Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

12.25.2017.

Santa Clara, California. 

10:15 P.M.

That time of the year again.

Festivity is in abundance. Houses and establishments decorated in twinkling, multicolored lights. Holiday music blasting over speakers in every store. The air is cold and crisp, bringing a sense of freshness that precedes the upcoming dawn of a new year.

This is a time to celebrate. To come together with loved ones, and enjoy the light-hearted atmosphere of fun and cheerful –

“You missed a spot,” The irritating, nasally voice from behind the counter calls out, “Table six.”

You barely, just barely, refrain from reaching into Terry's past and going back to his birth. Prevent him from ever being here to piss you off more than you already are. Maybe make sure the damned cord is wrapped around –

“Hurry up. You don't get paid to stand around looking stupid,” Terry sighs, scratching at the scruff of his chin loudly.

You press your lips into a thin, pale line, breathing out through your nose. You pick up one already damp checkered rag and head over to said table to wipe down.

While a majority of folk are back at home, winding down from the excitement of Christmas Day with family, you are here with fucking Terry.

You feel like you can't complain too much. You're the one that accepted to take this shift when your manager had asked. It's not as though you have family to celebrate with or anything, because you don't, and you're getting double the pay for it being a holiday and all. Which, considering you've been existing on cup noodles for over a few weeks now, is pretty fucking nice.

It's not as though there's actually anyone coming to Junior Burger at this time of night on this specific day, either. The entire joint has been deserted since you clocked in, with a whopping number of two customers coming in for quick carry-outs.

That's precisely why Terry bitching over non-existent grime on the tables is getting on your very last nerve. That, and the fact that he's played "All I Want For Christmas" over the speakers around eight times at this point.

You're going insane.

Chill. 

Breathe.

You need this miserable job for a reason. 

So, teeth gritted, you scrub at the garishly red and blue swirled tabletop, putting extra elbow grease into getting rid of every last imaginary speck of dirt. 

That's how it is, for several long moments. You could even call it a bit peaceful. Terry is organizing the condiment station, blissfully silent for once in his life. The crackling speakers are playing tasteful holiday jazz (thank fuck). The third ever customer that wandered in here, a drunken, miserable looking man, eats his burger slowly in the far corner.

Then, it all goes to absolute shit.

One minute, you're arranging salt and pepper shakers on the table, and the next minute you're soaring clean across the walkway and into the opposite wall. 

The left most rows of large windows explode as something hurtles into them like a fucking meteorite. Concrete chunks, splintered wood, and sections of benches beam through the air as the entire front of the Junior Burger booth seating is leveled into its basic components.

Your head cracks against the wall, and your vision swims as a guttural, wheezing sound is punched from your lungs on impact. You think your ankle might be broken. It definitely isn't supposed to bend at that angle.

Your ears are ringing.

At least, that's what you think at first.

But your unfocused eyes manage to strain enough to see that no, what you're hearing isn't the residual effect of a burgeoning concussion, but rather a gigantic fucking bat.

What. The. Fuck.

Said creature, easily the size of a delivery truck, is going absolutely insane. It's screeching, high-pitched like nails on a chalkboard, and slamming into every wall, enormous wings clawing at whatever it can reach and destroying anything in its crazed path. 

Bright, blood red eyes glowing in clouds of shrouding dust, wide and manic like it has late stage rabies –

There's a fucking hole in the ceiling, the entire front of the store is gone –

Terry is screaming, his legs are crushed –

The sprinklers are triggered, the fire alarms are blaring -

"All I want For Christmas" is beginning to play again –

The bat-creature spins around, toppling over the front counter and taking it down with it. The cash register slams open with a cheerful sound as it's sent packing, and money floats in the air like confetti. Terry’s screams reach a feverish, ungodly pitch. Babbling. 

You watch in sick, nauseated disbelief as he's ripped into. 

The elongated fangs of the beast’s maw make human flesh look about as strong as wet tissue paper. Blood sprays hot, splattering across its pinkish (no, wait, is there some white too?) snout and inken fur, across the walls, everywhere.

Terry is now everywhere.

The customer, the drunken man, is laying in a broken, crumpled heap. His burger in hand. One of the booth seats that had been launched across the room had landed on him. Lucky.

You're going to die here. You can hear sirens in the distance, no fucking doubt someone called the cops when it sounded like a nuclear bomb hit the local Junior Burger, but they won't make it in time. Bat-creature is devouring Terry like a Christmas Ham, and when it's done, you're definitely next on the menu.

Then, it all goes to shit again.

“Stop right there!” 

“Oh, god, what the actual fuck!? He eats people??”

Is that…

Heroes?

Holy shit. 

Your delirious eyes cut to the gaping chasm of Junior Burger’s former window front, squinting into the empty parking lot.

Electron’s neon get-up of mustard yellow and flaming orange is an eyesore no one could mistake. Black Cat, on the other hand, blends into the shadows of night with an air of mystique she's popular for.

These are actual, full-blown heroes. They have figurines and posters and brand deals, all that shit.

Which means – oh, fuck –

You launch yourself across the cracked tiles, broken ankle be damned, as both heroes come flying into the decimated remains of your workplace at mock speed. Bat-creature screeches at them, the force of it so powerful that more of the building’s structure shakes and collapses a little more like it's in the throes of a 7.0 magnitude.

Take cover. Take cover. Take cover.

That's the mantra in your head, as you duck and dodge the ensuing battle unfolding around you. Repeatedly, you're nearly electrocuted, stabbed, crushed, and slowly going borderline deaf from the tangle of hero against rampaging beast. Each time you just barely dodge enough to miraculously survive.

The Junior Burger is further, and further, destroyed. The entire ceiling is caved in. There's less than two walls left standing. The plumbing has been obliterated, and there's geysers of water spraying into the night air from multiple broken pipes. That seems a little dangerous, given that there are multiple live wires snapping around.

How is the music still fucking playing?

You're huddled underneath rubble you think is from the roof, now. Eyes wide, mangled ankle on fire, heart pounding.

You are not going to die like this.

You begin to reach inward. You start to picture the bat-creature, start to look for fissures in the feral, ravenous image its left imprinted in your mind. If you find an opening, a point of interest, you can dig deep – you can prevent –

Your hands slam over your ears, as the bat-creature lets out one more screech, practically a roar, but halfway through it cuts out. There's a heavy, ground-shaking slam, the sharp popping of electricity like a dozen tasers are going off.

Then, silence.

Well, no, not silence. “Last Christmas” is playing gently along with the dying fire alarms, a fucked up dissonance that feels surreal.

You dare to peek out from your hiding place, breaths coming sharp and shaking.

Bat-creature is knocked the fuck out. Face down. Wings spread. Fur smoking with electrical burns. Fried.

Electron stands off to the side, bent over with his hands on his knees as he gasps for air. Black Cat is nudging bat-creature’s head with her pointed boot, arms crossed and general appearance ragged.

“Wasn’t expecting…to fight…a coked out mutant…on Christmas…” Electron wheezes out, winded from the struggle. 

Black Cat only snorts, crossing her arms.

The next two hours are a blur, after that. Soon enough, the place is crawling with police. The area is sectioned off from the crowds of people gathering, reporters and onlookers out in droves after word gets leaked that heroes had been deployed to the area.

Ambulances arrive. You're found and pulled from the rubble, sat on the back of one with a breathing mask, tinfoil blanket, and an encouraging slap on the back.

You watch, as Electron and Black Cat address reporters. They say that bat-creature is a known villain. Got a little too hopped up on some blow, and the equivalent of midnight munchies for a mutant seems to be human.

You watch, as the bat-creature is bound, and loaded into the back of a massive, armored vehicle. It starts up, and begins to leave. Your hand fumbles into the pocket of the ruined uniform pants you're wearing.

You find your phone. The screen is cracked from when you went flying across the room.

You open the chat with your manager.

Your thumbs fly across the keyboard.

Heyyy, Manny. I quit.

You press send, and shove it back into your pocket. Your mind is reeling. You might be in shock.

Yet, one thing in your mind is prominent.

Why the fuck was that creature wearing a tie?

01.26.2020.

Redwood City, California.

11:00 A.M.

Turns out, you really had needed that job at Junior Burger. 

Is it depressing that such an occupation had been the only thing keeping you from a life of crime? Yeah. Is committing heinous acts more well-paying than flipping burgers and cleaning up toxic public bathrooms?

Oh, fuck yeah.

Simply put, you don't have the credentials to do anything worthwhile or fancy, and busting your ass for egotistic managers at dead end establishments isn't exactly...enticing?

You always knew you'd end up like this, somehow. Your powers aren't particularly obvious enough to immediately make you seem important, but they're definitely valuable enough to give you leverage when proven.

Like, what villain group wouldn't want a free ticket to change the past and future? Nighthawk sure didn't pass up that opportunity.

That's the gist of it. You go into someone's history, their mind, and just tweak one small thing. Just one. It could be a sentence, an action, anything – but it has to be the right thing, to give whoever it is you're after a nudge in the right direction. You've fucked up quite a bit. You're a little indecisive.

It's fine.

Then, you watch the dominoes collapse. It's always a spectacle, to stand back and witness history rewriting itself before your eyes, to see a timeline that was never supposed to exist overtake the current. Sometimes, it goes great. Other times, well, maybe you shouldn't have bothered at all.

There is no eraser for your mistakes, however. None. Your alterations to the past, and the outcome of the future, is final. If you fuck shit up, then you have to live with that.

Oh, and you get the meanest fucking migraines after rummaging around in other people's brains. They put you out of commission for at least an hour, until the painkillers kick in. You've been told you go into a fit once you're in someone's mind. Sitting there with rolled back eyes and concerning spasms.

Otherwise known in this line of work, as vulnerable.

But Nighthawk (yeah, you're aware it's a bit much) makes sure that there's a few lackeys guarding your indisposed form until you're done. It's not a simple stand and glare gig, either. It takes time to rewrite and rewire, and you've almost been smoked at least twelve times while in what you like to call, ‘The Tour’.

It's a path into someone's deepest state of mind, one built on core memories. You can see into everything that makes someone...them. They're like doorways that you can step through, that lead to these slideshows of events you're able to interact with if you choose. 

It's that one question, ‘Would you watch your life be replayed as a movie for this amount of money?’ but not a hypothetical any longer.

You don't know what the fuck this guy has on Nighthawk, but in order to request the use your greatest power during his trial, it must be fucking good.

“You're sure you can do this from the bathroom, Red?” Smokey drawls, the rumbling growl of his voice echoing off tasteless gray tiles, “Your ass is going to be grass if you overshot this.”

You let out snort, grabbing the plain white cloth he's holding out towards you. The nosebleeds once you're done can get quite messy, so you appreciate the gesture.

“If I really wanted, I could just use a picture,” You reply with a shrug, reaching out to pluck the tablet he offers out next, “But I'm very curious as to who's blackmailing our boss, so I want to watch the trial.”

Whoever this lucky guy getting a Get Out of Jail Free card is in some deep shit. 

Second Degree Murder. Aggravated Assault. Obstruction of Justice. Investment Fraud. Racketeering. Money Laundering.

The list goes on.

These charges, as you've been told, are related to each other. That's what makes your particular power so valuable here. You can go back into the bloodstained past, change one instance of what went down, and make things go in Lucky Guy’s favor.

As much as you'll be able to, at least.

Yeah, you'd lied straight to Nighthawk's face about needing to see your target in motion to get inside their head. Did it make sense? Probably not. Does it matter? Definitely not.

You'll get the job done regardless. 

“Nature calls, big guy,” You grin up at Smokey, heading to the biggest stall at the end of the row, “I'll try not to be long.”

Smokey merely grunts, settling into the role of sentinel near the sinks.

The earpiece nestled into your right ear beeps to life as you shut the stall door, the lock sliding into place.

“It's starting, Red,” Mole’s voice whispers, the sound of quiet, crowded shuffling picked up in the background of the feed, “Streaming it now.”

You sit onto the toilet, pull on the headphones around your neck, and switch on the tablet Smokey had given to you. In seconds, you've got the live feed of the trial being filmed on Mole’s glasses displayed across the screen, the quality grainy but steady.

The courtroom is a full house, albeit so unnervingly quiet. Just the occasional cough or camera click. It makes your skin crawl. You've ignored every single jury duty letter you've received to date, for good reason it seems.

“Opening statement from the Defense,” Judge Matthews says slowly, shuffling a stack of documents before him, glancing up over the edge of his glasses.

Someone steps up to the center of the room, a sharply dressed woman. Her face is calm, confident.

“Good morning again, ladies and gentlemen,” Her voice states smoothly, distant in your headphones due to how far away Mole is sitting in the jury box, “As I've previously introduced, my name is Alicia Whittaker. I am an attorney here in our Redwood City, and I am joined here today by fellow attorney – “

Whittaker turns slightly, hand gesturing towards the Defense table. You squint, as Mole turns his head towards it for a better view.

You see a man, suited and crisp where he sits, and beside him is...

Holy fuck.

“ – Martin Alvarez. It is an honor to represent Victor – “

Sound is drowned out, for a moment. Replaced with the humming, roaring rush of blood in your ears.

There, sat at the Defense table, is bat-creature. 

You could be mistaken. He's decidedly more humanoid, now. Several times smaller than the feral thing that had rained hell down onto Junior Burger on Christmas.

But how many people actually look like a literal fucking bat? 

Same large, swiveling ears. Same thick fur in gradient of gray and black. Same stubbed, pinkish snout (albeit, no coke smeared across it). Same elongated fangs that had shredded Terry into ribbons.

Same. Fucking. Red. Tie.

Nighthawk, the piece of absolute shit. What the fuck does bat-creature (Victor??) have on your boss that you have to save his ass?

“Now, Red,” Mole’s voice breathes into the earpiece, over the droning opening statement of Whittaker, “We have to be quick, before someone finds you.”

Fuck.

Shit.

There's no choice here.

“Copy,” You mutter, voice tight.

You push back the turmoil in your head, and glare more deeply at the tablet. 

Batboy looks unnervingly calm, for someone up against a rainbow of flavorful felonious charges. Pale eyes lidded with boredom, tapping a ballpoint against the papers in front of him. Snout twitching into the ghost of a smug grin as Prosecution begins their slanderous opening statement.

That's the expression of someone that knows nothing will happen to them.

You are the card hidden up that suit sleeve.

Here we fucking go.

Your stare turns severe. Locked onto the visage of monochrome fur, pale eyes, subtle grin, head turning, ears swiveling –

Everything goes black.

…………..

………

....….

You jolt with a gasp that echoes through the blackness of your surroundings, cavernous and silent.

Your eyes open.

Your heart slows.

The Tour is laid out in front of you.

Everyone's mind makes it look different. Some are extravagant. Some are warm. Some are terrifying. Some are . . . like this.

Cold.

Desolate.

Suffocating under the weight of a troubled mind.

Concrete walls with gouges and cracks, ground flooded with black water that pools around your boots. The air is shrouded in blood red smoke, swirling around invisible lights.

It's not a straight path. It looks more like an endless lightning bolt, sharp, diagonal angles. There are doors, but it's not endless. 

These doors represent core memories. Turning points in life that couldn't be buried even with all the dissociative coping methods in the world applied. If you head through one, they'll lead to more. The Tour can quickly turn into a labyrinth if you're not careful.

Said doors are all ajar. Batboy is an open book, it seems. 

You hear the voices. The echoes of memories. Shrieks of a child’s laughter. Shrieks of a victim’s pain. Shrieks of a woman's –

Yeah, no. You'll be passing that door when you get to it.

The first door is always the same. Birth. The beginning of everyone.

You look on from the outside, watching as blackness clears into an infant’s first view of the world. 

Blinding lights. The blurry face of a doctor, blue mask and blue scrubs adorned, looking down with clear confusion. Another face peers over his shoulder, just as in disbelief at the piercing, shrieking cries of definitely not an ordinary baby.

“Dr. Hamlin . . . how is this possible?”

You turn and continue, as the nurse's terrified whisper fades into the smoke.

You walk with fascinated leisure, peering into each door as you pass them. Unable to step through and interact, a mere observer.

There's less, in the beginning. Most people don't remember much of drooling, crying, and filling diapers until their existence magically snaps into focus at the tender age of –

“You're getting so big, sweetheart!” She laughs, “Four! I can't believe it. Happy Birthday, Victor.”

The woman's face is the stellar picture of adoration, eyes warm with a love that can't come from anyone other than a mother. She's tall, so much bigger than him as he looks up at her. Her raven hair cascades around her face as she draws a line just above his head, marking his growth with pride.

Your lips purse, eyes watching through the twelfth door with unreadable intensity, and then you keep walking.

There's a lot of doors like that, after that one. Victor and his mother, with no father in sight. It never seems to bother him. She's always sweet, and she's always laughing with a gentle smile. It doesn't seem to bother her, either.

His cries are weak and wet, shaking chitters of pure fear. 

“It grabbed me! It g-grabbed me, and it looked like me – I was so sc-scared – “

Gentle hands smooth across his head, his ears, and then they tuck underneath his arms. Guiding him up into the air, until her warmth wraps around him, and his little snout presses to her throat.

His ears, so sensitive, listen eagerly to the lullaby of her steady heartbeat.

“I'm here, sweetheart,” She soothes, “Mama’s here, don't cry – “

She buys him whatever his little heart wants, clearly well-off enough to. She takes him on trips for ice cream and feeding geese at Golden Gate Park frequently. She holds him after nightmares, of which he often has. He's never alone when he feels sad and afraid.

“I love you, Victor,” She whispers, lips pressing to the soft fur of his forehead, “My sweet boy.”

“Love you too, Mama. Tons!” He squeaks, a little clicking sound that is fragile in innocence, abundant in joy.

Her love for her son seems so genuine, so unconditional.

What drove him to be the person he is now, if he had this type of support? How did you end up in his mind during a criminal trial?

Sixtieth door.

It's late. Past bedtime. Mom will be disappointed if he makes too much noise, and finds him awake.

He can't sleep. He looks in the mirror.

The image of himself stares back unwaveringly. 

Large ears. Too large. 

Massive eyes. No pupils. Sarah said that was scary. 

Fur. Fangs. Piggish snout that gets wet with snot when his eyes start to burn. His throat closes in on itself.

Freak. Monster. Mutant.

Why can't he just be normal? Then Michael and Richie would like him. Invite him to play games after school. Sarah wouldn't have laughed at him when he said he liked her. Mom would stop trying to tell him he's “Perfect just the way he is” –

You grimace.

Yeah, that’s...rough. 

Victor looks about ten, through that door. You'll admit, begrudgingly, that he was adorable as a kid. Ears bigger than his whole head, eyes wide enough to take up his entire face with an innocence that makes instinctive protectiveness rise up.

Not everyone seemed to have thought the same, it seems.

You're saddened, genuinely, as each door grows worse after that one.

In a slow, disheartening descent, you watch the death of that child-like innocence. It's beaten out of him during lunch, out at recess, after school. It's punched, kicked, and drowned in bathroom toilets. He's smaller than a majority of other kids, and that makes it easier to throw him around, shove him in lockers, steal from him.

Year, after year, after year –

Like poison, that brand of cruel alienation infects his self-esteem. 

He really is a freak.

He really is a monster.

High school is spent looking in the mirror, and loathing the reflection. He shoots up like a weed, though still lanky and growing into it. Yet another source of material to be bullied over.

He starts to pull away from his mom the most, then. She looks more and more tired, each time he sees her. More gutted when he shuts his door in her face, and avoids her hugs, and stays out too late.

Nothing can console him. The parts of him that could have been mended are already dead and gone.

Victor is smart. Genius, by all accounts. His grades are spotless. His social life is living hell. His decisions grow questionable.

He gets into weed. Then alcohol. Underage drinking is precarious, but he's smart enough to make his own fake I.D. That, and no one can genuinely tell the age of someone with no visible human age markers.

His peers don't accept him, but adults either don't blink or ignore his strange existence altogether. He likes that. 

He also likes how the weed eases his mind, and opens it. He likes how the alcohol numbs everything, makes it blurred.

Everything is slipping, going downhill in his memories as indulgence starts to chokehold, but outwardly? Victor is the same. Bullied daily. Smart as fuck. Miserable.

You begin to stop looking when indulgences begin to morph into coping mechanisms. When addiction starts to form roots, gnarled and relentless, into memories. When he starts branching out, and weeds turns into blow and speed, and lips forgoing a cup and going straight to the bottle’s rim –

He is very methodical, in how he presents himself.

You lost track of how many doors you've passed, at this point, but this one . . .

This one catches your attention with a horrific scream.

Victor is seventeen, now. Lee Morales breaks his arm after school, cornering him under the bleachers section of the football field. It shouldn't be any different from any other time he's been bullied.

But it is, because –

Ripping. Searing. Pain.

Painpainpainpain –

Muscle convulses. Rage builds like bile. Bones snap further, each a sickening, resounding crack that echoes through the building. He's screaming, crying, and he's so fucking angry –

He blacks out, for a moment. Just a moment. 

You watch in silent dread, as bat-creature makes its first physical appearance of many. Victor doesn't seem to know he's transformed into a smaller version of what you'd seen on Christmas Day, back then, or . . .

The same thing from his nightmares. Repressed, most likely. Because what four year old can handle that much fear? Those dreamscape doors were dull, and the imagery was fogged over, fading. But you'd seen enough.

There was never a monster in little Victor’s nightmares. It was merely himself, reaching out through the network of a child’s psyche, trying to make a connection with its other half.

You think this memory is corrupted by the transformation, that his mind hadn't been able to cope with the beast that had been dormant for most of his childhood. There is no emotion, or thought, or inner monologue to listen to.

You simply see instinct. Years of isolation, pain, and misery unleashed in a red, bloodlust rage. Lee Morales screams, cries, and begs, but there's no use.

Victor eats him all, though not before breaking every last bone in his body. He only comes too after the fact, trapped in that form, snout and fur black with gore.

But he doesn't panic. 

No.

The sense of empowerment that you feel radiating from that door is so strong you could almost mistake it for your own.

They called him a monster? 

Huh.

Guess he is.

Lee Morales is announced missing, a day later. Victor doesn't get caught. His broken arm is because he simply tripped, fell the wrong way. Mom doesn't question it.

No witnesses. No guilt.

He graduates, grades immaculate, and earns a full-blown scholarship to Harvard. One way ticket to success. His mom throws him a party, she's so proud.

His mom gets into a car accident, when he's twenty-three. Fatal. 

He goes on a bender that lasts almost three weeks. Cries himself to sleep in puddles of vomit, makes mournful screaming sounds that are the furthest from human, but cut deeper than any sob. 

For a long while, he can't cope with the reality that he'll never again get to listen to the heartbeat that once made all his fears melt away.

Then, he goes numb.

That's the last time he shows anything genuine in emotion.

You're almost glad she never got to see what her son turns into, next.

You walk past the shaping of the man in the courtroom, eyes wide and emotions conflicted.

Victor becomes as indulgent as he is addicted, again. He partakes like each vice is air he requires to exist. 

Booze. Drugs. Sex. Rinse. Repeat.

All that, while going through Harvard classes with ease that could rival great minds. He graduates, again, and again. Credentials. Certificates. Professional.

Businessman. Tech. One of many sub companies owned by that one corporate rich fuck, Vanderstank. Victor seems to have a...great admiration for him.

Regardless, he's good at his job. Climbs the ranks quickly with charm and wit. 

But behind that lazy grin, and firm handshake, is a villain in development.

The crime starts to flood in. He meets the right people, strengthens the right connections, and earns a name for himself. He devolves into something arrogant. He stopped caring what others thought of him a few years ago (at least, that's what he keeps telling himself).

A nonchalant jackass that knows he has who he needs tucked in his pockets. 

Money laundering. Racketeering. Wire fraud. Investment fraud. Tax evasion. Forgery. Identity theft. 

Sometimes, he doesn't get lucky. He goes to jail multiple times, though not for as long as he should. Those connections do come in handy.

It's always for minor things, too.

It's the good shit.

Oh, it's so fucking good.

He gets hot. Like, really fucking hot. His heart is about to punch through his ribs. His vision is doubling. He's never been so happy.

Pure. Fucking. Euphoria.

He shoots through the night like a comet, wind in his fur, laughing and screeching his head off because holy shit.

Color warps the sky into fucking holographic ripples, like a unicorn spilled its guts through the air. The stars dance around his head, whispering and giggling in his ears. 

Where the fuck is that music coming from?

No, wait. He's hungry, starving. Remember?

Food.

He sees it up ahead. The place is always fucking empty. Who the fuck goes to a Junior Burger when McDonald's is across the street?

Just a little bite. What's the harm?

Because most of the real crimes he’s committing are inane, high-profile shit. The ones he hasn't been caught for could be historic if ever revealed.

Plus, there’s the occasional murder. Nothing personal. Human flesh seems to be a liked taste of Victor’s, when in bat-creature form.

You'd watched the night your paths crossed. Of course you did. You've always wondered what possessed a giant bat-creature to demolish an unsuspecting fast food joint, and devour the Assistant Manager.

The answer, unsurprisingly, was cocaine. Metric fuckton of it, to boot, because bat-creature form has a different way of processing drugs apparently. 

But this murder, the one you're looking for, was not committed for a case of the munchies.

You've passed so many doors, by now. It feels as though you've been trekking through the corridors of his mind for years, even though you're aware that in reality it's only been minutes. 

You've seen so many things you'll never un-see. You know more about Victor than he ever will about you.

You find the door at last.

The frame is blackened, like it's been charred. It's a sign of negativity, of anger towards this specific memory. Sore spot.

You pause in front of it. You know, you just feel it bone-deep, that this is the one.

But you wait, because you have only one shot at this.

Corporate office, after hours. 

Ceiling lights dimmed. Employees all at home.

Deserted. Silent. No one around.

Except for them.

He sits in the plush chair in front of the man’s desk, one leg crossed over the other. Hands folded in his lap. The expression on his face is the same as always, calm disinterest, with a healthy dose of smug comfortability.

