Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first sensation he felt in the waking world wasn't light, or warmth, or peace. It was a texture: wet, rough, and endlessly persistent.

Robert groaned, pulling his tattered wool blanket closer to his face, attempting to seal himself off from the world. The world, however, had teeth—or rather, a tongue. A very insistent tongue, might he add. Beef, an adorable, black and white furred mutt built low to the ground and fueled by a hunger induced vendetta, was operating a free facial wash (much to Robert’s dismay.)

“Beef. Stop,” Robert mumbled, the words catching on the blanket fibers. He tried to turn away, hoping to retreat back into the comforts of sleep's awaiting arms, only for the licking to intensify, accompanied by a heavy, insistent thump-thump-thump as Beef’s paws hammered against the bare floorboards.

Robert, for his part, lasted a whole minute before he surrendered.

“Ugh, alright, that's enough, Beef. I get it. I'm getting up, just stop.” He peeled his face away from the blanket, blinking against the light that bled through the high, filthy windowpanes of his apartment. The air was cold, tasting faintly of dust and yesterday’s stale takeout.

He groaned, already regretting his decision to give in to Beef’s insistence he wake up.

For one, he was sleeping on the floor. He knew he was sleeping on the floor, that was his every day wake-up after all, but the harsh reality of the sensation—the way the old hardwood pressed against his hipbone—was always an unwelcome existence.

His entire apartment, a shoebox-sized tragedy he barely afforded, was quite frankly an unwelcome existence in itself. The entirety of his “home” contained exactly one piece of furniture: a chipped, olive-green plastic chair parked precisely three feet from the radiator, useful neither for sitting nor warmth.

The very sight of it every morning reminded him of his pitiful life. Of everything he's lost. But the most unrelenting, and annoying, detail of his wake-up call that always made him regret waking up was the city itself.

The street noise was already at maximum volume, a symphony of industrial misery Robert had learned to catalog. Directly below him, an air brake shrieked like a dying pterodactyl, followed immediately by the sharp, rhythmic clang-clang-clang of the recycling truck running its route two hours too early. Someone, somewhere, was laying on a horn with the fierce commitment of a teenager who just had their phone taken away. Beneath it all was the constant, low-frequency hum of a thousand people moving too fast and caring too little.

It was, objectively, the worst soundtrack imaginable, yet it was the soundtrack of his life, and its predictability was the only anchor he had.

Robert pushed himself onto his elbows. Every joint protested the movement. He was twenty-seven, but the accumulated stress of late nights, cheap beer, constant fights, and repeated inadequate sleep made him feel closer to seventy. In hindsight, he was pretty much in the same predicament as Chase. How… depressing. He straightened his spine, hearing a sickening pop and hauled himself upright.

He sighed.

He didn't just feel tired; he felt utterly done. Done with the floor, done with the noise, done with the fact that his only friend seemed to exist solely to lick his face awake for the benefit of food. He just wanted to lay down and wither away from existence. Whether that was his exhaustion talking, annoyance, or crippling depression he couldn’t tell. And honestly, he didn't care. Either way he wanted to be done.

Beef however, taking Robert’s now vertical form as a clear indication that business was about to begin, positioned himself directly between Robert’s knees and leaned forward, his whole body tense with anticipation. His dark eyes were fixed on Robert, tail whipping the air with joyous violence.

𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘺. His eyes pleaded.

“Yeah, yeah, relax, buddy,” Robert muttered, a genuine, if brief, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Beef was the only thing that hadn't curdled in his life. “I'll get you fed.” He padded across the room's vast emptiness to the corner where Beef’s orange kibble bag sat nestled beside a scratched plastic bowl.

Pouring the recommended measure felt like the day’s first and only accomplishment. And predictability, like every morning, Beef attacked the bowl with a fervor that suggested he hadn't eaten in weeks, rather than just twelve hours.

Robert watched him eat for a moment, letting the simple transaction of need and satisfaction settle the frantic energy the street noise had instilled within him. Then, his own stomach growling, he turned toward the mini, buzzing refrigerator—an appliance that functioned more as a monument to past groceries than a working cold storage unit.

He pulled the handle. It didn’t open. He tugged again. Nothing. “Oh for the love of—”

One breath in, hold, release.

He was not going to punch the refrigerator. He was a grown man who could not blame an inanimate object for his pitiful life. Opening his eyes, being greeted with the weird yellow stain on his ceiling, Robert returned his gaze back towards the refrigerator. With a hard yank, releasing a rush of intensely localized, vaguely medicinal cold air, the refrigerator door burst open. Robert reached for the nearly full carton of milk he’d bought three days prior.

He didn't even need to pour it. The smell hit him instantly: a sour, yeasty, aggressive scent that spoke of bacterial warfare and imminent disaster. He shook the carton gently. Instead of the smooth splash of fluid, he felt a worrying plop-plop of semi-solids shifting inside.

Robert stared at the milk.

Of fucking course.

He placed the carton back on the shelf, the sigh that escaped his lips weighted with absolute acceptance. No coffee. No cereal. Nothing. This was just how it was. The effort required to get dressed and go to work now outweighed the caloric energy he had available. Still, he had no choice but to get ready.

He tied the laces of his boots, grabbed the keys and his worn dispatcher jacket, and scooped up Beef. Said dog, having completed his morning feast, was ready for the next adventure, tail eagerly wagging.

𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺, Robert thought sullenly.

“Come on, Beefster, we can't be late,” he said, pulling the door shut behind them.

As the heavy wood of the door clicked shut, a bright, melodic voice chirped from across the hall. “Morning, Robert! And a big morning to you too, Beefy!”

Robert paused, a familiar knot of annoyance tightening in his chest. It was Anya, the ravnette from three doors down. Her apartment door, adorned with an absurdly cheerful, hand-painted mural of dancing fireflies, swung open to reveal her. Anya was all vibrant color and sunshine—a stark contrast to Robert’s carefully cultivated monochrome existence. Today, she wore a light green sundress that seemed to capture the very essence of spring, her naturally coppery hair pulled back in a loose braid that bounced as she moved.

Beef, ever the diplomat, wriggled in Robert’s arms, emitting a happy grunt. Anya’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she beamed. “Oh, you sweet boy,” she cooed, reaching out a slender hand to scratch Beef behind his ears. Beef responded with an enthusiastic lick to her fingers, his tail wagging with such ferocity it threatened to dislodge him from Robert’s grasp.

“He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?” Anya said, her gaze shifting to Robert. Her smile was disarmingly wide, her eyes, the color of warm honey, held a playful spark. “You’re always in such a rush, Robert. I barely see you these days. Not that you were around much before, but what's got you so keyed up?”

Robert sighed internally. Of course. The universe had a twisted sense of humor, always ensuring he had to engage in pleasantries when he least felt like it. “Just heading to work, Anya. Dispatch.” He kept his voice deliberately flat, betraying none of the weariness that settled deep in his bones.

“Dispatch,” she echoed, tilting her head slightly. “Sounds… busy. You always get so dressed up for it,” she added, gesturing vaguely at his jacket and boots. A subtle, almost imperceptible blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I can’t imagine what goes on in there. You hardly ever talk about it. And Beef! You always look like you’re about to embark on a grand quest.”

Robert resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t a grand quest, it was a soul-crushing grind. “Just the usual,” he mumbled, shifting Beef’s weight. “Paperwork, phone calls, the occasional… emergency.” He kept his gaze fixed on the chipped paint of her doorframe, avoiding her direct gaze. Anya’s subtle attempts at flirtation were as transparent as the cheap plastic of his dispatcher badge, and just as unwelcome.

Anya leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “You know,” she began, a hopeful lilt in her tone, “I was thinking… it’s such a shame you’re always so busy. Maybe sometime, when you’re not saving the world or something, we could grab coffee? Or maybe… a drink?” Her honey-colored eyes met his now, a clear invitation lingering in their depths.

Robert’s response was immediate and devoid of any warmth. “Can’t. Got to go.” He side stepped, easily maneuvering past his newest obstacle of the morning. “Have a good day, Anya.”

He practically fled, Beef looking happily up at him from within his arms. The brief encounter, though short, had managed to chip away at his already depleted reserves.

However, thankfully, the walk to the Dispatch office was the usual voyage. The pavements were slick with residue Robert aggressively chose not to identify. The air was thick with diesel fumes and the lingering scent of last night’s illicit street food.

People were already moving with rushed, hostile intent. A woman in a sharpsuit nearly shoulder-checked him to get past, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse on Beef’s parentage. A cyclist blew through a red light, forcing Robert and Beef to a sudden halt, nearly knocking Robert over.

The city demanded efficiency, and anyone who moved at the pace of a man who hadn't eaten breakfast and was accompanied by a dog who insisted on trying to jump out of his arms to sniff every single fire hydrant was an obstacle, a nuisance.

Robert didn’t care. If people thought he was slow that was their issue not his. The only concern on his mind was keeping one foot in front of the other at an acceptable pace for his place of employment. He couldn't afford to be late, and honestly, he had nothing better to do than go spend eight hours staring at glowing screens, mediating other people’s emergencies. The shift loomed before him, already feeling endless, stretching out like the grey, polluted river they were just crossing.

He arrived at the Dispatch building, the glass lobby doors sliding open with a soft, dramatic whoosh that always felt far too clean for the chaos inside.

Robert tightened his grip on Beef, preparing for the internal transition—the act of pushing down his apathy and remembering how to sound competent and alert on the phone.

He took three steps inside when a voice, loud, cheerful, and entirely too energetic for this time of day, rang out from behind the counter.

“Robert! You finally made it. Morning, Beefy boy!”

Chase, annoyingly bright-eyed even though he’d likely pulled the late shift, bounded over the moment he saw the dog. Chase didn't even bother to acknowledge Robert, instead dropping immediately into a crouch, hands outstretched.

“How've you been, Beef? Are you warm yet? Did Robert rub your belly? Feed you?” Chase was already stealing Beef from Robert’s fingers before the brunette could even formulate a verbal greeting. It was only once Robert was thoroughly dogless he finally managed to formulate a sentence.

“Well hello to you too, Chase. It's wonderful to see you.”

“Yeah, Yeah, always a pleasure. Anyway, he’s staying with me for now,” Chase decreed, settling Beef into a fireman’s carry, which Beef tolerated with the solemn dignity of a minor celebrity. “I need the morale boost. Go log on. Your seven o’clock is already backing up. Oh, and did you bring me those jelly donuts I asked for?”

Robert closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Dammit. “No, I forgot.”

“Tch, oh well, least you brought the dog. Now get to work. I ain’t covering for your ass this early in the morning.”

And with that, Robert watched Chase disappear around the corner toward the breakroom, the sound of Beef’s delighted, muffled yips trailing behind them.

Robert stood alone by the time clock, his hands suddenly empty, the weight of his dog replaced by the dead weight of the workday. He couldn’t help but mourn the good old days. The ones where he used to always have Beef to himself and a job where he didn’t get antsy from sitting for too long. Now, he hardly got to see his own dog as said pup deemed Chase a better companion and constantly got restless.

He hit the punch-in button, the machine giving a satisfying electronic chirp that finalized his commitment to the next eight hours. The spoiled milk, the creaking joints, the loss of his dog, the annoying neighbor—all of it faded into the background haze of the mundane.

It was a normal day, beginning precisely where the last one left off: exhausted, unfed, and already missing his dog.

It was supposed to be a normal day.

Why the fuck did the universe hate him?

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The sound was immediate and deafening: a high-pressure hiss followed by the brutal, ice-cold spray of industrial water. The shock slammed through Robert’s system, wrenching a strangled gasp from his frozen lungs. He stood rooted on the grated metal floor of the decontamination chamber, water cannoning down from four different nozzles mounted high in the ceiling.

He felt less like a man and more like a drowned, soaking-wet alley cat, shivering uncontrollably. The water wasn’t just cold; it tasted faintly of chlorine and metallic solvent, stinging his eyes despite his effort to keep them squinted shut. His teeth started a frantic, rattling rhythm against each other that he couldn't stop.

“Six minutes, Mr. Robertson,” droned a voice through a speaker mounted just outside the thick, reinforced glass door.

Robert managed a jerky nod, though his focus was entirely stolen by the figure beside him.

Flambae, who was apparently still refusing to enter the neighboring shower bay, stood stiffly, his arms crossed over a vibrant black, red and orange uniform that was already starting to steam slightly from body heat alone. He was currently being attended to by three personnel in full, airtight yellow biohazard suits, their faces obscured by polarized visors. Robert had nicknamed them ‘the Hamster People’ months ago, due to the way their breathing apparatus puffed in and out like diligent cheeks.

“Look, with all due,” a quick quirk of the brow followed by a glance up and down, “respect, and I use that term very loosely,” Flambae announced, his voice projecting with theatrical confidence despite the tense atmosphere. “I am a walking furnace. I radiate roughly 800 degrees Fahrenheit on a resting day. I will not be getting into 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 glorified car wash. I am fine. I will not be affected by some bitch virus.”

One of the Hamster People—a thin individual designated ‘Decon Tech 2’ by the laminated badge over their chest—leaned slightly closer. They spoke with the unnervingly polite tone of someone entirely used to dealing with explosive egos.

“Flambae, sir, we are simply following Level 5 protocol,” Decon Tech 2 stated, their voice mild and filtered. “The exogenous particulates you were exposed to are sub-micron and designed to bypass standard thermal resistance. While your internal temperature is laudable, the external surface—specifically the soles of your boots and the threading of your suit—requires immediate neutralization. We just need the six-minute cycle.”

“The fuck? Do you not know how to speak English? What the fuck was all that?” Flambae retorted, and though Robert couldn't see it, he was sure Flambae’s face more than conveyed a ‘you’re the stupidest person I've ever met’ expression. It was one he was far too familiar with.

Tech 2 sighed, the sound a long, exasperated thing. Robert could relate. “I'm sorry, sir. That was my fault. Let me rephrase: we need you to get into decontamination to neutralize any residue on your suit and skin. It will only be a six minute cycle, so if you could just—”

Flambae scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re wasting my fucking time! I told you I'm not some weak bitch. Send some other banana peel looking bitch to get, I don' know, Golem or some shit cleaned up; he probably tracked in like half the containment zone. Besides, everything I was exposed to was, what was it one of you said… exosonice… ex…”

“Exogenous particulates.”

“Yeah that shit. It’s all on the surface. I’ve been running hot enough to sterilize this entire bay since I got back to HQ. You fucker's should be thanking me.”

Robert choked on a sudden burst of water, adjusting his position in the brutal spray as he waited for the timer to count down. He fought the urge to roll his eyes so hard they might sprain.

A new voice, low and laced with sheer, unadulterated annoyance, cut sharply across the room from two bays over. Robert knew that sound—it was the unmistakable pitch of Invisigal.

“Holy shit, shut the fuck up dude and get in the shower,” Visi commanded. She sounded entirely done with the day, and they hadn't even finished scrubbing off the bio-residue yet.

Flambae bristled instantly, his body temperature spiking visibly. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me. Everyone on the Z-Team is being forced to decontaminate because of your little trip to Vandlab and the nasty souvenirs you brought back, so you should at least have the decency to not be such a whiny 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 about a little water!” A faint shimmer followed her as she moved, a trick of the light off her dark, form-fitting suit.

Flambae's jaw tightened, his teeth clenching so tightly it felt like his teeth would ground to dust. “Excuse me? My ‘little trip’ was a big fucking deal! People could've died or some shit.” Visi scoffed, rolling her eyes. Flambae ignored it. “And don' you dare try to pin this on me, you emo-drama queen!”

“Oh, that's rich coming from 𝘺𝘰𝘶. Last I checked I'm not the one currently wasting everyone's time because I’m afraid of getting my hair wet, you overgrown matchstick. And how the fuck is this not your fault? The only reason we’re all stuck here with these glorified kitchen sprinklers is because 𝘺𝘰𝘶 brought this virus here!”

“At least I did my fucking job, unlike some people who claimed they had a ‘nail appointment.’ What were you doin'? Getting your nails painted black to be more of an emo bitch?” Flambae shot back, a venomous glare that could kill accompanying his words.

“It was a pedicure, you oblivious, germ-ridden inferno, and it was scheduled before your disastrous attempt at going solo. Besides, even if I went we still wouldn't be here because I know not to come back to HQ when carrying a deadly virus.”

“You—”

“She’s got a point, Flare-boy,” piped up Malevona, sounding bored, from her own steaming shower bay. “Even if she was supposed to go, you were the one who went and brought this thing here. So… yeah. Your fault.”

“Yeah, I ave’ to agree with the lady on this one, mate” Punch Up chimed in, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “Now let's just make this easier on everyone, yeah? Get in the damn shower or I will personally shove you in.”

“I don’t care what you guys do, just shut up. The noise is vibrating my ear drums unpleasantly, causing minor cranial discomfort,” complained Sonar from the end bay, his voice a low thrum against the metal. “Man, I'm starving. I barely had anything for lunch.”

“You shut up, this is getting good. ‘Bout time we had some drama,” insisted Prism, her multicolored suit standing out starkly against the gray steel, looking far too gleeful for someone who could have a life ending disease.

“Water cleans. Feels pretty good,” rumbled Golem, entirely unfazed by the soaking, as he seemed more interested in examining a speck of dust on his giant, rocky forearm.

“I say we just kill him, get this over with.” Coupé muttered.

“I-I don’t think that's su-such a good idea.” Waterboy stuttered, slicking a piece of hair behind his ear as he avoided eye contact (a nervous tick Robert’s come to associate with the wet hero.)

“Ah, shut yer mouth no one asked you.” Punch Up barked, glaring daggers at Waterboy.

“I—”

“Fuck all o' you! I've had it—”

The decontamination bay, a place designed for sterile silence, had instantly devolved into a high-school cafeteria argument. Robert’s timer finally buzzed, a welcome chime of release.

The water immediately cut off, inviting a huge gust of cold air to overtake him. Robert stepped out of the bay and onto a thick rubber mat, feeling like a damp, shivering ghost in his suddenly heavy clothes. His teeth still chattered, and he grabbed a rough, standard-issue towel, feeling the last pieces of his patience snap.

He stood there, soaking and exhausted and still missing Beef, and gazed at his so-called task force—the Z-Team, the unit supposedly tasked with being a part of the side that saves the goddamn planet—currently engaged in a childish shouting match over a shower bay.

“All of you,” Robert said, his voice flat, dangerously quiet, and carrying an implicit threat.

No one stopped. Flambae was now actively trying to incinerate the air surrounding Invisigal’s bay with theatrical fury, Visi was countering with barbed insults, and Sonar was contributing with overwhelming levels of whine.

Robert took a deep breath, the cold air scraping his throat.

“SHUT UP!”

The word echoed off the tiled walls, sharp and forceful enough to cut through the din of argument and the persistent, background hum of the HVAC system. Even Flambae, mid-glower, paused.

Robert threw his half-damp towel onto the floor. He didn’t bother raising his voice further; the initial shock was enough. He just let the rage simmer, fueled by his cold, his fatigue, and the sheer audacity of this entire morning.

“Are you all incapable of behaving like fucking professional adults for five consecutive minutes?” Robert demanded, sweeping his gaze across the mostly assembled Z-team: Malevola, Punch Up, Golem, Prism, Invisigal, Coupé, Waterboy and Sonar (Phenomoman being absent due to the fact he somehow got blessed with the day off)—the throw-aways of the crop, the worst and dimmest. “We just breached containment in the Sub-Level Delta sector. Do you know what that means? It means that highly unstable, potentially weaponized bio-matter is currently being cycled out by specialized staff, attempting to ensure it doesn’t reach outside SDN.”

He pointed a finger, dripping wet, toward Flambae, who actually lowered his head slightly.

“It’s not just you, Flambae. It’s not just us. Have you not noticed that the entire SDN is currently on lock-down? That every single member of the logistics, security, and cleaning staff who even showed up today has to be cycled through this same miserable protocol? This isn’t some arena match we were dropped into. This isn’t a training simulation.”

Robert felt his shoulders slump slightly, the adrenaline of the outburst draining away, leaving only profound exhaustion.

“This isn’t a game,” he finished, his voice returning to a low, painful rasp. “The world, contrary to your collective egos, is not organized around your convenience or your dramatic feuds. Now, behave. Get through the goddamn shower and maybe, just maybe, we can prevent total institutional failure before lunch.”

A thick, uncomfortable silence settled over the Z-Team. The Hamster People stood by, motionless, politely waiting.

Malevola was the first to comply, nodding sharply at Robert. “Got it. Showers first.”

Flambae glowered for another second, but the fight had gone out of him. He stepped heavily into the spray, letting out a dramatic, suffering sigh as the cold water hit his superheated skin. Steam instantly began to spawn in like a sauna, nearly washing away all remnants of the cold.

Waterboy gave Robert a small, awkward tilt of his head before turning toward his station. Golem simply grunted, satisfied that the bickering had ceased. Prism and Invisigal rolled their eyes, the former muttering under her breath about how everything was just starting to get good. Sonar, Punch up and Coupé silently made their ways back to their respective spots, usually the less aggressive of the bunch when scorned.

Robert watched them, feeling the warming air attacking his damp clothing. He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing he had achieved quiet, but at the cost of his last remaining shred of composure.

He sighed, retrieved a pair of dry clothes from one of the hamster people and followed the taped line on the ground to his room where he’d wait to hear if he was infected or not. He was already dreading the mountains of paperwork needed to account for the Level 5 breach when this was over.

It was going to be a long day. And he still owed Chase donuts.

Chapter Text

The air in the room was thick and sweet, smelling faintly of cinnamon toast and that particular, dusty scent unique to plush carpeting and old comic books. It was too warm. Everything was too warm. Robert, small and slight at nine years old, curled tighter under the heavy comforter, his pajamas feeling like itchy chainmail against his skin.

He tried to draw a deep breath, but the effort ended in a ragged, whistling failure. His throat felt like he’d swallowed sand, and his muscles ached with a dull, insistent drumming that had nothing to do with training or playing. He just wanted to be outside, running the block, free from the boring wall calendar displaying a perpetually sunny beach scene that mocked his confinement, maybe try to jump off the shed one more time to see if he, by some miracle, got the power to fly. Instead, he was stuck, a prisoner of his own failing biology. Cursed to never be free again.

Suddenly, he heard a slight whoosh from the doorway, too quick to be a normal entry, and then a familiar, booming sigh of faux-suffering.

“Well, well, well,” a voice boomed, loud enough to make Robert wince. “Look who’s still clinging to life. I figured you’d have melted into the sheets by now.”

Robert squinted over the blanket. A tall, lean figure, unmistakably male, sauntered into the room, standing silhouetted against the hall light. His frame was accentuated by baggy clothes—a loose hoodie and cargo pants, no doubt—that hung comfortably around him. A striking profile was framed by a wild yet sculpted mass of black dreadlocks, neatly shaved high on the sides, forming a distinct, almost regal crown.

As the figure moved further from the direct backlight, revealing more than just a shadow, Robert could make out the warm, deep brown of his skin and the calm, observant glint in his equally brown eyes.

Chase.

The man who wasn't Robert's family—he was a friend of his dads tasked with watching him when his father was away—but treated Robert with the casual, annoying affection of a real older sibling.

He was maybe nineteen, impossibly fast, and possessed a reckless charm that disguised an immense capacity for responsibility—a trait Robert’s father relied on implicitly.

“Y'know, I hear the CDC is coming to name this strain after you, Robbie.” Chase announced, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “The Robert Flu. Highly contagious, extremely dramatic.”

“‘M fine,” Robert mumbled, his voice a dry rasp. He tried to project a heroic stoicism, the kind his dad would approve of. “Just… resting. An’ don't call me Robbie mh’ names Robert.”

Chase grinned, leaning against the doorframe, his smile looking impossibly vibrant against the gloomy, sick filled room. “Oh, right. My bad ‘Robert’. You're resting. Because world-class heroes-in-training ‘rest’ while they leak snot like a broken faucet.” Chase chuckled. “C'mon, dude. You ain't foolin’ anyone when you're sounding like a dyin’ frog. No need to be tough for me.”

“I said ’M fine.” Robert pushed himself up an inch, intending to sit tall, but the motion triggered something painful in his chest. A deep, wet, agonizing cough seized him, doubling him over until his small frame shook violently. He struggled for air, tears instantly welling in his eyes not from sadness, but from the brutal physical effort. He sounded awful, ragged and starved for oxygen.

“Shit.” In a flash Chase's teasing grin evaporated. The loud, carefree façade dropped, revealing the anxious young man beneath. Within a blink Chase was across the room in a blur, kneeling beside the bed.

“Alright, alright, easy there, kiddo,” Chase murmured, rubbing a broad hand lightly across Robert’s back until the spasm began to subside. When Robert finally caught his breath, Chase pressed his palm flat against Robert’s forehead. His hand felt like a cool slab of marble against the feverish heat radiating from Robert’s skin. “Yikes. You could fry an egg on that thing. Hold still.”

He dashed into the attached bathroom and was back in a fraction of a second, holding a digital thermometer. He slid it under Robert’s tongue. “Hold this under your tongue, don’t chew it,” Chase ordered, his voice now crisp and serious.

Robert complied, too weak to protest, the plastic object cold and alien in his hot mouth. As they waited for the beep, Chase tried to distract him, knowing how he hated long silences.

“Hey, did I tell you I ran into Plasma-Man yesterday?” Chase asked, his voice lowering conspiratorially. Robert shook his head. “Really? Well fuck let me fill you in. So get this, he was trying to get a coffee at the little corner shop, right? But he was wearing his full mask. He had to keep pulling it up to take little sips, but he’d forget and try to drink through the mask. It was hilarious.”

Robert offered a wet, weak chuckle. It was helpful, but his misery was too deep-seated. He felt a profound, aching emptiness that no amount of joking could fix. He stared at the ceiling, wishing Chase would just leave. Wishing his dad were there—not Mechaman, but his dad, who knew exactly where to scratch his head to make the ache lessen. However, he couldn't remember the last time his dad did that; the memory was all but faded at this point. Heck, he couldn't even remember the last time he saw his dad and not Mechaman. He missed him.

Mostly, though, he just wanted his mother. She was the one who would hold a cool flannel to his face and sing softly until the world felt safe. He missed her fiercely, a sharp, familiar pang of loss that always seemed worse when he was vulnerable. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the hot rush of tears. He didn't want Chase to see him cry.

Chase noticed anyway. He leaned closer, resting his elbow on the mattress. “Hey. Stop that. No tears, man. It’s just the crud. We punch the crud right out.” He snapped his fingers decisively.

“You know what happens when you beat the crud?” Chase asked, leaning back slightly and letting a genuine smile spread across his face. “Twinkies. The golden standard of recovery supplies. I’ll make a deal. You hold the temp stick, you don’t cry, and I’ll get you the good stuff.”

Before Robert could even mumble an agreement, Chase’s form blurred. The wind in the room stirred subtly—a slight ruffle of the curtain—and then Chase was back, holding a foil-wrapped package of two golden cakes. He set them carefully on the bedside table.

Simultaneously, the small thermometer began to emit a rapid, cheerful, mechanical series of tones: 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱.

The sound was high-pitched, insistent, and relentless.

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱.

The insistent tapping dragged Robert up from the syrupy depths of sleep. All at once he could feel the scratchy synthetic blanket digging into his skin, the sterile cold air, and the narrow, rigid bed beneath him which was utterly unfamiliar.

Robert’s eyes snapped open. He was instantly aware of the fluorescent lighting filtering into the isolation unit. The rhythmic sound was no longer the thermometer's death knell, but a measured knock-knock-knock coming from the outside panel of his waiting room's reinforced viewing port.

He sat up, the memory of the feverish childhood room dissolving instantly into the harsh reality of the SDN Level 5 quarantine. The silence in the room was so thick it felt like soundproofing.

By the glass stood Blonde Blazer. She was, unsurprisingly, dressed in her hero uniform, her blonde hair impeccably perfect as it fell around her shoulders, almost like an angelic glow. She stood motionless, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of professional composure—a composure that did not quite reach her eyes.

Her lips were pressed into a thin, straight line that spoke volumes. He didn't have to wait for the analysis report to be official. Robert knew the drill. If the test was negative, she’d be smiling, maybe offering an ironic cheer or a thumbs-up.

Instead, her eyes held the flat, heavy gaze of someone delivering irredeemable news.

Robert swung his legs off the cot. The exhaustion from a restless night on the floor was still there, but now it was overlaid with a cold, creeping realization. The pathogen had won the first round.

He wasn’t getting out of here before lunch. He wasn't getting out to file the stacks of paper surely lining his desk from this whole ordeal. And he was going to need a lot more than Twinkies.

He couldn't help but think about how they got here. It was pretty ironic that in a world full of super powered beings not one is known to time travel. If so, he'd ask them to send him back to the moment this all began so he could slap his past self.

—1 𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚛, 29 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛—

The fluorescent hum of SDN's bullpen was usually a dull roar of activity, but by 19:58, it had dwindled to an almost eerie quiet. Screens flashed with mission-complete reports, and the few remaining agents were already clocking out, eager to escape the sterile grey as new agents came to replace them.

Robert, still huddled in his cubicle, headphones clamped over his ears, barely registered the ebb and flow. His eyes, rimmed with eye bags and the faint smudges of disinterest, scanned the last remaining active mission ping. 𝘝𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘴, 𝘻𝘰𝘯𝘦 7: 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘙𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘝𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘮.

He adjusted his headset, the lightweight plastic feeling heavy against his temples. He sighed, taking a deep breath. He just needed to clear this last mission and then he could hit the break room, snag his reward of processed sugar, and hibernate until tomorrow. Freedom was near.

"Invisigal," Robert’s voice was a flat monotone over the comms system. "Zone 7 is the last ticket. Vandlabs. Minor robbery in progress."

A sharp, petulant sigh hissed back through the speakers. A moment of static, then a sharp, annoyed scoff. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, dude. It’s nearly my nail appointment. Do you know how hard it is to find places open this late? I’m not missing my gel French tips for some petty larceny.” Invisigal’s voice dripped with disdain. “Tell you what, though. You can tell me how it went. I’ll be sure to be unavailable for follow-up questions.”

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, the familiar tension tightening his skull. “Visi, you will go. The rest of the team is completing their own missions and are unable to respond, only leaving you. This is a direct order.”

“Bullshit.” Invisigal cut him off, her voice now laced with a venom that was almost impressive. “I know Flambae is sitting on his ass right now. Get him to deal with it. It perfectly suits his… skillset. Me, on the other hand, I’m busy. With actual important things. So, no. Tell someone else. Or better yet, just let the robbers have their beakers. Who gives a shit?”

"Visi, this is a secure research facility, not a liquor store robbery. There's a high potential for structural damage and—"

"I don't care if they're stealing the cure for fucking cancer," she snapped, her voice rising with sudden, irritable aggression. "I already said no. I'm ditching early. So seriously, dude, fuck off."

A beat of silence. Robert could practically feel the smug satisfaction rolling off her through the speakers. “Fine,” he sighed, the word heavy with resignation. “Fine. Have it your way. Invisigal, enjoy your manicure.” He watched as Invisigal’s icon on his screen pinged with a ‘Mission Declined’ status before disappearing entirely. He didn't even bother trying to argue further. It was the last mission, the end of the shift was a hair’s breadth away, and Invisigal’s stubbornness was legendary. He closed the open line to Invisigal’s comm and opened a new one to her replacement, pulling up the profile of the next, and only, available hero. Flambae. Perfect. A pyromaniac for a high-risk lab.

“Alright, Flambae,” Robert said, turning back to his monitor. He adjusted his worn headphones, the familiar weight a comforting anchor. “Last mission of the day: Lab robbery at Vandlabs, sector 7. Standard procedure. Containment, retrieval, minimal… ah… collateral damage. You know the drill. Just… don't burn down the facility and do 𝘯𝘰𝘵 lose your temper. Go."

“Seriously? What is this bullshit?” Flambae retorted, his voice grumpy, already sounding miles away.

“Flambae, please. This is the last mission for today. Just, let's not argue here, okay?”

“Ugh, fine, fine, I’m going. Just stop whining like a little bitch," Flambae groaned. "But if I miss my dinner reservation, I'm setting your dispatch desk on fire, Bobbert."

"Promises, promises," Robert murmured, leaning back in his chair, waiting.

The comms clicked off, and Robert’s attention snapped back to the myriad of blinking lights and data feeds on his screen. He navigated through the labyrinthine network, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a practiced ease. He watched the feeds from Sector seven, a grainy, black-and-white view of a dimly lit laboratory, complete with frantic figures in lab coats scrambling. He could see the faint shimmer of Flambae’s thermal signature as he entered through the back entrance, a blur of orange against the sterile white walls.

The next ten minutes were a symphony of controlled chaos. Robert monitored the thermal signatures, the audio feeds, the discreet camera arrays he’d subtly activated. He heard the crackle of energy blasts, the muffled shouts of the robbers, and once, a distinctly satisfied grunt from Flambae. Then, silence. The thermal signatures of the perpetrators winked out. The frantic scurrying of scientists subsided.

On his screen, a notification popped up. 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦: 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 7. Robert let out a slow breath, the tension that had coiled in his shoulders finally beginning to unravel. He typed a quick message to the network.

“Good work, everyone,” he broadcasted, his voice flat. “That was the last mission. Second shift is officially concluded. Everyone, sign off and head back to SDN. And try not to break anything on your way over.”

He pulled off his headphones, the sudden quiet almost jarring. He stretched, his spine cracking in protest, and leaned back in his squeaky chair. His eyes, tired but sharp, scanned the now-dormant comms panel. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Twinkies. The sweet, sugary reward for another day of keeping the world from imploding.

He stood, his legs already protesting the motion. They felt stiff, his legs unused to being still for such long periods of time. He grit his teeth, fighting the urge to curse. It was fine. It'd be gone once he got walking to the break room. As he passed the empty neighboring cubicle to his, Chase poked his head out.

"Robert! Great timing. Snag me a Mellow Yellow on your way back, would you? I'm fucking parched."

Robert barely paused. "Yeah, sure," he said, the lack of enthusiasm clear in his clipped tone. He ambled towards the break room, the promise of golden sponge cake and cream filling a beacon in his mind.

He pushed open the door, greeted by the low murmur of conversation as the Z-team members slowly started to trickle in. Prism was already there, perched on a countertop, casually polishing her gloved forearms. Sonar was munching on a dead rat, making unnecessary slurping sounds. Malevona, looking far too energetic for someone who just completed an entire shift of constant missions, was rummaging through the snack machine (unsurprisingly using a portal to get through the glass.) And Coupé was sitting at the break room table, casually scrolling on her phone.

Just as Robert finished placing his money in the vending machine, fishing out the last two Twinkies, and headed towards the exit the break room door burst open with a flourish. A figure, silhouetted against the hallway lights, stepped in, and a small, white cloud of fine powder billowed around them as they collided, not gently, with Robert.

“Whoa, watch it, bitc—” Flambae began, but his words were cut off by a fit of coughing as the powder settled. He was absolutely covered in it, from his usually slicked-back hair to the tips of his boots. He looked less like a hero and more like a human powdered donut.

Malevona let out a cackle, a sound like gravel in a blender. “Flambae, dude! What the hell happened to you? Did you decide to go for a bath at a construction site?” Her eyes, sharp with amusement, glinted.

Flambae rolled his eyes, a tell-tale sign of his simmering annoyance. “Very funny. 𝘕𝘰, I did not take a bath at a construction site.” He brushed a hand over his chest, causing a blanket of white dust to appear on his palm. He scoffed.

“Then why do you look like you’ve been deep-fried in talcum powder?” Prism chimed in, a smirk on her face.

