re not strong enough to say no. Your armour is strong, your abilities are strong, but you? Never.

‘I’m waiting, Myriad.’

You could say no.

But why would you? Why do you want to? Because saying yes would betray Hood, a man you never met? Because it would betray Ortega, a man you’ve already betrayed in every possible way?

Ortega –

The memory flashes into your mind, crystallises: you curled up on his couch, him kneeling before you, your hands in his. A grin on his face as he asks you – asks if you’re willing to do more than just make out – and his grip is loose, easy to twist out of if you wanted to. Letting you say no.

But you said yes.

You trusted him. You trusted yourself with that choice, and with its consequences. Whatever they are – and oh, they’ll happen – you made a deal with yourself that you’d face them.

And then another memory: Herald. Daniel. Asking you to train him, so bright, so full of potential – and you, saying yes. And then Dr Mortum, asking you to retrieve her gun. Chen, never quite saying aloud but silently indicating, again and again, that he wanted the bickering to end. You said yes.

Now, you could say no.

You’ve spent your whole life following your training. Stay quiet, observe. Watch and respond, act only once the dice land. But Hollow Ground sits here thinking that you are theirs, and you are not, and you are not the Farm’s, and you could reach out and catch the die as it rolls. Choose the number it lands on. Cheat the system. Make your own luck.

You could do it. You could trust yourself to act. You’ve already been doing it, all those times you said yes to the people you love.

You could say it.

You could say –

‘No.’

Everything is very quiet. You register the adrenaline pumping through you, your body one long silent scream of protest at what your lips just did. Hollow Ground is staring. Jake stands frozen. Nocturne’s eyes are wide. And you –

You, sitting there with no armour except your suit, no weapon except your mind… you have silenced all three of them with a single word. With your defiance. With potential you never quite realised you owned. There’s shock and confusion in Hollow Ground’s eyes, those eyes that so resemble your own – and a spark of realisation. The same realisation that’s hitting you.

You are dangerous. Not Myriad, you. Five-foot-nothing, husky-voiced little Wren Serrano.

And Hollow Ground’s mind is open, unsuspecting, and you breathe in deep and dive in with all the strength you have, because they will let you go, and as you slip through their shields and tear into their memories there’s a roar sounding in your mind. Like you’re standing firm at last, screaming at Hollow Ground and at the Farm and at this world that’s tried so hard to chain you and break you and take away your wings - I said, no!

Everything happens very fast after that, and the memories you see are sharp and deep and dangerous. But when you resurface, Hollow Ground is pale and shaking in their seat before you. And you’re still standing.

Is it arrogance, that you feel oddly powerful, underneath the adrenaline? You don’t think it is. It’s not pride in your strength, it’s trust in your strength. And in your conviction, too, because Hollow Ground is part of this city’s corruption as much as the Farm, and maybe one day you will drag them into the light along with all the rest.

For now, you walk away. Intact. You said no, and you survived it, and you will live with the consequences.

Once you’re home, you splash water over your face and look for a long time at your reflection. At the wide-eyed little Re-Gene who stares back at you, silently accusing you of recklessness and madness. Telling you that you’re an idiot to trust your own judgement, to act without knowing the consequences. That you’re not strong, or bold, or clever, that you’re fumbling with things you don’t understand, you’ve just signed your own death warrant, you’ve failed your people –

You breathe in. Look yourself in the eyes, like you did with Hollow Ground.

‘No,’ you say.

(Later, once you’re huddled under a blanket with a mug of coffee that you very desperately need, you remember an old legend you read, back when you were choosing your name. A folk tale, where the wren hid on the back of the eagle, and so – despite its quietness, despite its weakness – flew higher and farther than any other bird.)

[sky-scribbles]

In which my Sidestep flails in confusion over Feelings, and the Rat-King is better than any of us. nb!Sidestep x m!Ortega, ~2000 words, soft and dumb. Retribution spoilers. 

‘I was just wondering,’ Herald says. He’s fiddling with his shirt, awkwardness turning his mind fuzzy around the edges. ‘I mean, I know you and Ortega are dating, but –’

‘Wait. We’re what?’

Herald stares, and you stare back at him. Can’t he learn to shield his thoughts, even for a second? His baffled amusement is screaming out at you, and you would prefer that he didn’t do anything embarrassing, like smile. Or laugh.