He hears the human heart thundering behind its ribcage.

He can smell the sweat beading at the man’s temples.

The pheromones in the room reek of fear.

“You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, Howie,” He drawls, a steady, monotone voice, almost teasing, “Did you really think you could outsmart me?”

Murray Howser. CEO of Trek Technologies. 

Powerful. Top dog.

To the man sitting before him? Nothing but a fucking field mouse.

“Thought you'd send your little goons to get rid of your old pal? Thanks, by the way, for dinner,” Victor hums, patting his stomach mockingly.

Howser looks as though he's crapped himself, a certain level of disgust and horror twisting onto his face at the realization that, yes, Victor had indeed eaten the people he sent after him.

Why not? Free food is good food.

But the light-heartedness of Victor’s attitude morphs into something decidedly less friendly. His pale eyes narrow, snout wrinkling in a twist of a warning frown.

He stands, towering now, and presses his hands onto the rich wood of Howser’s desk. He leans in, and in, overtaking the man’s space until they're nearly nose to snout.

“You can't bury me, Howser. You're in this shit as deep as I am, and I – “ His voice is a condescending whisper, one that sharpens into something dripping with vitriol, “ – I know what you're trying to do.”

Cut ties.

Cut losses.

Cut him.

To protect himself?

Pfft. Nah.

That was his plan, then. To kill Howser before he killed him, which is simple and straightforward. They were, in fact, in extremely deep shit. The investment fraud and money laundering operations were the catalyst for this murder. 

But Howser didn't want to share anymore. Got greedy.

You watch, in what feels like slow motion, as both Howser and Victor devolve into an argument. You're not paying attention to what's being said, anymore, no.

You're looking for details. You're looking for the moment that landed Victor as prime suspect. The one that got him arrested.

Victor plays with his food, before he ends it. He kicks Howser around, throws punches, slams him over his desk, hand squeezing the old bastard's throat until his face is blue. 

He laughs when Howser starts spitting out new, desperate promises in between mouthfuls of bloodied saliva.

Just when the gun is pulled out, suppressor fitted and ready for the main event, you see it.

There.

Tucked just underneath one overlap of Howser’s knotted silk tie.

Glinting ever so faintly.

Camera.

You don't get to be in Howser’s position without a few tricks up the sleeve, it seems.

So, what? He filmed his own murder, and had someone submit it to detectives? The whole ‘if I'm going down, you're coming with me?’ 

That can't be the whole story of it. That can't be the entire picture. Victor was pointed not to mention the details of their conversation outright, so how did all those other charges separate from murder come about?

Fuck.

It doesn't matter. 

You don't have a lot of time to fix this shit.

Stepping through the threshold of the door is like stepping into a dream. Time slows into a crawl. Invisible weight presses down onto you, pressurized and suffocating. You feel a familiar, foreboding sense of complete dread.

You are, quite literally, spitting in fate’s face.

You creep up to where Howser is pinned against his desk, struggling as Victor lines the gun up between his eyes. 

Up this close, you get a good look at him. The fine details of his fur. The soft velvet of his snout. He looks soft. In a purely physical way. Like he feels good to touch.

It's difficult to reconcile the bat-creature that had eaten Terry in front of you, with this man right here.

He's almost...

No. 

Don't go there.

You reach out, hand trembling under the rejection of this timeline attempting to correct your presence.

Your fingers pinch the wire, pulling it free from Howser’s tie. It's a little thing, like a glass bead. Trek Tech made, no doubt.

You hold the future in your hands. This single item holds the weight of an alternate timeline behind it. Even worse, there is no guarantee that this is the correct thing to change about this version of the past.

Such is the gamble of Universal Irreversibility.

You drop it to the ground, and crush it underneath your boot’s heel with a muted pop that coincidences with the bigger, hushed one from beside you.

There. 

Job complete.

You'll never have to see Batboy again, after this. 

…………..

………

…....

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

9:50 A.M.

The mouse clicks on the next profile icon, and another villain – 

Fuck. He's got to stop doing that.

Hero.

Another hero profile pops up onto the screen.

A lot of work this one needs, it seems, as his eyes glance over each detail laid out in plain terms.

“Redline?” He asks the other two hovering behind him.

“Ah, yeah. New to the program,” She responds, arms crossing over her chest, “Incarcerated after Nighthawk handed them over to authorities. The sentence was for life, given that no one exactly knew how else to charge Redline’s specific crimes. The Phoenix Program has alleviated it, because letting someone with a skill like that descend into villainy . . . “

She sounds hesitant, unsure, like the flavor of such a thought is harsh on her tongue.

She doesn't need to finish her sentence. Redline has the potential to be one of the villains that actually pose a threat to the world as a whole.

Height. 

Age. 

Powers –

“Universal Irreversibility?” He follows up, brows knitting together, “What is that?”

To his left, another voice pipes up.

“According to this Nighthawk, they can change a single thing in the past to create a new timeline in the future,” He explains, a tense edge in each word said, “They get into your head, go through every fucking memory you've got like it's a goddamned panty raid, and get their grubby little hands on what they need to find. Who the fuck knows how many timelines they’ve altered at this point.”

He pauses. The mouse arrow rests over the bored eyes in the profile picture.

Well, that's alarming.

“So, essentially the Butterfly Effect, but as a literal person?” He surmises in a slow, then sighs, “That sounds..."

“Powerful? Fuck. Not gonna lie, it is,” The voice chimes in again, resigned this time, “Except for the fact they look like something straight outta the ‘Exorcist’ whenever they're trying to drill into someone's head. It's not difficult to tell when they're up to no good. Far as we know, no timelines have been tampered with since they got jailed.”

“If Redline has that much capability, then why did Nighthawk sell them out?” He questions.

“No one knows. Nighthawk died shortly after. Rumor has it they had a falling out,” She replies, shrugging one shoulder, “He needed them to help get someone out of trial, and they didn't . . . change the right thing?”

There's a moment of thick silence, broken only by the hum of electricity thrumming through the archive room.

“It’s likely that Nighthawk was murdered by Redline,” The left sighs, “It's not on the criminal records, and it was never proven in court despite being listed as a potential charge. But shit, the context clues there are pretty fucking obvious, don't you think?”

More silence. More information being digested and assessed.

“Redline has a chance,” She says, the belief in her own words fragile but sincere, “Their crimes never actually caused catastrophe, as far as we're aware. They're more petty than villainous. It's just...precaution.”

“You consider a potential villainous murderer aiding and abetting another actual villainous murderer petty?” The second voice says quickly, disbelieving. 

She lets out a frustrated sound.

“Most of the people on this team have committed forms of murder,” He offers, cycling through each profile again to make sure, “That's not a shock factor in their case, unfortunately.”

“Listen,” She says, now exasperated and exhausted, “If, and this is a big if, we are able to get the Phoenix Program to be a success, then – “

“Redline can be a monumental asset?” He guesses, feeling a headache beginning to form behind his eyes.

“Pretty much.”

Absolute crickets.

“We're not looking for miracles,” She adds, “But we'd love one if we can get one.”

The profile is pulled up again. Besides playing around with timelines, Redline has a small list of basic superior traits most others have. 

Lower spectrum super strength. Fast, too. Took lessons in underground street fighting while under Nighthawk’s wing.

Redline isn't helpless, even if their most important power is kept under the table in addition to being a loose cannon.

“Does the Z-Team, my team, know about this new addition?” He asks, “Or do I get to handle that as well?”

There's twin coughs that come from either side of him, inconspicuous and apologetic.

“They were going to be debriefed this morning...“ She says slowly, “Figured two birds, one stone?”

Oh. That's just lovely.

“Fuck it,” He sighs, closing the the program with a sharp click of the mouse, “Let's do this.”

“Great. Can you show him to his desk?”

Chapter Text

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

7:00 A.M.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You wake with a bang.

Literally.

Once again, the blaring alarm clock on your nightstand has scared the soul out of your sleeping body, and out of subconscious instinct your hand shoots out to shove it off the table entirely. It clatters on the weathered floor, sounding more like a crack of lightning in your silent apartment rather than plastic on wood.

It's still going, despite the tumble. Loud, droning beeps that poke at a deep, easily angered part of your psyche.

Your eyes snap open in a glare. Your bedroom (you use that term very loosely) is dark. That's probably because the curtains are drawn, but also because even if they weren't, the only thing the windows display are the painted over brick walls of the adjacent apartment building.

The apartment is shit, a shoebox studio in Torrance that has no business calling itself a villa. Your upstairs neighbors have a newborn that screams all night, and your downstairs neighbor has a trembling Chihuahua that doesn't understand that barking 24/7 doesn't solve its problems. 

Your bedroom is also technically your kitchen and living room blended together, and the only door in this place other than the entrance leads to the equally cramped bathroom. You're also pretty sure the black mold in said bathroom is sentient and living rent-free.

But.

But.

You'll have to admit, being out of that prison cell they'd locked you up to waste away in is nice. Not seeing your cellmate, Rhino, taking a shit first thing in the morning is also nice.

Plus, SDN pays your rent right now. Just until the checks start to hit your bank. They're the ones that got you this little home sweet home. It's an olive branch, an extension of good will for signing up to that program they're introducing.

The alarm clock is still beeping. Incessant and loud even though you've buried your head underneath your pillow in a desperate bid to pretend it doesn't exist. It's so warm underneath your covers. Your mattress is hugging you sweetly, whispering longingly “don't go” right in your ears…

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Why the fuck did you even set it to this early in the morning –

Wait a minute.

Oh, shit.

SDN.

You're a hero now.

Heroes aren't late to their first day of, uh, heroic things?

You manage to escape the hypnotic embrace of your own bed, within the next few minutes. The routine begins the moment your feet touch the ground.

Bathroom. Bladder emptied. Shower, lukewarm and miserable because the water pressure in this building is abysmal. Teeth brushed. Hair tamed into something presentable.

You walk out, shivering at the chill of air on your bare, damp flesh, and come to stand before the pitiful space you call a closet.

Your entire organization spread consists of multiple cardboard boxes used as containers and furniture. You were only transferred here a week ago. SDN slipped you a small allowance to get acclimated to not being in prison. Buy some clothes, they said, decorate your place or something.

You were, and still are, incredibly suspicious of the intent behind this kindness. You're at least seventy-five percent sure that no one else in this “Phoenix Program” is getting special housing accommodations and an almost parental allowance.

You have a theory that it's because of that. 

Even in prison, they treated you like a ticking time-bomb. Round-the-clock guards, psychiatric evaluations, all that high-security hullabaloo. The only thing you were missing at that point was the straight-jacket, muzzle, and reinforced cage.

Everyone was under the impression that one instance alone and you'd be rooting through brains to find a way to escape your fate. But that's the fucking funny part.

You can't.

You find it ironic that you can change everyone's fate except your own. Universal Irreversibility doesn't work like that, as you've learned. So many past attempts have been made, but you can't seem to get into The Tour of your own mind. It's essentially a dead-zone.

You're stuck using others as a proxy for that, and it's served you well enough. Best believe that erasing yourself from every last person who threw you behind bars was one of your first goals, after being incarcerated.

That was expected, of course, and swiftly taken action against.

Somewhere around a month into your serving sentence, you were locked into an actual, proverbial cage. It's a cute little implant in your brain, a ‘modified inhibitor’ that the bigwigs dealing with particularly dangerous individuals made up just for you. 

It keeps your basic vitals under an invisible magnifying glass, and also serves as a recorder. You show any signs of attempting to use your powers? Elevated heart, a

spikes in brain function, convulsions – all that fun stuff – then it'll send all those recordings straight to whoever put it in there to be reviewed. 

You naturally get the impression that the consequences for flippant fate changes will be severe, if the actual verbal threat you were given wasn't enough.

You suppose they could've just neutered your abilities entirely. But it's apparent that even as potentially unstoppable as you could be, it all comes back down to the rhetorical question you adore so much.

Who wouldn't want a free ticket to change the past and future?

Much like Nighthawk, it seems the higher-ups in charge of…heroes?...don't want to miss out on that kind of power. Except, they want it to be controlled. No villainous uses allowed anymore, only kittens, rainbows, and the power of friendship from now on.

It's fine. You're used to being used as a tool. You're seen for your power first and only that.

But that's the gist of your whole existence currently. With an inhibitor monitoring your every subconscious and conscious move, you could be considered little more than a leashed dog. 

But at some point, you'd realized something pivotal. What fucking idea of normalcy were you even attempting to escape back to? 

You can't change your own fate.

Going home would lead to Nighthawk's lackeys taking an eye for an eye. 

Family, friends? Hah, not anymore.

You're well and truly alone. There is no end goal. There is no point in resistance. 

Small blessings counted, you're at least not entirely vulnerable even with the inhibitor. You still have some biological superiority, even if it's not to an insane superhuman degree.

…you could technically still use Universal Irreversibility, even if you might “disappear” afterwards.

Eventually, prison wasn't so bad either. Rhino was genuinely nice to you, minus the absolutely nuclear dumps and having the inside voice of a drill sergeant. The food wasn't too bad. You worked out, got a little stronger than you had been going in, and even had a fucking pen pal for a brief stint.

Hm. Now that you think of it, you wonder how Tom is doing. Last he wrote, he was having twins with his lovely wife. 

Fuck.

You shake your head, hands moving to plant onto your hips.

Back on the subject at hand.

“What the fuck does one even wear to hero-ing?” You wonder aloud, brows pinched together.

Your clothing options are severely limited. The allowance had been split between necessary household supplies (read: splurged on mattress and bedframe), groceries, and whatever the hell else you needed to assimilate back into society.

You've seen heroes out and about, on the news and shit. They wear all types of get up. Spandex, spangles, lycra, average plainclothes. Just about anything that'll work and not look too ridiculous.

Well, mostly ridiculous. Even if the outfit was atrocious, it's not like someone is going to go up to Phenomaman and risk getting punched into atoms for a brave insult.

You reach out into the clothing pile, haphazardly thrown into a large cardboard box, and start to rummage.

“No…no…oh god, fuck no…”

You're beginning to realize that you have next to nothing to wear. Showing up in sweats and a hoodie seems a bit unprofessional, and showing up in a full-blown dress suit seems a bit (a lot) overkill. 

You glance over at your alarm clock, still laying beaten but undefeated on the floor next to your bed.

7:35 A.M.

Fuuuuck.

In the end, the decision is made, because you can't afford to be late on your first day of whatever the hell this new gig is. Blonde Blazer had already done some heavy lifting to get you to this point, and you get the feeling you'd rather not spit in the face of that graciousness.

You look down at yourself, eyes critical.

Baggy jeans, ripped at the knees. Boots that could curb stomp a watermelon. Crimson Abyss band tee. A dark flannel that is several times bigger than it should be, because comfort overtakes presentability.

Meh. It'll do.

You don't have time to make breakfast, or most of the ingredients, if you're being completely honest. Groceries had been thrown out a bit too loosely, and perhaps “cup noodles, and boxed macaroni” is more truthful.

You grab a cereal bar from the counter, clip your keys to your belt loop, and pack an old canvas backpack with a few essentials. 

You spare your bed one last yearning glance, and with a deep sigh, you leave.

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

SDN, Torrance Branch.

8:45. A.M.

You've been to this building exactly one time.

Right after you were plucked from your jail cell and ushered on down to the wonderful, smog-laden Los Angeles.

The SDN facility is rather sleek in design. Lot of light. Lot of glass. Neutral colors that don't make for an eyesore, but rather an unassuming landscape.

You push open one of the entrance doors, narrowly dodging someone coming out of them. There's plenty of people mulling around, hero and standard office employee alike, all heading into their shifts or departing from them.

You are simply a face of many. You get a few curious glances, being a relatively new presence, but you're sure that someone at that single meeting had gossiped by now. 

You pinned your badge to your flannel before coming in here, ready for security to see when you head through the gates. It should be simple, quick, and then you'll be on your way to the locker room that Blonde Blazer had shown you on your little tour of the place.

It is not simple.

It is not quick.

The second that you start to push through the turnstiles, the overhead detector starts to beep maniacally. The security officer, Leroy, shakes his head as he descends upon you swiftly.

You'd spent at least, like, half an hour chatting to the absolute unit of a man the last time you were here. You figure making nice with the security personnel will help you later down the line. For no reason in particular.

“C’mon, Leroy,” You groan, slinging your backpack onto the counter he points wordlessly at, “I don't have anything on me, I swear.”

“Sorry, Redline,” He replies smoothly, gloved hands beginning to unzip your backpack, “Just protocol. Nothin’ personal.”

You make a disgruntled noise, and lean against the counter as you wait for him to finish.

Surveying the area cures both your boredom and your nerves, as Leroy rummages through your backpack like a raccoon in a trashcan. You'd like to think observing is a talent of yours.

Your current focus? The two men sitting on one of the plush benches over to the right. One is waifish, and concerningly sweaty, and the other looks as though he's about to shit a brick, but is constipated about it. Both are wearing skintight hero get-ups.

They're also, like, super close. You wouldn't be surprised if they kissed, they're so close.

Wait a minute –

You raise a brow, head tipping to one side, “Is that fucking Mecha Man, Leroy?”

Upon hearing his name, Leroy looks up from where he's just found a switchblade tucked into the little pocket within the backpack. He flicks it open the longest knife with his big thumb, giving you an exasperated look.

“Ah, shit. Listen, listen, I forgot that it was in there. I promise,” You whine in response, holding your hands up in surrender, “What am I going to do with that, realistically? Who brings a knife to a hero fight?”

The gargantuan man shakes his head again, and for some reason it feels eerily similar to a dad being disappointed in their child. He tosses the multi-tool back into the pack, beginning to zip it back up.

“That is Mecha Man,” Leroy finally agrees, handing you back your backpack, “The sweaty kid is the new janitor, or some shit. I don't get paid enough to remember.”

He turns to leave, glancing over his shoulder at you.

“Have a good first day, Redline,” He offers, deep voice low but not unkind, “Stay out of trouble.”

You beam at him, giving a two finger salute as he returns to his post. Then, your eyes are drifting back to the two men on the bench.

Mecha Man, huh? Well, shit. 

There wasn't much news on heroes that didn't directly operate in Silicon Valley, unless it was world changing headlines, so you seldom know about the timeless protector of Los Angeles. 

But, you do recall rumors going around about a year ago that the dude was blown up and out of commission. Something something Shroud bailed from prison, something something Mecha suit obliterated. You had no way of knowing if that was fact, choosing to half-heartedly believe it only because a few outsourced Red Ring lackeys were in the same cellblock as you, but now…

Mecha Man looks distinctly Mecha-less, so maybe the rumors were true.

He also looks pretty apprehensive of the guy strutting through the doors of SDN with an inane level of menacing confidence. It feels like time is in slow motion, as your eyes dart confusedly from the orange and black suited figure walking, to the two men still erotically close on the bench.

Who the fuck is afraid of a guy with a ponytail? Dressed in a vacuum sealed bodysuit that rivals Guy Fieri’s fashion sense, no less.

While there is some strange, invisible tension going on in that bench area, it dissipates when Ponytail passes by completely.

You still feel it, though, because now he is heading straight for the turnstiles you're still lingering at. Your head tilts again, as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

Why do you almost hear boss music?

He notices, of course. You're not exactly being polite with your staring. His eyes level onto you in return, a burning orange that makes you feel like you're looking into a campfire that's growing aggressively hot.

You should, maybe, be afraid. He's obviously a hero of some type, and you could take an educated guess on what power he wields.

But –

“The fuck are you staring at?” Ponytail spits, or rather, whistles. 

Whistles.

His accent is heavily spanish, but there is no mistaking that the piercing noise comes from the massive gap between otherwise perfect teeth.

This place if fucking weird.

You don't bother with a response, though you do let out a wheezing chuckle that makes him falter as you turn on your heel and finally head further into the belly of your new workplace.

You think you're going to like it here.

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

SDN.

10:20 A.M.

Yeah, you're technically supposed to be preparing to…fuck, you still don't know, okay? Be a hero? Like, come on.

But the break room, as it was so clearly labeled on the door, looked deserted. You didn't eat breakfast. Do the math.

You got yourself a styrofoam cup of coffee, and now sip it leisurely as you meander around the bustling corridors of SDN like a lost tourist.

There's so much spandex, it's wild. You feel underdressed. Like a teen with an identity crisis wandering into a big league corporate office, despite the fact that you're pushing thirty-two.

You find the locker room again eventually, and not one clueless question was asked to someone who looks like they actually know what they're doing here. You're proud of yourself.

It's simple, and utilitarian. Lots of lockers, double wooden benches running down the middle of each row, and a shower room connected. Nice. You might just save on your water bill until the hero paychecks start to get cashed.

It's also strangely empty. You suppose busy heroes don't have time to hang around for locker room talk, though.

You don't mind the silence, honestly.

Your locker is #740, and you carefully dial the combination written on a crumpled piece of paper in your pocket.

You take the switchblade and cram that into your boot, too. Listen, there's no mega-punching or laser beams coming from you, alright? You have fists, the scrappy tenacity of a rabid squirrel, and a switchblade.

You sit on the bench, for a moment. Listening to the hum of air-conditioning units and distant footsteps traveling down the hall. You bring your coffee up to your lips, blowing carefully before tipping the rim just a little more –

In that single, peaceful moment, is when a literal human being materializes out of thin fucking air beside you.

“FUCK!” You scream, as the vaguely purple shimmer retreats and reveals more of the person – a woman.

Your heart might have abandoned your chest region to vacation somewhere in your ass. Your entire body rejects the sorcery it's seen, lurching away from her like you've been burned. 

That's not the only thing that burns, actually, when your piping hot coffee sloshes over the rim of its cup and splatters down your arm.

You hyperventilate a little, hissing like a pissed snake as you hurry up to set the cup onto the bench and shake off the steaming liquid stinging your forearm. 

Your impromptu company only looks on in amused silence, brown eyes following your every move. 

“Who the fuck are you?” She speaks at last, once you've done the most damage control you're able to. Her voice is low and skeptical. “And why are you dressed like…that?”

What is that even supposed to mean?

“Redline,” You choose to reply, simple and to the point, but in a flash of pettiness you're unable to ignore you add on, “Who the fuck are you? And why are you dressed like that?”

You're completely aware that your attire gives “civilian that wandered in from the streets” rather than “hero” but also, like, she really looks no different? Pinkish leather jacket, a black crop, and some dark chinos.

You might be on the grunge spectrum, but this girl has punk written all over her. From unruly hair to combat boots.

Punk’s head tilts. She does something with her (intense) stare that makes you feel like you're being catalogued and put into different compartments in her head. 

“Invisibit – gal,” She begins, but corrects herself with a huffy sigh that makes it sound like this isn't the first time she's messed the name up, “Invisigal. And also, fair.”

That's as much even ground as you're going to get with her, you feel.

“Okay,” You say, slowly, as your head dips in a nod, “Team?”

Invisigal makes a face at that, equal parts disgruntled and exasperated. Like being reminded of the team she's a part of causes an immediate headache.

“Z-Team,” She replies, arms crossing over her chest, “You?”

It takes a moment to process her answer. You really did need that coffee for your brain fog.

Then, it clicks into place.

Ah. Shit.

“Z-Team,” You echo, studying her with more interest than you'd previously shown. In an exact mirror of your own mild surprise, her eyes widen a fraction, flickering over you curiously.

Huh. 

So, you've finally met one of your elusive teammates. Blonde Blazer hadn't told you who was on the team at your meeting,for some reason, so you were kind of flying extremely blind.

First impressions? You won't lie. Invisigal is kind of hot. In, like, a distinctly bitchy and mean, way. 

Would.

“I am also a part of Z-Team,” A low, velveteen voice utters from behind you.

Once more, you scream. This time, it's shorter, more airless and therefore a little less embarrassing.

“What the fuck?” You gasp as you turn on the bench, hand coming up to rest over your poor heart, “Were you here this entire time?”

The new woman is extremely, elegantly tall, with an air of gracefulness that feels more deadly than anything. Her golden eyes peer down at you from behind a shining domino mask, cold and calculative.

You feel like prey, underneath that stare.

She definitely has the aura of a professional that you and Invisigal do not have. Her black and silver suit gleams in pristine condition, and are – are those wings? What the hell is all that dark, shadowy smoke surrounding her?

You have so, so many questions, and too much apprehension to voice them.

“Yes, I have. I heard there was a new addition, and got curious,” She replies smoothly, head cocking to the side, “You should be more alert of your surroundings. The lack of spatial awareness is pitiful.”

“She's not wrong,” Invisigal adds unhelpfully, “I was wondering when you'd notice.”

You've met only two of your teammates, for all of five minutes, and you've already been insulted multiple times. You're off to a great start.

“Okay,” You say, rubbing at the back of your neck.

“You also sip very loudly,” Tall, dark, and deadly tacks on, her face impassive, “It's irritating.”

Invisigal laughs, dry and rasping.

You add the insult to the growing list.

“Okay,” You say again, more tiredly this time, “You have a name?”

Her eyes harden a fraction, and for a moment you think she might take one of those fancy knives at her hip and stab you.

However, no stabbing happens, to which you're thankful for.

“Coupé,” She states plainly.

You nod your head again, and feel a deep level of resignation at how badly you're about to butcher her name.

“...Coop?” You attempt, as Invisigal watches on in silent amusement.

Coupé’s eyes harden further. The dark, tear-like markings underneath them makes the golden hue glow unnervingly.

“Coupé,” She repeats, more firmly. 

Sweat begins to bead at your temples. Is it hot in here? You feel hot.

“Coupe?” You try again, voice more tentative than the last time.

You're not sure just how close you come to having a knife speared into you, in that moment, but it feels very close seeing as how Invisigal even side-eyes her.

By the grace of whatever higher power that is watching over you, however, Coupé seems to have a moment of saint-like patience. Her eyes close with a deep, and you mean deep, inhale.

Then they open, just a fraction less murderous than before.

