Chapter Text
“I can picture him as a choir boy, in the frilly little—white dress thing—” Chad gestures vaguely with a loose wrist, as if a wave of his hand could will the garment into existence and onto Robert’s body. The conversation started as most eventual descents into clowning on Robert do, with an innocuous topic completely unrelated to the concept. It really is a skill, how they always find some way to make Robert into a punchline. Bunch of quippy assholes that they are, Robert smirks behind the rim of his coffee mug and shakes his head, endeared all the same.
A year ago, it felt like hostility. Now? More or less, it’s a sign of acceptance. Tone, time, and context. So much has changed while also staying exactly the same. Today’s topic? Karaoke, which rapidly progressed to negging Robert for his middling ability to carry a tune—He still isn’t quite sure how they landed on choir singing, forgive him, it’s not even eight in the morning yet.
Malevola laughs, bright and booming as she claps Robert on the back.
“Oh yeah,” she croons, exchanging mischievous looks with Chad. “He reeeeeks of Catholic guilt.”
“Is that why you’re always walking around like you’ve got a stick up your flat ass? You’re worried about making Jesus sad or whatever?” Chad flashes a crooked slash of a grin at Robert while giving him a thorough up-down. The reflection of early morning sun off his Oakley shades jab Robert right in the retina.
“I was born in Chicago. It’s part of my culture,” Robert states, swatting Malevola’s hand away. Colm snorts beside him and gestures for Robert to hand him a mug. Robert plays dumb for a moment, looking around like he can’t fathom what it is the guy wants, only to make a show of almost fumbling the mug with one hand. Colm snatches it from his grasp, giving him a look that says Robert should probably cross his legs and tilt his pelvis away.
“Fuckin’ Catholics,” Colm grunts. Robert is less of an ass about handing off the coffee pot. “Great in bed, shite at anythin’ else.”
“Okay maybe Bob-Bob isn’t that Catholic,” Chad amends. “Very hard to imagine him boning anyone. It’s like-- really sad, actually. Like one of those commercials with all the starving puppies and Sarah McLachlan levels of sad. But with more impotence. My pockets aren’t nearly deep enough for that level of charity.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never spent a night wit’ a Catholic,” Colm says, sipping his coffee while Robert fights a grin and shrugs.
The easeful laughter that has become the norm over the last year is nice. Robert’s grown comfortable with it. Life has been fairly routine since Shroud died and they rounded up the last pockets of Red Ring around the city. The number of cybernetic upgrades now sitting in evidence lockers in the lower levels of SDN could outfit a small army. Which is precisely why SDN is keen on keeping them.
Mandy raps her knuckles on the breakroom door.
“Hey. Morning everyone,” she’s wearing a pantsuit instead of a skirt suit today. As the seasons have turned it’s been brisk, but it suits her better. Though he’s less sure about that shade of ochre… “Robert, can I see you in my office for a minute?”
The squad erupts in a chorus of ‘oooooooooh’ as if they’re a bunch of teenagers and Robert’s just been called to the principle’s office. Given how things have been, with Mandy working as dispatch chief in the office full time, that’s not far off. The pantsuit doesn’t help.
“Don’t you guys have work to do?” Robert says, giving Mandy a nod as he pushes away from the counter and makes his way to the door. The put upon groans and half-hearted complaining behind him are abruptly interrupted by a crash of shattering glass and something hard tumbling along the floor. The offending object rolls across the linoleum to bump into Robert’s boots. He has a split second to realize what it is before the breakroom descends into frantic scrambling.
“Grenade!”
A streak of blinding light so damn hot it singes Robert’s skin is all he sees before suddenly the grenade is gone and there’s a loud pop from somewhere far above the building. He blinks the spots from his vision and sees a portal in the floor mere centimeters from his boots, along with one less hero in the break room. Chad is missing.
“Uhhh… What the fuck just happened?” Robert doesn’t get an answer. The shrill whine of alarms fills every inch of SDN, all the emergency lights flashing red and mechanical clunking precedes the sudden activation of blast shielding over every single window around the building.
“What the fuck is happening!?” Robert barks, and Mandy gives him a sheepish grimace, shrugging.
“New security system. Installed during the rebuild. We’re under attack.” She has to shout over the endless scream of the alarms, but the message is loud and clear.
“Right—Raincheck on that meeting,” Robert looks to his team. “Go, give Flambae backup. Meet you out there in two minutes.”
Just your run of the mill Friday morning. Villains doing villain shit, and the third best team in Torrance’s branch heading out to deal with it. Robert makes his way down to the docking bay where the suit awaits, but there’s a big fucking hole in the docking bay doors and a fight already happening. Heroes are scrambling to push back… wait. Is that… One fucking guy? Robert swears he recognizes the kid currently giving six heroes a run for the money, but then again, he looks a lot like any other early twenties fuck-up that’s turned to crime after being failed by society.
Robert makes a break for the mech, sprinting across the docking bay and vaulting the guard rails around his suit. He crashes into the leg as he skids to a halt, but slams the button to open the chassis and climb inside without missing a beat. Settled, belted, time is of the essence. Once in the seat, it’s effortless. Muscle memory takes over. His hands fly across the consoles to get the mech moving, bring up his dispatch display, and get in the fight.
“Move back,” he calls out, hoping to make quick work of this.
Robert takes aim once the other heroes are clear and fires off weighted carbon fiber netting with precision system guided accuracy.