‘Dating?’ he says at last. ‘I sort of assumed you were. He… cares a lot about you.’

Maybe he does. Not that you know why Ortega wastes his time doing something so stupid. And, yeah, sure, you can tell why someone would think you’re dating. You weren’t sleepwalking when you wandered down the promenade at his side, let him pull you into his arms and kiss you beside the water. Or when you let him buy you coffee afterwards, and then again the next week, and then the week after that. Or when you spent most of your visits to the Rangers in his office.

It’s just the implications of it that’s startling.

You grab your discarded hoodie, because if you don’t have something to do with your hands you might end up flailing them. ‘So, uh… you’d call it dating? What I’ve been doing with Ortega?’

Herald’s urge to smile wins out at last. ‘I mean, going places together doesn’t have to be a dating thing. But it can be.’

Shit, you need a coffee. Fast.

How the hell did you miss this? How did you not realise that you’d crossed a line into being official? Into dating? Kissing him is one thing, but dating has rules and codes. Things you’ve never quite understood but which seem to be very important to people who actually understand how romance works.

(Maybe your obliviousness shouldn’t be a surprise. Most of your experience with romance comes from reading Shakespeare, and those relationships tend to have significantly more stabbing than the real world. Or more conveniently identical twins.)

Hiding your face is an attractive concept right now, so you tug your hoodie over your head. ‘I just never thought about it that way. It’s hard to tell when these… definitions… start applying.’

Herald is now waging a furious war on his temptation to laugh. ‘Maybe you should talk to him?’

‘Definitely not. I wouldn’t even begin to know how.’

Then again, you don’t know how to date someone, either. Which you are apparently doing.

And after everything you’ve done to Ortega, everything you’re yet to do… shouldn’t you at least try to get this one thing right, while it lasts? Do some research, figure things out?

You shove your hands into your pockets, scowling at the ground. Research. Right. Into dating. That’s just bound to go smoothly.

Your first research opportunity comes three days later. Except it’s not really yours, because you’re in your puppet, a drink in your hand and Dr Mortum at your side. She’s pretending to complain about you dragging her away from her work, but for once she’s sitting back with a smile, her lab coat discarded. No tension in her shoulders, no distracted glances towards the workbenches. The sight makes contentment settle over your chest, as if a cat’s curling up to sleep there.

‘Complain all you like,’ you say, ‘but you need the break. It’s not good for you to stay here all the time. Disconnected from everything.’ You’re parroting Ortega, but it’s what Adam would tell her.

‘I recognise the voice of experience there, mon ami. Neither of us are…’ She hesitates, running a finger along the side of her glass. ‘Adept at emerging into the world.’

‘You got me there.’ Your own body’s response would have been a frown, an averted gaze, but you give a rueful little smile instead. Being Adam is a careful, if comfortable act: lines to rehearse, mannerisms to remember. 'Being around people is... so much effort. The rest of the world talks and chatters and goes on dates, and I could do that, but it’s exhausting. Finding the right people. Not driving them away. You know what I mean?’

‘Intimately. Though – really, you find it so hard to find people? If you took a seat in Joes for a few hours, and sat there looking appropriately tall and handsome…’

You snort into your glass. ‘Why tall, specifically? Are you suggesting there’s a height restriction on dating?’

You’re only half-joking. Dating is weird, you don’t know the rules, and if there is a height restriction then your real body most certainly fails it.

‘Relationships are not a theme park ride, mon ami.’

‘They’ve got just as many ups and downs.’

You remember belatedly that Adam does not mutter like this, but Dr Mortum only smiles at you. ‘You have some turbulent experiences in your past?’

You take a slow sip from your glass. Perhaps the gesture will hide Adam’s face, make sure the doctor won’t see any of your feelings, Wren’s feelings, displayed there. Won’t see any memories of Ortega’s arms pulling you from the wreckage and his lips closing around yours. His voice screaming after you as you crash through the window.

‘Something like that,’ you say, and Adam’s voice is not meant to shake like this.

Dr Mortum looks at you for a moment, her gaze even. And then she does something you did not expect: she reaches across the couch and lays a hand on your arm. Just below your shoulder. Gentle. Steadying.

