Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing is, being a villain is easy. Way easier than Robert’s short-lived attempt at being a hero.

It’s not exactly cheap, repairing a giant robot suit that gets damaged so frequently. Keeping up maintenance on Mecha-Man is far more affordable when it’s on the dime of a robbed bank, or a hacked overseas account belonging to some rich corporate douchebag.

And your typical heroes have this tendency to slap a band-aid on problems that sometimes require a solution that's a little more… permanent. For instance, a legit villain, the kind who kills thousands and plans to take over the world, is far less likely to escape prison and continue their evil ways when they're a crushed pile of gore.

But sometimes, easy means boring. And right now Robert is bored out of his fucking skull as he kills time inside the empty bank he broke into at almost midnight. There isn’t much else to do besides idly flipping through police scanner frequencies tapped through the Mecha-Man suit, making sure there won't be any interruptions while he waits for–

“Mecha-Bitch,” a familiar voice behind him sighs. “God, it’s like your full-time job is just to annoy me.”

The smell of smoke fills the room. Robert smiles to himself, already giddy with anticipation. Because this is what he was hoping for, waiting for. To drag the attention here, and out of the skies.

Robert turns the suit to greet the closest thing he has to a nemesis lately. “As full of yourself as always, huh, Flambae?”

The SDN hero stands near the broken glass and mangled metal of the bank door entrance, his arms crossed over his admittedly impressive chest with one thick eyebrow raised. “What, like you’re not fucking waiting here to get your ass handed to you? The fuck are you doing in there, eh? Had to jerk off before flying away like a thieving little bitch?”

“Got distracted when I hacked into your Grindr profile,” Robert says. “The mesh shirt is a nice touch.”

“Fuck off.”

“You first.” Robert starts prepping some combative protocols, because Flambae usually only banters for about a minute or two before they brawl.

“This is, eh. What’s the word…” Flambae waves a hand as he steps closer, full of cocky bravado. “Ironic, yeah? When I finally arrest your ass, it’ll be in a bank, just like–”

“Just like our first date,” Robert jokes, and Flambae bristles, low flames igniting over his arms and shoulders. He’s getting pissed off now, just like Robert planned. The fight is going to be a fun one when he finally charges. “Oh, come on,” he continues. “If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even get to be this much of an infernal pain in my ass. Shouldn't you be thanking me for getting you a job at SDN?”

“I’m at SDN because I’m a fucking hero,” Flambae grits out. “One of the fucking best.”

On one of his screens, a notification from Mecha-Man’s only ally pops up on the screen, and Robert nearly lets out a sigh of relief. Because now it’s just a waiting game, and keeping Flambae busy is hardly a challenge.

“Good for you,” he says. “You were a shitty villain, so I guess that was your only option left after you got arrested, huh?”

“You fucking–”

“You know, my offer’s still on the table.” Robert cocks his head. “I already have a water guy. Could use a pyro, too.”

“I’m past robbing banks, Mecha-Dick. And I never really gave a shit about taking down pathetic CEOs. What, you need me to keep your lame-ass fucking evil lair warm for you?”

“No, I just like looking at pretty things while I work,” Robert replies. “It's like a reward.”

Flambae rolls his eyes, but there’s a flush on his cheeks, and Robert grins. Half the fun of fighting this guy is messing with him, especially when he gets these little reactions.

“By the way, isn't it kind of late for you to be hero-ing? Are they not giving you enough to do at your corporate gig?”

“It's hectic right now, I'll admit,” Flambae sighs, starting to round Mecha-Man as his hands light up in kindling flames. Probably looking for a weak point, as always. It’s almost endearing how predictable he is. “Our dispatcher got bored. And you know we're not the easiest bunch to handle, what with us kicking your ass all the time.”

And– that's interesting. Flambae has been patrolling the night skies a lot lately, and now it makes sense why. Robert knows that Z-Team, the crew of former villains-turned-heroes that Flambae is so proud of, took a while before they got a dispatcher that actually clicked with them. It probably worked because said dispatcher was originally one of their own, some chick who turns invisible that was actually part of the Red Ring, once.

Well, before Robert dissolved the syndicate like rotten meat in a vat of acid, and killed Shroud with his bare hands. You know, one of those things that heroes aren't actually ballsy enough to do.

“So you need enrichment,” Robert says. “Gotcha. But the rest of your team didn’t care enough to back you up?”

“I don’t need them for a fight with your bitch ass.” Flambae grins wickedly with the assurance of someone who’s already won the battle. “But it’s cute that you’re worried, Mecha-Bitch.”

That’s somewhat true. Flambae is admittedly one of the more powerful supers that Robert has ever gone against. He’s physically strong, impressively resilient, able to fly with far more agility than the Mecha suit, and his heat levels sometimes hit temperatures that have threatened to melt the metal armor more than once. It’s part of why Robert likes fighting him so much.

The other part is the chemistry. After Flambae became part of the Phoenix Program, he got cockier than ever. Thinks he’s better than everyone else, thinks he’s the hottest shit that SDN has ever dropped. And because of that, he’s an insanely snarky bitch. Robert fucking loves it. He pushes his buttons like it’s an olympic sport, because Flambae will hit him back just as hard, just as pettily. It’s way more fun than Shroud’s stoic bullshit that ultimately got him killed.

So, yeah. Robert enjoys fucking with the guy.

“You sure about that?” Robert smirks. “My buddy Waterboard is on his way. You still have time to tuck your greasy ponytail between your legs and run.”

Flambae scoffs, but there’s no denying the way he tenses, the way his flames falter for just a moment. Robert doesn’t really blame him. Waterboard can be creepy as hell, and his powers are basically the only thing that stand a chance at subduing Flambae’s fire. He's reduced the hero into a sopping, bruised mess only a few times, but it was clear that it rattled him differently than fights with any other villains.

“What, your little soggy napkin of a sidekick? He doesn't scare me.”

“My mistake. I guess when your heart rate spikes at the mere mention of him it's because, what? His unnerving aura gets your dick hard?”

“Alright, enough fucking foreplay.”

Flambae clenches his hands into fists that burn bright and lethal, his face screwed into a look of malice and determination, and he growls lowly as he braces himself to attack–

“Wait, hold on a sec!”

Flambae falters, scowling. “Fucking what now?”

“I'm still just going through your Grindr profile,” Robert says. “You're a vers, really? But you have such needy bottom energy–”

“Motherfucker!”

He bursts into flames and charges. Robert cackles inside the suit as he’s sent skidding back from the force of Flambae’s inferno. He waits until Flambae gets close enough that he can see that determination, that sheer strength of will that makes these fights so exhilarating, to set his shield up and use his free arm to backhand him, sending the hero flying back into the air before he regains his footing and takes off in a fiery blaze.

The living fireball zips around the air, almost too fast for the suit programs to keep up with as he slams into the sides to try and knock Robert off-balance, before resorting to his classic blasts of lethal fire. Their fight is a flurry of orange and blue clashing against each other, of dodges and strikes that keep both of them on their toes, and more than once Robert catches the hero smirking as he attacks.

Flambae thinks he’s winning. But Robert’s already two steps ahead.

Finally, after drawing out the fight for nearly ten minutes, he gets the message.

> Got it. Returning to base.

Robert smirks, and fires a wave of plasma discs at his opponent, throwing Flambae off enough that he’s able to shoot an explosive at the wall behind the man.

Severely injuring Flambae is never the goal, so the resulting mess of falling debris and the plume of smoke filling the room works just as Robert predicted. Flambae is sprawled out on the ground, gritting his teeth as he tries to regain his footing, but Robert takes off into the air before he can catch his breath.

“Rain check, Hothead,” Robert drawls, blasting a hole into the ceiling and littering the bank with more rubble. “We’ll call it a draw. Hell, maybe next time I’ll even let you win, just to mix things up.”

“You’re a coward, and a bitch!” Flambae yells, flipping Mecha-Man off as he flies through the hole in the roof and away from their battle.

But when Robert checks the zoomed rear cameras, the corner of Flambae’s lips are just barely curled up in amusement. And, despite his growing nerves at what he may soon uncover, Robert finds himself grinning as he heads to his hideout.

Mecha-Man’s “evil lair” is more along the lines of a messy workshop. To anyone flying overhead or passing by, it’s a simple abandoned train entrance in the empty slums just outside of Torrance, a tunnel overrun with dying plants and an overwhelming aura of ‘don’t go there.’

About thirty feet under that is a warehouse. Essentially a secret bunker, filled with a plethora of computers and tech, enough repair tools to fill a mechanic shop, and more scrap metal than a junkyard.

The dim workshop lights are already on when Robert arrives. He exits the Mecha-Man suit, affixing it to the hangar to check the damage Flambae managed to cause, as wet steps approach him like an omen.

Waterboard– formerly Waterboy for about a week, before he found reluctant employment with Mecha-Man– wordlessly hands over a Ziploc bag with a nondescript flash drive inside.

Water drips off of his terrifyingly tall stature onto the concrete floor, giving him a permanent appearance of someone who was recently drowned, and he still has his dark metal mask and mirrored goggles on. The mask was Robert’s design, wrapping around the lower half of his face with a grated nozzle at the mouth to amplify the water pressure of the torrents he spews.

The guy admittedly looks creepy as hell, as always, and Robert snorts as he takes the bag.

“You can ditch the mask, buddy.”

Waterboard makes a quiet sound, like he forgot he was even wearing it, and he fumbles to remove it with an oddly wet click. When the mask and goggles are off, his eyes are big and round, his brow drawn together nervously, and he's worrying his bottom lip. It's still amusing, and almost jarring, how fast the man can go from utterly terrifying to endearingly innocent.

“D-did they fall for– did it work?” Waterboard stammers, fiddling with the mask straps as his eyes dart back and forth between Robert and the stolen tech.

“Like a charm. Didn't suspect a thing,” Robert says as he carefully opens the bag and plugs the drive into his mainframe. “Great work, Herm.”

Waterboard straightens, a tentative smile stretching across his face. “Th-thank you, sir!”

“C’mon, again with the ‘sir.’ We talked about this, man.”

“Um, right. My bad, mister– boss guy. Boss man.”

“For the millionth time, ‘Robert’ is just fine.” The files begin downloading, and Robert tugs his own mask off before crossing his arms, watching intently as the screen loads. For the first time in a long time, he’s a bundle of nerves, feeling like he might vibrate out of his skin from uneasiness and anticipation.

Tonight was chosen for this plan for a specific reason, a plan that’s taken weeks in the making. It’s Friday night. There's a YouTopia concert that’s sold out, and a football game at the stadium on the other side of town. And there may have been an anonymous tip sent to the police about an underground fighting ring that Robert has been keeping tabs on. All heroes and law enforcement have been busier than a blind man at a strip tease, which left the SDN headquarters conveniently empty and easy pickings for a little heist.

The only exception would have been Flambae, who’s been patrolling off the clock more times than not lately, and doesn’t like to stay in one place for too long. But a fight with Mecha-Man is a sure-fire way to get him fired up and preoccupied. It was almost too easy to get him out of the air so Waterboard could break into SDN without prying eyes.

“Any trouble getting it?” Robert asks quietly, needing to fill the silence as he tries not to let his mind spin out of control with possibilities.

“Nope!” Waterboard sets his gear into the designated bucket-for-wet-shit and takes the nearby towel to wrap around his shoulders. The black wetsuit Robert designed for him keeps most of the overall wetness at bay, but his hair and face are still usually a drenched mess, so it doesn't matter much. Robert doesn’t mind, for the most part. The guy is usually pretty conscious of staying away from delicate tech. “In and out. I, uh. There may be a flooded bathroom, or–or two, or maybe a floor, though.”

Robert manages to crack a smile. “Still bitter, huh?”

“Eh, um. A little,” Waterboard admits. “N-not that working here isn’t, uh, great! Just–”

“Relax, buddy.” The SDN logo pops up on screen, and finally the files start opening. “I get it.”

The room is quiet as Robert scrolls through the sensitive information Waterboard stole from SDN’s deep records, the ones that only a few at the company get to see. Getting through the few firewalls is easy enough. Frankly, their security is embarrassing for being such a prolific company.

It isn’t long until Robert finds what he’s looking for: the files with the most safeguards, the most passwords. The ones that SDN really, really wants to keep private, because the information inside changes everything.

“Fuck,” Robert breathes, rooted in place, his stomach twisting with dread. “It’s true.”

Waterboard swallows nervously as his own blue eyes flit over the screen. “He’s–?”

“Yeah.” A flurry of emotions rattle Robert like a hit to the stomach. Frustration, regret, shame. Poisonous rage. Restless uncertainty that makes him dig his fingernails into his biceps, makes him clench his jaw so tight that his teeth creak under the pressure. “Shroud’s alive.”

Waterboard audibly gulps next to him. “Are you– what, uh. What does this–?”

“I'm going for a ride,” Robert murmurs, shutting the program and tugging his mask back on. “You want Chinese?”

“Um, sure?” Waterboard watches him go, wringing his hands together nervously. “Mister, um. Robert, shouldn't we–?”

“Yeah, steamed dumplings, for sure.” Robert climbs into the suit, plugs in the Astral Pulse, and takes off through the automated exit into the dark night sky.

For once, he hopes he doesn't run into Flambae. They can't keep having those fun little fights if Robert's angry enough to kill.

The steel mill is a mess of rubble and carnage.

There's a green smear on the ground that still glows like track lights: the remains of Toxic, crushed and dragged until his dickish little comments ended with a sick splat. Scaly limbs are strewn about, oozing blood from their severed stumps, and the head of the lizard-like goon is still twitching at the mouth, like the muscles are still instinctively trying to spit fire. Two bright red laser Khopesh swords stick out of the still body in the corner of the room: one in his chest, and one through the skull mask on his face. A pile of pink goo is still smoldering nearby, melted to the point of nothing more than a stinking, liquid stench.

The Mecha-Man suit is empty, but its pilot is on the ground close by, choking the life out of the bloodied, battered leader of the Red Ring.

Shroud chokes out, “Robert– please–”

“Oh, I think we're past ‘please,’ Elliot,” Robert says, squeezing a bit tighter to see the blood vessels in his eyes burst. “‘Please’ didn't matter when I was a teenager, getting shocked with thousands of volts so you could get ahold of the Astral Pulse. Or when you locked me in a watery tomb that I had to wreck my way out of.” He cocks his head, staring vacantly as Shroud struggles in his grip. “I will thank you, though. If you didn't kill my dad, none of this would have ever happened. I never would have seen my true potential.”

He leans in close. “You've opened my eyes, Shroud. Being a hero? It’s a waste of time. The heroes never win, not really. Pieces of shit like you always survive, always rot in prison, because heroes never do what needs to be done.” He cracks a smile, soft but deadly. “So I think it's time for Mecha-Man to switch sides.”

A wet gurgle escapes Shroud’s bleeding mouth as Robert stops teasing, stops drawing it out. His grip is firm, unyielding, and his eyes never blink as he watches Shroud’s roll to the back of his head before–

He's gone. No more struggling. Just a limp body, shut eyes, a gaping mouth that doesn't beg anymore.

Robert drops the mangled mess that used to be his nemesis, his father’s friend, Astral Mecha-Man’s murderer.

With an exhausted sigh, he climbs back into the suit, and takes off through the roof of what was once a steel mill, but is now the mass grave of the Red Ring.

With what little power he can afford to use in the damaged Mecha-Man suit, he aims a missile at the building and fires. The explosion rattles Torrance as he flies away with a new sense of purpose.

Robert blows off some steam, and maybe a few drug front locations, on the way to the Chinese restaurant that stays open all night. Thankfully he doesn’t run into any heroes on the way there, or on the way back to base.

Despite his villainous status, most heroes don’t go out of their way to fight Mecha-Man. Not unless he’s actually causing mayhem, the kind that they can’t ignore, and they’ll usually send the goody-two-shoes heroes like Blonde Blazer or Phenomaman for a short, pointless fight.

(Flambae is the only exception. He’ll show up just for the hell of it, just for the fun of the battle. But Robert is glad that he seems to have called it quits for the night, and that he isn’t followed by a bitchy human fireball.)

The flight is short, because he doesn’t feel any better. Usually soaring through the skies helps alleviate his foul moods, but tonight it doesn’t do shit. So he’s back to the hideout in less than an hour, with a massive bag of takeout that Waterboard eagerly arranges on the metal table they usually use for nefarious plans. Tonight it’s just used for spilled MSG and wallowing.

“Did you have a fun, um. A fun fight, at least?” Waterboard asks, still chewing on a dumpling. “I know the, er, mean fire guy always puts you in a good mood.”

“It was,” Robert grumbles, mostly just poking at his noodles with his chopsticks, because his appetite is nonexistent now. Truthfully, he still feels a bit nauseous. “I wish my biggest problem right now was the ‘mean fire guy.’”

Shroud is alive. The guy who made Robert’s mere existence a living hell for years, in a pathetic attempt to take the Astral Pulse. Who Robert choked out until the life left his bloodshot eyes after he eradicated every lowlife criminal that was stupid enough to join the Red Ring. And somehow the asshole fucking survived.

Story of Robert’s life, he supposes. Couldn’t make it as a hero. Couldn’t even kill his worst enemy. Maybe he should just let Flambae burn him to a crisp; it's not like he has a dispatcher to hold him back now–

“Huh.”

Waterboard cocks his head at Robert’s furrowed brow. “Th-that’s an idea face, isn’t it? You– you have an idea, right?”

“Not sure. Maybe.” Robert takes a careful sniff, then a small bite of noodles. Swallows and declares, “Yes.”

“Yes!” Waterboard cheers, nearly sending his own chopsticks flying across the room. “Of course you have a plan. Always planning a, uh, two steps ahead!” Robert takes a bigger bite, his lips curling into a smile, and Waterboard gulps. “So what are we– what is the plan?”

Robert sets his chopsticks down and reaches for his laptop. 

“I,” he says, “am gonna be SDN’s newest dispatcher.”

Chapter Text

Being inside SDN feels… odd. Borderline unsettling, like existing in the Twilight Zone.

Robert much prefers the place from the outside, like when he would fly by just to kill some time and screw with the heroes hard at work.

The thing is, this corporate league of monetized justice doesn't necessarily hate Mecha-Man as a villain, not in the same way they view Shroud. To them, Mecha-Man is generally considered a loose cannon. His methods aren't ethical. But at the same time, his unprincipled immorality helps them in the long run. He takes out drug and trafficking rings, crime syndicates, and the worst of the real villains out permanently. So when they do go head-to-head with Mecha-Man, it's never to kill, and they never get close enough to attempt an arrest.

However, he's not Mecha-Man right now. He's Robert Robertson. And Robert is currently surrounded by countless heroes that could easily detain him if they managed to suss out his forged documents and figure out who he really is.

Right now, as he waits in the lobby while the receptionists fuck around on their computers, he briefly considers that maybe he didn't completely think this through.

“Let SDN be your rock…” Phenomaman says on the nearby television screen, clearly reading off a teleprompter as he tries to figure out what to do with his hands, “so you can rock.”

Robert barely suppresses a cringe.

Truthfully, he doesn’t understand why Waterboard wanted to work here so badly. It’s painfully corporate, with the televisions repeating this same awkward commercial, and posters about reaching your true potential and if you see something, say something.

It’s a bit nauseating. Reminds him too much of when he was a hero, and how miserably that chapter in his life ended. He vaguely thinks of maybe sending a virus to one of the receptionist computers through his phone, just for the fun of it, when–

The front doors swing open, and a tall figure hidden by the glare of the morning sun waltzes inside like he owns the place. And that silhouette, that cockiness, that stupid fucking ponytail, is all too familiar.

Flambae. Robert’s breath barely hitches, but he manages to keep his expression schooled as the hero walks through the lobby, already in that gaudy uniform that Robert loves to tease him about.

He’s tall, Robert thinks. He’s never seen Flambae outside of the Mecha-Man suit. He’s nearly half a foot taller than Robert, twice as muscular, and walks with the confidence of a seasoned champion. It’s like Robert doesn’t even exist to him right now; he’s just every other regular guy in the building, boring and unremarkable in this corporate getup. Flambae passes him without sparing a glance, totally unaware of how Robert’s eyes are trained on him like a honing beacon.

It’s thrilling. Exhilarating. Makes Robert feel nearly giddy. And it just reinvigorates his waning determination in this insanely risky plan.