Said carbon fiber hits some kind of invisible wall and flies wildly off course before it can connect, then swings around in Robert’s direction, coming straight for him, the view of it a blur across the HUD. It’s a split second of distraction, but again, it’s not even eight in the morning yet. The kid launches himself forward in that brief instant and swings wide with a crazed haymaker that sends the whole mech flying.
Systems start blinking and flashing—Hull integrity loss, 12%, and Robert barely manages to activate his thrusters to prevent crashing through the wall. That little shit put a dent in his mech. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. Lock the fuck in, Robert. Small spaces like this aren’t ideal. He shoves the controls forward, getting a solid facial recognition scan. The criminal record pops up. Gary Avery. Right. Yeah, it’s all coming back.
“You been workin’ out kid? Still think you might be punching above your weight.”
Robert remembers him. Little Gary was a fair bit stronger than the average normie, but nothing special by super standards. He had a little bit of talent at wielding a weak magnetic field to throw projectiles and push things around, but he could barely rock a car when they’d bagged him six months ago.
Oh. Uh. …hang on.
Robert realizes he’s made a grave miscalculation by closing in. The kid grins at him and Robert has about two seconds to try and pivot but that’s not nearly enough. The whole mech lurches sideways as soon as he hits the kids magnetic field and sails out the open docking bay doors to skid, bounce, and roll across the parking lot, crunching several employee vehicles in the process.
Outside, the whole of SDN’s lot, all over the building, in the air around it, is absolutely bonkers levels of violence. He hasn’t seen this many villains in one place since the night Shroud was killed and they took out Red Ring. That’s… probably a bad sign.
“We’re getting our fucking asses handed to us—Is that fucking Blizzkid!?” Flambae shouts over the comms.
“Yeah! Stay back, ‘Bae!" Prism growls through the coma." He’s not playin’ around—man didn’t we already dust these assholes!?”
Answer: yes. As Robert rights himself and joins the fray, he’s able to spot six different low-level, small-time criminals they already put away. Most were such light offenders they only got community service. Things like petty theft and vandalism, assault—And none of them could put up a real fight. Not like this. They’re all a hell of a lot stronger than Robert remembers.
“Somethin’s off ‘bout all’a this,” Punch-Up growls. “Like they’re all on fuckin’ steroids or somet’in.”
“Not a bad theory but steroids don’t suddenly increase the capability of powers,” Robert replies, fending off a very familiar Firebird as it flies toward him, spiraling like a two tonne football. Crash.
“That better not have been my fucking car. I just got that repaired, asshole!”
“Trade ya! I can’t get close to him, and he can re-rout my projectiles!” Robert calls out. Flambae streaks across the sky and lands in a glorious burst of fire and fury, enveloping everything around him, incinerating all the tasteful landscaping within a ten foot radius.
Robert launches up into the air and locks on to the grenade happy dickhead Flambae was tangling with. The guy leaps around like a grasshopper and evades while tossing more explosives. Robert feels like he’s swatting at a fly that can also throw other smaller, more dangerous flies. The guy lands on his mech and pure, animal instinct kicks in. Snatch aaaand—Oh boy. Robert throws him and watches him crash into SDN’s fancy new blast shielding, then slowly slide down it to drop face first into the bushes below. Like a bug on a windshield. Yikes.
Robert scans for vitals. He’s alive. It’s fine. Bag and tag. Bigger problems. Robert whips back around and takes to the sky to assess. The view isn’t pretty. Calls start coming in as soon as the clock hits 8:00. Great. Awesome. TGIF or whatever.
There is nothing coordinated or impressive about the knock-down, drag out fight happening all over SDN’s property. It takes four full teams of heroes to turn the tide, and in the end, they only manage to bag four of the fifteen villains that came to play. Forty heroes, and they’ve got four arrests to show for it before it becomes painfully clear it’s not just SDN that’s under attack. It’s the whole damn city.
It's all downhill from there.
Like a colony of fire ants, criminal activity is crawling all over L.A. County, striking in sudden, coordinated pockets. In Torrence alone there are attacks at the Civic Center, City Hall, and Torrance PD.
No one gets a break. It’s an all hands on deck situation the likes of which they haven’t seen since 2023. The balmy November day is suddenly marred by a new level of overworked misery, and everyone is worn thin before second shift. Juggling dispatch calls from the mech while trying to round up villains like playing a game of fucked up whack-a-mole across downtown has Robert’s teeth grinding to dust.
And then a call from the suburbs comes. It’s from an elderly woman.
“Is my grandson available? A friend of his is here, very pushy gentleman, says he needs to see Herm. I told him Herm was working today, but he won’t take no for an answer.”
They’ve seen Torrance on fire before, but this hits differently. This is bigger. Crueler. That’s Herman’s grandmother on the line and there’s a villain in her house. Personal isn’t a strong enough word for what it makes Robert feel.
Protocol says that heroes are not supposed to take calls from friends and loved ones. It increases risk and reckless decisions exponentially. He should forward this distress call to another team.
Fuck protocol. Robert can’t and won’t risk it. He made sure that the team had his direct line extension available for the loved ones for emergency reasons, but this isn’t the kind of emergency he’d expected. Should he have?
“Don’t worry, Ma’am. We’ll send him right away. You just hang tight. Has this friend hurt you at all?”
“Well. He’s been a little gruff, but he must just not know his strength. Herm’s just the same. You know he used to lift my sofa to get his toys with one hand when he was a baby? Don’t know what happened…”
Robert mutes himself and taps into the team comms.
