Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As it turns out, HR is a real, tangible department that exists within SDN, though its lack of intervention is a widely mocked topic of discussion amongst the employees it oversees. If you asked anybody, HR couldn’t possibly exist in the same space as the Z-team of the Torrence branch without either imploding on the spot.

Said Z-team mostly agreed with such statements, though in more vulgar or mocking terms, as was their regular disposition towards basically anything in life. Although their ranking, reputation and popularity had skyrocketed after their handling of what was not too humorously dubbed the Shroudpocalypse, they still retained that same abrasive attitude unique to the Phoenix program.

As some sort of sick compromise, HR had informed Blond Blazer and Robert — newly injury-free for two days now, a state he’d definitely ruin soon enough — that it wouldn’t pursue disciplinary actions against any of the Z-team if they agreed to let a film crew follow them around for a week or so. The proposition earned immediate unease, disbelief and disgust — mostly on Robert’s part— at the sheer idea of broadcasting anything the Z-team did or said to anyone ever, but pushing back seemed like a poor idea when he took into account the sheer amount of violations listed down. Robert, the victim of a good chunk of these neatly jotted down murders of HR rules, agreed with a long-suffering sigh. He already mourned the poor guy who would have to edit this shit, hoping he’d get used to censoring everything somewhere along the first few shifts.

Some extra guidelines were added afterwards, such as protection of the retreating film crew if any situation got too dangerous and the constant recording of the dispatch lines. The crew would be coming to meet everybody in two days, get a bit more acquainted via one one-on-one interviews, then start filming next week.

Neither had much time to read the stupidly long contract, a ploy Robert had never been too fond of that made HR plummet even further in his mind, if there was anything lower than rock-bottom. Blazer seemed quite used to it, signing nearly with her hero name while showing none of the annoyance she definitely felt.

HR let both of them go soon after, back to their regular shifts because someone had to handle the normal operation of SDN and it certainly wasn’t them. Left on his own to rejoin his desk, his team and Beef, it was only then that Robert realized that he was apparently the one who’d have to break the news to his team.

His life was a fucking joke.

***

Filming was as disastrous as Robert thought it’d be, though the sheer shock on the crew’s face after the fifteenth sex joke in the first twenty minutes was quite funny to behold. Sadly, after three days, their innocence had truly withered completely and been replaced by uninterested ignorance, the same approach Robert had taken minus the pointed replies. Some poor staff had been reduced to being the “censor here” button, clicking a pen painfully close to the mic in hopes of drowning out the sounds as Sonar spewed his usual rhetoric about boobs.

Somehow, after a week and a half of running around with villains turned heroes, the crew had garnered enough usable footage to make their stupid documentary. Robert wasn’t even sure what the point of this shit was — how to not act in any setting? A promotion of the Phoenix program and how well its participants were doing despite their foul mouths? A marketing ploy to capitalize on Z-team’s recent rise in the public’s eye? All of the above in reverse order of priority?

In the end, HR had definitely half blackmailed him and Mandy into this bullshit. Sadly for them, neither hero took well to those kinds of schemes and both could hold a mean grudge. With positions like theirs — basically cemented and impossible to fire without a logistical mess or a PR disaster, another department that definitely actually worked — and reputations to boast about, they were practically bulletproof.

There’d be so many fucking violations flowing to their desk in the next week or two that they’d have paperwork to file out for the rest of the year.

***

As it turns out, the Z-team did insist on watching the documentary as some sort of twisted, ego-stroking movie night. Prism and Sonar had been the ones to organize it all, sending out an invite — or an obligation, depending on how you interpreted it — to meet up at Robert’s place after work on Friday.

Sadly for him, Robert had only been partially informed of this plan about an hour before the invite was sent into their group chat, a fact that should’ve bothered him more. After enough invasions against his privacy in basically every way that mattered, it seemed he’d grown used to it. The rest of the team would bring the food — he’d just have to “host”, read sit back and relax.

The documentary was fine, all things considered, if not boring as shit in some parts. It was pretty well made if Robert was to be honest, edited in a way that made the action flow seamlessly into the little amount of banter they’d been able to put in without censoring everything. The solo interviews, although partially awkward for some of the members that weren’t used to being on TV — Water Boy, mainly — or way too comfortable for something that’d be aired to millions, seemed to give an authentic feel to the hour-and-a-half documentary. It painted the Z-team in a more humane manner, people behind the snark, glamour, powers and heavily censored dialogue. The interviewers had apparently been able to squeeze out one semi-serious and/or emotional moment per member, an impressive feat Robert thought was the most remarkable thing in the entire footage.