Flambae groaned. “Because some bitch at the lab thought it would be a clever cheap shot to throw an entire goddamn container of… 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨… at me while I was apprehending her accomplice.” He flexed a bicep, a small patch of powder falling off. “Didn’t matter, though. Took care of them like a boss.”

Robert, who had been absently dusting himself off, froze. His usually placid eyes widened a fraction. The Twinkies in his hand suddenly felt like lead. “Wait.” His voice, usually so flat, had an edge to it. “Did you just say you were exposed to some unknown substance in a 𝘭𝘢𝘣?”

Flambae blinked, entirely unbothered. “Yeah? So?”

Coupé snorted, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Oh my God, he really said 'yeah, so’. He’s an idiot. Confirmed.”

Flambae instantly bristled, a faint flicker of heat emanating from his hands. “What the fuck did you just say, bitch?!”

The rest of the Z-team members who had arrived—Punch Up, Invisigal, Waterboy and Golem—started chuckling, joining in the teasing (minus Waterboy.)

“Ah, dude,” Golem drawled, his enhanced vocal cords making his voice deeper than usual. “Did you really not stop to think about what that stuff could be?”

Punch Up, leaning against the doorframe, adjusted his stance. “Honestly, mate, sometimes I wonder ‘bout yer common sense. You’ve just brought a pretty big fuckin' amount of… well whatever the fuck that is into a highly populated government building. That screams biohazard, don't it?”

The teasing escalated. “Yeah, what he said!” Prism exclaimed, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Alright, I’m takin’ bets right now. What do you fuckers think Flambae brought?”

"Twenty bucks says it's weaponized hallucinogenic dust," Malevola called out.

"Nah, it’s gotta be something classic," Punch Up said, digging into his pocket. "I’m puttin’ fifty on anthrax. Tha’s an Anthrax coatin’, right there."

The teasing ramped up, centering on Flambae's perceived stupidity. “You brought anthrax into SDN? God, that's definitely the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, Flambae.” Coupé drawled, a small smirk gracing her lips. “And you got your ass kicked by some loser at a bar.”

"Hah, good one!” Visi chimed in. “Though you gotta admit it's kind of cute. Flambae's not only our little arsonist, he's our little biological terrorist now!” She continued, her voice pitched with a patronizing cutesy tone. “Fucking hilarious." She finished, her voice returning to normal. She narrowed her eyes at Flambae, her smirk condescending.

Flambae’s face was turning a shade of angry crimson, his fists clenching, small flames licking at his knuckles. “It’s not anthrax, you fucking morons!” He turned to Visi. “And the fuck are you doing here? I thought you had a ‘nail appointment’ or some shit that was too important to miss!”

Visi snorted. “It got done early. And 𝘠𝘰𝘶 of all people do not get to be calling us morons,” she sniped back, crossing her arms while jutting her hip to the side. Her smirk grew, her eyes dancing over Flambae’s form. “Not gonna lie, I never thought anyone could be so stupid.”

“C'mon now g-guys, that's not ver-very nice.” Waterboy interjected, his eyes darting around as he tried to be brave and defend Flambae. He shifted his feet, his hands wringing in front of him nervously.

“Shut up! I don' need your scrawny ass defending me! It's fucking pathetic.” Flambae growled, his eyes like daggers as he glared at Waterboy. Said man squeaked, ducking his head down like a dog submitting.

Sonar, who had been quietly observing from the corner, suddenly spoke up, his voice calm and eerily measured. “You know,” he began, a slight twinkle in his eye, “it might not be anthrax.”

Flambae’s fiery gaze, which had been fixed sinisterly on Waterboy, flickered towards Sonar, a flicker of… interest? “I like the sound of that. Go on.”

Sonar continued, ticking off possibilities on his fingers. “Yeah, it could be smallpox. Bubonic plague. Cholera…”

Flambae’s intrigued look vanished. His entire hand ignited this time, a roaring fist of fire held up in warning. The powder on his arm blackened and burned away in an instant.

Sonar’s eyes went wide, and he backpedaled furiously. “…Foot powder! Or, or face powder! Flower! Talcum powder! Definitely harmless talcum powder! For… for babies!”

Laughter started to bubble up again, but it was cut short by Robert’s voice, hard and sharp as a shard of ice. “Everyone, shut up. All of you. This isn’t a joke.”

Malevola started to interject, a good-natured grin still on her face. “Relax, Rob, we’re just joking around.”

But Robert cut her off, his voice hardening. “That’s the problem. This isn’t a joke. Flambae just brought in an unidentified substance that, as you’ve all so ‘jokingly’ pointed out, could be anthrax, or smallpox, or something worse. And until we know exactly 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 that powder is, SDN needs to go on lockdown. Do you know what that entails?”

Robert let out a hysteric chuckle, rolling his eyes. He brought a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? Of course you don't, so let me spell it out for you: we shower, burn our clothes, get our blood tested and nobody leaves the building until the substance is identified except,” his gaze fixed on Flambae, “Flambae. Who now gets to be sent to Bethesda hospital after showering to be pricked like a pincushion and monitored because he might actually fucking die. This is serious. So stop fucking around like children and take it that way.”

The break room, once filled with overwhelming laughter and the smell of stale coffee, fell into absolute silence. Every hero stared at the fine, gray-white powder clinging to Flambae, the reality of the situation finally slamming home in a wave of somber realization.

This 𝘸𝘢𝘴 serious.

—𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎—

“It’s going to be okay, Robert,” Blonde Blazer said, her voice amplified and slightly distorted by the built-in intercom system. She forced a bright, encouraging smile, the kind that was an essential part of the ‘golden age’ hero image she embodied. “We’ve got the labs running overtime. They’ll figure out what this is, neutralize it, and you’ll be back here before you know it. We’ll make sure of it.”

Robert, on the other side of the thick pane of specialized glass now separating him from the handful of surviving agents and heroes who had been designated 'clean,’ was struggling into a heavy, yellow Level A hazard suit. The material was thick and cumbersome, making him look less like a human and more like a melted traffic cone. He adjusted the helmet seal, letting out a dry, world-weary sigh that was audible even through the sound dampening glass.

"No need to lie, Blazer," he said, his voice monotone. He gave a small smile. "But thanks for the effort. It’s comforting to know that even when I’m potentially dissolving from the inside out, someone still respects the corporate script."

He paused, testing the heavy rubber gloves. His reflection in the glass looked alien and muffled. "I always figured I'd die doing hero work," he continued, a hint of his usual dark sarcasm returning. "A giant robot stomping me out, maybe a spontaneous black hole, something suitably dramatic. I never anticipated it would be from sitting behind a desk, dispatching heroes, and breathing in some idiot's mysterious travel souvenir."

Blonde Blazer pressed her palm against the glass. “Stop. Talking. Like that. You’re coming back, Robert. I promise I’ll make sure of it.”

Robert shook his head inside the helmet, a gesture of resignation. “You can’t promise that. You know you can’t. But since we’re done with the motivational seminar, how did everyone else’s results turn out? Full lockdown is a bit much if everyone else is singing show tunes and trading recipes.”

Blonde Blazer hesitated, and the forced optimism in her blue eyes wavered, replaced by a momentary flash of guilt and pity. She took a breath, straightening her shoulders.

“Everyone who was in potential danger of infection is clear,” she said carefully. “Negative contamination markers. They’ve been processed and are under observation, but the blood work is clean.” She met his eyes squarely. "Except for yours. And Flambae's."

Robert scoffed, the sound rattling faintly against the interior of the helmet. “Of fucking course,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as far as the suit allowed. It seemed the universe really had it in for the non-powered heroes. First his dad, now him. How poetic.

Before Blonde Blazer could offer another platitude, the metal door to her side of the glass hissed open. Chase, looking significantly more haggard than usual—the anxiety lines around his eyes seemed deeper, etched in new worry—stomped in. In his arms, cushioned against his chest, was Beef, tongue sticking out as his tail wagged.

“Don’t you dare get a big head, Robert, thinking you’re special just because you’re the only other fucker infected,” Chase grumbled, adjusting Beef so the dog's large, dark eyes could peer through the glass.

Robert chuckled, a genuine, albeit short, sound. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chase. I’ll leave the ego trips to the people who can fly.”

Chase hummed dismissively. “Good. Because I knew Flambae was an idiot, but I didn't realize he was this much of a fucking idiot. Figures someone from Z-Team would do something like this. Bringing a potential bioweapon to the office.”

Blonde Blazer sighed, running a hand across her forehead. “Chase, please. Maybe now isn’t the time for the Z-Team commentary.”

“Fine, fine,” Chase relented, though his eyes remained tight with irritation. “I only came to let Robert see Beef before he gets taken away to the slammer, or whatever it is they do with infected fuckers nowadays.”

Robert’s gaze softened immediately upon seeing the dog. Beef, sensing his owner nearby but confused by the thick glass, whined softly. “Thanks, Chase. Really.”

“Don’t thank me,” Chase snapped instantly, tightening his grip on the dog. “I did it for Beef. Not you. And don’t think for a second that I came because I was worried about your miserable hide.”

“I’d never dream of making such an assumption,” Robert replied truthfully, then his demeanor sobered, becoming awkward and slow. The usual protective layer of sarcasm dissolved entirely. He squinted at Chase, his voice dropping slightly.

“Listen, Chase,” Robert started, hesitating. “While I’m… gone. If you wouldn’t mind, y’know, taking care of Beef while I’m at Bethesda?”

Blonde Blazer cast Robert a pitying look, acknowledging the gravity of the request. This was Robert admitting he might not be coming back.

Chase’s response was instant, gruff, and immediate. “Of course, I’ll take care of him,” he said, the words spilling out quickly. But he immediately recovered his persona, adding, “I’ve been wanting to steal him from you for a while now, you know. That mutt is wasted on a fucking desk jockey.”

Despite the callous words, Robert watched Chase’s eyes. They were fixed not on him, but on Beef, and Robert could see the worry—a genuine, unmasked shadow of distress—lurking behind the usual bitterness. He didn't comment on it.

Robert took a deep breath inside the filtration mask, then leaned as close to the glass as he could, speaking in an affectionate, almost crooning voice to the little dog.

“Hey, buddy. I’ll miss you, big guy,” he murmured. “You better behave for Chase, alright? No chewing his antique slippers, and if he tries to put you in one of those ridiculous tiny sweaters, you bite him. Understand?”

Beef yipped happily, tilting his head. Robert chuckled, a sound full of warmth. "Good boy. See? He agrees the sweaters are ridiculous."

“Fuck off. I’m not that fucking old and you know it.” Chase scoffed. “As if I'd put him in a sweater. A fine gentleman such as himself should be in a fucking bowtie, not some cheap sweater.”

Before Robert could respond, a new figure, also encased in a yellow hazmat suit, approached him and gestured firmly towards the exit door leading to the specialized transport ambulance. "I'm sorry, sir, we need to move. The transport is ready."

Robert nodded, adjusting the heavy helmet one final time. He looked from Beef, to Chase, and finally to Blonde Blazer. His eyes held a flicker of deep melancholy, quickly covered by his usual nonchalance.

“Well, I guess this is where I take my leave,” Robert announced to the room, the intercom conveying his voice clearly. “Try not to let this place fall apart without me. And Blazer, if this turns out to be some kind of exotic, brain-eating fungus, make sure my severance package is retroactive, will you?”

“Goodbye, Robert,” Blonde Blazer whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears, though she still managed a small smile.

Chase merely grunted a curt, "Hurry up and get back, idiot," but his voice was thick with uncharacteristic sincerity.

Robert offered a two-fingered salute, turned, and followed his escort out the far door, the yellow suit disappearing down the sterile corridor toward the awaiting escort vehicle to Bethesda.

As the door sealed shut, Beef whimpered, struggling in Chase’s arms and trying desperately to follow the retreating figure. Chase tightened his hold, rubbing the dog's soft ears with a surprisingly gentle hand.

“Quiet, Beefster,” Chase muttered, looking at the door Robert had just vanished through. His eyes were focused, hard with grim determination. “He’ll see you again. He has to.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside the specialized transport, Robert sat stiffly, the internal cooling fans of the hazmat suit drowning out the low thrum of the engine. The vehicle, essentially a mobile negative-pressure unit, was armored and surprisingly smooth as it cut through the late-night traffic lanes reserved for emergency travel.

He leaned his helmeted head against the reinforced window. The city rushed past, neon streaks and blurred windows painting the glass, but the sky above was a comforting, deep void. Robert had always found solace in the dark. It muted the overwhelming vibrancy of the world, hiding the ugly details and demanding less energy from his constantly depleted reserves. He hated the morning sun; it felt like an obligation to be active, productive, alive.

Tonight, the city lights below were bright enough to cast an orange haze, yet, in some twisted stroke of luck, he could still make out pinpricks of light far above—the stars. They were almost invisible, barely breaching the smog and light pollution, but they were there, distant and uncaring. Robert stared at them, and for a moment, he felt the familiar, crushing weight of his isolation lift. He was just a speck, encapsulated in a yellow plastic bubble, hurtling toward a fate that was entirely out of his control.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, the thought drifted in, unbidden and dryly accepted. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺.

He didn't panic, didn't feel a sudden rush of fear. Just a slow, pervasive melancholy, like the onset of his seasonal depression, only permanent. He cataloged the architectural skyline, the silent, sleeping concrete giants of his home, imprinting the image as a final mental inventory.

The sterile roar of the transport’s HVAC system had served as a soundtrack for what felt like hours, though it was probably only twenty, maybe fifteen minutes. The vehicle slowed perceptibly, the smooth ride giving way to the uneven pavement of an institution’s receiving area.

The transport doors hissed open, and the cold, night air rushed into the unit, carrying with it faint smells of ozone and diesel. Standing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the ambulance bay were two figures, both dressed in light blue surgical scrubs, their faces obscured by N95 masks, hair tucked beneath caps.

The first was a tall man, impeccably clean, with close-cropped gray hair escaping slightly under his cap. His eyes, visible over the mask, were sharp, intelligent, and entirely emotionless—the eyes of someone accustomed to making life-or-death decisions based solely on data.

The second was a woman, shorter and more compact, with dark brown eyes that seemed to be the complete opposite of her coworkers. She held a clipboard that was no doubt his file.

“Mr. Robertson?” the male doctor asked, his voice calm and precise. “I am Dr. Kellen, and this is Dr. Reyes. We will be managing your health.”

Robert gave a curt nod. “Just Robert is fine.” His voice was slightly distorted by the helmet.

“We appreciate your cooperation, Robert,” Dr. Kellen said, his voice carrying a clipped, professional urgency. “We need to move quickly but carefully. Follow us.”

The two doctors flanked him, guiding him through a series of heavy-duty security doors and into the heart of the hospital complex. The journey was suffocating, not from the suit, but from the overwhelming atmosphere of human distress.

The hospital air was a heavy, layered scent: aggressive, industrial-strength antiseptic trying desperately to mask the underlying smells of stale food, sweat, fear, and a metallic, faintly sweet tang Robert recognized as blood. Everywhere they went, the fluorescent lights hummed a weary, continuous note.

Robert, the ex-vigilant hero who habitually cataloged threats and vulnerabilities, now began cataloging human suffering. They passed a waiting room where a young woman pressed her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking silently. He heard a door slam down a corridor, followed by a shouted, desperate argument between a relative and a tired-sounding physician.

The sight of Robert—a man in a full, bright yellow hazmat suit being escorted by high-level medical personnel—caused everyone to freeze. Clerks stopped typing, nurses paused mid-stride, and visitors clutched their children tighter. The stares were not kind, or curious, but fearful. He was a disease made visible, a walking siren of unseen danger. Robert ignored them, focusing on the rhythmic sound of his own breathing inside the helmet, letting the stares wash over the synthetic shell.

The journey felt endless, an eternity measured in squeaking cart wheels and muffled cries. Finally, they reached a specialized elevator, which took them down—or perhaps up—to a wing that felt utterly separate from the main hospital.

When the elevator doors opened, Robert stepped out into a vast space that felt more like a warehouse or an empty automotive garage than a cutting-edge medical ward. The walls were pure white, the ceiling high, crisscrossed with thick ventilation ducts.

In one corner, a small, pressurized observation room was built into the wall, featuring multiple screens displaying vital signs and atmospheric readings, furnished with several swivel chairs.

But the centerpiece dominated the room: a massive, self-contained glass structure standing alone in the center of the hard tile floor. It glowed with an eerie, pervasive blue light, like something ripped straight from a 1980s sci-fi thriller. Inside, bathed in the photochemical haze, were five hospital beds.

And one of them was already occupied.

“This is Unit Tau,” Dr. Kellen explained, his voice echoing slightly in the large space as they approached the strange, glowing cage. “As you can see, the unit utilizes specialized UV-C lighting, which sterilizes the circulating air, killing bacteria and viruses on contact.”

Dr. Reyes picked up the explanation, gesturing to the heavy seals around the glass structure. “The entire chamber is maintained under negative pressure. Air can flow in through the filtration systems, but it cannot flow out. This ensures maximum containment of whatever pathogen you may be carrying.”

They stopped right beside the thick glass wall. Robert looked past the blue glow and the UV lamps at the occupant of the nearest bed.

Flambae was leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, looking profoundly bored. He wore a standard-issue green hospital gown that did little to soothe his perpetually agitated demeanor. It was strange, seeing him in something other than his hero suit.

“Once we move you in, we’ll start your prophylaxis immediately,” Dr. Kellen continued, professionally oblivious to the superhero staring contest about to begin. “A measure taken for the prevention of disease. Given your lack of symptoms and the exposure vector, we’ll start you with streptomycin, administered intravenously.”

“We'll let you get changed into this and then you can take any bed you want, Robert,” Dr. Reyes spoke up, handing over a hospital gown and pointing toward the unmade beds.

Robert just stared through the glass at Flambae, who had clearly spotted his distinctive yellow suit. A flicker of recognition, followed by immediate, profound disgust, crossed Flambae's face.

Flambae groaned, loud enough for Robert to hear him faintly through the thick glass. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Oh, fuck no! You have got to be kidding me. You can’t seriously be sticking me with this bitch of all people!”

Robert adjusted his helmet, his tone flat and dry, loud enough to broadcast through the thick glass. “Believe me, Flambae. Seeing your ugly mug isn’t my exact idea of a good time either. I was really hoping for a quiet, contemplative death.”

Flambae opened his mouth to retort, perhaps to accuse Robert of wishing death upon him, but Dr. Reyes stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Flambae,” she started, her tone sharp. “Please save the arguing for later. Right now we need to get Robert settled in. Then you can complain.”

She turned towards Robert, her eyes wrinkling with a sweet smile. “Over there is a changing room.” She gestured towards a small door on the wall next to the small observational alcove. “Dr. Kellen and I will be in the observational room. Once you're changed please make your way inside the chamber.”

Robert nodded. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Reyes said and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “And if you ever want a moment unsupervised to smack him, just ask.”

Robert chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that barely traveled past his suit's ventilator, his eyes wrinkling with his own smile. “Duly noted.”

“I heard that, bitch!” Flambae shouted, his voice muffled by the glass, but the tone was unmistakable.

Robert didn’t even look back at the glowing cage, sighing as he said, “Flambae, don't insult the people who are trying to keep us from dying.”

“Fuck you. Don' tell me what to do.”

“Then don't need to be told what to do.

Before Flambae could retort, Robert turned and began walking towards the previously pointed out changing room, not wanting to waste any more time than necessary. The small door, almost an afterthought in the vast wall, led into a cramped space barely large enough for one person to turn comfortably.

The walls were an unsurprisingly sterile white, illuminated by a single, harsh fluorescent strip light overhead. In terms of furniture there was only a small, metal bench bolted to one wall, and across from it, a floor-to-ceiling body mirror which offered a brutally honest reflection of a man standing in a glorified banana peel.

Robert wasted no time in peeling off the distinctive yellow biohazard suit. The material hissed as it separated from his body, revealing the layers of thin, sweat-dampened clothes he wore underneath—an old t-shirt and sweatpants. He folded the suit pieces carefully, placing the heavy helmet down last. The small room felt suddenly silent without the crinkle of the suit, but it was a welcome quiet.

Next he discarded his remaining clothes quickly, tossing them onto the bench, then paused. He stood before the full-length mirror, bare, unshielded from the world. No bio-suit. No Mecha suit. And no casual wear. Just him. Just Robert.

He couldn't help but catalog his own form.

He was slim, certainly not built like a tank, but the years of carrying the Mechaman suit and the relentless, non-powered fighting had sculpted a dense, wirey frame. His face was rugged, framed by short auburn hair, and dusted with freckles across his peach skin. His brown eyes—tired and heavy with lack of sleep—stared back at him.

But it was the rest of his body that demanded attention. It was not the sculpted perfection of a magazine hero; it was a map of mistakes, near misses, and sheer brute willpower.

A chunk was missing from the top of his right ear, jagged and pale. Scars crisscrossed his torso and limbs like forgotten seams. There was a puckered, silver burn scar running down the left side of his neck; a collection of starburst scars on his knuckles; and a long, jagged line starting near his sternum and curving sharply along his right side—a deep, thick reminder of a night he almost didn’t survive.

A sudden tremor, the acrid smell of ozone and burning concrete, momentarily eclipsed the sterile air of the changing room.

He was back in the ruins of an old power station, rain lashing down, mingling with the spray from burst pipes. The villain, Titan, a hulking mass of reinforced muscle and fury, had just torn a reinforced steel beam from its supports, roaring his challenge.

Robert, his suit sparking from a near miss, had seen the structural integrity of the roof buckle. Civilians, caught in the chaos, were scrambling for the makeshift exit he’d created. One woman, clutching a child, stumbled directly into Titan’s line of sight.

“NO!” Robert had yelled, activating his suit’s emergency boost, throwing himself forward. He’d pushed the woman and child clear with a desperate shove, just as Titan brought the massive beam down with the force of a battering ram. There was a deafening crash, a shower of sparks, and then an unimaginable wave of pain as the blunt end of the beam broke through the suit and clipped Robert’s side, crushing him against a collapsing support pillar.

He felt ribs crack, the sharp edge of twisted metal tearing into his flesh. His vision swam, a grey static threatening to swallow him whole. A scream was trapped in his throat—raw, animalistic panic and pain. It was the worst kind of wound: the searing, tearing kind that made him instantly dizzy with blood loss.

He remembered the desperate scramble to disengage his arm-mounted repulsor, firing a concentrated blast at Titan’s chest, buying himself a precious second to roll clear, coughing blood and gasping for air.

The fight had continued, a blur of pain and adrenaline, until he finally managed to trap Titan under a collapsing cooling tower, barely conscious himself. The scar was a permanent reminder of that moment, the raw, brutal cost of being a hero with no powers, relying solely on his tech and his body.

The memory faded, replaced by the sterile hum of the changing room. Robert blinked, his hand still tracing the sternum scar with a fingertip, the skin beneath it feeling numb and tight.

He let out a slow, heavy breath, the phantom ache still lingering. His eyes scanned the rest of his body—a patchwork of faded bruises, surgical nicks, jagged lines from shrapnel or blades, the uneven texture of healed burns. There was a faint dent in his right shoulder where a high-caliber round had glanced off his armor, barely scraping him but leaving a permanent mark on the man beneath. Each scar was a story, a choice, a moment of pain endured for a cause he still, despite his world-weariness, believed in.

He looked at the standard-issue green hospital gown on the bench beside his discarded clothes in the mirror and felt his muscles tense. It was revealing, sleeveless and open-backed, clinging to nothing. He knew why—easy access for medical staff, minimal fabric to harbor pathogens—but he still hated it. It was nothing but a humiliating layer of transparency. Worst of all, it'd lead to questions and stares.

Flambae, especially Flambae, would certainly have something to say. Robert dreaded the inevitable mockery, the pointing out of every visible flaw and injury. The last thing he wanted to deal with was explaining his "bodily horrors."

That said, he knew he couldn’t exactly refuse to change either. After a moment, he sighed, a sound of profound resignation, and pulled the gown on, tying the flimsy strings at the back. It did little to cover the expanse of his arms or the top of his chest, and he could feel the fabric riding up slightly, exposing too much leg. He folded his plain clothes, given to him after decontamination, and placed them neatly on the bench, then headed out of the changing room.

Dr. Kellen and Dr. Reyes were already visible through the observation room window, two professional silhouettes watching the empty expanse of Unit Tau. Robert walked toward the main contamination chamber, each step making it seem impossibly larger.

The entrance was obvious: heavy sliding doors marked with ominous red lettering: 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚! 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚! 𝗔𝗜𝗥 𝗟𝗢𝗖𝗞. 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗛𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗥𝗗 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧. With a smaller room behind them and a second set of doors that led to the big, blue lighted chamber.

Without hesitation he approached the doors and stepped into the small room. The outer doors hissed shut behind him, instantly sealing him in with a heavy, hydraulic groan. A faint indicator light above the inner doors switched from green to red. Almost simultaneously he felt the subtle shift in pressure in the air. It was kind of hard to miss when your ears gave a small pop and there was a low, insistent hiss as the system worked, pulling the air out and stabilizing the pressure differential to zero. For a few seconds, he was totally sealed off, standing in a quiet glass box between two worlds.

Then the red light above the inner doors blinked, then clicked to green. With another quiet hiss, the second set of sliding doors slid open, letting Robert into the big part of the chamber with the beds and, regrettably, Flambae.

As Robert stepped inside, he noticed two things: one, the blue photochemical haze was thicker inside the glass structure, casting everything in an eerie, constant glow, and two, the room was distinctly warmer than the strictly cold regulated one outside. It was an unnatural warmth, dry and penetrating, and he vaguely linked it to Flambae’s powers, a subconscious emanation perhaps, or a deliberate choice.

He didn’t dwell on it.

Instead, he walked toward the selection of four empty beds, his internal defenses hardened, bracing for the inevitable cruelty.

Flambae was exactly where he’d been, leaning back in the bed farthest from the entrance, arms crossed over his thin hospital gown, a bored king in his glass kingdom. He watched Robert’s approach, his eyes tracking the tall, thin man with a look of annoyance.

Robert stopped by the nearest empty bed, his muscles tightening for the verbal blow.

Flambae finally spoke, his voice muffled slightly by the ambient hum of the UV lights, but still carrying an undeniable sneer.

“Wow,” Flambae said, tilting his head slightly. “Who knew you actually had muscles? Guess you 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 a hero after all. Fuck, I owe Prism ten bucks.”

The comment was pure Flambae—backhanded, laced with insult, and utterly focused on mocking Robert.

Robert instinctively shot back, his tone dry as chalk dust. “Glad to see you’re finally using your eyes for a change. Now stop admiring the merchandise and let me die in peace.”

Flambae bristled, eyes narrowing. “That—I was 𝘯𝘰𝘵 admiring anything you—”

Robert blanked out whatever Flambae said next, mind halting. Did he just hear that right? He'd expected Flambae to comment on his scars, dissect his imperfect, non-powered physique. Instead he… didn't.

What the fuck?

A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of relief went through him. Flambae had focused entirely on the strength of his body, not the damage. He hadn't mocked the thick scars across his chest or the constellation of bruises forming under his skin.

The gratitude was humiliating, a weakness Robert didn’t want to admit to. He hated that he was relieved by the restraint of a man he actively despised, but the unexpected reprieve from judgment settled a small part of the anxiety he’d carried from the mirror.

Maybe, Robert conceded internally, turning away from Flambae and sitting down heavily on the mattress closest to the doors and farthest from the flame hero, being stuck in this glowing blue glass chamber with Flambae wouldn’t be the absolute worst possible way to die. It might only be the second worst.

…

Fuck. He was already losing his mind.

Chapter Text

The sterile white walls of Blonde Blazer’s office seemed to vibrate with her fury. Her voice, usually a beacon of professional composure, was now a raw, ragged instrument of exasperation. She paced her executive desk, her hands clenched, the perfectly tailored fabric of her hero suit straining across her shoulders.

“Unacceptable!” the words boomed, amplified by the closed door. “It has been 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴! Hours, and you still have no idea what Robert and Flambae were exposed to? This is a Level Five biohazard scenario, not a casual Tuesday afternoon!”

She snatched the sleek, silver phone from its cradle, her knuckles white. “When will I have answers?” she demanded, her voice pitched high with a desperate urgency.

An unbothered, feminine voice responded, a stark contrast to the palpable tension in the room. "𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘺𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘢. 𝘍𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.”

“Available?” Blonde Blazer scoffed, a sound like grinding glass. “That’s not good enough! I need to know 𝘯𝘰𝘸. My people are in quarantine, and I have no idea if they’re going to, to… melt, or grow extra limbs, or spontaneously combust! I need actionable intelligence, not platitudes!”

The response repeated, devoid of empathy: "𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.”

“Time?” Blonde Blazer’s voice cracked. “Time is a luxury we don’t have! If you can’t expedite this, then you need to do better! Find someone who 𝘤𝘢𝘯 do better!” With a final, guttural growl of frustration, she slammed the phone down.

The impact was far greater than intended. The expensive piece of communication equipment shattered on the polished surface of her desk, shards of plastic and metal scattering like shrapnel. A sickening crack echoed through the room as a jagged fissure spiderwebbed across the reinforced wood.

Blonde Blazer let out a low, ragged groan, sinking into her chair. She buried her face in her hands, muttering a string of profanities under her breath, her usual grace utterly dissolved. The image of Robert, so often a source of relief and comfort, lying in some sterile room, vulnerable and unknown, gnawed at her.

Just then, a soft, rhythmic knock echoed from her office door. “Blonde Blazer?” a deep, melodic voice inquired, laced with a distinct island cadence. “Now… bad time?”

She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, and managed a weak, shaky sigh. “No, Royd. It’s… it’s fine. Come in.” She gestured vaguely, her voice still thick with emotion. “And, I’m sorry you had to see that. My… professionalism is apparently taking a leave of absence.”

Royd, a towering figure even in his usual slouch, entered the office. His long, black hair was tied back neatly, and his large arms, adorned with a striking tattoo, rested at his sides.

Royd stepped inside, his heavy work boots making no sound on the plush carpet. He gave the cracked desk and the demolished phone a slow, appraising glance, not with judgment, but with the clinical eye of an engineer assessing structural failure. He offered a gentle, empathetic smile that seemed to diffuse some of the residual tension.

“Nah, bra, no need for that kine sorry,’” he said, his voice a warm, steady rumble. His Hawaiian Pidgin was a soothing, melodic counterpoint to her own sharp, frustrated tones. “I get ‘em. You stay worried about Robert. I stay worried too.” He offered her a small, gentle smile. “But our bruddah, he going to be fine. He stay one tough guy. Real stubborn, yeah? And he get one reason for stayin’ strong. He gotta see me make da man mecha again. No can miss dat show.”

Despite herself, a genuine smile touched Blonde Blazer’s lips at the mention of Mechaman, a shared project and a reminder of a brighter, more hopeful era. Royd’s unwavering faith was a balm. But the worry quickly resurfaced, darker and heavier. The smile faded.

“Thanks, Royd. But it’s not that simple.” She leaned back against her chair, her shoulders slumping. The corporate dorkiness, the courageous spirit—it all felt like a costume that was suddenly several sizes too big. “I just… I feel so useless. He's quarantined, and I’m up here, and I can’t get a single straight answer. I can’t 𝘥𝘰 anything. I just wish I could… I don’t know, fix it. Actually help.”

Royd listened, his head tilted, his expression one of deep thought. He adjusted the schematics under his arm. “Eh, you t’ink too much. You are helping.”

“How?” she asked, the word bursting out with a dry, humorless chuckle. “By sitting on my ass? By making pointless phone calls that—” she gestured to the plastic debris, “—end with me breaking a thousand-credit piece of equipment? Which, wow, procurement is going to love that.”

“By caring about ‘em,” Royd said simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the universe. His kind eyes held hers. “Das the most important kine work, Boss. More important than any phone, any desk. You stay with ‘em, even when you not in da room. He know dat. Robert, he know dat.”

Blonde Blazer fell silent. She looked from Royd’s earnest face to the cracked desk, to the shattered phone. He made it sound so simple, so profound. The frantic, useless energy that had been coursing through her began to ease, replaced by a weary but genuine gratitude. He was right. She couldn’t analyze the pathogen, but she could champion the people fighting it.

She had been so caught up in the tangible, in the action, that she had overlooked the quiet strength of her own concern. It was a different kind of heroism, one that didn’t involve capes or laser beams, but a deep, unwavering commitment to her people.

She took a deep, cleansing breath, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. “You’re right,” she said, her voice softer now. “Thank you, Royd. I’m really grateful you’re here to… deal with my outbursts.”

Royd waved a massive, dismissive hand. “No worries, bra. Dat all part of da job, yeah? Anyway, I jus’ come up to drop off the schematics for the new atmospheric regulators. Need to get them to the engineering bay by end of day.”

He gestured to a thin, rolled-up tube he held under one arm. Blonde Blazer’s eyes lit up with a flicker of genuine interest. “Oh, excellent! Thank you, Royd. That will be a huge help.”

He nodded, turning to leave. As he reached the door, Blonde Blazer spoke again, a hint of her earlier vulnerability returning.

“Royd? Could you, uh… keep the whole…” she gestured vaguely at the desk, “…breakdown thing? Between us?”

Royd turned back, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face. He tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “Breakdown? Wat breakdown? I just saw one phone get kinda broke. Probably da line quality, yeah? Dey get one bad connection, make anybody frustrated.”

A real, bright laugh escaped Blonde Blazer this time, the sound foreign and welcome in the office. “You are a saint, Royd. Thank you. Again.”

“Anytime, Boss,” Royd said with a final nod. “Anytime. Gotta get back to da workshop though. You need anything, you jus’ holla.”

With a friendly wave, Royd opened the door and disappeared, leaving Blonde Blazer standing in her office, the smell of cracked wood lingering in the air, suddenly feeling far more capable than she had just three minutes prior.

She wasn't done yet.

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The silence in the conference room was a heavy shroud, muffling even the hum of the fluorescent light suspended above the wide, polished wooden table. The two glass doors to the room, usually a vibrant portal to the bustling halls of SDN, now reflected only the somber faces within.

Coupé, usually a coiled spring of lethal efficiency, sat at the table’s edge, her elbow planted, twirling a polished, razor-sharp knife from her make-shift wings between her thumb and forefinger. The small, rhythmic whirr was an unheard consistent sound, a pitiful counterpoint to the dead silence. Next to her, Punch Up stared silently at his large, bruised hands, occasionally flexing his fingers as if seeking a distraction in muscle memory.

Malevola had opted for comfort over decorum, her feet propped carelessly on the polished mahogany table. Leaning back in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest, she stared intently at the fold of her elbow, her mind obviously miles away in some dark and contemplative corner.

Waterboy, slumped low in his seat next to her, looked the picture of sorrow. He was hunched forward, miserable, and the chair beneath him was quickly becoming saturated; small, continuous drops of water beaded off his skin, splashing softly onto the laminated floor.

Prism stood away from the table, leaning against one of the walls that separated the room from the rest of the SDN floor. She stared down at her own feet, usually so eager to move around or pose, now utterly still.

Invisigal leaned back, one arm tossed casually over the back of her chair, her head tilted up to stare at the discolored acoustic tiles of the ceiling as if they'd give her an answer to life. While she stared, she held a cigarette in her right hand, blowing smoke languidly in a dancing cloud of white.

At the very end of the table, silent and motionless, Golem sat on the floor, his massive frame radiating stillness, the quietest rock in a field of worry.

And lastly Sonar, in contrast to the rest of his team, was kinetic tension. He sat upright, hands folded neatly, but his thumbs churned over one another in a frantic, unceasing dance.