“I don't know why I even bother,” She says, and then turns on a slim heel to leave the locker room entirely.

You nod again.

Fair.

For a moment, silence returns to the locker room. Invisigal continues to stand beside where you sit, painted lips formed into an entertained smirk. 

“So…how does all of this – “ You gesture around vaguely to your surroundings, and to her, “ – go?”

“You need me to tell you how to do your job?” She muses, clearly having fun relishing in your eternal suffering.

Your lips press together, and your gaze get a little more pleading.

Surely she has to have a soft spot somewhere in that tough exterior.

“Like, a general idea? Point in the direction of where I need to start kinda thing?” You cajole, standing up from the bench at last.

You've known her for all of ten minutes, but she seems to relent just a little bit.

“Christ, you're hopeless,” She mutters, uncrossing her arms and turning to leave the locker room as well.

You follow her, of course.

.

.

.

(Unbeknownst to you, Invisigal has officially finished her assessment of you. She bets you'll last, give or take, like a week.)

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

11:15 A.M.

There's a small beep that comes from your earpiece, and then click of a call line opening.

You straighten up where you're sitting on a bench outside of SDN, feeling a sense of anticipation. This is it. You're going to play for the other side of crime, now.

“Hey team,” A deep, calm voice greets, “This is your dispatcher, Robert Robertson. I'm starting my first shift – “

You wince as the earpiece immediately streams the sound of multiple different people laughing and guffawing, the volume of it so loud that you quickly reach up to turn it down a few notches.

“Tell me that is not your real fuckin’ name?” A woman's voice exclaims incredulously.

“You stuttering bitch? You can't be this shook your first day, come on – “ 

Ponytail? Yeah. Ponytail. You'd never forget that gnarly whistle. Fuck. That means you're already on his bad side, doesn't it –

“Robert,” Yet another voice begins, “Roberts. Robertson. Roberts. Roberto. Bobert – “

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh dear god, no.

Your mild confusion over Robert’s parents’ choice of naming their child is drowned out by that voice.

Deep monotone. Slow like he's never in a rush to say what's on his mind.

It comes rushing back in a wave. You stare ahead at a nearby tree, vacant and unseeing.

“I saw him in his underwear,” Invisigal continues.

“Who? Robert Robertson?” The woman questions, and then, “He packing much?”

You're oblivious to their continued conversations, in a state of disbelief.

Christmas Day.

Nighthawk calling you into the room – “I need a favor, Red” –

The Tour – the fucking deep dive you'd done into every corner of his mind –

Victor.

It's been years. It has been literal, absolute years. 

Yet once again, you are crossing paths with the one person that derailed your entire life. No, even worse.

So much worse.

You're on the same fucking team as him, now?

Fate, as you're learning, is a bitch that does not take kindly to being tampered with. Is that what this is? Fate, the universe, whatever the fuck – despises being changed forcibly so much, that it is now subjecting you to this?

How do you work around someone that you learned so intimately without them ever being aware of your existence? You know everything, up until that trial. 

Everything.

But Victor doesn't know you. Not yet, at least. You know for a fact that Nighthawk never told the bat his secret to getting that laundry list of charges lessened.

You'd made sure he hadn't been able to, either, in the end. Permanently.

“Unfortunate,” You blurt out, feeling a few frayed threads away from going insane, and then you realize you definitely didn't say that in your head.

“Uh, that's an unfortunate name, Robertson,” You add on, eyes closing in regret.

Cool. Play it cool. 

Fake it till you make it.

The ensuing silence that follows your voice is pregnant, gives birth, and then gets pregnant again before it's broken.

“Now hold on a minute,” The woman speaks again, confused now, “Who the fuck is this?”

“That's what I said,” Invisigal snorts over her mic, distinct and just as insulting as it was in person.

“Ah. See, I knew SDN has shit encryption on these channels,” Victor drawls, and your gut twists at the acknowledgment, “Now we have randos listening to us.”

“Speaking of which, can we clear said channel?” Robert cuts in, exasperated now, “This isn't a “rando”, Sonar. It's – ”

Sonar? Victor? Sonar??

“The newbie,” Someone new crows over Robert, his rugged irish accent thick enough to choke on, “Grand to meet you, newbie.”

You blink. 

Wow. 

That's the first time you haven't been insulted by one of your teammates immediately. You think you're going to like this guy.

“Newbie?” Yet another voice adds, except this one is so deep and rumbling that it feels like there's an earthquake taking place directly inside your ear.

“There’s fresh meat? Why didn't anyone tell me?” Someone else coos, surprisingly pleasant, with a layering of australian and otherworldly accentuation in each word.

Christ. You're getting a headache from attempting to keep up with the badminton game of trying to figure out who's who.

Thankfully, that's about time that –

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” 

You rear back a little at the sudden, commanding shout echoing through the channel, that of which definitely does not belong to Robert Robertson. 

Nevertheless, everyone immediately goes silent. Like children scolded by an adult.

“Let me remind you! These calls are fucking recorded for training fucking purposes! So keep the lines fucking clear, before we send your stupid fucking asses – “ The pissed off man (old man, it sounds like, honestly), “ – back to whatever fucking cell we pulled your stupid fucking asses out of! Aight?”

The dead silence prevails, and that seems to be answer enough for the man.

Except.

“Can I still introduce myself?” You ask, the slightest bit hesitant to poke whatever bear just roared on the other end of the line.

There's a sigh, deep and tired. 

“Go ahead,” Robert permits, “Guys, this is your new teammate. Not a rando. Not a newbie – well, mostly. Play nice."

You mentally psyche yourself up, pushing back whatever turmoil that Victor – no, Sonar – has stirred up within you.

This kind of isn't the time or place to dwell on your unfortunate fate.

“Sup. Redline,” You greet, watching a stray squirrel scuttle across the parking lot as you do, “Call me Red if that's too many syllables for any of you.”

There's a few beats more of digestive silence, before someone breaks it.

“Hah! I like ‘em already. Name's Punch Up, Red,” The friendly voice, Punch Up, replies. You feel a small smile threaten to show itself on your lips.

“Ugh, god. We're not doing that bullshit elementary thing, are we?” Ponytail complains, ”Where we go in a circle introducing ourselves?”

Robert lets out a low hum over the line, slightly distorted by a crackle of static.

“Well, now that you mention it, Flambae…yeah,” He hums, sounding all too satisfied with his decision, “Yeah, we are. Everyone, be a good teammate and introduce yourselves to Redline, if you haven't already.”

Damn.

You kind of like the sheer audacity that Robert possesses. He said he's new, but you're already suspecting he'll excel at managing this lot of assholes.

There's collective groans, curses, and even a few muttered insults just inaudible enough to be ignored.

But, begrudgingly, you finally get to know who your teammates actually are.

“Prism,” The first woman who'd spoken, Prism, sighs, “Not sure how you wouldn't know that already, though. Unless you live under a rock or some shit.”

You're stumped as to what that means. You have, in fact, been living underneath a rock. Except the rock is a metaphor for prison. If she's, like, famous or something, then you’d be none the wiser.

But before you can question her further, Ponytail – err, Flambae – decides to go next in the sharing circle.

“Flambae,” He bites out, peeved like perpetual anger is his default state, “Don't think I don't recognize your voice, either. Want to tell me what was so funny this morning, Redline?”

You've never heard your name said with so much distaste before. It's actually insane.

“I'm so sorry,” You apologize, out of habit, because you can only respond truthfully, “But the whistle coming out of your mouth is insane, dude.”

Laughter, once again, erupts into your ear. 

“I know, right?” Invisigal chuckles dryly, “Giving me a fucking headache, listening to it.”

“It was far more entertaining to watch the cause of the whistle,” Coupé joins in, “Then it is to constantly hear the aftermath of it.”

“Wasn't even a proper scrap,” Punch Up mutters, “Lad couldn't keep his mouth shut, ‘n now we suffer listenin’ to a bleedin' dog whistle.”

“Fuck you!” Flambae growls out, and you swear you hear the sound of flames crackling over the mic, “I dare you to say that to my actual fucking face and – “

“Golem,” The deepest voice from before swiftly speaks over the hot-head’s threat, “Sup, Red.”

“You sound big,” You note, though not unkindly. Flambae audibly seethes even further at being ignored, much to the amusement of everyone on this channel.

 “ ‘s‘cus I am,” Golem rumbles back, simple and honest. You think you're definitely going to like him, as well.

“I’m Malevola,” The rippling voice, Malevola’s voice, states calmly, “Thrilled to meet you.”

You get a very distinct hunch that Malevola, is in fact, not thrilled to meet you. You're not allowed to properly gauge her tone, because –

What that voice says is –

“Names Sonar, what up?”

Don't make it weird.

For the love of anything and everything, don't make it weird. Then it'll be awkward, and once it's awkward, it will be suspicious. Then people will look more closely, and someone, even Sonar, could find out that –

“Tough crowd,” Sonar follows up, when any lack of response grows pronounced, “What gives?”

You open up your mouth, sure to respond with something that'll dig your newfound grave even deeper, you are gifted another ass-saving blessing.

“Okay,” Robert says clearly, long and drawn out, “That was fun, but you'll all have to get to know each other later. Time to get to work.”

Your mouth closes.

For once in your life, you couldn't agree more.

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

4:00 P.M.

You think Robert might not like you.

Well, to rephrase that, you don't think Robert likes anyone currently on this team, based on his occasional commentary over the channel. You feel, however, that you seem to be a higher tier on that list than the rest of the Z-Team.

Which isn't surprising, but also kind of frustrating.

You didn't exactly know what to expect, once he started dishing out coordinates and assigning the team to different SDN callers, but…

Being told to go fish a kid’s balloon out of a tree wasn't exactly what you'd pictured as hero-ing activities. You do it, of course, because squirrel watching in the SDN parking lot was getting a bit boring, but seriously?

The kid is, like, four and blowing snot bubbles as him and his mother, Jen, watch you scale a fucking tree in broad daylight. In a crowded public space. You don't feel like a hero, you feel like an idiot.

She really just couldn't buy him another one? Actually?

“Thank you!” She says once you've handed it back to the kid, but the sweetness in her voice feels too thick to be sincere, “You’re a new face around Torrance, aren't you? I thought I knew all the heros around here.”

“Yeah, new to the scene,” You agree slowly, watching with tired eyes as her child chooses to release the balloon again. It immediately begins to float up into the air, bypassing the tree and heading straight for atmosphere like a big, round red comet in reverse.

You and Jen are both completely silent, watching as it grows smaller and smaller.

Then –

“You wouldn't happen to fly, would you?”

You informed her that no, unfortunately (fortunately), you do not fly, and go on your merry way after reporting back to Robert.

That is the last time you're assigned to anything.

Bar brawl at Crypto Night? Punch Up and Golem.

Boat robbery at a yacht club? Coupé.

Suburbs burning? Flambae (except, technically, he was only fixing what he caused himself).

A fucking museum robbery? Invisigal and Prism.

He even lets Malevola scare the absolute shit out of a kid attempting to pickpocket. 

At the least, he refuses to allow Sonar the “high-ranking Vanderstenker” anywhere near any call related to said Vanderstank, which almost makes Batboy as pissed off as you feel. Almost. 

Your mood has plummeted so quickly that you can't even bother being concerned that you're on a team with Sonar in the first place. 

Listening to their banter, their success or lack there of, on each job they're sent on is getting old. Quick. You've kept radio silence for almost an hour now.

What even was the point of taking Blonde Blazer's deal and signing up for the Phoenix Program, if you're just acting as a glorified background prop? This isn't like some game, and you're inept at every skill that these calls require to be solved. This is real life. You have experience with…things.

Lots of things.

Sure, theft, blackmail, and murder don't really apply to any of these caller’s needs, but still.

But soon, you come to a resolve. 

Fine. If Robert is going to shadowban you from doing your job, then you're going to simply do whatever the fuck you want instead. 

Checkmate.

“Redline.”

Robert’s voice is clear and crisp over the channel line, but you pretend like you don't hear it anyway. Your lips press together, and your arms cross over your chest. 

“Redline.”

Your alias is said much more firmly, this time, with great exasperation.

“Uh-oh,” Punch Up mutters.

“Did newbie already go rogue, Robertson?” Invisigal taunts.

“This is why you don't recruit off the street,” Flambae sniffs.

“You were also recruited off the street, mate. We all were,” Malevola snorts, the distortion of her voice carrying oddly into her mic.

“All I know is that I'm definitely better than them,” Flambae clarifies, “Does anyone even know what they do? Huh? Because it seems like a lot of fucking nothing to me.”

“I too would like to know their contribution to this team,” Coupé, surprisingly, agrees, “I need to build a plan of action in the event I need to kill them.”

Huh. That's ominous.

“Red. Line. Respond,” Robert continues, a sharper, warning edge to each word.

You could continue the pettiness. You're extremely tempted to do so. You have a feeling, however, that you'd be kicked from the team entirely if you continue to ignore him.

You give it a few more seconds, and then speak up.

“Yeah?” You hum, moving forward when the person in front of you gets out of line, “Need something?”

Robert’s sigh could echo through numerous different timelines for decades, with how long it is.

“Someone sounds upset, Bobert,” Sonar stage whispers, and it makes you grit your teeth hard enough that your jaw aches, “Yet another victim of bias.”

“There is no bias here, Sonar,” He shoots back, increasingly frustrated.

“Sure feels like it.”

Sonar sounds like he's sulking. He probably is. A rare opportunity to pitch his brilliant ideas to Vanderstank, and the rug was pulled out from underneath his shiny dress shoes.

You feel an odd sense of solidarity in this moment, despite the turmoil you have towards Sonar. You've both been wronged, intentional or not.

“You know?” You hum, moving up again as another person shortens the line you're in, “I think Sonar’s onto something, actually. What have you got against us, Robertson?”

“Nothing. You're both making something out of nothing. Redline, your tracker is outside of the designated area,” He says, in the same way someone does when explaining simple concepts to a toddler, “Why?”

You glance around lazily, surveying your surroundings.

You're definitely out of the bounds you'd been told to stay in, yeah. But you'd seen this same food truck near your apartment building a week ago, and hadn't had the chance to check it out.

Surprise, surprise, you'd spotted it while aimlessly wandering around sight-seeing during your supposed “work hours”. Since you definitely weren't busy, you figured why the fuck not get yourself something to eat?

“I got hungry waiting around,” You sigh, perking up when you hear your the cashier beckon you forward, “So, I'm getting a burrito.”

The radio silence from the other end of the channel gives you the impression that Robert might be re-evaluating the choices that led him to this point. You, on the other hand, are finally happy again as you pay for your burrito and start to unwrap it.

“What kind of burrito?” Golem asks, sounding the most interested you've heard since you all started this shift.

“Super,” You reply serenely, taking a bite and letting out a noise of pure bliss.

“Stop moaning in my ear,” Flambae hisses, and because you're feeling spiteful, you do it again with more gusto.

“That good?” Malevola now sounds just as intrigued.

“Orgasmic,” You sigh contentedly.

“Damn,” Invisigal chuckles, “Restaurant or truck?”

“Truck,” You sound out around another bite of loaded, flavorful goodness.

“HolyTaco?” Golem questions.

You pause mid-bite, a brow raising, “How'd you know that?”

He lets out another rumble of knowing approval, making your earpiece vibrate against your ear as the receiver desperately tries to relay the bass of it.

“Just do,” He says, “Maaan, now I'm hungry too.”

“I can get behind a break,” Sonar drawls out, “My schedule today has just been so exhausting – “

It's right about there, that everything begins to backfire in a major way.

“You know what?” Robert begins again, but this time he sounds impassive in a way that elicits apprehension, “Fine. Redline and Sonar. Danny from the Bone Zone wants to see someone change a few minds about SDN hiring criminals – “

Your stomach lurches. You cough as you choke a little on your mouthful of burrito.

“Bone Zone?” Prism repeats, and then her voice grows peeved, “Hell no, that's the fucker that said I was pregnant. Me.”

“Yeah, I remember this guy,” Sonar chuckles, “Think he said I got arrested for tax evasion – man, I wish!“

You already know that he didn't, of course. 

Sonar was only ever charged with second-degree murder and investment fraud, after you'd changed his fate. It was a failure, seeing as how the goal Nighthawk agreed to was no charges at all, but it took his sentence down from life to just a few meager years.

Years that didn't even matter, once the Phoenix Program plucked him up. Just like they did to you.

“Originally, I was going to send one of you,” Robert continues on, “But now this will double for some good old team bonding.”

You've changed your mind. You actually don't like the audacity that Robert has, or at least, you don't like when it's directed at you.

You've gone from getting no call into action at all, to being subjected to defend yourself on some guy’s tragic podcast with Sonar.

Fate. You utter fucking bitch.

You barely focus on the address that Robert relays, giving a vague, non-committal hum as your feet already begin to head in the direction of it. 

This is fine.

Just don't be weird.

It takes you a hot minute to navigate through that specific section of Torrance, because you've literally only lived in Los Angeles for about a week now. You do not know the lay of the land.

But with a little help from Robert, and a lot of unhelpful commentary from your teammates, you finally make it to the small warehouse that this “Danny from Bone Zone” hosts his podcasts in.

Right in front of it? Sonar.

He looks the same as he did the last you'd seen of him all those years ago, which is to say incredibly pretentious for a Friday afternoon. The charcoal gray suit from trial day has been swapped for navy-blue with black slacks, dress shoes and the red tie.

You feel like this is an out of body experience, almost. The mere minutes you'd spent in The Tour of Sonar’s mind had felt like decades, and you'd witnessed so many things from the perspective of his own eyes, through his own thoughts and emotions. 

Never once did he know you were there, that you ever existed in the same space. You could've reached out, touched him in that last memory, and he would've been none the wiser.

It's almost surreal to see him turn where he stands, one large ear swiveled sharply in the direction of your footsteps. You nearly freeze in your tracks when his pale eyes level onto you, flickering up and down in sweeps that feel just a little too long.

You're far too apprehensive to think more on that.

Because this whole situation felt less real when he didn't know what you looked like. You were still a big question mark with a disembodied voice.

But he sees you, now. There's no going back.

There's a cigarette perched in his mouth, but it's taken between two lazy fingers as he blows out a stream of smoke in the opposite direction you step up to him from. The acrid scent of it blends in with whatever sharp cologne he's doused himself in.

You feel a flash of irritation at how much taller he is up close than at the distances you've known him at. You don't remember it being this way, but you suppose your recollection of his Tour has faded over time. 

Either way, your head has to tip back just a little, to see his entire face.

Sonar notices that, of course, and it brings a silent little smugness to his expression. It's so subtle, given his unique features and seemingly phlegmatic nature, that you're surprised you're even able to gauge the micro shifts of his face. 

Perks of a lifetime observing others, you suppose.

“Least you got here in one piece,” He says languidly, the richness of his steady voice more pronounced now that it isn't watered down by channel interference, “Redline. What's it stand for?”

Your mind falters.

It's not an overtly probing question, if directed at anyone else. You can't even flip said question around on him, because the name “Sonar” is rather on the nose given…well, everything about him.

But you've seldom ever heard of someone with fate-changing powers that you could be mistaken for. If you tell him the play of your alias, then there is no doubt he'll put two and two together.

Because as slow as you've seen him conduct himself so far, Sonar is not a fool. He’s just a blade pretending to be dull.

“Nothing much. Blazer said I needed one, and I picked the first two things I saw in her office,” You lie straight to his face.

You think you've become good at lying in prison. You can control your breathing, your heartrate, and not let a single muscle in your face twitch even so much as a millimeter. 

Yet, despite that all, Sonar stares at you for a moment.

Ears swiveled forward now, like he's listening to something about you that only he can hear, eyes roaming your face. You feel watched. You feel like he hears the lie even when you're doing everything to cover it up.

Is this how Howser felt?

“Okay,” He finally says, but the slight raise of one fluffed up brow speaks otherwise.

You nod, and then move to start walking past him, towards the warehouse where Bone Zone awaits. You hear his dress shoe crunch against the ground, stomping out his cigarette.

“I'm not good at public speaking,” You admit, not as an actual fault, but as an imminent warning, “Actually, I'm fucking terrible at it. Robert might regret sending me here.”

Sonar falls into step with you, strides longer and lazier, hands sinking into his pockets.

“Not much of a talker, huh? That's fine,” He says, fangs glinting in the warm sunlight as he speaks, “Some of my finest work involves talking. Watch the magic happen.”

You do, in fact, watch said magic happen.

The Bone Zone set-up is about as generic as every other podcast bro keeps their own, aggressively modern and RGB color-coded in decoration. There's two plain white couches, a metallic coffee table, and a lot of fancy mic set-up.

Danny himself looks the classic part. Thick beard sheared to a precise angle on all sides, street wear that hangs from his frame, and a slightly haughty gleam in his eyes. In the first ten minutes of exchanging pleasantries, you already feel the suffocating weight of someone with an ego too big for their body.

Sonar takes to talking with him like a duck to water (a bat to air??).

Meanwhile, you sit beside him on the spotless white couch and attempt to look like you legitimately understand anything about Bull Runs and Market manipulation. Your eyes glaze over a little bit, at some point, despite doing your best to not tune out their droning voices.

Thankfully, it isn't much longer until Sonar begins subtly dog-walking Danny in circles of conversation. The guy plays into each prompting question and answer with painful, laughable ease. 

Then the true topic of the reason you're both here starts to be delved into, and –

Magic is, arguably, the correct term to call whatever fucking checkmating Sonar is performing. Politicians don't even have this level completely guiding someone's mind in any direction they see fit. 

Is this what they teach in Harvard, or is this just natural skill? Who the fuck knows.

But you'd be a liar if you didn't say it's impressive.

You're allowed to acknowledge that. You are. You still don't know how to feel about Sonar, or the fact that he'll be a staple presence in your career for the foreseeable future (unless, of course, your identity inevitably gets blown).

But for now, you'll admit that being around him isn't as bad as you'd thought it'd be. Can you be blamed for imagining that the guy eating people on bad trips and murdering their criminal associates is a stellar option to hang with?

You're not exactly innocent either, too. You'll concede that perhaps you've hypocritically judged the book by it's cover a bit harsher than necessary. 

That in and of itself, however, is a bad thing. Perhaps even a dangerous thing.

“When it comes down to it, Dan,” Sonar says conversationally, the picture of ease where he's reclined back against the couch, “Wouldn't you actually want a criminal to protect you?”

You feel like you've gotten the gist of the argument Sonar is pitching. It's a low-hanging fruit, but you figure that Danny’s IQ might be lower – and his viewers? God, probably room temperature all around.

“Exactly. My partner here has such a great point,” You pick up after Sonar’s question hangs in the air, “See, Dan, a majority of top-tier heroes go by a strict rulebook. There's not a lot of wiggle room – “

Sonar glances at you, for just a brief moment, and continues, “ – but “criminals” like us? We meet fist with fist – “

“Right. Right, and – ” You keep going, “If you, or any other civilian, are ever in grave danger then having a hero without those black-and-white views on justice would be the better option. It's just facts, dude.”

“Yup. If your life depends on a bitch needing to be cut immediately? Well, the average hero might have some hang-ups about acting as needed,” Sonar sighs, hands sweeping inwards, “But the Z-Team?”

His pale eyes cut over to you again, and your own meet them unwaveringly. It feels like something clicks into place. 

You both shake your heads.

“Nah. The bitch is getting cut,” You finish, “And you, Dan, and anyone else out there listening, will be back home in time for dinner. Safe and sound.”

Danny stares at the both of you for a moment, nothing but breathing and gum being chewed flowing through the mic receivers.

“Low-key, I never thought of it like that, bro,” He says at last, brows furrowed, before with overly loud enthusiasm, “Bonerz out there, take to social media and tag me in your thoughts on SDN’s pitch, because they might have something cooking here.”

Any sense of accomplishment, however, is immediately disintegrated when Danny leans forward.

“Ya’ll ever try intermittent fasting? Bro, I swear it'll change your life. See, every morning I start with – ”

One more long, torturous hour later, and you're leaving the warehouse with Sonar in tow. You feel exhausted, mentally, but it was an undoubted success that you built up a better perceived notion of the Phoenix Program (and at least two members of the Z-Team).

“Gotta say,” Sonar begins, coming to a stop beside you on the sidewalk, “I think we nailed that, personally.”

He's not wrong.

It's a hard pill to digest, the fact that you've mildly enjoyed his company so far. He's not as outward as the others on the team have proven to be, even if you know what lurks in that head of his.

You've had too much emotion, too many existential thoughts, today. If there's any part of you that still cares who you're in the presence of, right now, it's comatose at the moment.

Winging this entire thing sounds acceptable, to be honest, and if you're exposed later down the line? Fuck, that sounds like a problem for future you.

“Yeah,” You sigh, “Went better than I thought. Good job, by the way. You literally carried that entire conversation.”

“Mhm. Feeding my ego, huh? Not even Mal does that.”

Mal? Malevola? Huh. You figured they were close, based on a few of her casual comments earlier, but you suppose that confirms.

How close is something you wonder just a little bit about, before swiftly shutting down that train of thought. That's simply none of your business.

“Just giving credit where it's due,” You reply simply, shrugging one shoulder, “For the record, after seeing you in there, I think you would've crushed it with Vanderstank.”

It's a simple, harmless compliment. If he's as prideful as he carries himself, he's probably heard better.

But something about that makes him falter a little, eyes widening just a fraction at the unwarranted sincerity in your tone. His ears do a small motion, flicking forward and then back, and he makes this sound. It's small, chittery, sounding a little bit confused.

You're not sure why you even said it. 

It just came out?

Fuck. You're tired. Exhausted. You can't be held accountable for acting out of pocket.

Sonar doesn't say anything else, even though he seems to be in his thoughts. You take that opportunity to tap back into the channel that has been oddly quiet, now that you think of it.

“We're done, Robertson,” You announce, “Bone Zone has been successfully hit.”

