Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ruins of the Torrance branch were still warm.

Metal groaned, sparks hissed in the corners, and the air clung heavy with smoke and celebration. Someone had shoved another bottle of beer into his hand. Robert was not sure who. Only that it was his third or fourth… or fifth bottle by now, and that this was probably part of the Z team’s collective effort to get him thoroughly wasted.

Robert sat on what remained of a cubicle wall, his body humming with leftover adrenaline that felt too much like electricity under the skin. The Z team were cheering about something in front of him, dancing through broken tiles as if the floor were not collapsing in patches. He kept his smile steady.

The Z team deserved this moment.

They were flushed, loud, breathless, drunk on survival, drunk on beer. They gathered in loose circles among the debris, each retelling of the battle growing a little more dramatic as it passed from one voice to another.

Robert let the sound wash over him, warm but distant, like a campfire he was sitting beside rather than in front of. He leaned back slightly, the crumpled wall panel creaking under his weight, and let their voices fade into a soft blur at the edges of his thoughts. The laughter, the noise, the distant crackle of damaged wiring folded into one another until they became a single background hum. His mind drifted.

He thought of Shroud.

Robert’s fifteen-year chase had finally reached its end. The man who murdered his father had been brought down by the collective effort of people he trusted, most of all a team of former villains who had chosen something better. Robert had expected to feel lighter. To feel resolution. Something closer to relief.

Instead, there was only a slow, hollow quiet where emotion should have been, a strange weight pressing into his ribs like the stillness after a storm.

The memory of that moment hung behind his eyes like smoke.

Shroud on the ground, bloodied and broken. Robert above him, breath ragged, pulse hammering, hands shaking with a rage he had not realised still lived inside him. For one terrifying instant he had imagined closing his hands around the man’s throat, slowly and deliberately choking the air out of him until nothing moved anymore. It had appeared in his mind with a clarity that chilled him even now.

The ease of it. The temptation.

How he wanted him to suffer.

Fifteen years of wanting answers and grief and exhaustion, turning into something ugly, sharp and vicious.

A version of himself, one who would’ve killed out of malice instead of necessity.

He had stopped himself.

He did not know whether it had been restraint or fear or the faint awareness of the Z team watching him, wide-eyed and silent. All he knew was that the moment had passed, and he stepped back, and he still was not entirely sure it had been the right choice.

He hoped so. For the team’s sake, if not his own.

They had been doing well. Better than anyone expected. He did not want to lead them off course. He did not want their progress tainted by the sight of him losing control.

He looked at them.

Sonar, with the support of Malevola and Golem, was trying to stack two broken office chairs into a makeshift throne. Earlier, they had paraded Robert around in his office chair before it snapped, and he was fairly certain one of those broken chairs was the remains of his. Punch Up and Flambae were arguing over whether the vending machine could still be salvaged, only to abandon the idea entirely and begin raiding it instead. Waterboy tried hopelessly to stop them. Prism was taking selfies among the wreckage with unapologetic enthusiasm, dragging Phenomaman into each frame undoubtedly to boost up numbers for her posts.

They were still messy, emotional, and chaotic in all the ways that made him consider early retirement on a weekly basis, but tonight they had fought with heart. Robert could see it in the way they moved, in the confidence that lingered even now. Something that looked almost like a promise. He could see even Coupé, who hovered awkwardly in the shadows beside Punch Up, as someone who might change now. Something he had not been able to imagine back when he had fired her.

Robert felt proud. He should stop thinking about Shroud and focus on them.

He stood a little apart from them, beer in hand, pretending to blend into the scene while letting the noise swirl past him. When he shifted his weight, pain flared beneath his ribs without warning. A sharp, blooming ache that stole his breath for half a second.

“You okay, brudah?” Royd asked.

Robert pressed a hand to his side before he even realised he was doing it, rubbing the irritation through his shirt. It felt like a very bad bruise.

Maybe it was from the torture. Maybe it was from the fight. Maybe it was from getting dropped during the celebration toss like a sack of flour, though the team insisted that part had been an accident, and he suspected they were only half telling the truth. Flambae definitely dropped him on purpose.

“Ugh… yeah. I think that drop earlier is going to bruise quite badly.”

“Oh. Sorry bout dat. Gone get too excited for dah photo.”

“All good, man,” Robert said. “For everything you’ve done for me, any wrong you do to me will be pardoned immediately.”

Royd responded with a Bro-fist and a smile before leaving to grab another beer.

Robert rolled his shoulders to shake the discomfort off and felt a sharp pain there too.

Fuck.

He was tired. That was all.

Robert had not slept properly in days. He had been kidnapped, beaten, rescued, then thrown straight into dispatching during a city-wide attack. No medical care. No rest. Then the branch was attacked, and he had gone straight from one crisis into the Mecha Man suit.

Piloting with a post-coma, freshly tortured body had been a terrible idea. He could admit that. In hindsight.

But it had been worth it.

Getting the astral pulse back. Feeling the suit respond to him again. He could not thank Royd enough for helping him rebuild it. Hearing the familiar hum run along his spine like an old friend greeting him after too long. Something in his chest had fluttered in a way he was not ready to examine. The memory drifted through him even now.

The excitement, however, also brought forward some uncertainty that fogged his thoughts.

Becoming Mecha Man again was possible now, yet dispatching was still his duty. Robert did not want to abandon the team. He doubted he could even if he tried.

Perhaps he could balance both if he were careful. Maybe ease into it instead.

Robert knew he could not jump straight back in anyway. His body was simply not ready, not with the way the suit could grind down a frame still recovering from a coma and fresh injuries. That was why he had been so desperate to get back in shape. Piloting the suit today had felt like stepping into an old skin, only to discover how much it hurt to wear it. He would have to think about it when his head was clearer. Which definitely was not right now.

Robert wasn’t quite sure of his next steps. But… he was hopeful.

He took a long sip of beer. The bubbles fizzed unpleasantly in his throat, and his stomach rolled in protest. The ache in his side sharpened again, and his hand drifted there automatically. Must have hit the floor harder than he remembered. Or maybe the suit had rattled his insides more than he had realised at the time.

He had been sitting too long, perhaps. He pushed himself upright for a stretch. His ribs protested immediately when he drew in a deeper breath. A dull, stubborn ache. Irritating, but nothing that Robert couldn’t manage. The kind of pain he had worked through a thousand times before. But when he lifted his arms over his head, the world abruptly narrowed. A dark ring closed around the edges of his vision. His balance tipped forward before he caught himself against the nearest surface.

Robert tried to straighten fully, but his knees argued with him, and he decided not to pick that fight. He let his hand drift to a cracked desk beside him, bracing himself with the kind of casual lean he hoped looked intentional. The world steadied, then wavered again at the edges. A faint ringing pressed behind his ears. He blinked until the debris and the celebration swam back into place.

Malevola was the first to notice.

“Babes, you good? You look like a baby deer learning how legs work.”

Robert huffed something that might have been a laugh. Or an exhale he tried to disguise as one.

“Perfectly fine,” he said, though the words came slower than he meant them to. “Long day. And you lot are loud.”

Prism nudged Waterboy with her elbow. “He is absolutely concussed. Again. I’m telling y’all his brain’s gonna start buffering like a bad livestream.”

Robert did not waste his breath answering.

He simply lifted his hand and flipped her off without even looking in her direction, the gesture small and tired and almost elegant in its laziness.

“Not concussed. Just tired.” Likely concussed, definitely tired, actually. The beer in his other hand wobbled slightly, so he tightened his grip. “Adrenaline dump.”

“I did,” Coupé said, guilt creeping into her voice, “kick you pretty hard in the temple a few hours ago, though. Are you certain you do not have a concussion?”

Prism whipped around. “The fuck do you mean by that, girl?!”

“No, don’t worry. I am fine.” He cut Coupé a sharp look, just a small flick of his eyes. A warning disguised as fatigue.

Her mouth snapped shut immediately. She understood. He was not about to let her continue and accidentally reveal what had actually happened, not with half the team listening. They did not need to know she had been involved in his torture mere hours ago when she had only just come back.

Coupé lowered her gaze, swallowed, and nodded once in silent agreement.

He meant to stand properly after that, to prove his point, show them he was steady. His body had other opinions. A cold ripple swept across his skin, and the ache in his side pulsed harder than before, sharp enough to steal a breath from him. He pressed his hand there again before he could stop himself. The dizziness crept in fast, crawling up the back of his skull and squeezing behind his eyes. His stomach heaved in a slow, unpleasant roll. For a moment, he thought he might actually vomit. Too much beer on a mostly empty stomach. Concussion. Exhaustion. Take a pick. They all sounded like plausible excuses.

“Hold on—just give me a second. Think I just… overdid it with the drinking,” he muttered, trying to force steadiness into his voice. “Ah shit.”

“You good, bro?” Golem eased an arm of packed earth behind his waist. The mud moulded slightly to Robert’s weight, steadying him.

“Uh. Thanks, bud.”

Sonar pointed at him with the half-eaten snack he had stolen from the vending machine. “See? That’s a sign of a concussion. The universal indication of a man who bruised his brain.”

