Sticks and Stones... (Patreon)

Running forward tap tap tap three steps, over the wall, land in a roll, leaving gravel stuck to your back, your braid a black streak behind you.

"You should cut your hair, Julia." A creak, a crack, and the wall crumble, shards a hailstorm at the spot you were a moment ago.

"Not likely," you shout back, glad for your goggles, glad for your reinforced skinsuit, glad that the Marshal isn't out to hurt you.

You know that he could. You've seen the footage; Marshal Hood is not to be trifled with, controlling dirt he calls it jokingly, but you've seen him crack the ground and bring down buildings, and he wasn't called Mount Hood for nothing back in the day.

"It's just begging to get grabbed," he advises, and you sprint around the corner just in time to have the shrapnel smack into the wall instead of you.

"Then they have to get within my reach, the idiots." You leap up, grabs the overhang, pulling yourself up on the half-ruined roof. It's as close to a training area as you have out here, ruins nobody minds being demolished. 

Keep on the move, never stopping to think, keep your body going from one moment to the next because that's Hood's disadvantage. He's slow, his powers take a moment to charge, and if you are elsewhere after that moment, you can stay ahead. Stay safe. Don't think, just move, and oh boy, you love moving more than anything in the world. Feeling your heart pump, your muscles tense, everything working together with strength and grace you didn't have pre-accident. Faster. Better. Broken and rebuilt, and sure there are trademarks branded into your joints, but you wore them on your chest before, sponsored equipment, companies wanting to cash in on your guts.

You laugh as you fling yourself over the edge of the roof, too high, too fast, but there's just an open space there, dirt and gravel, no walls, and you land heavy, land hard, but close enough to bring your palm to his gut, jolting him hard enough to throw him to the ground.

"Shit, shit, are you okay?" You're leaning over him a moment later, 'cause Hood is not getting any younger, and you might have left your dad in the grave with an unresolved argument, but there's nothing to do against a bad heart, bad luck, a bad call, and you laugh in relief when he gives you a thumbs up. Bigger than your dad. More grizzled. Older. Whiter. 

Kinder. 

"That was a stupid move," he grumbles, rubbing his stomach. "If you had missed, you'd be caught right in the open."

"That's not a bad space to be against you, though." You offer him a hand up, bracing yourself. You're tall for a girl, tall enough to annoy most men, but he's not small, and he's heavy; his hand makes yours feel small and fragile even with the mods.

"True," he admits, brushing himself off as you push up the goggles on your forehead. "Good job anyway, Charge."

"Just fun to get a workout; I was getting bored." You stretch towards the skies, annoyingly blue, the darker blue of both your skinsuits covered in dust. You peel off your goggles entirely, wiping your sweaty forehead. "Sentinel better find something soon."

"s... he will." Marshal Hood looks up at the skies as well, still stumbling over the new pronouns. So many changes to get used to. "You should keep the goggles. Eye protection is useful. Especially with your condition."

"Not my call," you say, patting him on the shoulder, too worried, you should wear goggles and a helmet and kneepads, and in the end, you should be annoyed, but it's hard to be. Just a different kind of feeling, a different vibe, not disapproval but caution, a way of looking at you that makes you want to be someone. Better. Smarter. Part of a team, and that is new because you hate people bossing you around. I'm not gonna call you 'Sir,' the first words thrown in his face, and he had chuckled and told you to call him asshole if that made you feel better.

"I know." The sigh is deep; he knows it, uniforms are picked, and you look far too good to be covered up in armor, face out in the open, no mask, bright smile for the camera. They didn't give you first-class dental work for nothing. 

"Don't look so grumpy," you bend down and pick up a rock, throwing it at a distant sign, leaning askew among the ruins. Bullseye. "I can move better this way; no need for heavy armor if they won't hit me."

"And if they do?" Another rock rises from the ground on its own, flying towards the same sign.

"Not gonna happen," you say, throwing yourself flat on the ground, and the other rock he had levitated flies harmlessly over your head. "And I thought we were done training, cheater."

"How did you know?" He looks amused, offering you a hand this time, but you tense your body and jump back to your feet on your own, look, dad, no hands, and you slap your brain into shape because he's not your dad—just your team leader. Maybe mentor, but no way you're going to tell him that.

"It fit the moment." There's a flow to the world around you, to the movement of your body, the effect of gravity, the friction of your limbs. You can't overthink, better to just go with it; thinking is for Chen, analyzing, planning, you don't put words to it the same way. Same results, though. Still five to five in your fights, someday one of you will get the upper hand. You're two to ten with Hood, but you're getting faster. Better.

"You've got good instincts," he admits. "You just need to be able to describe them."

"Why?" You flex your hands, feeling your emitters charge and release. They still feel awkward after the last upgrade, but the increased output should be worth it.

"Because you're going to need to teach someone else how to do that one day." Straight face, a furrowed brow, and you look up at him with a surprised laugh.

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen; I'm not a teacher." You're responsible for yourself, and only you, and maybe your team, your group, and oh boy, that's escalated. Being a Ranger. You're glad you're not the one holding the reins here; the stakes are higher. You never even ran your own group back in the day; you just starred in the videos. Marek did the heavy lifting when it came to planning.

"We'll see," he says, cryptically, giving you another one of those looks. 

"Don't you even think about it," you mutter, starting to pace, the pace turning into a walk as he follows, because standing still hurts in ways that movement doesn't. "I'm here because Chen talked me into it, that's all." Another lie, and yeah, he knows it because he knows the amount of money invested in your body—more than needed for a dull, everyday life.

"You're born to this Julia, why not admit it?"

"Because that would mean my father was right, and he was an asshole about it, so that's never gonna happen." You jump up on the wall, balancing on it as you keep walking.

"The man is dead."

"Damn right, he is."

"You do know that he can't tell you what to do anymore?" The wall starts disintegrating beneath your feet, slowly, bricks torn apart, but you keep your balance, little stepping stones floating in front of you. Show-offs, both of you. Maybe that's why you like him.

"So why do I still hear his voice in my head?"

"You're the only one that can tell you that."

"You suck at this, you know?" You give him a glare, leaping to another stone, landing on one foot, as elegant as if you had done the ballet they wanted you to. "You're supposed to tell me that maybe that was because he had a point, and maybe it was time for me to listen to it. You know, be all responsible and shit."

"Hmmm..." He ponders it for a while, rubbing his chin, all covered in black scruff because there are no cameras out here to disapprove. "That doesn't sound like me. I think you came up with that on your own."

"And that's because you suck." You land on the ground, giving him an exasperated smile. "I don't like being responsible. Why do you keep making me do it?"

"Because you're better at it than you know." A fond chuckle as he puts a big hand on your shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Covered in faded, black tattoos, kin to the ones that are snaking up his neck and into his hairline. "As long as nobody pushes you into it."

"Guess I have Chen for that. Fucking duty and shit."

"Chen needs to lighten up," he agrees.

"I bet you tell him that I need to be more responsible." You shoot him a suspicious glance.

"Now, does that sound like something I would do?"

"You're nothing but a dirty manipulator," you say the words with your brightest smile, shrugging away from his hand, pulling your goggles back on. "You're lucky I like you."

"You need another run-through?" He wipes his sweaty forehead, shaking his head.

"I'm bored," you whine, "and you keep saying I need to stay sharp."

"Fine, girl, I won't go easy on you this time."

"Good." You smile your wickedest smile, throwing yourself backward, recklessly, stones hitting empty air, and this is the life. The adrenaline. The thrill.

The companionship.