"Anyway," you start, deciding to change the subject. "Ortega sure is running late."
"Ah, so you do have a meeting scheduled." Trust Steel to always have to know the details.
"We don't," you admit, "but Herald told me he would be back soon."
"I see. I wasn't aware he was on a mission."
"Right. Probably just an errand." Had Ortega not talked to Steel about whatever he was doing? But Herald knew? Something is off here, but you can't put a finger on it.
"Probably."
"Good," you say, though you're more than a little mystified. Is Lady Argent not the only one having her own plans? Are the Rangers closer to falling apart than you thought?
"Don't worry," Steel says, having picked up on your agitation but misunderstanding the cause. "I'm sure everything's fine."
"I'm not worried," you say, too quickly because there's a smile twitching on his face, not really breaking out, but you know it's there.
"Of course you aren't." But there's that tone again in his voice, assuming familiarity, assuming that he knows how you feel better than you do. He knows nothing.
"Oh shut up, Chen. I'm going to wait in the lobby if you're going to be smug about this." You give him a final, challenging glare before you storm out of the room. Once again, he doesn't bother getting the last word; you're not sure whether that's a sign of weakness or strength. It's not the most dignified of exits, but that's nothing new. How many times have your talks ended like this now?
Too many to count.
This Feels Familiar
You lengthen your step, intent on getting away from the kitchen before Steel gets the last word in, but you don't get farther than the first corner before you bump into Ortega. Literally.
"Oh no!" You hate walking into him; it's happened more than once. Since he doesn't have a telepathic presence, you can't rely on your usual mental reflexes to make people get out of the way. You've gotten out of the habit of actually looking where you are going, because then you risk meeting people's gazes, and that's exhausting.
"Garrett Helton!" Ortega's hands are warm and heavy on your shoulders, steadying you before he steps back. "What are you doing here?"
"Do I need a reason?" You search his face for emotional clues, shrugging out of his grip.
"No, but I know you. You're…efficient."
"I suppose…." You look away, not comfortable with that revelation no matter how true it is. You've never really been in the habit of wasting time or doing something just because you enjoy it. It's only since you started using Derana's body that you've had a concept of free time. "Do you have a minute?"
"Of course." Ortega looks back over your shoulder toward the kitchen.
"Somewhere private," you say tersely. "Steel is in there."
"Ouch." He doesn't ask for more details, he knows your history. "Follow me; I know just the place."
"Should I be worried?" you ask, giving him a stern look.
"I'm too tired to be up to no good," he admits with a laugh. "You're safe."
Following him in silence, you climb two sets of utility stairs, which makes you realize that Ortega has the slightest trace of a limp. It's not much, and if you didn't know him, you wouldn't have spotted it. Interesting. It's not an injury you remember causing or reading about. You ponder bringing it up as you walk through an unfamiliar corridor but decide not to. You might need a good distracting argument if this discussion goes wrong.
Ortega…
You grit your teeth and keep staring at his back. There's that feeling again, crawling out from behind your heart, poisoning your thoughts.
This is his fault. If he hadn't cared about you. Befriended you. Made you think you could have something you can't. Be somebody you aren't.
You wouldn't be hurting half as badly if he had never bungled into your life. If your paths had never crossed. You never would have been caught again. Never would have to suffer through…
Never would have to…
It's an oddly painful feeling you can't really put into words, half memories of shimmering scalpels and the deep, deep dark. It's a feeling that makes you want to strike back, tear him apart for what was done to you. Revenge…that would feel good, right?
Maybe revenge will feel good, but you know it will feel better once you finish what you're here for. You have a plan. You have a mission.
You can't allow yourself to be sidetracked. Not even by him.
Not then. Not now.
You rub your face, releasing a long breath as you collect yourself—time to get your mask back on.
You're going to need it.
"We're here." Ortega opens a nondescript door, revealing a small and messy office.
"Where's here?" You step inside, looking around at the unfamiliar clutter. Looks like no cleaning staff have been allowed near this place; there's dust in the corners and a bin overflowing with empty cans. The desk has a pile of folders almost as tall as the monitor, and the whiteboard is filled with Ortega's familiar scribbles. There are chairs here, but only two—one behind the desk, the other leaning casually against the wall.
"My office." Ortega looks a little embarrassed. "The private one."
"I can see that." You walk over to the whiteboard, trying to interpret the scribbles. Most of them have been wiped out, but lines are connecting to suspiciously empty places. Did they hold photographs? If so, who's supposed to be in the center where all the lines meet?
"You know me." He pulls the spare chair over to the desk, shoving some of the stray papers into a drawer. "I like having my private space."
"Not too private with the new security systems." You recognize some things in here; Ortega occasionally had his own files on various villains back when he was marshal, especially when he suspected information leaks. It looks like he has kept up the habit. "Or are you going to tell me they didn't upgrade them with the rest of the place?"
"They did, but this place is off the grid." The smug look on his face tells you that he's serious, no matter how improbable it sounds.
"I'll take your