You expect to hear a lot of things. Perhaps a begrudging congratulations from your grumpy dispatcher, or even just any scrap of recognition.

Instead, radio silence.

Well, almost radio silence.

“Congratulations on actually being useful for once,” Flambae drawls out, snide as he always seems to be.

“That fucker better keep my name out his mouth now,” Prism huffs, definitely still pissed off about the whole pregnancy thing.

You roll your eyes, “Last time I checked, neither of you were called Robertson. Why isn't he speaking?”

“Haven’t a clue. Invisigal went off on her own, and they’ve been on a private call ever since,” Punch Up explains casually.

“We all decided to take a break,” Malevola adds, “Can't work without him, so.”

How odd. But hey, maybe if Invisigal manages to fuck up whatever she's doing, you won't be at the top of Robert’s shit list.

You glance up at Sonar, again, who is already staring at you. How long he has been is something you can only guess. But once your attention is on him, he seemingly shakes himself free.

“Guess we're done,” He shrugs, and turns to start heading back in the direction SDN resides.

You, having no better options or self-preservation skills, choose to follow.

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

SDN.

5:25 P.M.

The SDN break room is mind-numbingly bland.

Three different shades of beige and white decorate the floor, ceiling, and walls respectively. There's a small counter area adjoined to a plain fridge, with a larger vending machine next to that.

Across the small room, is a simple, circular table set-up that sits in front of a rather expensive window. The shutters are drawn partially, enough to obscure but also enough to let in a good amount of afternoon light.

You didn't exactly know what a break entailed, but you sure as hell hadn't expected to still have Sonar’s presence orbiting you when you headed into this quaint little space.

You'd both walked back to SDN in affable silence, which was strange enough as it was, but you'd figured he'd branch off the second you both crossed the facility’s threshold.

That is not what happened.

Instead, he'd remained strolling next you through the corridors, a nonchalant look on his face whenever you’d snuck a glance in his direction. Seemingly content to shadow you around.

Alright, then.

Well, you'd remembered the vending machine from grabbing your coffee this morning, and figured a snack would be nice.

But while you lean back against the counter, eating your way through a bag of chips, you're now being subjected to witness Sonar’s version of a meal. 

Really, there wasn't even anything conspicuous about the tub he'd pulled out of the refrigerator. You figured it was like, leftovers, or something.

Not mice.

You can only look on in morbid fascination as the little white mouse drops into his open mouth, disappearing before he closes it to swallow with a low chitter. His head continues to stay upright, most likely to let the mouse’s body slide down his throat, and his eyes close in bliss.

Sincerely, what the fuck.

In the background, you hear someone else enter the break room, then the sound of the vending machine being used. You can't even be bothered to check who it is, as you struggle to accept what you've just witnessed.

Sonar surely feels the boring weight of your eyes on him, and stares back when his head tips back down.

“What?” He asks casually, “Want one?”

“No…” You answer, very slowly. 

His snout twitches, fangs gleaming as he says, “You sure?”

This has to be a joke, at this point.

“Yeah, I'm afraid I'll have to stick to not eating like someone's pet snake,” You confirm, digging around in your chip bag once more, “No offense, buddy.”

He only hums in silent response, and continues humming in a surprisingly musical tone as he starts to prepare himself coffee. SDN has horrible taste in decor, but the big bucks are definitely revealed in the small luxuries observed throughout the facility. One of which is that pricey coffee-maker, with a grinder and everything.

Your eyes flick around the room as he shovels scoops of grounds into the grinder, and land on Robert sitting at the table unraveling a package of fresh Twinkies.

Well, he was, at least.

Sonar chooses that exact moment to scream, an abrupt noise that nearly makes you lose your grip on your bag of chips. Robert’s Twinkies, however, are smushed in the startled clutch of his hands. 

Once the man realizes that, his already troubled expression grows frustrated, eyes glaring in Sonar’s direction.

You slowly turn your head towards Sonar as well.

“Couldn't see,” He says to you, simple like it's incredibly obvious. 

It actually is, after your brain takes a few moments to realize why exactly his name is Sonar. That, and you think you can vaguely remember him doing that exact scream in some of his memories, way back when.

“Oh,” You say, incredibly intelligently might you add, and tentatively ask, “What do you see, when you do that?”

You're not sure if that's an intrusive, quite possibly even rude, question. You mean it as genuine curiosity. Thankfully, he doesn't seem all that phased by it, as he sets up the grinder.

“Like, waves, I guess,” He replies, snout wrinkling in concentration as he locks the lid into place, “Everything is different.”

You attempt to picture it in your head, but it's hard. Maybe it's like waves of heat in the distance, invisible but somehow still visible. His memories certainly hadn't shown anything of the sort.

The break room door opens, again, and languid steps echo in the air before the other chair at Robert’s table scrapes against the floor. Invisigal’s voice begins to flow in the background, but you're not interested in whatever is going on over there currently.

“Like, that wavy shit when it's fucking hot, kinda thing?” You ask, needing some type of confirmation to satisfy your intrigue. 

Robert says, rather snidely, “Yeah, well, I guess you should do a better job at picking your friends.”

To which Invisigal merely says, “What the fuck?”

Your eyes blink in surprise, and you almost turn to look at whatever actually is going on over there, but Sonar’s voice drags your attention back.

“You could say that,” He agrees, but it doesn't sound like complete confirmation really, “Hold on – “

“You can't just go around – “ Robert starts to hiss, but then –

Again, Sonar lets out another scream. Like before it's not an average scream, calm but loud, with this distinctly clicky undertone that really does make your mind immediately go bat.

You were prepared for it, this time, but Robert still definitely wasn't. In the corner of your vision, you see him jerk in his chair, sparing Sonar another heated glare.

Sonar ignores him, and tells you, “Eh. Picture the way a topography map would feel.”

That…makes more sense.

Your head dips in a few understanding nods, hand bringing another chip to your mouth, “Interesting.”

“Why does he keep doing that?” He asks Invisigal, which probably means he tuned out the entirety of yours and Sonar’s conversation.

She looks at him with perplexed exasperation, “His name's Sonar.”

Robert glares harder, if possible.

“Yeah, I know what Sonar means,” He retorts in increasing annoyance.

Sonar, eloquently, chooses that moment to let out a belch. Your mind flickers back to the mice he'd engulfed, and you grimace.

“What's up?” He asks Robert nonchalantly, head turning slightly to look at said borderline fuming man.

Invisigal is still hung up on the previous topic, though, and just has to ask, “Then why do you keep asking why he's screaming?”

Robert’s entire face flickers through a myriad of different emotions that you can hardly keep up with. It's absolutely riveting.

“She was just explaining your – you know what – ” He speaks haltingly, clearly over some sort of bullshit threshold, “Nevermind. Good shift, both of you.”

Sonar looks at him a moment longer, then Invisigal, and then you.

“This guy is weird,” He states, so plainly that it makes you snort a little.

“He's weird,” You agree, because, well, everyone in this building is. 

You, maybe most of all. Here you are, getting along with the last person you ever thought you would ( or see again, for that matter). The more you talk with him, the less your head starts to picture his other form’s massive fangs ripping into Terry that one fateful night.

Which is a bit concerning, because that's just excusing murder, isn't it? But, well, you didn't actually like Terry. He was an absolute jackass to you on a daily basis, amongst other things. If anything, he got what he deserved.

Plus, how could you of all people have a problem with murder? You gleefully drove that metal pipe straight through Nighthawk’s stupid, smug face and you'd do it aga–

“You breathe loud,” Sonar interrupts your derailing train of thought, and your brows immediately furrow as you process that.

First you sip too loud, and now you breathe too loud, too? You can't catch a break.

“What?” You ask in both confusion and mild offense, watching him as he finally plugs in the coffee grinder.

“You seriously think that went well?” Robert’s voice echoes from across the room, low in that same way he'd said your name during your burrito escapade.

Oh, right. Invisigal had went rogue, and judging by how Robert sounds, she definitely fucked up. 

Your brain thinks out an internal little uh-oh, and for some reason it sounds a lot like Punch Up.

“Yes. I did,” Invisigal doubles down in response. 

“You breathe loud,” Sonar repeats through the sound of Robert and Invisigal’s “conversation” growing increasingly less civil, “I can hear shit like that. Yours is loud. Kinda nice. Like white noise.”

“Oh,” You say eloquently, heat prickling underneath your skin, “Thank you? I think?”

Was that a compliment, or a statement? You have no fucking clue, but you dislike how the uniqueness of it makes you feel something. Faint. Feeble. 

But there.

No. Absolutely not. You are not reading into that any further.

“ –  you think when that guy signed up for SDN that it'd result in the back of his ballsack getting scorched?” Robert shoots out, voice gone gravelly with anger.

Pause.

What the fuck are they arguing about?

Invisigal meets him head on, “I'm pretty sure Granny would take some crispy nuts over losing his entire arm – “

“I'm so fuckin’ lost, man,” Sonar whispers, and you can only nod in silent agreement.

“ – if you had just fucking listened to me,” Robert spits, “If you just asked for help, then I – what now?”

Having given up quickly on following along to the complex match of their conversation, Sonar is now blasting the coffee grinder at full power. Your ears ache from the loud, relentless sound of it ringing throughout the room, drowning out even the current heated argument.

The look in Robert’s glaring eyes makes something in you tense, wariness churning in your gut. You definitely don't want to poke this particular bear, right now.

“Nothing. Nothing. Don't mind us. Please, continue,” You placate, hands sweeping slowly towards both him and Invisigal.

He lets out a sound that could almost be classified as a growl (which, hm, kinda hot) and turns back to Invisigal’s equally pissed off face.

“I make the calls, not you,” He says, louder now to overtake the sound of coffee beans meeting a gruesome end. 

It's difficult, now, to listen to a majority of the conversation. You do your best, though, because this is the most entertaining shit you've seen in a fat minute.

“ – you were a nerd playing hero in a suit your daddy built. Now you're a twitchy little bitch turtle without its shell – “

“Damn,” You mutter, and you hear Sonar make a noise that sounds somewhere between a chitter and a snicker.

“ – real hero can't just press a button and make their problems disappear – “

“Let me make this clear. You're not half the hero that I am – “

More loud, incessant whirring of the coffee grinder doing it's thing. 

You don't even twitch as he moves to lean against the counter beside you, snagging the Crypto Hustle magazine he'd snagged from his desk on the way here. Together, you both pretend as though you're not watching them like tourists at a new and exciting zoo exhibit.

“ – wouldn't last a day as Mecha Man, because there isn't a mech suit in the universe that would keep you from being a selfish fuckin’ asshole.”

Well, shit. That seems to have hit exactly how he wanted it to.

Your eyes widen, and for what feels like the umpteenth time today, you find them traveling up to meet Sonar’s. His expression mirrors your own, the both of your mouths parted in slight awe.

Invisigal’s face twists with thinly concealed rage, and for a moment you think she might just start swinging. She definitely doesn't seem like the type to simply let shit be talked about her.

But lo and behold, she violently kicks back her chair and stomps off, vanishing in a shimmering ripple of purple and slamming open the door. Invisigal was the bigger person, in the end. That's wild.

Sonar makes a clicking noise under his breath, and turns to finally shut the grinder off.

You look at Robert, and the way his own expression is bouncing between anger and guilt. You open your mouth, feeling like you should probably say something, but all that comes out is –

“Oh, shit – ” 

“Feel bad? Good. Fuck you!”

Invisigal’s shout precedes her fist connecting with Robert’s face with a gnarly thud, sending him soaring out of his seat from both impact and shock. Sonar’s head whips around, watching with the same highly fascinated intensity that you are.

She doesn't even spare either of you a glance, storming out for real this time.

You wonder, for around the seventh time today, how the hell you ended up here.

The break room goes intensely silent. For a long while, Robert chooses to lay right where he's fallen, wiping blood running from his left nostril as he seemingly contemplates his life choices.

Sonar moves, heading towards him. When he looms over the man, casting him in a bat shaped shadow, he stares down at Robert’s face with vague interest.

“You gonna eat those twinks?” He asks calmly, gesturing towards the mangled Twinkies that had followed Robert to the floor.

“That's not – “ Robert starts, but then sighs deeply, “You know what, help yourself.”

Permission granted, Sonar stoops down and snatches them up. You can only watch as he returns to the counter, opening the package to start eating the exploded contents of processed sugar shamelessly.

“What?” He murmurs, when he notices your attention, “Perfectly good still.”

Your lips press into a thin line, eyes closing in barely contained exasperation.

Then, you actually move to give Robert some help. You grab some napkins and head over to him, extending down a hand for him to take. He lets it hover there for a moment, before taking the offer with a unintelligible, resigned mutter.

You haul him back onto his feet with a grunt of effort. He's heavier than he looks.

“Lot of bite in that bark, Robertson,” You note, handing him the napkins, “I'm not exactly sure what happened, but from what I heard she did seem pretty out of line on that one.”

He takes the wad willingly, and rips a piece to stuff up his bloodied nose.

“Thanks,” He replies, the deep sound of his voice gone nasally, “She'll get better. She just needs – “

“Discipline?” You suggest, shrugging one shoulder.

He contemplates it, for a moment, “Something like that.”

“Kinky,” Sonar comments, where he's pouring coffee into a mug with the SDN logo splashed across it. Robert looks at him, then at the counter, and his eyes grow even more tried.

“That's my mug, Sonar,” He sighs out, wincing at the leftover ache in his face. Sonar’s head tilts, ears twitching, as he brings the mug up for a closer look.

“Huh,” He hums, not sounding the slightest bit actually remorseful, “Whoops. Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Robert must have the patience and morality of a saint, to still have his shit not lost forever at this point.

“Look, Robert,” You grab his attention, “I don't know jack shit about running a team, let alone one of a bunch of fuckups – ”

“Not me,” Sonar hums, sipping his coffee, “I'm great.”

“ – and I've only known you for, like, less than a day,” You continue, “But, you're not that terrible at this.”

Robert stares at you for a long while. His nose is starting to drip blood out around the tissue. You offer him a friendly smile.

“I appreciate that,” He finally says, “Very, uh, inspiring, Red. I'll keep it in mind.”

You nod, and reach out to clap your hand against his shoulder encouragingly. He's surprisingly solid under your hand. Huh.

Would.

“Stay strong, Robertson,” You call after him, as he starts to head for the exit of the break room, “You've got this!”

You wait until the door closes behind him to turn to Sonar, who is thumbing through his magazine yet again, “Hey. Wanna bet on how long it'll take him to quit? I'll put fifty on Wednesday.”

“Fifty and he's out by next Friday,” He replies, and then gestures Robert’s stolen mug towards the coffee-maker, “Want some?”

This time, you actually accept his offer.

.

.

.

“Did Robert actually say he's Mecha Man?” 

“Thought I imagined that, honestly.”

07.24.2023

Los Angeles, California.

SDN.

6:30 P.M.

Packed up, and headed out of SDN for home, you think that your first day could've gone a lot worse. 

You bid Leroy goodbye when you're out of the turnstiles, and push through the front doors with a relieved sigh. Then, pause at the scene that awaits you out in the parking lot.

Is that –

Is that fucking Phenomaman?

Indeed, a couple of feet away, is Phenomaman. Plus, Blonde Blazer, and – Robert? What is this fever dream?

You stand there for a moment, eyes flickering back and forth between the three of them. The conversation they're having doesn't look like a good one. 

Robert has a look of succinct awkwardness and letdown on his face, while Blonde Blazer is sending him purposeful stares and soundless gestures behind Phenomanan’s broad shoulder. Los Angeles’ hero poster boy seems to be blissfully unaware of the turmoil around him.

Damn. He's bigger than the commercials let on. His biceps definitely dwarf your head, and his voice is pleasant, albeit strangely formal.

Would totally.

You're one nosy little shit, because even though you start walking again, you still rubberneck the three of them. You watch as Phenomaman scoops Blonde Blazer up bridal style (so easily, damn), and then once Robert has stepped back, the massive man rockets away from the ground and shoots up into the sky.

Robert is left standing there next to cracked concrete, staring up at where they'd left like the sky holds all the answers he can't find for himself.

You shake your head, and decide to actually make good on leaving the parking lot entirely.

You've said it once, and you'll say it again. This place, and now everyone on your team, is fucking weird.

But…so are you.

Chapter Text

07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California.

SDN.

9:00 A.M.

Blonde Blazer's office is actually pretty neat.

There's a large desk centermost of the spacious room, and a comfortable looking chair that screams official. Large windows bracket either side of expansive shelving from behind said desk, their shutters raised to let in insane amounts of natural light.

When she sits in that chair, it provides an almost golden backdrop behind her. She looks as radiant as she's deferred to.

You would appreciate it more, if you weren't currently shitting bricks that she called you in here the second you stepped past the doors of SDN.

Did you really get fired this fast? That has to be some shitty world record. The Z-Team didn't even work over the weekend, and you apparently managed to do something punishable enough in between passing out in your bed and watching reruns of sitcoms to get you in Blazer’s sights.

“Uh,” You begin, unable to take the awkward silence that has befallen once she sat down at her desk, “Good morning...ma’am?”

Her eyes are very blue. You only notice this because they're boring into your own with unwavering intensity that distinctly reminds you of being in a principal's office. Blonde Blazer has a very consuming aura around her, and really, that just adds to her general appeal under normal circumstances.

This is not normal circumstances.

“Please, just Blazer,” She offers instead, lacing her fingers in front of her on the desk, deep blue against rich mahogany, “Good morning, by the way. I know I kind of just sprung up on you.”

That's an understatement. You'd been shoveling your backpack into your locker again, sipping at another attempt of morning coffee, when she'd appeared behind you like Coupé had. Predictably, you'd freaked the fuck out, and your coffee had doused the front of the more sophisticated sweater you'd attempted adorning and the locker underneath yours.

You'd swore every last curse you know, and she'd apologized profusely, the whole awkward little dance.

Fortunately, you came prepared with some spare clothing. Helpful foresight stemming from Coupé’s similar stunt, even if it is just an old shirt with palm trees plastered on the front, half hidden by a zip up.

“Blazer,” You repeat more surely, nodding again, “So…?”

For a moment, Blonde Blazer is just quiet. It's not the good kind of quiet, either. The type of quiet that makes it clear that whatever she has to say isn't the easiest to find words for. That whatever it is requires a bit of a careful approach.

God, you're so getting fired.

“A decision has been made,” She begins to say, and you brace yourself for the inevitable, “Someone will need to be cut from the Z-Team by the end of today. I've notified the others already, and now I'm notifying you.”

Oh, so you are theoretically getting fired. Good to know.

You let out a small sigh, leaning back into the chair you're perched in. 

“Well, shit.”

Blonde Blazer lets out an agreeing hum, sweeping imaginary dust from the surface of her desk. She seems to take another moment to gather her words, before she speaks once more.

“I have to be honest with you, Redline. You're at the bottom of the leaderboard. You were, technically, the very last until Invisigal…well, I'm sure you've heard.”

Oh, yes, you’d heard all about the Donut Shop Situation. The argument between Invisigal and Robert was quite the thing to witness. 

You can maybe, possibly, understand needing to cut someone. You don't think they're so bad, but most of the Z-Team do have their own issues that are difficult to manage from a professional point of view (what little professionalism you know of, at least). Including yourself.

But, like, of course you're at the bottom of the leaderboard? You just started on Friday, for fuck’s sake.

“No offense,” You tell her, a skeptical look on your face, “But I don't see how that's fair, seeing as how you just hired me.”

Emphasis on her hiring you. There had been no room for hope of returning to society, back in your prison cell. Lawful people decided you were dangerous, made up a few shiny new charges on the fly, and pulled out the metaphorical teeth they thought would bite the world. 

That was that. 

Until you had been approached for the Phoenix Program, and questioned on whether you'd be up for a chance at redemption. You quite literally had nothing to lose at that point, so you'd signed up. You hadn't expected much out of it.

But now that you've been out of that cell...

You dread the thought of going back. You get that it's your own decisions that led to your imprisonment, even if you do regret a majority of them. 

But you think you are starting to see some dormant promise to whatever the hell this whole situation is, and deep down…maybe you do actually want to be a part of it.

You thought the opposite, at first. If anything, you were leaning into using this program as a means to escape a fate that you otherwise can't alter. 

But the few outings you'd gone on had made you feel…useful. You were useful before, to many people, but always with the expense of harm tacked onto it. 

Being useful, helping for the sake of helping, is…odd to get used to, but you could get used to it. You kind of want to get used to it. Maybe. Sorta. Probably.

Honestly, you are the farthest thing from a hero. You can admit that. Just look at your powers, the things you were required to do with them... 

You're still not a hundred percent sure anything good is able to come from you, alright? Maybe you played at a normal life for a while, keeping to small fate changes and miserable career choices, but you'd taken a dark path eventually. Then, you’d wound up prosecuted in the end for it.

But you're starting to realize that this opportunity is more than just an escape, if you actually apply yourself to it. 

You can also admit there is substance to the Z-Team, prosperity that can be reached if everyone can get their shit together. Including yourself. You feel it simmering under the surface, even as faint as it is.

Hope is such a fragile thing, and it's never gone well for you to hold onto. Yet here it sitting inside of you. 

“Unfortunately, SDN has been under a lot of heat for the Phoenix Program. The public…needs to see progress in order to believe. If this is going to work for everyone involved, then a show of seriousness is required,” She explains, “Even as unfair as that sounds.”

It sounds extremely unfair, actually. You're not going to say that outright. You're on a slippery slope now, and you'd rather not dig the grave you're already in deeper.

Speaking of that grave, a realization is beginning to dawn on you. She said she notified everyone, didn't she? So why would she not have just told you at the same time as the others?

Well, see, the answer to that is guaranteed to be one you dislike. You'll ask anyhow, if only for the dreadful confirmation.

“I have a question,” You state, gut churning with apprehension. Blonde Blazer gestures silently for you to go ahead with it.

“The terms and conditions are null, if I get kicked, aren't they?” You get straight to the point, words stilted, “The District Attorney told me what would happen if I break the limitations of the Phoenix Program. So…I'm going back, aren't I?”

To give credit to her, Blonde Blazer does manage to keep a straight face as you speak. But in her eyes, there is a little shimmer of apologetic guilt. Her lips press together, and in one grim motion, her head dips in a single nod.

“That is what would happen,” She says, a bit quieter to soften the blow, “Yes. You being cut means you're back to your original facility. Same for anyone else, Redline. Not just because of your circumstances.”

Your heart sinks. Your lungs feel tight all of a sudden, burning as you take in a sharp inhale for compensation. You swear the room is getting stuffier and smaller, like the walls are closing in.

Go back to your sentence. Like it was ever the average, ordinary serving that everyone else receives. 

“That's…bullshit,” You spit out, unable to help the weak outburst.

You'd made a tough decision to put some faith in her, when she'd first met with you. 

She'd pitched a good speech about the program, how you're an overall strong candidate to succeed in it. Your crimes are isolated to one person, who happened to be a villain nobody would honestly miss, and as for the timeline stuff…

Well, you're overall harmless with the inhibitor, demeaning as it is.

It sounded so far-fetched, that anyone would look at you and think that you could be a hero. Yet, you'd given Blonde Blazer the benefit of the doubt, because she'd seemed so convinced the program could make something out of you.

You'd decided to believe, even just for a second, that you could be more than what others have decided you are. You could be more than what you know yourself as. A tool, just a weapon to be handled by others.

You might not be cut just yet, but it already feels like this entire thing is slipping through your fingers. Like the next time you blink, you'll be back in that desolate cell with Rhino again. Maybe even more isolated, if they think you'll go off the rails. 

It'll be back to the evaluations, back to the confinement, back to the –

You wouldn't be able to see –

No.

Blonde Blazer has the decency to drop the aura of a professional for a moment, one gloved hand coming up to rub at her temple. Her face reflects exhaustion, the look of someone that has big decisions and…maybe something else, weighing down on their shoulders. 

“I know, alright?” She sighs, her voice lower now, “I get that this is a lot to take in.”

You can only scoff, refusing to meet her eyes. You don't need placation. You only have yourself to blame for being here in the first place, in the end.

“I am sorry, Redline. I am. All that I can say right now is that you have to apply yourself. Show everyone that's watching the Z-Team that you're beyond what’s on the records.”

Easier said than done.

You leave Blonde Blazer’s office with a bitter taste in your mouth, and a looming sense of dread. Here you are, unable to do anything but surrender to the same fate that you've taunted for years.

For a moment, you linger in the bullpen, glaring at the leaderboard displayed for all to see. The name Redline sits just one spot above Invisigal, a twenty-five point score compared to her twenty-six. Absolutely abysmal.

And above yours, Sonar’s name sits. Just looking at the letters makes something in your gut twist, a confusing sensation that you're beginning to grow wary of.

You had time to think over the weekend. You had replayed the small amount of time you’d spent with him, working with him, and how shockingly pleasant it had been overall. He's like an acquired taste, almost.

Your glare deepens.

You think you kind of like him. 

He's quite a bit obnoxious, and he kept going on about failed blockchain projects over that shared coffee for far too fucking long, but…it was nice. You weren't prepared for meeting him properly to be nice. 

Fuck. 

Will it still be nice, if he knows every last private detail – his memories, his thoughts, emotions, all of it – had been viewed by you like an art gallery exhibit? 

You know things. You know the good, the bad, and…even the terrible. Things that most people, if given an actual choice, would definitely not willingly tell you.

Just as your power robs you the choice of changing your fate, you rob people of the choice to show you what makes them. 

That's how you also know that Sonar is different.

You wouldn't say he's the shining example of a redeemed former villain, none of you are right now, but there had always been a steadily nocuous presence that had radiated from him. It was in every single memory after bat-creature’s murderous first appearance.

He covered it well enough with charm when interacting with others, but to someone like you? It was prominent, and at times suffocating when he'd indulge in certain activities.

Now? You don't feel that at all. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks, it's not the same. It's lighter, and dare you say, authentic. You thought it was an act, at first, but…it is shaping up to be the opposite. 