Flambae disappears down the hall, and Robert lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Don’t worry. He’s nicer than he looks. Sometimes.”

Robert nearly jumps out of his skin as a woman– short dark hair, almond eyes, wearing a casual purple-and-black hero uniform and rocking some gold piercings through her nose, lip, and eyebrow– literally appears out of thin air on the sofa next to him, lounging comfortably like she’s been there for a minute.

“You must be Invisigal,” he says, his voice thankfully even. The last dispatcher for Z-Team, who just recently made her return back in the field. Robert did his research on her. She’s interesting, to say the least.

She smirks. “What clued you in?”

“Mostly the invisibility–”

“That was a joke, obviously, Jesus.” She cocks her head. “So you're Robert. Our shiny new dispatcher.”

“That's what they told me in the e-mail.”

“You don't scare easily. That's good. Means you might actually last more than a week here.” She pats him on the shoulder with far too much familiarity, and hops up to her feet. “C’mon. The big dogs are waiting for you upstairs. We’ll give you the grand tour before yeeting you into the lion’s den.”

The reality of what’s to come rattles through Robert’s chest like a jackhammer as he stands, and thankfully Invisigal doesn’t notice when he takes a deep breath to quell it before following her down the hall.

Blonde Blazer, outside of the few battles that Mecha-Man has fought with her, is the definition of a corporate gold mine. Professional, respectful, and kind of a dork.

“We’re not the highest-profile branch in the network,” she says as she leads Robert and Invisigal through the office space, “but we’ve got what makes the real difference: great people.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Robert refrains from rolling his eyes.

Invisigal, however, audibly gags. “Cringe.”

Blazer shoots her a pointed look. “Visi, you were the one who insisted on debriefing Robert with me–”

“Yeah, so he knows what he's getting into,” Invisigal scoffs. “Not for this cheesy corporate bullshit.”

Robert cracks a smile. He's beginning to understand why she did so well as Z-Team’s dispatcher.

“Besides, he’s worked at SDN already,” Invisigal continues. “I’m sure he’s heard the whole spiel before.”

“Right.” Blazer turns to Robert. “I saw on your resume that you worked out in the San Francisco location. I’m sure the office was a lot more impressive over there, but–”

“I didn’t actually spend much time there,” Robert interjects. He checked out the layout of the place just in case the topic came up, but it sells his cover better. “Wasn’t really part of my job.”

Invisigal raises an eyebrow, but Blazer nods. “Right. No, I guess you wouldn’t have, huh?”

According to Robert’s paperwork, he wasn’t a ‘hero’ by the technical standards. Technically the job he fabricated was along the lines of covert ops: the guy you hire to get shit done quietly, discreetly. It made the resume impressive enough for him to get the job, but vague enough that not too many questions could be asked.

“Still, I don’t think we need to pump him full of quotes from motivational posters and Hallmark movies,” Invisigal reiterates.

“You know better than anyone that first impressions are important.” Blazer guides them through the bullpen, gesturing as she talks. “As I was saying, this is the heart of SDN. All of our dispatchers work on this floor.”

“It’s a blast,” Invisigal deadpans. “The fax machines work about half the time, and the chairs are uncomfortable as shit.”

“Invisigal.” Blazer glares at her, but there’s no real heat behind it. Their dynamic is… interesting, to say the least. There’s a level of respect they clearly have for each other, despite their vastly different personalities. “Go get ready for your shift, please. I think I can handle the rest of the tour alone.”

“Buzzkill,” Invisigal groans dramatically, but she does shoot Robert a playful wink before disappearing into thin air, and Robert finds himself smiling as he trails behind Blazer. Invisigal is cool. Funny. But he’ll definitely need to keep an eye on her, as best as he can for a super whose whole shtick is going unseen.

Blazer continues her corporate script as they pass a wall covered in posters, awards, and photos of the Torrance heroes. Robert glances over all of them with indifference, until one particular framed photograph catches his eye. It’s the Z-Team, seemingly at an office party, but there’s a smiling old man with gray hair and a grandpa sweater in front of them who looks familiar. Very familiar.

Robert frowns to himself, because if he didn’t know any better, he would think it was–

“Hey,” Robert says. “Call me crazy, but does that guy kinda look like…?”

“Track Star.” Blazer nods, her hand going to her hips. “Well, here he was just ‘Chase.’ Managed to tame the Z-Team for an impressive two years.” She looks down at Robert, cocking her head. “Are you a big Brave Brigade fan? Honestly, I'm surprised you recognized him.”

“I mean. Not the biggest fan of Mecha-Man, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she chuckles, like she's in on the joke.

“But… yeah, Track Star was always cool.” Chase practically raised him, more like. He hasn’t seen the guy in more than a decade, even before Mecha-Man turned villain. “Why is he so… old?”

“The powers,” she sighs. “Didn't realize until it was too late that they aged him as rapidly as he ran.”

Robert's heart seizes in his chest. “He's not–?”

“Oh, no! No.” Blazer shakes her head. “Just retired. We started to worry that the stress was too much. He fought tooth and nail, I'll admit, but eventually we all agreed it was for the best.”

For a brief moment, Robert wonders how hard it would be to track him down. But that would be even stupider than what he’s trying to accomplish here.

After all, Chase knows Mecha-Man’s real identity. And after all these years, Robert still has no idea why he’s kept it to himself. It’s best not to pull on that thread.

“Come on.” Blazer taps his shoulder. “I'll show you to your desk.”

The Mecha-Man lair might be somewhat of a chaotic mess, but he’s still proud of it. His personal computer is one of his few pride and joys: a modern but modified piece of machinery that runs like a dream, and likely values at a quarter million dollars.

The standard SDN-issued computer is an outdated relic running on hopes and dreams that likely died in the late nineties. Robert hides his disdain as best as he can, taking a seat at the (confirmed uncomfortable) swivel chair in front of it. Blazer stands over him as he boots the digital fossil up and logs into his new, official SDN account.

Robert is familiar with the screen that finally loads after several grueling seconds. He’s hacked into their databases more than once. The SDN logo stares back at him as eight zipped files load below it: the profiles of the team he’s been fighting for years, and is now about to manage.

This is going to be fun.

“Now keep in mind, this is the Phoenix Program,” Blazer says behind him. “While all of them have come a long way, and proven themselves to be worth the time and effort put into them, these are former villains we’re talking about. So try not to judge them too harshly, but… keep everything you learn in mind while you work with them. They’re not the easiest bunch to handle.”

“Cool,” Robert deadpans. “No pressure at all.”

Robert doesn't necessarily need the introductions. Hacking into the personnel files is ridiculously easy, and he's been fighting Flambae with their occasional support long enough to get their whole deals. Still, it helps to get a refresher on the names, and maybe he’ll get to learn a few weaknesses he can exploit.

After all, this is just temporary. Sure, it’s bound to be entertaining, but Robert’s here for a reason. SDN has private intel on Shroud, information that Robert needs to finish what he failed to do the first time. As soon as he’s got that, this will all just be a funny memory.

“Alright!” Blazer grins down at Robert, handing him the weathered headset. “Ready for your first shift?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Robert sighs, taking it and watching the screen slowly load a map of Torrance, with his new little crew displayed at the bottom. Flambae’s icon– cocky, confident, with an eyebrow raised in a challenge– almost has Robert smiling, but he’s quick to mask it with what he hopes looks like apprehension.

“You’ll be fine,” Blazer says, but even she doesn’t sound too sure of it. “It’s really not as hard as it sounds. Whenever there’s a crisis in the area, you’ll get a call and just– use your best judgment.”

She pats him on the shoulder one more time. Robert really hopes not everyone here is so… touchy. He’s not used to it. “Go ahead and put the headset on. Introduce yourself to everyone. And, uh. Good luck.”

She walks off, the clicking of her heels fading into the background, and Robert takes a deep breath as he slides the headset on and turns on the comms.

Showtime.

“Hey, team,” he says stiltedly, because even to his own ears it sounds ridiculous. “This is your dispatcher, Robert Robertson. I’m starting my first shift–”

An uproar of staticky laughter reverberates in his eardrums, and he rolls his eyes, already preparing for ridicule.

“Tell me that’s not your real fuckin’ name?” Prism cackles.

Robert is the most familiar with her. She’s a flashy diva influencer who can manipulate light rays, and actually managed to occasionally fool Robert with her holographic doppelgangers the few times she tagged along with Flambae. Honestly, their friendship is almost cute; it seems to extend past their hero work and into their private lives. Messing with that dynamic might be fun, Robert thinks, if they manage to piss him off enough.

Speak of the devil, Flambae is quick to chime in on the jeering. “You stuttering, bitch?” Robert cracks a smile despite himself. Bantering with Flambae is basically second nature. Learning to tamper it down might actually be a challenge. “You can’t be this shook on your first day, come on!”

“Robert,” the bat guy– Sonar, he remembers, the crypto fuckboy with a penchant for illicit substances– mutters to himself. “Roberts. Robertson–”

“Is there always this much chatter on the comms?” Robert asks wearily as the laughter continues.

“Oh, yeah,” Invisigal snorts. “Good luck shutting that shit down. Not even Chase could clear the channel.”

“Aw, I miss Chase,” Malevola sighs. She’s of the few Z-Team members Robert considers a worthy foe, due to her enhanced physiology, the portals she uses for quick teleportation, and the admittedly terrifying broadsword she swings around like it weighs nothing. He intends to pay close attention to her in particular. “No one yells at us the way Grandpa did.”

“We’ll see how the shift goes,” Robert deadpans, and that actually gets a genuine laugh out of Invisigal. But the overlap on the comms continues, and it’s starting to lose its charm.

“Big talk coming from Roberto Robertoson,” Prism drawls.

“Roberto,” Sonar continues. “Bobert–”

“Ugh,” Coupé, the silver assassin who does sometimes send a chill down Robert’s spine, groans. “We get it, you’re emo–”

“Okay, shut the fuck up,” Robert barks.

The channel goes quiet, much to his surprise. There are even a few shocked head turns from other workers in the office, but he ignores it. Even if it's just a game to him, this won’t work if they don’t stop fucking around, if they don’t respect him enough to listen. If he gets booted on his first day because he can’t keep a leash on these idiots, this will all be for nothing.

“I know that you all have been through your fair share of dispatchers,” he says, calm but deadly serious. “You scare them off. You frustrate them into quitting. But I will only say this once: I am not them.”

The line stays quiet, and Robert smirks to himself. “I’ve looked at all of your reports. Despite your collective history of uninspired criminal bullshit, you’re good at your jobs. So fucking do them. Take your breaks, fuck around for a minute, make your little jokes if you need to. But the bottom line is, you guys need me a whole lot more than I need you. So for now, lock the fuck in and do what I say. Are we clear?”

The silence drags on for a moment, and Robert briefly fears that he just fucked all of this up. But then Invisigal murmurs, “Damn. Well, I’m wet.”

“Gross, dude,” Malevola snorts, and the tension in Robert’s shoulders eases as he lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Our fuckin’ bad, Mister Dispatcher, sir,” Prism says, but she sounds as genuine as she likely can be. “We’ll behave.”

“Eh, we’ll let you have a shot,” Flambae corrects, and Robert rolls his eyes.

“Great,” he deadpans. “Look, it’s a Monday. We’ll have an easy shift. I don’t give a shit if you have some fun on our downtime, but no fucking overlapping chatter, please, and keep the rowdyness to a minimum. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, fucking got it, whatever,” Flambae says. “Fuck did you do at your last desk job to be so fucking cocky?”

“He’s not allowed to say,” Invisigal says boredly. “He’s got one of those zipper files with, like, a thousand firewalls on it. So no prying.”

“God, you’re so HR-coded now,” Prism scoffs.

“Fuck off.”

An alert goes off with a digital chime, highlighting a neighborhood to the east of Torrance. “First mission of the day,” Robert announces. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

After a moment, he continues, “People seriously call you guys for balloons stuck in fucking trees?”

“Aye,” Punch-Up laughs. “What was that about us needing to lock in for some serious shite?”

“Thanks for volunteering,” Robert says, accepting the mission. “Have fun climbing.”

Golem, the living mass of clay and dirt who has otherwise been silent this whole time, laughs lowly. “Hey. This guy’s pretty fuckin’ funny.”

Robert sighs, letting his head fall back in exasperation as he realizes having a real job kind of fucking sucks.

It’s a slow morning, for the most part, which means the Z-Team gets to talk incessantly in between missions. Robert is on his second cup of coffee, brought to him by the cool guy in the dastar who gave him a nod of respect when he chewed them all out.

(The coffee tastes like shit. Robert might have to tinker with the machine a bit during his break.)

“So,” Visi says on her way back from a drug bust. “What'd everyone do this weekend?”

“Not shit,” Golem grunts. “Weed gummies and GTA, baby.”

“I wanted to go to that underground fighting shite, make some extra cash, but the damn thing got raided,” Punch-Up complains. Robert would have felt bad for ruining his plans, if the strongman hadn't popped that balloon after the kid made a short joke.

“I signed up for overtime,” Prism says. “Wouldn’t have fuckin’ done it if I’d known they’d stick me at the goddamn YouTopia concert. Wanted to blind the bitch, but I couldn’t get close enough.” The bitterness in her voice is replaced with teasing glee when she asks, “How ‘bout you, Bae? Wanna tell us about your date at the bank?”

“Odd choice for a romantic evening,” Coupé hums. 

“She’s being a bitch,” Flambae scoffs. “Ran into fucking Mecha-Dick during one of his pathetic little heists. Pretty sure he knew I had the upper hand, because he flew away like a little bitch.”

Robert tries not to smile, and fails completely. “Mecha-Man, really? I heard he’s pretty tough.”

A frustrated grunt cuts through the comms. “He fucking wishes,” Flambae says. “He’s a fucking loser.”

“Dude, Mecha-Man is a fucking genius,” Sonar says.

Robert nearly chokes on his coffee. “I think that's pushing it.”

Sonar sighs. “Look, Boberto. You're new here. It's okay to admit that you don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“My mistake,” Robert says. “Just didn't think robbing banks and mercing CEOs qualified as being a criminal mastermind.”

“Maybe not, but killing Shroud and crushing the Red Ring into hamburger meat solo-mode does, in my book,” Invisigal mutters.

Robert’s grip tightens on the handle of his mug, but he says nothing.

“Nah, the new guy is right,” Flambae drawls. “Mecha-Man’s a pathetic little bitch.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that why you always go off-route to flirt with him whenever he makes an appearance?” Invisigal says challengingly.

That brewing irritation melts away as Robert presses his lips together to keep from laughing. Because he fucking knew it. “Oh, yeah? We gonna have a problem with that, Flambae?”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you, Visi; I get all my fucking shit done and you fucking know it. Second of all, Bob-Bob, I don't want to hear fucking shit about shit you don't know shit about–”

“Oh, look.” A notification pops up on screen. “Some drunk idiots are fighting at Crypto Night. Think you can handle this one, Flambae?”

There are a few taunting oohs on the comms from the others as Flambae growls. But he accepts the mission, anyway, and Robert does smile at that. “I'll show you just how much I can fucking handle, bitch.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Robert says. “Just get your shit done, okay?”

The sound of Flambae sputtering as he takes off, and the ensuing laughter from the rest of the team, sparks a light in Robert's chest that he hasn't felt in a while.

Chapter Text

Dispatching is easy, Robert comes to find out, aside from the fact that he now understands why the Z-Team always has trouble finding a dispatcher that sticks around.

“I’ll take Thursday,” Punch-Up says during a lull in assignments.

“Wednesday,” Coupé murmurs.

“Dibs on Tuesday,” Malevola chimes in.

Robert raises an eyebrow. “What are you guys talking about?”

“They’re taking bets on when you’ll quit,” Invisigal snorts. “It’s been a while since we’ve gotten to do it. Chase was here for years before I took over.”

“Hmm…” Golem grunts. “Monday.”

“Today’s Monday,” Robert says.

“I know.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. Well, we just got a call about a malfunctioning bidet. Sounds like you’d be perfect for that, Golem.”

“That’s a shit job. Literally.”

“I know,” Robert replies, smirking as Golem sighs and accepts the assignment. It seems like matching their energy is all it takes to keep them obedient.

But he’s starting to get bored, so he discreetly slips out his phone to send a quick request to Waterboard. It isn’t long before he gets a reply.

> All clear. No one’s nearby.

Perfect. Time to cook up some plausible deniability.

Robert pulls up the app he has hidden as a calculator, and activates the auto-pilot. Then he waits.

Sure enough, a notification pops up on the monitor just a few minutes later. “I’m getting reports of an explosion at an abandoned warehouse.” Robert suppresses a smile, and just to fuck with the guy, asks, “This wouldn’t be your work, would it, Flambae?”

“Fuck you,” the hero scoffs. “You really think I’d torch a building just for shits and fucking giggles?”

“You literally did that last week,” Malevola says. “Said it was looking at you funny.”

“I was drunk, and off the clock, and– not the fucking point!”

A few more reports start coming in, and Robert puts on his best acting chops. “Ah, shit. I stand corrected. There's sightings of Mecha-Man flying overhead–”

“I'm fucking on it,” Flambae says quickly, his icon already heading towards the warehouse.

“Dude, you're in the middle of a job,” Invisigal huffs. “We've talked about this.”

“She's right,” Robert says, internally brimming with satisfaction as the fiery hero plays right into his plan. “This is not assigned to you, Flambae. Do not–”

Flambae scoffs. “I think Vandershit’s girlfriend will be fine without her stupid fucking coffee for ten fucking minutes, Robbo. That’s a bullshit fucking job, anyway.”

“Not the point,” Robert replies, as sternly as he can. “I gave you an order.”

“And when I’m done with Mecha-Dick, I’m fucking on it, okay? But now you get to watch a real hero at work, so just sit back and enjoy the fucking show, yeah?”

Robert sighs performatively, and switches to local security cameras to watch Flambae arrive at the warehouse, already cloaked in flames and ready for a fight. But the Mecha suit is gone, headed back to the hideout, and the sound of Flambae cursing profusely is music to his ears.

The coffee might be shit, but the vending machine in the break room has Twinkies, so maybe SDN isn't as bad as Robert initially thought. He's pulling the snack out of the dispenser when familiar voices trail into the room.

“–fucking pussy shit, is all I'm saying. Usually he sticks around for a fucking fight, at least,” Flambae says as he shoves the door open and storms inside, with Malevola and Prism following close behind.

“We get it, dude, you got stood up,” Malevola groans. “Stop whining about it, already.”

They pay no attention to Robert as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

“I'm not fucking whining–”

“Really?” Robert turns around, feigning an unamused look as he swirls the stirrer in his mug. He's totally stealing this cup at the end of the day. “Because it sure sounds like whining, despite it being a mission you weren’t assigned to.”

Three sets of eyes widen, and Flambae in particular bristles as he looks over Robert with unbridled annoyance.

Prism snorts as her hands go to her hips, visibly unimpressed. “Oh, shit, you’re the new dispatcher? What lame-ass superhero team did you come from, fuckin’ Geek Squad?”

“Doesn’t matter where I’m from, Tierra Hack.”

Malevola chokes on a surprised laugh. “Oh, shit–”

Robert continues, “I’m here to get you to do your jobs, which the flaming idiot here failed to do.”

Flambae glowers, clenching his fists menacingly as he steps closer. “We gonna have a fucking problem, Robert?”

The heat practically radiates off of him, and Robert’s stomach flips with excitement, though he keeps his expression schooled as he sets the mug down next to the knife block on the counter.

“I don’t know, Flambae. Are you capable of listening to simple orders, or are you that fucking thirsty for some washed-up robot–”

A fist with two missing fingers shoots out and grabs Robert’s collar, shoving him back so he’s pinned against the counter. He’s so tall, so much bigger than Robert, and it’s exhilarating in a way that’s totally different from fighting him as Mecha-Man.

“Who the fuck do you think you are to talk to me like that?”

“Your dispatcher,” Robert deadpans. “I guess you really are as dumb as you look.”

Flambae audibly growls as he lifts a hand that bursts into flames, his orange eyes practically glowing with rage as he leans closer like he’s actually about to strike–

In a split second, with a swiftness that none of them anticipate, Robert seizes one of the handles behind him and has a knife pressed at Flambae’s throat.

“Yo, what the fuck–!” Prism shouts, crouching into a defensive stance as Malevola reaches for her sword, but Robert’s eyes remain on Flambae’s shocked expression. The hero’s eyes dart from Robert to the blade trained on him, and his flames falter for just a moment before he regains his fury and grits his teeth.