“I need Waterboy and Malevola at this address, stat. It’s a hostage situation, and definitely a trap. Handle it with care. As of right now, she’s not hurt—”
“Th-That’s—where my g-g-g-rand—that’s my grandma’s—I live there!”
“Oh boy,” Malevola sounds genuinely terrified and Robert winces at the furious roar of Waterboy losing his shit. “Uh—Hang on kiddo lemme open a portal—Wait!!”
And then another call comes in, and Robert has to bounce over on the line while dodging a dozen razor sharp quills the size of baseball bats flying his way. He fires back with a scatter shot of concussive rounds, trying his best to sound less pissed off when he answers.
“SDN Dispatch,” he answers, barely able to catch his breath.
“Hi, uh—I—Okay I’m not a customer but my sister gave me this number—Said I should call if I had an emergency. This is… This is Robert, right? Mecha Man? I’m in trouble—Bad. Can you send Ali—Prism? Please--” It’s a young woman; her voice is shaky at best. She’s starting to hyperventilate. Hiccupping breaths. Congestion. She’s trying not to cry. The sound wraps around Robert’s throat like icy fingers and squeezes.
“Yes. I’ll get someone over to you, right away. Are you being held by villains?”
“There’s a—there’s two of ‘em. I recognize one—He’s—”
“Don’t—”
She cries out, breaks into a sob. In the background a deep, masculine voice mutters something to her. A threat, if Robert had to guess. Bad—very fucking bad.
“Don’t give me any info. Just stay calm and try to cooperate. Help is on the way. Hey, breathe for me. What’s your name?”
“J-Jasmine.”
“Your mom a Disney fan?”
“Uh-huh. W-We got one more—baby sis. She’s… She’s here, too. Ariel.”
Fuck.
“Alright, Jasmine. You’re doing great. You just look out for Ariel and hang on. I’m gonna dispatch Prism to your location right now.”
Robert mutes himself again, clicks back into team coms, slams on his thrusters and shoulder checks Porcuprick off the roof of the Circle K, into oncoming traffic where he bounces over the hood of a car and skids along the asphalt.
“Prism—I need you and Phenomaman at this location. Another trap hostage situation. Two villains—”
“Oh hell fuckin’ no. Not my babies—They done messed with the wrong fuckin’ bitch today. I will go back to prison.”
“Phenomaman. Get her there as fast as you can.”
“Understood. Ms. Prism?”
Robert watches them shoot off like a rocket on his map. That’s two now. Two secret identities blown. How? How could any villain pull something like this off right under their noses? Insider knowledge on SDN heroes isn’t exactly easy to come by. Was there a mole at SDN? Had they gotten too comfortable over the last year?
After Shroud, it was all so simple. There wasn’t a single crisis too big to overcome with a couple of heroes and a give ‘em hell attitude. This is different. This is like being dunked in the Antarctic after spending a year in the Bahamas. Robert drops down to secure his combatant and take him back to HQ, when he notices one tracker moving rapidly away from his current mission objective. A glaring red exclamation point gives way to a [Mission Failed] notice.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why now? Flambae’s been so consistent, for months, and he chooses now to go rogue?
“Flambae, you’re off mission! This isn’t the time to screw around--”
“Screw around?! Seriously!? You—” Flambae’s words become an unintelligible tangle, hissing with static, but his fury comes through just fine. He huffs. Speaks like he’s chewing on glass. “I get that you probably forgot what it’s like, since your stupid fucking family is already dead, but mine isn’t. I’ll let your stupid bitch mouth off the hook this time, but you better watch yourself, Bob-Bob. I’m making sure they’re okay, getting them somewhere safe. I’m not waiting for a phone call. Don’t like it? Fucking fire me. See how well that goes for you.”
His voice is sharp, words cutting right to the heart of the matter and leaving Robert’s guts in a cold, hard knot. Chad’s family. His niece and sister. It makes sense. Chad doesn’t hide his face, he’s identifiable through his public arrest record. Meaning it’d be easy to track his family down, even without a leak.
Robert isn’t angry. Can’t be. The feeling eating him up inside is something else entirely and he doesn’t have time to identify it, let alone contend with it right now. What can he even say to something like this? Robert hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to care about someone else. He does have a family. Chad’s the one who seems to have forgotten something important.
He doesn’t believe you. Doesn’t trust it. Can you blame him?
Robert takes solace in the fact that Flambae doesn’t disconnect from the network. So long as Robert can track his movements, that’s enough for now. It has to be.
“Stay safe, Flambae.”
Four hours later, a new flavor of bullshit gets tossed in the mix and an already shitty day gets that much shittier.
Shit.
It’s pink, it’s powdery, and it winds up thrown right in Sonar and Prism’s faces by a desperate villain trying to evade capture. What happens immediately after is something Robert can’t even begin to wrap his head around, and would like to scrub from his memory banks with bleach and a Brillo pad.
Here’s a fun question: Have you ever had to wrestle a giant bat half a mile in the air?
If yes, follow up question: Was that bat mindlessly trying to fuck a crater into your very expensive mech suit at the time?
Robert’s owed so much time off but taking all of it at once might not be enough to truly recover from one of the most harrowing debacles he’s faced in his career.
“I don’t know what that shit was but I’m starting to wish it was cocaine—for fuckssake—Sonar! It’s me! God—Y’know—You’re really flirting with disaster here, you’re gonna break something important!”
“I’ve never met a willie I wasn’ prepared to wail on until now,” Punch-Up says.
“Oh, thanks—Veeeeery helpful,” Robert grinds the words out through clenched teeth while yanking on the controls. Every alarm he has is blaring at him.