Whatever happened since that Tour changed him, and it seems to be a step in the direction of being better.

“I take it you've been caught up to speed.”

You blink out of deep thought, at the sound of Robert’s voice to your left. Your head turns, ever so slightly, to catch his dark eyes. 

You let out a low breath, and then mutter out a despondent, “Yeah.”

You both stand there for a moment, reading the leaderboard. He takes slow sips of coffee from his mug, the sound of it mingling with the background ambience of a busy office.

“I've only known you for about a day, and maybe a quarter,” He pipes up, a near exact parrot of your own encouragement towards him now back to you, “But, you're not terrible at this, Redline.”

That gets a mixed reaction from you, a grimace and a shallow smile. You appreciate the attempt at a gentle pep-talk even if you've done next to nothing to warrant one from him. Just as the both of you have acknowledged, you know nothing about each other – well, except the fact that he probably read your records. 

There's actually something freeing about that. Robert knows about you. There's nothing to hide when you speak to him.

But he doesn't know more than what was typed up on the profile. Not even the justice system can drag those details back out of you. 

“Not sure about that. I'm out of my depth here, Robertson,” You admit, tightness in your voice, “Even if Invisigal is below me right now, I doubt that'll be the case by the end of the day.”

You just have that feeling.

You've always chalked it up to an extension of your abilities. It's almost like déjà vu, but stronger. Like you've genuinely been here before. You just have this certainty in your gut that what you're thinking will come to pass.

Sometimes, it's wrong. Fate, obviously, isn't as definitive as it's made out to be. You've proved that time and time again, derailing other people's. But, in general…

It's rarely wrong.

…and that's what you fear most.

Robert looks at you as he hears the resignation in your voice, a mixture of confusion and intrigue etched into the lines of his face.

“You can't possibly know that,” He states, but pauses, something dawning on him, “...can you?”

You don't get a chance to reply to him. Someone sidles up beside the both of you. Your head turns to see him.

No, not that him. The other one. The fucking judgemental one.

“Cut day, huh?” Chase says, squinting at the board with vague interest, “Eh, she ain't so bad – “

He's gesturing towards Prism’s name on the board, who sits nice and comfy above Coupé and Sonar. 

“ – these four, though?” He continues blithely, using a single finger to point to every name after Prism’s, “Ain't shit.”

Your brows pinch together, and indignation floods you. The absolute nerve of this guy. His audacity surpasses even Robert’s, and unlike Flambae, he actually sounds serious about his insults.

“Chase, that's – ” Robert starts to sigh, but you cut him off.

“I’m literally standing right here, dude,” You force out tersely. Chase merely sniffs, eyes sliding to hold your stare with firm doubtlessness.

“I know,” He says, not the slightest bit kinder, “Did I stutter?”

“I’m not sure who pissed in your cereal, but it sure the fuck wasn't me,” Your arms cross over your chest, eyes narrowed at him, “Did you really come all the way over here to start something with me, old man?” 

Chase barely bats an eye at your words, waving you off with a single, nonchalant hand.

“I got no time for whatever temper tantrum you're trying to throw,” He dismisses, “You don't wanna be kicked in the ass? Easy. Don't let the boot anywhere near it. Standing here staring at the board like a kicked puppy won't do shit to help you.”

You kind of hate that in some odd, totally uncalled for and rude way, he does have an incredibly valid point. 

It's that simple. You can sit here and mope, feel sorry for yourself, drown in the tragedies of your own making –

Or, you can attempt to spit in fate’s face yet again, just…without the cheat code. Honest work – or, uh, hero-ing.

“Huh,” You mutter, feeling the beginnings of renewed determination, “You're kind of right.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Chase scoffs, and then turns to Robert next, “I only came over here because one of your team members is in need of assistance.”

Robert’s face blanches, and then he's stepping away from the leaderboard to head over to his desk with Chase in tow. His computer is making a constant, high-pitched pinging sound. No doubt someone attempting to get his attention. 

You move to follow him, curious as to who exactly needs his help, but he holds up a hand that stops you in your tracks.

“Nope,” He shakes his head, “This is my job. You need to go out there and do yours.”

Your lips form a slight pout, and you roll your eyes as you grumble, “You're no fun.”

Still, you turn and begin to leave, mentally preparing yourself for another day of heading out into the streets of Torrance and hopefully not getting sent to retrieve fucking balloons. 

Balloons aren't going to get your score up and keep you on the team, today. You need something to latch yourself onto that leaderboard. Something to make your value and determination impossible to dispute.

Don't let the boot kick your ass.

You navigate the corridors of SDN, and reach up to flick on your earpiece. Immediately, Robert’s voice is echoing in your ear.

“Sonar, are you alright?” He asks, confusion laced in each word, “Why are you sending out a distress call – and why haven't you left the building?”

You pause in the hall, nearly making an unassuming employee slam into your back. She gives you a nasty glare, heels clicking angrily against the tile as she goes around you and continues forward.

But, you don't pay her any mind, because now you're invested in the conversation at hand. What could Sonar have possibly gotten himself into that needs a distress call?

More importantly, why does it make you feel so on edge to think about? 

“Could you send a locksmith downstairs,” Sonar requests, sounding a good portion of both bored and long-suffering. 

“What happened?” Robert presses on.

Sonar sighs, the resignation even more poignant. You hear fabric shifting on the other end of the line, and the clinking of metal? The fuck?

“Coupé seduced me.”

Oh.

Oh?

That's a mental image that is quite strange to picture – not just because they're polar opposites, but because you notice she talks to Punch Up distinctly more…nice. 

None of what's unfolding over the channel is any of your business. It really fucking isn't. Focusing on hero-ing, getting a higher score on the leaderboard, and avoiding being sent back to prison. That's the job. That's all that needs your attention right now.

Yet, you have not resumed walking out of SDN.

“No,” Coupé clarifies through the channel, “I said “Hey, do you wanna see something cool” and then handcuffed you to the squat rack.”

“Yeah,” Sonar laments, “But you said it with a hot voice so I assumed you meant boobs.”

“Remind me again why I'm at the bottom of the leaderboard?” Invisigal asks, and Robert lets out a heavy, already exhausted, sigh.

“Might have to do with you cooking the wrong type of eggs, I think,” You comment, stepping aside for yet another employee going past you.

Invisigal immediately snaps back, “Fuck you, Red, he's fine.”

“Okay,” Robert inserts himself in, fed up with the deviating conversation, “Team. I know Blazer mentioned someone's getting cut, but don't let that distract you from doing a good job out there. That's what you'll be judged on.”

There's a few incomprehensible murmurs over the channel, but Malevola decides to outright declare, “What a bunch of bullshit.”

Your thoughts precisely, despite your resolve to try. 

“Sorry, what exactly is bullshit?” Robert asks.

“This judgey bullshit,” Malevola elaborates, standing her ground.

“How is that – ”

“Yeah, only God can judge me,” Prism talks over him, proud in her statement.

Robert makes a doubtful sound, “Okay, false. I'm judging you right now.”

“I do feel very judged,” You add, and the moment you say it you hear Flambae let out a short, humorless laugh.

“That’s because you suck. Just be better,” He says, “Like me.” 

“Better? You literally start fires to put them out, dude,” Sonar snorts, which makes a lot of fucking sense now that you think about it.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Flambae deflects immediately. 

“If I try to be more like Flambae, should I also whistle to really channel his character?” You wonder out loud, and you hear Punch Up start to chuckle. Flambae, on the other hand, fumes.

“You fucking bitch – ”

“It's bullshit ‘cus it's not like you gotta deal with all this bullshit,” Malevola continues her argument, talking over the stream of Flambae’s colorful swearing.

“Uh, also false,” Robert says, baffled, “Because I'm being judged along with the rest of you. Do you not know what a job is?”

Malevola sighs, “None of us have had real jobs, dude. How does this surprise you?”

“I have,” You admit, “Multiple, actually.”

“Wait, seriously?” Malevola immediately hones in, intrigue creeping into her rippling voice, “Where?”

Right then and there, it dawns on you that that detail was actually very much the wrong thing to share with the class. Given the fact that your longest term of employment had been the Junior Burger that Sonar wiped off the face of the earth.

Half-truths to the rescue.

“Fast food, mainly,” You tell her, keeping your voice relaxed, “Flipping burgers and shit.”

“Explains why you're so useless,” Flambae sneers, “Like, seriously, am I the only one wondering how they got onto this team? Just me?”

“Hate to be sayin’ it,” Punch up joins in, “But I'm gettin' curious too, Red.”

“Same,” Golem drawls out.

Well, fuck. The hot water is rising quickly, isn't it? There's a part of you, a calling of the void, that wants to rip the bandaid off. See the shit-storm that'll ensue afterwards.

Maybe another day.

Your stomach clenches with nerves, and all you can get out is a hesitant, “Uhm, well – ”

“Listen, guys,” Robert overtakes the conversation, blessedly removing you from the spotlight, “Ignore the pressure, and just do your jobs. If anything, you don't need to be first, you just can't be last.”

“What about me?” Sonar reminds him, more pointed metallic clinking coming from his end of the channel. Like he's rattling the cuffs on purpose.

“I suggest leaving him,” Coupé offers casually, “His fate is his own fault.”

….is it, though?

“No, I'm not – “ Robert cuts himself off, and there's a moment of shuffling around echoing through his comms, before you hear his muffled shout of, “Can somebody go down to the gym and help bat-boner?”

“I can get him,” You suggest, before your brain has even caught up to your fat, loose cannon of a mouth, “I know how to pick a lock.”

“Sweet,” Sonar hums, sounding almost pleased, “Thanks, Red.”

Nothing in you feels the slightest bit warm for that small ounce of positivity coming from him. Nothing. You refuse to acknowledge otherwise.

You're just all over the place, right now. The nerves from the significance of what today holds are amplifying everything. That's all.

Yeah.

“I thought I told you to leave the building, Redline,” Robert says, in that tone of his that makes you feel oddly scorned, “You have a job to do, and it isn't dealing with Sonar’s crap.”

“I was about to!” You swear, “I'll be quick, Robertson. Teammates don't leave each other behind, right?”

You pose it more as a question, because you know next to nothing about playing nice with others. Nighthawk never fostered that kind of ethic. You pulled your weight, and if you fucked up, you'd be out on your own.

But that's not going to cut it, this time around. It doesn't have to mean something more. You're simply helping out a member of your team.

“What former burger flipper knows how to pick locks?” Invisigal probes, her suspicion blatant.

Hm. That's a pretty straightforward question with a straightforward answer. Truth is, you hadn't known how to pick a lock as a burger flipper, but you sure as hell learned when you started to learn the ins and outs of certain…operations.

You, obviously, can't exactly admit that outright.

“Fun fact about me,” You say instead, slow and bright, “I am what I believe the kids call “a criminal”. Just because I've written a resume before, doesn't mean I don't know how to steal shit.”

“I can write a fucking resume,” Invisigal mutters, successfully defused.

“Just go,” Robert relents, seemingly done with reasoning with adult children for the time being.

“Roger that,” You hum, turning on your heel to head back down the hall that you're in, and then pause, “...Robert that?”

“No,” Is the entire, collective answer that ricochets through the channel in a multitude of separate voices.

Everyone’s a critic, apparently.

You overestimated just how “quick” you could truly pull off helping Sonar, however.

To put it plainly, it's because you haven't the slightest fucking clue where said gym is yet. You're on a time crunch, because you're definitely on the clock now as you listen to Robert start assigning people to rising issues around Torrance.

So, begrudgingly, you stop and ask for a hint. Thankfully, the massive cat (tabby?) in one hallway is kind enough to point, literally point, you in the direction of the gym with a gloved hand.

“Thanks, man,” You attempt.

The silence is consuming. Two slitted pupils simply stare into yours, so unwavering that it feels a little like they're looking into your soul.

“Okay, then,” You laugh a little awkwardly, and give the cat a small wave, “Catch you around, bud.”

The SDN gym is a beast of a set-up. You can really see where that sweet green was spent, as you push through the double doors and wander through row upon row of equipment that could also be mistaken for devices of torture.

NFL gyms get gawked at, but one designed specifically for superheroes? Yeah, no contest.

“Sonar?” You call out, voice echoing out in the vast space, “Where the fuck are you?”

You hear the loud, obnoxious rattling of handcuffs coming from the right side of the room as a response. You head over to the source, sighing under your breath.

Sonar truly looks like the definition of joylessness, where he sits on the squat rack Coupé locked him to. His elbow rests on one of his knees, chin propped up on his curled hand while the other continuously pulls at the cuffs. Even his ears are lowered, accentuating the air of brooding disdain he radiates.

The moment you approach, his eyes wander to you. The mildly pissed off narrowness of them smoothes out into something that…

That means absolutely nothing. You're off your rocker.

“Finally,” He mutters under his breath, “My fucking arm is going numb.”

You come to a stop in front of him, arms crossing over your chest as you survey his current predicament. Your eyes squint. Your lips press together. Fuck.

Oh no.

He looks hot.

Okay, you'd maybe clocked that earlier than just right now, but at this moment it's extremely prominent.

This isn't a good revelation for you to have.

The gym has low lighting that casts long, deep shadows across his fur, making the deeper black sections feel as though you're staring into the abyss. How far does that fur spread, anyway? His usual choice of suit covers a lot, but you've seen his hands and they're very sparse with it, his complexion a pale, slight gray.

He looks so soft. You'd thought that back then, too. It was ignorable under the pressure of a job, but being so close to him again has reignited that observation tenfold, and given it a new, attractive spin.

Even his stare feels magnified, right now. Like the dark makes the white hue of them glow, almost. Like twin stars in the night sky. He has really nice eyelashes. Is that a strange thing to notice? 

Then there's the fact that he's cuffed. Oh, man, that makes your thoughts take a very unwanted, very creative turn. If he looks this good half-heartedly chained to a squat rack, imagine what a pretty sight he'd be if you actually put to use those few rigging techniques you learned.

Mhm. Yeah. Cotton rope for ease. You'd had so many colors of that type, before they'd burnt all your shit to ashes. Maybe a dark, rich red shade. That'd compliment his fur nicely – wait, no.

Oh, fuck.

You would.

You really fucking would.

Holy shit.

“So?” He prompts, tugging at his cuffed wrist again, “Let me out?”

“Yeah,” You manage to get out, internal crisis rising all the while, “I do have a question, though. Is a hot voice all it really takes for you to do just about anything?”

Sonar’s head tilts a fraction, and then he shrugs, “Pretty much.”

How did you get here?

“So, if I talk – ” You let your voice drop, the normal cadence lowering into something softer, something suggestive, “ – like this? Nice…and slow…I can maybe…have your social security number?”

It's supposed to be a joke. You swear it is. Just something to diffuse whatever the fuck thirsty awakening had just taken over your entire mind for a moment there.

But his ears start to do a strange little dance while you speak, swiveling and trembling, and a faint clicking noise murmurs in his throat. It could go unnoticed, it's so soft, but in the stillness of the deserted gym it might as well be as loud as a gunshot.

It's almost cute, to be honest.

….does he actually have a thing for tones of voices? That would oddly make a lot of sense for someone with senses like his. But also, what the fuck are you supposed to do with this information?

Test it more, something traitorous whispers. You're going to hell.

He clears his throat, and blinks like he's come out of some mini-trance. His snout twitches a little as he lets out a small, wry snort.

“I'm easy, Red,” He admits, and you might be hallucinating but you swear his voice sounds deeper as he follows up with, “But I'm not that easy. You'll have to work with me a little. Like…one half of the numbers per tit flashed?”

This fucking guy.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck at the shamelessness of that proposed deal. You're going to fuck up, if you don't put an end to this. You need to step back, digest, and assess this dumpster fire of your thoughts carefully.

“HR frowns upon fraternization, unfortunately,” You sigh, crouching down to fish your switchblade from the interior of your boot, “We’re already on the chopping block, if you weren't aware.”

“Oh, I heard. But what I didn't hear – ” He hums as he watches your fingers pull out the small pair of tweezers hidden within the knife’s casing, “Was you saying ‘no’ to that deal.”

That's because you haven't. You're kind of freaking out over that little fact. It should be easy, shouldn't it? Tell him to fuck off, it's just a prank, never in a million years?

So why the fuck won't those words come out of your mouth?

“Turn your wrist,” You tell him firmly, ignoring his comment with ironclad resolve. Your fingers bend the tweezers apart, shaping them into the perfect little tool to disarm a pair of cuffs.

“Bossy,” He notes, slow and almost thoughtful, “Kinda like that.”

“I can really see how Coupé managed to do this,” You bite out, leaning in to inspect the cuff that is tightened around his wrist, “Do I need to break out a fucking spray bottle, Sonar? No, bad bat, down boy.”

His chuckle is like rolling thunder, too damn low for a regular conversation to call for.

You hate that you have to get in so close to him, but you really do need to see what you're working with. It's hard, though, to focus when there's suddenly small huffing sounds that come from him. Like stilted, inhaling breaths. 

Your brows pinch together.

Is he fucking sniffing you? 

“I can behave,” He replies easily, and you just can't cope with how much you don't dislike the sound of those words being said with his undeniably pleasant voice. It's so deep being this close that you swear you can feel it in your bones.

Jesus, maybe you need a spray bottle for yourself.

“Doubtful,” You shoot back, eyes studying the lock of the cuffs intently.

Figures that Coupé would go for the double lock. It's like a silent, secondary insult to how easily convinced Sonar was to get like this in the first place. You sigh, and shove the end of the tweezers into the small keyhole, testing angles carefully.

“You always come this prepared?” He asks, blessedly relenting in whatever pursuit he'd been in. For the first time since coming into this gym, you feel like you can fucking breathe.

“Not everyone can morph into an overpowered bat,” You point out, turning the tweezers just a tiny amount more to the right, “Us normies need alternative methods to survive.”

There's a few quiet beats, just the delicate scrape of metal to break it. Then, the hammer falls.

“I’ll give it to you, Red, you're pretty good at lying,” He acknowledges, one large ear twitching as the double lock disarms with a click, “But the fact that you do it so much gives me the impression there's a lot more to you than you say there is.”

Nevermind. Back to not breathing.

“How do you know if someone is lying?” You prompt, a tad bit defensive.

He doesn't seem to mind the sharp edge, and only tells you, “Just can.”

Well that's not fucking helpful, is it?

You force yourself not to show the cold, apprehensive stone that drops into your gut. Your fingers twitch, the tweezers jerk, and then another click echoes in the thick silence.

Your fingers pull apart the cuff with the grinding of metal on metal, and his arm finally drops from the upright position it'd been stuck in. He moves to start rubbing blood flow back into his wrist, as you bend the tweezers back into some semblance of straight.

“I'm not that easy,” You echo back to him, “I like to keep my cards close, Batboy.”

Of course he meets you head on. He's a provocative little shit.

“We're on the same team, Redline,” Sonar purrs out, “It's not very smart to keep important things a secret.”

Oh, don't you fucking know it.

You both stare at each other, for a long stretch of more silence. You're still close to him. Too damned close. He's straightened up where he's still sitting on the squat rack, and now his face is level with yours. Eye to eye, snout to nose.

Alright, maybe you can see why he'd been sniffing you, at this proximity (even if it's probably some weird bat…thing). His cologne is spiced, almost, and mixed with an undertone of cigarette smoke. You would've expected something strong, obnoxious somewhere in the ballpark of Axe honestly, but…

Fuck. It's undeniable that he smells good, too. 

You realize that this is a really strange, really long stretch of staring. This is not fucking normal. You need to leave, and yet you're caught up in a mess of thoughts, a treacherous push and pull of –

“Redline,” Robert’s voice reaches out in your ear, sudden and jarring, “Being down two people is really fucking us. Did you get Sonar free yet?”

It's enough to snap you out of whatever state of limbo just took over. You clear your throat, and swiftly remove yourself from Sonar’s space. Tension you hadn't even known was built up in your body loosens, the moment you do.

“Yeah. Yup,” You reply, leaning down to shove your knife back into your boot, “He’s good. I'm good. Everyone's good.”

“Yeah?” Invisigal questions, immediately suspicious of how decidedly not good you sound.

“Yeah, all good,” Sonar concludes, standing up from the squat rack, “No thanks to Coupé.”

“Be less gullible, perhaps,” Coupé chides readily, “Less perverted, as well.”

“Nah. That's like, one of his main selling points,” Malevola chuckles, though she sounds fond, “He's reliably perverted.”

“See? Mal gets me,” The aforementioned pervert replies, and there's lightness in his voice when he says her name that makes you wonder…

You have to stop wondering, actually. It's not doing you any favors.

“Less chatting, more working, guys,” Robert sighs, “We're at full power now, so let's get shit done. Do you remember what's on the line?”

God, you sure the fuck do. You've spent too much time on…whatever the fuck just happened. You don't know, you're still processing it. But doing that can wait until later, when your spot on the Z-Team isn't compromised by your future success.

Or lack thereof.

So, you head out of the gym without so much as a glance back at Sonar, unwilling to face the confusion that's been born from that situation.

It doesn't mean shit. You've cultivated a list of “would be downs” that includes half of SDN at this point. It's not like you ever plan on acting on it.

“Really, you're only talking to four of us,” Prism muses, “I'm a Bad Bitch. That's just a fact. You wanna know what Bad Bitches do?”

“They Get Shit Done,” Flambae supplies readily, and unashamedly. You can totally imagine he probably recites this in the mirror in the morning, it comes so naturally to him.

“Exactly. Bad Bitches Get Shit Done, and that's why I'm not at the bottom of the leaderboard,” She coos confidently, “And why I never will be.”

“Okay. Okay, that's – that's nice,” Robert gets out, nasally like he's pinching the bridge of his nose as he speaks, “Redline. I have a situation for you.”

You finally make it outside of SDN and onto the street, forcibly clearing your mind of anything that isn't your job with each quick step. No leaderboard. No Sonar. Nothing.

“Ready and waiting, Robertson,” You tell him, steady with confidence, “Point me in a direction.”

07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California.

11:45 A.M.

You sit on the ledge of the concrete barrier, battered sneakers kicking back gently against it while you slowly take another sip of the energy drink you'd gotten from the gas station around the corner. It's sweet on your tongue, an accurate artificial imitation of the cotton candy branding on its label.It's a simple van, blending into the countless other cars lined up in the garage. Nothing that stands out, no decals or markings.

The back doors of the vehicle open with a groaning squeal of weathered hinges.“Is that any good?” Malevola asks after a moment of watching you, and then holds out her clawed hand, “Let me have a taste.”

You hesitate for a moment, and then shrug. You hand her the broad bottle, and watch out of the corner of your eye as she takes a small sip of it as well.

Her reaction is rather fascinating.

Her face twists, dark lips curving into a grimace that makes it seem as though she's gotten a taste of literal poison rather than an overpriced sugary drink.

“Ugh. Fuck. That's fucking horrendous,” She shakes her head, tail lashing in agitation behind her as she all but shoves it back into your vicinity, “You actually like this?”

You take the bottle with a shrug, “I've had worse.”

Far fucking worse. 

Prison has erased so much of your flavor memory, and now that you're a free bird you've made it a point to consume anything and everything that sounds remotely tempting. You think if you ever had to eat a jury-rigged tamale again, your will to live would permanently vacate your body and refuse to come back.

“Don't have a sweet tooth?” You wonder, curiosity piqued. You figured that was the case, when she went with canned black coffee as her choice from the gas station.

There's three of them in total.

One is an absolute behemoth of a man. His scaled skin is a deep green, gleaming and decorated with countless scars. His face sits somewhere between a bear and a snake, but two massive, bull-like horns erupting from his forehead. 

Looks about as smart as the concrete used to make this parking garage, if you're being brutally honest.

His partner, seemingly, is the polar opposite. Thin as a whip, gaunt and sickly pale. His hands keep running through his auburn hair, messing it up more than it had been to begin with. 

He's a paranoid little shit, eyes constantly scanning the surroundings, facial features twitching like an emotional kaleidoscope.

He can't see either of you, even as wary as he is. You're in an advantageous position behind some soccer mom’s oversized suburban, courtesy of your leftover knowledge on how Nighthawk preferred intel gathering carried out.

Close enough to watch, far away enough to not be involved if shit hits the fan.

“Fuck, definitely not,” Malevola denies, moving to lean back against the column alongside you, “Never hurts to try something new, though.”

The third guy looks almost professional. Clean-shaven, dressed smart, and posture relaxed. He has a nasty scar running from brow down to chin, deep and painful to look at even healed over. He's talking heatedly to the behemoth, face calm but eyes sharp with scorn.

He seemingly doesn't give a flying fuck that who he's berating could probably sneeze on him and end it all right there.

“Christ,” You mutter, taking another small mouthful of sweet cotton candy, “That guy is massive.”

“Eh,” Malevola dismisses apathetically, hand flicking, “I've taken bigger.”

“One punch and – wait, what?” You choke slightly, blinking rapidly at her, “You've taken what – ”

Malevola quickly slaps a hand over it to prevent you from speaking further. You let out a muffled sound of surprise, and she shushes you further.

“Hold that thought,” She tells you, voice dropping into a lower, more hushed tone, “They’re finally coming to an agreement.”

Your eyes slowly follow the direction her tail slowly points in, and a deep sense of anticipation begins to form in your gut.

Robert’s assignment had been vague, per the call he'd received for it. Someone saw what they dubbed “shady shit” and figured it was a developing drug deal, so both Malevola and yourself were the ones chosen to put an end to it as needed.

You try to speak, realize that her hand is still pressed to your face. You then heave a sigh, right before licking a gross stripe across her palm. 

“What the fuck?” Malevola growls in repulsion, hand ripping away like it's been burned before she forcibly wipes your spit back onto your jacket.

“You literally just drank off of me,” You rebuttal, and then in a whisper you ask, “Ready to bag ‘em?” 

