Telenovela 1.1.1

Thank you for your understanding why things might be a little irregular right now. I won't talk about it in detail, and prefer to focus on positive things, so no worry about doom and gloom updates. I think we all need that with what's going on. So, in that vein, here is a little piece that will be filled out with options before being slotted into Revelations. Right now the options are Sidestep with broken legs, villain reveal to Argent, staying at Ortega's place and romancing both Ortega and Argent. Enjoy.

I will upload the demos to the new site this week and let you know, I simply have not had time yet, but everything is saved and safe, including my partner's demo for Remnants. Weirdly enough being open about this has made it easier to write, it's almost like bottling up things isn't healthy...

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Los Diablos. Ortega's apartment. The guest room.

It's not your room, but you know that everyone would insist that it was. You know the truth. Just a guest, waiting out the weeks until your legs are well enough that you can hobble out of here. Save you from around the clock scrutiny and having to keep up the mask. Such as it is. Ortega knows you too well by now, and Argent is learning more than she should. And yet do they really know -you- or just the face that you present to them?

What else is there?

It's been easier than expected. Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe it's the pain. Maybe it's actually getting real sleep for once instead of shifting into a new body when your brain needs to recharge. Even with the nightmares, that feels...

Odd. The times you had fallen asleep in the past were tinged with dread and forgotten dreams. These ones you remember, a confusing mishmash of trauma and memory that wakes you up sweating. Just dreams.

Why did you use to be so afraid?

"You're not paying attention." Argent is not asking a question, instead she shifts slightly where she lies next to you on the bed, turning her attention from the telenovela to you. "Don't come to me if you get confused later."

"If Ortega didn't manage to make me care about the plot, how do you think you'll manage?" You look at her instead of the screen, where an improbably beautiful woman is worrying about not being enough. The Los Diablos sunlight is filtering through the blinds, enough to make Argent's hair glisten. Beautiful. You're lucky she can't read your mind.

"You're bored silly stuck in bed. What else do you have to do? Stare up at the ceiling regretting your life-choices? You can multitask." Her kiss is small and soft, barely brushing your cheek.

"You don't understand. If I give ${him} a finger ${he}'ll take the whole hand." Show actual interest instead of mocking something? Perish the thought.

"You're not wrong," she admits with a fond sigh. "That's how ${he} got me in. Still, from what I've heard you don't mind ${his} hands." She elbows you in the side, which you stoically accepts since your ribs are healing and the painkillers are making you giddy.

"That's downright lewd." You manage to look suitably shocked while doing your best to avoid thinking about Ortega's hands. And where they've been. Might go. "I expected more from an upstanding hero like you."

"We can't all be villains." Her joke is as sharp as her smile.

"Not here," you snap, reflexively looking around for Ortega though you know ${he}'s out. "What if we're overheard?"

"This place is clean," she sighs. "I told you. Even if you discount Ortega's paranoia and my talents, ${he} still shorts things out on a regular basis. Not a good environment for bugs to survive." She leaned in for another peck, this one hotter, leaving a feeling like fresh sunburn on your lips. "You need to tell ${him}."

"Are you mad? Is there any world where you imagine that going well?" Is it a joke? No, she looks serious, which makes it worse.

"Do you see keeping it a secret going better?" She tilts her head and her hair does that little liquid slide that makes it look heavier than it is. A mercury waterfall. Poetry. Shut up brain.

"No, but things will blow up -later- rather than sooner. And since I'm stuck in bed I'd prefer it to be late enough that I can at least dive for cover."

"Even if that means the explosion will be bigger?" She looks at you. You look away. In front of you the television plays out a different, louder argument.

"I doubt it will make much of a difference." The shrug comes naturally. It's out of your hands. "Considering what I've done already."

"It will," she insists. "You're emotionally involved now. The longer you keep up the act, the worse it will be."

"Oh, is that why you have told ${him} about your little friends?" You're not the only one with secrets. One could argue who has the bigger one.

"That's not the same. I'm an abomination—" her voice cracks "—who is only alive thanks to creatures that ate ${his} friend and nearly took his arm. And the whole city." She pulls back slightly, in control again, skin smoothly reflective. "I'm a weapon of mass destruction. If I lose control who knows what will happen. $!{he} would lock me up if ${he} knew the truth. $!{he} should."