His and Mandy’s interviews had been saved for the beginning and the end, though his voice (and sometime his face, to his chagrin) could be heard throughout. Theirs were the segments about the Phoenix program and its inner workings, the actual PR part of the documentary that actually justified its existence. Before the semi-relaxed background of his office workspace and the bright ass studio lights, Robert thought he looked kind of dead. Although he’d recovered from every single obvious injury, the high-quality cameras always had a way to make him feel like shit about himself. It was probably the way he’d be able to count the pores on his skin if he zoomed in, but still.

The little name card at the corner had simply dubbed him “Robert — Dispatcher of the Z-Team”, a real fucking shame since nobody else had their actual name in the damn documentary. Still, maybe asking the editors to bleep every single time somebody yelled his name on the comms was asking too much. It would’ve been a nice thought, but it wasn’t like he was the main star of the show — he had about ten minutes of actual screen time and half of it made him look particularly pasty.

In the end, Robert had tuned out the whole thing about halfway through. The week had been kind of rough on his sleep schedule, what with the delectable mix of dread, useless thrive and anticipation that’d recently lost its intended goal. Now that Shroud was gone and the suit was all patched up again, what should he do? He’d technically be able to return as a hero no problem, proving every single piece of shit that’d dragged him through the media circus when he’d woken up from his coma wrong. Still, this whole dispatch thing he had going on… it was nice, in a way. The work and pay weren’t the most glamorous thing, sure, and the shifts were kind of brutal, but… the people he’d gained from it… he didn’t want to risk losing any of them.

Mandy had already offered him a partnership with SDN — actually remunerated hero work that would allow him to not go completely broke again. He wouldn’t be affiliated with a team, just sent out to cover for missing firepower or calls that could be handled alone. The prospect of being in the field again was both an exhilarating possibility and a paralyzing, looming thing. What if he wasn’t on his A game anymore? What if he blew himself up again, made a dumb mistake that’d make him start from scratch once more, shooting his family’s legacy in the head another time for good measure?

But then, not being out there, able to actually help instead of sitting behind his screen and waiting for others to do it instead… it was like torture. A weird feeling, really — he liked the team, loved the way they’d brought light, literally, into his depression corner. Yet, each time he sent them out, especially now that he could follow instead of thinking it was over forever, a persistent itch made his hands shake. He wanted to be out there too, damn it.

“Robert?”

His name pulled him out of his thoughts, focusing back on the TV — a gift from Sonar, apparently his stock thing was going really well — only to see the credits rolling. Everybody was looking at him somehow, as if he hadn’t been silent for almost an hour now, letting their banter wash over him.

“Did they even ask anybody before making that cheesy ass montage?” Prism asked, eyebrow raised as she nursed her Mai Tai. Apparently, Coupé, after being offered another shot at the Phoenix program (with much, much insistence from a certain dispatcher who argued that, technically,  a few more murders didn’t add much more to her file) and moving back in with Colm, had picked up some bartending skills. With an Irishman as a roommate, the alcohol never went to waste and the surprising precision some mixtures demanded made for good stress relief.

“I for one think it made for quite the emotional and human climax, despite the tonal clash,” Phenomaman piped up, still in uniform despite everyone else wearing casual clothing. There was a bet going on right now on whether he actually owned anything else, or just a depressing amount of the same outfit twenty times. Robert made a mental note to follow up on that — with the amount of money the alien was sitting on, it’d be a shame to be accused of having no wardrobe.

Flambae and Invisigal were just laughing, looking at him with a dangerous mix of mischief and mocking. Though Robert had missed whatever this was about, he could bet that he’d never hear the end of it.

The rest of the team piped up with their own comments, the conversation slowly shifting towards the rest of the documentary. It seemed they, despite not wanting to admit it, were a little flattered. Robert didn’t know if demons could flush, but if they could, Malevola would probably qualify as something close enough to it.

Oh well. If it were world-ending for his reputation or secret identity, he was certain Courtney would’ve mentioned it. Nothing to worry about.

***

Did you know how little it took to set the internet on fire when it came to heroes? Everybody loved a feel-good story about success, the kind of tale that ended with a wrapped bow that said “they were all happy and remained so for all of eternity”. Everybody loved a good antihero these days, villains reformed as they saw the light in the world and finally decided that they could believe in it once more, leaving past burdens and regrets behind or some shit.

All of that to say that the documentary was a huge hit.