[Unidentified Object Detected]
[Hull integrity loss: 36%]
Oh god, no, don’t fucking—show me.
[Hull integrity loss: 42%]
[Unidentified Object Detected]
[Hydraulic Pressure Loss: 11%]
“Wow. Mans is really jus’… Goin’ for it. Think I saw a movie like this once,” Golem chimes in.
“Grammy’s secured. Got her back to HQ—” Malevola announces. Robert’s relief is a short lived thing. “Hey! Was it a Godzilla porn parody?”
“Shiiiit. Might’a been.”
Robert would rather relieve his last violent encounter with Sonar a hundred times over than suffer this for even one more minute. He spins end over end, partly due to the frantic flailing and banging on the hull, and partly in the hopes that sudden nausea might curb some of sexual viability a giant fucking robot apparently has.
“I could really stand to hear less chatter and more—working to stop the city from burning to the ground. Mal, we’ve got a call about cultists burning down church. Go.”
Whatever the bubble-gum pink powder was, it’s turned Sonar into a horny, feral animal, and he’s about ten times stronger than he’s supposed to be. Problematic, to say the very fucking least, but it sheds some light about the sudden spike in raw power they’re seeing all over the city.
These villains didn’t do any kind of special training course. They’re using the powder. Sooo… Why aren’t they all uselessly horny?
[Unidentified Object Detected]
[Hull Integrity Loss: 58%]
Question for another time.
“I am never going to get the image of his giant bat dick trying to find a hole in your mech out of my head,” Malevola says, awed in the way someone might be while watching a particularly ugly car crash.
“I have subdued and secured Prism. We are on route to HQ,” Phenomaman announces over the comms, and by the tense, harried tone of his voice, things are going about as well for him as can be expected. The sound of Prism’s manic giggling in the background is unsettling in ways Robert should probably address in therapy when this is over. He won’t, but he should. “She is not struggling, but I am finding it difficult to fly—Ms. Prism, please—”
Flambae’s voice cuts in.
“I’m on my way. Bullshit horny super drug or no, I can handle her. It’ll be just like dragging her home from the club,” he sighs, as if this it’s simply an annoying chore and not objectively horrifying. Good for him. Can’t relate.
“Blazer, do we have an ETA on back-up? We’re getting our asses kicked out here,” Robert speaks through grit teeth, projecting over the whine of his hydraulics as he wrestles Victor into a full on bear hug to get him back to base. “HQ, I need sedation ready for when I land. Wear earplugs and use the dart gun. Double check Sonar’s med files to make sure you get the dosage right or prepare to have the weirdest fucking obituary imaginable.”
“Looks like the first round of backup is just under six hours out. They do… have their own cities to worry about. Trying to get people here as fast as we can, but spare heroes nearby have been thin on the ground.”
You’d think in a crisis SDN could get any kind of spare heroes out here faster. He tries not to think about it too hard as he touches down on the helipad and the ground team rushes into range. They’re all wearing bright yellow hazmats emblazoned with the SDN logo. Sonar screeches loud enough that Robert checks to make sure his ears on bleeding. Five tranquilizer darts sink into him in quick succession.
Lucky bat.
“Ahh—Fuck. Okay—that sucked,” Robert wheezes, rubbing his ears against his shoulders, praying for the stabbing ache to subside. “Uh. Sorry, bud. It’s gonna be okay. Just… let it happen. Relax. Nice long nap is just what you need… Do I have bat jizz on my suit?”
“Proabably. Hard to tell what with all the other shit all over you. I’d hose the whole thing down, just to be safe,” Malevola huffs over a backdrop of wailing cultists crying out for their dark lord to save them. “Can’t imagine what it’ll do to your paint job.”
There’s something especially harrowing about a trusted ally turning into a liability with a monster sized boner. Villains were hardly better, but Robert isn’t lucky enough to be able to say he’s never fought a villain with their dick out. Everything is weird. Chaotic. And notably weirdest of all: No one has come forward to gloat and take credit for the most effective and destructive organized villain attack Torrance has seen to date.
Robert’s memories of dealing with Red Ring look warm and fuzzy by comparison.
Nineteen straight fucking hours. That’s how long it all goes on for. Nineteen hours of non-stop villain action. All killer, no filler. They’ve barely had time to catch their breath, let alone take a break. There are still little blips popping up across Torrance here and there, but it’s slowed down. And hey! Backup has finally arrived! Yay?
Robert parks the mech in the docking bay and slouches in his seat.
He doesn’t want to think about the long-term toll this will take. About how many people have been hurt or killed during this whole fiasco. He can’t stop. It’s too much and too loud. If he was working solo, like the old days, could he have prevented this? Is this a symptom of being shackled in benevolent indentured servitude to a corporation who treats heroes like Door Dashers?
Just stop thinking about it.
His ears are sore, suffering a persistent case of tinnitus that might actually be permanent. Can he sue for damages? Unlikely. He should have given this job more thought when Blazer pitched it to him. He’d known at the time that it sounded too good to be true, but it at least seemed tolerable. He can try to chalk it all up to a bad day, but it’s hard not to think about how different things might be if he could still be out there, doing the kind of hero work that went unappreciated. The kind that prevents days like today.
His comms crackle to life, assaulting him with heavy breath and a slew of very colorful swearing.
“The National fucking Guard is here,” Malevola grunts. “Assholes aren’t listening to us. We’ve been at this all day and they’re kicking us out of our own safe zones, acting like we’re the problem. Not so much as a thank you. Cunts. -- Oi! I’m going—Hands off or I’ll tell you when you die and where you’re going, bub!”
