It's hard to keep still, she could kill you with a swipe, and there would be nothing you could do about it. Her claws are sharp, and your skin is soft.
She leaps at you, one hand grabbing your throat as she yanks you down to her height. For a moment, you expect her claws to tear your jugular, but instead, she slams you back against the wall, pinning you there awkwardly. She's strong, her fingers unyielding like metal, and you can't breathe.
"You stay out of things you don't know anything about," Lady Argent growls, her hand loosening slightly so you can gasp for breath.
This wasn't the smartest move you've made. You're gonna bruise.
You keep smiling at her as she tightens the grip around your throat in response. You're all too aware of how soft it is in her hands, how cool they are. No, not cool. She doesn't feel like metal, but neither does she feel like skin. It's an odd sensation and one that sets off all your alarm bells.
Not just because she's cut off your air supply.
How long can you hold your breath? Longer than her resolve, you hope. You have a hard time reading her silvery expression, but you can sense her consternation when you don't react the way you are supposed to. Not prey.
It has been a long time since you were prey.
She lets you go with an annoyed snort, and you can't stop the gasp when you can finally suck in some air. You don't break eye contact.
"Soo," you manage to croak out, "Was it good for you too?"
She gives you a withering look, her lips curling in a snarl, but no words come out. Instead, she turns and storms off, the suddenly extended claws on her feet making clicking sounds against the metal floor as she stalks away—a win for you.
"Chicken—" you shout after her, interrupted by a cough. Your windpipe feels bruised and raw, but she doesn't turn around. Perhaps that is for the best; you don't know what you'd do if she did.
You linger in the hallway for a few moments longer in case something happens, but then you shrug and turn back to the elevator. There's a limit to how much you dare to push your luck, and Herald is waiting for you.
Of Course He Is
"Are you okay? She didn't hurt you?" Herald's frown is filled with worry.
"Hurt and hurt," you say, rubbing your throat. "She didn't draw blood."
"Oh shit, I'm so sorry. I should have stepped in; I just didn't think she'd do something like that."
"Been a lot of that going around lately." You keep the smirk off your face. He has no idea how close to the truth he is.
"I don't know what's been going on with her lately." The elevator makes its final stop, and Herald walks out ahead of you, limp heavy as he walks. Is the floating tied to his mood? If so, it's turned dark.
"Trouble at work?" you ask lightly, looking around. You've been up here before; this is the base's social area.
"Maybe. Things have been tense since Garrett Helton X showed up." You can see the way he tenses up; you've certainly made an impression.
"That always happens when a new villain pops up. You'll figure it out." You give Herald a light clap on the shoulder, correctly reading that this is just what he needs. Normally you don't like physical contact, but if it will get Herald off your back, it's worth it. There's nothing more you can learn from him; if he stays much longer, you're going to get a headache.
"I know," his smile is sudden and shy, and he opens the door to the kitchen, gesturing for you to go inside. "I'll tell them to let Ortega know when he comes in. It won't be long."
"Thank you," you give him a smile and walk inside. You don't want to encourage Herald to stick around.
Luckily he doesn't. There's the briefest of awkward pauses as he gives you half a wave, and some mumbled words about rehab, and then you're left alone.
More rehab? Huh. Maybe you hurt him more than you originally thought.
Sighing to yourself, you take a look around. You've been in here once, that's all, but these kinds of places always look the same. You push back unwanted memories; you'll get enough of those once Ortega arrives.
The kitchen is small, but still has all the amenities needed for government employees. Sadly, this is still a nonsmoking facility. Some things never change. Others do, and you try to ignore them, but your mind won't cooperate. It's nearly automatic; tracking your surroundings is a survival mechanism that's not always good for your mental health. Everything here looks newer, shiny, and somewhat impersonal, as if there were a company in charge of designing break rooms for all the Ranger teams. Perhaps there is.
As you expected, there are smoke alarms in the ceiling, and you don't feel contrary enough to disable them. You suppose you have to settle for coffee to have something to do with your hands. You were taught that a drink is a good camouflage if you're lounging around. The same goes for a cigarette—it's a reason to remain in one place.
Looking around for a clean cup, you find plenty, though they are all new and branded with the Rangers' logo. There's no trace of the old ones, chipped and personal, and in Ortega's case, the one that you gave him. Did someone throw them out when they moved?
You didn't expect to care. Or to get hurt by it. Your face twitches in a mirthless grimace. It feels like a lifetime ago. Longer.
Perhaps it is a testament to how deep you had sunk into the painful mire of memories that it takes you a few seconds to notice Steel in the doorway, watching you. Frowning.
"Want a cup?" You gesture with your mug, exaggerating your familiarity with the room just to deepen his frown and dispel your own gloom. It works.
He has no idea who's standing right in front of him. Garrett Helton X. If you're not on the top of his list by now, you'd be surprised.
"What are you doing here?" Steel's frown remains as he stands, arms crossed, hovering on the doorstep as if he's afraid you're going to steal something. You smile at the thought, today your intentions are pure…ish.