“Fine. Yeah. I think it may actually be a concussion,” Robert admitted with a weary sigh.

“Then sit ye arse down before you fall on someone, lad,” Punch Up ordered, already steering him toward where Visi and Mandy sat talking quietly. Punch Up shoved him into the space between them with all the gentleness of a man moving furniture.

Robert opened his mouth to argue. But sitting suddenly sounded almost rational. His legs agreed even more quickly than his brain did. He lowered himself between them in a slow, controlled descent, which he hoped read as intentional. The ground tipped once, dipped again, then steadied after a few blinks.

“I told you, you look more like hammered shit than I do,” Visi muttered with a smile, shifting to give him room. “Pretty sure a concussion warrants a hospital visit more than a shoulder bullet wound.”

She nudged Robert with her bandaged arm for emphasis.

“Do not tell me we need to send your bitch ass to the hospital, Bob Bob,” Flambae shouted from somewhere behind a pile of debris. “Because you’d be such a buzz kill.”

Robert raised his beer in a loose, vague arc that could, in some generous interpretation, be called a gesture of compliance. In truth, if he had even the slightest idea where the flaming menace was standing, he would have happily chucked the bottle at him instead.

“No need,” he muttered. His voice had begun to thin out, drifting at the edges. “Just need to… sit it out and let it pass.”

The nausea eased after a minute, enough that he let out a slow breath and mistook the brief clarity as proof that things were settling. His stomach no longer rolled quite so violently. His vision stopped swimming. Even the ache in his side seemed to dull for a moment, fading into a distant throb. Good. Fine. That meant it really was just the beer, or the concussion, or the stupid toss that had launched him into low orbit for a solid second.

He snorted under his breath.

“By the way,” he muttered, “those of you who dropped me owe my shoulder an apology. That thing hurts more than the rest of me.”

Flambae raised his hands defensively from across the circle. “You slipped, bitch.”

“Sure,” Robert said. “On gravity.”

That earned a ripple of laughter, and for a moment, he let himself relax, leaning back slightly as the conversation shifted around him. The faint numbness spreading up his side and into his arm felt almost pleasant. A warm haze crept up the edges of his thoughts, softening everything.

Good. The alcohol had finally caught up.

Robert let his shoulders sink, the weight of the day pulling at him. When he tilted slightly, he felt someone’s shoulder against his, steady and warm. He leaned his head into it without thinking. Just for a second. Just to rest his eyes.

“Hey. Heyyy. Earth to Roberto Robertoson.” Prism snapped her fingers in front of his face, a flicker of light sparking with each click.

He blinked at her, slow and unfocused. Annoyed at the flashing of light.

“What?” he muttered. “M’fine.”

“You are not supposed to fall asleep if you are concussed,” Mandy reminded him, nudging his arm lightly.

“I know, just resting my eyes a bit,” he said, even as his eyelids drooped. “Done it before. S’fine.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” Prism repeated, clicking her fingers again, closer this time. “Hello? You stayin’ with us?”

“M-hmm…”

He managed a vague hum. Or maybe it was an exhale. It was hard to tell. His face felt slack, unwilling to cooperate. The weight anchoring him to the world seemed to thin, loosening its grip.

Robert tried to stay awake.

He tried. He really did. But the warm numbness spreading through his limbs felt too much like relief. A soft hum filled his ears, almost comfortable. He was exhausted. He had been awake for… he was not sure how long at this point. The adrenaline had finally burned out of him, leaving only a soft, irresistible heaviness in its wake.

Surely, it’s okay for him to just nap a little? Robert had slept on concussions before and he hadn’t died from that yet. It wasn’t like this one was going to suddenly break that streak.

As that thought appeared, he felt the beer bottle slip in his hand. He attempted to tighten his hand around the beer bottle, but his fingers no longer obeyed him. The numbness had crawled all the way to his wrist now, a cold tingling wrapped in a layer of warmth. The glass tilted, rolled against his palm, then dropped.

It shattered against the debris-strewn floor with a sharp crash that cut straight through the noise of the room.

Robert did not even flinch.

“Jesus—”

“Robert, what the hell—”

Prism yelped and jerked backwards, boots scraping as she shielded her legs from the shards.

“Okay rude. Warn a girl next time,” she muttered, dusting off her tights before stepping well clear.

“Guess someone’s a little bitch who can’t handle his beer,” Flambae laughed, though his voice wavered when he realised Robert did not look up.

He stayed slumped exactly where he was, head still resting against a shoulder he could no longer distinguish as Visi’s or Mandy’s. His eyelids remained shut. He did not react to the glass, or the shouting, or the shift of weight beneath him. The world around him had gone soft and distant, muffled like a conversation from across a long hallway.

Someone shifted, trying to brace him more securely.

“Robert?” a voice murmured near his ear, gentle but tight.

He meant to answer.

In his mind, he managed a quiet I’m fine, maybe even a vague just tired. But none of it reached his mouth. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, uncooperative. His breathing felt wrong, shallow, almost hesitant, as if his body had forgotten how to do it smoothly.

A hand cupped his chin and tilted his face upward. His head rolled slightly with the motion, he did not correct it.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” Mandy said.

His eyes cracked open a fraction and saw unfocused slivers of colour that refused to resolve into a face. The world listed sideways. Robert’s stomach lurched. Body suddenly felt both hot and cold at once. Eyelids flickered in a weak stutter and then fell shut again, too heavy to hold open.

“Robert, stay awake,” Mandy pressed, voice rising. “Come on. You were talking a second ago.”

He swallowed—or tried to. His throat worked without completing the movement. His fingers twitched once, weak and delayed, as if the signal had travelled the long way around. A creeping coldness slid across his abdomen and up his ribs, soaking into his chest like a tide.

Another hand tapped his cheek.

“Hey. No. No, no, no. Robert—look at me.”

Her touch barely registered. His body felt adrift, as if his skin were several seconds behind every sensation. He drew in a shallow breath and realised, dimly, that it did not feel right.

Visi’s posture shifted beneath him.

He felt the movement only as a faint change in pressure against his temple.

“Hey, what the fuck is wrong with him?” Visi’s voice cut through the hovering murmur, sharp, cracking in a way he had only heard once before, back when the suit exploded in the lab. “He is not responding. Why is he not responding?”

Robert wanted to reassure her.

Tell her he was fine.

Tell her he just needed a minute.

Tell her the world was just… drifting a little.

But the thought got stuck somewhere between his mind and his mouth, dissolving before it reached his tongue. Another weak breath dragged through him, shallow and uneven.

More voices crowded in.

“Guys,” Malevola hissed, “why is his pulse this fast?”

“His skin is freezing,” someone muttered.

“Then why the fuck is he sweating so much?!”

“Robert’s skin tone is outside his normal parameters. I believe humans are not meant to appear this shade when they are well.”

“H-he’s— Rob-he’s not… per-perfu— per…! The blood thing! He’s not— not doing the blood, enough to body-thing!”

None of it quite fit together in his mind. The words reached him with delay, like puzzle pieces drifting through fog. He wanted to tell them they were fussing over nothing, that he was just tired, that he only needed a moment. His thoughts formed slowly, falling apart before they could reach his mouth.

Then Mandy’s voice cut sharply through the noise.

“Everyone, back up. Now. He is going into shock.”

Shock.

The word fragmented through his haze. He felt the room tilt again, not physically this time but somewhere deeper, as if the ground of the world had slipped off its axis.

Shock meant something.

Shock meant…

Somewhere in the fog, the pieces finally aligned.

He felt the panic radiating from the people around him, jagged and hot, clashing against the cold sinking into his bones. Someone grabbed his shoulders to steady him. Someone else was calling his name. The world trembled, blurred, folded inward.

“Oh,” he breathed, barely audible.

It was the smallest sound.
A thin thread of realisation that indicated his own lapse in judgment.
Before his consciousness plummeted into the void.

Chapter Text

Chase had only meant to step away for ten minutes.

Ten minutes. That was all it took for everything to go wrong again.

Robert had practically shoved him off earlier, insisting he should “go test his new upgrades.”

That typical fucking stubborn bastard. Acting like Chase had never seen right through him.

Blazer had told him how guilty Robert felt while Chase was still withering in the med bay. The confession he made to her about his regret of not keeping in contact for the past fifteen years. There had not been enough time for Robert to process what had happened when Chase flew in mid-battle, glowing with borrowed power, saving everyone’s asses as if he had not been dying minutes earlier. But afterwards, right before Robert shooed him away to enjoy time with Beef, Chase had seen it.

A shimmer at the corner of Robert’s eyes. The first cracks in a dam he had not seen break since the boy was small.

Robert used to cry silently as a child when Robbie could not be there for him, when Chase had to step in to fill the gaps. The kid forced himself to grow up too fast, put himself together too neatly. Then one day, the tears simply stopped. Not even at Robbie’s funeral had he shed a tear. Red rimmed eyes, sure, grief like steel in his jaw, yes, but not a single tear. Too stubborn to allow it. Too determined to hold.

Seeing him tear up now, even a little, at Chase’s brief recovery dug something deep and wordless into Chase’s chest. So when Robert told him to go enjoy the moment, Chase listened. He knew he needed to give the kid some time.