“Let's weigh your options here,” Robert murmurs, digging the knife just barely into Flambae’s throat to see a drop of blood well up over the blade. “You could burn me, and sure, it'll hurt for a bit. But you'll bleed out before the sprinklers even go off.”

That long, stubbled throat trembles tantalizingly, and Robert’s lips curl up in a smile. “So. What’s the move? You really wanna risk it, just for some boring dispatcher?”

Flambae glares for a moment longer, before relenting and dropping the fist that smolders into smoke, and releasing Robert as he takes a step back. Robert twirls the knife in his fingers, just for showmanship, and much to his surprise, Flambae laughs. It’s a nice sound, familiar, like when they’re fighting as foes in the sky.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re fucking crazy.” Flambae grins as he watches Robert slip the knife back into the block without looking. “Shit, I actually hope you last longer than a week.”

“I’m flattered,” Robert deadpans, but he’s smirking back as he takes a sip of his coffee.

Meanwhile, Prism and Malevola stare at the interaction with disturbed shock. “God,” Prism mutters, “why can’t gay people ever just flirt fuckin’ normally?”

“Fuck if I know,” Malevola says. “I’m kinda into it, though.”

“Well.” Robert grabs his Twinkie, nearly brushing against Flambae’s shoulder as he dodges around him. “It was nice officially meeting you guys. Try not to be late for our second shift.”

“Or what?” Flambae scoffs. “You’ll threaten us with fucking staplers, next?”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Robert replies as he heads through the door, but he can hear Flambae laughing as it shuts, and he swears he can still feel that radiating warmth as he heads back to his desk.

“So, did you guys know that our new dispatcher is fuckin’ insane?” Prism says as soon as the second shift starts.

Robert sighs quietly, but Coupé hums with interest. “Do tell.”

“He threatened Flambae at lunch. With a fucking chef’s knife,” Malevola says, snickering quietly.

“Holy shite,” Punch-Up laughs. “You might have some fuckin’ competition here, Coop.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“The fuck did you do to get the new office twunk to threaten you, Flambae?” Invisigal snorts. “What, you torch his car like the last dispatcher?”

“Fuck off. How the fuck was I supposed to know a Kia Soul would catch fire so fucking easily?”

“Flambae got a little too heated,” Robert informs them as the notification noise pops up on his monitor, “so I kindly reminded him that threatening to burn faces off is rude. And also that fucking off mid-shift just to fight Mecha-Man isn't something I'm going to tolerate.”

“Good luck with that,” Invisigal says as she accepts the latest job, her icon briskly heading away. “You could cut their weird enemies-to-lovers tension with a dull spoon.”

“There's no tension, bitch,” Flambae grunts. “That robo-fucker just knows I'm strong enough to fucking beat him.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that why he's still flying around robbing CEOs and taking out crime bosses?” Invisigal chides. “Honestly, I still don’t know why he’s considered a fucking villain. It’s not like the people he goes after don’t have it coming, y’know?”

“Because he kills people,” Coupé replies, and the mouse in Robert’s hand creaks from how tightly he grips it.

“So have most of us,” Malevola says. “You were a fucking assassin, Coop.”

“Yes. And I was very good at it. But heroes don’t kill people, despite how often I tell SDN I don’t mind doing it. At all. For a very affordable price.”

“Well,” Robert sighs, “right now you’re going to investigate a robbery at the docks. Sorry if that’s not as exciting as murder for hire.”

“Better than dog-walking.” After a moment, Coupé hums contemplatively. “You know, I was hired to deal with Mecha-Man more than once.”

Robert raises an eyebrow. He's not surprised in the slightest, but his ego has him asking, “Oh, yeah? How much does someone like him run for?”

“Millions,” she grits out, a tad woefully, but far more annoyed than anything. “Lots of important people who know they could be his next target thought it best to take him out first.”

“Why didn't you take it?” Robert inquires curiously. “Sounds like easy money.”

After a moment, Coupé says, “I respect him. Not many people are willing to do what needs to be done like he is.”

And– fuck. That does make Robert feel oddly… not proud, but seen. Makes his eyes soften, and lessens the growing tension in his shoulders.

“You just like seeing someone else live out your dream, Coop,” Punch-Up snorts.

“That, too.”

“Whatever,” Flambae scoffs. “A villain’s a villain. And I'll be the one to fucking bring him in; just you bitches fucking wait.”

Punch-Up snickers. “You say that, mate, but we've all seen you practically piss your trousers at the mere mention of Waterboard.”

“Oh, fuck you–”

Robert presses his lips together to stifle his laughter, and feigns, “Who's Waterboard?”

“Mecha-Man’s sidekick,” Sonar says. “God, that could have been me. I'm just saying, if Mecha-Man ever has a job opening, it's over for you bitches.”

“Traitor,” Malevola huffs as she accepts a social event job. “Ugh, the fucking Bone Zone? Fine, but I’m telling him about the spot they’ve got reserved for him down under.”

“Nice. But also, not sorry,” Sonar says. “Boberto, my guy, have you been living under a rock? You haven’t even heard of Mecha-Man’s wet guy?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Robert replies, “but if he’s the wet guy, I can take a guess as to why Flambae doesn’t want to fuck with him.”

Flambae growls, “Because he isn’t worth my fucking time, Bob-Bob.”

“To be fair, that guy is fuckin’ terrifying,” Prism says. “And only kinda in a hot way.”

“His mask is cool,” Malevola muses. “Gives the vibes that he's a biter, y’know?”

“Dude’s got wet dog vibes,” Golem agrees. “Definitely a biter. Strong as shit, too. Blasted my ass into the ocean once. Had seaweed stuck in my ass for a week.”

“It’s unfortunate he's working for Mecha-Man,” Coupé says. “He could have been a real asset here.”

Maybe you guys shouldn't have rejected him from the hero program, Robert thinks as he sips on his shitty coffee. Works in my favor, though.

Robert likes Waterboard– Herman. Not just as an ally, but as a person. Despite taking a job from a villain, he’s sincerely a good person, and probably would have made an excellent hero if they’d given him a chance. But they couldn’t bother looking at his potential, and potential is Robert’s specialty. He saw it in the opportunity to switch to villainy, in the tech and schematics he liberated from Shroud, and especially in Waterboard. Now that he’s worked tirelessly to hone his abilities, aided with Robert’s non-evasive augments, Waterboard is a fucking power house. And endearingly loyal, especially because Robert respects his boundaries when it comes to certain crimes.

The guy isn’t built for killing. And that’s completely fair. Like Coupé said, not everyone is cut out for it.

His computer chimes again. “Alright, I think I’ve heard enough about Mecha-Man and Waterbro–”

“Waterboard,” Sonar corrects him.

“–for today. There’s a shoot-out near the park. Time to get serious.”

“And school just fucking let out,” Flambae huffs. “I want this one.”

Robert's eyebrows raise in mild surprise. “Go ahead. Invisigal, Malevola, you’re with him.”

“Roger that.”

“Buncha guns near goddamn kids,” Flambae grits out as their icons speed away to the highlighted location. “Robert, lemme burn these guys’ asses off. C’mon, just this once.”

And something… oddly warm flutters in Robert’s chest at that, something he’s quick to drown in his cold coffee. “Fuck it. Sure. Just this once, as a treat.”

“Fuck yes.”

The second shift goes smoothly. Malevola and Prism in particular are less snarky about following orders, and Flambae’s teasing doesn’t relent, but he finishes missions in record time.

The job isn’t too bad. Robert's picking up on their strengths, and more importantly, their weaknesses.

Sonar and Flambae seem to thrive off of positive reinforcement, just a simple acknowledgment of a job well done, but bitch relentlessly if they consider a mission beneath them. Coupé and Punch-Up are content as long as they don’t get shit jobs that waste their talents, but their cockiness could be their undoing. Malevola, Invisigal, and Golem tend to be up for whatever, as long as it’s something in their wheelhouse, but that leaves them open for all kinds of unpredictable mishaps.

Most importantly, there's no word about the Red Ring, or a mere mention of Shroud. Which means Robert might have to do some digging in SDN’s archives, or into other heroes that could be privately working on the assignments.

As Robert pulls off his headset and gets ready to clock out for the day, a hand taps him on the shoulder, and he turns to see Blazer smiling down at him.

“So. Your first shift, and you didn’t quit. I’m impressed.”

“Wow. The bar is set so high,” Robert says sarcastically.

Blazer chuckles, crossing her arms. “All jokes aside, I really am impressed, Robert. In between Chase and Visi, we've had a decent amount of dispatchers try to lead these guys, but no one's ever–”

“While I'm glad to hear it,” Robert says, getting up from his chair, “I would like a meeting with them after work tomorrow. I don’t mind staying late.”

In fact, he's counting on it. The later he stays, the easier it'll be to get to Blazer’s computer and search for any information on Shroud that the flash drive's program might have missed. He already knows that her office in particular is void of cameras, for whatever reason, so there will be very little chance of him getting caught.

“Sure,” Blazer says easily. “I'll let them know.” She smiles one more time. It's kind, full of respect, and everything else that makes her a picture-perfect hero. “Keep up the good work, Robert. I think you'll do great things here.”

As she walks away, Robert is hit with something akin to guilt, so sharp and sudden that his breath is caught in his throat. It’s unfamiliar after all these years of being Mecha-Man, of reveling in doing what needs to be done when others won’t.

He shoves it into the back of his mind, much like the SDN mug that’s shoved to the bottom of his bag, and heads home after his first day as the Z-Team dispatcher.

When Robert returns home, his apartment is dark.

Robert never leaves the lights off.

He’s quick to reach into the hidden drawer of his entryway table for– nothing. His gun is gone. Fuck.

“Yeah, I went ahead and took that shit.” A gravelly, disembodied voice cuts through the darkness, and Robert whips his head over to its direction. A figure sits at his sofa, lounging like they’ve been there for a while, and– Beef is next to them, completely comfortable and uncaring. “Your dad had the same fucking hiding spot.”

And– it's that tone, that familiar snark and disdain, that bitter mention of his father that could only come from one person.

“Holy shit.” Robert’s hand is shaking as he reaches for the light switch, and when the room is flooded in light, he forgets how to breathe. “Chase?”

“Robert.” Chase, in his old-ass glory just like in the photo at SDN, stares back at Robert with a deep frown as he rubs Beef’s belly. “I’d say it’s good to see you after all these fucking years, but we both know I don’t like to bullshit.”

Chase leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s here for the long haul. “I think we need to have a little fucking talk. Don’t you?”

Chapter Text

The room is still with wordless tension as Robert takes a seat at the thrifted armchair across from Chase, his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his own ears. Besides that, the only thing that can be heard in the lengthy silence is Beef chewing his own ass.

Eventually, Robert quietly says, “It’s been a while. What, ten–?”

“Fifteen years,” Chase replies. “I reached out to you, when your dad died. Then you got to ducking me like you owed me money.”

Robert winces. “I know. I was in a weird place.”

“Oh, yeah? Usually my weird places end up being liquor stores and strip clubs. So imagine my fucking surprise when you went goddamn villain.”

Scarred hands shake against the worn upholstery of the armchair, and Robert wrings them together to try and quell his anxiety. “How did you even get in?” he asks. “I have preventative measures–”

“What, you think you're the only fucking hacker in Torrance?” Chase gripes, unamused and unimpressed. “You know how many cybersecurity locks and CCTV cameras I had to override when I was babysitting those Phoenix Program dipshits? Even after a decade and a fucking half, and Mecha-Man switching fucking sides, I still know you, Robert.”

Robert shuts his eyes, taking a heavy breath and letting it out just as slowly before asking, “Why are you here, Chase? You haven’t– you’ve known for years, and never said anything, for whatever reason. So why now?”

Chase’s gray moustache twitches, and his eyes flit off to the side as he leans back and crosses his arms. “I'll be honest. I never had a real issue with your new nefarious Mecha-Man shit. It's not like the sick fucks you went after didn't have it coming. Hell, in my book, the worst thing you've ever fucking done is make me listen to you flirt with the fiery asshole for two fucking years straight.”

And Robert, surprisingly, barks out a laugh at that. “That's fair. Sorry.”

“No, you're fucking not,” Chase scoffs. “You two have way too much fucking fun pushing each other’s buttons. I'm surprised you don't have a secret fucking poster of Flambae to jack off to under your depressing-ass bed.”

Robert’s eyes narrow. “Wow. Didn’t leave any stone unturned in here, huh?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. ‘Course I fucking snooped. Not a lot of people get to see how Mecha-Man lives.” Chase scoffs, glancing over the bare walls, the dim lighting, the sparse furniture. “It’s fucking depressing, Robert. All that fucking money you stole–”

“That was for the suit repairs–”

“–just to live like a broke fucking college student. Hell, your fucking dog lives better than you. Fucking memory foam dog bed, organic pet treats, a goddamn automatic ball thrower.” He pats Beef’s fat tummy. “Clearly he ain't getting a lot of use outta one.”

Robert smiles softly. “Yeah. He's 100% couch potato. Did a DNA test and everything.”

“Stupid fucking money to spend on a piece of paper that just says ‘fat,’” Chase huffs. “However when you inevitably die in some stupid fucking fight, I got dibs on him.”

Waterboard will be devastated, Robert thinks. “Sure. I guess I owe you that much.”

“You wanna know the real reason I left you alone?” Chase asks, and Robert looks up to meet his softening gaze. “This ain’t the only snooping I’ve been doing, y’know. Over the past seven years, there’s been a lot of anonymous donations coming from one private account. Millions going to hospitals, housing charities– everything that takes a hit during big superhero fights that doesn’t get covered by insurance. Not to mention the thousands put into STEM programs for nerdy fucking kids like you, or… support organizations for foster kids–”

“Chase,” Robert cuts in, his nails digging into the damaged nerves of his wrists. “Why are you here?”

Chase’s eyebrows draw together regretfully, for just a moment, before his expression reverts back to that stern disappointment. “I need to know what the fuck you’re planning at SDN.”

“That’s–”

“You try to say ‘classified’ and I’ll haul your ass outside and hit you with my motherfucking car,” Chase grits out. “You’re working at SDN now, as the dispatcher for fucking Z-Team. My team, Robert; my band of idiots that have worked hard to get away from the villain bullshit that you’re still fucking with. And now you're sneaking around a building full of people who hate your fucking guts, using your real fucking name like a fucking idiot–”

“Shroud is alive.”

The silence in the room is deafening.

“That's not fucking funny,” Chase mutters lowly, but his eyes are wide, and there's an undeniable shake in his gnarled fingers.

“Good thing I'm not joking, then.” Robert sighs, leaning back into the chair, the exhaustion of the day officially hitting him all at once.

“Pet the Beef,” Robert says after a moment. “It’ll make you feel better.” Chase does so wordlessly, scratching behind the dog’s ears, and he does relax just a bit. So Robert continues, “I don't know how he fucking survived, but he did, and SDN knows about it. But they're keeping it under wraps. Which means I need to get as close to them as possible, so when Shroud makes his inevitable comeback, I’ll be fucking ready, and he won’t get a third try.”

“You want him to know,” Chase murmurs, his brow furrowing even deeper. “That’s why you used your real name. You want him to know you’re onto him.”

“Gold star for Track Star.”

“Fuck off,” Chase scoffs bitterly. “I would resurrect then re-kill your fucking father if it meant being able to use my powers again.”

“Wow. Honestly, I’d probably let you,” Robert admits. “But you’re right. I want Shroud to know I’m coming for him.”

“You know how fucking stupid that is?” Chase barks. “You’re painting a fucking target on your back. Shroud’s gonna come after you now, no way fucking around it, and–”

“Good,” Robert grits out, clenching his fists. “Look, we both fucking know that SDN won’t kill him. If they ever manage to capture him, they’ll just stick him in a jail cell, where he’ll escape again, and I’m not– we’re not doing this again.”

Robert’s teeth ache from how tightly he clenches his jaw. “I need him to know that if he pulls the same old shit, he’s fucking dead. I’m going to kill him, once and for all. I'm giving him the opportunity to just fuck off for good, to just live his miserable life in peace. So now… it’s his move.”

“He won’t stop until he gets the Astral Pulse,” Chase says quietly.

“Which will never happen.” Robert shrugs. “So. What’s your move, then? Now that you know everything, are you gonna turn me in?”

Chase swallows, his gaze falling to the floor. “Not gonna lie. I didn’t think that far ahead. ‘S been a while since I’ve had to keep up with everything.” He huffs out a humorless laugh, shaking his head to himself.

And– Robert gets an idea. A horrible one that’s a potential dumpster fire of a half-cocked fever dream, but it’s an idea that has his nerves lighting up with excitement nonetheless. “Alright. How about I make you a deal? You stay silent about all of this, and… I might have an opportunity for you. One I’m not sure you’ll be able to turn down.”

Chase raises an eyebrow. “I don’t fucking like that look on your fucking face.”

“You probably won’t like the idea much, either.” Robert lurches to his feet, stretching and cracking his back a few times, before jerking his head at the door. “You up for a field trip?”

“You know,” Chase says, “if you wanted to fucking kill me to keep me quiet, pretty sure you could’ve done it at your depressing-ass apartment. Didn’t have to drag me out to the middle of nowhere just to stash my fucking body in a fucking sewer tunnel.”

Robert huffs out a laugh as they approach the hideout, with Beef panting thoughtlessly in his arms. “It’s a train tunnel. Y’know, because of the train tracks?”

“Motherfucking semantics. You brought me to a dark, dank crackhead den, likely for murderous fucking purposes.”

Robert sighs as he leads them through the darkness until they reach the rusted door, and opens the keypad hidden under a false brick panel. He covers the code from Chase’s prying eyes with his body, and smiles smugly as Chase whistles when the door slides open. “Wow. Secret evil lair. Guess it would be hard to hide the suit in that shitbox apartment, huh?”

“Yeah, California housing isn't exactly made for storing giant robots and welding equipment.” The lights turn on one by one as they make their way down the tunnel to the elevator. When the doors slide shut, Robert swallows apprehensively and says, “By the way. This is, uh. Kind of a really big deal, me bringing you here. I know we had that whole talk, but– seriously, you can’t–”

“What, you think I’m just gonna go around telling everyone that, not only do I know where Mecha-Man’s secret fucking hideout is, but I’ve known his secret identity for fifteen fucking years and didn’t tell a fucking soul?” Chase scoffs. “Like they’d fucking believe me, anyway. Folks would just think I’m having a fucking dementia episode or some shit.”

Robert smiles softly. “Thanks, Chase.”

“Fuck off. And gimme the damn dog.”

He snatches Beef away as Robert laughs, and the doors slide open. The lights are already on, bathing the workshop in a dim glow, and–

“Jesus fucking goddamn Christ!”

Chase nearly leaps back into the elevator at the sight of a masked Waterboard standing at the kitchen area by the entryway, hunched in on himself as he fumbles to put the coffeepot down.

“You didn't say your evil fucking wet doberman was gonna fucking be here–!”

“Relax. He's harmless, seriously,” Robert sighs as he turns to Waterboard. “The mask, buddy. I told you we'd have company.”

Waterboard makes a noise of realization, and scrambles to remove the gear. “S-sorry,” he says, wiping his mouth before tugging the goggles off. “I, uh, forgot. I-I wanted to clean– um, tidy up, because you never bring a-anyone here, and I guess I got sidetracked–”

“What the fuck,” Chase deadpans, his jaw going slack at the sight of Waterboard going from spine-chilling to meekly innocent in mere seconds. “What the fuck is this. You’re fucking with me.”

“Told you,” Robert says as he takes the goggles and mask to set aside. “Harmless. Well, unless you’re Flambae.”

“I still feel… bad about that,” Waterboard murmurs, his eyes big and wet.

Chase is still busy short-circuiting, and Robert laughs quietly as he takes Beef, setting him down so he can go to his dog bed by the computers. “Follow me. I wanna show you something.”

He heads over to the left side of the room, and Chase watches as he presses a hand on the biometric scanner next to a wall panel. It slides open to reveal a plethora of glowing blue tech that’s undeniable in design, even without the Red Ring symbols they once featured.

“Holy shit,” Chase breathes, his wide eyes reflecting the blue lights. “This– this is Shroud’s shit.”