"Which is why we are in the same boat." You meet her gaze, deadpan, deadly serious while the television blathers on in Spanish. "You think an alpha level telepath wouldn't be seen as a weapon of mass destruction? You have no idea what I could do if I only—"

"If you only what?" Ortega's voice. From the hallway. The front door slams shut a moment later. Sloppy. You didn't hear it opening.

"If I only told you the truth about this slop that Angie is making me watch." Your lie is smooth and seamless, switch tracks, distract with a bait you know ${he} will be unable to resist.

"What slop—" Ortega pokes ${his} head through the door after stepping out of ${his} shoes, catching sight of the television. "Mierda. No te andas con rodeos, ya veo." $!{he} shakes ${his} head looking between the two of you. "You'd better not catch my mother hearing you say that."

"I didn't think your mother watched Sin Senos No Hay Paraíso," Argent retorts with a smile. No trace of her emotional outburst remaining.

"You picked -that- of all things?" Ortega is shocked. Aghast. Amused. All theatrical enough to have been part of the show.

"Well, whatever you had been showing didn't work." She shrugs. "Might as well have fun with it."

"Angie..." Ortega sits down on the side of your bed, your legs healed enough that the movement doesn't make you grit your teeth in pain. Only at the awkwardness of being caught in the middle. Right between them. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised considering your taste in movies."

"What?" It is Argent's turn to look shocked, insulted, every emotion she could summon up on her far too perfect face while you sink deeper into bed, pondering if you should just hide your face under a pillow and pretend to go to sleep. Could you still leverage your health or have you healed too much for that?

"Angie said you still occasionally short out your apartment," you say instead. Words. From your mouth. Derailing their silly argument with real life problems because apparently you can't relax and enjoy yourself. Not when you could sense that at least Argent was about thirty seconds of argument from kissing Ortega right there over your head. You know Ortega would have reciprocated.

"Ah." It works. Ortega pulls back, gets off the bed to peel off ${his} leather jacket to drape it over a chair. Effortless. Practiced? "Not often."

"Don't you still have the mobile surge protectors?" You remember helping to hook ${him} up to them one night when ${he} was too drunk. Back when you were Sidestep, regretting that your face had been revealed so you couldn't hide the heat on your face from seeing far too much bare skin. Your hand shaking. Putting a cable in a port. Stupid. So stupid.

"I choose to see the occasional surge as a form of spring cleaning." Ortega sits back down on the bed, this time putting ${his} feet up, making ${him}self comfortable next to you. "Takes care of nasty bugs."

"Not sure your generator should be acting up like that, though." You look to Argent, who nods in agreement.

"See? I told ${him} that. Repeatedly."

"You also told me it was working fine as far as you could tell." $!{he} reaches over to pat Argent's arm. You resist the urge to bite, even though it's right there, in front of your face. "It's just nightmares."

"Never just 'just' when it comes to that." You can sense Argent's unease, that's one reason you can't stay at her place. Can't stay the night. Why she can't stay here. A loss of control would be catastrophic.

"I'm fine," Ortega assures. "I just like my privacy and a bit of plausible deniability. Besides, the surge protectors you put on my kitchen equipment and television works fine. Really cut down on my insurance."

"So someone -can- bug your fridge." You can't resist it, trust the two of them to constantly derail your darker thoughts.

"My midnight snacks would not be a national scandal," Ortega jokes, but you can see the way ${his} gaze goes to your tattoos. You can feel it. Even if they are hidden beneath your clothes. $!{swear}. There went your mood again.

"According to what you've told me once upon a time they would be." Argent to the rescue with the sweetest, most vicious smile. "Back when -you- were the number one on the 'ten hottest heroes' list."

"$!{nickname}..." Ortega whines, making ${him}self far too comfortable next to you, now the brave shield to protect ${him} from Argent's barbs. "Tell her she's being mean."

"But is she wrong though?" You pretend innocence as Argent slides down a little further and you're now quite comfortably sandwiched between them. In front of you the television still chatters away in Spanish, ignored by everyone.