He tore through the night sky with Beef tucked snugly against his chest, the dog’s ears flapping like two little flags in the wind. Every time Chase swooped or spun, Beef barked with wild approval. Tongue out, paws paddling, tail going like a helicopter blade.

For a moment, it felt like the old days.

Before the accelerated aging.

Before the aching joints and slow mornings.

Before the hospital checks and pitying looks.

Before the funeral.

Before Robert stopped picking up his calls.

He was fast again. Not just fast, but flying too. Moving without burning years off his body. Moving without pain. Moving with power that did not come at a cost. It was temporary, he knew that. Borrowed. A gift meant to be returned. But he cherished it all the same. Because Robert wanted him to enjoy it. Because he knew that enjoying this would ease Robert’s guilt and regret.

“Go enjoy it, Chase,” Robert had said.

So he did.

He cut one last loop over the ruined street just for the hell of it, because it felt good to feel alive again, to feel free again, to feel like himself again.

Beef gave a soft whine and tried to lick his chin, so Chase laughed and angled downward. He landed lightly on the cracked pavement outside the destroyed Torrance branch. He set Beef down and gave his fur a playful ruffle. Chase dusted off Beef’s fur and straightened, ready to head back inside with some joke about how his old ass could now out-fly half the capes still on payroll. Beef wagged his tail, then suddenly stopped, ears perking toward the building.

A cold prickle ran up Chase’s spine.

Royd burst out through the broken doorway as if thrown by a blast. He skidded across the pavement, wide eyes flashing in the dark.

“Chase. Bru— brudah, get inside, somethin’ wrong with Rob—”

He did not even get to finish.

Chase was already gone.

The world snapped into a tunnel around him as he launched upward, momentum cracking the loose debris under his feet. The amulet’s borrowed power surged through him—raw, clear, terrifyingly effortless. He shot through the broken wall in a streak of light, wind roaring in his ears.

He saw the stillness first.

Robert was slumped between Invisigal and Mandy, folded in like a marionette with half its strings cut. His head rested against their laps with none of the awareness or tension it should have carried. Eyelids drooped half shut, revealing only a narrow sliver of brown that drifted without landing. Each breath slipped out thin and uneven, barely stirring the air. Skin that should have held colour looked drained under the broken lights, a washed grey that did not belong on someone still conscious.

Across the group Mandy looked up sharply when she saw him. Her expression held the same tight, efficient focus she had worn as Blonde Blazer.

“Internal bleeding,” she said simply.

He met her eyes. She nodded once.

That was all he needed.

Chase swept Robert into his arms with a motion so smooth and gentle it looked practised. The weight of him was wrong. Too limp. Too light. How could this prick be so light as an adult. Heat was missing from his skin. Chase felt it like a punch in the chest.

He did not waste a breath.

The floor cracked beneath him as he lifted off, the air splitting around his body as he shot into the night. The world blurred into streaks of streetlight as he climbed and cut forward, pushing the amulet’s borrowed power to its limit.

Five minutes. Less if he could help it.

Robert’s head drifted like a dead weight against his shoulder. Each breath stuttered through him in thin, fragile catches, barely there, barely enough. Chase tightened his grip, settling Robert’s weight against him more securely as he pitched forward through the air, cutting a violent line toward the nearest hospital.

Wind tore past his ears.

The city blurred into streaks of colour.

Nothing felt fast enough.

He was not going to lose Robert like he did Robbie.

The boy he used to carry on his back.

The boy he used to buy Twinkies for.

The boy who taught himself not to cry at twelve.

The boy who shut him out after his father’s death because he thought strength meant never needing anyone again.

Chase held him closer, the amulet’s power burning hot in his limbs as he pushed harder, faster, refusing to let the world take another Robertson from him.

He could hear the faint, muffled cries of a much younger Robert, from the day he dragged the boy clear of the suit’s misfire.

“I got you, kid. I got you,” Chase murmured, the words meant for a boy who wasn’t making a sound at all.

“I got you.”

The city slowed them down.

Twenty minutes was not long, not after the night they had survived, but it felt endless. Sirens wailed in every direction. Streets were torn up. Roads were still blocked by fallen streetlights, cracked asphalt, abandoned vehicles, and the remains of Red Ring’s attack. The Z team moved as one frantic cluster, weaving between stalled traffic and toppled barricades, but there was no way to match Chase’s speed. Not now. Not without the amulet.

If she had still had her amulet, she could have flown. She could have vaulted over traffic, buildings, half the goddamn city in a straight line to the ER. But without it she was just—

Just Mandy.

Just a woman with legs nowhere near as fast as a speedster who could now fly.

It tasted bitter in her mouth, that helpless truth.

And for the first time in years, she hated that.

She hated how slow she was. She hated how long twenty minutes could feel. She hated every breath she wasted not already at the hospital.

Blonde Blazer never waited. Blonde Blazer never watched from the ground. Blonde Blazer never arrived twenty minutes too late. But she was not Blonde Blazer right now. Just Mandy.

And Mandy could only run.

She had spent so long wrestling with the feeling of being trapped inside the cape, never getting to be just a normal person. Tonight she would have given anything to be trapped again if it meant she could have gotten to Robert faster.

She kept running. Just legs and lungs and grit.

Her breathing stayed steady, but something clawed at the inside of her chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with exertion. The Z team rushed beside her, frantic and confused, throwing questions she did not answer because she had no answers.

How did it get that bad?

How did she miss it?

She had saved Robert from Shroud’s torture herself less than a day ago.

Hanging upside down in that bar, wrists bound, bleeding, bruised, barely conscious. She had cut him down herself, caught him when his exhausted body could not catch itself. She had even asked him—half horrified, half amazed—how he was even conscious.

And somehow…

Somehow she had let that moment be enough. Let his quiet assurances override everything she should have known better than to ignore.

She should have known better. She did know better. She had been Blonde Blazer for years. She had pulled civilians out of rubble. Dragged heroes off burning streets. Carried injured teammates through collapsing buildings. She could spot concussion, shock, fractures, internal injuries from years of experience.

But Robert…

Robert had fooled her.

Not intentionally.

Not maliciously.

Just… the way he always did.

Robert held himself together so tightly that he made everyone else believe it too.

He had stood in the SDN office after the torture with that same impenetrable steadiness. Calm voice. Straight posture. Royd and the rest of the office had not realised a thing. One glance at the bruises and they shrugged, assuming he had been mugged on the way to work amid the citywide chaos, just like everyone else. And Robert had nodded and let them believe it. Stepped into his chair. Took command of the comms. Kept his voice level enough to steady everyone else.

And she, of all people…

She had believed him.

Because they did not have time.

Because the city was burning.

Because he said he was fine and they all wanted that to be true.

But he should not have been able to fool her.

The bitter thought twisted through her as the ER came into view. They pushed past a cluster of paramedics, through the sliding doors, and into harsh white light. The smell of disinfectant hit her first, followed by the quiet hum of machines and the frantic clipped footsteps of staff who were not yet used to citywide disasters.

Coupé floated silently behind the group, shoulders tight, gaze on the ground. Mandy did not look at her; she did not trust herself to keep her expression still. Visi kept glancing toward Mandy and away again, worry etched into every movement.

Chase stood near the critical intake bay, shoulders tense, arms crossed, jaw locked so tight it looked painful. The amulet still glowed faintly against his chest. He looked up when the group approached. His eyes were dark, furious at the world and terrified beneath it.

“He’s in capable hands now,” Chase said, voice low, steady in a way that clearly cost him. “They took him straight in. Trauma team jumped on him as soon as I landed.”

The Z team was not satisfied with that answer.

A nurse strode past with a blood pressure cuff still around one arm. Mandy stepped in her path without thinking.

“Robert Robertson,” she said, “the patient who came in by flight—a man in his thirties, unconscious, pale, shallow breathing. Has he—”

“They have him in Resus Two,” the nurse said briskly. “He was hypotensive on arrival, GCS fluctuating. They’re working to stabilise him.”

Hypotensive.

Low blood pressure.

Meaning massive blood loss.

And GCS fluctuating—drifting in and out of consciousness.

A coldness climbed Mandy’s spine.

“All that,” Chase let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not a kind one. “and the little shit didn’t make a sound. Not one.”

Mandy closed her eyes.

Of course he didn’t.

Just like the night he’d told her in that dim bar lit by warm light and exhaustion that he’d held the Mecha Man legacy together with duct tape and sheer determination, Robert had been holding himself together with instinct and sheer stubborn will.

The Z team broke into overlapping questions.

“The fuck does hypotensive mean?!”

“What happened?”

“He was fine!”

“No he wasn’t.”

“When did he get hurt?”

“He looked like beaten shit but—when did that happen?”

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

Coupé flinched at every question, eyes on the floor, hands twisted together in a knot of guilt the others did not understand. Mandy caught the movement, the shame radiating beneath it, and felt her stomach twist.

Nobody here knew what Robert had walked into.

Nobody here knew what had been done to him.

Nobody here knew who had been part of it.

She knew and Visi had sensed pieces.

