Chapter Text
The station was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon. A calm before a storm, Bobby always said. The others were still out on a double alarm structure fire call—Athena had called in earlier to say she’d meet them there once she finished up with a domestic dispute downtown. Buck had stayed behind to finish a report that Hen said was “half-assed at best,” and Chimney never turned down a chance to roast him over paperwork. Eddie had rolled his eyes and offered to help, because Buck’s version of filing was dumping a folder in the general direction of a cabinet and praying it would sort itself out.
Bobby was in the kitchen stirring a pot of chili with the dedication of a Michelin chef. Hen was at the dining table, glancing up from a newspaper and half-listening to the banter bouncing off the walls.
“You literally labeled this folder ‘Stuff.’” Chimney raised a file in the air like it was evidence in a trial.
“Because it is stuff, Chim,” Buck countered, arms crossed, smug like a kid who just won a debate.
Eddie shook his head, grinning, and reached for another stack of reports. “Give it here. At least let me make sense of your chaos before Cap sees this.”
“I already have,” Bobby said dryly without turning around
“Figures,” Buck muttered.
And then everything shattered.
The bay doors exploded inward with a crash that sounded like thunder hitting concrete. A deafening echo bounced off the brick walls. The air shifted from comfortable to choking in seconds.
“DOWN!” Bobby roared, flipping the table and using it as makeshift cover. Chimney instinctively shoved Buck behind a row of lockers. Eddie grabbed Hen and dragged her to the side of the kitchen island just as the first figures stormed in—five of them, all masked, all armed.
Automatic rifles. Tactical gear. Purpose.
They didn’t move like amateurs.
No words at first, just the relentless stomping of boots and the cold mechanical click of weapons. One of them fired into the ceiling, and the entire room fell into a graveyard silence, dust raining down from the impact.
“Everybody out where we can see you!” barked the leader—his voice gravel-coated, emotionless. He was tall, broad-chested, with a bulletproof vest marked with something hastily painted in red: D.C.H.
“Now!” another added, kicking over a stool and sweeping the muzzle of his rifle in their direction.
Bobby stood up first, hands raised, jaw clenched tight. Hen followed, slow and careful, eyes reading the room, calculating. Chimney and Buck made eye contact, both agreeing to rise too. Eddie came last, hands up, a hard edge in his eyes, his posture protective—and face pissed off.
“Good little heroes,” the leader sneered. “No fire to put out today? Guess we brought the heat instead.”
Buck’s eyes scanned their gear—military grade. These weren’t just angry civilians. This was coordinated. Planned. His gut twisted.
“Who the hell are you?” Bobby asked, voice steady, calm. Trying to buy time.
“We’re the Disciples of Civil Honesty,” the leader replied. “DCH. Bet you’ve never heard of us, huh?”
Eddie narrowed his eyes. “Should we have?”
The man stepped closer, pulled off his mask. His face was scarred, a deep gash running from temple to jaw. “You save buildings. You save some people. But not the ones who matter.”
Chim’s voice was rough and frankly pissed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My brother died in a fire,” Scarface spat. “Your people said the structure was clear. Then it collapsed. He burned alive. All I got was an apology letter and a shrug.”
Another masked one chimed in, a woman—smaller, but her gun was steady. “My mom died last year. Fire trucks didn’t show up for fifteen minutes. She choked on smoke in her own bed. Where the hell were you then?”
Hen’s jaw tightened. “That’s not how we work.”
“No?” Scarface said, almost laughing. “All of you—heroes in red trucks, rolling up with sirens and smiles, thinking your jobs make you gods. You pick who lives. You pick who dies.”
“That’s not true,” Bobby said firmly. “We save who we can. We never stop trying—”
“But you fail,” Scarface snapped. “And no one pays for that.”
The room grew tighter, hotter. Guns pointed at chests. Buck’s breathing was shallow. Chim’s fingers twitched like they wanted to grab for something, amything but nothinf waa there. Hen’s eyes flicked between teammates, checking for signs, planning.
Scarface raised a finger. “Strip them of weapons. Radios. Phones. Anything that screams ‘help.’”
Four of his men moved fast, practiced. They patted everyone down. One yanked Chim’s phone and smashed it. Another twisted Hen’s arm too hard when grabbing her radio, and Buck nearly stepped forward until Eddie subtly touched his shoulder.
Not now.
They were shoved to their knees in a loose circle. Hands on their heads.
Scarface crouched in front of them. “This is the reckoning. We’re live-streaming this to the world. Maybe then they’ll see who you really are. Maybe then someone starts asking why we keep trusting you.”
“You’re wrong,” Bobby said. “You’re angry and hurting—but this isn’t justice. It’s vengeance.”
Scarface smiled coldly. “You say that like they’re different.”
A silence fell again, thick like smoke. Then the woman’s voice sliced through it.
“Hey,” she said. “What about him?”
She pointed at Eddie.
Eddie flinched—more confused than afraid. He really didn't like the way the woman was looking at him. “What?”
“You,” she said, stepping closer, eyeing him like he was prey. “You’re the one who was in the news a while back, right? Shooter in the street, little kid, all dramatic?”
Bobby’s stomach dropped. Buck’s breath hitched.
“Yeah, you’re the one. Medal winner. Former soldier. You fit the part.”
Scarface walked over, tilted his head. “Pretty boy with a tragic past. They always eat that shit up.”
“Leave him alone,” Buck said, voice firm, rising.
One of the men swung the butt of his rifle into Buck’s ribs. Hard.
“BUCK!” Chimney shouted, lunging—only to be met with a gun jammed against his temple.
“Don’t move!” the gunman yelled.
Buck crumpled, coughing, clutching his side. Eddie started forward, only for Scarface to raise his hand.
“No, no. Let him see this.” He leaned down and grabbed Eddie by the collar, yanking him upright.
“Let’s make this interesting.”
He shoved Eddie forward, dragging him into the center of the room like a spotlight was on him. They yanked his arms behind his back and zip-tied them roughly.
“Why him?” Hen snapped. “What the hell do you want?”
“Because people like him sell your lie,” Scarface snarled. “He’s the face the public sees. Calm. Clean. Heroic. If he bleeds, they’ll start asking questions. If he screams, they’ll finally listen.”
“You don’t want to do this,” Bobby said quietly, and it wasn’t a threat. It was a prayer.
Scarface pulled a knife from his belt.
Eddie stared him down, jaw clenched. “You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot more than that if you want to scare me.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Scarface said, voice like ice.
They shoved Eddie to his knees in front of the others. He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. Just looked over his shoulder at Buck, eyes steady.
It was Buck who looked wrecked.
Scarface leaned down and whispered, “Make one wrong move, and your pretty boy stops being so pretty.”
The camera light blinked red.
The world was watching.
And no sirens were coming.