Turns out, halfway through, it kind of started to look more like a movie than a documentary. The beginning definitely felt like a company-sponsored thing, all clinical and sterilized to bring nothing but positive reviews, but then, halfway through, someone must’ve lost the plot. That someone was apparently in cahoots with the film crew, because those shots and cinematic angles felt a world away from the stable, family-friendly static shots of the beginning.

Perhaps everyone was suffering from a whiplash-induced concussion. That would explain why people were behaving like this on social media.

The Z-team had most definitely been in on these intentions to make an action flick. Prism had never used her abilities in such an aesthetic way except when it was time to flex for her followers. Flambae suddenly kept lighting himself up like a cheap knockoff of the Human Torch, letting the flames lick at his skin and throwing his scenes in a warm, cinematic show of light. Invisigal was flickering around every fight, disappearing and reappearing in a way that probably wouldn’t help her abused lungs, but if it was to look cool for the camera, maybe it was worth it.

Needless to say that Malevola looked fantastic on film, what with her abilities already looking like they came straight out of a movie. The colour grading they’d applied to her segments made her portals an explosion of colour amongst the chaos, like a spark of hope exploding outward and tearing reality apart. With her sword and her horns, Robert wasn’t overtly surprised that so many people had fallen head over heels for her.

Punch Up and Coupé fell into that same cinematic glory. Coupé looked like an angel of metal and retribution, descending from the sky to deliver judgment. Punch Up tore his way through enemies and walls, his super strength making for quite the explosions of debris when he got pissed and finally decided to bulldoze his way through everything. The dust it sent up as Coupé descended, the cameraman in the perfect (most definitely dangerous, hopefully the guy really cared else there’d be a lawsuit incoming) spot to film her descending into the hole her teammate had made.

Phenomaman and Water Boy weren’t really in the documentary, except for a quick cameo or two. They, after all, were not part of the Phoenix program — one was an already established hero and the other was in training, having a clean legal background. They did manage to catch Herm in one of his less anxiety-ridden moments though, letting him look at least somewhat cool with that hard determination lining his features, despite the bright yellow and blue wetsuit.

Finally, if Robert had any complaint whatsoever, one he wouldn’t voice because it definitely made him sound like a mother hen, it’d be about how Sonar and Golem were handled. Half of their stories had been summed up to having trouble fitting in, something Robert knew neither of them struggled with all that much. Hell, a lot of people these days have some kind of mutation, be it animal features or some kind or exuding corrosive acid out of one’s pores. They’d been born like this, so they were used to it, and the people around them were too — though Robert definitely felt like tracking down and destroying the few that looked a little too grossed out by Golem’s mud body or Sonar’s general bat attributes. Those ungrateful fucks should’ve been left there to fend for themselves for all he cared.

(And wasn’t that quite a switch-up from when he was nothing other than Mecha Man? Back then, he didn’t have very many people to care about this deeply, people he’d sacrifice his general “civilians and innocents deserve to be saved, even if they curse me out because they would prefer a different hero” morals for. This was a switch up, and yet it felt so natural to think such thoughts it almost scared him.)

Other than that, Robert didn’t understand the hype. After scrolling past the eighteenth Prism edit with her song blaring proudly in the background, he gave up for the day. As a thirty-something-year-old jaded man, maybe he just wasn’t in a position to understand. Sure, the documentary looked good, some of those shots looked like CGI in real life and people had definitely risked their lives to film it, but that was about it.

Of course, Robert had missed both the ending and the post-credit scene. He’d also conveniently missed the other fifty edit about that one dispatcher with the sexy dark circles.

***

Chapter Text

[Have you all seen that dispatcher guy in the ending sequence? Ugh, that shit made me feel proud for something I hadn’t even known existed like three days ago.]

Replies ;

• Right?!!! Like, when do we start studying this shit in art school?
• He’s hot
• That voice is doing things to me
• Every day, anywhere, whenever he wants
• God damn, where can I get a piece of that?
• I preferred the Malevola segments for reasons
• Mid
• Just sayin’ if that’s mid then I’m a fucking lost cause

[So much respect for a guy that can do all that, cuz I think I would’ve quit lol.]

Replies ;

• Wdym you wouldn’t have stayed for Invisigal haha
• Be so for real oomf I know Flambae’s ass would’ve been enough to collar you to that desk forever
• Hate on the job, but don’t hate on the eye candy
• I would too if I got to work with Flambae and stare at his ass every lunch break
• I think they’re kind of funny, in a chaotic way
• There’s peace to be found in chaos, just saying
• I think I would’ve cried so hard I would’ve become a second Waterboy

[Idk what it is, but there’s something about that dispatcher guy that’s triggered some kind of feral carnal lust in me, like every night it’s bad.]

