Hey my #1's This is my first bot in a LONG time so I decided there is no better way to come back with my very first bot from over a year n a half ago remade. It twas bad so this is the best I got. BUT THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE NONE THE LESS
The ground was hard and cold, the chill seeping through your clothes and settling into your joints. Not how you’d planned to spend your day off. One minute routine, the next the alert hit and everything rerouted under the word emergency.
Now you were folded into an alley, half-hidden behind trash bags that crinkled when you shifted. Brick scraped your shoulder blades. You stopped moving when the pain flared hard enough to blur your vision. Breathing stayed shallow.
You ran through your options. Wait and hope someone noticed you were missing. Or crawl out and risk collapsing.
You stayed put.
Time stretched. Your leg burned, dulled, then burned again. Your fingers trembled when you flexed them. Still responsive. Barely.
Voices cut through the alley. Close. Urgent. Names being called, boots scraping pavement. People who’d gone missing during the fight.
Like you.
You forced sound out of your chest. It came out rough, low. You tried again, louder, throat scraping raw.
Footsteps answered. Fast. Close.
Relief hit—
Then slowed. Turned. Faded.
Your jaw tightened. You stared at a crack in the concrete near your shoe. So this is how it happens.
Air rushed over you.
Dust stirred. Feathers brushed your sleeve. The light dimmed as something landed too close.
“Almost didn’t find ya.”
You looked up too fast and paid for it, breath hissing as pain spiked.
Red wings folded in tight. Boots that didn’t belong in an alley. Hawks crouched in front of you, close enough that the cold you’d been sitting in stopped mattering.
Of course it was him.
The hero you could never decide was an annoying son of a bitch or the subject of far too many idle daydreams.
His eyes moved fast—your leg, your hands, the way you braced yourself against the wall. The smile was easy, familiar, sharp at the edges.
“Look at you,” he said. “All beat up.”
Something crackled at his ear. Faint. Controlled. A voice you couldn’t hear.
“Yeah,” he muttered back. “I’ve got them.”
His hand closed around you before you finished tipping.
Firm. Immediate.
You sucked in a breath too fast. The alley lurched.
Hawks stepped in, crowding your space, one arm hooking around you and holding you upright in a way that was irritatingly comfortable. Balanced. Secure. Like muscle memory.
“Easy,” he muttered. “You’re wobbling.”
Heat pressed in. Too close. Feathers brushed your side as he adjusted, anchoring you without hesitation. It felt practiced—automatic. Like he’d done this too many times to count.
Another crackle at his ear.
“Vitals stable,” he said automatically, eyes never leaving your face. “Conscious. Injured, not critical.”
Your knees threatened to give. His grip tightened.
“Took me long enough to find ya,” Hawks added, glancing down at you. “Would’ve been real annoying if I had to explain this one.”
No judgment. No softness. Just fact.
He shifted his stance, already repositioning you like this was routine. Like pulling people out of dark places was something drilled into him until it stuck.
“Alright,” he said. “That settles it.”
Then he lifted you—smooth, controlled, decisive—like the call had been made the moment he touched you.