Chapter Text
The air in the dimly lit establishment was a thick, humid cocktail of stale beer, cheap fryer oil, and the sharp, fleeting scent of a cleaning product that had given up hours ago. The bar's cacophony, the jarring crack of pool balls, a distant, distorted rock song, and the loud, loose laughter all felt muffled, irrelevant to Vincent. The neon sign above the bar hummed at a frequency that made Vincent’s teeth ache; it was a low, buzzing that most people couldn't hear, but to him, it was a physical weight. It was the constant, irritating sound of a world that didn't stop moving, even when he felt like he was drowning in the static of his own head.
He stood fixed by the pool table, the heavy, smooth wood of the cue still gripped loosely in his right hand. His eyes rested on the colorful cluster of balls, but his mind was utterly adrift. He thought back to the close call, the raw peril of nearly losing this second chance, this fragile hero gig he was slowly settling into, a chance he knew he barely deserved. Outside of his enhanced Rapid Bat form, he often felt less sharp, less skillful than the others. He was smart and, yes, an asshole who never knew when to shut up. Yet, here he was, safe, while his scattered teammates did their own small things.
He closed his eyes for a second, the pool cue serving as an anchor, and the memories of the hearing flooded back. He could still hear the squeak of the high-backed chairs in the SDN boardroom, a sound like grinding bone. He remembered the way the air had felt sucked out of the room as the board members reviewed his file. ‘Unreliable. Aggressive. Liability.’ The words had been sharp, clinical knives. He’d stood there in a suit that felt three sizes too small, his sensitive ears picking up the frantic, uneven heartbeat of his own panic. He had been seconds away from being stripped of his title, sent back to the nothingness of being just another guy with ears that heard too much.
Then, there had been the sound of a pen tapping. One, two, three. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat of a sound. Robert’s pen. The Chief hadn't looked at him with the disdain the others had; he’d just looked at the data, then at Vincent, and argued for the "logistics of potential." Robert had been the one to stay the execution. Vincent shivered, the cold draft from the bar’s front door cutting through his jacket. He didn't just owe Robert his job; he owed him the only version of himself he actually liked.
His enhanced ear twitched, registering a distinct sound of footsteps cutting through the hum of the neon. They were slow, heavy, but carefully muted, the burdened gait of someone weary, yet rigidly disciplined about not disrupting the established order. He knew this sound; it was uniquely familiar, a cadence he had subconsciously started to track since that day in the boardroom. His ear twitched again as the footsteps drew closer, forcing him to lift his head. There was Robert, already close, holding a small glass.
“Drink for you.”
Robert said the words quietly, gently placing the glass onto the edge of the pool table as if trying to disturb the silence as little as possible. Before Sonar could process the small gesture, Robert was already pivoting to retreat. In a quick, purely instinctive motion, Sonar reached out, his left hand grasping Robert’s left bicep.
“Wait.”
The word was too quick, his mind racing a mile a minute. Why was he stopping the efficient retreat? His voice was rough, a slight shake betraying him as he struggled to find his footing in the interaction he’d just caused. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his hand away, as if afraid he was letting go of a gentle, easily startled animal. He looked down, then struggled to articulate the simple thought:
“Wait, uh… this is kinda hard for me.”
Robert paused, turning fully to face Sonar, his posture stiff but attentive. Sonar lowered his gaze, finding the bottom of the pool cue and gripping it with both hands for stability. He shook his head slightly, wrestling with the words. “But I—I—I look, I know it was probably a by-the-book, bottom-line kind of decision, but…” He lifted his eyes, shedding all pretense, and met Robert's gaze.
“Thanks.”
Robert simply raised his hand and administered a brief, awkward, but undeniably sincere pat on Sonar's right shoulder. It was a simple movement, but to Vincent’s heightened senses, it felt like an explosion of grounding energy. Then, without another word, he completed his retreat, leaving Sonar alone with the heavy sincerity of the moment.
Sonar watched him go. That quick, awkward pat had felt more real than any professional courtesy he'd ever received. ‘He sees me,’ Sonar realized. He saw the man, not the sound-wave monster. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. This was a challenge. He was going to find out who Robert Robertson III was when the rulebook was closed.
That warmth stayed with him, a quiet hum in his chest that even the SDN’s sterile atmosphere couldn't immediately chill. But as the sliding glass doors of the headquarters hissed shut behind him, the hum was drowned out by the familiar, grinding reality of the workday.
The afternoon at the SDN was thick with the scent of recycled air, burnt dust, and the low-level industrial noise of dozens of computers humming in unison. Sonar, clutching a stack of mission logs he didn't actually need to carry, a physical shield against the social requirements of the office, started his slow, deliberate walk toward the filing annex. He tried to hold onto his internal quiet, the lingering warmth of Robert’s shoulder pat, but it was impossible with Malevola stalking alongside him.
