Chapter Text
There’s nothing you can do.
You’re staying close to Ortega, and you see how even his best Marshal Charge smile is starting to fray at the edges. There’s nothing to punch, nothing solid to fight. Ortega’s electrical discharge is enough to fry some of the little monsters, and Steel got his hands on a flamethrower, but it’s like trying to hold back the ocean with your hands. Just because you can hold water in your palms doesn’t mean you can catch a tsunami.
For you, the presence of the thousand little alien things is starting to become unbearable. They don’t have minds, not really. It feels more like the fuzz of dampeners than a thinking human being – and it’s giving you a headache just the same. What you can sense from the actual people around you isn’t pleasant either—everyone knows the tiny bit of control you’ve managed to wrestle over the situation is slipping fast. The evacuation is too slow; people refuse to leave, and the swarm moves unpredictably. You’ll think you have cut-it off decently, evacuate a large portion of—
Your thoughts are cut off by panic, and an instant later, screams.
It’s moving again.
Ortega curses and sprints off towards the direction of the commotion, but you, for a second, are overwhelmed.
hungryhungryhungryHUNGRYHUNGRY
And fear, and pain, and it’s everywhere, and you can’t do this, not again, no more of this pain—no more of the screaming, and blood, and bared muscle and bone—you don’t want to see any more of it—the feelings cut through you and leaves you stunned. Then you notice where it comes from. You notice Elyise stagger backwards, stumbling, flailing, and making a sound that’s hardly human anymore.
And now you’re running but what can you do when you get there?
Elyise screams and her gloves—not gloves her hands—are dissolving into a fine mist, it smells like blood and terror—and Ortega reaches for her.
hungryhungryhungry
And now Ortega screams, dropping Elyise to the ground—her arms a dark red mess; her face looks wrong but you don’t want to think about why—
n o —
Ortega screams and the discharge crackles in the air—
hungryEatWantHungryHUNGRY
no stop
The skinsuit on Ortega’s arm is disappearing, the skin dissolving, he screams—
no no no
A million tiny voices, tiny pieces of intent, together, all around you, in yourhead—
not E nough M ore S oHUNGRYSOHUN—
NO
It’s a million pinpricks, thousand needles in your mind, and they are all picking at you—hungry? hungry? hungry?—you feel a faint pain in your kneecaps, but you can't afford to react; with everything you are you scream into the swarm that NO.
They can’t have him. They can't.
Stop, no, enough.
Someone is touching you. Someone is talking to you, but the voice is barely recognizable behind the buzz of hungry? hungry? hungry? hungry? hungry? hungry?
Ortega.
Can’t have him.
That’s Ortega’s face, they want him but no, they can’t, you won’t let them, you’ll lose your mind to this before you let that happen.
Voices around you, pain at the back of your neck, radiating up into your skull. Your eyes are working, but you don’t understand what you’re seeing. What you’re hearing.
“—hear me?”
Words. Not just feelings, not just inhuman chanting—you’re so small, just one voice against millions—
no
“Sidestep? What—?”
Too worried. Not about you. You’re not the threat.
Communication. Words. Move your mouth.
“Got. Them.” Barely audible. “Stop.” No that’s for them, for the hungry? hungry? hungry? “Hurry. Can’t. Get out.” So hungry.
More voices—not for you thank god—the pins are ripping you apart; too many, so hungry.
Time goes sticky
and weird.
The world is nothing but you and hunger and you’re emptying the ocean one handful at a time; it’s a losing battle but you keep going; it’s getting closer but
you can’t give up, have to—
no no no no no no no
no
a touch.
A sound. For you?
Sidestep?
Sidestep, that’s him. Is it? Are you?
hungry?
Stop?
Yes, they have to stop.
No, you. You can stop? Stop?
Safe?
There is hunger. And... Holding hands?
Worry.
You can stop. Stop. Let go?
Let go.
You let go. Go home. You. Where are you?
You, kneeling on the ground, and Charge—Ricardo—holding your hands. Your hands are shaking. You blink.
Seeing feels strange. You’re hungry. Hungry?
No.
You clutch at Ortega’s hands—Ortega’s arm wrapped in bandage, spotted with blood.
“No...” That’s your voice.
“Can you hear me? Sidestep?” That’s Ortega’s voice. Worried. Where is he? That’s Steel; you’re in a tent? Ortega is—there.
“I’m fine,” Sidestep says. You’re Sidestep. You’re not hungry.
Ortega exhales heavily, moves his hands to your shoulders, and then pulls you in for a hug.
“Dios mio, Miles,” he whispers—yeah, right, Miles. Miles Becker. You’re Miles Becker, and this is Ricardo Ortega, and you’re in a tent, and the nanovore swarm....
You can still feel them—in your spine, in your skull. But faint. Distant. Your telepathy feels like the sparkling end of a wire. Like how your eyes would feel if you stared into the sun for an hour.
“I’m fine,” you repeat, and try to move your fingers. It works; good. Your sense of touch seems fine; you can feel the heat of Ortega’s body. “Are we safe? Did you...?”
“The swarm has been contained,” says—not Ortega—Steel. “They stopped eating. Allowed us to corral them into containment. What did you do?”