“His augments,” Robert confirms, crossing his arms as he gazes fondly at the redesigned devices. “I got ahold of his schematics after–” He swallows, shaking his head briefly before continuing, “They’ve been modified, obviously. Nowhere near as invasive, or… sinister-looking. But they come in handy. Waterboard’s mask has an augment that amplifies his water pressure.”

“Yeah, that shit still looks evil as fuck,” Chase scoffs. “Damn near made me shit myself.”

“Sorry,” Waterboard stammers. “I have nerv- uh, anxiety issues, and the mask– it helps with the stutter, too, so I’m actually taken… seriously.”

“Not a stutter,” Robert corrects out of habit, shooting Waterboard a smile. “Confidence issues, remember?”

“Y-yes! Right.” He gives them an awkward thumbs up, and then shuffles away to go finish the coffee.

Chase pokes one of the glowing gauntlets displayed on the wall, probably just to see if it’ll blow up. “Alright. So you liberated Shroud’s evil implant fuckery. The fuck are you showing me this shit for? Bragging rights?”

“This is my offer.” Robert turns to him, smiling wider than he has in a long time. “I can make you run again, Chase. Keep up.”

“I gotta fucking say, Robert,” Chase says, his eyes trailing over the augments glowing all along his body, “this is impressive as shit.”

Robert lights up with elated satisfaction as Chase bends down to stretch his legs, looking more mobile than he has all evening. The suit is a prototype, at best, but between the lightweight metal fitted armor that’s currently being printed, and Waterboard’s secret talent for sewing that he learned from his grandmother, the finished uniform should be ready by tomorrow.

But their current test design paints a presentable picture. The suit is sleek black, with specifically designed augments installed on braces all throughout the limbs, giving it a dim, blue glow. A segmented brace along the spine straightens Chase’s back, while the lifts on the boots give him a few extra inches to help conceal his identity better. Meanwhile the leg joints, the real powerhouse of the suit, alleviate most of the work that actually goes into running, ensuring that Chase’s powers won’t be utilized enough to affect his aging.

It is indeed impressive as shit, and probably one of Robert’s favorite creations, just because of the wide grin Chase has had since pulling the suit on.

Chase whips his head around at Robert, glaring playfully. “It ain’t gonna blow me up, is it?”

“No,” Robert laughs. “I left out all of the self-destruct programs when I redesigned the augments.”

“Cool. Fucking terrifying, but cool.” Chase jogs in place, testing the movements. “You really don’t think anyone will recognize me?”

“Once the helmet is finished, I seriously doubt it.” Robert cocks his head. “You’ll need a new name, though. I like my henchmen to strike fear in the hearts of corrupt people in power.”

“You call me that again, and I’ll kill you in your fucking sleep.”

Robert raises his hands in surrender. “Partner. My bad.”

“Tentative partner,” Chase says, his brow furrowing. “I ain’t fucking killing people, Robert.”

“Not a problem,” he replies easily. “Waterboard doesn’t.”

“And if I don’t approve of one of your batshit fucking plans, I’m fucking out. And I get to keep the suit, in exchange for keeping my fucking mouth shut all these years.”

“Totally fair.” Robert cocks his head. “So. A name. Any ideas?”

Chase sighs. “Don’t suppose we could just run with ‘that fast guy that yells at Mecha-Man a lot,’ huh?”

Robert smirks as Waterboard approaches with a cup of coffee that he takes gratefully. “Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.”

“Wh-what about, um. Warp Speed?” Waterboard stammers, and Chase raises an eyebrow. “Y-y’know, because you're fast, and. And Track Star, it’s got the– stars, and space, so…”

“Warp Speed,” Chase murmurs. “I like it.”

Waterboard beams at that, straightening at the approval.

Robert goes over to his computer, pulling up the SDN floor schematics. “So. The suit will be ready tomorrow. You still cool with our first official test run?”

“I fucking guess so,” Chase sighs, crossing his arms as he glances over the screen. “Feel kinda shitty breaking into Blazer’s shit, but. You're right. Shroud’s gotta go down.”

“Your first job as a villain,” Robert jokes. “My dad would be livid.”

“Shut the fuck up. Fuckin’ punk-ass. Acting like I won't test this new gear out on your smug fucking face, you cocky little shit.”

Robert laughs so hard his sides hurt.

Chapter Text

A yawn catches in Robert’s throat as he pours his first mug of coffee for the day.

It was a long night. Robert finally left the hideout at nearly two in the morning, when Waterboard was curled up half-asleep with Beef on the sofa, and Chase was too tired to keep going through the files on Shroud they had available.

He's still not used to waking up this early. Wreaking havoc as Mecha-Man happens at any hour of the day, but working on the suit repairs or researching his next target was always a late-night activity that usually lasted until the early-morning hours. 

But he's not used to the corporate schedule. It limits his time for villainous activities, and he's wearily wondering how to fit everything Mecha-Man-related around this new hindrance as the morning sun bathes the break room in a warm glow.

Actually, the warmth seems to be grow with every passing second, until the hairs stand on the back of Robert’s neck like–

He whips around to see Flambae behind him, barely even a foot away as he stares down at the new dispatcher with amusement. “So. You came back. You’re tougher than you fucking look, Bob-Bob.”

“What, the knife to your throat yesterday wasn’t proof enough?” Robert says through another yawn.

Flambae scoffs, dodging around Robert so he can toss a breakfast sandwich in the microwave. “Gonna have to perk the fuck up if you wanna keep us all in line today. Fuck are you so tired for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Robert huffs into his coffee. It’s already cold somehow, and he grimaces at the dark, offending liquid. He’s currently working on about four hours of sleep, and the cold coffee feels like a personal affront to that.

Before he can go to make a fresh pot, a hand with two missing fingers reaches out and wraps around his mug. Robert raises an eyebrow as Flambae heats the coffee with a cocky smirk, before he moves away to grab his food. “Can’t be late to our shift because you need hot coffee, Robert. Just give me all the fun missions in return, yeah? No fucking frappuccino runs, bitch.”

Robert laughs at that, and doesn’t miss the way that Flambae’s eyes widen for just a moment, his lips parting intriguingly, before he schools his expression just as quickly.

The coffee is perfectly hot when he takes a sip. “Thanks, Flambae. I’ll even make sure to turn a blind eye if your robot boyfriend makes an appearance today.”

Flambae is still sputtering as the door swings closed behind Robert, who utterly fails to hide his grin.

When he gets to his desk, Invisigal is already perched on it like she’s waiting for him, but her focus is on one of the televisions mounted to the wall. Robert glances at it to see a news report about–

“Is that… Phenomaman?”

“Yeah,” Invisigal sighs as they watch SDN’s poster boy dejectedly trudge down the highway, with a long line of cars honking behind him. “Guy hasn’t been doing so great for… well, a long fucking while now, but this is a new low.”

“Shit.” Robert sits at his chair. On the screen, Phenomaman raises a fist at a car that nearly hits him, but he ultimately drops it and continues on his depressed path. “He looks rough. What happened?”

“I mean, he got dumped by Blazer–”

“Ah.”

“–over a year ago. Just never really bounced back.”

“Oh.” Robert frowns. “Jeez. That’s a long time to get over a breakup.”

“Yeah, I kind of doubt it’s just the breakup. But that’s what everyone gossips about, when they’re too stupid to think that someone might be listening.” She turns her attention to him. “So. You’re sticking around, huh? Called a team meeting and everything.”

Robert shrugs. “Thought it would be nice to let the team know what’s up. Just to touch base, one-on-one–”

“Ah, yes,” Invisigal sighs sarcastically. “Breaking down silos, deep dive, synergy, run the numbers. All those lame-ass phrases on every fucking poster around here.”

Robert laughs softly. “Something like that.”

“Well.” Invisigal hops off the desk. “You killed it yesterday, better than any of our other dispatchers ever did on their first day. I’d say keep up the good work, but I think that’s more of a Blazer thing, so. Don’t fuck up!” She punches him playfully on the arm.

Robert rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Invisigal.”

“God, it’s been five fucking years and I still hate that name,” she huffs, and gives Robert a significant look. “If you’re gonna stick around, just go with ‘Visi’ like Blazer does, alright? Invisigal is so… corny.”

“Then why’d you pick it?”

“I didn’t,” she says. “But Blazer thought it was better than Invisibitch, so.”

“Could have gone with… Shadowlass, or Spygirl,” Robert says. “Or just, like, Vanisher.”

Invisigal– Visi frowns at him for a moment, then says, “Fuck, those are all way better. Is it too late to–? Yeah, I can't change it. It's way too late. Fuck.” She cracks a grin. “Just imagine if I’d met you when I switched sides, Robert. Coulda saved me a whole lotta trouble.”

Unfortunately, I sincerely doubt that, Robert thinks as she walks away, his coffee going down much more bitterly than before as he clocks in for his second day as the Z-Team's dispatcher.

“Hey, Robert,” Prism says as soon as the comms come online, “why the fuck do we have a mandatory meeting scheduled for today? I better be getting paid for this shit.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “Because if I'm sticking around, I would like to meet all of you properly. Make sure we're all on the same page. It's pretty standard–”

“Well, I already met you,” she continues, “and I was gonna get my nails done after work, so can I skip it?”

“No,” he deadpans. “That's kind of the point of the whole mandatory thing.”

“Lame,” Malevola sighs.

Robert’s personal phone chimes, and he discreetly slips it out under the desk. It's from Chase; he apparently already went to the hideout to test the new suit.

> ayo i broke ur treadmill my b

> upgrade ur fuckin gym shit

Robert sighs. His only two allies are a wet guy who can't get too close to delicate tech, and a man who’s currently working through ten years of pent-up zoomies. It's honestly baffling that he's taken seriously as a villain.

Their first mission notification comes through, and Robert settles in for an inevitably long shift. The anticipation of his plan with Chase will be leaving him on edge all day. “Punch-Up, you’re on demolition duty.”

“Consider it done.” His icon starts heading out. “But back to what we were talking about earlier, I'm putting my money on flight.”

“Too easy,” Visi says. “Tons of supers fly.”

“Shapeshifting, maybe?” Malevola murmurs. “But then why would you choose to look like… that?”

Robert already regrets asking, “What are we talking about?”

“We're guessing which power you might have so we can figure out which superhero you were,” Sonar says. “Y’know, before you went desk jockey.”

“Well, you won't,” Robert deadpans. “I wasn't a hero; I was covert ops. Don't need a secret identity when technically you're not even on the roster. I’m just Robert, and you are all supposed to be focusing on your jobs.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Prism says, “Uh huh, sure. Hey, maybe he’s that milk guy. Y’know, the one that quit because people kept making fun of his stupid-ass power?”

“Hmm. A wasted opportunity. Lactose manipulation could prove to be very deadly,” Coupé muses.

Flambae snorts. “How the fuck do you figure that?”

“You could clog arteries, cause strokes. Suffocate them by forcing it in their throat to close their airways. Or–”

“Damn, bitch,” Prism cuts in. “Forget I fucking asked. You need Jesus.”

Robert sighs. “Flambae, I’ll let you set a building on fire if it will get all of you to shut up and do your jobs.”

Flambae makes a surprised noise of excitement. “Wait, seriously?”

“No. That was a joke. Do not do that.”

Robert is just finishing his second cup of (fresh) coffee when they run into the first hurdle of the day.

“Hey,” Visi says, her voice stilted and cautious, “you guys getting any reports of a knock-off Tron-looking speedster zipping around downtown?”

Robert nearly drops his mug. Goddammit, Chase. “Uh, no, not yet. Do you have eyes on them?”

“No, but I will in a minute. They haven't gone too far,” she pants, already taking off in a run.

“Ooh, a new hero dropped?” Prism inquires excitedly. “Think they're with us?”

After a moment, Visi continues, “Uh, I seriously doubt it, considering they just robbed Granny’s.”

Fuck.

“And spray-painted ‘Warp Speed’ on the side of the shop,” she snorts. “Kind of a geeky catchphrase, don't you think? Set phasers to dork.”

That fucking asshole. Robert quickly pulls out his phone.

< The fuck are you doing?

> beef wanted a bear claw

> n granny’s a dick anyway, chill out

A moment later, a notification for a robbery at Granny’s pops up, and Robert wearily buries his face in his hands after assigning it to Visi. He deserves this, he supposes, for constantly pulling this same kind of shit when Chase was the dispatcher.

“Oh, what the fuck!” Flambae yells. “Motherfucking speedy-ass bitch just tagged a fucking dick on my car!”

And– Robert can let that one slide, and doesn't bother hiding his laughter as Flambae curses up a storm.

It’s coming up on lunchtime, and Robert is officially bored. He’s finding that being a dispatcher can be ridiculously easy sometimes, especially when you analyze your assigned heroes’ strengths and weaknesses like there might be a test later.

The lull is broken ten minutes before their lunch break when Sonar, who’s been upstairs scrolling through his phone during his recovery time, makes a noise of interest.

“Yo, are you guys seeing this shit on the news about the break-in at Specter Tech?” he says. “Shit’s crazy. Thousands of dollars worth of product snatched up after the vents got gassed. The cops think the thieves are still in the area.”

“Ooh, I love a good high-speed chase,” Malevola purrs with excitement.

“Specter Tech?” Visi repeats. “I’m on it.”

Robert frowns. “Invisigal, that’s not our mission. Another team is already on it; they’ve got Phenomaman and Iron Titan on the way–”

“I’m checking it out, okay? We’ve got all of our shit done, and I’ve already hit my quota for the shift, so– whatever, just chew me out later, dude.”

Her icon takes off as her comm switches to mute, and Robert’s jaw aches from how tightly it’s clenched, because she’s the one who always talks about staying on task. Though a heist at a tech company is foreboding, in a way that settles heavily in Robert’s chest–

“Ugh, Iron Titan,” Flambae grunts. “I fucking hate that guy.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “What, because he's ranked higher than you?”

“Nah, Flambae's right,” Punch-Up says. “Guy’s a prick.”

Prism hums in agreement. “He's one of those dudes who doesn't say anything outright, but definitely gives funky, bigoted vibes, y'know?”

“Visi hates him,” Golem murmurs. “Dude gets under her skin.”

“Why's that?”

Flambae scoffs. “That golden boy-looking bitch hates the fucking Phoenix Program. Doesn’t exactly try to fucking hide it.” He huffs out a sigh. “Whatever. I’m taking my lunch break early.” He switches to the private comms. “Robbo. Fuck do you want from Del Taco?”

Robert’s face screws up in confusion. “Come again?”

“Mm, but I haven't even come once,” Flambae purrs, and Robert rolls his eyes, but he finds himself smiling nonetheless. “But seriously. You're not having fucking Twinkies for lunch again; that's fucking pathetic. And I'm flying over Del Taco now, so. Gimme your order.”

A surprised laugh escapes Robert, and he says, “Three triple crunch tacos. Thanks, I guess. Are you this nice to all of your dispatchers?”

“Eh, only the ones that hold a knife to my throat.”

Robert stares dubiously at the three wrapped tacos that were shoved into his hands as soon as he entered the break room.

“You know lunch isn't going to get you out of that meeting today, right?”

Flambae rolls his eyes as he takes a seat at one of the tables. “You fucking got me. Can't believe you saw through my genius fucking grease-soaked bribe.” He gestures to the empty chair across from him. “What, you gonna just eat fucking standing up? Sit the fuck down, bitch.”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to call your boss ‘bitch,’” Robert says, but he sits down anyway and starts unwrapping the food, giving the first taco a cautious sniff before taking a bite.

Flambae scoffs. “I do what I fucking want. Bitch.”

“Yeah, trust me, I've noticed.”

It’s weird, sitting here with Flambae in such an everyday way, when he’s spent years antagonizing the guy just for the hell of it. But at the same time, it’s admittedly electrifying. Makes him feel like he’s breaking the rules in a way that being a villain never has.

So, just to chase that thrill a little more, he asks, “Speaking of, what’s your beef with Mecha-Man? I know he’s a pretty hated villain, but you seem borderline obsessed with the guy.”

“I’m not fucking obsessed,” Flambae growls, taking an angry bite of his burrito. It’s absolutely drenched in hot sauce, which doesn’t surprise Robert in the slightest. “And even if I was, I’d have good fucking reason to, alright? He’s my nemesis. We have history.”

“You sound like a bitter ex.”

“You sound like a little fucking jealous bitch.” Flambae huffs, his fingers– just the two– flex around the foil wrapper in his hand before he sets the burrito down. “You really wanna fucking know?”

“‘S why I asked.”

Flambae says nothing for a moment, clearly contemplating his options. Finally he says, “I was– back when I was a villain, I fought Mecha-Man.”

“So? You seem to do that a lot.”

Flambae scoffs humorlessly, his eyes shifting to the side as his brow furrows, and for a moment, Robert feels… guilty.

“It was different,” Flambae says, quieter than before. “I wasn’t– I was on a fucking path of self-destruction, and ended up robbing the same fucking bank as him. Little bitch couldn’t just fuck off and find a different one; no, he thought he was fucking entitled to that one, so. We fought.”

Flambae raises his hand, the one that always draws Robert’s focus like a honing beacon, and something in Robert’s chest clenches painfully. So sharply that he’s hit with a wave of nausea, and he sets his food down, too.

“He cut my fingers off. And– the fucking thing is, I kinda get it. I’m still fucking pissed about it, but… I was going all out, trying to burn him into a puddle of melted fucking metal. Guess he didn't really have a choice.”

“I’m– I’m sorry, Flambae,” Robert says tentatively, meaning it more than the hero will ever understand.

Because the truth is, Robert has always felt a bit ashamed about that, especially when Flambae managed to actually redeem himself, and started seeking Mecha-Man out like a rabid dog with a favorite toy. Their first few fights were serious, fueled by bitterness and vengeance, but it wasn’t long before something… changed. They became the nemeses they are now, who thrive off of a snark-filled rivalry that feels more like a game than anything.

Flambae waves that same hand dismissively. “Fuck off. It’s– whatever. Because at the end of the fucking day, if Mecha-Dick hadn’t beaten my ass so bad I ended up in jail, I never would have joined the Phoenix Program. So in a weird, stupid, complicated fucking way, I kinda owe him, y’know?”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Besides,” Flambae says, that cocky demeanor coming back in full force, “I’ll be the one to beat that robo-bitch and throw his ass in jail. It’ll be, eh, poetic justice.”

Robert smirks, that tight feeling in his chest slowly loosening as he unwraps his second taco. “You know, call me crazy, but I actually believe you, Flambae. I'm sure you'll get him eventually.” He sniffs the food again before eating.

After a moment, Flambae nods at the taco, frowning slightly. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“The– smelling thing. You got fucking OCD or something? No shame. Visi is ADD as fuck.”

Robert swallows his bite, but the lump in his throat remains. After a moment, he says, “I can’t delve into my background too much. Confidential bullshit, y’know. For legal reasons, it has to stay that way.”

Flambae rolls his eyes. “You’re so fucking mysterious; I get it. You wanna get to the fucking point?”

“I’ve been poisoned before,” Robert replies, and Flambae’s eyes widen. “More than once.”

Shroud tried plenty of methods to get rid of Robert, back when he was after the Astral Pulse. Poison was just one of them, but it happened enough that he’s still cautious to this day.

“Fuck,” Flambae breathes. “You fucking serious?”

Robert shrugs. “I’ve had an exciting life.”

“Yeah, between that and the fucking knife to my throat, I'm picking up on that.”

“What, like you didn't like it?” Robert says, smirking, and Flambae grins back. He looks at Robert in a way that makes him feel like he’s under a microscope, that Flambae is actually seeing him, and is fascinated by the results.

“What can I say,” Flambae drawls, with a confident grin that probably does numbers at a gay bar. “I got a thing for feral bitches.”

“Yeah,” Robert says, ignoring that fluttering spark that ignites within him, that feeling of walking on a tightrope over an open fire. “I’m picking up on that.”

The second shift goes fine, ultimately uneventful, but drags on until it’s finally time for Robert to summon the Z-Team into the conference room.

The meeting goes as well as it can, for an improvised ploy that’s meant to just buy time. Robert rattles off a monologue about potential, synergy, all the corporate team-building jargon that has Blazer smiling widely, and the Z-Team rolling their eyes. He only has to drag it out for about ten minutes before his phone vibrates in his pocket, meaning Chase got what they needed.

“Alright. Thank you for your oh-so-valuable time,” Robert says as the team stands from their chairs. “It was nice finally meeting all of you.”