‘Neither of our greatest skills are with people. And yet, here we are. Sharing a drink.’ The smallest of squeezes before she lets go. ‘I am hardly one to talk, but… I think half the difficulty is in the overthinking. Perhaps you’re not quite so bad at this as you think, mon ami.’

She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Adam might not be so bad, but Wren is.

You’re grateful, all the same.

‘What about you? What do you think?’

There’s a pause before you get a response: a brush against your mind that’s eager enough to make you smile.  ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ… :{D…???

‘Yes, him.’ You give the Rat-King’s canister a pat. ‘And I know you’ve only seen him when he was fighting me, so I guess he didn’t make the best impression. But he’s a lot nicer when he’s not being punched.’

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ… you… <3?

You bite your lip. Trust the Rat-King to get right to the heart of the matter. ‘Maybe I do. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. I just know I feel a lot.’

But not enough to stop you from putting him in hospital. People who date do not do this. People do not do this.

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ… :{D… <3????

‘I want to believe that he does.’ There’s a lump in your throat, so you tuck the canister into the crook of your arm. Wrap the Rat-King’s simple, uncomplicated affection around your thoughts. ‘But there’s no happy ending here. I’m not…’

You bite back the sentence, because you’re not sure the Rat-King will understand the significance of you not being human. In their minds, the only difference between you and other people is that you can talk to them. You’re more real than the rest of the world.

The thought makes you hug them tighter, because it doesn’t work like that, but oh god, how you wish it did.

‘Herald thinks I should talk to Ortega. Is that what real people do? Talk to the person they’re sporadically kissing and just… ask about how their relationship should go? There’s no universe where I don’t screw up that conversation. He’s going to think I’m an idiot.’

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ … (ง'̀-'́)ง!!!

The laugh that breaks from you is startled, and genuine. ‘I’m sure that’s not gonna be necessary, but... thanks for the support.’

You tug them even closer, cradling the little minds against your chest. Deep breaths. Remember what Herald said about Ortega caring. Remember what Mortum said about you overthinking. It’s just a conversation. It’ll be awkward and terrifying, but that goes for most conversations you have.

ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ … <3 <3 <3 …

A smile tugs at your lips. When it comes from the Rat-King, you can be sure it’s true.

The Farm always considered you a good investigator. Unmatched at combing minds, gathering information, acting only once you’d put the pieces together. It’s why you were dangerous in their hands. It’s why you’re even more dangerous now, as Myriad. It’s why you feel like an utter mess knocking on the door to Ortega’s office. Being so woefully under-prepared is nauseating.

You really need a coffee.

He calls you in, and here’s another thing you weren’t prepared for: the way he smiles when he sees you. Your gut’s reaction doesn’t help, either.

‘Hey, Wren-bird.’ He’s grinning, and it’s so easy for him, isn’t it? Crack a smile, drop the old nickname as if seven years never happened, try to make you stop frowning. And it works. Every time, it works.

‘Hey.’ You try not to mumble. ‘Got a moment?’

‘For you? Hours of them.’

You roll your eyes and hop up onto his desk, trying to ignore the yawning mess of nostalgia in your stomach. You spent hours perched on his desk like this when you were Sidestep. You think you were sitting here when you told him your name.

Pushing those thoughts to the side, you look him in the face. ‘Are we dating?’

Here’s something you never expected to see: Ricardo Ortega, speechless. But it’s what you’re seeing, and you’d better make the most of it. ‘Because… I don’t know, Herald said we were, and I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yeah, I can see how we might be. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I wouldn’t know how to date someone even if I was trying to. I mean, apparently I ended up dating you without meaning to, so... if I do try to date you, I’ll probably somehow manage to end up not doing it, and –’

‘Wren.’

You stop, because your throat hurts. And apparently that’s all the opportunity Ortega needed to slip around the side of the desk, wrap a hand around your head, and kiss you. Softly, his lips curved into a smile against yours, and you want to roll your eyes again but they’re already slipping shut.

‘You can’t do this every time I start making things awkward,’ you tell him, as he draws back.

He nudges your forehead with his. ‘At least it stopped you panicking. Has it occurred to you that you might be overthinking this?’

‘Sure. I overthink everything. Including my overthinking.’