“Don’t… threaten the National Guard… please. Even if they deserve it,” Robert sighs.
“I’m surprised they showed up at all,” comes Coupé’s calm cadence over the line.
“Yeah,” Robert slouches down in his seat and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes until phosphenes burst across his closed lids. “DHS calls this an unprecedented act of terror, but can’t be bothered to get the National Guard moving to help civilians until we’ve already spent twenty hours doing the hard part. Typical.”
It’s bullshit. It almost always is. Bureaucrats and politicians. Always dragging their feet, making lots of statements that sound good on camera, playing to constituents while ensuring the choices they make and the systems they govern chug along at the speed of whatever won’t draw the ire of the lobbyists who bought them—Shit. He’s been doom scrolling too much lately.
Stop. Thinking. About. It. Robert’s jaw aches under the pressure of how tightly it’s been clenched. It was supposed to be another run of the mill Friday. They were going to go get pancakes and beer and be shit at karaoke after work. Things were fine. Normal. He was even beginning to feel like he might be doing better on the depression and death ideation front. Robert’s been adjusting to the idea of a life of stability, finally allowing himself to stop being so paranoid about the ‘other shoe’ but… He should have been. It was only a matter of time, right?
“…Robert? You still there?”
“Fuck. Sorry. Uh—Yeah. Just… Tired.” Understatement. Bordering on lying. Great job, Robert. “Status on everyone else?”
“We’re all tired, babes. Waterboy and Golem are still helping out at Fisherman’s Warf, Flambae is headed to check on his family again. Phenomaman is coordinating with the National Guard to get more tents and triage set up. Any word on our mates, yet?”
Robert scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. Again. Does it help? Well. It doesn’t not help.
“Prism is on an SPS drip, fever still going strong, but she’s not blinding people via spontaneous uhh… enjoyment… by accident anymore. She seemed pretty out of it when I talked to her. Sonar had to be sedated again, last I checked he still was. No one’s allowed near the infirmary. Whole thing is a quarantine ward until we know what that pink shit was, and the med team has been too busy to give me regular updates. Other heroes got hit today, though. Not just ours. Same thing all around.” Robert’s throat sounds like a tin can full of gravel. He reaches beneath his seat, into the little compartment where he keeps a small flask for bad days. The burn of cheap whiskey sears and then numbs his raw, over-worked throat. “I’m just glad they’re alive. When it comes to chemical agents… You never know.”
To say the situation looks grim would be an unquantifiable understatement. This was a well-planned, extremely well-coordinated attack. That can only mean that a new Super Villain has stepped onto the board.
Dread settles like a cold, familiar friend in the pit of Robert’s stomach.
“Exposures killed a couple of civvies. The hospitals are full up. Dunno how we’re gonna deal with this, if neighboring cities won’t take some of the wounded and displaced. Ahhhh, well…” Her sigh is a weak attempt at trying to keep her own spirits up, but even a literal demon from hell has limits. “Guess we were overdue for another spell of Torrance looking like a goddamn war zone… Least the National Goons are setting up more medical tents. Can’t wait to see what Federal Hero Commission has to say about this one.”
It’s been a long fucking day. Too long.
“We’re dead on our feet out here, lad. Any chance we can pack it in soon?” Punch-Up asks, voice rasping with overuse, just like everyone else’s.
“Yeah. My blisters have blisters,” Malevola agrees.
“I’m good for another hour, but Waterboy needs a major siesta,” Golem adds.
“I believe I have done all I can do to neutralize threats around the medical relief tents. I too, am in need of rest,” Coupé chimes in. They all sound more defeated than Robert’s ever heard them. Today was a win, but it doesn’t feel like one. Their holding cells are full, and the overtime pay is going to be ludicrous, but this is only the beginning. The mastermind behind it hasn’t shown their face yet, but they will. They’ve shown what they’re capable of and clearly know how to exploit how SDN operates.
Which is going to work against them. If all they do is react, this gets worse in a hurry.
Overwhelm rushes in. The sickly, icy flood that wants to overtake Robert and drag him down into hopelessness is familiar. Drowning in his own thoughts, sinking into a mire of endless and awful possibilities, sprawling out like cracks in thin, soft glass, it’s bit. It’s so much.
Get over it. You’ve got a job to do.
Hard to say if it’s his own voice or his father’s that forces Robert to swallow it down.
“Everyone, pack it in. Backup’s here so our shift’s over. As soon as Flambae checks in, let me know,” Robert says. He can’t help wondering if Visi’s okay out there, in the middle of all this. Or worse… If she’s involved. It’s been a over a year now, since she vanished. Her best disappearing act yet, and Robert kept waiting for her to pop up out of the blue, right next to him, like nothing had ever happened.
She never did.
“Got it, boss.” Malevola exhales. “I’ll go get him if I have to. Safest if it’s me. I’ll make sure everyone’s accounted for.”
“Thanks.”
Robert has a concussion and hearing damage. Both are mild, but still ache, as does his pride. Little by little the team has begun trickling into the rec room, shaken, injured, full of anger and uncertainty. But they’re here. That’s what counts.
Robert leans against the wall near the television with an ice pack pressed to the back of his head with one hand, and a beer in the other. The news drones on and on about the rash of villain attacks that sprawled all over L.A. County. Half of Venice Beach is still on fire, the Santa Monica Pier collapsed, half the Hollywood sign was torched, reduced to “wood” with dicks spray painted all over it. Classy.