“Coupé, you…” Visi started, voice low, torn between confrontation and the reluctance to do so.

Mandy lifted a hand, and they quietened, but only barely. The worry still pulsed through them, disorganised and loud.

Chase’s eyes landed on her with quiet precision—the look of someone who already understood she was holding back the real answer.

She hated that he was right.

She hated that she had been the one to miss it in the first place.

“Before Shroud’s city-wide attack,” Mandy said, her voice steady only because years of being Blonde Blazer taught her how to keep it steady, “I was with Robert.”

They went still.

“I saved him because he…” She swallowed once, hard. “Because he had been attacked. And tortured for hours. By Shroud. For the location of the astral pulse.”

A sharp breath snapped through the group.

Coupé looked away entirely. Shoulders hunched. Jaw clenched. Shame radiated so fiercely it was almost visible.

“What the fuck?” Prism whispered, looking between her and Mandy.

Visi stiffened beside her, protective, tense, torn between worry and anger. “Okay, hold on—Coupé, you—Were you—”

“Visi.” Mandy cut in sharply. “Not here.”

“And he—” Sonar’s voice cracked, “—he went straight back into dispatching us after that?”

Mandy shut her eyes for half a second.

“Wait—why didn’t you stop him?” Malevola blurted, pointing sharply at Mandy. “You knew. You’re the boss. What the hell—why would you let him work after that?”

Mandy swallowed. Her throat felt scraped raw.

“I… misjudged,” she said quietly.

The words tasted like rust. She had not said them in years. She had not needed to.

But she said them now.

“I knew he was hurt. I didn’t know how badly. I should have insisted he go to the meds bay.”

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “That was my call. And I made the wrong one.”

“If you knew he was tortured why the hell—” Someone started.

Waterboy, voice trembling, muttered a defence for her, “He looked… bad—not g—great. But he also told—he said he was fine. To Miss Blazer—Us! To us h—he always says he’s fine.”

“And you believe him?” Prism shot back.

“You did too!”

“Honestly, he looked as beat as the rest of us.”

“Oh god we dropped him.”

“I didn’t know Mecha Bitch got tortured!”

“Neither did we dipshit!”

Voices collided. Accusations, confusion, fear—raw, frantic, jagged. It built fast, too fast, like a spark hitting dry branches. The air grew sharp. Hot. Loud. It gave Mandy such a headache that she started to lose focus on what was most important and even lose her own mind.

And then—

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

The entire corridor froze. Even a passing nurse was startled. Chase stepped forward, eyes blazing, voice echoing off sterile tile.

“Shut the fuck up,” he repeated, gaze sweeping across all of them. The nurse glanced over sharply at the raised voices; Chase didn’t even look their way.

“We are in a fucking hospital,” he said, voice low but cutting. “And you are all bickering like fucking children in the middle of a goddamn emergency department.”

“You think shouting’s going to help him?” he continued. “You think all you motherfuckers arguing over who fucked up is going to make him bleed less? Make him wake up faster?”

Silence.

“Newsflash: it won’t.”

He turned slightly, fixing Mandy with a steadier look—still firm, but not sharp.

“Blazer made the best call she could in the middle of a war zone, when she had a fucking city exploding in her face and you know it. And Robert—”

He stopped. For a moment, his face cracked, just a fraction. Old grief. New fear. A history none of them knew wrapped tight around the softest part of him. Then he forced the words out anyway.

“—Robert has a goddamn PhD in pretending his dumb-fucking-stupid-ass was fine to everyone. That little dipshit has been downplaying shit since he was twelve years old and let me tell you he is god damn good at it. You think he didn’t convince Blazer? He convinced me. He convinced the whole fucking branch. He convinced all you fuckers. The prick could practically sell sand to a desert when it comes to acting okay.”

Chase ran a shaky hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.

“So unless one of you is secretly a time traveller who can go back and fix the last twenty-four hours, shut the fuck up, sit the fuck down, and wait like decent fucking humans.”

“And when he wakes up,” he added, quieter now, “we can yell at him for being a stubborn dumb fucker who hides every injury like it’s a state secret. But right now—”

His voice finally cracked.

“—right now we’re done fighting.”

He turned toward the double doors.

“Sit. Wait. Breathe. That’s all.”

And slowly, hesitantly, they sank onto the hard plastic chairs, the fight bleeding out of them one breath at a time.

Sending Chase a grateful glance, Mandy exhaled slowly, steadying her voice.

“Alright,” Mandy said, planting her feet the way she always did before a fight. “We wait. We stay here. And when they tell us anything, we listen.”

The team nodded, some reluctantly, some shakily, all of them clinging to that voice of command she had spent years building.

But inside, Mandy felt the one thing she hated more than anything else in the world.

Fear.

Because she had always been Blonde Blazer when things went wrong. She had always been the one flying toward danger, never away from it. She had always been the one with the power to stop the bleeding, to break the wall, to carry the weight.

But tonight…

Tonight she wasn’t Blonde Blazer.

Tonight she was just Mandy.

Powerless, grounded, and forced to wait while someone else fought for Robert’s life.

And she hated it with every fibre of her being.

Chapter Text

Courtney sat wedged between Golem and Prism on the plastic hospital bench, staring at the linoleum floor as if it might rearrange itself into an answer. Or into something she could punch. Either would help.

It had been maybe… ten minutes? Twenty? A few hours? Time felt mushy, stretched thin. Every footstep behind the ER doors made her shoulders jump. Every passing nurse made her toes curl in her boots. She hated hospitals. Too bright, too clean, too full of the kind of quiet that made her brain shut off and her heart kick into overdrive.

She kept replaying the moment Robert’s head had gone slack against her. The weight of it. How cold he’d been. How he didn’t even flinch when the beer bottle shattered.

Her stomach twisted. She inhaled, long and shaky.

“Courtney.”

Mandy’s voice snapped her out of her spiral—soft, but alert.

A doctor in green scrubs stepped into the waiting area, flipping through a chart. The man looked tired but calm. Calm was good. Calm usually meant not-dead.

“Family of Robert Robertson?”

Chase stood immediately. Mandy too. The rest of the Z team surged to their feet in a frantic, clumsy wave. Courtney’s knees hit the chair before she even realised she was up.

The doctor blinked at the crowd, confused. “Ah. All of you?”

“Yes,” Mandy said firmly. “We’re… his team.”

“Work colleagues,” Golem offered.

“We’re his emotionally damaged found family,” Prism corrected.

“His pain in the ass,” Flambae added.

Courtney didn’t say anything. She just stared at the doctor’s face and tried not to breathe too loudly.

“You motherfuckers can all shut the fuck up, because I’m his emergency contact.” Chase snapped before anyone could breathe anything else and confuse the doctor more, stepping forward.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Right. Well—good news first. He’s stable.”

Courtney felt her knees buckle. Golem’s muddy arm braced her without asking.

“He needed aggressive fluids and blood products on arrival,” the doctor continued. “But he responded quickly. His blood pressure has come back up and his consciousness is improving. He’s sedated for now.”

Chase exhaled so hard it sounded like he’d been punched.

Prism slapped Waterboy somewhere near his shoulder. “SEE? TOLD YOU THAT WHITE BOY BUILT LIKE A COCKROACH. WON’T DIE.”

Waterboy sniffled. “That’s—th-that’s not exactly, nice, c—comforting—”

Courtney didn’t move. Relief crashed into her so sharply it left her dizzy.

Stable.

Okay.

Still here.

The doctor turned to Mandy. “I need to clarify the injury timeline. You said he was assaulted earlier today?”

Mandy nodded, professional. “Captured last night. Assaulted for hours. Rescued around midnight before the city-wide attacks started. Returned to work immediately. He seemed… functional.”

Royd scratched the back of his head. “Brudah came to work look’in like trash, but like… functioning trash.”

The doctor gave a diplomatic little nod. “Based on what we found, that tracks. He likely had internal bleeding that slowed down and clotted on its own. Enough to let him walk, talk, work. But not enough to truly heal.”

“That’s why he lasted so long?” Malevola asked.

“Yes. These kinds of injuries can partially stabilise temporarily. But anything strenuous… heavy exertion, adrenaline spikes, impacts, would risk reopening the bleed.”

“Getting thrown around in a giant mech suit by a spider mech suit counts as strenuous, right?” Sonar muttered under his breath.

The doctor blinked at them, utterly, comprehensively confused. His eyes flicked between all of them as if trying to calculate whether they were joking, or simply… weird.

He decided, wisely, not to ask.

Instead, he pointed his pen at Chase with the grim determination of a man clinging to the one serious-looking human (the patient’s actual emergency contact) in the room.

“Right. Moving on.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “As I was saying—yes, strenuous activity would absolutely have risked reopening the vessel. In fact, based on the scans, it looks like the bleed restarted a couple of hours before he collapsed.”

“So… to be clear,” Mandy said, trying to sound neutral, “the bleeding had slowed enough that he could function normally earlier today?”

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed. “He would’ve felt fatigued, lightheaded, maybe some abdominal pain—but nothing necessarily obvious to others. It’s extremely possible nobody could have recognised the severity without imaging.”