Another kiss, just barely brushing your lips. ‘You’re not supposed to do anything. If you don’t feel comfortable calling this dating, then we don’t call it that. If there are any… dating things you don’t want to do, we don’t do them. There’s no rulebook here. And if there was, I’m pretty sure you’d throw it out.’

You’re ready to protest, to tell him it can’t be that easy, but he speaks again before you can. ‘We’re going at your pace here, okay? The only thing you need to do is to not change a thing.’

One more kiss, to the top of your head this time, tender enough to make a drowsy, unfamiliar calm melt through your insides. It’s not safe, relaxing like this, but... you can give yourself a few moments. Because’s he’s definitely right about the rulebook. And because what you feel right now is something very like what you felt as you hugged the Rat-King: warm affection, without any complications. Simple.

This isn’t simple, and it never will be, not while you have amber brands on your skin and a suit of armour in your closet and a mess of secrets in your head. But you can pretend it’s simple. Just for a little while.

You always were a good actor.

[sky-scribbles]

Three times Elena Ortega knew exactly what was going on (and one time she didn’t)

m!Ortega x nb!Sidestep, ~1900 words, angsty in places with a happy ending. Tw: blood, minor canon-typical injury.

‘You know I wanted to meet your friend Sidestep. It would have been nice to meet them when they weren’t propping up my son as he bleeds all over the house.’

Ricardo makes a small noise of protest, followed by a clumsy effort to wriggle out of Sidestep’s grip. ‘I’m not bleeding. Much. I definitely don’t need propping up, you can let me go –’

He directs this last remark at Sidestep, whose face somehow manages to convey profound doubt even behind the mask. Before Elena can intervene, Ricardo disentangles himself, takes a single step forward, and promptly topples sideways.

She should be used to seeing him injured. She’s waited outside so many operating theatres, watched a decade’s worth of cuts and bruises appear and disappear from his skin. But seeing him fall still makes her insides lurch, and the relief when Sidestep grabs him hits like a punch.

‘It looks worse than it is.’ Sidestep’s voice is soft, almost husky. ‘Head wounds bleed a lot, but it isn’t deep, and he’s not concussed. But he’s in no state to take his bike back to his apartment, and he said this was the nearest safe place, so…’

Elena nods. ‘Bring him through to the living room. I’ll throw a blanket over the couch, he can bleed on that.’

She takes Ricardo’s other arm, because Sidestep can’t be more than five feet tall and they’re obviously struggling to support his weight. A minute later he’s sprawled on the couch, dead to the world, and Elena’s brushing his hair aside so that Sidestep can mop blood from his forehead.

‘You’re sure he’s not concussed?’ she says, because he blacked out so fast, too fast.

Sidestep shakes their head. ‘He’s just drained. Literally. Used up all his juice, then pulled a current from the mains circuits so he could keep fighting. Shorted out a building doing it.’

‘He pulled a current from –’ Elena stops, staring Ricardo’s bloodied face. Another thing she will never get used to: remembering what her son is capable of. Her son. Who dredged up raw electricity and unleashed it through his own body. He’s more than modified; he’s a superweapon. And yet he’s lying on her couch, passed out from exhaustion. Bleeding.

She sucks in a breath and holds it until the outrage and terror have dimmed. ‘I’ve told him not to over-exert his mods.’

Sidestep’s quiet for a moment. Then they put down the medical kit and tug off their mask, revealing a brown-skinned face dotted with moles, huge dark eyes, and a mop of lilac-dyed hair.

‘He was protecting me,’ they say, even quieter now. ‘I’m sorry this happened.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It isn’t your fault. It was always impossible to make him go a week without getting covered in blood or bruises, even when he was a year old.’

Sidestep snorts. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

They have a nice smile, Elena decides. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For getting him home.’

She’s about to offer Sidestep a food, a spare bed for the night, coffee, water, anything – but their expression stops her. They’re looking down at Ricardo’s calm (if dazed) face, their gloved hands straying towards his. Brushing dirt from his skin. Hovering over the bruises as if their touch could make them fade.

‘Any time,’ they say, finally.

And the words are a promise. Elena can see that; see in their pursed lips and the soft movement of their hands that they will carry Ricardo home no matter how many times he burns out and falls. He’s no weapon to them, he’s exactly what he is to Elena: someone who can be hurt. Who needs to be protected and held.