Her disgruntled expression morphs into something more sly, an almost excited hellfire sparking to life in her intense, glowing eyes. 

“Let’s.”

Yeah. That's how you end up strolling towards three supposed drug dealers like it's some kind of standoff, hands stuffed in the pockets of your jacket. Malevola is right alongside you, her giant blade (which is one of the sickest weapons you've seen to date) slung lazily over her broad shoulder.

“Oi, dipshits!” She calls out, her voice echoing through the parking garage ominously, “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Like that, the entire atmosphere switches in a single, brief moment. Three sets of eyes snap to both you and Malevola, and tension swells like the beginnings of a bad storm.

The twitchy guy looks hesitantly at his companions, scratching at his arm hard enough to leave pink lines across his skin.

“Uh, nothing?” He replies tentatively. You gotta give it to him, at least he tried.

“Right,” You say slowly, head nodding once, “So, what's in the duffels then?”

The guy with the scarred face scowls harder, while the other two share a silent, communicative look. Malevola scoffs, her hip cocking out as her free hand rests onto it.

“Seriously, who the fuck moves product in broad daylight?” She asks, genuinely unable to comprehend, “At a fucking mall, no less.”

Twitchy’s eyes flicker, just once, but you catch the subtle change. Just a split second of what you can only assume is deep, seething rage. 

That one is more dangerous than he lets on, isn't he?

“Not our fault,” The gigantic hybrid of a man rumbles honestly, slow like molasses, “Astro is needs this to work out – ”

Twitchy lets out a sharp, disbelieving shout, his fist shooting out to punch his mountainous counterpart in his stomach. He doesn't even flinch, looking like a confused dog down at his stomach as Twitchy curses.

“Shut the fuck up, Striker! What the fuck!” He complains, hopping in place as he holds the hand he surely just fractured from that single punch, “They – they're fucking narks!”

“They are?”

“Both of you, stop talking,” The scarred man states, unnervingly calm despite the fact they've been caught in their tracks, “You're complete fucking idiots. It's a wondrous miracle you haven't been killed for it yet.”

His head turns, sharp and almost top precise, and his lip curls in disgust as he surveys you and Malevola.

“I’ve seen you before,” He states coldly, “SDN’s shitty pet projects. I'm not letting two fuck-ups playing hero ruin me.”

Fuck, does this guy have an attitude problem or what?

“Is it difficult?” You ask, much to the confusion of everyone, before following up with, “To walk around with such a gigantic fucking stick up your ass, dude?”

To go on the record, at the time of saying that you were not aware that he had an entire fucking magnum hidden in his blazer.

You barely get a word out before he raises the gun, finger pulling the trigger with an explosive bang. It feels like slow motion, as the bullet streamlines for your face, but before it can even reach you –

The air in front of you rips open, waves of blood red magic creating a cavernous portal before your eyes. It looks like an abyss within it, and that abyss stares right back at you.

Said bullet goes straight into the portal, disappearing no less than inches away from your head, and then you can only watch as another portal opens up.

It's behind the Bitchy man.

The bullet speeds out of the portal at the same trajectory it'd gone in, although this time it finds a mark. It lodges into the man’s left arm, causing him to buckle over in place as he shouts out in agony.

But as quickly as blood had started to pour from the wound, staining Bitchy’s white blazer, it just…stops. His shoulder rolls, and he shakes out his arm with an infuriated hiss like it's simply gone numb.

Oh. So he can regenerate, or something. That's cool. That's fun.

“Nice fucking try,” He spits, “But it'll take a lot more than that.”

Just like that, the fight is fucking on.

“He’s mine,” Malevola growls, slinging her blade over her shoulder as she charges towards her new target. The man dodges a flurry of quick, precise steps, gunfire popping as he retaliates. Twitchy dives behind their van like a frightened rat.

Which means that you'll be taking on –

“Oh my fucking god!” You yelp, as a massive tail comes hurtling towards you.

You stumble to the right, just as it cracks down onto the spot you'd been standing in. The concrete there shatters like it's fucking glass underneath the force of the strike.

Your eyes follow it up, and up, to its owner. The hybrid man, Striker as Twitchy had called him, glares down at you with bloodlust forming in his beady eyes.

Your mouth parts in confused, horrified awe, as he brings a syringe from behind his back. He plunges it into the side upper arm, meaty thumb pressing down the plunger – except you're like, ninety percent sure that usual liquid narcotics aren't sparkling neon purple.

There's a tense, suffocating moment, Striker’s body starts to morph.

It's like watching a fucked up, drug-fueled werewolf transformation. Muscles balloon. Veins swell. Bone snaps and resettles. His scaled skin starts to turn a dark, bizarre purplish undertone. 

Striker roars. It's a guttural, visceral sound of both agony and relief. 

Okay. So, you've had some time to think about it, and you're pretty sure you are not going to be getting paid enough for this shit. 

His nostrils flare with enraged breaths, his head lowering to brandish his horns, and all of his unnatural muscles bulge in some kind of preparation. Alarm bells start going off in the back of your head. 

This is a fucking bull on whatever the fuck drug that was.

You? You are the dumbass with the red flag.

“I’m gonna kill you, tiny!” He bellows, and that's about when you realize that you are completely and utterly fucked.

You're running before your brain even thinks, ‘Hey, we should totally move now’.

“Holy shit!” You shout, as the behemoth behind you charges with the full force of a torpedo, voice toeing the line of hysterical, “Holy shit! This is extremely not fucking cool – ”

Striker’s footsteps sound like claps of thunder against the ground, quickly gaining in speed and power, and it's that reason alone that you know you have to fucking dodge now –

You throw yourself again, wheezing as you slam onto concrete at the last, life-saving minute. Your wide eyes watch as Striker launches himself to where you'd previously stood, except what he slams into this time is a hapless minivan.

Said minivan crumples under the living hydraulic press that crashes onto it like it's a fucking coke can, glass and metal compressing in a series of deafening crunches. Its security alarm starts to blare, drowned out only by the inhuman bellow of rage Striker lets out.

“C’mere, you fuckin’ roach!” He booms, voice distorted and savage, “I wanna watch your fuckin’ skull pop!”

Sweet Jesus.

“Pass! Hard pass!” You shout back, scrambling up with panicked breaths as he reorients himself, and starts the chase anew.

You've never been so fucking glad that Rhino would force you to spar together out on the yards, because you're acting on pure muscle memory as you dodge left and right, sprinting down rows of parked cars like someone's lit a fire under your ass. Striker treats the cars like minor inconveniences, shoving them out of the way like each one weighs less than a paperweight.

That's before he starts actually throwing them.

“Fuck!” Is all you're able to choke out as a whole-ass sedan flies past you, smashing into a far concrete column with the grace of a detonating bomb, “Hah! You missed, bitch!”

Striker roars yet again in response, the sound ringing through the air menacingly. He lunges into action again, barreling forward.

Okay.

Okay.

Think.

Think. Think. Think.

You're no fucking coward, and you're certainly not helpless. You know how to put this fucker in his place. So far he's shown no actual method to his madness. He's on one hell of a trip, plus he's dumb as shit, and therefore he's just blindly hoping to catch you.

Your eyes dart around, just as quick as your winded breaths. Desperately scanning your surroundings for an advantage.

Malevola is engrossed in her own fight, shielding herself from bullets with her blade, stepping through her own portals in her singleminded goal to absolutely beat the shit out of Bitchy. Who, it seems, knows some form of cracked martial arts in addition to being a god-damned gunslinger.

You highly doubt the knife in your boot is going to do anything.

The sedan lays at the base of the column, bent and broken, alarm screeching.

Your eyes narrow.

Yeah, that's just gonna have to fucking work.

You haul ass over to the column. Your lungs burn. Your heart thunders in your chest. You might actually pass out.

But there's imminent death behind you, snorting and snarling with drug enhanced adrenaline, so you quite literally can't stop now.

The column gets closer –

The snarling gets closer –

Striker’s head lowers –

You jump –

Your feet touch the top of the totalled sedan, and you shove off of it to propel yourself higher. Your legs raise, one outstretching to plant the sole of your sneaker against the crumbling column, and then –

You push –

It's just fucking high enough.

Your body twists, elevated just enough over the gargantuan form that hasn't had the chance to register that you're now fucking flying high above him, and you drop –

You slam onto Striker’s back, what little air your lungs had punched out of them in a coughing wheeze. But like hell you're letting that stop you now.

Rabid squirrel time.

You scramble up the broad expanse of his back, fingernails scratching along slippery scales and flexing muscle, and you manage to crawl up to the top of his shoulders like the roach he'd dubbed you as.

“Get the fuck off me!” Striker howls, big arms swinging and heavy hands clawing to attempt to pull you from your perch.

Your legs swing over his shoulders, thighs bracketing his massive head, and your hands shoot out to grab onto both of his heavy horns.

“Giddy up!” You snap back, an unhinged, manic laugh scraping up your throat, “Let's go for a ride, motherfucker!”

You never thought bull-riding a tweaking mutant hybrid would be a part of your average Monday work tasks, but here the fuck you are.

You're not going to lie, it's kind of a blast.

You whoop and cackle as Striker acts accordingly to his new predicament, roaring loud enough to make the ground quake as he twists and spins. His massive body slams into cars and walls like a battering ram, dialing up the property damage count to unfathomable numbers.

You really hope there's no civilians around.

It feels like your arms are going to rip off, as you do it, but you pull at the guy’s horns to forcibly steer him into anything solid enough for a chance to knock him out cold. His skull cracks against concrete over and over, but somehow, it only serves to make him angrier.

What the fuck was in that syringe?

You're starting to lose your grip, however. His thrashing is only growing more violent, and while you're stronger than the average person without powers, that strength only lasts for so long. The minute your aching hands let go –

This might be how it ends. Hell of a way to go.

“Redline!” Malevola calls out, blade raising up from where she's somehow used it to break both of Bitchy’s legs inwards, “Jump!”

She doesn't need to tell you twice.

You let go of his horns, giving them a rough shove as you hurl yourself backwards. You catch a glimpse of shimmering, warping red as Striker stumbles forward, unbalanced and reeling, stepping headfirst into Malevola’s portal.

Then your back is crashing onto the ground, pain ricocheting through you from the impact. You groan, vision blackening around the edges as you cough again.

You're going to feel all of this in the morning.

Wait. Where did she send him –

Your eyes peel open, just in time to see Striker fall through the sky outside of the parking garage. There's a howling roar, followed by the world's most nuclear slam.

Then, nothing but the sound of approaching sirens and car alarms, plus the occasional agonized scream coming from Bitchy’s mouth.

Yeah. Legs are not supposed to bend like that, much like ankles.

You let out a weak chuckle, head falling back onto the ground as you finally take a deep breath. Soon you're casted in a large shadow, and when your eyes open, Malevola is staring down at you.

“You're fucking insane,” She says, though it sounds more like a hidden compliment. You'll take that. You think you've earned it.

“Thanks. I was improvising,” You deadpan tiredly, reaching a hand up, “Is he dead?”

She shakes her head, mirroring your movement to haul you to your feet, “No, but the fall finally knocked him out.”

“What about him?” You grunt, gesturing loosely to where Bitchy is…not doing great.“

"Broke both legs and his shoulder,” She grins, and looks back over to him, “Gonna take a lot more to regen that, huh, bitch!”

She gets a mangled shout as a response, and even incoherent as it is, you don't think he's said anything polite.

You both head over to the edge of the parking garage level – well, you hobble really – and peer over the barrier.

True enough, Striker is sprawled out in a crater of destroyed asphalt and water, motionless but breathing. He managed to hit a fire hydrant, and a geyser of water is jetting into the air beside him. Civilians scream and run around like headless chickens.

You think it could've gone worse.

“Here,” Malevola says, and before you even turn to look at her, she's pressing a hand onto your shoulder. Except you don't remember her hand glowing a deep, swirling underneath her skin.

The moment it makes contact, you let out a sharp gasp, head swimming as the residual pain forming in your body just…dissolves? You swear you can feel cuts knitting themselves back together, a tight, warm sensation.

It just feels pretty good, okay?

She stays like that for a moment, her eyes burning bright as she stares down at you. Her breathing is deepening, a predatory smile beginning to stretch across her lips. Like she's enjoying whatever the fuck she's doing.

It's kind of fucking hot? You're so shocked all you can do is let her.

“Better?” She prompts breathily, as her hand pulls away moments later. You gape up at her.

Yeah, actually. You feel better than you can ever remember feeling in your life.

“You’re so fucking cool,” You blurt out, hopped up on that lingering warm sensation, and mentally cringing at the crack of your voice, “You can do that?”

Her smile grows wider, downright devilish. It seems your genuine admiration has her preening a little.

“Heal up to a degree,” She finishes for you, leaning in closer to purr, “The more you're hurt, the better it feels for me.”

You're really gonna need that spray bottle if you continue working here.

“I'm…just…going to…” Your hand raises up to your earpiece, “Robert.”

Malevola moves away from the edge with a chuckle, and towards the van that had been the root of this entire situation. She pulls one of the duffels towards her at the back doors, unzipping it.

“Yeah, Redline. I hear you,” He replies, low and steady as he usually is, “Did you stop the deal?”

“Sure did,” You say hoarsely.

“Why do you sound like that?” Flambae asks with his usual disdain. 

“Redline.”

Your head turns to look in Malevola’s direction, and then your face goes blank. In that duffel, and most likely the other three, are packaged syringes. Inside each, is the exact same sparkling, purple liquid.

Well, that's not good. 

That means this was no ordinary drug deal.

You let out a slow breath, mouth opening to speak, but then –

Movement.

Oh. Right.

There were three of them.

Your hand shoots out, pointing to where Twitchy is scrabbling out from behind the van, speeding through the massacred debris of your encounter with Striker. 

“Shit,” Malevola groans, “Let's go.”

“Robert,” You say quickly, already jogging after her as she starts to chase Twitchy, “They're not average dealers. This shit they had make bath salts look like a breeze.”

“What does that even mean?” Invisigal cuts in.

“It means – ” You begin to say, and then yelp as you narrowly avoid being colliding with a skateboarder, “ – it means they've got some wack ass drug that – makes someone go fucking beserk!”

“Was it purple?” Sonar asks languidly, too damn calm for the chaos that is happening on your end of the line.

“Yes! Do I want to know how you fucking know that?” You retort, breathless with the exertion of following after Malevola.

“Sonar, I swear if you've touched that shit – ” Malevola starts to growl reproachfully, but also…with concern.

“I didn't do any of it,” He immediately rebuttals, “But, I think I saw it a while back. Dude called it…Frenzy? Mixed it with like, Kaiju or something. Don't quote me on that. Anyway, he got fuuucked up. Trashed the club and got jailed.”

“How long is a ‘while’ to you?” Robert asks, a sharp edge to his voice.

Sonar clicks in thought, the sound peaking through his mic and making at least three others hiss in pain.

“I barely remember. It was an average day that place,” He finally answers, “Twitchy little bastard did say it was gonna be the next big thing. The creation was abysmal. From what he was bragging, tachyphylaxis was basically a fucking guarantee, and that's only if the lactic acidosis didn't kill whatever dumbass takes it first – ”

“Is he still speaking English?” Prism wonders aloud.

“Guess he really wasn't lyin' about all that fancy Harvard crap,” Punch Up mumbles, “No English I've ever heard.”

Hold on just a fucking minute.

“Twitchy?” You repeat, “Was he skinny, too? Reddish hair?”

“Yeah,” Sonar confirms, then chuckles darkly, “Gotta admit, was kinda funny watching that scrawny fuck take on half the club after shooting that shit up.”

“It’s the same guy,” Malevola connects the dots, just the same as you, “He was trying to pedal his idea to that bitch that tried to shoot us.”

“So, they're getting shot at, and I'm getting shoved into pools by an overgrown toddler?” Coupé all but snarls. You've never heard someone be so upset about not being in a shootout.

“Next time, don't promise a man boobs,” Sonar mutters, which leads you to believe he was definitely the culprit here.

Coupé hurls back, “I didn't promise you anything.”

“Back on topic,” Robert interrupts, “Redline. Malevola. If this guy is who Sonar says he is, then it's time he's stopped. Do whatever it takes.”

Your lips thin, and you take a sharp right as Malevola heads down an alleyway, keeping close even if your every last muscle screams for a decent break.

“Got it,” You acknowledge, and then you go radio silent once more.

You'll admit, Twitchy is a slippery rat. You and Malevola almost lose him a few times, twice in crowds, and once when he darts across a busy road. But you've done this before. You've tracked clever minds farther, with even worse odds.

You just don't expect to be led to the industrial bowels of Torrance, trekking through the grounds of a refinery. You're careful to keep out of sight, sticking to walls and corners as Twitchy leads you right where you want him to.

Which turns out to be an unused warehouse on the property, weathered and forgotten. Twitchy slips in through a boarded up gap, disappearing inside of the building.

“Bet rent is dirt cheap,” Malevola notes, tail flicking slowly as she studies the decrepit building.

“How the fuck does he operate from here?” You breathe in disbelief, “Come on. Let's get this over with.”

It should be a relatively easy accomplishment. Apprehend Twitchy, destroy whatever the hell set-up he has going on in that warehouse, and rack up points to save your own ass later.

Except the inside of that warehouse is nothing short of a genuine meth lab, sans the meth because what's cooking up in the sprawling array of machinery and equipment is far fucking worse. Twitchy has gone the whole nine yards, producing this so-called Frenzy at a near seamless rate for someone with limited lackeys. 

Oh, and he's waiting right in the middle of it all, scrutinizing eyes locked onto where you and Malevola enter the building.

“Listen, kid,” You begin, absolutely stupefied by your surroundings, “This is as far as you're gonna get. Just give it up so we can all make this easier on ourselves.”

Twitchy’s face darkens into a cold scowl, a glimpse of that same hidden rage from before.You feel apprehension rise immediately. This isn't what someone who can't put up a fight looks like. 

Malevola seems to think the same because her blade is already being drawn out.

“It’s not fucking ‘kid’, it's Astro,” He spits back, seething with building anger, “And this is as far as you're going to get.”

It's at that moment, you notice the syringe in his hand, half tucked to be hidden. But, it's too fucking late to do anything about it. The minute that the Frenzy injects into himself, he starts the same grotesque transformation as Striker did.

Human becomes…vaguely human mega mutant, malformed, powerful, and enraged.

But then, Astro starts to fucking levitate. High, higher, all the way up into the air of the warehouse. Then, he dives, fire licking up around him because he's going so fucking fast he might as well be a hurtling rocket.

All you can manage to say is, “Oh, fuck.”

So, that's why he's called Astro, then.

07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California.

12:30 A.M.

You both defeat Astro in the end.

The Frenzy Lab is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, at some point. Rocket boy launches into a particularly large vat of the purple drug and it simply explodes. The only reason that you and Malevola still exist in a not well-done state is because she dragged you through a portal just as the first boom sounded.

Astro, despite his powers, is not chemical explosion proof even when running on Frenzy. Multiple broken bones, including pelvis, plus a plethora of burns that’ll stick with you in your nightmares later, and his surrender was given. Mission success, minus the frankly grotesque amounts of property damage, civilian pandemonium, and physical injuries sustained all around.

Now, the refinery is closed off, police, firefighters, and press helicopters swarming the area to contain the burning warehouse before said refinery follows suit. That, and to make sure the last individual of the trafficking trio gets cuffed.

You get another freebie heal from Malevola, even though you're definitely getting the impression it's for her own gain rather than yours. Either way…you're not complaining.

You're only human.

“I'll say it,” Malevola sighs, watching alongside you as Astro is loaded up into the back of an ambulance in the distance, “We make a good pair. Sonar and I got it locked down, but you're kinda fun too, Redline.”

You’re not expecting her to say that, honestly. If anything, she's been saving your ass left and right with her portals, seeing as the year of street fighting you were coerced into can only get you so far in a brawl against one of NASA’s rockets. 

But, hey, you'll take that olive branch.

“Back at you,” You grin, and then you nod towards her, “That sword is sick, by the way.”

She's using it to lean on, currently. It's fucking massive, almost as long as you are tall. Its otherworldly glow is mesmerizing, and it radiates a deep, unnatural heat that seeps into anything that is close enough to feel.

“Oh, this?” She smirks, “It has a name.”

“You named it?” You ask, eyebrow climbing expectantly. 

“Every good weapon needs a name,” She explains, “Its called – “

You'll be honest. You have no fucking idea what language she speaks after that, but it makes every last hair on your body stand on end as it's said. Not in a good way.

Your eyes widen. Malevola continues smirking.

“Oh,” You choke out, “Cool.”

“Nobody sabotages me except me!” Flambae’s voice echoes bitterly, “But that's like…more of an existential thing.”

The sudden sound of that statement in your ear brings your attention back to reality, which is that apparently everyone on the team is doing some form of one-upping or straight sabotage. Sure, people higher up on the board are hypothetically safer…but it's not a guarantee.

You were unaware of all the absolute shambles the team is in, given the fact Malevola and yourself have been working rather efficiently together.

“Why get in the pod in the first place?” Prism questions him, “What did you honestly think was gonna happen?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Flambae dismisses moodily.

Golem unapologetically taunts, “Splish splash, baby.”

“Hey,” You complain, “I want to lock Flambae up somewhere too.”

“Too late,” Resident hothead growls, “Also, fuck you.”

“Guys,” Robert exhales, sounding far more fed up with the constant issues this shift than the last time you'd heard him, “Can we genuinely quit fucking around?”

“Just a bit of friendly competition, is all it is,” Punch Up chuckles.

“You’re only making yourselves look – fuck, burglar spotted on – ” Robert ditches his chastisement to rattle off the provided address, “ – heading down alleyways.”

You see Malevola perk up in your peripheral, and she stops leaning on her blade to instead swing it back over her shoulder. She turns to start leaving, and you remain where you stand.

“That’s not far from here. I'll handle this,” She states, her voice low and serious through her mic, “Stay out of my way.”

Invisigal, however, seems to take that personally, “Fuck off.”

“Bitch.”

“Squatch.”

Well, now, that's just plain rude. You, for one, think Malevola is an absolute goddess. 

Would.

In all capitals, even if you'd die trying. Except, apparently not as much as you maddeningly, but undeniably think you rather would with –

“Sonar,” Robert calls out, “How did the airport go?”

Distinct, steady silence is his only response. You hear Robert make a sound under his breath, a slow death of his patience no doubt.

“Prism, Sonar? Respond?” He pushes, more gruff with frustration.

“Yet another failure,” Flambae quips, “Big surprise there.”

Robert gives it one more attempt, “Sonar.”

This time, he gets his response.

“Good. Great. All is fucking spectacular, Robby Rob,” Sonar says, rather distractedly, “I'll uh... be right back. I just gotta go... powder my... cocaine.”

You are merely stuck in astounded silence, as not even a few moments later you begin to hear the sounds of what you can safely assume is blow being snorted on Sonar’s end of the channel. 

Even if you've learned that he handles his transformations into bat-creature far differently at this point, your mind still immediately teleports back to Junior Burger…and all the other memories of bat-creature you steadfastly repress.

You shudder.

“Jesus, man,” Invisigal guffaws, “At least turn off the mic first.”

“Dude, you promised me you were gonna cut back,” Malevola says reproachfully, sounding sincerely upset over his actions.

Right. They're close. Friends, most likely, or maybe…

“I will,” Sonar breathes out, a little muffled, “Right after this bump. And like...four more bumps.”

You grimace at the low growl that Malevola lets out. No full-blooded human could ever make a sound that dangerous.

“Been a while since I had to call in a coke-related favor, but this shit was worth it for sure,” Prism chimes, sounding all too pleased with her actions – which you can only assume have led to this impromptu blowing.

“Fuck you,” Malevola grits out, simple but no less disdainful for it.

“Burglar,” Robert reminds, a sole source of reason in a sea of chaos. He has seemingly chosen to ignore Sonar’s activities outright. Probably to protect the shambles of his willpower to lead this team.

So, that's how it goes. Malevola heads for said burglar. You and Punch Up are soon sent to break-up a fight at a tailgate party, while Prism and Golem are told to stop a fucking VAND-CO Cyber-Train from crashing into a freighter. 

Sonar is currently a lighter version of the coked out bat-creature that had destroyed your steadiest job to date, and he and Coupé all but go at each other's throats to get sent to the same landslide issue somewhere. Robert only lets them because the outcome of not doing so would probably be worse.

Everything should go smoothly, but it doesn't.

Golem tips Prism’s fanbase (fanbase??) to swarm her, and at some point Coupé manages to find the worst fucking noise in the world to debilitate Sonar’s hearing…and everyone else's, when his earpiece wigs out and broadcasts freely. Payback is a bitch, you guess.

All around, the teamwork is absolutely horrendous. Cutthroat. Non-existent.

Invisigal goes suspiciously quiet at some point. Surely, she wouldn't do something drastic to try and secure her spot on the team.

Surely.

“Invisigal,” Robert’s voice crackles to life, “What are you doing?”

Nevermind, then.

“It's like you said,” Invisigal replies easily, “The way to win this leaderboard game is to not lose, right?”

You're not sure what she's doing, but you think you can hear the sound of…chains? 

“That's not what I said,” Robert deadpans.

But, she merely insists, “I'm sure that's what you said.”

There's a lull of nothing, for a few moments, but the rustle of clothes and Invisigal’s occasional breath means her mic is still open, and then –

The sound of feet thumping in a dead sprint, chains going taught, the slam of a body on pavement –

“The fuck was that?” Prism exclaims.

“Someone just ate shit,” Flambae laughs, low and all too amused.

“Bitch!” Malevola snarls heavily, yet again, through the channel. She sounds like she means it a good deal more this time around.

Robert’s voice cuts back in, sounding for the world like his sanity is hanging on by a thread, “Yeah, so the perp that just ran by was Lightning Struck – ”

Oh.

Oh, yikes.

That was the guy from the whole Granny situation, wasn't it? 

“ – that is now the second time that you let him get away,” Robert continues, “Congratulations.”