Vanderstank International, somehow, remains relatively unscathed, and has made a public statement about donating to relief efforts for the destruction that happened all over the damn place.
They got their asses handed to them today. Everyone did. Not a single hero in the branch managed to get through their shift unscathed. It’s a relief to be off the clock, hitting the showers and wandering in to decompress after a shift from hell the likes of which they’ve never seen. Mandy drifts in toward the sofa and settles gently into a seat. The city has quieted but the unspoken sentiment they all share is heavy in the air.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The running theme of the day was consistently how the hell did these assholes get so strong? It wasn’t just strength, but the pointed targeting of SDN heroes and their loved ones. Not just those who were easily identifiable at a glance, either. Several heroes were affected, reminding Robert of exactly why his father hammered it into his head early, that it was morally wrong to let people get too close. How the information got out isn’t clear but Robert’s going to find out.
“We’re officially entering Lockdown Protocol. Given the fact that sensitive information about heroes was leaked to the outside, every hero and SDN employee is contractually obligated to remain on-premises until the leak is found and the threat is dealt with. Every branch in L.A. County is doing it,” Mandy says.
Hell of an opener. Janelle brings her a beer and takes a seat beside her, picking at the label of her own bottle. Everyone is in hideous blue and yellow SDN issued sweats. If it weren’t for the total exhaustion weighing his team down, he doubts any of them would have been inclined to put the offensively unflattering outfits on, let alone stay put.
Robert takes a swig from his bottle and eyes Beef, curled up on the end of the sofa, enjoying some much deserved scritches. Today was hard for him, too. Lots of loud noises and movement. Robert unable to return to the office. Robert should buy Galen a fruit basket or something…
“What’s that mean? Remain on-premises? Like—We can’t go home?” Malevola asks.
“Yes. Not just you guys. Everyone is staying in the sub-level dorms until further notice. No one leaves the building or comes in without approval. Your families are being turned over to the Federal Hero Commission to be relocated until this threat is handled.”
“And ifen we don’t want t’ be locked up like a buncha rats in a cage?” Colm asks, turning a grim frown Mandy’s way. She wrings her hands together, dropping her head and hunching, her shoulders a weary slope under the weight of her responsibilities. She’s slow to inhale, slower to lift her head again, eyes still cast toward the floor.
“You’ll be taken to Tartarus, without trial or bail, as stated in the terms of your contracts.”
Pin drop silence blankets the room. The tension between Robert’s shoulders is growing more intolerable by the minute. Blow after blow, treated like suspects of a crime while the news carries on singing their praises and playing clips of civilian rescues farmed from social media. Darkly funny, but Robert doesn’t have the stomach for laughter. SDN’s investors are probably salivating over this whole mess, speculating miles away in clean, safe little boardrooms.
Robert wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find out the corporate jackoffs have been having drinks while discussing what today will mean for the company stock prices. The number of lives that were saved outpaces the last 6 months combined. Response times were the fastest they’ve ever been. Despite the absolute shit show that kicked it off, SDN has never looked quite this competent.
Yay, number go up—and over a mountain of human suffering. What else is new?
“Sounds like our choices are SDN’s cells or Villain Supermax,” Robert says. Mandy won’t look him in the eye. They never got around to discussing what she wanted to this morning, and he’s not sure he has the fortitude left for another minute of work-related conversation.
“This is bullshit,” Janelle hisses. “Our friends got targeted today because they have families. They wanted to trap and kill us. These were hits. Sloppy ones, but make no mistake, the goal was to take us out. However they could.”
“All the more reason to stay here,” Mandy says, quieter. No. Not Mandy. Blonde Blazer, face of the company and champion of corporate lingo. It’s a diplomatic answer. “You’ll be safest here.”
Safe is starting to look pretty damn relative.
“Get some rest. We’ll talk about it when everyone’s recovered and less on edge,” Robert urges. It takes the heat off Mandy, redirects it, sending his people filing out of the rec room. Much as he feels that the team has every right to be furious, it’s not Mandy’s choice, just her shitty job to deliver the news. Robert takes another swig as he pushes off the wall. He’s sick of the news. Off. Click. Done. The remote clatters onto the coffee table as he tosses it aside.
Mandy stands slowly, shifting her weight from foot to foot while she picks up her beer in a white knuckle grip. Beef perks up as Robert ruffles him behind the ears, needing something other than the view of Mandy twisting over the guilt she’s transparently suffering.
“I’m—I’m sorry about this… Robert.”
Sorry. He presses his lips tightly together, biting back the urge to admonish her for it. Her sorry sounds like a cheap, five letter plea to be comforted. Robert’s long since moved on from that. It wasn’t working. Wasn’t… Wasn’t right. He was too bitter, the imbalance in power between them too obvious, the chemistry too fleeting, frequently buried beneath a mountain of disagreement on a fundamental level about how he should feel about the contract she pitched him when he was extremely vulnerable and drunk.
He’s not bitter, not resentful, but he’s also not her hero.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Robert says. “But you’re gonna have to give everyone a wide berth for a while. These guys aren’t like the other heroes on SDN’s roster. You know that. And frankly, neither am I. You know that, too.”
He finishes his beer and scoops Beef up into his arms before he finally turns to face her. She’s pale and her hair is a mess. Bloodshot eyes, bleeding mascara, chapped lips. She’s never looked so frail. But she isn’t frail. That’s what Robert knows.
She’s ruthless when she needs to be. And sometimes when she doesn’t.
“I—” a false start. She chews her lower lip and looks away. “Yeah.”