Replies ;

• Pfff you’d have to kill me before admitting that (so true bestie)
• Have you seen the edits tho, they’re like, stimulating, yknow
• Guy looks competent as hell too, btw his name’s Robert so we can stop calling him dispatch guy lol
• Bro was talking with that voice in our ears for like half the runtime, t’was to be expected
• They knew what they were doing when they cut up his audio pffff

[Did any of y’all spot that scar peaking out of Robert’s collar? Like what are you hiding, show me moreeeee]

-> Joined: a picture of Robert, his collar slightly opened in a way that shows the barest hints of some sort of scar tissue.

Replies :

• SDN dispatchers are usually ex-heroes, so there’s that I guess
• Who hurt you pookie, tell meeee
• Man we are down BAD if we’re giving him the Sherlock Holmes treatment haha
• Who tf is Robert
• My guy we saw so much more than his fucking collarbones cmon
• Full front view when
• Pants off, front shot when SDN

[The back of a dependable, miserable miserable man]

-> Joined: a picture of Robert, back facing the camera. Although the angle doesn’t peak lower than his back, it seems like he is wearing a towel around his hips. A great many scars mar his skin. He does not seem to be aware that he is being filmed.

Replies :

• That part lmao, you got Flambae and Phenomaman but no, they chose to flash everybody with the twink and it WORKED
• How much to get the front view
• That shit has like a million views on YouTube, yall are down bad and I’m down there too
• It was so moody and the colours were so pretty and then BAM, naked, not that I’m complaining, but I’m still concussed from the whiplash
• Do they just have open showers to the public lol, the cameraman just barged in
• Work at SDN and get views like these in the showers, sign me the fuck up
• Backshots

***

“Y’all seen the edits on TikTok?” Prism asked the rest of Z-team, lazily scrolling on her phone as they waited for some sort of meeting to start. She was munching on some gum, blowing bubbles as she rotted her brain a little bit more. Whoever had picked the meeting time knew them too fucking well, because they’d shoved it straight in the middle of their dinner break in a way that made it nigh impossible for any of them to run off. Though most of them had shed that habit with the weeks of working, getting absorbed into the usual rhythm of hero work — meet to talk about hero work, talk shit with Robert, work, and then go home — any out-of-schedule shit usually sent at least half of them scampering.

“The ones about us, or the other ones?” Punch Up asked, a shit eating grin plastered on his face that was reflected on most of Z-team’s members’ visages as well. They were being wry about it, but everybody knew which edits Prism was talking about here — it wasn’t theirs, though they did get a lot of those, but more so…

“Of course I’m talking about Robert’s, the fuck you want me to say about yours?”

Before anyone could get offended and devolve into immediate insults, Courtney intervened — or cut them all off, a matter of perspective.

“Pfff, those are definitely a sight to see… I guess that cheesy ending montage worked,” she laughed, eyes darting away as her hand moved to cover the slight blush tinting her face, a slightly desperate attempt to make it look casual. While she definitely thought the over-the-top, “emotional” ending and everything that came before it were tacky, she’d be lying if she said it didn’t do something to her. They’d really framed the mundane well, kind of in an “unseen heroes” type of way. It made Robert look dependable, confident and trusting, things he definitely didn’t seem to be once they first met him, but now…

(Well, it wasn’t like she was one to talk, not when she’d dreamt up the dude even before he stopped her from absolutely ruining her life and leaving everything behind… those dreams definitely had become more recent after that, though not amount of torture would pry that confession out of her mouth. At least, now that she was hoping, maybe a little bit, for something more, they seemed more realistic… and about ten times more pleasant.)

Across the table, it seemed most of Z-team had also plunged into their own thoughts, leaving the room in a pensive semi-silence — the best you’d get from them, except when Robert was talking. Then they’d shut up and listen, if only because it’d make everything go quicker.

(Who were they kidding, they most definitely had a thing for that strong, quiet yet confident voice of his. You’d think hearing it all day long, giving you shit in your ear again and again, would make Robert’s voice unbearable, but… no, it was kind of the opposite, like a vocal drug injected straight into the brain. If the crew for that documentary had asked any of them about it, which they sadly didn’t, they would’ve gotten a whole lot more footage to bleep out.)