It was painfully obvious an undeniable cloud of gloom hung over the Z-team, an unforgiving weight on every single one of their shoulders, yet not a single person dared to comment on it.

At least not at first.

Phenomaman, standing near the glass doors, surveyed the scene of his team with an alien's well-meaning but ultimately flawed grasp of human emotion. He cleared his throat, the sound a startling interruption in the quiet.

"Why so down, friends?" he ventured, his voice a gentle, almost melodic hum. "I am sure Robert and Flambae will be fine." He paused, a small, encouraging smile on his face, before continuing, his tone shifting into one of academic observation. "I understand that humans are, by my species' standards, super weak. Your immune systems aren't as advanced as my own, and most of your kind tend to… expire when faced with unknown diseases. Your bodies in general are quite fragile. But that is no reason to worry about them."

The whirr of Coupé’s knife stopped instantly. The sound of water dripping off Waterboy suddenly seemed deafening. Eight sets of eyes, ranging from utterly blank to dangerously narrowed, turned toward the alien standing near the entryway. The silence that followed was not merely the absence of sound; it was a pressurized vacuum of shock and offense.

Finally, Prism peeled herself off the wall and took two slow, deliberate steps toward the table, her voice laced with venom.

"Wow, you really fucking suck at tryin’ to motivate people, y’know that?"

Phenomaman blinked, his smile faltering. "I am confused. Why was what I said not motivational? I explicitly stated that there was no reason to worry."

An awkward cough resonated through the room. "Well, mate," Punch Up interjected, bringing a hand up to rub at the base line of his neck, "what you said would usually be supporting, except well…" He trailed off, struggling to articulate the words for describing Phenomaman’s monumental fuck up.

Coupé, with her usual blunt efficiency, cut in. "You basically said they’re going to fucking die because their bodies are weak, which is 𝘯𝘰𝘵 reassuring."

"Yeah! What she said!" Punch Up instantly affirmed, nodding vigorously.

Malevola let out a small, drawn out sigh, finally uncrossing her arms. "It was a good try, man. I appreciate the effort. But next time, try to leave out the whole ‘high chance of dying’ part. It kind of cancels out the whole ‘don’t worry’ message.”

Phenomaman’s shoulders sagged. "I… I understand," he said, his voice noticeably softer, tinged with a deep, personal sadness that resonated with his own recent struggles. "I apologize. It was not my intention to cause further distress."

“It's… alright.”

The quiet returned, heavier this time, burdened by Phenomaman’s genuine dejection. It hung there for another stretch, until Invisigal suddenly slammed her chair back, the harsh scrape on the floor echoing loudly. "Fuck this!" she declared, standing up with a furious energy that seemed to blow away the gloom like a gust of wind.

She began to pace, her form a vibrating blur in the room as she flickered between visibility and transparency. "We shouldn’t be sitting here moping around like some fucking group of cry babies! Robert and Flambae are going to be just fine because… well because they 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 to be! And you know what? We can’t let them find out we were sitting here worrying over their sorry asses being gone, because genuinely who gives a fuck?"

Her voice was sharp, cutting through the funk with a much-needed jolt. "Flambae would probably laugh at us like we're pathetic even though he's the idiot responsible for all this and Rob would… well he'd see us all here, bitchy and glum, and think we'd forgotten how to do our fucking jobs. It'd be this huge lame lecture!"

Malevola pushed her feet off the table, the thud of her boots a punctuation mark. "She’s got a point, y'know." Her eyes scanned the room, a spark of her usual mischievous fire returning. "This collective pity party is fucking exhausting. And it's certainly not going to do shit for them."

Prism straightened up, a flicker of her usual preening pride returning to her posture. "Yeah, you got a point. Honestly, the dramatic ennui is just 𝘴𝘰 last season. We have a reputation to uphold. And looking this pathetic is hardly 'on brand' for the Z-team."

Sonar nodded, his thumbs ceasing their fidgeting. "Yeah! What you all said!"

Coupé merely gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Sentimentality is a weakness," she muttered, her eyes now gleaming with purpose instead of distant gloom. "I don't do weakness."

Punch Up slammed a fist down on the table, rattling some of the papers on top. "Yeah! We're not wet rags, are we? We're the Z-team! Robert an’ Flambae would want us to be out there, punching… uh, 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 people! Not sitting ‘ere looking like we’ve been hit by a bus!"

Waterboy, though still damp, sat up a little straighter. A small, tentative smile touched his lips. "Y-yeah! They'd… they'd want us to keep going," he affirmed, his voice a little stronger, the water drops slowing.

From the floor, Golem pushed himself up, his stony face splitting into a wide, if tooth-sparse, grin. "Yeah, I knew all along they'd be fine.”

Phenomaman, his own sadness momentarily forgotten in the surge of renewed energy, gave a quiet, earnest nod. "I... I agree. They would expect us to continue our duties with strength and resolve."

An undeniable shift had occurred. The heavy cloud, once suffocating, was dissipating, replaced by a renewed, if still a little raw, determination. The room, while not fully back to its usual chaos, felt alive again, brimming with the peculiar, chaotic energy of the Z-team.

Malevola leaned back, a genuine smile now playing on her lips. "You know, now that I think about it," she mused, a mischievous glint in her eye, "I wonder what those two could be up to right now?”

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“—I’m a bitch, my name’s Robert.”

Across the chamber, Robert let out a suffering groan, a sound squeezed out from deep within his chest. He shifted roughly on his plastic-covered mattress, careful, even in his extreme irritation, not to snag the thin clear tubing running from the IV pole into the crook of his elbow.

He was fighting a potential death sentence, currently fueled by antibiotics and sheer willpower, but their immediate crisis was outweighed by the exquisite pain of having to listen to Flambae’s artistic choices. He quickly pulled the thin cotton sheet up over his ears. It was probably a futile effort, but it was worth a shot.

Flambae, delighted by the visible distress, doubled down. He cleared his throat dramatically and continued his performance, a nasal, utterly off-key rendition that vibrated sickly in the confined space.

“Such a bitch, whose name is Robert. I’m a bitch, yeah, I’m a bitch. I’m such a fucking bitch!”

Robert huffed, tossing his head back against the pillow with painful resignation. He pulled the sheet down just far enough to speak, his voice rasping but holding its usual flat, dry tone.

“Flambae,” he began, the name itself a soft warning. “Please. For the love of God. Just shut the hell up. You’ve been doing this for fifteen minutes. I'd know, I've been counting. Enough is enough.”

The request was, predictably, ignored. Flambae shifted, crossing his legs and adopting a truly obnoxious, swinging rhythm. He leaned into the next verse with unnecessary gusto.

“I have no hopes, I have no dreams~”

“𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦,” Robert said again, the warning considerably sharper this time, though still pitched low.

The pyrokinetic only grinned, his eyes gleaming with the sheer mischief of a man who lit cars on fire for stress relief. “And a tiny little peen,” Flambae finished, pointing a triumphant finger at the ceiling, “And it doesn't even function anyway, because I have erectile dysfunction!”

That did it. Robert’s world-weary patience snapped like an old rubber band. Without a word, he snatched the stiff, poorly stuffed hospital pillow from behind his head and launched it across the wide expanse of the room. It was a pathetic projectile, but it flew true, connecting solidly with Flambae’s face.

Flambae instantly stopped singing. He sputtered, floundering as he batted the pillow away.

“What the actual fuck, Rob Rob?” he demanded, the song forgotten, the glare in his eyes as hot and volatile as his namesake. “I was gettin' to the good part of the song!”

Robert rolled his eyes, a monumental effort given his current state. “There is no good part of that song. Especially with 𝘺𝘰𝘶 singing it. All I want is some fucking peace and quiet. Do you think you could do that for me?”

Flambae scoffed, shoving the pillow off his lap. “Well, what would you 'ave me do? Die of boredom?”

“Yes,” Robert deadpanned, his expression utterly blank. “Yes, I would.”

Flambae glowered at him. “Yeah, well, fuck you too, bitch.”

Robert inhaled sharply, a low, guttural groan escaping him. “If I hear the word bitch one more time out of your mouth, I will walk over there and strangle you with your own IV tubing.”

Flambae threw his head back and laughed—loudly, brazenly, recklessly. “Oh, I’d like to see you try, Noodle Arms. You look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half.”

Robert closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as his teeth ground together. He took a deep, shuddering breath, consciously pouring effort into the slow release of air. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘺. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. The thought didn't bring him comfort so much as acceptance.

When Robert finally opened his eyes, he met Flambae’s gaze evenly.

“Look, Flambae. Just… find something else to do. Please.”

Flambae threw his hands up, gesturing wildly around the sterile, enclosed space. “Look around! We’re in a literal glass box. There is nothing to fucking do. Honestly, this whole thing is a waste of fucking time. I feel perfectly fine. They probably fucked up the tests, and now I’m sitting here with 𝘺𝘰𝘶 of all people, missing my dinner reservation at Chez Pierre.” He paused, genuinely mournful. “The truffle pasta is only available on Tuesdays.”

“This isn’t exactly pleasant for me either, Flambae. And they don’t just ‘mess up’ highly specialized biological containment tests like this,” Robert countered, rolling his eyes at the mention of the pasta. “You were exposed in a lab. You know the protocols are going to be rigorous.”

“Oh, and how would 𝘺𝘰𝘶 know?” Flambae challenged, leaning forward with a petulant smirk. “You’re not a doctor.”

Just as Robert opened his mouth to deliver a cutting, fact-based retort, the heavy, airtight door to the exterior observation room hissed open. Dr. Kellen walked in, his posture rigid, radiating a profound tension that cut through the silence Flambae’s outburst had created. He wore his usual surgical scrubs with a mask and held a clipboard loosely in one hand.

“You’re right, he’s not,” Dr. Kellen said, peering through the glass at Flambae. “But I am, and I can assure you this is very serious. We’ve finally been able to identify what you were exposed to in the lab.”

Flambae, momentarily distracted from his annoyance, brightened slightly. “Fucking finally. About time.”

Dr. Kellen shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t be so pleased about that, Flambae.”

Robert, who had been listening with detached interest, instantly straightened up on his mattress. His apathetic facade dissolved, replaced by the focused competence of a man facing an immediate, life-threatening crisis. “How bad is it?” He asked, his voice steady and direct.

Dr. Kellen hesitated, his gaze sweeping over both men locked inside the chamber. The silence was thick, pressing down on the fluorescent hum of the ventilation system. He sighed, a faint rush of air audible even through the mask.

“It’s bad. Based on the preliminary pathogen response and the structural degradation we are seeing in the cultures… what you two were exposed to is an unseen, highly aggressive mutation of anthrax.”

Dr. Kellen’s words hit Robert like a freight train, but the impact didn’t register immediately—not in full. The first thing he noticed was the ringing. A high-pitched, metallic scream in his ears, drowning out everything else. It was the kind of sound you only heard right before something terrible happened—or right after.

𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘢𝘹.

The word echoed somewhere deep in his skull, detached, distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life.

𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦...

He could see Dr. Kellen’s lips moving, could make out the vague shape of sentences forming, but meaning had abandoned him. His thoughts were a blur of disjointed fragments.

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘧. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘧.

Beef was being taken care of by Chase, he was safe. Hell, he was probably having a blast being pampered and overly loved right now, but Beef would still be pissed when he got back—𝘪𝘧 he got back.

𝙄𝙛.

The weight of it settled on his chest, pressing harder than the Mechaman suit ever had. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this. Not dying. And certainly not dying 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦.

He almost laughed.

Of all the ways he’d imagined checking out—and he’d imagined plenty, given the risks of his line of work—slow asphyxiation in a sealed box with a pyromaniac who couldn’t shut up about how much of a bitch he was hadn’t made the list.

A flicker of anger sparked in his gut, but it fizzled out before it could take hold. What was the point? It wouldn’t change anything.

𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.

That’s all he had before a cough that wouldn't clear, a fever, severe muscle aches and more set in. Before his body turned on itself in ways he didn’t want to think about.

Then Dr. Kellen was looking at him, and Robert realized he’d been asked something. The pressure in his ears abruptly dispersed, like a distant dam breaking, and the low, clear voice of Dr. Kellen cut through the sudden, hollow silence.

“—Robert? Did you get all that? Robert.”

Robert blinked, dragging himself back from the cold abyss of self-pity. He squared his shoulders, the apathetic mask sliding back into place as easily as breathing. He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring into space, but he reacted automatically, slipping effortlessly back into the crisp, mission-focused demeanor he used when briefing the Z-Team.

“Yeah,” Robert replied, his voice level. “Understood.”

Dr. Kellen hesitated, glancing between him and Flambae before nodding. “Alright then. I will be initiating the first cycle of aggressive IV antibiotics immediately. We need to maximize saturation before the spores begin to germinate exponentially. Do you have any other questions at this time?”

Robert shook his head once. “No.”

“Okay, I’ll be back shortly with Dr. Reyes to administer the initial round. Try to remain calm.”

Robert barely registered the man’s retreating footsteps, the hiss of the door sealing shut behind him.

Then—silence.

Not the kind of quiet that settled over a room when no one spoke. This was something heavier. Something absolute. The hum of the air filtration system, the faint buzz of the overhead lights—it was all there, and yet it wasn’t.

Flambae was still.

That alone was surreal enough to pull Robert’s attention. The man hadn’t said a word since Kellen’s announcement. No complaints. No sarcasm. No fire.

Robert tilted his head just enough to study him from the corner of his eye.

Flambae sat rigid on his cot, hands clenched into fists on his knees. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something unreadable—something that, for once, didn’t feel like a performance.

Robert watched the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was biting back words—or maybe just rage.

He wasn’t surprised. Flambae didn’t do silence. He didn’t do stillness. He filled space with noise and fire and motion because anything else was surrender.

And now, for the first time, there was nothing to burn.

Robert exhaled.

They sat there, two men in a glass coffin, waiting for the end to start.

And for once, neither of them had a damn thing to say.

Chapter Text

The sterile hum of the containment chamber was a dull counterpoint to Flambae’s simmering rage. He paced the small, clear-walled room like a caged animal, each step a testament to his fury. Dr. Reyes, a woman whose calm demeanor usually inspired confidence, found herself growing increasingly tense under his fiery scrutiny. She held a new, IV medical bag, its contents representing the "stupid treatments" Flambae so vehemently rejected.

"Get that thing out of here! I said I don' need your damn treatment," Flambae snarled, stopping abruptly and fixing Dr. Reyes with a venomous stare. "You people made a mistake. Your stupid testing is flawed. There's no fucking way I 'ave anthrax! I feel fine!" His voice was low, almost a growl, but the venom was unmistakable, delivered with the heated conviction of someone stating an undeniable truth.

Dr. Reyes’s expression remained placid, a practiced stillness that Flambae found infuriating. "Flambae," she began, her tone gentle, "please try to calm down. Dr. Kellen explained the situation to you, why it's imperative we begin this new treatment immediately. I understand you're upset, but the tests weren't done wrong. We ran them multiple times, cross-referenced with different labs. The results are conclusive."

"Upset?" Flambae scoffed, a humorless sound. "I feel fine. I feel 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵. And you are telling me I 'ave some fucked version of anthrax? Yeah, right."

"You may feel fine now," Dr. Reyes countered, stepping closer, her movements deliberate and unhurried. "But that could change very quickly. The incubation period… We need to act before symptoms manifest. I really need you to calm down and let me help you." She reached out a hand, a gesture of comfort, of reassurance.

It was too much. The perceived pity, the invasion of his space, the sheer audacity of her attempting to touch him–it all fused into a blinding rage. "Don' fucking touch me, bitch!" he roared, recoiling as if burned, though the heat was only just beginning to manifest. "And don' fucking tell me what to do!"

As he pulled away, a primal instinct took over. With a guttural cry, he ignited his hand. Flames, a vibrant, angry orange, ignited between his fingers, then bloomed into a small, controlled flame dancing on his palm, casting an eerie glow on his furious face. He glared at Dr. Reyes, his eyes blazing with the same inferno he wielded.

Dr. Reyes yelped, stumbling back a full pace, her face paling with a raw fear she couldn't quite mask.

From his own bed, where he’d been quietly observing the escalating drama, Robert’s head snapped up. He was already pushing himself to his feet, ripping out his IV drip, and leaning forward with the unmistakable urgency of a man desperate to stop a disaster.

"𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the glass chamber like a bullet. "Calm down," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, even, tone. His voice, typically monotone, held an edge of command. "This isn’t Dr. Reyes' fault, and doing this won't help anything."

Flambae whirled on Robert, the flames on his hand receding slightly but the fire in his eyes burning hotter. "You're right, it's not her fault," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "It's 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴!"

Robert's usually impassive face creased in confusion. “What?”

"You heard me, bitch!” Flambae spat, taking a step towards Robert. “I only got exposed because 𝘺𝘰𝘶 sent me on that mission when we both know I was never supposed to be there! My fire isn't exacly fit to stealth, is it? But noooo, you just had to send 𝘮𝘦!"

Robert scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. He crossed his arms over his chest, his lean frame radiating a quiet defiance. "I had no choice but to send you, Flambae. No one else was fucking available. And let's not forget 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 the one who came back into SDN after being exposed to an unknown substance in a lab after failing to report it, putting hundreds of people at risk of getting anthrax in the first place!"

Flambae threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that echoed off the glass walls. "Oh, don' even try to blame me for this, you useless sac o' shit! You are supposed to be my handler, which means 𝘺𝘰𝘶 are the one at fault! If you had just sent that bitch like you were going to, instead of letting her boss you around because you 'ave some weird, fucking sexual tension going on between the two of you, then none of this would be happening! Instead, you pussied out in an attempt to get laid!"

Robert's eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine annoyance breaking through his usual nonchalance. He scoffed, a more pronounced sound this time. "That is not the reason I let Visi off the hook, Flambae, and you know it. It was because no one on the Z-team ever fucking 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴. If it'd been anyone else, the same thing would've happened. I wouldn't have been able to stop them from choosing not to go!"

"Yeah, whatever you 'ave to tell yourself," Flambae sneered, taking another step, the flame in his hand growing brighter, hotter. "You just wanted a chance to get fucked. It's clear you need it with how much of a stick you 'ave shoved up your ass!"

Robert’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He had rarely, if ever, lost his cool. But Flambae had touched a nerve. "That's ironic coming from 𝘺𝘰𝘶," Robert delivered, his voice still low, but laced with a new, dangerous edge, "considering how you talk about how much you 'get around' on comms all the time. Or is that just more of your usual bravado?"

That was it. The spark ignited the powder keg. Flambae’s face contorted in pure fury. The flame in his hand flared, momentarily blinding. Without a word, he charged across the short distance, a blur of red and orange. Robert, though quick, was caught off guard by the sheer ferocity. Flambae slammed into him, a solid punch connecting with Robert’s jaw before he could fully react.

Robert staggered back, hitting the railing of his hospital bed. Flambae pressed the advantage, shoving him down onto the mattress, pinning him with surprising strength. The containment chamber suddenly felt much smaller, 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, as Flambae’s fists started hammering down on him, a flurry of enraged blows.

Dr. Reyes, who had been frozen in horror, finally found her voice. "STOP IT! BOTH OF YOU, STOP!" she screamed, her voice cracking with terror. Her hand shot out, slamming a large red button on the control panel beside the sliding doors. A piercing, blaring alarm immediately ripped through the confined space, its urgent wail signaling for immediate backup.

!𝗖𝗢𝗗𝗘 𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗜𝗡 𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗔𝗨!

!𝗜 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗧, 𝗖𝗢𝗗𝗘 𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗜𝗡—

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The piercing wail of the alarm still echoed in Robert’s ears, a discordant symphony accompanying the rapid thud of approaching footsteps from beyond the reinforced glass. He could feel the throbbing ache in his jaw, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Somehow, amidst the chaos, the medical team had managed to stabilize the immediate threat, separating the two men without putting hands on Flambae, who had been convinced to back down by a desperate Dr. Reyes before any serious damage was done to Robert. Now, the containment chamber was quiet again, save for the hum of the UV lights and ventilation system.

Robert sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to deflate him further. He reached up, fingers tracing the cotton wadding stuffed haphazardly into his right nostril, a crude but effective barrier against the persistent trickle of blood. With a small wince, he pulled it out, dropping the crimson-stained ball onto the sterile floor.

He looked across the large, glass chamber. Flambae was slouched against his hospital bed, arms crossed, his fiery aura still faintly visible around his fists, though the open flame was gone. His eyes, usually alight with defiant rage, were now dark, unreadable.

Robert sighed. “You can really throw a punch, Flambae,” he said, his voice a low, almost conversational rasp, an attempt to cut through the thick tension.

Flambae didn't answer. He stared at the glass wall, his broad shoulders hunched, the usual aggressive energy radiating from him muted, replaced by a simmering, coiled tension. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, punctuated only by the faded ringing in Robert’s ears. He sighed again, a more resigned sound this time. Great. This was going to be a long quarantine. He reached up, lightly touching his bruised jaw.

Then, Flambae spoke, his voice unusually subdued. “Why did you do it?” He asked, turning his head to fix Robert with a wary, accusatory gaze.

Robert frowned, momentarily confused. He’d half-expected another jab, another round of insults. “Do what?”

Flambae huffed, a sound of pure exasperation, though his eyes remained fixed on some point beyond Robert’s shoulder. “Don' play dumb, you useless sac o’ shit. Like you don’ know what the fuck I’m talking about.” He rolled his eyes, a flicker of his usual theatrics returning.

“I really don’t,” Robert replied, leaning his head back against his pillow. “So, how about you stop playing this cat and mouse game, and just spit it out?”

Flambae’s jaw tightened, a muscle clenching beneath his cheek. “Fuck you.”

"Not really my type," Robert replied, a flicker of his usual sarcasm returning despite the ache in his face. He expected a retort, an explosion of renewed anger, but instead, Flambae’s gaze shifted, his eyes narrowing with a different kind of intensity.

"Why'd you defend me?" Flambae asked, the question blunt, almost vulnerable.

Robert stared at him, genuinely taken aback. "Defend you? What the fuck are you talking about?"

Flambae huffed, rolling his eyes as though Robert was the one being difficult. “When Dr. Reyes was screaming about callin’ security, ‘bout getting cuffs on me. You stopped them. You told them to stand down. Why the fuck did you do that?” His voice held a raw edge, as if the concept of someone defending him was utterly alien, something his mind simply couldn’t process.

Robert sighed, the sound heavy with a weariness that had nothing to do with his injuries. He ran a hand over his bruised jaw, leaning further into his hospital bed. "Oh, that." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Look, there's a high chance we're going to die here. Our chances aren't exactly favorable. I figured it'd really suck if I were to die chained up, and I thought you'd share that sentiment. So, I defended you. Simple."

Flambae snorted, a harsh bark of laughter. "Bullshit."

“Excuse me?” Robert retorted, a hint of annoyance returning to his tone.

“You’re full of shit, Bobbert,” Flambae spat, leaning forward. "I know because this isn't the first time you've stood up for me.”

Robert stared at him, genuinely perplexed. “What the fuck are you on? Is the anthrax screwing with your head?”

“My head is perfectly fine!” Flambae snapped, a small flame flickering in his palm, quickly doused. “Don’ act like you don’ remember! You fought against that Blonde Bitch, Blonde Blazer or whatever, even though it could ‘ave cost you your job, all to keep someone from the Z-team from being eliminated! You had no reason to do that just like you ‘ave no reason to defend me now! So I know you’re full of bullshit! Why do you keep trying to save me?”

Robert leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Well, first off, I didn’t go against Blazer for you specifically, but I can see how your ego makes it hard for you to see other people.”

Flambae instantly bristled, his mouth opening, a growl rumbling in his chest. “Why you—”

“And secondly,” Robert cut him off, his voice maintaining its flat, even tone despite the interruption, “though you might want one, there wasn’t some huge, dramatic reason I defended the Z-team. I just thought cutting someone from the Z-team wasn’t the right message to send. Instead of punishing you guys and giving up on you, I figured you all needed to be shown someone would fight for you even when you don’t want them to. It was just that simple.”

Flambae was silent, his gaze fixed on Robert as if trying to decipher a complex riddle. The anger in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. He seemed to be truly contemplating the confession, processing the idea that someone would do something for them, for him, without an ulterior motive. After a long moment, a sneer tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You’re stupid,” Flambae finally said, the words cutting through the quiet.

Robert raised an eyebrow, a hint of a wry smile touching his lips. "Oh, well, thank you. That makes me feel amazing about my decision."

"You don' know who the Z-team is," Flambae countered, his voice gaining a little of its old bite. "You don' know who 𝘐 am. It's stupid for you to try and defend strangers who can easily backstab you."

Robert considered this, his own gaze drifting to the sterile white walls beyond the glass chamber. He did know a surprising amount about the Z-Team, thanks to his handler duties, but Flambae was right about the general sentiment. They were volatile, unpredictable. He took a deep breath, an idea forming.

"I'm Robert,” Robert began, a spontaneous announcement that made Flambae visibly jump. “I’m the guy behind the desk. I'm also the guy who likes old black and white movies, but only when it's raining. I’ve never been able to keep a houseplant alive. I can quote entire episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation from memory. And my least favorite food is anything with cilantro. Tastes like soap.”

Flambae stared at him, utterly confused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“Well, you said you don't want to be strangers, right? That you wanted to know who I am?” Robert said, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. “So I’m sharing.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Flambae protested, glaring daggers at Robert.

“Well, too bad, you’re stuck listening,” Robert continued, undeterred. “I also have a favorite color which is green. Specifically, the deep emerald green you see in old growth forests after a rain. I find it calming. And I once accidentally set fire to a toaster oven in college trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich. It was a dark day for dairy products.” He paused, looking at Flambae expectantly. “Now it’s your turn.”

Flambae scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not telling you shit.”

“Come on,” Robert coaxed, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes. “I just shared a huge amount about myself, it’s only fair you do the same.”

Flambae let out another scoff. “Yeah, and now I think you’re even more depressing than before.”

Robert gave him a deadpan look, daring him to continue.

Flambae sighed, a sound that seemed ripped from the depths of his soul. “Fine. Whatever. Like it fucking matters.” He hesitated, then spoke, his voice lower than before. “I got a sister. Older. Name’s Shahara. She’s… she’s straight-laced. Always yellin’ at me to get my shit together, you know? Always thought I was gonna end up in jail or somethin’. Guess she was right.”

A ghost of a soft smile, entirely out of place on Flambae's usual angry face, flickered. “And I got a niece. Mari. She’s… she’s a smart kid. About seven now. Draws me pictures. Little stick figures with fire comin’ out the hands, you know?” He chuckled, a rough, fond sound. “She asks me if I’m a superhero, like in her comic books, and I always tell her I’m the fucking best one, even better than the ones she reads about. She thinks it’s funny.”

As Flambae spoke, a sudden, ragged cough tore through him. He tried to stifle it, to push through, his face contorting. “She… she recently had a dance recital. Best fucking one there. I gotta get her—”

Another cough, this time more harsh.

“—her a present for doin’ so well.” He cleared his throat, his hand coming to rub at his windpipe.

“Flambae… are you okay?” Robert asked cautiously, his brow furrowing.

Fambae waved him off. “She’s real talented. Gonna—” The words devolved into a harsh, hacking cough that seized his entire body. He bent over, clutching his chest, his face turning an alarming shade of red. The small, private smile vanished, replaced by a desperate struggle for air. He staggered, then completely collapsed forward on his bed, still wracked by the violent, unstoppable spasms in his lungs.

"Flambae!" Robert shouted, panic lacing his voice. He scrambled off the bed, stumbling towards his fallen quarantine buddie. "Hey! Flambae! You need to breathe!" He shook the fallen hero, his eyes studying Flambae's face as said man continued to struggle. Robert quickly whipped his head up, looking around the chamber in a panic induced haze. “Somebody! We need help!" His eyes darted to the chamber’s observation room. "Help! We need a medic, 𝘯𝘰𝘸!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The scent of cheap coffee and dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunlight did little to lift the heavy atmosphere of the apartment. Chase—looking every bit of seventy with the deep lines etched around his eyes—stood over the entryway, frustration mixing with deep, silent worry.

“Come on, Beef,” he coaxed, his voice raspy, a direct side effect of having chewed through half a century’s worth of aging in just under four decades. “Get up. That tile is cold, and you’re shedding right where I need to sweep.”

Beef, a perfectly weighted bundle of black and white fluff with overly large, perky ears, remained stubbornly pressed against the base of the doorframe. He hadn’t budged from this spot since Chase brought him to his apartment.

Chase jingled a plastic bag. “Look, the good stuff. Aged bacon flavored—your favorite. Just a short trot to the kitchen, buddy. We can watch those squirrels torment the neighbor’s cat.”

Beef’s pointed snout remained tucked firmly beneath his paws. His body registered the word ‘bacon’ only as a faint, low whimper.

“Fine. Treats are out.” Chase tossed the bag onto the nearby coat rack. He then retrieved a faded, rope-frayed squeaky bone, Beef’s sworn enemy and best friend. He tossed it lightly, making it land a few inches from the dog. “Toy. Go get the bad guy, Beef. Show that bone who’s boss.”

Beef slightly shifted his head, his large, dark eyes appearing almost watery. He lowered his already downturned ears further and let out a soft, mournful sound, like a broken hinge.

Chase sighed, the sound rattling in his chest. “What about belly rubs? You know I can’t resist those stubby little legs in the air.” He bent down, extending a tentative hand.

Beef responded by shrinking, pulling his stout legs closer to his body, refusing the touch.

Chase straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. The attempts at bribery were over. Now, the monologue began.

“Look, you can’t be fucking whining like this,” Chase started, the words coming out sharper than intended. He paused, watching the dog’s defeated posture. “You have to be strong, Beef. You hear me? You can’t fall apart just because things got fucking… complicated. We have to keep moving. The world doesn’t stop, and neither can we. We need to maintain the rhythm. Everything will be fine. It always is. You just gotta believe that.”

He continued pacing the small distance between the kitchen counter and the doorway, his pace slow despite the ingrained reflex to move at impossible speeds. He was trying to sound reassuring, but the positivity was unnaturally clipped, a lecture directed at a reflection he refused to look into.

“Because if we let the worry win, then what’s the fucking point? If we just sit here and—” Chase stopped mid-sentence, his shoulders slumping. He stared at Beef, whose tail was completely still, a sad, black-and-white comma on the floor.

“Who am fucking I kidding?” Chase scoffed, the word tasting like ash. “That’s all bullshit. That’s just the garbage I tell myself so I don’t try to run fast enough to outpace my own shadow.”

He took a slow, deliberate breath. “I know you miss him, Beef.”

Chase walked over to the doorframe, his knees clicking as he slid down to sit heavily on the floor next to the distraught dog. The cool wood felt good against his skin, slowing the internal burn that always accompanied his accelerated existence. He gently scooped Beef into his lap. The dog didn’t resist, melting against Chase’s chest with another deep, trembling whimper.

Chase began stroking the soft fur along Beef’s spine, his gaze drifting away from the door and settling on a small, cluttered dresser across the room. On it sat a single, framed photograph.

The photo showed a younger Chase—his face smoother, less tired, though still possessing that distinct intensity—with a wide, genuine smile. Perched high on his shoulders was a much younger Robert Robertson, ten or maybe eleven years old. Robert’s eyes were bright, his smile wide and open, completely devoid of the apathy that now usually clung to his features. His small hands were raised to the sky, holding a brightly colored toy airplane, the image of unburdened joy.

"I miss him too," Chase murmured into Beef’s little, velvet ear.

He tightened his arms around the dog, using the hard reality of the small animal to anchor himself against the flood of old memories and new anxieties.

“But it’s going to be okay, buddy. That kid has always been a fighter. Always. Even when he shouldn’t have had to be,” Chase said, thinking of Robert’s long, lonely tenure as a hero without powers, constantly proving himself in a world that scorned him for not being his famous father—thinking about how Robert had to be strong well before he ever became a hero. “He’ll pull through this. Whatever hellhole he's going through, he'll get through it. We just have to be patient.”

Beef whimpered softly in response, pushing his face forward and tenderly licking the back of Chase’s hand. As Chase looked down at him, the dog’s stubby tail gave a tentative, questioning wag, a tiny step towards normalcy.

Chase offered a small, weary smile, scratching behind Beef’s small, sensitive ears. “I know. Waiting is the hardest part. Feels like waiting for the heat death of the universe sometimes.” He sighed, the sound full of exhaustion. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned—and I’ve seen a lot in a little time—speed isn’t everything. Being the fastest doesn’t mean you get there first, or that you get the right outcome.”

He looked back at the photograph of the young boy holding the airplane, then back down at Beef.

“All that matters is we be here for him when he gets back. No matter how long it takes. We keep the home fires warm, right?”

Chase’s eyes suddenly brightened with an idea, a necessary distraction from the suffocating worry. He needed to prepare for the inevitable reunion, and Robert, the perpetually dry, isolated man, warranted the most ridiculous preparation possible.

“Until then,” Chase said, his voice lifting slightly, “how about we find you an ugly sweater, hmm? Something truly fucking hideous. Maybe with sequins and a flashing light? I saw one downtown with a reindeer chasing a sleigh.”

The transformation in Beef was instantaneous and absolute. The sadness vanished, replaced by canine delight. Ugly sweaters—which Robert famously loathed and Chase therefore adored—were always a sign of impending chaos and attention. Beef instantly perked up, scrambling excitedly in Chase’s lap. He released a sharp, high-pitched bark, and his tail began to wag furiously, thumping against Chase’s thigh like a drumstick.

Chase laughed, a genuine, deep sound that hadn’t surfaced in hours. He ruffled Beef’s head, feeling a knot loosen in his own chest.

“I knew you fucking had good taste, you little traitor,” Chase chuckled. “Robert’s going to flip his shit when he sees us.”

Everything wasn’t magically fixed, of course. Robert was still gone, and the absence of his presence was still a gaping wound in their lives, a quiet ache that echoed in the empty spaces. But the sharp edges of the pain felt a little less raw. The silence in the apartment wasn't as sharp as before. Wherever he was, Robert was fighting. And when he was done, when the fight was won, he’d be back.

Until then, all they had to do was wait, and maybe wear something hideous in celebration of his eventual return.

Everything would be just fine.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He's in respiratory distress!” Dr. Kellen’s voice ripped through the sterile hum of the quarantine chamber, sharp and urgent, echoing off the glass walls. He was already by Flambae’s side, his movements precise and efficient. “Oxygen saturation is plummeting! Get an IV access, stat! We need to stabilize his vitals before we lose him!”

Dr. Reyes, already moving with practiced speed, barked back, “His heart rate is tachycardic, spiking at 160, and his BP’s dropping! Prep for fluid drainage, Kellen, this isn’t just a cough, it’s pulmonary edema. His lungs are filling faster than anything I’ve ever seen.” Her hands were a blur, tearing open a sterile kit, her voice a rapid-fire stream of medical jargon— “Large bore needle, lidocaine, drainage bag, now!”

Robert stood frozen, a disembodied observer just feet away. The blue UV lights, designed to calm and protect, now cast a harsh, unforgiving glow on the scene. Robert felt his stomach lurch as the lights seemed to accentuate the unnatural pale of Flambae’s skin, making his ashen face and purpling lips even more stark. The violent spasms had subsided, replaced by shallow, gasping breaths that tore at Flambae’s throat, each one a desperate, losing battle for air.

Dr. Kellen, now gloved, knelt beside Flambae, his expression grim. “He’s barely conscious. Reyes, I need that needle! We need to get this fluid out or he’ll drown in his own lungs.”

Robert felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.

𝘋𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯? 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣?