Mandy’s shoulders eased only by a fraction—but Courtney saw it. The relief she wasn’t letting herself feel.

“Given the context,” the doctor continued, “the sudden deterioration likely happened after a second insult. A fall, an impact, physical strain—something that raised his intra-abdominal pressure or moved the injured tissues.”

“We dropped the bitch,” Flambae repeated, now horrified rather than joking. “We drop him when the fucker had internal bleeding…”

“It seems more likely, that Robert’s injuries reopened during our fight with the treacherous Shroud, my flaming friend.” Phenomaman offered.

“We’ll be moving him from ICU to a monitored ward shortly,” the doctor continued. “Once he’s settled, you may see him—briefly.”

He added after eyeing the large peculiar group in consideration. “One or two at a time, preferably.”

Sonar immediately stepped forward. “Okay but like what are his vitals? Is he brainfucked? Is he gonna wake up and think he’s a cactus?”

“Sonar,” Mandy warned.

“What?! It’s a valid question!”

The doctor assured them while Robert does have moderate concussion, everything neurological looked stable, then left them to wait again—this time in a softer silence. Less panic. More exhaustion.

Courtney sank back onto the chair. Her leg bounced restlessly. Her head felt too full.

She wanted to say something to Coupé.

Or yell.

Or demand an explanation.

Or…something.

But every time she even thought about it, her throat jammed up.

Because she wasn’t innocent in this.

Not really.

If she hadn’t hidden the astral pulse, Shroud wouldn’t have gone looking for Robert.

If she hadn’t played wildcard with Shroud, maybe Robert wouldn’t have been taken.

She felt her guts twist.

She’d wanted to outsmart Shroud.

Wanted to prove she was clever.

Unpredictable.

Useful.

It’s bad enough she was the reason he lost the suit and was in a coma for months.

It’s bad enough Chase, who is important to Robert, nearly died for her.

And now she’d almost gotten him killed. Again.

And he—

He forgave her, just like he did for her role in the explosion.

He forgave Coupé, too.

So what right did she have to confront Coupé?

Her anger simmered under her ribs, tangled with guilt until she couldn’t tell one from the other. Not at Coupé, not entirely. Not at Mandy. Not even at Shroud.

Mostly at herself.

She hugged her arms around her middle, elbows tucked tight.

“Court,” Golem murmured, his voice low and soft in a way few people ever heard from him. “You good?”

No.

But she nodded anyway.

She kept imagining him lying there in ICU, oxygen mask on, wires everywhere, pale and still. It punched through her chest every time she pictured it.

She had feelings for him—messy, stupid, teenage-fever feelings that he never reciprocated but still somehow made room for. He ribbed her, scolded her, guided her. Treated her like a person, not a problem. And now he was in a hospital bed again because of her choices. She bit the inside of her cheek until the sting grounded her. To prevent her from lashing out at Coupé.

She was going to try.

Try not to jump into every bad idea.

Try not to hide ideas that endanger people.

Try to be better.

She didn’t owe that to Mandy.

Or to the team.

Or even out of guilt.

She owed it to him.

Because he had believed in her first.

Coupé sat at the far end of the waiting room, spine straight, hands folded so tightly in her lap the knuckles blanched white. She did not look at the Z team. She did not look at Blonde Blazer. She did not dare look toward the ICU doors. She kept her eyes on her hands.

Her hands.

The same ones that had held the knife and promptly followed the orders Shroud gave her.

The same ones that had carved into Robert’s skin.

She inhaled slowly. Too slowly. The breath shook by the end.

The team was quieter now. Exhausted. Sobered. The earlier panic had simmered into a heavy, uneasy quiet. Even Sonar, the Harvard-produced perpetual noise generator, was quiet, only occasionally tapping his foot against the tiles.

Colm sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched but not quite. She could feel the warmth radiating off him, steady and grounding, but she did not lean in. She didn’t deserve that. Not after what she’d done.

The others whispered in small clusters. They kept glancing toward Blazer and Invisigal, seeing the tension, something unspoken, something sharp, but no one asked.

Coupé pressed her palms together, fingers trembling. It was clear how much Robert meant to the Z team. To Colm as well.

She could still see Robert’s face, how pale he was when Chase carried him away. How limp he’d been. How quiet.

She had done that.

Not all of it. She wasn’t the only instigator.

But it was enough.

She swallowed, throat tight.

Colm shifted slightly, sensing the tension. He leaned closer, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Invisigal’s not looking at ya,” he murmured. “Neither is Blazer. They know something. If ya need to say something…” He exhaled softly. “Say it before they do, love.”

Her breath caught. She had been waiting to be confronted. To be yelled at. To be dragged into the hallway and told she had no right to be here.

But none of them did.

The silence pressed against her like a vice.

Finally, after another long moment, she stood.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just quietly.

And the room seemed to pull tight around her.

Sonar glanced up first. “Uh… you good?”

Coupé forced herself to meet Blazer’s eyes across the room. Blazer didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Invisigal’s gaze flicked over with the wary tension of someone expecting a fight.

Colm stood behind Coupé, silent support.

Coupé exhaled.

“I…” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “I have to say this. Before any of you hear it from someone else.”

The room stilled.

Golem’s earthy rumble softened. “Coop…?”

Her fingers curled into her palms hard enough to sting.

“Shroud didn’t torture Robert alone.” The words came out small. Barely above a whisper. “I was there. I was part of it.”

Coupé stood there after the words left her mouth, waiting for the explosion.

The room did not explode. It didn’t even crack.

The Z team froze, but none of them spoke.

Not anger.

Not accusations.

Just… stunned quiet.

Prism’s eyes widened. Waterboy covered his mouth. Sonar froze mid-fidget. Malevola’s expression flickered with something indiscernible.

Invisigal’s shoulders tensed—but she didn’t move toward her, didn’t lunge, didn’t shout. That surprised Coupé more than anything.

“I thought— I thought you’d all scream at me,” Coupé whispered. “I thought you’d all tell me to leave.”

Prism snorted. “Girl, Today’s not the day for self-hate hour unless you want to get yelled at by Benjamin Button over there again.”

Malevola elbowed her sharply. “Not helping.”

Colm stepped forward then, placing one large, steady hand on Coupé’s back.

“We’ll hash it out later,” he said quietly. “All of it. When Robbie boy wakes up aye?”

The others nodded slowly—some hesitantly, some reluctantly, some uncertainly—but none with the fury she had expected.

Invisigal’s arms folded tight across her ribs. Posture was rigid, coiled—but she still didn’t move toward Coupé. Didn’t lash out. Didn’t ignite the fire Coupé had been bracing for.

This was somehow worse.

Coupé shook her head. “I—no. You don’t understand. I didn’t… just stand there. I took pleasure in—”

But before she could spiral further, Flambae threw both hands in the air.

“Come on! Relax already,” he said, stepping into the circle as if announcing a halftime show. “You weren’t even fucking here when I tried to kill Mecha-bitch.”

Coupé blinked. “What?”

Flambae jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Yeah. Full-on crime of passion. Rage-fuelled. Unprocessed trauma vibes. Tried to roast his skinny ass alive. Everyone here saw it. Really traumatising and shit.”

“Not really, it was kinda funny when Waterboy puked water on you.”

“Oh fuck you.” He swung an accusatory middle finger toward the group.

“If Golem didn’t literally body-block my attack,” Flambae continued, “Bob Bob would’ve been extra crispy. Okay? Burnt offerings. Well done. No sauce.”

Invisigal sighed. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“My point is,” Flambae pressed on, “the team still let me back when I tried to kill him. Kill. Like, capital K, lowercase ill.”

He pointed at Coupé, eyes narrowed but weirdly earnest.

“I think ‘torture but not actually trying to kill him’ is… y’know. Pardoned in comparison?”

Coupé stiffened. “I also… wanted to kill him though.”

Flambae slapped a hand over his own face, dragging it downward. “Urgh, just shuuuut uuuup already. You’re making this so fucking dramatic.”

“Baby,” Prism hissed, elbowing him. “Your bedside manner is ASS.”

“What? I’m being supportive!”

“You sound like a motivational speaker hired by Satan,” Malevola commented.

Before they could spiral into nonsense, Blazer stepped in—gentle but firm.

“It doesn’t excuse what happened but,” Blazer said gently. “You were angry, for being unfairly cut. None of us are perfect. And none of us can change what’s already done.”

“What’s important is the team wants you back. Robert wants you back.” Mandy finished.

Chase snorted tiredly, rubbing his forehead as if an approaching migraine had already resigned itself to existing.

“Look—” he muttered, “I’m sure more than one of you motherfuckers has, at some point, wanted to punt his ass into the sun. Hell, some of you got him into actual deep shit.”

His glare swept the group, landing on a few very specific faces. “But none of you—none—are a bigger danger to that idiot than himself right now. So let’s get this sappy shit over with, aight?”

Before anyone could respond, a nurse pushed open the ward doors.

“Robert Robertson’s... team?” she called. “You can come through now. He’s been transferred and settled.”

The room snapped into motion immediately. Chairs scraped back. Someone inhaled too sharply. Someone else whispered a shaky “Finally.” The Z team surged to their feet, messy, clustered, hopeful.