And, she realises with a smile, Ricardo let them protect him. He let them prop him up. He passed out into their arms like it was the easiest thing in the world, even though getting him to show vulnerability is usually as torturous as cleaning the blood from this blanket will be.

She’s never seen Ricardo do this with anyone. But Sidestep, Elena is suddenly certain, is not just anyone. Not to him.

A week after the funeral, Elena visits Ricardo’s apartment.

She helps him pick up his clothes from the floor and collect the crockery scattered across the rooms. She brushes his hair, talks him into shaving. They fold clothes and wash dishes together, silent, going through the motions until grief is no longer written over every wall of his home. Afterwards, he curls up on the couch and she tucks him under her arm like he’s a boy again, even though he’s far too big to really fit.

‘How did it go?’ she asks at last.

‘All right. It took longer for the locksmith to get us in than for us to clear the place out. Wren… didn’t own much.’ His voice cracks on their name, and Elena holds him a bit tighter. ‘Chen and I took most of it to a charity store. Aid for the homeless. I think they’d have wanted that.’

Sensing that he neither expects nor wants her to speak, Elena nods.

‘I thought there’d be family photos, or keepsakes, or something. But there was nothing.’ He’s shaking now, not bothering to hide it. ‘If there’s anyone out there who knew them… do they even know that Wren’s dead? In a few years, am I going to be the only person who knows or cares that Wren Serrano existed?’

‘I will care. And Chen, and Sentinel, and –’

Ricardo ploughs on as if she hadn’t spoken, and she hasn’t the heart to scold him. ‘It’s like they didn’t exist. There were – what, five or six people who saw their face and knew their name?  People will remember Sidestep, but Wren’s gone and it’s like they didn’t even leave a mark.’

No mark, except for this. Except for the pain that’s making him cling to his mother and forget to eat. And now Elena’s thinking about how their joint, persistent effort to make Wren eat properly, and her view of the room is suddenly blurry.

When she can speak again, she says, ‘Did you keep anything of theirs?’

Ricardo nods, and reaches out to collect a hefty hardback book from the coffee table. He hands it to her wordlessly, watches as she runs her hands over the cover. Elena turns to the title page, and smiles. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Of course.

‘I had to keep it. It’s the only thing I have that’s got some mark from them on it.’ Ricardo leans across to flip the pages. ‘They wrote little notes in the margins. There’s one here…’

It takes him a minute to find it. There’s a speech from some heroine about how women are just as capable of love as men, and next to it, Wren has scrawled a note.

You are capable of love, no matter what they told you.

‘I don’t even know who ‘they’ are.’ Ricardo’s voice is splintering in a way it didn’t even after Hood’s death. ‘Someone made Wren feel like they had to write that note. They had to remind themselves that they could be loved. They shouldn’t have needed a reminder. I should have –’

He snaps his mouth shut, but Elena understands.

‘You never told Wren that you loved them. Did you?’

Ricardo goes still. Swallows. A few moments crawl by before he says, ‘So you knew?’

‘Of course I knew. You let them hold you up when you were hurt. Whenever they talked, you watched them like nothing was more important than what they had to say. You remembered what they liked and what they didn’t. You were always talking about what Wren would have done in such-and-such a situation. They coloured the way you saw everything. Your whole life shifted around them.’

His hands clench in his lap. ‘Yeah. It did.’

‘And you didn’t have the chance to tell them. I’m –’ The words feel so hopelessly inadequate, but they have to be said – ‘I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’

Ricardo lets out a quiet, trembling breath. His fingers unravel and reach out, tracing the neat little words pencilled into the book.

Then he leans into Elena’s arms and howls.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

Ricardo pushes his knife and fork together with a lazy flick, and grins at her across the table. ‘What makes you think that? Surely I'm too old to get dates now.’

Elena takes a moment to drink in the way he’s acting. How many years has it taken for him to talk and move like this, truly relaxed and cheerful, not just acting his part to keep her from worrying? Far too many – though Elena can’t blame him for it. She knows all too well that grief takes time.

‘Don’t give me that,' she says. 'I could get a date to one of your parties if I set my mind to it. As for how I know… you’re lonely, Ricardo. You’ve lost too many friends and you’ve spent too many nights alone in front of that board in your office.’ She holds up a hand before he can protest, and though he’s too old to be shushed by his mother, he closes his mouth. ‘And now you’re less lonely. You laugh more, you’re less… heavy. Something’s changed.’