You shiver. Ortega shivers, and you look at Steel. He’s got his helmet off, and a terrible frown on his face. He knows you're a telepath already. Everyone must know now.
“I told them to stop,” you whisper.
“Told them?” Steel intones, and Ortega takes a deep breath and lets you go.
“They have... minds. A mind? Together? I don’t know...”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ortega says. He looks so worried.
“Yeah,” you say, lifting your chin. Straighten your back; confidence. “I’m not even hurt. My head just feels a bit...” You blink. Your brain won’t supply the next word. ”Blurry?” you finally finish, even though that word isn’t right.
“Your head,” Steel says. Flat. Sharp. “Are you telling me you used telepathy on the nanovores? They're machines."
You lift your chin. "They listened," you say. “Believe it or not, I don’t care.” Steel grunts. Ortega is looking you over still, as if he’s searching for hidden injuries. But your body is fine; it’s your head that’s barely holding together.
“It’s okay, Chen,” Ortega says, as Steel opens his mouth with a glare half furious, half incredulous. “They're contained now.”
“Does everyone know?” you say. "That I... What I did?" Maybe you lived through this, but you’re starting to feel the dread creeping up your spine. Now they’ll know, the Farm will know—
“No,” Ortega says resolutely. “We don’t have to tell them. We’ll make something up.” He turns his head to Steel, and you can feel that Steel has strong feelings, but you can’t tell what they are at all.
Hungry?
“Fine,” Steel grumbles finally. “If you think that’s best, Marshal. An experimental scrambler? Special tech? Sidestep has enough gadgets; it won’t sound too stupid. You won’t fool anyone who saw him, though.”
By the time you’ve gotten to your feet, they’ve come up with something that sounds much more probable than an average-level telepath being able to command a swarm of flesh eating machines.
You can’t think about that right now.
Right now you have to leave this tent, and hold your head up, because Ortega tells you that you have just saved Los Diablos from disaster and no one is going to let you slink away this time.
There is nowhere to slink away. Sunsteam throws herself around your neck and your reflexes are entire seconds too slow to avoid it. She cries and cries. Sentinel pats you on the back, tears in his eyes too. And the others—Ashfall laughs, Anathema covers their face in their hands—so many others, and Ortega laughs too, and explains what happened and the cover story and everyone just nods, agrees with Marshal Charge of the Rangers. No one even questions why the telepathy has to be a secret.
They say thank you.
They thank you.
So many dead and they just thank you.
The police too, when they arrive. The first reporters get there, and they all want photos, but Ortega sticks close to you; answers questions for you when your mind forgets how to make words. At some point Anathema puts your arm over their shoulders, and you don’t have to carry your own weight anymore. Someone hands you a drink. A bit of candy.
Ortega keeps smiling at you. Nice smile. Nothing gets to eat that smile.
Never.
And then you being shooed into a car, one of the Ranger's employees at the wheel, and Ortega refuses to let you leave alone.
“I’m not leaving you like this,” he says, for the millionth time, and you can’t argue well enough. Not in this state. You try, but you keep
glitching.
So you both pull on some civilian clothes in the backseat and the driver drops you off a the address you give them, a mile or so away from your apartment.
Ortega keeps trying to talk to you, but most of the time you can’t manage to reply. Just like you can’t manage to keep Ortega on the outside of the door—he gets in too easily, pushes you into the bathroom and doesn’t let you shower alone until you scream at him.
When you’re clean and coherent enough to come out again, he sits on your rickety kitchen chair with his head in his hands.
“I’m okay now,” you say, and Ortega startles awake. “Please leave.”
You stare at each other.
“You need to take care of the arm," you say. "Go to the hospital. I’m okay. I don’t need you.”
“I’m not leaving,” Ortega says. “Don’t you dare try telling me you’re okay one more time.”
“Whatever. You’re falling asleep. You can’t help and I can handle it myself.” Ortega stubbornly pulls his brows down further. “Please leave.”
A moment of silence. You wonder if you can physically force Ortega out of your apartment. Maybe knock him out from behind, somehow? The idea of trying to carry him outside makes your joints ache.
“Lilo,” Ortega whispers. “Just let me make sure you’re okay. Let me take care of you. Just this once.”
You swallow. You’re not equipped to handle this. The two of you are supposed to be close, best friends—more?—and you can’t live up to that. You don’t know how to live up to that. Not when he’s here. He’s not supposed to be here.
“You’ll have to sleep on the floor,” you hear yourself say. “I don’t have a couch.”
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like relief.
“Or a mattress. Or anything.” Ortega opens his mouth—to suggest that they share the bed, probably—but you interrupt. “Don’t. Please. I won’t make you leave, but just... just don’t. Not now.”
“Okay,” he repeats, a little slower this time. “Can I use your shower?”
“Yeah,” you mumble. You stare at Ortega. Your
friend.
Letting him stay isn’t safe—you don’t trust him to not do anything stupid. Something you won’t see coming. But you can’t feel scared; you can’t feel anything.
So you dig out some extra blankets, throw them over a chair, and then wrap yourself up in bed. You slip out of conciousness in seconds.