“No shit?” Invisigal scoffs, seemingly immune to any form of consequences, “That's crazy.”

That's about when both her and Malevola’s end of the channel devolves into the sounds of a heated fight. You recognize the deep hum of Malevola’s blade being swung, followed by Invisigal cursing breathlessly after each, and a lot of objects being crashed into.

Robert doesn't speak for a long while, but once he does?

“All Z-Team back to base and in the conference room in twenty minutes.”

Firm. Devoid of any emotion other than grim severity.

Punch Up turns towards you, where you're both already strolling back to SDN anyhow, and only mutters, “Uh-oh.”

 07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California.

SDN.

1:15 P.M.

One by one, the Z-Team files into the conference room in a ranging mixture of bored, pissed, or both. You’ve ended up sitting right between Punch Up and Sonar, and now watch with your chin propped up on your closed fist as they trade complaints back and forth to each other.

“I had a thousand better things to do,” Sonar mutters, ears flat and eyes narrowed with annoyance, “There's so many good reruns I could be watching right now.”

You raise a brow, “Reruns of what, exactly?”

“Desperate Housewives,” He replies, and it's so far away from anything that you expected that all you can do is blink at him, “What? I like drama. Sue me.”

“I'm…not judging,” You manage to get out, holding up a placating hand. There's something about imagining him sitting down and getting engrossed in middle-aged women's marital issues that is…

Strangely endearing.

God, not this again.

“Well, I was gonna hit the gym,” Punch Up grouches, and then one of his impressive arms raise to flex, “Give Theresa and Susan a bit of a good workout.”

“Do you even really need to work out?” You ask him curiously, “I mean, dude, you're already ripped. You look great.”

It's practically overkill. You have a very instinctual urge to reach out and test if his bicep is as solid as it looks. You restrain yourself.

“Eh. More of a habit than a necessity,” He shrugs, rubbing a hand along the scruff of his jaw, “But, I do appreciate a good compliment.”

Punch Up gives you a grin, a silent expression of satisfied gratitude. 

Sonar’s ears have gone completely flat during that exchange, and the fluff of his neck seems even more pronounced. Like it's standing out, all puffed up on purpose. You only notice this, because he clears his throat loud enough to draw your attention to him.

The fuck is his problem?

“I don't usually brag, but uh…I'm ripped too,” He states, hand coming to pat his stomach over his dress shirt as he does. That alone makes you choke on your own spit, a little. Punch Up just laughs in bright, bewildered amusement.

Because, what?

…is he?

Stop right there.

Don't fact check. Don't stare. Don't even wonder.

“Okay?” You get out, grasping for some semblance of a proper response, “You want a gold star for that, buddy?”

His neck gets fluffier, if that's even possible, and his eyes constrict into a squint. He stares at you like you're a puzzle piece that won't fit.

But…why?

Robert pushes open the doors to the conference room, in the background. He looks more tired than usual, the dark shadows under his eyes heavily pronounced. Which is understandable when he's spent half the day managing adult toddlers going at each other's throats.

“Can everybody take a seat so we can get started,” He requests plainly, albeit a little too quiet.

Predictably, no one takes a seat, and no one stops talking. You start to hear a sound, distant thumping that shakes the ground and makes the conference table jitter. It almost sounds like –

“Hey,” Robert says, louder and more frustrated, “Can I get your attention, please. I would like to get started – ”

The conference doors burst open under brute force, and you can only watch in silence as they clip Robert in the back. The poor man goes soaring through the air, loudly slamming head first into a group of chairs in the opposite direction.

You wince, a frown marring your lips, while legitimately everyone else in the room erupts into some form of jeering.

“Woah. Looks like this motherfucker’s got the power of flight,” Flambae taunts, voice pitched up with laughter, “Way to go.”

Sonar is chuckling too, looking down at Robert picking himself up with a fanged grin twisting his snout, “Bobby boy! Watch where you're going, huh?”

“Really, dude?” You sigh at him, glaring. Sonar gives you that look again, the strangely calculative one.

“What? It's funny,” He tells you, in an oddly defensive way. You only scoff, and shake your head.

You're not going to pretend that you've never found pissing contests amusing, before – prison is literally just a building chock-full of them, and the right person getting their shit rocked was greatly entertaining.

But, unlike those individuals, you actually do like Robert. He's an overall chill guy, and he tends to give people a lot more credit and belief than he should. Seeing him carelessly disrespected just makes you angry.

You feel like you should do something, help him up or even tell everyone to shut the fuck up, but you can already feel that it would just make things worse. In any pissing contest, there needs to be a clear winner.

So, you only watch as Robert picks himself up, smoothing out his rumpled clothing. Golem is in front of him, having been the source of the issue at hand, his stony face the picture of casual disinterest as he turns to head further into the room.

No acknowledgement, no apologies.

Robert nods to himself, for a moment. Then, you see him grab one of the chairs.

“Hey.”

Said chair is then beamed directly at Golem, the surprising speed and velocity making the legs pierce into the big guy’s clay-like mass with a loud thud. You watch on in a mixture of shock and proudness.

The room falls into thick, oppressive silence.

Robert takes it in stride, a fierceness that you've yet to see him show, “I understand you're big, but you need to be considerate of the people around you. Have a seat.”

It's as polite as it is unyielding, a level of restraint that few people can have in a justifiably aggravating situation. Your respect for him grows that much larger.

The silence continues as Robert and Golem stare at each other unwaveringly. It's like the calm before a storm, a sensation that everything can go to shit if someone doesn't back down that permeates the air.

But then the chair embedded into Golem’s stomach slowly starts to be expelled. It clatters to the ground, and then is shoved in Robert’s direction.

“I'll have a seat on the floor,” Golem grates out, and while tension isn't immediately snuffed, those words diffuse the situation all the same.

Pissing contest won.

The big guy turns to head further into the room, where at the end of the conference table has enough space to fit him more comfortably. Robert lets out a breath, and moves the weaponized chair out of the way.

“Suit yourself,” He says, tone even.

It's only then that everyone else begins to follow suit, begrudgingly settling into a seat. The conference doors open again, and in strolls Blonde Blazer with Chase in tow.

Chase, who is cradling one of the cutest, beefiest little dogs you've ever seen in your life. Your eyes lock onto the black-and-white nugget with a big, innocent brown gaze, a desperate urge to snuggle it taking over your mind.

Unfortunately, you think it wouldn't be professional to go squealing over unfairly cute puppies when this is supposed to be a, seemingly, serious meeting. You refrain from doing as such.

Just fucking barely.

“What's…going on?” Blonde Blazer asks in confusion, reading the overwhelmingly negative mood in the room rather easily. Her and Chase, as well as the sweet pup, move to stand behind Robert.

The man in question looks at her over his shoulder calmly, “Hm? Oh, I offered ‘em a seat.” 

He nods over to Golem, who pointedly drops down onto the ground with enough force to rival a low magnitude earthquake. The ceiling rattles, the lights flickering a little.

“So, we getting this party started?” Chase drawls, petting the chunky dog idly as he does. Its stumpy tail wags in a blur, blissful from the attention. You might go into cardiac arrest.

“Yeah, what's all this shit about? Let's go, come on,” Flambae bitches, wrist flicking in growing impatience, “Fucking wasting my time, let's go.”

“Shut the fuck up, and maybe you'll find out?” You reply easily.

Flambae glares, glasses dropping down just enough to show that his eyes are doing that thing that makes it look like flames are actually in them.

“Run that by me again you fucking – ”

Robert comes to stand at the head of the conference table, voice raising to dominate over Flambae’s usual slew of threats.

“Okay,” He begins, “As you know, by the end of today one of you will be cut from the Z-Team.”

Collective groans erupt, along with the usual slander of biting remarks. Some louder than others.

That feeling from this morning returns, a gnawing, invisible sense of inevitability that crushes down on top of you.

“This is bullshit!” Malevola repeats, one claw tapping angrily in place.

“You're telling me,” You mutter bitterly. 

“Yeah, you both said that already,” Robert acknowledges, still calm even in the face of yet another brewing problem.

“Cut me from a job I didn't want in the first place,” Punch Up says under his breath, but it's just loud enough that it's pointedly hearable.

Prism leans forward where she sits, purposefully looking past Robert to Blonde Blazer standing behind him. 

“Miss Blazer, maybe if you gave us a dispatcher that knew what they were doin’ – ” She complains, finger poking into the table with each irritated word, “ – you wouldn't have to throw no one out?”

Robert seems to have finally let his tolerance to tantrums and disrespect run dry, because he's quick to shut her down.

“Hey. Hey. Nikki Mirage,” He cuts in sharply, “I'm standing right here. You can talk to me.”

“I wasn't talkin’ to you, bitch,” Prism snaps, painted lip curling with agitation, “Which weakass superhero team did you come from? Geek squad?”

Distracted by the spectacle, no one really notices the way you pause at her insult. Well, no one besides Sonar.

You meet his eyes, when you glance at him. It's silent acknowledgement that passes between you both.

You were unaware if anyone besides you, Sonar, and Invisigal know that Robert was (is?) Mecha Man. He seems close to Chase, so that's a given there, and Blonde Blazer probably knows everything about all her employees.

But now you know for sure, based on Prism’s words, that Robert’s little fun fact is kept hush hush. You're not sure if Robert even remembered that he'd let that spill around you and Sonar, seeing as he was pretty bent over the whole Granny thing.

You haven't mentioned it since, and you'd convinced (bribed) Sonar to do the same. It's simply none of your fucking business.

Plus, you know all about the importance of keeping secrets, don't you?

“Doesn't matter where I'm from, Cardi C,” Robert fires right back at her, “What matters is I'm here to figure out who stays, and who goes.”

Holy shit. Two sick, consecutive burns in a row. Someone call a fucking medic.

“Yeah. Chill out, Lady Haha – ” Punch Up starts to tack on, but never gets to finish that particular sentence.

Because Prism snatches up one of Coupé’s knives and lunges onto the conference table with predatory grace, holding the pristine blade to the soft underside of Punch Up’s throat. 

Fuck, she's fast.

The room breaks out in more tension, everyone watching with apprehensive fascination at the display. Well, everyone except Flambae, who judging by the proud smirk on his face, is enjoying this.

“You talkin’ shit, you hipster motherfucker?” Prism says, low and dangerous, “Looking like Mumford fucked all his sons.”

Your mouth parts, a cough that definitely isn't a laugh stuck in your throat. Punch Up just laughs openly, though, even if it's strained from the angle his head is tilted back at. 

“That was funny, see?” He says, eyes sliding around the room casually, “We're just bustin’ balls.”

Prism lets out an aggravated breath, sneering, “Keep talkin’ and you won't have your tiny inbred balls left to bust.”

She finally relents, however. The knife falls away from Punch Up’s throat, and she returns to her seat with a final huff after passing Coupé her knife.

“Ask next time,” Coupé tells her warningly, “Or there won't be a next time.”

“Don't threaten me, you butter knife bitch,” Prism scoffs, not threatened in the slightest.

“Oookay,” Robert sounds out, “We'll make this quick.”

He takes a moment, silent as he thinks of the right words he wants to say. He also looks around quite a bit, staring at each and everyone seated with a mixture of calculative turmoil.

“Most people would look around this room and see a bunch of villains,” He finally announces, “Not even the super kind. Just plain ass, run-of-the-mill, vanilla fuckin’ villains.”

His voice drops lower and lower, the gravel in it lending to the seriousness of his observation.  He waits a moment, letting that sink in, before he follows it with, “But that's not what I see…because lucky for you, I'm not most people.”

That much is apparent to anyone.

“When I look around this room, what I see is…” He does another surveillance, taking stock of his team again.

You have to look away when his stare lands onto you, an uncomfortable, exposed sensation consuming you.

“Potential,” He decides on, the word almost final.

“Ooh, got there in the end,” Malevola mutters, head shaking slightly.

“Unfortunately for you,” Robert chooses to ignore her, continuing his speech steadily, “It's a curse.”

He starts to move, taking slow steps around the conference table as he continues to observe everyone sitting at it.

“There isn't a thing in the universe more wasted than potential, and despite how common it is, no one seems to forget,” He explains, “It's what they whisper when you leave the room – ”

Robert leans in near Flambae, making the man bristle at the proximity before moving away.

“ – oh, so and so had so much potential,” He picks back up easily, punctuating that metaphorical statement with familiar sounding disappointment, “It follows you for forever.”

He ends up back at the head of the conference table, when he's finished his lap around the room. He's managed to keep all eyes on him, which might as well be a miracle for this group.

“I’m here to help you lift the curse of potential by getting you to fucking do something with it,” He shares plainly, “You're all part of the Phoenix Program…any of you know what a Phoenix is?”

“Ooh! City in Arizona,” Malevola guesses confidently.

Flambae chooses to eloquently state, “The sweltering ball sack of America."

“Uh,” Chase speaks up, almost thoughtful, “Florida’s the dick, so Louisiana's gotta be the ballsack. Just, you know, positionally – ”

You let out a weary sigh. You've never been a part of a professional meeting, but this seems a bit off topic.

“Myth,” You decide to add in, resting back against your chair, “The Phoenix is a mythical bird that dies in fire only to rise from its own ashes.”

Your willingness to actually answer his question makes Robert look at you once more. The hard gleam in them lessens into something you think might just be approval.

You still have to look away.

“Wow, didn't know we had a fucking nerd on the team,” Flambae jabs, arms crossing behind his head.

“Who still uses that as an insult?” You roll your eyes, “Well, no, it makes sense. You obviously never graduated past elementary if you don't know what a myth is.”

Flambae, predictably, starts to bristle like a pissed cat at your words. Before he can attempt to get back at you, though, Robert is talking again.

“Redline is on the right track. The Phoenix – ” He starts to explain, “ – according to legend, is a beautiful bird of prey that was so tired of its own mortality it tricked the sun god into dropping a spark on its own nest to set it ablaze. Burning it to shit.”

There's another pause. Another moment to let the words digest in everybody's mind.

“But instead of dying…the Phoenix emerged from the ash, reborn,” Robert finishes, and then slaps a hand on the conference table, “You.”

You blink.

“Me?” 

Robert nods, “You. Every single one of you, are those flaming piles of burnt shit.”

Well, damn. That's motivational.

Flambae makes a scoffing sound, and immediately Robert points at him.

“You, especially.”

Deserved.

“Now. You can all stay piles of burnt shit like you've been your whole life…” Robert says, purely honest, “...or we can turn this thing around.”

You look down at the table again, at your hands folded onto them.

“The Phoenix symbolizes redemption. It's what you're here for. It's what connects you to everyone in this room.”

He's wrong in that regard, at least when pertaining to you. Your connections in this room run far deeper than redemption. 

“To burn up who you were, to become who you were meant to be,” Robert stresses.

Is that even possible for you? Could you actually be more than what you've been made out to be?

You have no idea, to be honest. But…you do want to try.

There's a shimmer of purple, and then Invisigal appears in the chair beside Malevola. Huh. You hadn't even noticed she wasn't here, so caught up in the natural chaos everyone on this team upholds.

“Phoenix is a band my lame ass roommate listens to,” She says with a slight smirk.

You take that personally. Phoenix is actually a solid contender in the music industry. You like more than a few of their songs.

Robert gives her a bored look, “You're late.”

“I like that band,” Malevola murmurs, almost self-reflective.

You, on the other hand, are simply bitter, “I do too.”

“Of course you guys do,” Invisigal eyes the both of you with blatant criticism, then looks at Robert, “What are you talking about? I was here the whole time. I turn invisible, genius. Remember?”

“Bullshit,” Chase calls, even while he's looking down lovingly at the dog still relaxing in his arms.

Robert, on the other hand, takes a much more blunt approach. He is well and truly done with pulling punches, it seems.

“Great. Then you know that we're cutting someone,” He reminds her, “And you, Miss Hot Topic sale, are at the bottom of the leaderboards.”

Invisigal’s eyes darken, silent irritation beginning to pull at her features. But Robert is simply being honest. This is just an inevitable reality.

Sometimes, the truth is dogshit, isn't it?

“Have a better second shift,” Robert leaves it at that, a final piece shared before he plainly exits the conference room without so much as a falter in his step. 

Chase and Blonde Blazer trail after him, leaving behind the rest of you dysfunctional weirdos to stew in the aftermath of that whole speech. No one says anything, for a few silent moments, and then Coupé’s frustrated groan pulls the attention to her.

“Fuck, I need this job,” She gripes, head leaning back as her eyes close.

Punch Up’s thick brows furrow at her distress, a sparkle of genuine concern in his eyes that somehow says a lot and nothing at all.

“What for Coupé? We know you'll be workin’ the Roulette Wheel,” He attempts, one hand gesturing uselessly towards her.

Coupé’s face twists, “That's a croupier. You idiot.”

What the fuck is a –

“The fuck is a croupier?” Punch Up voices your exact thoughts, “I'm just saying you're a degenerate gambler.”

You shake your head. The more you ruminate over Robert’s words, the more surreal this situation becomes. The turmoil you've been fighting back with a stick since you're meeting with Blonde Blazer this morning is back at full force.

“I need this fucking job too,” You lament out loud, so damned tired of thinking that you don't give a fuck just how much you disclose currently, “I'm back to fucking prison if I get kicked.”

“Yeah? Most of us are, you know that?” Coupé mutters, jaw tight with brewing anger.

“Life?” You press her, glaring. She meets it with one of her own.

“Yes,” She grits out roughly. Your face smooths out, and something in you gives in.

“Same.”

Predictably, everyone falls deathly quiet at the exchange. You've been amiable to everyone, so far, but very obviously guarded. Now you've gone and abruptly shared that your sentence is equal to Coupé’s.

You already know Sonar is staring again, the familiar intensity of it is becoming an unwanted awareness.

“Coupé is…Coupé. We know that,” Golem is the first to break the lull, eyeing you with newfound curiosity, “But the fuck did you do?”

“Serial killer shit, probably,” Flambae mutters.

“Mhm. Makes sense,” Prism hums in her throat, “It's always the quiet ones.”

“I'm not?” You defend, dumbfounded at their guess.

“Most sane one I've ever met if true,” Sonar drawls, and that finally makes you look at him.

Is that so?

“Have you met many?” You question, like anyone would.

It's a small, prickling awareness that snaps into place.

“Tons,” He replies, and doesn't elaborate further. 

You had a hunch back then, and still do. You'd never gotten to find out how Nighthawk had been blackmailed by someone he'd never cared to mention before, and you'd blown your only chance by skipping doors towards the end of Sonar’s Tour. Prioritizing success over curiosity.

You're sure one of those doors had the answer, but…the more you'd thought of it over time, the more obvious the connection became.

There's really only one possible way that Nighthawk would've cared about him enough to intervene. It wouldn't surprise you, given Sonar’s…unique indulgences, that he made a deal with Nighthawk at some point. 

A mutually beneficial deal.

You're not bent over it. You're not even uncomfortable. If anyone put together a complete list of the immoral atrocities every person in this room has committed, then that tidbit would be just another box to be ticked.

“You're gettin’ twisted up for nothin', Coupé,” Punch Up insists, “You bring a lot to the table, yeah?”

Coupé merely exhales, pensive as she begins to trace the edge of the knife she's pulled out.

“Red’s not getting kicked either. Robert just said Invisigal is bottom of the board,” Malevola huffs, and the assurance in her voice is almost believable. You really do feel the beginnings of a good friendship, after rocking Astro’s shit together.

Maybe she isn't wrong, either. That bust had gotten all three involved arrested, which has definitely added a generous hand to your leaderboard score. Unless Invisigal can pull off something great…

Maybe….you can hope…

“I'm right here,” Invisigal scowls, “How the fuck is Redline above me? I've been here longer.”

“Easy. Skill issue,” Sonar offers, picking imaginary lint from his sleeve. Invisigal’s lip curls.

“You're at the bottom too, asshat.”

Sonar’s snout merely forms a smug, close-lipped grin, “Yeah, but I'm above you, so I don't give a fuck.”

“Heard Sonar has a flight license now, too,” You add, coming to his defense without exactly knowing why, “Obviously Robert thinks he's capable enough to have one. They wouldn't invest in him like that only to toss him out.”

You nearly jump when you feel his thigh bump against yours, underneath the conference table. It's just a brief thing, but it's enough to feel warmth before your own flinches away.

For another countless time today, you can only wonder what the fuck that means.

“Don't remind me,” Flambae groans, “How the fuck does a crackhead get a flight license before I do? Robert doesn't know what he's fucking doing.”

“Maybe that reflects on you more than it does me, matchstick,” Sonar pokes at him further, leaning back lazily in his chair as Flambae swiftly flips him off.

“Skill issue,” You echo, not letting any amount of confusing touches keep you from pissing off Flambae.

Who, of course, can't ever let you get the last lick in.

“You're doing a lotta fucking ass-kissing right now, aren't you?” He spits, a distinct aura of heat radiating from him, and then he grins, “What, are you Batboy’s bitch or something?”

Honestly, Flambae barely phases you. His insults have become less insulting, and simply more expected. It's kind of fun. Like an annoying, bitchy sibling you never wanted. Even though you're sure he'd sooner drown himself than admit he probably doesn't hate you as much as he appears to.

This time, though, that insinuation makes something foul stir in your chest. The familiar, sickening burn of rage.

You'd never.

Never again.

“Good one,” You laugh, guarded but more severe than you've been with any response to one of them, “I'm nobody's bitch, dude. Sonar would be my bitch.”

But, also –

Jesus H. tap-dancing Christ. You said that out loud. In front of this entire pack of ravenous, ruthless wolves you call teammates.

Flambae’s brow raises, expression smug. You rose to his taunting just as he'd wanted. Conniving bastard.

“So confident,” Malevola hums, hands folding underneath her chin, glowing eyes calculative.

“That's about the most respectable thing I've heard them say,” Coupé admits, then her lips frown in aversion, “Minus it being about Sonar.”

“TMI,” Golem rumbles.

“No, I think I need some more explanation here,” Invisigal leans forward, “Share with the class, Red.”

“This tea is getting scorching fucking hot,” Prism cackles, “Keep goin’!”

“More of a coffee guy myself,” Punch Up hums.

“No further comment,” You defend, and decide that if you're already in deep shit you might as well double down, “I said what I said.”

You're getting the notion that Sonar seems to care little about how much he stares at you.

His pale eyes intrigued, head inclined at a thoughtful tilt. Even his ears are motionless where they're swiveled towards you, despite all the voices echoing in the conference room. You can't handle it. Just like in the gym, it gnaws you in a way that you really, really shouldn't acknowledge.

Yet, you think you already have. 

“That can be arranged,” He murmurs just enough for you to hear, easy and simple, and his thigh bumps against yours again. That's definitely on purpose, this time.

Fuck.

One of the doors to the conference room slam open, and it's Chase’s head that pops through it.

“Do I really need to tell all you fucking dumbasses to get back to work?” He says heatedly, “No, don't answer that. I do. Get back to fucking work!”

07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California.

4:50 P.M.

Robert may have actually done something in that conference room.

Because so far, the second shift has been going…smooth, teamwork wise.

There's been over several calls already. Most notable being a few high-profile clients (one, apparently, the actual governor of California??) that need strong arms while they go about their activities. Coupé is a given choice for those with her talented past, and unsurprisingly Sonar, because he does well rubbing elbows with bigwigs. The whole bat-creature thing helps in the long run, too, when push comes to shove.

Malevola deals with a literal cult, and Invisigal tags along with her just in case. Punch Up has gone and gotten himself involved in an…underground fight ring? Robert had sent him and Golem out to a Gigaburger fronting for it, and then Coupé had done a little excavating for further information, and now that's a whole…thing.

Prism, thank fuck, is chosen to deal with the Bone Zone requesting more debating about criminals reforming into heroes…again. You genuinely don't think you could handle being around Danny again, after the pure torture you'd barely survived the last time.

Robert hacks a fucking bank at some point. Coupé and Punch Up absolutely decimate the underground ring together. You sense a history there that is definitely more than mere co-workers synergizing together…but that's also none of your business.

Now, all that action, all that success, and what exactly do you get sent to do? 

“Redline,” Robert beckons, sounding far more calm now that each member of his team isn't going rogue every five seconds, “Need you to go down to the venue for…a YouTopia concert. Someone cut in line, and things are escalating.”

Ah. 

You've gone from fighting hyped up super mutants and drug traffickers to mediating rabid fangirls. How the mighty have fallen.

“YouTopia’s a hack,” Prism states, and there's no room in her voice that says she can be swayed otherwise.

Sonar, of course, has to say, “I like her.”

“You basic bat bitch,” Prism exclaims, positively affronted by his taste, “You've got super hearing and you use it to listen to a girl who knows four chords and can't write a song to save her life.”

“Say what you want, it's catchy,” Sonar replies blithely. 

First Desperate Housewives, and now YouTopia? Such a man of contradictions.

“Unbelievable,” She mutters under her breath. 

“Sonar,” Robert speaks again, “Go with Redline.”

“What?” You blurt out, at the same exact time Sonar simply agrees with, “Alright.”

“Uh, yeah?” Robert answers, unamused, “There’s a lot of people, and they're all keyed up. It's just precautionary.”

It's simple, reasonable logic. You're not even good at mediation, so Sonar would only help. There's absolutely no reason for you to care that he's being assigned to this along with you.

Yet, the pit in your stomach continues to grow. You can't even be mad that you're being given such a mundane task again, because now you're just…all over the place.

“Yeah,” You give in, resigning to whatever awaits you, “Alright.”

That about sums up how you end up outside of YouTopia’s concert venue, standing next to Sonar as the two women in front of you continue to bicker.

Halter Top and Lip filler, as you've dubbed them so eloquently in your own mind, are about to claw each other’s eyes out. 

“I didn't cut!” Halter Top snaps in a tone far bitchier than even Flambae could provide, crossing her arms over her chest, “My friend is up ahead, I already fucking told you.”