Mandy knocks back the beer, chugging so hard she chokes and coughs, but it’s oddly restrained and composed, even when she wipes the back of her hand over her mouth. As she sets the bottle on the coffee table, Robert spots a shine in her eyes. Wet, glistening frustration.
She fought for them. For the Pheonix Program. That’s why Robert hasn’t held the underhanded deal with the devil he’s found himself ensnared in against her. Her relationship to the program has been complicated from the start, she’s made some shitty decisions, but Mandy cares about restorative justice. She knows incarceration will never solve the problems society faces. Robert knows her heart is in the right place. Too bad her ankle is chained to this bullshit, Save-For-Pay corporation.
And she chained Robert to it right beside her.
“Go.” He smiles, if only to give her some reprieve. It’s all he can muster. “You need rest, too. I’m gonna wait up for Flambae, catch him up to speed. He should be back soon.”
Mandy nods and pivots toward the door, then hesitates.
“This morning,” she says, sounding unnervingly meek. “I was going to tell you that Corporate is backfilling your dispatching role. They want to move you to DTLA. They want a new flagship hero at the main branch. And they picked you.”
According to Robert’s phone, the sun is coming up. He’s been awake for over twenty-four hours now. It didn’t feel right, leaving it to someone else. After how today went, it’s the least Robert can do. He should be the one to stay up and wait. The one to break the bad news and take the brunt of Chad’s anger. He has an apology to give, too. There wasn’t time during the day. The quiet that’s settled after the storm feels just as dangerous, but it really can’t wait.
And so there Robert is, in a threadbare Talking Heads t-shirt he’d had in his gym bag and a pair of heinous, but soft SDN branded sweats, watching his phone while his eyes turn to sandpaper.
Access to the dormitory requires decontamination to limit possible airborne contagions or unwanted particulates from entering the self-contained life support system used on the Sub-Levels. It’s unpleasant but a wise precaution so as not to tax air filtration unnecessarily. Even more so when there’s a pink dust getting thrown around that makes supers even more dangerous and horny than they usually are.
That’s where Chad’s tracking dot is. Decontamination. Fifteen feet away behind a steel door and plastic curtain. The big yellow sign above the door is lit.
[DECONTAMINATION IN PROGRESS]
Chad was at it longer and more consistently than anyone else on the team. It was a narrow margin, but notable after nineteen hours of total nonstop action. For a guy who liked to call Robert a work-a-holic with no life, it was hard to watch Chad refuse to take a single moment to breathe. His powers burn through calories like tissue paper when he’s going hard in the field, and that’s what worried Robert the most as he’d watched Chad’s tracking signal close in on SDN.
Chad was moving slow, conserving energy, and focusing on getting back, but it felt like tempting fate to listen to the wind rush past his comms and know Chad was still burning. His more laid back flight gave Robert plenty of time to tell Chad what he was coming back to. Lockdown, the involvement of the Federal Hero Commission, the relocation of hero families, the info leak being treated like there might be a mole among them, and the threat of prison time for non-compliance with protocol.
There wasn’t a lot of back and forth, it was more Robert talking at Chad. He chalked up the silence on the line to Chad taking the time to process so much bad news all at once. There’s no telling what shape their walking fireball will be in once he’s through decontamination.
Soon.
Robert waits in a hard, plastic chair, turning a thin keycard over and over and over in his hand. It has Flambae’s headshot, his hero name, and his dormitory number on it. No matter how it feels, the lockdown is a logical measure to take. With a threat level as high as they saw today, it made sense to ensure as much security and safety as possible. A single lost hero could be devastating if there were going to be more days like yesterday. Does Chad see that? Agree with it? Robert’s skin crawls and crawls and crawls. He turns the keycard over again.
For all that SDN doesn’t do to truly support its heroes, it does protect its investments.
They’ve invested millions in Robert. There was always going to be a catch, he’d known that, but he’d been willing to do whatever he had to. At the time, the thought of fading into obscurity, buried under medical debt he’s still paying off, sounded worse than death. He was supposed to die in the suit. Now, he’s facing something worse than death.
Losing everything.
The sign above goes dark and the big metal door hisses on its track as it slides open. The plastic curtain in front of Robert crackles as it’s pulled back. They’re on Sub-Level 1. The sounds from the quarantine ward down the hall are distant but constant
It’s cold down here. Dim. Impersonal. The sun is rising outside but the only light they have is harsh, cold, and artificial. Chad looks like hell. Wet hair, dark circles, hollowed out cheeks, his every step an obvious, trudging agony.
“Hey,” Robert says as Chad’s eyes land on him. His expression is drawn with reservation rather than the usual recalcitrance, which doesn’t feel like a good thing.
“Hay is for horses,” Chad replies. “Last I checked, you’re an ass.”
Robert’s face pulls, he can feel his grimacing smile like a second headache. Everything hurts. Everything is exhausted.
“I thought I was a bitch?”
“Who says you can’t be a bitch of an ass,” Chad mutters with a half shrug.
“I think there’s a term for that. Bitchass. If I remember correctly.”
Chad chuffs and cracks the littlest bit, his expression relaxing as makes his way closer. Robert knees audibly snap as he stands to meet him. It’s embarrassingly loud in the steel hallway, but the way Chad’s nose wrinkles and he rakes his incredulous gaze over Robert is a welcome dose of normalcy. Robert has to tilt his head back to look Chad in the eye, but his own immediately start watering with a fresh blossom of pain through his skull. He sniffs and shakes it off, clears his throat.
