Chapter Text
Coupé, of her more...intellect-varied companions, is more reasonably sound than the majority portion of the group. Loathe as she is to admit that Sonar is an unfortunate rival, besides possibly Waterboy as a worthy contender, she is surrounded by eclectic idiots.
But it is not above any of them to take heed the absence of their dispatcher. It is only that she notices first.
She has done her diligence to catalogue each of the Z-Team's timetables, for the team-bonding aspect Blazer preaches about and Robert rags on, though as annoying as what she encounters may be at times. Sonar, in particular, yet she is slowly understanding that his obsession with consistently ranting about Crypto is within a similar approximate to her divulging into the more intimate relations between the Dark Prince and his bride.
Even so, she makes notice when Colm has his time to bake between intervals of early morning (under the circumstances that he pre-planned to wake up, or rather, he could not sleep) and at times, in the late evening once they have finished their shift.
Prism secludes a short time during lunchbreak to update her followers, often times to the accompaniment of her music; while Flambae is more notably present in video calls with his little niece and her very wide, very vibrant orange eyes that gleam each time her uncle talks. They share the same missing tooth- Coupé deduces it enlightens the young girl.
Robert, however, is an, to say the least, odd combination of certain staple routines and diverse patterns. Their break between shifts, more than likely, has him within the dispatcher's breakroom- though he has started to make a habit of visiting the area where the Supers longue, and more specifically, where the Z-Team is present.
They usually make sure at least one of them is there to greet him, the steady thump of his timpani drum to the accompaniment of the boisterous cacophony of their own sounds - otherwise the man will spend his time sulking by his desk, feeding his rotund dog with meat he seems to have an abnormal disdain for.
He arrives at shift thirty minutes beforehand, twenty minutes ahead of when any of the Z-Team makes an effort to show, and spends a decent portion of his evening biding his time around the office before, more often than not, walking home to his highly depressing apartment. Janelle has yet to hear a vibrant tune float around the room when he is alone, save for when the morbidly obese chihuahua's bells chime through its grey misery, or the Z-Team's presences plucks and pounds upon each of the shadow's strings.
Recently though, he has made it very difficult for her to decipher his timetable, as he has made it his mission to arrive at SDN at various hours throughout the week. Often times, it is within one to two hours of his usual thirty, which Coupé has decided to be from his perpetuate insomnia and obvious lack of self-care. Their dispatcher has also taken it upon himself to manage double his workload- if not from outing in his Mecha-Man attire, then working overtime in dispatching without them. (The team does not know this fact. Despite her present wariness of having him dispatch another team- she does not think multiple assassination attempts would make everything better.)
As sporadic as Robert's schedule may be, he is extremely consistent on never being late. Punctuality is the essence of his character.
For him to be, not a couple minutes, but a full hour overdue, only leaves the distress of her and her team members a palpable creature waiting to strike. Baring rows of fangs and filed claws. The shadows hit the obnoxious sting of a cymbal in its anticipation to devour them whole.
Whatever has happened to Robert, it must not be good. The Z-Team knows this, with the way they edge around the room, pupils and lack thereof flicking towards the parking lot, to the door, to the cubical where Blonde Blazer (now Mandy-for a short time as she has reassured them) spins nervously within Robert's chair.
Chase, or rather, StarBlazer is not evident in his worry for the missing man, at least not in what he voices (his trumpet, however, plays a different tune. Sad and pitched at a higher octave than normal.). The consistent ret-con and his sudden need to zip across the skyline of L.A. tells a different story.
"Fuck, seriously? I thought we were prepared for this!" Invisigal hurtles her phone across the room, its back slamming gracelessly from the wall to the floor. It's cracked face and dying light reveal Robert's cell phone number and an embarrassingly cute photo of him that they're shared through the Robert-excluded group chat.
"Oh, we were until the bastard bought a new phone." A flash of vibrantly piercing rose and stunning sapphire flips onto the couch, the few light refractions dissipating from beneath her feet. Her glockenspiel echoes in an ascending sequence, no longer its harmonious high-pitched variant. "Took him four months just to work up some courage to buy new socks, then the bitch buys a phone. Unprompted. Talk about hypocrisy." Prism rants, drawing out the final word with a curl to her lips and the upturn of her nose, despite it being buried in her own phone.
"We did break his phone though." Malevola points out, her tail flicking behind her just as her eyes travel from glass to the inner room. The Daf shakes the shadows hiding within the corners, curling into the vibrations of her tune.
"Yeah." Flambae scoffs, "By accident. Not our fault the bitch didn't buy a screen protector."
"I don't think a screen protector accounts for us dropping him onto concrete."
Flambae shrugs, unable to fight this losing battle and yet still petty enough to try. "Then what the fuck is it for? To be dropped on fuckin' pillows-No, didn't think so." Upon finding some semblance of victory, he continues with a smirk and a newly uplifted cockiness (the sarinda's flux in beat ensures such), "Besides, couldn't Batboner just install a different tracker on his new piece of shit? C'mon."
"I was going to-" Coupé instinctively readies for a barrage of excuses semi related to his Crypto dealings, but the bat has a surprising restrain of self-control. "But the guy hardly ever leaves his phone in his desk anymore. Even under lock and key. Dude's paranoid."
"Well, gee, I wonder why." Multiple pairs of eyes shift to Colm. Coupé, for her part, is unsure of the reasoning. She does not like that.
