Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The official reasons I gave were still true. Things I still believe. It was hard to be near the surviving members of the Brave Brigade; there was the trauma and distrust that, at any moment, another could go rogue or have hidden allegiances. The pain and anger that none of them could help my father, prevented his death. The guilt of hating them and being angry when they were injured and grieving too.

But there was one reason, a simple one that underpinned all of it. The foundation that stopped me from having team-ups, Partners, Sidekicks, and dynamic duos in the past fifteen years. 

Bobby Robertson was the only member of the Bridge Brigade who died. Their bombed-out headquarters, the mooks and goons,  the other members escaped with bruises, broken bones, and plasma burns, the resilience inherent to those with powers keeping them strong enough to withstand the abuse of that awful night. 

My father had none of that. And I don't have it either. 

It may have been different back in my grandfather’s day. Where one in a hundred had some special power or ability, or came from another planet, dimension, or timeline. However, given time and the mixing of genes, power sources, and so on, it was more realistically down to one in ten or fifteen in the modern age. A villain’s freeze ray holds a city hostage, generating 20-something citizens whose DNA adapts and grants them varying levels of ice and temperature powers. A demon incursion on the east coast results in a mass outbreak of warlock pacts, Eldrich awakenings, and babies with horns. 

Because their parents decided an evacuation bunker was the perfect time to get it on. 

Gross. People will need that space for the next attack. Don’t go covering it with your fluids. 

Regardless, powers are becoming the norm. Policy and law have yet to catch up fully, there’s no fun super high school or college to teach these randos with laser eyes and aliens how to control their powers and fit into normal society. Instead, there’s some good YouTube channels, a vlog series or two, and in the last five or so years, Super Companies offering control classes and other junk. 

Because everyone’s going to use the last of their savings to take classes. 

People are getting dangerous. Which, in some ways, is good; it means they're resilient, less likely to get injured when a wannabe super with a god complex decides he wants to be King of Gendale and uses his powers to collapse a building or two. Eventually, we should be a super society, where everyone’s gimmick keeps them from being pancaked. 

But we’re not there yet. 

So people like me? The average Joe whose granddad wasn’t exposed to experimental radiation or fell into a toxic river, or was born under the star or Orias or something? We’re the soap bubbles. The thin paper people who still get torn, punctured, burned, and broken when not handled with care. 

It sucks. But that’s also true of life. So it's not a huge deal. 

It just means you have to be smart. Be aware of what your body can handle and what it can’t. Know when to bail and get somewhere safe. My gramps… wasn’t. I mean, he was a genius, building the Mechaman suit in that day and age. But he didn’t have contingencies. The original suit had a god damn submarine dog door, the one with the big wheel that you need to spin to unlock. My Dad was better;  he upgraded the design, added additional shock absorbers, compression foam, and additional reinforced plating. He even applied the mindset to the Bigrader’s base. The damn thing was as close as you could get to a fortress in Los Angeles. It would withstand any threat you could throw at it, at least long enough for the people inside to make use of the many escape routes and hidden exits. 

He just never expected the threat to come from within.

So lesson learned, right? Have the tech security, and then have the social security, and don’t let anyone close enough to stab you in the back. 

It was easier when I had the house. Secret basement to fully live that double life, socialize, and be just another paper man who's a bit introverted, preferring to stay inside and watch movies and check the news for the most recent villain attack instead of being down there. Convenient alibi, too. No, I wasn’t out there and saw Mechaman punch that fire guy across the block. I was home, rewatching the Spike Lee marathon. 

Then that messy team-up thing happened with the space invasion. All heroes on deck, each with a massive chunk of the city to protect and defend. And I did my part. I just could have done without the damage. It cost an arm and a leg to replace the literal arms and legs that got torn off the mech during that fight. 

And since you kinda need legs to fight, and really, if I’m out most nights anyway, why do I need a four-bedroom house? 

So I sold it, I applied for a basic hero's permit to allow me to park the Mech in whatever parking space my new apartment would have, and I continued on. 

And it's fine. Better even. The royalties from the merchandise deal cover the rent and takeout, and if nothing happens over the next year, I can begin to replenish the nest egg to cover future repair costs. I have Beef, and the remaining seven seasons of “Super Sherlock” to binge. 

…Damn, my life sounds sad. 

I stare at the video on my smartphone, a quiet ringing in my ears. Shroud at Large scrolling across the bottom as the camera zooms in on the broken wall, rubble blasted inwards. 

I set the phone down and stared. Beef’s ears perking up, clocking my strange behavior. 

Shroud. Fucking Shroud. 

I turn to my board, without the funds to upgrade the Mecha-Puter, going old school like this worked better for me. At the very least it beat having to try and work off a shitty laptop. That’d just be too sad. And not secure enough. 

I started to clear it. Taking down my notes of the recent shipments of drugs into the area, the handful of cold cases that I suspected were linked, and the list of potential Hideouts I had been working through to find where Hollywood Man’s goons were hiding out at. (Hollywood Man seemed to be this years “Big Bad” who enjoyed having his crime scenes resemble classic movings, creativly both breaking the law and offending anyone who’d watch those movies) 

He was broken out, which means he either had a network or someone else wanted him out. The Prison’s are sadly used to regular breakouts with the growing rise of Powered people, but they’ve upgraded their security enough that it’d take at least three or four powered people and a number of others to sufficiently distract the Hero’s posted at each prison. 

I’d need to grab the newspaper tomorrow to get a good photo of the prison and a copy of Shouds mug shot. With the library closed on the weekends, I wouldn’t be able to print my own until monday. 

I stared at the blank board, already marking where I’d put the different notes and details to run him down. 

“You're not getting away with this…” I muttered, spooling up the red string. 

The red string was a classic. 

Beep. Beep. 

Everything. Hurt. 

Beep. Beep. 

I’d groan, but it hurt too much to move, and from the taste of it, there was a plastic pipe going down my throat. 

Beep. Beep.

Oh, that wasn’t good. Okay, need a nurse. 

I tried to twitch my left hand, only for a jolt of pain to shoot up the arm. Okay, righty then. It was sore, weak, I must have been out for some time, but it still moed. I groped around blindly, trying to move by body as little as possible while my fingers sought out… There it is. 

Pulse monitor! Grabbing the chord between two fingers, I jerked it off my left hand, and the quiet sounds in the background were swapped out for a constant alarm. 

I sighed as I cracked an eye, letting in the blinding hospital light, as footsteps quickly entered the room. 

There we go. Room service. 

They say a lot of things. Lucky to be alive, a miracle that there’s no permanent damage. Apparently, some of the Brave Brigade, when they heard what happened, pulled some strings for a healer from Japan to come out to reform some of my bones that were powdered. 

Through it all there’s a bit of a rebuke, the slight disapproval that its me in the hospital bed. With only 14% of the hero field those without powers, there’s been a controversy in the media about us. Do we help or hinder? Back in the day? It was inspiring. Three generations later, more heroes, more powers, and more infrastructure, some called it “reckless” and “not our place”. Couch side critics who believe its down to the perfect match up and at the end of the day “a power score of zero would fold against even the weakest telekenises every single time.”

I guess my doctor shares the same opinion, given the lecture. 

“What about my suit?” I interrupt him, as he wraps around and begins talking about “self care” again. 

Silence. 

Oh, that’s not good.

Monarch, one of the Brave Brigade, apparently had gone through the trouble the first few weeks, collecting as many pieces as she could, from the salvaged chunks that the city had to remove from rooftops, to the other smaller pieces that locals had taken and put up for sale online. Memorabilia, of the sickest kind. 

There was no sign of the Astral Pulse. 

3.5 Million for repairs and replacement. 

Sixteen Months to rewire, retest, and rebuild. 

Ten years for a new Astral Pulse. 

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

SDN.

One of the many new Superhero Enterprises popping up. It solved many logistical headaches of the modern hero in theory. Allowed to inform and assign heroes to scenarios their powers were best suited for, gave them up-to-date intelligence on what kind of scenario they were going into, and brought in backup and emergency services depending on the outcome. No need to patrol, have a family member or friend be “your guy in the chair”, stopped multiple heroes from showing up to the same crime scene, and all coordinated through the installation of security cameras and systems, allowing them to make a quick buck on the side as well. Through the payment of subscribers, local and state government funding, it created a system that minimized property damage while maximizing the impact of the heroes they employed.

So superheroes with all the training wheels, safety guardrails, and oversight they could fit into one program. I had joked with some of the other Legacy heroes in the past about just how incompetent their heroes must be to need all that handholding.

And now here I was actually considering being one of those hands.

Damn… I’d fallen hard.

I glance up from the SDN website on my phone, craning my head back to look at the remains of the Mecha Man suit. The dented and blackened metal, still scuffed even though I’d spent my first week out of the hospital cleaning and oiling the dang thing.

They’d help us. Blonde Blazer’s offer wasn’t a bad one. Millions of dollars worth of repairs, a job with income in the meantime. Sure, they’d probably saddle me with a two or five-year contract after all was said and done, but then I could go solo again.

I wouldn’t need them as a hero. I’d done my own reconnaissance, my own research, I both tracked crime activity and occasionally coordinated with other old timer heroes in the area. Trading off cases to those who were best suited to address them.

But it was a good trade.

And it’d be nice to have some help doing it.

And… Blazer… wasn’t too bad either. Absolute shit at social cues, if she genuinely thought that was how you give a casual job offer, with drinks and the most PDA I’d received in the last year. But Superheroes, especially the ones who roughed it on their own before falling in with a team or League or Club or Company, all brought on their own social baggage and hangups. Origin Story Syndrome was what many people referred to on dating sites and social media blogs.

I couldn’t hold it against her, especially if it was a genuine mistake.

I’d check it out. See if there was some potential there. I had been in the game longer than most people now. At fifteen years, you almost always had sidekicks or some other group affiliation. To remain independent and just as productive, I think, speaks to my skills and capabilities to handle every aspect of the Hero job… Either that or I had no social life.

…

…

Anyways…

…

It’d be nice to see Track Star again.

Everything about SDN is campy. The Corporate cheese because to have anything more would be an actual personality, and no, we can’t have that. Blonde Blazer’s tour says more about her and the company as a whole. She’s a fully Corporate hero. Awkward in all the ways of someone who never left their first job's work environment and never learned what skills translate between industries, and which were dealing with SDN’s general weirdness. Like a Homeschool Kid who hadn’t been to the park enough to talk with other kids, suddenly being made a homeroom teacher.

And now she’s my boss. And I’m the boss of a minor's rogues gallery, bargain bin hero choices. Z-Team, Phoenix Program.

PP for short.

Damn, it’s like they want these guys to be ostracized and shunned by the other heroes. I’d at least split them up, put one on each team, and let the senior heroes do some actual mentoring and teaching for once, and give them a role model to support them.

I stare at the dispatch screen, all their little photos and profiles below the Torrance area. I’ve put Flambae out to rescue some kids' balloons, while the Golem and Invisigirl are playing bodyguard. Overall, it's not too bad a gig. Calls are cycled through dispatchers, allowing for a five- to twenty-minute break between dispatches. The team chatter is scattered out, dying down when they are on the job and picking back up whenever someone’s heading out or returning to SDN headquarters.

I sigh and click off the dispatch screen. If I was going to do this and make use of what SDN was offering, then I needed to take advantage of these days. Babysitting Torrance's latest and greatest may have been my main job, but it wasn’t the only thing I could do in an office.

Besides, if I was going to be back out there in the near future, then doing some preparations of my own now would just ensure I could hit the ground as fast as possible once the suit was up.

Opening a side tab, I opened my email, and after a brief pause, I began to draft an email.

Hey,

It’s been a while, sorry for not staying in touch.

I continued typing, giving a brief update on my health and the new job at SDN. All the social niceties were required before you could ask people for something.

Now that I’m not bedridden and I have the sling off, I wanted to do some digging again. Do you have any leads on Shoud?

I signed off, and then fired it off four times, changing the address and a few details each time.

Monarch, Windwalker, Bastion, and Selene are all of the surviving members of the Brave Brigade.

I stared up at the ceiling afterwards. It was going to be awkward; some of them would want to catch up. But they’d be equally invested in catching Shoud, and while most of them were retired, they had sidekicks, successors, and others who’d still be in the game.

I opened a new tab and stared blankly at the search bar for a moment. What was I supposed to do now? If I were desk-bound and couldn’t do recon, couldn’t run down anyone else…

An idea popped up, and I quickly typed it in.

“Engineering Night Classes”

SDN was going to help now, but I didn’t want this to be a habit of mine. MechaMan needed to be MechaIdependent, which means learning more than just replacing the old designs my Dad left me.

…Note. Never say Mechaindependent ever again. Leave that to Phenomaman.

A notification prompted me to click back to the Dispatch page, interrupting my search; someone was on their way back.

I raise an eyebrow as I read off the screen.

“Flambae, you’re off route.”

The day passed quickly.

It’s… nice to quip with people who aren’t trying to cave your face in or pry you out of the Mech like some stubborn shellfish. And while I’d never admit it to anyone. There’s a lot of potential with this group. Malevola and Sonar have some history; it seems like she tries to keep him clean. Coupe claims she’s just here for the money, but if she wanted to leave assassinations behind, there are endless categories of crime that could still sign a paycheck. And every job I assign her to, she does her best to complete.

Even Insvisigal and Flambae, for their brash personalities (and potential arson), obviously care about their performance, from their snipped comments. I almost choked on my coffee, given Flambae’s temper tantrum at letting the stolen boat get away.

Then the Donut thing happened.

“Feel bad? Good! Fuck you!”

And here I thought a desk job would give my body a chance to recover from being a punching bag.

Sonar stands over me, wanting the snacks.

“That’s not what they’re- you know what, help yourself.”

I give them to him to get the bat out of my face and give him time to recover.

Invisigal’s punch was solid. My nose wasn’t broken, and I hadn’t impacted the wall, so she knew how to hold back her power-enhanced strength.

It would probably bruise, but with the right cream and the weekend, it shouldn’t be visible by Monday.

You were a nerd playing a video game in a suit your Daddy built you.

One of the scars on my back twinges with pain, the tight skin not happy with the sudden ground collision.

Yeah… maybe that was once true.

I pull myself up with a grunt and leave the breakroom for the Debrief with Blonde Blazer, head pounding. Time to assess the damage.

I detour to the bathroom real quick as I feel another drop of blood work its way out of my nose.

It wasn’t the best conversation I’d been a part of. Admittedly, a large portion of my frustration was in my inability to be there myself. If I had Invisigal’s powers, it would have been a quick ambush, maybe even tracking him down to where he was headed, to find his bolt hole. If I had the MechaSuit, I’d have watched him on the security footage until he exited and then grabbed him in the parking lot or Alleyway.

Instead, we had a scrambled brawl with broken glass, ruined donuts, and broken drywall. Invisigal wasn’t trained for combat or takedowns. Her style was a desperate brawl, using her powers to reposition instead of blocking. A weak trick, especially with a villain with a brain. She needed to know it wouldn’t be enough. That, with a half-empty toolkit, she’d need to make the right choices in the right moment.

She needed to be better. She couldn’t simply shrug off failure and ignore her mistakes.

I look in the bathroom mirror and wince at the off-color skin, turning on the tap to get some running water, and reaching into a pocket. It was an instinctual grab this morning; I hadn’t expected to use it, hell, I hadn’t actually needed to use it since the thing with the aliens. Popping open the small can, I used two fingers to dig out some foundation, the paste the same shade as my skin.

I’d maybe need some ice from the breakroom, but in half an hour, no one would be able to tell I was punched.

A drip of blood ran out of my nose again.

I wad my nose and head out, ignoring the looks some people give me. One more meeting and then I get to go home. I could do that.

I wonder if I could blame it on dry air?

“I don’t think the Z-Team’s had a better shift!”

I blink. Then I blink again.

“We might just need to confront the fact that it might be the best they can do.”

“I’ve seen so much worse from Invisigal. “

“Let's be real, she ain’t going to make it.”

Both of them were confusing the hell out of me. They’re doing well, but they're not doing well enough?

She’s improving, but because she’s not perfect, should she be cut? Isn’t that the point of this program? To give them a chance to be actual heroes? To rank them the same as other heroes, so they know what it's fucking like?

“Look, Robert, you should be proud. The Bar is very low with this group. “

A wave of anger shoots through me—some mix of indignation and professional pride.

“It's not low for me.”

I continue to talk, keep my voice intense but mostly free of the anger I feel growing in my stomach.

They had what it took to make heroes, but instead of honing or refining those skills, they’d been… what, abandoned by the company? Left to fail and fail again, no dispatcher to coordinate or make assignments based on their strengths? Had no one here at SDN heard of a Dark Horse or Anti Hero before?

“But when it's work, I’m not fucking around. If you want the Phoenix Program to survive, the bar needs to go up.”

I continued to talk about tough love and “showing I’m serious,” which both Chase and Blazer seemed to eat up, but my mind kept going to how… poorly planned the Phoenix Program was. I had met vigilantes before. People who were rough around the edges but were trying to do well. Young heroes getting their start didn’t know how to work their way out of any situation where it wasn’t black and white. Who didn’t think critically beyond the moment. People like the Z-Team.

The solution wasn’t punishment, it was pointing it out, throwing up the questions that’d sit in their brain during the late nights on patrol and get them wanting to do better. Having them confront their failures and work through them. Not shrugging them off. Not just labeling them.

“You choose to be a villain!”

Ahhhh yep. Pot calling the kettle black.

I’d need to do better.

The Conversation with Phenomaman was an unexpected, awkward surprise. Between the sudden context of why Blazer didn’t reciprocate my kiss, Phenomaman’s awkward manner of speech, and the many different digs at my height and stature, it was a weird end to an already weird day.

“Stand back, my takeoffs have been known to stun small creatures.”

Okay. Ouch. But considerate given the couple of Supers who’ve gone viral online with their sudden take-offs knocking people over and cracking windows and concrete.

I sighed as I shut my apartment door, looking at the stack of boxes I had yet to fill. Royd would be here on Monday, and I’d need to do my best to segment down the MechaSuit. Not that it would be that hard, given the lack of… anything else to do in my apartment.

Moving into the kitchen, I pulled out my phone. Opening my work email, I scrolled till I hit the onboarding email. With a few more clicks, I had the SDN Employee Handbook open.

If I was going to do this right, then I needed to do my due diligence. That meant studying the company, the Z-Team, and maybe even Blazer and Chase, the same meticulousness required to break down Supervillain plans.

I retrieved a stack of Post-it notes and a Sharpie from a drawer and sat down against a wall, allowing Beef to come up on my lap.

“Okay… where to start?” I asked myself, opening a tab on SDN’s website, the Brave Brigade, and Blonde Blazer.

I’d need to make the most of this weekend.

Chapter Text

My research was interrupted on Saturday due to a phone call.

I saw the caller ID and grimaced, pushing the rest of my bagel into my mouth to free my hand as I grabbed the phone.

“Hello?” I tried to say cautiously, the bagel muffling my words, causing me to grimace.

“Chew. And. Swallow. Before speaking,” Kyla Winter’s demanded, her words cold as I tried to quickly comply. Grabbing my mug, I chucked coffee to force it down before taking a breath.

“Sorry about that, Auntie,” I said, taking a seat on my chair. “How have you been?”

Kyla Winter, one of the holders of the Selene mantle, was a stern woman. As the only child of a member of the Brave Brigaders, the entire team had been my extended family growing up. Some, like Chase, played the role of cooler older brother, while Kyla was the stern Aunt. Tickled pink to spend time and visit you, only to criticize your hair, your outfit, how you spoke, and whatever else grabbed her attention.

I still remember the mistake of having a friend over when she visited.

She cared, they all did, but...

“Absolutely dreadful, the new girl can’t access half the Zodiac and is obsessed with some trash animated film from Korea, of all places. The songs are repetitive, bland, and pop! Pop Robert!”

The Spirit of Selene was a shared spirit. Thirteen women around the world could draw on the weird star or space magic through some kind of cosmic power, which also led to shared senses, memories, and a complete lack of privacy from the other twelve.

The absolute worst power for someone like my Aunt Kyla. To get an update from here was to also get an update on twelve other women's lives from around the world and Aunt Kyla’s personal opinion of each and every one of them.

“Is it that one with the demons? I heard it got good reviews.” I say, turning the phone on speaker mode and setting it on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, don’t get me started. And Blake! That girl, worst taste in men I have ever-”

This was a good time as any to start cooking… lunch? Dinner? I squint at the clock on the wall as Aunt Kyla’s voice pitches up an octave.

Two hours and a sad grilled cheese later (I ran out of butter with the second slice of bread), I finally had my freedom back, and a couple of updates. Kyla was officially retired as of last year, managing a nonprofit group similar to SDN called STARS. They were a Superheroine Empowerment Group, conducting awareness campaigns on issues such as workplace harassment and providing resources to both Heroines and ordinary women. From abuse shelter escorts to a designated driver program, and a Hero Mentorship program that sounded closer to what the Phoenix Program tried to be.

Since her group’s focus was as far from crime-solving as possible, she didn’t have any leads for me, other than to chew me out for going after Shroud alone.

“It took four of us who knew him best, Robert,” she had said sternly as I finished cleaning my dish. “No one hero’s going to take Elliot in alone.”

“But one Hero can track down Shroud.” I had replied stubbornly, “I learned my lesson, I’m not taking on a whole syndicate on my own. I just want to narrow down the search so he has as little time as possible out in the sun before he goes back behind bars. Whether that's me, another Super, or a new Brigade. What’s the new one’s name?”

“Bold Brigade,” she fired back instantly, “is an absolute trash name. If they need to rebrand, then it just shows they didn’t uphold the legacy we left them.”

I held my tongue at that and quickly signed off after getting a promise from her that she would send me her organization's city data. It’d let me rule out roads and neighborhoods that they’d already marked as safe to travel, places where sketchy supervillain mooks would avoid.

The Brave Brigade’s Legacy was of a turncoat and a backstabber. The scandal of Shroud had discouraged Superhero team-ups and led to an odd “clustering” of Heroes. For a good few years, people only trusted sidekicks and “equal match” heroes where they were confident they could take each other in a fight, which led to a stratification of Superhero skills and less effective response times.

It was another point in favor of SDN. With the “security” of a background check, you didn’t need to worry about a knife in the back or hidden allegiances.

I paused as I sat down.

“Shit, is that why everyone’s on the Z-team? Because the rest of the heroes don’t trust them?”

Food for thought.

Checking my email revealed no updates from the other Brave Brigadiers, so after briefly taking Beef to the park, I returned to my research. I hit play on a Podcast as I began to dive deeper into the company itself.

“Welcome back to the Bone Zone! Today’s topic: Is SDN a front for the Government surveillance state?”

Two days later, and I kind of regretted looking down on Super Companies.

They supported heroes in ways that the government and law hadn’t gotten around to in so many ways. They were the closest to a Super school, almost like a Super trade program. SDN provided reconnaissance, tool support, and hero mentorship, allowing a controlled and structured way for Superheroes to discover their strengths, address their weaknesses, and outline what a Superhero needed to do before, during, and after a crisis.

I learned through watching my Dad and the constant preparation and understanding that eventually I’d join him out on patrol. The resources he and my Grandfather had accumulated gave me all the opportunities during my childhood to observe a top hero in action.

I suppose that's what they mean by 'privilege'? Or was that just an atypical education?

I remembered Waterboy. One of the most painfully awkward kids I’d met. And I don’t care if he has a foot on me and is in his twenties. If you talk like a kid, you’re a kid. Age means nothing. But a kid like that would have no hope or idea of what to do in a crisis. He’d do one or two good things but wouldn’t have the situational awareness or confidence to continue.

At SDN, he’d have the chance to see how other heroes conducted themselves, practice and learn from the Senior heroes, and eventually, get assigned to a dispatcher's roster and sent out on route.

And get paid to do it in the meantime.

I paced in the apartment, Beef watching from his pillow. Royd was supposed to be here any minute, and I was tempted to ask him about the Torrance Branch of SDN.

My read on Blonde Blazer was right, tried to go Solo a few years back and crashed and burned hard in some parking lot scandal. Two stories of expensive Hollywood executives' cars pancaked. With a lot of property damage to her name as a debut hero, she threw herself into SDN’s program with all the passion and vigor of someone desperate to rebrand and rebuild themselves.

She received commendations and awards for leading a team to protect the Queen Mary during a major alien attack, and decided she wanted to play a leadership role with SDN. She began publicly dating Phenomoaman and being the PR face of SDN in the LA area, and had been climbing the ranks ever since. She took over the Torrance Branch at the start of the year, another accolade of a successful Superhero turned community leader.

Except for the Z-Team. Arson, property damage, and partying. The gossip columns had a field day with the many colorful incidents of the Z-Team for the past few months, with each one another in a long line being used to criticize and smear SDN’s reputation. And the first article? A cheery front pager, Blonde Blazer smiling before the SDN building, four disgruntled ex-villains before her.

“New SDN Branch Manager announces new changes to Phoenix Program Initiates."

Originally, the Phoenix Program was more closely aligned with the Prison Inmate crews that the Fire Service used to utilize in the past. An ex-Villian or prospective Hero would be paired with a Senior Hero. Through regular evaluations and weekly training seminars, they’d be given more and more responsibility as they had proven to handle it effectively. It was slow and dependent on Heroes willing and able to mentor a sidekick that could potentially go rogue on you. But it worked for the most part.

The change the article explained was to try and speed up the results, giving the Heroes in training “more hands-on experience!”

I thought briefly of the unconscious, chapless old man in the donut shop, or the Multi-block blaze Flambae continued to deny his own involvement in.

Not sure if the public appreciates the new “hands-on style” of the Z-Team.

Still, that explained my own “onboarding” experience last week and gave additional context to the date/interview that Blonde Blazer had conducted.

She had no idea what she was doing.

So… why was she the branch manager?

The doorbell interrupted my further musings.

“So… you’ve been with the Company for a while, right, Royd?”

“Oh yeah!” the man replied cheerfully, lifted the center chest cavity of the Mechaman suit onto the truck bed. “It’s a great place to work, and the gym and shower on site make it hella convenient. The pay’s nice too.”

“How’s it been with Blonde Blazer as branch manager? I heard she took over fairly recently?”

I don’t listen to his response as I watch his face. And I see what I’m looking for. A tightening of the smile, fixing it in place, a sudden shift in body language as he stops looking at me and starts intentionally focusing on the different boxes in the room.

“Oh yeah, Blonde Blazer’s been with the company forever. She like was the rising star of SDN and the Torrance Branch. Super cool to see another Sup make it that high, you know?” he said over his shoulder as he tried to quickly make his way down to the van.

Oh yeah, there was dirt here.

“Totally. Always great to see a super-strong, flying hero… reach a higher level.” I deadpan, grabbing my own box and heading after him. “Who was in charge before?”

Royd visibly cringed as he set up four boxes on the truck bed.

“Don’t get me started, man. Let’s just say the last branch manager was almost villainous in how he ran SDN. I won’t talk bad about the past, man, but let's just say, everything's a lot better here in Torrance now with Blazer in charge.” he waved his massive hand in front of my face and easily picked up my box with one hand before hopping into the truck to place it further back.

I stare at his broad back and ponder. There was some history there. I’d maybe get the full story out of Chase or Blazer at the office later today.

I need to talk about my day job. No, not this dispatch gig with SDN, but my previous “Alter Ego”’s day job.

Back in the day, when superheroes were well outside the law, heroes needed alibis; the masks weren’t just for show, after all. There was a real danger of being arrested, sued, or blackbagged by your local shadow agency or corporation.

Hell, the reason why the Mechaman suit was blue was one move among many to avoid the Red Scare and the Federal Government from pressing him into giving up the Astral Pulse ‘for the good of the nation’.

Now with corporate sponsorships and the first wave of super laws, it’s not as dangerous, but heroes still like to keep their lives segmented. Hide from the press, the occasional arch-nemesis, and prevent the general harassment that came with fame.

I was maybe old school by most people's standards, outside of the Brave Brigade and my accountant, who oversaw the merchandise deal; I tried to avoid anyone connecting Robert Robertson and Mechaman.

So, what average citizen job let me continue to be Mechaman while giving me a fantastic alibi?

IT Manager. Someone, somewhere, always needed another person to ask if they had tried turning it off first.

I had a system set up and joined IT for companies that were failing. California was full of them. Failed tech start-ups, entertainment companies, tourist traps.

Work there for 3 years or until it failed, whatever came first, and then repeat. Nice stable income, which mattered after I sold the house, no coworkers, verifiable work history with few witnesses, and for the remote jobs, I could hook up the Mechaman suit and do both jobs at once.

It also helped me avoid the “Supervillian audits” that the IRS and other agencies have started conducting, searching for unusual fluctuations in money and resources that would indicate runaway science or megalomania.

They might know the bank account that all my Mechaman taxes are paid out of, but I’d still prefer to prevent anyone I didn’t know from knowing my secret identity.

Anyways IT jobs. The point is, despite only working after I sold the house. I was in a lot of workplaces, and generally, they and the Managers and Directors there had some… let’s just say, less than kosher management styles.

Failing enterprises breed stress, and stress tends to have people default to their base selves.

Lashing out, micromanaging, victim blaming, that one guy with the sex dungeon in his office. Everything.

I had witnessed all the failures of corporations and the numerous attempts people made to make things work, from throwing shit at the wall and seeing what stuck to taking five LinkedIn Learning classes and believing that through the power of positivity and synergistic energy, they could find success and continue to ignore their flaws and the failings of their company.

“I’m going to cut someone from the Z-Team. Or you are, rather.”

Which made this sudden rug pull painfully familiar.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask, buying time as I review everything I know about Blonde Blazer. The Phoenix Programs changes were her first steps into Corporate Authority, ones that have haunted her ever since. The fact that the different departments all quit and gave up on the Z-team wasn’t just due to some hard personalities, but micromanagement from the top.

“Well, less sure now. You think it's a bad idea?”

Yes

“I’m just not sure how it’ll play out.” I respond, my mind running over every fact I knew about Blonde Blazer and if it’d be worth fighting on my second day.

“I’ll let the team know.” Maybe I could wear her dow-

“Oh, I already did.”

Well, God Damn It.

“I suppose it’ll be an interesting shift.”

Chapter Text

This shift, I kept the dispatch page front and center, taking some camera liberties I usually wouldn’t. Trying to get eyes on every hero I sent out.

Micro expressions were logged, conversations were examined for tone, subtext, and anything else I could use as a data-point.

How could they expect me to cut people I’d only gotten to know for less than two full work days? This was insane, especially with my first day being “the best they’ve done yet.” Was this pressure for them? Or pressure for me? Another test? Or was it just to seem like Blonde Blazer was in control and add to the watercolor gossip to distract from her breakup with Phenomaman?

The entire thing stunk of manager interference, and if Blonde Blazer didn’t seem so earnest in her desire to both help me and to improve things for the Z-Team, I’d call it sabotage.

But it wasn’t, it was worse.

It was an incompetent manager. Blonde Blazer was a passionate, outstanding hero who wanted to do good and improve things for the people at the Torrance SDN Branch. I had gotten the rundown from Chase on what it was like before Blonde Blazer took over. A haven for washed-up heroes to bully the new talent and have the company smooth over and hide their mistakes. She had cleaned house in a lot of ways, improved things, but she wasn’t a manager. She hadn’t had to manage teams that she wasn’t side by side with, fighting against aliens or evil robots or whatever the villain cycle could churn out. Blind leading the blind, and while she knew what she didn’t want to do, she didn’t know what would actually work.

All the heart, none of the knowledge or skills.

“I know you were doing alright for yourself since you hadn’t needed any of us old Brigadiers,” Chase had said with a shrug as he assigned his own heroes to a call. “I figured you might be able to help take the Z-Team off her plate and give her some breathing room.”

I grunt in acknowledgement, pointedly not thinking about the sad one-person apartment I had been living out of for the last five years.

So it wasn’t my problem to solve, but it was a problem that’d result in several problems for me to solve in the shape of an unhappy rogues gallery, and a left foot forward on my second day of the job. So probably soon to be my problem to solve.

Already, it was throwing up problems left and right today. Sabotages, backstabs, and run arounds, all to try to make your partner look worse than you. Even Malevola and Flambae, who were the highest performers of the team, were sabotaging each other. Trying to get any advantage they could.

It all peaked in the Malevola and Invisigal alleyway fight.

“-I’d cut the whole team. You need a reset, Robbie.”

“All Z-Team back to base and in the conference room in twenty minutes.” I bark into the mic as lunch approaches. What a mess.

Taking Beef out to shit helped. Chase joined me to play fetch, a dog lover for as long as I’ve known him. I watched him and Beef play. Beef halfheartedly chasing the ball, more prone to following all the different smells in the SDN courtyard. Lazy butt.

I sighed, looking up at the sky as I pondered. The chance of going against Blonde Blazer’s decision would cause problems; it’d weaken her leadership in front of the team, create friction between us, and maybe even threaten the deal with the Mechaman Suit. On the other hand, if I go through with it, there will be hurt feelings, a sense of inadequacy, and the cut will be added to my reputation at SDN.

"This isn’t what I meant when I said tough love," I muttered.

Right now, it was looking like the bottom half of the team was a shakeout between Invisigal, Sonar, Coupe, and Prism.

All of them had problems, but they also all had potential. It was clear from the files and their banter that Sonar and Malevola were friends. Coupe and Punch Up had some history. Hell, even Prism seemed to enjoy running missions with Flambae.

I couldn’t just end their hero career to show the rest we were “serious”. If that happened to me…

I pause, eyes widening as Beef found the perfect corner of the lawn to take a shit.

“Hey, Chase, can you take care of Beef for me? I gotta see to something before I meet with the team.”

“Of course, you're leaving me with the shit job. It wasn’t enough that I helped change your diapers, huh? Have to get me picking up after your dog, too.”

I wave him off, mind racing as I speed walk into the building, almost bowling over Waterboy.

If it were me, and I was about to be cut from SDN, it wouldn’t stop me; I’d find another way.

I crouched at my desk, not bothering the effort to pull out the chair as I opened multiple tabs and began quickly searching.

Unlike SDN dispatchers, I had no problem working out of the network.

… wow… It's really hard to Superhero Quip with an office job. It just didn’t land as well.

Whatever, I’d save the good stuff for when I had to meet with the team and try to turn the day around.

Okay, fucking ouch.

Being ragdolled into a bunch of chairs hurt. Then aggravating said muscles by flinging a hair as hard as I could, today was going to bruise. Again.

I’d have to stretch and be careful the next few days. Falls were a major contributor to long-term damage, as falling on asymmetric surfaces pushed muscles around, strained tendons, and led to uneven damage that compounded across the entire body.

I slathered myself in Tiger Balm and sucked air through my teeth as blood flushed through my system in the gym's changing area.

Back when I first started out and still had some spending money, I’d get monthly medical massages, which helped with muscle recovery and ensured that any bruises or strains were monitored. Proper exercises were prescribed to promote even recovery. That didn’t last long, maybe three or four years in. Since then, I’ve made do with a full-body stretching and yoga routine I found online, and I slather myself once with Tiger Balm or Icy Hot, followed by a hot shower and arnica to end the night.

It got most of it taken care of. I hadn’t been able to do that routine with my coma recovery, but if this was going to be a daily or weekly occurrence here, even as a dispatcher, it’d be worth starting up again.

I’d need to block some time off to use the in-house gym later this week.

Shirt back on, I returned to my desk, wincing as my lower back twinged.

Maybe a hot bath tonight, rest of the routine later this week.

Sighing, I started the first round of assignments and continued my observations. This time, a minor tweak to my note-taking. Where before I was gauging and ranking them off one another, this time I was weighing them off of different criteria.

A small ping on my personal phone grabbed my attention while assigning Flambae to a case. I read it quickly and looked back up with a small smirk, a nugget of satisfaction growing inside me. No matter how this day ended, I wasn’t going to fail them.

The second half of the day went better. Great even compared to the morning. The Sabotages settled down, and some great work was done with minimal mess or property damage. There were fifteen minutes left on the clock when a notification grabbed my attention: Hero Out of Coverage Area.

Tying into the local cameras, a sad sight greeted me. Invisigal, swinging listlessly on a child's playset, smoking a cigarette. I sighed quietly before shifting my mic to one-on-one.

Alright, I did one good rally speech tonight; I could do another.

…

…

Fuck the stars, that was a good one.

I sit across from Coupe, the conference room locked, the blinds closed on the window. I can see in her eyes the realization. The tightening of her mouth as the logic runs on. A major capture in a jewelry store, protecting a major client. Boosting numbers and ratings. Invisigal still celebrating with the others as they bought her chips from the break-room.

The silence stretches on until I break it.

“Why do you want to be a hero?”

She blinks, off guard, good. Hopefully, she’d hear me out.

“SDN pays,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms, her eyes striking beneath the silver mask.

I nod. She’d said as much when talking with the others. “Is that all to it? Just the money?”

“What the fuck does it matter? I do the job, the cat gets out of the tree, I get paid, everyone’s happy,” she snaps.

“Then why not an accountant? Or Real estate? Cooking?” I ask, watching her reaction.

She raises an eyebrow, “Does it look like that’s what my background is? I got these knives in Hell's Kitchen?”

I remain quiet, watching her with a steady gaze.

She rolled her eyes. “Look, it's what I’m trained at and what I’m the best at, okay? Now, am I cut or is there more to this twenty-question bullshit?”

“Almost. Were you in town during the aliens thing?” I ask.

That gets a reaction. Her face goes flat, her hands twitch as though she’s going to reach for one of her knives, and the weird black miasma power thing she had flares up.

“None of your business,” she says flatly.

Bullseye.

I raise my hands slightly off the table, a slight calming gesture as I back off. “Okay, we’ll leave that alone. You’re right. SDN wants someone cut from the Z-Team, and you’re at the bottom of the leaderboard, tied with Sonar.”

“I cheered for Invisigal,” she bites back. Her body is still. I still hadn’t said it. She’s guessed it, but until I say it, she still has a shred of hope to hold onto.

I break eye contact and look at the ceiling, leaning back in the chair. “You did,” I admit. “You did, and you pulled a great shift today, minus the traps and sabotages this morning.”

She shifts, but I don’t look at her expression. I continue to stare at the light above us.

“It’s only my second day, but each of you has been using all your abilities to help people. Hiccups aside. Though I’d prefer less collateral damage from most of you…”

I look and meet her eyes and straighten my back, which startles her.

“It’s bullshit,” I say, my voice cold and flat. “To take people who have potential, who fucking try, and ignore that because others have been at the game longer than you have.”

She pulls back, her expression uncertain, eyes searching my face for some kind of expression, an indication of what's going to happen next.

“I reached out to an old friend. She works at an organization called STARS, if you’ve heard of it.” I reached for the folder on the chair next to me. “She’s offering a full two-year apprenticeship within their program, full hero. It’s stipend-based, but they also provide room and board.

I flip it open as I turn and push it across. The online flyer was missing its color as I hadn’t figured out the printer settings in time. However, the text was still legible, big and bold on a backdrop of smiling superheroines as they stand outside a large townhouse, the text outlining the program's elements. Living on site at one of the many women's shelters across the county, fast-track opportunities to work with different investigative units regarding trafficking and violence prevention.

A lot of the same resources as SDN, just tailored to a specific subset of crime and societal decay.

Coupe is quiet as she pulls the folder towards her, flipping through the pages. She glances up at me between pages, her expression complicated beneath her mask.

“What about my SDN contract?” She eventually asks. “I lose that and I’m in some shithole in Colorado.”

“My friend has a few people who owe her favors or knows people who are owed favors. Interpol, the FBI, if you agree, then they accept the new contract.”

She looks up at me, her expression guarded.

“What do you want from me?”

I lace my fingers together and give a small smile. “I want you to make a mess.”

Coupe blinked.

“What?”

“A mess,” I nod towards the window. “They know you, and they know I’m cutting you. They wanted to ‘shake things up’, so the team would take me seriously.” I snort. “As if I needed help with that.”

She’s staring at me like I’m Golem and I just started spouting Shakespeare.

“So make a mess. Kick the trash can around, throw a filing cabinet, break the printer - just don’t hurt anyone, or on your way out. Take the rest of the week off, and if you want it, the next STARS cohort starts at the end of the month.”

“Please don’t break the coffee machine,” I add as an afterthought. This week would be so much harder without coffee.

I let the smile drop from my face.

“ I wasn’t kidding earlier today. Each of you has the potential to be a great hero.” I meet her eyes, trying to convey my earnestness, my frustration, and my determination in my gaze.

“This is bullshit, but just because it's SDN’s bullshit doesn’t mean I gotta give up on any of my team. They don’t fucking decide who becomes a hero and who doesn’t.”

I tap the top of the STARS folder to make my point.

“You do.”

She stares. And god, I hope some of what I said gets through. It was almost fifty-fifty as a hero. Sometimes your words reach people and sometimes it give them one last denial as they reaffirm who they chose to be.

“Who are you?”

I sigh, giving a tired smile.

“Robert Robertson, SDN dispatcher.”

The glass shatters, and the sound of destruction and kicked walls echoes down the hall as I glance down and pick up the dagger driven into the table. I look through the broken glass and meet Sonar’s gaze.

If I was shit at reading human faces, then giant man/bat hybrid faces were way out of my league.

I take the blade to my desk. Chase is there, we both watch as Invisigal takes a photo of the leaderboard and offers one last “Thanks” before vanishing away. The evening blurs by. I know Chase and I make plans to grab dinner the following night. Beef takes one more pee at the tree before we head out…

And then I’m home.

Second day done.

I prep Beef’s food, then head to the bathroom, starting to fill the tub with hot water. My back has some nasty purple and red lines across it, the edges of the chairs I had collided with leaving fun shaped bruises across some of my old scars. For fun, I dropped a bath bomb that had been sitting in a cabinet from four Christmases ago, pine and mint filling the air around me.

My mind drifts back to Invisigal’s face, her smile as she looks at the photo she took of the leaderboard.

Coupe’s expression, her face, and her final words to me before she broke the window.

“You’re not half bad, Robert Robertson.”

Fuck yeah, I am.

Chapter Text

Thankfully, the next day starts without any kind of fuss. No lightning round or cutting someone else, or some other curveball to shake things up. It’s stable, regular.

I’m given time to address the Z-Team in the morning if I want; today, I let it pass. I need some time to balance out and get a handle on how to actually do my job as a dispatcher and what it actually entails in the long term. Besides, they’d probably have some choice words for me, and I wouldn’t put it past some of them to shoulder check me again on the way out.

And if it was someone like Golem Shoulder checking me, I could do without ragdolling across the room again. The bruises had turned a lovely yellow color and I didn’t want to add to perfection.

Every job was always broken down into two parts: the day-to-day operations and then the long-term project work. For superheroes, it was action and paperwork. Assign Heroes to calls, record the call outcomes, and then file the reports.

From there, Dispatchers didn’t have approaches to it. Some arranged and scheduled additional training sessions, others scheduled spa days, and other rewards. Each dispatcher was given a small spending stipend based on their team's performance. Based on collateral damage, subscriber satisfaction, adherence to law and local ordinances, a half dozen factors are all consolidated into a single value.

For the Z-Team, it currently sat at just under twenty dollars.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with twenty dollars?

I spend the morning shift focusing on profile building. I dive into their SDN profiles again, cross-referencing their past crimes and what they’d shared over the mic with past criminal records and news reports, slowly building up a timeline of each of them.

Punch Up was sulky, snappish, and overall unpleasant. Some of the others were just as volatile, none of them happy with the idea that any of them could be replaced like that. They growled and groaned and got into more mischief than was necessary, but we avoided another donut incident or the nightmare of sabotages that had plagued yesterday’s performance.

They really were the bargain big of villains. If it wasn’t for Flambae’s pyrotechnic powers, he’d just be another belligerent clubgoer or thug, slowly being kicked out of every club in the Southern California area.

Outside of maybe Sonar, none of them had the markings of an actual villain. And even Sonar was more of the level of white collar crime than any delusions of grandeur and malicious scheming that other Powered criminals were inclined to.

I glance at my notes as the clock signals the end of the morning shift. Lunch time.

I put the notes in a drawer and lock it. Before stretching, I decided to take Beef out for a walk first. My mind still mulling over the team. Blonde Blazer wanted me to pass along… what my wisdom? My skills? What did I actually have to teach them?

Well… a lot really. Economy of motion, how to case, how to sneak, how to ambush, how to hack, how to talk to the public, how to-

I should probably stop.

A plan was needed. A schedule. A way to assess each member of the Z-Team and try to provide them with the resources they needed. Incompetence could have a dozen different reasons, from lack of discipline, to lack of knowledge to personal hangups and trauma. I didn’t just need to assign the right hero to do the right job, I needed to assign them resources to help them grow.

Homework in other words.

They’d love it.

I wave Beef back, and we head inside. I hear several voices in the breakroom, so I detoured to the basement, where no one but Royd and Blazer were allowed in.

And Invisigal, I guess, when she followed someone authorized through the key-carded walls. Did our cameras have infrared? Hell, did she even show up on infrared?

Another question to add to the list.

I stare at the new chaise Royd had laid out. Both my Dad’s and my Grandad’s mech had started similarly, a streamlined Mech with enough ports for customization and expansion going forward. Several of the upgrades I had put in, such as the streamlined jetpack, and the hard light shield, were now part of the core system, and Royd’s rewiring of the internal circuitry would hopefully make it more efficient and resilient to future assaults.

Royd said by tomorrow we could start energy tests, exploring the best energy configurations, and see what we could get without the Astral Pulse.

If we could do without, I had several other upgrades and modifications I wanted to implement.

“We’ll be back,” I say to the Mech, I could almost feel its hum of power as I sat inside it. I knew that mech inside and out. The small shifts in gravity as I made it fly, charge, kick and jump. The smell of oil and grease always seemed to gather on the outside. Which switches were stuck and which ones were extra sensitive.

I’d been inside the thing more often than my last five apartments, the last eight IT jobs and almost any other place in California.

It had been months since I last sat inside it. Coming up on half a year. And now here I was, potentially looking at getting back inside in a matter of… days? Weeks?

My phone's alert goes off, and I turn back to leave the lab, my strides purposeful and motivated.

…which made it a bit awkward when I nearly ran down Waterboy going into the breakroom.

The end of the shift sees another bump in the Z-Teams' scores. Nowhere near the other heroes at the Torrance Branch, but at the very least, their averages weren't under 20. Closer to forty or fifty now. Good progress, but also… not good enough.

I said it myself, the bar needed to go up and they needed to see I was all in. But what did that actually mean for a Dispatcher role?

I finish the last reports, and bookmark the previous tab of engineer night classes available through the local colleges. Some have already started, but if I waved the credit, most of the instructors would let me sit in on the lectures for free.

It was something at least.

“Hey, you ready to bounce? Or are you going to stay here with the night shift and join Jeremy and his crew? I’m hungry, let's go. “

I boot down my computer and look over at Chase who's still holding Beef.

“Have you put that dog down at all today?”

Chase readjusted his hold on Beef and glared at me, amusement bright in his eyes.

“Of course not, his paws get sore if he’s standing for too long,” he said in mock indignation.

I chuckle and rise to my feet.

We end up picking a Sushi joint after dropping Beef off, with a booth to ourselves and a handful of rolls to pick from. As our waiter left to buss some other table, I felt a brief rush of nerves shoot through me.

Chase… Track Star was one of the oldest family friends. One of the Brave Brigade whom I had spent the most time with. And for the last week, it's been surreal to have him back in my life, even as this old, advanced aged version of himself. He was still the quippy older brother who both held me when I cried over losing my baby teeth while calling me a Super baby who was supposed to stop crying.

He was brash, witty, and rude, and I loved him for it.

It had also been fifteen years.

But more than that… he was in line with Blonde Blazer and entirely antagonistic with the Z-Team. I had no idea if it was worn nerves, some unspoken history, or something else…

I didn’t want to think about it, but its almost cliché at this point. Where the young family members realize that silly uncle Tim was actually an alcoholic whom the rest of the family barely tolerated. That the people who helped raised you and were pillars during your childhood are really just people with a handful of extra miles ahead of you.

I didn’t want that to be Track Star, to be Chase.

But I also didn’t understand how he fit into SDN.

"So, Chase, how did your sorry ass come to SDN?”

And why not ask him directly about it?

“Oh boy, origin story time, huh?” He muttered into his drink before knocking it back and fixing me in an unimpressed stare.

I meet his gaze, biting into a tempura shrimp. Not sharp, but pointed.

Why had he recommended me for SDN?

Long, sad, emotional, and private conversation short. Track Star got shafted hard from the Brave Brigade fallout.

The others had their careers, long histories in other parts of the country and world, other team-ups, and large threats they had defeated. When Mechaman died, most of them scattered, leaving the young Speedster from Compton to bare a lot of the local ill will.

He joined SDN under the previous Branch Manager, whose terrible management skills also shrugged off, and omitting the public anger whenever Track Star showed up on assignment.

He did well too. Kept his head down, did his work, rose to the top of the local leaderboard. By then, he was beginning to clue into his advanced aging issues, but the rate didn’t seem as severe.

Then the Alien attack.

He was a Phoenix Program Mentor and lead; he had four of them under his watch. And after the first half hour of the attack, they had bailed, leaving him the sole protector for an entire neighborhood.

I hide my wince as I get a large chunk of wasabi on my roll. The Alien invasion, occupation, and liberation were two and a half weeks long.

He aged five or six years in that one month, pushing his powers to the max to fight, hide, evacuate, rescue, and do everything that his team was supposed to be doing.

They found his team looting down in San Diego when all was said and done. Having entirely gone Post Apocalypse raiders and built themselves den of stolen electronics, furniture, and five taco trucks inside a large mattress warehouse.

He became a dispatcher after that, and soon a shift lead, advising other dispatchers and watching as the Phoenix Program began to burn people out, one after another.

“That’s why I recommended you. We needed someone who wasn’t chicken shit and who knows what its actually like to be a hero.” Chase rambles, downing another cup of sake.

Why the fuck did they pour it into such little cups?

“Listen…” He says, slowing down and squinting at me. Like I’m some stain he’s trying to remember where he picked up on his shirt. “I was lucky to have been brought into the Hero Biz by your Pops, Monarch, and the rest. These corporate heroes? They don’t know. They're soft.”

He spreads an arm wide over the sushi we had been eating our way through. “One tiny mission goes sideways and rather than face it and grow, they just have their dispatcher not assign them to some mission types.”

“Did you know that there are some heroes in SDN that only do highway speed chases?” he demanded of me.

“I… did not,” I reply cautiously. I had gotten Chase on a roll, dragged up a lot of the past, and I think, gave him someone to talk to that wasn’t tied to SDN. Who he knew wouldn’t go blabbing to Bazer or HR.

"It’s a waste of speed, is what it is. They could handle armed robberies, hostage negotiations, anything! But they don’t want to learn to moderate their strength and their scared of having to throw hands with another Super!” He snarled, drinking the last of the sake.

“I’d kill to throw hands again!” He said, throwing his hands in the air, forgetting the chopsticks and roll in one.

I watch the California roll fly across the room and fall into someone’s miso soup.

“How about we get you home, old timer?”

“Home? Shit, I thought we were going to start the bar crawl.”

I pause at that, looking at him.

Technically, I was bringing in money again. While I’d still need to ration for payday, I didn’t have to be as stringent as I had been the last month.

“You know what? Sure.”

Chapter Text

Pain, sunlight and pain.

And Beef.

Hello Beef.

Beef, can you turn off the sun?

“My fucking head.”

My eyes shoot open and I take the searing light to case my room.

Chase glares beadily at me, lying sideways on Beef’s bed while I stare at him from… the lawn chair?

Right… I still had it indoors from when I kidnapped that goon.

…

I should probably move it. At the very least, get it out of the middle of the living room.

Didn’t I have a mattress?

…

Right, I placed it in the garbage to scare Toxic when I thought he was a normal goon. Then it got taken out that week when I didn't come home.

Damn.

“Where the fuck are we? Did we break into an abandoned apartment to crash last night?” Chase asks, surveying the room.

I sigh.

“It's my place.”

A pause.

“... Well damn, now I know why Royd looks at you like a washed-up cat when you're not looking.”

What?

The rest of last night is a blur. There was a bar or two or three. We had at least two other heart-to-hearts. I remember Chase mumbling questions at me. I strain my memory as I get out of the shower, throwing on another work shirt.

A few snippets come back to me.

Chase is pointing at me. The purple lights of whatever club we’re in are flashing in our faces.

“Your Father was the best of us, and you’re doing him proud. Fifteen years! Solo. Not even he could say he did that! Fuck, not even I can say that…”

Well, that was sweet of him to say.

Another flash. Me pointing at… the sky? We’re walking down a street that looks kind of familiar.

“I found the arm on that roof over there. The police missed it when they cleaned up the original crash. Monarch-”

Ah.

The more I remembered last night, the more I regretted it.

“So how much do you recall?” I ask, leaving the bathroom and glancing at Chase, who was grasping my one mug as though it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Jack shit,” he snips out. Pure vitriol at existence for existing while we had such bad hangovers.

Ohhh yeah, today was going to be a long one.

I sigh and then stare at a bag on the counter. One I didn’t remember from the night before. It was from one of those little stationery stores at the tourist trap places. I open it, curious to see what drunk Chase and drunk Robert had thought fit to bring back from our outing.

A memory bubbles up, the two of us laughing… as I hold the SDN Z-Team company card.

I groan as I look into the bag.

Oh no.

“Are you trying to copy Flambae’s drip?” Sonar asks when Chase and I both show up with cheap sunglasses on our faces.

“Are you trying to copy the dumbass influencers on TikTok? Asking bullshit questions to everyone who walks in front of you?” Chase snaps back.

I remain silent, my thoughts on the coffee pot in the break room.

At around two in the afternoon, my head stops pounding. For Chase and his advanced biological age, it didn’t seem to end. He was positively toxic with his team, the vitriol and cutting words like shattered glass on the other side of the cubical wall.

I observe him when I refill my mug in the break-room, watching as he steadily ignores his team's action reports, instead focusing on petting Beef, the little dog blissed out in the man's lap.

The last part of the night had come back to me. Chase monologuing as I set up him with the one blanket I had.

“-and you were doing so good. Your old man would have been proud of you Robbie.” he slurred as Beef happily licked his face. “You made it work! Not like what I fucking…” he trailed off. Overcome by either emotion or the alcohol in his system.

I hadn’t really thought of it at the time… but when I lost my dad, Chase did too. One of his main mentors, and who he looked up to. He was left alone, the youngest on the team, and stuck, trying to figure things out.

I grab a glass of water from the break-room and stroll to his cubical. His red eyes glare at me over the top of Beef’s goofy expression.

“You’re a fucking menace and I hate you.” He growled out. Snatching the glass from my hands.

“Same to you sunshine,” I say with some tired amusement. “Same time Friday night? Maybe we bring it down a notch?”

Chase pauses and beneath the hangover and under the wrinkles I see my older brother give me a rueful smile.

‘I suppose I can slow down your weak ass non-Supered metabolism. You’re on fucker.”

The rest of the week and the next one fall into a routine. I spend the morning shift focusing on each member of the Z-Team, making notes on strengths, weaknesses, and noting down any unexpected synergies that develop.

The first time Prism copied Flambae, causing him to posture and pose, was a surprise, but by the third mission, it had become an easy trick to keep the two of them on task. Prism found it hilarious and kept taking videos and photos as Flambae tried his best to be a dynamic duo with his hard light copy.

It was goofy, but it worked, and it distracted Flambae from starting spontaneous fires at the end of every mission.

At lunch, I cycle through different people. I speak with the other dispatchers, trying to understand their teams and how they support their heroes. I try to go for stories, the silly stories, the embarrassing ones. The type of gossip where people are willing to talk on and on about what happened, what the outcome was, and where that person is now.

Funny enough is that people seem to be just as curious in turn. No one bought that I was a civilian IT guy, especially not after my speech at the top of the week that broadcasted to the entire branch.

Seriously what purpose did that option serve? Were there instances where one dispatcher had to run the entire branch?

Anyways, they came with questions and probes. Trying to figure out if I was ex-hero, ex-con, or something else. None of them guess Mechaman, though I guess it makes sense. Mechaman was one of the “Regional Top” heroes. Like the Bat guy in Chicago or the Speedsters on the East Coast. Regional Top Heroes got called away for secret earth defense team ups and had their own specialized rogues galleries to clean up, way too busy to run with the corporate crowd.

Ha.

I also learned I was one of the few Powerless individuals at SDN. It was maybe a sixty-forty split between retired heroes and those with powers that made them unsuited to Hero work. It made sense for those whose families knew they had powers but didn’t have the full strength or mental fortitude to fight crime for a career; SDN was an easy career pick. Working for a Superhero Company while doing none of the Superheroing.

It also means that, unfortunately, it was a toss up on who knew control and who was still fresh from the field and would accidentally bruise you coming out of the break-room.

Even Invisigal who I had pegged as having a good handle on her strength and powers, was still rough with her superspeed. I watched her shoot into the lobby at nearly thirty miles per hour to deliver a friendly super speed enhanced punch to Golem, who had also just returned from a shift.

Waterboy, who was nearby, was sent a good eight feet from the high-speed shoulder check. That kind of impact would, at best, dislocate my shoulder, at worst, cause hairline fractures or a break. The tall kid picked himself and stuttered reassurances that he was fine afterwards.

Powers are bullshit. Where did super bone density meet being able to expel water from your body?

After that, I made sure to look both ways before entering the hallways around lunch break.

Even the office workers. Blonde Blazer was apparently infamous for denting door knobs in a hurry. Lana, the galactic space refugee, was apparently used to a different planet's gravity and used too much force when pulling on her desk drawers, ripping them out, and throwing them across the office.

It's dangerous business going out your front door.

I’d always try to check in with Royd. Either at the beginning or at the end of the day, he was pulling a bunch of the work in rebuilding the Mechaman suit. Working off of the fifty or so paper schematics I had from my dad’s day, the additional fifty of my own after retrofitting and upgrading.

There was a lot of data to log, consolidate, update, and combine, but he seemed confident that we’d get to mobility tests any day now.

Royd is a good guy.

I hear Prism harassing Blonde Blazer in the break room.

“Listen! You take away my dance studio in the name of some secret project, just let me back in there! No one was using the old shop anyway! And whatever stupid science project Royd has going on in there, me shooting some videos won’t hurt nobody!”

“That literally defeats the purpose of the security!” Blazer retorts, starting something up in the microwave. “And it's sensitive tech on contract, so no outside personnel except for people who work on the project. And last I checked, you were fighting crime as your day job, not filing dance videos in our basement.”

“But that’s my real job!”

I ignored the commotion and continued walking past the break room, ignoring the other Z-Team members peeking in the doorway, their interest piqued.

I ignore Punch-Up’s stare as I make my way back to my desk.

I sent a follow-up email to the other Brigaders on Wednesday, even if they had no information, it would be good to talk to some senior classic heroes. Maybe have them help me point my band of misfits in the right direction. If they didn’t respond, maybe I’d ask Kyla to reach out? Chase? I needed to speak with them, see what they had that could help in the hunt for Shroud.

If Blonde Blazer wanted to shake things up again, it’d be good to have more alternatives for the next one.

I sighed and stared at my screen blankly. Blonde Blazer, another puzzle to solve. How do you help someone who is technically your “superior”? Who holds the power but doesn’t know how to use it?

My eyes traced the boxes of each Z-Team member's profile on the dispatch page, glazing past the little corporate profiles that barely told you anything about each of them.

An idea comes to me and I sit up. The only thing she had to judge the success and effectiveness of the Z-Team was their daily ranks and listening in on our dispatch logs. Both are just small windows into the day and the work that would soon go into training the Z-Team.

I still didn’t have a complete plan of attack yet… but maybe that was okay?

I open my drawer of notes and start to review, opening an actual word document to type into.

While the Phoenix Program had been mismanaged, the rest of the Torrance Branch was doing… okay. They had maintained their middling satisfaction rating while removing a lot of the workplace toxicity the place had been known for.

Blonde Blazer had improved things for the staff, but didn’t know how to improve the staff themselves. The corporate resources derived from historic exercise programs and self-improvement books. So, bringing in a “current”, “genuine” hero who could share all the tips and tricks of the trade, having lived experience of living to the standard that SDN could only dream of reaching, would be a dream come true for her. Offer the resources that she herself didn’t have access to when she was the one responding to SDN subscribers.

And if the advanced parts of my “training plans” I was charting out had some resources that directly helped her and her transition from a field Hero to an administrative one…well, that's just the sign of good accessible professional development opportunities for SDN.

I fire off a message to Blonde Blazer and Chase, requesting a meeting at the end of Friday. The vision of what I wanted was coming into focus.

I’d build up the Z-Team, turn them into the best that the Torrance Branch had to offer, and offer Blonde Blazer the tools to dig her way out of the corporate nightmare that was her job, allow her to repeat my success with other teams, then fly off into the sunset in my rebuilt Mechasuit, the day saved and triumphant return to Mechaman work.

Nice.

“Thanks for making time for this.” I say with a bashful smile. Walking in a stack of stapled packets that I had just printed out.

My goal for this meeting was to be as charming as possible. I wanted them to buy into my play, support it, and share their ideas; mainly, they needed to feel like this was a genuine collaboration. Like my way was taking into account their experience with SDN and using it do all the dirty work with the team. That way there’d be less inclinations to shake things up again.

“You're cutting valuable dog walking time, Robert. Sit your ass down and out with it.” Chase grumbled, eyeing the packets with mild interest alongside Blonde Blazer as I took a seat in the conference room.

“I think you’ll need to rain check with Beef,” I say, spreading out the papers wide on the conference table. “This’ll probably take the rest of the day.”

“Great, rookie paperwork, what, you confused on where to file after action reports and complaint reports?”

I roll my eyes and ignore him as Blonde Blazer lets out a gasp.

“These are-” she starts, only for me to cut in.

“Training profiles,” I say, holding up Invisigal’s. “Front few pages has their mission logs from this week, daily success rates, comments, and trends I’ve noticed for each of them”.

It went back to the issue at the crux of the issue with the Phoenix Program, which ultimately was about information. Blonde Blazer, the other Dispatchers, the other heroes. The only data points they had about the Z-Team was their score at the end of the day, the after action reports, and their behavior on calls and around the office.

If you didn’t look too closely, today’s shift, Monday's, and Friday's all looked pretty identical when you averaged out the day. Grab any five-minute chunk and you’d have the team disparaging me or each other, some instance of a team member refusing assignment, or me playing mediator and trying to get them focused on a job.

But what they didn’t see was me playing around with the synergies, testing who did well with the different types of assignments, and the thread of questions and information I was providing them.

One after-action report where I tell Prism that she needs to complete the job before taking selfies just tells you Prism’s a vain starlet. Five action reports where I’ve slowly been introducing her to the ideas of privacy, discipline and letting your work speak for itself gives more context, but only if you go looking for it.

The actual growth, the focus areas, the development plans, I needed to convey all of those in a way where Chase and Blazer trusted my processes.

The right KPIs in other words.

God, I hate corporate speak.

“What I need help with,” I continue, flipping the entire packet over as Chase picks up one, his eyebrows raised. “Is the back side.”

On the backside was a simple chart, with the weeks listed along the top, running out for the next month, along the side was a list of different names. Titles of topics and classes.

• Leadership 101
• Basic Safety and First Aid
• Public Speaking
• Fire Safety
• Sensitivity Training
• Search and Rescue.

Some of these I had taken from what my Dad and the Brave Brigade had enrolled me in as a child. Channeling my childish and suicidal desire to help, they found it easier to assign me advanced classes and training, figuring I’d struggle and give up.

Then their annoyance when I completed the courses.

Others were classes that I had recommended to new vigilantes in the past. Classes and coursework that offered better insight and how to be a better hero.

• Research and Report Writing: A Primer
• Intro to Dance.
• Mixed Martial Arts.
• Parkour Club
• Shibari for beginners.
• Speech and Debate Club

“What’s Shibari?” asked Chase, squinting at the list.

“Japanese rope bondage technique.” Blonde Blazer responds, causing me to blink at her. “You want them to know how to subdue villains…right?”

“Ignoring how you know that… yes.” I say, handing both of them a blue pen. “ I have an idea of what they need, but what they need first, what would help them the most, what incidents happened before I was here. That’s all the stuff you two know.”

“They have a lot of growing to do.” I say, gesturing to the stacks of paper, “And I can teach them a lot. But I’ve only known them for a week. Knowing what angles to push, what’s going to make the biggest difference. You two know that better than me.”

Chase snorts and sets down the packet for Sonar. “You’ve met them, you know everything that we do.”

Blonde Blazer sets down the one for Prism and gives me a long look, before a small smile takes place on her face.

“Chase is right, Robert, this… this is amazing. Already more than what any other dispatcher’s done for the Z-Team, and you did it all in a week.”

“It’s impressive,” she said earnestly, leaning forward over the conference table.

Blonde Blazer had no awareness of what was considered workplace appropriate.

I keep my eyes on her face, maintaining careful eye contact as I speak. “It’s a start. But I need an outside opinion on this. You’ve both seen their biggest missteps in the program; you might have seen something I missed.”

“Plus if I do it all myself then I won’t have time to walk Beef.” I add as an afterthought.

“Let me take care of that furball, I’ll walk him all damn day.” Chase quips.

Blonde Blazer is bought in, flipping through a packet. Chase still looks skeptical. I inwardly sigh.

Chase had been given a rough hand in life.

You picked it up if you were in the field long enough. There were enough teenage vigilantes and upcoming heroes around that you had to give them pointers so that they didn’t get you or themselves killed in the next encounter. Giving night classes, videos, clubs. Chase would have gotten this experience on the Brave Brigade once he had come to his own as a hero. Being at SDN for the middle of his career removed that opportunity. He knew how to lead competent heroes, but not how to build them.

“Listen, you’ve led your dispatch team,” I say to Chase, “You know which of these trainings are going to be feasible with the kind of call volume that comes in each day. I need you Star.”

It was a low blow, and I knew it. He knew it, too, the way he glared at me before punching my arm.

“Fucking Brat.” he gruffly said, but he grabbed a packet and pen and began to furiously annotate.

I share a small smile with Blonde Blazer before starting it.

....

....

"By the way Robert, I saw a charge on the Z-Team Development card, what did you get?"

Ah.

The rest of the day went long. Afterwards, Chase and I grabbed some Pho soup and spent another hour at a nearby park while he continued to expand on the Z-Teams' many fuckups.

Apparently, Prism live-streamed her entire first disastrous day. Her first mission with Punch-Up resulted in a viral video of the short man grabbing thieves by the scrotum to subdue them.

Corporate was not happy.

But eventually we departed, and it was Beef and I in the apartment once more.

I get him settled, giving him the ox tail bone that was in my soup and pull out two packets I didn’t show in the conference room.

The meeting was helpful. They were both quick to highlight options, write in their own, and tie stories and reasons to their justifications. Sharing what they thought was most important in being a Hero.

A lot of good data.

Taking out a pen, I begin to mark up the Packets for Track Star and Blonde Blazer as well.

I was a hero: I saved people.

Even when they didn’t know they needed saving.

Chapter Text

“Good morning, everyone!” I say to the unhappy room.

“Fuck off.”

“Quieter, please.”

"What’s so good about mornings, huh? We have to leave our beds!”

Monday saw the beginning of my scheming plans.

Not Schemes. Schemes are for villains. Heroes Plan.

“It’s another week, and to kick things off, I have an announcement to make.”

Oh, that got their attention. Suspicious glares, forward bat ears, and a demon tail whipping with annoyance.

Interest, but cautious. Makes sense given the last announcement resulted in a mad scramble not to be last.

“You quitting? Hold out for one more day, I have money down on Tuesdays.”

“That was for the first Tuesday, you can’t claim all the Tuesdays from now till whenever he bounces!”

These fucking children.

“Starting this week, the Z-Team will have an hour each morning for training." I continue, ignoring their comments. “Today’s going to be a physical intake, with future days having dedicated lessons for each of you.

Some, like Golem and Invisgal, relax; others, like Flambae and Malevola, perk up. Sonar and Prism slump in their chairs.

“I’ve broken every exercise machine I’ve ever touched,” Golem informs me.

“I’m not here to gain muscle! Veiny biceps will ruin my image!” Prism.

“Yeah… can we like… test our reflexes with like… Tekken or something?” Sonar throws out.

“No, up your calorie intake so you keep a layer of squish, and body weight fitness for you.” I droll out, pointing a finger at each complainer. “We’re going to start with some cardio and then work through the following exercises.”

I hand out a one-page profile that lists things like maximum push-ups, dead hangs, and other basic mobility exercises.

“This’ll be a cakewalk, I’m great at deadhangs,” I hear Punch-Up say as I leave the conference room.

“The hell you are. How do you even get up to the bar in the first place?”

I hide a sigh, it was an hour of exercises. How much trouble could they get into?

Fifty minutes later, I get my answer as I examine the five dumbbells lodged in the wall.

“The building’s insured against this stuff.” Blonde Blazer chirps, digging the fifty-five-pound dumbbell out of the wall with ease.

She tosses it onto the pile of rubble in the corner and smiles at me. “One building for over forty heroes means things like this happen often.”

“And when was the last time the gym took this much damage?” I ask wryly, looking at the twisted mental that might have once been a squat rack.

Blazer winces.

“Maybe…well… there was one time Royd stepped on a dumbbell when he first started…”

I stare at her, and her shoulders slump.

“This is probably the worst incident.” She admits.

“I’ll talk to the team about it today,” I say, leaving the trashed gym space.

I ignore some of the stares and glares of the other Hero teams; no one’s happy when their routine is disrupted, and I head to my desk.

Chase nods at me, but doesn’t speak as he continues to dispatch his own team.

I throw on the headset and open the channel.

“Alright, team, after that clusterfuck of a morning, let's try and have a better shift,” I say dryly, trying to impress how unimpressed I was with their performance.

“The hell you mean, clusterfuck, Robert? That was a great morning. Now we know who's the strongest on the Z-Team!” Flambae bosts proudly.

“Just because you’re the only one who got to use the squat rack before it broke, does not mean you're the strongest.” Malevola retorts as I assign her to a search-and-rescue job downtown.

“I think Golem’s the strongest,” Punch-Up chimed in, “He could throw three hundred pounds across the room like nothing!”

“Dude,” Invisigal says flatly.

Prism’s voice shrieks across the call.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING THREE HUNDRED POUNDS?”

“Okay, new rule of the week, don’t. Blow out. Your Mic.” I say, rubbing at my forehead, a headache already starting.

“For the people who didn’t get to complete your exercises, you’ll be interspersing them throughout the shift where there’s enough downtime.”

It quiets down for the most part… until Punch-Up speaks again.

“I can’t tell how much any of you weigh!” Punch-Up mutters. “You all tower over me, and with the Super Strength, One twenty and five hundred all feel the same.”

“YOU THINK I’M FUCKING FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS? ARE YOU FOR REAL TWEEDLE DUMBASS?”

This was going to be a long shift.

The conversation continues, with commentary and insults exchanged as each member of the Z-Team slowly completes the remaining exercises.

Until we hit a wall right before lunchtime.

“Listen,” I say with barely controlled exasperation. “There’s a park two blocks from you, just go there, do the push-ups, and then you can come back and enjoy lunch. Nice and easy.”

“Bitch, I just got these nails done, and now you want me to touch this city’s dirt? Not happening.” Prism refuses.

“Well, I would offer our in-work gym, but some assholes broke the mirrors this morning and there’s glass all over the floor,” I say dryly.

“I don’t see why we need to do these exercises.” Sonar speaks up, “I mean, half of the team's powers don’t even involve super strength.”

“Yeah! They can’t hold a candle to me!”

“Seriously, dude? Fire puns?” Invisigal asks.

I ignore the groans and complaints at Flambae’s comment as I respond.

“Okay, categorically false. Outside of full transformations, everyone with Powers has some level of augmented strength.” I blink as a thought occurs to me. “Did none of you ever know this before?”

The call goes silent for a moment before some remarks trickle in.

“Of course, I knew that.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t have super strength.”

“Okay, dumpster test,” I say, making a small note on the notepad I kept by my monitor. "Prism, forget the pushups. I want you to find a dumpster, one of those large ones with the thick metal lining."

“Whatever bitch, as long as it gets me outta pushups.”

“This won’t take long,” I say, ignoring her as her locator on the screen diverts into an alley.

“Now what? I am not touching that nasty ass trash.”

“Nothing like that.” I chuckle, “ I just want you to hit or kick it as hard as you can. No light powers, just your body’s strength.”

The metallic thud echoes across the coms. “Now fucking what?”

“Is there a dent?” I ask, patently waiting.

“Of course, there’s a fucking dent, I kicked it with my full strength.” Prism bites back.

“See now that, that right there is proof of your super strength. Baseline-human is going to break a bone, bloody their knuckles, or jam a toe. It’s not entirely science, but you can gauge a Supers' strength by how much damage they can deal out to a dumpster in one hit."

The line goes quiet as they all absorb that information. I continue talking, grateful for the dead air.

“That’s why we’re building a baseline for you all. If you don’t know what level of super strength you have, you don’t know how to use it properly. If you can’t catch a car, I need to know so I don’t assign you to a bridge collapse or something.”

My mind drifts back to an old memory.

“Let's say I assign you to a search and rescue call, you can’t just wait for the people to rescue to let you know you're grabbing too hard. Do it wrong and you can dislocate limbs or-”

The harsh sound of metal tearing interrupts my explanation, and Golem’s sheepish voice coming over the call.

“I broke mine.”

I look to the ceiling and hold in a breath, counting to five.

“...For the rest of you, please don’t destroy the good dumpsters of Torrance. Golem, was the dumpster at least empty?

“... Full of pasta.”

Great.

Golem tracks the past all the way back to the SDN parking lot. Sauces and meatballs stuck to his muddy exterior.

Everyone’s upset at the spaghetti being tracked all over the building, and most people congregate outside by the tree to get out of the way of Waterboy, the perfect hero for the mess that Golem had caused.

Tired of some of the glares being sent my way from other dispatchers, I decide to walk around the building, get some solitude, and walk Beef a bit more.

“It’s just growing pains,” I mutter as I pick up Beef’s poop.

I didn’t think I could top the disaster that the last week had started with, but it seemed like Chase wasn’t kidding about how the Z-Team seemed to manufacture trouble out of the smallest tasks.

The sound of twisting metal up ahead has me quickly scooping up Beef and glancing wearily at the corner of the building.

Was someone trying to break in? Who’d try to break into a building literally jammed pack full of Superheroes?

I cautiously glance around the corner, amusement quick on my face once I register the sight that greets me.

Blonde Blazer cursing quietly to herself as she tries to extricate her leg that she had just buried into the SDN dumpster. Disposable Coffee cups and other office trash pouring out the hole as she gets herself free.

“Are our Dumpsters insured too?” I ask, setting Beef back down.

Blazer starts and spins around, her eyes panicked for a moment before a full flush takes over her face.

I start to chuckle. A moment later, she joins in.

“When I heard you outline the test, I admit I got curious,” she admitted as we got our laughter under control. “I mean, I know I have super strength. But I never thought about how we have different levels.”

Her voice trails off, eyes shifting down to the gash in the dumpster.

It’s large, with most of her leg having punched through the material, easily on the higher end of the Dumpster spectrum. A tear like that didn’t suggest a disparity in material strength, but toughness, density, and pure power.

A hero living in a paper world.

Blonde Blazer's expression grows tight, shoulders pulling in.

Using that power outside of a fight, outside of the rush of adrenaline and against someone who matches you in strength, and just… flexing.

Not many heroes really thought critically about it. That if they didn't care to pay attention the things and people around them could just...

Break.

“My Dad had to deal with it on the Brave Brigade.” I say, coming to stand next to her, “ Back then, there wasn’t much to distinguish or 'rank' heroes other than having them spar or fight. Knowing which members he could spar with in the suit and who was more likely to punch a hole in the metal was kinda crucial to avoid endless repair work.”

Blazer’s face twists as some thought enters her mind.

“Did that ever happen to you?” She asks, concerned, shifting her gaze to me. “Misjudge a villain who was stronger than the Mechaman suit?”

I shrug.

“By the time I was running around, it had two generations of shock absorption and reinforcement that my family had poured into it. Astral Pulse-fueled energy shields also helped with that. Direct hits up to a certain PSI won’t dent the hull, while slow, constant pressure could rip or tear away panels or sections. But as long as I could maintain a high enough charge, not much got through.”

“Wow,” she said, impressed. “What couldn’t the suit handle?”

“Space,” I reply offhandedly, rubbing Beef’s belly. “Deep ocean. I could never figure out how to keep it properly pressurized.”

My mind drifts off towards the different offers of team-ups and “world-ending threats” I had needed to turn over to other heroes. Moments where someone had wanted Mechaman there, either for my ability to hack systems or just to have another juggernaut ally to help smack around a Space Warlord of some kind.

Phenomaman probably didn’t remember, but we had met during the incident that first brought him to Earth, years back.

Although…

“Royd has some ideas.” I continue, feeling an…itch at the back of my scalp. “A rework of the inner chassis, which might allow for it. We’d need to test the energy drain it’d necessitate… but the design looks solid.”

I blink as my phone chimes. My reminder to make my way back to my desk for the afternoon shift.

“Anyways, that’s all in the future. See you inside, yeah?” I say, shrugging off the small smile that had found its way onto my face. Blonde Blazer’s staring at me as I turn to leave.

I pause.

“And… maybe clean off your leg? I don’t think coffee stain and shredded paper leggings are in season this year.”

“Okay, Z-Team, halfway through the day, let’s try to close out without breaking any more dumpsters,” I say into the mic.

Chase has stolen Beef for the afternoon, and the hours slowly tick by. I get the majority of the team’s baseline stats. Even if I have to average “punched a 5-inch hole in a dumpster” to “average strength fifty times a normal human.”

At some point, I get a message from Royd. He’s ready for us to start some energy tests. Establish a baseline power requirement for him to try to design a new astral pulse.

The rest of the day flies by, with half my mind on the assignments, the other half on the basement below my feet.

Soon.

Chapter Text

The test is not glamorous or sexy. There’s no sudden locomotion, and the suit itself is still in multiple sections, suspended around the lab.

We route power to each component and section. Royd notes down the energy fluctuations, we talk about when and what kind of situations I use each tool, and then we repeat it with the next one.

But it's the first major step.

The first time the Mechaman helmet turns on, bathing the section of the lab in a blue light, I just stare at it for a few moments.

It worked. It was working.

Mechaman was coming back.

“I don’t want to harsh your vibe, brother, but I need you to examine the feed and let me know it's all working,” Royd said softly, breaking my gaze from the light.

I give a sheepish smile and walk over to the displays. Flipping a few switches. Infrared, night vision, stabilization, zoom in, zoom out.

“It’s looking good,” I admit. Royd takes down readings on another monitor.

“Oooookay,” he says slowly, “Now we gonna rate each component on a scale of one to five. One being you use it only once or twice while Superheroing. Five being its on all the time.”

I nod and start talking, switching between the different modes.

“ I use infrared particularly when-”

It takes most of the evening, and it's in parts. But every separate component of Mechaman still works.

A knot of tension that’s been at the base of my back since waking up in the hospital feels like it loosens.

Now it's just putting the suit together.

“Today we’re going to practice sparing and take-downs,” I say, my eyes examining the walls of the gym. It looked good; whoever SDN had contracted to repair the building, they worked fast. Without the new smell of paint, I wouldn’t have guessed the gym was trashed just a day before.

“I’m going to pair you up, and one person plays offense and the other person defense. Each of you will have special objectives to either work with your power or to help your partner.”

I fix my band of misfits with a firm glare. “There are no winners or losers today, just people practicing.”

“Yeah, right,” Flambae snorts. “I’m going to kick all of your asses.”

A round of responses stirs up, and I give Chase a thousand-yard stare. Chase had bought Beef some bones and was enamoured with how Beef chewed on one of the ends. They were in the corner, sitting against the wall, watching my team try to tear itself apart in the first ten minutes of the day.

“Don’t you have your team to Dispatch?” I ask him.

He raises a wrinkly eyebrow.

“What? Performance issues when somebody’s watching? I assigned my roster already, they know how to do their jobs, and ol’ Chungus won’t be headed back for another ten minutes.”

I stare flatly at him, filing away the comment as more fuel to build up the Z-Team. If I made them better heroes, then I wouldn’t have to handhold them on assignments? They’d improvise and choose the right actions? I wouldn’t have to babysit every mission?

“Good for you.” I eventually say, turning back to the team.

“Prism, you’re with Invisigal, Sonar, pair up with Punch Up, Golem, Flambae, Malevola? You three are one group.” I list off, pointing to each corner of the gym where a fall mat had been rolled out. “No one starts until I’ve talked with your group,” I say sternly.

The Z-Team disperses, grumbled comments overlapping as they move. I ignore it all and approach Prism and Invisigal.

“You’ve had some training, right?” I ask Prism as she flips her brightly colored hair. “Mixed Martial?”

She eyes me from behind her sunglasses, stomping a foot forward. “Why are you asking? Isn’t that in my fucking file?”

Jesus, I had no idea how to tackle Prism’s anger issues. I’d throw therapy at the issue, but then I’d feel bad for any therapist who’d be assigned to her.

“I’m asking because I don’t know you.” I say patiently, “And, I’m asking, because I wanted to see if you could teach Invisigal.”