He watched as they carefully, but forcefully, rolled Flambae onto his side. The sight of it was unnatural, like seeing a lion reduced to a whimpering cub. Flambae was supposed to be obnoxious, loud, challenging—not this pale, gasping mess clinging to life.

Just moments ago, he was talking about his niece, a soft, rare smile gracing his usually scowling face. The contrast was jarring, repulsive even. Something that should never be. Robert realized, with a jolt of genuine discomfort, that he didn't like it. He didn't like seeing Flambae like this at all. He didn't 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 to see Flambae like this.

A wave of guilt washed over him. He’d hoped, in the privacy of his own mind earlier, that the anthrax would take Flambae out, just a little, to quiet his constant antagonism. But now, seeing the reality of it, watching the life drain from Flambae’s eyes, Robert only wanted him to go back to being the loud, irritating fire-starter he knew. He wanted Flambae to puff out his chest, to boast, to argue, anything but this desperate struggle for existence.

Then, a sickening sense of dread crept in, colder and more potent than the guilt. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘦. Sooner or later, he’d be the one gasping for air, clutching his chest, his lungs filling with fluid. He would be the one reduced to a desperate, pitiful heap. The thought was terrifying, a heavy weight settling on his chest, making his own breath feel suddenly shallow.

He knew he couldn’t escape it, and that was the worst feeling imaginable—not the fact that he was about to meet a sudden end, but the fact that he was about to suffer a slow, humiliating loss of his ability to make choices and control his life.

He could face down a cosmic ray gun or a building collapse without flinching, because in those moments, he was the master of his own fate, defined by his resilience and skill in the suit. But this—this quiet, biological betrayal—was a threat the Mecha Man armor, if he had it, couldn't neutralize. A threat 𝘩𝘦 couldn’t neutralize. It was the ultimate, unavoidable design flaw in humans.

Flambae, for all his fire and destructive power, was just human now. And Robert was too. He was just a human, ticking down to an inevitable, unheroic end.

Robert watched, his breath catching in his throat, as Dr. Reyes quickly prepped Flambae's chest. The doctors worked with terrifying speed, a blur of motion and urgent whispers. He heard the squish of a saturated surgical sponge, the low hiss of suction, and then a harsh, sickening gurgle.

A clear tube was inserted, and almost immediately, a thick, viscous pinkish fluid began to stream into a drainage bag, a horrifying testament to the silent war raging inside Flambae’s body. Each gush of fluid seemed to deflate Flambae a little more, yet, with each passing second, the desperate gasping began to ease, slowly, painstakingly.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the flow of fluid slowed to a trickle, and Flambae’s ragged breaths became less strained, if still shallow. His eyes fluttered, then closed, his body going limp as if the fight had drained every last ounce of energy from him. Dr. Kellen removed the catheter, patching the spot with sterile dressing.

“Is he… is he going to be okay?” Robert’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on Flambae’s chest, watching for any sign of normal movement. “What the fuck just happened? You said we had two hours before symptoms, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 twenty minutes.”

Dr. Reyes sighed, running a hand through her hair. “He's going to be alright. His O2 stats are coming up. He’s only out cold due to the stress his body just went through. As for why this happened, you’re right, Robert. Typical anthrax, even the weaponized strains, move at a much slower progression, starting mildly before escalating. But this… this variant is unparalleled. We’ve never seen anything like it.” She exchanged a grave look with Dr. Kellen. “We apologize, but with this unseen version, there’s no way to know what will happen. It’s behaving entirely unpredictably.”

She paused, looking at the now-still figure of Flambae, then back at Robert. “However,” she continued, her voice softer, “you should have some hope. In comparison to Flambae, you have a better chance of getting through this.”

Robert scoffed, the sound hollow in the sterile room. “I should have hope because Flambae’s in a shittier condition than me?” A laugh escaped him, hysteric and sharp. “How the hell could that be possible? We were both exposed to the same thing, same dose. He’s a living 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰.”

Dr. Kellen stepped forward, his expression grave. “It’s precisely because of Flambae’s pyrokinetics that you have an edge.” Robert frowned, ready for an explanation that was surely going to feel like a bomb drop. “His body inherently runs at a much higher temperature than a normal human’s, that I’m sure you know. For years, this abnormal heat has effectively incinerated most common bacteria and viruses before they could ever take root.”

“Meaning,” Dr. Reyes picked up, “his immune system has never truly had to fight. It’s underdeveloped, nearly dormant. It’s never been challenged because his powers always did the job for it. So, when a super-aggressive pathogen like this mutated anthrax hits a system that’s never learned to defend itself… it’s like a bulldozer hitting a tissue paper wall.”

“To add to that,” Kellen interjected, “he was the one initially exposed. Meaning he likely had a higher initial viral load. We will do everything in our power, Robert, but his chances… they aren’t looking very good.”

The words hit Robert like a freight train. As he thought, a bomb had just dropped into the already unsettling quiet. Flambae… 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨? The hot-headed, obnoxious, fire-starting superhero he barely tolerated… might actually die. The thought was heavy, unsettling. 𝘜𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. He stared at Flambae’s still form, the IV drips, the monitors beeping softly.

Dr. Reyes, seeing Robert’s stunned silence, asked gently, “Robert, did he mention any family? Anyone he might want to contact, just in case?”

The question jolted Robert back to the present. Family. Right. He’d just heard about them. He took a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. An older sister, Aisha. And a niece, Mari. She’s about seven. Said Mari draws him pictures, stick figures with fire hands.” He swallowed hard, the unexpected intimacy of Flambae’s confessions now feeling like a precious, fragile thing, twisting into an even heavier weight.

“Thank you, Robert,” Dr. Reyes said, already gesturing to Dr. Kellen to note down the names. “We’ll try to get ahold of them.” She then turned her attention back to Robert. “Now, you need to get back in your bed. Try to conserve your energy. We need you as rested as possible.”

Robert barely registered the command. His eyes were fixed on Flambae's unconscious form, on the tubes and wires, on the unnerving stillness of a man who was never still. He distantly agreed, his legs feeling heavy as he stumbled back to his own bed, the springy mattress feeling colder than usual.

He lay there, hands clenched at his sides, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t like Flambae. He never had. Hell, this wasn't even the first time he’d actively wished ill upon him. Now, the thought that this could be the last time he saw him, truly saw him alive, was a cold, unpleasant stone in his gut. All he could do was stare, rigorously watching the faint, uncertain rise and fall of Flambae’s chest, praying it wouldn't stop.

Chapter Text

“Stop staring at me, you creep. I’m not fucking dying.”

The words, raspy and barely a whisper, sliced through Robert’s morbid thoughts like an icicle shattering. He blinked, the image of Flambae’s unconscious face burning away, replaced by the reality of Flambae looking directly at him. Flambae was laid flat on his back, the clear plastic oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, making his words slightly muffled, yet no less sharp.

Robert hadn’t even realized Flambae had woken up. He’d simply been lost in the hypnotic, uncertain rhythm of the man’s chest, obsessively watching for any sign of failure. Now, two fiery, bloodshot eyes stared back at him from behind the oxygen mask.

“I wasn’t staring,” Robert immediately lied, a flush rising to his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to sound unbothered. “Just… making sure the monitor was working. If yours had technical issues then chances are mine would too. Not exactly convenient, you know."

A dry, rattling scoff escaped Flambae, the sound painfully thin. "You're so full of shit. ‘Technical issues.’ What kind of idiot do you take me for? As if I'd fucking believe that.” He gave a weak smirk, an attempt at his usual bravado that only made him look more vulnerable. “You just couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you? I know I'm irresistible but there's no need to be so desperate, Bob Bob. It's pretty pathetic.”

Robert felt a familiar surge of annoyance, but it was quickly swamped by a strange, quiet relief. Flambae was 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. His obnoxious, teasing, infuriating self. A small, unacknowledged part of Robert’s chest loosened. This was the Flambae he knew—the arrogant loudmouth who was too full of himself to be vulnerable. It was strangely comforting.

“Believe me, Flambae, the last thing I was doing was checking you out.” Robert deadpanned, his expression its usual mask of disinterest. “Y’know, you seem very insistent on making me out to be obsessed with you, are you sure you're not projecting? Because if you wanted to grab dinner, all you had to do was ask.” The sarcasm was thick, a comfortable shield laced with a hint of teasing.

Flambae managed another weak scoff, glancing to the side. However, unlike last time, this one was mixed with an awkward chuckle. “Yeah… you're not my type.” He shifted slightly, wincing, and a thin thread of fire sparked faintly around his fingertips before dying out.

“You sure?” Robert shot back, a faint smile playing on his lips despite himself. “You sound a little uncertain.”

Flambae quickly shot his head around, glaring at Robert. “Yes, I'm fucking sure!” He hissed, his voice rushed and harsh.

“Okay, whatever you say.”

“I mean it!”

“I'm not saying you don't.”

“I wouldn't date you even if you begged me!”

“Then it's a good thing I'm not asking, right?”

Their banter, a familiar, bickering dance, settled over the room like a well-worn blanket. They traded dry barbs for another minute, the sterile atmosphere momentarily forgotten, until Flambae attempted a full scoff at one of Robert’s particularly sardonic remarks. The sound hitched violently, turning into a wet, wrenching cough that shook his entire frame. He immediately grabbed his chest and squeezed his eyes shut under the mask, the small, rattling sound filling the silence.

The choked breath resonated deeply with Robert, a cold, unwelcome echo of the previous hour—Flambae collapsing, fluid filling his lungs, the frantic scramble to save him. The next retort died on Robert’s lips, replaced by a grim tightness. He quickly found himself staring again, though this time, Flambae didn't call him out. Instead, the light in Flambae’s eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of pain, quickly masked by his usual bravado. But even with his attempts to mask the pain it was far too obvious he wasn't okay—he looked pale, diminished, and suddenly far too frail.

The room lapsed into a cold, heavy silence. The monitors continued their soft, insistent beeping, the only sound heard in the vast space other than the subtle, strained effort in Flambae’s breathing. The fragile normalcy of their banter was irrevocably shattered, replaced by the cold silence of reality. Flambae wasn't okay. Neither of them were. And it was only a matter of time before…

The sliding glass doors of the room hissed open, drawing both their attention. Dr. Reyes walked in, a slim tablet clutched in her hand, her expression one of professional composure. She approached Flambae’s bed, her gaze assessing.

“Glad to see you awake, Flambae,” she said, her voice smooth and even. “And looking a bit better, I might add.”

Flambae scoffed, the sound muffled by the mask. “Save your false pleasantries, bitch. Just spit out whatever corporate bullshit you’re here to relay.”

Dr. Reyes sighed, her expression hardening with a hint of exasperation. “No corporate bullshit, Flambae. Just some news. We managed to contact your sister, Shahara.”

Flambae instantly tensed, his eyes blazing even through the exhaustion. “You… you did 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵?” he grated, his voice laced with venom. “Who the hell gave you the right to do that? That’s privileged information! I'll sue you for invasion of privacy or some shit!”

“Please, Flambae, calm down,” Dr. Reyes interjected, holding up a placating hand. “I’m sorry to have upset you. We contacted your family because we figured, after such a serious health scare, you’d want to talk to them. It’s standard protocol to notify next of kin. Especially with something as serious as this particular strain.”

Flambae scoffed, turning his head away. “Yeah, well, you figured wrong.”

“I see that now,” she conceded, her gaze unwavering. “But I want to know if you’d reconsider. We have her on the line; all I have to do is transfer her over to the tablet. You can talk to her.” Her voice dropped, becoming almost a plea. “Honestly, Flambae, if I were in your position, I’d want to talk to my family. With the high risks of this mutated anthrax… this might be the last chance you get.”

The words hung in the air, a cold, undeniable truth. Flambae hesitated, his gaze flicking to Robert, who was doing his absolute best to mimic a statue incapable of eavesdropping, staring intently at a point opposite of Flambae’s bed. Flambae rolled his eyes at the sad attempt. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the air leaving his lungs in a defeated rush. “Fine,” he grumbled, the word tasting like ash. “Just… fine. Hand it over.”

Dr. Reyes gave a small nod, quickly tapping at the tablet. She then held it out to him. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, already turning to walk back towards the doors. “We’ll give you some privacy.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Flambae muttered, taking the tablet with a shaky hand. He looked at the screen, watching it ring. Robert couldn’t help but notice the uncertainty etched on Flambae’s face, a vulnerability so raw and open it was jarring to see on the usually brash flame hero. It seemed to be a recurring theme lately, this chipping away at Flambae’s bravado. Despite himself, Robert found his ears straining, unable to tune out the impending conversation.

The call connected almost instantly. A bright, pixelated face popped up on the screen, a little girl with wide, excited brown eyes and a missing front tooth. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back with a glittery headband, and a smattering of freckles dusted her nose. She was nearly a spitting image of Flambae, only cuter.

"Dāyee!"^[1] she shrieked, her voice booming through the tablets mini speakers. She not only looked like Flambae, she was loud like him too, Robert noted. “You called! Mama said you might not because you aren't feeling good! But you are here!”

Flambae’s entire demeanor shifted. The aggressive scowl evaporated, replaced by a soft, almost tender expression Robert had never seen before. "Hey, mi cielo.^[2] Of course I called, who do you take me for? I'd never be taken down because I wasn't ‘feeling good.’” He said, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble, a tone Robert had never heard from him before.

The little girl, Mari Robert assumed, laughed. “Of course you wouldn't! I tried telling mama that but she would not listen! I really wanted her to call you but she said we should wait for you to call. She's so lame. But now that you are here, guess what, guess what!” Mari chattered, barely taking a breath. “Mama took me to the zoo today! Which I guess means she's not entirely lame, but nowhere near as cool as you. Oh, and I saw a giraffe, and it was SO TALL, I had to crane my neck all the way back to see it! And there was a silly monkey who kept stealing people’s popcorn, but Mama wouldn’t let me feed him because ‘it’s bad for their tummies.’ Oh, and there was a tiger that was super big, like way bigger than our cat! And guess what else?”

Flambae chuckled, a genuine, warm sound. “What else, Mari?”

“I saw a superhero!” she said, her eyes wide with awe. “He was flying over the city! It was SO COOL! I wish you could have seen him, dāyee!”

Robert almost snorted. Flambae, listening to his niece describe some other superhero with such adoration, was a hilarious image. He looked constipated, trying to keep his eyes from rolling or his smile from faltering.

“Sounds like you had an amazing day," Flambae said. “And I saw him too, don’t worry. He’s pretty good, I guess. But nowhere near as cool as me.”

Mari giggled. “It isn't even close! You're the coolest dāyee ever. Oh, speaking of, you'd be very proud of me!”

“Why's that?”

“I'm getting super-duper ice cream 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 dinner, the kind with sprinkles and a cherry! Mama said I couldn’t have it because it was too close to dinner, but then I said that you always let me have ice cream before dinner, so she said fine, but only one scoop!”

Flambae laughed, the sound easier and warmer than any sound Robert’s ever heard escape him. “That’s my girl. Using quick thinking. Hey, what did that tiger look like again? The one you said you saw at the zoo? Was it orange or white?”

Mari instantly continued her storytelling, gesturing wildly, pulling Flambae completely into her world of primary colors and animal facts. He listened intently, occasionally prompting her with playful questions. It was clear Mari was Flambae’s whole world, the way he looked at her, smiled, and laughed with her. It was sweet. Adorable even. But ultimately it was strange seeing the way he interacted with her. Compared to the usual jabs and boasting he did at and away from SDN it was like watching a new person. Robert was almost convinced he was in the room with a shapeshifter.

“So, you’re coming this weekend, right?” Mari asked, finally pausing to catch her breath. “We have to go on the big rollercoaster! Mama promised.”

“Fuck yeah,” Flambae affirmed, though his voice had a slight tremor that even Robert, across the room, could detect. "Can't wait to see you."

“Yay! I can’t wait either! I wish we could go right now.” Mari then tilted her head, her brow furrowed. “Hey, dāyee? Why are you wearing a hospital gown? And what’s that thing on your face?”

Flambae cleared his throat, a sound he tried to make seem normal, but Robert noticed the quick, almost imperceptible flinch of pain. “Oh, this?” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Just a stupid, mandatory checkup heroes have to go through. So boring, you wouldn’t believe it. They make us wear these silly outfits and everything.”

Mari giggled. “It looks like pajamas! That’s so funny!”

Flambae laughed with her, the sound a little strained, but full of affection. “Yeah, yeah, very funny. It’s so cool you have an uncle who’s a superhero, huh?”

“Yeah!” Mari beamed. “You’re the BEST dāyee!”

Flambae’s smile was genuine then. He cleared his throat again, a little more obviously this time, trying to suppress another cough. “Hey, Mari,” he said, his voice shifting slightly, “is your mom there?”

“Yeah!” Mari bounced. “She’s right here, but she seems sad for some reason.”

Flambae took a deep, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling, a visible effort to hide his increasing pain and weakness. “Well, that’s no good,” he said, softening his voice. “How about I talk to her, yeah? See if I can cheer her up.”

Mari instantly brightened. “Okay! Mama! Dāyee wants to talk to you!” she yelled, then thrust the tablet forward.

The screen switched, and Flambae’s sister, Shahara, appeared. She was a woman in her late thirties or early forties, with the same gold eyes as Flambae, but framed by worry. Her hair, a rich, dark brown, was hastily pulled back into a messy bun, and her face was bare of makeup, revealing the puffy, reddened skin around her eyes, clear evidence of recent tears. She was wearing a faded, olive-green sweatshirt, the kind meant for comfort, not fashion.

“Kadir,” she breathed, the sound thick with relief and fear.

𝘒𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘳. The name stood out, forcing its way to the front of Robert’s brain. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦. Robert silently noted and immediately felt his stomach drop. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. Flambae's name was just that, 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦. It wasn’t something he was meant to know, something he was privileged—no, 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 enough to know.

Flambae sighed, his bravado instantly returning a layer of steel to his voice, though it held a rare edge of apology. “Mariam out of earshot?”

Shahara nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. She’s gone to play.” Then, her composure cracking, she launched into him. “You fucking idiot! How could you be so reckless? Anthrax, Kadir? 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘢𝘹? Are you out of your mind!?” Her voice was thick with emotion, trembling. “You better not die. Do you hear me? I just let you back into my life. I can’t take losing my little brother now of all times. Hell, I can’t tell Mari her favorite dāyee is… is gone.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m Mari’s only uncle, bitch,” Flambae countered, then quickly added, “Though, I do agree, I am the best.”

Shahara glared at him through the screen. “This is not the time to be joking, you ass!”

Flambae sighed, the bravado slipping away. “I know,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “I’m… 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Shahara's expression softened slightly then, a wave of exhaustion washing over her fury. She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I just… I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.” Her eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, searched his face. “Are you… are you feeling okay? Are you comfortable? 𝘚𝘢𝘧𝘦?”

“I’m fine,” Flambae lied easily, maintaining his rigid pride. “The doctors are fucking over-exaggerating. They always do. I’ll be out of here in a couple of days.”

Shahara offered a faint, sad smile. “Yeah, I figured as much. Honestly, ever since you were a child, I’ve never once seen you get sick, you lucky bastard.” She sniffled, the humor dissolving instantly. “Though that doesn’t mean I’m not worried for you, you hear me? You better make it out of this. You keep fighting no matter what, understand?”

Flambae gave a small, sharp nod. “I get it.”

“I mean it. You keep fighting because, whether you like it or not, you have me and Mari waiting for you. I know I haven't always… been there. And I'm sorry. But I'm here now. Plus, we have those plans to go to the amusement park this weekend, remember? You’re not getting out of them, anthrax or not. I don't care if I have to come there and drag you with us.”

Flambae laughed, a short, breathy explosion of air that felt genuinely forced yet vital. “I get it already. You can stop trying to be scary. It hasn't been effective since I was like five.”

“Shut up, ass.”

“Bitch.”

“𝘈𝘴𝘴.”

They talked a little more, the conversation stabilizing around logistics and assurances, until Shahara finally promised to call back the next day. If allowed. The call ended, and the image of her tear-streaked face disappeared, replaced by the blank screen of the tablet.

Flambae slowly lowered the tablet back to the blanket, his chest rising and falling just a little too quickly. He closed his eyes beneath the mask, absorbing the weight of the last few minutes.

A second of silence stretched, thick and revealing.

Robert spoke softly, his voice devoid of his usual sarcasm. “Your niece is a cute kid. Seems nice.”

Flambae’s eyes snapped open, blazing with defensive fire. He glared at Robert, ready to tear into him for listening. “Keep your shitty opinions to yourself, Bob Bob. What I do, and who I talk to, is none of 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 business.”

Robert held up both hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Relax. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just an observation. I have eyes.”

Flambae held the glare for another tense beat, but the fire quickly deflated, leaving him looking exhausted and exposed once more. He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice tight. “She’s… she’s a good kid. Too good for me. Her mom keeps her grounded.” He looked down at the tablet again. “She’s trying to be a hero, too. Wants to fly and shoot lasers. I told her fire is way cooler.”

Robert listened, softly agreeing with a nod. He knew this type of willing vulnerability, this gentle, hesitant sharing, was a rare and precious thing coming from Flambae. For all his fire and bravado, Flambae was still tethered, bound by a small, fierce unit of family he desperately needed to protect—a unit that was currently terrified of losing him. And right now, Robert was the only other person in the room who knew how hard Flambae was truly fighting to keep that promise of the amusement park.

The moment of shared understanding lasted only a minute. Then, Flambae's easy exhaustion turned sharp.

A harsh, ragged cough rattled in Flambae’s chest, deep and wet, startling Robert. Flambae arched his back slightly, a pathetic, stifled sound escaping the oxygen mask. His eyes, already dilated from the sickness, rolled back slightly. The monitors next to the bed began to pulse an angry red. His temperature reading, which had stabilized momentarily after the earlier health scare, began to climb frantically.

"Shit," Robert muttered, rising from his bed.

Flambae wasn't fighting the cough anymore. He sank back against the pillows, thrashing his head side-to-side. His skin was unnaturally flushed, slick with cold sweat that evaporated almost instantly as the fever ramped up.

"Hey, Flambae? Talk to me," Robert urged, leaning over.

Flambae didn't respond to him. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, but he wasn't seeing the sterile medical tiles. His body was convulsing in short, painful tremors, and his voice, when it finally returned, was a high, rapid mumble, laced with the frantic desperation of a trapped animal. His composure had evaporated, dissolved by the heat in his brain.

“M’fine—” a strangled cough, “never sick,” Flambae muttered, struggling through the mask. His eyes blinked rapidly, moving every which way. “Ha. S'hot. Where… what is...”

Robert frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Flambae, hey. I need you to listen to me, okay? You need to keep breathing normally.”

Flambae didn't acknowledge him, his head lolling slightly to the side. He groaned, shifting on the bed as he clawed at his chest. He started speaking again, the words coming in a disjointed, rattling stream.

"Mechaman," Flambae whispered, thick and guttural. "You bitch. You're watching. You love this. You love seeing the fire go out."

Robert froze, his blood turning ice cold. He glanced defensively through the glass walls, ensuring the doctors in their observation room couldn't hear inside the containment chamber. He wasn't Mechaman right now, hadn't been for awhile, he was Robert. Plain old Robert. The Z-teams boring dispatcher. And yet, Flambae seemed to be seeing him—seeing the 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩.

“Stupid… stupid metal man… thought you could… could break me…” His head thrashed slightly on the pillow, his brow furrowed with a deep, internal pain. He gasped, the sound short and ragged as he tried to catch his breath.

Robert’s jaw clenched. He took a silent step toward the bedside, reaching out a hand, then pulling it back. He couldn't touch him yet. Not while the Mechaman delusion held sway.

“You bitch. Can’t… can’t stand you,” Flambae slurred, his words fragmented, strung together by the fever. “Always… always watching. Like you know… know everything. Like you're 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.”

He fell silent for a beat, his breathing ragged. His fingers twitched, pressing against the blanket. Then the fevered monologue continued, turning darker, steeped in humiliation.

“You took something from me. A trophy. Took my fingers… broke my damn tooth in… in bar fight, right in front of everyone. Made me look like a joke, like I belonged in the fucking gutter with the rest of the trash they clean up.” He gasped, the effort of speaking clearly exhausting him. “I hate you. I hate… hate how easy you make everything look. I'll—I'll fucking destroy you.”

Robert watched, his throat dry and usual wit completely absent. Flambae was confessing his deepest wounds to the very man who inflicted them. The words were a venomous current, but the raw pain lacing them was undeniable. Robert wanted to reach out, to tell Flambae, his supposed enemy, that he wasn’t nothing. An idiot? Sure. Nothing? Far from it.

He wanted to scream, to confess, to… apologize. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t acknowledge the trauma, not without shattering the fragile peace, the strained coexistence they had. He was Mechaman, and Mechaman had done all of that. But Flambae could never know that.

Just then Flambae’s rant shifted abruptly, his voice dropping slightly, now addressing a different shadow in the room.

"Why are you here, Bobbert?" he slurred, shaking his head faintly. "You think I'm weak? You think I’m just some low-level punk you get to push around? I hate the way you look at me. Like I’m a fucking joke. Like I’m beneath the Z-Team. You—you just sit in a chair. You just give orders. But everyone… everyone respects you."

He trailed off, a sound of deep, raw vulnerability leaking out.

"I kept fighting you," Flambae confessed, his voice dangerously close to a sob. "I kept pushing back, arguing, disobeying. Because if you admitted I was good, if you finally gave me a second of respect, then maybe those fuckers would see it too. If I could shatter your lack of giving a shit, maybe I'd finally have a place…”

The raw, aching honesty was a punch to Robert's gut. The man he constantly felt annoyed by, the pyromaniac he had jailed, mutilated, and fought, had been desperately striving for the validation of Robert the Dispatcher. For 𝘩𝘪𝘴 validation. He felt a wave of crushing guilt that threatened to break his carefully constructed walls.

Robert finally moved. He couldn't speak, not without revealing the truth of his identity, but he could act. He gently adjusted the blankets, pulling the rough medical sheet taut. He took a clean cloth from the bedside tray and softly wiped the sweat and condensation from Flambae's forehead. His touch was clinical, yet undeniably tender—a gesture so far removed from Robert’s usual persona that it felt like an internal violation.

“Just… rest, Flambae,” Robert murmured, the instruction quiet, professional, and entirely without mockery.

Flambae’s eyes fluttered open slightly, unfocused and reddened by the sickness. He stared past Robert, perhaps seeing the phantom hero, or perhaps finally recognizing the real man.

His lips barely moved against the plastic mask. "You’re just as screwed up as I am," he muttered, fading into the heat. "You just... hide it better. Made everyone believe you're a hero."

Robert stood paralyzed, the cloth gripped tight in his hand. The words cut deeper than any laser or bullet ever could. They were undeniably true. He was more than fucked up. He was constantly screwing up and this was a prime example. Intentional or not, he played a huge role in Flambae’s resentment, his anger, his hatred, his 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯. And yet, this same broken man had just revealed that Robert was the small point of stability he now clung to.

It made him feel sick.

Outside the glass chamber, the medical team reacted instantly to Flambae's spiking vitals. Dr. Kellen and Dr. Reyes began pulling on specialized environmental suits, (having learned last time that dealing with someone who can wield fire was not wise to do unprotected,) their faces tight with fear.

Inside the chamber, the heart monitor alarms began to screech, sharp and insistent. Flambae’s heart rate was spiking frantically, and the fever number shot past 800°F. Simultaneously, Robert felt the temperature in the sealed glass chamber rise dramatically.

Flambae thrashed, jerking upright like a marionette cut free. His eyes snapped open, wide and wild. He didn't see Robert, the hospital, or the medical team. He saw only the smooth, impenetrable glass walls. The ultimate containment. The disease, the fever, the glass—it all combined into a single, suffocating cage, a monument to his failure and humiliation.

The primal need to escape—to be 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦—surged, overriding the anthrax, overriding the pain, overriding the fear of death. If containment was the world’s final decree, then he would meet it with total destruction.

A guttural roar ripped from Flambae’s chest, his body glowing faintly. “𝘕𝘰! Not here! I won’t die in a damn prison!” The air in the chamber instantly grew distorted. He thrashed, generating scalding, uncontrolled heat. The blanket around him began to smoke, shriveling into carbonized flakes.

"No, no, no," Robert hissed, dropping the cloth. He took a step back, dodging the immense wave of heat pulsing off of Flambae’s body.

The reinforced glass began to strain, popping and groaning under the thermal stress. The localized heat was rapidly consuming the oxygen, creating a vacuum of unbreathable air, and, worst of all, the heat was starting to create a mini inferno more than capable of melting skin.

Outside, Dr. Kellen quickly approached the sliding glass doors. Behind him, Dr. Reyes was seen calling for reinforcements.

“Robert, get back! We have to sedate him and vent the heat, now!” Kellen yelled, his voice crackling through the intercom.

Robert didn't look away from Flambae. He knew the risk of opening the door or injecting chemicals blindly while Flambae was generating this much heat. The ending result would be catastrophic.

“Stay back!” Robert’s voice was low, strained, but razor-sharp and authoritative. “Unless you want to be burnt alive and make everything worse, you let me handle it! Fucking do not breach that door!”

He moved swiftly, dodging a burst of fire from Flambae’s body. Said hero was a mess of flailing limbs and uncontrolled flame, his focus entirely on melting the glass prison around him. Robert knew he wouldn't be protected from the heat, he didn't have his suit, but he could still stop this using his training. It was just going to hurt like a bitch.

“I’m going to need you to stop attempting spontaneous combustion, Flambae,” Robert said, his voice flat, his movements fluid and trained. “This chamber has a very strict ‘no burning people alive’ policy, and frankly, I don’t have the paperwork for this.”

Flambae screamed, throwing a wild, heat-searing elbow. Robert ducked under the attack, hooking his arm around Flambae’s now extended arm, ignoring the skin-scald that immediately followed. He used the momentum of Flambae’s struggle to drive the flame hero backward, pinning him back against the mattress of the bed.

The struggle was brutal. Flambae was powerful, fueled by fever and panic, but clumsy. Robert was pure technique. He used his body weight—that of a highly conditioned, non-superpowered hero—to neutralize the limbs. He clamped his elbow across Flambae’s throat, restricting the ability to generate the deep-lung effort needed for massive heat, while simultaneously driving his knee into the center of Flambae’s thigh, finding a nerve point.

Flambae roared, a sound of frustration and pain, but the temperature immediately dipped. Robert leveraged his weight further, twisting Flambae's arm into an unmoveable position. He wasn't trying to break him, just shut him down.

Robert leaned close, breathing heavy, sharp coughs into Flambae’s face. “You stop now, or I swear, Flambae, I'll make you.”

With a final, desperate surge, Flambae tried to buck him off. Robert shifted, utilizing a pressure point near the collarbone taught to anti-meta response teams. Flambae's body went instantly limp, the fight draining out of him like water from a broken hose. The heat dissipated rapidly.

Robert held the pin for another ten seconds, ensuring the delirium had passed. He breathed hard, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Subduing a meta without the suit was always a gamble, even a sick one. His skin felt as though it was on fire and it was more than obvious the smell of burnt meat was from the new burns he now adorned on his flesh.

Distantly, Robert heard the first set of sliding doors open, signaling Dr. Reyes and Dr. Kellen’s approach. He barely paid attention however; his focus completely focused on Flamabe who lay gasping beneath him, the heart monitor beeping loudly to keep pace with his shallow, frantic breaths. His eyes were barely slits.

“Who…” Flambae’s voice was a weak rasp, filled with confusion and fear. He had been subdued by a show of strength far beyond any desk jockey. “Who… who hit me?”

Robert slowly eased off him, pulling his hand back, flexing scorched fingers. He straightened the basically nonexistent blanket, returning to the detached dispatcher persona he so easily wore.

“The guy who doesn’t like having his lungs melted,” Robert replied flatly, adjusting the IV drip. He was sweating profusely, his limbs trembling slightly from the exertion.

Flambae couldn't process the answer. He stared for a moment at the sheer, efficient strength Robert had displayed, a dawning suspicion fighting through the haze of the anthrax. But before he could form another coherent thought, the exhaustion and the illness consumed him entirely. He passed out again, his vitals settling dangerously low.

Robert sighed and turned away, walking back to his own gurney. He placed a hand on the cool metal frame, bracing himself. He tried to take a deep, stabilizing breath, but it hitched in his throat.

He covered his mouth with his hand, attempting to stifle the cough that clawed its way up his chest. It was a hard, wet cough, different from the dry irritation he’d been feeling for awhile now.

When he pulled his hand away, he stared at the viscous red smear in his palm.

Robert looked down at the blood, then across the silent glass box at the unconscious, vulnerable figure of Flambae.

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬.

It was his turn.

Chapter Text

“𝗚𝗲𝘁 𝘂𝗽.”

The words were a low growl, reverberating in Robert’s skull like stones clattering down a well. He lay sprawled on the sun-baked asphalt, the rough texture digging into his cheek.

A harsh, wet cough tore its way from his chest, rattling his whole body. Sweat, cold and clammy despite the midday heat, streamed down his forehead and into his eyes, blurring the already distorted world around him. His vision swam, a kaleidoscope of bright, searing light and dancing shadows. Sounds reached him in disjointed bursts, as if his head were submerged in water, the world just out of reach.

His limbs trembled uncontrollably as he tried to push himself up, to comply with the relentless demand. He dug his fingers into the asphalt, trying to find some sort of anchor to allow himself to sit up, but his arms, weary and bruised, gave out. He crashed back to the ground with a grunt, the impact jarring through his already aching bones.

“I said, get. Up.” the voice repeated, sharper this time, carrying the weight of unyielding authority.

Robert’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. A quiet, hoarse whisper escaped his trembling lips, barely audible even to himself. “I… I can’t.”

The voice scoffed, a short, sharp sound of incredulousness. “You can’t? Or you won’t? Is this really all you’re willing to do? Is 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 the amount of effort you’ll give when saving a life, Robert?”

Robert felt a hot sting behind his eyes. Tears welled, blurring the pitch black asphalt below him even further. He bit down hard on his lower lip, trying to stifle any sound, any sign of weakness.

He knew better.

“Look at me, son. You will look at me when I speak to you.”

With supreme effort, Robert slowly lifted his head, his neck muscles screaming in protest. His eyes, swollen and watering, found their target. Standing above him, silhouetted against the too-bright sky, was his father.

𝘔𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘯.

He was a man carved from granite and stubborn obsession, his arms thick as fence posts, his chest impossibly broad and unyielding beneath his crossed arms. His frame was engineered for brute force, every line speaking to decades spent perfecting the art of non-superpowered dominance.

Robert “Robbie” Robertson II was the physical embodiment of an immovable object, and his glare, fierce and absolute, was known to feel like it was capable of burning holes through the very earth itself. Said glare was currently etched onto his face directed at a sole target: Robert Robertson III. His son. There was no warmth, no sympathy, only a cold, steely expectation.

“About time you raised your head,” his father continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “Now stand up. If this is all you have to offer, you will never make it as a hero. As 𝗠𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗮𝗻. Now stand up.”

Robert clenched his teeth, a desperate plea forming in his constricted throat. He tried to speak, his voice thin and reedy. “Dad, please. Can’t I just get a small break?”

A sharp, humorless laugh sliced through the air. “A break? You want a 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬? Should I go ahead and make you some cookies as well to reward your failure? You don’t get breaks in the field and you won't get one here. When a life is on the line, you don’t ask the villain for a break. Now I said…” Before Robert could react, a powerful hand clamped down on his bicep. His father’s grip was like an iron vise, brushing away the last sparks of his resistance. “Get 𝘶𝘱.”

