Chapter Text
“Where the fuck is Bob Bob?”
Chad’s disgruntled question cuts through the hubbub of chatter throughout the meeting room, and most conversations cease. The other members of Z-Team look around as if only now noticing his absence.
It’s a pretty recent thing—Robert has taken to meeting them before they depart for their morning shift even though he doesn’t technically need to be here this early. Usually he just gives them one of his famous Robertson pep talks, and although they make fun of him for being overly sappy, the extra investment in their wellbeing does feel… nice, kind of.
Not that anyone would ever admit it.
“Good question,” Prism says, pursing her lips in thought. “Ain’t no way his ass is takin’ the day off. Motherfucker wouldn’t know work-life balance if it kicked him in the balls.”
“Maybe he’s sick?” Malevola suggests with a little shrug. “It does happen, y’know.”
“That bitch would come in even if he was on death’s door,” Chad disagrees, tone dripping with distaste. He looks around the room, his gaze settling on one member, who is uncharacteristically quiet. “Hey, Visi. You two are, like, fucking, right? Do you know?”
Her head shoots up at the addressal, what little colour she had in her face fleeing. “Uh…” she stutters, her voice trembling with an unsteadiness none of them have ever heard in her before. “No, I… we’re not. I don’t know.”
The room lapses into a dull silence for a few moments, and Invisigal’s eyes glaze over with something watery and distant. As he watches her, Chad’s eyes narrow.
She knows something. And, by the looks of her kicked puppy face, something bad.
The still thick silence hanging over the room is broken by Sonar, who says with the tact of a sledgehammer, “He’s totally dead, isn’t he?”
Before anyone can respond, the door to their meeting room slams open, revealing Blonde Blazer. Her usually imposing figure is weighed down with something too heavy even for her superpowered shoulders, her face drawn and eyes dull. At the sight of them she twists her lips into a ghostly echo of her usually bright smile. “Z-Team, good morning,” she greets, closing the door behind her. Without leaving time for a reply, she ploughs ahead. “Unfortunately Robert can’t make it today, so I’ll be your dispatcher. Let’s get started, shall we?”
A frown settles on Chad’s face unconsciously, his eyes scanning Blazer’s dishevelled appearance with apprehension. Something’s definitely wrong here. It’s so thick in the air he can taste it—a bitter curl, like the iron tang of blood.
He almost feels himself getting worried, but then he remembers this is Robert they’re talking about. He doesn’t give two fucks about whatever might have happened to the guy—even if Chad never saw his bitchass again, he wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.
No, it’d be a relief, if anything. No more of that goody-two-shoes breathing down his ass and micromanaging him at every step. No, Flambae, you can’t burn down an entire block. Stop, Flambae, you’re gonna kill him.
Fucking pussy.
Still though, as he trails behind the rest of the team on his way out of the room, his eyes linger on the spot at the head of the table where Robert always stands.
“Twenty bucks says he’s stuck on the toilet with diarrhea.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Punch Up replies over the comms. “Thirty says he’s got a wild hangover.”
“Please keep the line clear,” Blazer admonishes in a tight tone, the staticky effect of the mic doing little to disguise the nervousness in her voice. “Focus, everyone.”
“Ehh, what the fuck, who even cares,” Flambae says, waving a dismissive hand as if they can see him. He's soaring over the city at the moment, the wind batting at his face with the affection of an old friend. “He’s not worth betting your money.”
A flock of birds appear as a smudge on the horizon, thick charcoal lines breaking up the pastel blue strokes of the afternoon sky. Chad adjusts his path to take him above the animals, not wanting to get a beak in his eye or feathers in his mouth.
Once was enough.
Once he clears the obstacle he resumes his original altitude, slicing through a puffy cloud like a knife. The vapour fogs up his vision and sits with strange heaviness in his lungs, but it feels so unreal, like the fulfilment of some childhood fantasy. Sailing through cotton candy clouds, the city little more than a speck beneath him.
God, he's so glad he finally has a flight license now. Unbidden, the memory of Robert's words echo in the recesses of his mind: the SDN higher-ups are pretty hesitant to give you guys licenses, but I managed to pull some strings with Blonde Blazer to speed up the process.
Fuck. Chad's not feeling bad for the guy, is he? He really needs to work on that. Hero life is making him soft.
Still, though, his stupid mind can’t help but mull on it. Images of what could have happened to their dispatcher run rampant in his mind with infuriating persistence; Robert’s stupid normie ass could’ve been mugged, or stabbed, or even fucking shot. There’s really no limit to the kinds of trouble someone with Robert’s shit-talking mouth and noodle arms could get into.
And Blazer… he’s never seen her like that before. Shaken.
Goddamnit, Chad doesn't care about Robert. No fucking way.
