Chapter Text
Sweat beads on your brow and quivering breaths.
A hand gently caressing your cheek, down the small of your neck.
Soft kisses and pointed teeth trailing across your chest.
Fingers tangled in soft fur, you cry his name-
“PULSE!”
You’re brought back to reality by Prism's voice, and the biscuit you were previously holding makes contact with the rim of your lukewarm cup of tea, the liquid bubbling as the remains slowly sink below the surface.
“Girl did you even sleep last night or are you just hungover as shit?” She continues, arms crossed as she leans against the chair in front of you.
“Huh, wait what?” You stupidly reply, slowly lifting your gaze towards Prism’s face.
She rolls her eyes, hastily turning your chair towards the door before (somewhat gently?) smacking you across the face.
“Way to prove my point Pulse, I was asking you what yo sorry ass’s still doing in the break room 13 minutes after yo shift’s begun! Get movin, we’re representing the team on tv!”
In a fraction of a second you go from sitting hunched over the coffee table to almost tripping over Prism, who leans back to give you some space before the two of you make a run for it. Peering down at your wristband you do happen upon three missed notifications from Robert, the last of which demanding you accept the call and meet up with the reporters before 7:30. You and Prism still have about 15 minutes of wiggle room until then so you’re pretty sure you’ll make it, if you book it.
It’s been, what? a month and a half ish since you (begrudgingly) joined the z-team and started working for SDN. Up until that point you’d been a proud member of the Red Ring, you still don’t know if this life is better or worse.
You don’t often get questions about your past or person, at least not after the time Retrograde (a former villain from your rival league, The Crusaders) had mocked you for the slip up that landed you in front of SDN’s doors, you still wish he’d spent at least another week in the medbay recovering from those electrical burns.
The z-team, a branch part of “The Phoenix Program” is an odd bunch, of that much you’re sure. Mecha Man, or Robert Robertson (yes that’s his name) had been working as their dispatcher for about a year when you arrived. Like with you it was only supposed to be a temporary measure, but seeing as the job made him rethink what he valued most in life he’d stayed on the intercoms, even after the crew acquired the astral pulse.
For you it leaned on Invisigal finding herself temporarily out of commission after her tussle with your league, something you’re sure you should feel sorry about, but seeing as she's part of the reason you can never contact your family again you’ve decidedly settled on being even for now, even if she never apologised for kicking you square in the face.
As days turned to weeks and SDN found your skillset compatible with the team you quickly went from part-, to full-time hero, bringing you back to the interview at hand.
The room was small and packed with reporters, all from different news networks and the branches within them, most of them flailing their notepads and microphones in the air trying to get your or Prism’s attention.
You’re honestly amazed at how well she handles the limelight, each question answered along with a light flick of her wrist or a confident smile, while you’re stood folding your hands, trying to find an anchor point long past the crowd. You’ve absolutely no idea why Robert keeps sending you along on missions like these.
“-what does Pulse think of living the life of a redeemed villain?”
All of a sudden you find that the entire attention of the crowd has moved towards you, Prism gives you a gentle nudge.
“I, uhm…” you begin, feeling the nerves creep up your back. “It’s different.”, is the response you settle on.
“And what about the Red Ring?” Another reporter (you seem to recall her name being Chelsey) hastily interrupts right after you’ve answered. “There are rumours going around about you dating the villain Toxic, are these true? Would you care to elaborate on them?”.
The room goes completely dark, or at least you’re sure it has because suddenly all you can make out is the thin outline of the crowd, glowing a sickly green. You’re absolutely positive you’re going to faint when Prism quickly grabs your arm and interjects on your behalf.
“Who tf you think you are, asking those questions? Leave a girl some privacy, Not everything’s for the public eye!” she yells, pointing her own microphone towards the reporter. “Tell us bout’ yo sexy life girl! Oh, you don’ wanna? Well that’s too dang bad! We’re going!” she says with such finality that none of the other reporters question her as she practically drags your frozen body off the stage.
Out of the entire z-team you think Prism gets you the most, you’re roughly the same age (you turning 28 only a few days prior) and she has, more importantly, never asked too many questions. The day you joined had been intense both mentally and physically (it’s not easy switching complete sides on the battle field after all), and while others like Malevola and Flambae had bombarded you with inquiries (or in Flambae’s case, accusations), Prism had given you a quick up-down, a light wave and led you off to work.
You know some things about her private life, like the fact that she has two sisters but no dad, and she knows that you used to date Toxic, although that’s arguably public knowledge at this point.
“Can you even believe they’d ask you bout’ something like that?” she mostly argues with herself “Like girl, this crowd has me wishing I never gave up on villain work uknow what I’m sayin’? she goes on, leaning over her shoulder to look towards you.
“They don’t know, Prism. So let’s just leave it at that.” you respond in turn, leaning away from her gaze.
It’d never occurred to you that what you and Toxic had wasn’t healthy, not until Prism knocked you straight after a late night of drinking. It’s something that should’ve been stupid obvious back then with the times he’d berate and beat you up over seemingly insignificant details (and much more during important matters), it’s even more stupidly obvious in hindsight given his fucking name but then again, here we are.
Is it bad that you still kinda miss him?
The rest of the shift flows on seamlessly, you take your lunch break before heading out again (this time with Punch Up) to escort some billionaire from point A to point B. By the time the clock strikes four you’re already decked out and ready to head home, the stomach ache you’ve been nursing since two only solidifying the case.
After a quick report with Robert and a well deserved shower you find yourself sitting on the bench outside the dressing room, cramming dirty clothes among other things into your already overpacked bag, then you feel his grip on your shoulder.
Quivering breaths.
A hand caressing your cheek.
Pointed teeth trailing across your chest.
You cry his name-
“Hello Victor”.