With a single, brutal force, he was hauled upright, his feet scrambling to find purchase on the unforgiving ground. Robert wobbled precariously, his entire body screaming for relief, but he managed to stay standing, swaying slightly.

“Dad, please, we’ve been at this for five hours, can’t I just get a moment to catch my—”

He didn't finish the sentence. A sudden, sharp pain exploded in his gut as his father’s fist connected, hard and unforgiving. Robert instantly doubled over, a choked gasp escaping him, spitting up a string of saliva. He tasted bile, fought back the urge to vomit, his eyes watering uncontrollably as he gasped for breath, every inhale a searing agony.

“Pathetic,” his father sneered, looking down at his crumpled form. “You shouldn’t have allowed me to hit you. You should know by now to never let your guard down, to be ready for everything. A hit like that shouldn’t bring you to your knees.”

Robert couldn’t even form words. His ears rang loudly, drowning out his father’s voice, leaving only a dull throb in their place. He still couldn’t catch his breath, a desperate, wheezing sound filling his own ears. He felt himself being roughly dragged back up, only to be kicked down again, the world spinning in nauseating circles. His father was saying something else, but the words were a jumbled, meaningless blur. All he could focus on was the pain, a constant, consuming fire spreading through him, and the warm, metallic trickle of blood from his nose.

He had failed. He knew that; he knew the lecture—the justification: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. But all the twelve-year-old could think of, all Robert truly desired, was for it to stop. Just for it to stop.

Another hit landed, a sickening crack against his ribs, and Robert gasped, a raw, primal sound of pain ripping from his throat. He started begging, the words barely a whisper, unsure if they were even loud enough to be heard over the ringing in his ears and the thunder of his own heart.

“Please, stop. Please.” He repeated the words, a desperate, broken mantra. “Please… stop. Please…”

As the words tumbled from his lips, the world fractured. The blinding sunlight, the rough asphalt, the stern, unyielding face of his father dissolved. The bright, searing sky shifted, melted, transforming into the harsh glare of the present.

Robert was no longer a battered twelve-year-old on the ground. He was a twenty-seven-year-old man. The sun was gone, replaced by the brilliant, artificial glare of fluorescent lights in a hospital room. He wasn’t on the harsh, blistering hot ground, but on a gurney, locked in a sterile glass chamber. Blue UV lights hummed above, bathing the transparent walls in a sickly glow, designed to kill the disease that now ravaged his body.

His fever was spiking, the heat radiating from his skin an inferno, and Dr. Reyes was a blur of motion at his side, her brow furrowed with concern, murmuring instructions as she adjusted the cooling pack beneath his neck in an attempt to better cover the inflamed lymph nodes there. She adjusted the clear oxygen mask that covered his nose and mouth, the faint hiss of air a constant reminder of his struggle, ensuring its seal was tight against his flushed skin.

She then brought her gloved fingers up to his wrist, pressing lightly to check his pulse, her gaze flicking between the monitor beside his head and his sweat-soaked face.

His vision swam. The fluorescent lights above fractured into a thousand shimmering shards, each glinting like mini diamonds in the sky. The blue UV lights, meant to sterilize the very air he breathed, now pulsed with a nauseating rhythm, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like ghosts of the dead that often haunt the forsaken.

He could feel the anthrax, a creeping, unrelenting poison, working its way through his blood, whispering promises of collapse to his already overtaxed nervous system. A tremor ran through his limbs, a subtle but insistent shiver despite the inferno raging within. Each muscle fiber felt like it was screaming, simultaneously weak and locked in an involuntary spasm, his joints aching with inflammation.

Dr. Reyes’ voice, closer now, cut through the haze, her words a lifeline in the swirling chaos of his mind and body. "Robert, hey, can you hear me? I need you to stay with me. It's Dr. Reyes. You're safe. We're cutting down the fever. Your blood pressure's a little low, but we're pushing fluids. Just breathe through it, okay?" She tapped his cheek softly, a gesture of encouragement.

Robert continued to gasp, the echo of the sharp pain in his gut from years ago still vivid, even as the anthrax toxin ravaged his nervous system. Three hospital beds away, shrouded in the shifting blue light, lay Flambae, unconscious and strapped down, his monitors flashing warnings about his unstable heart rhythm.

Robert looked at the flame hero, remembering the strength it had taken to subdue him minutes (hours?) earlier—strength he now desperately needed to fight the invading sickness.

He tried to speak, but only a thick cough emerged, rattling through his chest, a sound that finally anchored him back to the present. He was trapped. The hero who couldn’t be Mechaman—who wasn't good enough. And the memory of his father told him exactly what the harsh reality of his situation demanded now: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.

Dr. Reyes, seeing a flicker of awareness in his eyes, offered a tired but hopeful smile. "That's it, Robert. You're fighting it. Your stats are looking better—fever's starting to break, and your oxygen levels are stable. Just keep hanging in there, okay? We're not giving up on you. I'm going to be right back." She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning, her mission-oriented stride taking her quickly towards the door, possibly needing to check on other patients, or perhaps confer with Dr. Kellen.

As Dr. Reyes’s form receded, a faint, almost unnoticeable shimmer caught Robert’s eye in the far corner of the room. It solidified, forming into a figure. Tall, rigid, with that familiar, stern set to the jaw and eyes that could strip a soul bare.

His father.

He was there, standing in the unnatural blue light, arms crossed against his chest, an unyielding judge. The same unforgiving stare that had pierced him as a child, on that blistered asphalt, was fixed on him now.

“Dad?” Robert’s voice was a rasp, barely a whisper, the rustle of the oxygen mask muffling it. “What… why are you here? You… you’re supposed to be dead.”

His father didn’t answer. Only the silent, disapproving stare, accusing and heavy, seemed to press down on Robert, radiating disappointment. The air grew thick, heavy, and then, cutting through the sterile hum and the phantom presence of his father, an annoying, almost cheerful voice answered.

“That’s because he’s not real, dipshit.”

Robert’s head lolled to the side, his eyes struggling to focus. Standing right beside Flambae’s gurney, bathed in the sickly blue glow, was Toxic. Naked, as always when his powers were active, his body a swirling mass of corrosive green sludge that dripped onto the floor with soft, squelching sounds. His face was a featureless mask, save for the twin emerald orbs that burned with unrestricted amusement where his eyes should be.

Robert groaned, a wave of exhaustion washing over him even as a fresh surge of nausea churned in his gut. He rolled his eyes, a monumental effort that sent pinpricks of light dancing across his vision. “Fuck me.”

Toxic let out a short, wet chuckle, the sound like sludge bubbling. “Yeah, I bet it’d be nice to get laid right about now, huh? Sucks for you, because that’s not happening unless that Dr. Bitch”—he gestured dismissively with a sludgy hand towards the direction Dr. Reyes had exited—“decides to give you a last dying wish.”

Robert clenched his teeth, the effort sending a fresh spike of pain through his skull. “What the fuck,” a sharp intake of breath, “do you want, Toxic? Why are you even here?”

Toxic laughed again, a gurgling, slimy sound. “How the fuck should I know? This is 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 mind, dude. Not mine, dipshit. I’m just here for the ride. Consider me your… guardian angel, watching over you as you kick the bucket.”

“You’re a pretty shitty guardian angel,” Robert drawled, his voice weak but laced with his usual dry sarcasm. “More like a parasitic worm.”

“Oh, Robert, Robert,” Toxic tutted, a dripping sound accompanying his mock disapproval as he wagged a green, formless finger. “You should be nicer to me, considering I’m the only one here for you as you die. Well, other than dear old dad, who, let’s be honest, doesn’t look all too proud of his washed-up son.” Toxic’s glowing eyes flickered towards the silent figure in the corner, who remained motionless, a statue of judgment carved from Robert’s own guilt.

“Shut the fuck up,” Robert wheezed, his anger flaring despite his weakness, his voice cracking from the strain. “Just… let me die in peace. You’re not even real.”

Toxic let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, his whole body seeming to ripple with amusement. “Believe me, I’d 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 to, but you’re not dying just yet. You’re nowhere near as bad as 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 guy, after all.” He gestured with a sludgy arm towards Flambae, three beds away, whose chest rose and fell shallowly beneath the restraints placed on him after his last outburst, monitors beeping a frantic, unstable rhythm. Flambae looked like he was hanging on by a single, frayed thread, his face ashen even under the blue light.

“Now this is a guy on the verge of death,” Toxic sneered, walking closer to Flambae’s gurney, his steps leaving wet green prints on the immaculate floor. “I mean, look at him, he’s disgusting. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Those bitch-ass doctors have all but given up on him too. It’s only a matter of time before he…” Toxic drew a finger across his neck in a chilling, deliberate gesture, a silent signal of Flambae’s impending demise. “Not gonna lie, it kinda sucks. After all, unlike you, he actually has people who care about him. What is it he has again? Oh, right. He has a sister and a niece. But oh well, what can you do, am I right?”

Toxic let out a short, sharp laugh, a sound like crumbling pavement. “But what do you have, Robert?”

Toxic sauntered back towards Robert’s bed, his phosphorescent form seeming to pulse with malicious glee, casting eerie green light on Robert’s feverish face. “I’ll tell you what. You have 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. No one. You’re all alone. Nothing but a washed-up, pathetic, depressing ex-superhero.”

“Wow, you’re real observant,” Robert said, a snarky deadpan barely audible over the hiss of his oxygen mask. “I never would have guessed. Your IQ must be leagues above the rest of us.”

Toxic’s featureless face seemed to scowl, the green light intensifying around his eyes, making them burn brighter. “Okay, asshat, you wanna be a smartass, let’s be a smartass. Let’s talk about your shitty life. See, you have nobody. Nothing. Zip. Zelch. You don’t have anyone waiting on the other line of a tablet to wish you well, no one sitting up at night wondering if you’re coming home. You’re 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦. And that's just plain sad. Even 𝘐 have someone.”

Toxic paused, letting the implication—that even a monstrous hallucination had more connection than Robert—hang in the air.

“But you? You’re just a pathetic man who doesn’t even have any money or possessions that are worthwhile to leave behind. Hell, you have to tie people up and dangle them from the side of buildings just to have a therapy session about your daddy issues because you have 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 to talk to.”

Toxic laughed, a wet, rattling sound, and began pacing around the confined space of the glass chamber, the green slime dripping onto the pristine floor with each step.

“And that’s the real icing on the cake, isn’t it? Your daddy issues, I mean. Y’know, that one reporter was right. Most people, when their parents die, try to honor their legacies, but you?”

Toxic stopped, turning to face Robert, his whole body shaking with silent, venomous amusement.

“You 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺 them. I mean, you quite literally just pissed all over everything your father and his father built. It’s fucking hilarious. And you might try to justify it and pretend you did it to avenge your dear old dad and things just got a little out of hand, but we all know the truth. You just wanted to find an excuse to let out all that anger and hatred festering inside you. It was never about Shroud or your father. It was just you being a fucked-up, whiny bitch.”

Toxic walked closer to Robert again, his featureless face contorted into a sinister smirk, the green glow almost blinding. Robert clenched his teeth, glaring, his body trembling from the internal war, sweat beading on his temples.

“And you know how I know that?” Toxic leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, though still oozing with malice, his form hovering inches from Robert’s face. “I’ll tell you. It’s because, just as you said, none of this is 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. It’s all in your head. 𝘐’𝘮 in your head. Which means all of this is just your deepest, darkest thoughts. And you know what they say, don’t you? No one knows you better than you know yourself. Deep down, you know you’re nothing but a curse. A waste of space. Fuck, you can’t even die the right way. You were supposed to die in the suit and yet here you are.”

Toxic resumed circling Robert, a predator toying with its prey. “You’ve managed to fuck up everything in your life to where you have nobody. Your grandfather left you, your mother left you, your father left you, hell, even your dog is leaving you for that old speedster geezer. Everyone always leaves you, Robert. Ever stop to wonder why? Ever think maybe the problem is you? That maybe nobody has ever 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 you? They say when you’re at death’s door you find clarity. Seems to me I’m giving you the best fucking clarity you could ever fucking get.”

Toxic walked over to Flambae again, pointing a sludgy finger at the unconscious hero whose chest was barely rising. “This should be you right now. Instead, you’re still managing to fuck everything up. Flambae shouldn’t be the one having to be the weak bitch, it should be you.” Toxic went on, his taunts growing more grotesque, mocking Flambae’s failing body, then turning his venom back on Robert, dissecting every perceived flaw, every failure, every lonely moment of his existence, his words a corrosive acid dissolving Robert’s last shreds of composure.

The endless, acidic stream of words scraped against Robert’s raw nerves, a relentless assault on his already shattered psyche. The physical pain was a dull thrum compared to the scalding shame and anger Toxic stirred. He could feel his heart hammering, a desperate drum against his ribs. His lungs burned, each breath a shallow, painful gasp. He was weak, so terribly weak from the anthrax, but the rage, pure and all consuming, ignited something deep within him, a final, desperate flicker of his indomitable will.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Robert roared, the sound tearing through his ravaged throat, rough and strained. He pushed himself up, a monumental, agonizing effort, his arms shaking uncontrollably, the medical tubing pulling taut. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD! YOU’RE NOT REAL YOU GREEN PILE OF SHIT!” He coughed violently, a wet, rattling sound that ended in a gasp, his body collapsing back onto the gurney, muscles screaming in protest, vision blurring with pain and exhaustion.

The green figure of Toxic flickered, wavered, then, with a final, mocking gurgle of laughter that seemed to echo inside Robert’s skull, dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the sterile hum of the hospital room and the constant beeps of Robert’s and Flambae’s heart monitors.

Robert lay there, chest heaving, gasping for air, the world spinning around him, barely able to breathe, but Toxic was finally gone. He was free. He was fianlly alone again, left only with the crushing weight of Toxic’s words, echoing in the ravaged chambers of his mind.

And yet despite himself, Robert couldn’t help but think back on how Toxic mocked Flambae. The green bastard’s words, sharp as shards of glass, had burrowed deep, igniting an unfamiliar, volatile emotion within him.

It was no secret Robert had always found Flambae infuriating—a loud-mouthed, hot-headed pyromaniac who consistently disobeyed orders, insulted him at every turn, and treated every mission like a personal playground. He was an unrelenting headache, a constant static on Robert’s already frayed nerves. But in the confining silence of this glass prison, witnessing Flambae’s unconscious struggle, a new, unsettling perspective had begun to form.

Robert had seen the quiet moments: the conversation with his niece, the subtle shifts in his expression that betrayed an underlying insecurity, a vulnerability that painted him not as a boastful hero, but as a man, broken in his own way, pieces scattered just like Robert’s. Toxic’s venomous dissection of Flambae’s failing body, the cruel suggestion that he was going to die while Robert lived, grated against Robert’s soul in a way he hadn't anticipated. He was pissed off, not just at Toxic, but at the raw, undeniable truth in the monster’s words.

Flambae, despite being the one who got them both exposed to anthrax in a spectacular display of recklessness, didn’t deserve this. He had family—a niece he adored, a sister he clearly cared for. He had plans to take them to the amusement park, a new life to build, a future with the Phoenix program stretching out before him, a chance to truly become a hero.

He didn’t deserve to be the one getting hit the hardest by the anthrax, writhing in fevered delirium. He didn’t deserve to be dying. And because of this all Robert could feel was a white-hot anger at the cruel, harsh reality of their situation—an impotent rage at the world itself. As Robert suffered, feeling his own body breaking down, all he felt was this consuming anger, a desperate, final warmth against the intruding cold.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

Just as Robert’s anger reached a crescendo, a terrible sound ripped through the sterile air, cutting through the monotonous beeping of the monitors. Across the shared, enclosed space, Flambae’s body began to shake violently, a convulsion that yanked against the restraints holding him to his gurney.

A ragged, pained gasp tore from his unconscious lips, his vitals on the nearby monitor going haywire, a chaotic symphony of red alerts and plummeting numbers. His temperature spiked, radiant heat seeming to pulse off him in waves, and he writhed, muscles spasming in a horrifying dance of destruction. He was crashing. And fast.

“Dammit,” Robert rasped, the word sticking in his throat, dry and painful.

A primal, insistent need flared in Robert’s chest, overriding the pain, the exhaustion, the toxic whisper of despair. He didn't know how to help, but he knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that he had to. He had to do 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

With a monumental, agonizing effort, Robert gathered every last shred of his strength. His arms, barely obedient, pushed against the gurney, his muscles screaming in protest. He managed to lift himself, a shuddering, gasping struggle, until he was sitting upright, his vision blurring, threatening to give way.

He squinted, fixing his gaze on Flambae, whose frantic movements were growing more desperate. Robert lunged for his IV pole, a cold metal anchor, gripping it with white-knuckled fingers and leveraging his full weight onto its flimsy frame. He forced himself to stand, his legs like jelly, threatening to buckle beneath him.

"Get back in bed, Robert! You'll collapse!" Dr. Kellen's voice, tinny and urgent, crackled through the intercom.

Dr. Reyes's voice followed, sharper, more panicked, "Robert, that's an order! Don't move!"

He ignored them. Their voices were distant, meaningless noise against the relentless thrum of his own pain and the terrifying urgency of Flambae’s fading life.

The distance to Flambae’s side of the chamber felt like traversing a chasm. Each step was a blinding kaleidoscope of agony. The anthrax was eating him alive, dissolving muscle fiber and clarity with every agonizing shuffle. He leaned heavily on the pole, dragging himself forward, a dying man attempting to cheat fate for a man he supposedly hated.

He could vaguely hear Dr. Kellen shouting something about immediate sedation, but the pain had created a shield around Robert’s consciousness, allowing only one goal to penetrate: getting to the dying heat source across the room.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely mere seconds, he finally reached Flambae’s side. The heat radiating off the flame hero’s thrashing body was stifling, an inferno even in his unconscious state. Robert reached out a trembling hand, his skin clammy with sweat, and grabbed onto Flambae’s arm, a fragile connection.

“Hey. Hey, look at me, you pyro-idiot,” Robert gasped, the effort of speaking a monumental strain. Blood surfaced in his mouth, metallic and hot, but he swallowed it down, forcing the words out. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t you pull this weak crap now. You hear me?”

Flambae writhed, his face pale and slick, oblivious.

“Toxic was right, you know,” Robert continued, his voice barely a rasp, fueled by pure, desperate obligation. “You’re too much of an arrogant, attention-seeking bastard to die like this. You’re supposed to go out either in a spectacular explosion or get crushed under a mountain. Not in some sterile box, Flambae.”

He fought for breath, leaning his entire weight onto the IV pole, which was now shaking just as violently as his own body.

“You have a life to finish, you narcissistic jerk. You have a family,” Robert forced out, the words feeling like razors against his throat. “You got a niece, remember? Got a amusement park to visit? You promised her, didn't you? You don’t get to break promises just because you decided to be reckless and get infected. You can't just… just lie there."

He coughed, a wet rattle in his chest, pain lancing through his ribs.

"God, you're so damn annoying, but you can't die, Flambae. The Phoenix program… you need to finish it. You need to become a hero, you arrogant son of a bitch. You have a life, you hear me? A real one. Unlike some of us."

A weak, desperate snarl fought its way through his pain-wracked body. He slid down the IV pole, the strength finally leaving his legs. He fell to his knees on the cold floor, but held his hand steady against Flambae’s arm, refusing to lose that small connection between them.

“Fight it. Fight it, Flambae. You have to live. You don’t get to be the weak bitch. That’s my job, remember? I’m the one who’s supposed to be disposable,” he pleaded, the snark fading into desperate vulnerability. “You’re too good at being a walking disaster to just… vanish. Get up. You ha—”

He tried to say more—to insult Flambae into recovery, to chide him back to consciousness—but the words died in his throat. A violent spasm seized Robert’s body. He coughed, a tearing, wet sound, and this time, a significant gush of crimson liquid erupted past his lips, staining the sterile floor.

He began seizing. The IV pole clattered away uselessly. His vision fractured, turning the glass room into a dizzying smear of blue and white. As his muscles locked into a rigid, painful spasm, he completely collapsed onto his side, the pain now so extreme it transcended feeling, becoming pure noise.

His eyes, wide and unfocused, stared upward at the ceiling, fighting the final, heavy curtain of unconsciousness.

The spinning chaos slowed. The colors melted away. For one clear, crystalline instant, the sterile ceiling dissolved, replaced by a silhouette standing directly above him.

It wasn't a doctor.

It wasn't Toxic.

It was his father. Tall, severe, and silent, just as Robert remembered him all those years ago before he died.

In that final moment of clarity, surrounded by the screaming alarms and the sound of his own death rattle, Robert saw only the man who had left him, and the final, crushing weight of isolation lifted. A gentle, knowing smile settled on his face. In that moment, as the darkness consumed him, Robert accepted it. He accepted death.

The fight was over.

Robert closed his eyes, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

The world was a blank, silent void.

There was no up, no down, no heat, no cold. Only a profound and weightless nothing. Robert floated in the absence, a single, disconnected point of awareness adrift in a sea of non-existence. He was a thought without a thinker, a memory without a context.

Then, a sound. Faint, distorted, as if shouted down a long, rusted pipe. It was a voice, maybe two, echoing and cutting in and out, the words themselves lost, leaving only the ghost of their existence.

He was lost in the gap between life and death, an entity resisting the return journey. His subconscious was aware of the world around him—a distant, deep ache in his chest, the dull thrum of machinery—yet his mind lacked the fundamental capacity to comprehend it.

Each sensation was felt through a body that was both his and not his, a body he was utterly unable to connect to, to command. He was a passenger locked in the trunk of a car, feeling the bumps in the road but seeing none of the scenery.

Slowly, the void began to recede, not with light, but with sensation. A distant, persistent ringing began in his ears. The sterile scent of antiseptic and bleached linen invaded the nothingness. The voices grew sharper, forming into intelligible fragments.

“…vitals are stable. CRP levels have dropped significantly…”

“…a remarkable recovery, given the pulmonary involvement. The UV-C protocol was…”

“…liver function is still a concern, but…”

The first true effort was excruciating: forcing his heavy, cement-laced eyelids to slide open. It was an act of raw will, taking what felt like hours—a strain that originated in his soul and traveled through unresponsive nerves.

When he finally succeeded, the resulting glare was a physical blow. He squinted, registering the intense, sterile blue light flooding the sealed glass chamber. Two shapes solidified above him, clad in white coats. Dr. Kellen, his face a mask of professional focus, and Dr. Reyes, her expression one of relieved exhaustion.

“...as I said, the fact that we’re having this discussion means the treatment worked, Reyes,” Dr. Kellen was saying, tapping a chart on a steel clipboard. “His fever broke twelve hours ago. He’s stable.”

“I know but—” Dr. Reyes’s eyes flicked down and widened a fraction. “Robert? Robert! You’re awake. Thank God. Can you hear me?”

He could. The words processed with the speed of cold tar dripping. He heard them, understood their meaning, but the mechanism to formulate a response felt foreign, broken.

“You gave us one hell of a scare,” she said, her voice softening. “How are you feeling?”

How was he feeling? It was an absurd question. The data was there—the ache in his ribs, the raw fire in his lungs with every shallow breath, the profound, bone-deep weariness that made the act of thinking a chore. But it was all secondary, all background noise to the one, screaming, foundational truth his mind had already accepted and was struggling to recalibrate around.

𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.

The thought was not panicked. It was a simple, stark fact, as undeniable as gravity. He had felt it. The violent spasms. The copper-tainted flood filling his mouth. The world fracturing into meaningless color. The silhouette of his father, a silent, severe anchor in the chaos, pulling him toward a final, peaceful acceptance. The fight had been over. He had closed his eyes.

He had died.

Dr. Kellen moved next to the bed and spoke in a calmer, more measured tone. “Robert, can you hear us? We need a verbal confirmation. How do you feel?”

His throat felt like it was lined with rusted sandpaper. He managed a single, gravelly word, the sound barely clearing his lips. “Fine,” he croaked. The word was a stranger’s.

The doctors exchanged a small, relieved glance. Robert ignored them, his eyes, moving with a sluggish, painful delay, drifted away from the doctors. He took in the glass-walled chamber, the humming banks of machinery, the pervasive, sanitizing glow of the ultraviolet blue lights that had scorched the anthrax from his cells.

His gaze traveled to the bed three down from his.

It was empty. The sheets were crisp, untousled, the pillow pristine and undented.

A cold, unrelenting dread, sharper than any pain the anthrax had caused, dropped into Robert’s chest like a bucket of ice water. His mind ground to a halt. His eyes locked onto the sterile white sheets of the unoccupied bed, the image a sudden, terrifying void. His mind, so slow to process anything else, snapped to a single, horrifying point with terrifying speed.

𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦. That was where Flambae had been.

His throat constricted. Forming the name required a monumental act of will, dragging each syllable up from the depths of his ruined lungs. “Flam…bae?” It was less a word and more a choked exhalation.

He saw Dr. Reyes follow his line of sight, a flicker of confusion on her face before it cleared into understanding. “Oh! Don’t you worry about him,” she said, her tone bright, reassuring. “Much to everyone’s amazement, he made a full recovery. He was discharged yesterday.”

The words should have been a relief. They were a nuclear bomb, detonating silently in the center of his being, leaving the structure intact but scouring everything inside to ash.

“He… beat it?” Robert managed, the question automatic, his voice hollow.

“He did. And so did you,” Dr. Reyes said, her smile genuine. “You’ve been out for three days, Robert. Your body was fighting the good fight. And you won. Once we run a few more tests to be certain, you’ll be able to go home.”

Home. The word was meaningless.

Three days. Recovered. Discharged.

All of those words were pointless.

The entire, fatalistic poetry of his final moments—the acceptance of death, the glimpse of his father, the final surrender—had been entirely, spectacularly unnecessary. He was still here. Flambae was still here.

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching slightly. He merely nodded, a single, minimal acknowledgment meant to mimic human comprehension that did nothing to quell the internal chaos. His mind was reeling, already retreating behind the protective barrier of apathy.

Everything that followed was distant, a blur of indistinct movement and muted color.

Dr. Kellen and Dr. Reyes moved efficiently, performing their final battery of tests. Robert became a collection of data points, a doll, a problem to be solved, not a human being who had just stared into the abyss and been yanked back.

He barely registered the cold, rubber cuff tightening on his arm as Dr. Kellen checked his blood pressure, or the relentless, focused beam of the flashlight as Dr. Reyes checked his pupil dilation for the third time. They drew blood, a necessary evil, the needles sinking into his inner elbow. He watched the dark, sluggish crimson fill the vials, feeling nothing—no pain, no fear, just the dull, detached sense of observation.

The doctors discussed his lung function in clipped, technical terms, the words bouncing off his brain without traction: 𝘧𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺. He endured the rhythmic tapping of the stethoscope against his sternum, the cold gel of the portable ultrasound machine spreading across his side as they checked his internal organs for lasting damage. Each procedure was a cold, mechanical confirmation that his body had survived despite his soul’s best efforts to abandon ship.

He answered the standard neurological questions—year, name, location—with the required dryness.

“Do you remember what happened just before you passed out, Robert?” Dr. Reyes asked, filling in a final line on her clipboard.

“I was trying to convince a flame brained idiot to fight for his life,” Robert replied, his voice still low and ragged. “I failed, then my organs decided to stage a protest.”

Dr. Kellen frowned. “It was what we refer to as ‘the cytokine storm’, Robert. The severity of the anthrax caused a systemic shutdown. We’re just glad we got to you in time.”

“Right,” Robert muttered. 𝘈 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦. He didn’t say it aloud. He simply stared at the ceiling, waiting for the blur to end.

Finally, the tests concluded. He was handed a bundle of clothes—a plain T-shirt and sweatpants—and escorted out of the glass chamber, the sound of the pressure seal hissing open a loud release. The air outside the chamber, though still hospital-sterile, felt thick and humid compared to the filtered environment within.

He muttered a quiet thanks and headed for the small changing room he'd entered when he first got here.

The silence once he closed the door was immediate and absolute. He stood in the small, white room, his breath loud in his ears. His eyes lifted to the full-length mirror on the wall.

The man staring back was a stranger carved from wax. He was pale, the kind of pale that spoke of days without sun, his skin stretched taut over the prominent architecture of his cheekbones. The shadows under his eyes were not just dark; they were bruise-like, hollows of purple and blue that spoke of a battle fought in the deepest trenches of the body. He looked skeletal, thinner, the shape of his ribcage more apparent beneath the skin. He looked… used. Drained. A vessel that had been filled with poison and violence and then emptied again, left fragile and cracked.

He cataloged each detail with a detached, clinical eye. The slight tremor in his hand as he raised it. The way his ribs defined themselves with every inhalation. The profound weariness that was not sleepiness, but a fundamental exhaustion of the spirit.

The thought returned, quiet and absolute. 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

The thought resonated with the conviction of a religious truth. He was the one who lacked powers, the one who was supposed to be disposable, the failure who always accepted isolation. Robert felt the bitter irony of his survival sink in. He couldn't even manage to die when the opportunity was perfect.

He stripped off the flimsy hospital gown and pulled on the clean clothes. The cloth was rough, unfamiliar, and yet the act of covering his skin felt like reinstalling a layer of armor. He straightened his shoulders, forcing a small amount of old, weary confidence back into his posture. Finally dressed, he took one last look at the ghost in the mirror before turning away.

When he emerged, Dr. Kellen was waiting to escort him through the labyrinthine corridors. “Ready to get out of here?”

Robert just nodded, falling into step behind him.

He kept his eyes deliberately glued to the polished tile floor. The hospital outside the quarantined wing was a sensory assault: bright fluorescent lights, the clatter of carts, the hundreds of echoing conversations, the relentless, suffocating press of humanity. He walked in silence, following the doctor’s steady pace, using the detachment he had perfected over years of heroism to filter the world into white noise. He was acutely sensitive to the weakness in his legs, the slight tremor in his hands.

They walked steadily, past the reception desks, past the busy corridors, until the light ahead shifted from harsh fluorescent white to the softer, golden glow of the setting sun filtering through glass doors. They had reached the exit. Dr. Kellen stopped. “Take care of yourself, Robert.”

Another numb nod. The doors hissed open.

Robert stepped through, the natural afternoon light a gentle balm compared to the hospital’s glare. He blinked, raising a hand to shield his eyes, and looked up.

And the world, which had been a distant, blurred photograph, suddenly snapped into razor-sharp, breathtaking focus.

Standing there, just beyond the curb, were Blonde Blazer and Chase. Blazer’s arms were crossed against her stomach, her expression a complex mix of relief, anxiety, and a toughness she couldn’t quite hide. Chase stood beside her, shifting his weight from foot to foot, a look of poorly hidden worry on his face. And in his arms, held carefully, was Beef, the little pup letting out a soft yipp.

Robert paused, momentarily taken back. They were there. They were waiting. For him.

The void within him shuddered. The immense, crushing weight of his isolation, a weight he had carried for so long he no longer noticed it, shifted. It didn’t vanish, but it cracked. And through that crack, a single, clear, and terrifyingly fragile sensation poured in.

He was here.

And he was not alone. Even if Blazer and Chase were only called because the hospital couldn't let him go home without support in good consciousness they were 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. They still willingly came. And that was more than enough.

The walk from the hospital exit to the curb was a short eternity. Every step felt like a supreme effort, his legs stiff ropes, his lungs still protesting the fight against the invisible enemy. But he straightened his shoulders, forcing that sliver of old, weary confidence back into his posture, refusing to betray the sheer exhaustion that gnawed at his core. He wouldn’t collapse now, not in front of them.

Blonde Blazer met him halfway, her hand reaching out, not quite touching, then pulling back. Chase just nodded, a slight uptick at the corner of his mouth that might have been a smile. Beef, however, made no such pretenses, wriggling excitedly in Chase’s arms with soft, muffled yips.

“Hey,” Blazer said, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it.

“Hey,” Robert managed, the word rough in his throat.

Chase stepped forward, offering Beef, but Robert just shook his head slightly, waving a hand. “Later. I think I’d drop him.”

Blazer’s concern deepened, and she put a hand under his arm, steadying him. “Easy does it then.”

The journey to the car was a blur of aching muscles and suppressed tremors. Robert leaned heavily on Blazer’s support, trying to make it look casual. He was acutely aware of her warmth, the subtle scent of something clean and vaguely floral that was entirely alien to his usual solitary existence.

Even the silent car ride back to his apartment was an ordeal, the bumps in the road sending dull aches through him. He gazed out the window, watching the familiar, grimy city streets pass by, feeling like a ghost observing a world he no longer fully belonged to.

Finally, they reached his building. The ascent up the two flights of stairs was an unforgiving task, each step a battle Robert fought internally, his face a mask of practiced indifference. By the time Blonde Blazer was fumbling with his keys, turning the lock, he was swaying subtly, his arm draped heavily around her shoulders, less a gesture of familiarity and more a desperate grasp for support. Chase, ever vigilant, hovered just behind, Beef still nestled in his arms, watching Robert with unnervingly intelligent eyes.

The door clicked open, revealing the familiar gloom of his apartment. Blonde Blazer gently guided him over the threshold, her gaze sweeping around the notoriously sparse living space—a saddening small room, illuminated only by the weak afternoon light filtering through the grime on the glass sliding door leading out to the balcony.

In the center of the room sat the only piece of furniture: a bright, slightly faded olive-green chair.

“Wow,” she said, not unkindly, but with genuine surprise lacing her voice. “Royd wasn’t kidding when he said this place was… bare.”

A dry chuckle escaped Robert’s lips, thin and reedy. “Well, it’s either ‘bare’ or ‘minimalist chic.’ Depends on your perspective, I suppose.” He let his gaze drift to the corner of his ceiling. “And this…” he gestured vaguely, “is the pièce de résistance. I consider the extensive spider-web collection excellent natural décor. It really adds character to the structural decay.”

“Oh, Robert, I’m so sorry,” she rushed to apologize, her face coloring slightly. “I didn’t mean to sound critical. I just—”

“Don’t fucking apologize, Blazer,” Chase cut in sharply, stepping past them both and setting Beef down. He looked at the vast emptiness of the room, then back at Robert with a deadpan expression. “This place looks like shit and he needs to be called out. It's practically a fucking holding cell where they forgot to install the bed.”

Robert forced a laugh that caught in his throat, making him cough weakly. “It’s not that bad, Chase. I like space.”

Chase simply raised one eyebrow, the gesture conveying decades of accumulated adult disappointment.

Robert sighed, the fight going out of him. “Fine. It’s pathetic. Now, can we proceed to the part where I stop leaning on Blazer like a frail Victorian heiress?” He gestured with his free hand to the solitary green chair that served as his living room furniture. “Just drop me there before I collapse.”

Blonde Blazer tightened her grip, easing him carefully toward the chair. “Are you sure? Is there a bed or something I could get you onto? Something a little comfier?”

Robert leaned his head closer, his voice dropping into a dry, stage whisper. “I’m flattered you want to get me into bed so soon, Blazer, truly. But I’m not exactly in pristine condition right now, you know. The whole anthrax fiasco. Give me a week to stop sweating profusely and I might be able to impress you.”

Blonde Blazer instantly stiffened, her face turning crimson. She stammered, pulling back slightly. “Oh! No! I didn’t—I mean—I just meant for your recovery, you're 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, not… not like that!”

Robert chuckled, a genuine, albeit rusty, sound. “I know, Blazer. I’m just kidding. Relax.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” she replied, giving a light, slightly forced chuckle of her own, refusing to meet his eye as she helped him maneuver his hips into the stiff, green upholstery.

A profound groan erupted from across the room. Chase was crouched down, fiddling with Beef’s ridiculous little outfit.