The auburn-haired woman glares at me, crossing her arms. “The fuck? I don’t need virgin fight lessons from Poptart. I know how to throw a punch.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, because back alley peekaboo worked so well at Granny's last week. You brawl, but you don’t fight.”

I put my hands up and throw two punches. One a wild haymaker, the second a precise jab.

“There’s going to be times where you can’t hide. Where instead of hit and run, you need to hit, and hit and hit again.”

I turn to Prism, who's watching the exchange of words, her eyes looking critically at Invisigal.

“And Prism here can practice her self-awareness and dealing with an invisible enemy.” I look at both of them, trying to maintain eye contact.

“Your goal today is to help each other grow. Challenge each other in here; you can do a better job out there. “ I point to the doorway that leads to the shower and the rest of the office. “And no broken bones, bloody noses, or dislocated limbs. You all have the rest of the day after this.”

I pause for a moment, and Prism takes the moment to tackle Invisigal.

“You’re going to learn today!” She calls out as they both hit the mat.

I watch briefly to ensure they at least listened to my rules before moving on to the next pair.

They'd be fine.

Probably.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Punch-Up says, ignoring my approach as he walks Sonar through a takedown. “I promise not to break the Bat Fuck and teach him the ropes.”

I pause and consider Punch-Up for a moment. I figured he and Coupe had history, given just how pissed he seemed to be at me all of last week. Between the glares across the office, the digging remarks. Though now it seems his anger had cooled to… indifference?

I decided to let it go and called out to Sonar, who was looking a little lost, standing on the mat with his business suit, adjusting his tie.

“Sonar, your goal for today is to spar as much as you can without going Beast Mode,” I call out, deciding to give them both space. “When that does happen, Punch-Up, I want him in the center and you as the attacker. Trying hit and run tactics while Sonar pushes you back.”

Any acknowledgement that either of them might have given was lost as a flare of flame on the other side of the gym grabbed my attention.

Sighing, I turn and jog away. Ready to use my 'unhappy voice'.

Oh, wait, that’s my voice nowadays.

Damn.

“This is too easy, Roberto,” Flambae boasts, throwing more fire at Golem. “They can’t hope to extinguish the flame, they're too weak.”

“One, this is physical sparing, so no powers. And two, they’re on their best behavior after yesterday’s incident. You are not.” I say with a sigh, examining the sight.

Golem on one side of the mat, defending from the small fireballs that Flambae was chucking. Malevola…

“Guys, where’s Malevola?” I ask, a small sliver of concern in my voice.

Golem looks at me. And… furrows his eyebrows?

I open my mouth to ask again and pause as Malevola… was expelled… expelled from Golem’s body.

She hit the ground gasping for air.

Gross.

"What?" I ask, lost for any other words.

“She tried to chokehold me…then kinda slipped in.”

I stare at the twenty-year-old mud construct.

“Next time you do that, remember airpockets,” I say, because what else was I supposed to say?

How was this my life?

“If that happened to me, I wouldn’t be such a trapped pussy and I’d just burn my way out.” Flambae unhelpfully chimes in, causing Malevola’s already dour expression to break into fury as she grabs the hilt of her blade.

I pinch my nose before grabbing my phone and shooting off a quick message.

“Right, okay, plan B. Golem, good work, try to be more intentional about trapping and freeing people who fight you. Malevola, I want you to focus on using your portals when you fight. Try to build momentum, use them for recovery, things like that. Flambae?”

I raise my voice at his name to drag his attention away from the pissed off demon. Golem engulfs Malevola again while she's distracted and ignores her thrashing as he pins her to the mat.

“Come with me.”

His eyes alight with anticipation as he leaves the mat. “Oh? Is it going to be you and me, Robert? Going to show us what your powers are?”

I don’t answer as I grab another mat and head to the fourth corner of the gym. Chase watches me, eyebrows raised, and I shake my head slightly as we pass.

It was like I said last week, they needed to see I was all in; I couldn’t have Chase bail me out each time the Z-Team wanted to try and intimidate their new dispatcher.

“So what are you like, super stretchy? You psychic? Oh, let me guess, you shrink and grow even smaller, so then your punches feel more than soft pillow taps.” He continues.

“You're not seeing any powers from me today,” I say, laying out the mat before looking over at him. “Today, you’re going to be focused on using your fire for mobility but extinguishing it when you go for takedowns or grapples. It’s hard to subdue villains if you’re burning them to a crisp each time you try.”

“They stay down, though,” Flambae protests unapologetically. “So who am I fighting then? Royd? He’s the only one I can see coming to bail out your tiny ass.”

A shadow falls across his back, and I smirk.

“Someone like that,” I say as he turns around.

“Thanks for inviting me to join in!” Blonde Blazer chirps. “I’m always happy to help our heroes grow at SDN.”

She fixes Flambae with a grin that shows a little too much teeth.

I consider the matchup. As the Branch Manager, it was Blazer who had to sign off on the reimbursement and fire reports for each of the “coincidental” fires that popped up whenever Flambae went on route.

Oh yeah, this would be an… educational training hour for Flambae.

Flambae resettles his expression into a fierce grin.

“Flame on,” he snarls.

A bat screech echoes on the other side of the gym, and Punch-Up goes flying over our head, denting the wall before sliding to the ground.

"I'm okay!”

“We should do the exercise thingies at the end of the day, not at the start.” Prism complains over coms.

I assign her to break up another brawl. “Nope, this builds stamina. Besides, the end of the day is when more people use the gym than in the morning. We need to be considerate of our coworkers.”

I take a sip of coffee; the morning workouts also had the benefit of working out most of the Z-Team’s… chaotic energy. Flambae had only set two fires today instead of his average five or six, and snips and quips were short and far in between. After already fighting, falling, and knocking each other around this morning, they were less inclined to clash later in the day.

It was a good system.

I’m smart.

Another notification comes across my screen, and I groan. Another request for the Bone Zone ‘podcast’. Some political streamer had realized that by subscribing to SDN, he could technically request heroes as guest stars to comment on and farm sound bites regarding local politics, general internet discourse, and whatever else the faceless masses of the internet would watch and comment on.

Ragebait the show. And we were fan favorites.

I scan the request, they wanted to interview the hero who took in Lightningstruck, apparently the arrest details linked him to the Red Ring. They were doing a piece on the developing crime wave.

“Invisigal, we have an interview request for you. Bone Zone. Get over there.”

“Fuck no, I’m not being some puff piece,” she shoots back. “Those guys just want to make me look stupid and incompetent. They’ll take what I say and twist it. I’m not going to feed the trolls.”

“Bone Zone isn’t too bad,” Sonar interrupts, “You just bring up Molly and that’ll fill the rest of the air time.”

"Whose Molly?" asked Golem.

I roll my eyes. “Listen, as heroes, you’ll need to talk to the public. Sharing what it's like to fight supervillains or save the day gives people hope. And while I’d love to say fuck the media, we need their help to make people feel safe.”

Prism snorted, “How the fuck do these soyboy scam artists help people feel safe?” she asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the popstar? It’s their shows and their reports that carry our voice to people. Brand recognition, all news is good news, shit like that.”

I take a deep breath, speaking directly to Invisigal this time.

“Listen, you’re going to be dealing with the media and people for the rest of your life. Go try it out. It’s a stupid, half assed podcast. If you crash and burn, no one will remember or particularly care. But it’ll give you practice trying to talk the hero game when the media’s against you.”

“Like in that press conference that Mechaman held?” Invisigal asked, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Fucker.

“The one where he broke the reporter’s nose? I saw that one!” Punch-Up chimed in.

“Dude was valid. I wouldn’t have stood for what that guy was saying,” rumbled Golem.

“If that were me, the Motherfucker would have been dead!” Prism declared.

“Yes… like that press conference.” I say with a sigh. Chase gives me a look over the edge of the cubicle that I steadily ignore.

“But as Heroes, you all need to do better than Mechaman. They’ll give you the runaround, but that's okay. What you need to practice is how to give people hope, even when they're not looking for it.”

I glance at my cup, where I put Coupe’s parting gift, the black blade catching the light.

“You're the person who goes into the bad situation and tells them it's okay. Even when the odds are against you, even when you don’t know if there is a way out. You need to get them up and have them try.”

Chase’s expression now has a soft edge to it. I ignore it.

“So you need to practice, practice, and keep practicing until the words become second nature.”

I lean back, thinking back on the hundreds, maybe even thousands of times I’ve had to try and inspire people. The good and the bad ones. What works and what doesn't.

I blink.

“Then, maybe, you’ll be able to quip as well as me.” I finish off, leaving my own impromptu speech on a light note.

Complaints and fake gags tumble across the comline. I let it wash over me and wait. Invisigal still hadn’t spoken up.

“Fine, I go to the fucking boys club podcast,” she groans, “But if they try to advertise some sponsored erection pill, I’m leaving.”

“God knows we don’t want SDN to be associated with erections,” I say flatly, and continue assigning the others as more calls come in.

Invisigal does good. I mean, she cuts off the host five minutes in, rants about how a criminal is a criminal no matter their jewelry, and then calls him and his audience a bunch of… soy boys? I don’t know what it means, but the host sounded really upset.

Overall, for a first post interview, it went great.

“That was really sweet when you convinced Invisigal to do the interview.” Blonde Blazer says in the breakroom during lunch.

“Do you listen in all the time?” I ask as I grab some chips from the vending machine.

“I switch between Dispatch teams between meetings,” she says, shrugging.

“I’d probably do the same. Though I don’t know if I’d tell people,” I admit, amused.

“How… How did you get so good at motivating people?” she asks hesitantly, looking from her coffee mug to me. “I didn’t think Mechaman was known for inspiring people with words.”

I shrug as I open my chip bag, eating a few. “When a fifteen-foot metal titan comes in to hold up the roof of a collapsed building, I needed people to feel comfortable trusting the suit. And without facial expressions, all I could do was talk to people.”

I lean against the wall as I think back to it.

“Expressing body language through the suit was a challenge, but I could make it work. Making the ‘head’ turn when it was really just a modified camera seemed to really help as well. Made people feel like I was looking at them.”

“So what, talking with a face and expression is socializing on easy mode for you?” Blazer asks, an interested smile on her face.

“Pretty much,” I say, crunching on another chip.

She turns her whole body to face me, eyes examining my face, my body language. She shakes her head.

“That still doesn’t explain how you… motivate people. Inspire them.”

“I don’t know if I motivate people,” I say a bit awkwardly. I feel too sober for this kind of conversation.

Then again the last time Blonde Blazer and I went out drinking I don’t know if that’d be any better. I might mistake a promotion announcement for a proposal.

“Robert, this morning I heard the speech you gave the coffee machine when we thought it was broken,” she deadpans. “ You had three dispatchers and two heroes ready to tackle the day without caffeine and frame it as a test of their inner spirit or something.”

“Okay, I was trying to inspire myself in that moment. Those people were just collateral.” I say, raising a point. And…

I sigh. I really wish I could be drunk for this.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

Blonde Blazer’s eyebrows raise. Intrigued.

“Maybe.”

“I… led a World of Warcraft Guild as a kid.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“The video game?”

“Yep,” I say, popping the p, looking into my bag of chips. “At the ripe age of eleven, I rallied gamers and basement dwellers from across the country to fight Onyxia and Lei Shen and whatever bullshit they put into the next expansion. “

Blazer breaks into a full laugh, snorting, giggling, and all.

It’s a good laugh.

“Really?” she gasped as she got her breath back.

“Really, really, I learned to quip, inspire, insult, convince, and lead toxic gamers in a bid to complete sets of virtual armor in a game.”

“Wow… that's… wow. Were you any good?”

I shrug, giving a small smile. “Made the top twenty guilds for a little bit. So we did okay.”

She breaks down into laughter again.

Lunch is good.

“Hey guys, our Dispatcher’s a nerd. He played WoW back in the day. “

“No shit? Till what expansion?” Sonar asks.

“Shadowlands,” I say, assigning Sonar on a boat chase to distract him.

Flambae groans across the com, “You are all such fucking nerds. Give me a mission so I don’t have to listen to this shit.”

The day ended well.

Chapter Text

By Wednesday, I fall into a sort of routine, as I discover the social flow of the Z-Team. I could expect three to four arguments and disagreements per day, ones that would escalate into fights, refusing missions, or continued arguments unless I mediated from the onset. Flambae would set fires if he wasn't engaged and throwing around serious firepower. Invisigal had a tendency to take "souvenirs" from her assignments, and I needed to keep Sonar away from anything to do with narcotics and drugs.

Morning exercises worked, but I needed to change it up for Flambae and Prism, who’d get bored with their tasks, wanting ‘real challenges’. Sonar and Malevola would goof off unless I regularly checked in on them, while Golem and Invisigal seemed content to focus on themselves and getting better.

The odd man out, Punch-Up seemed pissed me and I was starting to suspect it was over Coupe. Evidently, she hadn’t told anyone about the job I had offered her with STARS, and without that context, all of the anger and frustration over the decision landed squarely on my shoulders.

He’d shoulder check me in the hallway (...hip check?), and seemed to have a low simmer of biting remarks the more I spoke on coms. Something that I expected would only grow in intensity based on the announcement Blonde Blazer had gave Tuesday morning.

“Hey team!” Blazer had said over the call, corporate cheer in her voice.

“I wanted to give you a heads up that things are going to pick up starting tomorrow.” she starts, as I raised an eyebrow. Was there some concert or event we were expecting more calls from? , “After we let Coupe go, I had the system reduce the volume of calls the Z-Team was getting. Give you all some time to work with your new dispatcher. But starting tomorrow, the regular call volume will be coming your way! I know you all can handle it!”

The complaints shoot back almost instantly, Punch-Up’s voice being chief among them.

I stare at the ceiling as the noise ebbs and flows, the discontent energy bouncing from team member to team member growing in volume.

Increased call volume, short a full roster, and she tells us the day before everything takes effect? I drag a hand across my face.

I mute my mic and poke my head over the divider between my desk and Chase’s.

“Is this how she does most announcements?” I ask wryly as I catch Chase not at his desk, but sitting on the ground next to the luxurious dog bed he’d gotten Beef.

“It’s all she has time for,” Chase says with a shrug, his attention more on the dog than my question. “Between the calls with the Corporate fucks, the god damn paperwork, and being the point-person expected to bring in new subscribers and contracts, you should be glad its not just a stupid email.”

I lean back into my chair and look at my screen.

“If it came earlier in the week I’d prefer the email.” I mutter, switching my mic on again and interrupting Malevola’s call of ‘bullshit’.

“Thanks for the heads up Blazer, we’ll be ready, right team?” I ask pointedly.

“This is going to suck.” Sonar mutters.

Thursday’s shift proves Sonar correct, as Flambae, maybe as protest or maybe just being Flambae, sends a blaze out of control that’s within a quarter mile of the stadium, triggering an evacuation of the Turtle fans.

“For a team having a mascot that is known for being slow and uneventful, their fan-base is particularly… rabid,” I comment as I watch Invisigal have to climb Golem to avoid being trampled by the mob of bodies congregating in the parking lot.

Golem’s body is quickly accumulating thrown soda cups, half-eaten hot dogs, and nachos as the angry mob expresses their displeasure at the two heroes.

“Their mascot used to be the Honeybadger,” Chase offered up, “Back then, we had a hero team set aside for any week they had a home game. They were way worse then.”

“How can they be any fucking worse than this?” Invisigal yelled, snatching a foam finger that was being raised to poke her in the face. She tossed it over her shoulder before grabbing one of the hot dogs lodged in Golem’s body and chucking it back at the offending fan. “Hey! Clear the fucking road! The firetruck is red enough without your fucking blood on it!”

“ I can’t see,” Golem says to Invisigal, the amount of thrown food coating his exterior face, making him look more like a living construct of garbage than mud. I didn’t look forward to seeing what Golem would track home when the job was done.

“Invisigal, stop with the food fight, and direct Golem. You call the shots. Golem, try to use what you’ve been practicing in the mornings. Anyone tries to stop you, use your mud to subdue them and move them out of your way.” I say tiredly.

Amazingly, they both take to it, with Invisigal directing and steering him like some massive mount. Golem himself partially engulfing and subduing fans. Like a massive, fucked up Roomba, they continue down the street, leaving a clear, if messy path for emergency vehicles to use.

“My lucky jersey! You ruined it!”

“You fucked it yourself by not washing it!” Invisigirl hollers back. “A little mud is better than all those damn stains. What did you pee on it so you didn’t have to watch your shitty team lose every game?”

The crowd grows angrier, but Golem continues his constant stride, finishing the job.

“Look on the bright side,” Chase snarks to me, “Maybe this’ll be the start of a blood feud and the Z-Team will have their own nemesis by the end of the month.”

I sigh, utterly done with the day, but a small smile at Chase’s joke. “If the measure of a hero is by their villains, I don’t want to know what it says about the Z-Team if our first nemesis is named ‘the turtle’.”

Friday is worse with the increased call frequency. With only seven people on the roster, I’m forced to have bad match-ups between the teams' powers and the assignments themselves. We finish the day, but not without everyone sporting some kind of bump or bruise. But where the team feels like it backslides, the work with Royd seems to jump in leaps and bounds.

We’ve begun to assemble the different components of the suit, keeping the repaired legs, parts of the body, and inner chassis.

“We know the draw of power the suit requires now.” Royd explains to me, showing the graph of energy demands the suit needed during light and intense use. “Base power should be something we can control, but now it's time for the Science side of things.”

“The new Astral Pulse.” I say, as he swipes to some schematics. “You have some ideas?” I ask as I try to decipher the data.

Royd was right in the split between gear-heads and science knowledge. Just in talking with him, I could see it. I’d know what was needed, and could repair things that had been built by my father and grandfather. My changes were small, and structural. Switching out parts or more durable alloys, rerouting systems to be more intuitive to me, and how I used the suit. Adding a snacks compartment for those missions and world-ending events where I’d be in the suit for days at a time.

Meanwhile, Royd would use some new plasma tech that someone in Japan had posted a paper on and reduce the energy drain of the plasma sword by half, treat the metal with some solution that scientists had puzzled out studying ‘holy water’ or some other magic phenomena, and increase its durability.

“I don’t just have ideas brother,” he says with a chuckle, opening a drawer, “I’m ready to test them out.”

I stare, I know that what I’m looking at are prototypes. But seeing five potential Astral Pulses already built and glowing softly in the drawer just reemphasizes it.

I swallow the bit of shame and jealousy that shoots through me. They’re old flavors. The frustration of not understanding how my own suit worked, being constrained as a hero, limited, because I didn’t know enough and didn’t have the time or resources to study the Astral pulse. Failing people because I couldn't build the right tools for the job.

I had felt them numerous times over the last few years as I had to make more and more compromises over the suits repairs.

“Thank you Royd.” I say suddenly, aware of how quiet I’ve been as he stares at me expectantly. “This wouldn’t be possible without you.”

I try to keep the emotion out of my voice, keep it casual, but something must give me away in my expression as Royd offers his massive fist.

“I told you Robert, we’ll make the man mecha again.”

I pound it.

“Damn right we will.” I say, excitement now washing away my other emotions. “Let's get fucking started.”

Each of the five pulses don’t work, but that’s apparently all expected according to Royd. They were mainly to study how the suit drew on the Pulse’s energy. Each one was slightly different to test the different compositions. Things like polarity, reverse polarity, a bunch of science jargon that goes over my head.

I take notes and a few photos. Over the weekend, I’d try to research this stuff, see if I could get my head around it.

If Royd could build a new Astral Pulse, I’d have a schematic. Then I could specialize. Rebuild, repair. I could do it on my own.

And I wouldn't need SDN.

“Hey Royd, you have dinner plans?”

“Alright, everyone. End of another week, and it wasn’t a complete shit show.” I say, projecting some images onto the TV in the corner. The things on wheels look a decade out of date, which is to say it looks a bit too modern for the turn of the century office vibe SDN seemed to have. "More of just half a shit show."

On it, I had a brief summary of the entire Z-team’s performance. Completed calls, failed assignments, the change in ranks and scores of each individual team member.

“Whatever,” groans Prism, holding an ice-pack to the back of her head. A billboard had fallen on her during her last mission, “Can we just get this over with so we can go and forget that we have to come back on Monday?”

“Yeah,” Flambae says, leaning back in his chair. “We’re wasting Happy Hour minutes at Sardines. There’s going to be a wait for karaoke now.”

He taps his foot impatiently, dusting ash and charcoal off his shoes onto the carpet.

“The sooner everyone shuts up, the sooner we can all leave.” I say, thumbing papers I had just printed in my bag.

This was a stupid idea, and I expected this to crash and burn. But I had to justify the drunk purchase I had accidentally made with the Z-Team’s company card. So I’d pay for drunk Robert’s decisions, get laughed at, called a loser, and I can offer to refund the purchase. Nice and simple.

They settle down and I take a breath, inwardly cringing at what I was about to do.

“I know the last few days have been rough, but all of you have been taking to the morning training sessions really well. "

I begin to pass out the papers, each Z-team misfit getting one. The top page has a quick breakdown of notes I wanted to share with them, highlighting two things they had done well this week, with a criticism in between. While the second page…

“What’s this for?” Prism asked, pointing at the blank chart printed on the second page.

“To help motivate you all, I’ve decided, aside from your literal paychecks,” I start, using the script I had worked out during lunch. Chase had laughed at me, delighted in my misfortune, “Each week, I’ll be spotlighting two of you who’ve shown growth and what it means to be a real hero.”

Fuck I sounded like Phenomaman’s commercial.

The entire team was staring at me, some level of skepticism on their faces.

“Golem,” I start, looking at the massive construct at the other end of the room. “Ever since our talk last week, I haven't seen you shoulder-checking or colliding with anyone in the hallways. You also did great not to lash out at civilians during that Turtles fiasco.”

I toss a packet down the table, curious eyes following it.

“....Pull out two stickers, one’s for the first square in your table, the second you can keep and put it on your phone or some shit.” I say gruffly, as though I wasn’t treating them like elementary school children.

I had spent all their funds on a fucking Sticker pack from an Asian stationery store. With two pages dedicated to different artists and topics, colorful printed plants, cats, dogs, children, balloons, heroes, and everything else someone would want on a sticker resided in that fucking fifty-page packet.

It was probably one of my most mortifying drunk decisions.

“The fuck?”

I ignore whoever said it and turn to Sonar.

“For helping out with the boat rescue, and controlling yourself when I assigned you as security for that Tech demo on Tuesday, Sonar, you get a sticker this week as well.”

I cannot read his expression at all, as his bat eyes stare at the sticker book blankly.

“Oh, this is bullshit,” roars Punch-Up, and like a starting horn, everyone else erupts into noise as well.

I take a breath, ready to continue the planned speech, “If you don’t like the stickers we can-”

“I don’t care, but I was there with Golem, shouldn’t I get a sticker?” Invisigal asks, arms folded.

I blink, listening to their comments more critically.

What?

“You’re utter shit Robert, not that I need stickers, but I obviously deserve one. Who else was put out so many fires this week?”

“Damn bitch, are these the Diaso stickers? They have good shit. You should have told us there were Diaso stickers on the line.” Prism exclaims.

“You should pick that one,” Malevola says to Sonar, pointing at the anime robot sheet. “That one’s wearing the same tie as you.”

What?

Golem’s staring at his sheet with intense concentration. With fine care I hadn’t seen him express anywhere else, he slowly placed down and smoothed out a sticker of a yellow kite onto his page.

What?

Punch-Up looks legitimately pissed.

They clamor loudly, still demanding answers as to why they didn’t get stickers.

What?

Ten minutes later, as the conference room files out, I collect their pages. Sonar and Golem's on the front. Sonar had instead gone for a cartoon duck with a money bag in its hand.

I stare at them, which is where Blonde Blazer and Chase find me at the end of the day.

“You know, I had my doubts when you told me your plan.” Blonde Blazer says, leaning against the doorway. “But you really know what you're doing.”

I look up at her blankly. Next to her, Chase doesn’t say a word, just staring at me, his eyes alight with amusement.

“Yeah…” I say slowly, my brain rebooting. “It was just a hunch, but I’m glad it paid off.”

I stare at the papers in my hand. The utter dissonance of the last half hour, having to explain to full adults why they didn’t get a sticker that week.

Blazer takes a step forward, “Chase and I were going to grab-”

“Hey brother, you ready to bounce? There’s a food truck that has the best sushirittos.” Royd says, coming into the conference room. “Woah, you okay, man? You look like I did after episode eight of the last season of Housewives. Shocked and confused.”

“Is that the one where one of the women was secretly that supervillain with the plants?” I ask, still feeling off balance.

“The fuck is a Sushiritto?” Chase asks, raising an eyebrow at Blazer for some reason.

Royd gives a grin and gestures with his hands. “Bro, it's so tight. Imagine a sushi roll, right? But they like, don’t cut it and instead make it the size of a burrito. Just with rice and the s‘weed instead of a tortilla.”

Chase’s gaze turned back to Royd. “Sounds like a fucking abomination against god!”

“Oh, it totally is, brother, but it's the good kind. A whole avocado in that wrap.”

“I agree with Chase,” latching onto the change of subject, “Sounds like an evil genius’s way to piss off both the taquerias and the sushi joints of LA.”

I quickly put away my… sticker charts and move away from the conference table.

“I can’t wait to try one.”

Royd and I end up talking about the suit and potential upgrades.

“-your insulation works, then I’ll need to start prepping for potential space or sea combat. Flotation devices, extra fuel, probably an actual way to store food and water long term in there.” I say, waving my sushiritto around. The two of us sit on a park bench, some local event bringing out booths and food trucks to the parking lot.

The damn thing is insane. The size and thickness of a large soda can with enough rice to be a meal on its own, stuffed full of crab meat and vegetables and fish.

Supposedly, they put wasabi and ginger into it, but I had yet to hit it, making me suspect one of my future bites was about to be a mouthful of wasabi.

Royd waves his hand

“You’re thinking too small, man. If we make the pulse, then we can make multiple. Which would cover a matter reduction matrix or two no problem.You’ll have a full refrigerator in there.”

I laugh, the idea hadn’t even occurred to me. “I don’t know if I’d be comfortable with that much power in one suit.” I look at the setting sun, the smile still on my face. “But that would allow for a hell of a lot more options.”

Mechaman was a hero of tradeoffs. Jet-pack over re-breather, shield and plasma blade over anything with ammunition. Net launchers because rockets and fuel are fucking expensive. The idea of not having to choose, to have enough power to build and build and build…

“That’d be great, I might need to look at my Grandad’s old schematics if we’re building on and have more power.” I say, taking another bite

“Why didn’t we bring them to SDN?” Royd asks, polishing off his second burrito monstrosity.

I shrug, taking another bite of mine. “A lot of it was obsolete. The original suit had nuclear cores on the back. Lead-lined, and raw industrial iron.” I say through a mouthful.

My grandad actually had multiple suits that he switched the cores in and out of depending on the type of work he was doing. Which made it so easy for my Dad to first take over when the first Mechaman suit was destroyed.

“Half of the tech would be outlawed today on safety and environmental concerns alone.” I continue, “ But what he did have were more tools specialized for different jobs.”

The industrial load-out for earthquake recovery and building stabilization. A streamlined one for chases and combat with supervillains, a coastal one. The PR one that was just a shell. With his job and the how cheap materials were at the time, he had more than enough resources to build out everything he needed back then.

“Brother, when we’re done with your suit, you’ll have all those options and more. You're going to need to make a new Mecha-name for yourself!”

I laugh again and tip my burrito to him in acknowledgement.

“If I do, I giving you first dibs on the name.” I take a bite and my eyes widen.

Wasabi.

Royd is ecstatic, oblivious as I cough and chug my drink.

“Oh brother, LA isn’t going to be ready for the Royd’ed Mechaman.”

Okay, maybe I wouldn’t give Royd control over the name.

“Yeah, let's maybe not call it that.”

Chapter Text

The weekend is filled with research and a doctor's visit. The doctor’s visit is one of the mandated ones they got me to agree to after I woke up from the coma. They chide me on taking the sling off ahead of schedule. Technically, I was supposed to be wearing it till this check in, but otherwise they give a mostly clean bill of health.

There’s some concern over the bruising, but at this point I just tell them I’m deficient in some vitamins. There’s not more they could do, I already do everything I can to avoid bruising, it's just life living among Supers. Punch-Ups hallway shoulder checks ensuring I have lovely bruises along my legs and hips. He had a taken for digging his shoulder right into the meat of the leg.

In any case, they can’t do anything about that.

But I can.

Afterwards, I head to the Torrance Public library, to use one of their computers, a number of things on my mind to research.

I first try with some of the science terminology that Royd had used that week when talking about the different pulses. I had to quickly halt that search. Whatever type of energy the Astral Pulse was, only knowing AC and DC did me no good when the research papers started talking about quantum states and perpetual energy decay.

I grab lunch at a food truck in the parking lot and just lose myself looking at a grassy field across the street, my mind on my knockoff Superhero roster that awaited me Monday.

I had to face the reality that the Sticker Charts worked. And that, unless anything went seriously tits up, I’d be able to leverage it with their training plans.

But there was a difference between giving a heat of the moment speech to remind people of what they already knew and teaching and changing their entire life outlook.

How did I do that? Give a sticker each time they said please and thank you?

Shit, I’d fail that test.

After lunch, I begin to look into it.

Outcome Over Output- A Manager's Guide to Results Based Leadership.

One of the many “self-help” corporate books that wrapped common sense and teaching theory in enough corporate terms to help you justify these changes to a Corporate Manager.

Things like customer mindset, i.e. thing of the end goal of why you’re doing this work dumbass. Or encouraging processes that result in measurable regular outcomes. Also known as “once you find what works, don’t change it, dumbass.”

Regardless of the language, it’s a good read, and it gives me a lot of ideas by the end of the weekend. I could begin to offer brain teasers, philosophy questions that could get them thinking about what kind of hero and person they want to be. I could switch up the morning exercise hours, including different scenarios and exercises.

Rotate them and get them invested in each other's growth.

The library has a copy, so I check it out and take it home, reading it for the rest of the weekend.

I awake Monday slowly, enjoying the quiet zen. I had read the book twice, taking notes on how I could use its different ideas. My facial hair scruff is a bit too long, so I shave it, starting the week off sharp.

Overall, it feels normal. Mundane. My third full week with SDN and I was used to it. The commute, the white backpack that I just knew was going to get terribly stained at some point, seeing Chase, Blazer, Gale, and the others at SDN.

It was… nice.

The porn popups and bagpipes were less nice.

The day goes weird after that. Invisigal staring at me from the printer. (What did she have to print?) Chase informs me of the options Blonde Blazer is considering for filling the last slot of the Z-Team. Another conversation I really wish she’d have with me before springing it on the team and myself.

Whatever, at least this was something that kind of made sense. It was still a weird call. The Phoenix Program was for reforming supervillains, not the bottom of the leaderboard for newbies and washouts to just join.

Phenomaman was a surprise though. As the literal poster boy between him and Blonde Blazer for the company on the West Coast, you’d think he’d have more friends within the company willing to help him out and help curb the destructive spiral he seemed to be in. It seemed to stink of some kind of SDN politics at play, letting him crash out so publicly.

Waterboy seemed alright. All the nerves and awkwardness of a failure to launch adult who could use some street work to help settle him and define him as a hero.

I’m saved from my contemplation by a notification from Royd, and I quickly wave Chase off, headed to the Lab. Ready for the next test. Royd had apparently been working all weekend on the next Proto-Pulse.

This one would be the big one. Locomotion.

I’m only able to throw a few moves before the prototype is overloaded and we have to stop. Still, there’s adrenaline running through my veins as I sort through the different schematics, moving aside a few pieces of villain tech as I try to wrap my head around Royd’s designs.

It explains where he gets all of his ideas from and how he’s so quickly adapted to the Mechaman schematics that he’d only gotten his hands on them less than a month ago. He learned all the science shit through exposure and observing different designs.

I briefly entertain the idea of doing something similar with SDN. If they strong-armed me into a multi-year contract, I could negotiate to spend a day once a week or every other week helping Royd with the inventory. Then I could build an amateur's understanding and maybe modify the suit to use some of the designs.

One of the super-rich superheroes over in Europe had a suit that had a drone he could fire off for reconnaissance. If I could copy some of the different designs here, I could probably design something similar.

The sound of Invisigal’s invisibility sounds off behind me and I give a glance over my shoulder. Not too bad, as she learned the secret on day one, but still a bit concerning that she got in so easily.

Maybe we could add second-hand authentication? Or did Royd and I just need to watch the door behind us whenever we entered?

“You ever jerk off in this thing?”

The energies… weird, between us. She quips, I quip back, but the amount of eye contact, her full attention on me. It raises the hairs on my arm and forces me to respond.

Was she pissed? Is this how reformed supervillains try to make friends? They call you gross, punch you in math class, then get mad when you don’t have lunch together?

“You two got one weird energy going on, huh?”

Bless Royd.

I try to not break first, only turning when I have to, learning that apparently she was sent by Blonde Blazer. I feel her eyes following me out.

Like I said.

Weird day.

I zip up Blazer’s dress, muttering to myself.

Today is officially weird and the actual dispatching of today hasn't even started.

I ask Blonde Blazer about her event-

Nipple.

Seriously, what the fuck? This felt like one of the bad R-rated superhero movies where they try to make the Superhero scene seem like a raunchy, sex and drug-filled space with Super Sex happening every Supernight.

There was a Mechaman-inspired character in one about ten years back. Had “Super Sex toys" built into it, because that’s what heroes need at any moment. A massive steel ribbed dildo that vibrated and ‘pulsed’ glowing blue liquid. I think it was called Super Hard?

It was nice to feel seen by Hollywood.

I have no idea if that has any basis in reality. Being the hero in a blocky metal soup can at Superhero functions and rallies meant that few heroes were interested. Though… there was that one offer from the super made of pure electricity...

They were disappointed when they learned that Mechaman wasn’t an artificial lifeform.

Anyways, back to Blazer’s nipple. Or areola, I guess.

I point it out, she fixes it nonchalantly, as though this wouldn’t be a massive HR incident waiting to happen. As I sit down she asks the worst questions to pose to random coworkers in your life.

“How do I look?”

God, she’s posing.

I wish I could say that I had experience in this. But I don’t. Random flirts at a bar or club? Sure. I’ve had my share of fun. Some girlfriends who didn’t know about the Mechaman side of my life, which quickly became an issue. But no Heroes.

I never had any Super partners. The whole Paper Person thing was a bit hard sell for young heroes looking for someone who ‘got them’ and being in a towering massive metal mech didn’t make the team ups and occasional collaborations with other vigilantes a good place to try and flirt. Flirting as a fifteen-foot-tall mech just felt like threatening people. And the people who were interested were disappointed when the hatch opened up and I jumped out.

Though there were a lot more jokes after Super Hard came out. I had told my accountant no when a request came in for a Mechaman sex toy line. Felt like it’d be like pour lube on the family gravestones.

Though from the projections, I probably could have made more money to repair the Mechaman suit.

“Incredible.” I say, honestly. She’s almost the quintessential image of a Superheroine. Tall, confident stance, mask and gloves matching the shade of the dress perfectly. The dress itself hugging her curves just as tightly as her Super Suit. Whoever had rented it for her knew what they were doing.

And she… asked me here for my opinion?

I try to be objective. I had already assumed incorrectly the first we… met. But also, every sign received so far was signaling her interest.

Just what was this? She wasn’t socially awkward, just socially… oblivious? She was so corporate at work that it felt like she should recognize this situation for what it was, an HR nightmare. So was this intentional?

The conversations shift before I can think any more on the topic, and the next thing I know, I’m looking at a collapsed Phenomaman in the parking lot.

I’m glad he didn’t choose my car to crash on.

“The downtown Branch dropped him. Indefinite suspension.”

I’m headed down to the parking lot, one of the few unpowered individuals at SDN, being sent to talk to Phenomaman.

Over a break-up.

What was my life? Hey, bud, I heard you got broken up with, that’s rough, you know my suit exploded and sent me into a four month long coma.

What did Blonde Blazer expect from me? Both with Phenomaman and general.

And what was Invisigal’s deal? I had seen the printouts she’d left at everyone's desk before her, and the rest of the Z-Team started their morning exercises. While she had been sarcastic, snippy, and vulgar like the rest of the Z-Team, I hadn’t sensed any hostility from her before. Or was she helping Punch-Up?

One crisis at a time, Robert. First, let's talk to the sad Superhero.

He kisses me.

And he wants to extinguish the sun.

And now I'm bleeding with several shards of glass in my chest.

Why do things always happen on Mondays?

“Where’s the shootout?”

Even Super Hard had more downtime than I’ve had today so far. I try to stay focused on removing the glass from my chest. The shift was suppose to kick off in five minutes and I had to clean and bandage the cuts before I spent the next few hours with glass in my chest.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a dream last night we were fucking.”

Okay. On the bright side, that was a very clear sign of interest, unlike the weirdness with Blazer. I quip as I continue to clean up, trying to think through everything. I think SDN had rules against workplace relationships? I’d personally never seen such policies ever enforced, at any place I had worked at, but then again, you weren't supposed to get involved with people you were teaching and had power over.

Another HR nightmare.

I’m saved from having to process and respond further by Waterboy’s bowl movement, driving Invisigal out of the bathroom.

I stare into my coffee like it has the answers to my predicament. I officially had one, maybe two women interested in me. Both in the workplace.

The phrase about shitting where you eat floats back to me.

I found… both of them attractive. Hell, I was fully convinced Blazer and I had gone on a date when we first met.

But starting at SDN had changed things. Cutting someone from the Z-Team, the terrible office communication. If we were separate heroes or if I hadn’t had to work under her, I don’t think I’d have any problem dating her. Though right now, she was literally one of my work problems. One I had drafted multiple strategies for.

And what would Phenomaman say if I started dating his ex, right after. Would I extinguish the sun?

Phenomaman kissed me.

Nope. Shifting topic. Forgetting that happened.

Invisigirl was worse in ways. She technically reported to me, and it was literally my job to mentor her. First rule of mentoring and sidekicking: you don’t. Period. Scorned lover and scorned sidekick was a fast track to a new nemesis.

I could see it, though. A future where she became a hero. With her Powers on the weaker edge, she’d sympathize with my struggles, have a lot of the same headaches when it came to the stronger Supers. She was also one of the quickest talkers, one of the few that kept up when Chase and I snarked at them full blast.

Though she also couldn’t go five minutes in a conversation without making some kind of sex joke. So was this even a flirt? Or just her way of working through a sex dream about a coworker?

I sigh. Today had all the markings of a romcom, and here I was questioning if I misread the signs like an oblivious high schooler.

There was something going on with both of them and I had no more time to puzzle it out.

Fuck it. Work now. Social mess later.

I look up from my mug to see Chase apparently got me a sandwich for the day, I smile. Ham Sandwich, a classic when he babysat me as a kid.

Feeding a slice to beef, I turn my attention to my monitor. Regardless of… everything. I still had the day to get through. Which meant giving the calls and the entire Z-Team my full attention.

The first call comes in and I click on the dispatch details, ready to save the day.

…

Some college kids are moving from their dorm to an apartment on the other side of town.

SDN policy didn’t allow me to say no.

I send Golem, hoping that his muddy footsteps ensure they lose their deposit.

Malicious compliance. Much more my speed.

An hour later, they call again to request a hero to unpack their moving truck.

Fucking spoiled rich kids.

Chapter Text

The shift is tense, the call volume quickly overwhelming the Z-Team. I do my best, noting their performances and trying to fend off some of the comments. Punch-Up has the entire team out for punishing me for removing Coupe from the team. I make a mental note to reach out STARS and see if I can request Coupe to speak with him.

“-very nice stapler.”

I’m responding to Sonar’s interrogations about his stapler when the first one comes in.

“Someone just dropped off a box of games with a note saying there’s a bomb inside one of ‘em! Can you send someone?”

My eyes sharpen and I sit up.

I examine the request. Bomb threats in California, especially ones that announce themselves are for three reasons. Either to evacuate the building for some other crime to be committed, a prank by some upset civilian, or…

I send both Sonar and Malevola to the call. Her teleportation can help remove the bomb if it is there.

The day continues, but I’m distracted, waving off the Team’s complaints as I watch Sonar and Malevola’s status. They find and deal with the bomb no problem, and after securing the area they leave accosted.

A tight knot of tension sits in my stomach as I continue making assignments. Once was just a coincidence, maybe an attack by an angry customer who was too many illegal supplies in their garage or-

“We’ve cleared everyone out already, but someone called us about a bomb in one of the theaters…?”

I frown and activate my coms, broadcasting to the Team as well as Chase and Blazer, “Everyone please advise that we might have a Brainteaser incident developing.”

Chase groans, “You sure it's that prick? I was hoping he went and died somewhere where we couldn’t fucking find him!”

“I’ll alert the other Dispatchers.” Blonde Blazer replies shortly.

“Who's Brainteaser?” Prism asks.

“A washed up old man who instead of staying in prison or a retirement home likes to combine logic puzzles with bombs.” I say, briefly examining the call logs from other teams.

“He used to fuck with Mecha Man and the Brave Brigade,” Chase explains, “That fucking maniac has slowed down nowadays, but he was worse in his heydays. We’re talking full Saw type shit.”

There’s silence as they digest the information. The idea that they might tangle with an old villain from the Brave Brigade sobering them.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

“I never saw the Saw movies,” muses Golem, “Heh, saw Saw.”

“You’re missing out. They’re my favorite Halloween movies to watch.” Invisigal responds.

“So how many points on the leaderboard will we get if we bring him in?” Flambae asks eagerly.

Chase scoffs, “You punk ass bitches? You have no brain to tease. It’d be like trying to jack off a rock,”

Prism snaps a reply, but I tune them out, seriously evaluating the threat.

Brainteaser had a habit of latching onto different Heroes and groups, harassing them for years until his interest waned. Then his attention would be grabbed by another Hero and the cycle would start again. When I had first become Mecha Man, he led me around California, trying to make sure I lived up to the “hero legacy.”

What is just SDN’s turn with Hollywood's worst game show host?

Or was it about me?

My grandfather was his first nemesis, even when his attention was captured by others, he’d still throw the occasional hostage hunt or bomb threat to force Mecha Man to quickly scramble.

The thoughts follow me into the breakroom, where Waterboy and Flambae get into it.

“Woah, what are you doing?”

Throwing the noodles at Flambae is cathartic. Like the release of a pressure valve to everything going on today.

I’d be concerned about my habit at this point of chucking things at the Z-Team, between the Chair with Golem, and the water and now the noodles at Flambae, but it keeps on working.

And if I learned one thing as Mecha Man it was that you don’t mess with perfection.

Hmmm, maybe I’d make an agility training where I got to throw things at the Z-Team.

Super Dodgeball.

Sounds good for managing my stress and blood pressure.

The choice sneaks up on me when Blazer asks. I feel like I don’t have any time to think about it, between the weirdness with Blazer and Invisigal, and now Brainteaser potentially knowing my civilian identity and harassing the Z-Team because of me.

I picked Waterboy. He deserves a shot and wouldn’t further complicate the situation with Blonde Blazer.

And he could like… actually learn and grow from the opportunity.

As far as I could tell, Phenomaman just needed therapy and maybe a basic support network.

I’d reach out to Phenomaman, or at least ask Chase about him later, after today. It just seemed… off, how quickly SDN was sweeping away who was once their face and representative to the West Coast.

There was more to it than just a bad break up.

“No Waterboy, it’s not a joke.”

Afternoon shift starts… just as rough as the morning if I’m honest. Waterboy is nervous, jumping at assignments he’s not ready for, leaving puddles that injure other members of the Z-Team. We’re able to handle the call volume, but now with every third mission going sideways due to Waterboy’s nerves.

I try to pair him up with everyone, trying to find who he works well with. Thankfully, despite the complaints, under-the-breath comments, and bungled assignments, he keeps going. Bringing the same nervous energy to each assignment.

Good kid.

But beyond that, there’s a tension in the air, the anticipation. Amongst both the team and the office staff.

Brainteaser. An actual Supervillian.

I don’t know if it said more about the quality of corporate heroes or the standards of Supervillians that actual villains rarely made a habit of messing with the corporations. Someone big like Phenomaman or maybe Blonde Blazer would have one or two that they’d encounter often. But the personal grudges, the insults and barbs made to hurt and sting and burn in your brain after each encounter. Those kinds of Villains generally chose freelance Heroes to develop blood feuds and lifelong vengeance against.

I probably felt more personable. To know that your lifelong enemy also had to pay for their gear out of pocket instead of relying on corporate insurance.

If SDN took down Brainteaser, it’d make headlines.

Hell, if Z-Team took down Brainteaser, it’d be their biggest success of the last year.

I had just finished sending Golem off to handle a Baby Kaiju when it happens.

A new voice joins the call, a familiar one. Raspy, old, but strong, amused.

Cruel.

“Hello Dispatcher. Would you like to play a little game? Perhaps a Brainteaser?”

There’s a pause, and then the entire office bursts into competition, Brainteaser’s request apparently received by the entire branch.

The Z-Team shouts insults and pleads for me to send them the assignment detail but I close my eyes for a moment. Breathing deeply.

“Hello Mecha Boy. Would you like to play a game? Perhaps a Brainteaser?”

The exact phrase he first said to me, two weeks into my tenure as Mecha Man. Where he had kidnapped me, dropped me in the sewers of Los Angeles during an El Nino flood and hid the Astral Pulse so I had to play his twisted games and risk drowning in the floodwaters.

He knows.

The entire Branch is going crazy, with other dispatchers trying to engage with Brainteaser, standby heroes running around and checking for spliced wires or whatever way he hacked into SDN’s network.

I don’t bother. If it's like any of the other times he’d gotten involved. It’s somewhere in the drywall, installed weeks ago and we’d need to tear apart one of the walls to find and get it out.

My mind flashes to the gym walls, so quickly and seamlessly repaired within a day.

Hmm.

“Answer my riddles one, two, three and I will gladly turn myself in.”

“Alright, let’s do it. I accept your terms,” I say softly into the mic. No one hears it, the office and coms filled with chatter.

“We’ll start with an easy one. What’s my favorite game?”

This is broadcasted directly to the Z-Team channel, as none of the other Dispatchers react, all still trying to coordinate their teams

I don’t click away, I don’t look at the completion records or ask anyone if they recall. I know Brainteaser’s conditions. One brain for one puzzle, anything else is cheating and generally involves another explosion for the cheaters involved.

I answer the questions, taking time to double-check my memory, and make sure I sound confident when I speak.

It's funny, but this was probably the one villain from the Mecha Man roster that I could still fight without the suit. Even his more physical challenges generally called for narrow spaces, tight tunnels, and areas that forced me out of the Mech. I think he enjoyed the idea of it. Teasing out Mecha Man's brain to where I couldn't use the suit to brute force his puzzles. See me scramble and react as I tried to have my body keep up with the puzzle's solution, sprinting to locate the bomb in time.

The sick fuck liked to watch.

“Mecha Man Prime.” I say confidently, opening my eyes. I see Chase looking down at me for a moment, I don’t meet his eyes.

There’s silence on the call for several minutes.

“Well, a deal’s a deal, Dispatcher, come and get me. I’ve been waiting downstairs in the lobby for at least thirty minutes.”

“Dude.” Sonar says, some emotion in his tone that I can’t read into right now.

I pause, locking eyes with Chase. He starts and blinks at the expression on my face.

“Cover me?” I ask, ripping off my headset.

“Of course I fucking will. Go get that geriatric fuck,” Chase says with a nod and a twitch of his mustache.

"Who you calling geriatric fuck, geriatric fuck?" I ask with a tight grin.

Chase gives me the one-finger salute...and I’m gone.

He’s sitting there. A large trenchcoat and a wide-brimmed hat over his wrinkled head. The most out of place disguise for Southern California. He sees me as I approach and stands up, leaning heavily on the cane he carries by his side.

“Hello, Dispatcher,” Brainteaser says quietly, examining my uniform and face. “Blue looks good on you.”

“Normally I’d love to get random fashion tips from strange old men but we’re having a bit of an off day here at SDN,” I fire back, “Some washed up has-been thought he was supervillain and mucked around with our communications network.”

“So if you don’t mind,” I say, moving forward and twisting one of his arms behind his back.

He doesn’t resist. He never resists if you win the game. The two of us begin to walk to the elevator leading to the upstairs office and the holding cell.

There’s movement by the entrance, and outside the glass door I see Sonar and Malevola step through a portal, looking frantically before freezing at the sight of us.

Malevola’s jaw drops at the sight of me manhandling the villain, seemingly alone.

I offer a nod to them before steering him into the Elevator. The door shuts and we’re alone.

“How did you know?” I ask, my voice not the tone of tired Robert, who's sick of Sonar talking about breasts or a fucking stapler, or telling Ivisigal not to steal for the tenth time that day. It’s the voice of Mecha Man, short, to the point.

“I’ve known your family’s identity since your Father was running around,” Brainteaser sighs. “Really now, three generations, all with the same name and same secret identity. There’s no brainteaser there. Just basic pattern recognition. I've been watching you since the coma.”

The elevator shudders and begins to rise. There's a pause before he asks a question. “Is Mecha Man truly gone?”

I can't see his face but the tone is… weak. Disappointed. The voice of an old man who had discovered that, once again, he’d lost a piece of his past, one last tie grounding him to this world.

I'd feel sad if I hadn't heard the glee in his voice over the years as others had broken down, victims of his games.

But I still consider the question, consider the man asking it. Brainteaser had a body count spread over years, psychologically breaking down heroes with egos and letting their powers compensate for their lack of knowledge or wisdom. To my knowledge, all holders of the Mecha Man line had solved his riddles and puzzles.

“Mecha Man never left.” I reply, keeping my firm grip on him as the door opens. He turns and cranes his neck to look down at me. I don’t know what he sees, but he grins and begins to chuckle.

“Good… it’s be a shame to have lived to see the end of Bobby’s legacy,”

I meet his gaze as I push him forward into the office.

We attract the gaze of everyone as I steer him into the holding cell. No one says a word as I shut the door and let out a big sigh.

I stare at the room and meet the eyes of at least twenty coworkers, a mix of heroes and office staff. I open my mouth, uncertain what to say.

“Robert! Get your ass over here. I offered to cover your shift, not babysit your team of mentally ill crazies.”

You could always count on Chase to fill an awkward silence. I grin and jog back to my desk, ready to finish my shift. The knot of tension unraveled.

The Z-Team seems... quiet, for the last hour of shift. Distracted. I ask and get insults thrown back at me for my trouble, so I let it go.

Golem ends up adopting the Baby Kaiju. I decide to not ask any further questions about that. That was a Future Robert problem.

Because it would be a problem.

Waterboy fully knocks out Prism with his puddles of water, having to carry her unconscious form back to SDN.

The shift ends.

Chapter Text

“I was going to go with Wet Baby Bitch Boy, but lets go with yours.”

“Yeah, let's go with mine.” 

I sigh heavily, staring at my screen. Brainteaser back behind bars… I hadn’t thought about it, but all of Mecha Man’s different villains. What would they do with me out of the game. Was this the first in a crime wave? 

Most I shared with some other local heroes. My father’s affiliation with the Brave Brigade turned tense, personal vendettas into team feuds. In theory, most would continue getting attacked and attacking the other good heroes of LA County. 

“You did good today Robert. You'd better rest and get ready for tomorrow. I almost guarantee some papers are going to want to run an article on the Dispatcher that caught Brainteaser.”  Chase says, shutting down his own computer. 

I groan, “Can’t we just give the credit to the Z team or some other hero?” 

“No can do, it’d impact the company rankings,” Chase says, standing and stretching. “The best we can do is withhold your identity. That’ll stop it from getting out, but people are going to talk in the network. Bare minimum? Someone from corporate comes and gives you employee of the month or some shit.”

Great.

“Hey Kid,” 

I glance over, ready for some terrible joke or pun about the day. 

“Luv ya.”

I huff, turning back to my desk. Fucking asshole. Classic Chase. Ninety-nine percent vitriol and sass with the one percent sweetness that only showed up once a month. 

“You too Unc.”

I clean up my desk, packing a few things into my bag, the book, and a printout of a few more college course descriptions. With the conversations from Royd, I stopped looking at engineering classes and looked into Physics classes. The problem was that the advanced courses were locked behind other class requirements and varied in complex topics. It wouldn’t be feasible to take on and expect to absorb even a tenth of the information. 

Maybe I start more general? If I looked more into what Royd had inventoried, I could take a general course and then use the tech he did have access to to guide a follow-up class pick? 

Meh, wouldn’t hurt. 

I open my drawer to drop in some pens, and freeze as I catch a corner of a photo. More like the photo. I’m five or six in it, pointing at the Wax Galleries of heroes they had opened downtown. 

My father took me, and I was excited when they unveiled the Wax Mecha Man, one of the largest wax sculptures they had constructed for the exhibit. 

Even then, it was short by like five feet. 

A good day.

I set the photo down and push my chair back, just spinning and staring at the ceiling tiles listlessly. 

So much happened today. Between the addition of Waterboy, Brainteaser, Phenomaman in the parking lot…

Baby kaiju. 

Was this going to be my life now? Constant chaos behind a desk. Fighting heroes through assignments and after-action reports? What would my father say? My grandfather? 

Beef waddles over to me, ball in mouth. He’s not going to chase after it, but he knows that by bringing me a ball I’d bring him outside to explore and urinate. 

“Let’s go buddy,” I whisper, taking the ball and starting towards the staircase. 

We’re delayed, though, when Beef smells something, pawing at the door to a supply closet. I open it, expecting maybe a rat or some trash can that hadn’t been cleaned out. Something to draw his attention. 

What I find is an awkward, lanky kid, shoved into a bucket, eating a cantaloupe. My latest Z-Team misfit. Waterboy.

I understand that the bucket seat is probably to collect the water he seemed to expel constantly, but the vibe it gives off is a middle school kid bullied, thrown into the trashcan and had decided to give up on trying to get himself free. 

“Here, hold a Beef. It’ll help.”

I sit with him, flipping my bucket stack upside down, and take a breath. 

I’m apparently the inspirational speech guy. I could do one more for Waterboy. 

I talk, letting him start and stutter, taking in his insecurity, he worries, and tries to redirect his attention. If he focused on himself and stopped caring what others thought, he’d be able to find what worked best for him. Not change himself to be what other people needed. 

His eyes grow wider and wider behind his googles, and I have to ask, amused. 

“Am I blowing your mind?” 

I said a few more words, but had to cut it short; the chemical fumes were getting to me. 

I bid him a good night and continue, taking the stairs two at a time with Beef. 

We reach the outside air, and I throw the ball. 

Beef doesn’t follow, electing to follow some scent that gets his attention. 

I enjoy the breeze for a bit before going to retrieve the ball, then follow Beef. 

Where I find a depressed superhero. 

Again. 

Phenomaman is lying back on the grass, thankfully not destroying personal property this time. His heavy, baggy eyes stared up listlessly into space. 

“Blonde Blazer and I would meet on that Balcony after work.” He said, pointing. 

I look up at the second-story balcony. Its architecture. 

“That’s… nice?” I say, grasping for… really anything that could help progress and end this conversation. 

“Then we would make love.”

I wrinkle my nose. I had avoided that balcony to stop my lunch from being interrupted by flying Superheroes coming in for a landing; now I had a second reason to avoid it.  

“Okay. Gross. I don’t need to hear your sex stories.”

“We never had intercourse. My alien genitals were not compatible with hers.”

Why is this day so fucking weird? Why is today, today?

Phenomaman begins monologuing about Blonde Blazer again, and I hide a sigh. I was so fucking tired of today. 

Okay. 

One more speech. 

“What you need to do is find the next thing for you to be passionate about,” I start up, trying to look him in the eyes. “Because it's out there.” 

…

“I wish to make love to you again.” 

WHA-

Owowowowowowowow. 

“I miss her,” he says quietly. No longer squeezing me, just holding me, his eyes staring over my shoulder. 

Okay, scabs, and now bruises. Phenomaman was phenoma-hazardous to my health. 

Yeah… still shouldn’t try doing that. 

“Do you miss her or do you miss how she made you feel?” I ask, trying to turn to look at him. “And can you put me down? I feel like I’m too high up.” 

He sets me back on my feet and stares at me. “ I do not understand the question.”  He says. 

“Well,” I start, running a hand through my hair. “Why did you like being with her?” 

“She is strong and good!” Phemaman says promptly, “She and I fought maybe evil do-ers and accomplished much together.” 

“Yeeeah,” I say, dragging out the word, “But you’ve teamed up with other heroes at SDN. What made her different?” 

He’s silent for a long moment. His eyes were low and on the ground. We stand there as he thinks to himself. 

“She chose me.” He says quietly, still not meeting my gaze. “She wasn’t assigned to me; she approached me and asked if we could ‘hang out’. We did a lot of hanging out after work.” 

"Well, did you hang out with anyone else after work? Any just… friends?”

“There was Tim. He would talk to me after my shift.” 

“Oh?” I ask, interested, maybe I could foster Phenomaman onto Tim and then I could-

“Tim suspended me from the downtown branch,” he says, meeting my eyes.

Oh. 

I flinch slightly from his gaze, seeing the… raw loneliness in his expression. I look up at the tree branches and try not to think. Not to remember. 

Stumbling home after long nights where I barely get the Mecha Suit free, fighting and fighting and saving and running and hacking and defusing and always alone, always in the tin can. 

Speaking ten words outside of the Mecha Man Suit, to cashiers and food delivery workers. 

… What the hell? Beggars can’t be choosers.

I sigh, “You’re a good man, Phenomaman. Blonde Blazer has her own life to live, and you have yours to live. You need to find things in your life to cherish. Friends, hobbies, food. With or without a partner, you need to move on. Not just find one person to put your own self-worth on. It’s not healthy.”

I stare up at him, this alien who, until the past week or so, had the adoration of the public, all the strength and power needed to make light of any Supervillian of the month, and embodied mostly everything that people thought out when they first thought of Superheros. This awkward as fuck guy who was aparently starving for social connection. 

I close my eyes briefly. This was going to suck if he hugged me again. 

“I’ll be your friend,” I say, raising my hand to forestall the Super Hug. I had acted just in time. Phenomaman looms over me, arms frozen out wide, about to engulf me. “If!” I say, my voice an octave higher, “If you promise you won’t just go and define yourself by the relationships you hold. Just be… a person.” 

I watch his reaction, see my words sink in. It’s hard for him, and it takes a while. But eventually his arms drop. 

I cautiously lower my own hand. 

“I do not know if I can do what you say, Robert Robertson. I am not a person. In my time on this planet, I have… struggled at understanding human pack bonds.” 

A laugh slips out. 

“Phenomaman, I’ll let you in on a secret. Humans struggle with friendship, too.” 

Phenomaman levels a serious gaze on me. 

“I will protect your secret with my life.” 

…

“You’ll do just fine,” I say with a grin.

My computer’s beeping at me by the time Beef and I return to my desk. 

“Whatcha watching?” 

We banter. And fuck, it's fun. She's fun. And she reports to me. My phone chimes, and the night gets even more complicated. 

Up for a Late Dinner? 

I stare at the text, stare at the screen, and just feel tired.  It never rains. 

It fucking pours. 

Brainteaser. Invisigal. Blonde Blazer. Phenomaman. Waterboy. 

I’m tired, it’s been a long day, and I'm done thinking. I just wanted to sit down and not think. 

“...You need to find things in your life to cherish. Friends, hobbies, food. With or without a partner…”

I may have already done the thinking I needed to today?

One date didn’t make a relationship. Hell, just hanging out between two people didn’t make it a date. Maybe it’s just because I was so tired, thinking that one choice of who to hang out that evening would somehow result in deciding who I wanted to date. 

It was my third week at SDN. I had time. 

And popcorn sounded killer right now. 

“I didn’t see the first one. Can you give me a recap?“

Sorry, I can’t tonight. 

What about Wednesday? Got any plans?

I go to see a movie. 

Wednesday works!

I buy too many snacks. Indulgent as hell, but after today, I think I deserve it. And though it kills me, I pay for Invisigal’s ticket too. 

What? Movie theaters have been struggling lately. Heck, one had a bomb threat earlier today. It was the least I could do to keep it open. 

…who was I justifying this stuff to? 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

“Would have been nice to know before I spent eighty-six bucks.” I mutter, positioning the drink to the right cupholder. 

Invisigirl snarks back, feisty and on guard, probably unsure what to do with someone actually hanging out with her outside of work.

 “...In my time on this planet I have… struggled at understanding human pack bonds.” 

It was ironic, SDN’s previous top-rated hero having the same struggles as their lowest. The same as its newest Dispatcher and the latest Z-Team member. I bet if I had gone out to dinner with Blazer, I probably would have found the same thing true with her. I guess it's true what they say on the dating websites about Superheroes. 

“Can you just be normal for like a second?”  I ask, a smile on my face.

Take away the masks, the different powers, average out the origin stories, and we’re all broken the same way. The same way most people are. 

“This is-”

“Do you-”

Bad with people. 

“Do you like Sour Patch Kids?” 

“I fucking love Sour Patch Kids.”

“Cool. Me too.”

And then I don’t have to say a single word or give one more fucking speech for the next two hours. I don’t get super hugged and get re-bruised across my entire upper body. 

It was glorious. 

OMAKE ONE:

“Though this time, I will avoid squeezing the blood out of you.” 

“Cool” I groan, as he releases me. “You should head home Phenomaman, its not good to spend the night outside an office.” 

“I do not have a home Robert Robertson. I have been e-victed due to my sadness leading to the destruction of my apartment’s walls.” 

I pause. 

God damn it. 

“I can’t promise it’ll be softer than the grass you're lying on. But I have a floor you can share with Beef.” I say, breathing in deeply now that I’m free.

Phenomaman looks down at me. 

“However, can I repay you, Robert Robertson?” 

We head home, Blonde Blazer offers dinner, but I have to decline as I escort Phenomaman back to my studio apartment. 

OMAKE TWO:

I get home and lay on the ground. Wood flooring wasn’t too uncomfortable. 

What a fucking day. 

I stare up at the ceiling as Beef walks and lies down next to me, his small furry back warm against my own. 

Brainteaser, Waterboy, Trash noodles, areola. What a day. 

Phenomaman kissing me. 

I mule over the day, before rolling over to look at Beef. 

“Am I Bisexual?” I ask. 

Beef sniffs me before sneezing on my face. 

Great.

Chapter Text

I sleep like the dead and waking up is a slow, painful affair. Phenomaman’s bruises had ripened, turning beautiful yellows and dark blues, and it ached to twist and turn.

Bruised like a peach… from a fucking hug.

I check the cuts from the glass, ensuring none of the scabs came off in the night. A layer of arnica cream on the bruises, and some vaseline on the scabs.

Using too much antibiotics risked resistant bacteria, with the amount of scrapes and cuts I accumulated, vaseline was a better long term ointment. I could buy it in bulk too.

Hmm, was that a Hero Pro-tip? I noted it down on my phone as I threw on my uniform and set out with Beef. Hopefully Tuesday will be less exciting than Monday.

Five minutes from the parking lot I get an email from Blonde Blazer, one to the entire Torrance branch.

I was wrong. Chase was right.

There were three news crews in the parking lot. One shooting a piece that’d probably go on

Late Morning or afternoon new broadcast. We were not to speak with them on our way in, but SDN would be looking for one or two Dispatchers to maybe be interviewed for their opinion on the company and the significance of SDN bringing in Brainteaser yesterday.

No one was to offer any information as to which staff or hero brought him in.

I sigh as I park, getting a good look at the crews. I don’t recognize any of them… which is strange. In past media circuses that I was a part of as Mecha Man, it was the same twenty or so reporters that would report on and interview heroes. All the news studios are hoping for that Hero Reporter romance trend on the East Coast.

I didn’t recognize anyone here today… Wait…fuck.

Correction, I saw one person here I recognized.

Charles Kingsley, from South Bay Signal. His face still shows some lingering damage from where I… head butted his face. But otherwise either healed or under a massive amount of makeup he was here, watching over the shoulder of the Cameraman as a female reporter spoke into a microphone.

His presence told me something, Mecha Man press conferences are on the same level of SDN accomplishments in the eyes of the local news cycle.

That’s nice to know.

“Unlike past captures however, yesterday's imprisonment of Supervillain Brainteaser was not led by one of their many hero teams, but instead, a Dispatcher. SDN is famed or hiring retired Superheros to utilize their-”

I head into the building quickly, making sure to avoid the looks the reporters send my way.

They are hungry, prospecting. Trying to identify the unknown dispatcher who was the subject of the day’s events. Most dismissed me, my frame suggesting mail room worker or boring accountant than ex hero.

I briefly meet Kingsley’s eyes before increasing my pace. His eyes weren't dismissing me.

Might be worth exiting through the fire escape if they were still out there in the evening.

The office doesn’t freeze when I step off the elevator. But people pause. Hesitate. The ex-heros give me a nod. Officially recognizing me as one of them. Maskot gives me a thumbs up, their massive head twisting to look at me.

I still wasn’t clear if she was an animated theme park costume or someone cursed into the outfit... or just a Superhero who really liked cats.

Origin stories were messy.

The few who are ex-villians, previous alumni of the Phoenix Program, give me more assessing looks, maybe seeing if we had clashed during their villain days, or trying to pin down just what power I had that allowed me to go toe to toe with a Supervillian.

Never mind that Brainteaser hadn't been particularly violent in the last three years.

The rest just stare, the disconnect of my unassuming office look apparently breaking their brains. They don’t whisper, but the hum of conversation grows and lessens as I move into the Bullpen, setting my bag down at my cubicle. My back prickled from all the gazes staring at it.

“Oh good, Robert, you’re here,” Blonde Blazer says, floating towards me, her face brow slightly furrowed. I stare, I hadn’t seen her float in the office before. Was it a nervous tick? From the media outside? “Did you have any trouble with the reporters outside?”

“Blazer,” I greet, heading to the break-room. It seems like I’d need to get my coffee in me, ASAP. “No trouble, it doesn’t seem like they know who brought in Brainteaser, they just know it's a dispatcher.”

Her shoulders drop and her face smooths out, she drops to the ground with a small thud. “Good, she says with a sigh, “I was worried people hadn’t seen the email. The Regional Director is going to come out to make a statement at lunch. No one should have to speak if they don’t want to.”

“I appreciate it,” I say honestly, taking a sip of the coffee. There we go. Caffeine.

“It’ll be the first time he’s visited since I took over,” Blazer says, pushing a lock of hair behind one ear. “It’s amazing that it's for something positive.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Worried that the Z-Team would punt some rich actor’s kid into the hospital?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” Her chuckles quickly die off and Blonde Blazer stares at me.

“Do you think they’d do that?”

“I bet they wish they could.” I say, heading back to the cubicle. “The callers from yesterday wanting the team to move and rebuild their IKEA furniture were at least testing my patience.”

Blonde Blazer relaxes further and laughs. “Yeah, some of the subscriber requests are a bit minor. Buuut it helps keep the lights on.”

Her phone rings and she leaves with a wave of a hand. “Z-Team is in the gym. Let me know if you need me, yeah?”

Chase gets in as I take a seat and I shoot him a look.

“What do you know about the Regional Director?” I ask, mildly curious for some gossip before I went to line out the Z-Team. “He’s supposed to be stopping by today.”

Chase curses, getting my attention. “That no good shitstain’s coming here? Why? ”

“He’s going to speak about the capture of Brainteaser,” I say slowly, watching his expression. “What’s so bad about him?”

“Man’s a MBA moron with a hard on for Super Heroes. Wanting to build a Super Team to replace the Bold Brigade as LA’s regional Hero Team. He switches in and out heroes based on image, rankings, whatever he thinks would make the team better. Everyone else? Heroes who get hurt, go through shit, have problems? He swaps them out, and doesn't want their problems.”

Chase fully rants, eyes angrily pinched.

“Asshole hired me, thought he could get Trackstar on his fucking Super Friends team before he knew of my condition. Second he saw my grey hairs, he bumped me, didn’t want me ruining his precious team’s image. Then, when he was made Regional Director, he kicked a ton of heroes out of the Downtown location.”

“Asshole,” I said simply. “No wonder Blonde Blazer’s so frazzled about the visit.” A thought comes to mind.

“Should I warn the Z-Team about the visit?” I ask, “Try to have them play nice?”

Chase snorts. “I don’t think nice is even in their vocabulary. But if you can keep them tired, get them out of the office when he’s here. Do it. Motherfucker trades reputation and prestige over actual ability any day. He’d bring in Ex-Heroes that were ass at Dispatching or should have left the game altogether. But he kept them on, used them in advertising to get more contracts, fuck if we actually did a good job or helped anybody.”

I nod, my thoughts distant as I pet Beef. “You think he knows? About,” I lower my voice. “Mecha Man?”

Chase shakes his head. “That’s all under wraps. You said it yourself in that interview, you’re not retired yet. Only three people in the building know of that.”

I relax slightly. If we could keep our heads down today, it’d all blow over. “Thanks,” I say, standing up. “I need to go review with the Team, we’re moving to team exercises today.”

“What? Going to do trust falls? Knowing those fuckers, they’ll step on each other and push each other to the ground,” Chase snarks, opening his dispatch screen.

I laugh and grab the bag of supplies I had gathered under my desk before heading out.

“Try sushi places, they have a bunch of fish you could try feeding-”

The sentence dies off as I enter the gym. The entire Z-Team is there, talking quietly amongst themselves.

I pause in the doorway before continuing in. Sonar and Malevola are staring at me like they’d never seen me before. Golem, Flambae, Prism, all look like they're confused, as though I had told them something incredulous. The only two that seem normal are Waterboy and Invisigal.

Waterboy gives a hesitant thumbs up, Invisigal leans against the wall and calls out a lazy question.

“I heard you almost got kidnapped by a strange old man in a trenchcoat.” Invisigal said with a grin, “What did your Daddy never tell you not to talk to strangers?”

“Hello to you, too,” I say wryly. She had been quiet at the end of the movie. Leaving with a murmured, “See you at the office,” before invisibly leaving the theater. “Yeah, but the strange man didn’t have candy with him, just some shitty tricks.”

Her eyes narrow at me and I address the entire team. “Good morning. You’ve all been great with the spars and mock fights. Today we’re moving to an outside drill. Follow me, it's a bit of a walk.”

“Aww, I wanted to punch Wetboy,” Flambae snarks, eyeing the younger superhero who swallowed before, very obviously, trying to ignore Flambae, he follows me out of the gym with an exaggerated gait.

We attract stares, especially from the news crews still in the parking lot. They had finished their pieces and were now waiting around in the parking lot. Some of them eating an assortment of breakfast sandwiches and burritos.

I don’t glance their way at all as I take the team down the street.

SDN sat in a block of office buildings, with a good amount of them unoccupied. The additional office space has been unneeded or unwanted since the last economic slump.

SDN rented the parking lots as a training space, putting down a small deposit in case of any collateral damage to the structures. The pavement was cracked and cratered in many places.

The team watched me and whispered to one another, as I opened the bag over my shoulder and began to set up the course.

“This is just fucked up doge ball,” Sonar points out as I continue packing the fake civilian full of sandbags.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was cheap and got the point across. The civilian, a giant cloth bag shaped… kinda like a human. It looks a little closer to Golem than any of us. But if it got cut or any hard impact, sand would spill out the edges.

“This rescue drill,” I reemphasize, “Will test two things. First, for one of you, it will test your ability to carry and escort a civilian through a hazardous area. You will need to navigate uneven terrain while under assault from a variety of hazards. And two, teamwork and communication. You’ll need to work together with your partner to protect, defend, and navigate,”

I have each team assigned to a section of the course, Flambae and Prism at the front section, Punch-Up and Waterboy in the middle, and Sonar and Malevola at the end.

Golem and Invisigirl stand at the start, looking at the course with apprehension as I give them the fake civilian.

“For the hazard makers, you’re allowed to use your powers to trip, sabotage, and hinder them. Your goal is to practice your accuracy. For people whose powers don’t include any ranged attacks, there's a bucket of softballs to grab from.”

Punch-Up, Prism, and Sonar approach the bucket, taking a few each. Punch-Up chucks a ball into the ground with a solid crack of impact, examining the force of impact.

“The goal is not to maim or injure, it's to get the sandbag,” I say, giving a sharp look to Flambae, who is playing with a handful of fire, tossing it from one hand to the other.

I assessed the whole team, as they seemed engaged. I feel good about this exercise. This should be good for them.

“Everyone Ready?”

“Shit, fuck, fuck.” Invisigal swears, diving behind Golem, the fake civilian dragging her down. Fire splashes harmlessly against Golem’s dirt exterior. Prism is doing some kind of strobe effect, throwing softballs as she blinds her targets. Golem trudges forward, a mobile barrier that Invisgal dances behind, slowly moving through the course.

I stand at the end of the course next to Sonar and Malevola, watching as Invisigal tripped in a pothole, the sandbag dummy flying from her grasp.

“So how do you two know each other?” I ask the two, Golem stops to check on Invisigal. Softballs embedded into his body.

Sonar’s ears twitch as he registers the question, and the two exchange a look before looking at me.

“A cult tried to sacrifice him to me,” Malevola said with a shrug.

I blink.

“What, like a ritual sacrifice to a dark god? Cthulhu shit?” I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe a friendship born out of a gang connection or at the same club.

Malevola leers at me, demonic eyes burning, but it's Sonar who gives them away, his mouth twitching with amusement.

“Cut the shit,” I say, as Ivisigal and Golem move to the next section. Steam hissing off Golem as waterboy… spits massive loogies of water at them.

“Get it Waterboi! Go all Hawk Tuah on them!” cheers Prism.

He needed a better way to spray water. Hearing it gargle up his throat was… not a good sound.

“Ugh, fine,” Malevola says, drawing my attention. “There was a ritual, but a botched one. I was traveling around Cali, looking into places of evil. There was this sweet mansion in San Jose. Winchester House. Had a really cool haunting in its foundations. I was trying to draw out the power when-”

“When I fell into her ritual circle,” Sonar picks up. “Winchester House is a local attraction. I wandered in the private parts of the mansion, got lost. I may have been a little high,”

Malevola snorts and he continues, “Anyways, I fucked up some magic shit.”

His snout twitches as he turns to look at the course. Malevola gave him a pat on his back. “He absorbed the house's energy, the magic and it made him beastly. It was too much for his soul, so I’ve been following him around ever since to try and get it out. Fed off the energies when they grew too intense. Gave up five years back or so, it fused with his soul for too long.”

They both go silent and I blink at them. That just raised more questions. “And now… you’re both here?”

“Yeah, Silicon Valley underground wasn’t cool with me as a Bat, I didn’t make for a good front man anymore so they had me as the fall guy. Then some things happened,” Sonar says vaguely. Obviously not mentioning the 'some things'. Malevola nods, taking delight in the suspicious gaze I level at them.

Any other questions are cut off by Golem and Invisigal’s arrival to their portion of the course. Malevola summons a portal and stabs her blade through it, tripping up Golem. Sonar’s muscles bulge and shift and letting out a piercing cry as he lets his softballs fly, his monstrous form engaged.

It’s fast and brutal and Invisigal is on the ground glaring up at me as I give her my flattest stare.”So where’s the civilian?” I ask.

“I got it.”

Golem lumbers forward, his brow furrows and I have a half idea of what's about to happen before it happens.

The dummy is expelled from Golem’s body, coated in a layer of mud. I don’t look at it further, locking eye contact with Golem.

“Did you make an air pocket this time?”

Golem frowns at me.

“No…”

Sonar’s laughing at the two. “Dudes, you both got owned!”

I sigh, and then clap my hands, “Alright! Let’s rotate!” I call out. “Malevola, Sonar, you’re both up.”

Sonar stops laughing, Malevola smacks the back of his head.

We only get two pairs run through before we have to return to SDN for our actual Hero Shift. The Z-Team is quiet, sporting mud streaks, some light singeing, and soaking wet clothes as we trudge back into the building.

“That’s some brutal training for heroes who are supposed to be saving the people of Torrance today,” A voice speaks up, causing me to turn around.

My fucking luck.

Charles Kingsley walks towards me, looking at the back of the Z-Team as the door swings shut. “Charles Kingsley,” He says, reaching out a hand, “South Bay Signal, so what are you some kind of super trainer?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you,” I say, taking his hand, giving a firm shake. “And it's just some teambuilding exercises,”

His eyes rake over my form, taking me in. I try to shift my body language, look like your average office worker.

“You’re their Dispatcher. For this branch of the Phoenix Program.” he deduces.

I cross my arms, “And what if I am?”

“Your team’s been a menace to Torrance. House fires are up twenty percent, missing drugs from crime scenes, property damage, and destruction every day.”

I know what he’s doing. Fishing. Trying to get me to snap. Did this guy’s entire career contain just instances of pissing people off and then reporting the fallout?

“It was nice meeting you, Charles, but I need to get back to work,” I say, turning away from him.

“They say someone on the Z-Team caught Brainteaser,” He says before I can walk away from him. “Do you think any of them have the potential to replace Mecha Man? Defend us from actual threats? Or are they just going to get someone killed one of these days playing pretend hero?”

I pause at the question, was he just connecting Brainteaser to Mecha Man? Or.... I glance at his face, and then away.

His eyes were locked on me, my reaction. His face gave nothing away as he just watched and waited.

“... We at SDN Torrance do our best to live up to the promises that SDN makes to all community hosts. To best serve and protect the area. All our heroes are trained and ready to help anyone in need,” I say shortly, continuing to walk away from him.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he suspected. Maybe he cornered some other coworker in the parking lot. Maybe he was just guessing in the dark. But I knew one thing, Charles Kingsley was trouble.

And the less I could interact with him, the less he would get from me.

Chapter Text

The morning shift goes… as smoothly as it can for Torrance, California. A different team's villain fight goes wrong on the highway and the Z-team is tapped to pick up rubble. And that’s the most eventful call of the shift.

What isn’t as smooth is… the z-teams chatter.

“So Bobbert…. Do you like water?” Sonar asks.

“I drink it on occasion,” I say, distractedly, hacking a loading bay door to a warehouse that Invisigal and Sonar were supposed to be sneaking into. “Fuck yeah, you're in.”

“How about flying?” Golem asks.

“First class or coach?”

Wait.

“What’s with the fucking twenty questions?” I ask, looking suspiciously at the dispatch screen.

“Come on, guys, you all heard him weeks ago with the Lightning cuck thing. Ol’ Bobby doesn’t have powers,” Invisigal snarks as Sonar accesses the filing cabinet in the main office.

“Oh sure, because we’re all born fucking yesterday,” Flambae says, the wind distorting his voice as he flies back from a call. “Bobby doesn’t have powers, the old bank teller doesn’t have powers.” They all say that, but the second you ask for their wallet? Boom! Lazer vision or they turn into a cloud or some bullshit.”

I’m saved from having to respond when another call comes in. A cat ran onto the field during the Turtles game and they needed a hero to remove it.

I just finished sending the assignment to Malevola when Chase taps me on the shoulder.

“Blazer needs to speak with you in her office, asked me to end your shift.” He says with a grunt.

I blink. “Oookay,” I saw slowly.

If Blazer needed to speak with me, couldn’t she just message me? Or use her headset to communicate directly to me?

“Hey everyone, Chase is taking over dispatch, Blazer needs me for something.”

“Is it so you can read the mind of Brainteaser?” Is all I hear from Prism before I take off the headset and step away.

Chase switches his headset on and barks into the mic.

“Alright chucklefucks, we have exactly forty minutes left of this shift and I want to talk to you fucking morons as little as fucking possible. So shut up, get the work done, and maybe your sorry asses might actually be confused for hero’s by some senior citizen who's half blind.”

I can’t make out the response but I hear the volume pitch up as several overall ping voices fill the call.

I shake my head and pick up Beef on my way out, scratching his ears as I step into Blonde Blazer’s office.

“Hey, Chase says you need me for some-“

I trail off seeing the massive fruit bouquet, the green melon taking up the bulk of it.

“Phenomaman still sending you fruit baskets?” I ask, walking over and snagging a slice of pineapple.

“Oh this one isn’t for me,” Blazer’s voice is mixed, partial amusement and part… something. “This one was addressed to you.”

I stop chewing and look at her.

She holds a card and begins to read off it. “To, Robert Robertson, to cherish the start of our new relationship. Signed Phenomaman” she looks at me, eyebrows raised.

I almost dropped Beef. I do drop my pineapple.

RIP Pineapple.

“Okay, let me just say, it’s not what it looks like.” I say quickly. “I ran into him last night when leaving and we spoke about…”

About her.

"...About things. I offered to be his friend and help him find things to…”

Get over her.

“Make him happier. That’s all.”

“Robert, I get it, I’ve known Phenomaman for years, I know how literal he can be.” Blonde Blazer says with a chuckle, giving me a knowing look. “But he’s in the lobby and I really need him gone before the regional director arrives.”

I nod and go to turn before pausing. Blonde Blazers floating again, and her desk looks like it was staged professionally, chairs pulled out and pivoted to just the right angle. Pens in cup holders all lean the same way. A coaster under her coffee mug.

“I’ll take care of him here, watch Beef for me.” I say, giving her the dog. She stops floating as Beef looks up at her, locking eyes briefly before he wiggles up, tiny dog tongue licking her nose.

She lets out a surprised laugh. I leave, mentally preparing myself for Phenomaman.

“Robert Robertson!”

“Hey Phenomaman, what brings you by today?”

I get him to leave after he has me promise we’ll do something later in the week. I get his personal phone number and promise to call after work to set up a time. I’m left pondering as I watch him launch himself into the sky.

