Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Eyes

I've always thought my power was more of a curse — a cruel joke of fate.

Every power requires effort, practice, focus. But mine is truly a paradox: I can become invisible only by holding my breath, and I've suffered from asthma for as long as I can remember.

Ironic, isn't it? A girl abandoned at birth, neglected by the American foster system, fundamentally a nobody, is given the power to disappear. Truth is, most of the time, I don't even need to hold my breath to feel invisible to others.

I was shuffled through so many foster families that I've lost count. But I can still hear one of my "mothers" telling me there are two kinds of people with powers: those who have them for good, and those who have them for evil. She didn't need to finish the sentence for me to understand which category I fell into.

It can't be said, however, that my abilities haven't been extremely useful outside of crime: every time I had to escape being beaten as a child, every time I managed to feed myself after days on the streets by stealing food. I must admit, though, I don't remember ever using my invisibility to do good for anyone other than myself.

"Good" was a luxury I couldn't afford. Survival wasn't noble. It was instinct.

This is the thought, the nagging doubt, that crept into my mind as I looked at that SDN flyer: "You're a criminal, but do you have what it takes to be a hero? Contact us."

The Superhero Dispatch Network has kicked most people I affiliated with to the curb — but not me: I never let myself be found. Still, I'm sure they have my face and my name in some neat little database.

Something happened to me as I looked into those hazel eyes and the thousand emotions running through them: fear, realization, despair, determination not to give up, yet understanding that there were no other options. I don't think I could ever forget them. That said, it didn't stop me from planting a bomb on the heap of metal that Mecha‑Man had become, just a couple of hours before I read that pamphlet.

I kept telling myself it was for a good cause, but I know the truth: I did it for me.

Joining Shroud's team was a choice born of necessity. I couldn't be strong, couldn't master my ability, while struggling for every breath. Insurance? Money? I had neither. I'd seen what Shroud could do — enhancements for anyone who worked for him.

I'll never forget my first breath after the operation, or the first time I stayed invisible for hours. Surgery was excruciatingly painful, but I'd never felt better. I should have known that leaving his team would mean losing it all.

I read that flyer over and over, cigarette hanging off my lips, asking myself why I was even considering it. Superhero? Me? Not a chance. Yet, I was sure the job came with its perks: no superhero can survive without good insurance. When I walked into the SDN building the morning after, I realized that everyone must have thought the same, considering the amount of known faces filling the whole lobby.

Maybe my foster mother wasn't so wrong that one time: how can a person that literally has a huge bat head be ever considered a superhero? Murderers, thieves, liars, abusers—they all sat casually, chatting by the coffee machine. I wondered if they'd come for my same reasons, or if they actually meant to be better.

Can you just go from thinking like a bad person to becoming a hero? Can your violence turn to goodness? Can you ever turn from being selfish to being selfless? I wasn't even sure I could do that. If I wanted that. If I deserved it.

After a shitty interview with Mr. Nobody and a psychological evaluation, I got my invitation: a spot on a new, experimental team of reformed villains, a decent contract, and a weekly allowance that would let me live semi-decently. "My powers could come in handy," they said —it's ironic how those were the exact words Shroud used barely a year earlier.

On a brighter note, within a couple of weeks I found myself with the keys of my first apartment — shared, of course, but with a room that was all mine — in a decent enough neighborhood, my belly full and some extra coins to spare. On the other hand, learning how to do things again after having been at my best capacity was my image of hell, but then again, that's what you get for trying not to be an asshole.

Most of the team I'd met at least once. Some I'd worked with before. The rest I'd at least heard of. I wasn't excited about anyone—when was I ever? — but at least I knew who I might need to watch. Another good side of my power: being able to see people, not for who they show themselves to be, but rather how they are when they think no one is watching.

It took us weeks to actually be put into action, which, in hindsight, was probably a good thing—my asthma was at its absolute worst. The first days were almost entirely orientation. The briefings droned on about threats, civilians, chain of command—like they'd just invented human morality for the first time.

Don't die. Don't get anyone else killed. Don't screw up. That was the version they were filing away silently. Everything else? Details. And details were exhausting.

The rest of the first week was what they called "team bonding," which might have been the most pathetic exercise of my life. How could anyone expect a bunch of skunk criminals to sit in a room, talk about life experiences, and suddenly bond? In a way, it worked—but not how they intended. Every conversation somehow ended with missing parents, kill counts, or a fistfight waiting to happen.

SDN hadn't considered that being a villain wasn't exactly a shared hobby: there were gangs, lone wolves, people everyone hated. Villains don't only target civilians—they prey on each other too. Some of the people in that room had fought each other in the past, with proud winners and sore losers still stewing. In short, it was a recipe for disaster.

Then there was our authority: Blonde Blazer. Everyone knew her, and she had kicked countless asses. There was something about her that made my teeth grit; I couldn't quite pinpoint it. No pity. No judgment. Just that infuriating smile. Fake, maybe—but maybe actually perfect. That's what made it unbearable.

Second week was all about tech. Screens blinked red and blue as we learned about drones and surveillance software we were never actually meant to use. Still, it beat sharing trauma stories with a bat, a dwarf, and a walking pile of mud.

Then, slowly, they started sending us out for dumb errands — recovering cats from trees, helping grannies cross the street. They said it was temporary, that they just needed to find us a "good dispatcher." Translation: someone desperate enough to work with a bunch of lost causes.

A couple of months later, word spread that an interview was taking place. I thought it'd be fun to sit in, to see who they were trying to stick with us. That was true, right up until Blazer caught me in the room. I didn't waste time on apologies or excuses. I couldn't. Because all I could do was stare at the man sitting across from her.

Where have I seen those eyes?

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Jelly

Realization shot me right in the face.

Of course. That mask. Those haunted eyes.

Two months had passed, and yet those eyes still lived rent-free in my nightmares, curled up in the dark corners of my guilt like squatters who refused to leave. What a sick, sick joke of destiny — the person I’d ruined and almost killed was now supposed to become my dispatcher. My handler. The guy guiding me through my so-called redemption arc.

Fuck life.

He looked smaller than I remembered — imagined, really, considering I'd only seen his masked face. Not physically: he’d always been a normie in a tin can after all, and there's no need for muscles for that, but there was something fragile about him now, something compressed. He was talking to Blonde Blazer, but their voices blurred together, just meaningless syllables bouncing around the conference room while my entire brain short-circuited between run and don’t pick him. Pick anyone else but him.

Option two failed instantly. Blazer handed him the dispatcher uniform, and he took it without hesitation. Just… accepted it. As if stepping into a job with me was the most normal thing on Earth.

As he started peeling himself out of that Mecha-guy suit, I saw the bruises. Old ones, new ones, layered like a goddamn geological timeline of his mistakes. More scars than skin. And most of them were probably my fault.

Could I really stay here? Could I look this man in the face every day knowing what I’d done?

Probably. I’d survive it. Wouldn’t feel nice, though.

When I finally forced myself to focus on their conversation, I noticed it — a weird tension between the two. And sure, Blonde Blazer looked like perfection incarnate; even the air seemed to straighten its posture around her. But I wasn’t worried about him being attracted to her. No. It was her I was concerned about. Her staring down at that short, cranky little mess of a man like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve.

Unfortunately, I had been holding my breath for way too long: my lungs started to revolt. I tried to make a subtle escape toward the door, but the universe hates me, so I slammed right into it.

Locked.

Who the hell locks a conference room door?

Visibility snapped back over me like an embarrassing magic trick. Blonde Blazer’s disappointed stare cut through me, but honestly? I didn’t even try to care.

“So, uh, you two fuck or what,” I asked, sucking on my inhaler to recover from my invisibility stunt and trying very hard to redirect the attention away from the idiot who just face-checked a door.

An idiot who’d planted a bomb on that guy's back merely two months before.

“We kissed, but it was very innocent,” he said. Completely flat. Like he was reporting the weather. Like this was the most normal update in the world.

“Like, cheek innocent or tip of your dick innocent?”

He doesn’t even look at me.

Good.

Not like I want to look at those eyes either.

The bell above the door jingles as I step into the donut shop, the kind of place that probably smelled like warm sugar and old coffee before it turned into a crime scene. Now it just smells… stale. Chairs are overturned like someone tried to rearrange the whole room with a tornado, and right in the middle of it all lies an old man stretched on the floor. The second I see him, my stomach drops. No more helping elderly women cross the street, I guess.

A faint metallic taste creeps into my mouth — adrenaline, guilt, and the stale air mixing into something sharp and unpleasant.

“I didn’t do this,” I say, still standing in the doorway, knowing that Robert is watching from his old-ass computer.

Right on cue, his voice crackles in my ear. “Right. I feel like you’ve said that a lot in your life. What happened?”

“This is how I found the place.” I step around a chair lying belly-up on the tiles and move closer to the body. “The old man who I assume is Granny was laying here when I walked in.” My mind wanders for half a second while I check my surroundings. The conversation with him already feels too heavy, and I need to switch topic.

“Hey, what’s your favorite donut?” I ask, staring at the counter.

“Can you just focus? What, you got ADHD or something?”

“Yes, fucker. Is it that obvious?” Not that I'd ever had the money to actually get diagnosed, but the symptoms matched on all those websites.

“Yes, fucker, it is.”

Cool, then. It’s settled.

“Well, then answer the question. I don’t wanna sit here and fixate on it when we’re supposed to be doing… whatever. Superhero shit.”

There’s a sigh in my ear. “A jelly donut, okay? I mean I will eat anything if you pack enough jelly in it.”

“So, you’re into squirters. You like that gush in your throat. Cool okay. Say less.”

“Yup. You got me. I love gobbling on hot sloppy donuts. Love ’em from my mouth to my butt…” He pauses, then his voice gets more distant. “What’s up? First day…”

I snort.

The tension in my shoulders loosens for half a second — stupid jokes are easier than acknowledging the unconscious man at my feet.

“Thanks for asking me that so you could get all your funny funny jokes out. Now can we maybe address the body in the room?”

I crouch beside the old man, leaning in.

“What’re you doing?” Robert asks. “You gonna poke it with a stick? Check his pulse.”

I press two fingers to the man’s neck. A faint thump. “Granny is alive. Thank Christ. I didn’t want to have to lip this guy. So, can I go now?”

“No. This isn’t a wellness check, it’s a B&E. Let’s figure out if the perp is still there.”

“Perp? B&E? Okay, Lieutenant… Fuck, I can’t think of a character from a cop show.”

“Cool, well why don’t you stay put and work on that while I get another camera up online.”

I blink. “Dan? Lieutenant Dan? Is that… is that a thing?”

“Yes, I am the legless Vietnam vet from Forrest Gump. Sick burn.”

Time drags. The donut shop hums under the fluorescent lights like it’s exhausted too. The air feels thick, like the room is holding its breath with me.

“Hey, what’s taking so long,” I mutter. “Are you sleeping or something or are you just bad at your job?”

He doesn't respond. That’s when I hear something shift in the kitchen.

A second later Robert’s voice returns, distracted. “Alright, what do we got here,” he mutters, clicking at something on his keyboard.

“Perp? B&E? Who are you, Lieutenant Dan?” I joke, even though a chilling feeling runs down the back of my neck. There’s nothing funny about any of this.

“Hey, shut up for a sec. You’re not alone.”

Every muscle in my body tightens. The air changes. My heartbeat thuds so loudly I can almost hear it over the static in my earpiece.

“He’s coming your way. Armed. You need to disappear.”

“Why are you whispering, you idiot? You’re in my ear,” I whisper back, already starting to my breath.

“Go! Now!”

The villain bursts through the doorway in a clatter of metal. His arms are monstrous, completely swallowed by heavy Shroud-tech gun devices. The guy’s name is Lightningstruck or some shit — I’d met him before he started working for him. Amazing how much someone can downgrade their life in a couple of months.

I duck behind the counter, fingers closing around the nearest object: a stainless steel tray stacked with donuts. Perfect. I leap up and hurl it at him. Frosted circles explode across the room. One of his oversized arm-guns clatters to the ground, sparking.

“Goddamit. This bitch is a gusher,” I comment, watching jelly mix with his blood in a gross strawberry smoothie situation.

“Invisigal, he’s still armed. Be careful.”

“I got this, Lieutenant Dan.”

Before I can even finish the sentence, he fires. I lift the tray just in time; the blast smacks into it with a sharp metallic ring. I flick myself invisible and dive to the side. Then—

“Nevermind!”

He’s stronger than he looks. But I’m faster. I drop invisibility just long enough to slam a fist into his jaw. He goes flying over the counter. I can’t keep it up much longer; my breath shortens with every second, lungs squeezing tight.

“Got anymore great advice?” I gasp.

“Disappear!”

As if it's easy.

He fires wildly. I move, but he tracks me. He’s getting too close. That makes no sense — until I feel something wet on my cheek.

Blood.

His blood. He can’t see me, but he can see the bright red splashes marking everywhere I go.

His blaster sputters as he charges it. I grab a full coffee container and fling it; hot liquid splashes across his torso. I hit him again, but my lungs are clawing at me, wheezing harder than a grandma’s old fan.

I yank out my inhaler. The moment I inhale, visibility snaps back on. He lunges, slamming me into the counter hard enough that the world fuzzes. My teeth rattle, and for a moment, I swear my vision pixelates like a broken TV.

“Gotcha now, Invisibitch.”

Right. That was still my name back when I met him.

Somewhere in the ringing haze, Robert’s voice cuts through. “Invisigal, just hold him off while I find a way to help.”

I try. My arms shake. The villain’s mechanical gauntlet crackles above me.

“I can use the overhead sprinklers to short out his blaster,” Robert says. A heartbeat later the sprinklers erupt, raining down water that sizzles across the villain’s tech. Sparks fly. A tiny flicker of hope kicks in my ribs.

“Fuck!” Lightningfucker yells.

I seize the moment, swinging again even though I’m fully visible and out of breath. He punches me square in the face. Pain bursts white. My inhaler slips from my pocket and skitters across the wet floor.

I reach for it, but then a gunshot cracks through the shop. For a second I freeze, convinced I’ve been hit. But then I see him.

Granny. Standing with trembling hands and a gun far too powerful for someone his age.

“Granny, I don’t think you know how to use that thing, so why don’t you—”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Whoa whoa whoa," I respond, realizing the situation is even more fucked up than it already was, "I’m one of the good guys!”

The old man glares at me, disgusted, and I see in his eyes he has zero doubts. “You? Yeah right. Don’t fuck with me, okay? Nobody fucks Granny! Nobody fucks with Granny!”

I mean… he’s not wrong. I wouldn’t believe me either.

“Invisigal, stay calm,” Robert urges.

“Great fucking advice, Lieutenant Dan,” is all I manage.

“Okay, disarm Granny before that thing blows his face off. It looks super unstable.”

What the actual fuck?

A Shroud punk is literally next to me with a partially active arm-gun, and my priority should be disarming this explosive senior citizen? Even if I hadn’t put that bomb on his suit, Robert wouldn’t have lasted long as a superhero with this level of tactical genius.

“Oh, so your expert opinion is to attack the client? Fuck that. I did things your way and it turned to shit. I’m taking out the guy who’s been trying to kill me.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion. It’s a direct—”

I vanish mid-sentence and launch myself at the villain. My punch connects — but his arm fires.

The shot goes straight past me.

Toward Granny.

Then there’s a boom, and there's smoke.