“You’ve been in our ears for two fucking days now, Boberto,” Sonar groans. “This could have been an email. All I'm saying.”

As the room starts to clear out, Robert checks his messages.

> got ur shit

> ima start going thru it at the mecha lair

> and order a new treadmill already, robin hood

Robert snorts, slipping his phone back into his pocket, and leaves the empty conference room.

There’s a slight breeze when Robert steps outside of the SDN building. The sky is a mesmerizing mix of blue fading to orange. There isn’t a soul in sight.

Robert takes a deep breath in, and lets it out shakily as he reaches for a cigarette. Not the best coping mechanism, but he feels… antsy, like a live wire, like a dark cloud is hanging overhead.

This is all verging on getting too complicated. Chase is involved now, in something he’s too good to be wrapped up in, even if he seems all too eager to participate. And Flambae– Robert’s playing with fire, figuratively and literally. They had lunch together. This was supposed to be fun, just a gratifying distraction from everything that’s inevitably going to unfold with Shroud. And Robert feels– almost like he wants–

“Need a light, Bob-Bob?”

Robert turns to see Flambae sauntering up to him, and– fuck, he’s out of the uniform. His hair is down, framing his face with loose locks that cascade down his shoulders, and he’s just in a red v-neck tee with black jeans. He looks normal. He looks… good.

Before Robert can reply, the hero holds a finger out and lights the cigarette with a small, bright flame.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Robert says. “Until you opened your mouth and set something on fire, that is.”

Flambae rolls his eyes. “My niece has a dance recital. Some of us have lives outside of this hero shit, y’know.” He smirks, looking down at Robert with those vibrant orange eyes. “You should try it sometime. Have some fucking fun.”

“You’d be surprised,” Robert says. “I’m actually very good at having fun, when the time calls for it.”

Flambae hums lowly, giving Robert a once over, before brushing past him. “See you tomorrow, Robert.”

Smoke fills Robert’s lungs as he watches Flambae walk through the parking lot, get into his graffitied car, and finally drive away. This new dynamic of theirs… it’s more fun than he’d like to admit. And that’s fucking dangerous, and insanely stupid.

His conflicting thoughts are still rattling around in his tired mind when his phone goes off, and Robert checks the new message from Chase.

> yo. we got a fuckin problem.

Chapter Text

Robert makes it to the hideout– the Mecha-Lair, as Chase has been calling it, and Waterboard quickly adopted as well– in record time. If he drives twenty over the speed limit and runs a few red lights, well. He's a villain. Following the law hasn't been his forte for a long while now, anyway.

He rushes into the workshop, where Chase and Waterboard are already waiting by the computers.

“What did you find?” Robert asks, setting his bag down as his eyes lock onto the screens.

Chase makes a disgruntled old man noise as he hunches over the keyboard. “A familiar name popped up in the files of potential Red Ring associates. They checked it out, as legally as they could, but nothing came up.” He starts typing away at the main computer. “However, I'm now on the team that doesn't give a flying fuck about legality, so I went digging a little deeper, and take a look at these schematics they've been working on.”

Chase pulls up some blueprints, ones that Robert has unfortunately seen before. “Lightningstruck,” he murmurs. “Those look like his gauntlets. But–”

“Way fucking deadlier, yep,” Chase confirms. “And we've got this asshole to blame.”

A picture of a cocky-looking asshole with slicked-back hair appears on the screen. “This is Edward Bryce. As of two months ago, he’s the new CEO of Hammer Dynamics, the largest arms manufacturer in the tri-state area. He was funding heavy weapons overseas a while back, but it was off the books. We always suspected he had connections with the Red Ring, but a stupid amount of fucking rich-people money and a lack of hard evidence kept him out of jail.”

“And SDN just… doesn't care about it?” Robert grits out, his jaw tightening.

“Hammer Dynamics got a ten-year contract,” Chase mutters. “Carries over even if the company changes leadership. Told SDN a thousand fucking times we need to adjust that fucking clause, but no one ever listens to a fucking old man.”

He sighs quietly, turning to Robert. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but– this guy is bad fucking news, Robert. Heavy arms dealing ain’t even half of what he’s got on his rap sheet. Think it might be one of your cases for… alternative justice.”

“You think I should kill him,” Robert says, taken aback. Waterboard looks away awkwardly, but Chase keeps his gaze firm, his gray brows furrowed deeply.

“I don’t think we should have to kill anyone,” Chase says carefully, “but I think it would take a lot of fucking money and solid evidence to put this shitbag away, and I just don’t see that happening. He’s about to give Shroud a whole fucking mess of weapons that the motherfucker absolutely does not need. Now, we can destroy all of the schematics in his system with a nasty fucking virus, but that doesn’t get rid of the core problem.”

“Right,” Robert says quietly. Then he heads towards the Mecha suit, and starts changing into his uniform. “Time for some alternative justice, then. Send me the virus as soon as you can. And Herm, get Chase hooked up to our comm links in case this goes sideways.”

“Y-yes sir– Robert. I’m on it!” Waterboard says, already scurrying away as Robert tugs his mask on.

Chase follows Robert, as quickly as he can without the augmented suit. “You’re going now?”

Flambae and Z-Team won’t be able to get involved if I go now, Robert wants to say as he climbs into the suit, but instead he replies, “No time like the present.”

The latch hisses shut, and he takes off.

Hammer Dynamics is a massive building, but the heat signatures are thankfully low at this time of the evening, and he’s able to hone in on Bryce, alone in the CEO office, in just a few minutes.

Robert flies straight through the bulletproof glass, making the building shake as Bryce nearly falls out of his chair in shock. But he quickly schools his expression, feigning boredom and arrogance, as he brushes shards of glass off his pristine suit.

“Mecha-Man,” Bryce sighs, reaching a hand under the desk. “I had a feeling you–”

Robert fires a single plasma shot, and Bryce’s words cut off with a wet squelch as his head erupts into a spray of splattered flesh and bone.

The virus only takes a few minutes to upload into their mainframe, and it isn’t long before all schematics designed for the Red Ring are destroyed.

“Done,” Robert says into the comms as he flies out of the improvised exit. “I’m on my way b–”

A blast of pure energy sends the Mecha suit flying back, slamming into a nearby building and rattling Robert against the controls. When the debris and dust clears, his system locks in on a floating figure nearby, and Robert realizes he recognizes them.

Iron Titan. He’s heard of the guy through the news over the past few years, and did a brief search on him after the Z-Team voiced their unanimous distaste of him. Super strength, flight, energy attacks, the boring-ass basics. The guy is tall, like every other fucking superhero seems to be, in a silver suit with gold accents that resembles modernized medieval armor. His impeccable blond hair flows in the wind, and he’s smiling with confidence as he watches Robert remove himself from the Mecha-Man-shaped dent in the building he was blasted into.

Ultimately, the guy looks like a fucking douchebag.

“At last we meet, Mecha-Man,” he bellows, his hands glowing bright as he charges up another energy attack. “I’ve been waiting–”

“Holy shit, did you really just say that?” Robert can’t help but laugh. “That’s so fucking corny. Are you here to fight for truth and justice, too? Is this for the greater good? Does my reign of terror stop here?”

That arrogant smile quickly shifts to an unamused scowl. “Are you done–”

“No, wait, I’ve got one more.” Robert raises his fist, charging a plasma beam. “By the power of the moon, get fucked.”

Boom. A massive blast hits Titan, exploding on impact and sending him flying through the air as Robert moves to higher ground. Titan roars as he shoots up to try a close-range attack, but his agility is nothing on Flambae's, so Robert dodges it with practiced ease before blocking his next energy blast with his plasma shield. Then, when Titan gets close enough, Robert slams him with the shield at full force, knocking the wind out of the hero and sending him soaring back into the open air.

Titan pants as he floats back up, his face screwed in fury, until he cracks an annoyingly smug smile. “You're a better fighter than I thought. All those silly battles with that pathetic excuse for a superhero team led me to believe you were just a joke who got lucky a few times. But don't think that–”

“C’mon, man,” Robert cuts him off as he flies out of the way of a superpowered punch. “That Bryce guy was a piece of shit. Pretty sure no one with virtuous intent is gonna miss him, so is wasting my time with this uninspired fight really necessary?”

“Sorry, I'm sure you were expecting your little flamer friend,” Titan growls, saying the word with a particularly nasty tone that has Robert gritting his teeth. Because Robert will taunt Flambae all day, call him silly names just to see his fists fire up, but that's clearly not what Titan fucking means. “But you just killed one of our most high-profile clients. They like to send the big guns for that.”

“This is the ‘big guns?’ Really? One lame-ass ren-fair larper with Ken doll hair?”

Titan grins viciously. “What makes you think I’m alone?”

Before Robert can process that, something grabs the foot of the suit and hauls it down at superhuman speeds, crashing Mecha-Man into the street below with a deafening boom.

As the systems reboot, Robert strains to see through the dust surrounding him, until finally a figure comes into view–

Phenomaman.

Fuck. This might actually be a problem.

The Mecha suit rises back up, luckily undamaged for the most part, as the predictive combat system reboots and prepares for a much tougher fight.

But Phenomaman– he just watches, seemingly just as despondent as he was on the news this morning. Now that he's up close, Robert can see that the hero’s eyes are red and empty, with deep bags weighing them down to match his hunched posture. The guy looks… rough. Downright depressed, even as he slowly walks over to a street light, wrapping his arms around the massive pole to effortlessly rip it out of the ground and–

Oh, shit.

Robert quickly shoots up into the air to dodge the swinging pole that just barely misses him.

An alert in the corner of the screen goes off, and Robert flies to the left to avoid Titan as he shoots down to attack, firing off blasts of energy that Robert blocks with his shield as fast as he can. Another warning for a flying projectile rings out, and Robert quickly enables the jet boosters to fly back before the thrown lamp post crashes into him.

“Stop pussying around, you fucking moron!” Titan barks at Phenomaman, darting low through the air to chase Mecha-Man. “Crush him into the fucking ground–!”

With a blur of black and blue, Titan disappears in a split second, and then a loud crash echoes through the streets. Robert turns the suit to see–

Warp Speed, standing tall and confident as he takes a defensive pose against Titan. The hero is a crumpled mess on the ground, having been thrown at supersonic speeds into the concrete wall of an abandoned warehouse. 

“Team Mecha, at your fucking service,” Chase declares, his voice disguised with a modulator in the sleek, aerodynamic helmet.

Even Phenomaman seems surprised, simply watching the new events unfold in front of him. As Titan gets back to his feet, grinding his teeth and clutching his side, he grits out, “A speedster. How fucking original. But that's not enough to stop–”

A massive wave of rushing water crashes down into the street of the battle, and Waterboard skids to a stop next to Chase, unsettling as always in his towering, dripping stature and eerie mask.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” Robert says, grinning in the suit. “Went kinda quiet at the end, there. Not gonna finish your one-liner?”

Titan laughs, but it's shaky, nervous, and there's just the slightest hint of fear in his wide eyes. “What, you think I'm intimidated by your fucking orca on legs–”

A violent torrent of water shoots him in the face like a jet stream, leaving him a sputtering mess as he crashes into a nearby bus shelter. Titan stays collapsed on the dented metal bench with a dazed look, his nose bleeding and crooked, and he stumbles to regain his footing.

That seems to snap Phenomaman back into action, and he charges at Mecha-Man, leading with his fist to try and plow it straight through the metal. Robert shoots up into the sky, firing plasma discs that barely even stun the hero pursuing him. Down below, Titan locks back in and roars as he shoots energy blasts at Chase, getting even angrier when they're easily dodged.

“Go!” Chase yells, jerking his head up at Robert as Waterboard sends a vicious wave at Titan. “We got the Iron Asshole! You try to lose Phenomaman!”

For a moment, Robert hesitates, apprehensive about leaving his two friends alone in a battle. But it seems like they're in their element, working together to fight Titan like a flawlessly efficient team.

So Robert takes off, leading Phenomaman away from the fight, and prepares his systems for a much more difficult one.

Mecha-Man lands in an empty lot away from the city, ensuring no possible damage to property or civilians as Phenomaman dives down to attack.

The ground crumbles under the impact of Phenomaman’s crash as Robert leaps back, activating his plasma blade and shield for a melee brawl.

Phenomaman swings an elbow out, catching the shield so harshly that it rattles the Mecha suit, and doesn't even flinch when the plasma sword strikes his side. The hero just looks as dead inside as before, possibly from boredom due to lack of a real challenge, but honestly he just looks– depressed. Even his next lunge is half-hearted, and Robert is able to slam the shield against him, using the leverage to send him stumbling back.

This isn't something that Robert is used to. He almost feels bad about continuing this fight, for some reason, and not just because he's starting to get the upper hand. It's because his foe seemingly doesn't even want to do it, to put the effort in. Like he's just going through the motions.

Phenomaman stops for a moment like he's recharging, lifelessly lifting his fists back up, but– the undeniable turmoil in his eyes, the way he stands like a mere robot following commands, the hesitation for the next strike… 

Robert can't find it in himself to make the first move, because it feels like kicking a dog that's already lost all hope.

“Hey,” he says carefully, “do you… wanna take a break?”

Phenomaman stares at him wearily, his fists still raised, and after a moment he says, “I am supposed to subdue you into surrendering.”

“Doesn’t really seem like you want to, though.”

Phenomaman pauses. “Iron Titan will be displeased,” he says, but his stance just barely slacks, like he's conflicted.

Robert’s lips twist into a grim line. “Please don't smash me into scrap metal for saying it, but… Iron Titan is kind of a fucking asshole.”

There's another moment of tense silence, but then Phenomaman collapses to the ground, lying back on the concrete with his eyes on the sky. “A break. That does sound nice.”

Robert cautiously lowers his guard, stepping closer to the superhero currently in shambles. “Do you… wanna talk about it?”

Phenomaman is quiet for another moment, but to Robert’s surprise, he says, “You are correct, about Iron Titan. He does not care for me. But he is confident, and motivated, whereas I am not. So SDN thought it best to have him team up with me.”

“That sucks. I'm sorry,” Robert says honestly. “Is that all there is to it?”

The hero sighs. “I am… tired, Mecha-Man.”

Robert hums, the vibrations barely registering in his voice modulator. “I know that feeling. What are you tired of?”

“All of it,” Phenomaman murmurs. “Working as a hero was once the only thing that motivated me. It is… what I am good at. What I am good for.”

“Does it make you happy?”

“It did, once,” Phenomaman says.

“But now?”

Phenomaman sighs again, his red-rimmed eyes fixed on the sky like it might hold the answers to his turmoil. “No,” he replies eventually. “No, not for a very long time.”

Robert’s chest aches uncomfortably, all too familiar with that feeling: that being a hero isn't what it says on the label. It doesn't automatically come with that sense of achievement, that sugarcoated gratification that makes it all 'worth it.'

“Sounds like you're burnt out, man.”

Phenomaman lazily turns his head to face the suit. “I am currently not on fire. Truthfully, to me, blazes are merely… ticklish.”

Robert barks out a laugh, and something in Phenomaman’s eyes softens. “I mean you're, like… emotionally exhausted. Prolonged stress can make you feel cynical. Depleted. Even depressed.”

Those tired, red eyes shine with something guardedly hopeful. “You speak as if you have dealt with it yourself.”

Robert shrugs, even if he can't see it. “That's because I have.”

“How did you fix it?”

I stopped being a hero. I stopped trying to see the good in everything, Robert thinks.

Then, much more pettily, I started fighting a hot, flaming asshole on a weekly basis.

“I changed,” Robert says instead. “I found what makes me happy.”

Those sad, bushy brows screw together in confusion. “I do not know what makes me happy.”

“Well.” Robert thinks of stealing from corrupt assholes, and giving the money to people who actually need it. Of eating late dinners with Waterboard over forgotten villainous plans, while Beef successfully begs for scraps. Of flying through the night sky with a trail of bitchy flames hot on his heels. “Maybe you should look for it.”

Phenomaman says nothing, turning his head back up to the sky, his expression completely unreadable.

Then he shoots up to his feet, so suddenly that Robert backs the suit up and worries he just accidentally talked the guy into another fight. But then he looks at Robert, with something akin to optimism in his tired eyes, and says, “You are right.”

Then he pulls his phone out, sends a quick text, and hurls it at the ground, reducing it to smithereens and leaving an impressive dent in the pavement. And then– he smiles. “Thank you, Mecha-Man.”

“Uh. Sure,” Robert says. “What was that?”

“I have resigned from SDN, effective immediately,” Phenomaman announces, completely unaware of how Robert is balking in utter shock. “I am tired of not being happy. This will be a new mission for me, one that I am eager to fulfill.”

“Um.”

Phenomaman nods, mostly to himself, and looks up at the helmet of the Mecha suit with determination. “You are not as bad as they say, Mecha-Man. I hope we will cross paths again. Goodbye.”

He takes off into the sky, leaving Robert to wonder what the fuck just happened, before he bursts out into laughter.

Chase and Waterboard are already at the Mecha-Lair, as Robert has begrudgingly agreed to call it, when he returns with four pizzas an hour later. Chase is still in his Warp Speed suit sans helmet, but Waterboard has thankfully removed his mask already.

“Wow, they're really fucking splurging on delivery methods nowadays,” Chase jokes as he takes the boxes, and Robert rolls his eyes as he exits the Mecha suit.

“I take it the fight with Titan went okay?”

“Yeah. Little bitch flew away all soggy and bitter as fuck.” Chase shrugs, setting the pizzas down and flipping one of the boxes open. “Chump shit. It's a fucking wonder that he's ranked as fucking high as he is.”

“A-are you okay?” Waterboard asks, his eyes scanning Robert like he's looking for injuries. “We were sca– worried, about you and Phenomenam– Phenona– Phenomaman.”

“Relax,” Robert laughs. “It's a hard name. And yeah, it went… surprisingly well. Weird, but–”

An alert rings out on his computer, glowing red with a warning flashing on the screen, and Robert freezes.

“The fuck is that?” Chase asks, dropping his slice and moving to the computer with Robert.

“S-someone’s here!” Waterboard stammers, going to grab his mask and fumbling to slip the goggles on. “At the, the entrance; it's an intruder alarm– alert–”

“Don't panic yet,” Robert says, even if he's privately feeling very fucking panicked as he quickly goes to pull up the security cameras. “It could just be a deer, or some local kids fucking around– what the fuck?”

It's neither of those things. Chase squints at the monitor, grabbing the glasses hanging from his neck– admittedly a hilarious look, paired with the suit– and slips them on. “Hold the fuck up. Is that fucking…?”

“A-are we in trouble?” Waterboard squeaks at the sight of the security feed. “We’re– oh, God, we're so– we're screwed, right–?”

“Not sure yet,” Robert mutters, staring at the screen for one more moment before turning around and heading to the elevator.

“Robert,” Chase barks, “you're not fucking seriously–”

“Just be ready for anything,” Robert hollers back as the doors slide closed, and he heads up to face whatever the fuck is happening.

It’s only when he gets to the secret entrance of the tunnel that he realizes he forgot to put his fucking mask back on, and sighs wearily.

Robert watches the security feed on the overhead screen for one more contemplative moment, before muttering, “Fuck it,” and switching the outdoor microphone on.

“...Yes?” is the only thing he can think of to say.

Phenomaman looks up at the security camera, looking much like a lost dog. “I am here to speak to Mecha-Man,” he says, and Robert chokes his own breath. “We conversed earlier, after a lengthy battle.”

“Uh.”

“Are you his butler? I have been led to believe that superpowered millionaires often have butlers.”

“Wh–” Robert huffs out a sigh, pinching the space between his brow as he weighs his options. He settles on asking, “Why would you think he’s here?”

“I followed him,” Phenomaman states simply. “It was slightly difficult, with the lights on his armor turned off, but my eyesight is far more impeccable than that of a human’s, so I know he stopped here. May I speak with him?”

Robert worries his bottom lip, because– this is fucking insane. It could be a trap. SDN could be right around the corner, ready to–

Except. Phenomaman’s whole thing is that he's naive, and awkward, and left adrift in a world that isn't his own. And Robert’s whole thing is potential. It’s clear that SDN saw this powerhouse of an alien man’s potential, and wrung it dry until it left… this sad, pitiful man, who is lost in many ways, but found his way here.

Robert makes a decision. “Come on in.” He hits the buzzer, and the door opens.

