psychic blasts that simply look like a sound wave rippling through the air. Usually flings them using her hands, and can blast an opponent several feet into the air.
although considered 'psychic' blasts, she can not do anything like telepathy or telekinesis.
can not do huge blasts without draining herself of energy
she can only hit people within a roughly 8 metre distance of herself
During the five years that passed from s1-s2, Cheyenne moved to Star City where she went solo. She did, however, continue to help the Team if they really needed it. That stays the same. It’s her relationships with other people that have changed.
I figure, because Cheyenne has actually quite a similar personality to Kaldur–calm, determined, thinks before acting–that the two of them actually became pretty close. But then, of course, it seemed like Kaldur went crazy over Tula’s death and joined Black Manta. This just made Cheyenne close off even more from people, and she started calling up her friends less and less. Oh sure, she kept in touch with the Team, but she was much colder, more withdrawn. She didn’t want to be betrayed again.
When the Invasion was revealed, she moved to Gotham City and also spent more time at Mount Justice. And of course, that’s where season 2 begins.
His hand closes around a soft, warm arm clad in tight spandex, and he jerks hard, pulling his pursuer into the dim light of a streetlamp. Standing before him is a lithe girl, dark hair falling around her shoulders, a navy blue mask glued to her face to hide her identity; not that it matters, he knows who it is already.
“Why are you following me?” he snarls.
Shatter quirks an eyebrow. “Who said I was following you?”
With a derisive snort, Arsenal pulls her into the side alley and pushes her back against the wall, letting go of her arm. “You weren't being subtle about it.”
“You must be really arrogant,” she says, “if you think I'm following you.”
He notices the emphasis she puts on the last word and takes a step forward. Shadows cut across his face and pool in the hollows beneath his eyes. “Not me? Then who?”
Her mouth quirks up at the corner, the beginnings of a smirk. “If I tell you, I'd have to kill you.”
Arsenal looks down at her, into the cool, steel grey of her eyes. Despite the mask and the darkness, he can still pick out the freckles splattered across her cheeks and nose. The pale light of a streetlamp washes all the gold out of her skin, making it sallow. He takes another step forward, and she tilts her head back slightly to keep eye contact. There's a freckle at the corner of her mouth, he notices, and then notices that her top lip is slightly fuller than the bottom.
“Who sent you, then?” he asks, to distract himself.
“Nightwing,” she says easily, with an indifferent shrug.
“Why did he send you?” he tries again.
Her mouth tilts up, and this time she is smirking. “Ah, no. The answer is still 'I'd have to kill you'.”
Arsenal shrugs and takes another step forward. When he breathes in, his chest brushes against the breastplate strapped across hers. “Can't blame a guy for trying.”
Shatter leans her head back against the brick of the wall and stares up at him. This close, he can see green flecks in her eyes, catching the dim light and flashing like sparklers. His hand lifts, almost on its own, and skims her hip, the warmth of her skin seeping through the teal spandex. She lifts her own hand and her fingers press briefly to his jaw before dropping back to her side.
“Why did you shave your hair off?”
He jerks with surprise at the question. “What?”
“Why did—,”
“I heard you,” he says sharply, fingers curling around her belt. “It just—,” he pauses. “I felt like it. Is cutting hair a crime now?”
Shatter shrugs. “No. I was just hoping you'd tell me why.”
“I just did.”
The way she's looking at him, it makes him squirm and want to punch the wall behind her. She doesn't believe him, not that he cares, but it's obvious in the slant of her head and the light in her eyes. Finally, she says, “Sure. We'll go with that, then.”
“Don't believe me?” he challenges, mouth twisting in a sneer.
“Doesn't matter if I don't,” she says calmly. “As long as you believe what you're telling yourself.”
Arsenal stares at her, fingers twitching where they are wrapped around her belt, and then he kisses her, hard. He presses himself against her, feeling the sharp edge of her breastplate bite into his chest and ignoring it. She goes still beneath him with surprise, and then her hands drift up and brush his hips, fingers hooking into his belt. He nips at her bottom lip, maybe a little harder than necessary, but doesn't care; he wants to hurt her, wants to crack the calm, icy facade she's constantly wearing. But then he darts his tongue out, sweeping it across her lip to sooth the sting of his bite, and Shatter opens her mouth under his, and he's lost.
Beneath his hand, she is warm and supple, pliant. He slides his fake hand around to the small of her back and presses her more firmly against him, while his real one moves up to grasp the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. Her own hands have drifted up and fisted in the front of his shirt.
Arsenal's tongue sweeps out and slips past her lips, and she tastes like coffee and cinnamon. A soft groan, low and throaty, catches in his mouth, and he presses closer, trapping her between the wall and himself. With a harsh gasp for air, he tears his mouth from hers and presses his face into the crook of her neck. He's pleased to hear her panting, chest rising and falling sharply as she sucks in much needed oxygen. So she can be worked up, that's good to know.
Taking a deep breath, he tilts his head and places a hot kiss to the underside of her jaw. Her breathing shudders in his ear and he trails his mouth down her throat, nipping at her collarbone. His heart is pounding in his ears, pounding out the sound of her name, over and over again until it's all he can hear. Lifting his head, Arsenal slants his mouth back over hers. He lets his real hand drift down, skimming her back and around her sides, and is rewarded when she trembles, mouth opening in a small gasp beneath his.
“Roy,” she murmurs against his mouth.