“Hey Invisigal, are you okay? Are you okay? Come in!” Robert’s voice hits my ear, but I can’t get myself to respond.

I cough. The world echoes weirdly in my skull. Smoke rolls across the tiles. Granny lies on the floor again, and his right arm… the skin is charred, blistered, burnt to hell. The smell hits me next — burnt sugar, gunpowder, and something sickeningly human.

“I’m fine… but this guy… less fine.”

I look straight into the security camera. The air smells like bacon. It’s gross. And also… kinda not bad? Probably means I’m concussed.

“Yeah, great, okay,” Robert says. “Where’s the perp?”

I catch the kitchen door closing in the corner of my eye.

Of course he ran.

I take a step toward it, then stop. The adrenaline drains out, leaving disappointment and exhaustion. And maybe a little shame — I should chase, but my knees feel like they’re made of wet paper.

I'm tired.

When I finally push open the front door, the shop is surrounded by flashing red and blue. Police surge toward me, shouting questions. I brush past one of them with a gentle shove — too tired to deal with explanations.

An EMT wheels Granny toward an ambulance. His eyes are half-open, dazed.

I stand there a second too long. Then I turn away from the crowd and walk off into the siren haze.

Some hero I turned out to be.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Coward

People used to think that going invisible meant slipping away from danger. Like it was easy. Like disappearing was some kind of escape hatch built just for cowards. 

Coward — that word followed me longer than any foster family ever kept me.

I bounced through all those houses like bad mail. The kind of places that smelled like bleach and cold dinners, where the adults barely remembered your name unless they needed someone to blame for something, or when it was time to cash the monthly check. I learned early to keep a bag half-packed and shoes near the window. Just in case.

Sometimes, “just in case” turned into right now.

The first time I turned invisible, I was eight and running from a foster father with a temper and a beer bottle collection he liked to aim at people. I didn’t even know what was happening—my skin just… flickered. Gone. I remember the terror in his face when he couldn’t find me, shouting "Coward" into the dark like that word had claws. 

I spent most of my teens on the streets after that. Invisible when I had to be, visible when I needed food or warmth or just a reminder I still existed. People out there called me a coward too, but it was different — street kids have a way of turning envy into insults. That was around the time that Invisibitch became a thing. 

If they couldn’t vanish to escape cops or assholes or winter, then obviously the girl who could must be scared of everything. They never understood that disappearing wasn’t fear.

It was survival.

Every time someone spat “coward” at me, I felt the same dull thud in my chest. Not because it hurt, but because it felt like a reminder of how small my world had been forced to be. How often I’d had to choose staying alive over staying seen.

And maybe they were right about one thing: visibility had always felt dangerous.

I survived more unseen than most people survive standing in the open. If that makes me a coward, so be it. 

——————————————————————

I will admit, I had to actively search for my balls to show up to the headquarters that afternoon. I know I did what I thought was right — at least in that moment it seemed to be — but then why was there a knot on my throat just thinking about facing the team and him?

When I notice he's in the snack room, I choose to be invisible, just to feel the waters. How mad can he be?

Robert is hunched in front of the vending machine, coaxing Twinkies out of the spiral like they're fragile wildlife. I shouldn't be here. He looks mad. But I force myself to appear anyway.

"Hey."

He jumps so hard the Twinkies burst in his hands, cream splattering like shrapnel. The sound makes my stomach twist. Too close to an explosion. 

"Ah, shit," he mutters.

I lift my chin, leaning on sarcasm because it's the only thing that's stronger than the guilt gnawing through my ribs. "What kind of superhero flinches?"

He goes rigid. Not at the joke — at the reminder. It's in the way his shoulders tense, the way he doesn't turn around. He doesn't even look at me, and it seems it's becoming a theme. He's remembering the years he lived with a target on his back. The years he barely survived.

And the day he didn't survive at all.

He still doesn't look backwards as he stalks toward the table. I follow, even though every instinct screams to vanish again. Disappearing is easy. Staying is the hard part.

"I didn't say which superhero," I mutter. "Chill out."

He sits heavily, anger simmering off him. "If you had people trying to kill you for the last fifteen years, you'd be jumpy too."

The words hit their mark. A perfect shot straight through all the lies I tell myself. Yeah — people had been trying to kill him. And one of them had succeeded in taking everything from him. 

Me. 

I push that thought down, stuffing it somewhere dark and familiar.

"What makes you think my life has been any different?" I retort. "You think growing up surrounded by a bunch of shitbag villains I didn't need to watch my back?"

And the second I say it, something ugly twists in my gut. Because I’m not defending myself — I’m deflecting. I’m dragging out my past like a shield, hoping he doesn’t notice the truth trembling behind it.

Growing up around villains wasn’t gritty or cool. It was claustrophobic. Paranoid. Every room had an exit strategy. Every conversation came with a risk assessment. Sleeping meant keeping one ear open. And trust? That was a luxury for people who didn’t get stabbed in the back — literally — by people they called family.

I learned early that danger wasn’t a moment; it was a lifestyle.

But the real reason the words sting is because Robert isn’t talking about generic danger. He’s talking about the kind of fear that crawls under your skin and lives there. The kind of fear I gave him.

I flick my eyes away, pretending to be annoyed, pretending to be offended, pretending to be anything that isn’t guilty.

He shakes his head, biting back something harsher. He sees through me too easily. He knows real fear. And he can tell when I'm hiding behind mine.

"I can't just disappear, okay?" he says, voice rising. "I actually have to face my problems."

The words slice deeper than he knows, because that's exactly what I do. I vanish when things get too hard. I vanish when things hurt. I vanished after destroying his life. But if I do that, why am I here now? Fully visible? Talking to him? It feels like a punch to my stomach. 

"What the fuck?" I snap.

"You can't just go around—"

Sonar's scream cuts him off, sharp enough to rattle the lights. I genuinely didn't even notice he'd been there the whole time, too. 

Robert flinches again. "Why's he keep screaming?"

"His name's Sonar."

"Yeah, I know what Sonar means."

Sonar burps. "What's up."

I gesture at him. "Then why are you asking why he keeps screaming?"

Robert exhales, rubbing his face. "Uh, she was just explaining your uhm... you know what? Nevermind, good shift." He's not talking to me, he's talking to the rodent. 

Mammal?

Sonar stares at him, then at me. "This guy's weird."

"Yeah, he is," I agree. Then I push forward, because if I stop talking the guilt comes back with claws. "Look, I actually just came by to celebrate the mission going well. Didn't mean to interrupt your little snack. What, do you need it pre-chewed like a little baby bird bitch?"

It's sharper than I intend. Everything today is sharper than I intend, because I know damn well the mission didn't go well. I know I screwed up. I know Granny got hurt because of me. But admitting any of that feels like peeling skin off.

Robert doesn't let me dodge it.

"Look at me," he says, steady, controlled. "You disobeyed a direct order. How can you think it went well? You trashed the place, the suspect got away and you got the client hurt. I don't think when he called us he thought he'd be ending the day wanking it leftie 'cause you turned his other arm into a pork rind."

Ouch.

The words hit dead center. No armor. I deserve every one of them.

But guilt doesn't make me humble. It makes me vicious. It always has.

"Granny would be fine if Granny didn't pick up that fucking thing up in the first place," I spit back. "He's just some dumbass trying to be a hero. And don't fucking say it, I know where you're going."

He doesn't stop.

"Fact of the matter is that shit didn't need to happen. We could have had an outcome where the client doesn't get fired and we get the perp if you had just fucking listened to me. You ask for help, then I — what now?"

Sonar has started blending something behind us like he's trying to obliterate the concept of sound itself.

Robert raises his voice. "I make the calls. Not you."

Something in me cracks. He's right. The worst part is that he's right. And guilt burns hotter than anger, so I twist it into something cruel.

"Here's some advice," I say, leaning forward. "You're right at home behind that desk 'cause you're no hero. You were a nerd playing a videogame in a suit your daddy built. Now, you're a twitch little bitch turtle without its shell. A real hero puts his ass on the line. A real hero can't just press a button to make their problems disappear."

It's low. It's unfair. And it's because I can't stand how much I owe him an apology I'll never give. Yet when it comes out of my mouth and I catch my breath, it feels so extremely wrong.

Robert doesn't flinch this time.

"The suit isn't what made me a superhero," he fires back. "It was how I did my fucking job that made me Mecha Man. Based on what I saw today, you wouldn't last a day as Mecha Man, 'cause there isn't a mech suit in the universe that will keep you from being a selfish fucking asshole."

This time, the cut is even deeper. Not because it's harsh — but because it's true. And because he has no idea how selfish I truly was. How selfish I am.

The guilt is unbearable.

So I choose rage.

I stand so fast the chair screeches, and I slam a kick into it. I disappear mid-motion — glimmering out like a coward — then reappear right beside him, too close, too furious, too desperate to make him hurt as much as I do. I scream with all the frustration I have.

"Feel bad? Good. Fuck you!"

And I punch him in the face.

Because it's easier to hit him than admit I already broke him months ago.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 - Phoenix

Today started on the best note. By which I mean: someone’s getting cut from the team and I’m dead last on the leaderboard.

Ideal.

I think the higher-ups expected this news to inspire us — you know, teamwork, virtue, all that warm fuzzy bullshit. Instead, within the first five minutes of our shift, Sonar ended up zip-tied to a weight rack by Coupé, Flambae “lost” his earpieces thanks to Prism’s light-fingered helpfulness, and Golem expressed his feelings by body-checking every piece of furniture in the office.

So… morale is high.

Me? I slip into an alley like it’s a second skin — narrow, grimy, smelling faintly of piss and despair. Perfect terrain for sabotage. The kind of place where nobody questions the sound of metal scraping concrete.

The moment I step over a puddle of something I pray is just water, Robert crackles into my earpiece.

“What are you doing, Invisigal?”

I don’t hesitate. “Not getting cut.”

My hands already know the drill. I loop a rusted chain around a dented industrial bin — the type that once belonged to a restaurant before health regulations gave up — and drag the chain across the alley, tensioning it like a tripwire for idiots. My specialty.

Metal digs into my palms, but whatever. Losing is worse.

“It’s like you said,” I add, knotting the chain around the dumpster’s handle. “The way to win this leaderboard thing is to not lose, right?”

“That’s… not what I said.”

“Mm. Pretty sure it is.”

It isn’t, but arguing with him keeps my brain from spiraling about how close the chopping block’s getting. And I hate when he’s right.

I duck behind the corner, pull out my inhaler, take one hit — just enough to corral the adrenaline buzzing under my skin. I barely pocket it before a familiar crackle of electricity snaps through the alley.

Lightningcock bolts across the opening, glowing with pure panic. Can’t blame him. Malevola drops out of a portal right behind him like she’s stepping out of her own personal nightmare closet.

Perfect timing.

I wait until her boots hit the pavement. Wait until she’s fully committed.

Then I yank the chain.

She faceplants so hard the asphalt probably takes psychic damage.

“Bitch!”

I grin. For a second. Because she’s already scrambling up, eyes blazing, sword out. The blade sweeps toward my ribs — and I vanish before she can get poetic with my organs.

Robert chooses that moment to chime in. “Yeah, so the perp you let outrun you? That was Lightningstruck. This is the second time he’s gotten away from you.”

Of course he brings that up now. I flicker visible just long enough to glare at the nearest street camera like I’m staring directly into his smug soul.

“No shit? That’s crazy.”

Malevola does not appreciate the tone. She lunges again, sword slicing past my cheek close enough that I feel the air split.

Fucking she-devil.

“Whoa! Bro! Chill out!”

I twist, duck, flicker in and out, weaving between swings that get way too personal way too fast. Her blade kisses empty space where my shoulder used to be.

All this because none of us want to get cut.

And maybe — maybe — because tripping her was genuinely hilarious.

All this, because I’d rather see him storming free than fail to be the one who catches him.

——————————————————————

I’m already in the room when everyone else starts piling in — just not visibly.
Invisibility isn’t subtle anymore; it feels like draping a shadow over myself, a borrowed quiet that lets me watch without participating. A cheat code for avoidance. Meanwhile, the entire Z-Team argues like toddlers hopped up on Capri Suns.

From my corner by the wall, I watch the chaos unfold. 

Observing is my forte. 

Judging, too. 

Not that I care about actually joining in. Joining in means exposure, it means that I care, which I don't. Joining in means being reminded that I’m the one at the bottom of the leaderboard — a fact currently tattooed across my entire skull.

Sonar’s the first to complain — shocking no one. “Anyone else thinks this is a waste of time?”

Punch Up cuts in. “Yeah, I know.”

Sonar throws his hands up. “Like what are we doing here? What the fuck is the point of this?”

The point, dear idiots, is that one of us is getting sliced from the roster like expired lunch meat. But I keep that thought tucked safely behind my teeth.

Across the room, Coupé spins her blade with surgeon-level indifference. Flambae sets a lazy flame on his fist and stares at it like it’s a TV screen he can’t bother to change. They’re not worried. Or maybe they’re pretending. Most of them are too arrogant to imagine themselves being the one cut.

Meanwhile, I’m imagining exactly that. Over and over. Every time I blink.

Punch Up groans. “I’d rather be somewhere else.”

A portal opens, and Malevola drops in, pissed as usual. Probably my fault. Whatever. She always looks like someone just insulted her eyeliner, so it’s hard to tell.

Robert steps in, trying to salvage order. “Can everybody take a seat so we can get started?”

Nobody listens. They never do. He’s not respected here. Not really. 

“Hey, can I get your attention please? I would like to get star—”

The door slams as Golem barges through, body-checking Robert into the floor.

Flambae snorts. “Woah, looks like this motherfucker’s got the power of flight, way to go.”

The room erupts into laughter.

I watch Robert climb back up, jaw tight but shoulders steady. If that were me, I’d still be on the floor, pretending it didn’t hurt, pretending it didn’t embarrass me. He doesn’t pretend. He just persists.

It’s annoying. And… admirable?

Gross. I hate that thought as soon as I have it.

“Bobby boy!” Sonar yells. “Watch where you’re going!”

Robert grits his teeth, grabs a chair, and flings it at Golem. It sticks to his torso like he’s a magnet.

“I understand you’re big, but you need to be considerate of the people around you.”

For once, silence. Looks like they’re impressed. Rare sight.

Blazer, Chase, and a dog wander in. Now it’s serious. Shocker.

“What’s… going on?” Blazer asks.

Robert, calm as ever: “Hmm? Oh, I offered ’em a seat.”

Somehow, miraculously, everyone sits. Surely the blonde charm had a part in it.
People like her on instinct. I don’t. Or maybe I do, but I refuse to admit it. Even to myself.

Robert finally begins.

“So, as you already know, by the end of today one of you will be cut from the Z-Team.”

My stomach dips. I pretend it doesn’t.

“This is bullshit,” Malevola snaps.

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“Cut me from a job I didn’t want in the first place,” Punch Up mutters.

Prism jumps in. “Miss Blazer, maybe if you gave us a dispatcher who knew what they were doin’, you wouldn’t have to throw no one out?”

Robert crosses his arms. “Hey, Nikki Mirage. I’m standing right here. You can talk to me.”

The bickering flares up again, messy and pointless. I watch it from my seat in the shadows, feeling like a ghost haunting a place that never wanted me alive in the first place.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, bitch. Which weak ass superhero team did you come from? Fuckin’ Geek Squad?”

“Doesn’t matter where I’m from, Cardi C. What matters is I’m here to figure out who stays and who goes.”