“Did you hear that, Beefy? Disgusting,” Chase muttered into the dog’s ear, making a loud kissing noise. “The old people are flirting again. We need to leave before they start talking about joint pain.”

“One, I was not flirting,” Robert stated, settling into the chair with a grateful groan. The firmness of the seat was a relief. “Two, I don't want to be called old by someone who looks twice my senior—”

“Hey—”

“And three, I don’t want to be hearing your criticism, Chase, considering you’ve backstabbed me by putting my dog in one of those ugly, little sweaters.”

Chase straightened up, squaring his shoulders defensively. Beef was, indeed, wearing a surprisingly bright, mustard-yellow knit vest. “It’s not ugly! It’s fucking seasonal! And Beef loves it! You just don’t have any fucking taste, Robert. I mean, look at you. You have a single green chair in a concrete box.”

“I think your eyes are going with your old age if you think that tragic woolen disgrace is fashionable,” Robert countered, picking a piece of imaginary lint off his shoulder.

Chase scoffed, muttering something under his breath about disrespectful youths and ungrateful heroes.

Robert ignored him, his gaze fixed on Beef. “Alright, alright. Now can I finally see my dog?”

Chase, grumbling, complied, gently lifting the pup and placing him carefully onto Robert’s lap.

The second Beef’s weight settled, Robert winced, a sharp spike of pain in his abdomen making him involuntarily tense up. Everyone instantly tensed, and Beef let out a small, worried whimper, sensing the distress.

“Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy,” Robert soothed instantly, forcing his features to soften, cradling the dog carefully against his chest. He rubbed the fur on Beef’s ear, his voice quiet and honest. “I missed you, Beef. I really did. A little pain is nothing.”

Beef responded in kind, pressing his cold nose into Robert’s stubbled cheek, licking his jawline enthusiastically, his tiny tail thumping a rapid bruise against Robert’s thigh in pure joy.

Blonde Blazer watched the exchange, her expression impossibly soft. A small smile began to form on her face, but it quickly dispersed as her brow furrowed again with concern. She stepped closer, her hand hovering near Robert’s head. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want either of us to stay with you while you recover? We could take shifts. Just until you’re feeling a bit more solid. Or even just for tonight? To help out, or just… be here.”

Robert waved a dismissive hand, keeping his focus on Beef, who was currently attempting to chew his collar. “I’m fine, Blazer. I’ll sleep for about eighteen hours and wake up moderately less shitty. You and Chase should probably get going. You’ve already taken up too much of your time trying to keep my useless carcass alive.”

“You’re not—” Blonde Blazer started, her deep-seated desire to nurture coming to the forefront.

Chase cut her off, placing a hand gently on her back. “Don’t bother, Blazer. It’s clear we’re not wanted here anymore. The guy needs his space. Let’s give him his space.” Chase looked at Robert, and for a fleeting moment, the bitterness was gone, replaced by a simple, weary understanding. “Call us if you need anything. Don’t be a martyr for once.”

Blonde Blazer sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly in resignation. She accepted the unspoken truth: Robert needed to be alone to process the terrifying emotional breakthrough of not dying. “I’ll be calling every evening to check in. Don't you dare ignore my calls, Robert. And before you even ask you will not be allowed back into SDN for at least the next four weeks so that your lungs can recover.”

“No promises,” Robert muttered, scratching Beef behind the ears.

With a final, meaningful look, Blonde Blazer nodded. She let Chase guide her toward the exit. The door closed behind them with the same rusty squeak it had opened with, plunging the room into a heavier silence.

Robert sat perfectly still in the green chair, the only color in the desolate apartment. The faint tremor in his hands had momentarily ceased, replaced by the weight of the warm, breathing life curled against his chest.

He was here. And for better or worse he wasn't going anywhere.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wooden floor was cold, but the chill was a minor discomfort compared to the utter, crushing weight of physical exhaustion. He lay stretched out on the floor in nothing but a pair of faded grey boxers, the stiff, unused green chair looming like a mockery of comfort ten feet away. He hadn't moved for three hours. The dust motes danced lazily in the single strip of afternoon sun slicing through the grimy glass sliding door, and Robert watched them with the profound, unhurried focus of a man who had nothing left to do but wait for his next involuntary shudder or wave of nausea.

A week.

Seven days since Blonde Blazer and Chase had deposited his fever-ravaged body back into this desolate space. Seven days of realizing that survival wasn't a hero's reward; it was a punishment disguised as bed rest. The anthrax had done a number on him, attacking his lungs and leaving him with the lingering, infuriating fatigue of trying to run a marathon on a half-empty tank of gas. Every breath felt shallow, every joint protested, and the easy act of rolling over felt like lifting a small car.

Simple, mundane tasks had become almost impossible to achieve. That morning, he’d almost passed out trying to take out the trash, leaning against the hallway wall and fighting to suck air into lungs that felt like brittle paper bags, enduring the wide-eyed, slightly disgusted stares of a passing neighbor couple. When he’d tried to feed Beef, the simple act of bending and raising himself up again had left his core screaming and his limbs trembling.

Right now, the best he could manage was this: laying on the ground in utter misery.

Beef, sensing the dull, sick misery of his owner, was curled tightly against Robert’s hip, a warm, furry anchor in the desolate silence. He was too intuitive to ask for play, too aware of the faint, metallic scent of illness lingering on Robert’s skin to leave.

Robert stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was it. Was this the quiet, pathetic aftermath of a life lived too loudly? He had always assumed the end would be instantaneous—flame, bullet, or a heroic, choking demise—not this slow, agonizing erosion by fatigue. The sheer boredom was a physical entity, a smothering blanket of nothing that made him feel more desperately ill than the fever ever had.

Just as the geometric patterns of the ceiling plaster threatened to send him into a complete crisis, Beef shifted, let out a tiny, high-pitched yawn, and then pressed his nose firmly into Robert’s armpit, issuing a soft, urgent whine.

Bathroom time.

Robert groaned, the sound dragging itself up from his chest cavity. “God, Beefy, couldn’t you have waited for the rigor mortis to fully set in?” he muttered, though he scratched the dog’s ear affectionately.

The process of standing was the first phase of the ordeal. He braced one hand on the floor, pushing his weight onto his elbow. His muscles, weakened by disuse and ravaged by the infection, shuddered violently. His abdomen, where the infection had caused systemic stress, knotted painfully. He paused halfway, head swimming with dizziness, the familiar wave of cold sweat breaking out on his brow.

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘙𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘨.

Finally upright, leaning heavily against the wall, he felt a crushing sense of defeat. He was once Mechman, now he was reduced to this: a hollow incapable of standing.

Pathetic.

Getting dressed was worse. Sliding his jeans up his legs required balancing on one foot, an effort that left him panting, his lungs screaming their protest. He felt like a frail, elderly man attempting gymnastics. He pulled a worn sweatshirt over his head—the effort nearly sent him back to the floor.

“I hate my life,” he stated, now bending awkwardly to retrieve Beef's leash.

Leash clipped onto Beef’s mustard-yellow vest—he’d deal with Chase later—and cheap plastic dog bag dispenser in his other hand, he shuffled toward the door, forcing one foot in front of the other.

The hallway was a sterile tunnel of beige walls and buzzing fluorescent lights. As soon as he stepped outside, the air felt heavier, thicker. His chest felt constricted, like a python was steadily squeezing his ribs.

𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱. 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘯.

𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴.

𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱. 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘨.

He gripped Beef’s leash so tightly his knuckles were white. The dog, usually a bouncing ball of energy, trotted slowly beside him, perfectly matching his defeated pace.

Each of Robert’s steps was cautious, a careful deliberation of weight transfer. His breath was coming in shallow, wheezing bursts—not full panic, but certainly bordering on pulmonary failure if he pushed it. He leaned heavily on the wall for support, his fingertips dragging against the textured drywall.

He passed Mrs. Delgado’s on her way back from yoga. He saw the unhideable side eye and knew she was judging him—the pale, unshaven man moving with the jerky slowness of a poorly animated corpse. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, forcing his face into a neutral mask of apathy, battling the humiliation. He knew what they saw: not the hero who fought bioweapons, but the local failure, struggling with simple gravity.

He hated it. He hated being frail. He hated being a spectacle.

Reaching the building’s main door was an Olympic victory. He pushed it open, stepping out into the late afternoon air. The temperature was mild, but the noise and motion of the city hit him like a physical blow. He kept Beef on a short lead, forcing himself into a slow, measured walk toward the nearest patch of green—a small park a few blocks away.

The pavement seemed to tilt. His legs felt like cement pilings, and he had to actively ignore the sharp, stinging sensation in his lungs with every inhalation. He kept his head down, focused on the rhythmic thump-thump of Beef’s padding feet, using the dog’s steady pace as an anchor. He passed people talking on phones, rushing to cars, and jogging—all moving with an ease he now envied with a burning, vicious intensity.

Finally, he reached the park. He found an unoccupied bench beneath a sickly-looking oak tree, sank onto the worn slats with a sigh of relief, and immediately unclipped Beef, who took off for a brisk, sniffing perimeter check.

Robert closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wave of nausea subside. He felt depleted, emptied. The exertion had cost him dear. When he opened his eyes, he noticed someone had sat down at the far end of the long wooden bench.

It was an elderly woman, dressed neatly in a quilted jacket and sensible shoes. She had kind, crinkled eyes and a mass of silver hair pinned casually atop her head. She was observing Beef with quiet amusement.

"That's a very happy little dog," she said, her voice soft but strong, unhurried by the city’s pace. “Handsome too.”

Robert, not wanting to talk but lacking the energy to be aggressively apathetic, offered a simple, rasping, "Yeah."

She turned her attention to him, her gaze surprisingly direct. "And a very tired owner. Are you alright, dear? You look like you're fighting off a ghost."

He forced a small, utterly unconvincing smile. "I'm fine. Just... overdid it recently."

The old lady hummed, a gentle, understanding sound. She didn't press, instead simply adjusted her scarf and turned the conversation back towards a more comfortable topic.

“What's his name?” She asked, her gaze settled on Beef, who was now investigating a clump of dandelions.

"That's Beef," Robert said, his voice flat.

"Beef," she repeated, nodding. "A sturdy name for a sturdy dog. I had a terrier once, named him Archimedes. Very clever. Too clever, perhaps. He'd open the fridge and let the cat eat all the smoked salmon." She chuckled, a dry, melodic sound.

Robert offered a strained, non-committal hum. He was formulating an exit strategy. His mom had trained him to be polite, but exhaustion trumped manners.

"You know, young man, you look like you're carrying too much weight,” the woman said suddenly, turning her calm, clear eyes on him. She didn't look concerned or pitying, just observational. “When you look as troubled as you do, it reminds me of myself fifty years ago. That look—the one that says you shouldn't be here, that you're just waiting for the curtain to fall so you can finally relax."

Robert stiffened. "I'm fine," he lied automatically. "Just tired."

"Of course you are," she agreed easily, refusing to be dismissed. "But some tiredness isn't just lack of sleep, is it? It’s the kind that settles in your bones. I know that look. When I was younger, oh, I was carrying all sorts of weights I shouldn't have been. My husband fought in Korea. Came back... changed. I spent three years trying to sew him back together, piece by piece, and carrying his heartbreak around like my own shawl. It wore me down to nothing."

She paused, gazing at the empty swing set in the distance.

"People tell you, 'Just move on.' As if it's a bookshelf you can slide across the floor. But grief, or guilt, or even just profound exhaustion—they have roots." She finally turned back to Robert. "You’re a troubled young man, dear. I can see it. You don't have to tell me why. But I know what it means when someone has that look—like they’re surprised they woke up this morning."

Robert felt a strange, uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes. He usually excelled at deflecting, at wrapping his truths in layers of sarcasm. But the sheer physical drain of the past week and a half had eroded his defenses, and this woman’s gentle, simple honesty was disarming. She wasn't asking for details; she was validating the impossible weight of survival.

He rarely let his guard down, especially not with strangers, but there was an honesty in her eyes that made him believe that just this once letting someone in wouldn't be such a bad thing. He needed to talk, and talking to someone who knew nothing about the SDN, the Anthrax Crisis, or him being Mechaman felt safer than talking to Blazer or Chase, who would just try to fix him.

"I... I shouldn't be here," he heard himself say, the words coming out dry and raw, almost a confession. He didn't elaborate on the quarantine, or the anthrax, or the high-stakes risk that defined his life, but the core truth was there. "I had a good exit planned out for me: die by disease. It was clean. It was supposed to happen. And now I'm stuck. And I can't even... I can’t even walk the dog without,” 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵, “needing a nap."

The woman—Mrs. Elena, as he later learned—just hummed softly, taking in his words without shock or judgment.

"Ah," she said, nodding slowly. "The universe is rarely that tidy, dear. It's often deeply inconvenient. You were planning for a conclusion, weren't you? A full stop. But life gave you a comma. And commas..."

She leaned backwards, her gaze settling on the passing clouds with a calmness that soothed Robert’s nerves. "Commas are annoying. They pull you forward when you wanted to rest. They demand you write the next sentence, even if you don't know what you're writing about. But here is what you must remember, young man: you survived the infection. You survived the battle. Now you have to face the recovery. And the recovery is often harder, because there are no brass bands, no headlines. It’s just you, and your hurting body, and a dog who needs to pee."

She took a slow, deep breath, demonstrating the easy, natural breathing Robert envied so deeply.

"When you think 'I should have died,' you are denying the immense effort your body and maybe even your friends put out to keep you here. If you were just a footnote, the universe would have let you go. But you are here. And now you have the hard work of finding out why you are still here, and what happens in the next chapter. That means you start small. You don't worry about being the person everyone expects you to be today. You worry about standing up from this bench without needing to lean on the railing. You worry about feeding Beef and maybe, just maybe, showering without collapsing."

Mrs. Elena patted his hand gently, a slight, comforting weight. "It's okay to start small. It’s okay to be pathetic, as long as you keep writing the next sentence."

She collected herself, giving him a final, warm smile. "My bus is coming. Take care of yourself, dear, and that beautiful dog." Then she was gone, walking away with a steady, quiet stride.

Robert sat motionless, watching her cross the street. He looked down at Beef, who had finished his explorations and was now trotting happily back toward the bench, dropping a slobbery stick at Robert’s feet as an offering.

The pain was still there, a dull ache in his chest and a terrible fatigue dragging at his limbs. But the crushing heaviness of meaninglessness had lifted slightly, replaced by a strange, quiet dignity. He didn't have to be the world-weary ex-hero right now. He just had to be Robert, the man who needed to stand up and walk his dog four blocks back home.

He picked up the stick, throwing it gently onto the grass. Beef bounded after it, his little mustard-yellow vest providing a ridiculous splash of color against the fading light. Robert watched him run, feeling the weight of the moment—not the weight of the fight, but the weight of being.

He took a slow, shallow breath, just enough to sustain the moment. It was painful, but it was enough. He was still here. And for the first time in a week, the idea of having to write the next sentence didn't feel like an impossible burden. He had a dog to walk, and a life, however inconveniently, to recover.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert pushed through the revolving doors of SDN'S building, the familiar chill of the air conditioning a welcome shock against his skin.

Five weeks.

That's how long it'd been since he stared death in the face and walked away, barely clinging to life. Now, he walked significantly better in comparison to his first week free from containment, each step carrying a solid, though still slightly heavy, weight. The constant, searing internal rip in his lungs had subsided to a minor, tolerable strain, noticeable only if he tried to push the pace or, heaven forbid, jog. He no longer had to stop and lean against a wall, no longer had to fight the desperate urge to gulp for air—he was free.

Mostly.

His skin had lost that translucent, ghostly color, settling back into his usual, familiar shade of “perpetually indoors.” But he was still tired—the dull ache was a permanent, quiet resident—but he was good enough. His limbs felt heavy, yes, but they were his, obedient, and no longer on the verge of collapse. He was good enough to assume the world’s most thankless job: herding the world's super-powered, most disrespectful villains tasked with becoming heroes. And that's what mattered.

He stopped just inside the entrance, letting the automatic doors hiss shut behind him. He subtly raised his all-too-familiar mask of practiced indifference—dry eyes, relaxed shoulders, mouth resting in a neutral, slightly cynical line—and took in the scene, fighting the annoying knot forming in his stomach.

SDN headquarters was a monument to underfunding: a sprawling, low-ceilinged floor plan filled with small, beige cubicles, ancient humming computers, and a frantic energy that felt one coffee spill away from total system failure. Dispatchers barked coordinates into headsets, glowing maps pulsed on worn monitors, the air smelled faintly of burnt wiring and desperation, and people chatted in hushed tones while on break.

A small smile, involuntary and almost instantly suppressed, tugged at the corner of Robert's mouth.

It was exactly as he'd left it.

The sheer familiarity of the chaos was profoundly comforting, a grounding weight that easily welcomed Robert back to the world of the living and helped loosen the knot of nerves forming within. It was stupid to feel nervous—he knew that. But it'd been a total of five weeks since he last saw this building and he couldn't help but be a bit anxious.

His eyes snagged on his own desk, or rather, the figure occupying it. There, perched on the edge of his chair, was Blonde Blazer. Her hair, the color of spun gold, was meticulously styled, framing a face that was both earnest and undeniably pretty.

Her posture was pin needle straight, a picture of corporate-approved heroism, yet there was a slight tension in her shoulders, focused intently on the screen as she spoke softly into a headset. She was the very embodiment of the "golden age of supers," a living, breathing testament to courage and efficiency, albeit with a faint, endearing dorkiness that often surfaced.

Robert was about to head over, a dry remark already forming on his tongue, when a large hand clapped him firmly on the shoulder. He winced internally, his still-healing muscles protesting.

"Eh, brah! Look who finally show face," a booming, good-natured voice announced.

It was Royd, his signature SDN outfit smudged with what looked suspiciously like grease and motor oil. His grin was wide, infectious, and his dark eyes sparkled with genuine warmth. "Ho, I tell you, when I first saw you walkin’ in here I was t’ink you was ghost for sure, yeah? But you're here! I jus' knew you wasn’t gonna let dat anthrax bug get you, man. You tough like old boot, you!" He punctuated his greeting with a friendly punch to Robert’s bicep.

Robert hissed, rubbing his arm with a grimace. "Good to see you too, Royd," he managed, fighting the urge to clench his teeth. He was better, not healed. And Royd’s punches always hurt well before he got his ass kicked by anthrax. "Missed you, too."

"So happy to see you, really. But I gotta get goin’, man, got three heroes callin’ about faulty boot jets, but you gotta stop by the lab, yeah? Made some good progress on da Mecha suit upgrades. Found a way to reinforce da shoulder pads against those plasma blasts."

Robert nodded. "I'll make sure to stop by before I get swallowed whole by the Z-Team. See you later."

"Hah, that's my guy, Robert!" Royd chirped, already jogging toward the elevators.

Robert rubbed his arm once more, straightened his spine, and watched Royd go, feeling a slight twitch of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Though he’d never admit it, he'd missed Royd. It was good to see him again and even better to know he supposedly never gave up on him.

He took a moment longer to watch Royd disappear. Then, having decided he'd spent enough time standing around like a creep, refocused on his desk. He walked leisurely, deliberately, past a few cubicles, ignoring the surprised glances and hushed whispers from his colleagues and leaned casually against the edge of his own cubicle wall, crossing his arms.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," he drawled, his voice low and dry.

Blonde Blazer yelped, a small sound of pure surprise, and spun around, nearly knocking over her empty coffee mug. She quickly snatched the large headphones from her ears, her professional composure momentarily ruffled.

"Robert! Oh my gosh, you scared me! I… I didn't expect you to come in today. You were supposed to be back tomorrow, weren't you?"

He shrugged, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. "Yeah, well. Figured I'd get a head start. Early bird gets the worm and all that. And since I'm definitely not a bird, and really couldn't outrun a worm right now, I figured I'd settle for early."

Blazer let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound a brief, bright melody in the quiet office. "It's good to see you, Robert. And Beef, too! It's been awhile since I got to see his cute face." Her gaze softened as it landed on the little pup, who had settled comfortably under the desk, already starting to doze off. Then, a touch of concern clouded her features. "But are you sure you should be back? You look… better, but still…"

"I'm fine, Blazer," Robert cut in, waving a dismissive hand. “If I spend another hour staring at my ceiling tiles, I'm pretty sure I'd write the city a strongly worded letter of resignation and then expire from sheer boredom. Besides, I imagine you were starting to think that desk was permanently yours.”

Blazer let out a lovely, ringing laugh. “Never. I’ve found a new respect for your ability to sit in this chair for eight hours.” She went to respond more seriously, but a raspy, familiar voice cut them off.

“Hey! Cut the chatter, you two! This ain’t a fucking social hour! Get back to your damn jobs!”

Robert sighed, tipping his head back to address the man in the cubicle next to theirs.

“It’s good to see you too, Chase,” Robert said dryly.

Chase scoffed, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, please. Don't act like you being back is some big fucking deal. The only good thing about you being back is that you brought the dog. Speaking of, Beef, come here, buddy.”

Beef, hearing his name, thumped his tail against the carpet. Robert felt the corner of his mouth lift slightly. He knew Chase's tough exterior was just a thin shell masking his relief to see him again. It was funny how Chase always seemed to mask his care with his cranky old man behavior.

That said, Robert still had unfinished business with said man.

“Hold on there, old man,” Robert said, keeping the sarcasm light. “I haven’t forgotten that hideous fashion crime you committed. That ugly mustard-yellow sweater on Beef? You’re not getting any time with him until tomorrow. That’s your punishment.”

Chase immediately bristled. “That was a fucking high class sweater! You just lack appreciation for good fashion, Robert!”

“It looked like a traffic cone ate a lemon, Chase. Tomorrow.”

"You sadist, I need the therapeutic contact! How am I supposed to fucking tolerate this disaster zone without fucking getting some time with my buddy?"

"Boys, boys, stop fighting!" Blazer interjected, her corporate-approved dorkiness shining through as she clapped her hands together lightly. "We have jobs to do, as Chase so kindly reminded me earlier."

Chase grumbled, sinking back into his chair. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. But tomorrow, Robert, I'm taking him to lunch. Don't think you can fuckin’ deprive me forever."

Robert shook his head fondly, already pulling out his worn office chair as Blonde Blazer moved aside for him. "Duly noted. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to try and remember where the mute button is." He agreed with Blazer, turning his attention to the outdated control panel.

He reached for the standard-issue dispatch headphones, his fingers brushing against the cool plastic. For a moment, he paused, a question forming in his mind. He turned back to Blazer, who was already getting ready to settle back into her own work.

"So," Robert began, "How's the Z-Team been? And how much hell am I walking into today, specifically?"

Blazer let out a nervous chuckle, a sound that spoke volumes. "Oh, um... You should probably just be ready for the worst. Honestly, after these past few weeks, I've found a whole new respect for you. I can't imagine dealing with them on the regular."

Robert sighed, a long, slow exhalation. "That's about what I expected." He glanced at the flickering monitor, the bundle of open windows and flashing alerts already demanding his attention. "Thanks for keeping the wolves from the door until I got back, Blazer."

She offered him a small, commiserating smile. "No problem. Just try not to get into any more anthrax incidents on your first day back, okay?"

Robert just gave a noncommittal grunt in response, watching her turn back to her own work. He took a deep, steadying breath, one that didn't quite hurt, and swung his chair around to face the computer. The cursor blinked expectantly on the screen. Eight hours. First shift. Time to earn his keep. He braced himself.

"Alright, I'm late," Robert announced, his voice a gravelly murmur that cut through the low hum of the dispatch center. He pushed his chair back, the worn wheels groaning in protest, and adjusted the volume dial, the cheap plastic gritting under his thumb. The screen blinked, displaying ten different icons representing the Z-Team personnel currently on duty. He lifted the scratchy microphone to his lips, his voice flat and perfectly resigned. “So, what did I miss?”

The comms line immediately crackled with static, followed by a voice Robert recognized instantly—a voice that had haunted his fever dreams for weeks.

“Look who finally decided to show up to work today,” Flambae sneered, the sound crisp and clear. “Have a nice nap while the rest of us were picking up your slack?”

Robert paused, the corner of his mouth twitching, not with annoyance, but something far more complicated. His breath hitched, a brief, shallow stutter in his chest.

𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦.

He hadn't seen or heard from Flambae since they were both trapped in quarantine, choking on their breaths as the anthrax raged. He remembered the sterile glass walls, the oppressive silence broken only by ragged gasps, and Flambae, looking impossibly frail, his body wracked with tremors, his face ghost-white under the unrelenting UV lights.

He’d been told Flambae had made a full recovery, but the image of him on the brink of death, gasping for air like a beached fish, was seared into Robert's memory. Hearing that same voice, now so full of familiar, infuriating life, sent a jolt of realization through him. That image, coupled with the stench of antiseptic and the oppressive silence of isolation, was his last impression of the man. But now one thing was crystal clear: 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺.

The realization brought forth a surge of emotion—relief, perhaps, or maybe just the unsettling displacement of a deeply buried terror—that Robert immediately slammed a mental door on. He wouldn't dwell on it. He had a job.

"Actually, no, I didn’t have a nice nap," Robert responded, his tone returning to its standard dry monotone. "I was up all night trying to figure out how you settled on Flambae, the corniest hero name I've ever heard. Did you lose a bet, or is that just your aesthetic?"

“Oh, big talk coming from the guy who looks like a goddamn NPC,” Flambae shot back without missing a beat. He made a sputtering noise into his mic. "This is you talking, Robert: 𝘱𝘳𝘵𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘵𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘵𝘵."

Before Robert could formulate a suitable retort—something involving fire safety and self-immolation—Invisigal’s sharp, annoyed voice cut across the channel.

“Thank 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬. It’s good to see you, Rob. And by ‘good to see you,’ I mean it’s about fucking time you got back because I couldn’t handle another second of Blonde Blazer’s upbeat attitude and heroic speeches.”

“Preach,” Prism chimed in, her voice bright but with a hint of annoyance. "Seriously, Blazer's positivity is starting to get on my nerves. And she’s also terrible at dispatching. Like, fundamentally. My last cat rescue mission? She sent me to a dog park. A dog park, Bob."

"Yeah, I agree with that," Golem rumbled, his deep voice a low growl. "I'm no dispatch dude, but I don't think sending Malevola to a Sunday school was the move, either."

Robert’s eyes widened. "Wait," he spluttered, genuinely shocked. "She actually did that?"

“Yup,” Punch Up confirmed, his voice clipped and impatient. “She’s a good lad but not too bright when it comes to this kind of thing. She kept trying to coach Malevola on being nice to the children.”

“Can confirm,” Coupé added flatly.

Malevola’s deep, gravelly voice entered the chat, laced with pure annoyance. “I never want to go back to that church again. And Robert, if you ever try to send me there, or anywhere that requires me to wear a pastel-colored dress, I will make you wish the anthrax took you out.”

The threat was morbid, but the delivery somehow fit within the Z-Team’s weirdly affectionate boundaries.

A nervous, soft voice finally broke through the noise. “S-speaking of th-that, I’m glad you’re back in good h-health, Robert.” It was Waterboy, stuttering as usual.

“Thank you, Waterboy,” Robert said, genuinely. “That’s very kind.”

“Yeah, it’s real good you didn’t kick the bucket or anything,” Sonar drawled. “It’d make things real awkward around here. We’d have to hire, like, a new guy.”

“Dude, don’t be so blunt,” Malevola hissed. “He, like, almost died.”

“Yeah, and?” Prism scoffed. “We’ve all almost died. He ain’t special.”

A confused, earnest voice cut through the bickering. It was Phenomaman. “Wait, why is Prism saying it’s not a big deal? The whole Z-Team was worried over Robert, and we—”

Mass chaos erupted.

"Worried? Who was worried?"

"I was not!"

“Shut the fuck up, Phenomaman!”

“We were not worried!”

“I was busy that week! I had better things to do!”

“Don’t listen to him, Robert, he’s a fucking idiot!”

Robert took a long breath so deep it pulled at muscles he hadn't known existed in chest. He slammed his hand on the console, the sharp crack echoing through the room and covering his quick cough. "Everyone, shut the 𝘍𝘜𝘊𝘒 up!" he roared, his voice suddenly sharp and commanding, silencing the chaos instantly. He let the silence hang for a beat, enjoying their startled compliance. "You don't have to be embarrassed that you were caught caring about me. It's hilarious and something I’ll hold over your heads for weeks," he continued, his tone softening slightly, though the edge of his authority remained. "But the fact is, we have jobs to do. So stop talking, and get back to it."

A chorus of grudging sounds followed: groans, muttered "whatevers," and one particularly loud sigh from Invisigal. But slowly, inevitably, they complied. The channel cleared, leaving only the dull hum of the system.

Robert leaned back, the familiar weight of his headphones settling over his ears. His eyes, still a little bloodshot and shadowed with fatigue, scanned the active mission alerts. The day was already shaping up to be a mess, but at least his team, despite their bickering, was back.

"Invisigal," Robert’s voice was once again a flat monotone over the comms system. "Zone 4. Small business district. Elderly woman reports her parrot, 'Captain Squawk,' has escaped and is currently harassing pigeons on a third-story awning. You’re the closest."

A slow, dramatic sigh hissed back through the speakers. “Are you serious, Rob? A parrot? Maybe we should have just let Blazer keep the damn board. Fine. If Captain Squawk tries to bite me, I’m vaporizing him.”

“You will not vaporize the parrot, Visi. Just retrieve the bird and confirm the owner’s mental stability. Prism, Zone 11 needs a light show. Power grid surge. You can use your colorful distractions to reroute pedestrian traffic around the maintenance teams. Try to keep the magenta to a minimum, it’s too abrasive for the morning crowd.”

“Ugh. Fine. But I'm charging overtime for being forced to deal with utility workers,” Prism grumbled.

Robert typed up the dispatch report for a successful retrieval of a highly distressed calico cat by Coupé and a minor water main break handled by Waterboy. The first hour passed in a bleak rhythm of complaints and petty crime. However, all good things must come to an end. The system eventually flagged a more serious event.

𝘡𝘰𝘯𝘦 4: 𝘈𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘦, 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥.

Waterboy was still resting. This was Flambae territory.

“Flambae,” Robert commanded, his finger hovering over the fire department contact should this escalate. “Abandoned Warehouse, Zone 4. Active fire and possibly a theft in progress. I want maximum containment and minimal damage to the surrounding structures. Containment unit is priority one. Do not, under any circumstances, use any major external blasts on the building—it looks structurally unsound.”

Flambae laughed, a sound that was too loud and full of braggadocio. “Relax, Bobbert. I’m Flambae. I know how to handle a little fire. You don’t need to tell me how to do my job. This is going to be quick.”

“Flambae, this is a direct order. Neutralize the targets using non-explosive measures. A high-intensity blast will collapse the roof. Breach safely.” Robert’s voice was firm, stripped of all sarcasm.

"Yeah, yeah. Non-explosive. Got it," Flambae replied, the words dripping with dismissal. Static followed, indicating he was already moving.

Robert watched the tracker dot representing Flambae accelerate toward the target building. He tried to raise him again, a tight, cold knot forming in his stomach, but Flambae was already outside.

“Flambae, confirm positioning. What is your status?”

“I’m there,” Flambae announced abruptly. The comms feed shifted, static replaced by the roar of heat and the crunching sound of debris. “Doors are locked, but I’ve got a clear line of sight to the main floor. Small-time arsonists. Hardly noteworthy. I mean, I could do a better job than these bitches any day. They’ve lit up the west wall to cover their extraction.”

“Breach the entrance,” Robert instructed, leaning closer to the microphone, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Gentle breach. Locate the containment unit. I need to know what they took.”

“Gentle? Bobby, please. I don’t do gentle.”

“You do exactly what I tell you,” Robert snapped, the old tension bubbling between them. “This is a direct command. Minimal force. There is structural damage visible on the exterior scans. A high-intensity blast will, as I've said, collapse the roof. You need to breach 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘺.”

A low, mutinous sound came over the comms. “Yeah, yeah. Safely. Look, they’re dragging the unit out the back exit now. If I wait for a ‘safe’ breach, they’re gone.”

“Then you flank them, Flambae,” Robert insisted, his voice rising. “I don’t care if they get away with some equipment—I care about you not bringing the building down on your head. Wait for Golem. He’s two minutes out.”

“Nah. Golem will slow me down. Besides, I'm no bitch. I’ve got this.”

“Flambae, stand down! That is a direct order! I said wait!” Robert shouted, but it was too late.

A massive, echoing WHOOOMPH filled the comms channel. Robert instinctively recoiled from the sound, his ears ringing. Flambae had clearly ignored the order, using an explosive force to enter or attack.

The roar of the fire intensified, followed by a sickening, grinding noise as concrete and metal groaned under the force.

“Flambae? Report! What was that?” Robert demanded, his knuckles white against the desk. “Flambae!”

There was silence, then static, then a sharp, horrible sound—not the annoying voice of the arrogant hero, but a strangled, wet sound. A sound of desperate struggle.

“—nnnngh…”

It was a sharp, grating, starved intake of air. Followed by a frantic, ragged gasp. Then another. Flambae wasn't talking. He was choking.

Robert’s professional detachment shattered instantly. The blast of sound hit him like a physical blow, stripping away weeks of recovery and placing him instantly back in the oppressive, sterile haze of the quarantine chamber.

Cold dread seized his chest, squeezing his lungs until he, too, found himself struggling for breath.

The glass walls hummed softly, trapping Robert with his quarantine mate. Flambae was drenched in sweat, his skin unnaturally translucent, catching the sickly blue light of the UV decontamination lights that filtered into the chamber.

Despite the high-powered oxygen mask clamped over his face, he was fighting, his entire body writhing against the restraints on the hospital bed in a desperate, primal effort to pull air into lungs ravished by the bioweapon.

Every inhale was a rattling failure, a shallow, desperate gasp that turned his knuckles white as he fought the suffocating grip of the toxin. His eyes, rolled back in his head, were wide with a terror more profound than Robert had ever witnessed, silent screams trapped behind the oxygen mask.

The sound was endless. The sound of life being desperately clawed back, breath by painful, futile breath.

“Flambae! Can you breathe?! Flambae, talk to me!” Robert’s voice was tight, high-pitched, a sound usually foreign to him. He didn’t register the flashing mission alerts or the worried static of the other heroes tuning in. He heard only the rattling gasps, echoing the nightmare he had just barely escaped. The terror was overwhelming, immediate, and utterly paralyzing.

𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What the hell was that back there!?” Robert demanded, his voice low, but vibrating with a controlled fury that was almost worse than shouting. He stopped inches from the fire-hero, ignoring the surprised glances of the fellow dispatchers nearby.

The second he had seen Flambae swagger through SDN's bay doors, slightly soot-stained but otherwise intact, Robert had launched himself from the worn fabric of his dispatcher chair. He strode across the floor, his movements tight, controlled, and lethal, leading him to standing right here; yelling at Flambae who was in the process of carelessly flicking off the soot from his suit and rolling his eyes.

“Dude, chill. The unit is secured. The bad guys are tied up. Everything worked out in the end. Take a chill pill, Bobby.”

Robert scoffed, the sound pure, cold mockery. “Worked out? You think that was a 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘧𝘶𝘭 mission? You violated a direct command, Flambae. A 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥. I told you Golem was two minutes out. I told you the exterior scans showed structural instability. You used a focused, high-intensity thermal blast to breach a wall held up by three rusted structural beams and a prayer, instead of flanking the target as ordered. You compromised the integrity of the second floor, and if those kidnappers had been armed with anything heavier than a paintball marker, we’d be picking your super-cooked ass out of the rubble right now.”