“Mhm?” he hums, skimming his lips along her jaw and nipping at the skin.
Her hands curl around his neck, fingernails scrapping gently against his head, bare now that he had shaved his hair off. “We're being watched.”
He smirks. “So let them watch.”
“...that's probably a bad idea.”
Catching the tone of her voice, Arsenal jerks back from her, immediately missing her warmth but shoving that hollow feeling away. He turns, reaching for the crossbow strapped to his back. Squinting, he searches the darkness, and frowns when he doesn't see anything.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He turns to look at Shatter.
She's gone, nothing but the feel of her breath on his mouth left to even say she was here in the first place. And then he notices writing on the brick wall, down low. He crouches to get a better look, the words written in white chalk; It was you I was following. Sorry. Just following orders -C.J
Cheyenne hesitates in the doorway to the hospital room, pulling the ribbon from her hair and shoving it into the pocket of her jacket. She can hear the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitors and smell the sharp, sterile tang of medicine on the air. From the corner of her eye, she can see a nurse coming her way, so she quickly steps into the room, closing the door softly behind her.
There's only one bed, the blue curtain pulled sharply in front of it to hide the occupant. Setting her shoulders, she strides forward, heavy boots sounding like gunshots on the tiled flooring. She pauses at the edge of the curtain and touches the coarse material, running it through her fingers.
“Who's there?” The voice is rough with disuse and pain, ragged around the edges.
Letting go of the curtain, Cheyenne steps into full view. Sitting on the bed, sheets pooling around his waist, is the original Roy Harper. Her eyes flicker, once, to where the bandages wrap around the remains of his arm, and then up to his face. It's twisted into a harsh, fearsome scowl, his blue eyes snapping fire.
“Who are you?” he demands, pushing himself up with his good hand.
No one. Someone. “Cheyenne.”
His mouth twists. “I have no idea who you are.”
“I know.” She moves a little closer. “I didn't expect you to know. We've never met.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes, but as quick as it appeared, it's gone. “Then why are you here?”
“Which answer will not piss you off?”
Again, surprise flashes in his eyes. “Well, that one did.”
Cheyenne finds herself at the end of his bed, her hands resting on the footrest. “There's just no pleasing you, is there?”
His face closes off. “You say that like you know me.”
She does, but at the same time, she doesn't. “I know someone like you.”
Roy—Speedy—lurches up as fast as he can manage, swinging himself out of his bed. “I am nothing like that imposter!”
Cheyenne remains cool and calm, watching him carefully as he leans heavily against the side of his bed. “Oh, I don't know about that. I thought I knew him pretty well, and you're acting a lot like he did.”
“Were you in love with him?” There's a mocking edge to his voice, like poisonous thorns. “Does seeing me 'make your heart hurt'?”
“Maybe I was.” She wasn't, is, was, isn't. She shrugs. “That doesn't matter. And seeing you doesn't change anything. You're different people.”
Speedy's face twists with something ugly and he looks down at what remains of his arm. “Yeah, we sure are.”
“That's not what I meant.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
A little spark of anger ignites in Cheyenne's chest. “You may look the same, but your choices are what make you different.”
Again, surprise crosses his face and he slumps back down on his bed. “Who are you?”
She starts for the door, pausing next to the curtain to brush her fingers across the fabric. “Cheyenne. I also go by Shatter. Maybe I'll see you out in the field someday.”
So I’ve had to think about what would happen between them, and this is pretty much what I’ve come up with.
Cheyenne tried to stick with Roy during his hunt for the real Red Arrow, but unfortunately, as he pulled farther away and the distance–emotionally–between them grew wider and deeper. Eventually, Cheyenne had had enough. Shoving aside her guilt, she stepped back and cut herself off from Roy.
That was two years before the beginning of season 2.
But even though Cheyenne didn’t want anything to do with Red Arrow, she kept her ears peeled for any and all information.
Happy AAD Frannie! You're wonderful and so are all your characters~! Also..This is my first time fully writing Cheyenne, so I'm sorry if I don't have her personality down right D:
Cheyenne sighs boredly. It's too quiet. There's been no villain attacks for two days. And while it seems like every kids dream to have a secret superhero base all to themselves, Cheyenne isn't so thrilled.
She lifts herself from the couch in front of the TV, hoping her room will have something for her to do, even if it's just picking up a sock..
BAM! The wall next to her crumbles as an enormous ball of mud and earth rolls past her, crumbling to reveal a slightly dazed looking Louise. She rushes over, kneeling next to the brunette, looking over her- "Louise, what happened? Is it an attack? Which villain? The Joker?"
Louise looks to her, her eyes becoming more focused as she gives her a grin, "Chill Chey. We're not being attacked. Everyone's outside and we're playing super dodgeball-" She pauses to grin proudly- "And I'm the ball. Cassie's brutal with the throws."
Cheyenne pauses, standing up, raising an eyebrow, "Super dodgeball..Why didn't I know about this?"
Louise shrugged, getting up and rolling her shoulders, "We tried asking you to play, but you just kinda grunted...You going to come out? It's not the same without you."
"Alright. But only for five minutes" Cheyenne sighed, secretly glad to be rid of her boredom. Louise smiled more, forming the ball of earth around her, and calling from the inside.
"Great! Give me a little push?"
Cheyenne smirked, flicking her hands, the ball of earth shooting back outside, hitting into Dick with a loud crunch. Cheyenne could get used to this game.
