Chapter Text
Robert sprinted around the corner to the alleyway and nearly crashed into the opposite wall. He had just enough time to scramble behind a trashcan before Malevola appeared at the intersection, her heels clicking over the asphalt.
He pressed himself harder into the wall, held his breath even though his lungs wanted to heave for air. Hoped that the shadows would be enough to hide him from Mal's night vision. A growl rang through the alley – frustration or excitement over the hunt, he wasn't quite sure.
"Hey, mate. Why don't you come out and I promise I won't break anything you'll miss…. too much."
Robert stayed motionless, except for the hand that snaked into the bag at his side, finding the power suppression collar hidden in there. Getting it had been a necessary risk, even if it had nearly gotten him caught. Technically he'd only needed to retrieve it from his flat, it was part of his Mecha Man equipment he hadn't transitioned to the office. But his place was being watched 24/7 right now.
Royd's remark about his apartment looking like a serial killer's all those months ago didn't seem all that funny right now. Not when every local news station in Los Angeles proclaimed the same, next to a mug shot of Robert's face.
Robert Robertson, serial killer. Hero killer.
The sound of movement pulled him out of his thoughts, his hand reflexively gripping the collar tighter. He should be able to take Mal in a fight, if it came down to it, as long as he could get the drop on her. But she didn't come closer. Instead her footsteps grew steadily quieter as she moved in another direction.
Robert waited a few more seconds, then let his breath out slowly. Ignoring the exhaustion and his screaming lungs, he used the wall to push himself upright. The world swayed for a moment, gently like a boat rocking, before righting itself. He pulled the hood of his old sports hoodie deeper into his face and got moving.
(two days ago)
*
Robert should've noticed something was wrong the moment he'd set foot inside the SDN building.
He'd thought the receptionist staring at him as he'd waved good morning had seemed a little strange at the time, but not cause for concern. He hadn't been paying attention. A stupid mistake. It should've been his first warning.
The second one was harder to miss. Robert's attention had been on his phone, checking last night's messages (letting himself be persuaded to join the team group chat had also been a mistake for very different reasons) as he stepped off the elevator, when someone let out a startled cry that quickly got smothered.
Robert looked up instinctively, as did everyone else in the office. One of the other dispatchers (Janet? No, Gemma) stood frozen by her desk, hands clasped over her mouth and her wide-eyed stare fixed on Robert.
And, of course, everyone else's gaze followed hers. Something shifted in the air, almost palpable. A stillness that never fell over the office until those late hours when the lights were already turned down and most everyone had gone home.
Beef whined and pressed against Robert's leg instead of bounding towards Chase's cubicle like he usually would.
And there it finally was, that tingling sensation at the back of the neck that made his muscles want to coil up and adrenaline flood his system.
Something is very, very wrong. Get out of here.
“Lad," Punch Up's voice came from the door to the break room and Robert tensed, eyes scanning the room for an escape route, “yer doin' the right thing. We'll let ‘em know you gave…"
Robert missed the rest of that sentence the moment his eyes landed on the TV hung up on the far wall.
He didn't usually pay much attention to it, it was always tuned into some news channel. Except right now that channel was broadcasting a picture of his face. He could just barely make out the caption below it.
SDN uncovers identity of notorious hero killer: Who is Robert Robertson?
“That's–good prank," he heard his own voice say mechanically. Like they were in some play and it was supposed to be his next line, even though it didn't fit. “TV's a nice touch."
On the screen a viewer discretion warning played, followed by some grainy security camera footage. There were two people fighting… no, that wasn't fighting, one was quite literally beating the other to death. It was hard to tell the identity of the victim with most of the graphic content blurred out, but the cape at least was a clear indicator of their profession.
The other guy was just as hard to identify with his back to the camera. Short, auburn hair, a slim boxer's build–it certainly could be Robert. But there was no way to say for sure.
At least until the guy finally stopped punching the unmoving mass of flesh on the floor and turned around to look straight up into the camera. And Robert's own face stared back at him. That same dead-eyed stare he'd seen in the mirror some mornings.
“Mister Robertson." And that was Blazer's voice. But he couldn't listen to her words, couldn't do anything but stare at his face on that screen.
He knew what she was going to say anyway. By virtue of the authority granted to the recognized heroes of the SDN Network by the State of California I am hereby placing you under arrest for the crimes of… whatever his crimes were.
Robert didn't wait to find out. He took a step back, then another. And then he bolted.