She was entirely oblivious to his mood, her voice rising dramatically as she detailed the flaws of a truly horrendous product she’d encountered. “—and don't even get me started on the 'Justice-Juice' they put in the vending machines,” Malevola continued, her voice slicing through the hum of the HVAC system like a jagged blade. “It’s supposed to be 'Electric Blue Raspberry,' but it honestly tastes more like blue-tinted window cleaner and broken promises. I watched an intern drink one yesterday, and I’m ninety percent sure his tongue is still glowing. It’s an affront to chemistry, Sonar. Honestly, the flavor profile was so offensive, I think I could use it to strip paint. Sonar, did you hear me? I said, strip paint—”
Malevola’s voice became a distant, unimportant buzz in Sonar's mind as they drifted past the slightly ajar doorway of the Break Room. The SDN was usually a symphony of the mundane, the wet thwack of a stapler, the rhythmic wheeze of the old printer, but as they neared the room, the background noise seemed to pull back, leaving only the sound of Robert’s existence.
Inside, under the unflattering, flickering glare of the overhead fluorescent light, Robert was already seated. He was operating at peak efficiency, working ahead of his designated break as if relaxation were a task to be conquered. Rob’s fingers held a newly printed memo with absolute care, meticulously aligning the edges with the precision of a master cartographer plotting missile trajectories.
The sight froze Sonar mid-stride. The precise motion of Rob’s hands, the tense, perfectly level set of his shoulders, the quiet intensity of his concentration, all drew Sonar’s eye like a powerful, silent sonic beacon. He wasn't thinking about rules, efficiency, or even the offensive blue chemicals Malevola was ranting about. He was thinking about the warmth of a memory and the powerful, illogical desire to simply sit next to Rob again, without the formal barrier of the Dispatch desk. He wanted to witness that small relaxation happen again, and he couldn't look away.
Malevola’s monologue abruptly ceased. Her flamboyant eyeliner, sharp as a weapon, sliced toward Sonar as she took in the direction of his fixed gaze. “Earth to Sonar! What in the nine realms of bad bureaucracy is wrong with you?” she demanded, snapping her fingers right in front of his face with the sharp, resonant crack of a silenced pistol shot.
Sonar flinched violently, the sudden sound jarring him back to the noisy reality of the Dispatch office. He quickly shook his head, the sudden shift from deep focus making his ears ring slightly. He pulled his gaze from the doorway, forcing a quick, practiced smile at his colleague, instantly deploying his most aloof and distracting persona.
“Huh? What? Nothing. I’m totally fine, Mal,” he stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Malevola crossed her arms, her dark gaze unwavering. She was a former villain who could spot a genuine panic attack under a layer of smooth charm from a mile away. She didn't buy the "fine" for a second. She watched the way his pupils were blown wide and how his hand white-knuckled the mission logs until the paper crinkled.
“You don’t look 'fine,' Vincent. You look like you’re having a neurological event,” she retorted, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she glanced toward the break room. “You were staring at the Chief of Dispatch like he was the last remaining slice of lasagna on earth. What gives? Did he finally tell you off? Or did you finally realize you’ve been filing your reports in Comic Sans?”
Sonar rubbed the back of his neck, the effort of maintaining the facade making his skin feel too tight. “I’m serious, I’m fine. Just… thinking about my crypto portfolio, actually,” he lied, the words tumbling out with desperate speed. He began to invent data on the fly, desperate to fill the silence. “You know I’ve been tracking that volatile HeroCoin exchange since last year’s crash? I was just calculating the residual losses, trying to figure out if it's worth filing for a digital tax credit. It’s all very complicated, high-level math, really. Must have… zoned out while running the figures. The market is just... very bearish right now, Mal. Very bearish.”
Malevola’s eyes narrowed. She saw the sheer, vibrating panic in his posture, the way he wouldn't meet her eyes, and the slight tremor in his breath. She knew "crypto" was the most convenient, shallow lie he could reach for, and she knew exactly where his eyes had been glued. She looked from Sonar's pained, trapped expression back toward Rob’s rigidly professional form in the break room. She let the silence stretch just long enough to let him squirm, seeing the raw vulnerability he was trying so hard to bury under layers of snark.
Finally, she let out a long, theatrical sigh and shook her head, choosing to let the obvious lie stand, mostly because watching him struggle was entertaining enough. “Fine. Whatever, ‘Crypto-King.’ If you want to go broke on digital pretend-money while staring a hole through the boss's head, that’s your funeral,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction into something almost like pity. “But keep your zone-outs confined to your own cubicle. You’re giving me second-hand anxiety just watching you vibrate. It's distracting.”
She clapped him sharply on the shoulder, a jarring physical snap that forced him to move, and walked off toward the annex. Sonar stood there for a moment, his chest aching with the effort of catching his breath. He adjusted his jacket, feeling the desperate need to project an aura of control he definitely didn't possess.
‘Friendship goodwill,’ he thought, forcing himself to walk away without glancing back at the Break Room. ‘I need to find a way to make this look less… desperate.’
Sonar didn't just walk away; he retreated to the only sanctuary he had, his desk. But the "Friendship Goodwill" mission was a thorn in his side that he couldn't just pluck out. By the time the late-night shift rolled around, the office was a ghost town of empty cubicles and the rhythmic, lonely hum of the floor polisher down the hall.