Coupé didn’t move. Colm nudged her, gentle but firm. Despite being three foot three, the weight behind the gesture was steady.

“Come on,” he murmured. “The lad let you in. The least you can do is show up.”

Coupé’s throat tightened—but she nodded.

She wasn’t entirely sure what would happen from here, or if this was even the right choice.

But she would meet them halfway.

Chapter Text

They absolutely did not go in one or two at a time.

The nurse at the door tried.

She truly, sincerely tried.

“Only one or two at—” That was as far as she got.

Despite the doctor’s very clear, very reasonable, and very medically sound request, the Z team entered the ward like a disorganised parade of hyper-emotional superhumans who had never heard the phrase “hospital protocol” in their entire lives the moment the doors opened.

Blonde Blazer threw the nurse an apologetic grimace as she slipped in after them. It did not help. At all.

Chase didn’t even pretend. He just strode in with the confidence of a man who had yelled at a bunch of people in a hospital corridor and fully intended to do so again.

“—at a time,” the nurse finished weakly to a patch of empty air where the team had been.

She raised a hand as if to stop them, paused, lowered it again, reconsidered her hourly wage, and stepped back with the dignified resignation of someone who had just accepted the limits of mortal authority. She clipped her chart shut and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like I need a raise before abandoning the lost cause entirely.

Golem made it as far as the doorframe, took one look at the tragically tiny room, then looked down at his enormous self. The comparison was bleak. He sighed—a deep, gravelly exhale that vibrated the floor tiles.

“…Yeah, nah.”

He backed out carefully, ducking the doorframe, and settled himself politely in the corridor like a very large, very well-behaved emotional support boulder. A passing elderly visitor gasped and pressed against the wall like she’d encountered a cryptid.

Golem offered a wave. “Sup.”

As fellow unfortunate lost souls who (were too slow and) couldn’t fit in the ward, Waterboy and Phenomaman joined him in solidarity, sitting cross-legged beside him.

Inside the room, the rest of the Z team packed themselves in like badly-behaved sardines, jostling for space around Robert’s bed and trying, and failing, not to touch anything vital. The heart monitor filled the tiny room with a soft, steady beeping.

Sonar elbowed Flambae for space.

Flambae elbowed back, missed entirely, and hit the heart-monitor shelf instead.

The monitor jerked. The cords jiggled.

It beeped. Loudly. Repeatedly. Alarmingly.

Everyone froze.

“…That wasn’t me,” Flambae whispered.

“It was absolutely you,” Prism hissed.

“Okay but the machine shouldn’t be so fragi—”

The nurse reappeared behind them like a horror-movie jump scare—small, visibly stressed, and absolutely done with this entire room’s existence. She wedged herself between Flambae’s elbow and Malevola’s shoulder, somehow managing to reach the monitor without being crushed.

She fixed the dislodged lead, tapped the display once, and the beeping stabilised. Then she gave the group a hollow, exhausted stare.

“…Please. Don’t touch anything.”

She did not wait for a response before retreating, fast.

And in the middle of all this chaos—lying unconscious, hooked to monitors, oxygen mask secured, pale but breathing—Robert Robertson remained, by far, the calmest person in the room.

They all looked at him.

Seeing Robert in a hospital bed wasn’t new. The last time had been after the Mecha Man suit exploded in the lab—and weirdly, he’d looked better after surviving a detonation than he did now after a celebration party. (Probably thanks to Royd’s internal safety designs, which kept pilots alive even when everything else blew to pieces.)

Bruises bloomed dark along his ribs, his collarbone, his arms—new ones layered on top of older ones like geological strata of violence. The thin hospital gown did nothing to hide the constellation of scars they’d glimpsed before. Fifteen years of fighting reflected back at them in faint white lines, purple shadows, rough-edged memories carved into skin.

And it hit them—collectively, viscerally—how different he was to them.

Supers, even the weaker ones, carried a baseline strength and resilience in their bones. Cells knitted faster. Skin held firmer. Organs bounced back from punishment that would cripple a normal person. Even those with mildly useful powers could take hits a normie never could. There was a reason most of them didn’t carry many scars at all, old wounds simply faded before they ever truly set.

But Robert? Every bruise hit him at full force. Every fall rattled him. Every blow stayed. There was no accelerated healing. No enhanced durability. No powers cushioning the damage.

Just a human body forced into the same battlefield as people who could melt steel, punch through concrete, or shrug off explosions—and yet still choosing to stand among them, if without the suit, armed with nothing except grit, stubbornness, and a pain tolerance that probably caused more trouble than it ever solved.

For a moment, they simply… stared.

“So weak.”

Flambae’s voice broke the silence—meant as a jab, clearly, meant to poke at Robert the way he always did. But the words came out quieter than intended. Less mocking. More real.

Everyone turned to look at him. He stared at Robert with a strange, conflicted expression—half scowl, half something softer he would rather set himself on fire than admit. He folded his arms over his chest, jaw working.

It drew a few glances.

And then Sonar whispered, “Dude… this is your first time seeing him hospitalised, right?”

Flambae blinked, thrown by the realisation. He hadn’t been there the last time it happened—he’d taken time off to process discovering Robert was Mecha Man, the same man who had cut off two of his fingers, arrested him, stupidly blew himself up, retired, and somehow ended up as the dispatcher he now took orders from.

“Yeah,” Flambae said, softer now. “Guess it is.”

He stared at Robert for a long moment.

“…Shit.” The word wasn’t an insult this time. It was something else entirely.

Chase was silent.

The old speedster stepped closer to the bed, gently lifted Beef and placed him beside his sleeping owner, the rough edges in his expression softening just barely into something older. Something tired. Something that hurt in places he didn’t talk about.

“I tried to find him, y’know,” he said at last, voice low. “I tried to find out which hospital they stuck this little shit in, when I found out from the fucking news that Shroud blew up his damn suit and sent his dumbass into a months-long coma.”

Invisigal quietly looked away.

Chase reached out and brushed Robert’s fingertips—not quite holding them, but close.

“They wouldn’t tell me jack,” he went on. “All that classified bullshit to ‘protect Mecha Man while he’s vulnerable.’”

His thumb brushed once against Robert’s knuckles. A humourless breath escaped him—part scoff, part laugh, part ache.

“Which—fine. Whatever. I get it. Keep the big shiny hero safe. Real fucking noble. Except it also meant I couldn’t fucking find him. Couldn’t check if he was breathing. Couldn’t sit beside him.”

“To think he was like this…” Chase’s voice thinned, cracked. “Worse than this. Probably hooked to more tubes and shit, barely fucking alive, and nobody—”

The words jammed. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“—nobody there with him. For months.”

His jaw clenched hard enough to grind.

“No one to talk shit at him. No one to sit there and tell him he’s a dumbass for getting himself blown up. No one to tell him he’s not alon—”

He stopped again, because the next part felt too raw to say out loud. Chase’s eyes flicked over Robert’s still face.

“For him to wake up to no one there,” he muttered. “After fifteen fucking years of being alone—to wake up and find the suit destroyed, the last piece of his dad gone, to wake up to a world that spent months half mourning him and half tearing him apart in headlines…”

He exhaled through his teeth—a harsh, shaking sound.

“Kid deserved better than that.”

Chase sat back, shoulders tight, eyes firmly on Robert’s face—like he was trying to make up for all the hours, days, months he’d missed.

He turned to Blazer. “Really appreciate you finding him for me. Wouldn’t know what weird-ass place he’d spiral into if you hadn’t considered my recommendation.”

Blazer’s expression softened. “I had my own reasons. The results speak for themselves.” She glanced at the members of the room fondly.

Chase huffed. Looked away. Looked back. Looked everywhere except at the Z team directly.

“And… I might not like you dumb assholes a whole lot,” he said, voice rough around the edges, “but— I appreciate y’all being here for him right now. So. Well—um. Thanks.”

The Z team shifted as one, a collective shuffle of boots and awkward throat-clearing, utterly unequipped to handle the sudden trauma dump and the unexpected sincerity from Chase of all people.

“I thought you said we were done with the sappy shit,” Invisigal muttered, but the edge in her voice didn’t hide the guilt threading under it.

Chase scoffed at her reaction, then his expression quickly twisted as another memory crawled back up from whatever pit he’d shoved it into.

“Would’ve punched that goddamn journalist myself if I was there though,” he muttered darkly. “Right in his smug fuckin’ teeth.”

The Z team exchanged glances, the memory hitting them all at once—the press conference from a while back, back when they hadn’t cared, back when Mecha Man was just another headline and they were just bored idiots watching the world chew him up for entertainment.

Mecha Man, dead behind the eyes, voice monotone, delivering the facts like they were someone else’s life. Detached. Almost hollow. Like the explosion, the coma, and the destruction of the suit weren’t things that had happened to him.

And then that one journalist—They remembered the way Mecha Man had paused, like the words had struck somewhere deep. And how he’d simply turned and walked off the stage without answering, without giving that vulture a single scrap of satisfaction.

Even back when they were technically still villains, they thought it was bad taste. Cruel, even. To fling a question like that at a man who had just come out of a coma, who had lost everything—his suit, his legacy, a crucial piece of himself.