“You're a lying fucking bitch!” Lip Filler hisses in a thick, airheaded accent, jabbing a finger in her direction, “You don't get to cut me! Just like I told the guy on the phone, I've been waiting twelve fucking hours!”

You slowly look up ahead in the line of, predominantly, teenage girls and their middle-aged mothers. There is no friend, or rather, no one even remotely trying to make eye contact and get dragged into this scene.

Your eyes move up to Sonar, and Sonar’s move down to yours. Then, he shrugs.

“By any chance…” You start to ask, “Is your friend imaginary? Because no one is claiming you right now.”

“If you're gonna lie, at least make an effort,” Sonar adds.

Halter Top lets out a high-pitched, frustrated sound, one that makes his ears flatten in a slight wince.

“I'm not trying to cause a scene!” She screeches, which arguably does the exact opposite of what she says.

“Then shut the fuck up and go back to the end, bitch!” Lip Filler screeches back.

You're half afraid that those fake nails are about to start swiping, if this doesn't get resolved soon.

You simply don't understand why cutting in line matters at a concert. Are they not all going into the same fucking venue, with separate assigned seats? The line is simply for pretenses, and yet both of them can't comprehend it.

It's so hard to focus, too, with Sonar standing unnecessarily close. Close enough that you can smell him, again, the faint spice of him carrying in the wind. Close enough that you can feel his warmth seeping into your back.

There's no legitimate reason he needs to be breathing down your neck, so you're left to wonder one more fucking time –

Why?

“Listen, listen, ladies,” Sonar cuts in, holding up a hand, “I don't think you two understand the seriousness of this situation.”

You raise a brow, feeling both a sense of apprehension and relief at the fact that he's now attempting to intervene. Everything you've said so far has only made them angrier, and you were beginning to think he found it funny enough to just watch.

Both women actually pause, however, at Sonar’s grim admission. 

Halter Top frowns, uttering an intelligent, “Huh?”

“ECQIA. Section 42b,” Sonar recites like it's obvious, “In simple terms, it's illegal to cut in lines longer than two hundred people. Safety concerns.”

Your face goes blank, but your eyes hold utter disbelief.

Because even though it's clear to anyone else that a law like that doesn't exist, Halter Top barely has enough going on in that head to create even a small semblance of a thought. Let alone remember legal legislations.

“It's…it's illegal?” She asks, sounding more apprehensive, “Like, how illegal?”

Sonar shakes his head, ears swiveling back as he fakes a grimace. His lip curls up to sell it, just enough that you now have the unwanted knowledge that all of his teeth look like razorblades.

“For a crowd like this…let's say, if I were you, I'd have already been gone by now,” He says, almost conspiratorially. Halter Top’s eyes widen, a look of fear coming across her exaggerated features.

There's no fucking way she actually believes him.

“Oh fuck…oh fuck, I'm still on probation – I can't – ” She panics, and then she's all but booking it away from the line.

Wow. You didn't even notice that massive ankle monitor, now that you think of it.

Also, that…

That actually worked.

“That's fucking right,” Lip Filler sniffs, and then turns to the both of you, “Thanks.”

“No problem…” You say slowly, backing away from the line. 

You don't have any particular direction in mind. You just choose a sidewalk to travel down, and avoid running into anyone. Sonar walks alongside you, unhurried as he watches nothing in particular.

You should probably contact Robert, now. You don't. Not yet.

“Is that even a real law you just cited?” You ask, even though you're sure you already know the answer to that.

Sonar makes a face, “What? Fuck no. But she obviously wasn't going to fucking know that.”

He's definitely correct about that. It just feels almost strange, that such a long, drawn out situation had ended in a mere minute. 

“You're really…”

You pause, trying to think of what you want to say that wouldn't blow up immediately in your face. He, of course, doesn't let that silence happen peacefully.

“Take your pick. Brilliant. Charismatic,” He offers with not so subtle conceited flourish, “Masterful. Handsome. The list is long, Red.”

Jesus, what kind of ego did Harvard give this guy?

“Something,” You decide to say, ignoring all his other suggestions, “You are something.”

You have yet to figure out what that something is, but you know one thing for sure, it'll be nothing good for you.

“Not quite what I would've picked,” He sighs, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, “But, I'll get the truth out of you at some point.”

You barely restrain from grimacing at his choice of words.

Yeah. You're sure he will, at some point.

Time passes in comfortable silence, for a while. You don't know how exactly you've both managed to end up at a small community park, but you take the opportunity to sit down at a decently quiet bench anyhow. Technically, you should be heading back to SDN.

You settle onto the bench further.

The sun is halfway set, the sky turning a fading blend of different orange hues – but it seems the people in this neighborhood don't particularly care. A few kids still squeal on a small playground with their parents overseeing. Friend groups still holler and compete on basketball courts. People still walk their dogs along pathways.

It's all so mundane, and yet…there’s something nice in that simplicity.

You'll never be able to return to it. Like this, being a part of Z-Team, you can glimpse that repetitiveness you used to hate before Nighthawk sunk his talons into you.

Once you're gone, though…

“Here I thought you'd be happy we secured some more leaderboard points.”

That deep, ever present voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

Your head turns to him, finding him reclined beside you on the bench. His arms are stretched across the back of it, one leg resting folded on top of his other. His posture boasts of nonchalance, but his eyes (always his eyes) are attempting to read you again. 

To pick apart what he can, so he can finally figure you out. He did that a lot, in his memories. Acquaintances, friends, colleagues. He observes a lot more than anyone would think he does.

You know, because you've always done that too.

You're observing things you shouldn't, right now. Stupid, unhelpful things. Like how the rich colors of sunset compliment his fur. In some parts, the gray has become a bright silver, and in others the black takes on a fiery auburn sheen. It's a…striking combination.

 You have to stop looking at him.

“Just don't see a point in jumping for joy,” You shrug, pinching at a stray thread of your jacket idly, “Shift isn't over. Shit can happen.”

There's a moment of quiet, your words lingering in the air underneath distant traffic and two dogs barking at each other on the sidewalk.

“I think Malevola is right,” He says, looking up at the sky, “She just…is, most of the time. Dunno if it's like, a demon thing, or what.”

Your chest tightens, for a moment. You've done absolutely nothing to garner their belief in you, and yet you seem to have it anyway.

“She's right?” You repeat, needing a bit more than that.

“Just…she is,” He says again, “She was right about me, at least. Don't see why she wouldn't be about you.”

He sounds like he genuinely trusts her,  which goes against what you'd seen from his past. Sonar didn't do trust, not in the type of shit he was up to. So Malevola being the one to seemingly get past that barrier…means his relationship with her must run a lot deeper than just being in the Phoenix Program.

You're growing extremely curious, but you refrain from chasing for more information.

“Trying to boost my confidence, are you?” You chuckle, although it might sound a bit too forced. His ears twitch at it, lowering in what you think you're learning to recognize as upset.

He might not be so expressive himself, but the fine details and features don't seem to lie as well as him.

Sonar pulls out a small box of cigarettes from one pocket, pulling one free before sliding a lighter from the other. You can't help but to notice that it's bat-printed. 

His brows pinch as he works on lighting up the cigarette, and his eyes take on a more thoughtful gleam.

“You…boosted mine,” He admits, his voice low like he doesn't quite want to make it known, “Back at the meeting…and, that other time. You didn't have to say that shit. You just did? You sounded like you meant it.”

You blink.

Oh.

Oh, fuck it. 

How deep have you dug this grave, so far? Just a little more can't hurt.

“I did mean it,” You agree, scratching absentmindedly at your cheek, “You do have a lot of value, and you're likable. You…belong on this team, I know that much.”

You haven't the slightest clue what prompted this, almost cliché, sunset heart-to-heart. You're learning that a lot of weird, random shit just happens around these parts.

In an odd way, as well, it feels as though you've been through lifetime already. You suppose doing dangerous, adrenaline invoking things with everyone on a daily basis will make that happen, though.

You like them. The team. You like being a part of it.

Yeah, you like Sonar too. Maybe you shouldn't, but you do. 

Sonar makes a sound around the cigarette, taking it free from his mouth to blow smoke along with it. Like a hushed, rapid pattern of clicking. His free hand fidgets in his lap with unusual restlessness. He looks almost troubled, warring with whatever is going on in his head.

You remember what he'd told you about lying to him. He knows you mean it, then.

“You're not so bad, Red,” He tells you, at last, but it sounds more like a realization, “Kinda strange, won't lie, but…I think you belong on the team too.”

You bob your head in quiet gratitude, staring out at the park to do another occupying survey of dispersing strangers. Resolutely ignoring the flicker in your chest.

You're still not lying, when you say, “You're not so bad either, Sonar.”

The cigarette is held out between you, smoke curling from the glowing cherry.

“Want a drag?”

You stare down at it, for a moment. You don't particularly care for a smoke, but it's not like you haven't had one before in times of stress. So, you take it from him, forcing yourself not to drop it when his fingers brush against yours.

“Thanks.”

You're not sure what exactly changes, at that moment, but something definitely does. 

Little did you know, someone else was getting a pep-talk of their own. The only difference was that yours and Sonar’s conversation wasn't broadcasted to the entire SDN branch.

“Sup, Thundercuck!” 

“Hey Bangle Boy!” Flambae taunts, “More like Bangle Bitch!”

“Or Bitch Boy,” Prism suggests.

“Hey, Bangle Bitch Boy!” Punch Up follows up, “Fuck you!”

You watch amongst the others as Invisigal shoves Lightning Struck along through the office, more than likely going to take him to one of the small holding rooms SDN is required to have. The entire team claps for her. You do too, but a feeling of resignation is settling into your bones.

Sure, you bagged some drug traffickers with Malevola, but none of them have been a repeat, high-profile offender like this douche. She even took him down, more or less, on her own. 

Malevola steps aside when Invisigal walks him past her, and gives her some applause as well. You catch a glimpse of the look on Invisigal’s face…well, you can't feel upset anymore, once you see it. 

Invisigal definitely belongs on the team, too.

You've already clocked Blonde Blazer and Robert chatting across the office. Looking on as Malevola and Prism rope Invisigal into a picture together. Punch Up and Flambae insert themselves into the fray, all while Lightning Struck continues pacing like a caged animal in the room behind them.

Well, it's been a good run. 

“Good job,” You tell her, once everyone is gathered in a circle sharing similar sentiments, “Heard you absolutely smoked his ass.”

For once, Invisigal grins a little. It's small, and doesn't last too long, but it's real.

“Thanks,” She says simply, but not unkindly, “Hey, but you never told us how you took down that one guy, uh – ”

“That guy bigger than me?” Golem rumbles out, “Saw him on the news. Looked toasted.”

“Striker,” Malevola supplies helpfully, “He was a team effort.”

“Malevola saved my ass,” You choose not to lie, “So many fucking times.”

“I don't doubt that,” Flambae smirks, but he's been decidedly less of a bitch right now, so you let that one slide.

Sonar shakes his head, “Nah. I'm sure Red’s got some ace cards.”

Prism nods, “Yeah. The serial killer moves.”

“I’m not a serial killer, and I was almost smashed, like, seven times – ” You deflect, rubbing the back of your neck. 

“Almost,” Coupé says, “But you're still here, so clearly not. Spill.”

“Go on then!” Punch Up encourages, hand coming up to slap against your back with the strength of a locomotive behind it, “Love a good story with fists involved. C’mon!”

You barely keep yourself from falling forwards, and in fear of him accidentally breaking something, you relent.

“Fine! Fine – ”

07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California 

SDN

5:30 P.M.

The room is dim, brightened only by a small desk lamp. On said desk, rests two folders – each a physical copy of the profiles he'd skimmed through back on Friday.

“So,” She sighs, lowering herself into her desk chair tiredly, “It's between Redline and Coupé.”

The shock is instantaneous, and then it quickly morphs into confusion. 

“What? That's not – ” He struggles to gather his thoughts for a moment, and his hand gestures towards the closed door as he says, “Invisigal’s still at the bottom of the board.”

Her brows furrow briefly, before sudden understanding crosses over her features.

“Oh, in the bullpen?” She clarifies, hands folding on top of each other, “That thing updates every hour. Invisigal moved up.”

….shit.

He had prepared for this moment. He'd combed over each pro and con that they brought to the table. But now, it's an entirely different choice, and….this decision is a lot.

“Catching Lightning Struck really gave her a huge boost,” She continues, sounding almost proud as she does.

Don't get him wrong. He is too. But following up such a success with this Fuck, he needs to sit down for this.

“Bangle Boy?” He repeats as he settles down into the chair before her desk, needing confirmation, “Really?”

Sitting down is a bit more intense. He's level with each profile, now. Two people that he sees great potential in, that he might've even convinced to see the potential in themselves…and he'll have to break one of them to build the other.

This is what he signed up for. 

“The Donut Shop escape, slipping past Malevola, now the jewelry store…” She begins to list onto her fingers, watching him as he looks down at the choices laid out, “Really bumped up the wanted levels. Just catching the bad guys on the first try is good, but sweeping up notorious faces is…”

He nods. 

There's an elephant in the room that hasn't been addressed just yet.

“That’s like missing a free throw on purpose to get the put back,” He does argue, even if he knows the reality of the situation all too well. 

She nods, “I get it…I don't watch football, but I get it.”

He can see where Malevola’s statement of “bullshit” applies here. Between the two on the table, there has been a plethora of success between today’s two shifts. 

But simply because they were successful across the board, didn't guarantee the points racked up as high as catching a wanted, deemed dangerous individual.

“Look…I know I'm not supposed to play favorites here,” She tentatively shares, “But even if she was at the bottom, I'm not sure I’d have let you cut her.”

It's raw, honest truth, but it doesn't make it any less shitty. It doesn't make him any less shitty, for thinking along the same lines.

“Then it's a good thing she's not,” His voice echoes into the room.

“Yeah. So, these two are now tied for last place,” She explains gently.

He sits up in his chair, bracing himself.

Coupé and Redline. Both mugshots stare back at him, and the eyes captured in their photos almost feel as though they're judging him back. 

There's a stark contrast in the charges listed on each profile. Coupé has an…impressive amount of redacted crimes, and is banned in more countries than the average person will visit in their lifetime. It's expected from someone in her past criminal career, he supposes.

But the time adds up, and up, until it's just the rest of her life spent in max security.

As for Redline?

First-degree murder. Aggravated Assault. Felony stack ups of theft. Conspiracy. To name a few.

But, the most glaringly unique, is –

Undetermined timeline alterations. 

The sentencing term for that? Indefinite.

“You told me this morning…they'd be going back to their sentence if this doesn't work out,” He says slowly, tapping his finger to the mugshot.

“Yes…they both will be. They both know that,” She shakes her head, “Don't let it influence you.”

He wasn't planning on it, although it does make the weight on his shoulders that much heavier.

If he thinks from a distanced viewpoint…Coupé would not be his first choice. 

Her greatness is substantial, but her ability to work in a team environment is rough, and her behavior still feels…very much like an assassin’s. She's almost separated, able to withstand and succeed with her own driving force. 

Her actions and thoughts, those of which he's observed so far, are dubious. Her head might be into the idea of money being paid on time, and freedom outside of a prison cell, but her heart doesn't seem to be.

He could be wrong. He could see change in her yet.

But he's not here to sit and observe, he's here to lead this team to success.

“Coupé…if I'm being honest, still feels a little…” He trails off.

“Evil?” She supplies for him. It's harsh, but –

“Yeah.”

Redline is…palatable.

He understands the potential in them is a double-edged blade. The scale can tip onto either side, with a power so ambiguous as Redline’s. 

He still hasn't figured out why there was never an escape, why Redline never just…changed whatever the fuck led them here. Inability, maybe guilt, he doesn't know.

But he knows about the inhibitor that came later, though. She'd told him that as well, this morning. It's not as though there aren't precautions being taken, just in case…he doesn't know.

But at the same time, who decides who gets a second chance? Redline isn't a saint, that much is obvious. No one on this team is supposed to be. 

From what he's seen so far, what he's heard…what he can feel in his gut…

“Redline isn't as dangerous as all this makes them out to be,” He says out loud, “You think that too, don't you?”

She's quiet for a few moments, staring down at the profile with a severe look.

“Yes. I'll admit that I do,” She murmurs, resting her cheek onto her hand, “No one can discredit the capability of harm that is possible here or the harm that's been done…or even the harm we don't know about…”

Right. Redline worked under Nighthawk. Most likely murdered him sometime before the big arrest, so not much else is known about that other than the whole fencing operation going on.

Ignoring the timeline mess they're surrounded in, getting caught up in fencing and murdering another criminal seems less intensive than being involved in a mob…and having a perfect kill success rate. He doesn't think he even personally knows sixty-eight people.

“...but, they show promise, don't you think?” She continues, “They seem to do well with teamwork – ”

That's a valid point. They talk a lot of shit, to be fair, but he thinks they cause the least of it. They've fit themselves amongst the others with little difficulty.

“ – and they seem to genuinely care about being in this program,” She tilts her head, “You feel that as well? I'm not imagining it, am I?”

She isn't wrong. He'd seen that same glimpse in front of the leaderboard this morning. Like being able to look past the curtains of a window, if only just briefly.

“I feel it too,” He has to concede.

Even if Redline is living proof that fate exists in some form tangible enough to be modified, it doesn't make what he'd told Invisigal any less truthful. 

He sees the makings of someone who could do a lot of good in the future.

He never wanted to pick like this. He's aware that nothing good is going to arise from it.

But if it comes down to it…the choice is all too clear.

His hand reaches out, picking up the profile under the watch of her unreadable eyes.

“Redline can change anyone's fate,” He recites, holding it up with a raised brow before he sets it aside, “I think we give them a chance to change theirs.”

She hums in the back of her throat, grabbing the leftover profile and looking down at it, “You're serious?”

“As a heart attack,” He confirms, “This isn't about the what if’s or unknowns. This is about who is going to take this program seriously, who wants to see change. They have that…they just need a bit of help actualizing it.”

That's that. The facts, the decision, set in stone.

“I trust your judgment,” She nods, “I'll get started on the paperwork – ”

His hand places onto the table as he stands up, determination set in the lines of his face.

“I’ll let Coupé know,” He insists, “Feels important that I do.”

He turns to leave, to face the next part of an overall exhausting situation. 

“Hey, uh, Robert?” 

Her voice stops him in his tracks. He turns his head, expectant.

She looks hesitant, maybe, just for a second. It's deeper than that, in her eyes. Her lips form a small smile.

“Great work today.”

It's enough to ease a little bit of the tightness in his chest.

07.10.2023

Los Angeles, California 

SDN

6:10 P.M.

You haven't been spoken to, yet.

Isn't that a good sign? You think that's a good sign. It could also be a horrible sign. Maybe they're just taking a long time to figure out the best way to break the news gently to you.

There's kind of no easy way to tell someone they're going to rot in prison for the rest of their lives, is there?

Fuck.

You're tired. It's been a long, confusing day. You want your shitty shoebox apartment, and your cheap noodles, and to pass the fuck out in your bed. 

You're ignoring the very real possibility that you'll get to return to none of those after tonight.

You swear you're not going insane.

You do another spin in the desk chair you're sitting in. It's at a random cubicle. There's a picture of a happy family beside the computer monitor, and a small potted succulent on the opposite side. Tasteful.

The view of other office cubicles and dimmed ceiling lights blur together as the chair continues in a fast-paced circle. It's a good distraction, feeling your brains scramble enough that your thoughts are the last thing you're able to focus on.

That is, until you abruptly stop spinning.

“Fuck!” 

Your choked yelp is loud in the quiet office, as you're nearly vaulted out of the chair by the hand that grabs the back of it.

The room spins, and your nails dig into the armrests. You wait until you're not seeing everything in double before you whip around.

It's deplorable, how quick your irritation is to fade when you see that Sonar is standing there.

“What the hell, dude?” You grit out, running a hand over your face to dispel leftover dizziness.

“Coupé,” He replies, a single word that he thinks explains everything. The fuck does she have to do with nearly knocking you flat on your ass?

“Coupé,” You repeat, slow and the slightest bit confused.

“Yes,” Sonar’s snout twitches with an impatient huff, growing exasperated, “Coupé. They chose her.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat. The nauseating feeling of hope returns in full force, mixing in with a persistent gnaw of guilt. 

You've been happy about someone else's misfortune before, but…you do like Coupé. Even if she terrifies you.

“What?” You ask, more out of reflex than anything, “I thought it was between me or Invisigal?”

Sonar does pause a little, but then he just shrugs. His hand reaches out to give your chair a slight shove.

“Guess it wasn't. Robert took her in a conference room, like, a minute ago,” He says, and then nods his head towards the left side of the office, “Let's spy.”

Fuck. You don't need to be told twice. 

You get up from the chair and brush past him, and he's quick to follow. Together you both choose a cubicle that has a perfect view of said conference room, where Robert and Coupé are clearly sitting at the table within. The conversation being had seems civil, even if the both of them look visibly tense.

You have to be dreaming.

“Can you hear what they're saying?” You murmur to him, leaning onto the cubicle’s desk to keep peering over the partition.

He gives you a patronizing look, “Do you even have to ask?”

“Shut up,” You let out a strained breath, “This is stressful.”

He doesn't respond, seeing as how he's putting more focus into spying on their conversation. You can only wait beside him, watching Robert’s hands as he gestures while speaking.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

“I think…” Sonar says under his breath after a while, eyes flickering between them and you, “I can safely say, I fucking told you so.”

It's so damned self-satisfied, too. But not in a way that actually gets under your skin.

“Fuck you,” You grumble, but it's pretty heatless.

For good measure, though, you notch an elbow into the general vicinity where his ribs are. You're not expecting the high, almost squeaky, bat-like chitter it earns you as he flinches away.

You pause, eyes wide as you look at him in disbelief. Flambae might be the resident flamethrower, but with how deeply Sonar is glaring, you're surprised you haven't bursted into flames.

“Wait. Are you actually fucking ticklish?” You start to chuckle, and his ears go completely flat to his skull in apprehension, “Oh. Oh, buddy. This isn't good for you.”

“I'm not,” He argues resolutely, “I was surprised.” 

Your answering chuckle is as merry as it is menacing, “Don't be so defensive. It was a cute giggle. I'm sure others would agree – ”

“I'm – I'm not fucking cute, and that wasn't a giggle –” His fluster grows more apparent, the fur of his neck puffing uo like earlier, “If you fucking tell anyone that about – ”

Sonar’s empty threat is cut off by the loud sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. Both of your heads snap up just in time to see a knife swirling in that shadowy vapor pierce down onto the table, right in front of Robert.

Welp. It was great knowing him while it lasted.

But, surprisingly, there is no murder of any dispatchers to be witnessed. Not even a second after that, a burst of those black shadows shatters the glass window of the conference room, the sound sharp and booming. You startle, and Sonar’s ears flinch back.

Coupé’s face is dark with rage and betrayal, as she steps through the glass, scowling at Robert the entire time. Her mechanical wings flare, and then her feet leave the ground, carrying her away in a graceful glide.

“Yikes,” Sonar whispers.

The silence is suffocating, for a moment. You just barely realize that Robert is now staring at the both of you, because the cubicles are too short to conceal the fact that you've both been eavesdropping behind one.

Sonar blinks at him. You raise your hand in a small wave.

He merely sighs, and returns to staring down at the knife in front of him. 

You want to go over and…thank him? Kiss him? Show how much fucking gratitude you have that he didn't just…give up on you.

You let out a slow exhale.

He looks like he needs a moment, though, so you refrain from that. You'll do it tomorrow, for sure. Maybe get him something nice, like…fucking pastries, you don't know.

You're just…excited.

You're excited for what comes next, for the first time in your life.

“We should go out.”

Fucking what.

“Excuse me?” You choke on your spit a little, coughing out the words with great effort.

Did you hear that wrong?

Sonar gestures a hand from him to you, and his for once he simply looks…earnest. His neck is still fluffed up, though, curiously enough.

“For drinks?” He adds helpfully, “You know. To celebrate not being unemployed…or like, fucking imprisoned for life?”

Oh.

“You want to go out,” You repeat, “To get a drink with me.”

“Yeah? Mal said she's in too, when I asked,” He keeps going, clearly uncaring to the fact he's admitted to planning this so far ahead that he even got Malevola involved.

They really did believe you wouldn't be kicked, didn't they?

You don't…know how to handle that. You don't know what to think of it, especially right now, when your entire course of fate has been changed once again.

“I haven't been out much,” You tell him, because…well, yeah. 

You haven't been out of prison for very long. You don't have friends or family. Except, maybe, Leroy. You have a strong inclination to believe the big man would not go out and get shit-faced with you, however.

No friends…

Huh, that might not be the truth anymore.

“We usually head to The Jungle,” He shares, leaning against the side of the cubicle’s wall, “Nightclub. Good tits. Good music. Most of the drinks might have battery acid mixed in them. It's never been a bad time.”

“I am also…poor,” You add, not as an excuse, but as a fact. Your hero check is delivered on Thursday, and so until then, you are down in the trenches.

Sonar’s snout wrinkles, and he lets out an impatient sound, almost like a chuff.

“I'll buy for you,” He offers, too fucking casually for your comfort. If Malevola weren't part of this equation, you'd almost think this is an odd sort of –

No.

No, you're delusional and tired…and a little emotional. You can't be buying into whatever you think is happening here. 

You should also refuse. Go home and get rest, like you'd wanted. It'd be a smart decision.

But in light of your entire fucking life turning towards the better tonight…

Fuck. What the hell.

“Fine. I just need to grab my stuff from the locker room,” You agree, and holy shit…his toothy grin is the closest thing to a smile you've seen yet. It brightens his face in a way that isn't smug, or wry, or anything that's normally there.

It…suits him.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” He hums lightly, pushing off the wall, “Locker room, then we get Mal.”

The only thing you can think of, as you both make your way towards said locker room, is what the hell are you getting yourself into?

…and why don't you care to stop yourself?