Maybe we’d just go to a sports bar. Could he get drunk? Or even drink alcohol?

I’m mulling over the mysteries of Phenomaman at the elevator when footsteps approach behind me. I glance behind and pause, an eyebrow raising as I take in the man crossing the lobby.

A blue SDN blazer and slacks and tailored to form fit the tall man with wavy blond hair. Blue eyes behind sunglasses peer down at me as we both wait for the elevator.

A moment passes, just long enough to make the silence awkward.

I turn away from him but feel his eyes on me as the elevator door opens.

So this must be the Regional Director.

We both step in and he speaks.

“I don’t recognize you.” He informs me.

Hello to you too.

“Robert Robertson, Dispatcher,” I say, offering him my hand.

He takes it, a little eagerly as he shakes it. ”And who were you?” He asks, eyes examining my face.

“Who was I?” I repeat.

“What did you do before SDN,” he clarifies, still searching my face.

Right, Chase had warned about this. Good thing I had my alibi jobs.

“I worked IT for TorranceFit, a gym chain.” I say, giving a small shrug.

…

“Oh… interesting…”

He drops my hand and straightens up, his eyes hidden behind his glasses now.

“Good to have you on board.” He nods at me, before turning and looking ahead, our interaction apparently done with.

The elevator opens and he strolls out without another glance.

I follow behind and quickly realize we’re both headed to Blonde Blazer’s office.

Nope. I did not want to interact with this man any further than I had to.

I increase my pace and quickly overtake him. I feel his gaze on my back as I quickly open the office door.

“Who's a good Beef? You are! You- your back!” Blazer quickly pivots, looking slightly embarrassed as she removes her face from Beef's fur.

“He’s here,” I say quickly, taking Beef from her arms. If I moved fast enough, I could -

She only has time to blink before a voice calls out behind me

“A dog?”

Damn, not fast enough.

Blazer starts a bit, and with a small amount of dread I step out of the doorway and the tall man enters the office. I didn’t think this would be a pleasant interaction to be a part of.

“Oh! Tim!” She says, moving forward to shake his hand.

Tim?

My eyes narrow slightly as the tall man, Tim, gives a gleaming smile and steps forward to shake Blonde Blazer’s hand.

“Blonde Blazer! You’re looking well and as blonde as ever!” He says cheerfully, shaking her hand.

Blonde as ever?

I watch the exchange with slight confusion. What did he mean by that?

Blonde Blazer sees my confused gaze and misreads it, speaking up, “Right, introductions. Robert, this is Tim Murphy, our Regional Director, he oversees all the Southern California Branches. Tim, meet Robert Robertson, our newest Dispatcher, he oversees the Phoenix Program. He’s also the one who brought in Brainteaser yesterday.”

Tim blinks, and then his entire body language shifts suddenly, his gaze warm, his smile open and inviting. He stops looking at me like I’m a curious new piece of furniture he didn’t remember and like I’m an actual person again.

“Robert, it is such a pleasure to meet you! I speak on behalf of all of SDN when we say we owe our gratitude to you for bringing in that awful supervillain. You know he’s killed sixty-seven people over the years here? He fought all three operators of Mecha Man!”

He doesn’t acknowledge the Phoenix Program at all.

Even if I hadn’t been warned about his two-faced nature, there was an uncanny effect to his smile, his speech. Like something was off, just slightly askew.

“I was just doing my job,” I shrug, trying to downplay and minimize myself as much as possible. “All of his questions were related to the calls earlier in the day, I just have a good memory.”.

“Nonsense, I’m sure yesterday was a harrowing experience for you. You were very brave!” He says like he’s speaking to a child, “And I’m sure when we have it typed up, our Subscribers would love to hear your perspective in the monthly newsletter. We can get a photo of you at your cubi-.”

“Oh, actually, I’m not that interested in sharing,” I say, interrupting him. “I’m just another guy in the office, kinda want to keep it that way.”

“Robert’s requested that SDN not mention his involvement in the incident to the public,” Blonde Blazer says as Tim goes quiet. It’s so uncanny, it’s like I can see his opinion of me rise and fall as he absorbs my words.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment and I exchange a glance with Blonde Blazer.

Her expression is tense, but for his response, not at his behavior. So this wasn’t anything new for Tim Murphy.

How awful for SDN and all the other Branch Managers.

Beef shifts in my arms, and although it's too quiet to hear, I feel the quiet vibration through his fury body, as Beef begins to lightly growl.

“Well then,” Tim says quietly, “Of course, SDN will respect the wishes of all its employees when it comes to our… public communication.”

He nods to himself, and then completely turns away from me, to give his full attention to Blonde Blazer.

“Blonde Blazer, we need to talk more about the Torrance Branch.” he announced, completely ignoring me.

Blonde Blazer starts, “-R-right. Thank you Robert for… thank you. If you could close the door on the way out?” She asks as she walks around to sit behind her desk.

I flee the awkward atmosphere and hear as I close the door Tim say, “I have some… concerns about policy and how it's-”

The door shuts and I hear no more.

Chase is at the desk, rubbing his eyes and muttering under his breath. I glance over his shoulder and wince. A delivery truck was overturned behind a grocery store. On the camera, Malevola, Sonar, Golem, and Punch-Up had elected to eat and drink the ruined food, instead of cleaning it up.

I put on my headset.

“How's the shift going, team?” I ask, ready for the onslaught.

“Robert, your band of demented idiots are the most distractable fucking toddlers I’ve ever had to share space with.” Chase fires, as Sonar pauses from tearing into a massive cut of ham.

“Roberto! Welcome back, Punch, Golem, Mal, and I are going to take lunch off-site today. That cool with you?”

I hide my grin from Chase as I watch Punch-Up start a trash fire, skewered hot dogs, and other ruined meats quickly placed over the growing blaze.

That seemed a good way to get microplastics in your system. I weigh the energy needed to tear hungry villains away from free food and quickly shoot off an external message. They reply quickly and I let the grin loose.

“Anything you all open and eat, you finish and clean up after yourselves.” I say, sending the address back. “ I just messaged a Food Pantry, they’ll send a truck after lunch, you’ll sort what can be saved for the Pantry, and clean up the rest.”

Golem cheers, throwing ruined tomatoes into his massive maw, while Malevola passes around dented energy drinks to each of them.

I watch them shotgun the energy drinks and reach for seconds before I click away. Morning shift completed and all other heroes returned to SDN.

“Thanks for covering,” I say to Chase. He rolls his eyes.

“Waterboy’s makes me feel like the service crapped out here. Thought we were losing coms until the others spoke up. I don’t know how you can put up with it.”

“It’s his second day Chase,” I laugh, stretching. “Give him some time.”

Chase tugs his headset off and glances over to me. “So how’d you take meeting the ex-Branch Manager for Torrance?”

I pause at that.

“Tim Murphy was the last branch manager for Torrance?” I ask, sitting up. “You didn’t mention this!”

“Didn’t I?” Chase asked, “Man ran this branch for eight fucking years before Blazer took over. His fucking Super-friends protected the La Brea Tar Pits when the school trips were trapped there during the Alien Invasion. Was the last stepping stone he needed to take them Downtown.”

He scowled into his coffee.

“Damn team was supposed to be across the highway from my fucking neighborhood. But he swapped them and rather than evacuate the kids, he kept them there, saying it was too dangerous to move them. Had to give the Downtown team some help because they didn’t know their way around Torrance. ”

He downed his coffee like he wished it was something harder and fixed me a look. “You’re safe for now, Robert, but when you get back in the tin can and Tim starts sniffing around, just remember that if he’s opening doors for you, it’s because he’s slamming them closed for five fucking others.”

I nod, glancing back to the door to Blonde Blazer’s office.

“Seems like it’s going to be an interesting day,” I say as the door opens.

Tim Murphy steps out and seems to survey the office, blue eyes scanning the room before meeting mine.

I lock my gaze with him, and mentally, at the back of the mind, I tick the guy up from annoyance to potential threat.

I guess what they say is true. Shit floats to the top.

Chapter Text

At lunch I try to go find Royd, if Tim didn’t know I was Mecha Man, then in theory the Lab would be the place to avoid him until the afternoon shift starts. I ride the elevator down to the basement, and step off only to pause, the yellow sign on the door catching me off guard.

Sub-Lab closed for repairs. No Access.

Well then.

I go looking for Royd, if the lab is “closed” then he’d be somewhere in the building.

I find him, unfortunately with with Tim, standing in the doorway to the Conference room.

Royd looked uncomfortable. Which I don’t think I’ve ever seen him uncomfortable. Despite his wide frame and height, he seemed just as upbeat and positive squeezed under the Mecha Man suit, seeing to some circuitry or welding a new segment together, or sitting in the break room, his hulking frame dwarfing the small chair that somehow supports his weight.

But he looked uncomfortable now, as Tim continued to talk animatedly with him.

“It’s just really great, you know? We need to showcase our successes with the Phoenix Program. And you’re the exemplary example. Again, the Downtown branch would love to-”

“Bit redundant,” I interrupt, because I really can’t stay out of trouble apparently, “An exemplary example. Suggests that there’s examples that aren't so exemplary… a bit of an oxymoron.”

Tim turns to observe me, “Well yes,” he admits, “There are some outcomes of the Phoenix Program that we want to avoid, outcomes that have unfortunately occurred in the past. Like the business with Coupe, for instance. You were part of that decision, were you not?”

I nod, putting my hands on my pocket. Open, relaxed, unassuming. “A hard choice to make,” I admitted, he smiles at the admission and pats Royd back.

“This one here, his stellar performance avoided that outcome.” Tim says boastfully, patting Royd back again. He’s not looking at Royd so he doesn’t see the tightening of the eyes that I see.

It’s wrong. Royd should be at home at SDN, getting his hands dirty with circuitry and electronics, logging villain tech, chatting with folks in the break-room. In motion, not… subdued. Tense.

Tim pats Royd back again.

“Applied directly for the Phoenix Program following his first misdemeanor, quickly rose up the rankings to be top five here at the Torrance Branch! Why couldn't we get him off the Z-team fast enough!” He said with a laugh.

The laugh cuts off, “Then he jumped into our Technology and Admin department, helping out with repairs and inventory. Left the field all together,” he says softly, “A real shame.”

He pats Royd’s back again and turns back to the conference room suddenly. Literally walking out of the conversation.

I tilt my head, considering Royd. “I think there’s a food truck that parks down the street, heard some good things from Chase, want to walk with me?”

I offer my fist.

Royd gives a weak smile and pounds it.

“Sounds good, Brother.”

“It wasn’t as easy as he keeps saying it is.” Royd said, after he had eaten half his burrito. It’s the first words he’s said since we left the parking lot. His face contemplative as he puts salsa on it meal. “I had a bad temper. I was young, I was angry, I would rage.” he squeezes his other hand tightly, the rest of the salsa packet splattering on and over the burrito.

“I was on tech restrictions, and wasn't allowed to go full mad scientist. I would get soo mad,” his eyes watch the red salsa, dripping down the burrito.

“What changed?” I ask, quietly eating my own burrito. “I couldn’t even imagine you being upset before today.”

Royd sighs and unclenches his hand. “One of the Z-Team from back in the day. Street Smart. Small time hustler who could hypnotize with her voice. Get her talking long enough and she’d scam everyone out of everything!”

He chuckled briefly before going quiet, his face solemn. “She was in the program, but her powers weren't towards the big flashy stuff. The big hero work. No strength, no speed, just half a trashcan in terms of power,”

“She got cut,” I say, filling in the gaps. Royd nodded.

“She hustled to look after her family. Looked after three younger brothers. Never had schooling or nothing. SDN was the first time she had a shot of an actual job. One to take care of the family.”

I mull over the scenario, “What happened to her?” I ask.

Royd shrugged, “SDN saved her from the gangs that she owed. When they cut her loose she went into hiding from them. Don’t know where she ended up.”

I polish off my burrito and consider Royd. The way his eyes shifted from the burrito to the roadside, tracking one of the cars driving down the street. I wasn’t fully sure… but I think he was lying to me.

I couldn’t tell what part, or what he was hiding. But the story went too vague after what he was telling me.

I take a long sip of the Horchata. That was fine. Everyone was entitled to their own secrets. Especially when it came to origin story shit. I knew that well enough.

“Sounds like she needed the job,” I say quietly.

“Damn, I need this job!”

I should reach out to STARS… see how Coupe was doing. I hoped she was doing well there. I had done the best for her at the time… but maybe there was more I could do? Especially if it was someone like Tim leading the Southern California District of SDN.

I’m torn from my musings when Royd speaks again.

“Its why I get so… angry when Tim comes in and tries to hold me up at the success of the Phoenix Program.” Royd explains, taking a final bite of his burrito. “I’m proud of what I did, but I’m not special. Other people in the program also need help. Deserve the recognition. And some of them had it way way harder than me,”

I nod as we approach the building again. “The Phoenix Programs important,” I say opening the door for him, “It’s for everyone who wants a second shot of using their Powers and need a fresh start.”

Royd points at me, “Exactly brother! Exactly. That’s why I love working at SDN, I get to help them out! And I get to play with new tech!”

I laugh, “And you do great work with the new tech,” I say, amused as we walk across the parking lot.

We quiet down as we see a camera crew, Reporter in front, mic in hand as she speaks with Tim Murphy.

“-ything you can tell us about the Dispatcher behind the capture of Brainteaser? There are rumors that they were a retired hero.”

“All our Dispatchers are highly qualified and capable individuals. While some utilize skills, talents and powers that they bring in from previous jobs, I can confidently say that every Dispatcher at SDN is more than capable to solve a few riddles and word puzzles.”

Tim’s eyes meet mine briefly before he blinks and gives the reporter a grin.

Royd and I pass through the entrance and I let out a small sigh and mutters, “What an asshole.”

Royd grins and offers me his fist as we walk to the stairs. “You said it brother.”

Tim leaves during the second shift and the rest of the day flies by.

The Trash Fire lunch ends up imploding on the team, giving all except Golem food poisoning. Punch-Up, Malevola, and Sonar spend the last hour and a half in the bathrooms. Thankfully, the call volume’s low today, leading to a quiet end as the last assignment, hunting down someone’s son who took their car out for a joyride, is closed out.

“Even when it's a quiet day, it feels a long bad one when that motherfucker comes around,” Chase remarks, scratching Beef’s haunch vigorously causing his back legs to twitch. “Can’t be glad enough he’s outta Torrance now,”

I hum in agreement as I flip through the management book I had checked out from the library. I’m skimming it, skipping the extra pages of explanations, reinterpretations, and backstory that justified the page count and the materials to print it.

The core theory was interesting, by building up processes and defining what kind of outcomes were positive, you could drive your entire team's thought process without having to micromanage.

It all centered around some kind of central process to hand it all off of. A project tracker, sales targets, or a weekly meeting. I cast my mind to the Z-team. What process would speak to each of them equally? Give them equal buy in?

“Mr. Robertson?” I sigh and look up from the book. Prism’s there, stance wide, and hands on her hips, the most aggressive body language paired with the most polite tone.

“Yes, Miss. Prism?” I ask as she shifts her weight to one side.

“I just had a question… are you going to be giving out stickers again this week?”

I stare at her, flatly. She’s serious. Fuck. She’s serious.

“For people who embody all the traits of being a hero… such as not sabotaging their teammates, and working to minimize damage to life and property damage,” I say carefully, making eye contact behind her aggressive sunglasses.

She mulls over the words for a moment before nodding. “Thank you,”

As she walks away I look back at the book. A central proce-

I close it and throw it into my bag with mild disgust. It looks like my central process was already decided for me.

Sticker powered self improvement.

Lovely.

That night, I call Kyla. I get her voicemail, but I ask for any update she had on Coupe. After signing off the message, I stare at my phone for a moment… then it dings, a new message.

HELLO ROBERT BOBERTSON

Another ding.

ROBERTB OBERTSON

Another ding.

ROBERT. ROBERTSON.

Another ding.

ARE YOU STILL UP?

Fuck this noise. I call him.

“HELLO ROBERT ROBERTSON!” He booms into the phone.

Fucking ow. I put him on speakerphone and walk into my kitchen, searching for some food.

“Hey Phenomaman, how's it going?” I ask, taking a handful of dry cereal and eating it.

“After we spoke, I went and watched the tide come in at the beach.” He informs me.

“That's…nice. So are you wanting to hang out right now?”

“I have nothing else to do with my life.”

I pause. “Sure you do! You have… You can….”

I sigh.

“Want to go to Santa Monica Pier?” I ask, going to put my pants back on.

Evening with a depressed Phenomaman… What could go wrong?

The pier was full of families, laughing, screaming on the roller-coaster, a buzz of life and humanity…

Except for the two depressed middle-age heroes at the end of the pier.

“What about the Dodgers? Baseball! Have you ever seen a game?”

“They hit a ball out of the stadium once. I caught it and brought it back. They were not happy about that for some reason,”

We had split a pretzel, nachos, and I now watched as he morosely bit into cotton candy, the pink sugar sticking to his facial hair.

“Okay, let’s try a different angle. What do you like about living on earth?”

Phenomaman doesn’t turn his face, his eyes watching the light reflect off the ocean waves below us.

“It felt nice to not be alone. And to do things that seemed remarkable to you weak humans."

He turns around and takes in the sight of the pier, the rides, the shops, and everyone walking around and having a great evening.

“It feels nice to see all these connections. Family bonds, friendship bonds. My people are not as expressive as what is here on earth,” he says wistfully, and I see more joy in his eyes than before, even if it’s tinted with melancholy.

He sighs and turns back to the water. “But it is not for me. Blonde Blazer does not want me.”

I awkwardly pat his back, “Listen… that's a problem a lot of humans go through when they're young. When they define themselves by their relationship. Like you did.”

I turn out to the ocean, “It never ends well because it’s an uneven relationship, expectations, ideas, sense of self. They put all of that on one person. When that’s not the point of a relationship. That stuff is built by friendship, community, bingeing cheesy action movies. A relationship should complement all that stuff, not replace it.”

Phenomaman is staring at me now, and I give him an earnest smile. “You need to build up who you are. And there’s so much you can use to do that.”

There’s a light in his eye and I think I finally got through to him when…

“Do all human youth go through this? They’ve felt what I’ve felt?” A note of growing horror in his voice.

I stutter. “I mean… sometimes older, sometimes younger, but yeah, to some degree. We all learn that lesson eventually,”

“That’s…” he takes a deep breath in, “horrendous.”

I blink. What?

“For each of your young to feel this soul-crushing sadness, this abyss of despair….” He turns and looks back at the pier, a determined look on his face.

“I must warn them.”

What?

I open my mouth but before I can say anything, do anything, he flies off, towards the Ferris wheel.

“Youth of California! Reject intimacy! Only pain awaits you!”

“Oh fuck,” I say, quickly finishing the big pretzel as people call out in alarm. He goes from carriage to carriage on the Ferris wheel, breaking up couples and loudly proclaiming the ‘trap’ of relationships.

Phones are out, recording.

Fuck. I made him an incel.

I throw away the trash and head after him, calling up at him.

“Hey Phenomaman? How about we not harass these people just trying to have a good time? Let’s keep talking on the ground?”

It takes half an hour to get him to stop. In that time, photos are taken, videos, people yell insults and throw food at the superhero ruining people's evening, and even as I get him to stop flying and come down to talk to me, a SND superhero arrives. Someone called in and complained to the night shift.

“Oh, just my luck, hey Phenomaman.”

I look over Phenomaman’s profile, recognizing the large green reptile heading towards us.

Sweetalker, another one of SDN’s downtown heroes.

He has a forced smile to match Phenomaman's as he joins us.

“Sweetalker! It is good to see you! How have you been?”

“Eh, I got assigned the night shift, so I'm missing out on my beauty sleep this week. I was in the middle of binging some Super Housewives when the call came in about a certain bearded superhero harassing teenagers?” He says, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

Phenomaman points to me of all people, “I was spreading the insights that my new friend Robert Robertson imparted to me, how relationships in youth are terribly destructive things to be avoided.”

Sweetalker’s eyes shift to me and I see his reptilian eyes turn assessing, judging.

“That can’t be your real name.” He stated flatly. “And you shouldn’t go putting ideas into his head and winding him up for your amusement.”

I sigh, “Robert Robertson is my name, and that’s not what I said.”

I turn and lift up a hand. Counting off my points.

“One, I said a lot of first time relationships are unbalanced because some people use the relationship to substitute a personality and social life.” I say exasperatedly.

“And second, Phenomaman, like I was saying before our green friend here arrived, if you want to help people, being an example as a hero would be a lot more effective than yelling at people out on dates.”

Sweetalker pauses and assesses me, eyes landing on the scars crossing my hand as I lower it.

“…who are you?” He eventually asks, when he can’t get any other information from studying my body language.

“Robert Robertson, SDN Dispatcher, Torrance Branch,” I reply dutifully, holding out a hand.

I had known of Sweetalker. The friendliest reptile on the West Coast. Beyond super strength and, super… lizard powers, Sweetalker was incredibly charismatic. He was the one they sent on the talk shows, had cameos in television and movies, and helped maintain SDN's image in California.

He’d even been picked for some of SDN's global missions, a corporate face to large hero assemblies against worldwide threats.

In a podcast a while ago, he had described his charisma as just being ‘super simple to read human body language and intent’. Something in his lizard brain cataloging everything from our facial tics to the pheromones in the sweat we humans gave off. His quotes, unfortunately, were echoed in the pickup artist scene, leading to several retractions, clarifications, and eventual avoidance of the topic since then.

I have no idea what he’s getting from me, but he shakes my hand gingerly. Eyes still on mine.

“Another dispatcher, huh? Is Phenomaman on your team now?”

I shake my head, “No, just trying to help out another hero,”

His head tilts, still examining me.

“What team do you oversee?”

“Z-team, Phoenix program,”

“Blonde Blazer’s branch,”

“Yep.”

He doesn’t say anymore. I glance at Phenomaman, having to do a double-take as I see his expression.

He’s watching the moon. Crying.

“This Q and A has been fun and all but I think it’s time for Phenomaman and I to call it a night. Come on, big guy. Time to go.”

Phenomaman starts, quickly wiping his face, “You are right, Robert Roberson, we should be off.”

And without asking or saying anything, he picks me up into a bridal carry, and flies us off, away from Sweetalker.

“That was a bit rude of us,” I remark, watching the green dot quickly vanish from sight.

“Apologies, Robert Robertson,” Phenomaman says slowly as we quickly fly inland. “Sweetalker and I… do not synergies well. He is used to reading the body language and emotions of humans, and I am not human.”

I sigh, looking at the streetlights passing before us. “It's all good, Phenomaman, not every hero’s going to get along with every other hero.”

Phenomaman glances down at me. “I forget that you too fought the forces of darkness. Your small and weak form makes me see you as a civilian. One who is not used to cooperation,” He pauses after a moment's thought, “or a politician.”

“Are those the three categories of humans?” I ask, amused. “Politician, civilian, and superhero?”

Phenomaman shrugs. “That is the best that I have been able to ascertain,”

I sigh and take in the heartbroken superhero carrying me.

He’s skewed, naive as hell, and has years of apparently failing to integrate into human society. He needed a full introduction.

“Listen, Phenomaman, humans don’t categorize themselves like that.”

He listens as we fly, asking the occasional question as we pass over neighborhoods, commercial districts. We detour around the airport and earth as a plane comes in for a landing.

I talk and talk the entire way, and when I recognize the neighborhood I slow down.

Phenomaman’s expression is complex, deep in thought. His arms shift and I think he’s going to set me down.

Instead, he hugs me.

Hard.

Again.

“Thank you Robert Robertson, it is clear that I still have much to learn about living on this planet.”

“Great, I wheezed, “now could you let me go?”

…

The motherfucker drops me.

...

Granted, he catches me fifty feet down, but still, my adrenaline spikes as my lungs heave for air.

“Apologies, Robert Roberson. I am used to hugging Blonde Blazer who can fly. You cannot.”

No shit.

It’s when I get home and try to change out of clothes that I feel my keys and pause.

“Ah.”

I had driven to Santa Monica pier.

Chapter Text

“So how was your date with Phenomaman, you get to second base?” Chase asks, taking Beef from my hands while I’m stunned by his question. 

I groan, “How viral is it?” I ask wearily, setting down my bag. I had suspected given the... everything the night had turned into. 

Chase chuckles and pulls up a news website, an image of me shouting at Phenomaman as he keeps pace with a roller coaster as it goes through a loop, the faces of the riders blurred as he shouts warnings to the riders. 

The shots are ridiculous, me looking more like I’m calling after my dog than another person. I can only be thankful that my jacket covers the SDN logo and my hands cupped around my mouth obscures most of my face. 

I don’t even read the headline or the article itself. I didn’t sleep well after my sudden skydiving experience and another bruising hug from Phenomaman. I just grab my mug and head to the break-room. Chase follows at a leisurely pace. 

“Jury’s still out on if you’re the reason Phenomaman and Blonde Blazer broke up, his secret side piece, or if you’re the rebound,” Chase says, scratching under Beef’s chin as I enter the break-room. 

Galen is there, and he offers a nod as he takes a sip from his mug, backing away. “Two of the teams have a running bet, odds are currently five to one that you’re the side piece,” he informs me. 

I blink at him for a moment, before recalling his Super Hearing. I’d need to be a bit more mindful of that going forward when at the office. 

“Hate to ruin the pot, but there’s nothing other than two friends hanging out.” I grouse to him as I fill up my mug. 

There’s a commotion in the corner and we turn to look at Maskot who had slammed their hand on the table, destroying their Twinkies. They quickly stand and exit the break-room under our gazes. 

“They had fifty bucks on there being some dirt.” Galen explains. 

“As if there weren’t enough rumors floating about the office about me,” I sigh, taking a sip of the coffee. Bliss. 

"So how’s Phenomaman’s dick?” Asks Invisagal sarcastically as the Z-team and I continue to head to the obstacle course I’d set up the day before. 

“Yeah! Was it Phenomamal?” Prism asks, fist bumping Flambae as the other Z-Team members cackled and laughed. 

“Yeah, phemomamazing” I shoot back dryly. “We’re turning up the level today, Golem, Punch-up, Invisi, the three of you will rotate on the center section of the course,” 

I take out a piece of chalk and start drawing a square in the middle section. 

“You’re not allowed to leave the square, but when the Hero comes running, it’ll be your job to stop them, using every means at your disposal.” 

“And how the fuck am I supposed to do that? I’m like, barely a dent on your stupid dumpster scale,” Invisigal snarks, eyeing the square with apprehension. 

I open my mouth to snark back before I pause. 

“Barely a dent?” I ask, looking at her.

Her gaze transfers to me, not losing their cautiousness. 

I ponder her a moment. She was Super, so she had powers… “Can you run to the end of the course and back? As fast as you can?” I ask, crossing my arms. 

“Why?” she fires back instantly, planting her feet.

“Because running is good for you,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “You being at half dent doesn’t make any sense.” 

Invisagal rolls her eyes with a quiet, “Whatever,” before zipping off, sprinting to the end and back. Without ducking projectiles or lugging around a heavy sand dummy, it takes her maybe thirty or forty seconds. Much faster than if a baseline human like me tried to run it. She’s no Track Star, but she could cover serious ground when she needed to. 

It was something I noted on my second or third day. When she went on calls alone, she moved faster, covering ground and completing the assignment in record time compared to when she was moving with others. 

I stroke the patchiness I occasionally call a beard as I surveyed her, breathing heavily, but not out of breath on her return. An idea building in my mind.

“Did you punch or kick the dumpster?” I ask. 

“Punch,” she says, taking a puff from her inhaler. She holds the breath for a moment before letting out a low exhale. “Why?” 

I snap and point at her, “That’s why. Do you train your upper body at all? Push ups or boxing exercises or anything?” 

“No, the powers take care of fitness,” she says with a shrug, before pausing. “Oh come on, you’re saying I don’t have super strength because I skip arms and shoulders at the gym?” 

I chuckle, “Your ‘powers’ are just a strength multiplier, that little dent is what happens when you take noodle arms and multiply it by one hundred.” 

I raise three fingers, lowering them with each of my statements. “There’s three kinds of strength enhancement that superpowers offer. First is full on transformation, magic girls, mantles of gods and spirits. Or built constructs. Their power is granted to them by an outside source and their strength limit is set by that source.” 

A lot of people saw them as ideal heroes, but in practicality, it made them incredibly rigid. They had a static skillset and, while they could hone things like accuracy or creative applications, they had a hard strength level limit. 

Granted, most of those limits were well outside the reach of a majority of other powers, but they were limited in their growth as Heroes. 

One of my notes for Golem was to identify if he was this type of construct. Did his strength come from whatever magic or powers animated his form? Or was it influenced by his strength of mind and will, able to add and control more and more dirt and mud added to his mass? 

“Second is augmentation and multiplication,” I say, gesturing to Flambae, Prism, and Invisagal and Punch-Up. “Enhancing parts of you while also granting a stronger resilience and durability to handle and utilize your powers. This can be trained, strengthened, but at your base, you're still human.” 

A majority of heroes fell into this category. Their limits and constraints were determined by their bodies and physical states. They could strain and get stronger or get sick and grow weaker. Humans, just super. 

“And third, non-humans, aliens, demons, whatever. Completely different baseline.” He said, gesturing to Malevola. “Their powers are inherent parts of who and what they are.”

The team sits there, introspective… 

For all of two seconds before Punch-Up ruins it. 

“So you’re telling me the lass just has no mass on her,” Punch-Up summarises, amused as he looks at her. 

Invisigal crosses her arms, a scowl on her face. “I can still punt your ass into next week,” she informs Punch-Up. 

I see Prism and Sonar prepared to toss out some other insult and add fuel to the fire so I raise my voice. 

“Now that story time is done, I’m not finished with how we’re switching up the obstacle course,” I announce, reaching into my bag. 

Their leering gazes quickly turn cautious, and then upset as I take out my secret weapon. 

“That better not be fucking bitch ass paint in those balls,” Prism says lowly as she stares at the paintball gun I hold in my hands. 

“Dyed corn starch, washes out with water,” I say, throwing a pair of goggles around my neck. “Same scenario, but in addition to a melee challenge, there’ll be a sniper shooting from across the course. Sonar, Malevola, you’re up first, everyone except Golem, same places as yesterday.” 

I turn and walk off, hearing the Z-team scuffle, banter, and shout insults as they get into position. 

“You two punks are going to get wrecked!” crowed Flambae, lighting both hands. 

Sonar responds by transforming into his beast form. 

Oh yeah, this was a great way to focus them on training.

“I swear to my momma Bobby, if this shit doesn’t wash out and I have to go looking like the fucking spotted cat from Dr. Seuss, then I’m blinding your ass.” Rants Prism as we enter the SDN parking lot. 

“I don’t see why you're complaining, you were the best at avoiding my shots, “ I say, not turning around as I lead the team back inside. My goggles still on my face. They were tinted against UV and apparently helped resist the strobe light effect Prism had tried to utilize to blind me and throw off my aim. 

It was true, too. Prism had used her light clones, her hard light shields, and stayed mobile for most of it. 

It was only by taking a shot when Punch-Up had gotten her into a leg lock that I was able to graze her shoulder. The bright orange smear stands out on her darker uniform. 

Barring any surprises, I’d have to… eugh… give her a sticker for it on Friday. 

“What about Golem?" Invisagal asks, "He didn't get any marks on him!" I meet her expectant look with a flat gaze. 

“Absorbing the paintballs doesn’t count as avoiding them. They could easily be explosive rounds out in the field,” I say shortly, climbing the stairs to the office. 

“Damn, he's right,” Golem says behind me.

A few heads swivel and turn to track me. Mild interest in the goggles and paint gun, while others look at the Z-team as they break away, headed to the Hero lounge on the ground floor. 

“I’d ask a question, but I realize I don’t fucking care,” snarked Chase as I took my seat. 

“Okay then, I won’t invite you out with me next time I go shooting Z-Team members,” I say lightly as I boot up my console. 

“Now hold on, Robert, I’m old, not dead, you got to cut me some of that action! You gotta let me shoot their dumbasses,” he exclaimed, poking his head over the cubicle wall. 

I smirk and take a sip of coffee, slipping my headset on. 

“Alright people, brand new day, let's make it a good one,”

"It’s already a bad one,” groaned Prism. “My shoulder is wet.” 

“I can dry it out,” Flambae offers.

“And shrink the fabric? Bitch, you crazy?” 

The shift is unremarkable outside of a runaway parade balloon that gets free of a grand opening party for a steakhouse near the airport. We ended up needing most of the team as the subscriber apparently didn’t want the balloon deflated or damaged. So Golem ends up pulling several tons of drag and wind resistance while Sonar and Flambae help with positioning and moving it out of the way of landing aircraft. 

At lunch, I go to visit Royd. With the Regional Director gone, the sign was gone and the lab was open once more. I help him test the insulation on some of the wiring. The fluctuations in the Proto-pulse overload a few secondary systems. It’s mind-numbing work, re-examining the circuitry and replacing sections, inventorying the damage. To liven it up, we spend the time spitballing. 

“I’m telling you! Ballistic Inventory! Missiles, bombs, low-impact explosions, and flash-bangs. It rounds out your inventory, perfect brother!” 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s useful if I spend it up each fight.” I argue back from inside the chassis. “Full bombardment will cover what, two minutes? Three? Whatever goes into the suit, the suit needs to potentially keep me going for a month or longer! Net launchers, cheap, reusable, and play the same role of medium to long range distraction.” 

“Robbie, you're thinking too small, think about the energy level! We’re updating the circuitry, the processors, servos, everything with top of the line tech. Even the new alloy is going to be at least a third lighter. You’re going to have energy to spare, my friend!” 

I poke my head out of the front, the chest piece and chair removed as I stare out at him, squatting in Mecha Man’s chest cavity. 

“Energy doesn’t account for base materials.” I retort. “Maybe we can add some lasers or energy blasters, but rockets are energy and material.” 

Royd grins at me, grabbing something off the shelf. “You're forgetting Einstein my friend, mass is energy! And with this, it’ll be no problem!” 

I reach out and take the odd mechanical cylinder from his hand. It’s big, like… a bulky ice chest, big brass rings along the top and bottom with different pipes running across the thing, making it look like a section of miniaturized distillery. One side has a small handle that when pulled opens it up. I turn it over with both hands, feeling its weight.

“What am I looking at here Royd?” 

“This is from The Steam Punk, coffee-themed villain. Super genius who did not get hired after college. Started going around with coffee-flavored coffee explosives to all the tech companies in California.” Royd explains, using one of his holographic displays to showcase a green and gold costumed young man driving a beat-up car on the freeway, tossing coffee cup-sized canisters out the window as he drives down a busy highway. 

The canisters bounce a few times before exploding, and the smoke clouds a tan brown. 

“That is how he did it, energy to matter converter, generating up to six different preprogrammed designs. He hooked it up to his car so it could continuously generate bombs while he drove away from the cops.”

I continue to watch the screen as a figure lands in front of the car, large and wide shoulders. Coffee bombs shoot forward and the figure tanks them, beginning to charge forward. The car is just about to collide when Royd turns off the feed. 

“I was watching that,” I protest as he takes the machine back from me.

He holds it up with one hand. Gesturing with the other. 

“We take this, streamline and install it right behind your jet boosters. It’ll take any residual power and refill your inventory. Might be a cool down between bombardments, but if you have downtime, brother, you’ll be running full load out every day!” 

“And you know how to do that?” I ask with a grin. 

“Brother, say the word and it’s done today,” he says, waving a hand. “Let Royd make Mecha Man more mecha!” 

I laugh, his enthusiasm infectious, and nod along. 

It was a completely different experience, talking shop with Royd like this. Tech-based heroes were highly protective of their secrets; you had to be, given that super villains, vigilantes, and corporate spies were more than happy to try to copy or analyze your tech. 

If it wasn’t for SDN’s Hero Privacy Policies and the promise Robert had gotten from Blonde Blazer and Royd that all schematics and design documents related to Mecha Man would stay at the Torrance Branch, it wouldn’t be possible. 

Of course, repair jobs had happened in the past. Co-support during the Alien Invasion, tech sharing, and integration when someone broke the timeline the time before that. (Or was it after that? My memories are too fuzzy of the whole affair.) But I’d never had anyone else work on the suit with me. 

Bounce ideas off of. Debate pros and cons. Split the workload with. 

Is this what it would have been like if my Father didn’t die?

It was nice. 

“How’s it going?” whispers Blonde Blazer, causing me to start in my seat. I finish assigning Prism to a dog walking assignment and mute my mic. 

“Good except for the jumpscare just now,” I sigh and look back at the screen. The afternoon shift is going smoothly, with the most exciting being Malevola and Invisigal’s capture of a carjacking gang. And Flambae’s chase of a mugger through an Asian market that was still ongoing. The Mugger was hiding somewhere in the backrooms,  “What brings you out to the cubicles?”

“I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit, it can get a little cramped watching teams all day,” Blonde Blazer says with a wave of her hand. “But I figured while I was walking, we could talk about dinner?” 

“Sure,” I say easily, taking in Blonde Blazer’s body language. She’s floating. 

“There’s a pasta place nearby, that is, if you like pasta,” she rushes out. I have no time to respond before she continues, “Or there’s a burger place nearby, or a taqueria, and I think a-”

“I know what food is in California,” I say amused, “Pasta sounds great,” 

I think Blonde Blazer’s face grows slightly pink behind her mask as she lets out a laugh, “I’m sorry, guess I’m just a little nervous,” 

She looks at me, and I raise an eyebrow. I’m not sure what she sees, but she seems to make a decision and opens her mouth to say something. 

Whatever it is is lost as a loud boom of something impacting the ground outside the building draws everyone’s attention. 

With a room of mostly retired superheroes, we all react quickly, hurrying to the window to peer outside. 

“Oh, of course it’s one of mine,” I groan, as the entire office building looks down on Flambae. He’s coated in… something, red and brown dust falling from his hair and outfit, he stumbles to his feet just in time to let out a massive sneeze. 

“Achoo!” 

Flames curl forward and set one of the trees on fire. Oh no. 

“Achoo!” 

Another tree. Shit. 

I turn and run back to my terminal. Waterboy had just gotten back not too long ago. I grasp my headset and speak into it, holding it next to my face. 

“Waterboy, we need you outside the SDN office on the lawn, Flambae’s got a sinus problem and it's burning down all the trees everyone eats lunch under,”

“Does he have a pollen allergy? I have a spray for that,” Punch-Up chimes in.

I sigh and turn back to the window. “Something like that,” 

I check my dispatch screen for any new calls before returning to the window next to Chase and Blonde Blazer. 

“I think it's fucking Chinese Five Spice,” Chase says, watching as Waterboy and Flambae attempt to put out the fires. "Burns something bad when it gets up your nose,"

Other heroes trickling out in curiosity, either to help or to watch. Some hero that I don’t recognize uses a frost breath and freezes a tree solid. 

“That can’t be good for the cherry blossoms,” I comment, watching as the other trees are left cut, frozen, or blackened. “Do we have some plant-powered Super on contract to help repair the foliage?” I ask, glancing over to Blonde Blazer. 

Her expression startles me and I turn to stare at her fully. “Blazer?” I ask. 

Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly open, one hand outstretched as though she was about to touch the glass, frozen. 

“Hey,” I say concerned, touching her shoulder, “Are you alright?” 

“Oh! Umm… no, yes! Yes I’m fine,” she says with a jump, she lets out an awkward laugh and steps back from the window. “No, we don’t have anyone on call for the trees… I’ll need to call someone…” 

She begins to float off the ground as she rubs an arm and looks away, eyes trailing back to the destruction outside. 

“I’ll talk to Flambae,” I say seriously. I don’t why the damage to the trees was impacting her so deeply, but I needed to try and make it right and take responsibility as his dispatcher. “We’ll set up a decontamination area or something for next time,” 

“Right, sounds like a plan,” she says distractedly, “I’ll try and get someone to come look at the trees… probably tomorrow,” Her sentence ends dejectedly and before I can ask her anything she floats away.

I glance at Chase, “What do you think that was about?” 

Chase looks pained for some reason and glares at me, “The young are fucking idiots,” he informs me. 

I glance back outside, where Waterboy had oversaturated the grass, and the footsteps of all the superheroes had made it muddy. He’s trying to help Flambae up, but they both keep slipping due to Waterboy’s body constantly emitting moisture. 

I chuck, heading back to my desk, “Yeah they are,” 

Chase bunches the bridge of his nose and looks up towards the ceiling with a sigh. 

Alright, one hour left in the shift, then it’d be end of day. Dinner time. 

Woo.

Chapter Text

I’m the foundation, the stable rock for the people around me and those who work under me. I took over when Tim Murphy abandoned the Torrance Branch for his new Director role, that dick. My face is on half of the buses in LA as part of SDN’s women empowerment month, and, up until this month, I was part of America's “top ten superpower couples”. Couple number eight, Phenomaman and Blonde Blazer, is the living proof that corporate heroes were just as real as any other. 

And it’s all such …crap! 

Like that, there. I can say crap, but I can’t say the other word.  The word, bullshit. I can’t say that word, or fuck, or shit, or damn, or just say no. 

I joined SDN Young. I had messed up, flattened two stories of the parking garage during some film awards ceremony. Lots of angry, lawyer-happy actors, actresses, and directors, and enough cameras to capture every inch of my naive 20-year-old expression as they outlined what kind of recompense they expected from me. 

It’s “Super Blonde Blunder” if you want to look up the videos on the incident. 

SDN was my way out. Insurance, hero protections, and a mentorship program. I ended up under a hero named Track Star, an original member of the Brave Brigade, and had been a hero for ten years longer than myself. He took me under his wing and taught me everything. How to lead, to reassure, to use humor and friendliness to disarm, inspire, and befriend. 

He was a real hero… and SDN ignored him. There was some drama, office politics at play, our Branch Manager, Tim, was a real dick. 

Anyways, I’m getting distracted. In short, outside of one massive fuck up, my entire career has been with SDN. My global defense assignments were coordinated under SDN contracts, all my team-ups and partnerships were with SDN heroes. Even my relationship, my… ex Phenomaman. We were paired up by our superiors. Encouraged to grow closer together and hang out after work. 

“Good for our careers,” they said. 

Again, Tim was a huge dick. 

I’m getting distracted again. In short, SDN and I are almost inseparable in the minds of people. When they think of the company on the West Coast, they think of Blonde Blazer, there with another smile and a corporate-approved line about safety or personal responsibility. 

And it’s a lie. SDN says its mission is to enable heroes to save the day and protect life and property, but it can’t. It’s a company. Its goal is simply to make a profit and sell an idea. The ideas of heroes and security. 

I didn’t realize. I took corporate workshop after corporate workshop. Public speaking, active listening, motivational speech craft, and basic first aid. I was the poster girl of success for SDN. Top fifty Superheroines who Save, keynote speaker for the STARS fundraiser in 2021.

When I took the Branch Manager position at Torrance, I was excited. Finally, someone who had been in the field was in control. Who understood what heroes needed to be successful. Tim transferred his star favorites to the downtown branch, creating a personnel gap. I did a lot of good in those first few months. 

Restructuring the budget so each team had company funds based on their successful missions, transferred some field staff, like Royd and Chase, to administrative roles, and hired new faces, based on their actual skills and expertise, not just their reputation. 

Lana from the mailroom? She’s a refugee from intergalactic war. She could be a psychic hero, but her fundamental skills are in logistics and information systems. She runs our mailroom now! 

Tim would have forced her into the field if he had hired her at all. 

But then… the first monthly call with corporate started, and I realized that while I had trained to be the perfect hero… I didn’t know poop about corporate and office culture. 

Shit... Sorry. 

Conversations about metrics and revenue, KPI’s and ‘social capital’. Meetings and reports all seemed to suggest that, even if you saved everyone and responded to every call, it still wasn’t enough; you needed more.

And with half the budget. 

I tried to keep up, taking hours of online training and attending conferences on “developing leaders.” However, everything I learned just seemed to make my job harder. Field heroes looked at me like I was speaking a different language; goals set for Dispatchers, things that were reasonable and logically outlined in every training, seemed unreasonable and frustrated them.

I fixed the Branches problems, but at that time, we dropped four rankings. Other branches' metrics rising above ours.

The worst of it was the Phoenix Program. At the recommendation of one of the other Branch Managers, I copied their model and shifted the program to one team. It was supposedly intended to reduce costs, boost efficiency, and facilitate bonding and peer-to-peer support as each Z-Team member developed into their own hero. 

It was chaos. 

Retired police captains, case management workers, and motivational speakers; each Dispatcher assigned either immediately requested a new team or quit outright. 

It did bring up the metrics of the other teams, but the Z-Team became my biggest headache. The coffee stain on my desk. 

“Blazers Blonde Blunder- From A to Z” was the six-month retrospective that the Bone Zone did. Four hours examining everything that had gone wrong since I took over the Torrance Branch.

That’s where… Robert came in. 

To be honest, I had never seen or worked with Mech Man directly. However, his presence was as integral to the LA area as Hollywood or the Dodgers were. There’s the sign up on the hills, movie premieres with famous people every month downtown, and the Hero you’d see at the site of every major disaster or supervillain fight was Mecha Man. Holding up a bridge, rescuing a civilian, or fighting some biological or mechanical monstrosity. 

To be honest… when I first started, I hated him. He was the bar, the picture on all the training photos. He and the other “real” superheroes who didn’t need corporate babying. You could even hear it when we did have to team up with someone outside the company. 

The amused, digging questions that came when I was first sent out on a global assignment. Some ooze had awakened in the Arctic Circle and was making its way down South, and the first question in the briefings with the other heroes were jokes. “Are you getting overtime for this? When’s your fifteen-minute break? We need to schedule it into the fight for humanity.” 

So I hated him. This local larger-than-life figure, the third generation, is holding up the Mantle of a Superhero. It’s rare for any superhero legacy to last that long. Either the next generation rebranded, changed up the name, or you had some god or demon pact where you couldn’t change the name. 

Like the Blazer Mantle. 

Then I find him, this broken, washed-up man, curled on the sidewalk. Beaten by an entire gang of thieves. And suddenly I’m staring into the face of a real hero. 

No corporate training, no dispatch team or repair team standing by. Just him, Robert Robertson the 3rd. Bruised, scars, tired. Burning everything to be a hero. To stay a hero. 

He’s at his lowest point in his life, and here he is, punching it out with street thugs just because he was the only one there.

He swears, curses. And it doesn’t ostracize him, make him “crass and unmarketable,” It makes him real. 

And I want that. To be real. To be genuine. I want…

“-to fix the trees and the surrounding vegetation by the end of the week.” The voice on the line tells me, “Even if I could get out there today, I’d need time to examine the surrounding vegetation, their health, and their chance at recovery before I used my powers, which would take the rest of the day and most of tomorrow.”

I sigh, staring at my monitor. My display is an entirely different loadout than the Dispatchers. My map of Torrance shows every hero out in the field, color-coded by the team to which they're assigned. Most of the colored dots are making their way back to SDN. Half an hour until shift end. 

I close my eyes, “Thank you for explaining. Friday will work perfectly. Please call when you arrive.” 

My plan was ruined. Quite literally, in some parts, burned to the ground. Robert had rainchecked on Monday, ruining the plan of making use of the dress SDN had ordered for me. I had a backup, hidden in one of the maintenance closets, which was a simpler but still flattering skirt. The blue is a lighter shade than my Blazer hero outfit, but close enough. Nowhere near as stunning as the dress...

But now the grass area was trashed. Burned, frozen, and muddy. 

Ruined. 

I open a tab, minimizing the dispatch screen and biting my lip, thinking. 

What could I still do? The Italian place I was going to get picked up from was popular, especially on a weeknight; it’d be loud, noisy, and full of people. 

I didn’t want a room full of people, in case anyone listened in.

Especially if I’m…

No, the restaurant was out of the question. What else? 

I click around, looking at the map, searching for restaurants and eateries. If the work date was out, what could I do… maybe something by the beach?

I start widening my search, including Manhattan Beach and the Long Beach Aquarium. Maybe we’d make it more of a casual thing? Walk around and talk? A quiet corner of the beach, the sound of the waves…

A small smile grows on my face before it quickly freezes. An article about the Santa Monica Pier pulled up. I feel one of my eyes twitch.

Robert and… 

Phenomaman.

…

At Santa Monica Pier.

...

I want to scream. 

Chapter Text

“Alright, guys, good shift, have a good night,” I say, speaking over their chatter. The last hour ends with the entire group teasing Flambae for his seasoning sneezing fit, with the hot-headed man himself occasionally blowing up at the group. 

The energies light and relaxed as I leave them, another day down. 

Well… almost. 

I fire off a quick text. 

Hey, shift’s officially wrapped up. Where am I meeting you?

I glance around. I am always the last on the Dispatch floor, our evening shift running later to cover for the early morning training sessions. I glance over at Blonde Blazer’s office just to see the door shut, the lights off. “Let’s go Beef,” I say softly, grabbing my bag and heading to the stairs. At the very least, I can take him out and pick up any poop before we head out. 

I didn’t get to examine the detail up close, but as Beef sniffs at where Flambae fell, probably investigating the space, I take it in. 

It’s messed up pretty badly. The burned trees and spices give an odd campfire odor, offset by the melting ice and water, which creates a damp mugginess in the space. I foresaw some more pointed looks and emphasized statements from the other dispatchers the next time we discussed Team exercises and training.

Beef does his business just in time for my phone to chime.

Hey! Sorry, got caught up, be down soon!

I raise an eyebrow at that. Her office lights were closed, so what had she been caught up in? 

There’s a rush of displaced air, and she’s there, floating down to land in front of me. 

“Sorry!” Beef runs up to sniff her boots, tail wagging, “I had to check on something. Are you ready to head out?” 

She picks up Beef and smiles at me. I smile back, but there’s a slight tightness in my chest. 

I didn’t know where I stood with Blonde Blazer. It seemed like every time I got a read on her, something happened to trip me up. The not-date of our first meeting, having me cut Coupe on my second day with SDN, and Monday’s wardrobe malfunction.  

I liked her, but she was also the Branch Manager, which meant dealing with office politics and the general weirdness that comes with working with someone you're in a relationship with. I had seen at all my other IT jobs how many ways relationships and work didn’t mix… 

Was this just dinner? Or was this something more? 

Or was I overthinking it again? 

“It’s all good,” I say, picking up my SDN work bag from where I had set it down by the steps. “Where are we eating?” 

“Wait, before I need to… to show you something,” her expression now nervous, the smile fading between tightened eyes and a pulled-in body language.

Show me something. Show me what?

“Okay, show me what?” 

Blonde Blazer hands Beef to me and takes several steps back. She folds her arms and looks at me, clearly nervous now. “This isn’t what I look like,”

I turn the statement over in my mind. Is she trying to tell me she puts on makeup? Or is she covering a scar? Scars were controversial for a hero. Some cities and locations viewed it as a mark of pride, proof that they had put their bodies on the line, truly risking and sacrificing something to save people. 

Others saw it as a blemish, a flaw, a reminder that your savior wasn’t infallible. That there were things that could harm and kill those who swore to protect you. 

You can probably guess which side of the debate I fell on. 

“I don’t totally know what you mean, but okay?”

If she had scars, then we’d swap stories, god knows I have enough of them. Probably another mark of being a Corporate Hero, forced to follow the will of marketing. Hadn’t she said that the dress from Monday was picked out for her?

“The powers, they make me… It doesn’t matter, I’m just going to show you, are you good with that?”

“I…have absolutely no idea what's going to happen, so this is very exciting,” I reply, shifting my weight. 

Was she going to smear the makeup? I didn’t see a scar on her back. Was it covered up? If it was covered, then I think this evening was definitely shifting to the end of the date spectrum, not really appropriate to show your coworker those kinds of scars.

“Temper your expectations,” she says, reaching for her necklace.

Of her scars?

Then she explodes into light. A genuine magic girl transformation. 

Or a Fiona transformation from Shrek if you pretended you didn’t watch anime. 

Whatever you call it, it leaves Blonde Blazer… not blonde, and shorter than me. She peers up at me, peeling the mask off her face, the fabric slightly large for her new face shape. 

Understanding snaps into me, and I chuckle; it's an identity reveal. 

And all said and done, it's a good one, lots of flashy lights, barely any change to her appearance, like the original before a photo shop artist went and suddenly touched her up with Superhero bullshit. 

“You’re disappointed,” she says, taking a few steps forward.

“Are you kidding?” I ask, “I can’t tell, are you joking? Out of secret transformations, there’s like, what-”

“It’s a big difference!” she protests, the ghost of a smile growing on her face. 

“You’re, what? Two inches shorter?” I ask, full grin on my face. 

“And a brunette. Come on, it’s…” She trails off again, holding herself tight, “Okay, maybe if I wasn’t called Blonde Blazer, I wouldn’t be so self-conscious about it.” 

Eyes shifting to the side. 

“People have expectations and they never meet me first,” she explains, “It’s always the superhero… It's hard to live up to.”

“I understand what that’s like,” I say with a huff as Beef pitches forward, wanting to smell Blonde Blazer’s new form. “I can’t tell you the amount of slumped shoulders I got when I needed to exit the Mecha Man suit around people, and they see me crawling out of the chest cavity.

Blonde Blazer smiles and takes another step forward, about to say something when Beef makes his move; she’s finally in range. 

He launches from my arms and lands on her, inquiring nose sniffing her face, dog tongue going crazy.  She lets out a startled laugh, taking a few steps back, and I let her suffer for a few seconds, diffusing the tension a bit before I step forward and grab Beef.

“I think he likes Brunette Blazer,” I joke, wrangling his squirmy form. 

“It’s Mandy,” Blo-Mandy corrects, wiping her face. Smiling, she offers me a hand, “It’s nice to meet you,” 

I shake her hand as well, a smile on my face, “Robert, it’s nice to meet you too.” 

Beef pants happily, and Many raises a hand to scratch his head. 

“So with that out of the way, dinner?” she asks, taking a step back. 

“Sounds great,” I reply, “Are we walking or…?” 

“Well, I was going to pick up some food and wine here originally, but Flambae ruined that plan,” Mandy huffs, surveying the ruined trees. “And if I flew us, we’d get a lot of attention…” 

“My car it is, just send the address,” I say, turning. Together, we begin to walk out to the parking lot. “While I can’t promise a dazzling view of the city from the sky, I can promise some traffic and maybe some good music, depending on what the radio’s playing,” 

“Sounds wonderful,” she laughs. 

We head out, Beef on her lap, following the GPS directions to a section of town near the SDN Office. 

“So I saw an interesting article today,” Mandy says casually, with attention on Beef. 

I groan, “Lies and slander, from the beginning to end.”

Her shoulders relax and she looks at me, intrigued and amused, as I begin to explain. 

Dinner turns out to be a Night Market. Two dozen food trucks are all set up in a parking lot of a nearby park. Picnic tables set up and scattered about haphazardly, pop-up lights, and a few carnival-type games set up on the grassy sections. 

We meander about, try some of the food, and play a few of the games. We get a lot of mileage out of the strongman game. Hitting the pendulum with a hammer to send the hunk of metal towards the bell. The different tiers are named after heroes, with Blonde Blazer and Penomaman drawings displayed along the side of the tower. 

We’re both utter ass at it, Mandy with her baseline human strength and with my still recovering shoulder. 

“He did not drop you!” Cackles Mandy, her face flushed with enjoyment as she takes another bite of a churro stuffed with some flavored syrup. I think hers was strawberry; I did chocolate. 

“Caught me right after,” I assure her, “No harm, no foul.”

Her snickers die down, and we sit on a bench, just watching people walk by. 

“So… almost a full month with the Z-Team,” Mandy starts, “You just about beat the record of every other Dispatcher that’s worked with them, how does it feel?” 

She’s watching my face carefully. 

“Well,” I start, looking up at the sky. “I get insulted every day, I have to chide, neg, nag, and beg them to participate in the trainings, and even when everything goes right, I can count on Flambae to start a trash fire, or Invisigal to swipe food, or Sonar to sexually harass someone.” 

I pause, thinking back on it all. Being out of the game, unable to hunt Shoud or respond myself, but still able to deploy heroes and find solutions. 

Invisigal’s face when she peered down at her name on the leaderboard, not at the bottom. Prism’s face, both furious and stressed, earlier today as she avoided the paintballs. 

Fuck, even Golem, so carefully smoothing out a god damn sticker, his orange eyes locked on the cheerful cartoon kite. 

“I love it,” I say quietly, looking back at her, a content smile on my face, “I’m able to do some real good here.” 

Mandy smiles back at me, leaning in to say something before the rumbling of several engines grows closer, drawing our attention.

“Nobody move!” a voice bellows out. We look out across the parking lot, and I sigh. The Wheelies are one of the stupidest biker gangs to show up in California in the last decade. Unlike other Biker Gangs, the Wheelies were a bunch of kid delinquents. E-bikes, Mopeds, E-scooters, and whatever else their wealthy parents bought them for Christmas with the swagger and arrogance of a real biker gang. 

There are about thirty of them, and they spread out, hustling and forcing people to empty their wallets, pulling up and denting the food trucks with tire irons.

I sigh, finish up my churro. Mandy groans and does the same. 

“This night was going so well!” she complains as she dusts her hands off and glances at me, “I need to get out of sight to transform, then it’ll be at least an hour to book these kids with the police. Call it here?” 

I examine her forced smile and the way she glares at the Wheelies as they move further into the night market. Somewhere, a child begins to cry as one of the scooter idiots starts kicking over the trash bins. 

“Technically, my Hero License isn’t expired for another four months,” I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out the Mecha Man mask. “How about we grab a drink after?” 

Mandy’s smile grows more genuine, and she beams at me. “Sounds like a plan!” 

I tie Beef’s leash to the bench and we split ways, Mandy slowly sneaking towards the porta-potty while I double back to the strong man game. Long casual stride to gain attention. The teenager running the game is frozen in fear, giving me an incredulous look as I casually cut the line and reach for the sledgehammer. 

“I need to borrow this,” I explain, mask in place as I test the weight of the hammer. 

“Hey! Mascot looking fuck, what did we say about moving?” 

Three of them wheel towards me. One is on a little moped while the other two are on an electric scooter and a hoverboard. 

I glance at the stupid one-wheeled hoverboard and how the kid struggles to keep his balance on it. 

“Oh yeah, this is going to be all I need,” I chuckle, as I turn to face the three head-on. 

“Wow… Chase was right… Your place is…” Mandy trails off, examining my apartment as we walk in, a six-pack under one arm. 

“Depressingly sparse?” I ask sarcastically, setting the beer down and sliding down against the wall. 

Some of the Wheelies had gotten in a few good punches. Most of them offered poor slaps as I took the sledgehammer to their toys and broke wheels and batteries. 

After a pause, Mandy joins me. Taking a bottle, she pops the cap off with her fingers, her Super Strength in her Blazer form making quick work of it. I tilt my bottle towards her and she does the same with a grin. 

“That is convenient,” I say, taking a swig. 

“Super convenient,” she agrees, about to take a drink of her own. 

“If I’m going to get drunk off cheap beer, you're joining me,” I say, gesturing to the red jewel on her chest. 

“Oh!” she flushes, “Alright, yeah,” 

One light show later, Mandy’s looking at me and biting her lip. “Cheers,” she says, clinking my bottle before taking a sip. 

We sit there a moment, just drinking and decompressing. When I get about halfway through, I move the beer to my side, icing where a solid punch had landed. 

“Are you okay?” Mandy asks, concern on her face, I wave it off. 

“Just a few punches. " I just need a good shower and maybe some Tiger Balm.

She settles, but Mandy continues to stare at my side. 

“When I don’t have my powers, just stubbing my toe on the edge of the couch can bring me down for a good minute or two. I don’t know how you do it without any powers,” she says quietly. 

I shift the drink to a different bruise, “It’s easy,” I say, shooting her a smile, “I don’t have a couch,” 

She laughs, but it dies quickly. Looking at my face. 

The silence is interrupted by my phone buzzing off, the cheerful fanfare informing me who it is. 

“Shit, sorry, I need to take this,” I say, fishing the phone out of my pants, “It should only be a few minutes,” 

Mandy just toasts her drink towards me, taking another sip, her eyes curious as I answer the call. 

“Hey Auntie,” I say, putting the phone on speaker phone, too tired from swinging a sledgehammer around for the last hour. 

“Robert Robertson, what mess are you up to with Chase at SDN that you saw fit to pawn a feral assassin off of me?” Kyla barked into the phone, causing me to wince at the noise. I open my eyes and see Mandy listening. 

Ah… shit. 

“Listen, Auntie, now’s not a good time,” I try to say, to cut off the blowout before it hits. Kyla Winter had a knack for cutting to the heart of an issue within the first three sentences in a conversation. It’s what made her a great communicator in the field and a terrible person to ask her opinion on anything because she would give it. “Can we talk-”

“Damned Bird Assassin had no subtlety, no charisma, didn’t work well with kids, and kept on going off grid.” 

Sentence two. 

“Auntie, how about I come by this weekend? I can try to talk with her-” 

“The Coupe flew the coop, Robert,” Kyla continued, steamrolling over my proposal, “Beat an abusive husband into six months in the hospital and then bailed on our program. Took her things and left.” 

She continues ranting, talking about the Interpol inquiry and the use of a majority of STARS collateral fund being used to sweep the mess under the table. But I only half listen, staring at the fall wall, the crack in it from when the Mecha Man suit had tipped over when I was trying to repair it two years ago. Tracing the way it jaggedly cut through the paint and plaster. 

“Auntie, I’ll visit on Saturday, we can talk more then,” I say tiredly, hanging up. 

My phone buzzes angrily, but I ignore it. Trying to work through the information. 

Damn it. 

“Coupe,” Mandy asks, startling me. “What about Coupe?” 

I stare at her, she stares back, eyes locked, no emotion on her face. I considered her, the night, and everything I knew about her. 

I break my eyes from hers and sigh, fully chugging and finishing my first beer. 

“After we decided to cut her from the Z-Team, I asked a friend who runs a Super Non-profit if she was willing to take her in,” I say lowly, reaching for another bottle. “She joined the Apprenticeship program at the start of the month.”

There’s silence for a moment as she digests the information. Then, “Why?” 

I take a deep breath in as I open the fresh beer, taking another deep drink, “Because I believed in her.” I say simply, “She had the skills, the discipline, the talent. She just needed to find a cause, a safe place to grow with role models to work with.” 

I examine how much I’ve had of the second bottle, and I may need to slow down. “Didn’t work apparently,” I say. 

We’re both quiet for a long time. 

“You didn’t want to cut her,” Mandy states, not a question, a conclusion. 

I look at her; her eyes are lowered now, watching her drink as she swirls it slightly in her hand. 

“I didn’t know enough to cut her,” I explain, causing her to look up, “I knew them for less than two days before I needed to decide. And since the reasons to cut didn’t make sense to me, I tried to help her still be a hero.”

Mandy looks at me, exhales sharply, and chugs the rest of her beer. 

“God, I want to hate you,” she says, reaching for her second. I blink as she opens the bottle, the edge of my toolbox popping off the top.  “I did hate Mecha Man for a number of years. But you…” 

She drinks more and sighs, “I’ve never been good with the Phoenix Program,” she admits, staring across the room. “I try to copy other branches, I take the fucking seminars about synergy and positivity and being a role model.” 

I listen, hearing her frustration, the most negative emotion I’ve heard in her tone since I’ve met her. 

“I don’t know, it feels like the more I try, the more I’m not doing enough, the more unhappy the people at Torrance get.” She points with one hand, finger tracing an invisible script that only she can see.  

“Metrics have fallen below a historically sustainable level, please inspire and motivate your team to- blah blah blah,” she quotes, "I’m so sick of it,” she mutters. She finishes her second bottle and starts her third.

“And then you come in,” Mandy turns, poking me in my side. In my bruise. 

Ow. 

“And now we have a real hero!” she says bitterly, “And now the Z-Team is improving and climbing the ranks, you catch Brainteaser, and now we’re the talk of SDN North America! The little Torrance Branch is making a turnaround. People are congratulating me on my leadership, on my management skills, on my ‘buisness acumen’.”

I stay quiet as her eyes go distant. “But it’s not me. All of my choices eventually go wrong. I’m just the corporate shadow, trying to imitate the real thing.” 

She slumps, “I’m no hero. Just the corporate clone of one.”

A fact pops into my brain, no powers. She was a lightweight. And a sad drunk. 

Alright. I could work with that.

“I know of at least a hundred people and twenty-four food trucks who’d disagree tonight,” I say, scooting closer so we’re touching shoulders, “And before that, one guy who was having a terrible evening being beaten by the Skittles squad before you stepped in. You’re totally a hero.” 

“But that’s just the powers!” Mandy protests, finishing her third beer. “Anyone whose s-super strong could have done that,” she glares at me for disagreeing, “You’re the real hero,” 

Oh boy, slurred speech. Very lightweight.

“Why, because I had my Dad teach me instead of some corporate trainer?” I shoot back, “We’ve both gone out there to help people. That’s the definition of a hero right there.”

I lean back and sigh. Beef walks over from his waterbowl, and I scratch the side of his face. “It doesn’t matter if we use fire powers or ice or light or technology. Fly, drive a car, or Mech. We all chose that when things are bad and people are running, we run towards the trouble, not away.” 

I laugh, a memory coming back to me from earlier in the day. Some of the senior heroes congratulated Waterboy for putting out the fire. His shock covering the small pleased smile on his face as he walked back inside.

“Even someone like Waterboy who literally vomits water!” I say, turning back to her with a rueful smile. “He can be a hero too.”

“That’s not… I mean…” she tries before stopping, going quiet. I wait patiently as she thinks, ready to refute whatever else she was going to say to belittle herself.

She opens her mouth and I lean in to listen. 

She vomits. 

I sigh, “Guess we’ll call it even for the alcohol thing,” 

“I am so… urp… sorry,” 

Beef waddles forward, sniffing curiously. 

“Beef! No!” 

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes later, a dirtied old shirt, and the last of the peppermint tea in my apartment, finds us both out on the balcony, the cool spring air a balm for Mandy as she takes deep, calming breaths. Sitting in the lawn chair, she gripped the mug of tea.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, for the tenth time. 

“Not the worst thing that’s happened in this apartment,” I say lightly. 

Mandy snorts, “Oh yeah? Then what is?” 

I pause, thinking back, “ Probably the time I was doing maintenance in the Mechaman Suit and accidentally locked myself inside without the Astral Pulse for three days,” 

A moment passed and then she craned her head to look up at me. 

“How did that happen?” she asks incredulously.

I shrug, a wry smile on my lips. “You remember the Alien occupation a few years back? The massive beasts they’d ride through the streets?”

“I think so, they had three or four sets of teeth right? Six eyes?” 

I nod, “Their blood congealed weirdly, and when I got back inside the suit with it on me, it got on all the controls. I was in the middle of cleaning and repairs and had the latch propped open to get at the inner servos.” I shrug, “something shifted and, with a click, I’m in pure darkness.”

She stares at me, “And how did you get out?” she asks, fascinated. 

“Had a pocket knife that acted as a screwdriver,” I explain, reaching into my pocket and pulling it out, “I had to navigate in the dark, but I eventually disassembled my way out. It took a while, though.” 

Mandy stares at the little thing. “And you always have that with you?” 

“After that week, yeah,” I answer, pocketing it again. 

She breathes out a laugh and looks out over the balcony again. “That sounds awful,” 

I grin, reminiscing over those days. I had to disassemble components and slowly shift them, filling the cockpit with the pieces so I could make my way to the shoulder latch and disconnect the arm. That breath of apartment air was so fresh, staring down at Beef who’d been loyally standing guard as his stupid owner slowly tried to extricate himself from the Suit. Afterwards, I ordered two bowls of ramen and took a two-hour shower. The water bill was ugly but worth it for that sweet release. 

“Funny in retrospect, but it's the reason why there’s a snacks compartment with a keychain flashlight and a screwdriver in the suit now,” I say. 

She snorts. We take in the city for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city. A dog barks, two blocks away, music blares out, only the base reaching our ears. My eyes trace the different lights, hopping from one to another until it all blurs in the distance to make the skyline.

“I don’t hate you,” she admits, breaking the silence, “Envy you, frustrated by you,” she considers herself, pondering, “Feel hurt by you, but that feels more like personal baggage and insecurity.”

I stay quiet, letting her vent, now that she’s more sober.

“It’s just… so easy for you!” She gestures to all of me, “You’re everywhere as Mecha Man, I have to apply for cross-branch transfers  and responses if I want to respond to an emergency outside of Torrance, you turn the Z-team around in a week when they’ve been… busting my balls for months!” She laughs incredulously. 

“You have no powers, and you’re the most real hero I’ve ever seen.” She pulls her legs up, resting her head on her knees. “I’ve seen SDN heroes refuse call after call, citing a bad match-up.” Her eyes meet mine, “But you’ll square up with six people outside an electronics store… just because you’re there.” 

“And I get the utter shit kicked out of me,” I lean my back against the balcony railing, “Unless you forgot my best party trick,” I roll my left shoulder.

She doesn’t say anything, just continuing to stare at me, and I look away. “It’s all I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t… I can’t be different. Someone needs help? Someone villain or crook getting up to some shit? A person in a tight spot?  Someone being an asshole? Someone in trouble? I can’t just… let that go, let any of it go,”

I clench my fist tight. I don’t know why she finds that admirable, what she sees in my broken body. I start fights I barely finish, I’ve dented, broken, and damaged the Mecha Man suit through my arrogance, my hubris. My entire life just feels like a mad scramble to recover and get ready for the next wave of bullshit.

 It wasn’t smart. It wasn’t sustainable. It didn’t lead to anything. And it got me here, working a desk job for SDN, hoping that someone else could put me back in the fight. Powerless. Both literally and metaphorically.

My father would be ashamed.

“Like how Coupe was in trouble,” Mandy says quietly, “When I made you cut her,” 

I exhale, my shoulders dropping. “Yeah,” I say shortly, “Like Coupe. And now STARS is probably out legal fees, their reputation’s going to take a hit, and a bird ballerina assassin is running amok out there, another ‘win’ for Mecha Man,” 

I stare out at the city again, the calm and peace from before absent. The lights now looked different. Like each one is another resident of Los Angeles that I was failing. Putting at risk. Letting down. It had almost been a month since my press conference. I told people I wasn’t done yet as Mecha Man, but how long would they wait? Before they gave up hope. 

My shoulders tighten again, and I sigh slowly at the thought. 

Mandy absorbs the information before exhaling deeply, finishing the tea. “Up we go, Mands,” she mutters, crawling out of the chair to stand, holding onto the balcony to stabilize herself. 

“You made the right call, Robert,” Mandy said, looking at me head-on. The breeze whips her hair behind her slightly. “I was…” she glances away, “I was wrong. I made a hasty call, one that my training said was right. Cut the lowest performer to show the rest that you’re serious about improvement.”

She pokes me in the chest, thankfully not on any of the new bruises. The one she pokes is an old one, from when Phenomaman hugged me.

“But you took my bad decision and tried to make the best of it, tried to help her. Coupe’s actions are her own. You gave her another chance… which was more than I did,” 

She pokes me in the chest again, harder. 

“Just because you do it all the time, when it does or doesn’t work out, doesn’t undo all the good you’ve accomplished,” Mandy glares up at me, “You went out there every night, and even without the suit now, you’ve done incredible work with the Z-Team. Tonight you dented what, four mopeds with the sledgehammer?” 

“Two mopeds, three scooters, and a hoverboard,” I say, a small bubble of amusement as Mandy’s speech parallels the one I gave her earlier tonight. 

“You’re even helping my sad alien ex-boyfriend!” she throws her hands in the air. “Something no one is asking you to do!” 

“You’re a hero,” she says firmly. 

I don’t say anything for a minute, turning over her words.

“You know, it's cheating to twist my own speech against me,” I eventually say, giving her a small smile, “That was for your insecurities, not mine.” 

Mandy rolls her eyes, “Please, we’re all heroes, we all have the same bullshit sad savior complex origin story when you get down to it.” 

I laugh. 

It’s a good night. 

We call it there, Mandy apparently able to sober up the instant she activates her magic necklace. Blonde Blazer leaves from my balcony after we both agree to talk about some of this stuff again when we’re not half drunk and exhausted from the day. I spend the next hour just petting Beef, thinking back on the night. 

Mandy was pretty amazing.  She seemed upset at the fact I’d hidden what I did for Coupe but understood why and even agreed with me after hearing my reasoning. Seemed to recognize and internalize the disparity between corporate heroes and rea- freelance heroes. To an unhealthy degree if she saw me and Mecha Man as the idea to shoot for, but that would sort itself out with time. I figure the longer she knows me, the more she’ll see I’m not someone to idolize or look up to.

“What do you think, Bud?” I ask, rubbing Beef’s belly, “Does she see something in me or is she just crazy?” 

Beef ignores my words, kicking his back leg, tongue lolled out as he enjoyed the attention. 

“Yeah,” I answer for him, rolling on my back to stare at my ceiling, “All Superheroes are crazy.”

“I’m just saying, Robert, ya look tired,” insists Punch-Up as he chucks another softball at Flambae. He dives out of the way, causing the ball to continue towards Malevola. A portal opens up and the ball continues through, reappearing through an identical portal angled at Prism, who does some impressive splits to avoid the ball. 

Punch-Up catches it and throws it again, not pausing. I sigh. 

“I’m fine,” I say again, aiming through the scope on the paintball gun. Wait for him to get in front of Golem and then…

I pull the trigger and Flambae’s head whips back, an orange smear across his forehead.

“He looks, uh, resembles… the cat, s-small- baby! From the uh, the disn… movie…uh, with the songs thing,” Waterboy tries to comment. 

He’s improving, I think. At the very least, I don’t think he would have tried to say anything on his first day.

Punch-Up stares at him, “Which of us is supposed to have the hard to understand accent?” 

I interrupt Waterboy’s stammering to offer a smile. 

“Simmmbaaa,” I say slowly, dragging a thumb over my forehead. 

Waterboy brightens, pleased that someone understood what he was trying to reference.

Punch-Up looks as if I’ve gone mad. 

He opens his mouth, probably to question our sanity or bloodlines or some other shit, when there’s a scream of pain from the obstacle course.

“Oh fuck!” 

My head whips around, and I drop the paintball gun and sprint across the parking lot, closing in on where the others are beginning to gather around, a blue and pink form huddled on the ground in a fetal position, Prism. 

She’s on the ground, hands grabbing her calf, pulling her leg close to her chest. Blood pooling from behind her fingers. The bleeding pulsing with her heartbeat. 

Shit. Artery wound.

“What happened?” I call out, kneeling next to her, as I take off my shirt and begin to tear it into strips. 

“Golem kicked her, sent her flying,” Flambae provided, standing next to the side. “Her leg caught on something on the ground, and she stopped flying,” he leans in before flinching back, “Damn, that looks nasty, does it hurt?” 

“What do you fucking think bitch?” Prism grits through clenched teeth as I press the strips of fabric into her hand. 

“Put those there, keep constant pressure,” I order before looking up. Invisigal is next to Golem, the construct holding itself rigidly as she spoke quietly with him. The rest of the team closes in around me. Malevola looking on with a mixture of interest and concern, Sonar with a furrowed brow. Waterboy looks a little pale, Punch Up steadying him in case the tall youth faints.   

“Malevola, are able to do your wound transfer thing?” 

Malevola examines the blood and inhales sharply. “Ohh, not going to help out too much there, I’m afraid, if I transfer that to anyone of us, we’ll just both have major blood loss. Two problems instead of one.” 

I nod, using the rest of my shirt and the pocket knife to create a tourniquet for her leg. “Set up a portal from here to SDN, for the emergency center, as far as you can, Flambae, you’ll need to carry her,” I say quickly, emphasizing everyone's names with volume so they could remember their role.

“Flambae, tell them the tourniquet went on at eight forty-five,” I instruct, checking my watch before I get up, making room for him to move in. 

“Isn’t this overkill, Robert?” Prism asks weakly as Flambae lifts her. 

I shake my head, “An artery cut needs immediate pressure and medical attention.”

Malevola’s portal opens behind Flambae, and I nod to him. 

He lingers a moment, eyes examining me for a moment. When I raise an eyebrow, he nods and flies into the portal and is gone. 

I sigh and survey the mess of the parking lot. The pool of blood would need to be cleaned up, and probably some paperwork filed. 

“Shit,” I mutter, taking out my phone to snap a few photos. HR would probably have some questions and it’d be easier to just send them the photos than write it all up. 

“Did anyone see what caught Prism's leg?” I ask, looking around at the pavement. 

It’s then I realize that it’s quiet. 

Too quiet. 

“What now?” I ask slightly exasperated, looking at the remaining members of the Z-team. 

“It’s your scars,” Invisigal explains when everyone else doesn’t speak. “None of the shitheads believed me when I said you had them.” 

“Those aren't just scars,” breathed Malevola, taking a few steps forward, peering at my body. “It's a tapestry of pain, years of it! It’s beautiful.” 

“Damn, Bobby,” Punch-Up commented, “You look like you went two or three rounds in a blender.” 

“And recently too,” Sonar points out, “the bruises on the ribs are fresh.” 

“What’s our Dispatcher doing in his off hours to get so tenderized?” Malevola asks, reaching out a hand as if to trace one of the scars.

“While this is the weirdest and most fucked up form of body positivity I’ve experienced,” I say dryly, slapping her hand away. “We need to clean up here and get back to SDN to check on Prism and prepare for the day. “ 

The group jumps, as if they had forgotten where the puddle of blood at our feet came from, and I snort in exasperation. They each had the attention span of a goldfish shared between them sometimes.

I walk around the area, snapping photos of the course, where Golem had been standing, and where Prism landed. I find what hooked her ten feet from where she landed, a section of tire rim that had been dug into the pavement. The remnant of some accident or hero fight that was just paved over. 

I snap a photo and wave the team over briefly. 

“This,” I say, nudging the bloody metal with my shoe, “Is why the cleanup jobs we sometimes get assigned are still important. Cleaning up after a battle is boring, but if we don’t deal with it properly, it stays in the city, another hazard for us and for civilians when the next battle or earthquake or emergency happens.”

“Then the city should take care of it, not fucking heroes,” Sonar snarks, but there's no heat to it, the blood from Prism drawing down the mood. 

I sigh as I catch his eyes tracing one of my scars that run down my forearm. 

“Alright, that’s a wrap on training today; back to SDN, we still have a shift to prepare for."

I can still feel the gazes on my back as I slow down, coming to walk alongside Golem. 

“How you doing?” I ask quietly. 

Golem ignores me, keeping his eyes forward as we continue. 

“Well just in case you're not fine, I just want to say it wasn’t your fault,” I say, keeping my eyes ahead as well. “Training accidents happen and sometimes they even help expose fatal flaws in a controlled way.” 

I say nothing as we approach the building. Blonde Blazer and Chase are outside as we approach. 

“Now we can work on recovery and how to rag doll safely to avoid these things in the future.” 

“Is there a way to rag doll safely? I thought that shit was when you were already basically dead.” 

Golem and I both jump as Invisigal blips into the visual spectrum beside us. 

“Normally, yes.” I say, electing to ignore how she literally inserted herself into the conversation, “Baseline human rag dolls, we’re talking broken bones, skull, and concussions. But with Powered Resiliency, you can avoid the worst of it and control how you hit and roll across the ground. The less bits of you stick out, the less can get hooked or caught on things.” I say nonchalantly as we approach the building. “Like controlled falls in martial arts,”

“Jesus, Robert, I know I talk about beating them to an inch of death, but you didn’t have to go and actually do it,” Chase comments, eyeing the blood on my hands where I had applied the tourniquet. 

“What can I say, Chase, your every comment brings inspiration,” I reply easily. If Chase could joke and snark, then Prism must not be in any serious danger. I slow, coming to a stop before them. “How’s Prism?” 

Some movement catches my eye and I glance up to note the several curious faces I see looking down at me from the windows. Great, shirtless before the entire company, very work place professional of me. I see some point down at me and I break my gaze to look at Blonde Blazer. Good job, Robert, another piece of gossip for everyone.

“Flambae got her in quick,” Blonde Blazer answered, looking over the rest of the Z-team. “HR’s going to want a report from each of you on what happened and where, did you take any-“ 

I raise my phone, “Got photos and times on here,” I say. “Happy to fill it out, but if I could get a loaner shirt for the day, I’d be grateful." 

“Why are your nipples getting cold?” Punch-Up asks. 

Chase gives him a stink eye and Blazer and I exchange commiserating glances. 

“What? When I go without a shirt, my nipples get cold right quick!” 

Thanks to Super Bullshit, Prism will be ready for field action in a few days, shorter if Malevola chooses to transfer her injury to someone else. But it does take her down for the day.  No physical strain for her legs, no dancing, no running, and no standing for longer than 10 minutes at a time. 

She takes the news… terribly.

“Just try to think of it as a day off,” Blonde Blazer tries to tell her. 

“And waste my sick days when I can’t even dance or do shit? I don’t think so!” Prism snarls back, her injury driving her mood to somewhere in the ballpark of hate the work and everything in it, to eat your face off if you look at me the wrong way.

“She can sit with me,” I say wearily. “We can talk theory and work through some mental scenarios.

"Fuck you! I don’t need no pussy ass babysitter!” Prism protests, fury behind her sunglasses. 

“Then stop acting like a child and maybe I won’t enforce the ten o’clock nap time for the cranky drama queen,” I shoot back, mentally preparing myself for a long day. “If the baby’s going to cry, then you get put on timeout.”