And now knowing that Robert had been Mecha Man the entire time?

“…Yeah,” Malevola said. “I would’ve too.”

“Man, that guy was a douche,” Sonar muttered after his best friend, shaking his head. “I would’ve eaten that dude head-first without a second thought. Definitely deserved a beating.”

“Please,” Chase snorted, arms crossed. “Robert handled that more gracefully than any one of you fuckers could’ve ever managed. Half of you would’ve turned that press conference into a felony.”

“…In all honesty, I was planning on knocking his ass out.”

Everyone in the room went stock-still.

The voice was rough. Low. Gravel dragged over concrete.

“…I only didn’t,” the voice continued, “because I had a flask hidden in my sling… and —when I weighed my options… getting shitfaced with the last of my good whiskey—“

Every head snapped toward the bed.

“—outweighed wasting energy on that clown.”

Robert’s eyes were half-open—bleary, unfocused, but unmistakably awake. His mouth tugged weakly at the corner, with visible effort to form a small, shaky curve.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Flambae choked on his own breath.

“YOU—” he pointed accusingly, “—you dramatic little shit, you were AWAKE? WERE YOU AWAKE THIS WHOLE TIME?!”

Robert blinked at him with a long, slow, but amused stare.

“…Just the last bit,” he muttered, voice muffled by the oxygen mask. “Very confused… why— we’re all suddenly talking about my… retirement press conference. And—why Charles Kingsley of all people."

Chase made a strangled noise—somewhere between relief, hysterical laughter, and the kind of anger one reserves exclusively for idiots they care about too much.

Robert blinked again, lids heavy, then gave a tiny, exhausted huff.

“Seriously, though,” he rasped, “I really… really wanted to punch that journalist.”

His eyes slid shut again as he heavily sighed.

“But urgh, I… the whiskey was definitely more tempting at the time.”

Chapter Text

If anyone bothered to ask him, Robert would honestly consider this a personal record: waking up in a hospital only four hours after going into shock.

Given his track record for the past year… from a few months, to roughly fourteen hours, and now four? It almost counted as progress. A new personal best in not staying unconscious for extended periods. If he weren’t the one living it, he might’ve given himself a celebratory gold star.

Granted, he had a sinking suspicion this wasn’t actually a good sign. Especially with how fast the anaesthetics had worn off. Uncomfortably fast.

He really didn’t want to think too hard about that.

Because if he did think about it… he’d have to acknowledge the deeply unpleasant possibility that he was developing some sort of tolerance. To anaesthetics. Which raised implications he’d rather never picture again.

Like the idea that, if this trend continued, one day he might end up on an operating table—unable to move, fully conscious, listening to someone calmly say “scalpel” while he lay there like a tragically aware cadaver.

It was, if he was being honest with himself, genuinely terrifying to think about.

So he shoved the thought into a mental box, nailed it shut, and pushed it into the furthest, darkest corner of his brain.

There. Problem sorted.

“You listenin’, kid?” Chase’s tone was gruff, but edged with something hesitant—like he was worried if Robert was still all there, and simultaneously annoyed at the fact he wasn’t paying attention.

“…Mmh? Oh. Yeah.” The sounds slipped out of him, soft and hazed. Dragged back from his spiralling thoughts, Robert managed what he hoped passed for a slow, unfocused blink. “Sorry. Still… pretty sedated.”

Not really.

In reality, the sedation—just as he suspected—had burned off far faster than anyone would be comfortable hearing about, and Robert could think sharply enough to know that was its own kind of alarming. But no one in this room needed to know that.

So he let his eyelids stay heavy, let his words drag, let the illusion linger that he was still drifting in some medicated haze.

If anything, keeping up the act might spare him from whatever lecture they were inevitably assembling.

Maybe—just maybe—they’d take pity on the “sedated” patient and cut it short.

They were already in the middle of informing him of the extent of his injuries. At least—he assumed they were, based on the (loud and overlapping) snippets drifting in and out through the fog he was pretending to have.

God, this crowd was obnoxious and loud.

He tuned in and out, the way someone might listen to the weather while spacing out on the sofa.

The important bits he pieced together:

He’d had a splenic laceration—grade II, maybe grade III. The medical team had to go in laparoscopically (he tried to guess what that meant but gave up) to stop the bleeding. Repaired the worst of the tear, closed off the smaller one. Pumped him full of fluids, blood, something else he didn’t remember.

He wasn’t dying anymore.

Which, frankly, he was grateful.

…Surprisingly grateful.

That part struck him as a little odd. He couldn’t remember the last time waking up in a hospital like this felt anything other than exhausting, humiliating, or vaguely disappointing. Waking up after crises like this usually left him with a strange heaviness, a sense that he’d somehow missed a finish line he hadn’t realised he’d been running toward.

It wasn’t that he wanted things to go badly. But there had always been… something about these moments—that muted, automatic resignation that tended to settle in his chest, the familiar little voice that told him this was “about right,” that this was simply how things went. That, of course, he ended up here again. Of course, he survived again. Of course, he slipped back into the cycle again.

It had simply been the rhythm of his life: crisis, collapse, recovery, repeat. A pattern he’d worn into himself so deeply he barely recognised it as a pattern at all.

But today, the heaviness wasn’t there.

He didn’t notice the difference enough to name it.

He only felt its outline, the faint absence of an old weight he’d carried so long he’d forgotten it was there.

Robert didn’t question it. Didn’t prod at it. Just let the sensation sit there quietly, like a small mercy he wasn’t sure he was allowed to keep.

It wasn’t the worst feeling to wake up to. He let himself drift on that feeling for a moment—light, unanchored, almost pleasant.

Then someone said his name.

“Robert.”

He blinked slowly at the syllables too soft for the usual Z-team ruckus. Too measured to be Chase.

Mandy stood near the foot of the bed, arms held close to her sides, shoulders drawn tight beneath her jacket. She looked like she had fought a battle and lost—not physically, but in the way someone did when they’d been wrestling thoughts for hours.

Her eyes met his, and the team instinctively quieted.

“Hey,” he rasped. It came out softer than he intended. Everything came out softer than intended. “You, uh… look like you’re about to give me performance feedback.”

The joke didn’t land. Or rather—it landed somewhere, but not comfortably. Her expression tightened.

“That’s… not quite it,” she said quietly.

Robert blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly.

“Oh,” he murmured. “So it’s a lecture.”

“No,” she said too quickly. “I owe you an apology.”

Robert stared at her. He tried to piece together what she could possibly be apologising for.

He came up empty.

“…For what?” he managed. He wasn’t even pretending sedation anymore—he was genuinely confused.

Mandy’s gaze travelled—slowly, deliberately—over the bruising under his ribs, the IV taped to his hand, the oxygen mask fogging faintly with each breath. She didn’t look away when she spoke.

“For not noticing,” she said. “For missing how bad things really were with you.”

Robert’s brow furrowed faintly.

He could already see where she was steering this, and he didn’t like the way her posture folded in on itself, like she’d been carrying the blame the whole night and had decided now was the time to drop it at his feet.

He shifted slightly toward her—careful of bandaging, careful of the ache simmering under his ribs—but it was enough.

“Hey,” he said quietly, before she could go any further. “Let’s not… do that. Okay?”

Mandy blinked, thrown off by the softness in his voice.

Carefully, wincing at the pull beneath his ribs, Robert pushed himself a little more upright. His fingers found the edge of the oxygen mask and, before anyone could object, he slipped it off. The cool hospital air stung his throat, a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be talking this much yet— but he held it anyway… more for clarity than comfort.

Chase moved quickly.

“Robert—”

“I’m fine,” Robert murmured. “Promise.”

He kept the movement slow, deliberate, signalling he wasn’t about to tank his own sats. After a brief assessment, Chase retreated with a reluctant, “Just keep it nearby.”

Beef immediately nosed forward with a soft whuff, pressing his weight against Robert’s sternum as though trying to physically anchor him. Robert’s good hand rose automatically to steady the chubby dog’s head, thumb brushing the fur with absent fondness.

“If anything,” he said quietly, eyes on Mandy, “you saved me. More than once. That’s… kinda above and beyond. So you don’t get to apologise for not magically diagnosing a splenic tear I didn’t even recognise myself.”

Mandy opened her mouth, but he cut in—not sharply, just gently.

“I mean it,” Robert added, voice dipping into something embarrassed, “and if we’re insistent on keeping score… I owe an apology to all of you.”

Chase let out a scoff that sounded more like a swallowed curse. “Yeah, no shit you do.”

A weak huff slipped out of Robert—part laugh, part wince. “Easy, Chase… I’m injured, not deaf.”

His chest tightened with the small breath it cost him. “You don’t have to yell at me while agreeing with me.”

“I misread my own body,” he said simply. “I thought it was just exhaustion. Or… just one more bruise on top of everything else. Been a while since I had anything bad enough to tip me into shock.” A faint, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m a bit out of practice.”

It was a joke, technically. A soft one. A tired one. But it carried the truth beneath it.