Robert jabbed a finger hard against Flambae’s chest. “And the containment unit? It had minor thermal scorch marks on the seal integrity indicator. I need that data pristine, you idiot! If the contents were unstable, you’d have turned half of downtown into green cloud cover just because you couldn’t wait two minutes for backup. 𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴!”

The words tasted like ash. Robert felt the panic rising again—not the mission panic, but the choking, trapped terror of the quarantine room. He threw his hands up, frustration overwhelming the cutting analysis. “Goddamn it. I can’t believe you think that was a good job.” He groaned, running a hand through his stiff hair.

Flambae bristled, crossing his arms. “Oh, so now 𝘐’𝘮 the idiot? We got the target. We confirmed the intel. It was efficient. You’re just mad because you couldn't micromanage me from your little desk.”

Robert didn't answer immediately. He glanced sharply around the hallway. The usual post-mission debrief scrum had begun to form a respectful, yet intensely curious, semicircle around their confrontation. He needed distance. He hated being watched, especially when he felt this explosive.

Without a word of warning, Robert grabbed Flambae’s elbow—a surprisingly strong, vice-like grip that ignored the heat emanating off the other man—and yanked him hard toward a nearby storage area.

“Hey! Let go of me, you scrawny bitch!” Flambae protested loudly, stumbling as he was dragged.

Robert ignored the insults, throwing open the door to a small, broom-and-cleaning-supply closet. He shoved Flambae roughly inside, following immediately and slamming the door shut. The already dim space plunged into near-darkness, smelling faintly of bleach and stale mop water.

“What the fuck is your issue, Rob?” Flambae spat, his voice tight with outrage and the instant rise of his internal temperature, making the air in the small space immediately arid.

“You,” Robert snapped, leaning against the door, trapping them both. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 are my issue. Specifically, your consistent, spectacular recklessness. I honestly thought the anthrax situation would have taught you a damn lesson, but clearly you are too 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 to learn to do anything that doesn’t involve setting stuff on fire.”

Robert pushed off the door and started pacing the cramped two steps the closet allowed, the words spilling out of him, fueled by five weeks of forced inactivity and the trauma he had just relived.

“I don’t know why I thought you could handle a high-stakes salvage mission. You are so fundamentally unconcerned with your own life, you treat every operation like a demolition derby. You’re probably not even fully recovered from the anthrax yet, and here you are, back in the field, 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 protocol like it’s a suggestion.”

Flambae scoffed, the sound sharp. “Oh, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. My body is not as weak as yours, Bobby. Worry about yourself. I’m fine.”

Robert stopped pacing instantly, his head snapping up. The mask of dry apathy slipped, revealing the deep, raw resentment underneath. “Oh, yeah? Didn’t seem that way when you were the first one dying in containment,” Robert shot back, his voice low and dangerous. “Screaming, trying to get some damn air into your fucking lungs—that’s not strength, Flambae. The doctors even said your body’s immune response system is shit. So cut the bullshit about being perfectly fine.”

Flambae’s eyes narrowed, cutting in the gloom. “Shut the fuck up. My body 𝘪𝘴 stronger than yours. Once I beat that bitch virus, my body recovered within two weeks. Why?” He leaned in, his tone dripping with patronizing arrogance. “It’s because, unlike your non-supe, scrawny ass, my body has a quick recovery factor since I am an 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 hero with 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 powers. You’ve been gone for, what? Five weeks, Bobbert, and I can tell, just by looking at you, that you’re not even at fucking one-hundred percent yet.” Flambae glanced scornfully up and down Robert’s frame. “Not even a measly thirty percent.”

“Shut up,” Robert commanded, the word slicing through the heating air. “Powers aren’t everything that makes a superhero.”

Flambae let out a dismissive bark of laughter. “And how would you know? You just sit behind a desk all day playing make-believe, holding onto this pathetic fantasy that you’re some big-shot hero, when all you do is hand out directions.”

That hit the nerve Robert guarded most fiercely. The anger, cold and sharp, collided with the hot, overwhelming panic of the recent memory.

“If anyone's living in a fantasy that involves being a hero, it’s 𝘺𝘰𝘶,” Robert countered, stepping forward until their chests were almost touching in the suffocating space. “Because you are 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 not a hero, Flambae. Being a superhero isn’t just about putting on a show and putting your life on the line; it’s about how you do the job. You’re supposed to put other lives above your own, yes, but you also have a responsibility to utilize your gifts with strategy, precision, and respect for the collateral damage! You don't get to treat the world as your personal lighter!”

Flambae inhaled sharply, the movement swelling his chest. The temperature in the closet spiked again, radiating off his skin like a furnace. “You think you’re better than me because you’re careful? You’re just a fucking bitch hiding behind an efficiency report! You’re just jealous you can’t do what I can do!” Flambae pushed back, starting to lay into Robert, his voice rising in volume, fueled by years of pride and inadequacy.

“—you look down on me because I didn't do things your way, but I got the job done—I didn’t need—”

The sound. The rising tone, the frantic energy, the noise—it was too much. It triggered the memory of the rattling breath, the wet, desperate struggle for air that Robert had been forced to witness, powerless, through his own misery.

𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱. 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦.

Robert didn’t decide to do it. There was no conscious thought, only the blinding, primal need to stop the escalating sound, to quell the trauma tearing through him.

He moved on pure, desperate instinct. Robert surged forward, seizing the back of Flambae’s neck and hauling him the final few inches. He crashed his mouth down onto Flambae’s, cutting off the rant mid-word.

The kiss was hard, rough, and entirely devoid of tenderness. It was an act of silencing, a physical assault fueled by panic and residual fear. Robert pinned Flambae against the back wall, his grip painful against the other hero’s neck, utilizing the element of surprise and the confined space to press his advantage.

Flambae was stiff with shock for a second, an eruptive mix of heat and frozen disbelief. Robert took immediate advantage, forcing the issue, the pressure relentless. He tasted soot and ozone and something metallic—the residue of the fire and the mission.

When Flambae finally reacted, it was characteristic. He didn’t push Robert away; he reacted with pure, aggressive fire, meeting force with equal fervor. Robert felt the sudden, alarming spike in temperature as Flambae’s hands shot up, gripping Robert’s shoulders and scorching the fabric of his shirt. Flambae’s mouth opened beneath Robert's, not in release, but in a sudden, shocking consumption. The heat was overwhelming, radiating off Flambae’s lips like dry ice, somehow both burning and thrillingly cold against Robert’s own.

The argument was annihilated. The trauma was forgotten. All that remained in the suffocating darkness of the cleaning closet was the desperate, explosive contact, an energy exchange that tasted like scorched earth and pent-up fury. Robert instinctively angled his head, deepening the kiss, his earlier aggression melting into something darker and far more consuming than the need for silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, plunging headfirst into the inferno.

Chapter Text

Underneath the fire and the fury of the kiss, a profound, unexpected sense of grounding settled over Robert. The frantic energy that had driven him—the terrifying echo of that choked, rattling breath—began to collapse, replaced entirely by the immediate, undeniable reality of Flambae. He zeroed in on the sound and feel of Flambae’s breathing: deep, uneven, and utterly strong, a vast, hot rush of air that was currently being channeled into a demanding consumption of Robert’s mouth.

It was the sound of life, aggressive and powerful, the very antithesis of the weak, desperate gasps that had haunted Robert moments prior. It was everything Robert needed; this physical proof. He leaned into the searing heat radiating from Flambae’s core, embracing the dangerous warmth because it meant Flambae was solid, vibrant, and terrifyingly 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

He felt the rapid, pounding rhythm of the other man’s heart against his chest—a frantic, living counterpoint to the dead silence that had followed Flambae when the comms line went dead, when Flambae lay still and unmoving on his hospital bed. Every muscle tensed under Robert’s hands was a confirmation, every aggressive move Flambae made was a reassurance. The panic didn't vanish entirely, but it shifted into an aggressive, consuming desire, fueled by the staggering relief that the source of all this frustrating, reckless energy was still tangible, still here, and definitely not struggling for air.

Flambae’s grip tightened on Robert's shoulders, fingers digging in as the heat intensified. A low, guttural noise rumbled in Flambae’s throat, a sound of pure, untamed pleasure that vibrated against Robert’s lips and echoed deep in his chest. Robert’s own hands, released from Flambae’s neck, found their way to Flambae’s waist, fisting in the material of his uniform. The material was impossibly hot, the heat searing through him, yet he didn't pull away. Instead he pressed closer, desperate for more. His lips moved frantically against Flambae’s, a silent plea, a desperate challenge.

The air in the closet grew thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and the subtle, intoxicating musk of two bodies pushed to their limits. A soft gasp tore from Robert’s throat as Flambae’s tongue swept inside his mouth, hot and demanding, igniting a fresh wave of pleasure that threatened to buckle Robert’s knees.

He felt a faint tremor run through Flambae’s body, a response to the raw intensity of their little spur-of-the-moment makeout session, and it spurred Robert on. He heard a whimper, a choked sound, and realized it had escaped his own lips, a surrender to the overwhelming pressure and pleasure. Flambae responded instantly, a low growl rumbling against Robert's mouth, deepening the kiss further, as if devouring Robert whole.

Robert felt Flambae’s hips thrust forward minutely, a silent question, an undeniable demand that sent a searing jolt through him. He pressed back, instinct overriding all reason, driven by the escalating pleasure that was quickly consuming the last shred of his self-control.

What felt like an eternity passed, a timeless void filled only with the searing contact of their mouths, the desperate grappling of their bodies, and the dizzying rush of heat. Robert’s lungs began to burn, the air in the cramped closet growing impossibly thin. With a ragged gasp, he pulled back, heavily panting, his forehead resting against Flambae’s. His eyes, still mostly closed, struggled to focus in the oppressive darkness.

He didn't get a break for long. Before Robert could even fully register the sudden silence, Flambae was moving, a blur of heat and motion. He didn’t push Robert away, but rather, with surprising strength and agility, he spun them around, leveraging the cramped space to his advantage.

Suddenly, Robert found himself pinned against the cold, metal shelves of the closet, a sharp contrast to the furnace that was Flambae’s body. Flambae’s lips, still swollen and hot, moved from Robert’s mouth, trailing a searing path down his jawline all the way to his neck, sending shivers down Robert’s spine.

Shivers that made themselves known in the form of a harsh shudder that rippled through Robert as Flambae’s mouth closed over the sensitive skin just below his ear, sucking gently, a possessive bite following shortly after. Simultaneously, a knee slid between Robert’s legs, pressing against the already growing tent beneath his pants.

Robert instantly began to grind against the knee, a desperate, instinctual movement that tore a choked half-whine, half-groan from him. His breath hitched, hot and fast, as the world around him narrowed, grew hazy, every sensation eclipsed by the pleasure consuming him.

All he could think of was Flambae.

Flambae's lips on his neck, the intoxicating scent of ash and ozone clinging to Flambae’s skin, the intense, radiating heat that seemed to seep into his very bones. It was all too much, overwhelming him, yet simultaneously, it felt like too little, a craving that could never be satiated. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He knew he should be pulling away, should be pushing Flambae off, should be saying something, anything, to stop this insane encounter.

He didn't even know 𝘸𝘩𝘺 he wasn't pulling away. But the thought of speaking, of breaking this intoxicating spell, filled him with a chilling dread. He was scared the second he did, this would stop, and he would have to face the cold reality of the situation. And despite himself, despite the looming humiliation of having to talk about this, of having to analyze it with his unblood rushed, clear mind, he didn't want this to end more. So he stayed silent, a choked gasp his only response as Flambae’s lips trailed lower, nearing his collarbone.

Though the same couldn’t be said for Flambae.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Bob Bob?” he purred, his voice rough, laced with a smug, almost predatory satisfaction. “Hmm? Little Mr. Efficiency… getting all hot and bothered with me.” He bit down softly on Robert’s neck again, a small, carnal nip. “You like this, yeah? You like feeling out of control.”

Robert couldn't help the whine that escaped him in response, a raw, almost pathetic sound that confirmed Flambae’s words. Instantly, he felt heat rise in his cheeks. The last thing he needed—𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥—was Flambae of all people thinking he could unravel him with just a few dirty words and kisses. So, despite his earlier resolution to stay silent, he bit back, taking comfort in the knowledge that conversation wasn't off the table. After all, if Flambae was willing to speak while they were doing… 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, then clearly this moment wasn't as fragile as he'd been psyching himself up to believe.

“Sh-shut up. You’re hotter when you're silent." He gasped, his breath low and ragged. “And don’t call me that.” His hips unconsciously pressed harder against Flambae’s knee, the pressure sending a fresh wave of heat through him. “F-fuck.”

Flambae chuckled. “You think I'm hot, hmm?” He breathed, sliding his hand, slowly, deliberately, down the front of Robert’s pants. “I thought you said I wasn't your type.”

“That's not wh—”

Robert’s breath hitched, a sharp, audible gasp, as Flambae’s fingers brushed against the straining fabric of his jeans. It was a jolt, an electric shock that made every nerve ending in his body scream. He tensed, every muscle locked, a primal instinct to pull away warring with the desperate yearning that pulsed low in his stomach.

“What? Speechless already? It’s okay, Bob Bob,” Flambae whispered, his voice filled with irritating amusement. “I know how to take care of you. I know exactly 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 you want. Just relax.”

Robert stayed tense for a second, his mind a whirlwind of warring desires and ingrained caution. Part of him, the sensible, usually correct part, was screaming at him to stop, that this was a terrible idea, a catastrophic mistake. That once they breached this threshold, there was no going back. But the other part, the one that had been starved for human connection, for anything outside of his isolated hero life, was already lost in the haze. He fought with himself, a silent battle raging inches from Flambae’s ear, on whether he wanted to let it go this far.

Flambae seemed to sense his hesitation, pulling back just slightly, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone that Robert rarely heard. “Hey,” he said, his lips still grazing Robert’s neck. “You want to stop?” The question, coming from the arrogant, impulsive Flambae, was jarring, but also unexpectedly genuine. “Because as much of an asshole as I am,” he continued, a hint of his usual braggadocio returning, “I’m not a fucking rapist. Tell me you want this.”

Robert bit his lip, fighting a silent battle within himself. His mind raced, calculating the risks, the consequences, the utter insanity of letting this go any further. But the insistent throb between his legs, the intoxicating heat of Flambae’s body, the unexpected tenderness in his voice… it was all breaking down his carefully constructed walls. He bit his lip hard, the metallic tang of blood briefly piercing through the haze of desire. With a slow, almost unnoticeable movement, he managed a shaky nod, his eyes closed, unable to meet Flambae’s gaze, but unable to deny himself this.

Flambae’s eyes darkened, a triumphant flicker in their depths. “Good.” His hand returned, sliding confidently inside Robert’s pants. His fingers, surprisingly gentle yet firm, closed around Robert’s erection, thick and aching.

The immediate contact was electrifying. Robert’s hips bucked instinctively, a violent shudder ripping through him. A gasp quickly tore from his throat, and he arched against the closet shelves, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Flambae let out a low hum of satisfaction, his hand moving to stroke Robert in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had Robert instantly falling apart, his knees almost giving out for the second time as Flambae’s thumb caressed his sensitive tip, drawing another shudder from him that resonated deep in his bones.

Each stroke was a wave, building and building, washing away everything but the pure, all consuming sensation of pleasure. Robert’s head lolled back against the shelf, a low moan vibrating in his chest as Flambae’s other hand braced against his hip, anchoring him, allowing him to lose himself entirely in the dizzying sensations Flambae was providing.

“That's it, fall apart for me. Let me hear you. I want to hear you moaning like a little bitch. 𝘔𝘺 bitch.” Flambae growled, his breath hot and heavy against Robert’s neck and full of desire.

Those words, along with the heat from Flambae’s touch seemed to ignite a fire directly within him, spreading like wildfire through his veins. Robert couldn't think, couldn't speak, could only 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭, his body convulsing with every movement. He was falling apart, reduced to pure instinct and need, unraveling under Flambae’s masterful touch. His hips bucked again, desperate for more, digging into Flambae’s hand.

Flambae, sensing the shift, responded with unnerving ease. His grip was firm, almost cruel in its perfect execution, as his fingers curled around Robert’s dick, a firm pressure that had Robert eyes rolling. He settled his hand at the base, thumb and forefinger closing with a tension that was less like a grip and more like a carefully calibrated vise, before beginning a slow, agonizing slide down, squeezing gently from base to tip, then easing off just enough to let the blood rush back before repeating the exquisite torture.

His thumb, meanwhile, continued its maddening assault on the tip with every visit down, rolling and pressing, each rotation sending a fresh jolt of pure electricity straight through Robert’s core. Robert’s head thrashed against the closet shelf, a guttural moan tearing from his throat, his body convulsing with every stroke.

He felt stretched taut, a single vibrating nerve ending, his mind a hazy fog of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He tried to think, to cling to some semblance of control, but it was dissolving like sugar in hot water. The rhythmic friction, the increasing wetness, the way Flambae's fingers seemed to know exactly where to press, how hard to squeeze—it was an overwhelming tide.

Shame pricked at him at the sheer speed of his unraveling; he was coming undone far too quickly, embarrassingly fast, but the pleasure was too immense, too all-consuming to fight. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his breath hitching, feeling the undeniable, unstoppable wave cresting within him.

“Oh 𝘧-𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬…” Robert rasped, his voice raw, barely recognizable. “I’m… I’m close.”

Flambae’s hand paused, a cruel, teasing halt to the building pressure. Robert instantly whined, a raw, humiliated sound, his hips thrusting forward instinctively, chasing the absent touch. He felt a blush creep up his neck, but Flambae just shushed him, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Easy there, Bob Bob," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement and deep satisfaction. “Can't have you finishing just yet.”

At those words, Flambae pulled his hand away and moved a small step back, abruptly cutting off all contact. Robert instantly huffed, a sound of pure deprivation and humiliation. His hips, traitorously, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺, tried to chase the retreating warmth once again. “No, wait…” he mumbled, mortified by his own desperation. It'd been a long time since he let himself indulge in the touch of another person, okay? Sue him.

“Shh,” Flambae murmured, a low, soothing sound, his lips fighting a smirk. “I promise you're going to enjoy this more.”

Robert opened his mouth for just a second, ready to bite back, tell Flambae he wasn’t some baby he could shush and regain some of his lost composure, but quickly snapped it shut as Flambae began to slide down to the floor, his breath ghosting across the small part of exposed skin from where Robert’s shirt rode up during all the commotion—short-circuiting Robert's brain.

Robert watched, helpless, as Flambae settled onto his knees with a deliberate slowness that Robert found utterly agonizing, the movement making the air heat slightly around Robert’s legs. He was looking up now, and the angle—Flambae’s eyes dark and brimming with triumphant mischief, framed by the shadow cast by Robert’s own body—was intoxicating.

The grin that played on those lips was soft, almost gentle, but Robert knew better. It was the smile of a predator assessing its trapped prey; a deep satisfaction that Flambae had managed to chip away at Robert’s usual stoicism, layer by humiliating layer.

Flambae didn't rush the contact. He simply stayed there for a long moment, breathing shallowly, letting Robert stew in the agonizing space between desire and fulfillment, allowing the heat of the interaction to warp the air between them.

Then, Flambae’s hands moved. They rose slowly, not back to the source of the problem, but tracing the exposed sliver of skin where Robert’s shirt had ridden up. His fingertips, unforgivingly hot, brushed the sensitive ridge of Robert’s hip bone, causing a sharp intake of breath. Flambae followed the line of the bone upward, a feather-light exploration that felt less like stimulation and more like a cruel tease.

“You know, Bob Bob, you’ve been far too good at keeping yourself contained,” Flambae murmured, his voice pitched low enough that it vibrated against Robert’s skin as he leaned in subtly. “I think it'll do you good to shatter a little.”

He pressed a single, lingering kiss directly onto Robert's lower abdomen, just below the navel, the slight pressure of his mouth making Robert’s muscles clench involuntarily. Robert made a strangled noise, a sound that died in his throat as he bucked his hips forward in a pathetic plea for more, for direct relief.

Instead of listening to that plea, Flambae continued to tease.

His tongue darted out just once, a wet, warm streak that spanned the width of Robert’s skin, before retreating. The sensation was immediate and searing—a lightning rod straight to Robert’s core. Robert felt a tremor run through his legs, his knees threatening to buckle, necessitating he brace himself harder against the cold shelf behind him. His back was going to be out for vengeance tomorrow, but just like so many other things from today, Robert decided to deal with that later.

Flambae chuckled, then returned his attention to the fabric separating them. His hands gripped the pull tab of Robert’s zipper, beginning an agonizing descent down. Each rasp of the zipper coming undone was a sound magnified tenfold in the quiet space, a promise of what was coming, held just out of reach.

Then, after what felt like centuries, the zipper was fully opened and Flambae's focus shifted slightly higher. His fingers began undoing Robert’s belt, the motion done with an ease that seemed to state he’d done this a hundred times. For some reason that thought sent a spark of annoyance coursing through Robert—the idea that this intimate, humiliating experience was done before to someone else by Flambae—but that annoyance was easily drowned out as he felt Flambae’s breath ghosting across his newly exposed dick, a fresh wave of heat and anticipation washing over him.

He braced a hand in Flambae’s hair, closing his eyes once more, and leaned his head back against the cold shelf, waiting. The metallic shink of the buckle hitting the ground was the final, definitive sound of surrender. Robert’s breath hitched, knowing that the agonizing wait was about to be rewarded.

A moment later, a new, even more intense sensation beyond anything Robert had ever experienced enveloped him. Flambae’s mouth, unnaturally hot and all too consuming, closed around his cock. The heat was immediate, overwhelming, a searing vortex that seemed to draw all the air from his lungs.

All the agonizing anticipation, the slow torture of the zipper and belt, the subtle taunts and lingering touches, vanished in an instant, replaced by a singular, consuming fire that made every second of the wait not just worth it, but utterly necessary. This was what he had been holding back for, what Flambae had known he needed to unleash.

Flambae’s tongue, shockingly agile and unbelievably warm, swirled and flicked, drawing a desperate moan from Robert. He plunged deeper, a practiced, confident suction that had Robert’s body convulsing uncontrollably against the cold shelf. Robert’s fingers buried themselves deeper in Flambae’s hair, pulling, urging him on with a silent, primal plea for more.

He was losing it, completely and utterly. The world tilted and dissolved around him, leaving him adrift, a sensation akin to floating weightlessly in a boundless sea of pure, unadulterated bliss. His mind, usually so rigid and endlessly persistent, was fraying at the edges. He felt an intoxicating sense of surrender, a euphoric letting go that was both terrifying and utterly liberating.

Each pull, each wet, eager lick, each deep, sweeping caress of Flambae’s tongue sent jolts of exquisite agony and pleasure through him, making his vision swim and his teeth clench, a muffled sound escaping his throat.

He felt like he was going to shatter, to spontaneously combust from the inside out, his mind a total blank save for the frantic pulsing of his blood and the incredible, all-encompassing sensation engulfing his cock.

He lost all sense of self, all control, reduced to a trembling mess of pure, primal need. He was completely at Flambae's mercy, and in that moment, he didn't care; he reveled in it, yearned for it, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 for it.

The pressure built, a sweet, suffocating agony that promised relief, or perhaps, utter oblivion. Robert’s breath hitched, a ragged gasp torn from his throat, betraying the last shreds of his composure. He felt the end approaching, a dizzying height from which he knew he would never return intact.

The tremors intensified, running through his entire frame, his legs threatening to give out completely even as his hips instinctively bucked forward, seeking to bury himself deeper in that hot, wet cavern. His vision narrowed to a tunnel of blinding white, the only reality the exquisite torture and undeniable fulfillment found in Flambae’s mouth.

Then, a wave of pure, blinding bliss ripped through him, his back arching violently as his entire body tensed, soaring over the edge.

With a final, desperate gasp, Robert cried out, his voice raw, hoarse, and utterly broken, shattering the last fragments of his carefully constructed control as his release, hot and thick, gushed into Flambae's mouth.

“Oh, shit. 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦—”

Robert woke with a gasp, his lungs burning as if he’d just run a marathon. He lay sprawled on his apartment floor, the cold wood digging into his back, his body slick with sweat. The cheap curtains did little to block the morning light, which streamed in, stark and unwelcome.

He lay there for a long moment, gasping, trying to right himself, the frantic beat of his heart slowly returning to normal. A familiar weight in his boxers, a sticky dampness, confirmed the vivid reality of what had just happened.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, fighting the urge to vomit or laugh hysterically. “Motherfucker,” he muttered, the word a weary, disgusted exhale. He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, dragging them down his face.

Of fucking course.

It was bad enough he’d willingly done all of that in the real world, but now it seemed his brain wanted him to keep reliving it in some twisted, mocking form of self‑torment.

It’d been two days since he and Flambae had done whatever… 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 was, and each night the same dream—memory really—stalked him, replaying the exact moment he’d tossed caution to the wind like a fucking idiot. The memory, raw and unfiltered, gnawed at him like a persistent mosquito. Hell, he didn’t even know how to label it; they hadn't 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥.

Complete radio silence.

The silence between him and Flambae ever since that day was louder than any argument ever could have been. The only words that ever passed between them were commands—sharp, clipped directives he’d given when he dispatched Flambae on missions. And that, which should be a good thing, was a problem. Why? Because Flambae, when dispatched on those calls, actually 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥. He didn’t complain, didn't fight back, for fucks sake he didn't even mock Robert anymore.

The only time he was vocal was on the Z‑Team’s comms, trading jokes and complaints with the rest of the squad. Direct conversation with Robert? One‑sided, at best. Which wasn't terrible, it wasn't like Robert was eager to start a conversation either, but the avoidance made the whole thing feel like a bad joke with no punchline.

He just wanted it to be over. The weight on his chest—an unforgiving pressure that had settled there ever since their thing for the past two days—didn’t matter. It was unrelated to the dream, to Flambae, to whatever mess he’d tangled himself into. It was just there, a reminder that his body was still fighting the after‑effects of the anthrax exposure.

That was all. Nothing more or less.

A sigh escaped him, a sound that seemed to drag the very air out of the room. He could disappear, vanish into the cracks of the city, and never have to see light again. But he had a job. He had a life that, for all its bitterness, he couldn't walk away from. No matter how much he wanted to.

So, with a final groan, he pushed himself off the floor. His joints creaked, his back cracked, and he stumbled toward the bathroom, the stickiness in his boxers a reminder that the night’s remnants hadn’t been fully scrubbed away.

He stared at his reflection for a second—dark circles under his eyes, a thin line of stubble creeping up his cheek. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the heat of sweat still clinging to his skin. He turned the faucet on, splashed cold water over his face, and let the shock of it yank him fully awake.

He lathered shaving cream into his palm, the foam feather‑light against his skin, and began the ritual he’d performed a thousand times. The razor sang a soft rasp as it glided over his cheekbones, shaving away more of the man he’d been the night before, leaving behind a slightly cleaner version of himself.

He brushed his teeth with a practiced, half‑hearted motion, the minty paste frothing in his mouth like a tiny, angry storm. He swallowed, rinsed, and spat. He stared at the bathroom mirror again, this time catching a glimpse of the ghost of the dream reflected in his tired eyes.

He chose to ignore it.

He pulled on a fresh pair of boxers—dry, plain black cotton. The new pair felt like a fresh start, an unspoken promise that the day could, maybe, be different. He took a deep breath, feeling the thin air still tug at his lungs. He’d still be paying for the anthrax exposure for weeks; the coming and going cough that rattled in his throat reminded him that his body was still in a fragile truce with his own biology. Robert grit his teeth.

It wasn't something he really cared to dwell on.

Moving on, he slipped into his jeans, sliding them up his legs with a grimace at the tightness around his waist. He buttoned his blue polo shirt, the fabric a little stiff against his skin, and tucked the shirt into his jeans. Then quickly grabbed a quick bite—a half‑eaten, most likely expired, meatball sub from the fridge—while Beef nudged his leg with a wet nose, demanding attention. Beef’s tail wagged through the air in a frantic rhythm that made Robert smile despite himself.

“Alright, Beefster,” he muttered, scratching behind Beef’s ears. “Let’s get going before we're both late, yeah?”

He slipped on his shoes, snatched his house keys, and headed out. The street outside was already buzzing—cars honked, cyclists weaved, an early‑morning drizzle making the pavement shine.

He decided to stop for coffee, because if the universe thought it could fuck with him by making him relive his time with Flambae and thought he could make it through the day without caffeine, it was sorely mistaken. He walked down the cracked sidewalk, past the shuttered shops and the graffiti‑sprayed walls that gave the neighborhood its gritty charm. The smell of burnt espresso drifted from a tiny café on the corner, and he pushed the door open, the bell jingling overhead.

Inside, the barista—a lanky kid with a neon‑green beanie—looked up and gave a half‑smile. “Morning, Robert. Same as usual?” he asked, already reaching for the espresso machine.

Robert raised an eyebrow. “If you have anything that can keep a dead man from collapsing, I’m all ears.”

The kid laughed, slamming the lever. “One double shot, extra shot, with a splash of whatever you’re drinking to forget about.”

Robert took the cup, the heat seeping into his palms, and let the bitter liquid burn its way down his throat. It was acidic, harsh—exactly what he needed. He took a sip, felt the caffeine surge through his veins, and let out a low, humorless chuckle.

“Thanks,” he said, pocketing the cup.

The barista nodded. “Have a good day.”

With the coffee in hand, Robert stepped back onto the street, the early morning traffic humming around him. He could hear the distant wail of sirens—always present, a reminder that the city never truly sleeps.

He stared into the cup, the dark surface steaming slightly, and his mind drifted back to the dream, to Flambae pinned to the wall, steam slightly billowing off him and heating the closet. He clenched his jaw, the bitterness of the coffee mirroring the bitterness of his thoughts. He finished the cup, left a tip, and walked out with a flicker of resolve.

The walk to SDN was a jog, his feet slapping the wet pavement as he imagined the day ahead: a sea of calls, endless reports, the occasional ‘quick call‑out’ that reminded him why he’d taken the job in the first place. He arrived to find the glass doors already buzzing with the soft hum of the building’s air‑conditioning system.

He pushed through the revolving doors, and one of his fellow coworkers cheery “Morning, Robert!” barely registered over the thoughts that churned inside his head. He made his way to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited, feeling the metal doors close around him with a soft sigh.

The lobby was already alive with the sound of clacking keyboards and low conversations. At the far end, Chase was leaning over the cubicle wall between his and Chase’s designated work stations, a permanent scowl etched into his face. He was the sort of guy whose ‘grumpiness’ was a permanent fixture, a weathered coat he could never shed nowadays.

“Wow, you look like shit,” Chase said without missing a beat, walking around the cubicle to bend down and pat Beef, who instantly sprinted to Chase’s side, tail wagging like a metronome. The dog leapt onto Chase’s leg, licking his cheek.

Robert’s expression remained unimpressed. “Gee, thanks,” he replied, slumping back onto his chair, the worn cushion sighing under his weight. He placed his bag on the back of the chair, closing his eyes for a moment.

Chase crossed his arms, eyes scanning Robert’s exhausted visage. “What’s got you in a bad mood?”

Robert shrugged, the motion barely moving his shoulders. “Oh, nothing. Everything's good. Just the usual day of…”He gestured lazily at the sea of monitors, the endless scrolling of case files. “…saving the world one spreadsheet at a time."

Chase hummed, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, that's fucking bullshit. I bet I know what your problem is.”

Robert lifted an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“It’s those fuckin’ hooligans you have to wrangle all day,” Chase said, his voice dropping an octave as he pointed toward the far end of the open office where a group of the Z‑Team was gathered around a table, laughing over something Prism was showing them on her phone. “Honestly I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner. I don’t understand how you’ve managed to put up with them this long, or why you turned Blonde Blazer down when she asked you to cut one of em’. If I were you, I’d have cut em’ all, starting with that asshole—”

He gestured toward a lone figure hunched over a printer in a small nook behind Robert. The figure was, unsurprisingly, Invisigal. She was leaning on one leg, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed into a laser focus on Robert.

Her stare hardened further, as if the words themselves ignited a furnace inside her. She clenched her teeth, eyes blazing in a way that made it look like she could scorch the floorboards.

“Why’s she starin’ at you?” Chase asked, a hint of genuine curiosity breaking through his gruff façade.

Before Robert could answer, Chase raised his voice, addressing Invisigal directly. “Don’t you got some work to do?”

Invisigal turned to Chase, her expression a perfect blend of contempt. “Don’t 𝘺𝘰𝘶 got some dementia to onset?” She snapped, the words sharp as a knife edge. She quickly snatched the half‑printed paper from the printer, slammed the top of it shut, and stalked away, the heel of her shoes clicking like an echo of disapproval.

Chase rubbed the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Alright, that one stung a little,” he admitted, chuckling despite himself. He glanced at the empty space where Invisigal had just been, then back at Robert.

Robert let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping even further. “I should go talk to her. See what’s up.”

Chase scoffed, shaking his head. “Who cares? You’re just wasting your time. She’s… well, she’s her. She’ll say and do whatever the hell she wants. Fucking got no respect.”

Robert rolled his eyes, the motion deliberate and weary. “Maybe you need to be nicer, Chase. Old age’s really gotten to you.”

Chase huffed, his brow furrowing. “I’m only thirty‑nine, you rotten shit. That's not old.”

Robert let out a short laugh that was more of a sigh. “Right, you're just stuck in a body that thinks it’s an ancient relic.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny, asshole.”

“I know.” Robert stood, his chair creaking as he pushed it back. He raised his arms above his head, stretching his arms out, felt a pop in his left shoulder, and headed toward the hallway. “I’m going to go talk to her,” he said, his voice flat but edged with a hint of resolve.

“Whatever. If you want to waste your time, that's your choice.” Chase called after him, rolling his eyes.

Robert turned, a faint smile breaking through the fatigue, and gave a quick nod. “You watch the dog, okay?”

“Gladly,” Chase answered, already moving to the corner where Beef was chewing on a squeaky toy. He bent down, patting the pup's head.

Robert slipped down the hallway, the sound of monitors humming behind him. He could feel the weight of the day's expectations pressing against his ribs, but the caffeine still pulsed through his veins, a thin lifeline anchoring him to the present. He walked down the hallway, past rows of empty desks, past the hum of machines that never seemed to rest.

The search for Invisigal was, as expected, a futile endeavor. She was a ghost in their midst, her power to vanish making her notoriously difficult to pin down, especially when she didn't want to be found. Robert scanned the corridors, his gaze sweeping over empty chairs and silent workstations. He’d rounded a corner, contemplating the futility of his mission, when a sudden, urgent need overtook him. A familiar, unwelcome clench in his gut signaled the need for a quick detour.

He pushed open the door to the men’s room, the cool tile a welcome contrast to the stifling office air. He quickly made his way to a stall, the relief almost immediate. Emerging a few minutes later, he found himself at the row of sinks, splashing cool water on his face, the mundane ritual grounding him momentarily.

That’s when it happened.

Without a sound, without a flicker of movement that he could have predicted, Invisigal was suddenly there. She’d materialized behind him, peaking around him, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. Robert, however, didn't so much as flinch. Years of dealing with the unpredictable nature of supers, and the sheer absurdity of his own life, had honed a remarkable poker face.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet of the room, punctuated with curiosity and a flicker of something else.

Robert continued to wash his hands, his movements unhurried, his gaze steady on their mirrored images. “Isn’t it obvious?” His voice was a low, even tone, betraying none of the weariness that had settled deep into his bones.

Invisigal scoffed, a dismissive sound that echoed in the tiled space. She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘dick.’ Robert, accustomed to her colorful vocabulary, didn’t react. He merely turned off the faucet and grabbed a paper towel, drying his hands with a deliberate slowness.