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

Robert sighs. “I know–”

“No, seriously, did you get banged around in your fucking suit so fucking hard that you lost every fucking self-preserving brain cell in your fucking head?”

After another heaving sigh, and rubbing his eyes so hard he sees spots, Robert gestures to Phenomaman. “Look, he quit SDN.”

“I-it is already all over the, um, the news,” Waterboard says, scrolling through his waterproof phone and showing it to an extremely disgruntled Chase. “People are, uh– SDN made a-an official statement.”

Chase glances over the phone, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Huh. Well, I'll be damned.” He looks up at Phenomaman. “So, no offense, but what the fuck are you doing here?”

It's quiet for a moment, between Chase’s accusatory stare and Waterboard’s nervous fiddling, but Robert just waits, trying to convey as much patient goodwill as he can.

“After my discussion with Mecha-Man, I came to realize that I do not know how to be happy,” Phenomaman finally says. “It is a long-lost concept to me, and I do not know how to achieve it.”

Waterboard winces in sympathy. “Well–”

“But your allies…” Phenomaman says to Robert, gesturing to Chase and Waterboard, and then to Beef as an afterthought. “They seem happy to work with you. And the conversation we shared… it made me happier than I have been in a very long time.” He looks around the workshop, unaware of the mixed expressions aimed at him. Consideration from Robert. Utter shock from Chase. Tentative glee from Waterboard. And the look of an absolute lack of any thoughts whatsoever from Beef.

“I would like to stay here,” Phenomaman declares, looking down at Robert with determination, “if that is amenable to you. Truthfully, I am unsure of where else to go.”

“You want to be a fucking villain?” Chase blurts out, looking moments away from a stroke. “I really don’t fucking see that ending well for anyone–”

“No,” Phenomaman says quickly. “I do not want to… engage in those sorts of combative activities anymore, for either side. I would like for today’s battle to be my last. But I can help in other ways, however you see fit. I am exceptionally strong, and have been told I have something called a ‘massive dumptruck’–”

“Jesus,” Robert laughs, dragging a hand over his face. This past week has been an absolute clusterfuck, and has thrown so many curveballs at him, but… he can’t deny that, so far, it’s all worked out. It’s got him feeling uncharacteristically optimistic.

“Robert.” Chase glares at him. “I know that fucking look. You’re not seriously considering–”

“I think I am,” Robert says, and looks back up at Phenomaman. “Fuck it. Sure. Welcome to Team Mecha.”

And Phenomaman beams at that, his face lighting up in a way that warms Robert’s cynical heart. “Phemomenal!”

“Wh– did he just fuck up his own fucking catchphrase?”

Robert waves a hand at Chase dismissively. “Just roll with it. It’s easier that way.” He pats their new ally on his massive, muscled shoulder. “C’mon and grab some pizza, big guy.”

Chapter Text

SDN is rife with gossip in hushed tones when Robert arrives at work the next day. It's no surprise. The resignation and subsequent disappearance of Phenomaman has taken over all the news reports, tabloids, and the majority of Twitter.

When Robert hops onto the comms, the Z-Team has no concept of professional subtleties, and their chatter is already overlapping with theories and rumors, which also is no surprise whatsoever.

“–heard he took his pension and went to live on a tropical beach,” Sonar is saying. “Hot babes and piña coladas galore. What a fucking legend.”

“Yeah, right,” Punch-Up says. “Mecha-Man probably convinced him to go back to his own planet. ‘S easier than constantly looking over your shoulder for a giant fecking alien that's losing his marbles.”

Coupé hums. “Mecha-Man recently employed a new sidekick. Perhaps he convinced Phenomaman to also join forces with them.”

“Don't even joke,” Sonar says seriously. “My ego can't take another hit.”

“Good morning, team,” Robert says, loudly and pointedly. “Hope you're all ready to do your jobs, without any pointless distractions, like professionals–”

“Oh, fuck off, dude,” Visi laughs. “You seriously aren’t wondering what the fuck happened yesterday? Phenomaman quit. He was the fucking poster boy of SDN for years, and he ghosted them like an ugly Tinder date!”

“People retire,” Robert deadpans. “It happens.”

“This weren’t retirement,” Punch-Up says. “The guy chased Mecha-Man for a brawl, and disappeared from the face of the Earth ten minutes later!”

“Bet he’s at a strip club,” Golem grunts.

Visi snorts. “For twelve hours straight? What, like he was secretly some horndog casanova?”

“Gang gang.”

“Alright, enough,” Robert sighs as his computer chimes. There’s already several missions to start the shift off, way more than usual, and– fuck. After a moment he realizes it’s probably because Phenomaman is gone, and all of the assignments are falling onto other teams now, which means his day job is about to get a lot more hectic. He starts sending the team off around the city. “We’re already getting calls. Let’s focus, alright? Plenty of time for asinine theories after–”

“Who says we can’t gossip while we work?” Prism interrupts. “Someone on Twitter said he hopped onto OnlyFans. I checked out the profile, and it does kinda look like him…”

“No shit?” Flambae says. “Good for him. Send me the link.”

Robert sighs wearily.

All things considered, the Z-Team does exceptionally well with the extra assignments. A drug bust here, protection for the governor of California there. Punch-Up and Coupé get to shut down an underground fighting tournament, Sonar and Prism do an interview about the mysterious resignation of Phenomaman, and Malevola breaks up a bar fight.

Flambae finishes his bomb threat assignment in record time, and Robert finds himself smirking. “Wow, you're on fire.”

“Oh, this?” Flambae purrs. “I'm just getting warmed up.”

“Jesus,” Visi snorts. “Mecha-Man fights one hero that isn't you, and you start flirting with Robert instead?”

“So fickle,” Malevola teases.

Robert grins into his coffee mug. “Aw, is Flambae feeling fired up about Mecha-Man playing with other toys?”

Flambae growls in frustration as the comms erupt with laughter.

“All of you shut the fuck up. I'm allowed to be fucking pissed, alright? My nemesis fought someone besides me,” Flambae scoffs. “It's fucking rude. If he had just waited, I could have made it there–”

“So let me get this straight,” Robert says, “You don't care that he got Phenomaman to quit–”

“To possibly elope with Mecha-Man,” Coupé murmurs.

“–but you are actually mad that he fought someone else?”

“Look, one time I asked Phenomaman how he was doing, just to be fucking nice, and he said he wanted to fly into the fucking sun so he could stop having feelings,” Flambae says. “I'm sure him and his massive dumptruck are a lot fucking happier wherever they are now.”

“Probably cradled in Mecha-Man’s arms–”

“Shut the fuck up, Coop!”

When it hits lunchtime, Robert is halfway to the elevator, rounding the corner when he fully collides with a firm chest, and a warm hand wraps around his bicep to keep him from stumbling back.

“Careful, Bob-Bob.” Flambae smirks down at him. “Where’re you off to in such a fucking hurry?”

Making sure my lair isn’t a total mess from the three stray supers I’ve somehow recruited.

“Gotta walk my dog,” Robert replies, and he doesn’t comment on how that hand stays on his arm for far longer than it needs to. “I’ll be back in time for our second shift. Don’t get your leotard in a twist.”

“You have a dog?” Flambae raises an eyebrow. “You’re responsible for a living creature?”

“A chihuahua with one active brain cell is a piece of cake compared to the team of superpowered toddlers I’m in charge of.”

“Haha. You’re so fucking funny. Little bitch.” Flambae finally lets him go, smiling cockily one more time. “Guess we’ll just have to get lunch tomorrow, then. See you later, Robbo.”

He brushes past Robert, radiating heat that seeps into Robert’s bones even as the hero disappears down the hall.

Robert insists to himself that it’s the fire powers making him blush as he steps into the thankfully empty elevator.

The Mecha Lair is more lively than it’s ever been when Robert enters the workshop.

Waterboard and Chase are conversing over what’s basically become the community dining table, while Phenomaman is sprawled on the couch, intently watching whatever’s on the television. The former hero looks nearly unrecognizable out of his uniform, instead wearing Hello Kitty pajama pants and a dark red bathrobe. Where the hell he got it from, Robert isn’t sure, but he’s got a feeling Chase is behind it.

“R-Robert! You’re back!” Waterboard exclaims, hopping out of his chair. “Is, uh– what, what's wrong? Should we–?”

“All good,” Robert says reassuringly, setting his bag down on the table. “Just came by to check on everything. It’s been a, uh, chaotic couple of days, y’know?”

Chase gives him a knowing look. “You were worried we burned down your nerd lab.”

“To be fair, it’s not outside the realm of possibilities.”

Waterboard looks down at him, brow furrowed seriously. “Your lair– lab would never come close to burning down on me– my watch.”

“No worries, buddy.” Robert pats his shoulder, and manages not to wince at how wet his hand gets. “Just kidding. Mostly.”

“Ah! Okay. Good.” Waterboard brightens. “Do– did you want some, um, leftovers? There’s the, the pizza from last night–”

“Sounds great. Thanks.”

Waterboard nods, always happy to help out, and heads to the kitchen area. Robert walks back over to Phenomaman, crossing his arms and smiling softly at how relaxed the guy is compared to yesterday. “How’re you feeling, big guy?

Phenomaman hums, his reddened eyes still trained on the television. “I have been watching a documentary about the Jersey Shore,” he says. “That Snooki is deceptively strong for being so small. I am curious to see what superpowers she was gifted with.”

Robert chokes on a laugh. “Well, you certainly seem to be in a better mood.”

Phenomaman grins lazily. “Chase gave me an herb to consume via a smoking apparatus. I am… content.”

Robert frowns, then after a moment, whips his head around to Chase. “You got him high?”

“Oh, don't give me that shit! He was being a fucking downer.”

“You gave SDN’s poster boy weed,” Robert deadpans. “He's watching MTV.”

“Yeah,” Chase scoffs, “and look at him. Happy as a high-ass fucking clam. Shit, maybe you should go hit the fucking bowl, too. Acting like such a fucking square. Chill the fuck out.”

“I like Froot Loops,” Phenomaman murmurs as he examines a piece of cereal in the light. “So colorful. So artificially delicious.”

Robert groans into his hands. “I am running the worst villain league in the fucking world.”

Robert makes it back to SDN with twenty minutes to spare, and heads straight to the break room so he can make a fresh pot of coffee.

Honestly, he’s looking forward to the next shift. The Z-Team has proven to be surprisingly competent, even when they’re being disruptive assholes. Plus pushing Flambae’s buttons has been exceptionally entertaining today. He’s already thinking of new, exciting ways to rile the firestarter up.

But as he’s making his way down the hall, he hears loud, angry voices coming from the break room. It almost sounds like a fight is about to break out, and he quickly shoves the door open.

He really isn’t expecting to find Flambae and Iron Titan alone in the room, right in each other’s faces and practically screaming at each other, looking moments away from powering up and attacking. Neither of them notice Robert, even as he tosses his bag on one of the tables and strides up to them.

“–your fucking problem is!” Flambae yells, his orange eyes blazing furiously.

“I’m just saying, it’s pretty convenient that you always manage to find Mecha-Man first, and never come out of it with so much as a scratch!” Titan spits out. His nose is still a satisfying broken mess from yesterday, crooked and darkly bruised, but he’s glaring at Flambae like he’s the one that broke it, like he’s thinking of doing the same to him. Robert bristles with muted fury at that, and he quietly steps closer as the men continue to bark at each other like rabid dogs.

“Just because you’re too much of a weak little fucking bitch to handle a real fight–”

“Sorry that I’m not butt buddies with that asshole like you are–”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“Why don’t you try and make me, you flaming fucking fa–”

And that’s enough for Robert to firmly grab Titan by the metal shoulder of his ugly-ass armor, jerking him harshly until the guy whips around.

Flambae’s angry expression falters when he notices who interrupted them. “Robert, what the fuck are you–”

Titan scoffs, glancing at Robert’s standard office drone shirt before staring down at him, oozing arrogance and condescension. “You must be this idiot’s new dispa–”

The firm, solid heel of Robert’s palm smacks into Titan’s broken nose.

Titan pathetically roars in pain, ducking down as he cradles his face and bellows, “Motherfucker!”

Robert takes the opportunity to kick Titan’s legs out from under him, sending him to his knees with a harsh crack of metal against tile, and when Titan’s hands fly out to catch himself from falling completely, Robert stomps a foot down on his fingers to keep him pinned. Then he sinks two fingers into Titan’s bleeding nostrils and yanks his head up.

“What the fuck–!”

“Shut up,” Robert grits out, tugging him closer just to hear the asshole whimper. “You’re gonna stop fucking with my team. Clearly you managed to rise in the ranks out of sheer dumb luck, and it seems like it's starting to wear out. You couldn't keep Phenomaman in line, and word around the office is that you got your shit wrecked by sidekicks. Now I've got you on your knees, and I'm just a human. So stay in your fucking lane.”

Robert shoves him back, sending Titan clattering against the floor as the hero seethes, clutching his re-broken nose as blood pours out of it and down his stupid fucking armor.

When he gets to his feet, Titan growls at Robert, nasally and wet, “I could end you with one fucking hit–”

A hand whips out from behind him, and a shadowy blade is pressed against his jugular. “You'd die before you even get close,” Coupé promises, her eyes dark and deadly.

Behind her, Punch-Up and Sonar stare at Titan with matching looks of subdued malice. Robert didn't even notice them come in, but the threat seems to be enough for Titan, because he holds his hands up in begrudging surrender. Coupé retracts her knife, backing away just enough for Titan to stumble away from them.

“What a fucking joke,” he grunts as he heads to the door. “Throw a bullshit name on it all you want, but you're all still–”

“Pretty sure the lady told you to fuck off,” Punch-Up says, flexing his fists. With one more seething look, Titan storms out of the room, muttering under his breath, and Robert shuts his eyes as he sighs, the tension and adrenaline finally draining away.

It’s quiet for a moment, and when he looks back up, Flambae is staring at him in awe, his brow furrowed and his lips parted.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Sonar who breaks the silence. “Shiiit, Boberto. I’d say you should be banned from the break room, since this is the second time you've gone psycho-mode on someone in here,” he says, “but that was fucking sick.”

“If you haven’t been banned for burning mice in the fucking microwave, I think Robert beating the arrogance out of that megalomaniac is hardly an issue,” Coupé says, smirking at the dispatcher with what seems to be respect before she gracefully exits the break room. Punch-Up gives Robert a firm nod before following her.

Sonar lingers for a moment, then chops the air with a flat, authoritative hand. “For the record, the mouse thing only happened twice.”

And then he's gone, too, leaving just Robert and Flambae alone in the room. The energy is weirdly tense, almost electric, and Robert turns away to wash the douchebag blood off his hand.

“You didn't have to do that,” Flambae says quietly.

Robert shrugs as he dries his hands. “Seems like he had it coming. I haven't heard great things about the guy, but talk about a hell of a first impression.”

“Robert.”

With a sigh, he turns around. Flambae has moved intimately closer, and their eyes lock, neither of them making a move to look away. Robert is hyperaware of how the heat emitting from him feels like it’s searing into his skin.

“You are… really something fucking else, you know that?” Flambae says, cocking his head like he's trying to solve a puzzle, and that is absolutely the last thing that Robert needs right now.

“My therapist says it’s a combination of impulsive self-destruction, and the fact that my father never really loved me.” He doesn’t have a therapist.

Finally, Flambae cracks a smile. “Thanks. You feral little bitch.”

Robert relaxes, tilting his head as he smiles back. “Always happy to threaten someone, Flambae.” He nods at the door. “You better get going. Our shift starts soon.”

“Hm.” Those orange eyes flit over Robert’s face, then move their way down, like he’s taking note of every little detail before looking back up to meet Robert’s gaze. “Looking forward to it.”

And then with one more lingering look, he's out the door, and Robert is left with a smear of blood on the floor, a pot of hours-old coffee, and a horrible fluttering feeling in his stomach that he’s quick to smother with a Twinkie or three.

The second shift goes… fine. None of the missions are out of the ordinary. Everyone does their jobs with minimal error. The only thing is–

Flambae is flirting. Hard. Like he doesn’t have a subtle bone in his fucking body.

“Think you could handle another job, Flambae?” Robert asks when a call comes in just a block away from the hero’s current location.

Flambae hums. “I can handle whatever you give me, Robbo.”

Then later, “They said it's a high-profile client, so keep it polite and professional.”

“Ooh. And what do I get if I do?” Flambae purrs, his low voice vibrating in Robert’s ears.

And then, “Dude, seriously? No, you cannot hit the cop just because he looked at you funny.”

”Aw, it’s cute how easy it is to rile you up,” before laughing at Robert’s weary sigh.

The others think it's a riot, and only egg him on, because of course they do. Tormenting Robert, despite the fact that he's already held a knife to one of them and then smashed another hero's nose in the short time he's worked here, has quickly become one of their favorite pastimes.

By the time he clocks out, Robert feels… antsy. Restless. Like a dog that's been cooped up for too long. Maybe it's from the altercation in the break room, or the constant flirting during the second shift, or the impending doom that Shroud is planning, but it's the kind of mood that simply flying around in the suit won't fix. He needs to run this off, take it out on a punching bag, work his muscles until they’re sore and shaking.

He can’t exercise at the lair, not when he’s feeling this pent up. Waterboard will pick up on it, will want to talk about it. Chase will bully him into doing the same. Phenomaman will– honestly, he probably wouldn’t even notice, but once the others point out Robert’s Weird Mood he’ll probably have a million questions that Robert doesn’t want to answer right now.

So he heads down to the SDN gym after changing into his spare T-shirt and sweats. It’s thankfully empty. No one to see him work out his inner tension by swinging at a bag until his knuckles crack, and pushing himself on the bench press until his lungs burn too hard for him to think.

Except. There’s a chance he fucked up. Particularly when he makes it to the bench press.

The weights he starts with make him feel… good. It's a challenge, one that helps distract him from– whatever thoughts he's having right now.

But he could feel better. So he throws more on, needing to push his limits, and–

It turns out that's his limit, because his biceps are shaking, his breath cutting off with labored grunts, and the bar is heavy, dragging down further than he wants. He finds that he can't fucking lift it back up, it's about to drop to his chest and fucking–

“You need some help?”

A smug face comes into view. One that Robert was hoping not to see anymore today… until he got in the suit later and flew by the hero’s apartment just to start some shit.

“You’re not supposed to lift without a spot, idiot.” Flambae points back to the captioned SDN poster of Phenomaman, who is likely eating Oreos while watching Love Island in Robert's lair right now.

Flambae grabs the bar, his hands brushing against Robert’s, and easily lifts it off of him. “So weak. It’s adorable.”

Robert quickly sits up, his breath heaving, and manages to say, “Now I’m getting a safety lecture from a walking fireball.”

“It’s a reality check,” Flambae says, throwing several hundred pounds onto the squat rack. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself thinking you’re a hero.”

If only he knew, Robert bitterly thinks, his chest tightening uncomfortably as Flambae effortlessly drops down into a squat with the bar, and rising back up with perfect form. “Man. I am so fucking strong. It’s fucking crazy.” His suit is so tight that Robert can see every muscle flex, and that makes Robert’s heart beat even faster than when he was nearly choked out on the press.

Robert gets up from the bench and goes to get his towel hanging on the wall, needing to put space between them, but Flambae seems to feel the opposite way. He sets the bar back on the rack and strides up to Robert, full of that signature cocky bravado as he leans in so fucking close that Robert can feel the heat coming off of him in waves, melting into his skin and soothing his aching muscles, making him feel flushed and rattled and–

“No more hero stuff without supervision,” Flambae says, reaching out and patting Robert on the head– with the hand that Robert mangled. “You can’t get injured. We need you behind that desk, talking all low and sultry in our ears so we can save the day ‘n shit.” His hand drifts lower, tracing a thumb over the scar on Robert’s ear. “Besides. S’not like you need to be strong when you’re as fucking bloodthirsty and feral as you are.”

Robert swallows roughly. “If you keep staring at me like that, Flambae, I’m going to assume you want something.”

And– Flambae’s gaze darts down to Robert’s lips, lingering for a moment, before returning to his eyes. “Maybe I do. Robert.”

The air between them is heated and electric. Robert’s heart pounds like a drum against his ribcage. He can’t do this, can’t even let himself consider it, because as much teasing and flirting he does as Mecha-Man, as close as he’s getting to Flambae as Robert, it’s a terrible idea. This job, this role, is temporary, just a means to a potentially fatal end. It’ll make everything so much more complicated if he–

“Fuck it,” Robert mutters breathlessly, and grabs Flambae by his stupid fucking chiseled jawline to drag him down, crushing their lips together in a heated kiss that is immediately reciprocated.