He fiddles with his discarded fork for a moment before smiling at her. ‘Do you ever not know what’s going on with me?’

‘All the time. I sometimes think you’d rather throw yourself back to the Catastrofiend than talk about yourself.’

She waits for him to deflect, to laugh it off, to flash back a grinning retort. Instead he looks away, and is quiet.

Elena waits. And waits, while he drums his fingers on the table, purses his lips, and, finally, nods.

‘I am seeing someone,' he says. 'I should have told you months back, but… I kept leaving it, and then it seemed too late to say anything, and…’ He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. ‘We did talk it over. Telling you, I mean.’

‘Who’s ‘we’?’

‘Let me surprise you. I promise, you’ll like them.’

The look of mischief in his eyes is always a danger sign, but it’s been all too rare over the past seven years, and Elena’s glad to see it.

So she agrees when Ricardo texts her, suggesting a date for his new partner to come over for dinner. Together they cook something he recommends, and if it’s a dish that Wren would have liked, Elena doesn’t remark on it. The doorbell rings, and Ricardo grins with all the brightness he had when he was twenty-nine and freshly in love. ‘That’ll be them,’ he says, and Elena opens the door, ready to meet a stranger.

Instead she meets a pair of familiar dark eyes, and a small, almost apologetic smile.

She stands, staring. Deep inside her, something heavy pulls free and lifts away.

‘Tía Elena,’ Wren says. And then, in quiet but perfect Spanish, ‘It’s good to see you.’

Elena stares only for another heartbeat.  Just long enough to be sure it’s them. Then she steps forward and hugs them.

She has a thousand questions, but they’ll wait. What’s important is that Wren’s here, and Ricardo’s smiling fit to burst, and maybe this time around he’ll tell Wren everything he never said. Maybe he already has. She thought she could at least guess at most things that happen with Ricardo – and being wrong has never been such a joy.

Elena steps back, keeping her hands on Wren’s shoulders, and blinks away tears. ‘I can’t believe this, but you’re even thinner than you were seven years ago. You haven’t been eating enough, have you?’

And she hears her son laughing.

[sky-scribbles]

Something I’m currently very emotional about:

Wren, the last time Ortega saw them before Heartbreak happened: bold hair, dyed purple with an undercut. Silver earrings. An odd but endearing sense of style born from them just wearing whatever they found cool (and what Themmy nudged them towards.) Quietly colourful. Bright.

The person Ortega spotted in a diner, seven years later: No earrings. Hair is a nondescript mess of black. Most of their body obscured by a plain, overlarge grey hoodie. Scars torn across their lip and chin. Drab and faded, nothing like the person Ortega fell in love with seven years ago.

Ortega, anyway, after one look: Wren.

[sky-scribbles]

DISSONANCE: a Fallen Hero playlist

no one can unring this bell, unsound this alarm, unbreak my heart new god knows i am dissonance, waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune

OC playlist: Wren Serrano / 30 tracks

tracklist: interlude for piano - peter bradley adams / mind - sleeping at last / can i stay - ira wolf / i’m like a bird - nelly furtado / i love you - woodkid /  / lovely - thomas daniel / song of the caged bird - lindsey stirling / i’ll forget you - peter bradley adams / iron - woodkid / the river - tom speight / this will end - the oh hellos / outsider - blanco white / anger - sleeping at last / way out there - lord huron / horse to water - tall heights / shrike - hozier / you should know where i’m coming from - banks / war of hearts - ruelle / neptune - sleeping at last / who else could i be - peter bradley adams / dust bowl dance - mumford and sons / about you now - meadowlark / some days - ira wolf / mercury - sleeping at last / dear wormwood - the oh hellos / meet me on the battlefield - svrcina / crack the case - dawes / somewhere only we know - lily allen / my way back home - dawes / five - sleeping at last

I realised I never shared Wren’s playlist here even though it’s been finished for a while... songs are arranged chronologically, starting with [redacted] and following Wren’s journey from Sidestep to villain to ‘why do I have feelings for Ortega’ to the happy ending I hope they get. Also, bird imagery. Lots of bird imagery.