Gearing to defend the strongman from any sort of attack the group has decidedly agreed upon, Colm speaks in place of her hostility, his fingers intertwined around the calves of her readily positioned legs. She loosens, slowly, to his command. "The lad deserved it- cuttin' my gal like that. A little porn hadn't done anyone any harm anyways."
She relents her meticulous attack, looking down to the man at her waist. "I see why he would be protective of his devices. No man will be subjected to such public humiliation a second time." She does not smile often, but the sentiment of Colm's actions specifically for her firing leaves a warmth blossom within her ribcage. The quiet mesh between the softly drawn tune of his fiddle and the ease of strings to her violin blend pleasantly together.
"Eh, he didn't seem too mad 'bout it." Golem speaks from the corner, a soft flute, as if in mimicking the breeze, enhances the undertones of his thunderous rumble. "I think he just doesn't trust us."
"No shit? What gave it away?"
"Whatever, little lady. Sonar's got it right. We got him paranoid."
A chorus of scoffs ring out in a symphony around the room. It is not the most peaceful sound she has heard when they all combine.
"That bitch was paranoid even before he met us."
"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised if he was, like, born that way or some shit."
"He literally jumps when I appear behind him. Like feet off the ground, cat on all fours type shit. It's fucking hilarious!"
"Girl, record it. That'll get some mad views."
As typical as their banter may be, it did not feel as it usually did. It was there, but it did not sound right. The cymbals clapped with each lash to the snare. The drums a low beat that followed outside a metronome's timing. Two off beat, one, one, one, three loud rhythmic poundings and its unfinished chorus. Unsteady energy that flowed out from the shadows, tracking the beast that curled itself beneath the untimed notes and the disappearance of their dispatcher.
"Okay, Z-Team, lunch break is over! If you need a bio-break or require any assistance prior to next shift, you have five minutes before we begin." As predictability resides, Mandy was not much different, despite her lack of amulet and power (and apparent ability in dispatching). Corporate bullshit was at the core of her being, despite as hard as she has been working on leaving it in the past. Some habits do not change.
"If you say 'bio-break' one more goddamn time." Prism does not finish on her threat, but the sentiment is shared.
Mandy laughs. It's an uneasy thing- not quite scared of them, but without its usual mirth. The sweet thrum of vibrations through her harp nearly seems plucked differently. Its harmony forgotten in subtle portions. "I'll keep that in mind. If you have any recommendations, I'll attempt to use them next time."
"Just say piss or shit, like the rest of us."
"Pretty sure HR doesn't like us saying that, babes."
"HR? Seriously? We have one of those?" Flambae's genuine confusion is...warranted, as odd as it may be. She has not heard from HR since the first month she had been implemented into the Phoenix Program. Had always figured it had lost its will to battle against them once the violations per week exceeded well over a hundred.
"Or...uh- I say the bath-or restroom."
"Herm, baby, don't nobody care about no damn 'restroom' unless we're being formal."
"When are you motherfuckers ever fuckin' formal?" StarBlazer's voice pierces through the static of the comms, uncharacteristically silent for such a long period of time despite being present on the line. It leaves an energy humming from the shadows, pulling at her fingertips to each clattering ring of the cymbal.
"When aren't you a buzzkill, old man?" Invisigal fires back, though she looks less annoyed than she does awaiting a certain expectation to be fulfilled. Her leg bounces against the cushions of the couch, upsetting a fairly relaxed Prism, but a scowl is all the girl gets in return. Anticipation fills the room with the beast, strings pulled and plucked from each high note like screeching nails across a board.
"Who said I was?" The mic muffles before he can finish, under the huff of a voice dissimilar to that of the older super's. There is something oddly childish to it, despite the overlay of gentle, deep, familiar percussions that grasp each refraction of light that surrounds it. "Hush up, you little shit. This don't include you."
"Damn. Bossy." Invisigal complains, only to be effectively muted by Chase and Mandy talking over one another.
"Chase, did you-"
"-Not you, Invisibitch. The world doesn't center around your punkass, did you know that?"
"-find any sign of Robert, Chase?"
A sigh. The wind of the speedster's flying warbles within the comm line. "Sure, as hell did-"
The onslaught of shouted questions thereafter mutes any word that StarBlazer had been attempting to get out. It was more important to berate Robert, to question his absence, the motive behind it. Sleeping in had been the highest bet, his eventual collapse from exhaustion apparent for the last couple of days, but a quick search of his apartment concluded no such thing. Kidnapping was another. There was currently $489 placed on it.
"Would you fuckers quit running your mouths? Holy shit, you're the most annoying bunch of pieces of shit I've ever had the goddamn misfortune of meeting." He clears his throat. A trumpet resounds out within it, leveled and serene, dissimilar to that of this morning, and presently, the older superhero's passionate words. "I'm almost at SDN, but if I hear one more fuckin' word about Robert bailing, Imma turn us both around and you ain't gonna see us 'til you learn to shut your fucking traps."
The silence is blissful, for the time that it lasts. The grating ring of the cymbals do not get the memo. She is the only one to hear it, so she is the only one left to suffers within the silence.
The comm line crackles to life once more, under the strain of various quicken-paced beats from the timpani drum and the bright, piercing sound of the accompanying trumpet. "But not one of you is gettin' that money- I'll tell you that."