I have to admit, I don’t particularly like the guy. But he’s got jokes. And he’s not afraid of any of us. That part gets under my skin more than the jokes do.

Punch Up gestures at Prism. “Yeah, chill out, Lady Haha. Let the man talk.”

Prism grabs a blade from Coupé’s stash, jumps on the table, and presses it to Punch Up’s throat.

Chaos is the default setting here. And somehow, I’m the one at the bottom of the leaderboard. How is that fair?

Finally, Robert recovers the room. “Oooookay, I’ll make this quick.”

His voice cuts through the room cleanly, sharper than any blade Coupé owns. Immediately, everyone looks. Even me. I hate that he can command a room like that.
I hate that I’m not immune to it.

“Most people would look around this room and see a bunch of villains… But that’s not what I see… What I see is… potential.”

The word hits something in me that I don’t want touched.

Potential.

That cursed, glittering, poisonous lie all those social workers fed me growing up, especially when they found me after I ran. They always said I had it. They never said I’d waste it.

I watch him pacing, shoulders confident. And for the first time, real curiosity flickers up — not snarky curiosity, not morbid curiosity, but… hopeful curiosity.

I quash it immediately. Hope is expensive, and I can’t afford it.

He keeps talking, and damn him, the speech is good. Too good. Good enough that I stop hovering by the wall and actually take a seat, as if sitting might anchor me before I float into delusion.

“It’s what they whisper when you leave the room. ‘Oh, so-and-so had so much potential.’”

Yeah. I know that whisper.

"It follows you forever. I’m here to help you lift the curse of potential, by getting you to fucking do something with it. You’re all part of the Phoenix Program. Any of you know what a phoenix is?” 

The room responds with stupid answers. I roll my eyes. Robert continues anyway. 

“The phoenix, according to legend, is a beautiful bird of prey that was so tired of its immortality, it tricked the Sun God into dropping a spark on its nest to set it ablaze, burning it to shit. But instead of dying, the phoenix emerged from ash, reborn. 

All of you, like the phoenix, have set this program ablaze with your bullshit. I’m pushing the dumpster fire away from the building while we figure out if you want to take this seriously. The phoenix symbolizes redemption. It’s what you’re here for. It’s what connects everyone in this room. 

To burn up who you were… to become who you were meant to be.”

By the time he finishes his Dumbledore ass bitch phoenix metaphor, I can’t keep hiding. So I shimmer into visibility.

“Phoenix is also a lame ass band my lame ass roommate listens to.”

It’s defensive. Automatic. One last little spark of control in a room where I have none.

Robert doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re late.”

The thing is — he doesn’t sound mad, just disappointed. It's become a common theme when he talks to me, and it makes me want to throw up. I can’t stand that tone.

“I like that band,” Malevola mutters.

I shrug at her. “You would.”

Then to Robert: “What are you talking about? I was here the whole time. I turn invisible, genius, remember?”

Chase coughs, theatrically. “Bullshit.”

Robert sighs. “Great. Then you know we’re cutting someone, and you, Miss Hot Topic Sale, are at the bottom of the leaderboards. Have a better second shift.”

His eyes meet mine — steady, sharp. And something in my chest twists.

Not because he said it, because I already knew it. 

And hearing it spoken aloud makes it real.

For one humiliating second, I wish invisibility worked on shame too. I wish I could slip into nothingness and stay there. I wish I hadn’t left him that stupid donut yesterday as some idiotic apology for snapping at him — only to punch it immediately afterward because sincerity made my skin crawl. And because he treats me as the asshole I am.

I hate the way he looks at me, like he sees through every sarcastic quip I use as armor. I hate that he might be right about me — about wasted potential. I hate him.

I hate everyone here.

Mostly, I hate myself.

I don’t care that I’m last. I don’t care that no one here gives a single microscopic shit about me — not as a person, not as a teammate, not as anything other than background noise with a power they barely remember I have. I’ve been invisible long before I learned how to make it literal.

And I definitely don’t care about what I overheard yesterday. Robert, Chase, Blazer in her office, acting like they’re judges on some cosmic talent show. 

Blazer thinks that I have potential. She thinks that the others respect me.

Blazer. Of all people.

She’s a walking Pinterest board of positivity, an angelic pick-me girl who performs kindness like it’s her main superpower. All sweet little smiles and encouraging words, floating around like she’s too pure to function. 

I don’t trust a fucking syllable that comes out of that pretty mouth. People like her don’t help outcasts — they study them, pity them, file them away under “projects.” I’ve been that project for too many people already.

And Robert? I don’t know what annoys me more — that he pretends he sees something in us, or that he actually might. I don’t like the way he talks, or the way he looks at me like he’s reading pages I never meant to be written. 

He’s a hero to the bone, polished and confident, the kind of guy who thinks "potential" is a compliment and not a curse people spit behind your back.

Then there’s Chase. I don’t like him either, but at least he’s not full of shit. Not a shining hero fantasy like Robert, not a walking cupcake like Blazer. Just brutally straightforward, unapologetically himself, no speeches about redemption or bird metaphors. 

He didn’t even pretend I had a chance. He just shrugged and basically said I’d be out the door first. 'She's ain't gonna make it.'

And honestly? I respect that.

Because I already knew that.

So you know what? I’m not gonna give them the satisfaction. Not to Robert with his disappointed eyes, not to Blazer with her gentle 'you can do it!' head tilt, not even to Chase with his I-told-you-so stare.

They don’t get to cut me. Because I never cared enough to stay.

I’m out.

Because I said so.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 - Kung-fu Panda

The night feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s because I’m not supposed to be here — in a shitty park meant for toddlers, not washouts. Or maybe it’s because quitting hits different when you’ve spent your whole life pretending you didn’t care about being chosen in the first place.

I thought I'd feel nothing, but I was wrong. 

I sit on the swing, letting it creak under my weight. My boots push against the dirt, making these pathetic little lines in the ground. I take a drag from my cigarette, the smoke curling upward, disappearing faster than I ever could.

Of course he reaches out to me.

Of course he does.

“Invisigal, where are you going?”

I don’t answer. Maybe because I don’t owe him one. Or, maybe, because I’m afraid of the way my voice might crack.

Another inhale. More smoke in my lungs than air.

His voice comes in sharper this time. “Are you smoking in a playground? The fuck’s wrong with you?”

I snort under my breath. There he is. The judgmental golden boy.

“There you go. One more strike against me. You’ve got to get rid of somebody, right? I’m making it easy for you.”

The words come out bitter, but they’re the truth. If I leave first, nobody gets to slam the door in my face. 

He doesn’t let it slide. “No, you’re quitting. You’re not making it easy for me, you’re making it easy for you.”

That hits a nerve. I hate that it hits.

I lean back in the swing, staring at the sky like it might have something helpful etched in it. “You don’t get it. Some people are born to be heroes. I’m not one of them. I tried, it just wasn’t meant to be.”

The chains rattle as I start to swing, lazy, like even gravity is tired of me.

Robert sounds genuinely confused. “Meant to be? What’re you talking about?”

“Blazer? Phenomaman? They have hero powers. Strong, out there for all to see, flying through the sky. Nothing to hide.”

He tries again. “What’s your point?”

I let the swing slow, boots digging into the dirt until I come to a stop. My former foster mother's voice is loud in my head. 

“I have fucking villain powers. I can turn invisible and skulk in the shadows. My powers let me steal shit and watch famous people fuck. Being a villain is my fate. It’s in the fucking stars. In the same way that Blonde Blazer was always meant to be a hero.”

He must know what I mean. The way he looks at her... is so different than the way he looks at me. She's good, she's perfect, she's a hero. And I, I'm me. 

A long silence stretches between us. 

“You make your own destiny…”

I bark out a laugh. Yoda shit. 

“Where’d you get that? Kung Fu Panda?”

“Lion King.”

“Boomer. I think it’s in Trolls 2 also.”

“All fine films with a fine message.”

The worst part is he almost makes me smile.

Almost.

I crush the ember of that feeling with my heel. “You’ve already been a hero, okay? You have no idea what I’m dealing with.”

He can’t. He doesn’t know what it’s like to destroy someone’s mech suit — his mech suit — and then stand in the same room pretending you aren’t the monster who did it.

But he still refuses to pity himself.

“Ah, get outta here. At least you were born with powers. I don’t have shit. So according to your dumbass theory I should be an accountant.”

That gets me. I smirk despite myself.

“You aren’t far off.”

He ignores the jab, keeps pushing, always pushing.

“Fate. Destiny. Not having powers. Seasonal depression. None of these things kept me from being a hero before. And they won’t keep me from being a hero again.”

Then he pauses… and I can hear the grin in his voice before he even says it.

“Oh my god. You wanna talk about fate? That Lightningstruck fuck that’s been on a spree is two blocks from your location. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

I grind the cigarette between my fingers. “I told you. I’m out.”

“You really wanna let this idiot get one over on you a third time?”

He knows exactly where to stab.

“What makes you think it’d be any different?”

“The day’s not done. Get this guy and it could make a difference.”

I roll my eyes so hard I feel a headache coming on. “He stole a roll of pennies out of the cash register at Granny’s. I don’t think he’s moving the needle.”

“He’s about to steal a quarter of a million dollars of jewelry.”

I blink.

“Oh shit. Respect.”

“So go move the needle.”

And I can hear it. The smile. That annoying, genuine, hopeful smile in his voice.

I hesitate. Long enough that the cigarette burns near my fingers. I inhale one last drag, letting the smoke burn down into the parts of me I pretend are numb.

Then he breaks the silence.

“Or are you gonna just sit there and subject kids to second-hand smoke?”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Quiet. Real.

I stand, the swing groaning as it swings behind me. Two kids sit on a bench nearby, staring at me like I’m either a celebrity or a cautionary tale. Probably both.

Robert must sense my idiocy.

“Don’t do it. Don’t fucking give that kid a cigarette.”

I do. That guy has way too much trust in me. 

The kid takes it like he’s been training for this moment his whole life. Blows a perfect smoke ring.

I shrug. “He’s the one I bummed it from. What’s the address?”

And just like that, I’m not out anymore.

Not yet.

——————————————————————

The jewelry store is dark, quiet in that wrong way — like a breath being held. I slip through the door without a sound, invisible before the bell above it can even jingle. Cold air-conditioning brushes over my skin, and I keep myself tight, controlled, silent.

Then I hear it — the crunch of glass, the guttural whoops of idiots doing crimes badly.

Lightningstruck isn’t alone.

He’s got a whole Dollar Store goon squad with him, smashing every glass case like they’re filming a music video on a budget. Jewelry rains down their arms in sparkling cascades. Diamonds, rubies, a tiara I might actually steal later — all shoved into duffel bags.

A security guard sits tied to a chair, unconscious, tape slapped messily across his mouth. His head droops forward. I don’t know if he’s breathing. I hope so. I tell myself it’s not my problem, yet it still wedges itself inside my ribs.

From behind a display case, a girl with dreadlocks scans the room nervously.

“You ain’t worried about a hero crashing the party?”

Lightningstruck doesn’t even look up. “Nah… load that up.”

He’s cocky. Careless. 

I move. Slow. Silent. A shadow becoming a blade. My hand snakes around the dreadlocked girl’s throat from behind — not too hard, not enough to kill, just enough to drag her down into unconsciousness with a muted thud.

One down.

The next one barely has time to gasp before my arm hooks around his neck and cuts off the sound.

Two.

I go methodical, careful with my breaths. The third guy stiffens as my fingers close on his windpipe — he claws at the air, confused, terrified. He collapses silently like I’m death on tiptoe.

Three.

Lightningstruck finally turns, holding some weird overpriced tech grafted onto his arm. He’s expecting his squad to answer him. They don’t.

“Where’s your boy?” he mutters.

He spins around, sees no one. His shoulders tense. He loads that arm-cannon of his with a click-click-klang that sends a shiver up my spine.

Then he realizes.

“Shit.”

He tilts his head, listening, tracking the faint scrape of my boot on broken glass.

“That you, donut girl? You sure you wanna do this again?”

He fires at random corners, blasting apart shelves and glass. I keep my breathing shallow, moving things — a display stand tips over to my right, and he shoots at it. A loud pop cracks through the air. Sparks fly.

Perfect distraction.

Robert’s voice bursts into my ear, tense, urgent. “Invisigal, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just help me find this fucker.”

“Got him. He’s at your five o’clock.”

I crouch behind a counter, sucking in air too fast, edges of my sight flickering. Invisibility strains. The more I panic, the less it holds.

“It’s not fair that you can see me but I can’t see you,” Lightningstruck calls out.

When he finally steps into the light, I see what Shroud did to him — half his head shaved raw around glowing implants, one eye replaced with a red mechanical one. His forearms are plated, maybe burned straight into the bone. He looks like someone who tried to rewrite his own body and lost the plot halfway.

It's unfortunate. He used to be pretty hot back in the days. 

His wild eyes flick back and forth. He shoots again — a projector camera explodes with a sizzle. Sparks rain on the floor.

“Great,” Robert mutters. “I’m flying blind here. I can’t see anything… gimme a sec.”

Tapping. Key clacking. Rapid, tense.

“Got it. I can see now.”

“That makes one of us. So where the hell is he?”

“Not on this camera. Hold on…”

More tapping. My heart’s beating too fast. Vision swimming.

“He’s at your seven.”

I lift my head a fraction above the counter, see him prowling between shelves.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“He’s heading your way,” Robert says, tone shifting. Tight. Worried. For me?

“Invisigal, I’ve got a plan… got it! On the count of three I’m going to turn on the main overhead lights, which should temporarily blind him, giving you a chance to take him out.”

My fingers curl into fists.

I’m ready.

“One…”

I rise from behind the counter.

“Two…”

Lightningstruck turns toward the sound of my foot on the glass.

“Three!”

The lights explode on. He shrieks and covers his glowing eye.

I vanish — barely — and sprint. I crash into him, fists swinging. He catches me mid-punch, slamming me into a case. My invisibility sputters and fails; I blink into sight.

He grapples. I twist. My hand claws blindly across the floor until it finds a pearl necklace.

I jump onto his shoulders, yank the chain across his throat.

He fires wildly, blasts shattering through glass and walls and air. My arms burn. I pull harder — harder — and he loses footing.

We crash.

He hits the ground gasping. I stand over him, chest heaving.

I place a foot on his stomach. He lets out a pathetic little whine.

“I’m no hero… fuck, no, let me try again.”

I step on his throat this time, pinning him.

“Now you see me— wait. Uh. What about…”

He claws weakly at my ankle.

“Lights out, Thundercuck.”

His eyes flutter. Then darkness takes him.

In my ear, Robert says, “That’s the one. Would’ve been better if you said it first.”

I look up at the camera, annoyed. “Right. ’Cause lightning, thunder, struck, cuck. Fuck. So close.”

——————————————————————

I haul Lightningstruck into HQ hours later, handcuffed, bruised. Everyone is waiting for me.

And for the first time since I joined this stupid team, they don’t look irritated. Or mocking. Or bored.

They look proud.

“Sup, Thundercuck,” Golem says, nodding at the limp idiot on my shoulder.

Flambae: “Hey Bangle Boy! More like Bangle Bitch!”

Prism jumps in: “Or Bitch Boy!”

Punch Up adds: “Hey Bangle Bitch Boy! Fuck you!”

They laugh. They clap. They clap for me.