[aurriearts]

krita crashed TWICE as i tried to finish it and save BUT I DID IT

@ma-setheneran‘s shakespeare nerd sidestep, wren serrano!! im love them.

[sky-scribbles]

Some thoughts on my Sidesteps’ mental stats (as of Retribution)! Contains  Retri spoilers.

Wren: 

I am not making this up. This little birb is strong.

The obvious reason for Wren’s high subtlety that they’re a cautious introvert who doesn’t want to push too hard and give themselves away. They don’t act without reading people, gathering information, and analysing the situation. They’re a watcher. It’s what they do.

Plus... their empathy is 93%. Wren isn’t out to cause intense psychological damage random civilians; they’ve been on the receiving end of that themselves too many times.

The Farm once used Wren for crowd-control, tapping into the herd consciousness and sending gentle ripples of thought through crowds to influence them. Now, as a truth-motivated anarchist, Wren’s taking those skills and using them for their own ends: silently, stealthily nudge the world towards changing.

Miles:

Surprisingly, Miles ‘no impulse control’ Mercer isn’t a forceful man. He’s a villain because he wants to feel seen and important again. He’s a charmer. He smooths his way with a smile and a joke, he tweaks people’s feelings to make them like him.

On a practical level, Miles’s telepathy is very emotion-based; he’s almost an empath. That lends itself better to nudging and reading people’s feelings than to brute force.

It also reflects his main Farm role: infiltrate events, talk to people, bring around the right conversation topics, and browse their minds for intel undetected.

Miles is a lot less cautious than Wren, though, and he’s an attention-seeker, which is why he has a tad more force and isn’t quite as strong in the manipulations department. 

Iris:

Iris’s Puppermaster scar doesn’t manifest as her being a calculating mastermind. It’s about rock-solid walls that mean she will never be controlled again. She pushes in to take charge of others before they can chain her or hurt her or reject her. She will always have the strings of a situation in an iron-firm grip.

But the Subtlely is still pretty high, because Iris is a tactician, and her end goal is to break everyone, including the heroes, out of the cycle of manipulation they’re stuck in. She’s got to nudge them towards realising how chained they are. Gotta pull some strings in order to cut them, right?

Jalal:

Oh, Jalal. He kept flip-flopping back and forth between mental stats in Rebirth, and the consequence are these abysmal skills...

Jalal has a big problem with passivity, which means he’d often take the options to try to be unseen and unnoticed, hence the Subtlety points. However, he also lashes out when he’s afraid, defaulting to his old combat training, so... in a lot of dangerous situations, he reacts with overwhelming force without thinking.

Unlike Wren, Miles and Iris, who’ve consciously groomed their own skills in a specific direction, Jalal has no future-planning skills. He does what seems best in the heat of the moment, and that means little chance to develop a specialisation.

Please, Jalal. I love you but you’re being shown up.

[sky-scribbles]

@aurrieccentrics​ tagged me to make some of my OCs in this picrew, so here are a few of my kids!

Dalton Hawke (DA2)

Wren Serrano (FHR)

And Mae Ryder (ME: Andromeda)

I tab @sadmagecentral​, @my-da-phase​, @thestarcabal​ if you guys want to do this and haven’t already? :D

[sky-scribbles]

Sims is super useful for working out your characters’ sense of style if, like me, you have the fashion instinct of a potato, so here are some Wren outfits!

[sky-scribbles]

Ortega loves and supports his diminutive demisexual datefriend (who is standing on a box)

Happy ace awareness week!!!

[sky-scribbles]

16 and/or 32?

16. in dreams

Sometimes, in your dreams, they’re still alive.

And it’s not like the nightmares, where your mind reanimates them only to make you watch them die. These are quiet dreams, where they’re beside you in a fight or curled up against you on your couch, like they were never gone.

They feel so right, these dreams. It seems so natural, so logical, for them to not be dead.

And so, as you stare across the diner with most of your brain frozen in a scream of shock and doubt and denial and hope… there’s one part of you that just smiles to itself and nods. Some soft little part of you that knows with silent certainty that this is real, this is them. A part of you that would know them anywhere - knows the way their fingers move, the way their breathing sounds, the way the air feels when they’re around.

Oh, says that gentle corner of your mind, the part that’s been looking for them in dreams for seven years. Of course. There you are.