“You know this is the men’s room, right?” he continued, his tone flat. His gaze was still on her reflected image, his eyes unwavering and unimpressed. “And unless you’ve suddenly started packing, I don’t think you should be in here.”

“No shit. I never would've guessed,” Invisigal scoffed, then, with a fluid movement that was almost graceful, she sauntered around him. She hopped up onto the sink counter, perching herself with an ease that suggested this was a perfectly normal place for a conversation.

Robert followed her movement with his eyes, a familiar sigh escaping him. He tossed the paper towel into the bin. “I know I’m going to regret asking,” he said, leaning back, his arms crossing over his chest. “But what 𝘢𝘳𝘦 you doing here?”

Invisigal, without a shred of hesitation or shame, met his gaze. Her voice, when it came, had a slightly husky, almost conspiratorial rasp. “I had a dream last night that we were fucking. Usually, I don’t remember my dreams, but this one was pretty vivid.”

Robert paused for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something—Surprise? Confusion?—crossed his face before he smoothed it away. Last night’s dream, a distinctly unwelcome memory, instantly flared to life in his mind and… well, he pushed that thought down as quickly as it came, the heat pooling in his stomach a familiar annoyance. “Was it the one where I have a big dick in it?” he asked, his voice returning to its usual dry monotone.

Invisigal’s lips curved into a small, knowing smirk. “Yeah,” she said easily. “Actually, you did.”

“Yeah,” Robert replied, his gaze meeting hers directly without a hint of hesitation. He tilted his head, a small smirk forming on his lips. “I have that one, too.” He then leaned back on one leg, mirroring her posture, his arms still crossed. “So, this is why you were staring at me earlier.”

She gave a subtle shrug. “I’m doing that thing where I imagine being with someone,” she explained, her eyes holding his. “You know, see how it feels, how it looks. You know, like trying on a dress.”

Robert closed his eyes, a low groan escaping him. “You were there,” he muttered, referring to the time Blonde Blazer had called him to her office and he’d accidentally walked in on her zipping up her dress. He'd helped her, a reluctant participant. The image of Invisigal, potentially lurking unseen, watching that moment, was… unsettling.

Invisigal’s smirk widened. She slipped off the counter, closing the small distance between them until her face was inches from his. “I could have been,” she whispered, her breath ghosting across his skin. “I could be anywhere.”

“And you chose to be here,” Robert instantly shot back, his eyes opening to lock with hers. “In the men’s bathroom.”

She hummed, the sound a low vibration that seemed to tickle his ear. “Yeah. I’m choosing to be here with 𝘺𝘰𝘶.” She somehow managed to inch impossibly closer, the faint scent of her perfume a subtle invasion of his personal space.

Robert stayed rooted to the spot, a strange calm settling over him, a familiar resignation to the absurd. “And I’m assuming there’s a reason you haven’t left?” he asked, his voice still flat, but a new current of tension now thrumming beneath it.

She tilted her head, her eyes filled with a predatory glint in their depths. “Yeah. I’m wondering if you live up to the fantasy. What do you think? Can you?”

Before Robert could formulate a response, the harsh screech of a stall door being thrown open shattered the charged atmosphere. Flambae burst out, his face contorted into a mask of fury, his eyes blazing directly at Robert and Invisigal. Without a word, he forcefully shoulder-checked Robert, shoving him towards the other sinks despite the ample empty space. “Get the fuck out of my way, bitch. And go flirt somewhere else. Have some respect.”

Invisigal’s expression instantly soured, her previous intensity evaporating like mist. Robert, not caught off guard by the sudden aggression, could only roll his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Oh, so 𝘯𝘰𝘸 you want to talk to me.”

Flambae, already at the sink and aggressively scrubbing his hands, instantly bristled. “What was that, bitch?” he snarled, his voice dangerously low.

Robert sighed, the sound heavy with a profound weariness. “Nothing.” He turned back to Invisigal, a finality in his tone. “I was just about to tell Invisigal here that bathrooms are for shitting after your first coffee and picking the occasional shrapnel out of your body. Not for whatever 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 is.”

Flambae scoffed, his gaze flicking between Robert and Invisigal. “Yeah, sure.”

Robert opened his mouth, intending to demand what the hell Flambae was even talking about, why he was so pissed, but before he could, Invisigal’s frustration boiled over. She let out a piercing cry, pointing an accusing finger at Flambae, her eyes blazing. “You ruined this for me!” Then, with a final, furious glare, she dissolved into nothingness, vanishing as completely as she had appeared, storming out of the bathroom in a fury. The rapid click-clack-click of her heels were the only noise left in her wake.

“Fuck you too, bitch,” Flambae spat into the empty air.

Robert watched her go, a flicker of something akin to confusion briefly crossing his face. He turned to address Flambae, figuring now was as good a time as any to bite the bullet and have a conversation with the main source of all his problems lately. But before he could even open his mouth, Flambae shoved past him again, his movements sharp and angry, and stormed out of the bathroom, leaving Robert alone in the sudden, echoing silence.

Robert cursed under his breath, a low, guttural sound of pure exasperation, and pressed his palms flat against the cold porcelain of the sink, staring at his reflection.

His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was sticking up at weird angles. There was a greasy smear on his chin—probably from the sub he grabbed from his fridge. He looked tired. Not just physically, though that was bad enough, but the kind of tired that settled into your bones, your brain, your goddamn soul.

God, he hated his life.

He stood there for a few seconds, contemplating what the fuck had just happened, the cool quiet offering no answers. It was ridiculous, almost like some poorly written sitcom—a ghost, a fire-starter, and a sleep deprived man walk into a bathroom where a standoff occurs and ends with two storm-outs and a left behind third party who never even got a word out.

It was stupid, frustrating and utterly 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

This job. The drama, the bickering, the fact that he was the only one who seemed to remember they were supposed to be heroes and not a dysfunctional sitcom cast. It was all exhausting. He just wanted to go home. To forget about all this stupid shit. But the city didn’t sleep, and neither did Dispatch. Duty lurked beyond the door and there was no escape.

With a final exhale that tasted like stale air and frustration, he pushed off the counter, straightened his collar, and shoved the door open with more force than necessary. It banged against the wall with a hollow thud, and he didn’t care. Let it splinter. Let the whole damn floor collapse. At this point, it’d be a good change of pace.

The base was quiet, save for the distant thrum of the generator and hum of the fluorescent lights that sounded like a busy beehive. He reached his station and dropped into his chair, a ragged sigh escaping him. The leather groaned under his weight. He reached for his headphones and slid them over his head. The familiar weight settled like armor, a comforting relief. His screen blinked to life, a matrix of alerts pulsing across the map of the city. Zones lit up in amber and red. Routine. Predictable. Pain in the ass.

He leaned back, eyes scanning the incoming pings. “Z-Team, status check,” he said, voice already dropping into that familiar, flat monotone. The tone that said: 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

Coupé crackled in first. “Recovered Mrs. Henderson’s cat. It was hiding in a sewer grate. Smelled like regret and tuna. Mission complete.”

“Copy,” Robert said, typing. “Mental state of cat?”

“Extremely judgmental.”

“Noted. Sonar?”

“I'm good. Just, uh, I'll uh, be right back. Just gotta go powder my… cocaine.” he said, his voice trailing off at the end.

“I'm sorry, you're going to what?” Robert asked, having to take a double take. It was obvious what Sonar was doing, but still. Hearing that out of nowhere deserved a double take. It was honestly sad how badly Sonar fumbled. He pretty much admitted to what he was doing by making his excuse to cover it up.

Malevola sighed. “You heard him, Rob. Which, dude, c’mon you promised me you were going to cut back.”

Sonar chuckled nervously. “I will. Right after this bump. And like… four more bumps?” He stated, though it sounded more like a question. Even he wasn't sure which was just… great. Fabulous. Robert was going to love writing this up for his report later. Not.

Prism laughed. “Been awhile since I had to call in a coke related favor. But this shit was worth it for sure.”

“Ugh, fuck you.” Malevola snapped back.

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. “Prism, you can't be giving out coke. And Sonar you… you just… do that, I guess. I don't even—” a deep, soul crushing sigh, “Malevola. Status?”

“Right. I beat up three muggers earlier. Broke a bench. They’re in custody. Bench is not.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, the bench wasn’t paying taxes.”

“That's not the—nevermind. Just, try not to break anything else, please,” Robert asked, his voice already sounding tired. “Punch Up?”

“Terrible. I haven't walloped anything all damn day."

“Sorry to hear that. Must be tough for you to not beat up people.” Robert deadpanned.

“Hey! I don't like your tone.”

Robert sighed. “Just hang in there. I'm sure you'll get your chance.”

“I better. I ain’t just going to stand around all day without gettin’ to break something.”

“Priorities, Punch. Beating people up and breaking stuff is not one of them.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, boss.”

Robert sighed, moving on. “Invisigal?”

Silence.

He blinked. “Invisigal, report.”

Another pause. Then, a hiss. “Fine. I’m here. Happy? I only have one thing to say to you: don’t you 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 send me on some stupid errand like retrieving a lost poodle or calming a crying toddler. I swear to God, Rob, if you deploy me for another emotional support hamster rescue, I will put needles in your coffee.”

“Understood,” Robert said, deadpan. “Though I do have a report of a guinea pig trapped in a vending machine…”

“I hate you,” she spat, and the line went silent again.

Robert inhaled deeply, counting to three before he slowly exhaled. This was going to be a long shift. “Waterboy?”

“Hear! I, um, I-I'm here. Just, you know,” he awkwardly chuckled, “uh, w-waiting. Ready to help whenever you ne-need me!”

“That's good to hear.” Robert said, his voice softening slightly. Waterboy always required a more encouraging approach. “Keep up the good work.”

“Y-yes! Of course! No problem!”

“I am also waiting to be of assistance!” Phenomanan cut in, his voice booming.

Robert winced, the noise a small shock to his eardrum. “Right, that's also good to know. Moving on. Golem?”

“In line getting a hotdog.” His voice was like gravel being slowly compressed into diamond.

“Lovely. Prism?”

“Ugh. Finally. I was about to combust from sheer neglect. If you must know I'm stacking mad W's today baby.”

“Glad to hear it. Especially because I have a new job for you. Zone 7. Power surge at the elementary school. Kids are panicking because the robotic teacher started rapping. Calm them down. Use pastels. No glitter.”

“Racist,” Prism mumbled, but the line clicked as she mobilized.

“Not how it works.” Robert shot back, rolling his eyes. He glanced down to the left corner of his screen, spotting Flambae’s icon. He contemplated for a second asking for his status, weighing the pros and cons, but ultimately chose not to. Flambae seemed to still be in his pissy mood and quite frankly Robert was not in the mood himself to deal with it right now.

And so, the first hour crawled by in the usual rhythm—petty calls, minor rescues, the occasional supervillain prank. Coupé handled a stolen bakery truck (turns out the thief was a raccoon with a Napoleon complex).

Sonar and Punch Up diffused a bar fight between two inebriated telepaths who kept reading each other’s minds and getting offended—Punch Up reporting he ‘accidentally’ sent one of them to the E.R.

Speaking of accidents, Malevola ‘accidentally’ cursed a landlord into believing he was made of cheese. Golem efficiently diffused a malfunctioning construction bot in Zone 8, his slow, measured voice reporting success.

Phenomaman handled a runaway train… somehow. Waterboy helped an old lady walk her dog. Invisigal reported back, tersely, that the guinea pig was retrieved without incident, though the Guinea Pig apparently took a dislike to her hair. Shortly after Prism reported her mission was a success as well and that she hated children.

All in all, it was almost a good shift. And the only reason it was an ‘almost good’ and not a good was because of a certain hero who was prone to starting fires. Every mission Flambae was sent on resulted in him ignoring Robert’s instructions.

Zone 7: Sewer gas leak. Robert ordered containment. Flambae blew a hole in the street ‘to ventilate.’

Zone 3: Kid stuck in a tree. Robert sent Coupé. Flambae incinerated the lower branches ‘to speed up the rescue.’

Zone 9: Suspicious energy readings near a power plant. Robert told him to observe. Flambae walked in, announced himself like a villain, and set off three alarms.

Each time, Robert’s voice grew colder, drier, more controlled. Each time, Flambae, responded with a smirk in his tone and a deliberate disregard for protocol. Each time, Flambae's newest infraction tightened the invisible vise around Robert’s skull. Each ignored command felt like a personal slight.

And the worst part? The missions just kept piling on.

Suspicious smoke at the docks? Flambae, assigned for investigation, decided a full thermal scan meant melting a padlock off a shipping container suspected to be empty instead of waiting for Security clearance. And if Flambae wasn't bad enough, arguments erupted constantly across the open comms: Prism complaining about Coupė’s ‘creepy vibe’, Sonar bragging about a takedown Golem actually performed, Malevona offering unsolicited life advice.

Robert’s responses became even more clipped, his usual dry monotone grating like rusted metal.

Then, amidst the chaotic flow of status reports, Flambae, who seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to knowing exactly when to annoy Robert, decided out of nowhere to pipe up.

“Hey, what's the best way to ask a guy out?”

Silence.

Then, Invisigal’s voice, laced with venom, replied, “Try not being a raging asshole with the emotional maturity of a lit match. That might be a start.”

“Screw you, bitch” Flambae shot back. “I’m serious.”

A cough cut through the line. “Mate, you want to 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 someone? Since when?” It was Punch Up, his voice filled with shock.

“Since now,” Flambae snapped. “There's this barista or whatever who works at the coffee shop on 5th, the one with the weird latte art. He gave me a free oat-milk cappuccino the other day. That’s, like, fucking sign language. Why? Is it so hard to believe I wanna get laid?”

“Nah,” Malevola said, chuckling. “It’s just weird to hear you ask us for advice. You usually just tell us about your dates.”

“Maybe I’m evolving,” Flambae shot back. “Maybe I wanna feel things. Maybe I wanna—”

Whatever was said next Robert didn't hear. He didn’t move. Not because he was frozen in shock—no, that’d be too dramatic—but because something sharp and quiet had lodged itself behind his ribs, a splinter of heat that twisted every time Flambae spoke.

"𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘢𝘵-𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦."

Sign language. Right.

Robert’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, keys half-pressed, forgotten. His screen still showed the mission he’d been about to assign—something about chasing a sewer-dwelling mutant who smelled worse than rotten eggs on a bad day. But the words blurred now, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his tired eyes like static on a dead channel.

Why the hell was Flambae asking for dating advice? Why now?

And why did the idea of Flambae—𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘦, of all people—leaning across some sunlit counter, grinning at some soft-spoken barista with flour on his apron or whatever the hell hipster café accessories people wore these days, make Robert’s jaw clench like he’d bitten down on metal?

He could picture it. Too easily.

Flambae in that stupid, low cut V-neck hero suit he always wore, fabric straining to show off those damn forearms, stepping into a place that smelled like roasted beans and indie folk music. The kind of place Robert had passed a hundred times without ever stopping. The kind of place that felt too real, too normal—people laughing over muffins, students with their laptops open, couples sharing scones. A world that didn’t run on apocalyptic schedules and broken bones.

And there, behind the counter: the barista. Smiling. Maybe shy. Definitely not the kind of person who spent most their life dodging lasers from egomaniacal metahumans. Probably had clean hands. No scars. No trauma. Probably didn’t know what Dispatch even was.

And Flambae would charm him. Of course he would. Because Flambae was good at that—loud, unapologetic, magnetic in that obnoxious way that made people either want to punch him or follow him into a burning building. He didn’t need to try. He just happened, like a wildfire, and everyone else either got burned or stood watching, mesmerized.

Robert exhaled slowly through his nose. A beat. Then another.

His chest felt tight. Not pain, not exactly. More like something heavy had settled in his lungs, pressing down whenever he tried to breathe too deeply. It wasn’t anger—not outright. It was irritation wrapped in something darker, a sour knot in his gut that pulsed when Flambae laughed at Malevola’s jab about ‘evolving.’

"𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴."

The words echoed. Hollow. Mocking. Or maybe that was just Robert’s head playing tricks.

Because didn’t Flambae already feel things? Didn’t he 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 Robert back that night?

Not that Robert wanted to think about it. Not that it was important. It wasn’t. Two angry heroes, too much adrenaline after Flambae’s close call, a supply closet in the back of SDN where they’d ducked so Robert could yell at Flambae about how much of a reckless idiot he was. One moment they were arguing about tactics—𝘐 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴—the next, he'd initiated and Flambae accelerated, breath hot, eyes fever-bright, and touch burning as he crushed their mouths together.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and desperation, a collision of two people too used to pain to remember what softness felt like. And after, when Flambae dropped to his knees—right there, in that stupid supply closet, surrounded by bandages and cleaning junk—Robert hadn’t protested. He’d tipped his head back and closed his eyes and let it happen.

And then it was over. Flambae wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirked, said, “You might want to change your shirt Bob Bob,” and walked out like nothing had changed.

And Robert? He’d stood there, pulse still thundering in his throat, and done the only thing he knew how to do: nothing. Pretended it didn’t matter. Pretended he hadn’t spent the next three nights dreaming about the weight of Flambae’s hands on his hips, the burn of Flambae’s breath on his skin, the way Flambae's name sounded when it was gasped from his mouth instead of spat.

And now—𝘯𝘰𝘸—Flambae was casually mentioning some barista?

Some guy who doodled hearts in foam?

Robert’s fingers curled into fists on his desk. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Controlled. The kind of tone he used when he was three seconds from throwing someone through a window.

"That depends," he said, voice flat, "on whether you want to actually date him or just get off in a bathroom stall and pretend you don’t remember his name."

Silence fell over the comms.

Even Invisigal, who had been muttering something under her breath about Flambae’s emotional intelligence being ‘on par with a malfunctioning toaster,’ went quiet.

Flambae, though—he laughed. A short, sharp bark that made Robert’s spine stiffen.

"Damn, Bob Bob, what crawled up your ass and died? Jealous?"

The word hung there.

𝘑𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴.

Robert didn’t react. Not visibly. He just leaned back in his chair, cracked his knuckles one by one, and stared at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Jealous?" he echoed, tone drier than the Mojave in July. "Of you? Trying to romance a man who probably thinks ‘pyrokinesis’ is a brand of energy drink? No. I’m just tired of watching you treat people like they’re disposable. Again."

A pause.

Then Punch Up, cautious: “Whoa. Rob, that’s… actually kinda personal.”

"Yeah, no kidding," Coupé murmured.

Flambae didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was lower. Sharper. "Shut the fuck up. You, who's probably never even gone on a fucking date, don’t get to lecture me about how I treat people. What the hell even is—"

"Is my issue?" Robert cut in, still not raising his voice. Still not moving. "You’re seriously going to ask that after the closet? Yeah. I said it. That happened. And then you walked away like it was nothing. So don’t act like you’re suddenly some romantic hero just because a guy gave you a free drink."

There. He said it.

And the second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Not because they weren’t true—because they were. And worse, because now everyone 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Even the ambient hum of the comms felt heavier.

Prism cleared her throat. “Well. That just made things interesting.”

Robert didn’t care. He was already pulling the headset off, tossing it onto the desk. His heart was pounding, but not from anger. From something else. Something raw and exposed, like he’d ripped open a wound he didn’t even know was there.

Because the truth—the stupid, humiliating truth—was that the closet had meant something to him. Not because he thought it was a confession or a promise. Robert wasn’t naïve. But because, for the first time in years, he’d felt seen. Not as the unpowered grunt of Dispatch, not as the one who ended his family's legacy, not as the failed hero. But as someone wanted. Even if it was messy. Even if it was temporary.

And Flambae had thrown it away. Laughed it off. Moved on.

And now he was chasing after some barista like Robert was already a footnote.

That stung. More than any burn, any bullet, any betrayal ever had.

And Robert didn’t know what to do with that. So he did what he always did.

He shut down.

He leaned forward, elbows on the cool surface of his desk, fingers digging into the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically crush the raging headache behind his eyes. Pure, unadulterated frustration vibrated through him, a low thrum beneath the taut silence. Somewhere out there, Flambae was probably rolling his eyes, making a sarcastic comment, already forgetting this whole exchange.

But Robert couldn’t forget.

Because now, every time he closed his eyes, he didn’t just see Flambae at a coffee shop, flirting with someone new.

He saw the way Flambae had looked at him in that closet—wild, unguarded, hungry—and wondered if that version of him had only ever existed in the dark.

And if it had, then maybe Robert was a fool for missing him.

He groaned, the sound harsh and ragged.
Fuck this. Coffee. He needed coffee. And something aggressively sweet and artificial to soak up the acid churning in his stomach. He pushed back from the desk with a grating scrape of chair legs, ignored Chase’s attempts to talk to him, and headed towards the break room.

Predictably, the breakroom was empty at this time and, of course, the coffee pot was too. Only burnt black sludge at the bottom. Robert grabbed a Twinkie from the vending machine, its vibrant yellow package annoyingly cheerful, and moved to the counter. He dumped the sludge, rinsed the glass pot, and started the ritual: fresh grounds, water, the gurgle promising bitter salvation. He leaned against the counter, unwrapping the Twinkie, the scent of synthetic vanilla offering a pathetic balm. He bit into it mechanically, barely tasting it.

The door swung open with a bang.

Flambae strode in, radiating heat and simmering fury. He paused, glancing around the room before his eyes zeroed in on his target. With new purpose he made a beeline for, low and behold, Robert.

Just his fucking luck.

Heat washed over him, fierce and menacing. The air shimmered around Flambae.

“What the hell was that back there?” he spat, getting right into Robert's personal space. "You fucking petty, jealous control-freak piece of shit!"

Robert didn't flinch. He met the white-hot rage head-on, his voice dripping with acidic bite. “What? Didn't like hearing the truth?” He took a deliberate step forward himself, forcing Flambae to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "Being called out?"

Flambae huffed, actual tendrils of smoke curling from his nostrils. The air felt thick, oven-hot. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "Get fucked. You better watch your mouth, bitch."

"Watch my mouth? That's rich." Robert’s voice remained low, a controlled counterpoint to Flambae’s heat. "Seems like you're the one with the issue. Constantly. Or is your desperate struggle to get a date after work fucking with your head that badly? Explains the performance today. Every mission. Every fucking order ignored."

Flambae’s eyes flared, molten gold. Sparks licked across his fists. He leaned in even closer, forcing Robert back half a step until the small of his back pressed against the edge of the counter. The coffee pot rattled faintly in its burner.

"Oh, please," Flambae sneered, his breath hot against Robert’s face. "If anyone's got trouble getting laid, it's 𝘺𝘰𝘶. With your sad, pathetic life. All you ever do is sit around all day, barking orders at people like your some fucking big shot. Maybe you need to get better at your fucking job instead of micromanaging to compensate for that tiny little dick of yours."

They were nose to nose now, breathing the same scorching air. Raw animosity crackled between them, thick enough to choke on. Neither looked away. Weeks of mutual antagonism, power struggles, bruised egos, and something else—something sharp and unacknowledged—vibrated in the charged silence. The closet, the insubordination, the date comment—it all boiled down to the searing heat radiating off Flambae and the cool, stubborn defiance radiating back from Robert.

A muscle jumped in Robert's jaw. He let out a low, incredulous scoff. The Twinkie wrapper crinkled unnoticed in his clenched fist. "Well," he said, his voice dangerously soft, holding Flambae’s molten gaze without blinking, "you didn’t seem to have any complaints when you were deep-throating my ‘tiny little dick’."

Time stopped.

Flambae went utterly still. The simmering heat vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness, the calm before an inferno. His eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed into slits of pure, uncontrolled fury. Robert saw the explosion building in the sudden rigidity of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw, the way the light seemed to be sucked towards him.

Before Robert could register more than a split-second stab of too far, Flambae moved. It wasn't a shove. It was pure, unleashed kinetic fury. Flambae slammed forward, his hand coming to strike Robert's jaw with a sharp right hook, his fist like a brand. Robert gasped at the scalding heat searing through his cheek and into his bones as he was violently forced back against the countertop.

The coffee pot jumped violently, sloshing hot liquid dangerously close to the rim. The small of Robert’s back hit the edge hard, a jolt of sharp pain momentarily shocking him. Instinctively, perhaps unconsciously, his body bowed slightly against the countertop, his hips tilting back... an unintentional yielding that created space between them, space that felt suddenly charged, expectant.

Flambae braced one burning hand against Robert's hip, effectively caging him in. His other hand clamped on Robert’s shoulder, holding him in place. Flambae looked him up and down, his fiery gaze raking over Robert’s body with an intensity that set a different kind of fire alight inside him.

Robert tensed, muscles coiled for the next blow, but the strike never came. Flambae simply stood, eyes blazing, staring down at the part in Robert’s lips—an almost imperceptible second that lingered before his gaze snapped back to the defiant glare in Robert’s eyes.

Robert clenched his teeth, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. What? Was he not good enough to even hit now? He stared up, matching Flambae’s fiery gaze, holding it with every ounce of his own frustrated, buried anger. Then, before he really even realized what he was doing, he was speaking, saying words he normally never would all in the hopes of provoking Flambae—of getting him to feel something, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

“What's wrong? Why aren't you throwing another punch?” he scoffed, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Don’t tell me your all bark and no bite. What happened? Where did all that fight go?”

The jab hit it's mark. Flambae’s eyes flared, a faint orange glow igniting in their depths. The next thing Robert knew Flambae crashed his mouth against his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t a question. It was a collision. It was hot and heavy, a fight translated into a different language, the taste of smoke and stale coffee and pure, unadulterated rage. For a beat, Robert was frozen in surprise, but then he was kissing back just as fiercely, his hand rising and sliding from Flambae’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until the world narrowed to this. To the heat, the anger, and the sudden, shocking rightness of it all.

As the kiss continued, it only grew hotter and more intense. The countertop pressed into Robert’s lower back, cool and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating off Flambae. His chest heaved against the heat of Flambae’s palm, the man’s fingers splayed like a claim, possessive and unyielding.

Robert’s jeans had grown damp from the pressure of their bodies, the faint scent of smoke and ground coffee beans lingering in the air—a byproduct of Flambae’s temper, or maybe his own. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Flambae’s lips devoured his, leaving him trembling, his resolve as shaky as the flicker of a dying flame.

But then Flambae’s hand dipped lower, calloused fingertips brushing the waistband of his jeans, and Robert’s mind snapped awake like a light switch. Memories surged unbidden: a cramped supply closet, the same maddening combination of smoke and adrenaline, Flambae’s mouth on his neck as he’d whispered, “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭.” That had been the last time Robert had let himself get swept up in this chaos. And look where it had led—anger, public humiliation, and a three-day-long feud that had ended with both of their tops exploding.

“Wait,” Robert gasped, pressing his palms against Flambae’s shoulders to push back. His voice came out ragged, uneven, like he’d just run a mile instead of just… 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

Flambae didn’t fight him. He exhaled sharply, stepping back just enough to let the air between them cool, but his hand remained on Robert’s hip, a scalding brand. His eyes, still smoldering, flicked to Robert’s lips—just once, quick as a heartbeat—before he muttered, “What?” through gritted teeth.

Robert’s pulse hadn’t slowed, his skin still humming with the ghost of Flambae’s touch. He swallowed, licking his lips, and willed his brain to catch up. “I—” He hesitated, the words tangled in his throat. The heat rose in his neck, a flush of embarrassment mingling with the lingering sting of the kiss.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, only that imagining Flambae with anyone else—anyone else who could make his blood race—flooded him with an unfamiliar, angry jealousy. But he wouldn't go as far as to say that he loved or even liked Flambae. Flambae constantly annoyed him and got on his nerves, causing unnecessary amounts of stress. He just... he didn't even know. The last thing he needed was to say something stupid, like 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. But the silence stretched, and Flambae’s glare sharpened, impatient and angry, like Robert was wasting his oxygen.

So he settled for the truth, the only part of him that still functioned without short-circuiting. “Don’t see other people.” It came out as a breath, then a growl when Flambae arched a brow. “And don’t… don’t act like this is some one-time thing if we do this. I can’t do that kind of shit.”

Flambae snorted, the sound dry and bitter. “𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘩,” he sneered, the word dripping with mockery. “Coming from you.”

Robert bristled, every nerve ending still hypersensitive. He grabbed Flambae’s wrist, yanking it away from his hip. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Flambae rolled his eyes, the motion slow and condescending. “Oh, please. Like you don’t know.” The temperature in the break room rose—just slightly, but enough for Robert to notice.

Robert’s jaw clenched. “I 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 know. Now cut the shit and tell me, or get the hell off me.”

For a heartbeat the room seemed to hold its breath. Flambae’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking over the curve of Robert’s mouth, the reddened tips of his ears, the way his shirt clung to his torso. Then, with a sigh that sounded like a furnace sighing out, he said, “Fuck it. Whatever. You want me to say it, I’ll fucking say it.”

He leaned in, voice low and throaty. “I find it fucking ironic you don't want this to be a one time thing when your the bitch that wanted the last time we did this to be a one‑off session.”

Robert blinked, stunned. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Flambae’s face hardened. “Don't play fucking stupid. You 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 what I'm talking about. You have some weird thing going on with that emo invisible bitch and some other fucked up thing with that blonde bitch—Blonde Blazer or whatever. I see the way you look at them, how they fucking look at you. I'm not some idiot.” Flambae hissed, his voice low and vibrating with heat. “It was pretty fucking obvious you never wanted a repeat of what happened between us. It only happened in the first place because you were pent‑up, angry, and I was the only fucking one there to take it out on.”

The words hit hard, but Robert fought to keep his face blank. He didn’t have to confirm it for Flambae to be right. He had initiated the kiss that led to everything becoming a glorified clusterfuck. He knew that. And he had never meant for it to happen again—had never wanted it to. Not initially anyway. He still wasn't even sure why it bothered him when Flambae had acted like their kiss had never happened. By all means, it should have been a blessing. But like all things in his life, he had to fuck it all up by getting emotionally invested.

Typical.

However, there was one thing that Flambae said that was not true. Robert took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come next. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs, a drumbeat of nerves. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Flambae’s temper flared, his voice rising. “Uh, ex-fucking-scuse me? The fuck—”

But before he could finish, Robert silenced him with a kiss, hard and biting, pressing his advantage while Flambae was still off-balance. This time, there was no confusion, no heat-of-the-moment frenzy. Just purpose. It was by far the quickest, and most efficient, way to shut Flambae up. When he pulled back, he said, “Firstly, I never said I wanted what happened to be a ‘one off.’ You assumed that. And secondly, there's nothing between me and Visi or Blazer. I don’t even know where you got that idea.”

Flambae’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. For a moment, Robert thought he’d lash out—punch the counter, the coffee machine, do something to express that pent up energy. Instead, he spat, “You’re the fucking idiot if you haven’t noticed how obvious they are. Blazar's been giggling at your jokes for weeks. And Invisigal—” he made a face like he’d tasted something rancid, “—is always flirting with you. Hell, she was fucking flirting with you this morning.”

“What are you—” Robert’s mind ground to a halt. He remembered the brief, awkward bathroom encounter with Visi, where she’d admitted a dream about them tangled together. He also remembered how Flambae had stormed out like a bull on a rampage after seeing red. He frowned, the memory surfacing, and a sense of dawning washed over him. “Oh.” He let the single word hang.

Flambae scoffed, rolling his eyes again. “Yeah, ‘𝘰𝘩’ is right you dumb bitch. The fact you couldn’t see it is—what the? Why the fuck are you smiling? Did you hit your head?”

“You were 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴.” Robert accused, leaning closer. His voice dropped to something rougher, hungrier. “That’s why you stormed out of the bathroom and ruined my talk with Visi. And that’s why you mentioned the barista over comms. You were trying to get back at me, weren't you?”

Flambae’s face twisted, half-anger, half-embarrassment. His ears burned brighter than usual, the air around them crackling with restrained heat. “Bullshit,” he hissed. “You’re full of yourself.”

Robert chuckled, low and smug. “Sure, whatever you have to tell yourself. But we both know deep down you were trying to get back at me.” He tilted his head, studying the way Flambae’s fists uncurled and re-curled at his sides. “Admit it. You’re a petty little shit.”

“Shut up, you were jealous too.” Flambae shot back. “My plan worked, because I'm a fucking genius, so fuck you.”

Robert didn’t deny it. The weight that had been pressing on his chest since Flambae’s fingers had brushed his jeans was gone, replaced by something lighter, almost playful. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of Flambae’s hair behind his ear.

“Yeah well, I’d love to let you fuck me,” he murmured, his fingertips lingering. “But doing it in the break room of where we work doesn’t exactly scream ‘professional.’”

Flambae slapped Robert’s hand away, his eyes glaring daggers as he snapped, “Fuck off, don't touch me. You're fucking insufferable. I don’t get why I even bother wasting my time on you.”

Robert chuckled, an odd mix of amusement and earnestness coloring his tone, before his face fell serious again. “So… why do you?” He asked, his voice genuine. “Why do you put up with me if you hate me? Why do whatever…” He gestured vaguely at the position their bodies were in, at the heat that seemed to cling to them both, “this is?”

Flambae’s eyes hardened, a flicker of something that could almost be called pity—or perhaps weariness—flickering through his blaze. He scoffed, “What? Do you expect me to say something like, ‘oh yeah, I've come to love you with all the capacity in my withered fucking heart, sweetie?’ Because I really fucking hope not. I’m not that fucking sentimental.”

Robert shrugged. "I mean, I didn't anticipate my life ever taking this turn, but I do… feel something. At least enough to want to keep doing whatever the fuck this is, so I kind of hoped to have the sentiment returned in some way."

Flambae let out a guttural, almost involuntary groan. “Fuck, this is the most embarrassing conversation I’ve ever had. You should be grateful I didn't fucking get outta here like ten minutes ago.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a faint red tint rising at the tips of his ears.

“There you go,” Robert said, a half‑smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes flicked to the tips of Flambae’s ears, which had taken on a pronounced shade of red—an embarrassed, fiery pink that only a creature of flame could manage. “Your ears are turning red. That’s a start.”

Flambae’s expression flickered, a mixture of irritation and embarrassment. “Fucking—𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦. I do… care, okay? But don’t get the wrong fucking idea. I’d still burn you alive any day, but I can’t deny there’s… something that keeps me wanting more.”

Robert’s eyes glittered with a mischievous spark. “Oh yeah? So you like me?”

Flambae’s glare hardened, his voice low and edged with a warning. “Shut the fuck up, bitch. Stop putting words in my mouth.” He growled, the heat in his voice matching the smoldering air around them.

Robert let out a short, amused chuckle, then shifted his weight, biting his lower lip as his thoughts tangled.

Flambae’s eyes narrowed. “What’s up with you now? Just say whatever the fuck it is.”

Robert sighed, the sound a mix of relief and lingering nerves. “So, just for clarification… we’re still doing this, right?” He asked, his tone tentative, the raw edge of vulnerability barely hidden.

Flambae rolled his eyes, a sigh escaping him, then, with a sudden, feral rush, lunged forward, crushing Robert’s mouth against his own in a searing kiss. The heat surged like a furnace, their bodies locked in a violent, passionate dance. When they finally broke, both gasping for breath, Flambae’s voice was a low, angry whisper.

“Yes, you stupid bitch, we can continue to do whatever the fuck this is. Now stop fucking talking.”

The words landed like a blow, yet somehow they felt like a promise. Robert’s chest lightened, a fleeting sense of relief flickering through the storm of his emotions. He felt a soft, almost grateful warmth spread through him, his eyes lingering on Flambae’s, the room still thick with heat and the unspoken agreement that whatever chaos lay ahead, it would be faced together—fire, fury, and all.