I feel it — embarrassment spreading hot and stupid across my face. Even Malevola smiles. The woman I literally tripped into asphalt earlier today.

She steps aside, gives me room, and claps too.

Then suddenly it’s chaos — but a good kind. Prism and Flambae grab me by the arms, dragging me toward the little holding cell. Malevola calls Punch Up over.

“Take a picture!” she says.

He does. They crowd me, all of them grinning like I’m someone worth keeping around.

It’s overwhelming.

Too much. Too… warm.

When they all finally disperse, I linger behind. Pretend I need to tie my shoe or check my phone. Something stupid.

Really, I just stare at the leaderboard.

I went from 24th place to 22nd.

Third to last.

I shouldn’t care, but I do. So I take a picture of it.

I hear voices — Robert and Chase talking in the hallway. 

I vanish instantly. The dog, held on Robert's chest, doesn’t buy it. He sniffs the air, then starts barking right at me.

Chase smirks. “I still would have cut you.”

Appearing in front of him, I snap, “Well, no one fucking asked you, old man.”

“Lucky fuckin’ for you,” he grumbles.

The dog nudges my hand. I pet him before I can stop myself.

Then I look at Robert. Just a second.

Enough to see his expression soften in a way I don’t have a name for. I can't stand it, so I look down.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

I disappear before he can say anything else.

But I catch it anyway.

The smile. Small. Real. For me.

And fuck, I’m doomed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 - Fascist Prom

The noise that slips out of my mouth doesn’t even sound like me. Too soft, too desperate. I don’t think I’ve ever heard myself moan like that — not for real at least.

My fingers claw at the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring me to the bed. Everything is too much, too good. I’m on all fours, face pressed into a pillow, and he’s hitting every spot like he has them memorized.

Then a thrust catches me off guard — sharp, perfect — and I’m pushed upright onto my knees. His hands tighten around my hips, holding me steady, guiding me back. It’s nothing like what I’m used to. Not frantic. Not careless. Slow, deliberate, almost… tender? 

No, that's not the right word, since he's currently rearranging my guts. Let's say, passionate.

God. I don’t want it to stop.

Another thrust sends me pitching forward again. His rhythm stutters, roughens — one, two, three — and he groans into my skin, slamming into me so hard I see stars.

But he doesn’t stop.

He flips me onto my back like I weigh nothing, spreading my knees just enough, lowering himself between my thighs.

Fuck.

My hand shoots blindly toward the bed frame — if I don’t hold on, I swear I might phase through the mattress.

His tongue is relentless, steady, and so good I honestly think someone else dreamed him up. I’m moaning loud and unfiltered, and if the whole neighborhood hears, good, cause this is fucking heaven. Let them know bliss exists.

I start panting harder, body glitching in and out of visibility with every sharp inhale. I want to say something, anything, but the words get lost somewhere behind the pleasure and the pressure building like a bomb.

His fingers dig into my thighs, hard enough to bruise. I come so hard it knocks a laugh out of me — helpless, shaky, disbelieving.

In the dark, he rises between my legs, climbing up my body until his face hovers over mine. His thumb brushes my lower lip, then presses past it. I suck on it without thinking, trapped in those half-lidded hazel eyes like they’re gravity.

I want to kiss him. Badly. Stupidly.

Robert leans in, warm breath mingling with mine, and—

I wake up.

I bolt upright so fast the room tilts. My entire body is still buzzing, and the phantom feeling of him between my legs makes me swear out loud.

What?

A hysterical little laugh escapes before I can stop it.

I flop back onto the mattress and drag my pillow over my face, trying to smother the feral grin twisting my mouth.

What the actual fuck was that?

My chest is still heaving. My thighs feel too warm. And my brain? My brain is refusing to shut the hell up.

I dreamt about him.

Him.

I groan into the pillow, kicking my feet like a maniac having a breakdown in silence.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Exactly what I needed.

Now I get to see him later.

And pretend I didn’t just fuck him senseless in my subconscious.

Perfect.

I play "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac on my phone, and I try not to think about it too much.

——————————————————————

The printer hums beside me, spitting out pages I don’t actually care about. I’m pretending to need them because it gives me an excuse to stand here and… look at him.

Robert is across the room, leaning over a desk with that stupid rolled-up-sleeves thing he does, talking to Chase about god-knows-what. He looks tired. Focused. Still somehow… golden. And the worst part? My brain is still half-stuck in last night’s dream.

The dream.

The dream I’m never telling another living soul about.

He turns, mid-sentence, and catches me staring. Not a casual glance. A full, wide-open, dumbass stare.

He frowns, confused. Of course he does. I probably look like I’m plotting on his murder.

Before I can think of something smooth to do, Chase mumbles from the corner without looking up. “Don’t you got some work to do?”

I blink, then snap back. “Don’t you got some dementia to onset?”

He scoffs, I walk off before he can answer, clutching the papers like they’re evidence in a trial against me.

Blazer stops me in the corridor not too long later, and asks me if I can go tell Robert to go to her office; I must be really getting better with this being good shit, cause I don't flip her off, instead I actually go look for him downstairs. 

The lab is cold, humming with electricity and half-assembled tech. Robert’s bent over a table, and Royd’s beside him with a wrench, muttering to himself in some dialect I’m 90% sure he invented.

I appear behind them, quiet as a ghost, and my eyes betray me. They drag over him. Up. Down. Back up.

He must feel it, because he straightens and turns around.

“Did you just give me an updown?”

I don’t even flinch. I just raise a brow. Royd notices none of this; he’s complaining about voltage or screws or god knows what, but his words bounce right off me. Because Robert hasn’t stopped looking. And neither have I.

To distract myself, I shift my gaze to the suit.

“You ever jerk off in this thing?”

Royd nearly drops a tool. “You lolo, Visi.”

“I mean, obviously you have, right?” I ask, stepping closer. “I should really be asking how often.”

Royd groans. “Aye, come on. I gotta work on this.”

“All the time, actually,” Robert says.

Royd just mutters a “Bro…”

Robert shrugs. “I like to bust after every big bust, you know? And I was pretty successful, so you can imagine.”

He smirks.

That stupid, stupid smirk.

“Sounds like… loads of fun,” I say.

We’re face-to-face now. Arms crossed. Close enough that last night’s dream flickers through me in flashes I want to strangle myself for having.

Royd squints between us. “Uhm, you two got one weird energy going on, huh? Can you handle dis HR violation some uda place? I got to work, yeah?”

I don’t even look at him. I step closer to Robert, chin lifted.

“Robert was just leaving.”

He doesn’t budge. “I can do this all day.”

Very Captain America of him. 

Charming in the kind of way that makes me want to bite something.

“That’s gonna be tough,” I say, “cause Blazer sent me to get you like… half an hour ago, so…”

That gets him. He stalls, looks at me, looks at Royd, looks back at me again.

Finally, he heads for the stairs.

I let him walk away. But I don’t move. Not for a full ten seconds.

Because the problem isn’t that I dreamed about him.

The problem is how easy it is now— after everything— to imagine it happening while I’m awake.

I find myself wondering what he’s like with someone he actually wants. If he’s secretly romantic under all the sarcasm, or if he’s the type who pretends to be colder than he is. Part golden retriever pretending to be a black cat. 

Maybe he gives you flowers. Maybe, he fucks you against a wall. Maybe both. I'm not sure. 

Following him out of the lab feels stupid, but I do it anyway. Not to talk to him—God forbid—but to see him. I keep some distance, enough to pretend I’m just on my way somewhere, but my eyes don’t listen. They go exactly where they want: right to him.

He steps into Blazer’s office. I stay in the hallway, leaning half-hidden behind the doorframe like a creep. The blinds are half-open, so I can see shapes, movement, a bit of skin where the angle gives it to me.

Blazer’s voice floats out.

“...can you zip me up? It’s not mine, by the way.”

My stomach drops. I don’t know why. I mean, I do — I just don’t want to admit it.

It's when I decide to turn invisible and step inside the room before the door closes. 

He gets closer to her. I see her sweep her hair over her shoulder, showing her back. Perfect posture, perfect skin, perfect everything. Blonde Blazer is what happens when a PR team turns a woman into the idea of a woman. 

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t even feel anything. But the air thins out around me like I’m suddenly too big for this room.

“They make me wear it then it’s back in a bag by midnight,” she says.

He asks her something—whatever. His hands are near her back for way too long, working the zipper like it’s some complicated puzzle. I can tell he’s focused. 

On her.

It stings. A stupid sting.

When he finally says, “There,” she turns to face him, and her dress… One of her nipples is basically waving hello to the entire building.

He notices. I watch the moment the realization hits his face, that tiny widening of his eyes. I swear she must notice him staring at her tits. And she doesn’t even flinch —just this elegant, practiced fix, like she’s done this in front of mirrors and men her whole life.

I hate that I suddenly feel small. Invisible. Like she’s the real one and I’m the bad joke version. Maybe  — probably  — I'm not even an option.

I feel ugly, and I feel undesirable. I think of the red, mechanical parts under my breasts; I didn't have those in my dream. I think of how I never allowed any man to take off my shirt after I had them implanted, allowing them nothing more than a quick, clothed fuck. 

Not like I can compare with Little Miss Sunshine there.

She keeps talking, something about fascist-themed prom aesthetics, and he says the dress might be “a little tight,” and she fires back, “Are you trying to say I’m fat?”

Then she gets it. Instantly. They understand each other. Perfect people in perfect lighting. At least, she finally covers her breast.

I fold my arms, but it doesn’t make me feel bigger.

She asks him how she looks. Not in a flirty way, but in that way beautiful women do, the way that lets them confirm what they already know.

He sits back in an armchair. Looks at her.

“I think you… look incredible.”

I stop breathing for a second.

She says thanks. Calm. Of course she’s calm. Why wouldn’t she be? She starts putting earrings on like it’s all normal, like she didn’t just ask a man to zip her up while half-exposed.

“I was supposed to be going with him,” she says, “but I don’t think he’s gonna be making it.”

That’s the part that gets me. The casual sadness. Like she’s the kind of person men don’t disappoint often. The kind of woman someone like Robert would take to a gala, stand next to, look good with.

It hits harder than I expect.

Because he — he’s been worried about me. Looking for me. Rooting for me.
And now he’s here with her, telling her she looks incredible, and I’m suddenly reminded what “incredible” looks like in the real world.

Not like me.

I know he is  — worried, looking, rooting for me — but it hits me that it's probably all there is on his side. Just a good man, trying to do a good job with a bunch of assholes. He probably does all those things for each and every one of us. Or maybe, I was  — am — just the underdog. 

And we all know that underdogs are the ones the goodies tend to root for. 

I pull away from the door before I can hear anything else, heart beating in this embarrassing, stupid rhythm. My chest feels tight. My face feels hot. My head feels loud.

I walk off, fast, pretending I don’t care, pretending his words didn’t hit like a punch I didn’t brace for. It hits me — the feeling that maybe he wants someone perfect. Someone that's not me.

Fine. He probably sucks in bed anyways. 

When I push out the back door to get a smoke, the cold hits first, then the quiet. I need both. My head feels swollen with thoughts I don’t want, and my cheeks are still warm from… everything. Embarrassing.

Except, I'm not the only one here.

Malevola is already there, sitting on the bench like she spawned from a shadow, polishing her ridiculous sword. I barely nod at her while I flick my lighter. The flame shakes with my fingers more than the wind.

I inhale deeply. The nicotine punches me right in the lungs. Good.

Her eyes stay mostly on her blade, but she notices everything. People like her always do.

“Something troubling you?” she asks, soft but uninterested enough to make it sound normal.

“Why, do I look troubled?” I exhale smoke through a humorless smile. “More than the usual, I mean.”

She snorts. “Look, you’re no longer hero of the day, so I don’t wanna act all cute and nice.”

I bark a laugh, sharp and short.

“However,” she goes on, and this time she glances at me — an actual look, not just a scan — “you can always talk to me, you know? We’re in this shit together or… whatever.”

Then she goes right back to her sword like she didn’t just open a door no one ever opens for me.

I watch the red ember at the tip of my cigarette pulse in the dark. I’m not used to this— people offering things without wanting something back. Especially not women. I usually stay away from them. They stay away from me. That’s the unspoken treaty. But she’s... different. She’s sharp, but not cruel. 

Maybe that’s what I need.

“I fucking hate men,” I say finally, rotating the cigarette between my thumb and index finger.

She lets out a low, amused exhale. “Tell me about it. One man in particular?”

“Kinda.” I drag again, let the burn settle in my lungs. “It’s like a Cinderella and the Prince situation, but I’m the ugly stepsister.”

She clicks her tongue. “Ah.” Another quiet stroke of her blade. “Not to state the obvious, but did you talk to him about it?”

I choke on air. “Hell no.” I say it like she just suggested jumping off the roof.

Malevola raises an eyebrow without raising her head. “Well… it’s the twenty-first century. Might as well make the first step, you know?”

I stare at her.

Well, shit.

The cigarette tastes different suddenly — bitter, heavy, too sharp for my tongue. My chest feels too tight and too open at the same time. 

Talk to him? Me? About this? 

About what — my meltdown, the way seeing him help Blazer made my ribs ache like they were cracking from the inside? Or about the fact that the best fuck I've ever had was in a dream with him as the male starring role?

I take one last inhale, crush the butt under my boot, and stare up at the strip of sky above the alley. Dark. Unhelpful.

But Malevola’s right.

Might as well listen to her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7 - Sour Patch Kids

I find him in the men bathroom by accident and on purpose at the same time.

He's standing shirtless in front of a mirror, tweezers in one hand. There are bits of glass on his chest and on the sink — tiny, glittering pieces coated with blood. 

His blood. 

I take just one second to look at him, although it's not the first time I see him half-naked. It's just... I had a different focus the first time.

His torso isn't bulky; he's all wiry muscle, lean strength, scars like galaxies threading across his skin.

He winces when he pulls out another shard, but he doesn't stop. He never stops.

I don't make a sound when I materialize behind him.

"Where was the shootout?" I ask casually, like this isn't the most intimate moment I've ever walked in on.

The mirror gives me his eyes, wide just for a second before they settle.

"Parking lot," he says. "Didn't think taking a desk job would have me bleeding this often."

I walk past him like I belong here, hop onto the sink, and sit with one leg up, my elbow resting lazily on my knee. I watch him from the corner of my eye — not hungry, not obvious, but definitely not subtle.

He finally turns his head. "What are you doing here?"

No fear. No hesitation. Just the truth.

"I had a dream last night that we were fucking," I say, deadpan.

He just doesn't react. I don't know what I expected, but this is not it.

"Usually I don't remember my dreams," I add, tapping my fingers on my ankle. "But this one was pretty vivid."

"How did I do?" he asks, matching my tone, totally unfazed.

I sigh. "I didn't finish."

He doesn't look impressed. "Not what I asked. We're talking about me."

He grunts quietly as he pulls another shard out of his chest. The sound shoots straight down my spine.

I laugh under my breath — a real one.

"So this is why you've been acting weird all day?" he asks.

I look away, staring at the ceiling like it's safer. "I'm doing that thing where you imagine being with someone. See how it feels, how it looks. Trying them on. Like trying on a dress..."

I turn my head just enough to give him a slow side-eye.

His jaw flexes. He closes his eyes once, exhales like he's bracing, then meets my gaze.

That half-lidded stare does something to me.

"You were there?" he asks. There's something low in his voice. Something I can't read yet.

I shrug. "I could have been."