“Kinky,” Comments Flambae as he pokes the bandage wrapped around Prism’s leg. A flash of hard light has all of us squinting as Flambae steps back, cursing. 

I stare wearily at the two as they go at it again, Prism leaning as far off the hospital bed as she could without leaving it, throwing insults at Flambae as fast as he could throw them back. 

I feel a headache begin to grow behind my eyes.

Babysit the prima donna Wolverine who wanted to bite someone’s head off. 

Great.

Chapter Text

“Whose a good doggie? Yes you are! Yes you are!” 

My saving grace is Beef. He investigates the new pair of legs in the office and, before long, he has Prism wrapped around his little paws. 

Chase glares and mutters curses under his breath, but stays silent, recognizing the blessing for what it was. 

Beef sacrificed himself to baby talk and head scritches so that we could do our job. 

“Robert, I want to hold the pup,” Punch-Up informs me. 

Surprisingly the trouble came not from Prism, but from the rest of the team. With my mic picking up her squealed words and happy tone, interest had been piqued and the requests began to pour in. 

“Fuck you and the tiny little boat you road in on, you grease-haired carnie act,” Chase shot back. “Trying to muscle in on my Beef time.” 

I couldn’t tell if the appeal was dog time or pissing off Chase but right when I was able to mediate and calm things down again, another Z-Team member would request time with Beef. 

Chase was… protective of Beef.

The calls that come in today are a little more eventful, another drug bust, attempted kidnapping, a retired hero drunk in a park. Being down one team member meant that everyone didn’t get to rest for too long, quickly needed for the next call as soon as they were ready. 

I feel Prism’s eyes on the back of my neck as I work,watching over my shoulder. I try to ignore her. I hadn’t planned do any kind of Hero theorycrafting until they listened and respected me a bit more, but I guess this was a good time to trial run my ideas. 

After I assign Flambae to escort a school fieldtrip from where their bus had broken down I turn to her, “What do you notice?” 

Prism stares at me, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?” 

“What do you notice?” I repeat, nodding to the screen, “As a Hero and as a person, it’s good to be aware of your surroundings, not just in a fight,”

“I notice that we get a lot of dumbass calls for dumbass shit,” Prism shoots back, “Seriously, what are we, uber eats? There’s a coffee shop every other damn block in this city, who needs a hero to pick it up?” 

Chase snorts in the cubicle next to us, refusing to make eye contact with either of us. Prism eyes him for a moment, only calming down when Beef wiggles in her arms, wanting more attention. 

“Okay, good for a first observation,” I say, pulling up the call log from today, “But if you bothered to listen with even half the amount of attention you give social media, you’d learn a lot,” 

Prism rolls her eyes, lounging back in the chair, “Like what Sherlock?”

I open the call log from the last week. “That coffee order is from Willem Vanderstenk’s assistant. The order from Monday mentioned that the latte order was for his girlfriend. So wherever we’ve brought that latte order to, there's a good indicator that’s where Willem is.” 

I then return to the Dispatch Map where Invisigal is returning from the coffee assignment, “For the last three days her runs have all been closer to downtown by the refinery.”

“That area has some sketch warehouses with high security; they’re owned by some shell company operating out of South America. Since there’s no other Vandco properties around there, we can assume that they are the ones behind the shell company and that that’s a secret research and development lab,“ 

“Then you have the drug bust that Punch-Up’s taking care of,” I continue, clicking and opening a different assignment profile, “That’s the third one in the last two weeks. Checking in with the other dispatcher logs tells me that there’s a rise in drug trafficking through the city, started four or five weeks ago.” 

I reach across my desk and flip my notebook back a few pages. 

“According to Sonar from last week, they dilute their supply, cut it with fentanyl,” I read off. “If we corroborate that with this and future busts, we’ll know if it’s just a distribution network or one dirty supplier.” 

I flip my notebook back to today’s page and look up. 

The office is silent. Prism’s looking at me with her eyebrows raised, Chase is watching with unconcealed amusement, over by the printer, Galen and Mr. Whiskers are staring at me.  

Shit, I was monologuing. I cough and turn back to Prism. 

“So yeah, you can learn a thing or two if you pay attention,” I say hastily. 

I realize the call is also quiet, a quick glance in the corner and I wince, I had been lecturing the entire team on this. 

“Damn dude,” Invisigal says, breaking the silence, “OCD much?”

Just for that I reassign her to a lost dog request. 

“Ha, fucking rookies,” Chase says pleased as he turns back to his own terminal. “That’ll show them,” 

I make sure to mute my mic before peering around the cubicle wall. “What?” I ask.

Chase gestures to the office around us, “These suits never believed that I got my hunches and insights from just fucking paying attention. People out of the know just thought I had underworld contacts.”

I eye him and his self satisfied smile, “Knowing you, you probably still have some underworld contacts from back in the day,” 

I don’t hear his response as Prism scoots her chair up next to mine. 

“Teach me.” 

I blink, off guard, "Excuse me?”

“Teach me how you did that.” she says shortly. 

“How to pay attention?” I ask, amused.

Prism bristles and waves a hand towards me, “Yeah, whatever you call it, detective work, read between the lines, pay attention!” she drops the hand and fixes me with a stare, “Just show me how you do that shit.”

I look at Chase, partially baffled. Chase just shrugs back at me. I look to Prism. 

Rihanna wanted to learn how to do detective work.  

“Okay.” 

“And because they're using ebikes… they're probably sticking to flat ground,” Prism says slowly, squinting at the Dispatch map. 

“Good guess,” I reply, “But why?”

I watch her brow furrow, her eyes tracing the different streets and highways. Mouthing out some of her thoughts silently. 

“They’re running battery powered bikes and scooters; if the Wheelie fucks hit any hind of hill, they’ll loose charge faster. So they stay flat, they can stay mobile.”

“Pretty good!” I say impressed, “But also remember that some bikes have those breaks that gain power when you coast. So they also might hit locations on hills, they can then quickly use gravity and save charge or coast and build up charge as they flee.”

Prism pushes away from the desk and groans in her chair.  She takes her sunglasses off to rub at her face. 

The day goes… weird. Prism asks too many questions, interrogating me, asking my insight on every little call. It’s so often that I keep the mic open, ignoring the jeers and jokes that the rest of the Z-Team throws my way. 

I answer the best I can, saying what sticks out or comes to mind when I answer the calls. Sometimes she’s confused by my reasoning, more often than not she’s frustrated. But over the last hour, it seems like some things have been clicking for her. Following the logic, the implications. 

The big surprise comes when I ask Prism a question and Waterboy answers it, having identified the most likely smuggling route for a small time gang.  

“Everything’s going to tell you something,” I say to Prism with a smile, “Even if you don’t know what that something is yet.” 

Prism glares back, not amused with my wordplay, granted, it wasn’t my best. 

“But we’re not looking at everything, are we Mr. Dispatcher,” she retorts, “Just the calls from all the rich as fuck subscribers who can afford SDN.”

I open my mouth to refute her point and pause, “You're… technically not wrong.” 

I frown at the dispatch screen. Most of SDN’s contracts were tied in with the local police and 911 systems, but we weren't the first to respond. 911 referred cases and calls that fell within our contract with the city. With other calls rerouted to police, fire service. Even the tip lines, they were by local subscribers to gain higher priority and direct responses. There was a lot of data missing. 

“Ohh! She owned you! SDN’s for the rich, man!” crows Sonar.

“Would you shut up and finish bringing in those thieves?” I snap back. 

The other team members chime in with banter and jokes but the point nags at me, even as Prism continues to slowly improve her deduction skills. 

As Mecha Man, I had a full system that helped me flag relevant cases, quickly respond to emergencies, and monitor the crime trends in the region. SDN’s set up was so impressive, I had assumed that they had their own system, that their records were complete. 

But… SDN’s job wasn’t to help everyone, it was to help everyone who had a contract with them. A small frown works its way onto my face when I go to refill my coffee. Monitoring threats, connecting cases, and preemptive strikes at villain lairs, who did these things for SDN? Did SDN do any of this? 

At lunch, I go ask Blonde Blazer about it. 

“We have a regional monitoring report that goes out to all the Branch Managers each week,” Mandy explains, still in her Blazer form as she tears into a Falafel wrap on her desk. “I don’t know what goes into it, but they say it’s a birds eye overview of all the developing threats in the region.” 

I take a bite of my twinkie and mull it over, “Could I get a copy of the report? Or is it branch manager's eyes only?” 

Blonde Blazer pauses, chewing slowly as she thinks it over, “I can let you look at it,” she eventually says, "But any copy you have will need to be hidden. Technically its sensitive information for Branch Managers only.” 

I nod raising a hand, “Scouts honor I won’t use the report for evil,” I say with a smile. 

She snorts, “Were you a boyscout?” 

“Nah,” I shrug, “My father didn’t see the point in how to make a campfire, would rather me learn circuitry.”

She laughs before giving me a look, “I need to tell you something,” 

I tilt my head and cross my arms, “Is this going to be another surprise like last night? Have a third secret form you’ve been waiting to unveil to me?” 

Blonde Blazer slightly flushes but she keeps her serious look, giving a shake of her head, “I received an email this morning, it was from Tim… about you,”

“Mr. Murphy himself? Whatever could the big man have to say about me?” I ask, frowning. “He doesn’t know about Mecha Man, right?” 

“No, no,” Blazer reassures me, “Nothing like that. It was actually about… policy,” 

I raise an eyebrow, “Policy?” 

She nods, “Policy,”

I wait, but she doesn’t say anything more. “Well… what about policy?” 

She winces, “He quoted a section of our staff handbook about… no pets allowed in the office,” Blonde Blazer quickly raises a hand at my expression, “I’m not going to ask you to stop bringing in Beef! I think Chase would kill me if I banned Beef from the office.” 

I relax in my chair, “You’d be right on that. So what do you want to do?” 

Blonde Blazer slumps in her chair, her body language resembling her Mandy form instead of the confidence she put on as her superhero persona. “I just…” she searches for the words, “Wanted to give you a heads up. If anyone else from Downtown or worse, Headquarters comes out, we should come up with a plan to hide Beef from them.” 

I nod, “I’m sure Chase would love to build Beef a play room, maybe it can be a section of the Royd’s lab.”

Blonde Blazer gives a Mandy smile at me, “Thanks Robert. And I’m sorry about Tim, but he’s always been a…”

“Dick?” I helpfully supply. 

“I was going to say stickler for the rules when they suited his needs, but that works too,” She says.

“He’s a dick,” I say simply, “And a dick is going to do what a dick does and-” 

“Cum?” Blonde Blazer suggests. 

I stare at her, “Well I was going to say fuck shit up and ruin people’s day, but I guess that’s also a good, if graphic metaphor,” 

We both devolve into chuckles as we finish our lunch.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” I ask Invisigal as I find her in my office chair, flipping lazily through my notebook. 

“Your diary is so boring, hardly any notes on which girl you have a crush on or what nasty shit your into.”

“Because that’s my work journal, my journal journal is at home underneath Beef’s dog bed,” I say dryly, as she puts the notebook down and hops out of the chair. 

“So when is it my turn to get tutored by Mr. Robertson?” Invisigal asks, cocking her hip to one side, “Or should I look to get fucked up in the field next week to get my day inclass?” 

“Do you even want to learn investigative work? Or are you just lazy?” I ask, taking my seat. 

“Shit’s interesting,” Invisigal shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind learning to read in between the lines of the shit they talk about on the radio. You listen to any news station nowadays and they make it sound like the city’s on the brink of collapse every week,” 

“The city’s only on the brink of collapse every five to six years,” I counter, flipping the notebook back to the current page, “And wouldn’t need a news station to tell you that, by then you can just look outside for the portals or robots or aliens.”

I pause, “...I’ll talk to Blazer about it, maybe we switch out some of the exercise hours for mental work,” I say, phrasing it as though it's a plan brought on by her own interest and like I hadn’t had a curriculum of content I’d been drafting for the last week. “You’d need to practice it out in the field though.” 

“Eugh, fucking homework,” snarks Invisigal, “Forget I asked.” 

She stares at me for a long moment, and I’m just about to break the silence when…

“The fuck are you doing up here? Don’t you have a shift to be prepping for? Stop jerking off and get down to the ground floor,” Chase barks, returning from his break. 

Invisigal flips him the bird, not breaking her eye contact with me as she turns invisible. 

Chase sits in his chair grumpily, “The hell was she doing up here?” 

I hold a hand up to forestall another comment. 

Five, four, three, two, one. When Invisigal doesn’t reappear after a moment, I nod then respond. “She was interested in some deduction classes, guess she found what I was teaching Prism pretty interesting.”

Chase peers at my expression before grunting and turning to his desktop. “Well if you do have to teach them, make it far away from here, its bad enough with-”

“Beefie Boi! Oh you good dog!” Prism calls, sitting in the chair next to mine and leaning down to pick up the dog. “Did you have a good lunch? Oh, yes you did!” 

I hide a laugh as I see Chase’s expression, he looks downright murderous.

“Alright,” I say with a cough, “For this shift you’ll…” I trail off looking at Prism. She ignores me as she coos over Beef before eventually glancing up. 

“Prism?”

“Robert Robertson.” 

“What happened to your wound?” 

“Oh that! Malevola worked it out, she transferred the injury to Golem, since he’s dirt, he just patched the hole it caused,” 

I stare at her. She stares back, a satisfied smile on her face. 

“And the reason you’re now downstairs getting ready to go out is because….?” 

“Doctor’s orders Mr. Robertson, I’m supposed to stay off my leg for the rest of today to let it heal, no matter how good I think it feels!” Pism says, flexing her leg above her head, showcasing the lack of injury. 

I open my mouth… and then close it. 

Choose your battles Robert. 

“Fine,” I grunt, “In any case, for the rest of today, you’ll be telling me what you notice first, then-” 

The day ends.

Chapter Text

“And that’s a wrap,” I breath, taking off the headset. I glance over at Prism, who is now scrolling her phone. Checked out. 

“How’s Facebook?” I ask sarcastically, standing up and stretching. 

“The fuck you talking about, ain’t no one on Facebook this day and age,” a look of disgust flashing on her face. 

“Listen… good work today,” I say, slightly awkwardly, putting my hands into my pants pockets. 

Today's really been the most we’ve ever interacted, the most out of all the z-team, baring maybe Invisigal's weird sex dream conversations from Monday.

“I do good work every day Robert,” she says, but I catch the small satisfied smile. “Brain shit is easy!”

“Well I’m glad you find this ‘brain shit’ so easy because you’ll have to do it again tomorrow.” 

Now Prism lowers the phone, shooting me a suspeciuous glare, “The fuck you mean? I’m ready for the field!” 

“You are,” I admit, booting down the desktop and putting away my notes, “But a Hero needs to do this kind of investigation work in the field, I’ll be prioritizing you for the ‘brain shit’ assignments, tracking people down, locating travel routes and hideouts and things like that,”

She blinks before scoffing, flipping her hair, “Shit’s going to be an easy ass cakewalk,” she declares, returning her attention to her phone.

“Whatever you say,” I reply, grabbing Beef’s ball which gets his attention, “Have a good night,” I call over my shoulders as I walk away. 

Beef and I stand out in the trashed courtyard, the water dried up by the scars on the trees and landscape still visible. But beyond that, it was a nice evening. A cool breeze was lightly blowing, and it was quiet, with a majority of the cars having left SDN’s parking lot. 

I take a deep breath in, feeling the aches and pains from this week. It had been a busy week, having evening plans every night of the week so far. It would be nice to relax and do nothing-

A scraping noise from around the corner. Big. Bulky. 

“Spoke too soon, Robert,” I chide myself as I quickly tie Beef’s leash to one of the trees.

I slowly make my way forward, cautiously looking around the corner to see…

Golem.

Dumpster Diving. 

I’m tempted to leave him to it, take Beef home, and act like I had seen nothing. Take a shower, slather myself in tiger balm, do a deep stretch routine and then sleep early. Maybe watch something on my phone. 

A quiet night in. 

…

It would have been nice. 

“Hey, Golem,” I say, walking towards the dumpster, “ If your looking for the breakroom refrigerator that’s like, inside, upstairs.” I survey his wide orange eyes as he stares at me from the Dumpster, most of his body inside the container. 

He says nothing. 

“Whatcha doing?” I try to ask casually, as thought this was a regular occurrence for me.

Golem shuffles his feet for a moment, before, “I need to feed my baby,” rumbles out of the dumpster.

Baby Kaiju. 

“Baby huh? I… I didn’t know you had a kid,” I say, hoping desperately I’m wrong. 

Baby Kaiju. 

Golem shuffles again, a long pause before replying. “It’s the Baby Kaiju from Monday, I… took it home after that shift,” 

I pause, closing my eyes, damn it. He acknowledged it. He told me. So now it's my problem too. 

Baby Kaiju. Fuck. 

I sigh, readjusting the bag on my back, “Alright, well a baby Kaiju probably isn’t going to enjoy shredded insurance documents and week old leftovers. Do you remember that dumpster you broke? Behind that Italian Restaurant?" 

Golem pauses before slowly climbing out of the Dumpster, his massive legs denting the lip of it as he climbs out. “Yeah,” 

“That’s the kind of trash it’ll probably be able to eat. Lots of carbs. What type of Kaiju is it?” 

“Green.” Golem replies simply. 

I wait for further details; Golem provides none. 

“Okay…” I sigh. “How about we go get some dumpster dinner for your green kaiju? And I’ll take some photos and call a friend. She’ll know more about what it’ll need.” 

Golem blinks at me, “You're not going to take it away from me?”

Yep, there’s officially a headache behind my eyes. 

“If it really is a baby, then it might need a better environment,” I say with a sigh, “But if you’re able to take care of it properly, I don’t see why I’d need to get involved.”

I turn back to the courtyard, “Send me the address, I’ll grab Beef and meet you there,” I say, walking away. 

I stare around the room. Golem’s place is technically the back house in a run down neighborhood. Technically- in the sense that the last time it was maintained or repaired must have been a decade ago. The paint was peeling, windows shattered, and holes in the roof. The floor is covered with dirt and mud, evidence of Golem living and moving about the space. 

And in the middle… The baby Kaiju. 

Kaiju was a general term for terrafauna, creatures who, due to magic or radiation or weird alien biology, were a size class above everything else on Earth. Generally only one or two of the same species, they were weird. Magic weird, fire breath weird, supposedly the one that was messing about with Japan fifty years ago had some kind of time breath or something? 

Point is, ‘Kaiju’ doesn’t mean anything other than big complicated, unique problems. And this baby Kaiju… was a massive sea otter. 

Larger than a moose, the massive thing circled Golem, taking basketball sized bits of the handful of italian refuse Golem offered to the little monstrosity. White fur around its face quickly blended to a dark green as its large body shifted and moved around with far too much fluidity for something so large. 

I sigh and snap a photo. “So have you named it?” I ask, opening my contacts. 

As Mecha Man, I had a few contacts I had consulted with over the years. Dr. Isabella Kent was a xenobiologist at UCLA that I had corresponded with multiple times. Weird fluid at a crime scene? Bit of Biomass that I had cut off with my energy blades? Send a sample her way and see what she could come up with. I send a single text, my sentence brief, letting the photo convey everything else. 

Hey, Have a Baby Kaiju on my hands, are you able to do a checkup?

“Her name is Daisy,” Golem says, scratching her fur as she chittered and circled him again. Her eyes on… 

Me. 

“Hey there, Daisy,” I say cautiously. Turning my body slightly in case I needed to jump back or dive out of the way. “How’s the marinara sauce?”

She shifts towards me, and it's like if three bears decided to approach. I’m hyper aware of just how much space the Kaiju takes up as she gets within ten feet of me, nose twitching. I see it in her eyes before she moves, trying to gently take a basketball sized bit out of my shoulder. 

I take two big steps back, avoiding the maw, “No, no, I don’t taste good,” I say. 

A fact floats in my brain as Golem steps forward, grabbing her attention. Human babies explored and discovered the world through putting things in their mouth, their hands not developed enough to be functional. I had no idea if Kaiju sized otters were the same way, but it didn’t seem like a malicious bite. 

“No Daisy, Robert’s a friend,” he says, rubbing her forehead.

Said bite would still kill me instantly though. My phone buzzes with a reply. 

“My friend is free tomorrow,” I read off, “If we’re able to bring her to a body of water, she probably needs to hydrate and pull in moisture through her pores, she sent a list of secluded beaches or lakes.” I look up from my phone. 

Daisy has fully rolled onto her stomach, while Golem uses both his massive hands to continue to pet her. I watch her front paws scramble and scratch against Golem’s form, digging massive grooves in the mud and dirt that just fall in on themselves as he moves. 

Cute. If you ignore the signs of strength and destruction. 

I google sea otters out of curiosity. 

…

…

They reach full maturity within three years.

The official classification of Kaiju is larger than four story structures. I glance around the small, one story room we’re in. 

Okay.

Friday’s… a bit of a blur to be honest. I spend most of the shift reviewing my notes on Golem, and there’s not much. Mud Construct, quiet. Young. And wanting to raise a baby Kaiju out of his tiny ass backhouse. 

Great. 

Prism does well. Or well for a first day applying the concepts we used. I don’t need to hack as often and do the logicing for her as often as I do the others. She has a bad habit of drawing her first conclusion and sticking to it as fact, instead of considering alternate options. It's a first step though. 

The rest of the Z-team seems subdued. Maybe it's the weekend just six hours away or maybe days of morning exercise are beginning to accumulate. Fatigue and sore muscles that have yet to have a proper rest day. But the day’s chaos was at a manageable level, with only minor arson, drug indulgences and other infractions. The highlight being sending Malevola to stop some superpowered missionaries who had interrupted the Turtle’s game. 

I bask in the relative calm, enjoying the lack of needing to give an inspiring speach, or assess some threat to the new life I’ve apparently started to build under SDN. Royd and I trial run some prototype pulses or protopulses as Royd has started to call them, at lunch and talk through a couple other potential modifications. 

“I’m telling you Robert, these ideas aren't too crazy,” Royd says, flipping through a notebook that I had used to record baseline energy levels years ago. Rather than look at the data, he’s examining my small doodles, sketches I had made years ago. 

“I’m pretty sure we could do a plasma sword if you want one,” he points to a partial sketch, the Mecha Suit mid-swing with a massive ten foot blade. I laugh it off, but the more and more we talk, the less I find his spitballing to be fantastical or unrealistic. 

Mecha Man was a bulwark of Los Angeles, a mechanical titan who could stand toe to toe against most Super or enhanced threats. Pure strength generally overcoming the different powers and threat types. But as I had begun to run out of funds, the bulwark had begun to crack, fracture. Several tools and weapons had to be trashed or retired, too expensive to repair or replace. Royd’s new suggestions and add ons would see those old designs replaced with any number of converted villain tech he had stored away in his inventory. 

It wasn’t just a repair job, but a full upgrade. The next level for Mecha Man.

I’m left staring at the suit by the end of lunch, my sandwich barely touched when Blonde Blazer comes and finds me.  

“Am I interrupting?” she asks, startling me out of my thoughts.

“Not at all,” I say, glancing at the time and quickly cursing. I take a large bite of the sandwich Chase had made for me, “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk about Wednesday, the conversation we were having… before I…”

“Ruined my nice apartment floor?” I ask with a smile. 

Blonde Blazer flushes, “I really am sorry about that,” she apologizes. 

“It's for nights like those that I avoid having furniture, less clean up that way.” I joke. She raises an eyebrow at the statement. 

“If you really find cleaning that much of a chore, I guess that’s one way to look at it.” She takes the table next to me, sitting on it. “But before and after that I… I said a lot, about you, about me,” 

“Hey, I get it, we got to the late hour where drunk people share their secrets and insecurities with each other,” I reply, waving my hand. “And you’re not the last hero to get self conscious about your origin story and your place in the world, it’s hard not to when there’s thousands of examples of other heroes out there,” I say, looking at the Mecha Man suit. 

“It’s easy to compare yourself to others,” I say quietly. 

Blonde Blazer sighs, and with a glance around, removes her necklace. I squint through the lightshow, focused on finishing my sandwich when Mandy appears, looking at me.

“But that’s just it…While I might be looking at other people, I’m unhappy with myself,” Mandy says, chewing her lower lip. Her eyes shift to the Mecha Man suit as she finds the words. 

“The Z-Team is reinventing themselves, Prism’s asking for the deduction help, completion rates and satisfaction rates are climbing, even now, you and Royd are reinventing Mecha Man, building a new and upgraded suit.”

“But I’m stuck in place,” Mandy says, tapping the red jeweled necklace with a finger, “As a hero and as a Branch Manager, the corporate way isn’t working for me anymore.”

She locks eyes with me, “I think I need to try out some of those freelance tricks you have,” she says with a small smile. 

I take her in a moment, the way that, even shorter and baseline human, the look in her eyes were the same as when she was Blonde Blazer. The determination, the confidence, the little bit of self consciousness. 

“We can work with this,” I say, leaning back in my seat and parroting her words from a month ago back at her. “Just remember, it's not a bio-break, it's using the shitter,” I inform her, a smile on my face. 

She laughs and pushes my shoulder, the action doesn’t send me reeling like it would have in her Blonde Blazer form. It feels good. 

“Dick,” she snickers. 

We make plans for next Wednesday to just talk through where Mandy was feeling stuck and what she wanted to change as Blonde Blazer. 

“Okay, Friday, end of week. Great work today Z-Team,” I say as they slowly take their seats. 

“We always do great work,” Prism proclaims, scrolling on her phone, as Invisigal rolls her eyes at the pop star's antics. 

“We’re officially fifteen points higher than last week, so great work there. Next week we’ll be shifting the schedule a little to allow some gym time in addition to group exercises.” 

“Can we switch gym time for those logic lessons you gave Prism?” asks Sonar, flipping through a magazine. 

“No,” I say shortly, causing the man bat to slump. “Now to close out this week I have…three stickers to hand out.” 

The room goes silent. Sonar drops his magazine, Prism’s eyes shift up from her phone. 

“This first sticker goes to the team member who kept going and continued growing after taking a serious injury yesterday,” I say into the silence. “Prism, one for the tracker and one for the road.”

“Fuck all you bitches! I’m the stacking mad W’s today, baby!” Prism shouts, taking the stack and flipping through it eagerly. “Okay tiara, I see you!” 

“The second sticker,” I power on, speaking over Prism’s commentary and assessments of the different stickers, “Goes to the Hero who both helped with getting Prism’s injury seen and helped heal it later that same day. Malevola, grab your stickers next.” 

Malevola doesn’t say anything, but her demon tail whips lazily around her, a pleased expression on her face as she leans across the table to also look at the stack of stickers. 

“This is such bullshit,” Flambae scoffs, crossing his arms, “All she did was open a portal, I’m the one who actually carried her here, why does she get a sticker and I-” 

“The third sticker,” I say dryly. Fambae shuts up, his eyes meeting mine. “Well, I’m having trouble recalling who I was going to give the sticker to.” I put my hands on my hips in mock thought. “Hmmm.” 

Flambae glares daggers at me as the room snickers. Before he ruins it and throws out some insult, I give it to him. 

“For rescuing a team member in record time, Flambae, you get a sticker,” I say. 

“Fuck yeah I do, saving the best for last, whats wrong with you Bobby?” Flambae says, walking to join Prism and Malevola. “Move over, I want to see if there’s a fire sticker.”

“Hey… I… Mr. Robertson… Sir?” stuttered Waterboy, his body tight as he sat between Sonar and Golem. Sonar had been the last to return to SDN and was still in his beast form, massive wing joins poking into Waterboy’s side.

“Go ahead, Waterboy,” I say, watching to make sure no one took extra stickers. 

“W-What… Why… When we comple… fill out the row…on the tabl… chart, what happens?” 

The room pauses, eyes glancing at me as I consider Waterboy’s question. We wouldn’t get any allocations to the team funds until the end of the quarter, so I was stuck with intangible things… my eyes drift to through the conference room doors where Chase is rolling the ball for Beef. The little dog waddled after it before bringing it back. 

“An hour with Beef instead of morning exercises,” I say without thinking.

There’s a silence and then…

“Shit, you should have told me that's what we were competing for, then I would have actually tried,” Invisigal informs me. 

The evening finds Golem and I at an abandoned school grounds. The campus long since closed, the massive crater in the blacktop the most likely suspect. Daisy the Kaiju sniffing around the base of the crater.

“And this Doctor lady’s legit?” Golem asks me. “She’s not going to like… want to dissect her or cut her up?” 

I shake my head, “Dr. Kent may ask for some fur or maybe blood, but it’ll end there,”

Golem mulls over my words. “And if she wants more?”

I shrug, “Then we tell her no,” I feel him shift, orange eyes studying me. 

I ignore it, watching as the Baby Kaiju loses interest with the crater and bounds up it towards us. I back up twenty feet to give enough space for ‘little Daisy’ to rub up against Golem’s side, crooning.

“My word, what a marvelous specimen!” A voice calls out behind us. The three of us turn and glance over at the little mousey woman walking towards us. “Hello Robert! It is good to see you doing well.” 

I smile, Dr. Kent had worked with my father, and now with me as Mecha Man for years now. She had designed counter serums, analyzed alien DNA and developed experimental tranquilizers for Mecha Man to face any number of threats over the years. She also had a conservationist mindset, wanting to neutralize and relocate creatures instead of just killing them.

Mecha Man suited her purposes very well, as I was able to get close to the unknown creatures and collect samples without actually getting injured myself. 

…

Not counting that chicken that spat acid. 

“Good to see you too,” I reply, going to stand next to her as Golem continued to distract and play with Daisy, throwing a nervous glance every few minutes. “My friend Golem here adopted this Kaiju earlier this week and was struggling with the diet. I was hoping you could maybe do an assessment and give him some information.” 

I lower my voice, “And maybe convince him that raising a Baby Kaiju in the suburbs maybe isn’t the smartest idea,” I say. 

Dr. Kent’s eyes are wide as she takes in the sight. She doesn’t say anything for a moment as she just observes, before setting down her bag and reaches in, putting on a pair of gloves. 

“Robert is quite right dear,” she says, walking up and approaching Golem and Daisy. Raising such a fine specimen is completely impractical in most neighborhoods.” 

I nod behind her, feeling a small amount of relief. Dr. Kent would explain to Golem that the Kaiju needed to return to the ocean and facilitate its release. She’d be able to answer why it needed to leave and let down Golem gently so I didn’t have to.

“My house is out by Lunada Bay, the water will provide a much more suitable habitat for the little one. What’s her name?” 

“Daisy.”

They make plans quickly. I barely tune into the conversation as Dr. Kent and Golem quickly make plans. She’d return over the weekend with a semi-truck and both Golem and Daisy would move in with her, so she could study the Kaiju’s development cycle while Golem could still raise her.

“This is such a fascinating research opportunity! And we’ll be able to test if several behaviors of Kaiju are due to nurture or nature from their parents.” 

“That's… nice?” I ask, stunned. 

“Thank you again, Robert, it's so good to see you still involved and doing good, even on a smaller level,” Dr. Kent says, patting my arm before rushing off. “I need to call my contractor! We’ll need to knock down two or three walls to ensure adequate space.”

I stare blankly at her retreating form, then back at Golem and Daisy. Daisy has completely curled around Golem, looking like an adolescent sea otter that had found a muddy rock that they had grown attached to. 

Golem stares at me, a pleased expression on his face. 

“Damn Robert, you’re alright. Now I got help to raise Daisy and a new crib to relax in.” 

I stare at the two of them and don’t say anything for a minute. 

“See you Monday.” 

I walk away.

Chapter Text

My Saturday plans are decided for me, as I woke up to see a text message from Kyla Winters, simply listing an address and time. Two in the afternoon. A little Cafe near the beach. 

I groan and put my face on Beef, sighing vigorously. Beef, good boy that he is, licks my forehead. 

Okay. Time to pay for Wednesday night’s Robert’s mistake. I dress… well, with the one outfit I still have, that’s not my work shirt. Slacks, a plain black t-shirt, and my brown sports coat. It looks awful. Which I suppose would be a good thing. Kyla Winters was always in a good mood when she was critiquing others. And letting her critique my appearance felt like a good way to stave off the more cutting remarks that would be sure to come by being in such close proximity to her. 

I elect to leave Beef behind. If this went how I thought it would, we’d end up yelling before long, and Beef hated it when I yelled.  

Monarch was probably the most successful of the Brigadiers following my father's death. She already had a variety of sponsorship deals, one of the first waves of heroes to wield their public image to generate revenue, draw attention to different causes and campaigns, and just had a knack for public image. 

After the breakup of the Brave Brigade, she had gone on a hero tour, intentionally partnering with other diverse heroes championing teamwork and trust across the nation. A good message, in retrospect. 

To teenage Robert, it was a slap in the face. She had tried to talk to me at the time, to explain and… 

Honestly, I don’t know what else she would have said. I kind of cut her out of my life after that. I wasn’t in a place to be reasonable.

We’d see each other; it was hard not to be aware of other heroes when the large city-destroying, world-ending threats popped off. But I kept it strictly to hero work. Ignoring and avoiding any requests to talk.

I hadn’t spoken with her until I woke up from the coma almost two months ago. She had seen to safeguard the… remains of the Mecha Man suit. Even then, it was less a conversation and more of an exchange. I was an emaciated hospital patient, drugged up and on the edge of a panic attack, desperate to see the suit, to see the damage… then I was… a bit numb? She had shown me the storage until she kept it hidden, and said something about how I had grown… 

Those first few days awake were kind of a blur…

Damn.. 

And now she was here, because when you snubbed Kyla Winters, she got back at you, even if you were her semi-adopted nephew. Two ex-Brave Brigaders and their adopted nephew for the next two hours minimum.

This was going to be a long lunch.

The Tea House was… awful. Lace table cloths, big bulbous teapots, and enough frills and fine dining to make me feel underdressed even if I had tried to dress up for the occasion. 

On either side of me sat my two Aunts, Kyla Winters, with streaks of grey hair and dark black sunglasses, looking more like a food or fashion critic than a regular fucking person. Kyla was in the middle of recapping my odd phone calls and requests to my other ‘aunt’. 

Monarch’s power were Fey in nature. Now whether that meant the actual Fey from European Folktales, some alien race that humans mischaracterized for Fey, some other planar dimension or or alternate universe or soul-verse or whatever other weird otherword connections that touched earth, she never disclosed to anyone. Hell, for all I know she just picked the Fey motif and decided to stick with it to amuse herself and watch how everyone reconciled the idea that there was some sort of Truth to the Fey stories. 

Regardless, she was eleven inches in height and wore a cheerful sky blue sundress, delicate insect like wings sticking out of her back as she used a straw to drink out of her teacup. 

“And the girl! Don’t get me started Mon, she was downright dreadful. One of those European mob assassins they tried raising up in the nineties do you remember? All the, ‘everything is a deadly weapon’ schools with all the pointless gimicks. Utter headache to deal with.”

Monarch cackled, slapping her knee. “I remember them!” she exclaimed, shooting a smile at me. 

“Did you know Robert, one of them accidentally killed their roommate, they borrowed a stick of lipstick that was secretly acid, and burned her face clean off!”

“No I did not know that, Auntie,” I say quietly, taking a measured bite out of the scones on the table. 

It was aggressively delightful, baked berries tart on my tongue. 

From what I could tell, these tea parties were regularly held between the two, a chance to catch up and share gossip that was occurring in each other's lives. Monarch talks about her work up in San Francisco, protecting the region and mentoring the new vigilantees that had popped up around the Bay Area.  Meanwhile Kyla’s updates...

“Overtly lethal, unhealthy obsession for gothic romance literature, and the worst with children. I caught her teaching the children to throw knives!” 

Were focused on all the headaches and pains Coupe had apparently caused her in her week and a half with STARS.

“Coupe is a little rough around the edges,” I say, as Monarch laughs merrily at Kyla’s descriptions, “But she has… had potential. She wanted to put her skills to use.”

Kyla shoots a disapproving look my way, “STARS is not a Superhero training academy for ex-Super Assassins, Robert. We deal with sensitive situations that need care and intentionality before any form of super or enhanced power is required,” 

Monarch speaks up, “Come on Winters, give the boy a break! What I’m more curious about is what he’s up to at SDN to be sending said assassins your way. Have you taken up a new calling Robert? Mecha Man to Therapy Man?”

Her bright green eyes meet mine and I feel my scalp prickle. Monarch keeps her full abilities close to her tiny chest. My father had concluded that, in addition to the magic, telekinesis, and other combat powers she had some kind of influence over language and words. Potentially mind reading or mind control, but without enough data to understand the ruleset she operated by.

“Nothing like that, Monarch,” I say, carefully. “SDN and I have cut a deal. They’re going to help rebuild the suit, in turn I help out with their villain reform program.”

There. Concise, neutral, informational. 

The two women absorb the information. Monarch’s smile, while everpresent, held a forced quality as she shared a glance with Kyla. 

“SDN’s the Super Company that Track Star has been with for the last few years, correct?” Monarch asks casually when its clear that Kyla isn’t going to speak. 

I nod, “He’s actually the one who recommended me for my current role, he’s right next to my desk.”

“How is young Chase?” Kyla asks, “I know he gained a few more years after that alien nonsense.”

“He’s… fine.” I say, shortly, if they wanted an update on Chase they could reach out to themselves. “He’s a dispatcher too.”

Monarch leans forward, taking another sip of her tea, “Dispatcher! So a desk job then?” Her expression relaxes, her smile a bit more genuine, “That’s good, a good job I mean,” she clarifies hastily, “Safe.” 

I feel a shot of old anger shoot through me, “It’s only temporary,” I say, “Mecha Man will be back in action before long. Maybe even by the end of this year.”

It was an old argument. One that had seen me burn most of my relationships with the Brave Brigade when I first started out. 

My father had been the leader of the Brave Brigade, the foundation that saw so many other heroes serve under his watch and command. One of the most influential non-powered Superheros on the West Coast. None of them had questioned his ability, challenged his reason for fighting, and protecting. 

But his death… changed things. Maybe it was family worry, seeing a kid you watched grow up suddenly face the realities of being a hero, or maybe it was all leftover trauma from his death. But Monarch hadn’t wanted me to take on the Mantle of Mecha Man. 

“And what happens when Mecha Man returns?” Kyla interrupts, drawing my attention. “Are you going to go after Elliot once more? Get yourself blown up again?”

“Last time was different. I was unprepared for the goons he had,” I retort, crossing my arms, “He had a whole grab bag of Super mooks who he had picked to subdue me.” 

I had thought back on that night dozens if not hundreds of times. The Toxic muscle to grab my attention, eat through the plating, the crane hook, the pink jelly guy. The lack of any crucial supplies beyond that original screen display tricked me into thinking it was the center of their hideout. The placement of a bomb when the Astra Pulse energy levels were at its weakest following that escape.

A trap, perfectly constructed to dismantle Mecha Man. 

“That won’t happen again,” I say shortly. 

“And why not? What will be different?” Monarch asks, her expression still technically a smile, but holding no joy or warmth in it. It was… pitying. “His group has officially named themselves, ‘The Red Ring’. They’ve begun to absorb some of the smaller gangs in East LA.” 

The rush of anger grows in me. 

“Next time, I won’t fight on his terms, they’ll be mine.” I say, leaning forward, “I learned my lesson and I’m using this time to do reconnaissance, build my own plan of attack. Which is why I’ve been emailing you.” 

“Oh yes, your emails,” Kyla says pointedly, “You barely speak to us for years, barely return our calls, our letters, skip out on Vitalia’s funeral, get yourself blown up, and then immediately reach out to everyone for as much information on Elliot as possible.” 

Kyla shakes her head as she wipes her lips with a tablecloth, “While it is nice being able to actually talk to you again, Robert, this isn’t quite how we’d prefer it.”

“Elliot is dangerous,” Monach adds on, “His tech has grown far beyond what it was when he was a Brigade member, and having a better understanding of it isn’t going to give any meaningful advantage. You can’t just brute force this.” 

“And what would you suggest?” I say, standing up, hot anger pumping through my veins, “Give up on Shroud? He killed my father!” 

Monarch’s smile is gone now. But the light in her eyes is still sharp and pointed as it examines me.

“We know Robert,” Kyla says in the silence, “But we’ve already seen the death of one Mecha Man, our friend and leader…and two months ago… we were afraid we had seen the death of our nephew,” 

Kyla looks solemn. Tired. The grey streaks in her bun, the wrinkles and anger lines on her face making her look old and weary. 

That… that was wrong. Kyla Winters was supposed to be angry, livid. Not… 

Sad. 

“You can’t keep doing this, Robert,” Kyla continues. “You can’t just keep going out there without a plan. Now you’re having to rely on the generosity of SDN. A company!” She shakes her head, “That help will come with strings, and if you survive Elliot, we want to ensure you have a life you’re still happy to live.” 

“Being Mecha Man was what my father spent my entire childhood preparing me for,” I say, my heart pounding in my ears, “SDN’s the only one’s helping me get back in the fight, I will be fine if I have to spend a year or three as a corporate hero,” 

“You had us,” Monarch says sadly, “All you needed to do was ask, and there’s more to life than just being Mecha Man, of spending your entire life just throwing yourself into danger alone, with nothing else to come home to.” 

I push my chair back from the table. “Is that what this is about? Wanting me to partner with one of your apprentice sidekicks? Have me lead the Bold Brigade or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves? Be a ‘team player’ because it looks good, and then I have fucking babysitters?”

“I’m putting Shroud back behind bars, and then Mecha Man will be back and better than ever,” I proclaim, pointing a finger at Monarch, “And I don’t need my fairy godmother to hover over me or tell me to make some friends. I do just fine on my own.”

“We don’t want you to end up like your father, Robert,” Kyla says bluntly.

What?

“My father was a hero,” I say stiffly.

Kyla looks at me with a measured gaze, as though she’s commenting on my outfit or hair instead of talking about my dead father. 

“You’re father was a great man, who saved thousands of people and inspired millions more,” Kyla admits, stirring her drink, “But after your mother passed, he only had your family’s legacy. It consumed him.” 

Her eyes go distant, as though seeing something that only she can see. “It narrowed his vision, clouded his judgement. He was a great Mecha Man, but that is the only compliment I can give him.” 

I stare at her, at Monarch. The small sprite Superheroine is staring at me with the same sad, cloudy expression. My face feels hot, and the silence oppressive between the three of us. 

I-

“Get Up,” 

I need to get out of here. 

“Thanks for the tea,” I say shortly, turning and fleeing from the cafe. I don’t turn when Monarch calls after me, my head buzzing, old memories, old hurts flashing to the surface as I try to put as much distance between me and the past as possible. 

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” 

Technically, I had been explicitly told by my doctor not to do this. 

“Twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight…” 

Spend the next month slowly recovering from the coma and let my body build up its stamina to daily strain; leave any kind of exercise training for later. 

“Thirty nine, forty, forty one, forty two, forty three,” 

And to have supervision. 

“Forty eight, forty nine, fifty!” 

I collapse, sweat dripping from my body as I finish the set of pushups, my muscles screaming as I heave deep lungfuls. 

Beef wanders over and licks my forehead, enjoying the salty sweat. 

I pause to scratch his ear and then peel myself off the floor of my apartment. It’s late, almost five hours since I’d stormed home. Almost time for dinner. 

I stand up gingerly and make my way into the kitchen, feeling almost every muscle in my body burn. 

I had run through my warm-ups, planks, push-ups, leg raises, and squats. Anything that I could do with the range of motion and flexibility I had. Again and again, to let the muscle pain and fatigue try to still and drown out my racing thoughts. 

They didn’t understand. I wasn’t just making a deal with some faceless corporation, dealing with some executive fuck like Tim Murphy. I had made my agreement with Blonde Blazer, Mandy. I trusted Royd, hell, Chase was the one who made it all happen. I trusted his judgement!

I feed Beef and stare at the setting sun outside, the orange and yellow sky blinding. 

“We don’t want you to end up like your father, Robert.”

I sit down on the floor and begin to do sit-ups. My father was a good man, a hero. Everything that I had wanted to be as a child. 

Everything that I was told I had to be.

“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen”

“You had us. All you needed to do was ask.”

No, I didn’t.

It was a mistake to try to send Coupe to STARS, thinking that Kyla could help. To try and get their help in taking down Shroud.

“Twenty…” 

I pause, sitting up. 

There was one thing that Monarch had given me. I hunt down a Sharpie and a sticky note. And write down the two words that could actually lead somewhere. 

For the first time in weeks, I add something new to the corkboard in my apartment. 

Red Ring?

Chapter Text

I try to look into the Red Ring on Sunday, but quickly hit a dead end. The information is too recent to have shown up in news articles. Any information on the gang was probably kept closely by investigators and heroes as they tried to size up the new faction and determine if it was just a rising villain group or a new long-term gang.  The best I could find was an article from early last week about one of the groups being observed as having multiple superpowered individuals on their side.

New gangs were not uncommon, with at least twenty to thirty percent of underground and small-time criminals gathering and fleeing from different crime lords and super villains. The rest were tied to mob bosses, smuggling rings, and tech moguls, their loyalties unwavering from whoever or whatever they had dedicated themselves to. 

The next month or so would inform anyone watching just what type of organization the Red Ring would become: a Super-Scheme or a new Element in the Southern California criminal underworld. The exponential growth and rise in incidents suggest a Super-Scheme. But if they establish a territory and put in place infrastructure, then they are trying to be a new Criminal Element. Wonder how they are going to maintain and backfill current operations. I bookmarked a few articles, but any deeper investigation would need a Hero database or similar resource. 

If Mandy could get me the SDN Branch Manager report, that would offer some insights. 

I’m heading back from the library when I receive a text message, the large all-caps messaging informing me who it is before I even look at the name. 

HELLO ROBERT ROBERTSON

WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONSUME TOGETHER?

I sigh, looking down at Beef, who had just finished peeing on an old fire hydrant, peeling paint and chipping off. 

“Do you want to consume, Beef?” I ask him dryly, as he sniffs his own urine before giving me a doggy grin, ready to continue the walk. 

I guess I had time.

“So this is the Dog who relies on you for sustenance and walkies,” Phenomaman remarks, looking down as Beef drinks deeply from the water dish the waiter had just dropped off. “I, too, have considered getting a pet now that I have a void in my life. But the opossums outside do not appear to appreciate the pets I have bestowed upon them.” 

I peer over the top of my menu, “Yeah…” I say, electing to ignore the fact that he tried to pet opossums, focusing instead on his issue, “Pets can help when you’re going through a tough time, but maybe we focus on balancing your life before we add the weight of an animal's health and happiness.”

“Have you decided what you want to eat?” I ask, changing the topic. Phenomaman had yet to pick up the menu.  

“My alien tastebuds are less sensitive than your Earth palette,” he informs me, “As such, I default to the establishments ‘specials ’ as I can only barely taste any of your Earth food.”

I stare at him, “So what kind of food can you taste?” Not tasting most of the food on earth sounded like a low form of torture. 

“I enjoy the taste of hydrochloric acid. It is bright and refreshing, though the occasions in which I can partake are few and far between. I also get energy from different light and energy sources, which have their own equivalent sensory feedback. “ 

“So next time  I’ll take you to a tanning salon,” I say dryly. 

We place our orders, and I spend the next few minutes just questioning Phenomaman. What had he tried since coming to Earth? What did he enjoy? What did he find unpleasant? 

Physical activities held no interest to him; his super strength, reflexes, and alien biology meant that he’d never have to strain or exert more than base effort to accomplish his goal. Surfing, swimming, running, jumping, soccer, baseball, badminton, and rock climbing. Everything was too trivially easy for him.  

Likewise, acting, theater, or television confused him. Struggling with figures of speech, the boundary between reality and fiction, and reading into any kind of symbolism or metaphor was beyond his capabilities or interest. 

Travel had held some interest for a time. But a few years of flying every weekend to visit and explore each continent to his heart's content had numbed him to any kind of beauty or wonder in the world. 

… I learned too much detail about where in the world he and Blonde Blazer had ‘made love’.

“How about you just call it what it is, hugging?” I suggest biting into my burger. The table next to us had a woman watching us with a scandalized look on her face.

“But the hugging took place in many different positions and approaches,” Phenomaman protests, “Sometimes I hugged her, sometimes she hugged me, there were even times when we initiated hugging at the same time, and sometimes we pressed our lips together while we hugged. All actions fall under the umbrella of love!”

“Okay, okay,” I say, raising a hand to cut him off. “So travel is out then.”

I mull over the issue as I continue to eat, observing the alien before me. He’d allowed his mutton chops to grow out, and ate his burger with all the fanfare of me picking up Beef’s dog poop. Slowly, habitually, without thought or savoring the taste, his body slumped and crumpled in on itself. He looked pathetic.

The problem was that Earth wasn’t stimulating enough for him. The light of our sun, or our gravity, or whatever the fuck made Earth different from his home planet, removed the challenge and appeal of life. So if the physical world wasn’t stimulating enough for him… 

I take the small notebook I brought along and begin to pencil down ideas. 

• Competitive video games
• Dungeons and Dragons
• Board Games
• Warhammer 40k
• Magic: The Gathering
• Anime
• Minecraft
• Light Novels 
• Virtual Reality
• Geocaching
• Art classes?

“Hey Phenomaman, have you heard of an Internet Cafe?” I ask, continuing to jot down different ideas. 

“This week we’ll start a new training regime,” I announce, passing out a schedule to each of the Z-Team members in the Conference Room. “Mondays and Wednesdays will be training days where you’ll either be completing a fitness routine in the gym, or working on a Power exercise to build stamina, control, and push your limits. Tuesdays and Thursdays will be obstacle course days, with Fridays a rest day and a focus on the mental game of being a Hero.” 

The team examines the sheets incredulously, flipping through the pages where I had outlined their different focus areas, notes on what could be improved, and how. 

“The fuck is this power training?” Prism asks, tossing her packet back onto the table. “I make light baby, there’s no training for that.”

“And I’m the fire and the flame! I’ve mastered fire!” Chimes in Flambae. 

I point at Prism, “How many light shields can you make before you run out of gas? Or the maximum number of holographic backup clones you can make at one time?” 

Prism opens her mouth, probably to snark at me, because I know she doesn’t have an answer, but I don’t give her time, swinging my finger to point at Flambae.

“And how long can you remain flying in one place while on fire? How fast could you melt a lock without burning down a door or building?”

“Like I’d ever have to just hover in place for any amount of time,” Flambae mutters, crossing his arms. “I’d just land somewhere. And if I need to go through a fucking door, then why not just break down the door?” 

I shake my head at his sentence. “Sinking boats, unstable structures, earthquakes, acid spills, minefields, and trapped lairs, the ability to stay airborne and control your movement in an area will only help you as a hero.”

I continue talking, making my way back to the head of the table, “As for the melting a lock, you could be running a covert mission or a rescue mission, or someone kidnapped you and you need to quickly and quietly sneak out without letting them know you’ve escaped their restraints.” 

I trail off, aware of the many eyes staring at me in silence. 

“What?” I ask, raising my eyebrows and crossing my arms. 

“Dude… who the fuck are you?” Sonar asks in the silence. 

“Robert Robertson, dispatcher,” I shot back sarcastically, heading toward the door. “Hit the gym or start your power exercise. We have fifty minutes before the start of the shift.” 

“Test eleven, pilot ready, power on, and beginning simple locomotion,” I say, moving the Mecha Man Suit through slow, controlled motions. Arms flexing and bending while the legs remained stationary. The last three tests showed some kind of failstate that kicked in when engaging both the upper and lower locomotion of the mech. Something in the power drain triggered a failure cascade in the Protopulse. 

The massive machinery hummed and clicked as servos and pistons shifted and adjusted. All at the touch of a switch. I was home. The pale blue glow of the displays, the familiar light vibration beneath my seat. The slight shifts in gravity as Mecha Man shifted and turned. 

Fuck yeah. 

Royd watches from the control room, examining the output from three different screens. “It’s all looking good, brother, try some footwork now, nice and slow.” 

One leg, then the second, as I shift the Mecha Man suit to turn in a circle. One eye watching energy readings. 

Stable. 

“Alright!” I breathe out, “Royd, I’m kicking it up a notch!” 

“That’s not nice and slow, bro!” 

I don’t care, sweeping into a quick leg sweep, arms shadow grappling a fake opponent. The new alloys, the reworked circuitry, the suit feels so light and responsive, activating and shifting based on my commands instantly. 

This is what had been missing for the last three or four months of my life! This is was it, Mecha Man was back!

I extend a kick and jump back, feeling the shift of the mech, so perfectly-

Beep beep beep!

“Shut it down!” 

I sight as the suit comes to a resting state, removing the protopulse from its casing. Another failure. 

“At least we solved the upper/lower body split,” I say, quickly climbing out of the suit as Royd observes with the fire extinguisher. 

I turn to observe with him as we both wait to see if any of the electrical systems of the suit continue to overheat and spark, or if they’d stabilize with the removal of the Protopulse.

… 

Nothing. 

We both relax and turn away from the mech. “You need to take it slower,” Royd chides me. “We only got four seconds of clean data before you went full Rocky.” 

“It worked, Royd,” I laugh, “There was zero fluctuation with upper and lower body engaged. I was ready to go full Rocky!”

Royd just shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he brings up another hard light display of the internal circuitry. “Now that we have the base power stabilized, we can begin to install the weapon systems into the suit. I’ll work on the new ProtoPulse,” He says, handing me a datapad. 

“Adding the weapon systems before we have the Pulse finalized? Isn’t that a little fast?” I ask, glancing at the schematics. 

The converted villain tech fit perfectly into the space between the thrusters, allowing for rapid creation of multiple missiles with varying payloads. And that was just one of six additions. Modifications to the energy blade ports to allow plasma discharges, giving ranged options, a charging dock allowing the old net launchers to also be energized, endless tweaks and changes to reduce energy drain, maximize output, and allow Mecha Man more tools and options than I think I ever had access to in the past.

“That’s not how it goes. We need a Protopulse that can power all of Mecha Man, not just the base body. We know the individual power drain on all the components, but we need to have it all together to ensure both the Pulse and the suit can handle the power distribution.” Royd explains, placing the Protopulse into a vice clamp and taking out some needle-thin screwdrivers. “Now bugger off, yeah? Let Royd work his magic.”

Laughing, I grab a stepstool and pull it towards the Mecha Man suit. Grabbing some tools, I step up to remove a back panel and dig into the circuitry. Trying to accomplish as much as I could before lunch was over. 

Soon.

…

…

Monarch and Kyla didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. 

“Hey, Robert?” 

I pause, my hands about to put on my headset. 

“What’s up, Galen?” I ask, eyeing the man. We had shared lunch once, before Royd and I had made more progress on the Mecha Man suit. He’s a nice enough man, never went into heroics, but cared about SDN and managed one of the top-performing teams at the Torrance branch. Granted, with the Z-Team taking up the lower rankings, almost every other team could be considered a top-performing team. 

“Whiskers and I were going to grab drinks tomorrow. A place nearby had a Tuesday tacos deal. Little Dispatcher tradition to celebrate your first month.”

I glance over at the large cat Mascot, the massive eyes gazing blankly around the room. Despite working side by side with Mr. Whiskers, I still had no idea what or who they were. 

“Dispatchers only,” I comment, still trying to identify if there was any part of the massive fabric head that they could see out of. “Chase coming as well?” I glance over at his desk. He had offered to play with Beef over lunch, miffed with me for offering Beef Privileges to the Z-Team. 

“Ah, we could invite him,” Galen says awkwardly, “He’s turned down the last few, though, so we’ve stopped asking.” 

I nod, thinking briefly, “I’ll ask him, would be interesting to have all the Dispatchers going out,” I say with a smile. 

Galen grins back, “Awesome, we’ll send the address so you can check out the menu, have a good shift!”

The two head off, returning to their desks on the other side of the bullpen. I put on my headset and instantly have the Z-Team in my ears. 

“I’m telling you, man, this Sushiritto place is the shit, it’s like, all the Japanese flavor but without the headache of the fucking chopsticks,” Flambae insists. 

“It sounds like an abomination against everything holy! It’s not right.” Retorts Punch-Up.

“I’m in,” Malevola interrupts, “Just say when.”

“I agree with Punch on this,” Sonar says, “But I will try everything once.”

“Sushiritto’s a solid seven out of ten, just don’t let them put wasabi in it,” I interrupt, making initial assignments. 

Sonar and Malevola to some disturbance near the beach, Golem to a car crash blocking a highway on-ramp, Prism to a city council member event. 

“What about those asian corn dogs? Where instead of batter its macaroni or some shit?”

“The fuck are you on about now Visi? That sounds foul,” Punch-Up bemoans. 

The food talk lasts the rest of the afternoon shift as we discuss all the culinary horrors available in Southern California. 

…

I take a few notes of future places to try. 

The SDN Regional Report was a bare thing. A five-page report was sent out to each of the Branch Managers at the start of the month about the observed crime trends in your area. Frequency of property theft cases, what times of day when “high volume of subscriber calls” is expected, and only a paragraph and a half on the state of the local gangs and crime groups. 

“They normally will send out a follow-up message if something significant happens,” Blonde Blazer explains, as I flip through the report, “We got an extra paragraph when you… exploded.”

I glance up, “Wow, an entire paragraph,” I deadpan, “Was SDN able to recover financially from using all that ink?” 

Blonde Blazer chuckles before fixing me with a serious gaze, “It was a big deal, confirming that Mecha Man was out of the picture, kicked off a crime wave for that first month.” She leans back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling, “The Phoenix Program burned through three dispatchers in that time. Chase had to pull double duty.” 

I wince at the information. Managing the Z-Team was a full-time job; trying to do anything else on top of wrangling the foul-mouthed misfits was asking for a headache.

“Maybe I’ll get him a fruit basket,” I say, smiling as Blonde Blazer snorts.

The report said little about the Red Ring. It recorded their arrival on the crime scene with their involvement in a few territorial disputes between established gangs over the last few weeks. The red enhancement tech was the only indicator that it was a new faction in the city's turf wars. 

“Thanks, Blazer,” I say, closing the report and handing it back to her. The report offered a broader look at the Torrance area, but it still lacked key information. Smuggling rates, shifting territories between different crime groups, and developing patterns in break-ins and arrests. It was made specifically to respond to and help SDN defend subscribers in the area, not the wider community.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Blonde Blazer asks, and I shake my head. “Next month’s report might have more detail. I’ll let you know when it arrives.”

“I’m not sure how much good it’ll do, but I appreciate it,” I say, standing up and stretching. My muscles protesting the movement after the exercises I ran them through over the weekend.

Blonde Blazer considers me as I begin to exit her office, my hand on the door handle. “What… are you looking for?” she says suddenly, causing me to stop. 

“I’m…”

Looking for Shroud.

“Trying to get a full view of the crime scene in Torrance right now,” I say, turning back to her. “While SDN’s contract with the Police ensures we get a bulk of the major incidents, we’re still missing a lot of information that could help us forecast and anticipate future incidents.”

Blonde Blazer’s face furrows at the information. “Forecast… like predicting the weather? Identifying when and where someone will commit a crime before they do so?”

I shake my head, “Nothing so dystopian or deterministic,” I say with a chuckle, “But there are a lot of signs that show way before a major incident. Like… an earthquake! Smaller shakeups that lead to the bigger one days later.” 

I think back to last week's calls, looking for an example. 

“Like the Kaiju calls from last week,” I say, “Galen’s team fought a large Kaiju, leading to Daisy wandering onto the beach.” 

Blonde Blazer is staring at me, “Daisy?” she asks.

“Er, the baby kaiju,” I correct, flushing. “Point is, those calls were connected, but if we had access to other information, not just what our subscribers call in about, we’d probably have heard about weird water readings from the ocean. Upwelling or temperature changes or something. Hell, maybe some marine biologist who had been observing the Kaiju before they made landfall.” 

Blonde Blazer nods slowly, following along. “So if SDN had access to additional information, we’d be able to track these indicator events?” 

I nod, “If a gang starts hitting up factories and mechanic shops, we can guess at what they're building based on what's stolen. If there’s a series of jewelry thefts, we can guess and anticipate who or what’ll be stolen next. But just relying on subscriber data gives us too narrow a window into the community.” 

"How would you get this information?” Blonde Bazer asks, reaching for a notepad and pen, “Maybe we can make a request of corporate,” she says excitedly.

I hum, crossing my arms in thought, “It was a lot of off-the-books meetings and conversations, most of the time, I’d just be patrolling and run into people and incidents. Little things that just stuck out to me. A scientist taking samples on the beach, a break-in crime scene that was still being investigated…”

Most nights, I had stayed out, patrolling the city. There’d almost always be something to grab my attention and wrap me into a situation. Helping with a high-speed chase that turned me onto a streetcar racing ring, which led to the distribution of dirty drugs. A bar fight between two ex-employees at VandCo because one of them tried to whistleblow on some unethical experiment that resulted in a juiced-up geko-themed Doctor throwing cars on the freeway.

“Just being out there and paying attention, I guess,” I say, looking up and meeting Blazer’s frown. 

“I don’t know how corporate could act on that,” Blonde Blazer says, looking down at the notepad in thought. 

“Could we just do it ourselves?” I ask, walking over to a section of the wall where a map of Torrance was pinned up, “Have our Heroes out a little longer in the community before they return to base?”

Blazer moves to stand next to me. “It could work. SDN’s Hero license allows us to respond to incidents our heroes observe, not just emergencies with subscribers…” She shakes her head, “No, we’re required to give each hero a thirty-minute break between assignments. If we also include some kind of reconnaissance to their shift, we’ll end up short-handed when second wave callers come in.” 

“What about making patrol an assignment we could send a hero on?” I suggest changing tactics. Tracing a route around the city with my finger. “They do a loop around Torrance and respond to anything that catches their eye. Proactive patrolling.” 

“The City’s contract could cover the patrol,” Blonde Blazer says, returning to her desktop, pulling up a document. “I can call them in the morning and see if they’d be interested.”

I nod at the idea, “Good call, let me know what they say.” 

I wave a hand in departure and head back to my cubicle, one of the last stragglers in the office. Beef is there, chewing on a rawhide bone that Chase had given him. 

“You’re going to fart tonight, aren’t you?” I ask as he gives a doggy grin, trying to fit the end of the bone in his mouth. “That stuff always gives you gas.”

Maybe I’d pick up some takeout on our way home. I reach down to pet him when something catches my ear.

“...without Mecha Man?” 

I turn, the name standing out to me as I try to locate the soft audio. One of the overhead TVs was left on, showcasing an interview. An elderly Los Angeles resident speaking into the microphone. 

“Now Mecha Man, he’s been around for fifty years, that, that family protecting us, and saving us, and here for LA through thick and thin,” the old man rambles, nervous of the camera lights illuminating him against the backdrop of somewhere downtown. “I remember when Astral saved my sister! During the flooding back in the eighties. W-we owe everything to Mecha Man! I wouldn’t have my niece and her family if it weren’t for that big suit. We’re sure glad the new Mecha Man’s alive!”

I grab my bag and wrestle the bone away from Beef. He’ll just drop it and forget it on the way home. I listen in with half an ear as I turn off my computer. I tried not to watch interviews about how the public viewed Mecha Man. I quickly learned you could hyperfocus on their words. Letting the opinions of strangers try to influence how you act and react in a crisis. Besides, any gratitude would sort itself out in the long run. The museum exhibits a few street names named after Mecha Man. I knew that the people saw and valued my work. I didn’t need to hear it. 

“And what are your thoughts on Mecha Man’s statements last month? He claimed not to be finished, but it's been over a month without any sign of a rebuilt suit or a returned Mecha Man to LA,” the reporter asks. 

I pause.

“W-well. It’s a shame! A damn shame, I wouldn’t lie if I didn’t say my heart didn’t break a bit when he said he couldn’t repair the suit.” The old man says, his voice wavering a bit. “LA without Mecha Man just ain’t the same city. I just… I don’t know.”

I raise my eyes to the screen. The man was old, with thinning, grey hair. He would have been young when my grandfather was in the suit. For most of his life, he had a Mecha Man looking out for his family, his city. 

“I just don’t know,” he repeats. “I’d like to think I’ll see em’ in the sky again. In all my years, I never saw Mecha Man give up. A powerless hero! And… and all three of em’ never gave up. They stood by us through the robots and the monsters and the aliens. So… So Mecha Man Blue probably ain't finished!” He points at the reporter before swinging his hand to point at the buildings around him. His energy growing.

“Mecha Man ain’t a quitter who’d leave the city hanging. So if he says he ain’t done then he ain’t done!” The old man continues. 

The reporter continues, beginning to ask another question when the TV shuts off. 

“S-sorry,” a nervous voice calls out from across the room. I turn, and Waterboy gives an awkward wave, remote in hand. “I play uh… I listen to the… different programs…. It’s… entertainment, right?” Waterboy…asks? 

“I thought you weren’t the janitor now that you’re on the Z-Team,” I ask, walking over to join him as he pushes a maitinnace cart into a supply closet. Beef walks further ahead to sniff at Waterboy’s shoes. 

“Oh! Y-yeah, it's… I… I like to help! Keep the place… span.”

I nod at that, picking up Beef, who's licking at the puddles Waterboy is beginning to track behind him. 

“Just remember that’s not your job now,” I say, giving him a look. “There’s a difference between helping to keep the office clean and doing an entire second job on top of your first. You need to rest.” 

“I am…rested… relaxed! It helps calm me,” Waterboy reassures me. 

“Well, to each their own,” I say, as we both walk down the stairs. The lobby is quiet, empty. Both SDN and the company that shared the other half of the building are long gone. “Good work today.” 

“You…also!”

I leave Waterboy in the parking lot, the interview still on my mind as I drive home.

“…if he says he ain’t done then he ain’t done!”

I feed Beef when I get home, and once he’s distracted, I begin to do more pushups, ignoring the growing fatigue. 

I don’t have time to take my recovery slow. 

Los Angeles is waiting. 

Chapter Text

I groan as I get out of my car, the sun just beginning to rise on the SDN parking lot. It had taken twice as long as it used to, but last night I had forced my body through the routine I used to practice weekly before the coma.

My stamina and flexibility were far from what they needed to be, but if I started now, I could have my body semi-hero ready by sometime next month…

A loud honk from a nearby car tears me from my musings, and I look up to glare at the driver. 

My eyes meet Flambae’s stupid sunglasses, and I feel a small ball of tension settle in my gut as he honks again. 

“Bitch! Get out of the way!”

I take twice as long crossing the parking lot, angling my path so I block his car as much as possible, even walking through the parking space he tries to pull into. 

“What? I can’t-” A loud honk drowns out my words, “I can’t hear you over the honking!”

The honking and cursing hurt my ears, but it was a balm on my soul as I entered the building. My muscles protesting as I climb the stairs. 

I cling to my cup of coffee like a dying man in the desert clings to his first taste of water as I watch the heroes of tomorrow curse, cry out in pain, and throw dark looks my way as they try to survive the challenge I set out for them today.

I have the Z-Team run an agility and reflex training, forcing two of them to stay in a small ten-foot circle while four others attack from twenty feet away. The last two would rest and watch to see if they could call out directions or advice to either the attackers or the defenders. 

Tuesday, energy and reflection, everyone is talking about it. 

I stand and watch as Malevola and Sonar are regularly pelted with fireballs, hard light projectiles, mud, and softballs, only occasionally dodging out of the way.

“I classify this as cruel and unusual punishment!” Sonar screeches at me, as fire scorches his suit. 

“This builds character!” I call back, watching as he shifts into his beast mode and sends a sonic screech to extinguish Flambae’s next volley.

Waterboy offers me a dubious look as he continues to rinse off, having received a direct hit from Golem from his time in the circle. 

“It does!” I try to justify, ignoring the small satisfaction I had watching each of them scramble. “In firefights and long drawn-out battles, you won’t be able to give up ground. Learning how to dodge and even use your enemy's fire against them is a crucial skill to build! “

“Oh right, and I’m a silverback gorilla,” snarks Punch Up as Malevola uses some quick thinking with her hell portals to quickly redirect an attack from Prism, causing Invisigals' throw to go wild. 

I consider the diminutive strong man glaring at me. Maybe not an adult silverback but…

… yeah, I’m not going to say that one out loud. 

“Regardless,” I say, pushing on, “It’s a good exercise, keeps you all agile.” 

Punch up snorts, holds by his own tongue. 

I take in his tight expression. It’s disgruntled, not exactly hostile. Punch had cooled towards me in the last few days, the office prank from last week seeming the height of any retaliation. I weigh the pros and cons.

Why the fuck not? If it brought on a second computer prank, I could tolerate that. 

“Hey, Punch?” 

“Yes, lad?”  He responds, raising an eyebrow. 

“You were close to Coupe, right?” 

Ohhh, that’s a reaction, I think as I watch his arms fold. His brow furrows as he stares at me.

“And what’s it to you? You cut her, she’s gone,” he says, cautiously.

“Yeah, I did.” I press on, “Do you have a way to contact her?” 

Punch scrutinizes me, a glare, mostly of anger, but a bit of curiosity. He thinks for a bit, and I let him. I take a deep sip of coffee as I watch him out of the corner of my eyes. 

In front of us, Malevola grunts as she blocks an attack from Golem on the flat of her blade. 

Eventually, Punch-Up looks up at me and smiles. It’s an open, easy expression. It instantly puts me on guard. A warning shiver runs up my spine. He was plotting something. 

“Oh aye, me and feathers go way back. We both have our ways of getting each other's attention. When we need to,” he says, almost conversationally. He takes a few steps, and I turn with him, keeping his body in my sight. It’s not necessarily hard. Keep out of his reach as he continues taking steps. 

“Do you… Do you think you could get a message to her?” I ask, giving him my attention, trying to discern what he was up to from his body language. That warning prickle still dancing along my back. 

“Depends on the message,” he replies glibly, taking a few more steps before pausing, fixing me with a hard stare. Crossing his arms. “I doubt she’d enjoy me rousing her from her own business just for a fucking courtesy call.” 

I sigh. I didn’t want to spread what I had done around. Maybe if I kept it vague?

“I wanted to talk to her about her old job,” I say, turning fully towards him, facing away from the agility exercise.

Wrong things to say. Punch-Up scowls at me, his fingers digging into his biceps in anger. 

“Oh, I think you said everything you needed to!” Punch up retorted, tapping his fingers against his arms in agitation, “Firing someone kinda sums up all the unsaid bullshit, don’t ya think?” 

Damn it. I’d have to get specific. Otherwise, he’d twist the message if he delivered it at all. 

“I just want to see how she liked STARS,” I say quickly, trying to counter his body language.  Adjusting myself to be open, shifted my weight to one side.  “And let her know I don’t hold anything against her.” 

He’s not glaring at many anymore, that’s a good sign. His fingers pause, and he tilts his head. “The fuck are you on about? What’s STARS?” The hostility gone from his voice, replaced with confusion.

I cross my arms and break his gaze, “Listen, it’s not my place to say or anything, but I tried to help, and it didn’t work. And I don’t blame her for it. Can you tell her that at least?” 

I sigh as he doesn’t respond, my eyes wandering. My eyes settle on his hands, where he had been tapping his fingers in anger. A weird social tic, but not the…

I stop and stare, my eyes narrowing. He had paused, with his index and ring fingers pointed outward, thumb twisted to point at me. 

That wasn’t a social tick. That was a hand sign.

Shit.

I have just enough time to meet his eyes and see them widen, focusing on something behind me when it impacts my back. Weight, hard, fast, one of the attacks, was redirected to me.

I’m sent airborne, head over heels, and I quickly tuck my arms into my chest, bringing my head into my hands. Roll. Minimize contact.

This was going to hurt.

I’m staring up into a demon’s face. Horns and orange eyes peering down at me, “Are you all right, mate? Quite a tumble you took.”

“Just fine,” I reply slowly. I sit up with a groan, feeling the different aches and scuffs along my body. My forearms, legs, and back were scuffed to hell. Roadrash fraying the fabric, and tearing my skin with shallow cuts. I look down at myself, inventorying the damage. The red of blood beginning to wet my clothes. And… brown?

Shit, did I shit myself?

“That’s on us, Robert,” Malevola apologized, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I portaled one of Golem’s attacks, not watching where the outflow went. Got ya right center.” 

I gingerly stand up, my head swimming a bit before my eyes focus. “It’s…” I inhale sharply as I stabilize my feet. “It’s fine.” I finish. 

The Z-Teams around me in a semicircle, each faces a varying level of concern. Flambae watches with amusement and barely concealed glee as I stand. Malevola and Sonar have mild interest mixed with concern. Prism, Golem, Waterboy, and Invisigal all have a mix of worry and guilt. Punch-Up’s expression is unreadable, as he stares at me intently. 

My eyes met his for a moment. 

Sneaky little guy. I’d have to remember that. He could be sly when he wanted to be.

“You all do one more rotation, Flambae and Prism in the center,”  I say to the group, shortly. Invisigal makes to open her mouth, and I hold up my hand, “And then head back to the office for the morning shift. I think I’ll meet you there.” 

I turn around and do my best not to limp away from my team. Maybe I should keep it confined to the gym. Each time we went out, it seemed like someone came back injured.

It's a dangerous business going outside.

“I keep telling you those lunatics are dangerous. You need to be careful with them, Robert. Just because they’re calling themselves heroes now doesn’t mean they know how to use their powers like heroes,” Chase says hotly, following me back from the medical wing. 

“Would you relax, Chase? It was an accident.”  I say, entering the elevator and hitting the button for the second floor. Chase follows quick on my heels, Beef in his arms, a scowl etched into his wrinkles.

“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem! They’re gonna be having all these little accidents again and again. When they can’t afford to be making any! How are they gonna call themselves heroes if they’re too quick or use too much force lifting a civilian? We’re gonna end up on the 10 o’clock news, having half of Los Angeles watch them pancake some poor civilian!” Chase responds hotly. 

I smile at one of the heroes who was unfortunate to join us on the ground floor. The magnetic themed hero I had seen on my first day. Polarity? 

She examines the medical badges and disheveled clothes with concern. 

“The drills I run with them are to push their limits and help them understand how to control their powers,” I respond as the elevator doors open. I make my way to the breakroom. I’d need coffee now more than ever to get through the rest of today. 

Chase followers and pauses, his eyes caught by something behind me. I follow his gaze and see Punch-Up, staring at the two of us by the vending machine. 

A moment passes. 

“Just be more fucking careful,” Chase says in a low voice, turning away. “You don’t have six inches of titanium protecting you from these idiots. You can’t afford any of these fucking accidents and neither can they!”

He leaves, and it’s just the two of us in the break room.

Well…

This won’t be awkward.

I act casual, moving towards the coffee machine after giving a nod to Punch-Up. As I pour the liquid into my mug, I glance at him the reflection of the glass. 

He’s watching my back. 

I add cream while making some light calculations. If he rushed me, I didn’t have enough flexibility to jump off the counter, but if I climbed on top, I could get to the top of the vending machine. It wouldn’t be great, but I’d have some-

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Okay, diplomacy, I could do that. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, turning around, resting my back against the count-

Ow. Okay, bruise there. Standing. Standing is good.

“Yeah, you do. I saw it in your eyes right before ya got swamped. You knew I’d play you.” His voice is low, guilty? Or just nervous?

I pause, taking a sip as I think, caffeine, thank god. 

“Because what’s the point? Another write-up? A note in your file? You go back in a cell and the teams down another person for a week?” I shake my head. Gesturing at him with my coffee mug, “You do good work, you don’t set the places you're supposed to be protecting on fire, and you have the power to help people.”

“And Waterboy likes you,” I say after a moment. “I think you can show him some things. Build up his confidence a bit.” 

Punch-Up is staring at me, eyes wide.I shrug at him. “Just next time, just tell me to fuck off, yeah?” I grunt. “See you at shift.” 

I leave the breakroom, feeling his eyes on my back as I go.

Morning shift goes… it goes. An animal shelter gets damaged during someone else’s big fight against some robot or cyborg, and now there’s nanite-infested animals running amok. 

Cats with cybernetic arms causing chaos at seafood restaurants, dogs chasing cars with metal teeth and enhanced speed, Flambae has to rush three mailmen to the hospital, and only Golem seems to not have a problem with the augmented animals….

Until one of the dogs pees on him. 

It’s a long shift, and the team is unhappy on so many levels, which means they snark, bite out insults, and fill the com with so much vitriolic chatter, either at myself or at each others throats. 

“Listen!” I full shout into the mic. “Shifts over, lunch is here. Take a shower, eat your comfort food, do whatever the fuck you want, but cool the fuck down. The day is only half over and you're all falling to pieces over cats and dogs. I’d say you're fighting like cats and dogs but as we saw, they're much more competent than you all.” 

“Oh fuck off,” snarls Flambae. “I work-”

I don’t hear the rest as I snatch my headset off and breath heavily, glaring at the little profiles on my screen. 

Beef puts his paws up on my leg, whining at me.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and hold it for four seconds. Calm. I needed to be calm. Box Breathing. 

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Repeat. 

“Hey bud,” I say, looking down at Beef, “How about we do a walk ourselves, huh”

Chase doesn’t say anything, but I can almost hear his voice as he stares at us as we both leave. I told you they were a bunch of lunatics, he would’ve said with a shrug. These fucking two-bit villains will always be fucking villains, that’s a fucking truth.

I didn’t need to hear it.

I sigh and continue out of the office, clipping a collar to Beef as we made our way down to the lobby. 

The SDN Torrance‘s office buildings were in an industrial part of Torrance, for three or four blocks in every direction were office buildings upon office buildings. Tall palm trees offer little shade. There would be an occasional food truck on one side street or another. But otherwise, it was the perfect Corporate urban sprawl hellscape that seemed to encompass much of Southern California.

But there was one grass area. A roundabout that they had installed some years back. To stop street racers than to actually control the flow of traffic. Whatever the case, it had three large wisteria trees that gave some little shade to a small grass area, protecting it from the California sun. It would be yellow and bone dry in the middle of summer. But for mid-spring, it was nice and green and damp. Still overwatered from the irrigation system the city had installed. There’s a bench there a small, sad, pathetic thing. But it’s somewhere to sit.

I don’t so much I say, as collapse into it, sighing deeply as Beef meanders around the grass area sniffing at some scent or smell. 

“You know, I thought I was having a bad day when I realized I had run down to my last cigarette in my pack” a voice says above me, “But somehow in four hours you’ve managed to outdo even that. What’s your secret?”

“Bathroom rendezvous aren’t enough for you?” I ask, opening my eyes. Seeing no one around me, “Can’t a guy enjoy his lunch break in peace?”

Invisigal blips into the visible spectrum in front of Beef. Kneeling down to scratch behind his ears. I watch her from where I sit, not particularly motivated to move from my position. Not moving was nice.

“You were a lot worse off, you know,” she says almost conversationally. “Malevola had to transfer your fractured and broken bones to Golem. Apparently, the sensation feels quite good to him. Like those doctors who crack your bones,” she muses. 

“A chiropractor?” I ask, still not moving. Best decision of the day. Not moving. She nods.

“Well, that’s good to know,” I say sarcastically. “I’ll be sure to hit him up if he wants any more of my broken bones.” 

“They all feel bad, you know? Golem for this and with Prism last week. Malevola and Sonar were convinced you had powers you just hadn’t revealed to us.”

I sigh and grunt slightly as I crane my neck to look at her. “Golem has nothing to be sorry about. It was a mistake during training. These things happen.” 

“Holy shit, you actually believe that.” She scoffs, looking up at me. “You just got rag-dolled thirty feet across a parking lot, and you act like someone accidentally tripped you while walking in the office. You’re more pissed off by a few hours of bickering instead of the actual physical harm you experienced.”

“I’m a big boy,”  I say rolling my eyes. “If I threw a fit every time I was sent flying over the years, I’d have anger management issues.”

Invisigal looks up at me and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. 

“Would it help if I was pissed off?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. She doesn’t say anything. 

…

…

Okay… 

“Why the fuck do you care about us?” she says suddenly. 

I shrug and readjust myself on the bench. Now that it had warmed up, it was comfortable. Almost as good at my chair in my apartment. “It’s kinda my job?” 

“No.” she says, pointing at me, “Doing a nine-to-five is a fucking job. Flipping burgers, stocking shelves. But you, if you worked at In-and-Out you’d be in the fucking commercial making each burger with love or some shit.” 

“In-and-Out doesn’t do commercials.” I correct, “They don’t do any advertisement outside of sponsoring community events and selling t-shirts.” 

“Not the fucking point. Golem told me what you did for him last week. For him and Daisy.” 

“Please don’t remind me,” I groan, draping an arm over my face, blocking my eyes. Oh, that felt nice. “I still think it’s a bad idea. Trying to raise a Kaiju who’ll become who knows how big.”

“Yeah, but even if you think it's stupid shit, you still supported him! You call some sea doctor from some fucking university and get him a whole new place! Do you know what your ocean friend’s charging him for rent? Barely shit! She’s paying him to help with her science shit!”

Invisigal begins to pace, huffing. “You saying inspiring shit about the stars and everything to get my ass out of that sorry playground and get the job done? Makes sense. Cost you nothing. But the training plans? The fucking analysis to grow our powers and shit? It’s like- It's like!” 

“Like I’m trying to make you all capable heroes?” I ask tiredly, removing my arm and looking at her. “That’s kinda the point of this whole Pheonix program.”

“The Phoenix program is SDN getting State-sponsored free labor and for prisoners to reduce their fucking prison sentences. Let’s them skip out on paying us actual benefits. No one actually expects us to become anything. Do anything.” Invisigal bites out. I raise an eyebrow. 