He stroked Beef’s fur once, eyes dropping to his own hands as he continued, quieter:

“When you fight alone for long enough. you… get used to patching yourself up. To pushing through. Until every pain becomes just… background noise.” His shoulders shifted faintly against the pillows. “You stop checking in. You stop thinking something might actually be wrong. You just keep going.”

He didn’t look at Mandy when he said it—not out of avoidance, but because he wasn’t speaking at her. Not really. He was speaking from a place he didn’t usually touch, even internally. A place that had been his entire life for far too long.

“And once you get stuck in that way of doing things,” he said softly, “you forget how to rely on people. You forget you’re allowed to. So I guess for a long time—I kinda just… got used to that.”

“And, uh… I’m starting to learn how not to do that. Turns out—” he gave a quiet chuckle, “—it’s a pretty steep learning curve.”

His gaze slid across the team before landing on Invisigal, who lingered close but quiet, arms folded in that familiar stubborn stance that mirrored his own far too well.

“Old habits die hard,” he murmured. “Especially the ones that kept you alive when you were doing everything on your own… I think a lot of you here would be able to understand that.”

She held his gaze for a second before offering a small, knowing exhale of her own—because she’d lived with the same stubborn, solitary instincts welded into her bones. The sound of someone who’d burned themselves the same way.

Robert’s mouth twitched up faintly, acknowledging the shared stubbornness between them before his gaze drifted back to Mandy.

“So… don’t apologise,” he murmured, lifting his gaze back to Mandy. “You didn’t miss anything. I just didn’t tell anyone what there was to see.”

Mandy hesitated—shoulders rising, then falling, like she was gathering the nerve to say something that didn’t come easily to her.

“…Then can you tell us next time?”

Her voice was soft. Earnest. Not an accusation—more like a request she was afraid he’d shrug off or slip past like everything else.

He smiled.

“…I can try,” Robert said—quiet, sheepish, honest enough that it stung a little. “I’m hoping to do things differently going forward.”

Steep learning curve or not, he meant it. Wholeheartedly.

“So what I’m hearing,” Malevola drawled, “is, you promise if you’re dying again, that you will yell louder next time? Like pinky promise, promise?”

Robert gave her a flat, unimpressed look. “Yeah, sure. Let me just… schedule it into my calendar.”

Flambae snapped his fingers. “Fucking great. Now put it in the group chat so we can RSVP for the front seat view.”

Chase rubbed the back of his neck, slicing cleanly through the noise.

“Look… just don’t make us guess next time, alright? You scared the shit out of us.”

Robert blinked, a faint, weary smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’d say you’re in no position to lecture me about that, considering you recently did the same thing to us.”

Chase glared. Hard.

Robert sighed, slowly—quiet with understanding he didn’t quite say out loud.

“But… point taken. Didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry.”

“You better mean it, you little punk,” Chase muttered, but the bite had melted from his tone, leaving only exhausted relief.

Before the mood could settle too fully, Royd clapped his hands once.

“If you’re planning on doin’ things differently, brudah,” Royd said, “you need to sort out your depressin’ apartment. How you gonna recover when you still don’t got a proper bed?”

Robert frowned, affronted in the most exhausted way possible. “The futon couch you guys brought me last time works very well as a bed, thank you very much.”

“We really need to get our dude a bed,” Sonar muttered.

“No, seriously,” Visi added. “We cannot let a guy who almost died twice in one year sleep on something that was clearly built for underpaid uni students. Might fuck up your spine, you know? Considering before that you were sleeping in that stupid plastic chair.”

Malevola stated out loud as if declaring a prophecy. “We are buying him a bed. A large one. With support. And actual springs. This is a moral obligation.”

“Seriously guys, I don’t need—”

Chase cut in, deadpan: “You’re done arguing kid. You don’t get a vote. You’re on medical time-out.”

Robert opened his mouth to protest but Beef gave a small whuff against his ribs, as if casting the deciding vote.

He shut his mouth… but he couldn’t stop the small, warm smile that tugged at him in spite of everything.

Monday morning arrived with all the enthusiasm of a dead battery.

The Z team slouched back into the SDN building like a parade of damp laundry someone had forgotten in the washing machine overnight. Every step was slow. Every blink was delayed. Every sigh sounded like it came from the grave.

They had foolishly—naively—optimistically assumed they’d get at least a day off after the entire catastrophic circus with Shroud. At a minimum, Monday. At best, the whole week. They’d fantasised about it: sleep, silence, taking a shower longer than thirty minutes, maybe even eating something green, then go bother Robert at the hospital.

But no.

Apparently, SDN’s upper management took one look at the sheer volume of property damage from the citywide incident, counted how many staff were off with injuries, and then decided the most efficient way to reward the team who took out the ringleader of the entire mess was with—you guessed it—more work.

The moment they shuffled into the locker rooms, they looked less like a superhero unit and more like a group of Victorian ghost children haunting the workplace purely out of spite.

The entire branch quietly avoided them like the plague.

They all knew their foul mood wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was the absence of the steady, dry voice in their earpieces. The one who kept them organised, kept them sane, and kept them from getting themselves killed through sheer stupidity. It was harder to function without him than any of them wanted to admit.

Once it became clear Robert was genuinely stable—numbers holding, colour creeping back into his face, monitors settling into a nice, boring rhythm—the team had collectively transitioned from crisis mode to the more dangerous, more stubborn phase of attempting to move into the room permanently.

Hospital staff disagreed.

They tolerated the crowd at first, in the sort of resigned way overworked medical professionals tolerated small, localised disasters. But visiting hours eventually ended, and that one nurse—who had already aged ten years dealing with their entrance—refused to tolerate a second round.

She returned with reinforcements: two very large, very unimpressed super-powered security staff who looked like they had personally trained for “crowd control: supers edition.”

It became a quiet standoff.

The Z team argued. They pleaded. They attempted to classify themselves as “essential emotional equipment.” The nurse very politely disagreed. Eventually, hospital policy won—mostly.

Chase refused to leave. As Robert’s official emergency contact and unofficial next of kin, nobody could make him. He settled into the corner chair with the stubbornness of a man who had missed one coma and had no intention of missing another, folded his arms, and informed any staff who tried to move him that they were welcome to file a complaint tomorrow.

Invisigal, on the other hand, did not get a choice.

Somewhere between sprinting into the hospital and wedging herself into Robert’s room, she had managed to tear her shoulder wound open again. A nurse noticed the fresh blood, called for backup, and in minutes the rebellious superhero had become a second patient, conveniently carried away by the two super-powered security staff.

She tried to argue. The medical staff were unimpressed. Between the reopened bullet wound, the concern for infection, and the recommendation for overnight monitoring, she was admitted to a ward on the opposite side of the building from Robert’s.

Her outrage of the discovery was spectacular. Her success rate of forcing her way out was zero.

Before they had been herded out of Robert’s room like problematic livestock, the medical team had at least given them a brief, very measured, very “please don’t cause further chaos” update on what to expect next. It was the only thing that stopped a full-scale mutiny.

For Robert, the bleeding had been dealt with. He just needed monitoring, pain control, and rest. Lots of rest. Boring rest. No walking around, no lifting things, no getting punched, no being an idiot — basically everything Robert was guaranteed to ignore the moment he could stand.

They caught enough of the briefing to understand he’d be in hospital for several days, maybe close to a week if his vitals behaved. After that, he’d be benched at home for a while. Weeks, not days. The kind of timeframe that made the whole team collectively wince.

As for Invisigal, her situation was less dramatic but apparently still annoying enough to warrant a short admission. Reopened wound, risk of infection, overnight monitoring, antibiotics, re-dressing, the whole responsible-adult package she had no intention of following. The doctors estimated she’d be there only a day or two if she didn’t rip herself open a third time—which, statistically speaking, was not reassuring. She muttered in despair that her ADHD was absolutely going to get the best of her and land her an extended stay. Robert had snorted at that—then immediately regretted it because laughing hurt—but he hadn’t disagreed.

And so here they were now, trudging into work like condemned souls, fully aware that their dispatcher would be gone for weeks and they were down one team member for days.

None of them wanted to know which unfortunate soul would be saddled with dispatch duties in Robert’s absence. Whoever it was, they were doomed. The team had silently agreed—without ever needing to say it aloud—that they would give any random replacement dispatcher the absolute worst shift of their career.

If it turned out to be Chase or Blazer, they would try to behave. But a rando? Sorry. Lost cause.

When the shift finally began, their earpieces crackled—a gentle hiss that signalled someone joining the channel. They perked up instantly, grins sharpening like wolves scenting blood, fully prepared to rip into whatever poor unfortunate dispatcher had drawn the short straw to become the sacrifice.

Then a voice—dry, unimpressed, profoundly familiar—cut through the line with the effortless precision of someone who had spent weeks wrangling their collective bullshit.

“Mornin' team. Heard you lot were preparing to eat the new dispatcher alive, so I thought I’d save an innocent life and clock in myself.”

Every single one of them stopped dead.

“What the fuck, Robert?!” Malevola exclaimed.

In hindsight, Robert’s mention about a steep learning curve really should’ve tipped them off that he’d drag himself out of a hospital ward for work.