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Saturday, January 7th. It was Girl's Day Out, but Robert, like the prude he was, gave some excuse in the group-chat about having “an important commitment to do over the weekend.” He was immediately bombarded with texts “calling him out on his bullshit.” Even Blazer (after some pressure) called Chase to confirm and could only catch him mumbling, “like Robert has enough of a life to have any plans.”
After some prodding, all they got from Robert was a seemingly sarcastic “Thanks for understanding” in return.
Invisigal huffed, smirking down at the phone before she slid it back into Blazer's pocket.
“Yeah, right. Like he's got shit to do. We probably caught him while he was jacking-off or something.”
A cacophony of voices interjected: “Hey.” “Gross, Visi.” “Ew.”
“Eh, I've seen him walk into the Post Office a few times,” Punch-up commented.
The construct trailing behind them uttered a deep, resounding chuckle, drawing more attention from nearby onlookers.
“I saw on New Year's. He still has his bank statements mailed to him.”
It earned a few laughs all around, and some pitched in to pile on their dispatcher's misery. They were originally walking over to a new outdoor café that opened up around Western and Sepulveda. The reviews seemed pretty good for a grand opening, and their “Sunrise Latte” was quickly becoming local hashtag on Instagram.
There were only a few customers lingering around after the morning rush, which was perfect for the large group. Nearing their destination, Prism took the lead and faced the group, continuing to walk backward.
“Alright, what are we ordering?”
“Café Americano.”
“Heard.”
“Strawberry latte.”
“Mhm.”
“Orange juice.”
“No, the fuck? You’re getting—Ugh!”
Prism suddenly backed into something and she stumbled backward, taking whatever she hit down with her. The person cursed as they fell, dropping whatever was in their hand in a clumsy effort to keep Prism's head from making contact with the concrete.
“Alice!” Flambae called as he rushed forward to help her.
He pulled her close and pointed his glare to the offending person.
“Fucking look where you’re going…Bitch?” He trailed off, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the other person. “Bob-bob, the fuck are you doing here?”
The man sighed. Robert had fallen backward and caught himself rather unluckily on his forearm, scraping his skin raw.
“Hey, everyone,” he winced, looking over his new injury before it was taken by Malevola. “Sorry, Prism. You okay?”
“Uh. Yeah,” she replied, uncertain.
Waterboy began to speak, but his stutter made him frustrated, and he just let out a scream instead. It seemed to speak for the rest of the team as they crowded around the three. Coupé narrowed her eyes at her dispatcher.
Robert was wearing what could be described as a uniform, apron tied tight around his waist and name-tag clipped to his front breast pocket. Other than in the gym, Coupé had yet to see him in casual clothing. Even with her kind of discipline, she’d been able to wear what she wanted. This was just sad.
Malevola made quick work of the injuries and backed away when Blazer took the initiative to pull Robert up.
“I knew you said you were considering it, but I never expected that it’d get this…”
“Dire?” Robert finished.
“You said it, not me.”
The group looked between Robert and Blazer in confusion, clearly wanting an explanation. Seeing an opportunity, Robert excused himself.
“Thanks. Sorry guys, I’ll explain later. I need to get back to…I’ll just…I’ll just explain later.”
He went over to pick up the box he’d dropped, silently wishing nothing broke, and slipped past Blazer and Malevola. He left behind an awkward air, everyone staring at his retreating form in a mix of bemusement and concern.
Blazer clenched her fist and looked away first. Invisigal saw the hint of guilt in her eyes and couldn’t stop herself from making a face.
“Are you serious? Is he working a second job?”
Blazer took a moment to respond, looking back up to meet Invisigal’s gaze, and by extent, the rest of the team.
“Yes. He is. Since that incident, we’ve been trying to get upper management to approve his pay, but,” Blazer trailed off to a mumble. “It’s still under review.”
What?
Flambae broke the awkward silence.
“Wait, you guys haven’t been paying him? Is that why—”
“No wonder the lad’s skin and bones!”
“I was under the assumption that people relied on a monthly income in order to survive. Could I be wrong?”
“Under-Under review? B-Boss-Blazer-Ma’am-?”
“Woah, are you serious? Yikes.”
“Could never live without my paycheck. Why is he letting himself…”
“Ah. So it really was his savings account.”
“Fucker, no wonder he’s so frugal.”
“Surprised you know that word.”
“Fuck you.”
Even after having a small chuckle, they were all left with an uncomfortable realization. This meant he’d been living without pay for months, and only a god would how Robert had been scraping by. They hadn’t visited his apartment in a while, but it was probably as bare as they left it. Everyone could imagine it already: his fridge, empty save for a few leftover beers.
Robert **had to get a second job on top of working 40 hours a week, not including overtime or time he spent as Mecha-Man.
“Holy shit," Prism exhaled, abruptly coming to another realization. "Mecha-Man is fucking poor.”
Silence. Robert faltered just out of view.
“Like, the Mecha-Man is poor.”
Blazer hated the feeling of the grimace that formed on her face.
They knew it conceptually. Robert and Mecha-Man were the same person, but they never really acknowledged anything after that.
A real hero. And he could qualify for EBT if it weren’t for his tin-can of an inheritance.
What did that really say about heroism?
Robert let out a resigned sigh from behind the employee entrance. He willed his face to stay neutral, mind itching to walk back outside and defend himself with a sharp retort—how he'd appreciate it if they didn't expose his identity in a public space—but instead, he bit his lip and kept quiet.
A familiar voice then called from the window, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Hi, we’re ready to order!”
“Fuck.”
“Robert?”
“Coming!” he groaned, earning a bunch of jeers and laughs from outside.
The state of his finances was none of their business, yet like everything else in his life, the Z-Team managed to worm their way in. Nobody commented on the comical amount of crumpled bills shoved into their tiny tip jar. The amount of pennies he saw Golem pour out alone was mortifying. He bid them a deadpan goodbye before leaning away from the window.
From the counter, his employer only raised an eyebrow.