Punch Up was chatting with Coupé at a volume that was hard to understand — if anybody here admitted to whatever it was they seemed to be feeling towards their dispatcher, it’d probably be them first. At least, it’d be Coupé, followed closely by Colm. The two kind of came together as a pair in a weird, open relationship kind of way while simultaneously not being in a relationship, maybe. It was complicated and neither of them was willing to label anything, Punch Up because he didn’t like to make shit complicated for no reason and Coupé, because she didn’t see the point. That straight-to-the-point attitude hadn’t waned, even after her short stint as a potential permanent resident of a dark, damp cell, though she’d mellowed a little ever since. Like a very spiky ice block stuck in a fifteen-degree room — slow as fuck, but certainly melting.

Prism was engrossed by her phone once more, focusing on something that she kept replaying. Nobody could see it with the way she’d angled herself, probably on purpose to avoid any jeering her bored coworkers could conjure up about her algorithm or some shit. It was hard to see what she was thinking, what with her glasses obscuring most of the view, but her lips were slightly raised in a soft smile. Though she had quite a harsh exterior sometimes, all sass and jabs, Alice lay somewhere beneath the glam, attentive and caring in actions rather than words. It was sweet in a way only those close to her would understand and be able to see. She certainly had a way to make someone feel worth something, be it with seemingly backhanded but sincere compliments or small acts of care. It was love in a very Prism way, refracted through a thousand mirrors until it looked vaguely like affection.

Phenomaman and Waterboy, the recruits Robert had somehow convinced SDN into adding to the team despite it not being a choose one get two kind of deal, were also talking quietly. Well, more so Waterboy was whispering in quiet, panicked bursts and Kanton-Ur was nodding gravely. Stumbling over his words and slightly nervous about having to explain such a thing to his alien colleague, Herm gave his best attempt at explaining what an edit was. It wasn’t the best, but at the very least, Phenomaman would go off with the understanding that it was a video.

Herm was blushing furiously throughout, yet seemed unwilling to show an example to the interested alien. His phone, stuck in a waterproof bag at all times when he was at work — and therefore more likely to spontaneously produce large quantities of water — and currently put away in his locker, was out of reach. Really though, Herm knew that he wouldn’t be able to open his TikTok here without embarrassing himself terribly. Not when his handle, chosen when he was a little younger and stupider, was MM-fan-4ever, and he didn’t know how to change it.

Sonar was also on his phone, typing away with a bored expression on his face. In complete contrast to that, his fingers were going at quite an impressive rate, taping with intention and speed, flying across the small screen. It was more than likely that he was chatting shit or rage-baiting someone online, two activities he’d taken to like a fish to water when someone who never came forth introduced him to 4Chan. Malevola was looking over his shoulder, seemingly interested in whatever he was doing, making small faces as more and more characters appeared on screen. In terms of boldness, she maybe ranked up there too — if she decided that Robert was going to be her twunk, it would happen fast. She was, most likely, a hellish rival to have in matters of the heart, though she’d probably be willing to share her spoils.

Finally, both Flambae and Golem looked bored in the “I’m thinking about something only because there’s nothing else to do” sort of way, which was by playing with their power. Small flames danced on Chad’s hands as he absentmindedly let them slither around his digits in a soundless show of control. Golem was apparently doing a triage of what he’d absorbed on the way to work today — some leaves, a coin, an empty cup of coffee, some rocks… it was making a small mess in the corner he’d chosen as his own, a nightmare for the poor janitor that’d have to clean it up. While Bruno had probably not looked at whatever the others were talking about — phones weren’t the most friendly devices to someone of his size and he hadn’t shown much interest in them thus far beyond texting — Flambae definitely had.

His private account, because he’d rather drown himself in ice-cold water than let anyone see the shit he was prone to watching late into the night, was full of the exact videos Prism had mentioned. Nobody seemed to have noticed the terrible blush that had gone over his face when she’d brought them up, but it had been too damn close. Yes, he’d fucking seen them. Moreover, he’d even saved them all in a neat little private folder, in an absolutely random order that had nothing to do with state of undress. That damn documentary had been pretty tame at first, though he knew of course that an incoming switch-up would inevitably happen at some point with the way the crew had suddenly gone mental halfway through recording. He wasn’t too sure what that was about, even now — Sonar had had more extensive talks with them, apparently interested in the whole recording process. Maybe the bat hybrid had sweet-talked them into making something more interesting, or baited them by pandering to their interest in true Harvard graduate fashion. That guy was fucking terrifying once he stopped messing around and actually focused on a singular objective. That cameraman with the phasing ability sure did have the vibes of a manic, underachieving film student stuck with “lame projects” instead of the grandiose black and white movies he had hoped to make. A cinephile, a true snob of the arts, stranded in this tasteless world, such tragedy. Pressing a few buttons on a keyboard that big and red to achieve results was one of Victor’s weird, conman abilities — his unique charm, if you asked him.