"The truth hurts." Argent's smile has reached dangerous levels of smug, and only you note that she makes sure that there is no skin-to skin contact between you. The covers are a safe barrier, you can feel the quiet churn of her mind, like waves against a pier. Maybe you're not the only one who needs this.

"It does," Ortega admits. "I'd whine more, but it feel like I'd be setting myself up for counterattack considering -someone- has two broken legs. Which technically hurts more."

"I'm on painkillers," you say generously. "You're just old." You soften the last with a turn of your head and a kiss to ${his} cheek. Insufferably soft, but you can blame the drugs even though you're tapering off the dosage.

"I..." Ortega can't finish the sentence because Argent is giggling so hard next to you. "I walked into that," ${he} finally admits.

"You sure did." This time Argent does lean over you to kiss ${him}, making sure not to put her weight on your ribs. "You're still number one on my list."

"Angie!" Is Ortega blushing? Impossible to tell, but there's a flustered crack to ${his} voice even you can't miss. "You can't just blurt things out like that."

"Yeah," you agree, not knowing if you're supposed to be embarrassed or amused. "This is a sick bed."

"How are you feeling though?" Ortega takes the chance to focus on you rather than ${him}self. Saving face.

"Impatient." You settle for that word instead of a long list of others you could have picked. More complicated ones liable to escalate whatever was going on between the three of you. Unwise. Idiotic. Distracting. "I'm going nuts staying in bed. Or—" you interrupt before ${he} can "—wheeling around in your flat with my legs out like some kind of..."

"Bumper car?" Argent suggests.

"I try not to hit things. It hurts." No room. You want out but you're trapped here. Only distractions like this keep you sane.

"I think the casts are ready to come off." Ortega frowns. "I'd really want you to go in for x-rays so we could make sure that things have set enough."

"You're not dragging me to a hospital," you protest. "Or to the Rangers' med-bay."

"I haven't brought it up," Argent says, her voice serious enough that you both turn to face her. "I know a place where we can get access to that kind of equipment."

"A private clinic?" You don't like the suggestion, but her mind is evasive enough about it that it must be an underground thing. Illegal. Which would be safer.

"Sort of. Not with doctors or registrations or anything like that. But it would have an x-ray, and I can run it as well as any doctor." She smiles almost shyly. "Nobody else would need to know. I use it for my own medical checkups occasionally."

"That sounds delightfully suspicious," Ortega says, giving her a look. "Almost like you don't trust the system much."

"Shut up." But there's no malice in Argent's voice. "You know I don't. I always like to have a second opinion. As do you. Isn't that why you always come to me?"

"It is," ${he} admits. "This wouldn't be connected to a certain feathered friend, would it?"

"Are you talking about Owl?" Your voice cuts through their pleasant chatter. "Absolutely not. She hates my guts." But she would have the equipment. She never trusted hospitals either, and vigilantes need to know whether a bone is actually broken or if you can just walk it off. Most choose the latter anyway.

"She does not," Ortega assures.

"It doesn't matter," Argent says at the same time. "I've got access, they don't have to be around when we drop by. We don't have to tell anyone."

"There's no way Owl wouldn't have wired up that place to bits," you protest. Microphones. And cameras. Without your armor you have no easy way to scan for them.

"And I can handle that." She looks between the pair of you. "You know I can. And that fact stays between the three of us. Understood?"

"Understood," you and Ortega echo.

"With our combined talents there's no way we would be spotted," she continues. "Even with one of us... less mobile."

"Thank you," you retort, doing your best not to sneer. She's got a point. Between her ability to read and influence machines, your telepathy, and Ortega's situational awareness you'd make one hell of an infiltration team.

A team good enough to...? You bite back the thought, though it's started burrowing in. What if... what if you wouldn't have to do this on your own?

What if...?

"So should we put them in a Baby Bjorn for easier transport?" Argent suggest, teasing a laugh from Ortega.

"That's not a bad idea, or some sort of backpack situation."

"Oh like those cat carriers with the little bubble?" Argent giggles.

No, you tell yourself. No what-if's. If you hadn't turned villain before you figure you'd have cause for doing so now.

You just have to stop smiling first.