“I do.” I say simply. The answer seems to infuriate her. 

“This isn’t… it isn’t normal! What if we just take all this training your giving us and go right back to being villians?” She asks challenging, hands on her hips. 

“Well,” I say dragging out the word, “Are you planning to be a villain again? 

A myriad of emotions pour over her face before she turns away from me, glaring out at the roundabout. 

“...No.” 

The answer seems to surprise her. Her shoulders dropping at the admission. 

“Then there you go, then it’s no problem. Me helping you helps you become stronger, more competent heroes. Everyone’s fucking happy.” I say, exhaling and looking up into the tree branches. The purple wisteria flowers were nice. 

“Why are you this… this good?” Invisigal asks.

“Comes with the job,” I say wearily, throwing her a peace sign with one hand.  “ Don’t worry, we’ll work on your ability to not be an asshole once you get some muscles on those arms.”

“Fucking prick,” she laughs, reaching into her pocket and pulling in her inhaler. She holds it up to her mouth and takes a quick puff of the medication. 

I watch her for a moment. “You know you're not using that correctly, right?” She blinks at me. 

“What?”

I sigh, “You’re supposed to hold your breath, let the mist shit you inhale settle on your lungs, actually settle, before you then breathe out.”  

She continues to stare at me, but I’m officially done with this conversation. I shift so I’m lying flat on my back, the hard painted wood pressing evenly along my sore back.  I toss her Beef’s ball. 

“Listen, if you're just going to stand there and brood, can you watch Beef while you do it? There’s still forty-five minutes left before the second shift and I’d like to try and get a nap in.” I say, settling in, closing my eyes.

“And waste my lunch dog sitting after this morning? No thanks,” she snarks back.

“Then tie his leash around the bench when you're done,” I say with a yawn. 

I don’t hear her reply as I pass out.

“Beef took a shit,” Invisigal informs me, the first words I hear as my watch chimes, warning me that the second shift starts in fifteen minutes. 

“There’s doggie bags on the leash,” I murmur, as I sit up, my back protesting as I become vertical. 

I look beadily up at Invisigal to see her nose wrinkle in disgust. 

“I’m not picking up dog shit,” she says. 

“Cool,” I say, grabbing a bag myself and pushing myself off the bench. “How’d Beef do? Did he play fetch?” 

“Fucker just watched me. I had to go and pick up for him,” Invisigal complains, but no heat to her voice as she runs a hand down Beef’s furry back. I pay him on the head. 

Good boy.

“Yeah, that’s Beef,” I say out loud. 

My body is still sore, and I take some ginger stretches, feeling the bandages and scabs twist and pull as I shift. Invisigal watches as I stand up, wrapping Beef’s leash in my hand. 

“You really believe in all of us,” she says quietly. 

I sigh again. How many times did I have to say it? I try to smooth out my annoyance, keeping it off my face and out of my tone as I meet her eyes. 

“I do,” I say honestly. 

…

She fucking punches me. 

I gasp kneeling over. 

Invisigal takes a deep puff of her inhaler, a light blush on her face as she glares down at me.  

“Heroic loser,” she mutters before blinking invisible. 

“You know…” I gasp out, “We’re both walking back to the office. I’m going to see you when you have to take a breath.” I cough, getting the wind back in my lungs.

There’s no reply and I sigh, tugging on Beef’s leash to start us back to the office.

…

…

…

She re appears briefly fifty feet ahead of me, glancing back embarrassed before going invisible again. 

What did anime call it? Tsundere? Beef barks at her and looks up at me expectantly. 

“Yeah, she’s not that bright,” I inform him. Beef’s tongue lolls out, and he begins to sniff his way back to SDN. Sneezing on occasion.

…

…

Hmm, had she practiced holding her breath? Baseline free divers had up to five or six minutes, she could go further. 

“Hey team, I want to apologize for how I signed off. We were all stressed after that mess with the pets. Let’s try and make the afternoon better than this morning, yeah?”

Flambae starts up, “Fuck off, Robert! I’m not such a bitch that-”

Yeah, that was expected. 

The afternoon is thankfully animal-free, other than a dog walking request. 

I assign Invisigal to it and remind her to pick up any poop the dog leaves behind. 

Petty, maybe but it made me smile. So it was worth it. 

Galen’s taco place is fucking Chili’s. 

Not a secret hole in the wall, or a food truck. Just fucking Chili’s. 

I stare at the plastic menu. I can’t remember the last time I ate at fucking Chili’s. 

Oh, wait, yes, I can, tech job number fourteen. A Vice President had a birthday party. Chocolate lava cakes for everyone. 

“So what are you going to get?” Galen asks taking a drink of the shocking blue lemonade. 

“Probably a burger,” I say, as Chase grunts out “skillet,” not touching the menu.

I don’t know exactly what the history was between Chase and Mr. Whiskers, but the exchanges are cold between the two. Or at least Chase's exchanges are. The massive mascot head just stares at all of us and I have yet to hear a single word spoken from the being. 

Galen nods cheerfully, “I went through the menu and tried everything last year, those are good choices!”

“So Robert! It’s been about a month with the Z-team, you’re officially their longest dispatcher! How’re you doing it?” 

Chase snorts, “With the patience of a saint and wit four times sharper than any one of them!” He answers for me.

The waiter comes by to collect our order as I chuckle. “I just work with them,” I say waving a hand. “Honestly when you get down to someone of them, their closer to freshly started vigilantes than villains.” 

Galen tilts his head, “How does it differ?” He asks. “Whiskers and I have only worked with corporate heroes.” 

I pause at that, “Your teams don’t interact with vigilantes at all?” My eyebrows raise as Galen and the massive mascot shake their heads. 

Vigilantes were a new classification in the last twenty years or so. The distinction between licensed and unlicensed heroes. 

Different cities had different policies on them. Certified heroes were often tied in with the local emergency response, with basic exchange of resources up to full on join operations and collaboration on investigations. Vigilantes were just powered individuals in the area. They generally looked after a specific neighborhood or area; they didn’t document or log their captures and the damages after their fights. Some larger cities, like San Francisco, tried to tolerate only ‘certified’ heroes to respond to supervillains and other disasters, while smaller areas, or those with rational mayors didn’t make such distinctions, were happy to receive all the help available.

I glance at Chase, who speaks up.

“Vigilantes look down on corporate heroes in Los Angeles, see it as selling the fuck out. Even though we do the same job, generally they don’t give us the time of day.” Chase says.

I nod at that and give a thoughtful hum. While I understood the perspective, SDN responded to many different calls in Torrance. Even basic exchanges and communication would benefit both sides, especially since SDN heroes didn’t stick around after the initial crisis was handled. Leaving behind the debris, clean up, and inventorying to the Z-team or some other contract service. As Mecha Man, I’d delegated the rescue of civilians, escorting captured criminals, and a host of other minor tasks to vigilantes when the situation called for it.

Galen leans forward. “Have you worked with many vigilantes in the past?” There’s a light of curiosity to his gaze as Mr. Whiskers fixed with a similar stare… I think. 

Oh, this is what tonight was about. 

Their curiosity about me had boiled over and they wanted to know who I was. 

“A handful of them,” I reply, amused. “Some become certified heroes once they get a lay of the land, some stop or move on with their life. You get a lot of them near college campuses.” 

Chase snorts, “A bunch of youthful idiots without mommy and daddy to keep them in after curfew, a breeding ground for poorly planned vigilantism.” 

I grin, seeing the perfect distraction. 

“Chase was a vigilante,” I say conversationally, snagging an onion ring. 

Chase splutters as Galen and Mr. Whiskers attention shifts to him. Just in time for our food to arrive.

Chase shoots a half hearted glare at me as Galen begins to pepper him with questions. 

“Then the Brave Brigade picked me up, perfect time too, as I was getting way in over my head,” Chase concludes, finishing his recount of his vigilante years.

Mr. Whiskers claps and reaches for an onion ring. I track the oversized white gloves. For the entire meal, Mr. Whiskers had some how been eating and drinking and I had no fucking clue how. He’d hold the food and between one moment and the next, when my eyes shifted to look at someone else, or when I blinked, it’d be gone. 

How. 

“It’s fascinating really,” Galen said, reaching across the table to grab an onion ring for himself. “SDN heroes are either brought up internally or they come to us as established heroes. I hadn’t thought about how hard it’d be to really be a freelancer.”

Chase sighes and sits back, kicking one leg against the table. “That’s why I keep saying you’re too soft on your team. Just because you can shunt the clean up work to other teams and the after action folks, doesn’t mean they can’t learn a bit about site responsibility!” he says sternly. His kick causes the table to vibrate and I glance down to ensure my cup didn’t spill. By the time I look up, Mr. Whiskers' onion ring is gone. 

Damn it. 

“You know,” Galen says, shifting the topic, “You should apply to be a speaker at the next Regional SDN conference. Get more dispatchers and Branch Managers to maybe recruit at the Vigilante level.” He shrugs, “Some might even qualify for the Phoenix Program!”

“Ha,” barks Chase, “That’d raise the bar, give Robert here some actually competent Supers for a change.” he digs his old boney-ass elbow into my ribs and I grunt. 

Right on the bruises. 

“They’re not that bad,” I protest, elbowing him back, “They’ve grown so much, in the last few weeks.” 

“Grown into a bigger pain in your ass,” Chase counters, “I heard you and them this morning. If lunch didn’t reset them, someone would've been killed.” He pauses in thought, “It probably would have been Waterboy.” 

“As the victim or the perpetrator?” I ask, taking a sip of the beer.  

“Both?”

I snort, “So what's this regional conference shit and how can we sign up Chase for it?” 

He elbows me again, the old fuck, and I cough, beer going down the wrong pipe. “You sign me up and I’ll get Blazer to assign more assholes to the Z-Team,” he threatens.

“It’s something that each SDN regional director puts on. Lets us ‘network with our peers’ and stuff. Supposedly, it’s also for Heroes to see what other Branches are doing, allow them to transfer to regions that’d most need their powers.” Galen explains, “But for the last five years, it’s just been Tim poaching from other Branches, building up his super team,” Galen takes a deep sip of his blue drink. “Dispatcher level? It’s kinda pain. Each dispatcher dick measuring and comparing company ratings for from their teams. But the company pays for the alcohol.” Galen adds as if it made up for the nightmare corporate event that it was.

“I take it back Chase, I’d be a right villain myself to sign you up for that.” I apologize, toasting to him. 

“You better not fucker,” he grumbles, trying to shoot another elbow into my side. 

“Would you stop that?” I catch it, “You know I’m bruised there.”

“Yeah, and maybe after tonight you’ll learn to not get bruised in the future!”

“What happened?” Galen jumps at the chance to ask another question, as Mr. Whiskers massive head swivels to look at me.

 “Just a training accident,” I mutter, pushing Chase off of me. Fucking super strengthed old geezer. Super fucking elbows.

The rest of the night involves me dodging personal questions like super thrown softballs thrown by Punch-Up and Invisigal, as I distract Galen and Mr. Whiskers by outlining the improvement plans I had created for each of the Z-Teammembers. We leave Chili’s with Galen looking thoughtful, and Mr. Whiskers… also there. 

Seriously, was there a person in that suit?

Chase gives me a ride back to my apartment, convincing me to let him up to say goodnight to Beef. 

“Now I know you’ve gotten your first paycheck” Chase remarks, looking around the apartment, arms full of Beef. “Can’t you afford at least some IKEA shit? Fuck, even a lamp would make it feel a little homey. This is basically a garage.”

“It was a garage,” I retort, sliding against a wall, mug of decaf in hand. “Any Mecha Man repairs I did right here.” I gesture to the space. 

“I had a rug…” I remark, “Absorbed the oil spills like a dream,” 

“Because that’s what rugs are for.” deadpans Chase as he eventually sets Beef down. 

“… You should go.” 

“To what?” I ask with a sigh,  “Disneyland?”

“To the next SDN Conference, motherfucker. That asshat Tim aside, there's some good people in SDN. People you could stand to know.”

I turn my head to my conspiracy board on Shroud. “Really, Chase? Corporate networking?” I laugh, “Not sure how much good knowing someone in finance is going to be when I get back in the suit.”

Silence meets my statement. I turn back to him. 

“Chase?” I ask. He’s not looking at me, petting Beef instead of making eye contact.  

“You’re right… forget I said anything.” He says shortly. Standing. 

“Hey!” I fight to my feet, “What's up?”

He doesn’t turn around, just staring at the door. He looks tired.  “It’s nothing. I just forgot. You’re going to be getting back in the game… all this is temporary for you.” He gestures to the space in front of him, “A small break. Don’t gotta make friends in high places if you’ll be free of them in a year.” 

“Chase, wait,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re probably right. I could stand to expand my network a bit more. Never know when Mecha man might be able to refer some street punk to the Phoenix program. And besides, I’ll probably have to do some kind of work with SDN to pay back everything Royd’s putting into the suit.”

“I cashed in my favors when I asked Blazer to call you in.” Chase says shortly, turning to look at me. “You don’t owe SDN shit other than a year running the Z-Team.” 

My hand drops from his shoulder in shock. “What?” I say, my eyes wide. “I… Chase… why?” 

“Didn’t want to see your run cut short like mine fucking went,” he said, looking down, his eyes distant. “You got to get out there again. Be Mecha Man again… but Robert?” his eyes meet mine and I can’t look away, caught by the intensity in his gaze. 

“I’d give… anything to be Trackstar again. But having to hang up the mask… helped me realize there was more to being out there every night. That there was a life after being a field hero. Just…” 

He swallows and steps back, giving a weak grin. “Just let Robert out of the suit every once in a while? You hear? I still need a drinking buddy.” 

“Chase…” I scramble to find the words. “Unc’. I’m not going anywhere, okay? Now or as Mecha Man. I’ll even check out this stupid conference thing, alright? Promise.

Chase peers at me, glances around the empty apartment, eyes eventually settling on Beef, whose staring up at the old man in adoration. 

He snorts, “Yeah, yeah, arlight, enough sappy bullshit. I’ll see you at the office.” 

I nod and Chase leaves. A small frown on my face once the door shuts. I didn’t understand his point. Was he worried I would burn myself out? Worried that once I became Mecha Man again, I’d cut him out of my life again? Stop grabbing meals and catching up?

Worried I'll go and get myself killed?

I take another drink of my coffee. Becoming Mecha Man again would change things. My evenings would be filled with reconnaissance and storming villain lairs, the mornings spent on repairs and research. Lunch and the afternoon would be my rest time…

I ponder the issue. 

I could take a day off. 

I would need to randomize the day, ensure no villain or news organization could sleuth it out. Picking four or five days a month to socialize and catch up with Chase.

Hell, if I adjusted my network, I could probably hack into SDN’s servers and maybe even have a direct line to him. Bug him during the slow periods of his shifts. Food for thought… 

Beef comes up into my lap as I rest my head against the wall and look outside the window. The entire world outside, full of light and oise. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. 

I fall asleep to the noise. My dreams filled with piloting the Mecha Man suit, flipping switches, directing the arms. Being a hero. 

Soon.

Chapter Text

Seeing myself after a shower in the morning… gave me pause. The scabs and bumps and bruises looked nasty. Like I had thrown myself down a flight of concrete stairs one or two times. 

A fresh uniform will improve the look, but the bright red on my arms and up my back from yesterday had turned dark purple to black. There are tinges of yellow along the edges, where the bruising is less deep. Bandages and wraps it was then. I’d look more like a mummy than an office worker.

This would be great. I could hear Flambae and Prism’s comments already. 

I decide to get to the office early, both to avoid the whispers and comments on my appearance and also to do a bit more work on the Mecha Man Suit.  With Royd still tweaking the protopulse, I had my pick of projects to tweak, streamline, and augment the suit itself. Though, due to my time taken up by dispatching the Z-team, whatever projects I start, Royd tends to finish during the following day. 

Electrifying the nets though, I could probably get one of those done before the morning shift. 

The lab is quiet, with only the quiet hum of the different electronics surrounding me and Beef’s quiet snores from the other chair as I tinker. 

It was…lonely… nostalgic. Working alone, just me and my thoughts…

…

No one around. 

…

…

Beef makes one truly loud old man snore. Ha.

…

…

Maybe I should turn on some music? 

…

…

“Woah brother, you here hella early!” Royd exclaims, stepping into the lab. I look up, a smile already on my face. 

“Woke up early and figured I’d get a head start on the day.” I say easily, setting aside the net’s power cell. “Can’t have you pulling all the weight.” 

Royd laughs easily, throwing a sack bag at me. I peer inside. 

“Bagels?” I ask, fishing out a jalapeno and cheddar bagel.

“Only thing that gets me through hump-day. Those are the day olds from a place near my apartment. Full dozen for two bucks!” Royd says jovially, picking up the net’s powercell. “This is some good work! You been reading up on energy fields?” 

“When I can,” I say, taking a bite of the bagel, hiding the small rush of satisfaction from his words. Trying to read or study the class materials I had gotten my hand on was almost impossible with how much the Z-Team needed hands-on management. But I’d found a compromise, which was generally throwing up a diagram of some concept and stare at it for a day or two before then trying to read up on it before bed. I’d still have several questions and not have any idea how to use or integrate the concept into any advanced tech, but it did familiarize myself with the concepts and terminology, allowing me to keep up with Royd in our conversations. 

“I think we might have time for the next Protopulse test later today,” Royd says, moving over to his corner of the lab and unlocking a canister, pulling out the Protopulse. “Maybe lunch or end of day.” 

I straighten up, forcing my bite of bagel down my throat. “That sounds excellent Royd!” I say with a grin. “I’ll let you know when I can stop by.” 

Royd gives a grin back, but it… looks forced? I open my mouth to ask him about it before he cuts me off. 

“The hell happened to you Brother?” Royd exclaims, eyes wide, locked on the corner of bandage visible from my collar.

“Oh this? It’s nothing,” I say, waving a hand. “Just some bruises.” 

“Robert, you’re a Dispatcher. Your not supposed to be getting the bruises at SDN,” Royd protests, leaving the protopulse and approaching me. 

“It’s fine Royd,” I insist, standing up. I make sure not to wince as I meet his eyes. “It was a small training accident, I turned my back at the wrong moment and took a tumble. They didn’t mean it and I’m fine. All… water under the bridge.” I say, giving my best smile. 

Royd doesn’t buy it, his eyes shifting from the bandage to my face. 

“That’s not a good sign, Brother. The Z-Team all need to know control and awareness to prevent any ‘accidents’.” he says, hand quotations around accidents.  “They can’t afford any bystander casualties and they can’t just casually beat up their Dispatcher.” He says, lightly poking me in the chest.

“Its. Fine. Royd.” I say quietly. Meeting his gaze. “They’ll get better and I can take it.” 

Royd looks incrediously at me, a small frown on his face. A weird expression to be there. 

“You may be able to take it,” He says slowly, “But the public won't be able to. And if they don’t break their bad habits they’ll break someone in the future. You or some kid they try to save.” 

I bite my lip from retorting, breaking eye contact. Royd was right. I knew he was. An old memory bubbles to the surface, of a mischievous child messing around in the garage, sudden danger, and a dislocated shoulder and pierced ear for my troubles. 

Get Up. 

“You’re right, Royd,” I say explosively, sighing deeply and I look over at the Mecha Man suit. “They need to learn control.” 

Royd slowly relaxes, his expression lightening. He nods at me. “They need an egg.”

I pause, blinking at him. “An egg?” 

“An egg.” Royd says definitively, like it contains all the answers of the universe.

He doesn’t elaborate. 

“Like… a benedict?” I ask slowly. Waiting for some kind of clarification. 

“No brother,” Royd laughs waving a hand, “It's an old Phoenix Program exercise to help Supers build control. You give them an egg and they need to carry it on assignment. Keep it safe!” 

He picks up a pencil and wraps his massive fist around it. “I used to break all kinds of shit on accident back in the day. But now?” 

He unfurls his fist, the pencil sitting in his palm. 

“It’s all easy!” He says with pride. 

“Huh,” I reflect, glancing at clock. I technically had time. There was a mexican market a quick drive away. “An egg.” I murmur in thought. 

“An egg.” Royd echos, giving me a thumbs up.

“A fucking egg?”  Flambae snarls, looking at the white oval like it pissed on his shoes. 

“Yes,” I reply calmly, continuing to pass them out around the conference room. “Each of you have an egg assigned to you. You’ll need to keep it on your person at all times, take it with you on assignments and ensure it remains unharmed for the rest of this week.” 

“What are we fucking grade schoolers?” Malevola asks, picking up and examining the egg. “This is like… so condescending.” 

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem returning the egg by next Wednesday.” I say, returning to the head of the table. 

Prism started to spin hers on the table, while Punch-Up lightly tossed his in the air, snatching it out of the air before it can begin to fall. 

Waterboy is grasping his, looking terrified of prospect of being responsible for an egg. 

“Whatever,” Sonar shrugs, popping the egg into his mouth and chewing. “I am not going to get yolk on this suit.” 

“For every week you safeguard your egg, you get a sticker,” I say heading out of the conference room. 

The room stills as I leave it and I hear Punch-Up's egg hit the floor. 

“Aw shite!”

Chase calls out sick, claiming headache, though what I suspect is hangover. 

The morning shift was quiet assignment wise. Some State visit from the governors office, meaning that a whole retinue of State sponsored heroes were out in force around downtown. 

That pushed the downtown SDN teams out into the territory of the different SoCal branches, the request to SDN to keep all teams out of the downtown area to “minimize complicating factors”.

It had most of the office feathers ruffled. Sweetalker, Pom Pom, and Brainbook had monopolized most of the Torrance Branch call volume. 

For the rest of the dispatching teams, the break let them catch up on paperwork or enjoying a nice relaxing morning. For me it meant egg. Continuous, unending egg puns.

“Egg-citing times we’re living in,” Invisigal groans. 

“Its egg-actly what I need,” Prism snorts, “Mama needs to catch up on some shows.” 

“I’m here to kick fucking ass, not do puns all day,” Flambae grumbles. “Especially not with you egg heads.”

“Nice one, mate! Malevola cheers, “Now you're in the spirit.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I groan. It was going to be along day. 

“You look like you ate grape jelly messily and then let it dry on you overnight" Sonar comments, sniffing the air, “Mmmh, blood type… o positive?” 

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” I say easily, watching the Twinkie fall out of the vending machine with distant eyes, my mind racing. 

I needed a distraction for the evening, otherwise the puns were going to drive me fucking insane. 

Sonar had been particularly insufferable, puns evolving to egg fun facts in the last hour.

I grab my Twinkie from the drawer and turn to him, pausing at the sight. 

Sonar was… stapling papers, making packets? 

He didn’t do paperwork. 

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, partially regretting the question as I glance at the stack of papers on the break room table. 

Please don’t be egg related.

“I’m organizing my newsletter.” He explains, handing me a packet. “I mail it out once a month, all my subscribers use it to double their portfolios returns.”

Meme Stock, Shit Coin, and Your 401k: To the Moon and back again. 

“And they… pay you for these… insights?” I ask, looking down at him. 

“Not yet,” he crosses his arms confidently leaning back in the chair, “But they will.” 

I stare at Sonar, he stares back. 

“What’s with the heavy eye contact, Bobert?” 

“Nothing,” I eventually say, “Just didn’t realize you were such an… entrepreneur.” 

Sonar actually fucking brightens. “Here, you can get a free copy of this months edition, there’s this NFT of a Monkey worth five hundred dollars, and each day it produces 3 bananas worth 100$ each. And you can sell those bananas for-”

I have never regretted being part of a conversation more than the one I wasted my lunch break on.

I still take the packet, resolving to throw it away where Sonar wouldn’t find it .

——

“Alright team,” I say the second the shift starts, “I have six eggs, I broke two, cooked two, and ate two. How many eggs do I have left?”

“None of course,” Malevola says. Others chiming in agreements. 

“Wrong.” I say, enjoying the notes of confusion in their voices.

There’s a lull in the call as they all turn the riddle over in their minds. I’m able to assign Waterboy and Punch-Up to remove some graffiti in peace before… 

“It’s four,” Golem grunts. “He did all that stuff to just two of the eggs.”

“Correct! Point to Golem,” I say.

“Egg-celent work, dude,” Invisigal calls out. 

My eye twitches. 

“Here’s another one,” I cut in, before anyone else can toss in a pun. “If I had four eggs, a thief gives me three and rooster laid five more, how many eggs do I have?”

It takes another twenty minutes before they solve it and I’m able to pivot the rest of the day from egg related puns to riddles. 

Surprisingly, Malevola gets super into the riddles, puzzling each logic conundrum outloud, focusing the rest of the Z-team for the rest of the shift.  

Only one call gives me pause. A request for backup for a Z-Team member to help entertain and help guide a school fieldtrip out of their school bus and to safety from where traffic had been held up by some scuffle with a villain. The request was made by Sweetalker.

I assign Punch-Up and stare at his tracker as it leaves SDN. Maybe I could hack a camera and…? 

“Hellooo? Roberto? What’s the next riddle?” Sonar asks, breaking my train of though.  

It was probably a coincidence that he requested someone from my team. 

“Alright, alright, what has four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the-”

I focus on the rest of the shift, continually feeding the team riddles. 

“I hope you’re okay with take out spaghetti,“ Blonde Blazer says, holding up two to-go bags. 

“No eggs?” I ask, sighing as I put down my headset. 

“I think they're egg noodles?” she says, squinting through the clear plastic lids. 

“That’ll be fine,” I say, standing from my desk and stretching. “We eating in the breakroom or-”

“Pardon me, Miss Blazer.”

Blonde Blazer and I both turn and look down at Punch-Up. 

“If I could have a moment with Robert,” he says politely, not looking at me. 

“Oh, ummm, sure?” Blazer says, giving a glance towards me. I offer a small shrug. “I’ll just be in my office.”

She gives a glance towards the both of us before walking away. 

I cross my arms, waiting as Punch-Up still doesn’t look at me. 

“So is this one of those quiet guy bonding moments?” I eventually ask, breaking the silence. “Because I can’t tell if this is angsty regretful silence or brotherly comradery silence or romantic tens-”

“I owe you an apology for yesterday,” Punch-Up interrupts and I fall silent. “You’ve been open about not havin’ powers and I disregarded that, putting you in a dangerous spot. Was fucking immature of me.” 

My eyebrows raise at the admission. “Well… apology accepted I guess,” I say uncrossing my arms. “But if your pissed at me for something maybe just tell me to fuck off next time?”

Punch-Up looks at me and his expression is complicated. Like I’m a tangled knot in his mustache that he wasn’t sure how it got there. “You really tried to help Coop after she got cut?” 

I sigh and look up at the ceiling. “I tried to give her an option after SDN, yeah,” I admit, “It didn’t seem to do much good, she quit that job last week.” 

I glance down at the diminutive strong man and he’s looking at the ground, processing the information. 

“Coop went to ground after you cut her. I though she’d gone on the run to avoid the Feds or the Mob.” he said, nodding to himself. “I can try some of our old haunts, put the message out there. But no telling if she’s still in the area.” 

“I appreciate that,” I say, giving him a smile. “See what talking can do?” 

Punch-Up waves a hand at me. “Don’t you start, too,” he says, turning away. “I already got one lecture from the green fella earlier today, only one after school special for this old dog.” 

I blink, green fella?

Punch-Up leaves and I stare after him, a small frown on my face. It might be parnoia, but had Punch-Up spoken with Sweetalker about me? I now regretted not hacking a street camera to observe their interactions. 

I mull over the situation as I make my way into Blonde Blazer’s office. I barely knew the hero or how he viewed the Torrance Branch. Was this because of the night with Phenomaman? Did he read something from my body language? Something that piqued his interest? 

“Hey, what did Punch have to say?” Blonde Bazer asked, one of the takeout containers open on her desk. “Sorry!” she adds, following my gaze. “I just got a bit hungry. I had a regional meeting the other day and have been doing a lot more flying than usual.” 

“You burn calories while flying?” I ask, taking a seat and grabbing the second container, “It’s not powered by magic bullshit from the gem?”

Blonde Blazer laughs. “It takes a bit of energy but most of it's the gem. I think if I burned calories with each light blast, I’d need to be eating constantly to sustain myself.”

“Punch was just giving an apology for being difficult the other day.” I explain taking a bite of food. Damn that was good marinara. “Bit of a suprise to be honest.” 

Blonde Blazer’s eyes shoot up, “Wow, that’s incredible progress. I don’t think any members of the Z-team have shown remorse or any kind of investment in their previous Dispatchers.” Her eyes flickered to my bandages. “What was he appologizing for?” 

I pause, chewing slowly as I considered her. After last week, it felt like Blonde Blazer and I, Mandy and I had reached a closer understanding. Bonding over being heroes instead of just working at the same company. 

Why the hell not? 

“He tricked me,” I answer honestly, opening the can of soda on the desk and taking a sip. “Had me turn my back on the training exercise and signaled Malevola to redirect an attack my way. Sent me flying.” 

“And you’re not mad?” Blonde Blazer asked, meal forgotten as she stares at me, fork half carried to her mouth. 

I shrug. “I kinda winded him up asking about Coupe, he was upset and was just looking for a way to mess with me. He forgot I didn’t have powers,” I explain. 

“Robert, I had four separate messages yesterday about you and how beaten up you were,” Blonde Blazer says, “People were guessing that the Z-Team had beaten you up and wanted me to step in. If Chase hadn’t said you were fine, I probably would have left the regional meeting and come straight back.” 

“Listen, I know they need more work on self control,” I argue, “But we’re working on it. And like you said, they're improving! Punch-Up probably wouldn’t have apologized for anything for the first week I was here.” 

Blonde Blazer doesn’t say anything, just staring at me with an incredulous expression. 

“Just… trust the process,” I ask, “It’s working.” 

She eventually sighs, before cracking her drink and taking a large sip. 

“Reckless idiot,” she mutters. 

“Punch is an idiot, but he has a good heart,” I implore, “Today showed that, and with time, the egg exercise will help him be more careful.”

Blazer opens her mouth to say something before blinking. 

“Egg exercise?”

Chapter Text

“The problem is how SDN measures success of each individual branch,” Blazer explains, laying out a report between us. I examine the front page, a chart logging the completed assignments and overall revenue of each of the California branches over the past six months. The following page breaks down the Torrance Branch’s statistics by individual teams, heroes, and notable assignments and subscriber contracts. “They calculate subscriber satisfaction surveys, completion time, success rate and whatnot, but at its heart, it's based on the volume of high profile assignments completed.” 

She points at a specific pie graph. “They have different rankings for each assignment based on the severity and risk to life or property. Supervillians or disaster responses rank higher…”

“While the coffee runs and dog walking jobs are lower,” I finish, eyes darting across the pages. “Why even take those contracts if the heroes who get those assignments are ranked lower than the ones assigned to emergencies?” 

“There’s only so many actual emergencies at any one point,” Blazer says, flipping to a page before turning it towards me. “Every other month or so, we’ll have an all hands on deck type situation, but there’s down time, slow periods. Plus for rural branches where the largest emergency might be a car without gas, it lets them keep the lights on with a large volume of lower tier requests from subscribers.” 

I hum in acknowledgement, flipping back and forth between the pages. It was a pretty good system, at least when you first looked at it. It allowed for each SDN branch to diversify to meet the needs of their assigned area. But when you use it as a metric of success…

Torrance was listed as middle of the pack for California, fairly impressive for a Branch that didn’t have a downtown urban center directly in their response zone. But it was still trending downwards. I flip to a summary page, looking at the eight year history at the branch. The Branch had dropped in the ratings five years ago. There was a small spike back up to the previous numbers but it’s been slowly declining in the years since. 

“When did you take over?” I ask, ripping the packet apart to pull out other sections of the report. 

“Four years ago, after the alien occupation wrapped up,” she answered, pointing to the gap between the branch's decline and the small spike. “Tim had moved to the Downtown branch and they hadn’t filled the manager role for a couple months. Then I stepped in.” 

“Tim took heroes with him to the Downtown branch,” I say slowly, remembering what Chase and Royd had said about the man. “The numbers plummet when he takes the talent with him… so you…” 

My eyes pause on a calculation and look up at her. “You modify how the Phoenix Program is run here. You create the Z-Team and shift all participants out of the other crews.” I tap the graph. “That’s how you raised the branch numbers, with all the low level calls, and the public dissatisfaction and property damage confined to one team, all of the other teams at Torrance jumped in their ratings.”

Blonde Blazer nodded, crossing her arms and looking down, her eyes distant. “I got the idea from the occupation actually. All the Phoenix Program mentors had been specifically assigned and called away because they were some of the best in SDN. The program participants were assigned to a junior mentor and given a small, out of the way assignment, allowing all the other mentors to be used to their full capacity.”

She inhales deeply and meets my eyes. “I… I didn’t know what had happened to Chase until after. At the time, I thought it was a clever move to help boost the effectiveness of each hero.” 

Her eyes lower and she traces the graph with a finger, her expression wistful. “The Z-team was supposed to grow together, leveling up from dog walking and publicity stunts to real time hero work.”  Her voice takes on a bitter quality as her finger follows each dip in the Branch’s performance each month. “But instead they feed off each other’s energy, and next thing I know, the softball fields are on fire, there’s daggers embedded in the school walls, and half the city’s papers and radio stations are covering another SDN blunder.”

“You're only human,” I say, shrugging. “You made a call that you thought would fix things, and in some ways it did. But no hero’s going to do it all on their own.” 

Blonde Blazer’s eyes meet mine, and she holds my gaze. I don’t know what she’s looking for but she sighs, and then reaches for her necklace. 

I have to hold down the pages on the desk, the ethereal wind accompanying her lightshow threatening to blow them off the table. 

“Thanks,” Mandy says with a small smile, settling back into her chair. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that when it's your face on the side of billboards and buses, representing all of SDN’s heroes.”

“No thanks, I’ll stick with my statue over by city hall,” I say chuckling. “Technically it’s my Grandfather’s statue.” I tap the report summary, highlighting the slump the Torrance Branch was currently in. “So we’re increasing the Z-Teams performance, that should fix this right? Just stay the course? Keep doing egg-celent work?” 

I blink before groaning. They fucking infected me.

“Please don’t tell them I said that,” I plead, rubbing my eyes. “I blame that one on lack of sleep.” 

Mandy laughs, shaking her head, “I’ll tell Chase, it’s up to him if he mentions it to your team. But no,” she grows serious. “The problem is Tim. Any heroes who start showing potential moves up the rankings get scouted by him. They’re either transferred to the downtown branch or traded off to national or international initiatives.” Mandy spreads her hands, “It's a talent drain. He does it to all the branches under his control.” 

I flip back to the Regional Summary, examining the other SDN Branches. Santa Monica, Long Beach, Pasadena, San Fernando, Convina, Anaheim, all of them dropped and fluctuated from month to month. 

“So it’s not that it’s hard to manage,” I summarize, “It’s that Tim’s sabotaging you and every other Branch Manager under his watch.” I turn the idea over in my mind. “What about the higher up leadership? The National or International offices?” 

SDN was a global company and organization after all. In theory there’d be some kind of higher leadership to appeal to. 

Mandy shrugs, “Maybe they’d be able to do something, but all coordination at that level is funneled through the Regional Directors first. There’s Conferences every year or so, but unless there’s a major incident or attack that gains relevance, they’re handling other emergencies. I think the North American Leadership is dealing with some zombie virus in Canada.” 

I nod, “I remember that one. The whole province is still quarantined?” 

“They're going on their eighteenth month. Supposedly some heroes inside the quarantine found the lab or portal or whatever the virus is originating from.”

I pause at the thought. While I wasn’t exactly happy my home was attacked by aliens, I think I’d prefer our occupation instead of having to navigate a rage virus fueled Los Angeles. Only relying on the Mecha Man suit’s air purifier to keep me safe for months on end.

… Maybe I’d talk to Royd about some long term habitation systems…

“Where would the patrol assignment rank?” I ask, changing the topic as I turn back to the page that outlined the different tiers of assignments.

Mandy perked up, “Oh, I spoke about it with another branch manager yesterday, technically it’d rank as  a lower priority assignment, but if the patrol’s result in any incidents or emergency responses, they’d scale with the complication.”

“So we’d get both better intelligence on what's happening on our neck of the woods, we have a better low priority assignment, and a chance for unexpected windfalls,” I outline. 

“It’s win, win, win,” Mandy said, handing me a map. “I drew up some initial patrol routes. What do you think?” 

“Did you break it down by gang territories? Or by time of day break-ins?” I ask, reaching for the map. 

“I… did neither.” Mandy admitted, flushing. 

I grab one of the pens off the desk. “Here, why don’t we start with determining how often we want to hand out patrol assignments and then sort by where we want to collect information.” Mandy nods and stands, “Let me move to that side of the desk,” she says quickly, I can-”

Bang!

Her words cut off into a stream of quiet cursing as she suddenly drops, hugging one leg to her chest. 

“You okay?” I ask, jumping to my feet. 

“Jammed my toe on the corner of the desk,” Mandy grits out, inhaling sharply. I peer around the corner of the desk and snort in amusement. There’s a dent in the wood, probably from repeated times where Mandy had kicked the corner as Blonde Blazer, her super resiliency normally preventing what had just happened.

“The mighty Blonde Blazer, brought low by office furniture,” I chuckle, walking around the corner and offering Mandy a hand up. “Need ice?” 

“Just for my pride,” she says, taking my hand.

We spend the rest of the evening talking through the patrol routes. By the end of it, we have four new assignments that would bring Torrance Heroes through the warehouse district near the airport and through a few of the commerce districts where break ins, public disturbances, and other regular calls often originated. The city would need to approve the proposal, but without any holdups, we could implement the Patrol assignments as early as next week.

“Oh, by the way,” I say, as Mandy and I exit the office, Mandy back in her Hero form as I carried a sleeping Beef. “Chase mentioned some kind of networking conference for Dispatchers and heroes. Said I should look into it.” 

Mandy stares at me, “Are you sure, Robert? We were just talking about how Tim headhunts and makes a mess of those kinds of regional events.” 

“Why not?” I shrug, “Might as well get to know how SDN runs in other parts of the area. Worse case I ruin an evening,”

“I guess I can sign you up for the next one. I think it’s a month away…” she says, thinking. She shrugs, coming to some decision. “I’ll send you the details in the morning.” She tells me. 

I nod and step into the parking lot. 

“And Robert?” 

I turn back, a yawn escaping my mouth as I look back. “Yeah?” 

“I… thanks again. This was a lot of fun.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Before I can respond she flies off, a blue and blond blur that quickly vanishes behind the palm trees and buildings of Torrance. 

“Yeah, it was.” I say to the empty parking lot. 

Thursday’s exercises go off, thankfully without any other injuries or drama, and the work day itself manageable, outside an Equestrian club whose horses end up scattered thanks to some other heroes' big battle spooking them out of their neighborhood. 

The real excitement came in the evening. My next attempt to help Phenomaman. 

“I am sorry again, Robert Robertson,” Phenomaman apologizes as I lead him out of the game store. “I was just so frustrated when the blocky one hit me again with the minecart.”

“No, no, I get it,” I say wearily, offering an apologetic grin once again at the store owner. “Sorry again!” I call out, “I’ve also wanted to throw my controller at the screen when I lost some games of Super Smash.”

“I did not think it would break into so many parts. I thought Japanese products were known for their resiliency and durability.” 

“Up to certain points,” I say, thinking the whole Phenomaman had managed to punch through the screen and into the wall behind it. Phenomaman had paid for the damages but it had pissed off the twenty or so people who had come out to play and watch the gaming tournament.

It was the First Thursday of the month, a day where several different stores and shops had community games. The different outdoor malls allowed popup stands and food trucks to set up, encouraging people to spend more to support local businesses. 

While unfortunate that we’d never be able to return to that game store again, I had planned a contingency in case things turned out this way. Back up activities. 

…

I just hadn't expected to need to switch to my back ups within the first half hour of the evening. 

“Here, maybe this’ll be more your speed,” I say to him, as we approach a purple colored building. Phenomaman glances doubtfully at the logo. 

“Tell me, just who is Dave and the Busters? Their establishment smells… sticky.”

“Don’t worry Phenomaman, everyone has a good time at Dave and Busters,” I assure him as we enter the dimly lit building. 

“While I do not care about the stuffie, it is dishonest to say that I failed this ‘crane game’” Phenomaman booms, flying overhead shaking the claw machine, hands bending the metal frame.

“Pheno- I am so sorry! Hey! Phenomaman, listen! Put down the-” 

Dave and Busters was bust.

“And so what do we do after we paint this ceramic cup?” Phenomaman asks, examining the clay mug on the low table he’s hunched over.

“Well you know, you use it.” I say, quickly painting mine a pale blue color, matching the metal sheeting of the Mecha Man suit. “It’s a momento that you get to put your personality into. Express yourself.” 

“Express myself,” Phenomaman murmurs, eyeing the mug. He grabs a paint bottle… and squirts out some black paint. 

“There you go!” I encourage, trying to make the stupid color even across the entire surface. “Play with it, make it your own!” 

I don’t glance at his mug as I focus on mine. It was supposed to be a simple blue color. But each time the brush ends up smearing the paint. It takes time, but I’m eventually satisfied with my mug. Sighing, I set down the brush and glance over at his mug.

…

…

I regret every word I said. 

The mug was like charcoal rubbing. Smears of grey backdrop with a deep black asymmetrical stick figure crying. Deep blue drops running into the black. Blood red smear behind and the brown smudges on the face suggested that it could be based off Phenomaman. He’s holding the mug like it's a priceless treasure. 

“This is me.” Phenomaman informs me, cradling it gently. “This is my anguish, my torture, the weight I carry every day without Blonde Blazer in my life.” 

“Yeah… It looks… yeah.” I muster out. 

The college girl running the shift looks so scared as she takes our mugs to be fired and finalized.

“And this is a comic store,” I say with a tired breath, leading Phenomaman into the small store. “Here you can read comic books that are illustrated and have their own art, they also have boardgames which you can play with two to three other people.” 

I was exhausted. I also couldn’t show my face at this outdoor mall ever again. This was the fifth store and last on my list of backups, as every other attempt had crashed and burned. Any game that relied on reflexes or got contemplative, Phenomaman would quickly either master, as in the case of bowling, or get frustrated and break something. Apologizing profusely to the people around him, but still scaring off anyone he was playing with. I had never seen an unattended air hockey table at Dave and Busters until Phenomaman hit a puck so hard, it embedded itself in the racing game behind me. 

I’m so glad I ducked. That would have been the dumbest injury to try to explain. 

“What are they doing?” Phenomaman asks, tapping on my shoulder and pointing to a table near the back. I drift closer, examining the table, filled with mats, several colorful cards in font of each person. 

“Hey there! Interested in picking up Magic?” Asked a man with long blond hair pulled up into a pony tail. Glasses framing his face. 

“I do not possess Magic. All of my skills are a benefit of my biology.” Phenomaman states, “But I am intrigued in this card game you are all enamoured with.” His eyes travel across the concentrating faces of each of the players. 

“Yes!” crows one player, playing a card, “And Teferi takes me to victory again!” 

The ponytailed man scoots over and taps the corner of the table next to him. Phenomaman kneels down to examine the cards. “So in Magic the Gathering you’re able to build a deck of cards to..”

I tune out almost instantly. The fatigue of calming down pissed off store managers and concerned bystanders weighing on me. I could leave him here, right? He couldn’t break a card game, right? I look mournfully out the window. 

There’s a bookstore with a coffee shop across the way. I could just grab something to drink and be back. I glance back at Phenomaman’s broad back. He hasn’t shifted once since the man began explaining the game to him.

I turn and quickly make my exit. I could spare a few minutes. Just before Phenomaman somehow pissed off the last shop of the evening.

What could go wrong? 

I sigh, breathing in the steam and scent of the coffee in my hands. Better. 

I look over at the comic store for the fifth time. Still no one is running or screaming from the establishment . It was a good sign. I wander the seating area outside the little coffee nook, the bookstore partially filled with meandering customers. In the back corner, a children's reading event is barely audible, explaining the abundance of parents surrounding me at the coffee shop. 

It was… nice.

…When was the last time I went out like this? 

…

Probably Santa Monica Pier.

…

…

What about the time before?

…

Probably another company birthday, stopping by briefly to be seen with my coworkers from some IT job I only half remembered before I hopped in the Mecha Man suit. 

I shake off my musings as I spy an open stool.  It's one of those long tables set against a wall, all the chairs on one side, allowing the coffee drinkers to observe and people watch in the book store. 

“Can I sit here?” I ask a woman who is reading next to the open seat. She was tall, dark skinned, and with short black hair she wore to one side under a beret. Dark blue cardigan wrapped around her shoulders.She was staring at me, hazel eyes widened in surprise and I tense slightly. 

Had she been one of the people Phenomaman disturbed? Did I need to apologize for having ruined her evening earlier? 

“The other guy isn’t with me,” I say when she doesn’t respond. “He’s across the street, just need a break.” 

After a moment she gives a jerky nod, and I take my seat, quickly breaking eye contact and looking out at the bookstore. Taking a sip of my coffee, I sigh deeply, enjoying the solitude of the moment. 

“...Long week?” the woman next to me eventually asks. I chuckle. 

“Long week, long day, long night.” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sorry if my friend and I ruined your evening earlier. He’s just… going through a tough time right now.” 

She shakes her head, “I’ve been here all night, but I’ve been hearing people talk about it when they get in line.” she nods at the counter where a college kid was taking a customer's order. “I’m guessing you're not the one flying and breaking the games at Dave and Busters?”

“No that’d be Pheno-... my friend.” I reply, rubbing my forehead. “He went through a breakup recently and I’m trying to help get his mind off it. Find something new to focus on. Less flying into the sun.” 

The woman’s staring at me, incredulously. “Sorry, I don’t mean to ruin your evening with my business,” I apologize. “I’ll let you get back to your book.”

There’s silence between us, and I busy myself with glancing back at the comic book store. Still no sign of Phenomaman or any general kind of panic or chaos. So that was a good sign. 

“Why are you helping him?” The woman suddenly speaks up, and I glance at her, surprised by the intensity in her eyes. 

“I mean I don’t want him to fly into the sun,” I say with a shrug. “But, he’s not a bad guy, he’s just had a rough time of it. Just needs to find something productive to channel his energy into.”

I sigh, feeling the weight and drain of the day on my shoulders. My body was still healing from Tuesday’s tumble and rather than resting, I was out here spending my evening and a good chunk of my paycheck trying to find something for Phenomaman to pick up as a hobby or interest. 

“He just needs a shot.” I say into the silence. 

I take another drink of my coffee as the woman suddenly stands. “I need to get going,” she says stiffly, “Good luck with Phenomaman.” 

I nod and watch as she exits the store. I stare after her with a small frown on my face. I didn’t think I had over shared. 

I take another sip of my coffee as the children's event wraps up and the store front grows thick with families. Was it something I said? Or had the bandages and bruises scared her off? I know it caused most people to keep their distance whenever I was in the grocery store. How-

How did she know I was talking about Phenomaman. 

I rewind the conversation in my mind, her hazel eyes looking at me, questioning. Looking for something…

Replace the hazel eyes with yellow. 

I jump to my feet and run out the book store. People are staring at me as I spin around wildly, trying to catch sight of where she went. 

“Coupe?” I breathe out, staring into the crowd. 

There’s no sign of her. 

“Robert! I have discovered the most amazing game. Rather than the fight of the forces of good against the forces of evil, you instead assemble an army and test your strength and wit against other foes!” 

I turn and stare at Phenomaman’s blankly. I had walked around the entire area with no sign of Coupe. He’s holding two bags filled with something. Glancing in I see several card packs and a foam mat rolled up.

“Most players are evenly matched, where the fate of the battle is determined by a mysterious force called R. N. G.! Nicolas has offered to coach me in the ways of this card based combat,” he informs me happily. I glance behind where the ponytailed guy watches from the door of the comic book store. 

He offers me a wave. 

…

…

I wave back. 

I turn back to Phenomaman, “That’s cool, man.” 

He continues to talk but my mind is a million miles away. Coupe liked to read at bookstores. Could I find her at bookstores? Would she return to this one or would she avoid it after running into me? I wanted to talk to her, to at least clear the air between us, and make sure she understood I didn’t hold anything against her. And hopefully the ex-mob assassin wouldn’t hold anything against me either.

My musings are cut off as Phenomaman hugs me again. 

"I'm going to make love to you!"

Fucking. Ow. And now people are staring. Great.

“Okay buddy, we really got to get you an egg.” I mutter, gasping for air as he sets me down. 

“Is this a human custom? To exchange eggs as a sign of gratitude?” Phenomaman asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Chapter Text

Everyone in California knows of Mecha Man. The Golden State Hero from the Classical age of Superheroes. Before Advertisers, government agencies, and corporations fucked it up with sponsorships, hero contracts, and all the modern bullshit they shoved down people’s throats now.

Did you know that Blondie keeps trying to get me to quit my smokes because of that shit? All the PR junk of setting good examples for the children.

Fuck, the first American ‘hero’ Bob the Brick was a chain-smoking construction worker. They didn’t even have the stupid hero names that we use today. There’s nothing more fucking heroic than taking a smoke after a good day's work, perfect end to a day of saving people.

Anyways, Mecha Man. Towering mass of metal and raw fucking power. Get beaten, blasted, torn, eaten, thrown, and stomped by almost every villain, monster, or mutant dog that hit the streets of Los Angeles for fifty fucking years. While other heroes died, retired, got shunted off to parallel dimensions or some galactic war, he’d be here. Show up a week later, two weeks later. Perfect fucking blue paint job, amplified voice calling out for calm and peace, one of the fundamental foundations that the city was built on.

And I’m the bitch that blew it to hell.

God… I was excited when I first heard of the job. Clear out my debt and kick off a legacy? We had all nervously talked about it for every day leading up to that night. Being one of the few supers who’d actually get one over on the Mecha Man Legacy. Only Shroud and maybe if that fucking space abomination that did in Prime could claim anything close to that. To be the black stain on such a fucking golden legacy that didn’t just off the hero, but put an end to one of the last relics of the Classic Age.

I didn’t care for the fucker. Big, massive ass mech that was probably piloted by some trust fund, nepobaby playing at Heroes like a fucking video game playing nerd.

A glorified fucking crane operator who gets into the cool kids club because he’s not putting his fucking life on the line every day. Just burning daddy's money. And I’d be one of the ones to spit in his eye.

It was going to be sick.

And then I see him in there. Fucking Robert Robertson.

I didn’t know his name back then. I barely had time to stare into his face before I had to climb up. But I remember how he looked. Stressed. Tired. Determined. Here’s a fucking hole burned into the suit, prying open that safe space he’s been in all this time, and rather than being a fucking pussy, he’s glaring through it.

Putting his life on the line.

I feel sick seeing the explosion in the sky and sicker the day after. The city was in a fucking daze. I hit up a liquor store the morning after, and it's on every TV, every radio.

Mecha Man hospitalized.

Mecha Man destroyed.

Mecha Man recovery, Monarch posts rewards for any salvage recovered within the neighborhood of the crash site.

Some fake ass actor dedicates his Golden Globe speech to Mecha Man.

Then the week after. The following days, as Los Angeles contemplates a world without Mecha Man.

Crime wave, my phone is blowing up with texts and social media messages. Everyone in the shadows partying, cheering, celebrating.

Robberies, thefts, villain rampages. Everyone ready to take advantage of the moral.

It gets bad. The City of Los Angeles rises up in turn, and you have rioters throwing bricks at thieves, punching, yelling, and screaming.

Anger, rage, fear. All mindlessly shoved out into the world, onto the streets.

I did this.

The Heroes are at a loss. Others are called in from out of state, but it's all a mess.

Chaos.

Is this what I wanted? Little Courtney is not happy with her lot in life, so rather than fucking up her life, she fucks up the world? Tilt it on its side and watch it all fall out?

I just wanted to be free.

It’s when I ignore Toxic’s second call that my augments crap out.

Fuckers. We were supposed to be square.

What was I supposed to do then? My lungs reset to shit, my shitty corner of LA overrun with riots, counter-riots, candle vigils, and a claim to fame that if I ever used it, would either see me killed or pressed into more villain bullshit that my body could no longer keep up with.

What was left?

Ironically, it's that absolute blunder of a news interview with Blonde Blazer that answers me.

If you haven’t seen the report, you totally need to. It was an interview following Flambae’s first day with SDN. There were half a dozen cellphone videos of him flying over a rioting crowd, putting out a fire before catching a tossed Molotov cocktail, and toasting to the fall of Mecha Man.

The angry mob didn’t know whether to cheer him on or continue to yell at him. Unsure if he was a hero or villain.

They did start running and screaming when Flambae realized the Molotov was full of gas and started coughing up the flaming liquid onto other storefronts.

“What do you have to say about allegations that SDN is freeing dangerous villains to run rampant on our communities?”

“The Phoenix Program is for powered individuals who need a second chance,” Blonde Blazer had powered through, ignoring the target questions thrown at her and the program. “It doesn’t matter what circumstances led them to this point; SDN is willing to help them grow and become someone they can be proud of. A true hero.”

“And do true heroes cough diesel onto hardware stores?” Charles Kingsley asks.

Her face panics in the best way. Eyes widened. Hands held up and waving quickly. The barest hints of a flushed face behind the mask.

“W-Well-”

The rest of the interview is more corporate bullshit, but her words stuck with me. Well, that and her face. I took a screenshot of that and saved it to my phone when I signed up for the program. Any work calls now have that face lighting up my phone.

It's the small things.

Anyway, I think about it for the night. Drinking my way through some shitty beer I had snatched when the cashiers were dealing with the car someone had crashed through the storefront window.

I’d cut and run for most of my life. It was easy when you could turn invisible, the little extra super speed helping me outrun anyone I didn’t want to talk to. Ex-boyfriends, girlfriends, jobs, school, family.

The second you blip out of someone’s view, they act like you're already gone. Like scissors. Each time you close them, something gets cut, lost permanently.

Free.

Why the fuck not? Cut myself out of the LA crime scene. Leave behind the hit-and-run crews, the poorly planned heists, and holding my breath in closets and under desks. Hoping desperately that the next hero sent to run me down turns away before my lungs give out and I’m wheezing on the floor.

I was shit at it.

Kinda hard to be good when my lungs get reset to where I was five years ago. Barely any stamina, puffing through my inhaler after every bit of movement or effort. I’m a hindrance. A liability. I can’t help when a car crash jams a door shut or when some gang is hitting up a store, and my lungs are burning just from the run over.

Fuck. Prism and the others have to step in and rescue my ass a couple times.

Pathetic.

It all goes wrong, it's not working, and from what I see of the rest of this ‘Z-Team’. It’s not working for them either.

So we end up having fun with it. When your goal isn’t to appease the judgey dispatchers who whine and yell in your ears, and instead you’re on the hunt for entertainment, SDN becomes the place to be.

How long can I annoy Chase before he crashes out? How many sex jokes can I make before Blondie blushes? Can I steal Sonar’s cocaine stash and then plant it at a crime scene?

Two minutes, four, and yes, if you’re curious.

It’s hilarious. Sonar entirely shifted in panic. Blondie does this thing where she hugs her arms when she’s embarrassed, and all you need is to blow him off and pretend you can’t hear him.

It's fun in a pathetic, self-inflicted way. Once SDN tires of me, it’d be off to prison, where hopefully I could forget about Los Angeles, cut out the outside world, and maybe forget about every mess I’d ever made.

…

…

I could turn invisible when they did rounds, make them think they’d lost me.

That’d be fun.

Then things shift again. Mecha Man wakes up. There are rumors, stirrings. Photos of the man in the suit leaving the hospital. The chaos of the first few weeks fully subdued as everyone waited to hear. Was Mecha Man about to come back? Was he going to show up next week, fucking perfect as always? Like nothing happened?

I try to act disinterested, but I listen. I listen so hard, holding my breath, sitting in the SDN breakroom as people gossip, whisper, and wonder.

The press conference kills that dream.

He doesn’t look like the tall nepobaby I thought drove the suit. He barely looks like the determined fighter I’d made eye contact with that night.

He’s tired. Voice monotone as he reads his script. The sling around one arm.

I did this.

Then he fucking headbutts the reporter.

Also a fucking classic. I added that one to my phone, too.

I mean, I don’t like… have his number. He hasn’t called me or anything. But if he did… give me his number, that is. I have his contact photo ready.

…

…

And then that Friday, I see him in the parking lot.

And I have his name. Robert Robertson, so tired, so monotonous, and he’s beat to fucking hell and back. Old scars, healing scars, and bruises that litter his body. Shit, that makes me eat my fucking words. Over a decade of damage to this man, and here I am thinking that because his ride has a new coat of paint, the driver must be fine too.

It burns. Like it's a vice around my lungs and that’s why I need my inhaler, not because of fucking asthma, but to pay for all my fuck ups and sins that I’ve committed in my life.

And then he talks.

…

…

And he’s fucking Mecha Man. Everyone knows Mecha Man had jokes, could talk to people with ease, and motivate every fucking person in Los Angeles. Hell, he’d been a regular speaker for the LA Marathon for the last five years. It was his voice directing crowds of civilians away from danger, calling out for search and rescue, and telling every fucking child in the county to recycle because some fucking nonprofit asked him to help promote their beach cleanup event.

But Mecha Man was a fucking god of metal and machine and towered over everyone. Robert Robertson had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the coffee filters on the top shelf in the breakroom.

And fuck me. It’s hot as hell. He’s a hero, a real one. He handles the Z-Team like we’re fucking playing cards and he’s just matching us up to the right assignment. Bantering with us to get us in the right headspace, emphasizing caution or suggesting options that none of us can fucking come up with. Apparently, hacking security systems, lights, sprinklers, and whatever the fuck he can find to give us more options in the field. And it's not from some fucking robot from on high, but from this beat to hell white guy who looked like he flipped flopped between working in a mailroom and getting the shit beaten out of him in back alleys every other night.

…Seriously, its been like three fucking weeks and I still catch glimpes of fresh bruises and partially healed shit. What the fuck does he do after hours?

I’d need to follow him some time.

He even gives us fucking training breakdowns. Like we’re not just a bunch of criminal wash-ups just killing time before we need to go on the run again or disappear or cut-

He makes us feel like heroes. Like, we can actually do this. As though just putting in the work and ‘meaning it’ is all that’s needed.

And every time I see him, every time he surprises me with some bullshit like catching one of his fucking nemesis in our lobby, showing up at the theater, organizing us when Prism gets injured, or just… shrugging off the stunt that Punch and Malevola pull on him.

Fuck! He’s still not done! He and Royd are fucking rebuilding the stupid suit in the basement!

The augments burn against my skin.

I hate them. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. The reminder that it's not for me. I fucked up too far, and it's carved into my skin. Villain. A traitor to every fucking act of kindless Robert shows me. Rather than saving the rest of the city, he’s stuck here. Focused on us.

I hate myself.

“It's a quick exercise. You breathe in for five seconds, and then slowly breathe out for ten to fifteen,” Robert says to me, gesturing with his hands they mimic taking in a deep breath.

“I've been into breath play since before my asthma fucked up my lungs,” I comment, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow,” I don’t see how practicing it ‘intentionally’ is going to help me get better.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he shoots back without pause, “And this isn’t just practice, it's a free diving technique. You know, those guys who swim in the open ocean for fun. Baseline record is eleven minutes, but you could probably get fifteen.

“I can edge longer than that,” I say, trying to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t even blink. Blazer, I could break, a flush or a stifled laugh, and a quick excuse to walk away. Chase would swear, scoff and turn his back on me in the first minute. Robert never turned away. He rolls his eyes but he doesn’t turn away.

“Cool, now I know you’ll have the stamina to practice this exercise for the rest of the hour.” He says, eyeing the rest of the gym.

Half of the Z-Team is here, Prism, Waterboy, and Punch-Up, running through some kind of boxing drills. Golem is in the corner with a pile of dirt, staying near Waterboy in case his exercise dried him out too much. The rest of the team is outside in the parking lot. Their assigned exercises need more space.

“I think it’s too small for a pool, but the exercise would work better if you were also swimming.” He takes out his phone, opening the maps app. “Maybe there's one nearby…?”

“If you wanted to get me wet, Robert, you don’t have to take me swimming,” I say, ignoring how my stomach twists as he continues to try and find ways to help. “Just another date, maybe you give another big speech about heroics.”

…

…

He glances at me, mouth open, question on his lips.

“I-I can… give you… wet….you.” Waterboy offers, raising a hand as he barely braces the punching bag against Punch-Up’s punches.

“Damn Waterboi!” Prism exclaims as heat flushes into my face, “That was forward as hell! I didn’t know you were into Invisigal!”

He stutters and I glare at him. How could one fucking guy be the biggest cockblock at SDN?

“Not my idea of a good time,” I say shortly.

I shoulder check Robert as I push past him, moving to the opposite side of the gym over by Golem. I glare at Robert for good measure as he looks back. I hold my breath and vanish before their eyes.

Punch-Up and Prism laugh, throwing out more comments to wind Waterboy up as Robert turns and leaves the gym, rubbing his shoulder.

My stomach twists again at the sight.

I hadn’t thought too much about it growing up. Whether I had super resilience or not, it still hurt when people punched me, kicked me. I didn’t feel like I had it, but seeing Robert, I couldn’t deny it.

I healed faster. A bruise one day would be a slight ache the following morning, and cuts would clot and heal up within the day. Granted, if I took a punch from Golem or Blazer, I’d probably be blackened and bruised for the week, but I wouldn’t be…

Arm twisted sideways, his SDN blue shirt rapidly darkening with blood, Malevola shouting for Golem as she rolls him over, his face-

I wouldn’t be broken.

My lungs strain, and I release the breath in a wheeze. Sucking in oxygen as I reappear.

“Daisy has an ice breath,” Bruno informs me. We had bonded a bit when I had to pick hot dogs and other trash out of his back after a fucking nightmare of an assignment at the Turtle’s stadium. “The doc confirmed it this week when she was napping. Her breath is like, ten degrees colder than our living room.”

I glance over, annoyance and guilt, and all the depressing shit quickly overrun by excitement. Daisy, the baby kaiju, was adorable only in the ways massive creatures could be, like watching a baby whale or elephant video online. I live for the updates and photos that Bruno would send me.

“Yeah? I know where I’m going when my AC craps out this summer,” I say, examining his exercise. “How’s potty training her?”

“It’s going.”

The massive mud construct is… poking a pile of dirt. Gingerly inserting his finger and concentrating.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, as he removes his finger and…. Tries again? “Trying to impregnate a mole hill?”

Bruno snorts softly, orange eyes not moving from where his finger connects with the dirt pile. “Robert has a theory that, since I’m made of magic shit, I could maybe use the magic in me, spread it around.”

I watch him, taking another breath in and holding it. If I were going to watch his exercise, I might as well do my own.

“I can feel… something there. Like I’m trying to absorb it into me.” Bruno continues to talk. He always did that, assuming that I would stick around when I first blip out of sight. “But if I…”

The dirt pile wiggles and sections of it… shift. I let the air out of my lungs in surprise as a little makeshift face forms in the pile of dirt.

Golem hums as he removes his finger. Almost instantly, the face crumbles in on itself, the pile settling.

“Dude…” I say in wonder, poking the dirt. “You’re making mini-yous. That’s fucking awesome.”

“Robert thought that I could just use the dirt to expand myself, give myself long arms or extra mass temporarily.” Bruno smiles, sticking his finger back in. “But I can kinda see through it.”

His voice trails off as he focuses again, and I take a breath, just watching him as I go invisible again.

Bruno was the leftovers of some evil sorcerer who was causing shit up near Santa Barbara. When her magic was dispelled, and the curse that had transformed the surfing town into a fantasy fortress wore off, Bruno and a few other enchanted constructs were left over. Ambient magic or laylines, or cosmic rays, have given them their own internal power source to operate off of. Leaving one confused, new to sentience, Bruno was arrested by the angry mob as he wandered the beachfront properties.

SDN was the first time he’d really have exposure to society and the outside world since his incarceration. He spent most of his free time online, playing games and watching videos, building up his own personality and understanding of the world.

He was a Lakers fan, which I tried not to hold against him.

Bruno was cool, like a younger brother who was a bit too addicted to watching streamers.

I hoped he could be a hero.

I exhale, taking a moment before I breathe again. My visions swimming briefly. I take a puff of my inhaler as I wait for the tightness in my lungs to relax.

The morning shift goes slowly. It’s a gloomy overcast day, with some chance of rain later in the afternoon. I get one assignment to the beach, some children wandering away from their parents, who were drinking mimosas and doing shit no one had any right to do during the work day. Probably some fucking real estate morons or something. I find the kids out by the tide pools, watching crabs and other ocean shit in the water.

I cheer them up and offer a piggyback ride to the little girl while I escort them back to their parents. Little shit gets sand in my pockets.

The chatter’s distracted today. Everyone else is celebrating over Daisy’s ice breath. Robert’s voice sounds pained as he offers Bruno congratulations. The topic then shifts to Summer plans and activities.

Sonar apparently hates the ocean, something about bat fur and sand not mixing well.

I get called up an hour before lunch, some suspicious individuals were seen by a warehouse, check it out. Kick ass. Smoke cigarettes.

Same shit.

What's not the same shit is what happens the second I head off.

My augments fucking activate.

Instantly, my breaths are deeper, the pain and tightness in my core vanish, and I’m sprinting with an ease I hadn’t felt in months. I stumble, in shock, confusion. And then…

Dread.

“Whoa, you okay, Invisigal? Your tracker just started speeding up.”

“Hitchhiked with a guy with a motorcycle,” I lie through my fucking teeth. The fucking augment is keeping my voice steady, hiding the fact that I’m running. “I didn’t know Harley Davidson made vibrators.”

“I used to own a Harley,” Malevola remarks as other members of the Z-Team jeer and Robert sighs across the call. “Fun way to travel, longer than portal travel though.”

I tune out as I continue to run, my heart jumping up my throat as I turn off a main street, approaching where the call originated. I recognized these streets. I turn one corner, slowing to a jog. My eyes were darting down each side street.

“Invisigal, your signal…. Up,” Robert’s voice fuzzed in and out. Interference and static were drawing out his words.

“Boss man says we’ll have five minutes for our little talk, Invisigal,” a voice says behind me. “You’re looking well.”

Fucking knew it.

“And you’re wearing clothes, I guess we’re both putting our best foot forward,” I say, turning around. I frown on my face as I see Toxic. The asshole is casually leaning against the warehouse. He’s not nude and green, which I guess is a bonus, but I stay on guard.

“The fuck you want dickhead?” I grunt, keeping my eyes on him.

He’s smiling, looking at something on his phone. Acting distracted. I wasn’t fooled for a second. Toxic was Shroud’s right hand man for a reason. Dangerously charismatic, able to monologue and distract you, only for his acid to cause serious damage when you least expected it.

“Just wanted to say hi, I heard about your new job. Wanted to ask if the benefits were any good,” Toxic says lightly, still not looking at me. “Maybe I could apply and be a suuuuper heeeero,” he says, drawing out the last two words in a childish whine. “But I don’t know if I’d pass the background check.”

He looks at me and I clench my teeth. His eyes are alight with pleasure.

“Then again… if they hired you,”

That’s what made him such a sick fuck. He loved to monologue, revel in the power he had over people. Find the thing that gets under your skin and constantly press the button. His bullshit acid and super resilience protecting him from almost all retaliation.

I had some small satisfaction in watching Robert kick him around months back. .

“The deal was clear,” I say, taking a step back. “Shroud and I are done.”

I inhale, prepared to blip out of sight, cut myself out of this toxic situation, (heh) and leave Toxic, leave all of this behind. I’ll tell Robert I didn’t find anything and he could send–

Pain. Hot, instant pain. It feels like my augment sets my abdomen on fire, shooting into my stomach. I hunch over, my breath leaving me as I do my best to remain standing. I stare at the ground through tear filled eyes as I hear Toxic speak, stepping closer.

“Sorry, babe, but we gotta finish what we started. You were brought in on the mission to steal the Astral Pulse. The job’s not done.”

I lift my head up and glare at him as he hums and pats my cheek. “I got a new job asshat. Not really looking for something new in this job market.”

“Oh, it's okay, this job will be suuuuuper easy for you. Just think of it liiike… a side hustle!”

He snaps his fingers and points at me.

“You just text your buddy Toxic updates about that new coworker of yours. Robert? Robert Robertson? Ring a bell?”

My stomach twists. No.

“He has a pretty cool side hustle of his own down in that basement.” Toxic bends over, bringing his face level with mine. I go to say something only for another jolt of pain to shock out from the augment.

He lightly pats my cheek with his hand, watching me wince at the contact. God, he was such a fucking creep. Always getting handsy with people. No care for fucking boundaries.

“You’re going to watch his little science project and give us any updates on how close they are to rebuilding the Astral Pulse,” Toxic says, the humor gone from his voice. “You're going to tell us everything you see and hear on that little SDN earpiece of yours. Nightly reports. Starting now.”

“And… if… I don't?” I grit out. I taste blood in my mouth.

Toxic strengthens up, and there it is. Dramatic fuck. His clothes begin to burn off, his eyes are overtaken by the sick green light.

And…. there’s the dick.

Gross fuck. He could get some kind of glass or plastic covering. Some of that lab grade shit rated for acid. But he chose not to. Enjoyed how uncomfortable it made people.

“Well then maybe we’ll need to pay a visit to SDN Torrance,” Toxic purrs, watching the green acid drip from his fingers and burn holes in the pavement. A noxious smell in the air. “Or maybe we’ll pay a visit to your friend Bruno, offer to pet sit for him and the good doctor? Daisy sounds soooooo cuuuute!”

I freeze.

What?

“Or maybe we’ll visit Robert on his way home, and finish what you started? We’d be doing him a favor right? Pathetic right? Going from defender of the city to a fucking office worker?” He shakes his head.

“We’d be doing the man a favor and I always wanted a dog.”

Were they watching? Listening? How?

“H-how?” I ask, trying to move, trying to… to do something. Anything.

“Shroud always knows, Babes. It’s all calculated into his plans and he’ll know if you try to start any clever, sly shit.” Toxic walks behind me, and then with a sudden twist, he spins and kicks my legs out from under me. I go down and from my pocket I feel my fucking training egg fall out. It hits the ground and a crack runs up its side.

Toxic pauses, staring at the egg in bemusement. “Light snack?” He asks, stepping on the egg. “Gross.” he comments, as his acid begins to mix with the egg white.

“Times up, but we’ll talk later, kay?”

Toxic walks off, giving a wave of his hand before he turns the corner. The second he’s out of sight, the pain from the augment cuts off, and I half collapse onto the ground.

Robert’s voice is back in my ear. “Invisigal, if you can hear me, Sonar is five minutes out. Just hang in there. We will be there soon.”

I take a deep breath in and respond. I need to sell this. “It’s fine Robert, there’s nothing here. Went all over these warehouses. Just some graffiti dicks.”

There's a pause.

“We lost you for a moment," Robert eventually says, something in his voice sending the hairs on the back of my neck standing, “Some kind of surge in the electrical grid reset our coms. Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice was full of concern.

I close my eyes and swallow my frustration the best I can. “I don’t need Dispatch Daddy babysitting me each time I take a shit,” I say, taking a few steps away from where Toxic and I had spoken. The egg yolk drying out under the California sun. “Just tired of running down these fucking alleys and I broke my fucking egg.”

The call fills with laughs and jeers of the other Z-Team members. Dispatch Daddy was going to be the name of the day.

“Well it can’t be helped,” Robert sighs, “You’ll get a new egg on Monday.”

I jog forward making sure that I get in view of one of the traffic cameras. “There, you should be able to see me now.”

I start my return back to SDN. The entire run back my mind is a million miles away as the rest of the team talks and ribs as Robert continues to assign up to calls. I’m slower. My augments are no longer functioning. My labored breathing increasing as I continue to run and run.

I can’t say shit. I didn’t know how Shroud was watching us. Did he have a mole? Had he hacked SDN’s network? That seemed like something Robert or one of the tech geeks at SDN would catch. Cameras? Someone’s powers? How?

At a stoplight I get a glance of myself in a storefront window. There's a light redness to my cheek where Toxic touched me. Easily mistaken for a sunburn or slight swelling. Now that I’m aware of my super resilience, I know that any sign of the acid exposure would be gone by tomorrow.

No one would know.

I kick a dumpster on my way back, almost puncturing the metal.

Fucking Shroud.

It begins to rain as I return to SDN.

I spend most of the lunch break invisible and out of sight. Not wanting to talk to anyone. I spend most breaks invisible spying on people, bugging them. Watching them.

When people thought they were alone, they showed their real selves. They’d talk to themselves, hold imaginary arguments with other people, did little rituals and things that brought them joy. It told you a lot about them.

Prism watched small time streamers in her free time, Flambae helped his niece practice dance routines and spent his lunch looking up dance tutorials, Bruno watched cooking shows, Sonar spent 30 seconds trying to resist snorting cocaine from his secret stash, Malevola watched shows on her phone, and Chase looked at puppy videos.

Robert either walked Beef, or read some articles on energy cells or worked on the Mecha Man suit. The guy never took a break.

And somehow Shroud knew it.

I’m watching him from Chase’s cubicle. Ducking down to take a breath every once in a while. He’s looking distracted. Staring at the mug that held his pens and pencils with a small frown. Like the answer to all of his problems was somewhere on his desk, if he could just find it.

I’m half tempted to tell him. To show my augments, explain that Shroud is active, wanting to monitor him and his progress. To warn him-

Those angry eyes, definitely staring out of the Mecha Man suit. A determined light gleaming in them. Hatred.

But then it’d be over. He’d hate me, despise me. He’d tell Blazer and no one would trust the person who blew Mecha Man out of the sky. That one sin almost burned LA, if anyone knew that, I’d never get a chance to…

I hunch into Chase’s cubicle, taking a deep breath in and holding it. Closing my eyes.

To be a hero.

I wanted it. Robert was pretty damn convincing and I couldn’t lie. I want to be a hero. To fight fate, to be someone that others could depend on. Who wouldn’t run. Be someone who others would look at and admire. Look at and want to be… Look at and-

“Look. At. This.”

I raise my head, looking over into Robert’s cubicle. Prism’s there, and she’s just dumped a stack of papers onto Robert’s desk.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Prism demands of him as he stares up at her in partial bemusement and partial exasperation. “Read all this shit, and tell me, I’m wrong.”

Others are staring. Prism never did anything subtly and this was as far from subtle as it got.

“Sure. It’s not like I need to eat or anything on my legally mandated lunch break,” Robert drolls, taking the top page and glancing it over. His eyes narrow and I crane my neck to try and see what’s on it.

It looked like… social media posts?

Robert rises, grabbing the stack of papers. “Conference room,” he says to Prism before pushing past her, ignoring the curious stares of half the office.

I follow the two, taking in Prism’s body language. She seemed… pissed? Nervous?

I sneak in behind them both and quickly dive under the table. Moving to where I’d be out of sight, but close enough to hear if they spoke in softer tones.

Something that seemed unlikely as the second the door shut Robert started, “Mind explaining just what this shit is? This looks like you’re stalking someone!”

“I did your Sherlock Shit, Mr. Dispatcher. I looked at everything to tell me something and that something is fucked up!” Prism explodes, “This girl’s been streaming monthly for the last three years. Then six months ago there’s a drop in her schedule. Her last four songs are about some rancid ass, fucked up relationship and then she stopped posting regularly last month. It’s all there!”

Her words are rushed and pour out from her. Not anything like how Prism normally spoke.

“Okay hold on Buzzfeed, you think, from stalking this girl on social media, she’s what, gotten into an abusive relationship?” Robert asks and the silence in the conference room is deafening.

“All I did was what you fucking showed me,” Prism says defiantly. And I can almost see the defiant stance she’s probably standing in.

I breathe quietly, ready to flash invisible if she decides to throw a chair or flip over the table.

“Okay,” Robert says with a tight exhale after a moment, “Walk me through it.”

I blink in surprise as he pulls a chair out and sits down. His legs are inches from my shoulder.

Well hello.

“Okay, so…” Prism starts up, and the tale of Sunday Smiles, small time streamer and musician comes out to both of us.

If Robert sees any holes in Prism’s logic, he doesn’t voice it as she covers every post and tweet that Sunday Smiles had made this year. Everything from logging the time of day that each post was made, indexing the frequency and emotions associated with each emoji and gif reaction on her private chat server, Prism had painted a pretty cut and dry picture.

Sunday Smiles was a small-time cover artist and internet content creator who hopped on most singing and dancing trends that hit social media. She was part of some large collaboration centered around a recording of a frog and amassed a medium sized following and fanbase. Six months ago, something happened in Sunday Smiles life that stopped her from posting and streaming as regularly. Messages around that time hinted at ‘something great’ that had happened and ‘she’d come back once things evened out’. Her videos switched to recorded songs over images, not posting anything that showcased herself dancing or singing.

Later posts alluded to some struggles and hardships with a few original songs talking about light and darkness. Prism had a whole breakdown on Sunday Smiles song writing process and ties some metaphors used to previous songs about relationships.

“And so I need you to hack her account, and get me an address so I can find this motherfucker and beat his ass,” Prism concludes, not halting her continuous pacing around the conference room.

I sigh quietly and stare at the underside of the table. Someone who sat on the right side had been sticking gum to the table. Gross.

I still when Robert speaks, interested in his take. I could see what Prism was saying, but I had never followed…anyone online so religiously before.

…

…

It was easier to just stalk them in person.

“Prism… have you heard of a parasocial relationship before?”

Ohhh Prism did not like that.

“I am not crazy.” She emphasizes, “And I’m not seeing things. There’s something wrong in Sunday Smile’s life and she needs help.”

“I’m not…” Robert sighs, “Listen, what you have here is good detective work, I won’t deny that,”

“Then you agree! We need to act fast and we need to-”

“But!” Robert interrupts, “You’re making a mistake. One that a lot of heroes make when they first start looking at the world this way.”

“I did. What you. Said.” Prism says stiffly, walking over and, if I had to guess, tried to loom over Robert. “I looked for the patterns, I took notes, I drew conclusions that fit with future behavior! Her last song-”

“Is about darkness, despair and being lost in a tunnel,” Robert continues standing, pushing his chair back. “I get that, but Prism, did you try to reach out to Smiles? Send a-a DM or PM or leave a comment?”

“I’m a maker, not a follower!” Prism snarks, taking a step forward, “And besides-”

“Prism if you never test your hypothesis, you’re just working off a guess,” Robert interrupts. “An educated guess, but you can’t know all the variables! You misread one post, one point of data and it’s all thrown off.”

There’s the rustling of papers.

“Right here, all of these song interpretations all hinge on the idea that her first song was a love song about an ex. Let’s say that’s wrong. Let's say you misread it, for instance, it's about trouble with family or having a hard time at college. What does that do to your theory?”

The rooms are silent as Prism absorbs the point. “So what? I do fucking nothing?” Prism bites out. “Since I can’t know for sure I just sit on my hands?”

Robert sighs. “There’s an endless amount of options between hacking someone's account to find someone to punch and doing nothing.” There's a pause and I can almost see the look Robert would have in his eyes. Analytical, searching.

“Why don’t you want to just reach out to her? You have three times as many followers as her. Just say hi.”

There’s a long silence at that. And then…

“I don’t know how.” Prism admits, feet turning away from Robert. “I’m not good with the feelings shit. Party, entertain. Vibe! That’s all me baby. But…”

Her voice is tense, quiet, and tired. I’d never heard her speak like this before. I’d feel guilt about intruding on such a quiet moment but I shake it off with practice. Adding it to the long list of little moments I’d intruded on that were never meant to be witnessed by me.

Besides, this was juicy.

Robert approaches Prism, and her feet turn around. She’s looking back at him.

“Prism… just because you do something badly, doesn’t mean it’s not still worth doing.” Robert starts and I feel my heart pick up a bit. He was doing a Robert speech. The team had started a bet on how many he’d give in a week and while we all pretended we didn’t listen, we all absolutely did.

It felt good to hear nice words spoken about you. To have someone build you up. Believe in you.

So we looked forward to it.

Sue us.

“Just look at you and the rest of the Z-Team. Every day, you go out there, and you help people. You burn, break shit, and make a headache for me, Chase, and most of the people of Torrance. But at the end of the day, there’s one more person safe, another cat found, and another Turtle’s fan who doesn’t have a black eye because of all of you.”

Robert turns back to the table and I hear him pick up the papers.

“You care about this person, and you see something that may be there, or may not be. But you see something wrong and you want to help. That’s good.”

I take a breath and peak out from the table invisible. Robert’s handing her the papers. Prism’s face is… vulnerable. Bitting her lower lip as she stares down at her research.

“Reach out, offer a collab or cover one of her songs or send her a message or whatever the fuck you want to do.” Robert continues. “But look before you leap. If you attack someone in her life and it turns out you decked her brother, I don’t care what her music says, she’s going to want a restraining order.” He puts a hand on his hip and rubs his face with his other one.

“And…” he sighs, “ I’ll look into her account, but if there’s anything that supports your theory, I’m making an anonymous call. I am NOT giving you her address.”

Prism doesn’t say anything. She examines her papers, and then examines Robert's face. Her expression is partially hidden by her visor.

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

She nods.

They both leave the conference room and I let the doors swing shut, just thinking over what I heard.

…

…

How the fuck was he this good? I don’t think I hadn’t seen or heard him ever feel stuck or tip over his words.

Hell I barely pay attention to streamer shit and that’s only because Bruno was talking about it a few weeks back.