Chad tries to drown these thoughts by burying himself in his work. It’s a shitstorm of a shift, probably because Blazer is out of practice when it comes to dispatching. She hesitates, and sends too many heroes on one call and then is left with not enough for the next, leaving the remaining members to stretch painfully thin. To his credit, Chad doesn’t fail a single call, despite some pretty shitty odds.
He really is the fucking best.
And even if he catches himself comparing the little things about Blazer’s dispatching style to Robert’s—Robert would respond to this call sooner. Robert would know to send him with Prism instead of fucking Waterboy. Robert would respond to Z-Team's vulgar ribbing with equally dirty sarcasm, not flustered words—he tells himself that he’s just stressed. It’s a bad shift: nothing more.
The excuse feels flimsy, even in the privacy of his own mind.
After an eternity of mutant monsters, grocery store hold ups, and cats stuck in tall ass trees, their shift ends. Chad takes a quick shower to wash off the sweat and grime from the day, setting the water to a temperature that would probably burn a normal person.
The temptation to stay in the soothing heat of the water forever crawls under his skin like an itch he can never quite scratch. As a consequence of his powers, Chad runs hotter than normal people; even Torrance’s blazing summers never touch the chill that resides deep in his core.
Eventually, he musters up the resolve to switch off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Most of the other members shower after shifts, too—it’s a pretty physical job, after all. Most days, they all meet up in the locker room and organise an after-work outing.
‘After-work outing,’ of course, is code for ‘get fucking obliterated at the bar.’
He dresses quickly, then enters their locker room to see that everyone has beaten him there. Prism turns to him as he enters, still typing on her phone as she comments absentmindedly, “Thanks for joining us, Rapunzel. Finally finish styling your hair?”
“Fuck you,” he returns without real heat, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against a locker. “Where to tonight? The Sardine?”
“I’ll pass,” Punch Up says with a shudder. “I’ve punched enough dicks for a lifetime.”
As this discussion is going on, Invisigal grabs her bag out of her locker and slams it shut, then blips into invisibility. The door opens, then shuts with a bang.
“Uh…” Prism lowers her glasses, glancing around with wide eyes. “Everyone else saw that, right? Visi not taking the opportunity to get shit-faced?”
“Yeah, that’s not like her at all,” Sonar agrees sagely, stroking his chin in thought. “She knows something. About the Rob situation, I’d wager.”
“Really? Your Harvard brain only now figured that out?” Chad bites out in a mocking tone, executing a rather elegant eye-roll. “Fucking moron.”
Sonar raises his hands in defense, one of his bat ears flicking forwards. “Hey, man, I studied business, not people. No need to be a dick about it.”
Malevola rests a hand on Sonar’s shoulder, shooting Chad a glare. “Yeah, Chad, what the fuck’s your deal?”
“Who fucking cares, anyway?” Chad asks, spreading his hands wide. Something uncomfortable is churning inside his chest—not quite the familiar ashy bite of anger, but colder, duller—and it’s pissing him off. Anger is easy, like flames; it’s a swirling vortex of emotion that escapes in beautifully simple fury, red-hot under his skin. Whatever the fuck this feeling is? It’s messy, unsteady, like shards of hardened ice to his agile flame. “He’s not one of us. He’s a fucking goody-two-shoes ass hero who won’t hesitate to throw us back in the slammer if we fuck up. He doesn’t give two shits about us, so why should we?”
“Hey, man, Robert's cool,” Golem says, rising to his feet and looming over Chad at his full height. Pinprick yellow eyes glare down at him between mottled browns and purples, narrowed in offence. Chad would be lying if he said it wasn’t slightly intimidating. “He cares.”
The two stand off for a moment, yellow on yellow eyes engaged in a tense stalemate, before Chad raises his hands in surrender and steps back.
He doesn’t wanna get beat to shit by a guy that huge.
Quiet muttering fills the vacuum of dissipating tension, and then Punch up steps forward, face set in determination. “Right then lads, are we gonna sit around with our dicks in our hands or are we gonna find out what the fuck's goin on with Robert? Ideally before we all beat the shite out of one another.”"
“Yeah,” Sonar agrees in his usual flat voice. “He gave me twinks once. He’s a pretty cool dude.”
A loud snort from Prism breaks the solemn air, and she gasps out through laughter, “Bitch, what?”
Sonar’s ears twitch and pin back, his shoulders curling inwards. “Y’know, the little cakes.” He gestures with his hands, indicating their small size. “Twinks?”
Prism’s laughter deteriorates into breathless wheezes, and she slaps a supporting hand on a locker to prevent herself from doubling over. “Fuckin’—you mean twinkies?”
Sonar shakes his head slowly. “Nooo, I’m pretty sure they’re called twinks.”