I jump off the sink, feet silent on the tile. I walk toward him — slow, deliberate — until we're close enough for the warmth of his body to reach me.

"I could be anywhere," I murmur.

For a moment, it's just us. The mirror, the scars, the quiet air buzzing between our mouths. We're not touching, but we could. One second and it could happen.

He looks at me like he's trying to decide whether this is real.

Then—

A horrifying noise erupts from one of the bathroom stalls. A wet, long, catastrophic noise.

He doesn't look away from me when he says, dead serious, "...and you chose to be here."

Waterboy's panicked voice wobbles from behind the door.

"Sorry — I'm... I tried — I tried not to do that."

Robert keeps staring at me. "Don't worry about it, Waterboy."

"That sound—" Waterboy whimpers.

"Bathrooms are for shitting after your first coffee and picking shrapnel out of your chest..." Robert says, still not breaking eye contact. "Not for whatever this is."

The moment is dead. Slaughtered. Murdered in cold blood.

What does this even mean? For the first time in years, I'm actually confused about a man's intentions. He holds my stare, doesn't back away, and his voice goes low and feral enough to make my toes curl — but he still doesn't give me anything. 

He doesn't move closer, but he doesn't move away. He stays right there, unreadable, sounding flat. Unbothered. Impossible.

I tear my eyes away and throw up my hands.

"You ruined this for me!" I yell toward the stalls.

I spin on my heel, mortified and furious, and disappear before he can see my face.

Behind me, Waterboy's voice cracks like he's on trial.

"I— it's— I know. I know."

Another atrocious noise.

"My apologies."

I go back to the locker room and pick up my earpieces, hoping that today's shift will manage to distract me. In a way, it does. 

It feels like things are different in the group since the cut. There's more participation, more conversation. Might be cause everyone is scared to be the next out, or maybe we're just starting to enjoy each other's company. 

Malevola smiles at me this morning — which is unusual — and she doesn't dwell too much on the conversation we had yesterday. She just asks me if all is good, and I nod at her. 

I'm almost surprised at how genuine that question feels — like she doesn't want to insist, but wants me to know that she hasn't fogotten. I appreciate it. 

I start noticing little things, like how Golem is less shy and more interested in finding common ground with us — sometimes, we play videogames at night, each of us at our own places but talking on our headphones about nothingness for hours. I notice how Prism is getting less spikey with time, as in she doesn't take every single thing as personal attack, she instead is becoming more chatty and lightheaded. 

Sonar is flirty with me but in a fun way, as if there could be another one considering he literally has fangs. We talk a lot during the shift, just making dumb jokes that Robert ignores, and I'm okay with that. 

"It's weird that Coop's gone," he says out of the blue. 

"Glad you made the cut though," Malevola responds. "Imagine if it was Coop and Visi together."

"I imagine Coop and Visi all the time," he sighs back, and for the first time today I genuinely laugh and don't think about the fact that the guy who I apparently have a crush (?) on and that I dreamt of fucking is also crushing on our boss, who is a bombshell, and that I might have bombed his superhero suit — which he still doesn't know — forcing him to a life of misery and desk work.

Nice.

Now I'm thinking about it again.

——————————————————————

Later that night, I'm half-sprawled across a movie-theater seat, legs propped up on the one in front of me, elbow claiming the armrest beside me like a throne. The place is mostly empty, blue light washing over me from another trailer I'm not actually watching. 

Then his voice slides out of my earpieces, low and familiar.

"Watcha watching?"

My heart stumbles, stupid, involuntary. I try to act casual. Is he still thinking about it like I am? 

"Typecast 2," I say. "You spying on me?"

"Technically you're still on the clock." 

Ah. 

That's why he called. 

"Didn't peg you as a rom-com fan," he continues.

"If I'm on the clock, you shouldn't peg me with anything, Robert. That's extremely inappropriate." I stretch, lazily. "Especially since I'm usually the peg-er, not the peg-ee."

He exhales a laugh he tries to hide. I catch it anyway.

"Noted. Well, tell me how it is. I wanted to see that one."

I glance back at the screen. Seventeenth identical trailer. My mind isn't on it anyway.

"There's still at least twenty minutes of trailers. I always forget what I'm watching by the time the movie starts."

"Same. You goin' solo?"

I freeze for a second. Why's he asking? Does he want me to invite him? Or is he just curious? Or does he think someone else is here? 

I shrug.

"I'm a loner, Robbie. A rebel. That, and I feel bad asking people to pay when I'm just gonna sneak in."

I say it quietly, just a little truth slipping out, a thread of myself I normally keep hidden. I haven't been to the movies with anyone in like... never, actually. 

"Only lame thing is I can't get snacks."

"Floating buckets of popcorn do tend to draw a lot of attention."

I sigh. A real one. The kind I haven't let out in a while.

"But I miss it... I miss popcorn."

He doesn't answer. Not dismissive, just... thinking. My chest tightens with something unfamiliar. Anticipation? Hope? I don't know.

The screen changes again.

"I didn't see the first one," he says finally. "Can you give me a recap?"

I snort. "It's against the law for you to be watching like this." I whisper it, an invitation I'm not even sure he catches.

"Actually, it's illegal for you to be filming," he says, smug. "I don't need the whole thing, just enough to know what's going on."

Fine. He wants a recap. I'll give him a recap.

"Uhm... okay. It's about this struggling actress who gets this big role from a movie star who mistakes her for his, like, childhood best friend, and..."

I talk. And talk. I don't even know how long. I forget self-consciousness. I forget the loneliness I felt before this whole project, before him. The sound of my own voice is easy, comforting, even.

Then a hand touches my shoulder.

I freeze. Guard? Security? My mind races.

It's him. 

Robert. 

Holding popcorn. A giant drink. Two boxes of candy. An absurd, overflowing feast.

I blink at him, dumbfounded. My legs fling off the front seat instinctively, letting him pass. He sits next to me like it's normal. Like he belongs there. Like I belong here too.

"You didn't hear any of that?" I mumble.

"Yeah... no," he says, sipping on his Coke. "It's probably fine though."

I stare. I'm still trying to understand him. The shape of him, the reality of him next to me.

"So... what are we, like, friends now?" I ask. "Or is this some sort of team-building exercise?"

"To be fair," he says casually, "I thought we already were."

Something twists in my chest, a flutter I can't hide. Hope? Maybe. Relief? Definitely.

Something warm and dizzying.

I smirk. "I haven't decided yet."

He mutters, barely opening his mouth: "Would've been nice to know before I spent eighty-six bucks."

I snort. "I'm not gonna fuck you just 'cause you bought me a bucket of corn."

He groans, deep and theatrical, but he's smiling. 

"Can you just be normal for like, a second?"

I look at him. Then at the screen. And suddenly I notice how close we are. His sleeve brushes mine when he shifts. Small, accidental touches that make me pulse with something I haven't let myself feel in a long time.

We turn at the same moment to speak:

"This is—"
"Do yo—"

We stop, laughing softly at the timing.

"You first," he says.

I look down, then up through my lashes, shy but bold all at once.

If I were watching myself from outside my body, I'd be barfing. 

"This is nice," I whisper. My voice cracks. 

ulnerable. 

"What were you gonna say?"

He digs into the snack pile, pulls out a bag.

"Do you like Sour Patch Kids?"

I giggle, picking one from the bag. My chest loosens, the tension of the day melting slightly.

"I fucking love Sour Patch Kids."

"Cool. Me too."

His voice is low, quiet. Gentle. Comforting in a way that makes me realize how starved I've been for this — for someone paying attention, noticing me, choosing to be near me.

I look back at the screen. Then at him.

And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel invisible. 

For the first time in two months, I allow myself to not feel deadly guilty towards him. 

The trailers fade, and the movie starts. I curl my legs closer, tucking them under me, though I keep stealing glances at him out of the corner of my eye. 

His hand brushes mine once when he shifts to grab a candy. My chest flutters, and I catch myself holding my breath. It's ridiculous and gross, and I know it. And yet, it feels electric.

I realize how starved I've been for this — for someone to just sit here with me, sharing something mundane and normal. It's a relief, but also terrifying. Because my brain keeps whispering: what if he doesn't really care? What if this is just casual, nothing more?

But then he smiles — just a quick, sideways thing when the heroine in the movie flubs a line — and my stomach flips. My whole body relaxes a little. Maybe he does care. Maybe he chose to be here.

Halfway through, I notice he's watching me as much as the screen. The corners of his mouth twitch whenever I laugh. 

I catch myself laughing louder just to see it again. 

My hands fidget with the edge of my sweater. My thoughts keep wandering to the way his eyes softened when he handed me the snacks, the quiet patience in the way he's letting me ramble, the subtle warmth of his shoulder pressed close.

I try to focus on the movie, really, but the story blurs into background noise. The important part is him — this here, this normal, quiet, silly togetherness. 

By the time the credits roll, I feel lighter than I have in months. The theater is dark, but I feel a glow, like I've just stepped out of a warm bath and into the world, carrying something precious with me.

We leave together, shoulders brushing in the aisle. The night is quiet, cool, the kind of silence that doesn't demand anything, just lets us exist. I keep walking next to him, half afraid to speak, half afraid not to.

"You, uh..." I start, voice small, "you didn't have to bring all that popcorn and candy, you know. I could've... survived."

He smirks. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

I laugh, breathless. And it hits me: he's here, paying attention, choosing to be near me. And I like it. I like him. Maybe more than I've let myself admit.

We drift out into the night together, shoulders brushing as we step onto the sidewalk. The air is cool, the sky dark, and the silence between us is the soft kind — the kind that lets you breathe.

We walk without direction, just moving, just talking, and for the first time in months, I feel light. Like someone finally lifted a hand off my chest.

"Want me to walk you home?" he asks casually, nudging a crushed beer can along the pavement with his shoe. I turn to him and snort. The absurdity of him walking me home makes a laugh bubble out of me.

"What?" he says, brows lifting. "Too high-school for you?"

There's a hint of actual offense there, which makes it even funnier.

"I never finished high school," I say softly, "so who can tell." I flick my fingers. "It's okay. My place is right around the corner. Plus, I can go invisible if things get too scary."

"Right," he says, smiling to himself. "Let's keep it for another date, then."

My brain short-circuits. Another date.

My heart hits some sort of gymnastic flip.

I force my face into neutrality because reacting would be... well, embarrassing. High-schooler behavior, apparently.

"So this was a date," I say, stopping in place and facing him.

He stops too. And the smile he gives me is soft. Genuine. The kind that will absolutely ruin my sleep tonight.

"Good night, Visi," he says, voice low, before turning and starting down the street.

"Good night, Robert," I whisper — mostly to myself, because he's already walking away.

And I let myself watch.

Just for a moment. Just until he disappears around the corner.

Only then do I let the smile break across my face — disgustingly wide, disgustingly soft — and I swear it follows me all the way home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8 - Fucking fuckers

By the time we clock out, people are buzzing — too tired to stand straight but too wired to shut up, high off the stupid bet they've been running all week about who Robert used to be. A hero, a sidekick, a narc in spandex.

I don't weigh in.

It's not my job to protect his secret, and it's not my job to expose it either, but the knowledge of it sits under my tongue like a blister.

Heavy, private, itchy.

We're shoving our gear into lockers when Malevola calls, "Who's up for drinks?"

Punch-Up groans. "Anywhere but Crypto Night."

"Flambae got banned," I announce as I zip my bag.

"Nice," Malevola says.

I flash a grin. "Let's go to Sardine. Or are you banned from that one too?"

"Shut up," Flambae mutters.

Robert is listening to us through his headphones, and I think we all know that.

"Good week, everybody. See you all on Monday."

Punch-Up narrows his eyes. "Too cool to get a drink with us?"

Prism sings, "Don't be a biiiiitch."

Golem adds, "Be chill for once in your life."

Sonar says, "Spend some time with us, come on. We know you don't have plans."

There's silence for a second. "I mean... The Sardine's a villain bar. Not sure I'd fit in."

I giggle. "Just go dressed like that. Everyone'll think you're a pervert."

If I could see him right now, I know he'd have that offended look, the same he gave me last night.

"Yeah, uhm... alright."

The team erupts.

"FUCK yeah, Bobby boy!" Prism shouts.

"Let's fucking gooooo — literally. Right now!" Malevola cheers.

"I am reasonably excited!" Phenomaman declares. And he's literally depressed, so that must mean something.

And suddenly, bizarrely, this nightmare group project feels like a team. Chaotic, violent, ethically bankrupt, but still... a team.

The Sardine smells like fermented piss and regret, which is how you know you're in the right place. LED fish sign half-dead. Floor sticky. Golem can't fit through the door so we promise shifts keeping him company outside.

I make my way in first, but I keep an eye on Robert through the foggy window — his shoulders are bunched high, posture stiff, like a tax auditor accidentally dropped into a crime den.

The bouncer steps in front of him. Huge guy. Eyepatch. Bad attitude.

"Hey, creep."

Robert stares. "Creep?"

"I don't know you and I don't like not knowing people."

I shove open the door. "Well, you won't like knowing him. He's the biggest perv west of the L.A. river... and he's with us."

The bouncer grunts and lets him in.

Inside, bodies press against the bar three deep. The bartender ignores me with professional apathy — long hair, blank eyes, probably listens to sad indie playlists.

Okay, Tame Impala, give me fucking nothing.

Robert sidles up beside me.

"Buy me a drink," I say.

"Is this for all the strings you had to pull to get me in here?"

I turn, leaning back on the bar. He's close enough that I can smell the detergent on his clothes. He watches me like he's waiting for a punchline, a threat, something familiar to land.

I give him all of it. "You got me Sour Patch Kids on our first date. I figure whiskey makes sense for the second. Third date, you can buy me dinner."

His reaction is softer than I expect. Something warm flickers through him. "Yeah, that was fun. I hadn't been to the movies in a while. I had a good time."

This guy is a fucking golden retriever, I swear to God. All cute and innocent.

Makes me want to blow him.

I squint at him. "You had a good time eating popcorn too loud while I sat silently next to you?"

He raises a brow. "The silence was the best part."

My mouth betrays me before my brain catches up. "You might like me loud sometime..."

His expression combusts into something stunned, questioning, maybe even interested. I panic, punch his chest, and turn away.

Behind me he calls, "Was that about sex?"

I look over my shoulder. "You catch on quick! I'll grab us a table."

Across the bar, the team is swarming him like piranhas begging for drinks. Of course he caves. Soon he's carrying a tray overloaded with alcohol, the world's most handsome pack mule, and I can't even stop myself from smiling like an idiot.

I snag a booth. He takes his time bringing everyone their drinks, Golem included.

Good boy, I think to myself.

He spots me and slides in. I light a cigarette, even though it always tastes like burning disappointment in this place.

"Everyone thinks I'm a narc," he says.

"They can still smell the hero on you. You're the enemy."

He waves my smoke away. "I bought them drinks. What else do they want?"

"You can buy them drinks. You can make sure they don't get fired. You can line them up and blow 'em one by one — but they're still gonna think you might be the hero that fucked up their life."

And I'm still the villain who fucked up his.

He sighs. "People don't think much when I blow 'em, but I hear what you're saying. Though I'd argue they fucked up their own lives being criminals."

I flick ash at him. "See, that's narc shit. Just tell them who you are. What are the odds you busted any of them, anyway?"

But the truth is I want them to see him how I see him. And I want him to know he doesn't have to hide with me.

He hesitates, then looks at me.