My thoughts are interrupted when Blazer appeared with some CEO or store owner she was trying to get to sign up for SDN coverage.

I smirk to myself and wait for them to sit down, letting them get settled before popping out from under the table next to Blazer. I stand up, make a huge deal of mimicking wiping my mouth before winking at the white haired businessman across from Blazer.

“Sorry boss, I thought you meant the 12:30 appointment, not the 1:30,” I say, enjoying the mix of anger and embarrassment on Blondie’s face before I turn invisible.

Afternoon shift is a wet blur. I’m sent to scope out a Wheelies hideout with Punch-Up and I decide to intentionally give ourselves away. Forcing us to fight.

I wanted to punch shit. Sue me.

It ends with us stealing a bike and scooter and is utterly worth it for the sight of Punch wobbly navigating the scooter down an alleyway.

“You're a crazy girl,” Punch-Up calls after me, as Robert sighs and berates our performance.

It makes me laugh, and for a moment I just try to enjoy the ride, enjoying how the light reflected off the wet pavement as we rode back to SDN Torrance.

It was nice.

It wouldn’t last.

But I wanted it to.

“Alright, joyrides and power issues aside, good work today.” Robert says walking around the conference room. There’s anticipation in the air, but it's distant from me. I feel tired. Numb. I just want to be in my apartment with my shitty roommate. I didn’t want to look and see Robert again.

“And overall good week, minus some mishaps.” he continues, “First, everyone present your eggs.”

“Fuck yeah,” Prism mutters placing her egg on the table. I scoff, there’s fucking rhinestones on it.

And it looks good.

“Completely unharmed.” boasts Flambae as everyone else produces their eggs.

There’s not many. It’s between them and Waterboy, as everyone else had either broken their egg the same day they received it or had it damaged or lost during assignment.

“I thought you still had yours Golem?” I ask Bruno, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you like… store it inside you?”

Bruno shrugs. “Lost it.”

Robert is staring at him. “Lost it. Inside you?”

“Yeah.”

…

…

“Okay.”

A sticker sheet with eggs and chicks is passed around, and I eye the fluffy duckling with an eggshell hat that Prism picks out and gingerly adds it to her sheet.

“Now for the performance stickers,” Robert calls out, pulling out the thick stack of stickers. “Malevola for…”

I tune out. I knew I wasn’t going to get a sticker for the stunt I pulled today. I dig my phone out of my pocket and check the weather.

Damn. The rain wouldn’t stop for another half hour. A wet walk home it was. How appropriate.

While my score was improving, I was still at the bottom of the leaderboard tying it with Sonar. We weren't going to get-

“For finding those kids at the beach and being one of the fastest for solo completion time this week, Invisigal, you get a sticker.”

The fuck?

I stare at the stack that’s handed to me. “Is this some participation trophy bullshit?” I ask looking up at Robert. It’s then that I notice everyone’s in the process of adding a sticker to their sheet.

Waterboy’s staring at his cloud sticker like its the first fucking praise he’d ever received. What the fuck?

“Come on Visi,” Punch-Up calls out. “Don’t look a good thing in the mouth, just take the damn sticker.”

“You all did really well this week.” Robert says with an honest grin, his eyes light with amusement at my bemused expression. “So take the sticker… Visi.”

I go invisible to hide the full fucking blush that hits my face and quickly tear off a sticker, picking at random before throwing the pack back at Robert.

He jumps in surprise as sticker sheets suddenly materialize in his face but he chuckles and backs away to collect everyone else’s sheet as I look down at my own.

A little cartoon purple cat, whose tail I had left on the sticker pad, winked up at me, its body curled in a satisfied little oval. I place it down and stare at the stupid thing in the stupid box that said I did good this week.

Of course, the stupid sticker was crooked.

I get drunk that night, canceling on the annual Z-Team drinking tradition to instead make my way through my roommates bottle of vodka.

It burns, punishing me for each greedy gulp I force down my throat.

It’s exactly what I need.

My phone buzzes and I glance at it with disgust and apprehension.

T: Everything about the Pulse and a list of all the SDN subscribers you know of.

I stare at the far wall of my room, angry drunk tears threatening to fall from my face. It wasn’t fucking fair. It was such bullshit. Shroud had me under his fucking thumb.

He was a proper villain. Not just some juiced up powered moron who broke a law or two. He had fucking schemes. All of his plans and predictions. Calculating every single fucking data point to make the perfect plan.

“You misread one post, one point of data and it’s all thrown off.”

I pause, as something Robert said earlier in the day comes back to me.

“Let’s say that’s wrong. Let's say you misread it, for instance.”

I stare at the wall. He thought he had me and in a lot of ways… he did. But he did everything, he planned everything off of data. Calculations. He got information about you, plugged it into his fucking brain and it spat out what you were likely to do.

“What does that do to your theory?”

“Fuck it…” I breathe. I look down at my phone and begin to type.

I’d have to play this close, so fucking close to the chest. I still didn’t know how he was watching me, watching SDN.

They still haven't recreated the pulse. Still testing it. SDN Subscribers that I know of: Turtles Stadium, VandCo for a ton of shit, secret lab, CEO protection, coffee run, Refinery….

But if there was a chance, a moment. A turned back, or maybe an ear to the ground to their plans, what they were going to do. Some chance that I could fudge the data, give him the slip at the right time.

Shroud would need to trust me. Think I’ve fallen in line and under his thumb. Be his eyes and ears in SDN and do the job so well that he could stop with whatever other way he had been observing us.

Be that one data point.

It could buy Robert more time.

I pause, thinking of the stupid cat sticker smiling at me with its poor ass tail that I accidentally ripped off.

“Take the sticker Visi.”

It was the absolute least I could do for him.

T: And give us the deets on Coupé. Shroud has questions.

Chapter Text

“And breath out, feel any pain?”

“Just tightness,” I respond, slowly reaching down to my toes. 

The doctor hums, making another note on his touchpad. “And headaches? Any moments of confusion, disorientation, lighheadedness or sudden unexplained unconsciousness?”

“No, no unexplained bouts of unconcisousness.” I reply confidently. 

The doctor eyes me a for amoment before he turns back to his touchpad. Rude. It was like he didn’t believe me. 

I know exactly what had knocked me unconscious.

“We’re done with the examination, you can put your clothes back on and meet me outside,” he informs me, stepping out of the physical therapy gym. I sigh as I walk towards the bench, taking the medical clothes off me. 

I was at Los Angeles General Medical Center, the Heroes ward. A section specifically dedicated to care and recovery of certified Super Heroes. It boasted entire teams of powered and unpowered medical professionals, a state of the art security system and a privacy that only a blood oath written by some of the West Coast’s most talented lawyers and performed by arcanists could guarantee. 

Apparently they summoned three separate demons to consult on the oath. The third one broke containment and ravaged the city for three days. Bit of a PR nightmare, given those doing the summoning and those performing the blood oath were one and the same.

Anyways, the point is, the doctor who was overseeing my recovery was one of the most talented and capable doctors on the West Coast… who was completely overqualified for me. Everyone here in the Heroes Ward was. 

They had worked on Heroes infested with otherword parasites, super serum failures, nanite blood bombs and a whole slew of other esoteric shit that had threatened the lives of heroes in the past. Literally preformed surgeries while realities were warping, time was slipping and their tools were literally de-evolving as something was eating human progress. The staff personally were known to defend their patients against assassins, nemisis, and stabalize their offices when every other part of Los Angales was under threat. 

And instead of doing any of that. Dr. Riker was instead checking up my depowered body, from a fucking coma. 

…

…

When Monarch had strongarmed me into agreeing to these sessions, it was only because I had learned she had opened a public recovery fund and had prepaid for the sessions. I had negotiated it down, the regular check ups were done at a local clinic near my apartment. But it was Dr. Riker who I had to meet two more times after this to ensure full recovery.

“Alright, I’m clearing you for light field work.” He eventually grunts, continuing to fill out something on his touchpad. “If you desire, you can set your status to active to begin receiving emergency notifications to respond to, however I highly recommend you avoid anything that’ll result in risk of concussion or brain injury.” He fixes me with a stern glare. “And while I know you’re not listening to anyone about taking your recovery slow. I highly recommend you communicate with your partner or team either the extent of your recovery or inform them of your depowered nature.”

I pause in the doorway, raising my eyebrows. That was a new one. 

Dr. Riker rolls his eyes. “You’re bruises are still showing and their separate from what was noted in your last check in and your discharge paperwork. Despite the bruises and minor cuts, there’s no broken bones, fractures and you’re not dead. So its a half decent chance that you’re either fighting crime with assistance from others or you’re training with a Super whose not trained or not careful around baseline humans.” 

He shrugs, “Or you’re intimate with said Super. Regardless, it needs to stop.”

“I will take that under advisement,” I say slowly. 

Dr. Riker sighs, “Listen, you’re a hero, so even if I told you to stop, you wouldn’t listen. But you need to be open about your capabilities which includes your limits. If any of these people actually care about you, they need to know when they hurt you and if there are ways for you to interact that aren’t so hard on your body,” he crosses his arms. “Harm mitigation, they need to know the limits.”

I’m given a prescription of something that’s suppose to help my vascular system or some other system in my body and then I’m discharged. Taking the reinforced elevator back to the street level. 

Huh. That happened. Was that because it was the Hero Ward? I’d never used their services prior to the coma, so I didn’t know what kind of advice came standard for them. When I had to use urgent cares in the past they generally checked for powered harassment or discouraged me from fraternizing with powered individuals. This was the first time anyone had advocated for ‘harm mitigation.’ 

It’s weird. 

I decide to grab lunch on the way back, stopping by a Los Angeles classic since I was on this side of town. 

The Downtown Farmers’ Market was a Farmers’ Market in name only. With the development and growth of the city, the Famers’ Market was now a tourist trap and outdoor shopping area. Restaurants, novelty stores, and litter eateries were packed into the different squat buildings with large roof overhangs, only allowing a small strip of light to shine down between the buildings, blocking out the outside world and the rest of LA. 

While it was expensive as all hell, it also meant that there was a wide diversity of food offered, each store unique in someway to economically justify its existence in the cutthroat market. Specifically for me at least, it meant meat skewers, Kielbasa skewers from a Polish family owned restaurant that had been there for a number of years. I got three and was making my way back to my car when an explosion echoes out. 

I duck down between two cars and poke my head out, scanning for the source. A nearby restaurant has people flooding out into the street,  some smoke, but not enough to suggest an explosion. 

I jog forward, hoping that it was something small, a gas leak that ignited or something manageable. Maybe a pressure cooker exploded?  I glanced down at my skewers. While I’d mourn the sausage, they’d be effective improvided weapons. 

 A pink blur catches my attention and suddenly Sweetalker is on the roof, his voice booming out before the panicked crowd. 

“Hello everyone! Please exit the building in a calm and orderly fashion! Everything is under control!” 

His tone is lightheared, his voice carriers across the street and people begin to calm down. The bystanders who had gathered slowly disperse as the evacuated restaurant goers continue to exit the building. 

I slow my jog and sigh in relief. I wouldn’t have to stab someone with my lunch. Well if that was the case…

I stop and take a bite of one my skewers and watch as the reptilian hero jumps into the middle of the street, holding up a hand to stop traffic. 

“Please everyone, makeway, you can gather outside the Farmers’ Market.” Sweetalker directs, having the crowd continue to move forward, preventing congestion along the sidewalks. I raise an eyebrow. 

Smooth, not every hero thought to disperse crowds after they’d evacuated an area. 

As the evacuees continue to make their way across, I begin to examine their attire. It’s… formal. Very formal. Unusual given the place, time of day, and time of the year. I glanced over the restaurant itself, looking for some kind of sign outfront. Had there been a company party? A weekend conference? 

“VandCo Expo. One of the red tie events, a private party for some prospective investors.” A voice speaks up from next to me. Smooth. Sweet. 

“Isn’t the term black tie event?” I ask, turning to look at Sweetalker. 

He’s a big guy, seven feet, pink and white hero outfit making him look a little ridiculous, which actually helps him come off as another hero instead of dangerous reptile as his small red eyes look down at me. 

“Shouldn’t you still be directing traffic?” I ask him, taking another bite of my skewer. 

“I let the last few cars through,” he says, quickly turning and scanning the street. “The rest of the crowd should cross before traffic builds up.” 

I turn and look with him. 

“Once they get into and near the Farmers’ Market, the energy of the shoppers will calm the evacuees and also give them a make up lunch option.” Sweetalker explains, pointing with a claw. “As long as I stay here and prevent them from panicing when they first exit, I prevent the fear from spreading.” 

He calls out to an elderly couple who had sprinted into the street, shoving others out of the way. “SDN heroes are on the scene, you’re safe now.” 

“You see Harold, I told you we were safe,” the elderly woman begins to say as they pass by, utterly ignoring the fact that they both had been shoving past people. “The heroes have this!”

I watch them go, munching on some onion and bellpepper. It was kind of nice to be a bystander and not be responsible for those kinds of civilians, the rude entitled ones. 

“You’re Robert Robertson, SDN dispatcher at the Torrance branch, Punch-Ups dispatcher,”  Sweetalker said. 

“And you’re Sweetalker, Downtown branch hero,” I reply before pausing. “Weren’t you working night shifts? They call you in for weekend work as well?”

Sweetalker let out a deep sigh, “Yeah. Night shifts, weekend jobs and a few other things.” His reptilian face twists to look disgruntled. It vanishes a moment later as he smiles confidently at the last of the crowd, a few cars beginning to cross as the last few people step out of the road.  

I observe him. Sweetalker could read and mimic human tone and body language with the same ease as I could operate a toaster. He down played his origins quite a bit but from what I understood he was from some kind of parallel timeline. Some Planet of the Apes type of shit where humans were unintelligent beings on his planet. He had been some kind of vet or farmer when some interdimentional conflict had torn holes in reality maybe twenty years ago. Rather than stay in his home plane, he saw ours and decided to stay here, interested by the human social structures we had built.

Or at least that was the best I could ascertain after looking into him after that night with Phenomaman. Once he joined SDN, he became much more tight lipped about his origin. 

Point was he wasn’t human or a human analogue. Any body language or vibe I was getting from him was intentionally conveyed. A conscious decision. And any vibe or body language I had would be read and received with all the subtlety of a text message. 

I briefly consider simply pretending to be a civilian or minor hero. Someone inconsequential who wouldn’t know or have analyzed Sweetalker to the degree that I had, before quickly deciding against it.

But a normal civilian wouldn’t know that. A regular civilian would only know the charismatic reptilian hero from his local work and spotlights in shows and movies. They wouldn’t be observing him as closely as I have. 

I meet his eye, and while he’s waving and still gesturing to the crowd, his eye is focused on me. I decide to bite. 

“Sounds like they do things differently downtown. Normally at jobs you have something called a schedule? It’s suppose to be pretty regular.” 

I take another bite of a skewer, and after a pause, I offer him my second one. 

There’s a second delay, then he takes it, giving a closed smile before turning away and opening his mouth to take a bite. 

Damn that was a lot of sharp teeth. 

He takes a bite and then glances down at me, his body stills. 

Ah, I was probably suppose to act scared at seeing his teeth. Swallow my spit or something.

“….Normally the works pretty regular but it’s been a bit of a crazy time. I’m sure you know about Phenomaman,” he says quickly polishing off his skewer in one smooth motion, placing the entire skewer in his mouth before drawing it out, all the meat and grilled vegetables falling into his maw.  “But on top of that, a couple other heroes transferred out to the national teams temporarily, Canada called for a strike force for some extraction work.” 

I raise an eyebrow, while that was a lot of movement, each SDN branch contained multiple teams, either the amount of hero’s called was larger than he was letting on, or there was something more at play. “Seems a bit much to yank your chain around just by being short staffed. Seems like downtown would have the capacity to cover a few shortfalls in staff.” 

He doesn’t respond. Just watching as cars begin to drive through the intersection again.

With the crowd behind us now, the sound of combat was clearly echoing from inside the restaurant.  

“Don’t you need to?” I gesture to the restaurant. 

He’s watching me still. I cross my arms and meet his gaze. I didn’t put much stock into body language and was slightly skeptical about how his ‘powers’ supposedly worked. But Sweetalker was a famous name for a reason, somehow or another he was able to infer more than your average human through regular interactions. 

A moment passes. 

“Okay, I guess we can just stare meaningfully into each others eyes,” I say.

He’s silent and we attract stares from other people walking by. A couple of college-age kids slurp some slushy or milk tea drink as they walk by, peering curiously at us. 

I begin to polish off my skewer. If the guy wasn’t going to talk then at the very least I was going to finish my lunch. 

He still says nothing, his full attention turned to me, ignoring whichever SDN hero he was suppose to be helping on this assignment. 

I wonder if his dispatcher was seeing this? I’d be berating any of the z-team if they did this shit.

“Am I successfully conveying to you how done I am with this not-conversation?” I ask him, finishing off my skewer. 

He still says nothing. 

Weird guy. 

“Well this was great, really… unique talk we had.” I nod to him. “I’m going to go. I guess this is why your called Sweetalker and not Smalltalker.” 

I turn and only get five feet away before he speaks. 

“The City’s searching for a new symbol. A main hero to replace Mecha Man.” He says flatly. No emotion in his voice. “SDN’s bending over backwards to make sure it’s one of the downtown heroes.” 

I pause. Trying to think through the swell of emotion.

Why had he told me? Did he know I was Mecha Man? Or was he telling me because I was helping Phenomaman the last time we met? Or did he not know and telling me would help maim know? What did Punch-Up tell him? What did he read from Punch-Up?

My only saving grace was that my back was turned. So hopefully whatever body language bullshit he was getting to me was limited. 

Do I respond? Do I ignore him? Did I try and act erratic to confuse his senses? 

I sigh and look forward. There’s a street pole in front of me, a faded sticker partially peeling off the metal. A sky blue M.. Okay, respond, don’t turn around, and deal with all other implications later. 

“Big shoes to fill.” I reply shortly, trying to keep emotion out of my voice. “I hope whatever schedule they have you and the others on is reasonable if that’s the level of performance that the city needs.” 

It stung a bit. In the impersonal impassionate way those kind of decisions needed to be made. Los Angeles needed heroes. Someone to speak at the annual marathon, someone to be seen at as many disasters as possible. Someone that wasn’t confined to one neighborhood or only protected certain people but someone who they could put forward as the hero for all of Los Angeles. 

It didn’t surprise me that they were looking for someone to raise up, to fill that spot. 

It just hurt that it had only taken a month since my press conference for them to start. 

“They're paying overtime,” Sweetalker says and I quietly scoff. “Promise that if we get selected they’d work with the city to help ensure we get the resources we need.” 

Sure and that probably came with a new expensive contract for SDN, to not just have dedicated assigned hero teams but one defined hero to do everything that I had done for free. 

I roll my eyes at the corporate climbing that Tim was probably directing for the company and freeze. 

Halfway up the light pole I had stopped in front of was a circular mirror, angled so cars driving out of a parking lot could see oncoming traffic around the corner of the building. I meet Sweetalker reptilian eyes in the reflection. 

Clever dinosaur guy. 

“Good luck with that,” I say shortly and speed walk away from the area, putting as much distance between Sweetalker and myself as I could.   

Damn it. 

“Okay, option one,” I say to Beef as he stops to sniff a fire hydrant, “He was just saying that to confirm my identity for personal curiosity, and he’ll be quiet and keep to himself now that he knows.” 

I had to admit the fact that Sweetalker must have, at the very least confirmed that I was Mecha Man. There was a chance that he got something else, but that was as the biggest secret and it was better to assume a secret was out than assume he focused in on some other information about me.

I didn’t care too much if he learned that I thought the Regional Director was an asshole. 

“Option two,” I continued, as we both continued our walk around the park. “He’s playing politics and I’ll either get a call from Tim or he’ll reach out to blackmail some kind of favor from me.” 

Beef decides the hydrant needs his scent and pees on it. Then he sneezes and looks up at me expectantly.

We walk most of the way back to my apartment, my brain still turning over the interaction in my mind. 

“Option three..." I say softly. “Other…” 

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t know shit about the downtown office. I knew Tim was an asshole, I knew that the downtown branch was full of hero’s who took transfers, but that was it. For all I knew, Sweetalker could hate Tim as deeply as Chase, and there was an entire group of heroes who resented his political plays. Whatever the case was, I couldn’t trust to get the truth from Sweetalker.  He could sell anything as the truth and know exactly how to convince me the longer we spoke.

The frustrating part was that only time would tell. Either something would come of it or nothing would. 

And Los Angeles did need a new hero. 

…

…

The Olympics were expected to come to the city in the next few years… the city had reached out months ago. They had wanted Mecha Man to be involved with the opening ceremony. My grandfather had done it back in the eighties. I had said yes…

And now it would be someone else. 

…

…

If Mecha Man didn’t come back. 

I refresh Beef’s water bowl and open the school app on my phone. A list of the recorded lectures still pulled up. 

The university still charged me a fee, but I was able join a course halfway through their semester. I open a video and begin the playback, setting it to double speed. 

“Todays lecture we’ll cover the basic of fission reactors, first theorized in…” 

Letting the audio play I glance around the room. Before I had used different parts of the Mecha Man suit to work out, disconnecting different sections to use as makeshift dumbbells. Without it here, I had nothing to lift. 

…

…

Maybe the six-pack of beer? 

If not, I could hold Beef and do squats. 

I wander into the kitchen and look. 

Saturday I wake up sore. I groan, shifting slightly on the floor. Feeling my muscles protest at the movement. 

I open my eyes and glance at Beef, who turns over in his sleep. 

“Good idea buddy,” I say, closing my eyes. “Rest day.” 

I’d throw some arnica cream on, stretch out, and let my body rest and recover from last week. Most of the bruises had faded, minus the two deep tissue ones that still ached when I twisted or turned.

Maybe I’d go out, but not till lunch. I’d spend the morning sleeping in. 

…

…

I reach for my phone. 

“….replacing water cooling in rare instances where the oil can be regularly filtered and…”

Chapter Text

Monday morning kicks off with me at SDN two hours early. Surprisingly, Mr. Whiskers is here already, giving me a wobbly nod as I drop my backpack and Beef off at my desk. I return the gesture, then head downstairs to the gym. 

I survey the weights, the different dumbbells that grow to sizes that would have been impossible to find fifty years ago. 

I take two of the lighter weights and head to an open bench. 

I had lost a lot of my muscle mass, and while body-weight exercises were helping with mobility, what I really needed to work on was stamina. People didn’t really think about it, but while an hour of exercise might have kept them fit, it was stamina that Heroes really needed to build. 

During the big emergencies, you could be awake and active for ten, twelve, or even a full twenty-four hours of rescuing.

I set up and, with a glance at the clock on the wall, begin to do squats as fast as possible, the weights firm in my grip. 

Conditioning your body for those scenarios calls for not just regular exercise but constant exercise. It would be tough, but if I could get an hour and a half in at the start and end of each day, and a ten or fifteen-minute burst before lunch, if I could keep it up for at least three days during the work week and the weekends, I could begin to build up my stamina in tandem with my strength gains.

It’s hard; my body is now used to weeks of sitting at a desk. My lower back twinges in protest, but I don’t stop. 

I slow down, but I don’t stop. I try to inventory each ache and pain. Lower back pain is because my core is weak, and it’s overcompensating. I should do more core exercises. Side ache is because of the bruise, which should be gone within the week; butt pain is due to sitting in that crappy office chair. Maybe find a pillow or something else to cushion. 

The workout is quiet and I don’t see another person until I finish my shower. I’m damp, but refreshed and ready for the day.

“New eggs,” I announce, walking around the table. “Turn in your old ones because they're probably rotten at this point.” 

With the month turning over, I had been able to purchase a bulk flat of the eggs, which now sat at the bottom of Royd’s mini fridge down in the basement. In turn, he was free to pilfer one or two if he wanted to make breakfast at work. 

“Be fabulous, my baby,” Prism calls after her rinestone egg. 

I stare at her for a moment before moving on. 

I’d throw them out after I assigned Prism to a mission. 

Punch-up examines his new egg before tucking it into a pocket with a nod. He has to fiddle with the fabric to fit it in. An egg-shaped bulge against his hips. I give it until he either stands up or sits down again, until he breaks it. 

Flambae rears back from me as I approach with the fresh egg. 

“I’m good Bob-Bob,” he says hastily, throwing up a hand. “I’m… attached to this egg. It understands me, you know?” 

I raise an eyebrow, “No, I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s egg day. So give me your fucking egg.” 

He seems conflicted for a moment before he sighs explosively. “Fine, here’s my egg. My perfectly normal, unbroken egg.” He says, handing it over. 

I take it and pause, feeling its weight. 

“Flambae.”

“Hmm?”

“This egg is hard-boiled.” 

“Yeah? So? It’s not broken, isn’t that the point of the fucking exercise?” 

I stare at him. He crosses his arms. 

“You already gave me a sticker on Friday, there’s no takesies-backsies with fucking stickers, you hear me?” 

Prism is cackling on the other side of the table. 

“I… alright.” I compromise. “This egg,” I emphasize, sliding him his new egg, “You’re not allowed to cook. Alright? “

He snatched it, grumbling, “Jesus, fine, okay. I won’t cook the fucking egg and just have a fucking raw egg on me. If I get salmonella, I’m coming for your ass, Robert.” 

“Noted,” I say dryly. 

Why were they so fucking weird? Stickers and eggs, the perfect recipe for reformed villains, apparently. 

___

The morning is quiet, the Z-team is focused on not breaking their new eggs. I was right, Punch Up breaks his before he even exits the SDN building. 

“Oh, by the way, I found my egg over the weekend,” Golem mentions offhandedly as I assign him to handle some people causing an issue at the mall. 

“No shit, how?” Invisigal asks right as she recenters the hero lounge.

“I was playing with Daisy, and she found it. Took a bite of my shoulder and heard a crack. Then, I smelled sulfur,” Golem explains. 

“Wait, so there’s an old rotten egg in you right now?” Prism asks, her voice a mix of disgust and incredulousness. 

“Nope, Daisy ate it out of me. Seems she likes the taste. Hey Robert, can I take the old eggs home and feed them to Daisy as treats?” 

I count to three before answering. 

“You can have the whole team’s,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“Hey ya’ll? Don’t break your eggs.” Golem says seriously. 

I let the team chatter wash over me and exchange a dead-eye stare with Chase as the bastard gives me a thumbs-up.

“Sounds like your training is paying off,” he says glibly. 

“Fuck off,” I mutter, assigning Flambae to a bodyguard job for some minor actor. 

“Are rhinestones healthy for a baby kaiju? Prism asks, her voice full of concern. 

“Dunno, shoot out in an alleyway. Check it out.” I say, trying to move on from this conversation.

“Daisy loves plastic,” Golem informs us. “I think it’s because it comes in so many different colors.” 

I stare at Beef, muttering to myself briefly. 

“How is this my life?” I genuinely ask him. 

Beef sneezes and gives me a doggy grin. 

At lunch, I check in with Royd. The Protopulse tests have steadily grown beyond my understanding, as each test brings data that Royd reads into, muttering to himself as he makes notes and theorizes potential options. 

The best I could figure out, through several different analogies, was that there was some kind of “energy frequency” that the astral pulse ties into. The carefully timed and measured reactions not just access a wellspring of energy but also stabilize it, codifying it. Furthermore, the original Astral Pulse had incredible safeguards built into its casing, ejecting itself and insulating the Pulse from any energy surge or feedback. 

“Like we’re building a radio!” Royd said after the most recent test. “But if the signal isn’t perfectly clear? If we’re not tuned just right? And if we build the radio in any way that could cause the signal to be lost? Then game over. Cascade failure.” 

I nod, only partially understanding, and instead move to a small section of his lab where Chase and I had been clearing a small section from under a desk. 

“You still okay with this being the puppy panic room?” I ask, spraying some disinfectant and wiping it with a rag. 

“Of course!” Royd called back, putting on some goggles as he worked on the Protopulse. He threads some kind of filament wire into a section of the pulse and chuckles, “If the Director comes here, shoot, I’d try and hide out here as well!”

My response is interrupted by the doors opening. 

“And we’ll even get you one of those little fucking puzzles,” Chase says to Beef as he carries him in. 

I raise an eyebrow and chuckle. “Isn’t that a bit much?”I ask, standing up. 

“What?” Chase asks, clutching the brand-new dog bed that Beef is lounging on closer to his chest. “My guy needs a place to rest and recover, especially with how you keep on handing out those stickers like fucking candy!” He sets Beef and the bed on the counter and pets his little head. “Poor Beef is going to have to withstand those maniacs instead of Uncle Chase!” 

He was a finger at me, “I swear to fuck Robert, if only a single hair or whisker is out of place on his cute, rotund body, there’s going to be a reckoning.” 

“He’s not rotund!” I argue, walking over and petting Beef myself. “He’s just a little…” 

I pause and glance down at him. He stares up at me in doggy adoration before he turns, his nose tracking some scent. Beef was looking a little pudgier than normal. Was he being double-fed between Chase and me? 

Beef sneezes. 

“Okay, he might have put on some weight.” 

“Some?” 

Chase and I both jump and turn to see the third body materialize next to us. 

“Dudes as swollen as a hotdog,” Invisigal says, crouching down to pet Beef as well. “But he carries the weight well.”

“The only good thing about this stupid ass sticker situation is that there’s at least three people ahead of you,” Chase growls at Invisigal, picking up beef.

“Beef and I will be back,” he says shortly to me, turning and exiting the lab. “We still need to bring down his water dish, his new toys, and his food puzzle.” 

I blink. “Food puzzle?” 

Chase waves a hand, not turning around. “Dog enrichment shit, you put it in a ball, and he has to figure out how to get the treat.” 

“Just how much did you spend at the store?” I mutter to myself as I hear Chase enter the elevator. 

“So… moving Beef down to the basement?” Invisigal asks, eyeing the corner I’d been cleaning. “What, need some dog spit to grease the Mecha Dick?” 

“Bro…” mutters Royd, not turning around from his work table. 

“Regional Director Tim has reminded Blazer about SDN’s work policies regarding pets in the office,” I say dryly, watching as Invisigal wandered around the lab, a disinterested gaze peering at the different holographic readouts that Royd was using. “We're making a little vacation spot for Beef to hang out in whenever he or anyone else with a stick up their ass comes out ot SDN Torrance.” 

Invisigal’s face scrunches in light disgust. “He’s really that anal?” She asks, poking her head from around the Mecha Man suit. 

I nod, gathering the rag and spray I had been using.

“Why not just get him classified as a service dog or therapy dog?” She asks, continuing her walk around the lab. 

I pause, setting the spray and rag down on the table and standing up straight.

“Oh, what?” She asks, crossing her arms when she sees my face, “Does SDN not allow service dogs? I’m pretty sure that’s like… an accessibility violation."

“No, no, I’m pretty sure it does,” I say, impressed. “We just didn’t think of the option.” 

Her eyes widen at the genuine appreciation in my voice, and she glances away. 

“Should be fucking obvious,” she mutters, turning and walking away, headed towards the elevators. 

She blips out of view, but I’m beginning to get a read on her. Invisigal always lingered a few seconds whenever she was leaving a room, just to see if people said or did something the second she turned away. 

I keep my gaze angled towards the doorway, looking at about her eye level. 

“Thanks, Visi.” I say. “Beef will appreciate not having to be banished to the lab.” 

There’s no response, and no indication that she’s there or heard me, but I don’t hear the elevator in the stairwell yet. 

I wait, and eventually I hear the elevator doors open. 

It’s only then that Royd speaks up, “So are you going to tell Chase to return the bed and toys?” 

I chuckle, “I think anything he’s getting for Beef is going to end up somewhere in this building or he’s sending home with me.” I say, walking over and observing Royd's work. 

He’s working on a small familiar device, the size of a toaster, fine-tuning the settings and adjusting something in the inner casing. The science is over my head, but it’s essentially the starter to the Protopulse. Every four or five tests, he’d make major modifications to it, incorporating the new information and sending the Protopulse through again, applying new science shit. Altering the subatomic frequencies or something. 

“Hey bro… You free for dinner sometime this week?” Royd eventually asks, his work slowing. 

I raise an eyebrow. “Tuesday and Thursday, sure.”

Royd nods. “Wanna get Greek food on Thursday? There’s a Gyro place, Tzatziki sauce to die for.” 

“No weird culture crossing food like last time?” I ask, my voice light and full of amusement. 

“Nah, you need variety, brother,” Royd responds, “Spice of life!” 

A quiet moment passes. 

“But there is a Korean fried chicken and waffle food truck that opened up,” Royd muses, “Supposed to be wicked spicy.” 

“Let’s do something that’s less likely to put a hole in my stomach,” I say, shuddering slightly.

Korean spice was something else. 

The afternoon shift ruins my mood. I stare at the assignment request, reading it for the third time. 

Hero Monarch is requesting a member of the Z-team to escort her and a visiting hero contingency from San Francisco. Guide them through the commerce districts of Torrance. Avoid offending them or misrepresenting SDN.

The shit with Sweetalker may have been a coincidence, but this was direct. A message. 

I survey the active roster for a moment, thinking. Flambae, Golem, Punch-Up, and Prism were still out on assignments. Invisigal and Waterboy had just returned from a fire that had ruined a birthday party. 

I assign Malevola and Sonar. Sonar had just reverted from his monstrous form, and he’d be well positioned to turn on his “Harvard charm,” something that I knew would drive Monarch crazy. 

“Got some VIP’s from out of town,” I try to say casually, forwarding them the assignment details. “Sonar, give them the red carpet treatment, like their shareholders of VandCo.” 

“Say less, Robbie,” Sonar replies easily, “I got this under control.” 

“Is it called the red carpet because it’s duped with blood?” Malevola asks, “Because if not, it totally should be.” 

“What. The fuck. Girl.” Prism says with a sigh. 

I let the banter relax me and let the rest of the afternoon shift pass me by. 

Sonar and Malevola return from the assignment but make no comments on the call other than a few comments about Monarch's size. 

“Seriously, Robert, the bat guy out with an insect hero? I was like… this close to eating her.” 

“We wouldn’t want that,” I say dryly. 

“Interesting hearing Monarch’s in the area,” Chase says conversationally as we pack up. “Normally, if she has time, she reaches out, and we get lunch.” 

“Oh?” I say, standing up. “Heard from her recently?” 

“Not since she was helping collect the scrap of your suit.” He said with a shrug. 

I give a noncommittal hum, turning over the thought. 

Technically, I owed Monarch a thank you at the very least. With the lack of any family, she had stepped in quite a bit, coming in from out of town to help recover the suit and transferring me to the Heroes’ Ward. 

I frown slightly as I think deeper on it.

If she really had just wanted me to quit being Mecha Man, she could have just sat back. Let thieves and collectors scurry off with pieces of the suit. Instead, she had worked tirelessly for weeks, tracking down every piece she could. 

Chase is giving me a look. 

“If you were dodging me, you’ve probably been giving the rest of the Brave Brigade the silent treatment, too, huh?” 

“Something like that,” I say evasively, trying to ignore the small nugget of guilt that was growing in my chest. 

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “They're not perfect,” he says quietly, looking past me, “And you don’t need to talk to them if you don’t want to…”

He hesitates before meeting my eyes. “But they were your father's team. They worked with him for years longer than I did.” 

I meet his gaze, “Didn't they leave you out here alone after everything went down?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Not sure how much that team meant to them if they just turn and run once Dad's not in the picture.” 

Chase doesn’t look away. “It was hard on all of us, and we all did what we needed to do. You included.” 

I look away, and Chase lays a hand on my shoulder. “But keeping feuds isn’t my style. I’ve already said a few ‘fuck you’s to their faces, and I use them abandoning me as blackmail material, so they pay for the check whenever we grab a bite. We’re square.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I eventually sigh, meeting his gaze. “I had tea with Monarch and Kyla,” I admit. 

Chase's gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t say anything, giving me time to answer the unasked question. 

“I… emailed asking if they had any information on Shroud,” I say. “They wanted to meet and it… didn't end well.” 

Chase doesn’t say anything for a moment. Before, “Well, that was stupid.” He says simply. He took his hand off my shoulder and put both on his hips. “Kyla’s retired with that nonprofit and Monarch’s up in the bay nowadays. At the end of the day, Eliot’s a regional villain, neither of them is going to know jack shit.”

“I know.” I sigh, “I just-“ 

“If you really wanted to hunt him down, you should have mentioned it to me.” Chase continued, steamrolling over my reply. I blink, my train of thought derailing instantly. 

“What?” 

He sighs and boots up his terminal. 

“When Elliot killed your pops and sold out the Brave Brigade to our enemies, it fucked up a lot of things, kid,” Chase says softly, navigating to a folder. “And while Monarch and the others want to focus on the future or some shit.” 

A list of files opens up and Chase begins to click through them methodically. 

‘Shroud escapes Prison’. 

‘Police Report 436- observed activity near the airport. New gang- Red Ring’. 

‘Ride in new street-level enhancement tech, an analysis’. 

File after file, all related to Shroud.

“Chase,” I breathe, reaching for the mouse. “This is amazing, I’m- ow!” 

Chase fucking my slaps my hand. 

“Dude!” I say more in shock than any anger.

“It's after hours!” Chase growls at me. “And I’m not going to have you fucking with my terminal on a Monday night. We can compare notes at a reasonable hour.”

He begins to close everything, booting down the terminal. 

“Besides,” he continues, “We were talking about Monarch.”

I sigh as his monitor darkens. “Yeah, yeah,” I say wearily. “Just… the conversation got away from us. It just seemed… like…” 

I pause, the dim office lights mirroring my mood on the topic. 

“It seemed like they were happy… would be happy… if Mecha Man didn’t come back,” I say slowly. “If I just stayed here as a dispatcher, gave up on Shroud.”

Chase doesn’t say anything, just staring down at his desk, before sighing. “You were the baby of the group,” he admits. “And maybe because they didn’t stay in LA, they never saw the hero you became like I did. So I can see why they'd want that for you. Wanting you safe.” 

He looks up at me. 

“But Robert, you also didn’t give them a chance to know you as a hero either. You avoided all of us. I don’t blame you,” He quickly says as I open my mouth. 

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t wish I could have been there for you. Helped you. Fight alongside you.” 

He raises one of his hands and stares at it, eyes tracing the wrinkles in his skin. “At least when I could have fought alongside you.”

“Chase,” I interrupt, trying to find my voice. This was way too heavy for a Monday. “That’s not- We did…”

“Look, all I’m saying is that they care about you,” Chase says, putting his hand out to cut me off. “And maybe you give them time to get to know the adult you, like I’ve been able to for the last month. Let them understand who Mecha Man Blue actually is. ”

I… I don’t have words. He’s right. He’s right, and it burns to admit it. I had approached Kyla and Monarch like street contacts, with questions, requests, and an expectation that they’d respond. Nothing personal. Then when I see them in person… I went looking to pick fights, for a reason to yell. 

“...I didn’t know you and Monarch stayed in touch,” I say quietly, a diversion. A sad excuse for one. 

Chase raises an eyebrow. “Monarch makes the most effort; we see each other a few times a year. I’ll get a card from Kyla and Windwalker every few years. Bastion fell off the map, doing something on the East Coast last I heard.” 

Chase continues to stare at me, arms crossed, as I think and process the information. Ride out the tidal wave of emotions I feel like I'm treading. Old teenage anger and angst warring with adult rationality and desire for… something. Connection? Friendship? 

Family?

Beef waddles over to my leg and puts a paw on my foot. Looking up at me with big, sad dog eyes. I snort and reach down to lift him up. Fuck… I hadn’t even mentioned that I had a dog. I knew Kyla would love to see him. She loved all animals. 

…

…

“Alright,” I admit. “I guess I kind of overreacted when I last spoke with them.” 

Chase’s shoulders relax slightly. 

“Good,” he says with a nod. “I was going to invite Monarch out on Wednesday if she was free; if you are too, I’d like you to come.” 

I nod, now feeling exhausted. Both physically and emotionally worn out. Fuck, I still have my evening exercises to do. 

“I can do that,” I say. 

Wednesday night with Monarch and Chase. 

Fun. 

I’m panting and stained with sweat by the time I finish the evening exercise. It’s officially late, the sky is dark outside, Beef and I quickly stop by the breakroom to refill my waterbottle before heading home. 

The cleaners are here, and the sound of a vacuum somewhere in the building echoes faintly as I turn on the breakroom lights. 

“Robert Robertson,” 

“Fucking hell!” I swear, jumping back from the doorway. 

Phenomaman stares at me from the breakroom table. 

“Were you just sitting here in the dark?” I ask, my tone half confusion and half concern. He has a massive cardboard box on the table with… foil wrappers by his feet? 

I had a bad feeling about this. 

Phenomaman blinked owlishly at me. “My superior vision allows me to see in the dark and through several objects of varying thickness.” He explains as he reaches into the box and pulls out a small packet. I watch as he tears the plastic off to reveal….cards. Magic Cards.

Oh no. 

I decide to move to refill my water bottle first. I had the feeling I didn’t want to stay here longer than I needed to. 

“So… whatcha doing then, here with your super vision?” I ask gingerly. 

“My new friends, whom you introduced me to, have begun to teach me the game of Magic: The Gathering,” He says, gesturing to the box. “Part of the fun of the game is building your deck based on random cards that you find in these ‘booster packs’. I am attempting to build my collection of cards through these booster packs. Each one contains fifteen cards, with some guaranteed to be of a rare quality.” 

“Uh-Huh,” I say slowly, “And… are you having fun?” 

“It requires neither strength nor any kind of physical skill, relying on pure chance,” Phenomaman says, tearing open another pack, “And the game itself is similar. Both sides make preparations and build the deck to the best of their ability, but it is then the whim of the fates and managing the suboptimal cards you’ve been dealt that help build our path to victory.” 

I watch as he quickly examines the cards and then tosses them back into the box. 

“I find it soothing,” he says, maintaining eye contact as he tears open another pack. 

Right okay. Monday was officially too fucking much. 

“I’m happy to hear it,” I say, pulling Beef away from sniffing the different foil wrappers on the floor. “Just remember to clean up when you’re done.”

“I will. Good night, Robert Robertson.”

“Good night, Phenomaman,”

I flee the office before anything more can happen.

Chapter Text

After the day that I had, it was almost nice to go home to my box of an apartment and hack the rest of the night away. 

Beef was content to sit on my lap, enjoying my warmth as I continued to tap at my phone. 

Sunday Smiles, small time streamer and online personality with about three hundred thousand followers split between all her accounts. Had gone through several collaboration response videos where multiple musicians and dancers would take an odd sound, such as a cat's meow or a creaky fan, and build an entire musical ensemble around it as a core beat. 

They were pretty good. I get lost for a bit watching some jazz musicians vamp up a frog's croaking into a big band song. 

…

…

There was an option to download the song. 

I shake my head and refocus. “Sunday…” I mutter, pulling up some deleted comments from when she had first gotten started. One response identifies one of her now unlisted videos as being filmed outdoors at the San Diego Zoo by their primate exhibit. Another lets slip that she was on a competitive dance team in high school that had almost won their regional competition. 

Those two facts eventually led me to Sky Padilla, a nonpowered brunette girl with a slightly crooked smile, giving her a mischievous appearance when she smiled. The current barista at a hipster coffee shop on the west side of San Diego. The charm bracelet that she wore during her one-thousand-subscriber video matched the hands that were occasionally seen on the coffee shops social media pages. 

I lean back against the wall and sigh, staring at the photo. The charm bracelet was quaint. Not as flashy and shiny as others I’d seen. It was a faded red fabric cord wrapped around twice, with a simple dolphin charm attached. A sentimental keepsake.

My stomach twists.

I lightly bounce my leg, which disturbs Beef. He huffs and glances up at me, and I run a hand through his fur. 

“Sorry, bud,” I murmur, stilling my leg. 

This was the sticky part of using the hacking skills gained from tracking down villains and bad guys on random civilians. For the super villain with some scheme to flood the city or do some mad science out of his garage? It was totally justifiable to hack the street cameras, the laptop cameras, and any and every system that could provide insight into their operations. 

To do the same to some San Diego barista? Invade her privacy on multiple levels, just to ‘ensure nothing bad’ had happened to her? Ethically dubious was understating it. 

What line was ‘acceptable’ here? Did I hack her accounts? Read her correspondence first before I look for video? Or did I observe her? Scrub through hours of footage to stalk and follow her about her day? Try to tease out answers?

I did know of some heroes who crossed those lines. Who were either so utilitarian or so disinterested that it was nothing to peel back the layers of people's lives. To look, read, and analyze every part of a person’s life to ensure they weren’t related to any of the criminal activity in that region. 

I sigh explosively and look out my window at the dark cityscape. Fuck, what was the right answer here? As Mecha Man, I rarely had to do this kind of internet sleuthing. Most of the threats on my plate were at a certain level of criminality. Smuggling, gangs, supervillains. Not potential domestic abuse and depression. 

Fuck, the topic was still debated by politicians, school boards, and government agencies. The answers vary depending on who you ask, what year you ask them and sometimes what time of day. 

…

…

Fuck, how am I going to teach this level of shit to the Z-Team? We’re still working on the ‘maybe it’s bad if I ruin other people's day for my own pleasure and benefit’ part of being a good guy. 

One problem at a time, Robert. 

I scratch Beef behind the ear and watch his little doggy eyes flutter with pleasure before turning my attention back to my phone.

I expand my search to her friends and family. I’d stick with public information for now. Try to be as unobtrusive as possible. If there was an abusive partner, it’d hopefully show itself in the pattern of behavior and interactions. 

It’s the right call. It's only a few hours of deep digging before my searching pays off. 

Gilligan Padilla, Sky’s father, had been out of work for a number of years due to a back injury caused when some bird Supervillain had snatched him and other civilians downtown and thrown them in the air. Gilligan had landed on a fire hydrant, breaking several bones. Insurance paid for the recovery, but he lost his job as an entertainer, no longer able to work a full-time standing job. 

Late last year, he finally found some new work, working for a tourist boat company that led themed day and weekend trips off the coast, mainly hanging out near the Scripps Canyon, an underwater trench known as a marine protected area home to several species of whales, dolphins, and kaiju. Longer trips went out to nearby islands and even traveled up and down the coast to nearby ports.

It was a good deal. Free room and board for him and his daughter, and just putting up with a new life that was predominantly at sea. 

I pour through photo after photo of the two at different ports, a dozen different ocean sunrises behind the pair as they smile widely at the camera. 

And then… 

An article and small update.

Sky Padilla and Gilligan Padilla were marked safe from Santa Barbra Kaiju attack. 

Their ship was one of the ones attacked by a massive crab that had attacked the coastline of Santa Barbara. Gilligan Padilla survived but lost a leg. The unexpected medical bills, having to suddenly pay to rent an apartment once more, and loss of employment threw the small family right to the brink of poverty. 

Sky was actually working at a bar a block away from her coffee shop. When her barista job ended, her waitress job began, just enough to cover the rent of their new studio apartment. 

And nothing else. 

I shift Beef off me with a sigh and put down my phone to grab a drink. 

I take the shitty beer out to my balcony and stare at the lights for a long moment, turning over what I had uncovered in my mind. 

This was the hard part of being a ‘hero’. Ultimately, you were a crisis worker. You responded when things went to shit. Not before things go to shit, or do things that help prevent things from going to shit. You put on your mask, crawled into your massive mech, and then went looking for bad guys to punch and stop. 

Some had plans like Kyla Winters and STARS. People who looked to make an even larger impact and built resource networks, organizations, and things to maximize good and help spread the burden around so any one person didn’t get overwhelmed. 

There was no ‘solution’ to Sky’s problems. While I’m sure money would help her and her family, they needed a long-term solution to help sustain them. A job to empower them. Throwing money at people’s problems just kicks the problem further down the road when that money ran out. It’d buy time, but nothing else.  

My eyes trace the city skyline, the buildings illuminated by the different lights spread out across the county. 

Each light a different home, building, or palace that housed someone; a family, gig worker, a struggling actor. Each one somehow makes it in Los Angeles despite the sky high rent and constant villain attacks. 

I rub my eyes and pause, my eyes catching, not on the lights themselves, but the sky itself. The fading sunset light hits the haze of the city, giving it a pinkish tint.

I turn and head back in, placing my half-full can on the counter as I reach for my SDN bag. I pull up Prism’s improvement packet. 

Prism’s power, popularity with crowds, and aesthetic already make her a very strong contender for heroics. However, her critical thinking, interpersonal skills, anger issues, and lack of respect for other people and their boundaries create several considerable hurdles for her. My first milestone for her is to…

I read and reread my words from weeks ago, weighing the situation. She already cared and respected Sunday Smiles as an artist and fellow online creator. Enough to stalk the girl and overanalyze her music. It was parasocial and probably deeply unhealthy right now, but that didn’t mean that would always be the case. 

Sky needed a friend, and Sunday needed a collaborator who could help her keep producing music and content even when she barely had time herself. She had been doing alright on her own, bringing in decent revenue from ads and beginning to start a few sponsorships before her life was upended. If Prism could help Sky produce videos and music at a regular rate, it’d allow for some passive income to help her and her father build up some savings instead of just keeping their head above water. 

Prism needed socializing. To talk with normal fucking people instead of villains and whatever gang she had fallen into, that made her default reaction to too many jokes threats of bodily harm. To practice and learn empathy, control her gut reactions, and channel her volatile emotions into productive outlets. Right now she was a Supered drama diva, her videos going viral for the violence that was captured in each one. Sky could temper her, help her focus on music and help her learn how to be a decent person to people. 

I set down the packet on the counter and rub my fingers across my chin. 

Was I about to throw Prism at this random girl in the hopes that they’d solve each other's problems? 

I finish my drink and go to brush my teeth. With a working plan, I could go to bed.

It was worth a shot. 

And it’d probably work out. It wasn’t like Prism was some out-of-control villain like Flambae, who I still couldn’t get to stop manufacturing car and house fires to boost his assignment scores while on call. 

How bad could it get? 

I pause as I leave my bathroom and stare out my window in confusion. It was brighter. 

“Fuck,” I say as the reality hits me. It wasn’t a sunset. 

It was a sunrise. 

I had spent the entire night hacking. 

“Fuck!” I say again.

Beef yawns and gets up, stretching fully before looking up at me, energy in his little doggie eyes. 

The traitor. 

“You're kidding,” grunts Punch-Up

“I am not,” I say shortly as I finish marking two lines one hundred feet away from each other. 

“This is fucking juvenile, Robert, cruel and unusual punishment,“ Flambae complains. 

“I thought I left fucking PE behind in high school,” Prism gripes.

“I will not be good at this,” Golem informs me. 

The point is practice, practice, practice!” I call out, ignoring all their comments. “Just like last week with the defense game, sometimes you need to run as fast as you can to outrun an explosion, a collapsing building, or a horde of rabid monsters. 

“And this,” I say, gesturing to the parking lot, “will help prepare you for those moments.”

I walk out of the way, observing the entire team lined up on one side of the parking lot. 

“Ready?” I ask, faux cheer in my voice. 

“Fuck you!” 

“No portals,” I say to Malevola, “Otherwise everything else is free game.” 

The half-demon glares at me. “I should have left you with broken bones last week.” 

I hit play on the Bluetooth speaker I had borrowed from Chase. And a monotone male voice starts echoing across the parking lot.

“The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multi-stage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues. The twenty-meter pacer test will begin in 30 seconds. Line up at the start. The running speed starts-” 

“Uhh, Ro…. Sir? This ah… it doesn’t… not twenty meters!” Waterboy calls out, eyeing the distance with trepidation. 

“No, Waterboy, no, it is not!” I call back, picking up the coffee cup and standing back. “It's closer to twice that!” 

“On your mark, get ready, start!” 

The shitty, upbeat music blares as the team runs across the pavement, complaining the entire way. 

It’s the small things in life.  

The morning shift is agonizingly slow, as the caffeine in my system is the only thing stopping me from joining Beef under my desk and sleeping the morning away. Thankfully, the grueling exercise this morning had distracted the team, so none of them picked up on the fact that I was running on zero sleep. 

I let their chatter wash over me, only responding when I absolutely have to. 

“No, you cannot keep the guy’s weed, he stole a car. Drop him off at the police station and get back here.” I drone into the mic. 

“You sure? Guy doesn’t even have a medical card. It's illegal according to federal law.” 

“We catch guys breaking the law, stop them, and turn them over to the police. If they want to tack on charges or other legal shit, that’s their priority. Not ours.” I bark back. 

“Jeez, fine. Leaving the weed alone. Returning now.” 

I yawn and reach for my coffee only to frown into an empty mug. Damn it. I quickly rub at my eyes before refocusing on the screen. 

I must be getting rusty if not sleeping for one night was impacting me this much. 

Then again, when I had pulled multi-day shifts in the suit I was able to take cat naps. Every moment not dedicated to rescuing, fighting or coordinating with other hero’s dedicated to resting my body and mind. I had- 

I pause, halfway through hacking… something. A door? A security system? 

…

…

Looked like a door. 

Anyways, I pause as a thought comes to me. 

…

…

Right! Cat naps. Technically, the suit was down in the basement, and Royd was still working on the next Protopulse test. I could spend my lunch in the suit, get a solid forty or fifty minutes of sleep before having to return for the second shift. 

With reprieve on the horizon, I refocus on the job, quickly assigning the team and doing everything I could to bring the afternoon closer. 

“What the- Robert?”

Sudden light falls on my face, waking me, and I jump into action. Someone had opened the suit; I was exposed and potentially compromised. I straightened forward, hitting the door controls with one hand as I kicked out, impacting someone.

“Fuckin- woah!” 

 The kick sends them back as I push myself into the seat and jam my hand into the right joystick, bringing the right-

I blink in confusion at the dark screens, the Mecha Man shit unresponsive to my actions as I peered sleepily out at the figure collapsed on the floor.

A familiar figure. 

“Royd?” I ask grogily, the rest of my brain catching up with my body. Right. This wasn’t a patrol. I was at SDN. I had been napping on my lunch break when- “Oh shit, Royd!” 

I jump up out of the suit and fall to the ground as Royd lifts his head, giving me an incredulous look. 

“The fuck were you doing in there, man?” He asks, sitting up and grabbing the box turned over next to him. 

“I am so sorry,” I apologize, picking up the random assortment of nuts and bolts that had been in the box. “I was taking a quick nap, and when you opened the suit I just reacted.” 

Royd expression shifts to one of understanding, then to one of amusement. 

“And that’s the Mecha Man welcome?” He asks, laughter in his voice. “Woo Brother, you make me glad I stayed on the straight and narrow with SDN, you would have been nasty to tussle with.” 

I stand awkwardly as he gets to his feet. “The suit had a proximity sensor whenever I was napping. When the front opened and I didn’t hear– I just thought…” 

“That someone had gotten the drop on you.” Royd chuckles, taking the box and setting it on a side table. “It’s no problem! Next time I’ll knock.” 

He raps his knuckles on the metal and turns away. I follow, guilt still low in my stomach. 

“I really am sorry again,” I say. 

“It’s no worries. No harm done!” He waves me off. I watch him work as he begins to… 

“What are you doing?” I ask, guilt giving way to curiosity. 

Royd tosses one of the bolts to me and I examine it. There was… something off with material. A new alloy? It looked… blue.

“My order from the exotic material printer downtown finally came in.” Royd says excitedly, removing bolts from the Mecha Man suit and replacing them with the blue tinged ones. “Vibration based molecular binding and unbinding.” He pulls out a small control box with an antenna and tosses it to me. “The right signal from that will lock all the bolts in place, bond them to the suit as though it’s all one!” 

There's a small screen on it and I boot it up out of curiosity. A schematic of the Mecha Man suit is pulled up, with several areas highlighted in red.

“Ah! And that,” Royd says excitedly, looking over and pointing at it. “Sensors in each bolt let them also act as an external damage diagnostic system. Once they're all installed you can tell what and where any dent, break, or build up is on the suit!”

I stare at the readouts along the bottom of the screen. Not only would this easily pull up the suit's condition at a glance, it’d also be able to tell when anything had contact with the suit's surface. 

If I had this installed before I had gone to confront Shroud, the suit would have caught the second the bomb had been planted. 

“Thanks Royd,” I say, fighting the surge of emotion that’s suddenly roiling through my system. 

“Anytime Brother, I had the idea when reviewing the old files. This shit was from 3-D Man, failed supervillain," he says, distracted, unfastening another bolt. 

I don’t correct him as I leave the lab. My watch chimes in the elevator, informing me that I have five minutes until the afternoon shift. Perfect timing.

Managing the Z-Team is… meditative in its own way. Or cathartic? Whatever you call it, it felt good to assign them to the different calls and emergencies. As a freelance hero, you didn’t have a choice over what kind of emergencies took place on your patrol routes or what other heroes or vigilantes also showed up over the course of the day. But as the Dispatcher, I could match the right hero to the job based on their skills, backgrounds and what maybe could give them an advantage. 

If I had the funds, I would have paid an arm and a leg to have someone like Malevola on call for whenever I had stumbled across magic shit during my time as Mecha Man. So being able to quickly assign her to suspected hauntings, possessions, and curses was a godsend. 

…

…

Devilsend? Hellsent? 

Whatever. 

It was great having her on the team.

“Robert, can I keep the desecrated rosaries? They have a great tasting aura. Like a dry aged steak.” 

“You eat cursed shit?” Punch-Up asks.

“No, no! I wouldn’t put anything cursed in my mouth! That’d be unsanitary.” Malevola reassures him with a wink.

…It was mostly great having her on the team. Though I was certain she got a kick randomly saying concerning one liners without explaining herself. 

“Alright, great start to the week team, get a good rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say before switching to a direct channel. “Prism, if you could swing by the conference room, I have an update on Sunday.” 

“I’m there,” she says shortly.

I take off my headset and stretch. The nap had done me good, but I’d probably crash early tonight. Rest up before Chase’s thing with Monarch tomorrow. 

I sigh as I step into the board room, moving to close the kinds. I’d need all the energy and patience I could muster for tomorrow. 

“So did you find out? Is it time to cut a bitch?” Prism asks and I start. I hadn’t realized she had beaten me to the conference room. Did she run up the stairs?

“No, no it is not time to ‘cut a bitch’” I quote as I take my seat. 

I wait for Prism to sit down. She stares at me for a moment then with a quiet scoff, drops into the chair across from me. Her shoulders slightly drop. 

“So she’s fine?” she grunts, angling her visor so I can’t see her eyes behind the plastic. “Nothing to do?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” I say, examining Prism. “Then again… that depends.” 

She crosses her arms and scowls at me. “The fuck are you trying to say? Does or does not Sunday need help?” 

“What do you want for Sunday?” I ask, answering her question with a question. 

“What is this? Q and A with therapist Bob?” Prism shoots back. “All I did was apply your stupid logic shit to what I was seeing. It’s not like I care about the Bitch. I just can’t stand an asshole fucking up some content creator with talent!” 

She glares at me and yanks her vape out of her pocket. Taking a deep pull, she breathes a candy favored cloud across the table. Filling the space with the artificial taste of berries.

I nod and lean back and stare at the ceiling. “So you wouldn’t care that she’s struggling right now? Going through a hard time? Just wanted to find someone to punch?” 

Prism freezes, vape inches from her face. 

I nod again, “Well that’s a shame. Without help I don’t think she’ll last the year.” 

I go to stand up, turning as though I would leave the room. “But I guess that’s how this fake and internet trend shit goes right? People calling themselves artists just because they got some-urk!” 

In retrospect, I can only blame the fact that I was sleep deprived on just how stupid it was to try and bait Prism in this way. To poke the bear and then turn my back. I had expected Prism to speak up. To cuss and swear and then eventually admit that she cared for Sunday Smiles. 

I forgot who I was dealing with. Just how wild and out of control the Z-team could be when egged on. 

Or wound up 

What I had not expected was for her to flip over the table, jump up, and slam me to the ground in a leg lock. 

“What do you know!” Prism yells at me, anger and worry clear in her voice. “What the fuck do you know!” 

“Gurk!” I grunt, unable to make a sound with her legs squeezing my windpipe.

My eyes roll in their sockets until I meet hers. And while trying to not show the panic of suddenly suffocating on the floor of the conference room, I tap the ground with a hand twice. 

I see the flash of regret that crosses her face, the exact moment she realizes the situation she’d put herself in. Having attacked her Dispatcher in the office.

She releases the leg lock and quickly backs away as I hack and cough into the ground. 

Damn, this was going to be an ugly bruise. 

Prism doesn’t say anything. Just stands and watches me recover, arms right across her front. 

Attacking a Dispatcher in the office. More than grounds for being cut from the program and an immediate return to prison. 

“Okay,” I say hoarsely, “Okay, let’s try this again. But without the violence.” 

I pull myself into a chair and just breathe. Damn. I glance down at the floor where she had slammed my face and shoulder. There was a little bit of blood... and yolk. 

"You broke your egg." I point out.

“I… you should have just told me,” Prism says stiffly, ignoring the comment. “I wouldn’t have done it if you just told me.” 

“I could say the same,” I say quietly, wincing at the raw quality my voice had. I’d have to chug some tea or get some cough drops on the way home. 

“I think you could help her, Prism,” I say with a sigh looking at her. She still hasn’t moved from when she first stood up, looking at me with trepidation. 

I pat the chair next to me and after a moment she moves, sitting in the chair next to me. 

She sits stiltedly, looking away from me, like Beef did when he used to get into the trash as a puppy. 

“Sunday Smiles is in a really tough spot in life and could really use a friend.” 

Prism’s head jerks in surprise at the admission and tilts toward me. I meet her gaze and try to hold my head high, one hand still rubbing my neck. 

“But,” I say, keeping the eye contact, an intense unfriendly look, one I saved for rampaging villains and assholes who cut me off in traffic. “I don’t know if that friend could be you.” 

She flinches and her mouth opens to rebuke me before pausing. I drop my hand and I can imagine how my throat looks now. Probably a bright red, just beginning to swell. 

“She’s not a hero. She’s not a villain. She's just a regular fucking girl who likes singing and dancing and has way too much on her plate. And Prism? If you aren’t careful, you will break her.” 

And I wasn’t talking about her powers and super strength. 

I had seen it. Prism had too. Sky’s most recent videos were apologetic. Heavy with guilt of leaving her followers without any new content, the stress and exhaustion of working two jobs, the frayed nerves, and uncertainty about the future. 

And while Prism didn't know the true cause like I did. She heard it in Sky’s voice. She knew Sunday Smiles wasn’t doing well. 

That’s why she had started looking. 

Prism quickly whips her head away from me. Not saying anything. Not even breathing for a moment. 

I stay quiet, not looking away from her, giving her time. 

…

…

And then…

“I don’t know,” Prism begins slowly, “How to not be me.” 

Her shoulders slump. 

“I don’t do good with friends,” she admits. “I don’t know how to… how to just talk with people.” 

I say nothing but inwardly I sigh. No shit. 

“Talkin’ in the club? Or shouting down some asshole? Easy. But when the music stops…”

Prism cringes. 

“I don’t know what shit to say!”

The admission seems to rake at her. A confession physically painful to verbalize. 

“That would have been nice to hear five minutes ago before you slammed me into the ground,” I say hoarsely. 

Prism flinches at my voice and her shoulders grow tight again. 

“Listen, you say the quiet part out loud,” I start, sitting up straight, my body protesting at the movement. “You analyzed and overanalysed Sunday’s music to identify every lyric that held emotion.” 

Prism still doesn’t look at me, but now there’s an air of sheepish embarrassment around her. 

“Your music pulls in millions of followers and while you stream shit that probably shouldn’t be posted to the internet, people still watch and eat it up.” 

“You know people. You understand how they feel,  what they want to feel. You just… need some practice saying it.” 

I sigh and rub my hand across my face. “Reach out to Sunday,” I tell her. “Offer to collab on a song or ask permission to remix one of her hits and just be a person. Tell her you like her shit. Just… talk.” 

Prism turns to look at me, and after a moment. Takes off her visor. I’d never seen her look so unsure of herself.

“Just do something,” I say, giving an encouraging smile. 

She looks down at the visor in her hands, looking at her own reflection. 

“I–” The doors slam open. 

“What the fuck is happening on in here? And what the fuck happened to your face?”

“I fell and tripped on a chair,” I reply, waiting a moment before looking away from Prism. “What’s up, Chase?” 

“Uh-huh, tripped. You're still as shit at lying as when you were a kid.” Chase says, crossing his arms to fix Prism with a scowl. “The short gremlin was at your desk looking for the pink-haired gremlin. Figured I’d find you before she dumped the body.” 

He eyes my bruised neck and face. 

“Looks like I was just in time, too.” 

I sigh, “It's a fine, Chase. Prism and I were just wrapping up.” 

“You alright, lass?” Punch-Up asks, stepping out from behind Chase. Chase jumps before stepping back to scowl at Punch-Up as well, his eyes flickering between the two Z-team members and my face. 

“…yeah. I’m good.” Prism says, standing up and quickly putting on her visor. “…I’ll do it…” she says shortly, turning and looking at me. 

The lights reflecting off the plastic again and I have no idea what kind of expression she has behind her visor. 

“…you’re not too bad, Mr. Robertson.” 

I blink and she’s gone, Punch-Up trailing after her, glancing back suspiciously at me. 

"Did he fucking break your egg?" Punch-Up voice trails back as they turn the corner out of sight.

“Mind clueing me the fuck in on what just happened?” 

“I’m not a hundred percent sure…” I say slowly. “But I think I’m making progress with the team.” 

“Progress,” Chase says flatly. 

“I think so,” I say, the corner of my mouth pulling up in a smile.

…

…

“Alright, I’m taking you to the medical staff. Gotta make sure you're just being fucking stupid and not concussed.”

Chapter Text

My neck hurts. 

More specifically, my shoulder where I impacted the ground, my side where Prism landed on me with the bulk of her body, and my neck where she had squeezed with her thighs. 

The medic cleared me of a concussion while sharing Chase’s look of disbelief at my excuse that I had tripped and fallen on a chair in the break room. I had gotten home with Beef and almost immediately passed out. Sleeping for almost a full twelve hours, only roused by my alarm. 

The morning workout feels good, freeing in a lot of ways. I push my body to its limit, trying to go one step further than what I did on Monday. 

It’s hard, I stumble on the treadmill, I do bicep curls to failure and every step of the way my bruises protest. I push through it though. If I was going to be joining Chase and Monarch for the afternoon then I needed to go hard right now. Make up for the lack of evening workout. 

An hour later sees me stumbling out of the locker room and accidentally coloring with someone in the hall. 

“Whoa, now, watch yourself babes,” 

“Damn, dude, you spend the night in the gym?”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, fighting back a yawn. I glance back at the tall demoness I had shoulder-checked. “Hump day, you know?” 

Malevola’s eyes lock onto the bruise on my neck, and she and Sonar pivot, both of them turning around and following me as I navigate my way to the elevator. 

“What happened to you babes? Breath play got too intense?” She asks, studying my bruise. 

“Just a small trip, a chair decided it wanted to get close and personal with my neck very quickly,” I explain shortly, sighing as she joins me in the elevator. 

“Well, that’s a terrible lie,” Sonar says, peering around my shoulders. “The bruise wraps around your neck, not a single impact point.” 

“Shouldn’t you be starting your morning workout?” I grumble, trying to change the subject. This was going to be a hassle if everyone wanted to talk about some minor bruising.

They pull back and exchange looks. “So is Roberto seeing someone?” Sonar drawls, looking at me with a partial smile. 

It looks goofy on his bat face. 

“Just myself after a shower,” I say, pressing the button for the top floor. The doors close, and the elevator slowly begins to rise. 

“Well, that’s sad.” 

“Listen,” I say with exasperation, “I fell, my neck rolled on the arm of a chair, it hurt. Nothing else.”

Malevola nudges Sonar with her elbow. “I told you she was full of it.” 

I blink. “Who was full of it?” 

Malevola ignores me, continuing to elbow Sonar. “Now pay up.” 

I watch with confusion and growing suspicion as Sonar fishes out a twenty-dollar bill that Malevola plucks out of his hands. 

 “Thank you!” 

“It was Visi, she was saying shit how you and Prism were having a hot hook up in the conference room yesterday,” Sonar explains as the door opens. 

He strolls out, not looking back and thus missing seeing my surprised expression. 

Malevola lingers back, side eyeing me. “Ohh, terrible poker face there, mate.” 

Something touches my neck, and I flinch, whipping around only to see Malevola’s tail slowly snake down as she exits the elevator. 

“Thanks for the twenty bucks,” She calls over her shoulder as she walks away. 

I got to rub my neck, the point that her tail jabbed…

…

…

Not sore? 

I feel the rest of my neck, reaching up for the bruises that should be on my neck and down my side.  

I feel fine. 

…

…

Huh…

“Anytime...” I murmur to myself as I continue to walk. 

My pace to my desk is slow as I turn over what just happened. Had Invisigal been watching Prism and I? I knew she liked to surprise people, watch them before or after talking with them. I hadn’t thought about if she’d just… lurk. Watch and listen to people. 

Would I need to double-check rooms if I wanted to have a private conversation? 

“There you are!” 

I’m pulled from my thoughts as I look up. Blonde Blazer and Chase are standing in front of my desk, Chase holding Beef. 

“Blazer, Chase,” I greet, “What’s the emergency?”

They both don’t respond for a moment. Their eyes staring at me intently. I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms. 

“...Okay… Is this like an SDN thing of staring contests? Because if so, I missed that part of onboarding,” I drawl, moving past them, pausing to scratch Beef’s little head. 

I turn and just catch Chase gesturing at me, causing Blonde Blazer to cough and step forward. “Robert, Chase mentioned you… looked a little rough after yesterday. I heard the same thing from the medic who looked you over. Is…” she hesitates, “Is everything alright?”

I sit in my seat and look at the two of them, assessing. Chase meets my gaze with a steady look. 

…

…

Tattletale.

“I’m fine,” I say, breaking my stare with Chase and giving Blazer a smile. “I tripped, landed on the arm of a chair in the conference room. It looked bad with the swelling, but I’m fine.” 

I lift my head and gesture to my neck, “See, not even a bruise.” I continue to ignore Chase as I keep eye contact with Blazer, a smile glued to my face.

I owed Malevola. Maybe I’d assign someone else the next time a dog walking assignment came in. 

Blonde Blazer examines me for a moment longer before nodding, “Alright, it must have just looked bad,” She glances at Chase who’s still staring holes into the side of my head. “Just… take it easy?” she asks, taking a step back. “I get that you have your plans with how you run the Z-Team, but Dispatcher isn’t supposed to be a role where you face regular risk of injury.” 

“You’re inflating our Workers’ Comp reports,” she jokes, glancing back at Chase who’d yet to say a single word. “Have a good shift.” 

Blonde Blazer flees and I fix a stare on Chase, my expression flat. “Going to Blazer?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You going to tell her I’m not doing my chores next?”

“Your job is to dispatch these criminals and make sure they don’t kill someone,” Chase says gruffly, “Not be their punching bag.” 

I roll my eyes, turning back to my desk. “I’m fine Chase,” I say, booting up my computer. “I’ve received worse at my ‘old job’. This is just some growing pains from training.” 

“Yeah, and now you sit at a desk all day,” Chase retorts, setting down Beef to put his hands on his hips. “You should be putting on weight, getting a flat ass. Not looking like you’re doing a bootleg fight club.”

“It’s still working with Supers,” I try to say casually, shrugging. Inside though I feel my pulse tick up. Chase needed to let this go. “These things happen when you don’t have powers.”

He snorts and steps closer, lowering his voice. “Now that’s some bullshit. Your old man wouldn’t get hurt this-”

“Yeah, well, Dad’s dead,” I say forcefully, shoving my headset on. I raise my voice to cut him off. “And he’s not me. I don’t need you talking about how things were in the ‘good old days’.”

My shoulders are tense as I feel Chase’s gaze on my back. Only relaxing when I hear his step away. I sigh explosively before navigating to the Dispatch page. 

Something touches my ankle and I nearly jump straight up, my gaze shooting down. Beef stares up at me, his wide doggy eyes peering into mine. With a sigh, I pick him up, placing him on my lap. 

“Hey Beef…” I murmur as he licks the bottom of my chin. I probably needed to apologize to Chase at some point. But I don’t need him comparing me to my father; I already know how I measure up. 

I close my eyes and sigh before forcing them open. There was still a good forty-five minutes before the team would be ready for their shift. I open a small folder on my desktop and flip through several pages. Equations and schematics stare back at me. Each one more incomprehensible than the last. I pull out one that catches my eye. Plasma manifolds and injector ports. 

I think Royd had mentioned plasma manifolds when working with the protopulse…

I set it out on the desk and begin to stare at it, squinting as the small text denoting the components. 

So, if that was the main power conduit…

“Flambae, if I see a single trash fire along your route, you won’t get a sticker this week,” I say as I watch his pin slowly fly over the neighborhoods of Torrance. “There’s supposed to be some wind in the forecast, it could carry and spread the embers.”

“Okay, okay!” Flambae snaps back, “Don’t cook the egg, don’t set trash on fire. People live in that building. You’re such a killjoy Robert! What am I without the fire?” 

“A flaming homosexual?” Prism asks, amusement in her voice. 

“Well… yes,” Flambae admits, “but that’s not exclusive to me!” 

“Mal and I went to Pride last year,” Sonar says, the muffled sound of combat underpinning his audio. “Can confirm, lotta Flambae look alikes.”

“They had mochi donuts, rainbow colored. Looked like anal beads” Malevola muses. “They were not anal beads.” 

“Noted,” I say dryly, as the conversation devolves further. The morning shift had been interesting. Torrance police were closing in on a drug ring and had pushed several assignments with SDN to help dismantle the network. Most of the team was on some kind of related assignment, scouting out the different distribution hideouts, chasing down distributors, or engaging with the gang directly. Everyone except Sonar, who I had delegated to several dog sitting, room cleaning, and coffee runs to try and help prevent a relapse. 

“Speaking of lookalikes,” Sonar tries to say casually, instantly making me suspicious, “Anyone know who shares a resemblance to Robbio?” 

“Some random bum?” Invisigal whispers as she makes her way down a hallway. 

“Oh, I know this one. He’s like that guy from the insurance commercial. Where he gets hit by the cars and shit, right?” Golem suggests. 

“I’ve seen that one!” Prism says excitedly. “The mayhem guy! Did you see the one where there's the umbrella in a tornado?”

“He’s more like a stray dog that used to follow the carnival.” Punch-Up interrupts. “Dog had a notched ear as well. Fed him rib bones.”

“And who resembles Punch-Up?” I instantly fire back, relaxing slightly. I don’t know what Sonar was trying to pull or get at with his question, but the Z-team had derailed it perfectly, allowing me to shift topic. 

“I saw a doll in an antique shop that looked like him,” Malevola says, “Turns out all the dolls were possessed and tried to kill me. I stabbed that one through the skull.” 

The chatter continues and I relax further, managing my team of misfits and occasionally joining in on their chatter.

“Robert…”

I sigh, slowly spinning around to look at Chase, inwardly bracing. Chase isn’t looking at me, kneeling down to pet Beef who I had set down a few hours ago so I could hack into a falafel shop. 

“If you don’t have any plans, I still have that Red Ring information.” Chase says, eyes locked on beef’s form as he rolls onto his back, offering Chase his belly. “If you still wanted to take a look at it together.” 

Something unclenches inside me as I offer a smile, Chase meeting my eyes. 

A peace offering.  

“I guess I have the time,” I say, standing up and stretching. 

We end up making our way down into Royd’s lab, eating our lunch at the corner table where we had originally planned to set up Beef’s hidey hole under. 

“So Red Ring’s a recent name,” Chase begins, pulling up a map of the LA area, “Before they were just some a few enhanced folks, lower rungs of the local gangs across the county.” 

Several different points on the map pop up before slowly expanding, spreading across the county. 

“Shroud then recruited some of the freelance mooks, gave them enhancements as well. Then…” Chase pulls up several articles, each about different instances of gang violence, Super fights, car chases, a warehouse fire or two. “Couple gang coups, absorbing some of their operations and territory.”

The map updates, and the areas have now linked up with one another, sizable bands of territory branching across cities.

“How did you get all this?” I ask, zooming in to the territory that expanded into Torrance. “I thought SDN didn’t track wider crime trends that don’t directly impact our subscribers.”

Chase folds his hands, looking entirely too smug and mischievous for an old man. “I have my ways. Some old contacts; a few places I haunt.” 

“You?” I ask with amusement, “What you put on the trench coat and hat and go sit at bars and listen in?” 

“Try a leather jacket and a fake scar with some white contacts making me look blind.” Chase shoots back. “You walk into any villain bar or club with enough white hair and you won’t get any trouble.”

I grunt, turning the idea over. It was true. The amount of Superpowered individuals who lived to an advanced age weren’t rare, but superheroes and super villains were. Heroics naturally lent itself to dying on a mission, saving someone, or pulling a last stand, a suicide run, or being suddenly betrayed, backstabbed or killed. A career as a villain and you’d be looking at life sentences, unique banishments and imprisonments, killed in conflict, transformed by your own hubris, or betrayed and/or scarified by another villain to make use of your power. 

To be relatively intact, confident, and old in a villain club was to signal that you either were significantly lucky, surviving the heroes and dodging the law.

Or that you won. 

“Those assholes gossip more than Kyla, which is saying something.” Chase says, pulling up one last report. “Anyways last major update was last week. After taking on some of the gangs, Red Ring hasn’t been too active, or at least nothing external.” 

I look at the map, my eyes tracing the Torrance section. There was something… 

I place my finger on the edge of their territory. “Drug lab was hit here this morning by Golem and Flambae.”  

I trace down the street, crossing a highway. “Here is where Prism and Invisigal scouted out the drug den.”  

“And there’s where Punch and Wetboy got caught and had to fight their way out. Damn, we’re doing their dirty work for them.” Chase completes. All three points are right on the edge of the Red Rings territory. 

“Do we know the police build the case for this drug operation?” I ask looking up from the map. 

Chase scowls at the far wall. “Just an anonymous tip leading to a breakthrough…”

“How much do you want to bet the other SDN offices are doing the same thing?” I ask, “Bunch of new leads and anonymous tips that’ve put a target on most of the other gangs of LA.” 

Chase shakes his head “Shroud’s playing with fire if this is his plan. A bloody nose isn’t going to phase any of the old timers who’ve been in the underground scene.” 

I sigh, lacing my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling. What did Shroud want? Mecha Man was gone; the Astral Pulse was lost. He is growing his power base and his gang of enhanced super mooks. But Shroud wasn’t just some criminal, he was a spurned member of the Brave Brigade. A failed super hero. “So, it’s probably a supervillain play. But what’s the plan?” 

Chase shrugs, “It’s too early to tell but whatever the plan is, he doesn’t want others to clue in.” He points to the map, “Doing this sneaky shit means he doesn’t want attention, trying to hide some shit. He’s on the clock but it’s a slow ticker. He has time. We have time.” 

We both sit in the quiet of the lab. Sitting with the idea. Somewhere out there was Shroud, my Dad’s killer. A maniac who in one night, shot the leader of the Brave Brigade, opened all of the defenses of their headquarters to their enemies, and had only just begun his villain career when the surviving members of the Brigade rallied and caught him. 

What was the goal? The end game? A crime of passion or something more? 

I shake my head. These were questions I had poured over. Again and again for most of the last year when I tracked Shroud down the first time. 

It would lead nowhere. 

“-nother purchase to my monthly fees, I’m doing fine!”

Chase and both turn to stare as Royd walks in, a box of electronics in his hands, one earbud in his ear. 

 His singing quickly does off at our looks. 

“Sorry! Gotta sing when it hits the soul, you know? Some good tunes right there brother!” 

“It’s fine Royd, we’re just thinking.” I say with a wave of my hand. 

The towering man brightens and moves to the shelves at the back of the wall. 

“You have fun with that bro, act like I’m not even here!” He says cheerfully, beginning to unload his box. The mound of the mental clanks on the metal shelves and I exchange an amused look with Chase. 

“Do you think we should tell someone? Let them know we’re being used?” 

Chase shakes his head. “It’s SDN’s job to be used, that’s what we’re for. We can let Blazer know but everything’s above board, there’s nothing for anyone to do.” 

I sigh but have to admit he’s right. I watch Royd work for a moment before my eyes drift to the Mecha Man Suit. If I had the suit, I could go out, watch for the Red Ring. Maybe kidnap a goon again. 

Unless it was another trap. 

“Hey… Robert?” 

“Yeah?” I ask distractedly, rethinking how I had caught Toxic. Was that planned? A staged interaction? Had they watched me? Observed me?

“You… you still coming to tonight?” 

The question refocuses me as I blink, looking away from the suit to look at Chase. He seemed… uncertain… or hesitant. Like he was worried about my answer. I rethink through his question and start. 

“I- of course!” I say, “Chase, I’m pissed you went to Blazer and tried…  I’m not going to cancel because of something like that!” 

Chase relaxes and punches me in the shoulder. “Good, because you're not allowed to cancel. I already made the reservation.” 

“Ohh, reservation? I didn’t know you and the old man were that serious Robert, is it your anniversary?” 

Chase curses and I jump up as Invisigal materializes on the other side of the desk, her chin resting on her palm.

“How fucking long have you been there?” Chase demands, glaring at her. 

Invisigal straightens up and wanders around the desk, moving to the center of the lab. 

“Visi! What did I say about sneaking in here?” Royd calls after here. “There’s a lot of sensitive equipment in here!” 