“Can we focus, guys?” Malevola steps between them. “We need to figure out what the deal is with Robert.”
“We coul—we could ask, um… Blaze. Blazer!” Waterboy suggests, hands wringing together with nerves. His stupid ass wet hair slips into his face, and he tucks it back behind his ear with a gloved hand.
Chad rolls his eyes, internally wondering why he’s even entertaining these idiots. “Yeah, like Miss Corporate Hero will fucking tell us, you dumb fuck.”
Prism, having finally stopped laughing at Sonar, chimes in, “She might not tell us, but I bet she’d tell him.” She jerks her head at Waterboy.
The entire Z-Team stares at her as if she’s grown a second head, various stages of confusion and irritation present in their gazes. Waterboy’s jaw has fully fallen open, and in stilted words he forces out, “Wh—wh—what?”
“Y’know, ‘cause you’re so pathetic and doe-eyed,” Prism explains with a hint of condescension, as if she thinks her batshit crazy ramblings should be obvious to the rest of them. “She’d take one look at your wet ass and cave.”
After a further moment of stunned silence, Sonar steps forward, straightening his stupid blazer. “I concur.”
“Bitch, didn’t you just say you didn’t study people?”
“I’m agreeing with you, why are you arguing with me?”
“Shut the fuck up, you two.” Chad turns towards Waterboy, who shrinks under his gaze. The flaming hero stalks closer to him, glaring down at his dumbass goggles. Waterboy gives him a nervous smile that betrays how afraid he really is of Chad, leaning backwards as far as the wall behind him allows. It pisses Chad off that the slimy weirdo is the same height as him. “Fine, then. If you wanna know so bad, go and ask, but be quick. I need to get drunk.”
Prism whistles. “Somebody caaaaares,” she sings-songs.
“No I fucking don’t!” he snaps back, perhaps too quickly. The tips of his fingers warm with barely-restrained fire, warning sparks flickering in the air around them.
“Sure, dude,” Malevola says, hands resting on her hips. “You don’t look worried at all.”
“Fuck all of you.”
Waterboy stumbles out the door in that ambling way of his, and the room falls into silence. Despite the earlier levity, Chad can feel the unease broiling in the air; as unlikely as it may seem, the Z-Team have grown attached to their perpetually sleep-deprived, bitchy dispatcher.
Fucking hell. Maybe—key word here is maybe—Chad cares what happens to Robert. Just a tiny little bit.
Leaning back against the lockers, Chad rubs his hands over his face, then smooths his hair back. God, this is way too much introspection for the day. He is more than ready to pass out at the bar in fuzzy, inebriated oblivion.
Not long passes before soft footsteps herald Waterboy’s return, and the Z-Team snap to breathless attention. Even Chad feels a little on edge.
Slowly, as if the fucker is trying to make them wait longer, he pushes open the door, then walks into the room. His gaze is lowered and his face is troubled, but the guy looks like that all the time, so it doesn’t tell them much about what he’s learnt.
“Well, what’d she say?” Prism demands.
“Uh…” Waterboy’s head raises, and then he glances behind him.
Before he can stitch together an answer, another figure steps into the room: Blonde Blazer, shoulders slumped in a far cry from her usual imposing figure. She looks even worse than she did this morning; the skin on her face is splotchy as if she’s been crying.
“I asked Waterboy to lead me to the rest of the team, so I could address you all at once,” she begins, her voice lacking its usual vigour. “I held off on telling you this until we got more information, but… it’s not looking good.”
For Robert, are the words that hang on the end of her sentence, unsaid. Chad is far past acting cool; this feels too raw, too real, and he can feel the dread clinging to his ribs like viscid tar.
Blazer takes a moment to breathe, tugging at her hair and then pushing it behind her shoulder. “Early this morning, Robert got into a training accident, and was rushed to the medical wing with severe injuries to his back and spine. The doctors tried their best to fix him up, but… there was nothing they could do.”
Something heavy and cold settles in Chad’s gut, leeching the warmth from his body. He swallows, and it feels like shards of glass are scraping the inside of his throat. “Bob Bob is… dead?”
Blazer’s eyes shoot wide open, and she shakes her head emphatically. “No, no, he’s not dead! God no. I apologise, I… I phrased that poorly.” Her crystal blue eyes seem to dull, a grey sheen settling over them. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“So… what then?” Prism asks, quiet. “And no more cryptic shit.”
“We don’t…” Blazer takes a deep, shaking breath, her shoulders shuddering with the movement, then wraps her arms tightly around her chest. Chad can see the tremors that run through her fingers, digging into her sides as if holding herself together. “Sorry, you’re right. No more beating around the bush: I’ll just say it. We don’t think Robert will ever walk again.”