Oh fuck. He did bust some asses.

In the back, Flambae is triumphantly singing, or rather screaming.

"I'M A BITCH, MY NAME'S ROBERT,
SUCH A BITCH WHOSE NAME IS ROBERT —"

Robert looks at him, then at me.

"Shut up. You didn't."

But he did. Oh he did. Robert tells me exactly how he busted Flambae's ass, and I can't help but laugh when I realize he's the reason he has only three fingers in one hand.

I wince. "Shit. I thought he lost it working in a deli or something..."

He continues, resigned, "And there was this incident at Crypto where he was fucking with me and I kinda..."

I lean forward, chin in my hand, entertained. No fucking way.

"You stole his eyebrows?"

"They burned off. Which somehow makes less sense than what you just said. So... you can see why I'm worried about getting incinerated."

I go quiet. "We all pay for who we used to be. Sooner you get it over with, sooner we get a fresh start."

He looks at me like I've said something important. I look at the ashtray like I haven't said anything at all.

"You heard me say incinerated, right?"

Before I can answer, the air shifts.

I know the guy. Unfortunately

Armstrong enters — massive mechanical arms whirring, the kind of industrial Shroud tech that hums like a threat. His real arms never developed right; now he uses these refrigerator-sized monstrosities instead.

He stops behind Robert.

"Who let a loser-ass bitch of a hero into our supervillain bar?"

Robert groans. "Ugh. Why does everyone— do I look like a bitch? Actually, don't answer that. Fuck. Is he big? He's got big guy voice."

I eye Armstrong, his massive mechanical arms hissing with heat. "Some... parts of him are big...?"

"Alright," Robert mutters, "from now on, team drinks are exclusively at Chili's."

Armstrong steps closer, metal joints clicking. "You lost or something, bitch? Or you tryna get fucked up?"

Robert stands, still half-dazed, still annoyingly himself. "Well, since you twisted my arm—"

Armstrong smacks him across the face so hard the sound cracks through the whole bar.

"No one's talking to you, fuckin' idiota."

Robert crashes through a table, wood splintering around him. Something sharp and hot tears through my chest — anger, fear, something messier than either.

"I see they finally gave you some arms that can reach your dick," I snap, disappearing before the words finish leaving my mouth.

But Armstrong is faster than he looks; one metal limb whips up and clamps around me mid-air, lifting me like a struggling cat.

"There's some people that wanna talk to you, Invisibitch."

Red lights flicker across the room — Shroud reinforcements pouring in, tech humming with that familiar, nauseating buzz.

They're here for me.

Someone near the bar swings a pool stick directly into Robert's skull.

He drops again.

And something in me detonates.

I slam my heel into Armstrong's face, wrench free, and hit the floor hard. The room erupts instantly — explosions of color and sound, the bar shifting from dive to battlefield in seconds. 

For the first time in my life, though, I'm not stepping into chaos alone.

Prism blasts disco-colored light while singing into a karaoke mic. Malevola slices through bodies like she's carving Sunday roast. Sonar shrieks, the kind of sonic burst that rattles teeth and bones. Flambae laughs like a pyromaniac cherub while setting an entire table ablaze. Punch-Up is... well, punching anything that moves and quite a few things that don't.

They're not just fighting — they're defending.

Me.

A flicker of belonging hits me so hard it almost hurts.

But every time I move, every time I land a hit, my eyes flick back to Robert — limp, still, not getting up.

The distraction costs me. Armstrong catches me again, this time with an arm locked around my throat. The metal presses tight. He knows exactly what he's doing — stealing my breath, the one thing I can't fight without.

The edges of my vision darken. He planned this. Shroud did.

Right when my knees start to give, I'm suddenly dropped to the floor. Armstrong jerks backward with a loud metallic groan.

Behind him, Robert is clinging to his back, stabbing him with darts like he's trying to bring down a bull.

God, I like him. He doesn't even need the damn suit.

After that, everything becomes a blur of fists and sparks and the metallic tang of blood. Every time I look up, I catch Robert glancing at me too — checking. Counting. Making sure I'm still breathing.

I do too. And I hate it. I don't like the feeling of having to worry about someone other than me.

Every time someone's on me, Robert's there. Every time someone drives him away, his eyes are on me. We fight, breathe, in sync. For a second, I have a feeling that it's all in my head.

By the time the last body hits the floor, we're all shaking, gasping, bleeding.

At least, Shroud will think twice before causing a scene like that. Fucking Armstrong too, considering that me and Robert broke his little T-Rex arms at the same time, looking at each other in the eyes.

It was almost romantic.

There's no question what happens next — the same thing that always happens after a near-death group activity: we go to some shitty, fluorescent fast food place that pretends not to see the blood.

Golem scoops Robert up like a fainting Victorian lady and throws him over a shoulder. He's so exhausted he doesn't even argue — just hangs there limply, feet bouncing with every step.

On the walk over, Malevola keeps watching me, thoughtful. "What was all that about?"

Meaning: Why were they targeting you?

I feel like I have no reason to lie, not to her. I want to be freed, at least a little, and I know she can take it. She deserves it.

My throat tightens. "I was working for him before. Guess they didn't take it well when I left and became some kind of a superhero."

She studies my face, parsing the pieces. "Ah." She's obviously surprised that I was one of them. Even villains tend to not have any respect towards the Red Ring. "Thought you were more of a lone wolf."

"I am," I say automatically, though the words feel brittle.

She softens in a way she rarely does. "It was brave of you to quit. I respect you for that."

The compliment hits harder than Armstrong's fist. Her respect feels undeserved, like a spotlight aimed at a crack in me I've spent years pretending didn't exist.

"Thanks," I manage. "Can you not tell anyone?"

She nods once. "You got it, girl."

——————————————————————

And as we shuffle into the blinding fast-food lights, smelling like smoke and blood and adrenaline, I feel something unsettling settle in my chest — a warmth I don't trust. A belonging too fragile to name.

For the first time in a long time, I'm not sure loneliness is the only ending I get.

It almost feels wrong.

Almost.

Golem lays Robert on a little stone wall outside the fast-food place, like he's some overworked Victorian orphan who fainted on his lunch break.

His eyes are half-open, unfocused, head lolling like he's trying to remember what planet we're on.

Malevola walks over with a large soda, condensation dripping down the side.

"Here. Try this," she says.

"Thanks," Robert mutters, pressing the cold cup to his temple like it's the holy grail of concussion treatment. The moment it touches him, he winces — pain flaring, obvious.

The door squeaks open and Phenomaman steps out, beaming like he just saved the world instead of barely surviving a bar fight.

"I am happy to provide these inauthentic Mexican calories for the team to recharge after battle," he announces, placing two overfilled trays on the table.

Everyone descends like we haven't eaten in years — shoving tacos and burritos into our mouths, grease dripping, wrappers crinkling. Even the air smells salty.

"I ordered three triple crunch tacos," Robert says faintly, like it's the one thought anchoring him to consciousness.

Malevola tosses a burrito at him without looking.

"No, I didn't order that, I ordered th—"

"Three triple crunch tacos, yeah," I cut in. "You've muttered it fifty times. Just... eat that. It's the same shit anyway. Literally everything at this place is just a remix of the same five ingredients."

I lob a hot sauce packet at his face. He doesn't even flinch, just stares past it like it's floating in another dimension.

"Hot sauce?" I ask.

Nothing.

"Are you drunk or concussed?"

Golem, picking at a tray like he's choosing which metal beam to snack on, rumbles, "I'd go with both. Heard he took some friendly fire."

Robert snaps his fingers into a finger-gun at him — pure reflex, zero strength behind it.

We all crowd around a phone to watch Prism's fight livestream. The chaos is even more ridiculous from a distance. The camera jerks, catching Punch-Up absolutely obliterating an endless parade of dicks — one of them, apparently, belonging to Robert.

Prism zooms in on him. "You wash your hands after touching all them filthy nutsacks?"

He's literally licking taco grease off his fingers. He freezes, mid-lick.

Punch-Up grimaces. "Thought these seemed salty."

Before Robert can get an actual bite of the burrito he's been protesting for ten minutes, Malevola swoops in and snatches it out of his hands.

"Oooh, there she is," she coos. "Thanks babes. Sauced it up for me and everything."

Her tail uncurls and presents him with three familiar tacos like a royal offering.

"Think you're looking for these."

He smiles — this small, dazed, childlike thing that hits me weirdly soft in the chest.

When Prism's livestream gets to the part where Robert and I snapped Armstrong's mini arms like raw spaghetti, I can't help the grin that spreads across my face.

Prism whistles. "Both arms? Y'all are fucked up."

"Weird thing is how easy it was," I say, biting into my dessert. "This churro isn't as soft as his noodle arms."

Golem shrugs like this is normal workplace feedback. "Maybe give us a heads up next time you want to start a fight. I wanted another drink."

"You're heroes now," Robert says, "heroes don't start fights. You finish them."

His voice drops near the end. I look at him — really look — and realize how far I put myself from him the moment we sat down. Like I'm scared to stand too close to something good. I suddenly feel the need to close that space.

"Well," Malevola says, wiping salsa off her knuckles, "not many finish fights against the Red Ring."

Prism narrows her eyes at him. "Yeah, how do you have beef with them, Mister Dispatcher?"

Punch-Up snorts. "Yeah, we know this Robert guy is a front. Who are you? Really."

He could throw me under the bus. Could say the Red Ring wanted me. But he doesn't even look in my direction.

"You're right. It's a front," he says. "This guy, Robert, is a mask. He's not real. He's the guy who sits behind his desk, biding his time, dreaming of the day he gets back in the fight. I haven't told you who I was because I'm kinda starting to like you all, and I'm not sure you're gonna like the real me."

His words hit me so hard I feel my throat start to itch. Cause, truth be told, I'm pretty sure he would't like the true me. I'm not sure I want to hijack this... thing we got going on, whatever it is. 

Can I live with it? Can I live him, knowing that I ruined his life? 

"But the difference between this team getting by and this team being great is trust, so you should get to know the real me," he goes on.

My stomach knots. His face softens like he's about to hand over something fragile.

"Uhm... I'm Mecha Man."

Punch-Up launches to his feet. "No fucking way... Can't be."

"Could be," Malevola counters.

"That's, like, a real superhero," Prism says.

Flambae's eyes flare. He stands abruptly, flames licking up his forearms. "It is you, you little shit."

Before any of us can react, he blasts forward, ready to turn Robert into a romantic candle. I can feel his name start to form at the bottom of my throat, but what happens next is quicker than that.

But Golem steps between them, absorbing the flames with one massive arm. When Flambae winds up again, Malevola throws a cup of water on his fist, sizzling it out. Everyone laughs except Flambae, who burns hotter.

"Fuck you. Fuck all of you fucking fuckers."

He ignites fully and rockets into the sky like an angry firework.

"What a fucking loser," Malevola mutters.

Robert turns to Golem, still dazed. "Thanks. You saved my life."

"Yup." Golem grabs another taco. "Thanks for the drink."

Robert exhales. "So, uhm, I expected to be burnt to a crisp by now, and I didn't plan any of this next part, uhm... anybody else got something to say?"

I freeze.

This is it. 

"Uhm... my name's Courtney," I say. I haven't heard myself say that name for months, let alone someone else. 

Robert looks at me like I just opened a window he didn't know he needed. Soft. Warm. Real.

"Nice to meet you, Courtney."

And by just looking at him, I know he means it. 

We hold each other's gaze, something unspoken stretching between us, until Phenomaman flies between us like a majestic idiot.

"Katon-Ur was the name given to me on my planet. When I first arrived on Earth, the ladies at the Nordstrom Rack I worked at called me Dumpy due to my large posterior. You may call me either."

"Jesus Christ," Sonar groans. "My name's Victor. 'Cause I'm a fucking winner."

Prism raises a hand. "I'm... Alice."

"Bruno," Golem rumbles.

"Malevola... my last name's Gibb."

Punch-Up shrugs. "My name's Colin."

I look around at all of them, broken and bruised and greasy and still standing, and I feel something warm inside me. 

It's getting too emotional. 

"So... what now? Orgy time?"

Robert doesn't miss a beat. "Right. Mega Fuego sauce and ass play sounds like a great combo."

I laugh like an idiot, and I almost want to comment on how I'd like to try that. 

"Good point. Anybody have another packet of that stuff?"

Malevola tosses one without looking. I tear it open with my teeth and drizzle it over my taco. When I glance back at Robert, he's already watching me.

He smiles.

I smile.

And for a moment — in this shitty fluorescent fast-food graveyard — it feels like we're all exactly where we're supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 - Mecha Boom

The lab smells faintly of burnt circuits and cheap coffee, a combination somehow worse than either individually. All of the Z-Team — except for Flambae, who "called in sick" — crowd behind the glass, watching the new prototype for the mecha suit. 

Robert is inside it, the hum of machinery vibrating over his skin like a heartbeat made of metal. I stay near the glass, arms crossed, heart thudding with that same nervous itch I can’t shake. Something in my gut tells me this isn’t going to go smoothly.

Robert clears his throat, voice muffled but steady through the speakers. "Hey everybody, I… uhm, appreciate you coming to see this. Your support means a lot."

Punch-Up snorts from behind the glass. "More than a lot. It means nine hundred and thirty six American dollars. Cash lad."

Prism rolls her eyes, arms crossed. "We’re only here cause these broke asses want proof before they pay."

Robert lets out a short laugh. "That actually makes way more sense."

I stay quiet, fidgeting, trying not to show how tense I am. Chase is beside me, arms crossed, face carefully neutral. But his glare cuts straight through my spine.

"Can’t believe you actually hung out with these fuckers," he mutters.

I glance at him, expecting some reason behind the comment — maybe concern, maybe sarcasm— but there’s nothing there. Just that familiar edge, like he’s always waiting to pounce, always ready to dislike me for no reason I can see. It’s maddening. 

“You jealous, old man?” I shoot back without thinking.

"Of what? Let me guess, you got into a bar fight? I’m right, right? That’s what criminals do at bars. They ruin everyone’s fun. In fact, if you’re gonna make me stand next to a criminal you could at least hurry this shit up."

I feel my jaw tighten, heat rising to my cheeks. The words sting more than they should. I’ve seen him spar with the worst people in the world and never flinch, yet somehow I feel this constant, inexplicable tension aimed squarely at me. Like no matter what I do, I can’t earn a neutral glance. 

Like his irritation exists to be aimed at me and me alone.

"If you’re gonna make me stand next to Benjamin fucking Button you could at least change his diaper," I fire back, forcing the bite out of my frustration.

"You’re the one here that’s full of shit," he snaps, and I know it’s not about the joke. It’s always not about the joke.

Robert’s voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel. "You missed Flambae trying to kill me after I revealed my identity."

Golem shrugs his enormous shoulders. "I saved his life. His whole ass life. Now he owes me a whole life."

"We’re even though because I paid for your tacos," Robert says casually.

"Right, right, right. I forgot. So I would easily exchange your life for the double crunch kind," Golem says, and I feel the humor in the room, even through the tension. Maybe, I'm the only one here being fucking nervous. 

Royd, always the pragmatic one, taps the console with steady hands. "Ooooohkay. Proto Pulse test nineteen ready to commence. We good when you good, Mecha Man."

"Engaging Proto Pulse now," Robert replies, voice steady.

I try not to stare at him through the smoke and hum, but my hands twist nervously in my pockets. The feeling of dread stays lodged behind my ribs.