“Relax Royd, I’m not going to fuck with your ten-thousand-dollar dildos,” Invisigal says, glancing at the robotic arms that were rebuilding the Mecha Man jet pack. “I’m not that much of a size queen.”

“Anyways, dinner? Fancy restaurant reservation?”

“You’re sure as hell not fucking invited.” Chase says with a scowl, “The fuck are you even doing down here? This shit’s keycard protected!” 

Invisigal frowns and opens her mouth only by phone alarm to chime and interrupt the brewing argument.

“Oh, hey, look at that, lunch is over.” I say, standing up. “We’ll need to continue this thrilling conversation later.” 

Invisigal glares at Chase, turning invisible without another word. 

 “Or never. Never works for me too.” Chase shifts his gaze from where Invisigal was to me, “Drop the good boy off and I’ll get you right after. We’ll need to hurry to avoid traffic.”

“Oh… great…” I say as we exit the lab and approach the elevator. 

Just where did Chase and Monarch normally have dinner? What fine dining nightmare was in store for tonight? 

It couldn’t be too expensive, could it? Not if Chase went there frequently on his Dispatcher salary.

We run into Prism exiting the elevator and she nearly flees from the Bullpen, only pausing to look back a moment, her expression hidden behind her visor as always. I feel Chase’s glare and glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything as we take our seats.

“Alright team, let’s close the day out strong.”

As the shift starts, I can’t help but feel a little bit of tension begin to grow between my shoulders. How was tonight going to go? And were Chase and I… good? I still needed to apologize for snapping at him. I couldn't get his expression off my mind when he had asked about tonight. Maybe there’d be a chance at tonight’s dinner? Fine dining places were all about privacy right? Maybe I could talk to him when Monarch used the restroom or something…

Six hours later and I get my answer. 

Massive colored spotlights up against the walls. Plaster cast to look like a massive brick wall. Cheerful banners and signs with a fence dividing the parking lot from the colorful rooftops, the tip of a windmill just barely visible from where Chase parks. 

“Mini golf. You brought me to play Mini golf.” 

“I brought you to kick your ass at mini golf,” Chase corrects as he exits the car. “Besides, it’s not just you,”

“We’ll yeah, but I’m not sure how great a Monarch is at–” 

“There you guys are!” 

I stare as Blonde Blazer drops from the rooftop, hovering briefly before she touches the pavement. 

“I forgot how slow it is to get out here when you’re not flying. I could have given you both a lift!” 

“And you ditch us here when I whoop your butt? I don’t think so. Besides, my car has Spotify.” 

Monarch.

Chase.

And Blonde Blazer.

Playing mini-golf. 

…

…

Well, this was going to be an interesting night. 

Chapter Text

Camelot Golfland was the largest Minigolf establishment on the West Coast. With eight separate minigolf courses, indoor laser tag, arcade, mini cart racetrack and an adjacent water park. It was just a few characters and restaurants short of a theme park.

So despite it being a weekday, the place was packed. Thankfully with two major regional heroes in our group, there was a small bubble of space wherever Blazer and Monarch stood. Not everyone recognized them, but they were recognized as heroes and thus given a certain level of respect.

“Excuse me!” I watch with some amusement as some teenagers shove past Blazer and Chase to grab several golf clubs before running further off into the park. Monarch hovers above us all, turning and taking in the colorful buildings and winding sidewalks.

“But really, minigolf Star?” Monarch asks with trepidation hovering before the different colored clubs. Her helmet visor removed to provide a fully unobstructed view of her face. “Is that really the right-”

“Mon, how old do I look?” Chase steamrolls, pulling out a green club for himself. He had been doing that nonstop since we had arrived, breezing through the introduction with between Monarch and Blonde Blazer. Given Blazer’s stiff smile, she hadn’t been informed she’d be spending her evening with a Classic Hero who had at least sixty years of recorded heroics under her belt and a list of reported heroes spanning another thirty years before that.

Chase had barely made introductions before beelining the front desk, returning with several brightly colored golf balls.

Mine was blue.

“Is that a trick question?” Monarch asks fatly, her green eyes conveying her emotions clearly as she frowned at Chase, “You know I can’t tell human ages apart.”

Chase rolls his eyes before looking at Blonde Blazer. “Blazer, how old do I look?”

“Oh!” Blonde Blazer jumps, eyes jumping from Monarch to Chase. “I uhh… rather not say?”

“Robert!”

“Seventies? Mid to late?” I say lazily, grabbing a club with a white handle and head. I test the weight in my hand. You were supposed to test the weight of golf clubs, right? Or did it not matter because it was minigolf?

…

…

It was a little light if I had to swing it at someone, probably the perfect weight for the game we were about to play.

Chase nods, “I look like one of those old geezers in those crappy life alert commercials! And sure, if I had the time, I’d probably do shit like this for a holiday or two, maybe for someone's wedding or bachelor party. But I ain’t got that luxury.”

The three of us remain silent as he continued to speak, a bit shocked at the callous way Chase lays out is situation. A bit of a heavy conversation to have next to families and arcade games.

…I know what I did to get on his bad side, but what did Blonde Blazer do?

“I don’t have time to sit around and wait for people to get married and do this only once and a while. I don’t have many whiles left.” Chase grabs a club with a green handle and turns and begins to walk away, calling over his shoulder. “So, grab a fucking club and lets mini-fucking-golf!”

We stand in silence for a moment before Blazer steps forward and grabs a yellow club. “I actually have never been Mini golfing, but I’ve always wanted to.”

She strides off to catch up to Chase, leaving Monarch and I behind.

Monarch turns to glance back at me. I ignore her stare to look after Blazer and Chase. I hadn’t decided if this was better or worse than dinner. With Blonde Blazer here I couldn’t necessarily storm off if Monarch and I got into it.

“So…. Did you and Track Star play mini golf when you were…. Smaller?”

“Nope.” I say shortly, turning and walking away from her.

I guess that was one pro to mini golf. I’d be able to walk away from the conversation at least twenty-five more times.

Monarch looks ridiculous handling her club, only her magic and whatever enhanced strength her powers offered her, allowing her to wield it as she rocketed her pink ball forward towards the windmill.

She curses quietly as it bounced off the windmill blades. Prevented from passing through the tunnel underneath.

“You know your father and I went mini golfing once.” She tried to say conversationally, resting the club handle in both hands. I guess she's trying to mimic holding a cane but instead it looks more like her hugging a giant log.

“Oh yeah?” I ask disinterestedly as I line up my shot. “How’d he do?”

Blazer’s watching the conversation with interested eyes. Chase on the other side of the windmill lining up his next hit.

I hit the ball forward and watch as it shoots forward, bouncing off the corner and rolling back to me. Inches from where I started.

“He was… better.”

I snort as I move to the side for Blonde Blazer. She places her ball and then pauses as she realizes her path forward is blocked by mine. She starts shuffling around her ball, looking at the angles.

“What are you going to tell me he got holes in one on fucking mini golf? I don’t think that’s even possible on half of these courses.” I say.

Monarch flushes, “It was more like hole in three.” She mutters. “He had a talent for seeing the angles.”

Blazer hits her ball, and it clips mine as it shoots forward. It bounces, entering the tunnel beneath the windmill, rattling against the sides as it pops out on the other end.

I watch as my ball spins, rolling slightly, coming to a stop perfectly on the starting mat. As though I had never hit it.

“You don’t say.”

Monarch glares at the dragon's mouth, pink plaster rimming the ramp we were supposed to hit our balls up. Her ball bouncing back towards her.

It was her fourth time trying to get up; her swings either too forceful, causing her ball to bounce off the back of the dragon's mouth or too gentle, causing it to roll back down the ramp.

“If this was a real fucking wyrm, it’d swallow anything it could that approached its mouth,” she mutters as I step up where my ball hand rested, just inside the last turn.

“Not true, they hate gasoline, it messes with their fire breath.” I say pausing as I line up my shot.

“You know you don’t need to put your whole body into it. Gentle motions,” I instruct as I tap the ball with the right amount of force.

Did I probably have to have an actual conversation with her at some point tonight? Not if I could help it.

Was it petty and immature? Sure, but it was cathartic as fuck, doing exactly what Monarch said, having a life outside of Mecha Man, doing exactly what Chase had wanted, and spending an evening letting Monarch get to know me.

I watch my ball slowly roll up the ramp and drop into the dragon's mouth; some pipe at the bottom sending it off ahead.

And now she knew that I could be a petty bastard.

I glance back, expecting to see a hot glare at the height dig, instead she looks… surprised.

“How do you know that?” She asks, no heat to her voice.

“Body mechanics? It’s kinda basic for the work we-”

“Not that,” she interrupts, “what you said about the Wyrms and gasoline.”

I shrug, “The Santa Barbra Witch thing. Her spell ended on the outskirts of LA. Since it was ‘the wilderness’ under her spell there were dragons and a whole host of fantasy monster knock offs for her little LARP group to hunt. When you have a highway within two miles of a wyrms den, they start thinking every semi is a beast intruding on their territory.

I leave her behind to navigate my way around the dragon, hearing a small ‘tink’ as her ball lands in the dragon's mouth.

“Using magic is cheating,” I call over my shoulder, not turning around.

The conversation sticks and becomes a group discussion as we move onto the next course.

“I remember that one!” Blazer jumps in, “SDN Santa Barbra had been transformed into an adventurer's guildhall. Apparently, their holding cell still has a corner with the iron bars and flagstones. Didn't turn back for some reason.”

“Residual magic,” Monarch explains as we walk through a mini replica of a fantasy town, occasionally hitting our balls towards the well in the town square. “With the breaking of big spells, it settles into objects and places, if it’s old enough and no active will powering it, you can dispel it with- “

“Running water,” I interrupt, picking my bell out of the well. “But it needs to be at least a foot deep and flowing in a singular direction, otherwise it’s not recognized as running water.”

“Now where the fuck do you go learning that?” Chase asks with a raised eyebrow, gnawing over my shoulder at Monarch.

I groan, “Reality warper.” I shudder at the memories. “Fused my soul to my suit for about a month. Then some East Coast magic bounty Hunter found him, was scrubbing his magic out of the city, and found me in an old warehouse.”

Chase stares at me. “And how’d you feed Beef? Your dad couldn’t open a chip bag without pancaking it.”

I flush, “Opened a massive bag of dog food and dumped it into small portions for him. Would also refill his water dish by breaking water bottles above his water dish.” I mutter.

“Is that why he’s so chunky? I’m not complaining, just asking.”

“No.” I glare at him. I raise an eyebrow at Blonde Blazer and Monarch who are staring at me.

“Technically, we can’t move on until everyone gets their ball in the hole. Are you going to go or…?”

“The spell wore off when the drawbridge was pulled up, so a quarter of the Golden Gate Bridge just collapsed into the bay. Absolute nightmare.” Monarch explains, and I examine the other side of the loopy loop.

So, if I could make my ball roll out on the left side...

“Did the bridge get destroyed last December? I thought there was some kind of death ship?” Chase hits it through the loop, and it rolls smoothly towards the hole.

“Oh, that was the 13th fleet. Rogue pirate group. Used be descendants from Hippolyte Bouchard but in the last hundred years have started to be more of a paramilitary group.” Monarch says, floating after him. “A local villain hired them, thinking there was some treasure hidden in the city after the great fire. They shot down the bridge when they tried to occupy the bay.”

“What stopped them?” I ask as I watch Blonde Blazer make her shot. Her ball loses momentum halfway through and falls out the loop, bouncing forward.

“Oh, I know this one! The San Francisco Bay has like seven different cities along its shores. They severely underestimated the regional hero response that showed up.”Blonde Blazer answers excitedly.

Monarch flies up to sit on top of the Loopy loop, pointing at Blazer. “Bingo. Now we’re stuck with a bunch of rotting wood ships augmented with lasers and other high tech. SDN’s been assisting with dismantling them for the State.”

Blazer nods. “Royd was helping inventory it all when…” she trails off glance at me, I ignore the glance, placing my ball down. “A different project took priority.”

Blonde Blazer was not a subtle hero.

“I see…” Monarch says slowly.

I hit, watching my ball intently as it enters the loop.

“Yes!”

“And then, the fucking kid says it’s time to put him where he belongs. After he just slammed the villain into Alcatraz! That’s a historic museum!” Monarch rants.

“And they all do it?” Chase asks with amusement as he watches Monarch’s ball ricochet wildly down the field.

“Every single fucking one. For the last eight years!”

“It’s just the local flavor,” I say taking a sip of the beer. There was a drink cart halfway through our course where most of us had grabbed something to drink. Blazer was holding Monarch’s IPA while she was playing.

“You get all the new heroes down here talking about 'seeing stars' and ‘giving them a commercial break' and just about every Hollywood or tv joke you can make.” I say with a shrug.

Blonde Blazer nods. “Then they go sit on the Hollywood sign or try to take their dates there.” She chuckles. “I had a bit of a shock when I first showed up there and not a single seat to be available on the letters.”

“Ha! When the Brave Brigade was running around, Bastion tried to sit up there once. He broke the D. Hollywoo.” Monarch says with a chuckle, taking the bottle from Blazer and trying to drink from it.

“We called him that for almost three months.” Chase says wistfully, “A beautiful thing. You know he almost punted a reporter when they asked him about it!”

Blonde Blazer and I laugh at the image as we move to the next course.

“And then, the way you bashed his face in! It was beautiful!” Monarch snickers dipping and diving in the air. Her smaller stature allowing the alcohol to hit her harder.

I try not to, but a smirk flashes on my face as I tap my ball into the hole.

“Oh, you made your grandfather proud with that one. Bobbie was never one to shy away in giving a punch to put an asshole in his place.”

I don’t turn around to respond, as Chase and Blazer chuckle, but I can’t help but feel the small flush that runs through my body at her words.

Chase hits his ball too fast around a curve, and it goes rolling into the bushes. I wave him off and step between the squat palm trees myself, looking for it.

“So, you're the corporate hero. The 'last true hero' I think? At least according to the SDN adds.” Monarch’s voice is loud, carrying. The fairy hero well and truly intoxicated after downing a bottle that was just over half her height. Her tone is light and amused. I hadn’t heard it in years. It instantly puts me on guard. Monarch was up to some mischief.

“That’s just something that SDN’s marketing came up with!” Blonde Blazer says quickly, a note of embarrassment in her voice. “They like to give each of their hero’s taglines in the promotion materials, no matter if there’s any truth to it. I don’t think I-"

“So does the company own your name?” Monarch interrupts, slowly circling her. I step further out, breaking the line of sight with our group as I peer under a bush. Gotcha.

“…What?”

“They use you in promotion materials. Product promotions. It’s all facilitated through SDN, right? Do they have executive ownership over your name and image?”

“I got it!” I call, walk back, and toss the orange ball to Chase.

Chase squints at it before frowning at me. “My ball was green. Who's the one who's supposed to be dealing with cataracts?”

“Well, I… don’t think so… they didn’t mention-”

“You lost the ball; I got you a ball. Do you want me to spend another five minutes on my hand and knees just because you want your ball to match your club?”

“What’s in your contract?”

Chase stares at me in silence while Blonde Blazer stares at Monarch.

Monarch and Blonde Blazer pair up for the last few courses, both peering over Blazer’s phone between turns.

“See, right here, clause seventeen…”

Chase taps his green ball, sending it down the slope.

“I owe you an apology for bringing up your old man.” He suddenly says, leaning forward slightly on his club. “I still think there’s no good reason those fucking villains can’t use some self-restraint. If their growth means you gotta get the shit kicked outta you each week, then I say the cost is too damn high.”

“Apology accepted,” I say, rolling my eyes slightly. “But I do not get the shit kicked out of me. At most it’s a small fart.” I pause, fortifying myself for what I was about to say. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have snapped like I did.”

I tap my ball, and it follows Chases, dipping into the valley between three hills. I then point the club at him.

“But this is what I meant when I said I had to lead the Z-team my way, and having them see that I’m all in. A lot of these bruises are growing pain. They all come from different backgrounds where their default way of communicating and setting boundaries was a thrown fist. If I write them up with each little bump along the way, then all I’m doing is closing the conversation and foisting them off on HR. The fact that I don’t stop? That I act like it’s nothing? It tells them something. That I’m willing to walk the road with them.”

“And what is it going to tell them when they do that to a civilian?” Chase shoots back.

“They have the egg exercise. They’ll get used to it.”

Chase rolls his eyes before he lines up his shot. “I don’t give a flying fuck about them. I care about you. You're the one getting road rash when they're the ones picking this road and the speed.”

He hesitates as he watches his ball nearly miss the hole before falling in.

“You don’t have powers or the Mecha Man suit to protect you, Robert. You need to be careful. They need to be careful.”

I bite the inside of my check to keep from responding, and I don’t answer him or speak for the next two courses.

Chase silently watches me as Blazer and Monarch continue to pull apart Blonde Blazer’s contract, talking policy and non-compete clauses.

I knew he was right to a degree. The Z-team was rough. Not just in their personalities but in their temperament and actions as heroes. Property damage, foul language, and enough force in their actions it was clear that most of not all of them hadn’t been around de powered people for most of their adult lives.

It wasn’t just obvious in how they acted around each other but in how they acted out on calls.

None of them would probably admit it, but they were terrified when a call involved saving a kid or a senior citizen.

Golem was nearly paralyzed when I had told him to extract a five-year-old from a car, buried in a landslide weeks ago.

He had ended up absorbing the dirt and debris instead, letting medical services see to the civilians.

A nifty solution. But one that still highlighted his shortcomings. He didn’t know how to moderate his strength and movement to be safe around normal civilians.

And…

And he didn’t see me as fragile. None of them did.

I wasn’t treated like glass, like the thin paper that could break with the twist of an arm or the flex of a power. I was a Dispatcher and their boss, so they treated me with ridicule, sass, and enough chaotic flippant energy that it was a toss-up each day if I’d be amused, exasperated, frustrated or quietly proud. There wasn’t a secret motive or self-censoring. I trusted that around me, who they were was real. It was real. And…

…

…

After I had…

…

…

Fuck this is stupid.

...

...

When I was nine, I got into trouble messing with the Mecha Man suit in the summer. My dad had a secret sentry mode, a way of defending the suit if anyone tried to mess with it when he was away.

I tried to mess with it when he was away.

I had triggered it, and it was only thanks to Chase that I survived.

But when he saved me, he dislocated my shoulder. It changed things. Before he’d roughhouse with me, pick me up, toss me on the couch. Even gave me super lifts home from school and to the movies whenever he was babysitting.

Even the other Brave Brigade members would throw me in the air, catch me, and take me flying.

All of that stopped after I fucked up.

And I didn’t… I don’t want…

Fuck!

The Z-Team doesn’t care about me not having powers. They didn’t have a single horse in the endless debate on whether non-powered people had a place being superheroes. The conversation that had followed me for my entire adult life. To them, I already was some retired hero and they didn’t care.

I didn’t want to change that. To have that talk. To call myself fragile or weak. To have them hesitate, pause. And assess me. Look at me differently. Treat me differently. Trying to guess where the lines were.

Trying to see if I would break.

Chase’s eyes, hesitant, as he asks, confirming that I’m still going with him tonight.

I sigh, explosively, glaring at the stupid clown statue I was suppose to be hitting my ball around.

I pick up my ball from where it had gotten stuck in the corner and walk on to join Chase.

Chase is standing up, having just picked his ball out of the hole when he notices me approaching.

“You’re right,” I say shortly.

I don’t look at Chase as I stare out over the Parkland, eyes following the families, groups of friends, all the kids and teenagers laughing and talking together. One girl is wearing a hat that had a little chick print on the top.

I open my mouth to say something. Maybe argue that they needed someone who was above it all, who saw them for who they were and meet them where they were at. Or maybe to try to explain to Chase what it was like. How… refreshing it was to be around powered people who didn’t see you as a weak civilian first. The weak part of Mecha Man that needed to be protected, hidden away.

I hated it.

Some heroes had freaked the fuck out in past emergencies when I had to exit the suit, 'revealing my weakness to the world'.

I didn’t need a super babysitter, someone who used the kid gloves around me all the time. I…

“You were a lot worse off, you know,” she says almost conversationally. “Malevola had to transfer your concussion and broken bones to Golem.

I clench my jaw, closing my mouth stiffly.

“You’re right.” I say again.

I don’t apologize. Don’t say the words. But I think Chase gets it.

I go to hit my ball only for Chase to stick his club out.

I stare at him, tired, bracing for what he was about to say next.

“This is the last hole of the course. If we hit it in, it’ll be collected. But if we don’t, we can play the other courses for free.”

I blink at him as he walks off. I chuckle softly and head after him.

“Because we’re really saving on the fourteen bucks per player.” I call after him fondly.

“Fucker didn’t you read the sign? It’s twenty per course. That’s pizza money right there.”

We joke, we laugh, we suppress our trauma.

Chase was the best.

Three courses later and we were finally done. Chase had won two, while Blazer and I had won the others.

Monarch never recovered from the beer, which seemed fine to her as she chatted, joked and shared stories of the hero scene up in San Francisco. Her laughter carried on the wind like a distant bell chime as we navigate through the little diorama buildings and fountains with water that had a smell you really only got when you hadn’t changed out the water in months, relying on large amounts of chlorine to keep it sanitary, despite the water becoming an off-color green.

It was… nice. We didn’t talk about the Mecha Man suit, didn’t talk about heroics or plans of the future. We just… played. Told stories, shot the shit. Had fun.

...

...

...If I hadn’t cut her out of my life, this could have been the last fifteen years.

We hit the food court afterwards and while Chase and Monarch wait for our food, I gingerly carry four soda cups to the table Blonde Blazer had picked out for us.

“So, how’s it hanging out with a classic age hero whose probably older than this city?” I ask, setting the cups down.

Didn't spill anything. Nice.

Blonde Blazer turns from where she was people watching, our table offering a quiet view through some bushes at one of the golf courses. On the other side a group of college students drunkenly making their way, tapping their colored balls every few feet.

“I don’t own my own image.” She informs me, a dazed expression on her face.

“Yeah, you’ll have to switch up the color scheme and go by a new name if you ever go freelance,” I say, sitting down and taking a sip of my drink. “Maybe add some red to your costume, complement the gem.”

Blazer is staring at me, still stunned by the revelation that her likeness and image was owned by a company.

I slid her drink over to her. “Here, drink some soda, it’s bad for you.”

Blazer takes the drink and sips thoughtfully, eyes shifting back to the outdoor food court. On the other end, Chase says something that causes Monarch to laugh loudly.

“Was she always like this?” Blonde Blazer asks.

“Yeah. For as long as I’ve known her. All smiles, laughter and a mischievous streak that’d pull you into the weirdest conversations and activities, all because she finds it funny.”

I stare at the fairy themed hero, too far away to see her face, but I could imagine it in my mind. Her twinkling green eyes, mouth twisted in a smile as my dad and Chase bemoaned my haircut. She had agreed to cut my hair as I was too wiggly a child for my father’s barber. I had asked for a Mohawk and “I thought the customer was always right”.

…

…

Her expression looked so brittle as I walked off from her and Kyla.

“It made it hard.” I say suddenly. “When my dad died. But that’s what makes her such a good hero. Rain or shine, the Monarch arrives with a smile.”

Blazer’s watching me now, not saying anything as she continued to sip from her soda.

“I remember when I’d get in trouble in middle school, I used to get in fights with some powered students. They were being bullied, same shit as any school, and a teacher tried to blame me for starting the fights” I shake my head at the memory. “My Dad was out of the country, so she showed up with a glamor. She pulled the teachers' argument apart piece by little piece. All with a smile and a giggle in every other sentence. It was amazing.”

“Sounds terrifying, I almost feel bad for those teachers.”

I laugh, “if it wasn’t her or Chase, it was one of the other Brigade members.”

“You really had a full team of superheroes as a family growing up.”

“Yeah…” I trail off, my amusement dimming at the thought. “I did.”

“It was nice.” I say quietly.

Blonde Blazer observes me for a moment, open her mouth to speak.

“Are you-ow!”

I blink at the purple golf ball that rolls across the table. Blonde Blazer rubbing the impact point at the back of her head.

“You, okay?” I ask, picking up the ball.

“Fine,” she grunts, glaring at the golf course. “Stupid kids.” We both glance out across the park, but don’t see anyone sheepishly running or hiding, no one to claim the flying golf ball.

“Hey better you than me,” I say, rolling the ball across the table to her, giving her a cheeky smile. “Chase’s car seats are uncomfortable enough without an egg sized bruise at the base of my skull.”

Blonde Blazer snorts and rolls the ball back to me, eyes alight with amusement.

“Dick. I hope it is you next time.”

Our banter is cut off when Chase and Monarch arrive with pizza.

“Are you sure you don’t need a lift home?” Blonde Blazer asks with concern, watching Monarch fly in a lazy figure eight pattern around our heads. We’d polished off most of the pizza and made our way into the parking lot, fleeing the teenagers and children who were getting a sugar fueled second wind.

“She’s fine,” Chase says, “Monarch can’t get drunk off normal alcohol.”

Blonde Blazer and I stare at the little sprite hero as she comes to a hover before us. “Thanks for a great time! We’ll need to do this again next time I’m in town.”

“Come by in two months. That’s when I’ll be doing an escape room,” Chase says, polishing off the last slice of pizza.

Monarch winks at Blazer and gives me a warm smile. “Kyla’s going to be sad she missed this.”

I snort, “Kyla Winters playing mini golf, I don’t know if I’ll ever see the day,”

Monarch’s smile grows small, her eyes sharp. “You will,” she whispers, so quiet I’m not sure if I hear here.

Before I can speak, she zips off into the night, leaving the three of us standing around Chase’s car.

“Monarch was right, this was a lot of fun,” Blonde Blazer says to Chase. “Maybe I can convince Tim to have our Holiday party at a minigolf place.”

“Nah, do one of those fucking axe throwing bars, we need the good booze to survive those parties,” Chase shoots back, “If you have the choice to spend company money on shitty pizza and alcohol, you always pick the alcohol.”

Blazer laughs and floats up slightly, slowly rising into the sky. “I’ll see you both at the office tomorrow!” She flies off into the night.

“Right, well unless you're sitting on powers you haven't mentioned, get your ass in the car.” Chase grunts walking around to the driver's side. “Oh, fucking damn it!”

“What’s up?” I ask, opening the passenger side.

“I always lock the door, and the fucking paints scratched along the seam.” Chase explains, pointing to the bit of chipped paint. “Someone fucking broke in.”

Chase begins rummaging around the car, looking in the glove compartment and center console. I look too, opening the trunk and looking for any damage or anything different since we left the car. Five minutes later Chase is pacing back and forth.

“Who the fuck breaks into a car and doesn’t still anything? They didn’t even take my parking meter quarters!”

I turn the idea over in my head. “Someone who was placing something?”

Chase meets my eye, and we examine the car again, popping the hood to the engine this time. Looking for anything.

Tracking device or listening device.

Cut breaks.

A bomb.

…

…

Nothing turns up and we’re left staring at the car, everything turned over.

“Maybe they saw us exit the building? Didn’t have time to take anything?”

Chase is quiet, staring at the car. “Yeah… maybe.”

He glances at me, “I’ll let Polarity look at it at the office tomorrow. If there is something, she’d find it.”

I nod and we ride back in silence, both our shoulders tense for something, anything.

But nothing ever came.

Chapter Text

“Aww! Can I pet him?” 

I start and look over at the grocery worker, Beef beginning to wiggle in delight in my arms, as a new person approaches.

“Oh! Yeah, let me just.” I readjust my grip on Beef, shifting him to one side.

It’s an ungodly hour, the grocery store shelves still being stocked for the coming day, but I had wanted to stop by the store and pick up something for the new Z-teams exercise. For the last twenty minutes, I’d been wandering the store aisles, looking at the shelves with a vague, empty expression.

The problem was what was that new exercise going to be?

As the clerk pets Beef my eyes drifted again to the shelves and hanging signs, each denotating the different food stuff and supplies I could utilize. 

Maybe I filled a sock with uncooked pasta? Play a relay race without breaking it? Or fill water balloons with something and have then toss it between themselves? Learn how to gently kill momentum?

My frown depends. Each exercise sounds too simple or too abstract to really get the point across. 

How did you socialize a bunch of diverse supers who’ve never spent significant time around normal people?  To prepare them and train their skills so they knew how and when to hold back?

Talk to them, show them how they hurt you.

It was a mystery. 

“Can I help you find anything, sir?” The college-aged worker asked, looking up from Beef.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say distractedly, turning over the different ideas. Maybe I put vegetables in an old Halloween costume? Build a fake rescue civilian? 

Didn't that one show have pressure gauges? What was it they used? Ballistic jell? Could I recreate it if I used enough Jell-O mix? 

I groan, rubbing my face with my palm. They needed to learn this. At this rate, they’d take better care of their fucking eggs than actual civ-

I blink. 

“Actually, miss, could you point me to your mason jars? The large ones.”

“Give me your eggs.” 

The entire Z-team rears back, viewing me and the large mason jar with suspicion.

“Hold the egg. Don’t cook the egg. Give me the egg. Do you like fucking with us, Rob Bob?”

“You know Robbie, we could make these eggs NFTs, print a QR code on the shell. Then you could scan them instead of physically checking them.”

“What… I mean…Why?”

“Because it’s time for your egg friends to join the Thursday workout, eggs, now, turn them over.” I say in a measured tone. As though I’m not asking a group of grown adults and recovering villains to part with the fucking eggs they had somehow gotten emotionally attached to.

“Can I take home any that break?” Golem asks as I pluck the egg from his massive palm, dropping it in the mason jar. The jar half filled with water.

One by one, I collect all the unbroken eggs, placing Flambae, Invisigal, Golem and Waterboy’s eggs into the mason Jar. Punch-Up, Sonar, Malevola and Prism watch on with slight interest, all their eggs having already broke earlier this week.

I screw on the lid and tilt the mason jar. Eggs tumbling and rolling across, the water slowing their moment slightly as they tap against each other and the glass.

Perfect. 

I take the burlap sack of sand that had been our makeshift civilian for the last few weeks and begin talking as I shove the jar to the center of the sack, letting the sand cover it.

“This is now egg man, for today's exercise, there’s a new factor. In addition to protecting him, you need to consider changes in speed and impact. Whiplash is one of the most common injuries to be reported by rescued civilians after a large super confrontation.” I explain. 

I glance up and still slightly as I note half of the teams… intensely stare at the burlap sack. Were they even listening to me? “Treat egg man too hard and baby Daisy will be enjoying Egg drop soup tonight. Any questions?”

Golem raises his hand. “And if none of the eggs break, can I still bring some home for Daisy?”

…

…

“Sure,” I say shortly, turning and gesturing behind me.

I gesture to the chalk square drawn out in the pavement behind us. “You can pick two people to defend Eggman at a time, while the others get to attack. No more than two attackers in the square at a time. We’ll go for five-minute bursts, rotating between rounds.”

I glance over at the ‘attackers’ who were without eggs. “For you four, this is your chance to ensure no one gets an egg sticker this week.”

A light enters their eyes, and I take a moment, assessing the two groups as they size each other up, whispered plans already beginning to be spoken in low tones. 

“We start in three minutes, decide who you want to go first,” I say, carrying egg man carefully to the center of the chalk square. 

Technically, this would be one of the most competitive exercises I’ve assigned them. There was a definitive win and fail state with the reward of stickers on the line. 

I pause, looking into the face of egg man, Prism had tried to draw a face on the burlap sack, the warping of the fabric giving it the appearance of a five-year-olds drawing of a smiley face, smudged lipstick mixing with the dark sand inside. 

It would be fine. 

Probably. 

“AND TIME!” I yell out, still hiding behind a chunk of pavement that Golem had dislodged. How was it over a month into this job that I was still discovering new things about my team? Since when has Golem been able to send pillars of earth flying from his location?

The fighting had gotten fierce. Granted, they had all used their powers creatively. Waterboy had used the overturned pavement to wet the ground, allowing Golem to temporarily grow to over twenty feet in height, Flambae had created a fire tornado around the square, and Invisigal had performed several excellent hits and runs, taking down and interrupting the attacker's assault. 

On the attacker's side, Malevola has utilized several portals to reposition, re-route, or confuse the other heroes, Sonar’s hit and run techniques, switching forms at unexpected times, and Punch-Up, both throwing softballs and being thrown himself, like a cannonball, digging huge chunks out of Golem’s towering form wherever they connected. 

Through the whole thing, egg man didn’t get touched once by the attacking team. 

“Fuck yeah!” Flambae screamed, shooting fire into the air. “Get owned, get fucking owned, we’re the best heroes on the Z-Team.”

“Yeah! I mean,” Waterboy quickly amends, spotting Sonar’s glare, “It was… all… around… job.”

I step out and fully survey the parking lot. The square now sank downward, the soil adding to Golem’s mass, exposing the bare earth and piping. I glance over at Golem and watch as he takes a step, leaving a huge amount of earth and mud behind. Still sixteen feet tall. 

“Is that temporary?” I ask him, as he gingerly inspects the chunks of pavement sticking out of his leg. 

Golem nods, “It’ll fall off as I walk.”

“Then walk around this lot, we’re not tracking debris back to SDN,” I approach egg man, “Now let's see how you all did.”

“They never touched him,” Invisigal brags, blipping into the visible spectrum next to me. “Easiest day ever.” She takes a huge drag from her inhaler and meets my gaze, daring me to challenge her. 

“I meet her gaze and lazily open up egg man. “Let’s see about that.” I reach in and pull out the mason jar. 

Punch-Up pulls himself out of the hardened mud pile Golem and Flambae had baked him into and lets out a cheer when he sees the inside. “Alrighty! Egg soup for the beastie!” 

Flambae lands next to me, and Golem pauses as they both stare at the mason jar in bafflement. “But how? I… we protected it!” 

“I don’t know Flambae. It looked just fine when you threw it twenty feet in the air to get it away from Punch Up.” I deadpan.

“But it landed in Golem!” Flambae protests, gesturing to the construct. “He’s like, soft mud shit.” 

I turn and stare at the chunks of pavement slowly sloughing off his body. Some chunks as large as a TV screen. 

“Yeah. Super soft. Listen,” I turn and address the entire team. “I saw at least six times someone yanked or swung egg man around like a burlap sack and eight times he landed or rag-dolled in a way that’d seriously hurt a civilian. It’d be good odds he would have some kind of broken bone.”

“He is a burlap sack!” Prism points out. Flambae scoffs. 

“But they’re at least fucking alive.” Flambae waves dismissively, “We do that, save the day, big woo hoo, and afterwards, then can just rest up, yeah? Sleep it off?” I pause when I see Prism, Invisigal, Waterboy and Golem nod at his words. 

“Sleep. No!” I respond, raising my eyebrows, feeling a headache start up. “Just how long do you think it takes to ‘sleep off’ a broken bone?”

Silence greets my question.

I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. Chase was fucking right and I could never let him know how fucking right he was.

In hindsight, this was obvious that this would be a knowledge gap. Fucking super recovery. One of the most inconsistent tertiary abilities of most supered individuals. The problem was that there was no one common baseline. It varied depending on the type of enhancements your powers offered you, whether your transformation created a new body or enhanced your old one. Did you have indestructible bones? Or just super-strong bones that still took months to heal? Or did your bones heal in seconds, hours, days, weeks? Or did you reset each time you ‘transformed’? Whatever magic or alien tech or super blood is improving your body’s natural processes, it didn’t scale with anyone else's baseline. As far as I knew, The Heroes Ward and other hospitals like it had the most recent data. Still, they kept all but the vaguest of summaries private, unwilling to release data that could be used to strategically incapacitate heroes. 

It was a topic poorly researched, poorly understood, and if you had spent most of your social life around other powered individuals something you probably never even thought about for most of your life.

“I broke my… here,” Waterboy stutters, pointing at his wrist, “Took a week… all good!” 

“I don’t know, a weekend?” Flambae grumbles out, turning away. “I don’t get fucking hurt; I’m not a fucking loser hero.” 

“Maybe a week? It’s faster if you get ice on it, right?” Prism asks, eyeing the gap in Flambae’s teeth.

“What you all aren’t fine after an hour or two?” Malevola asks, glancing about the group in confusion. 

Sonar sighs, “Not everyone can consume their bodies' injuries Mal. We’ve talked about this.” 

Malevola shrugs, “Well, yeah, but I thought you meant in like… they didn’t like the flavor. Just sucked it up and spat it out into the weave.” 

“One day you’re going to sit down and actually explain how your powers work,” Punch-Up grunts, dusting himself off, “And on that day we’ll all be properly disturbed and horrified. It takes up to months to start healing, longer for full recovery, several months.”

“Thank you,” I say with some relief that at least some of them understood. “Baseline recovery is six months or longer, not counting physical therapy and long-term damage.” 

The Z-Team digests the information, Flambae rolls his eyes at the information, muttering under his breath, others look thoughtful, eyeing the mason jar in my hands. 

Prism stares, eyes flickering between the mason jar and my face, a complicated expression behind her visor. I raise an eyebrow, and she quickly huffs, pulling out her phone, her face stubbornly looking at the screen as she begins typing.

I cough, “Anyways, Golem, here’s Daisy’s treat. Everyone else, back to the base. Shower, clean off, get ready for morning shift.

I lead the pack back to SDN, Golem shrinking to a more manageable eight feet by the time we reach the parking lot. 

My eyes are caught by two figures standing out in the parking lot and I deviate, waving the Z-Team on ahead. “I’ll catch up, go get cleaned up.”

The team watches curiously as I peel off and join Chase outside his car. 

“Chase… and Polarity, right?” I greet, coming up to stand next to the two. 

Polarity’s a tall woman, her bulbous, plastic-looking red-and-blue shoulder pads defining her hero costume, her visored helmet making her look more like one of the heroes' teams running around Japan for the last thirty or forty years. Sentee? Sentai? 

“We’ve never formally spoken,” Polarity says, running her hands along the car. “But you are the dispatcher for the Z-Team. The first one who stayed.” She stops and stretches out a hand across the car. “Pleasure to meet you,”

“Polarity used to be on my team, but switched to office staff a year or two ago,” Chase explains as I shake her hand. “Still does some odd job type shit, but she’s been looking to transfer out of the region to take an open Dispatch role. 

“Well… pleasure is mine. Show’s Chase must be doing something right if one of his heroes wanted to be a dispatcher,” I say before pausing in thought, “Or he did such a crap job that you wanted to do it yourself.”

“Fucker, please. My team is a fucking delight. Miles better than your fucking gang of villains that bruise you up every week.” Chase shoots back. 

“He’s joking,” I say, quickly answering Polarities' alarmed gaze. “There’s just been a few training accidents.”

“It… would not surprise me…” Polarity says cautiously, “I tried to dispatch for them for a few days when I first started. It was… informative.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Chase mutters, “The bat fuck had just joined, and you sent him to assist a detective in a drug investigation. Ended up snorting and shooting up half of their evidence locker before we could recall him. He was high and in beast mode for over forty hours, ended up passing out hanging from the ceiling in the gym.”

“So, how’s the car search going?” I ask, pointedly pivoting the conversation. Chase grunts and crosses his arms, but answers the question. 

“Nothing so far. Polarity’s trying once more for maybe nano-tracers, but if it’s to that level, then we have a bigger problem. 

I nod, thinking it over. “Maybe we scared the car thief before they took anything? Monarch and Blazer were there when we exited, and we were pretty visible.”

Chase sighs, shifting his hands to his hips. “It makes the most sense,” he admits, “And anything stealthier wouldn’t make sense with such a sloppy break-in.”

Polarity completes her search and straightens up, “There’s no unusual electromagnetic resonance other than the existing car components.” 

Chase pauses for a moment, looking thoughtfully at his car, before eventually speaking, his shoulders slumping.

“Thanks anyway, Polly,” Chase says with a sigh, closing and locking his car doors. “Sorry to take up your morning.”

Polarity offers Chase a smile, “Anything for my number one dispatcher.” She nods at me, turns, and walks away, returning to the SDN offices. 

“Well, at least it's nothing but hero paranoia,” I tell Chase as we start to walk at a slower pace. 

“Something about it fucking bugs me,” Chase mutters, eyes distant as he thinks. “Car break-ins are supposed to be quick by nature; we should have seen someone if the timing was so tight that they had to bail when we exited Golfland. So, if it wasn’t a break-in, they weren’t planting shit, they weren’t stealing shit, then what were they doing?”

I shrug. “Going over the same few facts is a good way to drive yourself paranoid agonize over dead ends. Maybe just keep an eye out going forward? You still check for bugs?” 

“Every fucking week, just like your old man showed me.” Chase snorts. “Even if it was pointless until the last five years. Not many people can plant a tracker on a speedster.”

“I did,” I say smugly as we climb the stairs to the bullpen. Chase grunts and speed walks ahead of me, quickly picking up Beef from the doggie bed. 

“You fucking tricked me when your damn job was to hand me my burger, not put an experimental tracker on my back, fucking brat.” 

I laugh as we both take our seats, booting up our desktops to start the morning shift. 

The shift is… heavy, not in terms of direct assignments, but more in the sense that the calls were about actual crimes. No frivolous calls to move furniture, walk a dog, or house sit. Outside of the Turtle’s game, every other call was related to some kind of actual crime or emergency. 

And given how the last Turtles call, someone had used the T-shirt cannon to shoot Flambae out of the sky, even that one I was tempted to classify as an actual emergency. 

Battle scene clean-ups, high-speed pursuits, gang fights, warehouse fires. While maybe thirty percent were active emergencies or crimes in progress, the rest were assisting with the detective work, tracking down suspects, and taking witness statements.

The Team… did well. Amongst Prism, Invisigal, and Malevola had really taken to investigative work and logic puzzles, Punch-Up and Flambae had a knack for calming down civilians. Thought in Fambae’s case, I think they were just so bemused by the flaming hero that they forgot about the crisis he had rescued them from. And when I assigned Sonar to missions under the watch of other team members or far away from any chance of privacy or drug trafficking, he performed as a model hero. 

…Not counting the whole ham, he had eaten after subduing the shoplifter who was trying to steal the grocery store's baby formula pallet.

In the last month, they’d found a rhythm. They were still at the bottom of the leaderboard, but now it was due to their success-to-failure ratio instead of individual assignment performance. The ratio was from the last three months, so in theory, their scores should jump and continue to climb as long as they kept the same amount of progress going into Summer. 

I doodle, taking note of important developments, things that might be worth handing out a sticker tomorrow.  While I take notes on the entire team, the majority of them are centered on the newest team member. Waterboy. 

The problem with Waterboy was simply that he wasn’t just new to the team, but new to heroics. Waterboy didn’t yet have a consistent baseline. His stamina, muscles, and limits were constantly being tested and expanded. At this point I could only track his rate of growth so I could understand when it began to plateau. Any assessment would be kind of meaningless for the next few months until he really gets used to the role.

Well… the role and the team. Flambae and Prism had enjoyed trying to gaslight Waterboy into believing a number of dumb things. From the way to assert authority with street gangs was get in their face and be loud and boisterous, to the idea that on hot days, civilians would appreciate getting sprayed with water, projected from a young man's mouth. 

As such, he’d developed a level of skepticism in anything the two had told him, waiting for it to be verified by Punch-Up or me before accepting it as fact. 

“Just your regular black-market shit,” Flambae’s saying flippantly as he and Waterboy return from a call. “Lazer swords, hard drive, spy camera receivers, some exoskeleton junk from that wrestler idiot last year. Fucking trash.” 

“But… why, I mean… would they sell it?” Waterboy asks as their trackers both register as within SDN Torrance. “Isn’t… wouldn’t… like a risk for the, the security?”

“It’s cheap, effective.” Punch-Up chimes in, his tracker tracing his slow meander along one of the main roads where a truck had upended, scattering pallets of VandCo electronics across five blocks. “Villains have been bugging city hall, police stations, and even hero hangouts for fucking generations. Why plant your own when you can just hijack the fucker who got caught last month or the idiot who fried himself trying to make a sun in a warehouse by the harbor.”

“You’ll find a lot of it up online nowadays,” I say, assigning Prism to help direct traffic around a sinkhole. “Craigslist, marketplace, group chats, whatever. Heists don’t fund themselves, and it's an easy way for minions to profit when their boss goes to prison.”

I had actually bought some things online from time to time. Mainly things that I could disassemble and cannibalize for parts or raw materials when trying to repair the Mecha Man suit. Though once I had found someone who had collected and tried to resell the nets that I had launched when storming the hideout of a gang of sentient giant hamsters the week before.

“I once got this killer hair dryer. I mean technically, it was a heat ray or death ray shit, but the low setting was a lifesaver when I went to Coachella! Even if I set a tent on fire.”

“Can I borrow that?” Sonar asks, “Humidity does weird shit to my fur.”

The team continues to chatter, but I tune out, focusing on the smuggling operation that Flambae and Waterboy had returned from. The goods were technically from an ‘unidentified gang’ who had been running similar operations all over the County. But that call was firmly in the Red Ring territory that Chase and I had mapped out earlier this week. 

I tear a sticky note into small pieces, then slowly place a handful on my screen. 

If I assumed that all of these current smuggling cases were Red Ring related….

I frown at my screen. 

If it was Red Ring, then they were either buying or selling a ton of tech, with several locations well outside the territory we had theorized. 

Expansion. To an aggressive degree. Either getting a lot of cash flow or obtaining a lot of old tech. 

On average, most megalomaniac villains carried out their schemes while controlling around two-thirds of the underground. Their grand schemes needed to ensure that specific roads for supply routes or key locations weren’t accidentally damaged or hit by some small-time villain, drawing heroes and police response to an unexpected location. 

If I had to ballpark it, Red Ring was controlling just under half of all the crime in LA County. Spread out into every city, ever expanding. Continuing to collect and add to the resources at their disposal.

Which, according to the reports, tech. A lot more tech.

Fuck. 

“Yo, I’m still waiting for this lift.”

I brush the flecks of paper off my monitor and pull up Golem’s assignment. “Unlocking now,” I say, focusing on the team. 

I’d need to bring this up with Chase. 

Chase listens to my theory in silence, mulling over the information.

“If it is them, we can cross-reference their territory with previous smuggling and black-market deals over the last year. Might point us towards their original hideout or give us a better estimate of what kind of fucking tech they’ve been amassing over the past year.”

He stands and stretches before picking up Beef, “Let me swing by the records room. I’ll take a look at last year's assignments.”

“I can come with you,” I say, standing as well.

“You’ll just get underfoot, go eat a Twinkie or some shit.”

I raise an eyebrow, “I’ll get underfoot, but Beef will be fine?”

“I’m glad you understand,” Chase says, walking away.

I watch him walk off, a small smile on my face quickly fading as I head towards the breakroom.

My skin prickled beneath my clothes, as though I were working in a high-voltage area, the sense of danger and pressure slowly building around us. 

The Red Ring. Shroud. They were on the move. Some web, slowly spreading across Los Angeles, sinking into every adjacent city, resources all being funneled into…

Into what? 

My musings are interrupted as I view the hulking figure sitting in the breakroom. 

…

…

And the melon fruit basket on the table. 

“Hey bud,” I say, internalizing a small sigh, “Didn’t we talk about the melon?” 

“Do not worry, Robert Robertson, this bouquet is not for you. This is my lunch.” He picks up a skewered honeydew piece and stares at it with disinterest. “I had bought their Monthly Melon Subscription. I get one each week for the rest of this year.”

“Holy shit, that’s a lot of melon,” I say with a sigh, moving to the vending machine. I quickly punch in the code for Twinkies before turning and resting against the glass, arms folded as I faced Phenomaman. “So, if you’re not giving that basket to anyone, why are you here?”

Phenomaman paused in his contemplation of the fruit and fixes me with a tired stare. “After being cut from the regular roster of heroes at SDN downtown, I was offered to all the adjacent SDN offices in the area. No one had an opening for an additional hero, so I am acting as a…tempting hero. I fill in for heroes who are sick or unwell.”

He meant temp. 

“Currently, I am filling in for Ms. Chungus. Whose name makes people laugh. I do not understand why.” 

“Yeah… it's some kind of joke from online, I don’t really get it either,” I say distractedly as I digest his words. I guess not wanting to work with someone agonizing over a breakup, but Phenomaman was one of SDN’s strongest heroes. Being an alien from some corner of the galaxy where the species literally flew to other planets as weekend getaways, his speed, strength, and ability was near unmatched on multiple levels. 

Was this more politics, a directive given by Tim? I’d need to ask Mandy about it later. 

“Are you… happy? Being a Temp hero? How is the card thing working out? Magic?” 

Phenomaman beams at me, and the  contrast between the last few weeks of knowing him and now is like night and day. “I have built my first Magic: The Gathering deck. It is blue and not very good despite having powerful cards. I have…” he searches for the words, “Bad orangy according to my teachers at the Comic Land store.”

I blink. “You mean RNG?” 

“Yes, Orangy. I am now working on a black deck which should synergize quite pleasingly.”

…

…

“Okay… but how about being a Temp Hero? How have the other teams been?” I quickly pivot the conversation. 

“I’ve worked with many teams and have been assigned to many calls with different heroes,” Phenomaman says, looking down, the gloomy expression taking his face once more. “Irvine SDN has asked me not to return.”

“That's…”

Fair…

“Shitty of them. You’re a great hero, I’m sure you will find your place.”

“I do not feel like a great hero, Phenomaman says quietly, “Even my little talk with the civilians I rescue, they do not laugh as I carry them from danger like they used to. Instead, they stare at me silently and run once I set them down.” 

“Well, what do you talk to them about?” I ask.

Phenomaman shrugs, “Oh, the usual, I guess. The crushing pain of intimacy and relationships, the struggles of building a commander deck, and the understanding that life is ultimately like the sky. A black, uncaring abyss with few lights of warmth separated by unquantifiable distances.”

“That's… I…” I trail off. How the fuck did you make a positive spin on that? “Okay, maybe you need to work on better small talk topics. Like… the weather. Or… literally anything else.”

“Maybe,” he says with another shrug. “Maybe I should quit being a hero. I do not feel like I still have a place here at SDN.”

I examine the unhappy alien. He had arrived seven or eight years ago, one of the prelude events to the later alien occupation. From what I recall, it was SDN-sponsored heroes who had helped fish him out of the ocean. His entire experience of Earth had been dictated and introduced by SDN. They had capitalized on his alien story, an opportunity to mold a hero's image to sell the SDN image. 

I already knew he didn’t have a proper chance to experience humanity, earth, just shunted around, following the whims of marketing and media manipulation; he had eaten fine dining, traveled the world, done everything that billboards and social media managers had told him to do to advertise SDN around the globe. Fine dining, extreme sports, exotic vacations, and conferences, just brought along as a tourist attraction, a celebrity first. No time to actually build a connection to Earth or humanity. 

Or rather, humanity beyond Blonde Blazer, the first genuine person he had interacted with after his first year on Earth. 

I pause and then take a seat next to him, biting into some melon as I open my Twinkies.

He had found enjoyment in the card game. But… did he enjoy heroics, actually enjoy helping people? 

Did he ever have the chance to learn how to enjoy it? 

“Hey, you busy this weekend? There’s a friend I think you should meet.” I say, the outline of a plan growing in my mind. I had seen in the news that she was still patrolling, and with Phenomaman’s ability to fly, he’d be able to keep up with her easily.

I pull out my phone and quickly shoot off a message. 

Hey Node, been a while. You patrolling this weekend? 

“A potential romantic partner to replace the void in my heart?” Phenomaman asks curiously, and I shudder as the reply arrives. 

Holy shit. 😮The Mecha Man lives. 🙌You rebuild your suit in a month? Send schematics pls. 🙏🥺🙏

“No! Well... maybe?” I quickly dismissing the thought, “It’s way too early to ask. Hang out with her first, for at least three months, before asking something like that.”

Not quite. I have someone I want you to meet. Corpo Hero who I think could go freelance. 

“I will wait the required three months before asking for intimacy,” Phenomaman says seriously.

👀👀👀 You slumming it with the conglomerates? SDN or Heroes Response? 🤮

I roll my eyes. 

SDN, question stands. Where are you patrolling Saturday?

Dude thats crazy. Starting in glendale, someones siphoning power from the grid. 😠 Trying to track down the source. Outsourced hero got muscle? 

I examine Phenomaman as he bites into a skewer, chewing on the plastic as well as the melon without flinching. 

Something like that. 

I hand Phenomaman one of the Twinkies, and we finish our lunch of room-temperature fruit and a vending machine pastry.

When I return to the Bullpen, the energy’s weird. Mr. Whiskey and Galen are standing above their desks, monitors off. Some people are doing work while others are missing from their cubicles. Chase is not at his desk; instead, he’s sitting on the ground, purely focused on Beef, scratching his back as he chews on a dog bone. 

“What is today a half-day?” I ask, grabbing my headset to put it on. 

“Cyberattack, happens every few months or so,” Chase says, not looking up. “I wouldn’t-”

A screeching electric tone assaults my ears when I try to turn on the audio channel. I quickly yank the headset off my head, cursing softly. 

“That,” Chase says with a nod. “Some fucker opened an email they shouldn’t have or some shit and now the whole system's fucked.”

Ears still slightly ringing, I open my desktop settings, “Is it just the audio system that’s out? How bad is the damage?”

Chase shrugs, “Blazer’s talking with IT, but their shit. Sometimes it's just us, sometimes it’s system-wide. If it’s system-wide, they’ll see to downtown first before seeing to a place like Torrance.”

I hum in acknowledgement, clicking around, opening some programs. Whatever it was, it was primarily messing with the building's ability to send and receive data. Once the data was fully received, it interacted with the Dispatch tools fine; it could even be pushed out to heroes easily, thanks to their com devices being satellite and cell-based. It was the building's internet and connection to the radio tower on the roof that was being interfered with. 

“So, what’ll happen if they can’t fix it?” I ask, exploring SDN’s backend a bit more. Given enough time, I could probably trace the attack…

“In the past we either waited on standby or, if you really wanted, there are some emergency tools we could break out. HAM Radios and shit, go old school with it. But most people will just wait. The emergency radios don’t let you push out assignments, and the way assignments themselves come in gets a bit hard to decipher. If it’s just Torrance, then the SDN Network will reroute the pressing calls to available heroes while filtering out the bullshit. Offer them a five-dollar coupon because we can’t walk their dog today. They’ll send everyone home if they can’t fix it in the next two hours. “

“And how mad would IT be if I looked into myself to get Torrance back online?” I ask, noting a few key systems. It probably wouldn’t be too hard to bypass-

“Oh I wouldn’t kid, or at least I’d get Blazer’s blessing first, IT can have a real stick up their ass about the network shit. Don’t like too many freelancers messing with the company infrastructure.”

Well damn. 

I stare at the screen for a moment in thought before pulling out my phone. Chase glances over, mildly interested but too enamored with Beef to give his full attention. 

“Now what bullshit are you up to now?” 

“You just said it,” I say, as I activate my phone's hotspot. It was a long shot, but it could work. “Pressing calls will still be assigned to available teams. If I have the Z-Team available, they’ll get access to a ton of assignments that would usually be sent to the other team first. And if everyone else is down, this will give them a chance to balance out their call ratios.”

“Sounds like a lot lotta pain in the ass to help your larger pains in the asses.” Chase grunts, scooping Beef up into his arms.

“Something like that, but I’m more worried about what the team would get up to in their own time. Two hours is an eternity for them,” I say, as I begin to dig into the backend of SDN’s systems. If I was lucky, it would only result in a trash fire or two.  “Anything turn up in the record room?”

“Not much more than we already suspected. Black Market sales picked up in each city two months before wherever the Red Ring took on a gang. Probably cannibalizing the tech and tools to build all the enhancements.” Chase says, glancing up from Beef. “If we had more data, we could see how much goes towards the enhancements and how much is being used for other shit, but our reports don’t show the full inventory of what the police take in. “

I hum in thought, my mind split between the greater conspiracy spreading across the city and the digital attack in front of me, preventing us from doing our job. “Guess we could just ask our teams to keep an eye out going forward?” 

Chase walks over to my side of the cubicle wall and grabs Beef’s rubber ball. “We can send a message when the network unfucks itself. Text me if the system comes back online, I’ll be outside with Beef.”

The workaround is fucking stupid, using my phone’s hotspot and porting the data from the dispatch interface into a spreadsheet every other minute, but it works. And while I can’t talk with the team, we can still send five-second audio messages back and forth. 

It’s rough, and it quickly results in me being overwhelmed by audio messages, but I make it work, typing and assigning as fast as I can as the Z-Team continues to complete assignments. But it gets them ahead for a little bit. 

The entire time I mull over the problem. I guess it wasn’t too bad, since SDN was technically an outside contractor as opposed to the main emergency response for the city. But an outrage would be concerning, especially for a company that was suppose to be reliable during emergencies and villain events. 

Was this outdated infrastructure? Incompetence? Something nefarious? 

There’s no answers. An hour and a half in, the IT department works it out, and the other Torrance teams come online, quickly reducing the call volume.  Whatever it was, a system restart seemed to purge the issue from SDN Torrance. IT sends out an email, saying that they’d be investigating the cause over the next few days, but that it was clear to return to normal operations. Very quickly, the other teams are dispatched, the normal daily chaos of Torrance SDN back in its flow. But I’m satisfied. 

It wouldn’t be much, only a point or two. But when regional directors looked at those numbers for budget cuts or any other asinine corporate action, it would show the Z-Team closer to their true capacity. With their numbers one step closer to matching the other teams. 

“Quit looking so smug,” Chase complains, “Your phone bill is going to be fucked this month.”

My satisfied smile quickly shifts into a grimace. 

Shit.

“It took a while for me to try Greek food,” Royd explains, pointing at a section of the menu, “But souvlaki, that’s pure love right there!” 

We’re at the back of the restaurant, with expansive open windows open to let the setting sunlight stream into the place, reflecting off all the glass table decorations.

“Yeah, it's pretty good.” I muse, biting into the pita wrap, “Haven’t had Greek food all that often myself, to be honest.”

“It’s good stuff! Especially the gyro! Such great meat.” Royd grins, taking a bite out of the mountain of food he had ordered.

I chuckle in amusement, “So when you're not making tech miracles and criticizing my welding, you’re a foodie?”

Royd shrugs unapologetically.  “Eh, it's as my Grandma says, good food is medicine for the body, so gotta treat it right and try a lot of good food!”

“Haha, I like how your grandma thinks,” I say, as I dish out more of the yogurt sauce into my wrap.

…

…

I glance up to see Royd looking oddly solemn, staring at me. My hands freeze, holding my wrap before me. “Is… sorry did your Grandma pass recently?”

Royd starts, “What? No! Tūtū is still on the islands; she has a place in Honolulu.“

“Okay…” I say slowly, “Then why’re you looking at me like I just said concerning shit?”

“Ah its nothing, brother, just getting into my own head a bit,” Royd says with a wave of his hand. I frown, my eyes narrowing. It was… I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was too natural. Felt almost forced. 

“Hey, none of that,” I say, pointing my wrap at him. “If you need to talk through something, you speak up, alright? What are friends for?” 

Friends. 

The admission slightly surprises me. Since when had I made a friend who knew both sides of my life?

“I owe you Royd. I way I don’t think I could ever repay.” I say, quickly shifting my gaze to examine the food on the plates before us. Fuck, we felt way too sober for this conversation…. But he needed to know. Needed to hear how much I appreciated what he was doing.

“For the last five years or so… or maybe longer.  Repairing the suit has felt like a sunset. Lower and lower each time, more compromises, fewer resources. Picking and choosing. And before Blazer came to talk to me, I thought I’d have to walk away from it. From my family’s legacy.”

“Then you, Chase, Blazer… It’s been good. Really good.” I laugh and reach for my glass, some fancy Greek drink. Metaxa? “I guess what I’m trying to say is… Thank you, Royd, you haven’t just helped me get back to the hero I was, you’ve helped me become the hero I always wanted to be.”

“Brother, Robert,” Royd starts, “That's not… I haven’t…” 

I laugh, “ Oh come on, Royd, the plasma sword? The new tech? Even the fucking sensor bolts.” I trail off, watching the waiter make a quick round across the restaurant, plates of food being distributed at all the different tables. 

“I’ve never had as much fun rebuilding that suit as I have in your lab, Royd,” I say quietly, looking Royd in the eye. He seems frozen, unsure how to receive the compliments I’m giving him. Fuck, I’m making him uncomfortable. 

“Listen, at the end of it all, if you need someone to talk about shit… just know I’m always willing to listen,” I say quickly, picking up my wrap and taking a bite. “It’d be the absolute least I could do to let you vent or shit-talk or whatever.”

“Robert… I…” 

I don’t look up, giving him space. Fuck, did I overshare? I probably overshared. Damn, maybe I should have waited until we were both drunk? Could Royd even get drunk? 

“I think I’m close to a breakthrough with the Protopulse.” 

I drop my wrap, my mind blanking as I look at Royd, his grin matching my growing smile. 

“No shit?” I breathe in shock. He nods. 

“Need to make some tweaks, but test nineteen should be it. We can try next week.”

I laugh, “That's… that's great! Royd! That’s huge!” 

For the last week, I’d been adding new systems, coding new subroutines, but the core of Mecha Man was complete. Basic locomotion, the jet pack. Four or five weapon systems. It was currently in pieces as I worked on the internals, but in a day or two, it could be assembled for the next protopulse test.

Most of what I was doing now was secondary systems, small quality of life changes. The rest of it had been Royd, tweaking with the Protopulse, trying different energy startups and frequency tweaks on energy states that I could barely wrap my mind around. 

I had been trying to give Royd his space, not hover over his shoulder, but it was something I looked for every time I entered his lab. Where was the pulse? Had he made anymore progress?

“We… we should celebrate!” I say quickly, grabbing the drinks menu from the center of the table.

“Oh, no… we should celebrate after the test, not-” 

“Come on Royd,” I say with a grin, glancing down the drink list. “You did it! Recreating the Astral Pulse, bringing back lost tech. At the very least, we gotta do one toast.”

Royd sighs, before giving me a rueful grin. “Alright, one toast.” He says, lifting one finger. 

“Just one.”

“And then she’s gone bro! I can’t even find her bro!” Royd rambles, taking a sip of the massive margarita glass.

“Yeah, that's fucked up,” I say. Nursing my much smaller glass of whiskey.

 We’ve moved down the block to a corner of a small bar, the front busy with tourists, while Royd and I took over a small end table. I’m on my second drink as Royd drinks his way through a margarita glass that had more in common with a vase than a drinking glass. It came with eight straws that sat on the table between us.

“You know, I think I ran into Coupe last week?” I say conversationally as I take a bite of a mozzarella stick.

Royd scrunches his face in thought. Huh… he had less tolerance than Blonde Blazer…

…

…

Or it was that strong. 

“The scary assassin woman? Metal ballerina killer? 

“No, the other scary assassin killer I cut from the Z-Team, the one that breakdances,” I say sarcastically. “Yeah, her. Accidentally ran into her in a coffee shop.

Royd nods, taking a sip of his vase. “She look like she's doing good?” 

I slump, “No idea… I tried to help her get a new job, but last I heard, they let her go. No idea what she’s doing now.”

“Ahhh, that's rough, brother,” Royd says, polishing off his drink. “You can’t help everyone. You can only do your best. It’s ultimately on them to change.”

“Yeah… I guess…” I murmur. Staring into my cup. I still wasn’t sure what more I could have done. Would pushing back against Blazer have helped? Or would it have just made things harder? If Tim managed her, then I can’t imagine having the newest dispatcher rebel against your decision would make you feel all that great. 

“There was a similar thing back when I was in the Phoenix Program,” Royd says, squinting at the drink menu above the bar. “Living slime guy. One eye. Could eat through anything.”

I look up, “Yeah?” I ask, “What happened to him?”

Royd shrugs, getting out of his seat. “Rampaged through the Hollywood Mall, ate everything in a candy shop where they made statues and album art out of M&M’s for the last ten years over Easter. Apparently thousands of dollars in damages, years of work gone. Then,transferred to a Supermax prison in the valley. Never heard from them again. I’ll be right back, they have another flavor I wanna try.”

I look back to my drink. “Oh.”

…

…

I down my drink and stand up to follow. 

“Wait, I’m coming too.”

“Then, like that lightning struck fella, we get you some blasters! Maybe an energy shield or two, then boom! Nesting Mecha Mans! A mecha man inside the Mecha Man!” Royd says excitedly, motioning with his hands..

I laugh and stumble. The bar had closed down and we were walking along the beach, trying to sober up before heading home, the cool coastal wind buffeting our hair. “It’s certainly an image!” I say, “And I wouldn’t say no to some more toys when things go to shit.”

Like they always would. 

“We could honestly put it together tomorrow,” Royd says, “We have most of the villain tech mapped out back in the Lab, it’d just be painting it, altering the casing a bit. Sizing some things down…” 

I stumble again and decide to beeline towards a bench, plopping into it with a bit more force than necessary. I probably overdid it. If I wasn’t going to keep up with Blonde Blazer and her Super constitution, then trying to keep pace with Royd was just straight stupidity. 

But we were celebrating. 

So it was fine. 

“Let's… hah, let’s get the pules and the suit squared away first,” I say, sitting down. “Besides, there’s not too much room in the cockpit for all that gear. We’d probably need to integrate it into other parts of the suit.” 

Royd sits next to me, and we spend a moment just staring out at the ocean. It’s too dark to see the waves, but we can hear them crashing on the sand, the smell of salt on the breeze. 

“It could be separate, you know.” Royd suddenly says. “From the Mecha Man suit. Smaller, less power, yeah, but it’d let you fight if…” he hesitates, “If you don’t have the suit,” 

I nod a bit, the alcohol and cold wind numbing my skin as I sat there. It felt nice. “I mean, I won’t say no. God knows I get into enough fights outside the suit as I do inside.” 

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I think I can see the moonlight reflecting off the water. My back is to all the bright lights of the city behind us. 

“But Mecha Man means something to this city. To everyone who lives here, they know that the big robot guy is here to help and will be here to help.”

I turn and shoot a wink to Royd. I have no idea if he can see it with the shadows falling across our faces. 

“Thats my family’s legacy,” I say, an emotional warmth contrasting against the physical cold I felt. “And I can’t just walk away from that. Leave it behind because it’d be more convenient to head out with a jet pack and plasma gun. They need the suit.”

Royd doesn’t respond, expression hidden by the night as I turn back to the ocean, breathing in the cold air, pushing down the small waves of nausea that reared up when I turned my head. It was true. It felt good to help people. To be the help that people recognized. The Hero of LA. 

…

But it wasn’t the entire truth. 

“You don’t have powers or the Mecha Man suit to protect you, Robert. You need to be careful. They need to be careful.” 

The truth was, I’d probably have died years ago if I didn’t have the suit to protect me. People think that being a hero is a lifelong job. And for some people, it is. But the data, the statistics and trends? When you filtered out the casual heroes, the day heroes, the random alien who crashed on earth for a few years while their planet fought in some galactic war. For the ‘lifers’. It was, on average, maybe two decades.  At some point, something would pull the hero away from their typical career. They’d lose a limb, or die in some big sacrifice, or get sent to an alternate dimension. 

Hell, in the last fifteen years, the Mecha Man suit had lost legs, arms, and the head once or twice. The absolute worst was my first big world-ending threat, where the suit had been torn in half, my teenage body falling out like an egg yolk. 

That was a bad week.

If it had been me in those fights, without that suit, without that protection. Those would have been my arms, my legs. It would have been worse because I wouldn’t have had any super resilience or super recovery to keep me going.

The suit was my armor. My power. What made me Mecha Man. 

A cloud shifts, and the light on the water dies out, leaving only darkness. I shiver slightly as the wind continues to blow relentlessly against me.

“I need the suit.”

I have a fuzzy memory of Royd driving my car home, dropping me off at my apartment with a wave. We spoke further. He had… he had asked something… something about when I was piloting the Mecha Man suit? Being a hero?

Whatever he asked, it bleeds into my dreams that night, flashes of old fights and close calls, all mixing together. It's hazy and confusing, turning from one memory into another, phantom pains of claws, burning, freezing, and pressure and pain.

The sound the suit gave as it was slowly being crushed in the maw of a kaiju, desperately pushing back to allow others to escape. Plasma blades slashing and cutting through dense vegetation as I moved towards the center of the city. To stop the…Coughing on the smoke, feeling the casing compress as the massive hand wrapped around the suit’s arms and legs.  The nauseous feeling of falling from the highest fucking skyscraper to the frozen city below, impacting the ice spears and snow drifts that caused me to tumble end over end. 

…

…

Staring and watching a burning mall blaze, the flames growing in intensity as I waited for the all clear from emergency services, confirming that everyone had been evacuated before engaging the unknown pyrotechnic villain inside.

Get Up.

And then it's morning, and I’m beadily opening my eyes, the sound of my alarm echoing around my apartment.

Beef is staring at my face, inches away, tail wagging slowly. 

I get my bearings, my eyes shifting to my window as the hint of sunrise begins to illuminate the sky. 

Beef whines. 

“Okay, okay,” I say with a huff, “I’ll get you breakfast, calm down.”

I drag myself to my feet with a groan. I feel my head swim slightly, pushing down the slight wave of nausea.

It’s halfway through my morning cup of coffee when it hits me. I had planned to work out this morning. 

Fuck.

I wear my exercise clothes out the door, my SDN uniform thrown into my bag. Thank god SDN had a gym and shower I could use. 

“You need some help?” 

This fucking guy. 

“You’re not supposed to life without a spot, idiot.” 

I strain against the bar, trying to at least keep it from touching my chest. I refuse to fucking die with Flambae monologuing at me. 

“So weak, so, so weak…” 

He re-racks the bar and I sit up and inhale, my muscles straining. My breathing is labored. 

“Now I’m getting a safety lecture from a walking fireball,” I grumble as my pulse begins to slowly even out. 

“It’s a reality check,” Flambae explains as he lifts the squat rack he had been loading up. Easily carrying the over three hundred pounds he had added to the bar. “Normies need babysitters so you don’t hurt yourself thinking you’re a hero.”

I shrug off the small wave of indignation and anger at his words. It was hard to take offense when you realize that he just had that big of an ego. It wasn’t personal, he was just a massively overconfident guy who ran his mouth and was lacking a bit in the brains department. 

“Thank you for being my babysitter, I will be more careful next time.”

“Fuck off,” he instantly shoots back, pausing midway through a squat. “Wait… that was genuine?”

Like I said, lacking. Just a bit.  

“No more hero stuff without supervision. You can’t get injured cause we need you behind that desk to help the real heroes.”

…

…

This round of anger was a little harder to shake loose. If most of SDNs dispatchers were recently retired heroes, I could easily see why others hadn’t lasted a day. 

“Actually, speaking of injuries, remind me– who took your tooth?”

His face drops into a scowl. 

“It’s like they only stole that little bit.” I continue, feeling the nugget of satisfaction dissipate my annoyance. For all of Flambae’s boisterousness and hot air, it was easy to deflate. The right joke or sarcastic comment quickly sets off his temper. Fuck, I had technically gotten one up on him twice, just by throwing shit at him. As much as he liked to think of himself as clever, it was like bantering with a five-year-old sometimes. 

Just with more swearing and threats of bodily harm.

“I got into a fight with an actual real actual hero. And I assure you; he’s regretting his decision to tangle with me.” Flambae snarls, pointing a finger in my face. 

The irony. 

“I imagine he’s regretting a lot of his decisions.” I say diplomatically. I’d probably regret it if I told him, with the literal explosive temper and all, but man… it’d almost be worth it.

“That’s right!” Flambae says, obliviously, “And you, it’s time for you to accept that you don’t got it anymore.” He puts a hand on my shoulder… to comfort me? “And pretending you still do is bumming people the fuck out. “

“Now, get your flat ass off my bench.”

...

...

It would be sooo worth it. 

I want to finish my workout out of protest, but having Flambae provide commentary on my workout routine would not do anything for the mild headache I still had at the base of my skull. I shower quickly and make for the breakroom, ready to grab a cup of coffee and enjoy the quiet before the morning shift fully starts. 

It was only just approaching the time when people would begin to arrive at the office, a few bodies meandering in through the lobby. Early birds. I’m able to make my cup of coffee uncosted and roll my chair to the window. Watching the trees in the courtyard. Whoever our landscapers were must have had someone with plant powers because you could hardly see where Flambae had burned some of the branches. 

If I hadn’t spoken with Royd last night, learning how close we were to the protopulse breakthrough, I might have taken personal offense to his comments. But he was wrong, fundamentally. 

I didn’t just still have it, but I was coming back, bigger and better than ever. And it was potentially just a week away… 

A week until I was Mecha Man again… 

I sit there, Beef on my lap, lost in thought before a voice pulls me back to the office. 

“Hey! Are you okay? Flambae said you almost died under some weights?”

“Something like that,” I sigh, spinning my chair and looking up at Blonde Blazer. “What’s up?”

“I just, had a great time the other night,” Blazer said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight. “And I wanted to see if-”

“Yo Robert! Is it true? You almost got squashed in the gym?” We both turn as Prism, Malevola and Sonar approach, a mixture of amusement and interest on all of their faces.

…

…

And a hint of concern on Prism’s?

“Okay, tales of the squishing are highly exaggerated.” I say with exasperation. “I would have been fine.”

“How close was it?” Malevola asks eagerly, “Were you at the point where you were blacking out? How much weight was on the bar? Were your lungs not able to-”

“Girl, you have the most fucked up hobbies.” Prism interrupts, quickly giving my body a once over. 

I raise my eyebrow. This better not be a repeat of that one day. “It’s kind of you all to check that I’m okay, but I am fine,” I say, emphasizing the last word. 

"You're a corporate slave working in a cubicle, by definition, your a sigma male."

"Again, you can't be saying 4chan shit like that," Malevola chides Sonar as the group turns away. "Just call him a fucking loser,"

"Or a basic depressed white bitch!" Prism says helpfully.

I sigh as the group heads off.  I turn back to Blonde Blazer. “Sorry, you were saying?”

She doesn’t say anything, staring after the three misfit heroes as they file into the breakroom. 

“Blazer?”

She starts, and gives me a quick smile. “Sorry, I was distracted. I wanted to ask you about-”

“What’s this bullshit I’m hearing about you getting done in by a bench press?” 

“Okay, is Flambae just standing in the lobby telling everyone who shows up?” I throw my hands in exasperation and frown at Chase. 

He frowns back. “How’d you guess?” 

…

…

“Hey! Fire and the fucking Flame! Stop harassing people as they show up for work!”

"Fuck off, Robbie Bobbie! It's my fucking safety tip for the day, all real heroes need to know what a bitch ass weakling you are so they can save you when you fucking drown in your coffee!"

After yelling at Flambae from the stairwell, Chase and I a good shift before we both head to our cubicles, minutes until the shift was supposed to start. 

The Z-Team is quick to snip and chatter this morning, talking about gasoline of all fucking things. 

“Alright, everybody, respectfully, shut the fuck up.”

“Who pissed in your cereal?”

“Now that’s some nasty shit.”

I groan; I really should not have tried to keep up with Royd last night. “Lets… do this.” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee. 

The morning shift starts slow. Only a kids talent show assignment coming in for the first half hour before….

“Mr. Vanderstenk has requested a rescue. VAND-GO workers are trapped after a tunnel collapse at the new station. Get them out safely… and discreetly.” 

“I feel like Vanderstenk is one divorce away from starting a robot uprising,” Invisigal complains as I assign her and Golem to the job.

“Yo, this Vanderstenk guy is a fucking clown.” Prism groans. 

“He’s a business genius,” Sonar replies hotly, “Everything he does is brilliant.” 

“Normally I’d defend you, but all of his project’s kind of suck? What is he even doing making tunnels under the city? Isn’t the West Coast like… where earthquakes happen?” Malevola asks.

“Top ten anime betrayals.”

“Just admit it Sonar, you're obsessed with a loser!” Prism teases.

“Isn’t this like the third time one of his projects is falling apart?” Malevola continues. 

“We’re busier because of him. We might as well call this guy a supervillain!”

“He’s a job creator!” Sonar stubbornly states.

“Actually, Prism is technically correct. Vanderstenk is technically classified as a Supervillain in a lot of hero databases.” I say midly, taking another sip of coffee. 

Caffeinated bliss. 

…

…

“What?” 

“What?” I ask, clicking to Golem’s location. “Something wrong in the tunnel?” 

“What do you mean he’s technically a supervillain?” Prism demands. 

I blink at the screen. “Because he is? He is a rich guy outsourcing mad science to other mad scientists all over the world. VandCo is basically one large conglomerate that funds most of the batshit labshit that you see on the news.”

“Slander and lies Robbie, and I resent the batshit comment.”

“If that’s true then why don’t heroes do anything? Shut it down, storm VandCo offices and shit?” Malevola asks. 

Chase hops on the line, surprisingly enough. “It’s all sneaky indirect funding. They comply whenever the government and courts begin to crack down on them, but their so big, its only ten percent of their fucking operations get caught in the legal system.” 

“For every lab or research facility who pauses research there’s some new start up or subsidiary that they pour more funding into. And when you spread the fuck ups that actually make the news across different cities, states and countries, it’s hard to build a case that the entire business is rotten,” I follow up.

“VandCo just has a well diverse offerings of biotech, space tech, nanotech, agriculture, GMO, crypto, software, hardware, food delivery apps, hospitals, retail stores, smart devises, electric vehicles, solar, wind, gas, nuclear, voting machines, robotics, artificial intelligence algorithms, school textbooks, security devices, tracking devises, mining rights, customer relations management databases, banking, forestry rights, power companies, water companies, and occult research labs. You can’t hate the player for winning the fucking game!” 

The line is silent as we all digest Sonar’s argument. 

“Do you have that memorized?” I ask curiously as Malevola and Prism continue to berate Sonar for his interest in VandCo.

With Los Angeles being one of the four cities around the world that Vanderstenk called home, I had monitored his activity as part of my daily Mecha Man routine. My weekly report would be compiled along with dozens of other heroes’ observations and compiled by a nonprofit hero company who operated out of South America. They aggregate the information and sent out a biweekly newsletter informing heroes, journalists, and activists about the company’s movement around the globe. 

They had relocated to South America last year due to Vanderstenk’s lawsuit having pushed them out of Europe. 

“They don’t do too much here thankfully,” I say, interrupting the Z-Team’s dogpiling of insults towards Sonar’s taste in trillionaire businessmen. “With the CEO in town, they don’t want anything villainous that’d be linked back to him directly.”

“No, just two dozen workers trapped in a tunnel under the city.” Invisigal snarks, “Completely innocent and not sus as fuck.”

“Exactly!” 

“Sonar… that was sarcasm babes,” 

And that’s when the fucking kids’ talent show breaks out into a brawl. 

With the absolute mess of some private elementary school parents having an utter meltdown over the results of a stupid talent show resulting in repeat call after repeat call. The broken sewage line is almost a welcome distraction and takes top place for the worst incident of the day until…

“A mysterious fire has broken out at the refinery; we got it under control but we can’t investigate the cause without all these dangerous fumes.”

“Flambae…” I groan, assigning Sonar and Golem to the call. 

As Flambae shouts denials I rub my face and glance into my empty coffee cup. Just one more hour… 

“Hey Robert, there’s these guys down here in the fumes.” 

“Then get them out of there Golem,” I sigh back, leaning down to pet Beef.

“I can’t… their kind of… attacking me?” 

I blink and straighten up, “Describe them, I’m getting eyes.” 

I quickly tie into the security cameras. They don’t do me any good, the smoke from the fire blocking visibility. But I could just barely make out figures running in the smoke. … red lights on their arms and legs.

“They have powers… and have like, glowing red rings on them?”

I curse, quietly, sending a ping to Blonde Blazer and Chase. If it went south, we could put in a call for back up. 

“Sonar, you get all that? You have Red Ring gang members on the scene. Proceed with caution.” 

“Dude this is great,” Sonar chirps back, a pleased tone to his voice. “They like…have their weaknesses marked for me. Like a video game.”

“Oh bro, I should aim for the lights? Thanks for the tip.”

I blink and watch bemused as the smoke slowly clears to reveal Sonar and Golem utterly dominating the fight. Golem subduing them only for a massive nine foot tall bat to land on them, slashing and biting.

Well then… who knew they had such synergy?

…

…

Such brutal synergy? I take another sip of my coffee as I watch them pick the Red Ring apart.

I sigh and groan slightly as I stretch. 

“Hey, I got one of these fucking healthy taquito shit in the freezer,” Chase says, pushing his chair out to lean behind the cubicle wall. “Want to split them?”

“I was going to do some work down in the lab, if you don’t mind the smell of sodder, sure.” I say, standing up. Beef gets up as well, staring up at me after shaking off his nap. 

“Great, go heat them up, I’ll meet you down there.” I stare as Chase heads off without another word. 

Fucking Chase. “Sure, thing Unc,” I call after him, heading to the break room, Beef trailing behind me.

“Beef! No!” 

 I quickly head downstairs to the lab, ready to dodge any other Z-team interrogations to try and gain something for their stupid bet.

“We don’t eat ceramic.” I tell Beef sternly. 

“Dare I even ask?” Chase asks, taking Beef and the plate from me. 

“They have a bet out for my hero identity, " I say wearily, “Whoever I was, I passed the dodging a sloppy thrown coffee mug test.”

“Idiots can’t even have a normal betting pool without making a mess, unlike the rest of the office staff.”

I pause. “There’s an office staff betting pool?”

“Of course, there fucking is. And Blazer won’t let me put any money down.” Chase snorts. “I could be two thousand dollars richer.”