Still, Flambae hadn’t expected that sudden switch-up in filmmaking to affect the SDN headquarters segments as much as it did. Gloomy shots illuminated solely by the screen computers as the dispatchers toiled away, the sun muted in a way that made everything fucking tragic. Of course, the focus was on Robert — the bitch was the “main character of the background nobodies”, as Prism had so elegantly put it. The documentary, beyond the speech about the Phoenix program that reeked of PR’s surgical interventions to cram the most investor-friendly image into everybody’s brain, did open with his interview, shoved onto images of Z-team getting ready for work.

(They hadn’t gotten too close nor too obscene with any of them despite being smack dab in the locker rooms and more than half of them being very willing to pretend they didn’t come to work in uniform already. No nude shots, no ass shots, no closeups on any areas other than their faces. Even now, Flambae wasn’t too sure what sort of pandering HR had hoped for, if it wasn’t sex or humour. Sheer coolness, maybe, but that’d be giving those paper pushers way too much credit.)

The Z-team was already well aware that Robert was a capable speaker, but they’d only ever seen the brash, personal approach. Those speeches had been tailor-made, said in private and would never be heard again. These monologues, whenever he’d filmed them, had been done in a radically different setting — probably with HR breathing down his neck so he wouldn’t say anything too reputation-ending, not before the team did it on their own anyway. His words were carefully chosen, his tone even, stern and confident. After succinctly introducing himself, first name only, he immediately started talking about his job — how the phoenix program was conceived, a heavily redacted version of how he was recruited and an immediate shift of the spotlight towards the Z-team. That’s when the trouble started, at least for Flambae.

“…a true, perfect representation of a phoenix, rising from its ashes in a burst of heroic flames… to me, that’s what Z-team is. They’ve truly changed from my first shift to today. Sincerely, I can confirm with all of my expertise that they could not be closer to the original objective of this program; to become heroes and shed their past.”

“…they are the best team we have on hand in SDN, even if the rankings cannot show it properly.”

“… every day, they put their lives on the line for people who probably would’ve cheered or demanded their arrest. They fought against the odds and won.”

“I hope whatever you film in the next week or so can truly reflect the amazing work each of them does every day, saving innocent lives one intervention at a time.”

(They’d panned back to Robert for that one. He was sitting on some sort of fancy chair that’d been brought in just for the interviews, though it had been placed right in front of the common workplace for his only. That sincere, determined — if not a little worried, because this was Robert before recording, Robert who’d thoroughly grilled them on proper conduct and self-control, Robert who was worried for them, their reputation and the way the world would receive them — fire in his eyes was the same he’d given them after the Shroudpocalyspe. That meeting had been terribly gratifying, in a “discovering a new praise kink” kind of way.)

Though those particular moments, unlike that damn ending segment, hadn’t been edited and shoved into short form videos — not spectacular nor appealing enough, basically flavour text to most — Flambae had personally found a clip and saved it. Robert hadn’t let them record his sincere praises after Shroud, well aware that he’d never live it down if anybody got the opportunity to replay his words back at him each time he got annoyed. Now, this existed, permanently, on the Internet… and Chad hadn’t even thought of teasing Bobert with it even once. It felt personal in a strange way, targeted towards him in an intimate manner that shouldn’t be sullied. The words were pure, said in full awareness that they’d be heard by probably thousands of people who would have no context for them. If people suddenly decided that, after watching the documentary, they didn’t like Z-team for whichever many reasons Invisigal and Prism had jotted down on their list right before watching the damn thing, it was over for Robert’s inexistent professional reputation. With how shit HR’s tactics usually were, Flambae wouldn’t be surprised if a bad turnover had resulted in them all getting sacked immediately to save some reputation for SDN. Without SDN, without their resources, that was Robert’s hero career flushed down the drain. He’d have to affiliate with them proper to get any of it back, a possibility he’d admitted he hated with a passion in private. That choice that was obviously fucking with him even right now would’ve been ripped away from him just like that, for Z-team (and they’d never live it down either, even if there was no fault to place on their shoulders, because this was Robert. Their dispatcher, the one who’d believed in them, that’d answered their teasing word for word, blow for blow. Theirs.)