During their first fight in the bank, villain against villain, it was fiery. Intense. Disorienting and fierce, exhilarating and addictive. Kissing Flambae is the same. The hero moans into it immediately, his hands wrapping around Robert’s waist, pulling him so close they’re flush against each other, and Robert’s arms go to wrap around his massive shoulders without a second thought.

Flambae kisses him like he needs it more than air, wet and passionate and intentional, like he wants to take Robert apart with just this, and it’s fucking working. Robert feels borderline desperate with Flambae looming over him, bending Robert into a curve and sucking on his tongue, dragging his thumbs over the jut of his hips and leaving trails of heat in their wake.

And– look. It's not like Robert hasn't done this before, with women and men. He's never really had a preference. But it's also been– fuck, nearly three years at this point, since someones touched him like this, and– a little whimper makes its way out of him, turning into a low whine as Flambae is instantly spurned on, sliding his hands fully under Robert's shirt and heating them deliciously on the small of his back.

‘You have such needy bottom energy,’ Robert said just last week, but here he is, feeling like a fucking bitch in heat just from being kissed, from being touched, and he’s so dizzy with it that he’s temped to just tug Flambae back until they hit the wall so he can wrap his legs around that stupidly muscled waist and–

“Wait,” Robert gasps out when he manages to pull away, nearly moaning again when Flambae chases his lips like he can’t fucking help it. “Wait, we can’t– not here, it’s–”

“No lube?” Flambae grins wickedly, his eyes still firmly trained on Robert’s mouth.

“We’re at fucking work,” Robert huffs, even as Flambae ducks down to suck and bite under his jaw, “where one of our teammates literally turns invisible for a living.”

“Mm,” Flambae hums, nipping at Robert’s throat one more time before pulling away. “Fair point. We’ll go to my place, then.”

Robert raises an eyebrow, his brain still . “Why–”

“Because we’ll have privacy, and lube, and a bed for me to put you on all fours and fuck you until you come on my cock.”

“Jesus,” Robert breathes, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips still brushing against Flambae’s with every word. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

Flambae has a surprisingly nice house. Warm lighting, lush ornate carpets, books and records decorating the shelves, a king-sized bed with black silk sheets. So far that’s Robert’s favorite feature, especially since he’s being pinned to them with a strong, red-hot hand on his back, moaning on his hands and knees into the lush pillows as Flambae rails him into next fucking week.

“God, look at you,” Flambae grits out, his hips snapping roughly, angling to hit Robert’s prostate with every thrust so he can feel him shake and clench around him. A thumb traces over the rim of where they’re joined, like he’s memorizing the image of Robert coming undone beneath him. “So fucking bitchy and feisty, but really you just want to be taken apart, eh? So fucking desperate for it, like you fucking need it–”

“Fuck, Flambae, please–”

“Mm, please what, baby?” Flambae murmurs, leaning down to bite at Robert’s ear and grinding deep, like he’s trying to find Robert’s fucking soul in his ass. “What do you want me to do?”

And that’s the thing, Robert doesn’t even know. Because this is so fucking good, somehow even better than all the times he imagined it, and he just– he wants–

“More,” he gasps out. “Just… more, okay, I need–”

Flambae growls, pulling out of Robert so fast that it elicits an embarrassing, broken yelp, before gripping his hips tighter to flip him over and spread him out on the sheets like he’s a meal ready to be devoured. “I know what you need, baby.”

He grabs the backs of Robert’s thighs, shoves them up and pins them against his chest, and slams back inside with one quick thrust. Robert cries out pathetically as Flambae bottoms out, over and over and over until Robert is a shaking, shuddering mess beneath him, falling so deep into the haze of pleasure that he can barely even kiss Flambae back when that sinfully hot tongue drags across his lips. Robert’s hands find their way into Flambae’s stupidly beautiful hair, clenching and tugging like it’s too much and not enough all at once, the pleasure overwhelming and all-consuming and fucking perfect.

It only takes one more rough, overwhelming roll of Flambae’s hips before Robert tumbles over the edge, his vision blurring and his ears ringing. Flambae groans loudly as he comes just seconds later, grinding deep into Robert’s warmth, his hands burning so hot that they’ll probably leave marks on Robert’s thighs.

Robert is utterly wrecked, boneless, more relaxed than he’s felt in years, and he barely even gasps as Flambae pulls out, leaving him a dripping mess on those stupid silk sheets. The hero– his fucking nemesis carefully lowers Robert’s legs, kisses down his horrifically scarred chest like he might be beautiful, and gently situates Robert so he’s practically on top of Flambae, with a tan, muscled arm draped lazily over his shoulders to keep him close.

Robert should be panicking. He should be planning how to get out of this, how to get back to square one, how he can make Flambae hate Mecha-Man to fix this mess he’s gotten himself into.

But Flambae uses a finger to tilt Robert’s chin up so he can kiss him, slow and unhurried, and Robert finds himself melting into the fucking touch. “You really are fucking adorable,” Flambae says quietly when he pulls away, “in, like. An insane, terrifying kind of way.”

“And you’re ridiculously hot,” Robert replies, “in an annoying but also very literal kind of way.”

And Flambae laughs at that, so genuinely that it makes Robert’s chest ache.

He’s so fucked. He fucked up bad. There’s no coming back from this. But he’s finding it hard to pull away when Flambae cups his cheek and kisses him again. It isn’t long before Robert’s crawling on top of him properly, sliding back down onto him with a wet, filthy sound, and riding him with slow, sinful rolls of his hips.

He’ll deal with the aftermath tomorrow. Right now he just wants this: the fantasy that they could keep doing this, that it won’t crash and burn horribly, that Flambae won’t inevitably burn him to ash when he finds out the truth of just how terrible and cruel Mecha-Man truly is.

Chapter Text

“You planned this, didn't you?”

Robert wraps his fist tighter around Flambae’s ponytail, yanking his head back to see his spine arch and his infuriatingly fat ass perk up even more as Robert slams in and out of the warmth of it. One of Flambae’s hands goes from where it’s braced in front of him to the wall beside them, knocking over one of the brooms stashed in the tiny fucking closet Flambae shoved Robert into as soon as they went on break.

Flambae gasps at the change in angle as Robert pounds right into his prostate, but he manages to say, “What, you think I brought fucking lube to work just so you could fuck me in a fucking broom closet?”

He turns his head back, grinning wickedly. “Hurry up and get me off before we're fucking late.”

Robert grits his teeth as he speeds up, thrusting harder and harder into Flambae until the closet is practically filled with steam. It’s hypnotizing, watching Flambae’s muscled back ripple with every filthy movement until Robert’s right on the edge of coming, and he only tips over when Flambae moans brokenly into the goddamn wall and clenches, sporadic and sinfully tight as he spills all over the floor.

“Fuck,” he mutters, watching Flambae shake from sensitivity underneath him as he keeps grinding in, filling Flambae up until he’s completely soft and easily slips out. “That was risky as fuck. You know that, right?”

“I know, right?” Flambae grins as he languidly straightens and turns, letting Robert watch as he grabs a clean rag to clean himself with before pulling his suit back on. “It’s hot as fuck. We should sneak around at work more.”

Robert snorts as he zips his pants back up. “I’m sure HR would love that.”

“I’ve been working here for fucking years, and I’m still convinced that the HR department is just one of those fucking bullshit suggestion boxes. Or the women’s bathroom stall on the second floor,” Flambae says. “You broke a hero’s nose and no one gave a flying fuck. Pretty sure getting your dick wet in a broom closet isn’t even on their radar.”

Before Robert can reply, Flambae leans in and kisses him roughly, biting harshly at his bottom lip before pulling away. He slides past Robert and, just before leaving, says, “By the way. You’ve got come on your shirt. Idiot.”

Robert looks down, and groans in annoyance as the door clicks shut. He can still hear Flambae snickering down the hall as he cleans their dirty, filthy, inevitably disastrous mess off as best as he can.

The Mecha-Lair is surprisingly quiet when Robert arrives after his shift. Chase is nowhere to be found, and one peek into the old storage room that has officially become Phenomaman’s bedroom shows the former hero passed out on the bed with Beef. The dog snuffles awake and perks up when he spots Robert, hopping down to greet him for pets and treats.

Robert scoops the dog up and heads over to the sofa, sitting languidly as he rubs Beef’s belly. The workshop is barely lit by just a few lamps, and there’s a few new features that have been added over the past couple of days. A stolen Phenomaman SDN poster with silly profanity written all over it; a lot more dog supplies that Chase insists is a necessity; comic books and DVDs and a new PlayStation with an array of games that have already been shuffled through.

It feels… lived-in. Homey. Comfortable in a way that Robert hasn’t felt in– honestly, ever.

He’s nearing the edge of falling asleep when the door opens, and Waterboard comes in wearing workout clothes, drying his messy hair with a spare towel.

The sidekick brightens when he sees Robert. “H-hey, you’re there– here late! How was working on, um. Work?”

Robert shrugs. “Got a few calls about evil robots today. Not sure if it’s Shroud related, but I’d put my money on most likely.” He cocks his head. “Have you been working out this whole time?”

“Um. Training,” Waterboard says, a tad awkwardly. “Wh-what with Shroud and all of– everything, I want… I want to be ready, y’know? Um, helpful. Useful.”

“You’re always useful, buddy,” Robert says honestly. “You’re one of the strongest supers I’ve ever met. Stop selling yourself short.”

Waterboard smiles at that, almost bashfully. “Thank you, Robert.” After a moment, his eyes darting over whatever expression Robert has right now, he asks, “A-are you… okay? You seem, uh. I dunno, stressed?”

“I’m always stressed,” Robert sighs, but lately it has been taking more of a toll on him. Not just Shroud, but his new secret identity as the Z-Team dispatcher. He feels like they’re all slowly becoming friends. And then there’s–

“I’m sleeping with Flambae,” he admits out loud. Doesn’t even mean to say it, but. It’s been a few days of sneaking around with the fiery hero now, and if he doesn’t tell someone soon, he might go all supernova himself.

Waterboard’s eyes widen comically, and a blush spreads over his cheeks. “O-oh!” he stammers, taken aback. Then after a moment, he places the towel on the armchair across from Robert and sits down. “A-are you– is it– um. I don't really know what to…”

Robert sighs quietly as he drops his head back, his eyes going to the metal tiles on the ceiling. “That's okay. You don't need to say anything. I just… I don't know what I'm fucking doing.”

“I mean,” Waterboard says tentatively, “it's not like it's, um, out of nowhere. You’ve, uh, you guys have always had fun fighting, right? With the– the jokes, and the flir-flirting…”

“Yeah,” Robert agrees. “But it’s… I’m not doing it as Mecha-Man. I’m doing it as Robert, just some fucking guy that these guys are starting to respect and trust, and I feel…” He swallows roughly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I feel guilty. I feel like a fucking asshole.”

“Oh.” Waterboard is quiet for a moment. “So do you… do you like him?”

Robert opens his eyes, dropping his head back down to meet his friend’s gaze. Waterboard is staring at him with curiosity, but most importantly, empathy. Care. Understanding. So Robert finds himself answering, “I– yeah. I think so. I’ve always thought Flambae was different. He makes things fun, y’know? Keeps it interesting.” He bites his bottom lip contemplatively, his brow furrowing, and says, “He keeps me from feeling like I’m a full-blown supervillain. Or did, at least, before I ruined it by doing… this.”

“Well.” Waterboard fiddles with his hands nervously. “If you, um. If you want my opinion…?”

“Lay it on me.”

“I think– I think he likes you, too. I-I mean there’s, y’know. It’s complicated, obviously, with the… secret identity thing. But he always, um. He has fun with you, too, as Mecha-Man. And it sounds like he also likes Robert.”

“That's what I'm worried about.” Robert scrubs a hand over his face wearily. “Robert-the-Dispatcher is temporary. It's not like I can just… God, fucking date him, y'know? I'm Mecha-Man. I got him arrested, and cut his fingers off, and– and I'm fucking lying to him, and to Z-Team, and I'm starting to like all of them. So if they find out the truth, it’s…”

He sighs again. “It’s whatever. I’m overthinking it. Once I get Shroud, I'll just… quit. They'll get a new dispatcher. They'll forget about me. Flambae will forget about me. And we can just go back to fighting in the sky, hero versus villain, like we're supposed to.”

There's another moment of silence, and then with those sad, wet eyes and that big, sweet, sympathetic heart, Waterboard quietly says, “I'm sorry, Robert.”

Robert cracks a morose, humorless smile. “Thanks, buddy. I am, too.”

It’s been a busy shift. It’s Friday, finally nearing the end of their last shift, and Robert is thoroughly exhausted. The power outage had him on edge from the get-go, because Shroud’s silence has been heavy on his mind, but the city blew up with nonstop problems and requests for SDN to fix. There’s looting, missing teens, a haywire helicopter, and as always, a cat stuck in a fucking tree.

So by the end of it, Robert is drained, but that restless feeling is back, and he’s determined to just fucking ignore it, to go back to the lair and throw himself into Shroud plans and basic villainy. Because he’s definitely not going to–

“Who’s up for drinks?” Malevola asks over the comms as all of their icons start heading back to SDN.

“Anywhere by Crypto Night,” Punch-Up says. “Sonar’s still banned.”

“I just wanted to know if Dopple ever used his powers for sexy reasons,” Sonar insists. “Not my fault he got offended by my diagrams.”

“The powerpoint presentation was a bit much, dude,” Invisigal snorts. “Let’s go to Sardine. Or are you banned from that one, too?”

A villain bar. Odd choice for a hero team, but they were villains at some point, so they probably still fit in well enough. Robert never cared for the place. It’s not like he’s ever left the suit for casual socialization as Mecha-Man.

“Not yet,” Malevola says. “Sounds good to me.”

Robert grabs his bag and says, “Good week, everybody. See you all on Monday,” before he starts pulling his headset off, but snarky voices directed at him make him pause.

“Too cool to get a drink with us?” Punch-Up goads.

“Don’t be a biiiitch,” Prism groans dramatically.

Golem chimes in, “Be chill for once in your life.”

“Spend some time with us, c’mon,” Sonar adds, “we know you don’t have plans.”

Which, ouch. He could have plans. “Sardine’s a villain bar. Not sure I’d fit in.”

“Well, thank fuck you’ve got spare fucking clothes in your car, eh?” Flambae scoffs. “Just change, and maybe hold a knife to someone’s throat when we get there. That way no one will think you’re a fucking square. Or a narc.”

Robert, as the only actual villain of the group, rolls his eyes at the irony. But for some fucking reason, he finds himself saying, “Yeah. Alright.”

“Fuck yeah, Bobby-Boyyy!” Prism exclaims, and Robert smiles despite himself.

“Let’s fucking gooo,” Malevola cheers. “Literally. Right now. Let’s fucking go.”

Robert laughs softly as he puts away the headset. He feels… stupidly excited, brimming with anticipation, and tells himself it’s just from the possibility of indeed getting to hold a knife to a villain’s throat later.

Surprisingly, Chase is very supportive of Robert's plans to go with the team to Sardine.

> place is always packed with shitbags. used to be a hotspot for RR

> b careful, kid

< Always, Unc.

> r u fuckin serious don't lie to my fuckin face

So Robert goes. It’s a grimy dive bar lit by neon signs, reeking of stale cigarettes and cheap booze even as he approaches it. Golem is leaning against the wall in the alleyway, listening to music on custom earbuds, and he pulls them out when Robert goes up to him.

“Why’re you out here?”

“Too damn big,” Golem mutters.

Robert smirks. “I’ll figure something out. Sit tight.”

Golem’s eyes widen for a moment. “Bet.” He nods before putting his earphones back in.

The bouncer stops him before he can head inside. “Hey. Creep.”

Robert raises an eyebrow, because he’s just wearing a black shirt and boring jean. Doesn’t exactly scream narc or pervert, per Z-Team’s request. “Creep?”

“I don’t know you, and I don’t like not knowing people.”

Robert hides his smile. You definitely know me.

Before he can reply, the door swings open and, of course, Flambae saunters out, giving Robert a blatant once-over before turning to the bouncer. “He’s fine. Fucking insane, honestly. Practically your ideal fucking customer. And he’s with us.”

The bouncer grunts, and moves aside. Flambae swings an arm around Robert’s shoulders and practically drags him inside. The place is packed with people, decorated with beer signs and hanging twinkle lights, and someone is doing a horrible job of singing a rap song on the karaoke stage. Robert recognizes a few of the villains as they make their way over to the team, having kicked a few of their asses more than once.

But what catches his attention is– some of them have glowing red lights affixed on different parts of their bodies.

Red Ring. They’re already back to using augments, Robert realizes bitterly, and schools his troubled expression as he subtly catalogues the goth girl with an augmented mask; a guy with bird wings and legs that has augments on his shoulders and chest; a chick with green hair and a red implant on the side of her head. They’re fucking everywhere.

But Flambae’s arm is warm around him, solid and comfortable, and he lets himself be led to the bar. Flambae lets him go and leans against the counter, jutting his chest out and cocking his head at Robert with a smug smirk. “What do you want to drink, bitch?”

Robert finds himself smiling back. “Whiskey.”

“Boring.” Flambae waves the bartender down. “Nine whiskeys. Cheap shit. Don’t run up my fucking tab, yeah?”

The bartender just grunts in return, but starts pouring shots. Flambae’s eyes keep dragging down Robert’s body with a familiar hunger that stupidly makes Robert’s heart beat just a bit faster. “I like the look. Basic as shit, but at least it’s not the fucking SDN corporate bullshit.”

Robert rolls his eyes, leaning besides Flambae to scan the crowd. Their arms are just barely touching, but it’s practically scorching with purposeful intent nonetheless. “I do have actual clothes, y’know.”

“Mm.” Flambae nudges him with that warm, muscled arm. “I’m surprised you fucking came, honestly. We all thought you were too much of a fucking square.”

When the drinks are put on the bar, Robert’s quick to toss some cash at the bartender before Flambae can, just to see him glower. “You guys invited me. Only fair that I pay for the first round, right?”

“Good lad,” Punch-Up says as he walks up with Prism and Malevola. “We shoulda invited him earlier.”

“We thought you were a fuckin’ narc,” Malevola says to Robert. “No offense.”

None taken, because Robert’s the worst person out of the whole team.

“Never said that,” Prism clarifies. “Said he reminded me of my ex, and he’s got dorky, buzzkill-ass energy.”

Robert raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Really? You’re into the dorky types?”

“I like being treated like the fuckin’ queen I am.” She winks, and Robert laughs.

Flambae grabs two of the drinks, and hands one to Robert. “C’mon. Let's grab a table before I outshine all these fucking bitches at karaoke.”

“That a motherfuckin’ challenge?” Prism playfully punches his arm.

Before they go, Robert stops Malevola and says, “Hey. Think you could find a dark corner to portal Golem in here?”

She grins conspiratorily, and nods, already walking off with the promise of mischief. Robert and Flambae head towards the empty booth on the other side of the bar, dodging more villains and generic degenerates that Robert is hyperaware of keeping tabs on, and nearly collides with one when he realizes– he really knows this one.

Lightningstruck. One of Shroud’s goons who had been given electric gauntlets that Robert took blasts from more than once. Except those gauntlets are gone, because when Robert dealt with the Red Ring after obtaining Shroud’s augment programming, they almost certainly exploded, apparently taking Lightningstruck’s arms but not killing him entirely. His new arms are metal prosthetics that go up to his biceps, glowing red down the sides to match the new augments on the side of his head.

Robert keeps his inspection quick, subtle, as they part ways, but there’s a niggling feeling in the back of his head that’s screaming danger. He drowns it with a deep gulp of whiskey, and shifts his focus to Flambae’s ass instead.

“Alright. Be honest,” Flambae says as they slide into the booth, and Robert briefly panics before he continues, “Will I make a fucking fool of my self if I sing Whitney Houston?”

Robert snorts. “Are you Whitney Houston?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

“Fuck,” Flambae huffs. “You’re right.”

They’re back at the end of the bar, partially hidden in the shitty lighting as they drink whatever Flambae ordered for their second round– it’s limey, and spicy, and absolutely screams Flambae, but is admittedly delicious, just like the hero that ordered it. Prism is rapping an original song on stage, performing like she was born for it, while the others are busy playing darts and getting fucked up with drinking games.