I laugh as I walk over to the Mecha Man suit, grabbing the welding torch. With what Royd had said the night before, I’d need to finish up my last project so he could fully assemble the suit on Monday. 

“I heard the team scuffing with the Red Ring.”

I pause in between welds. 

“They run half the crime in the county. We were bound to bother them at some point.” I say off handedly.

“Watch yourself, you poke the hive you’re going to have to fuck the queen.”

Gross Chase. That made the Red Ring sound more like a sex cult.

“That’s not how bees work.” I deadpan. 

“You know what I mean.” Chase Insists.

 “I don’t actually, no one’s trying to fuck Shroud.” I reply quietly. Reaching in to adjust some of the plating. “But if we kill the queen, we rot the hive.”

If not the Z-Team, then Mecha Man. 

“You would do that? Kill Shroud?” 

The conversation stalls with the question, and I glance over at Chase. He’s watching me with an intense stare. I reflect on the question. 

“Cuz you might get the chance, and you don’t wanna go in there having to think about it.”

Would I kill Shroud? It’d have more than enough justifications; tales of family vengeance were not new. ‘My name is Indigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die’ and all that. 

He wouldn’t even be the first villain I had killed. I’ve left my collection of bodies over the years. Monsters and mutated supers caused by alien parasites, failed experiments, villains who chose to die in their schemes. Experimental reactor explosions, collapsing laird, failed rituals. 

Being a hero was conflict. And despite best efforts, fatalities and injuries happened. 

But intentionally, willfully…. 

Murder. 

There were endless debates on it. Each hero having their own moral code and standard they tried to aspire to. Dozens of podcasts, analysis channels online, articles and papers. The hero’s dilemma was one of the first essays they assigned to college ethics students and aspiring lawyers. 

When I first started… It was hard. I had wanted to be the best hero. Only the required force to get the job done and no further. Quick, clean, efficient. 

But fights aren’t clean. And I was sloppy with the controls. Without any tactile feedback my punches were too forceful. My landings and take offs with the jet pack cracking the pavement. 

I was rough. 

Thankfully it was par for the course of the LA hero roster at the time, but the first two or three years I was constantly feeling it out and adjusting. I practiced for two weeks along the beach ensuring I used the jet pack with the right amount of force. 

…

…

…

Then some ocean warlord ripped me out of the mech and for three days I had to fight outside the mech. 

That was rough too. Though that was by design. My dad had drilled it into my head: if I was outside the mech, I couldn’t pull punches, and I would fight as dirty as I needed to, to see the next day. 

 “If you're caught outside the mech, it’s life or death, no protection, no replacing broken bones. Whatever you do, you get up, get away and finish the fight by any means necessary.”

…

…

I don’t know if he realized how often I’d be outside the suit… 

A lot of those lessons had come with the assumption that I’d be part of the Brave Brigade… having other heroes to help delegate and team up with…That I could delegate tasks or have someone watch my back when I was outside the suit. That I would have options…

…

…

Would I even have the option with Shroud?

“I’m not sure,” I say quietly.  “Just going to have to wait and see I guess.” 

 Chase snorts, dissatisfied with my answer, “Just think about it, you want to be sure. “

 I sigh and set down the torch, going to sit next to Chase., picking up the other taquito. 

“Mecha Man is coming back to life one patch at a time.”

“One patch at a time.” I say with a smile, looking at the suit. 

It looks good. Streamline, the paint bright and fresh. New. The suit hadn’t looked this good since I was a kid.

It also was different. Upgraded. Mine. Dozens of small changes and alterations, completely reworked toolkit load out, tailored to how I usually fought in the suit. There would undoubtedly be kinks to work out, and everything was set to the lowest setting to not overload the protopulse, but it would still be night and day compared to what my options were last year.

“I mean Royd is doing most of the work though, right? “Chase says, shooting me a wink. 

“So much,” I say lightly, gesturing to the suit, “He’s probably going to redo all this shit.”

We run into Royd on the way out, and I snort in amusement.

“You doing alright, Royd?” 

I thought my hangover was bad, but whatever super fortitude Royd had to pack away all the drinks last night with ease, it didn’t extend to his hangover. Thick dark sunglasses and a massive coffee cup clutched in his fist as though it’s the only thing anchoring him to consciousness.

“Brother,” the friendly giant groans “I don’t know how’re you still standing after last night.” 

“Me? I’m not the one that put away a bucket of tequila last night.” I say, crossing my arms.

“My powers give me a resilience of about thirty to one, for baseline” Royd explains. “I was keeping up with you. My mistake.” 

I laugh, of course the science guy would have quantified his strength down to a specific ration.

“Well take it easy, you want the lights off?” I offer as we move past him to the exit.

“Please,” Royd pleaded.

Chapter Text

Oh, it's my turn, is it? Right then, best we be clear about things. 

No, this isn’t my natural height. A fucking sorceress did me dirty, and now I’m left looking at everyone’s arse on the bus or when I go shopping.

Yes, this is my real accent. No. I will not quote that fucking breakfast cereal commercial. Ask again, and I will break your fucking legs. 

And… yeah, the SDN job’s doing alright by me so far. 

I mean, don’t misunderstand. What they did to Coop was outright bullshit and the biggest mistake of their lives. I was seeing red when I learned, and I carried the chip on my shoulder for many a day. 

It’s Friday, lunch time, and the water lad brought some home-made potato salad, courtesy of his gran. It’s ain’t half bad, little heavy on the fill but I certainly can’t fucking complain. 

Waterboy’s alright. Kinda like a clown I knew back when I was doing tent life. So excited and scared to be living their dream that they trip over themselves and get so lost in their own head you had to pick them up and shake them out. 

No. We’re not talking about the circus. You're an imaginary person in me head and that time…

Staring in shock where the Ringmaster had landed, looking at my bloody fist with growing ho-

There’s nothing worth talking about from then on. Different life, new me, and all that. 

Technically, my third life. My four-year stint of being a bruiser for the different gangs and villains of LA was an interesting chapter. Fun time, got to hit with full abandon. 

 “Hey… Mr. Punch-Up… sir?”

I sigh, finishing my mouthful and meeting his gaze. Lad’s goggles and aggressively yellow outfit makes him look like a giant stretched toddler. 

“Just Punch lad, we talked about this.” 

He nods, “Mr. Punch… do you want to… can… I want to arm wrestle again!” He says with sudden conviction. “I… I think I can go longer!” 

I chuckle and nod, clearing the table before me. “I think I have four seconds in my lunch break I can spare.” 

Waterboy brightens and quickly moves to the other side of the table, a determined look behind his goggles. 

The problem with heroes was that their so fucking earnest. Blondie eats, breaths, and shits the corporate handbook, with all her skewed talks about professional development and synergistically meeting client needs and every other bullshit. The other SDN heroes with such black and white thinking we might as well be in some old timey picture film. Oh, he’s a bad guy? Well then, Ima good guy, so I’m not going to talk to you.” 

And now there was Waterboy, a baby hero tossed to the fucking wolves like the runt of the superhero litter to be eaten up. Only… he hadn’t. He didn’t fold his first day. He didn’t quit. He bounced back with all the annoying cheerfulness of a child's bouncy ball and now… God help me, I’m fond of the lad.

Anyway, the strength contest. It goes for four seconds again, and it’s barely a moment later that he’s asking for more. 

“Again! … I mean… if you… do you? I’d like to…”

I chuckle, “Sure lad, this’ll let me digest.”

And it continues, resetting, Waterboy counting down, and then me throwing his fist into the bar that separated the little kitchen from the rest of the SDN Hero’s Lounge.

The lounge is alright. If it was just us Z-teamers, it’d be great. Bar table in the kitchen, large, long couches in front of the telly. But it was for all the heroes of Torrance, so there was a constant stream of bodies coming in and out, especially during lunch. 

I watch as the magnet girl walks out the door, taking the tv remote off her forearm and tossing it in the direction of the couch as she leaves. 

“Hey Punch!” 

I slam the boy’s hand into the table again and twist to look. 

Malevola and Sonar, the two thick as… well I guess they both are thieves… or were theives. Actually, no. It was the present tense. Male had a history of portaling snacks on assignments from nearby convenience stores and Sonar was into that crypto shit. 

“Bat, Devil,”  I greet as I let go of Waterboy's arm. 

He steps back and tries to stretch out his arm. His face red with exertion. Sweat or maybe water beading off him. 

I wipe my hand on my pants and fully turn to the two other Z teamers. 

“We’re locking in the guesses on Robbie’s hero identity. Pots at over nine hundred right now, sure you don’t want in?” 

I grunt in thought stroking my mustache and chin. 

Robert Robertson, the fucking miracle man. Knew something about everything heroes and a tongue so sharp, I still can’t believe he’s powerless. 

And the only one to actually stick it out with us villains. I don’t think much of the dispatchers at SDN. Outside of Chase who was one of the only ones who’d complete shifts with us – mind you with a lot of cursing and screaming – all the others were weak, pointless fuckers who were more suited to coaching kids’ rugby instead of working with us. 

Except for the cat man. He was just fucking weird, never talking into the mic, just sending those emoticon thingies.

And here’s this skinny malnourished fuck, looking like so many of the runaways who’d come join the circus talking circles around Flambae and Sonar giving us workout routines of all fucking things for us to do our job better. 

Did I mention he’s fucking powerless? 

Bold man. Or a dumb one.

“Sure you don’t want to put down some dough?” Sonar asks Waterboy. 

“Ah no, no… gambling is…. Wouldn’t be right….” Waterboy says, quickly sliding off the barstool. “I’m going to go… prep for the shift!”

Malevola sides into his seat as he leaves the lounge. 

“Prism locked in Mecha Man. Put down three hundred on it.” And I snort. 

“Mecha Man’s an actual hero. There’s no way he’d be caught dead in a place like SDN, even without the suit.” 

I’d only seen the hero once, back before when I was running with the circus. Some villain with a giant drill was crashing his way through downtown and the man himself had commandeered part of the big top to jam it up. 

Our asshole of a ringmaster had tried to sue, and despite not having a legal leg to stand on, we had received a check in the mail. Just enough to cover a patch. Good fella. Regardless though, a hero like Mecha Man had way too many resources and connections to end up in a place like SDN with the likes of us. 

We were corporate, he was a real hero. What corporate tried to copy. 

“Well, she’ll be happy to know I plan to spend her three hundred on some of that wagyu steak shit.” I saw with a grin, “Gonna make a mean meatloaf.” 

I’d been turning it over the last week or so and I think I finally got it.

“Put four hundred down on a sidekick of Bronze Surfer.” Sonar whistles as Malevola takes out her phone and writes it down. 

“Not bad, small fry,” Sonar comments, “I don’t think anyone’s gone for a sidekick yet.”

I cross my arms in satisfaction. It’s the only thing that makes sense. With Robert being powerless, the pool of options was small. There was Mecha Man, the most famous out on the West Coast, Longshot up in Seattle, GND was a woman, and the few others that I knew about were still active, responding to emergencies and villain fights at the same time we had been on shift. 

But no one paid any attention to sidekicks. Maybe an article would come out when they went independent or if there was drama, but sidekicks were overlooked in a lot of ways. 

And if Bronze Surfer had anything, powered meathead whose strength made him invulnerable that he was, it was sidekicks and drama. Famous for the class action lawsuit filed by all the people he “saved”. Since then, he had a model of bringing on sidekicks that he’d quickly burn through, making them the scapegoats of his many unfortunate incidents that paired with unrelated ‘training incidents’ that saw those same sidekicks quickly retired and removed from heroics.

Bronze Surfer migrated up and down the California coast, fleeing the bad publicity that followed him and he had just left LA a month before Robert started. 

 Everyone knew heroes were all just bastards who’d manage to hide their ugly side. And powerless, sarcastic, determined Robert probably made a perfect punching bag for someone like the Surfer. Determined, willing to stay in despite common sense, get beaten and bruised, all in the name of ‘training him up’. Fit his profile perfectly.  

There was a surf contest down in San Diego that Bronze Surfer would be traveling to in about two months. By then, Robert would hopefully start joining the team out for drinks and I’d be able to bring it up in conversation next time we had a hot day. Then the truth would come out, and I’d have my whiskey money for the next year or two and a celebratory meatloaf. 

I hop down off the barstool and stretch, waving Sonar and Malevola off as I stroll out of the Hero Lounge. 

In some ways it made him perfect for SDN. Give him a nice desk to set up in, breath and relax after years of a super asshole abusing his body and then let em still make a difference and help people. 

And that’s the gripe about Robertson, isn’t it? He’s helping us. He tried to help Coop, even though I didn’t know of that until after. He’s been helping all of us with tailored exercises and ways to grow as heroes. Fuck, he even does that thing where he just starts talking about the kind of hero you could be and how people will see you and you just let the man monologue because he tells such a nice tale. 

I breathe in the late spring air and exhale slowly. It was important to stop and smell the roses of Torrance, even if your roses were motor oil and leftover vape fumes from a walking Bratz doll of a coworker. 

I didn’t always appreciate calm or quiet, used to make me itchy, but after having the constant chaos that the Turtle games seemed to entail, it was nice to be outside with no one trying to punch you. 

Or throw a large-sized soda at you. 

Seriously their teams a fucking Aesop’s Fable, you think they’d learn to take life at a pace slower than a bar brawl. 

“No, no, it's step, step, slide, then a clap. Not a clap during the slide.”

“Does it fucking matter? It’s all one motion anyways!" 

I pause as I get to the loading dock. Prism and Flambae are there side by side as the girlie points to something on the smart phone. 

“See? Who cares if I hip bump before or during the slide? I still end on my left foot for the hair wipe! It’s the same fucking thing!” 

“Bitch, I know you have eyes, it is not the same!”

This image right here was a good example of the weird effect Robert was having on us all. 

Prism was a hoity-toity insta-star while Flambae was just a flaming asshole. Not only did they both nearly kill each other the first week Prism joined the Z-Team, but Prism had used her internet fan following to manufacture assignments for her while Flambae literally set half the fires he was then sent to put out. 

Completely rotten, opposite ends of the dumpster, nasty no good alleyway villains. A dime a dozen in Los Angeles. 

“And then hip shake, hip shake, turn and sliiiiide baby!” 

Now here they were, practicing the clock dances so Flambae could teach his niece and her friends tomorrow.

The music starts up again and I wander off, talking the long way to get to the courtyard around the building.

It had happened to all of us. Either through some random conversation while working or directly talked through during the morning training sessions he had begun to host twice a week or even in the fucking stickers he handed out on Fridays. Robert had won us all over. Wanting that story he told us. Of using potential, of being heroes.Someone who could still make something of themselves, helping people. Someone that the world looked up to…

…

…

Oh, fuck off. You know what I mean. 

Shit goes sideways after lunch. Golem is just heading out for the first call when the power goes out. 

“Fuck me, I was watching shit!” Prism curses, glaring at the dim bulb in the hero lounge. 

The team call fills with comments and jeers, complaints to Robert about the building outage. I begin to slowly navigate outside, using the emergency lights, pausing as the towering figures moved in the darkness. That was the problem with being of short stature, in an emergency, in the dark, no one’s going to be watching underfoot.

“If you can make a light, then shoot one over here,” I mutter, grabbing Waterboy’s hand as I walk by. The lad would probably honestly get lost in the building during the outage, by pure virtue of getting out of everyone's way so often, he’d back into a supply closet or locker.

I sigh in relief and shoot a glance at Waterboy as the power turns on, a distant hum as some generators spins up. 

“The whole city’s out. Guys, this is an all-hands-on-deck situation.” 

“It’s not even late, just open a window or some shit,” Invisigal snarks as we both make our way outside. 

Robert was right, I could just see the streetlights across the parking lot, the lights dark and dim.

“It’s not about the reading lights, Visi,” Robert shoots back across the call, his voice gaining a tone of exasperation. I never knew there were so many tones of unimpressed, tired, exasperated and every other emotion on the road to being pissed off before I had this man yapping in my ear all day. “It’s about the old retirees whose ventilators or air conditioners just crapped out on a hot spring day, the fucking cars who ran the lights, and the idiots who in the next hour, will kill their phones doomscrolling and stranding themselves in the city because no one knows how to read a fucking map anymore.” 

The call’s silent, only the sound of keystrokes audible for a moment. It was right fucking there. The Robertson magic of just saying this shit like it's obvious. Because then it feels like it should have been fucking obvious in hindsight. Cuz yeah, last time the circus got caught in a blackout, we were stuck till the end of it. We had generators and all the concessions to snack on, so we didn’t have to go anywhere, but the roads were choked with folks. 

“...Fuck IT. I’m gonna get the grid back up and running. Be ready because shit’s gonna be insane the minute the lights turn back on.” Robert says shortly. 

Waterboy begins pacing and I thump him on his lower back as he passes by. “It’ll be fine lad,” I try to reassure the string bean. 

He glances down at me in skepticism, “I don’t… where I…. it’s an emergency!” He waves his hands in the air. “Like… actual trouble!” 

I raise an eyebrow. “Like we haven't been savin’ people the last few days? And while a power outage may be bad, it got nothing on a fire or earthquake.”

“Or alien invasion,” Waterboy mutters and I suppress the shiver that I feel climbing up my spine. 

“No aliens, just some dead batteries,” I give him a grin, “We’ll be fine!”

Whatever he says is interrupted as phones chime, our first assignment in. 

“Looting!” Exclaims Waterboy “I’m… I’m on my way!”

I click my tongue. Cars pile up and clear the road with Malevola for emergency access. “Remember to keep in close, spray them in the eyes,” I give a wink. 

“Isn’t that…ah… unsportsmanlike?”

“No such thing in love and war!” I say as one of Mal’s reddish pink portals opens up next to us. “Long as you get the job done, and you got all your fingers and toes by the end of the day, that's what matters!”

“Oo… okay! I’ll-”

Whatever he says gets cut off the second I clear through the portal, the quick whiff of sulfur assaulting my note before it clears and a street is laid out before us. 

Several cars are crashed in the middle of the intersection, car alarms, smoke and some calls for help filling the air. Malevola takes a step next to me, inhaling deeply. 

“Oh yeah… there’s someone dying under all that,” Malevola says, gesturing to a tangle of metal that might have once been two or three cars. 

I jab her in the leg, and she kicks out at me as I start jogging over to where she indicated. “Then let’s stop them from dying, you can do your masochism thing and then they’ll be right as rain.” 

“Not what it’s called,” she says over her shoulder, quickly outpacing me as she approaches the end of a wrecked truck. 

“Damn, that’s a nasty broken nose! That airbag really fucked you up! Can I have it?” she grins in through the broken window. 

“Ahhh! Devil! She wants my nose!”

I roll my eyes and continue to the worst of it; a Prius flipped on its side. “Hello! Can you hear me? We’ll be…” 

We both continue to work our way through the intersection, seeing to each car. A few civvys come and help, some folks with basic first aid, allowing the demon and I to focus on the next collision. 

After the roads cleared I’m assigned to another fucking Turtles game, which is honestly a little fucking cathartic. Nothing like a couple taps to the family jewels to remind some drunkards the cost of throwing hands. 

Waterboy’s there, and I let him get into the middle of it, bailing him out only when it the mob tries to gang up on him. 

…

…

What? It’s character building! Besides, he’s getting more and more mobile dodging punches and hot dogs, and it gives me time to sneak in close. It was always good to hit the stadium with the lad. No matter if the fans threw soda or hot dogs or the mustard dispensers, he could always hose us off afterwards. 

 We’re able to get back to SDN quicker now that the main roads are cleared but the coms are still alive with chatter.

“These college baby bitches!” Prism snarls, “The hot boxed a lifeguard tower, who the fuck does that?” 

“They’re not coming down?” Robert asks, the sound of his keyboard typing a near constant whenever he spoke. 

“Whatever they're on, it's an upper, keeping them feral.” Malevola chimes in, much calmer than Prism. “I could break their arms, drag them out, then heal them? It’d be quick and relatively painless.”

“Yeah, no,” Robert quickly shuts down, “Broken bones don’t go in the same sentence as painless. Just… use your portal. Put it on the ground of the tower and dump them in the parking lot.”

“I meant painless for us…” Malevola mutters, but the line quiets down, and I chuckle, kicking my feet off the edge of the loading dock. 

Malevola was a riot. Weird spooky demon shit with every other sentence, always down to make some mischief. 

Good lass. 

“Back in my day, you just had to give those kinds of hooligans a good thrashing,” I say conversationally. “Taught them what the limits were, you just-” 

“Fuck! Rob Dog? Those Red Ring fucks are here at VandLabs. After the serum shit.”

“Put me in, Bobbie!” I call out, jumping to my feet. “I’m ready!” 

“Nope, you’ll join Blonde Blazer to downtown. Flambae and Golem can handle them.”

“You don’t think I can handle them?” I ask, feeling a wave of indignation passing through me, the hot emotion sweeping into my arms. Just fucking typical, just because I’m barely half the man of-

“No… I think you can more than handle it, which is why I’m sending you with Blonde Blazer into the clusterfuck that Downtown is right now.” Robert replies dryly, keys continuing to click away, ignoring my temper tantrum.

I feel myself deflate slightly. “Oh… Roger that.”

I forgot. He didn’t give a flying rat's ass about my height. Fuck, I hadn’t seen the man stumble or stutter over any topic when dealing with the firecrackers that were on the Z-team. He’d trade barbs with Prism, shrug off every sexual comment Visi gave, and waved off Flambae and Sonar and all the rest of us fucks with where any other hero would have quit and anyone from the streets would have thrown a punch. 

“Miss Blazer!” I greet, shrugging off the thoughts and jogging to meet up with the towering blonde. "Aren't you looking as radiant as ever?” 

“Hi Punch,” she says shortly, stowing away her phone. “We’ll be moving a bit quick to get there, you don’t get motion sick, do you?” 

Without waiting for an answer, she grabs my hand and a feeling of weightlessness falls over me. I’m barely able to note the lightness before there’s a jerk and we’re both soaring through the sky.

“Fucking hell,” I breath as the city of Torrance quickly falls away form us. 

“Pretty nice, right?” Blonde Blazer comments as we quickly turn and orient ourselves, the skyscrapers of Downtown LA quickly growing closer. “We’ll be hooking up with Pom Pom and Brainbook. They called me in to help with an underground tunnel that had some people trapped. 

“They run with the polite lizard fella,” I say, casting my memory back. “Sugartalker, right?”

“Sweetalker,” she corrects, glancing at me curiously, “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”

I try to shrug, “We crossed paths, exchanged some words.”

The truth was it was a right good conversation, even if the assignment was a bit strange. The bus driver and teachers seemed more than capable of handling the little tykes, so instead Sweetalker and I just stood by, staying between the school class and the fight as they made their way further from the road. He didn’t look at me like I was food, the way some beastie types did, and he had this odd trill sound in the back of his throat at the end of sentences. He’d asked about the Z-Team and how things had been running in Torrance. Got me thinking on some things.

 “Good fella,” I say shortly as Blazer shifts and we rapidly approach the ground, homing in on a rooftop. 

I raise an eyebrow as we approach the main VandCo building, the headquarters for the North American Operations. Big blue neon letters still lit up despite the blackout. We come into land on the roof, next to two very recognizable heroes. 

“Oh my gosh! Blonde Blazer! Hiiii!” Pom Pom says with a grin, bounding over to where we land. Her blue, white and orange cheer pompoms hang from the back of her hero outfit. “And who’s this short king?” 

I raise an eyebrow, it was always fifty-fifty if someone commented on me height, another fifty-fifty on if they meant it good or bad. The first time anyone had called me a Short King though. 

 Pom Pom wasn’t that taller than me, closer to Visi’s height than any of the other heroes that all seemed to tower at six foot or higher. Still she leaned over me with an almost manic smile.

“Pom Pom, this us Punch-Up,” Blazer introduces, quickly moving past the woman. Pom Pom turns and follows like a dog trailing after Blazer. 

“But how have you been, girl? You need to get out of Torrance more often! We like… never see you anymore now that P-Man and you split! You know he doesn’t work downtown anymore? You could, like, totally come through!”

…Fuck me, she had a valley girl accent. 

“Blazer,” Brainbook greets, only glancing up from a laptop, “Perfect timing, we could use your help.”

Brainbook was one of those heroes that, if you didn’t know the name or face, you’d be blown away when you hear the types of scraps she’d been involved in. Walking away from fights looking no worse than a hair out of place, generally working on some scheme in the background to save the day.  

“I also brought Punch-Up, one of the heroes from Torrance. Book, what’s the situation?”

I cross my arms and offer a nod at the towering businesswoman, puffing my chest out with slight pride. Blazer hadn’t even mentioned the Phoenix Program. In the past, heroes had warned others about us, emphasizing that we were in training or that we needed to be watched carefully.

…

…

It said a lot that Blonde Blazer felt that she didn’t need to say that here.

 “I… see.” Brainbook says, examining me before looking back to Blonde Blazer. “The entire tower went into lockdown when the grid went down, a section of the tower was undergoing renovations and had several contractors installing part of the new defense system. When they lost power, something happened that accidentally started a fire that triggered said defense system. Since their just contractors are not in the system and now gun turrets are keeping them trapped in a supply closet. We need to get them out.”

“I got this Blazer, drop me in, I’ll smash them tin cans and have the civvys out in a jiffy,” I say, flexing my fists.

“Woah, slow your roll Mr. Punch, our contract with Vandco means we have to minimize damage as much as possible.”

I blink, “Isn’t the CEO a bad guy? We really care about smashing the rich man’s toys?” 

Pom Pom and Brainbook stare at me. 

“Ah, Vandco owns a controlling share in SDN,” Blazer says to me in a low voice. 

“So… that means…?” I tilt my head, not understanding. Was this some of the politics bullshit? Did that mean we were on the man’s payroll? Weren't heroes supposed to not take bribes?

“Means we’re not going to break the multimillion-dollar robots and instead we need to run a line down to a server room.” Brainbook sums up, pointing to a wound cable next to the laptop, “Buildings insulated against any kind of signals, so instead we have about a mile of cable here.” 

“I’m going to run it down! Find a server room and then boom! Construction workers saved and not a dollar of damage for the incident report.” Pom Pom says with a grin.

“Then what do you need us here for?” I ask. 

“The defense network’s going to trigger once we break into the elevator shaft. An energy grid.  We needed a hero to stay up here and keep the hole open. Stop it from cutting the line.” 

“That sounds easy enough,” I say, relaxing. Babysitting a cable would be a piece of cake.

“But now we got a two for one special! So now we both get a Torrance buddy!” Pom Pom says excitedly. 

“Great…” I start to say before she’s suddenly right in my face. 

“I call dibs!”  She chirps before putting an arm on my shoulder. 

I blink. “What?” 

“Oh, I don’t think Punch up is quite ready for- “

“Ohhh it’s fine! He can squeeze in with me! I’ll watch him! Totes promise! Listen, you able to jump when needed?” 

“I can control my weight, makes getting around a bit easier when I need to.” I say cautiously. It didn’t do to give every detail of your power to a stranger. Famed hero or no.

“Then it’ll totally work! Listen! Mini-fist and I will take it down, Blazer watches the top, buddy system!” 

“Punch-Up,” I correct. Trying to keep up with the conversation.  “And I don’t have a problem crawling through-”

I’m cut off as the lass pulls me along with a surprising strong grip, tossing me in the air with a flip, hand standing onto the cable next to Brainbook and following through in time to catch me, grate of an air vent before us. One hand with the end of the cable, other end holding me.

“I’m not luggage you know,” I complain as her one arm wraps around my back, like I’m some dog.

“I know!” She says with a grin before kicking the grate open, screws snapping as it flies back. “Back in a bit!” She calls over her shoulder and before I can even twist my head to look at Blazer, Pom Pom jumps and we’re falling into darkness.

“You know Tim’s been trying to recruit Blazer for like… forever? But she keeps on staying in Torrance. What’s so good about Torrance?”

I fucked up. 

“Well…there’s… some good night markets,” I say, jumping to another support beam. 

“But it's fucking Torrance. It’s like… the armpit of Los Angeles, and not the fun sexy kind.”

“I… didn’t know armpits could be sexy,” I try to reply. 

I really fucked up. Pom Pom wouldn’t shut the fuck up. The topics shifted too quickly, her train of thought more like a fucking chicken, the way it meandered, deviated, and twisted back in on itself. 

“Oh, there totally are! Like you! What armpit did Blazer find you under?” 

…

…

Nope. I’m not touching any of this. 

“I’m Phoenix Program, ma’am’” I say gruffly as I watch her fall for two stories, kick off the wall and do more flips than I could count before landing on the elevator roof. We had been moving for twenty minutes, and by my last count, we had another eight floors to go before we even got close to the server room. 

“Ohhhhh! That’s what we hadn’t met before!” Pom Pom gives me a thumbs up as I fall three stories, electing to just indent the metal instead of trying any of the fucking acrobatics she seemed prone to. “You have that new Dispatcher! Robin! Right? How’s he been doing?” 

“It’s Robert, actually,” I say shortly. 

“Robert! Right! He’s stuck around for like… a while, no? What was the count? Eight dispatchers in two months?” 

“Nine. And he’s been sticking with us, by and by.”  I hesitate before I jump down again. He’d done more than stick with us… Damn. And Robert was just a guy.

Trying his best. 

“He’s a good man,” I say gruffly, jumping off and falling another two stories. Sometimes you need to just call a spade a spade.

“Ohhhh, I bet he is!” Pom Pom chirps, jumping down next to me. “He must have something special to keep you all in line. So, what does he have? Clairvoyance to foil all your plans? Mind control? Oh! Oh! He’s magic right? Magic always trips people up, it’s hilarious!” 

“Robert doesn’t have any powers.” 

Two floors left. Or was it three? 

Pom Pom doesn’t join me for the next two stories; I’m left clinging to a railing with one arm, looking up at her. 

“What?”

I roll my eyes, “He don’t have any powers and he’s doing just fine with us. Are you going to come down here, or can you just toss the damn cable?”

Pom Pom drops next to me, and her eyes are wide as I focus on prying open the elevator door.

“I… how? You have that arsonist and the drug bat! The Bone Zone describes half of you as feral maniacs!”

“We’re not that bad!” I protest, my mind briefly flashes through a few… select memories. Flambae and the previous dispatcher's car, cackling over the Kia, Sonar snorting kilos worth of drugs at once. “We do alright as a group of maniacs.”

…

…

Robert throwing the chair at Golem, not to yell at him or hurt him, but to scold him. Robert pulling off his shirt instantly, coordinating the team to get Prism medical attention. Robert telling me about STARS… what he tried to do for Coop as I hand signal Malevola to redirect the next attack. 

“Well… apology accepted I guess,” Robert said with a bemused expression on his face, like it was abnormal for someone to be remorseful for almost killing the lad. “But if you’re pissed at me for something maybe just tell me to fuck off next time?”

He may have only had sidekick training, but the lad was trying his fucking best and didn’t hesitate before helping any of us.

“And he’s the craziest son of a bitch on the team,” I say with a grin. 

We’re on an actual fucking floor now, and Pom Pom side eyes me as she passes, heading down the hallway. 

“No wonder Sweetalker’s curious about Torrance,” she mutters, before opening a side door, the cable trailing behind her. I peer in, and a massive computer room stares back at me, towering refrigerator-sized electronics lined out into the distance. 

“Is the power back on?” I ask, examining all the flashing lights. 

“Generators,” Pom Pom calls back as she examines one of the towers. “Vandco has like… a generator on every floor to keep this place operational. Aha!” 

She wiggles the cable into the tower and the end lights up green. 

“Connection secured!” She cheers, doing cartwheels back towards me. “Race you back up to the top?” 

I blink. What? 

She’s gone before I can utter a word, backflipping and stand flipping and cartwheeling and whatever the fuck you call all those complicated cheer routines and is back in the elevator shaft before I can make my way out of the server room. 

Back… up… to the… 

…

…

Great.

“Fucking heroes and with fucking stupid color schemes and fucking…

Chapter Text

Blazer finds me only seven or eight stories up from where Pom Pom leaves me. I’m huffing and puffing, my strength pulling me up easily, but the cardio getting to me as I’m forced to constantly jump. If it wasn’t for Robert’s devil inspired pacer test, I’d say it was some of the worse work I’d done since coming to SDN. 

“Hey, I’m so sorry about Pom Pom, she can be a bit forgetful.” Blazer apologizes and she quickly grabs my hand. Quickly weightlessness encompasses my form, and we begin to quickly float up the elevator shaft. 

“I gathered that,” I mutter as I take deep breaths, enjoying the weightlessness. 

“You know…” Blazer says after a moment, passing floors in seconds instead of the minutes it had taken me. “You can also alter your weight, right? In theory, you could get close to flying like this, make yourself as light or lighter than air.”

I twist my head to look up at her. 

“At the very least you could jump further. Just a thought,” she says quickly increasing our speed. 

I don’t say anything, watching the scaffolding and chables within the shaft pass us in a blur as Blazer flies us out. She wouldn’t have said that before. Offer some new insight into any of the Z-team’s powers. There had been enough muttering at SDN before Robert got there. No one had wanted us to improve because no one expected us to stick with Heroics. All of them just waiting for us to return to villainy and break the law. 

And now she was telling me I might have a way to fly on my own…

…

…

The fresh air and sunlight is welcomed as we breach the roof, an odd grey sludge built up by the ends of the grate.

“So sorry about that Little Fist!” Pom Pom says flippantly from where she’s hand standing next to Brainbook. “I thought you’d move quicker! But I guess this counts as my win, hmm?” 

“It’s Punch-Up,” I say shortly. I was of half a mind if I wanted to run another mission with Pom Pom again. One one hand I’d avoid being subjected to her endless chatter. On the other hand there was a future chance I could push her off a building.

“Everything good?” Blazer asks Brainbook, “No problem freeing those contractors?”

“Hmmm?” Brainbook hums, not looking away from the laptop as she continues to furiously type. “Oh yeah, they're free.”

I glance over her shoulder as Blazer sets a hand on my shoulder, both of us begining to rise. It looked like Brainbook was reading through… spreadsheets? 

“Okay, we’re going to go,” Blazer says, lifting us even farther from the rooftop. “Need to make sure Torrance is still standing.” 

Pom Pom gives a wave and Brainbook wholesale ignores us as Blazer quickly flies off, the two of us making our way back towards home. 

“So… How was Pom Pom?” Blonde Blazer tries to ask casually, “I know she can be a bit of a gossip.” 

“She seems a couple pumps short of a full balloon, but plenty skilled. Very… flippy,” I muse, glancing down at the streets. Some streetlights were back on and there were fewer emergency vehicles on the road. Reminded me slightly of some of the circus acrobats, if they had decided to flip and jump and dive all the fucking time instead of keeping it to show nights.

“Yeah, she was another idol recruit, bit like Prism.” Blazer explains, “Super Cheer team at the Super Bowl, then joined SDN up in Chicago. Was transferred out here a few years ago.”

“Is there a lot of that transferring going on?” I ask, “Seems like the bossman’s trying to transfer you to downtown.”

“It’s common for the organization,” Blazer says, “People move, teams need certain coverage or specialty skills. Once you graduate the Phoenix program, you and the rest of the Z-team might get some offers too.”

…

…

Oh.

The Phoenix Program took our rap sheets, our list of crimes, our debt to society and spat out a number. The amount of ‘good’ we needed to do under SDN until we would be considered to have ‘earned’ our pardon. It required almost a year of good behavior, the signatures of two dispatchers and our Branch Manager to sign off on it. Any major damages or fuck ups just added to that amount owed or until SDN decided to give up and turn us back over to the different super prisons we had been taken from.  Until we paid it off, we’d be stuck in Torrance or wherever SDN wanted to station us, unable to move of our own accord.

…

…

None of us had actually thought we’d pay it off. It had been a pipe dream, so we settled for mischief and entertainment instead. Flambae with the last dispatcher's car two months back had added on another five months to his time in the program, Golem ignoring the property damage caused by his fights, adding up days and weeks each time he went out. 

But now… I pause at the thought. I could… I could actually see it, that life beyond the pardon. I hadn’t for the longest time. The only thing after SDN in all of our minds was either one last wild ride and death in a blaze of glory, or prison. 

But now I could see… something. It was hazy, but relaxing. Coming in, taking calls and assignments, helping people, maybe save up some money. I could get out of the city, maybe find a nice town or even see about returning home to find work…

Lifting children onto my shoulders, laughing as I stand outside the big top-

No… I can’t… I’m not… 

…Fucking hell. You might as well know. But I’m only saying this once. Or thinking about it. Or whatever the fuck this is. 

I had hurt my back. The circus was in San Diego when the aliens came to fuck with every major city, and our brightly colored tent made a nice target for their first bombardment. We had gotten out fine, no deaths or fatalities like so many other people in those first two weeks, but it was touch and go. 

No one wanted carny freaks taking up their emergency shelter space. Not especially with the big cats that Sheela was carrying around. What little we did have we had to fight for. And I had gotten hurt, some rogue wandering villains raiding our little set up we had pulled together with the tent fabric and some of the food trucks that some of the locals had brought with them. 

A little traveling refugee camp worked pretty well until… 

Anyways, I’d try to hold them off and get sent flying for my troubles. I was tall back then and landed directly on a metal fence. Broke me back in three places. 

Woke up two days later with the camp split, everyone for themselves, and only myself, a few of the acrobats, Shella and the Palm Reader camped out in an alleyway they had blocked off. 

It was bad. We were all desperate. And the Palm Reader knew some magic. Nothing big time, or nothing that she brought to the circus. 

I had asked for help, to remove the pain from my back, to let me be of use to the family again. None of us said it, it's cliche to say when your circus had been going for three generations like how the brothers ran it, but it was true. They were my family. I just couldn’t stand not being one of the ones to help them get through it.

And the Palm Reader… Well, she told me the risks. 

It was a ritual. Apparently, an easy one back then. With people dying left and right, it was easy for her to just…expand the ritual ring a bit. Capture a bit of the energy or aura or whatever the fuck is released when people die. When their souls are cut from their body. 

Anyways, the pain, along with most of my back was gone, and I was able to help again. I was made strong. 

Too strong. 

Punching aliens? Easy. Don’t hold back and watch their fucking armor and shells crumple and crunch. 

But lifting people. Grabbing their arms and hands, lifting them… 

“I’m so sorry Sheela! I’m so”

“Don’t! Just don’t touch, Colm,” Sheela grits out, holding her dislocated arm awkwardly. “I can just-”

Hells, even just punching an idget for being an idget… didn’t go well.

“Hey… don’t worry about it.” Blonde Blazer interrupts, pulling me from my thoughts, “It’s years away. Unless you go and save the city, you won’t have to worry about your transfer options for a good while.”

I shake myself and look down at Torrance. The sky and pavement around SDN is still full of heroes exiting and entering. I look down and spy Sonar gliding back from his assignment. Flambae quickly behind him. Whatever mess at that lab apparently handled. 

“Yeah… I suppose, HOLY SHITE!” 

I yelp as Blazer takes us into a dive, dropping additional fifty feet to give an airplane more clearance. She takes us to a standstill, and we turn and watch it, the plane headed towards the airport. 

 “Is that going to…” I begin to ask. Blazer frowns and we hover a few feet in the direction of the airport only for a massive pink refracting fucking shite to light up that half of the city. 

“Looks like they have it handled,” Blazer says as we watch a massive hell portal split the sky, the plane following the weird light shit that Prism had set up over the runway. 

“I’ll say…” 

We both continue our way back to SDN Torrance, touching down at the front. The second Blazer touches down, she pulls out her work phone.  

“It looks like things are calming down finally… Have a good rest of your shift, Punch.”

I stare after her as she turns and heads into the building. “You too…” I say faintly. She’d wish us a good shift, but it was always… artificial. Corporate cheer to try and get us off our arses. Not this… casual, benign thing. Like wishing anyone from the Z-team a good shift was normal.  

Like we were actually heroes. 

“Welcome back, how was downtown?” Robert asks, his tone unchanged from when I had heard him last.

“Didn’t get to see shit, was mainly climbing up and down an elevator shaft,” I say, walking into the hero’s lounge. I snag a glass of water and head to the couch where most of the Z team was congregating. 

Flambae, Golem, and Waterboy are there already, with Sonar walking in from the other side, already transformed into his skinny self. 

“How were the Red Ring fucks?” I ask, kicking my feet back as I hop next to Waterboy. 

“Fuckers are so fucking dumb. Using their fucking metal shit to boost their loser powers.” Flambae complains.

Golem grunts, he’s closer to six feet today when I think he was around eight or nine when we started. Or maybe he was closer to five? Look, after a certain point, everyone’s just ‘tall’ with the super tall people just ‘real fucking tall.’ Unless it's around four six, I don’t pay attention to the numbers. Just which angle I’m craning my neck to see them. 

“Had to subdue them with mud,” the Big Guy says, “Otherwise, they’d keep getting up.”

“That’s what’s so fucking cool with enhancements,” Sonar says excitedly, not noticing or not caring the glares and side eyes sent his way. “The recovery and healing is like, super boosted, you could get stepped on by a kaiju and be ready to go in a few minutes!”

Flambae opens his mouth to snark back, only for one of Malevola’s portals to signal her return. 

Then fucking pink and blue flashbang that shoots out of it also signals Prism’s return as well. 

“Woo! I’m stacking all the wins today, bitches!” Prism yells, stumbling into the hero lounge. “Did anyone else land a fucking plane? I don’t think soooooo!”

“She’s a bit loopy from having to guide it into my portal.” Malevola groans, “Maxed out her powers and it's messing with her head or some shit. Someone make sure she doesn’t pass out?” 

The demon collapses next to Sonar, clearly exhausted. Her tail limply snaking out to snag the coffee mug that was on the table.

“Bitch! I am only high off of life! We saved that fucking plane, I’m on a god damn streak, I’m getting a collab in the works! Been fucking acing all my calls! And I’m going to get an extra thousand when you all fucking lose!”

“Telling you, he’s the Guttenator,” Malevola insists, flipping the bird to the Prism, no heat behind it. 

“No, no, no, he’s the Bronze Surfers old sidekick,” I say, leaning forward, “No man gets that thrashed over with powers.”

“Ya’ll have been sleeping on Robert’s Sherlock shit,” Prism says smugly, waving a finger at us. “The timeline fits, the training fits. There’s only one hero without power who's been in enough fights to collect that number of scars and that’s the Mecha Man.”

“What? That’s bullshit,” Flambae says, a scowl on his face. “Robert isn’t…” He pauses, as though considering the idea before shaking his head, “Theres no fucking way he’s that super ass loser. He’s too much of a bitch to be Mecha Man. Besides, Mecha Man’s like a snail, all the scratches on the shell, not the soft gooy inside.”

“Then put more money down bitch!” Prism laughs, kicking up her feet. “What was your fucking bet again? God damn Longshot? If he’s too much a bitch to be Mecha Man, then there’s no way he's a pro like Longshot.”

Waterboy speaks up. “You could say it's a … long shot?” 

…

…

The group errupts in laughter. Flambae further sulking and scowing at Waterboy.

“That’s my boy!” I laugh, thumping his back. I accidentally sent him flying out of his seat and onto the coffee table. 

I swallow the small nugget of guilt and hop up to help the lad up, offering a sheepish smile. 

That was the great thing about being on the team and working SDN. Everyone could take it. Even if I was too rough at times.

Robert’s body flying over me, crashing into the pavement behind-

Mostly. 

“So, there is a personality under all that anxiety!” Malevola says, toasting the coffee mug towards Waterboy.

“Puns? Cringe.”

“Whatever, longshot or not, he’s not fucking Mecha Man” mutters Flambae, crossing his arms. 

“Punch, Flambae, Waterboy, got Red Ring messing with a train shipment. Final mission of the day, so let’s make it count.” Robert’s voice calls out over the coms causing the three of us to sit up.

I cheer, slapping Waterboy on the back, “I love punching to end my day!” After the last mission I needed to hit someone or five. 

Waterboy doesn’t fall this time and turns to look back with a small smile. “Guess it’s almost time to… Punch out?” 

…

…

Sonar throws one of the couch pillows at us as we leave the Hero Lounge. 

“Stickers,” drones Robert, pulling out the pack. I grin at him, one eye slightly swollen from where I’d taken a freight car to the face. It was already calming down and would be gone by the end of the meeting. 

“You all did…great today,” Robert admits, giving us all a rueful smile. “Everyone gets a sticker for how you all jumped in for all the blackout calls. No extra complaints, property damage or unexpected fires.”

Cheers ring out as the sticker packets make their way around the table. I pick out one that has a grumpy chibi crow, glaring out at the world. Carefully arranging it on my card. 

She was perfect.

“Now I just want to call out Prism and Malevola or the work they did at the airport today, Waterboy dealing with that upset subscriber on Wednesday, and Invisigal for your work during the outdoor exercises. You came in first for the Pacer test.”

“What about me Bob Bob? Where’s my fucking sticker? I handled the fuck Red Ring like that! Twice!”

“You got it in last week when you hard-boiled your egg,” Robert shoots back, collecting the sticker packets as everyone turns in their cards as well. “Go a full week without starting a fire and then we can talk extra stickers. Hell, I’ll make it two.”

As cheers and laughter fill the space, Malevola looks around excitedly. “Who's up for drinks?” 

“Anywhere but Crypto Night,” I say, stretching. 

“Flambae got banned,” Invisigal explains to Waterboy’s curious glance. “Let’s go to the Sardine. Or are you banned from that one too?”

“Shut up,” grumbles Flambae.

I perk up, I hadn’t been to the Sardine in weeks. Crazy vibe and almost guaranteed to have a bar fight or two.

Robert sighs and turns away from us, “Good night, everyone, I’ll see you Monday,”

“Oh what? Too cool to get a drink with us?” I challenge as he makes for the door. I give a checky grin as he glances back. The rest of the team quickly dogpile on the man.

“Don’t be a bitch!”

“Be chill for once in your life.” Bruno speaks up, offering an earthly grin.

“Spend some time with us, we know you don’t have plans.”

Robert pauses and by God he looks like he’s actually considering it. “The Sardine’s a villain bar, Not sure I’d fit in.”

Visi snorts, “Just go dressed up like that, everyone’ll just think you're a pervert.”

The laugher and banter almost drown out his reply, but we all hear it, an energy in the air as we wait for his reply. 

“Yeah… ummm, alright.”

I feel a grin split my face and I fist pump.

Prism stands up on her chair, “Fuck yeah, Bobby Boy!”

“Let’s fucking gooooo– Literally, right now.” Malevola says eagerly. 

Malevola rips open a portal, and Robert quickly throws up his hand. “Hold on, let me drop Beef off first!” 

“Alright,” Malevola says, closing the portal, “give me your address,”

“Thanks for the offer but I’m not sure I’m ready to give out my address to someone who might just portal in to take a look around my bedroom.” he says dryly, a wry smile on his face. “I’ll meet you guys there,” he says, exiting the room to jeers from Malevola and Sonar. 

“I have his address,” Invisigal says to the room, “We can fuck with his apartment whenever we want.”

“And how do you have his address?” I ask in curiosity.

“Not tonight!” Prism interrupts pointing around at everyone. “If we fuck up anything tonight he may never go out for drinks again! We gotta keep today calm and cool. Play nice! Otherwise, we’ll never know who won the bet.”

“Alright, alright,” I say, rolling my eyes and raising my hand. “I swear on me suspenders, no rabble rousing from me tonight. I’ll wait for some other bloke to throw the first punch.”

“You swear with your right-hand dumbass.” 

“I-I’ll swear t-too!” Waterboy says as I switch arms. 

“I guess I’ll swear? But no Blood Oaths, I took too many of those back in college,” Malevola chimes in. 

Sonar chuckles. “Relax, it's not like we get into fights every time we go out. It’ll be fine. It’s just a couple of drinks, what could go wrong?

…

…

Malevola punches him in the arm. “Dude.”

The Sardine’s a welcome breath of stale air. The smell of drinks, smoke and just a hint of blood calms the lot of us. The Sardine and a few other hangout spots around the city were the place for medium to minor villains like us would congregate before SDN. Here you could find a connection to anyone or anything. Lot of times, if you were looking for work or if your last employer had been arrested, a couple games of pool would have you with options of anyone who was looking for extra muscle or freelancers. 

Only a few rules, you left work at the door and any actual plans were off site. The bartender swept for bugs weekly and more often than not, found a host of them each to a different hero group or police department.

It was a tenuous place. An open refuge, but with that, the clear understanding that, if any actual shit got started within the walls of the Sardine, Heroes and coppers would be coming down on the place with their full might.

“Uhm… aren't we… won’t we run into some of the people we were fighting today?” Waterboy asks uncertainly as I guide him in the door, not letting him pause and stand out, attracting the wrong kind of attention.

“Well most of them are in the slammer and won’t be making bail or breakout for at least the weekend,” I assure him. “Then we’d need to lay low, but we’ll be fine for the night. They’re a small gang, not an army. They don’t have that many bodies.” Waterboy relaxes at the words. I park him at the bar and pat his elbow. “Live a little, have a drink, I’ll come find you in a moment."

I give him a thumbs up and leave him. His eyes wide like some deer that had wandered into town and now found themselves completely out of their depth, with barely a tree in sight to hide behind. 

 With any luck some female fatal would smell the fresh meat and come stake him out. The lad could do with some more life experience, and a late bar hookup would hopefully be just the thing to get him some confidence. 

He’d be fine. 

…

…

Probably.

Relationships were funny like that. Just… knowing that you were wanted. That someone saw you and desired you. It did a lot to a man's self-esteem. 

I pause by the pool tables, sighing slightly at the memories. Eyes trailing over the little tables lining the back wall, most of them filled already.  It has been a good week, a great one in a lot of ways… but I only wish I could talk about it with… 

I pause, my eyes widening. 

“Coop?”

She’s in disguise, her wings and knives traded out for a leather coat and glasses. That cute black hat that sits on her head, slightly askew. She fine as all hell, like a cross between what the kids were called goth and a French gangster. Dark. Sharp.  Dangerous. My Coop. 

She’s talking with someone, a guarded expression on her face. Her eyes travel over his shoulder and meet mine and I see them widen. 

The man she’s speaking with turns and I'm looking into an old-timer's face, white hair and cybertronics alongside his temple. Some kinda cyborg man.

“An old friend of yours…?” He asks, examining me. The weird cybertronic augment blinks and his expression goes slightly slack, his eyes traveling up to examine the bar behind me. I examine him back, slightly on guard. He was old, which either meant new to villainhood or experienced. 

Very experienced. 

“Something like that,” Coope says shortly. “I’ll think about your offer,” 

The man nods and stands up. “Just know its not a freestanding one. I’ll need an answer by Monday."

The man walks off but I barely pay any attention to him as I take his seat. 

“I thought you had skipped town… You didn’t respond to any of my messages.” I try to keep my tone light, but I was always shite at lying. 

She shifts but doesn’t say anything. Her glasses guard her expression in the dim light. 

“Robert told me about the STARS gig he tried to set you up with,” I say into the silence, and watch as she flinches. I raise an eyebrow. Coop never flinched. I lean forward, “What happened kniv-... Janelle?” 

Coupe huffs and rips her glasses off her face, tossing them onto the table. “I needed space,” she says shortly, glaring at the frames. “I saw your messages, I just…”

I give her time. I always had. For the two of us who had so much shit in our past to talk through, it was important that time. When the rest of the world wants things from you, you treasure the ones who just wanted to be around. 

Like I had treasured her. 

“They were right,” she says eventually. “To cut me.”

“Bullshite,” I say instantly, “It was their biggest mistake,” 

Coope smiles bitterly. “I came in last behind a bat guy who shits in the parking lot, a pile of dirt, and a man named fucking Chad. All my fucking years of training, of discipline, of honing and controlling my power, and I come in last.”

“Who fucking cares what the numbers say?” I ask, waving off the concern, “They're all just fucking made-up bullshit. It’s just favoritism at the end of the day, the fucking media circus of heroes. You know this!” I insist.

Coupe shakes her head at my words, “I started the STARS apprentice thing. They don’t have score cards or metrics or shit. You just are assigned sad charity cases, and you fucking help someone”. She looks at me and I’m shocked at the raw emotion in her face. How upset she was. I hadn’t seen her like that since… since… 

Seeing something broken, a mirror of my own torment, the stupid movie soundtrack blaring from the TV in the corner. 

Since she was still working for the mob. 

“I thought I was helping.” she continues, “Thought that here was this fucked up asshole who’d ruined what should have been a nice family and now here I am able to do something to make him pay. And…” 

Her face grows sorrowful… “And when I looked up, I just saw her and her daughter, crying, terrified at the violence…”

She pulls out one of her knives and balances it on the hilt, her finger lightly holding it by the tip. 

“All I can do… all I know how to do…” her finger presses down and a bead of blood runs down the knife. “Is cut.”

I reach out and take the hilt, catching blood before it hits the table. Stopping it from joining the many other stains and marks that had been left in the wood of the Sardine over the years. 

“But that’s not all you are. I know that.” I say, trying to meet her gaze. “You care. And that’s half the battle, according to Robert.” 

She flinches at his name, and I pull back. “Why don’t you join us? The whole gang’s here tonight. And in twenty minutes or so, Robert’ll also be by. You can talk about the STARS thing, and we can work out something,”

Coop leans back, stowing the blade. “The team’s here?” she asks. 

I nod, giving a smile. “Even the new lad, Waterboy. We just walked in..”

Her eyebrows rise. 

“The janitor?” 

“Well, he’s a bit wet behind the ears,” I admit, “But he’s been showing progress! One of the best to watch his eggs each week, except for the tragedy that happened on Tuesday,” 

Coupe’s looking at me like I’m drunk and speaking in Gaelic again. 

“Watch his eggs?” 

I nod, “It’s an exercise Robert has us doing… each week I…”

I end up rambling. Talking about everything that’s happened since she’s left. The baby Kaiju, the training, the dumpster exercise. Everything I’ve been wanting to share with her. 

It’s hard not to. Coupe and I were never official. I had been trying to find employment with the different gangs and mobs, she had been sent to kill me, it was a short thing before we were on our separate paths. Both of us fleeing from our employers in separate directions. But SDN seemed like it was going to be our second chance, a blessing of fate, our last time before prison came for us both. 

I had… wanted to do things properly this go around. Ask for a date, cook a nice meal… 

But I never got the chance. 

And here she was again. 

“You could probably join us!” I say excitedly, “The lad has a good brain on him, but his reflexes need building. I’ve been trying but you could-”

“There’s nothing I can teach him.” she says shortly, and I fall silent,at her tone. I peer up at her face. 

It’s oddly blank. I frown. “Coop?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

She’s quiet again… before she suddenly stands. “I’m happy for you Colm… really I am…” she says, meeting my gaze… looking… 

I straighten, some sense at the back of my mind warning me of something. 

She looked resigned. 

“But there’s no place for me in the light. That’s been made clear,” she says. “Go be a hero, teach the fucking kid something… you’ll do fine. You always do.”

I shoot to my feet, which doesn’t give the intended effect as I drop in height. “And what about you?” I challenge, glaring at her. “Where does that leave you? Going back to the Mob? They’ll kill you! They don’t forget.”

This couldn’t be happening.

Coupe shakes her head. “I’m not going back to the mob,” She reassures me. “I’ll… I’ll be around.” She smiles bitterly, “You might even see me again,”

A chill goes down my spine. We both had talked about it. How we’d run away when SDN seemed like it finally had enough of us. When we’d danced on Blazer’s last bit of patience. Join up with any of the villains with the big schemes. The world enders, the city destroyers. Where you either won big… 

Or went home in a body bag. 

“Coupe… I- no!” I say, stumbling over my words. She didn’t deserve that. She was… no! Coop could totally be a hero! She.. she… 

…

…

She saved me. 

Fucking hell, why couldn’t I be better at this? Say the right words. Just… 

“Just wait for Robert, yeah? He’ll be here any minute! We can just talk with him and… and…” 

Coupe considers it… and turns away. 

“Robert’s done enough for me. He should focus on the people he can actually help… I should go.”

I reach out for her, and still. Her head’s half tilted, keeping me just in the corner of her eye. I feel her tug at the shadows, and the smell of mildew and decay is barely present…but there and growing. I remain frozen, she wouldn’t be above kicking me back while she made her get away. And if we caused a commotion on the Sardine a brawl would follow. The night ruined before it even began. 

“Goodbye Colm… I… I hope you make it… One of us needs to.”

I stay rooted in place until she’s out of sight and the shadows settle down before I sign and collapse into my seat. 

Damn it. 

I sit back in the chair and hold my head in my hands. Fuck… I just… I didn’t know enough to see how to help her. 

How did you help someone who didn’t believe they needed help? Who had already been told by the professionals that you chouldn’t change? 

I’d failed all the fucking riddles Robert had thrown at us, all the logic and detective shit that Prism had been talking about between calls. I was the muscle. The strong man. I needed someone else to point me in the right direction and tell me what to do so I could go do it. I could make em’ smile, make em’ laugh. But all that inspiring speech shit…

I didn’t know what I could do for Janelle. 

“Fucking come on…” I mutter, hitting the side of my head. “Give something…anything…”

Okay… Coop was giving up on being a hero. So, she was looking for work…

“…Just know it's not a freestanding one. I’ll need an answer by Monday.”

My eyes shoot up and I scan the room. That guy, the shit face with the goatee. That was her next boss. Some half-assed villain looking for hired muscle.

If I found him, I could find Coop. Hell, if I could beat him, put a stop to whatever plan he was recruiting for before he started…

I stumble off the chair and almost collide with Sonar. 

“Woah! Dude, it’s been like… barely an ad break, you already sloshed?” 

“No, no, I… I need to see a man about a bird,” I say, my eyes scanning the room, trying to find any sign of that man. 

There’s no sign of him. 

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Back at the little round table Coop and I had been sitting at, I scowl into my drink. 

There’d been no sign of him, and all the other bar-goers were quick to clam up. We’d been doing hero work for too long. While no one here had a bone to pick with us, they went looking to offer a hand job either. 

All my questions about what jobs were hiring, who needed extra muscle, and what, if any schemes were on the docket in the near future were quickly stonewalled.

It was another dead end. 

I down my glass and sigh, ready to brave the bar to try and get another. It was busier now, so it would be a toss-up if a stool was open. Sometimes life sucked being under four foot.

A scarred hand slides a new drink onto the table, clinking my empty one. 

“I thought going out on Friday nights to the bar were supposed to be relaxing, you know, let a load off.” A dry voice remarks. 

I glance up and Robert offers me a smile, his other hand holding two more glasses against his side. 

“Drinks for the whole team,” he explains. 

“Good lad,” I grunt, taking a sip. Enjoying the burn. 

“So, what had you more down than Flambae in a rainstorm?” He asks, sliding into the seat across from me. 

“I...” I pause, considering him. It still surprised me how deeply I trusted the man. He was solid. Through and through. That was the one thing obvious from the few weeks of working with him. He took the jokes, the punches, the practice jokes that, in retrospect, were obviously too much for a base human to handle. 

And through all of it, he didn't go running to Blazer. Didn’t fuck around with paperwork to officially label us failures. Just told us to do better, made sure we knew how and then call out our shit. 

…

… 

“I… ran into Coupe…” I admit with a sigh. “She was here… looking for work.” 

“Ah…. And I assume she wasn’t applying for a bartender,” Robert says glancing around the bar. 

“I just…. I want better for her.” I say the frustration hot under my skin, boiling over, “She didn’t have any of this…this! No one to help us or explain any of this hero shite. Just threats to do better from dispatchers.” I quickly down the rest of my glass. “It’s bullshite, from top to bottom, no one willing to help get hero what she wants and–” 

I take another sip of the liquor, cutting myself off.

“And what does Coupe want?” he asks curiously. “I was only her Dispatcher for a few days.”

“To be one of the best,” I respond immediately. “To have her work and skill recognized.”

Robert raises an eyebrow. “Is that all? She could work in a restaurant or pick up entertainment.”

“Not like that!” I say, waving my hand, “Don’t misunderstand, Coop has professional pride. Standards. She’s not going to debase herself doing tricks for the tourists.”

I stare into my drink, my reflection rippling back at me, “She wants action. To still be in the game.”

“Seems like she’s doing what she wants then,” Robert says neutrally, taking a sip of his own drink. I scowl at him across the table. 

“Quit twisting my fucking words.  It’s… It’s all she knows.” I say, the secret parting my lips painfully. If Coop ever learned I told anyone else this, she’d string me up and flay me for my troubles. Then she’d keep me stringed up until she was ready to forgive me. 

...

...

Then she’d keep me stringed up as we fuc-

 “Coop… never had downtime until SDN. T’was the first place she could breathe and stop running.” I stare around the room, looking for it, seeing it in the other bar patrons. 

The ones who stared a bit too long into space, whose silence seemed just a bit more bitter, a bit more melancholy. The folks who weren’t happy with their life, but didn’t know how to find their way out of whatever fucked up circumstances brought them to the Sardine on a Friday night.

A life outside the law with broken ties to the underworld was a life constantly moving. Constantly ‘On’. Always looking behind your back, always planning escape routes and bolt holes. 

“She likes romance novels, the trashy regency ones where there’s secret assassination plots, says they feel more real to her.” I say quietly, eyeing one green-haired lass whose gaze is just a little too blank to be listening to her friends by the pool table. “She likes salted caramel, but only if its cold out. In Summer, it’s fresh-cut watermelon and a pastry with a lemon filling.”

I stare at my glass and try not to get weepy. “She likes animals, though she’ll never admit it, and…” I hesitate. 

“And…?” Robert prompts. 

Coop really was going to kill me if she ever found out I shared any of this. 

“And she wants a place to belong,” I say gruffly. She had been enamored with my stories of the circus when we had first started seeing each other. Fascinated by the idea of so many different blokes, folks and gals  all able to live together, helping one another. She never fully revealed her own sad backstory, but there were enough clues, the small secrets she did share. 

Janelle had grown up alone. And the kind of life I had told her about; she was hungry for. That feeling of belonging…

“She wanted a better life,” I say, feeling exhausted. “A life she enjoys and could be proud of.”

Robert doesn’t say anything for a moment. The sound of the bar filling the space around us. 

“Well… I don’t know much about the type of jobs she’d find here,” Robert says slowly, But the sneaky double life doesn’t exactly lend itself to fresh watermelon and time to read books.”

I rest my chin on the table, my eyes dull. “She’d read between assignments and sometimes take the bus back to SDN, reading on the commute.” I say watching the glass slowly melt in the ice.

“That explains why her returns seemed a bit slow for someone who could fly,” Robert muses, taking a sip of his own drink. I sigh. 

“SDN was good for her, let her try things that weren't just killing and fighting. She was bad at them; I won’t lie about that!” I look up at Robert over the lip of the glass. “Bad with people, with animals, and being gentle. It was just new to her, that’s all.”

Robert stares at me, that unreadable expression as he searches my eyes for something. 

“Listen, Punch,” he starts quietly. “I didn’t know Coupe and I wish I had gotten the chance before I was asked to cut someone…but SDN and working as some hired muscle  aren’t the only options for her. There’s a lot other ways she can apply her skills and build a life for herself.”

“She doesn’t believe it,” I grunt out, “She taking SDN and STARS as fucking gospel, that no one believes that she can change.”

“Then believe in it for her,” Robert fires back. Raise an eyebrow at him as he continues. “Send her other opportunities, call her out on her bullshit and hold her to a higher standard.”

“What and just be friends with a villain outside of work?” I ask bitterly, “Hang out at the donut shop and send her fucking job boards and advertisements?” 

“Why not?”

I mull over the question. I reach across and pick up Robert’s drink, taking a sip. Thinking it over slowly.

“And what if she goes full villain, and we’re facing her down in the near future?” I challenge, my chest oddly tense at the idea. Of walking this line that could ruin both our lives.

 If anyone found out that she was fraternizing with a hero, claims of mole and spy and turncoat would ring out and she’d be right where she was years ago. If anyone found out I moonlighted and met with a villainous assassin who worked in the shadows, it’d probably kick me out of the Phoenix Program. Both lives ruined. 

“Then we stop her,” Robert says easily, “We stop her, ask her to stop, and continue to make sure she knows that someone hasn’t given up on her.”

I examine his face, and there’s not a hint of hesitation at the idea. “And you think that’s all it’d take, just letting her know someone believes in her to turn it all around?”

Robert shrugs, small smile on his face. “It worked with you all, didn’t it?” 

Well damn. 

I open my mouth to reply, only for a prink blur to blip in front of our table. 

“Jesus fuck!” I swear, throwing a punch out. 

Invisigal side-steps it, plucking the second glass that Robert had been holding onto. 

“What? I’m just here to find out why everyone else gets a Robert drink instead of me,” the lass quips, before taking a skip of her drink. 

“So, what, trying to figure out how Punch can top you from the bottom?” she asks Robert, quirking an eyebrow. Robert lets out a sight that sounds full of exhaustion. 

 “Do you have to be… you right now?” he asks, exasperated. 

I chuckle and slide off the chair. I had seen enough of the glances Visi had thrown our dispatcher when he wasn’t looking. The plotting faces that Coop used to give me. Brooding like she was analyzing how to break down his body and how many knives it’d take to do so. 

Ah, young love. 

“Thanks for the advice,” I say to Robert. “I’ll… keep it in mind.” 

“And where are you going?” Visi asks, as she shamelessly slides into my seat. 

“Going to make a call first, then probably try and win some cash with Sonar and the Devil,”  

“How do you know their betting?” Robert asks curiously.

“Cuz when are they not?” I say with a laugh, making my way to the back exit, opening a messaging app on my phone. 

Hey Coop…

I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I glance around the side ally and, not seeing anyone, I tap a different button, staring an audio message. 

“Coo-... Janelle. I’m sorry I came on strong when we spoke. I was just so excited to see you. I… I miss you. “I take a breath in. Fuck this shit was hard. I should have grabbed a bottle from the bar first. “I just want you to know…fuck SDN and fuck STARS. You can be a hero; you can make it too.” 

I look up and there’s not a star to be seen past the light pollution and haze that seemed to cover the city at night. June Gloom they called it. 

“You’re the bravest, finest, most damn capable woman I’ve ever met.” I say, my voice growing heavy with emotion. “And I…”

I swallow. 

“I…” 

I take a fist and thump my chest, as though I could just punch through the well of emotion rising in my chest. We’d never said it. We both knew, it was in our every action, how we spoke to each other. How we looked at once another.

But we never said it. 

“I love you, Janelle.” I say hoarsely, “You saved me, years ago.”

There’s some graffiti on the on the wall across from me, a mural, fucking gorgeous thing of the city on fire. Apparently, it’d been maintained by some of the Sardine regulars for years. Different villain silhouette would be added to it, back shadows and stains, only for someone to paint the fire over their silhouettes when they left LA. Prison or coffin. Space for new villains to show up. 

There’s a new shadow there now. Fresh black paint, red rings scattered through it, but sloppily done. The black beads and drips, breaking up the red.

In the top corner, above the blazing city, there’s two birds, rising above the chaos, above the city, the wind carrying them away from the city. I’m not one for metaphors or believing in God, and I never looked at them before but those two little birds become my favorite part of this fucking mural.

“You’re my hero, Coop. And I just wish you could see it too. Call me.”

I fire off the message and sigh, explosively. Wiping my face with my sleeve. 

“Damn tears,” I say, breathing in deeply. 

“Okay!” 

If anyone had gotten suckered into an arm-wrestling contest with Malevola, it’d be an easy fifty I could make. Sonar had worked it out months ago. Any of us could walk up and pretend to bet on the other fella to get others interested, then once the pot got big enough, Mal would win or throw depending on the odds. Sonar always bet on Mal, we’d always bet against and we’d split the pot at the end of the day. 

“I’m a bitch! My name is Robert, I’m a bitch whose name is Robert…”

“Heh,” Sonar chuckles as the last sucker storms off from our booth. 

We all glance around, both to cheer Flambae on and also try to spy Robert. He and Visi are in the back by the pool tables, still at the table I left them out. Robert turned away, stubbornly refusing to look towards the karaoke stage.

“Classic,” I say, leaning back in my chair, drinking deeply from the pint glass I had grabbed on my way back in.

“Maybe I should sing something. Show these chums how it’s really done,” Malevola muses as she counts and stash the cash we had just won. 

“Don’t,” Sonar says shortly, “You’ll hit those notes that hurt my ears.” 

“But those are the best ones!” Malevola complains, filling up the shot glasses with the tequila her and Sonar were sharing. “No appreciation for art.”

“Techno bluegrass isn’t art; it’s some trust fund zenial cosplaying as a country singer.” Sonar says, downing his shot “Let me hit the toilet and then I’ll put my name in, sing something that won’t kickoff a riot.”

Malevola pauses and fixes Sonar with a flat look. “Dude,” she says sternly. 

“It’s the fucking alcohol Mal! Honest! Blame fucking Robbie, not my bat bladder!”

Sonar heads off after shooting Malevola some finger guns and she slumps, aggressively downing her shot with a grumble. 

“I take it he’s doing a line then?” I ask, having watched the play-by-play quietly. I knew there was some history between them. The lass always trying to steer Sonar away from the hard stuff as he flippantly and regularly indulged whenever he could. 

When I had first joined, I had asked about it, and heard the most bullshite I’d ever heard from his mouth. Silly thoughts of ‘Macro-dosing’ and ‘fully optimizing his super resilience’. 

Malevola shoots me a glare, mouth open before she pauses and sighs, “Yeah…”

She’s contemplative for a moment before she begins to speak. “If I get him to stop during the week, and he doesn’t find it out on an assignment, he’ll relapse Fridays, more often than not.”

“It’s hard cutting someone from the bottle,” I say sympathetically.

“I just…” Malevola starts, “I just wish-

“I’m not talking to you, bitch!”

 Malevola and I both perk up as Robert goes stumbling across the room, flung by some thug. 

 The bar stills and every eye is drawn to the commotion as the punk, some heavy lad with mechanical arms lifts something into the air, Visi blipping into view moments later. 

“Does that count as the first blow?” I ask, finishing my pint glass. 

“Nah, that’s just a shove,” Malevola says, quickly taking a chug straight from her bottle. 

The entire room watches Robert stagger to his feet, and the energy changes. Small clicks and hums, red glows from several of the other bar patrons. I look through the crowed and briefly lock eyes with Waterboy. Almost everybody in the Sardine was sporting red augmentations. 

Red Ring. 

…

…

Fuck yeah. 

I could really use a chance to bust some balls.

“Get lost, Puta,” one of them says, putting a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “This doesn’t concern you, go home and euugh!”

Robert grabs the man’s shoulder and yanks it downward, raising his knee to slam it into the man’s jaw. I spot some teeth fly out as the man collapses and the entire bar blinks. 

 Damn. Robert could throw hands. Who knew? 

“Now that’s a blow,” I say, judging the distance before chucking my pint glass. It flies across the room and shatters on the back of the mechanical arm fuck’s head, causing him to wince.

“Yep,” Malevola chimes back, reaching for her blade. “Play ring around the Robert, make sure no one gets too close to him?” 

A group tries to move in on Robert, only for Waterboy to soak them from behind. Over by the entrance, a burst of fire and a body fly over the tables, crashing near the karaoke stage.

I nod, flexing my hands, “Sounds good.”

A new song track starts up and I briefly spy Prism approaching the stage. She grabs the mic stand and, in one fluid swing, sends it flying forward, hitting another Red Ring fuck in the back. Still holding the mic, she examines the room briefly. 

“This next one goes out to Blue Balls Man!” She yells into the mic, before starting to sing. 

I hope off my chair and bring my fists up as the room erupts into chaos. A feral grin coming across my face.

I charge toward a man and throw a punch, enjoying the meaty smack of flesh meeting flesh. 

Now this was how you took a load off!

…

…

Oh you, you know what I fucking mean!

Our plan is derailed instantly. Instead of staying in one place, instead of fighting defensively like Malevola and I had though, Robert fucking Robertson goes on the offensive. 

Which is just fucking crazy. I mean, top-tier crazy. Man without powers in a room full of supers. Your job is to find a corner or a wall to put your back against and try to avoid and defend against any bullshit sent your way. Or better yet, just fucking leave. I knew he was stubborn enough to not turn tail, but that should have meant cautious and defensive.  

But Robert Robertson doesn’t do that. No. Instead he quickly charges forward, grabbing something from one of the tables before jumping on the guy who was messing with Visi. That’s the last I see of him as thugs and villains fill the space and my world is a forest of legs and crotches. 

Fortunately, that was where I did my best work. 

I start punching and I don’t stop. Making my way in a wide circle around the bar. Charging at and passing people, trying to stay mobile.  For most folks, it’s a fight finisher, not many with the fortitude or are expecting a three-foot-tall Irishman to crack the family jewels. But one flaming fuck with horns sees me coming and tosses me, sending me flying towards the juke box. I get some actual lay of the land and I see…

Okay, no one that wasn’t there would believe me, but I swear it’s the truth. 

Robert Robertson standing there, prying an augment out of a girl’s head, bare-handed. She lets out a shriek that echoes across the room and I can barely blink in confusion before I slam into the jukebox. 

What the fuck? That… that wasn’t just a bar brawl. Where you avoided the face and didn’t look to maim… that was… 

Someone yanks me out, a fist coming to pummel my face but I barely feel it. 

Well then… 

The Lad had teeth. 

I catch the fist and kick out, increasing my weight to slam on the floor. 

Okay then… if Mr. Dispatcher was going to fight dirty, then I guess I better step it up as well.

I get into a one two groove downing the dicks then following it up with a haymaker to the face. Most of them go down and I begin to speed up. Flambae is shooting flames and flying in short bursts, the flashes of pink and blue strobe lights at the stage tells me where Prism is. Malevola is hacking and slashing, occasionally portaling the odd villain around. Invisigal is still dealing with that mechanized arm fuck, and Robert…

“Whoopsie! Sorry, Bud.” 

He was here too! I glance back briefly I punch the next guy. He looks a bit roughed off, but otherwise alright. No large cuts or broken bones yet. 

“He’s only punching diiiiiiiiiicks!”

I laugh as I round the corner. Having to side step Sonar as he jumps over my head, thrashing the next guy I was going to hit. 

The idiots with only augments or shitty powers start vacating the space. Dragging their conscious fellows off so they don’t get trampled. I spy one Supered bastard. Some kind of red sleeves around his limbs or neck. 

…

…

Or was that skin? 

I charge the man, only to have his limbs extend, his torso running out of my reach, a ten-foot arm swinging down and hitting me across my back as I try to slow my charge. 

Fucking bullshit. 

I’d need to try to get in close…

I watch him, and for as freaky as his power made him, he made it work. Using his extended limbs he tries throwing a haymaker. Leveraging the additional distance and swing to build some nasty momentum. I block his blow on my forehead and increase my weight to avoid being sent back. Alrighty…

I get in close, forcing him to bring his limbs in, I mainly block, but continue to close, step by step, waiting for… 

There! 

I duck under his blow and quickly turn around as he staggers past me, his back to me. Legs a bit wide to stabilize himself. 

Perfect.

Not many men knew you could get hit in the balls from the backside. Most blows hit your buttocks or legs. 

But you can with enough force and precision.

The slinky fuck collapses and I glance around as Sonar tackles another man to the floor, letting out a screech. 

Most of the bar is vacated, with only a few morons dumb enough to still be fighting with us. I spy one of Mal’s portals at the back where Golem charges in. With a kick, pool tables go flying. 

With Golem in the room, it officially became overkill. With the nine of us here and having been trained and actively fighting every day for the last several months, we quickly lock down the space. Malevola portaling bodies in front of and away from Sonar, letting him bite and ravage them before moving them outside. Waterboy does this thing with his teeth that makes his water shoot out like a hose with a thumb covering it, spraying multiple people as I went for their legs. I glance over and see Robert and Visi still tanging with the mechanized arm fuck as they tumble over into the bar. 

“Mal! Portal me!” I call out as I run towards the bar.

A pink and red portal quickly splits before me and I tumble out intime to grab one mechanized hand, pulling it to the ground. I turn and-

Bingo. 

I laugh as I swing my elbow back into the man’s crotch. Mud flies over our heads and I watch with interest as both Visi and Robert grab the mans… 

Huh… he had human arms as well. Weird. 

Craaaaack!

Ohhhh fuck. He had human arms. As a fella who prides myself on my arms and my ability to throw a punch, I felt for the man. It was good thing he still had a working pair of mechanical arms left. 

…

…

I think I was wrong about Robert being a sidekick. Maybe Flambae was right about Longshot.

“So… what now? Waterboy asks, as we all stand outside the Sardine for a moment, the light air brisk and sharp against everyone’s bumps and bruises. A few small fry scatter as we hit the street. The ones injured quickly taken by their friends.  I groan as I sit down, I’m numb to most of the bruises and cuts on me, a benefit of my powers, but I still felt tired, basically pulling a double shift after having worked all day as well.

“I’m hungry,” Golem says.

“Tacos?” Malevola asks, looking at the group. “There’s a TaGo a few blocks away.”

“Girl, yes, please!” Prism groans, holding her head. When some guys couldn’t get close to her, they settled for throwing things, I think she had taken a chair to the face? Maybe a body?

“Isn’t TaGo like… dealing with a huge food poisoning lawsuit right now?” Visi asks, rubbing her shoulders. 

I turn to look at the one baseline human in the group. “You in, Robert?” 

The man doesn’t answer, swaying slightly on the sidewalk. I turn fully and look up at him. 

“Robert?” I ask. 

He looks down at me, a vacant expression on his face. “Letttttssss Taaagooooo.” One of his pupils dilated than the other. I jump to my feet, “Shit, Malevola!” 

Robert frowns and opens his mouth, trying to take a step forward only stumble and nearly fall. Prism catches him, as the team huddles around. 

“Looks like a fucking concussion,” Flambae comments, peering over Prism’s shoulder. “What a bitch way to get hurt. Only Bob Rob would do such a thing.”

“Malevola, you need to heal him,” Prism says, setting him down on the ground.

“Whhhatttzzz the fusssinnn abouuuut?” Robert slurs as he tries to get up. Prism and Visi holding him in place. 

“What? Can’t he walk it off? I’m busy eating my pain here,” Malevola complains, giving a glance over Robert’s form. “If I take on his, I’m going to be hurting all night!”

“You’ll be fine by Monday,” I say, gesturing to the man, “He won’t be.”

Malevola glances around before sighing, “Fine… but someone else is covering my tacos. And buying me breakfast.” Her tail rises up to tap at Robert’s temple before pausing. “Umm… am I just taking the concussion?”

“Well, is there more to take than a concussion?” Sonar asks, licking the blood off his face.

Malevola shrugs. “Some light internal bleeding, bruises, cuts, maybe a cracked rib or two?” 

“Then yes! Take the ribs and the blood!” I say with exasperation. 

“Ugh fine… but I demand lunch as well.” Malevola grumbles as Robert’s breathing begins to even out. His eyes go distant then quickly roll back in his head. 

“Damn, did you take his soul too?” 

“Robert! Don’t go towards the light!” I call in panic. 

“Mal, what the fuck?”

“He’s fine,” Malevola groans, holding a hand to her head, “Body’s just freaking out with the pain suddenly gone. Nervous system reset. He’ll wake up in a few minutes and be fine…or finer than I’ll be for the rest of the night.”

“Golem, can you carry him?” Visi asks, gingerly sitting Robert up. 

“Yeah, it’s cool.” 

One of Malevola’s portals opens up and we’re able to step through instantly. The taco place was almost abandoned, a group of high school or college aged kids joking and hanging out at the outdoor tables. They take one look at our dishevel appearance, our hero outfits, and the fact that we have a towering dirt monster with us and quickly find somewhere else to be as we quicky take up the seats. 

Golem sets Robert down on one of the cement barriers and we all take a moment to sigh, the last dregs of adrenalin leaving our system. 

“That was…” Waterboy starts, trailing off. 

“A good end to a week!” I say, punching him lightly in the arm. 

“A mess,” Prism grunts, opening a pocket mirror and inspecting her makeup. “Songs were solid though.” 

“Come on! We kicked ass!” Flambae says laughing before wincing at the motion. “I mean some kicked our ass too, but there was more kicking of their asses than ours.”

“I’m just hungry,” Golem rumbles, “I wanted another drink.”

“For the alcohol or the glass?” Visi asks, smiling at the living mountain. 

Golem shrugs.

“Hey wetboy,” Malevola says, gesturing to Waterboy. “Get me one of their supreme burritos alright?”

“Oh! Their super taco! Extra avocado!”

“Quesadilla for me.” 

“Three double crunch tacos.” 

We all glance over, Robert stares beadily at us. 

 “Robert! Welcome back to the land of the living!” Sonar says. “Nice fighting earlier, I really liked how you smacked the mirror over that guy’s head. Poggers.”

“Sorry about earlier, Rob,” I say with a wave. 

“You doing good?” Visi asks. 

Robert stares as us beadily before turning his head with a groan. “Never better,” he grunts. “Just a pounding headache and some new bruises for the collection.”

Prism’s head whips around to stare at Malevola. “I thought you said you healed him!” 

“Only of life-threatening injuries,” Malevola grumbles, glaring at Prism as she rests her head on one hand. “If I was fresh, sure, love a good bruise or two. But I’m eating plasma burns, the ribs when that one guy threw the karaoke machine, and my own selection of bruises.” 

“He’ll be fine Prism!” Sonar chimes in gesturing to Robert. “You should have seen him! Hopped the bar and basically jumped on that arm fuck.”

Prism slowly relaxes and we all settle and wait. Anticipating Waterboy’s return with the food.