"All readings super stable! Here you go, time to make your grand re-entrance," Royd calls.

"Alright. Ready for launch."

The eyes of the suit light up like twin beacons, and a cloud of smoke erupts from its joints. The activation noises make the glass vibrate, and for a moment I think my teeth will rattle out of my skull. When the smoke clears a bit, Robert stands there, flexing his metal muscles, looming larger than life.

"See there? Is that confirmation enough for you cheap ass bitches? Pay me my money," Prism calls, voice sharp.

"Fucking hell…" Punch-Up mutters.

"It’s so obvious he don’t have super powers," Prism adds, clearly smug.

"It’s a fucking waste of time. If he was gonna lie about being a hero, why would he pick Mecha Man?" Malevola mutters, clearly unimpressed.

"Uh, reminder, the mic is still open," Robert says calmly.

My chest feels tight as the giant tin suit starts punching the air, testing movements, each swing making the glass vibrate. "Not bad, right?" Robert asks, voice muffled but confident.

"Looks better than the original," Chase says, almost distractedly.

"The smoke is a little overkill…" I mutter. But I can’t help the small grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. 

"I thought the same too, but I think the purple is a nice touch," Robert says, and I swear that he's looking at me behind all that metal. Purple is my color, and seeing it swirling around him makes my chest feel oddly warm.

Royd pauses, hand hovering over a key. "What smoke?"

I freeze mid-smile. His voice has that edge now, that tension that means something is wrong.

"SHUT IT DOWN!" Royd barks.

Alarms scream. Red lights flash. Mecha Man begins backing up uncontrollably, smoke spewing from his joints in thick, choking clouds. Royd slams at the keyboard, cursing under his breath, but nothing responds.

I sprint to the glass, punching it frantically, breath coming out in shallow, sharp bursts. "Help him Royd!" I shout, my eyes not leaving him for a moment.

"Just get him out!" Chase yells from behind me.

Royd tries the door, fists pounding, but it doesn’t budge.

"It’s locked down!" Punch-Up yells.

Malevola’s tail swishes behind her, as her sword slides forth. "Ah, fuck, I’m on it." A portal shimmers into existence, and Royd bolts through it. I run after him instinctively, but Malevola grabs my wrist and holds me back, shaking her head. 

I freeze, heart hammering.

Through the smoke and chaos, I see Royd struggle on the other side of the glass, trying to wrest control of the suit, then realizing with horror that there is nothing he can do. The suit is looking on our side through the mist, and for a split second, it feels like he is looking at me, calling out for me, before a massive boom splits the lab into chaos.

The world goes white and red and smoke, chaos smashing every sense into jagged shards. When my vision clears, Robert is on a stretcher, medical staff swarming around him like predators circling prey. Machines beep, monitors flash, the smell of antiseptic and burnt metal filling my lungs.

He’s unconscious. Completely gone, his chest rising and falling too shallowly, his fingers limp. My heart hammers in my ears, loud enough I’m sure I can’t hear anything else. I move without thinking, slipping into invisibility, ghosting through the chaos to cling to him, to anchor myself to something that feels like the only thing that matters.

I can’t leave. Not a step. Not a blink. My fingers wrap around his hand like it’s the only tether keeping me from falling apart. The lights, the alarms, the shouting —  they blur into white noise. All that exists is him, silent and fragile under the weight of the world.

I sit with him through the ambulance ride, and then at night in his hospital room, my head resting near his shoulder, willing him awake with every heartbeat, every shallow whisper I can’t send out loud. 

Hoping.

Praying. 

Thinking of all the stupid things I’ll do once he opens his eyes again, even as terror gnaws at me from the inside. The night stretches forever, but I don’t care. I’ll stay here until the sun burns the darkness away, until he moves, until he breathes fully again. 

And the thought that, if I had never planted that fucking bomb in his first suit, he’d be fine — he’d be okay — squeezes my chest in a way that leaves my lungs aching. He would have never met me, and he would have been better off.

"I'm sorry," I breathe out as soon as his room is doctor-free. "I'll do good. I promise."

Morning comes too quickly. Exhausted and hollow, I force myself into leaving the hospital to partake in my shift, knowing he would do exactly the same. That he would want me to.

When I get to the locker room, Malevola is sitting down on the benches, waiting for me.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I mutter, though the lie tastes sour.

"You don’t look okay. In fact, it seems like you didn’t sleep at all," she says, piercingly perceptive.

"Are you calling me ugly?" I whisper to her, then I stare down at my shoes. I can't hold her stare.

"You didn’t go home yesterday, did you?"

I don’t answer to that. 

"Everyone was worried, we haven't seen you since the blast. You didn’t even pick up your goddamn phone for the whole afternoon. I know you care about him, I understand. But we’re all here for you. And for him."

I bite back the tears, forcing my voice steady. I can't stand the thought of her, so tall, so strong, seeing my cry. "He hasn’t woken up yet."

"Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry."

"I wish I could do something. I really do," I mutter, and I feel so useless and soft it's disgusting.

"He’s gonna be okay. He’s a fighter, that one."

"Yeah," I force myself to let out. "Yeah, he is."

The shift drags, long and mundane, but then Blazer’s voice crackles over the comms. 

Robert is awake. Relief washes over me like warm water, shaking hands pressed to my chest. The rest of the team shares in that quiet joy, each of us carrying our own mix of worry and happiness.

Sonar pipes up, cheeky and practical. "We should do something for him. Maybe like a prank or something."

"Not a prank… Maybe cook him something? He barely even has a fridge in that apartment of his," Blazer counters.

I think back to a conversation we had after the movies, remembering how he'd mentioned how empty his apartment is. "What if we throw him a surprise housewarming party? I know he barely has anything in it."

"Real men are minimalistic," Punch-Up mutters.

"Nah, y’all are just basic and lazy," Prism scoffs.

"I like the idea of it, though," Malevola says, and I can swear she's smirking.

"Yeah, me too," Blazer adds.

"Tell you what. Let’s all bring some drinks and… like a lamp or something," I say.

"Cool," Golem rumbles.

"I’ll send you all the address," Blazer says.

"We should tell Royd too. He seems pretty down," Sonar suggests.

"And the old guy," Prism adds.

"Who, Chase?" Punch-Up asks.

"Yeah, why not?" Malevola shrugs.

"I’m in," Sonar nods.

"So… secret it is?" Malevola asks.

"Secret it is," I confirm.

The rest of the shift drags, each minute slow and hollow, my movements automatic while my mind replays the explosion, the stretcher, the white-hot flash of panic.

Then his voice comes over the comms, rough, familiar. "Alright, what’d I fucking miss?"

It’s like someone slammed the brakes on my chest. Relief hits first, sharp and immediate — I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath. My stomach unclenches a fraction, but my heart keeps skipping anyway, a jittery pulse that won’t settle.

I freeze, just listening. The world outside his voice feels muted. After everything, after the fear, hearing him sound alive, awake, even a little annoyed — it’s a shock that leaves me raw and unsteady.

"Holy shit man, you’re okay?" I say immediately.

"You gave us a fucking scare dude," Malevola adds.

"Guess Mecha Man’s a bit sturdier than we thought," Punch-Up mutters.

"Damn boy, you ate mad shit," Prism adds.

"We got you a present. Did you see it?" Golem asks with a somewhat childish voice. Sonar left a bottle of whiskey on his desk that morning.

"I did. Thank you. That was very nice," Robert says softly.

"I am impressed with your fragile body’s ability to sustain such a wide array of injuries. Welcome back," Phenomaman says, deadpan as always.

"Glad you’re back Robbie, things were almost too boring around here," Sonar adds, and my chest warms. He isn’t just mine to care for — everyone feels it.

When the shift ends, I stuff my gear into my locker. Sonar mutters behind me, voice rough with irritation. "A lot of explosions lately, huh? I’m tired of inhaling passive fucking smoke."

I smirk, but it’s half-hearted. "Yeah, well, better get out before me then, cause I plan on smoking at least three cigs as soon as I’m out."

His words stick for a moment, echoing. Explosions… all around the city. Not just today, not just the lab. My stomach tightens. The pieces click into place like they’re supposed to. It’s not random. 

I shove my locker shut and take off, my feet carrying me before I even fully think it through. Royd. He’s the only one who might know — or at least be able to help.

I find him in the corner of the lab, playing with his tools like a bored giant. He looks rough too. He doesn’t look up when I approach.

"We need to talk," I say, voice steady even though my chest is pounding.

"Not now, Visi… Not in da mood," he mutters, still fiddling with a panel, all calm on the surface.

I reach out, letting my fingers brush the bandages on his arm. I force a soft smile, something to anchor both of us. "You’re gonna feel better after this one. Trust me."

——————————————————————

Around dinner time, Malevola and I stand outside Robert’s apartment. The whole building smells faintly of fried food and exhaust, the kind of city grime that’s comforting in its familiarity. My stomach knots — nervous, excited, a little guilty.

"So… we’re at his place," she says, tail flicking lazily, like she already knows I’m overthinking this.

"Yes, and?" I reply, trying to sound casual, though my hands twitch at my sides.

"Oh well, you know. Alcohol and house party call for a good time," she says, winking at me like she’s in on some private joke.

I push her lightly, a half-hearted attempt to hide the little spike of adrenaline in my chest. "Shut up," I mutter, though my voice is softer than I intend.

I glance at the door, imagining Robert inside, probably oblivious to the chaos we’re about to bring into his meticulously minimalistic apartment. Part of me wants to knock and run, leave him to his quiet life, but another part — the part that refuses to let him face things alone —pushes me forward.

I have a feeling that I'm not the only one who has found some sort of little, dysfunctional family for the first time. 

The portal shimmers, and we step inside. I freeze, seeing Robert in his underwear, so I pretend to cover my eyes. "Are you decent?"

Malevola starts looking around, trying to cover her very clear disapproval. "Definitely a house that needs some warmth."

Royd follows, all bandaged up, and this time he's smiling. "Yeah, I tell him dat last time I come."

Robert is looking confused, and between my fingers I catch him trying to cover up. 

Hah. As if I haven't seen him in less.

"I am in my underwear," he mutters like it's not obvious.

"Yeah, I can see you. I was joking when I asked if you’re decent," I say quickly.

"I know. I just need you to know that I know how I look right now," he says.

"Alright, uh, that rubs out by the way. You just have to put a little muscle into it," Malevola mutters, gesturing at the door, all stained where her portal opened. "Do you know where you’d wanna hang this?" she asks him, and it's when he realizes that she's holding a chandelier in her tail.

"Why are you holding a lamp?" he asks.

I wander the apartment, surveying the empty space. "I think he’s only considered where he’d hang himself," I mutter to her, trying to cover up my fascination with this place. "That corner seems fine."

I turn to him, soft but firm. "It’s a housewarming gift for your housewarming party, Robert. I told people to bring a lamp or something."

"Wait wait, people? More people are coming here? To my home? Look… I’m not really in a party mood right now," he says, and Malevola smirks.

"Not what it looks like to me wicha tighty whities…" she says, giving his dick a small smack.

"Okay, she just touched my…" he mutters.

I move toward the only piece of decoration, a corkboard of pictures. "This is your family photo area? Kinda morbid… which I’m kinda into."

He snatches it down quickly, covering it.

Royd is at the table, and we all hear some compulsive clicking. 

"Is that my work computer?" Robert asks, confused.

Royd laughs by himself. "We figured it out, bruddah. The man can be mecha again."

Robert looks at me, clearly confused. He then squeezes his eyes when Royd starts projecting on the wall, right over our figures.

"After your little premature ejacusplosion, I had this feeling like I’d seen it before…" I say, voice low.

"Then Visi asked me to get da energy reading we got this morning and cross reference with recent calls," Royd continues.

"Wait… it’s not destroyed?"

"Nope… and a bunch of B-grade villains have been trying to unlock its power only to end up blowing their asses off like you did. Then they sell it on the next sucker and the same shit. It’s passed hands at least four times that we’ve tracked."

"How does Shroud not know this?" Robert asks.

"Eh, probably think like us. Think it was destroyed. But he’s a smart fuckah. And he got figure it out soon enough," Royd says.

"That’s why we get to it first," I say.

"Which is why we’re having a party?" he asks, raising a brow.

"The Z-Teamers know every low level supervillain in three counties. We track its location, they’ll know who has it," I say, miming a punch on my other palm. "Then, we kick in some doors, knock some heads, snatch that shit back, and you’ll be pulsing or whatever in no time."

He smiles at us, a quiet, grateful smile. "Regardless of how this plays out… thank you. Both of you. I’m… just, you know, I can’t remember the last time someone did something so…"

Yeah, this is all a little too cheesy. So, I punch him lightly on the stomach, then crossing my arms.

"What is wrong with you!" he exclaims, folding up like I went hard on him. I didn't.

"Just… get gushy after we find the shit," I say.

"One of the last pings that we got was from a boat over here in Marina Del Rey. Which is —" Royd starts.

Malevola installs the chandelier and flips the switch, bathing the room in soft light. "Oh, Yatchie territory," she says.

"—why she’s here first. You know how much about those guys?" Royd asks.

"Uh, old money crew of ascot wearin’ cokeheads. Skyler Arcadi runs it now. Three generations of that family’s been trying to finger me," Malevola says, smiling.

"What are they accusing you of?", Robert asks; she giggles, then hugs him from the side.

"You’re cute," she adds.

I shoot her a death stare. She winks at me.

Bitch. 

"We gonna ask you some questions about a piece a tech dey moved… but first, Rob gotta put on pants," Royd says.

"What? But then I can’t do this…" Malevola protests, trying to smack him again, but he dodges.

"Right, right on that," Robert mutters, before going to grab his jeans. I take the chance to flip her off. "Either you do it, or I will," she spells silently.

While he dresses up, I find my phone and a speaker in my bag, then put on "Radio" by Bershy, the lyrics hitting me like a whisper meant just for me.

“Then I met you and my eyes changed, 

and now you’re in my eye range, 

I’m gunning for you.” 

I glance at Robert, smile softly, and for the first time in days, feel like maybe, just maybe, we can actually pull this off.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 - See-through

Everyone trickles into Robert’s apartment with… offerings. That’s really the only word for it. Random lamps, half-baked decorations, things they probably grabbed on the way out just so they wouldn’t show up empty-handed. 

The energy is frantic and mismatched and so painfully them. 

It’s like the world’s strangest surprise party — no planning, no coordination, just pure chaotic affection dumped into Robert’s living room.

And lamps.

And Robert is standing in the middle of it all in total disbelief, looking at this mess of a team who somehow decided he was worth showing up for.

They dump everything onto the floor and immediately start talking work — explosions across the city, blast zones, who’s pulling the strings, what pattern there is, if any. 

Pizza boxes open, slices disappear, beer bottles pop. Blazer even shows up dragging a damn sofa with one arm like it’s nothing.

At some point, someone puts more music on — probably Prism — and the whole room dissolves into dancing. Malevola ends up with Sonar, because of course she does: they flirt every shift, always toeing that line between "are they gonna fuck?" and "are they gonna fight?"

I catch her spinning back into him and I shoot her a teasing wink, which earns me a tongue-out grin in return.

Later, Malevola tugs me outside onto the balcony for air. I light a cigarette, elbows resting on the cold railing, the city stretched out beneath me like a mess of glittering veins. The smoke unravels into the night, and for the first time since everyone crammed themselves into Robert’s apartment, I feel like I can breathe. 