(now)
*
Robert squeezed through the door of one of the abandoned apartment blocks that littered this part of town.
As abandoned as they could be anyway, because there would always be some down on their luck folks hiding away in the bowels of these moldy, damp places that most people liked to pretend didn't exist.
Robert didn't want to risk anyone getting caught in the crossfire, so he took the stairs up to the higher levels. No one would be up there; too far from any potential exits.
He'd just passed the landing to the third floor when the noise of the front door being kicked open rang through the building. He paused for a moment to listen.
One pair of footsteps. Perfect.
It meant the team had split up to cover more ground and check each of the houses he could've slipped into. That gave him at least 20 to maybe 30 minutes until he'd have to worry that another team member might come looking.
This time Robert purposefully made some noise on the stairs, just enough to alert whoever was down there that they weren't alone. And, just as predicted, the footsteps followed.
On the landing to the sixth floor, where the light from the street lamps had grown weak enough to hide him from anyone looking back, he risked a glance down to find out who was actually following him.
Shit. Flambae.
Of course it had to be the guy at the very top of the list of Z-team members Robert didn't want to risk a close encounter with. Not only would he be at a stark disadvantage if it came to a fight; even if he pulled his plan off, Flambae would also be by far the worst option for what came after.
But beggars couldn't be choosers. So instead of rethinking the whole insane idea he just took the last flight of stairs and slunk through the open door of the apartment that was second closest to the stairs.
And then he pressed himself against the wall and waited.
Robert took a moment to acknowledge, if only to himself, what a monumentally stupid idea this was. He'd only get one shot at this. And if he failed, well. He might as well handcuff himself and walk straight into jail.
But he had to make sure that–he just had to make sure. When he heard the door to the neighboring apartment being kicked open, he slipped back out into the hallway, feet silent in the darkness as he swiftly stalked up on Flambae.
With the other man's back to him he'd get one surprise shot – and he intended to use it.
A kick to the back of the knee made Flambae shout in surprise as his leg buckled. But he didn't go down, not completely, and Robert saw him try to twist away.
He lunged forward, got an arm around Flambae's neck and forced his head up to expose the neck. A hand clamped around his forearm and it burned, but then the collar snapped shut.
The sudden disorienting loss of powers was enough to make the flame hero reel, which bought Robert a few precious seconds. Enough to kick Flambae's other leg out from under him, force him fully to the ground by twisting his arm behind his back.
He was quick to put the handcuffs on before the other hero could begin to struggle and hurt himself. And then another pair for his feet, because while Flambae might not have his powers right now, he was still damn strong.
And then Robert just knelt on top of him for a moment, trying to catch his breath. His arm pulsed with pain where the imprint of a hand had been burned into it, but it didn't restrict his movement. Second degree at worst. Safe to push aside for the moment.
"Fucking–get off me, bitch!" Flambae roared, apparently having caught his bearings enough to thrash.
Robert had to shift his own weight to compensate.
"Can you cut that out? I just want to talk."
Flambae sneered. "Yeah, right. Not interested in sitting down for a cup of tea with a psycho killer, sorry."
Robert just rolled his eyes and hauled Flambae up into a sitting position before dragging him over toward the window. That earned him more hissing and spitting. But he really needed to be able to see the other man's face for this next part. Besides, it also let him keep an eye on the street below.
With Flambae safely deposited beside the window Robert finally took a step back to study him. The muddy street lights from below were casting harsh shadows, but it was enough to see the glow of Flambae's burning eyes – and the deep resentment on his face.
Robert had expected it. It still made something twist painfully in his chest the same way Coop's cold stare had when he'd slipped her earlier. Or Waterboy's fear-wide eyes when the kid had tried to stop Robert.
It wasn't even that they didn't recognize him. Oh, they did alright. As Robert Robertson the Third, wanted murderer. Just not as Robert – dispatcher, teammate, maybe almost friend.
Robert swallowed and gripped the burn on his arm, forcing himself to focus. His voice came out steady when he spoke up.
“Listen, I don't want to be here anymore than you do. Just answer some of my questions and we can go our separate ways. Sound good?"
Flambae stared him down warily for a long moment, clearly trying to gauge how much he could trust those words. Then he settled back against the wall with pointed casualness and rolled his eyes, his body language all but screaming I'm not afraid of you.
"No, you listen, bitch. Your villain act sucks. Like, for real. What is this, your first time?"