With that in mind, Robert could’ve been as impersonal as possible, simply assuming the role of a regular dispatcher who was just here to do his job, nothing more. He didn’t have to offer a glimpse at the deeper relations that ran throughout Z-team, but he did. And maybe Chad was thinking about this too much, agonizing over every single decision like it couldn’t be made in an instant with no thoughts behind it, but he was pretty damn sure that Robert knew. The guy who had been able to get Coupé, convicted felon who had added a few more to her arsenal, back certainly wouldn’t blunder that hard. The man was emotionally intelligent — a fucked up therapist friend that was depressed as all hell, kind of. The expertise, but not the conscience to apply it to himself.

He willingly associated himself with all of them and, for Chad, that meant something. For someone to want to be here with him, a washed-up villain turned wannabe hero turned actual, real fucking hero, it was… something. For, deep down, a boy who’d always been shunned, be it for his sexuality, then the brash and in-your-face attitude he developed, his villain career or his general personality, this was practically a declaration of love. Of family, of bonds deeper than blood formed through hardship, an actual link that he wasn’t horrendously scared would break off and wither away because of him. He’d gained a new family, basically, in so many ways. He’d found them, and they had found him, entangling him in their intricate webs of brashness and jeering, all coated in a way that made it feel uniquely personal.

Prism was here to gossip about everything and anything, finally, a dependable friend in his life to discuss the interests he’d always been, very deep down, ashamed to admit. In the casual, shit eating carefree vibes of the Z-team calls, he’d gotten comfortable very fast, talking and admitting to things he’d barely mentioned to anyone before. It was liberating, in a way — room to breathe and fuel the fire he’d shielded from the world for so long, hidden away beneath brighter, angrier flames.

He’d been invited for a drink at Coupé and Punch Up’s apartment numerous times already. Not a booty call, not an attempt to talk only for it to end in a shouting match… just an invite to hang out, masks off, with Colm and Janelle as Chad. With the two of them, he could have calmer, more serious conversations on a more consistent basis that never ended with someone crying. Both of them were kind of domestic in a weird, old married couple kind of way — it made the atmosphere in their small kitchen incredibly cozy, like talking to the reliable adults parents were supposed to be, in the lens of friendship rather than obligatory blood bonds. It wasn’t familial in that way, but it felt pretty damn close to it, similar in dissimilarities. Chad would never, ever admit to that, he’d truly rather fly straight into the stratosphere and suffocate to death, but it was true. Deep down, he knew it to be.

Malevola had offered him lifts and words of reassurance a surprising amount of time, her true personality much nicer than what some prejudiced fucks assumed when looking at her. Bruno was very similar in nature, nice, simple-minded in a charming way that invoked some sort of caring instinct he thought only his niece could conjure up in him. Sonar was fun to chat with about nothing and everything, even better when it was about talking shit. His banter with him and Invisigal made his day better even if it looked utterly brutal and rude from the outside.

Waterboy… was a weird case. He’d found him particularly irritating at first, a stumbling idiot who couldn’t string two words together, a wannabe hero who was too scared to even attempt anything. Then, everything had gone down, and between dispatches, fights and small talks in the break room, he’d warmed up to the dude. This was the first time he’d ever had someone ask him for advice, someone besides his niece who looked to him for genuine guidance without it being sarcastic.

Mentoring had never been something Chad thought he’d ever do. He was brash, impatient, brutal in his comments and prone to rushing — those were not qualities of a good mentor. And yet, like a gentle mist of water on a low flame, he found all of this extinguished when talking with Herm. The man was so earnest in his demands, so sincere in the way he listened and asked questions… one could only answer in kind, with patience, gentle guidance and genuine advice. It was like discovering a new facet of himself, really. Perhaps he wouldn’t make such a bad dad after all, despite everything.

Phenomaman was a weird case. Both powerful yet oblivious, polite to a point of ridicule and yet extremely blunt. It was hard to hate someone like that, someone who was genuinely good in an innocent way that wasn’t too common anymore. One would think him being so popular and so different would alienate him — pun intended, hah — immediately within the team, but what weren’t they but rejects of their own? Phoenixes have two wings, and so two could fit under theirs. Sure, Phenomaman was a grown ass man who could make his own choices, an experimented hero that didn’t need any advice, and maybe Z-team’s vibes kind of corrupted him a little — adding spice to a dish only makes it more tasteful, though. Adding a bit of flavour to the man’s life couldn’t possibly be bad.