Vincent had spent three hours staring at a half-finished report, but his mind was elsewhere. He’d made a decision. A "manly" decision. If a glass of water at a bar was the bridge Robert had built, Vincent was going to build a highway.
He waited until the clock struck 11:00 PM, the heart of the late shift, before he approached Robert’s office. In his hand, he clutched a cold bottle of beer he’d swiped from his own stash in the employee fridge. It was a peace offering. It was a "we’re just two guys working late" gesture. He didn't knock. Sonar didn't do knocking. He leaned against the doorframe, popping the cap with a practiced, metallic clink that he was sure sounded effortless.
"Rough night, Chief," Vincent said, sliding the bottle onto Robert's desk, right over a stack of neatly organized invoices. "Thought you could use a little high-octane fuel to get through the paperwork."
Robert didn't look up immediately. He finished the sentence he was writing, his pen moving with that same agonizing precision. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes didn't go to Vincent. They went to the bottle. Then, to the condensation forming a wet ring on the top of the note. "Sonar," Robert said, his voice as flat as a dial tone. "This is a government-contracted facility. It is 11:04 PM on a Tuesday. Alcohol is strictly prohibited on the floor, regardless of the shift hour." Sonar’s smirk faltered.
"Oh, come on, Rob. It’s just one brew. Live a little. I’m trying to be... You know. Friendly."
Robert stood up. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, which was ten times worse. Friendly is following protocol, so I don't have to file a disciplinary report for 'Substance Possession during Active Hours.' Take the bottle, go back to your desk, and finish the logs. Now." The "asshole" in Vincent, the part of him that felt small whenever he wasn't the loudest person in the room, flared up like a match. His ears flattened against his head, a physical tell that he couldn't hide.
"Disciplinary report? Are you serious?" Vincent snapped, snatching the bottle back so hard some of the foam splashed onto his sleeve. "I’m trying to say thanks! I’m trying to actually talk to you like a person, and you’re treating me like a line item in a budget! You’re so wrapped up in your little rulebook that you wouldn't know a genuine gesture if it hit you in the face."
"I know a liability when I see one,"
Robert countered, his voice rising just a fraction, the equivalent of a shout for a man like him.
"This isn't a bar, Vincent. This is Dispatch. Act as if you belong here."
"Fine! Message received, Chief."
Vincent spat, the word dripping with sarcasm. He turned on his heel, his boots clicking aggressively against the linoleum as he stormed out. He didn't go back to his desk. He went to the stairwell, fuming, his hands shaking with a mix of caffeine and pure, unadulterated embarrassment. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen as he pulled up his messages with Malevola.
Sonar: He is impossible. I tried to be a ‘pal,’ and he basically threatened to fire me. How do you talk to someone who has a literal stick up their ass?
He waited, watching the three dots bounce on the screen for what felt like an eternity. He could almost hear Mal’s judgmental sigh through the cellular data.
Malevola: Let me guess. You did something stupidly illegal or socially stunted.
Sonar: I brought him a beer. It’s a peace offering!! It’s what guys do! We sit, we drink, we talk about... I don't know, sports? Tactical logistics? Whatever people who aren't me talk about!
Malevola: Sonar, he’s the Chief of Dispatch. You brought a cold one to a man who probably irons his socks and has a color-coded system for his spice rack. You don’t need a beer, you need a lobotomy.
Sonar: It was a high-quality craft import! I spent twelve dollars on that bottle! And he looked at me like I’d just handed him a live grenade. He started talking about ‘disciplinary reports’ and ‘substance possession.’ Who even uses the word 'substance' in a sentence?
Malevola: Someone who actually follows the employee handbook you clearly used as a coaster. Look, Robert is a simple man. Boringly simple. He lives for order, caffeine, and probably those little silica packets you find in shoe boxes. If you want to get on his good side, you have to stop being... you.
Sonar: Ouch. What is that supposed to mean? I’m delighted.
Malevola: You’re a firework in a library. Try something that doesn’t involve a felony or a potential HR nightmare. Try coffee. Simple. Basic. Normal people drink coffee.
Sonar stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the glass. Coffee. It was so boring. So mundane. So... safe. He could see it now: a paper cup, a cardboard sleeve, a lukewarm brown liquid that tasted like disappointment.
Sonar: Coffee? That’s it? That’s your grand villainous advice? I’m supposed to just hand him a latte and hope he doesn’t cite me for ‘unauthorized steam’?
Malevola: Yes. Exactly. Buy a cup, put it on his desk, and leave before you say something stupid. Don't make it a thing. Just a drink.
Sonar leaned his head back against the cold concrete wall of the stairwell, a manic glint suddenly catching the light in his eyes. He wasn't just going to do coffee. If Robert wanted simple, Vincent would give him the most legendary simple coffee in the history of the SDN. He’d find the best beans, the perfect temperature, the exact ratio of foam to liquid.
"Coffee,"
He whispered to the empty air, his mind already racing toward a five-star rated artisanal roastery three towns over. "Fine. We’ll do it the 'simple' way. But it’s going to be the best damn coffee that man has ever had in his life." He stood up, his anger replaced by a dangerous new obsession. He wasn't going to just be a friend; he was going to be the best friend Robert Robertson III never asked for.