Robert snorted despite himself, "It is, actually, yeah. So please be gentle with me?" Flambae looked like he had some ideas where he wanted to shove that gentleness, so Robert carried on, "That's kind of what I wanted to talk about. Mind telling me why the fuck everyone suddenly thinks I'm a villain?"
That made Flambae bark out a laugh. It was not a kind sound.
"Please tell me you're not about to give me some bullshit spiel about how the voices told you that the killings were righteous or some shit. You see, Bob-Bob – do you mind if I call you Bob-Bob? – everyone thinks you're a villain because you are. Kinda comes with the whole killing thing."
It was Robert's turn to study the other man's face. There was anger there and indignation and some fear that he'd almost managed to hide. But no sign of a lie.
He'd already known there wouldn't be. The confirmation still sat heavy in his gut, snuffing out that last, tiny piece of irrational hope. There was no easy explanation for whatever the fuck was going on, no misunderstanding or cover story the team was in on.
No, he was well and truly fucked. And he was alone.
Robert forcefully shoved the thought aside and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He needed to focus.
“I don't suppose," and the absurdity of it made him smile despite himself, “telling you I'm innocent will get me anywhere?"
For some reason Robert couldn't even begin to puzzle out, that made Flambae stare at him oddly, before he seemed to catch himself. Then the familiar scowl returned.
“Innocent people don't ambush and hold others against their will, dipshit."
Ah, so they were back to bitching at each other. He crossed his arms, leaned his weight against the cool glass of the window. “I kinda feel like the guy who once tried to put sleeping pills in his dispatcher's coffee doesn't really have the moral high ground here, Chad."
That had been one of those early pranks slash HR's worst nightmares the team had played, back when they'd been taking bets on how many days he would last. Good times, Robert mused with absolutely zero charitable feelings.
Flambae's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How the fuck do you know my name? You some kinda stalker, too?"
“Well first of all none of you besides Coop even try to hide your faces, so. But not the point. What I'm trying to tell you is that I know you guys because I'm your dispatcher. I've been working at SDN for almost four months now. Come on, you know me. I'm Mecha Man."
Flambae snorted and tipped his head back as if to look down his nose at Robert. It was a valiant effort, given that he was literally sitting on the floor. “Nice try, no one knows Mecha Man's identity. And we already have a dispatcher, so no thanks."
This was going about as badly as Robert had expected. But the truth was, he was low on options and desperate enough to give it one last try.
“Just hear me out, okay? I know your name's Chad, you were born in Herat and you love cooking. You thought it would be a good idea to climb into a sensory deprivation tank to help with your anxiety. You know the lyrics to more Beyoncé songs than I even knew existed. Sometimes you take a detour on the way back from a call to get the whole team coffee from that ridiculously expensive shop on 183rd. Somehow you still think I haven't noticed that, when in reality the morale boost everyone gets from not having to drink the shitty office coffee is simply worth it. You haven't figured out my order yet so you make Visi sneak these increasingly ridiculous drinks onto my desk that I don't even know the names of. I know you're an asshole, but you also care about people. I know you love your sister and your little niece."
He realized his mistake only when Flambae's eyes suddenly blazed with rage and he growled, low and threatening, the muscles in his neck and shoulders flexing as if he was trying to rip the handcuffs apart by sheer force. Which he probably was.
“Big fucking mistake," he hissed through clenched teeth. If he had access to his powers right now, he'd no doubt be enveloped in flame already, “almost got me there for a sec. But pulling my family into this? You better take your shot at me now or I will hunt you down and when I find you? I won't turn you in. I'll fucking burn the flesh off your bones and then I will keep burning whatever is left until they can't even identify the ashes."
“Flambae. Chad." Robert cut in hastily and raised his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “I am not threatening your family. Whatever you think I did, I want you to know they're not in danger, okay? I promise."
He meant to add more, but just then his attention was drawn to movement down on the street. There, Malevola and Punch Up were moving towards his building. He was out of time.
He really should be gone by now, but there was one more thing he needed. So he fished the key to the suppression collar out of his pocket and, kneeling down in front of the other man so they were at eye level, held it up.
“I need a favor."
Flambae's eyes immediately zeroed in on the key, before they reluctantly dragged themselves back to Robert's face. There was wariness and open mistrust in them. But at least he didn't immediately try to headbutt Robert, so maybe some of his words had gotten through after all.
Or maybe Flambae was just waiting for his chance.
“Sure. Untie me and I'll do whatever the fuck you want."