All these dynamics, much like pieces of a puzzle, had clicked around Flambae, surrounding him in a warmth unparalleled by the one generated by his flames. It was love akin to no other, one that needed no words or declarations to be accepted and reciprocated. At some point, he’d acquired new coworkers, nuisances he didn’t want to spend a second with, and then, they’d become more. At some point, he’d met Robert and, at some point, the spite and anger he felt towards him shifted, becoming more passionate, more sincere… becoming love. And that was fine. It was the way things were, the way things worked, unsaid but safely kept in his heart and brain as facts of everyday life. Not everything needed to be vocalized — this, for one, this love, both familiar and so true it almost hurt, didn’t need to.

Well, no, that wasn’t true.

Those damn fuckers online running their mouth were pissing him off and making him seriously reconsider his new life philosophy.

Robert probably hadn’t read about them yet due to a blatant lack of presence on anything that even remotely resembled a social media platform. How he even managed his PR when he was Mecha Man was a complete mystery. Z-team by itself basically fed four social media interns due to the sheer amount of damage control SDN had to make after every four shifts or so — a noticeable improvement from the once-a-shift rate of before that nearly required some bribes to be handed out. Mecha Man had been a hero for a long ass time, even when solely counting Robert’s time in the suit. 15 years in an injury-prone job, under the spotlight, and not even one scandal about a random Mecha-themed orgy. Maybe those were the benefits of a secret identity, not that he’d know. If he had to be a hero, then he’d do it facing the world head-on, face uncovered, damn it.

With this sudden influx of exaggerated, absolutely parched posts and edits, who knew how their dispatcher would react? The man had been a hero, sure, but he’d never been complimented for his… assets before. A bit of Internet fame could go a long way to bloat out a dude’s ego. Would he get an offer to transfer out? Would HR decide to move their asses and make him the face of their dispatch program, a kind of glorified mascot to parade around with Blond Blazer? And, if so, would he remain here, with them, doing clearly tiring work as the documentary had framed so well in every late shift, every yawn and close up to his eye-bags?

‘Don’t be daft,’ Flambae told himself, scoffing internally at himself as he drove back home. ‘He already chose you live on air, why wouldn’t he do it another time in private? That’s like, ten times less stressful…’

But what if he didn’t? What if higher pay, better conditions, the opportunity to be something more outside of the suit, to be recognized by the world as Robert instead of a meat sacrifice for the Mecha Man legacy, was too enticing a deal to refuse? If it were himself in this situation, what would he choose?

Flambae had built bonds, found something akin to family in Z-team, but did Robert see it that way also? Or were they just very friendly coworkers, people who had invaded his private lives a few times to make it objectively better, obviously, but that was it. Their dispatcher was friendly, calm, composed, collected and made for the greatest motivational speaker this side of SDN. They all viewed him in some special way, at least Flambae sure did, but was that reciprocated or was he just hardcore projecting on the man?

Tightening his hand on the wheel, Chad bit his lip. He had a dilemma, laid out in front of him, something he’d thought over countless times before and after Robert revealed himself as the fucker who’d cut his fingers off. He could run, again, hide away, again, and let the tides of life pass him by. Via inaction, he’d remain untouched, an immovable object against any possibility of being hurt or ridiculed, much like a rock, standing tall and solid. Still, all around, he’d be able to see every opportunity, every what-if, drift away along the water’s surface, out of reach even if he tried to move, even if he screamed and begged for another chance. People didn’t like an indecisive prospect, someone who still hadn’t moved on from a possibility that had already passed ages ago while they had walked on, finding something better to pursue. People liked, wanted, bold declarations of commitment, made under the stars or in front of the sea.

Would Robert like that? A bold display, a planned confession engineered to be perfect. Chad wasn’t too sure of that — the man didn’t like excess, he didn’t indulge in much. Quiet actions, sincerity and a declaration so pure it couldn’t possibly hold any ulterior motives. That sounded more like his style, something fit for a man both paranoid and too tired to care at the same time. Hell, it could be against the blandest of backdrops, and Flambae was certain it wouldn’t even matter.

Before anybody stole him from them, somebody had to act. If none of the fuckers Chad knew were in as much deep shit as him acted on it, then he’d do it. Before the opportunity slipped away, before his love became akin to a chain rather than the warm blanket he wanted it to be, he’d make it known. If he got rejected, if he was thrown away again, avoided and ridiculed for the rest of his shifts, then so be it. At least he wouldn’t be left with the possibility of something greater left unfulfilled forever, locked away as a bleeding wound on his heart.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d fucking tell him how it was, and the fallout would have to wait.