Malevola leans beside me, tail swaying like she’s got a whole rhythm section in there.

“So… Should I make my guess on who’s mystery guy or do you wanna tell me more about it?”

I exhale a long stream of smoke, watching it curl away. “So… have you already fucked Sonar or are you planning to?”

“Don’t switch subject!”

“Is his dick bat-like? Do bats even have dicks?”

She rolls her eyes so aggressively I swear her skull shifts. “You know we all know, right? You look at each other like fucking puppies.”

I smirk, flicking ash over the railing. “You know, I was thinking I could start calling you Mal.”

“It’s disgusting, dude! Fucking Lady and the Tramp shit every time you guys look at each other!”

“Maybe something like Mally…”

“Can you be serious for a damn second?”

“Son and Mal… Sounds good doesn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up. Go put your tongue to better use.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice, Mal.”

The sliding door bursts open like the universe itself wants to humiliate me. Prism leans out, grin wicked.

“Did I hear it right? Is she finally gonna suck Robbie boy?”

I groan and turn immediately, walking back into the apartment.

“Bitch come back! I placed a bet on it!” Prism yells after me.

Inside, Robert is leaning against the wall, beer in hand, watching everyone else have fun like he’s not totally sure he’s allowed to. Like if he moves, he’ll break something good. Or like he’s waiting for someone to tell him he belongs here.

That someone is apparently me, because I walk straight toward him, grab him by the arm, and pull him into the mess of bodies and music.

I loop my arms around his neck, moving with him as the bass thuds through the floorboards. The room melts into soft neon, laughter, shouts, heat — and he’s right there. 

So stupidly close. 

Close enough to kiss. Close enough to lose my entire mind. His eyes are soft in a way I’m not used to. My fingers slide up, cupping his face, tracing the lines that weren’t carved into him just a bunch of hours ago. And he almost leans in.

God, he leans in.

But not here. Not with the whole Z-Team as an audience.

So I lace my fingers through his and tug him outside onto the quiet balcony, into the cooler air that pretends to be clarity.

“So…” I say.

“So…” he echoes.

“You look… better.”

“You mean better than all tubed up?”

I hesitate. “… How—”

“I wasn’t dead, you know. I know you were there.”

My breath stutters. My fingers fidget with the cold neck of my beer bottle because I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands.

“You got me scared for a second, you know that?”

“I know. I saw it in your face before I basically blew up.”

“I just… I’m not used to… this. You. Them.”

I gesture at the chaotic living room behind us, where someone is currently arguing with a lamp. “It’s fucking scary.” 

It really is. I can't — and I don't want to — pretend anymore. 

“I know,” he says softly.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Courtney…”

He steps closer until my back hits the railing. His hands come up to my face, careful, warm, like he’s holding something dangerous and precious at the same time. It felt good to say my name yesterday night, but hearing it come out of his lips, with that rough, raspy voice, does something to me. 

I want him to say it all the time. 

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. These guys… you… you give me meaning.”

And that — God, that cuts deep. Because he feels something real for me, and I’m the one who blew up his first suit. His dad's, his grandfather's suit.

I’m the reason he’s got scars he never asked for. If I hadn’t put that fucking bomb on him, he’d be standing here whole. And he would’ve never met me.

And he’d be better off.

“We can get used to all of this, together,” he breathes out, so close to me.

His lips brush mine — or almost do — but then I see Chase through the glass door. Watching. Glowering. Like he sees straight through me. Like he knows exactly what I am and everything I’m not.

I gently touch Robert’s cheek once before stepping back.

“Let’s keep this one for after we bust some asses and get that fucking Pulse, okay?”

I smile lightly and pull him back inside, toward the projector setup. He doesn't opposed, but he has that kinda offended puppy face of his, and I almost regret not going for it. Trying to send that thought back to some drawer in my mind, I grab a red sharpie off the table and circle a spot on the projected map, because subtlety is for people with impulse control.

“You do understand how projectors work, right?” he asks.

“Felt more… dramatic. And bare walls are a sign of depression.”

“Why is it always a warehouse by the docks?”

Royd appears behind us like he teleported.

“It’s where stuff comes in and stuff goes out. Not a rocket scientist, are ya?”

“No, that was my dad. What kind of security are we dealing with?”

“That’s where it get tricky," Royd says quietly. Schematics appear — layers of defenses stacked like a sadistic cake.

“Shit.”

I squint at it, brain spinning gears faster than I can track.

Chase cuts in with that grating voice. “That’s more than shit, you’d need a fuckin’ army.”

“I’ll go,” I say in a heartbeat, not even thinking about what it could mean.

I turn to Robert.

“Can’t shoot what you can’t see.”

Blazer throws up her hands. “Look, this is really great work, but doing this tonight is out of the question. Hitting a secure location like this is something they would handle downtown.”

“Are you kidding? There’s enough firepower in this room to take down a fucking kaiju.”

“Bunch drunk ass Z-Teamers?” Chase scoffs. “Please, you wouldn’t make it past the front door.”

“No one’s askin’ you to do a goddamn thing, okay?” I growl.

“Hey,” Blazer warns, “no need for that. We take the day to plan it with downtown and hit the warehouse tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night? This thing’s not gonna sit still for that long. If we don’t grab it, someone else will.”

“She’s right,” Robert says. “They’re ready. We’re ready.”

My chest warms. He defended me. Again. Every time I think I’ve hit the ceiling of how much that means, he proves me wrong.

“Robert, no,” Blazer sighs. “It’s not happening.”

“There’s no guarantee it will be there tomorrow. We need to go, now.”

Chase snorts. “She said no. You understand that word? Or has it got too many fuckin’ syllables for you?”

“Why don’t you go walk your ass around a mall, Grandpa. Heroes are talking.”

“You are no fucking hero!” he screams, so loud that silence falls around us.

He storms toward me. The room tenses like a wire pulled too tight.

Blazer grabs his arm. “Whoa, hey!”

“She named you Invisigal. You named yourself Invisibitch and you had it fuckin’ right.”

No I didn't, I want to say. It's not my name, it was never my name. 

“Chase, you’re drunk. You need to stop talking,” Blazer pushes.

“You wanna get people hurt? Get people fuckin’ killed? Then you need to go back to the team where you belong.”

The words land like fists.

Does he know?

Does he know who I was? What I did?

He's a dispatcher too after all. Maybe he has information on me. Maybe he knows. He would have told Robert, though. 

Right?

Robert steps between us. “Chase, that’s enough.”

But Chase isn’t listening. His eyes lock onto mine like he’s peeling me open layer by layer.

“She thinks she’s like you, but she’s not. Robert doesn’t need to keep going out there with no powers putting his life on the line to make up for assholes like you. He doesn’t need to be Mecha Man to be a hero. You’re playin’ them, you’re playin’ yourself. You think you’re invisible, but I fucking see you.”

And for one terrifying moment, I believe him.

I believe that he really does see me —

the villain,
the coward,
the girl who blew up a hero
and ran.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper.

“I know you’re a liar. A criminal. I know you’re fucking dangerous, what else do I need to know?”

He shoves my shoulder. Hard. 

Something in me snaps cleanly. No matter how hard I try, people will always see me as Invisibitch. They will think they know me, that they see me, that they know where I come from. Thing is, I don't even know what I am, who I am anymore.

So I stick to what I know. 

I disappear.

“There. Now I know you’re a cowar—”

Invisible, I crack him across the jaw. No one calls me that any fucking more.

“Oh shit!” Blazer yelps.

I'm not sure how, but Robert realizes I’m bolting even if chaos is unleashing in his apartment. “Oh my God, Visi, wait!”

But I’m already gone.

Through the door, down the stairs, out into the cold night that doesn’t care I’m breaking.

I run until my lungs scream.

Until my legs give out.

I collapse behind a wall, knees hitting cement, vision swimming. I reappear without meaning to. Tears burn hot, spilling faster than I can stop them. I gasp through my inhaler like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.

For every Robert who makes me think I can be good, there’s a Chase reminding me exactly what I am.

A villain. A coward. A runner.

But not tonight. Not anymore.

I wipe my face, swallow the leftover sob in my throat, and check my phone. Missed calls — Robert at the top, then Blazer, Malevola, Sonar.

I ignore them all.

I pull up the warehouse coordinates. And I head there.

Alone.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

The second I reach the warehouse, I know something’s off. Too still. Too clean. The kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath right along with me. I slip through the open loading bay, invisible, every step careful.

Then gunfire cracks through the air — sharp bursts echoing against steel.

I stiffen. Not far.

I move toward the sound, hugging the walls. When I pass the river-facing side, I catch it in the water’s reflection: streaks of red flashing across the surface, the warped outline of a ship lit up in muzzle fire.

Of course the pulse would be on a boat. Because why not. 

Hard to get in, harder to get out. 

I head down the dock, lungs already tight. Two sharp inhales from my inhaler scorch a path through my chest, buying me a little time. I pull my earpiece from my pocket and slide it on before stepping inside the ship’s cargo hold. If something goes horribly wrong — and it will — I’m not doing it blind.

The interior is a labyrinth of towering containers. Everything is dark except for the stuttering red bursts of gunfire bouncing off the metal. Multiple gangs— every color, every insignia — are tearing the place apart, fighting each other and anything that moves.

This is what a nightmare looks like with a budget.

I weave between cover, staying invisible, staying small. I’m focused so hard on not catching a fucking laser shot that when Robert’s voice explodes in my ear, I almost stumble out of sheer startle.

“Hey! Hey, can you hear me? The fuck are you doing?”

I flicker visible without meaning to. I’m too out of breath to do both — talk and stay hidden.

“Oh, not much,” I mutter, forcing air through tight lungs. “Just lookin’ for your stupid ass pulse that’s somewhere on this big ass boat. But someone must have dropped a pin in the supervillain group chat cause this place is crawling with dipshits. Good news is they don’t know where it is either.”

A container slams down beside me — thrown by someone who definitely skips leg day in favor of “hurl heavy objects at random.” I jump back, heart exploding in my chest.

“Visi, get out of there, now.”

“Look, you’re disappointed, I’m disappointed. I’m sure Chase’ll have some shit to talk, but I’m here, and this is our last chance of getting this thing.”

There’s a pause, the tense kind, before he exhales into the mic. “Okay, maybe if I can hack into the system I can trace the energy signal, check the manifest, I don’t know, something.”

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth lifts. He’s helping. He’s in this with me. That alone pushes me forward.

Around me, villains tear open crates, smash locks, rip through every container like feral raccoons on a treasure hunt. No one has found it yet. Good.

“Something would be great,” I whisper. “Yeah, let’s start with something.”

A few seconds later, he just says “Hey, I’m getting a huge energy reading coming from the captain’s quarters,” like I'm supposed to know what that means. 

“Right. And I’m supposed to know where that is?”

“See that tower? The biggest one. It’s at the top.”

I peek around the corner. The tower looms above the chaos like an insult.

“Oh, perfect. So you want me to cross this active battlefield.”

“Look, I didn’t want you to do any of this shit.”

True. He didn’t. But he also doesn’t know how badly I need to do this for him — how much I need to fix what I broke.

“You’re the one—”

“I get it. Okay? Jesus.”

I run. Invisible. Heart in my throat. Breath slicing thin. Every gunshot flares through the dark like a warning. My lungs are starting to fail, the familiar razor burn creeping in.

When visibility slips again, I duck behind a container. A group of Red Ring soldiers is heading my way — fast.

“Shit,” I whisper. “They’re onto me.”

I force myself invisible again, my vision tunneling.

“There’s a door to your left,” Robert says quickly. “Lose ’em in there.”

I find it — locked.

Perfect.

I drop visible again, dragging air into my lungs as panic edges in.

“Fuck, it’s locked,” I hiss. “Feel free to take your time, I’ll just catch up with some old friends.”

They’re nearly on me. Wings and weapons and too many of them. I brace myself and fight — wild, desperate, knocking out two before the rest close in.

Then, a click.

“All right, Visi! Door’s open!”

I shove myself through the doorway, sprint up a narrow staircase. Heavy crates sit at the landing; I shoulder into one, sending it crashing onto the men climbing after me. Their shouts vanish under the weight.

I keep going, pulling my inhaler free just as a shadow blots out the light.

The winged asshole is on me again, before I can even take a puff.

“This fucking guy.”

“Okay, Visi — listen to me. Lead him towards that speaker tower. I’ve got an idea.”

I spot it. A row of enormous speakers perched like the world’s worst concert setup. Getting there requires one hell of a jump over the railing and across stacked containers.

I take one sharp breath and leap. He almost catches my ankle.

“It better be a good one!”

My lungs are burning now, vision blurred at the edges.

“Visi, cover your ears!”

I slap my hands over them a split second before the speakers unleash a blast so loud I feel it in my teeth. The winged man drops like a stone.

I jump down, staggering, leaning against cold metal, wheezing.

“Is that why birds fly into shit?”

“Visi — look out, behind you!”

I spin. Shots ring out, hitting a stack of containers that topple with a scream of metal. Dust explodes everywhere. I cough violently, chest tearing.

The fallen cargo blocks my path completely.

“Fuck me,” I rasp. “How am I supposed to get around that?”

“Look — hey. Just worry about not dying. I’ll find you a way around.”

I almost laugh. Or sob. Instead, I throw myself back into the fight. I blink in and out of invisibility, fists shaking, adrenaline the only thing keeping me upright. I take down as many as I can, but they keep coming.

Right when my body finally starts to give, Robert’s voice cuts in:

“Heads up. Ride is here.”

I look up just in time to see a crane arm swinging toward me. I leap for it, cling to the metal as it carries me across open air, then throw myself toward the control room window. Glass shatters as I crash through, pain lancing through my side.

“The captain’s quarters should be right in front of you.”

They are. An elevator door glows red — too red. It explodes outward before I can move. The blast throws me to the ground.

Two armed men step through. One of them I recognize. Lava Lad. Former Red Ring fellow. Professional jackass.

“Tell us where the Pulse is, Invisibitch,” he snarls, “before we go full Pompeii on your ass.”

I blink at him. “Full Pompeii on my ass? What kinda threat is that? You gonna gimme diarrhea?”

I disappear.

“Wait, don’t—” Lava Lad groans. “That was predictable.”

I sprint past them, up the stairs to the captain’s quarters. I slam the door and wedge a metal tool through the handles. The metal glows immediately, heating under Lava Lad’s palms from the other side.

“Where the fuck is this thing?” I gasp. “’Cause that’s not gonna hold them for long.”

“It’s in the safe.”

“In the safe? I don’t know how to open a fucking safe!”

“Fuck. All right. Let me see what I can do.”

I try to breathe. Try to slow the panic clawing at my ribs. I’m so close. So close I can taste the metal and adrenaline.

“Alright—safe’s open. Is it in there?”

I swing the safe door open. A metal briefcase sits inside. I flip it open — and blue light spills over me.

Tiny. The Pulse is tiny. Unbelievably tiny.

“I don’t know,” I mutter, staring at it. “Does it look like a little glowy butt plug?”

“…You know what?” he says. “I guess it does.”

I can hear him smiling. I do, too.

“Okay, so now all you gotta do is sneak past the—”

I freeze.

The door. It’s no longer glowing. No longer melting. It looks… perfectly intact.

“Why did it stop?”

I crack it open. Both armed men lie unconscious on the floor.

“What the fuck?” I whisper. “Holy shit, are they—”

Everything goes dark.