That dragged a surprised laugh from Robert's throat. “You really shouldn't promise things like that. But that's not–that day at the office, I had Beef with me. My dog. Black and white chihuahua, a little chubby maybe. Can you just make sure he's alright? He feels safe with Chase, uh, your dispatcher I guess. I'd really appreciate it if he could take care of Beef for a bit. Just until this is cleared up."
It was probably more reflex than a sudden need to be helpful that made Flambae correct him, “Chase isn't our dispatcher."
And that–huh. Somehow in all the confusion and turmoil Robert hadn't even thought about who the team's dispatcher was, if it wasn't him. He'd assumed it had to be Chase, who had managed them in that brief period after the previous dispatcher had quit. But if he wasn't, then who–?
Robert was about to ask when the apartment door suddenly exploded. He instinctively moved to cover Flambae who couldn't shield himself, as shards of wood rained down around them.
When he darted a glance over his shoulder towards the source of the destruction, there she was.
Blonde Blazer, radiant like the sun itself, her golden eyes burning with righteous fury.
Shit. She shouldn't be here. He could take on the team, knew their strengths and weaknesses well enough to use them against them, but Blazer? He had nothing on her.
The need to move was instinctive, to put enough distance between them so he could think.
Too late Robert realized what this situation must look like to her. One of her heroes, tied up and helpless, possibly hurt – and a wanted killer bent over them, close enough to harm, to kill.
When Robert moved, she didn't hesitate. Her hand briefly glowed with blinding light, as the energy channelled and then discharged, slamming into Robert with the force of a bullet.
He barely had enough time to register the hot, blinding agony exploding in his right shoulder, as his body was thrown backwards with the force of the impact. There was the sound of glass cracking, half a second before his back crashed into it and it shattered completely.
And then he was falling, plummeting straight toward the street below. His body curled up in anticipation of a meeting with the asphalt he really didn't want to have – as instinctive as it was useless.
Before his brain could splatter all over the street however, Blazer was there to catch him in her arms.
The impact was still enough to drive the air from his lungs and make pain shoot violently through his shoulder and all the way down to his fingertips. If he'd had the breath he probably would've cried out. As it was he just curled around the wound as best he could.
“I didn't–why didn't your powers protect you?"
The words sounded like an accusation, but when Robert managed to lift his head enough to blink up at Blazer, she just looked distraught. The mask hid it well, but he knew her, could find the tells in the way her features tightened.
The words needed a moment to properly register and they almost made him laugh. So they thought he was a super villain.
“Might wanna recheck your files. I don't have any powers, Mandy."
That actually made her freeze. Her eyes widened in startled confusion and she looked like she wanted to say something else.
Robert seized the opportunity to rip the gleaming red jewel from her chest.
The transformation from Blonde Blazer to Mandy was instantaneous. As was gravity's unyielding force as they tumbled the last few meters to the ground.
The landing was painful, to say the least. Actually, getting to know the asphalt intimately and for an extended period of time was starting to seem like a good idea. But then Blazer – no, Mandy, she was just Mandy right now – moved and Robert's survival instinct kicked in with violent, stubborn determination. Somehow he managed to stagger to his feet, put some distance between them.
Mandy was still on the ground, fighting a trashbag that seemed determined to keep her from getting up. But she hissed when she put too much weight on her left wrist and Robert felt a pang of guilt.
He wanted nothing more than to just tell her. Everything, really. The truth as far as he knew it and that he hoped was still real. She'd always listened to him, open and without judgement and he'd tried to do the same for her.
A part of him thought that she'd have to believe him, if only she had all the details. That it would all make sense, reveal the inconsistencies in whatever was going on right now. But another part, quiet and bitter, whispered that it didn't really matter what the truth was.
He took another step back and Mandy looked up at him, that same lack of recognition on her face.
She wasn't looking at her friend Robert. Just at a dangerous criminal that needed to be put down.
Her friend Robert might as well not exist anymore.
He only noticed he was still holding onto the gem when his fist tightened around it.
There was a moment where he thought about keeping it. He knew what his chances of getting through another encounter like this were without the Mecha Man suit. With Blonde Blazer's powers he might even stand a decent chance of uncovering the truth behind this whole fucked up situation while being hunted by half the hero community.
But he couldn't do that to Mandy.
So in the end he just chucked the gem as far as he could down the alley, and listened to the way it softly clinked against the asphalt in the darkness.
“I'm sorry," he said and meant it. Then he turned around and limped away.