It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is just so fucking fine.
“How’s your family?” Robert asks. Chad’s eyes narrow, then dart away.
Ah. Still mad. Got it.
“Scared,” Chad snaps. Robert frowns and waits. A moment later, Chad’s shoulders drop and his anger wanes. “Safe, for now. I helped them pack and got them out of the city. They headed to Reno. My brother-in-law has family out there.”
Robert half-expected Chad to tell him to fuck off, dig a sharp stick into a soft place, deflect with further insults, any kind of confrontation he had the energy for. Not receiving his ire leaves Robert stranded in the purgatory between uncertainty and relief. He struggles for his next breath, chest compressed, throat raw. Isha’s about eight, right? She must’ve been terrified. He looks anywhere else, unable to handle just how defeated Chad appears to be.
“Good,” Robert croaks. “That’s good. I’m glad you got them out. Guess that explains why it took you so long to get back.”
Chad says nothing. He just stands there and stares at Robert so intently it’s like a tangible presence rubbing up against him. Robert braves another look, eyes lifting and flitting across Chad’s weary frame, ultimately landing on his face. He’s wearing the expression of a man trying to make sense of a complex equation and is pissed he has to in the first place. His nostrils flare around a hard sigh, steam curling out with the sudden rush of air, reminiscent of a cartoon bull staring down a matador. Robert doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush it. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that Chad needs extra time to tangle with his feelings. He needs the patience he struggles to give. Robert has that to spare.
Chad looks away, jaw flexing, lips pressing together, tonguing at his teeth behind them, one in particular. A smooth veneer. Robert’s throat shrinks around his next swallow.
More time. That’s what he needs. And you’re running out of it. DTLA. They want you to move to DTLA and then how will you fix it?
“Here.” Robert offers out the keycard between two fingers. “It’s for the dorm. You, me, Vic, Herm, Colm, and Katon are in one, Alice, Janelle, and Mal are in another, sharing with a couple heroes from other teams. Golem is in a single unit for over-sized heroes… But we’re all on the same side of Sub-Level 4. I waited up to show you where it is.”
Chad glares down at the keycard, but takes it off Robert’s hand.
“Dividing us by gender. Typical. No consideration for how much misery being stuck in a tin can with The Boys will cause me,” Chad says. He rolls his eyes as he shoves the keycard into the pocket of his SDN issued sweats.
“Could be worse. We could have bunk beds.” The mere suggestion has Chad recoiling like Robert just pissed on his shoes. It’s worthy of a quiet chuckle. “The dorms aren’t too bad. Separate rooms with keypad locks. Kinda like cabins on a ship. Little—showers and toilets and all that. Common area’s got a kitchenette and cable TV, because apparently it’s still 2002. But hey. If we’re quiet about it, maybe we can get a keg past the RA and throw a party.”
Chad’s laugh is a single puff of air, paired with a shake of his head. Robert’ll take it.
“Yes, I can see it now. Keg stands and blow. VH1 on the TV at full volume. Our wet noodle boy spewing all over our tiny prison block, filling the recycled air with beer sweat and mildew. Is that what college was like? I feel like I’m not missing much.”
“I wouldn’t know. I smoked pot with sociology majors and dropped out my sophomore year. Never went to any big parties. Also, I don’t think VH1 still exists.”
“You did not smoke fucking pot there’s no way. You’re such a little—fucking boy scout.”
Robert shrugs, finding a smile for the first time in hours.
“Who says I can’t be a pot smoking boy scout? C’mon. You look like you’re ready to crash here in the hallway and I never got my ‘lifting heavy objects’ badge.”
Robert turns to lead the way deeper into the maze of underground halls but for some reason his arm is lagging behind. He blinks, glances down, and sees Chad’s broad grasp wrapped around his elbow. His tug to turn Robert back around is surprisingly gentle. Robert’s breath stalls in his chest. Chad’s expression contorts like he’s trying to grit his teeth through a particularly painful shit.
“Everything alright?” Robert asks.
“I’msorry,” Chad blurts in a rush of air that leaves him deflated, spine bowed and shoulders sagging, fingers loosening their grip on Robert’s arm. His face grows red, highlighting how pale and worn Chad has grown since the last time they were face to face almost 24 hours ago.
“You’re sorry,” Robert echoes, not because he misheard, but because it seems so out of place. What could Chad possibly--
“About what I said,” Chad huffs. “My therapist says I should try to—do this whole… Making amends thing… When I’m a dick. So. Yeah. I’m sorry I said that stuff about your family being dead.”
“Oh.” Huh. “Yeah, I… Thanks. Apology accepted.”
Chad’s grip slips down Robert’s forearm and lingers just enough to be noticable before it drops away. Was there more he wanted to say? Chad’s a hard man to read half the time, prone to extremes of blatantly obvious or painfully impenetrable. It leaves Robert off-kilter more often than not, never quite knowing where they stand. They’re better than they used to be. Less open hostility was a natural progression, of course, but there’s still tension. History that’s never been revisited or hashed out has a tendency to hang around and quietly haunt relationships.
Robert’s kind of sick of being haunted.
“I’m sorry, too,” Robert says. “For snapping like that.”
“You should be,” Chad huff, so quick on the draw he barely waits for Robert to finish his sentence. Robert smiles and jerks his head toward the elevator bay.
“You can rake me over the coals after we get some sleep.”
Chad grumbles but doesn’t protest. He follows Robert to the elevators, and they descend into the underbelly of SDN in barely uncomfortable silence.