It’s a fun night. Red Ring shitheads aside, Robert’s glad he came. That is, until Flambae decided to get curious a few minutes ago.

“C’mon, just one fucking hint,” Flambae says, staring down at Robert like he’s the only thing in the room. “What was your super-secret hero bullshit before being our desk jockey?”

I cut your fingers off, caused you to get tossed in jail, and wiped out half of this bar’s shithead criminal allies with just the push of a button.

“Professional cat rescuer. I’m great at climbing trees.”

“Oh, yeah?” Flambae grins, shamelessly waggling his thick eyebrows. “S’that why you’re so good at climbing me like one?”

Robert rolls his eyes. “I’d ask if you had any sense of subtlety, but the flaming please-stare-at-my-tits costume answers that for me.”

He’s expecting a teasing jab, maybe an offended scoff. But Flambae’s frowning, looking over Robert’s shoulder intensely. He jerks his head in the direction he’s staring at. “Hey. The fuck’s going on over there?”

Robert turns to see what looks like an argument between– fuck, it’s Visi and Lightningstruck. She’s practically yelling in his face, but her stance is more defensive than combative, and Lightningstruck is glaring down at her like he might strike at any moment, his arms glowing brighter and his mechanical fingers flexing menacingly.

“Should we–?”

Flambae’s words are cut off when Lightningstruck grabs her by the throat, lifts her into the fucking air as he raises an arm that transforms into the same goddamn gauntlet that Chase found in the Hammer schematics. Visi flails in his grip, her hands scrambling at the hold he has on her, and more Red Ring goons start rising from their seats as the energy in the bar shifts to something tense and sinister.

Robert quickly downs the rest of his drink before slamming it on the counter. “I think we just got called into work.”

The night sky stares back at Robert from where he's lying back on the hard, uncomfortable outdoor seating of Del Taco. It's been a while since he got into a physical fight without the Mecha suit, and what just happened at Sardine tops every fucking one he can manage to recall.

Flambae groans lowly next to him, leaning back against the table like he wants nothing more than to pass the fuck out. The rest of the team isn't faring much better, and only perk up when Malevola returns with two trays stacked high with food. “Eat up, babes.”

Three triple crunch tacos are immediately snatched up by Flambae and handed to Robert as he sits up. His chest would probably feel embarrassing warm at that, if it didn't currently feel like one massive bruise that got stabbed by a bunch of superpowered insect legs.

The others chat amongst themselves for a minute while everyone eats, watching videos of Punch-Up’s ‘special move’ and voicing their horrified respect for Robert, for biting a goon’s thumb clean off and ripping the augment right out of the bug chick’s head.

“The fuck was Lightningstruck saying to you, anyway?” Flambae eventually asks Visi through a mouthful of burrito. “Looked fucking intense, even before he went fucking psycho-mode on you.”

Visi’s eyes widen, darting around at all of them for just a second, and her expression quickly turns sour. “Red Ring shit, okay? I don’t–”

“Oh, come on,” Prism says. “You never talk about that shit, and apparently it was batshit enough that some android-looking motherfucker started a fight over it.”

“You know we won’t judge,” Coupé says. “We’ve all done… questionable things to get here.”

“Yeah, c’mon,” Sonar chimes in. “Just tell us–”

Visi is clearly getting more and more tense, starting to hunch in on herself as she lights a cigarette, and Robert tries to cut in, “Hey, let’s not–”

“Because I got out,” Visi grits out, blowing out a puff of smoke. The group goes quiet, and Robert sets his taco down. “Because I didn’t want to fucking do it anymore, and I helped make sure that a lot of their buddies that managed to survive Mecha-Man’s cleanse end up in prison. So, yeah. Some of them– a lot of them apparently still hold a fucking grudge.” She takes another deep drag, her brow deeply furrowed, her hand shaking. “I don’t talk about it for a fucking reason, okay? It was– it fucking sucked. The biggest wakeup call you could possibly get to think, ‘Hey, maybe I’m on the wrong fucking side.’”

Robert winces, but no one seems to notice, and Sonar says, with a complete lack of social awareness, “But see, that’s what makes Mecha-Man so fucking cool. The guy single-handedly wiped out the Red Ring! You’d think–”

“You say that,” Visi says quietly, her voice hollow, “but you didn’t have to see it.”

And a tense mood falls over the group, all eyes on her as they wait for her to talk.

After a moment, her fingers digging into her arms as her mouth twists, she continues, “I was there, when he took down Shroud. Mecha-Man was still a do-gooder at that point, so when… when he grabbed Toxic, and slammed him to the ground and– fucking dragged him, until he was just a pile of glowing mush, I said ‘fuck it.’”

She flicks her cigarette, watching the ash fall and the cherry burn bright. “While he was ripping Lóng’s limbs off, and stabbing Khopesh in the fucking face with his own swords, I got out of there. Barely made it far enough away that I wasn't taken out by the missile that blew up the steel mill.” She scoffs hollowly. “And I– thank fuck I didn't get Shroud’s augments yet, because I was new and fucking– but Mecha-Man figured out how to use them, how to control them. And that's how he got rid of Red Ring.” She takes a long drag, and as she exhales, says, “He set them all to self-destruct. Most guys died immediately, had their heads pop like grapes. Or, like with Lightningstruck, they got mangled.”

Visi sighs. “And now– they're back. And fucking pissed at me, ‘cus I sold a lot of them out when I joined the Phoenix Program.” She stubs the cigarette out on the concrete divider she’s sitting on. “Shouldn’t have even mentioned going to Sardine. We’re heroes now. Hanging at a fucking villain bar was dumb as shit.”

“Shite, Visi, we didn’t mean to–”

Punch-Up’s words are cut off when Visi disappears, and her hurried footsteps let them know that she’s not just hiding.

Prism sighs. “Well, we fucked that right up.”

“We’ll apologize tomorrow,” Coupé murmurs. “It’d likely be best to leave her alone tonight.”

The others voice their agreement, but Robert– he feels like he can’t breathe. Like the air has been punched out of him. The guilt hurts more than his bruised ribs, the bleeding knuckles, the punctures in his chest.

Visi was there that night. She saw everything. She could have– Robert could have killed her–

“Hey.” He’s pulled out of his spiralling thoughts when Flambae gently, subtly places a hand on his thigh, squeezing it gently. “You okay? Drunk or concussed?”

“Um.” Robert clears his throat, shakes his head, tries not to let his voice tremble. “Probably a little bit of both.”

“Need me to take you home?”

It’s not a come-on. Flambae’s eyes are full of concern, and the corners of his mouth are downturned as his thumb soothingly traces warm circles on Robert’s leg. And that just makes Robert feel even worse, but also selfishly so much better, so he says, “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Damn, bitch, you live like this?”

Robert snorts as Flambae follows him inside his apartment, still feeling like a ball of nerves and so much guilt that it makes his stomach churn, but Flambae’s ever-present bitchy attitude is helping. “Not much of a materialist.”

“Yeah, fucking clearly– ooh, doggy!”

Flambae bends down to pet Beef, who clearly smells the fast food on their fingers and soaks up the attention. Robert crosses his arms and leans against the wall, watching with a soft smile as Flambae pampers one of Robert’s favorite things in this dumpster fire of a world.

After a minute, Flambae gets back up, walks up to Robert and crowds him against the wall to bend down and kiss him. “You okay? I know you’re fucking feral– that shit was fucking terrifying and insanely hot, by the way– but you’re still just a normie. Not gonna die from, like, a punctured lung or something in the middle of the night, right?”

Robert stares up at him, at that fucking caring look and infuriatingly attractive mouth and those fiery orange eyes, and blurts out, “You could stay the night if you’re that worried. Y’know, for… safety purposes.”

Flambae grins, his hands wrapping around Robert’s waist. “Oh, yeah? You got a big enough bed in this shithole for the both of us?”

“Not sure,” Robert hums, sliding his hands up Flambae’s stupidly ripped chest to feel his breath hitch. “You wanna check?”

The room is hot and heavy, just like Flambae as he smothers Robert with his massive body, thrusting languidly in and out of him as he pants into the dispatcher’s ear, his breath stuttering every time Robert drags his nails down his muscular back, or digs his heels into his toned ass to drag him deeper inside.

Robert feels like he’s underwater. Like he’s drowning, like he might just burn all up from the tenderness, this gentle care that he doesn’t deserve. He deserves to let Flambae roast him alive, to choke the life out of him until the light leaves his eyes, to leave him a broken, mangled mess.

But a broken, mangled mess is what Flambae is treating him like right now, running his warmed hands down Robert’s sides, being cautious of every bruise and wound, kissing at his jaw and throat like he’s something precious, fucking him so nice and slow like he’s something to be savored.

It’s so overwhelming that Robert wants to cry. Wants to throw Flambae off, tell him everything, quit this stupid job he’s starting to like so much, and let everyone on the team hate him for what he really is.

But what makes those tears fall is Flambae murmuring, “So fucking perfect for me,” into his scarred ear, and cupping Robert’s cheek so he can kiss him with the same gentleness he’s fucking him with. Robert moans into it as he spills in between them, and it’s only a few moments later that Flambae does the same, his hips stuttering as he fills Robert up, wet and filthy and so fucking warm that Robert whimpers against his parted lips.

They stay like that for a while, pressed close together, basking in the afterglow of a post-fight fuck. Flambae’s fingers trace gentle patterns over Robert’s thigh, his thumb dragging back and forth on Robert’s jaw as he keeps kissing him, lazily and tenderly like he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. And because Robert is horrible and selfish and undeniably evil, he lets him.

Chapter Text

“Hey. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Flambae gently nudges Robert's temple with his nose, tugging him closer with the arm wrapped around his shoulders. “You've been fucking weird all night. I thought coming three times in a fucking row would make you stop being such a tightass, but you're still all tense ‘n shit.”

Robert manages to smirk, still trailing his fingers along the hair of Flambae's arm over him. “You really complaining about how tight my ass is?”

“Bitch.” Flambae pinches his nipple. “Tell me why you're acting so fucking depressed.”

After a moment, Robert says, “The shit Visi said, I guess. It was just… a lot.” His brow furrows, and he swallows roughly. “She looked terrified, talking about Mecha-Man. But still, she– she said–”

‘Honestly, I still don’t know why he’s considered a fucking villain.’ That's what she said, even though she had front row seats to all of her comrades getting torn apart like they were nothing. Even though she was minutes away from being nothing more than chunks of meat and bone just like them.

“Were you scared of him?” Robert asks quietly. “That first time. Did he scare you?”

Flambae hums contemplatively. Eventually he says, “No. I was scared of myself.”

Robert tilts his head up to look at him. Flambae takes a deep, quiet breath, then continues, “I was always the big, scary fire guy, y’know? Everyone thought I was bad from the get-go, so that's who I became. And it just– it gets overwhelming, all-consuming, like–”

“Fire,” Robert murmurs, and Flambae nods, clenching his jaw.

“Honestly, I didn't give a shit about the money. I just wanted to fucking… I dunno.” He sighs. “But Mecha-Man changed that. Sure, it fucking sucked losing the fingers, and prison was ass, but… he made all those shitty thoughts stop. I got to focus on a fight, an actual fucking challenge, and– and it got me into the Phoenix Program, and put with Z-Team, so.” He shrugs, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Nah. He didn't fucking scare me. Inspired me to do better, so I could kick his fucking ass the next time I saw him.”

Robert barks out a laugh, and Flambae smiles broadly at that.

“You gonna miss those fights when you finally get him?” Robert asks, wrapping a hand around Flambae's forearm to keep him closer.

“Yeah, of fucking course,” Flambae says easily, and Robert hopes that he can't feel how fast hit heart beats at that. “But, y’know. He might not be that bad of a guy, but heroes deal with villains. ‘S just how it works.”

As Flambae presses a kiss into Robert's hair, the dispatcher selfishly wonders if Flambae will miss Robert, too, when this is all over.

The next few days are quieter. Visi came back like the Sardine debacle never happened, and thankfully no one brought it up. Robert does his job, as does the team, and it's... easy. For a while, he's able to pretend there isn't a looming threat handling over all of their heads.

It's another slow first shift. The most interesting thing that happens is a drunken break-in at the power plant, which Coupé handles professionally within twenty minutes. But a slow shift means that the comms are rife with the bored chatter of the Z-Team, and that equates to Robert getting playfully bullied every few, agonizing minutes.

“Hey, why’d you ditch us for lunch yesterday, Robert?” Visi asks as she heads back from a drug bust. “The Twinkies in the vending machine missed you.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sounds like it was just the Twinkies.”

“Maybe he’s sneaking off for mid-day quickies,” Sonar says. “I assume it’s a great motivator for getting a job done well. Hey, Coop–”

“No.”

Flambae scoffs. “Yeah, right. Like Robert’s cool enough to get laid during the day hours.”

Robert presses his lips together to stifle a laugh, because Flambae dragged him into the handicapped stall of the third floor bathroom during their lunch break just two days ago, so he could suck him off in record time.

“You jealous or something?” Robert teases. “Look, if you wanted to grab dinner, all you had to do was ask.”

The team snickers over the comms, but then there’s the familiar click of the switch to a one-on-one line.

“Alright,” Flambae says.

Robert raises an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”

“I said alright, you dumb, deaf bitch,” Flambae replies, like he isn’t making Robert short-circuit right now. “I’m fucking asking you to dinner. You like Afghan food? Don’t answer that. You will. I’ll send you the details later.”

The line switches back, and Robert hides his furious blush behind his coffee mug. Because Flambae didn’t even give him a chance to turn the date down, and Robert hysterically realizes that he probably wouldn’t have said no, anyway.

Robert goes to the Mecha Lair for lunch, partly because he needs time with the villainous half of his massively complicated life, and equally because he’s still insanely flustered about Flambae asking him out on an actual fucking date. Seeing the hero at lunch will just make him do something stupid– like fuck him in the handicapped bathroom again.

He’s halfway back to SDN when all hell breaks loose.

There’s another massive power outage, apparently, making everyone drive like lunatics and causing chaos at every turn. Robert gets back fifteen minutes later than he meant to, and the bullpen is already a mess of screaming dispatchers and blaring news footage of the havoc in Torrance, Robert practically runs to his desk to find–

“–need you to fucking try, Sonar! Coop is dealing with the ugly bird guy that dropped her there in the first place, and Flambae’s– no, dude, please, just–!”

“What the fuck is going on?” Robert looks over her shoulder to see the Z-Team’s icons moving frantically all over the city.

“Red Ring,” Visi says shakily, only taking the headset off halfway. “It’s Lightningstruck; he– he fucking cut the power to the whole fucking city, and everything’s going to shit; I’m doing my fucking best, but– but Flambae and Malevola are fighting the electric asshole, Coop and Punch-Up are getting their shit wrecked by that goddamn Vulture guy, and I can’t– Prism is stuck in the fucking ocean, that ugly bird bitch fucking tossed her there and–”

“Hey.” Robert places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks up at him, her face screwed up with panic. “Breathe, okay? Go help the team. I’ll take over. It’ll be alright, just go be a hero.”

She swallows, and nods, her hands trembling as she hands over the headset and gets up before disappearing into thin air.

Robert quickly takes his seat as he pulls the headset on. “Alright, I’m here, what are we–”

“Took you fucking long enough!” Flambae barks over the sound of chaos and roaring flames. “Lightningcuck brought a bunch of his friends for a fucking playdate! We’re getting our fucking dicks kicked in, Robbo!”

“Lightningstruck got the drop on us,” Malevola huffs with exertion. “We’re trying, but he's fuckin' tough.”

“We have to get Prism,” Coupé grits out, before yelling harshly at an attack. “Vulture flew her over the Pacific, and I can’t–”

Robert scowls at the screen. “Right. Sonar, can you–”

“I already fucking told Visi that there's a weird emo shadow chick who turns into mist that won't let me get away!” Then, directed at the woman he's fighting, “This is so not hot goth mommy of you!”

“Fuck,” Robert grits out. Then he has a very stupid idea, but it might be the only option. He pulls his phone out and texts Chase.

< Cut the power to SDN. I need comms down in Torrance.

> we in the middle of a mf RR attack n u want everything to be even more fucked???

< Z-Team needs help so I need the cameras off. Send the suit to the alley next to SDN.

> fuck

> bet

Robert mutes the headset and makes a call, and keeps his voice as low as he can when the line picks up. “Hey, I need you to make a trip into the Pacific. I’m sending you the coordinates.”

“Wh-what?” Waterboard stammers. “B-but the attack! Shouldn’t I–”

“A Z-Teamer got thrown into the water,” Robert interrupts. “Prism, the pink and blue one. I need you to get her. There are no other options, alright; you have to do this for me.”

“But– but she’s gonna– I’m just gonna fr-freak her out more! And she– she’ll– Robert, I can’t.”

“Hey,” Robert says firmly. “Just– take the mask off. Make sure she knows you’re trying to help. We’re running out of time, man, please.”

After a moment, Waterboard says, “Y-yeah, okay, yeah. I can– I’m on the way.”

“And, buddy?”

“Huh?”

“She’s into dorky sweethearts.” Robert smirks. “Just be yourself, okay?”

“Wha–?! Hah, o-okay, I’ll– yep, bye.”

Waterboard hangs up. Half a second later, the power goes off, and the comms go offline.

“Fuck,” he hears a nearby dispatcher say. “How the hell– okay, let’s work to get this shit back online–”

“I’ll try the mainframe in the basement,” Robert says quickly as he tugs his headset off, already getting up to head towards the emergency stairs. “Do what you can, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply as he sprints downstairs and shoves through the side exit used only by the office smokers, where the Mecha suit is already waiting for him.

It’s easy to spot his target in the bright sky. There’s flashes of bright electricity, glowing red portals, and a human fireball zipping around over the power plant, and suddenly that break-in makes a lot more sense.

The second Flambae and Malevola move far enough out of the way, Robert sets the thrusters to full blast and slams into Lightningstruck, crashing both of them into a building that’s thankfully empty.

Debris is still falling as Lightningstruck lurches back up to his feet on the floor of what was once a conference room, his gauntlets crackling with electricity. “Mecha-Man,” he drawls in that Southern twang. “Boss has been–”

“You don’t get to talk.”

He grabs Lightningstruck by the gauntlets, ignoring the warning alarms on his screen so he can crush them with a loud metallic crunch, making Lightningstruck roar in pain as he rips them off entirely. Then he wraps the massive Mecha hand around the villain, picking him up easily and flying him outside.

The tracker systems show the other Red Ring dickheads on the streets down below, but they’re ceasing their fighting, looking up at Mecha-Man as he squeezes their leader so hard that his bones creak.

But what Robert can’t look away from is Flambae, floating in the air with a confused, awe-struck expression. Robert forces himself to focus back on the actual problems here, and ups the volume on his voice modulator so there’s no chance they can’t hear him.

“Tell your boss that Z-Team is mine,” Robert bellows, shaking Lightningstruck in his hand as a warning. “If anyone kills them, it's me. Find your own hero league to fuck with before I detonate your janky implants next.”

And he takes off, ignoring the pained shouts of protest from Lightningstruck, and thankfully he isn’t followed by a trail of fire, because he doesn’t want any of his team to see this.

He lands them at the same empty lot where he fought Phenomaman, but this time his foe is slammed into the concrete, shattering his spine in several spots and making him grimace seethingly in pain. Now Lightningstruck isn’t moving at all, probably paralyzed, so Robert opens the suit with a hiss and steps out, leaning over the Red Ring villain so they’re face to face.

“I know you're watching, Elliot,” Robert grits out, staring straight into that bright red light of the mechanical eye. “I'll only say this once. You come near them again, and you will fucking regret it. I promise you that.”

Lightningstruck sneers through bleeding teeth. “Any other lame-ass fuckin’ warnings?”

“That was just a threat,” Robert says hollowly. “You're the warning.”

He firmly grabs the side of Lightningstruck’s head to keep him from thrashing, and shoves his gloved fingers into Lightningstruck’s eye socket. Digs around the wires and nerves until he pulls the glowing prosthetic out with a sickening squelch, leaving the villain wailing in agony. Drops the severed eye in Lightningstruck's gaping mouth, forces it shut to muffle the screams, and grabs a nearby cinder block to crush his skull in.

The power at SDN turns back on just as Robert sends the suit back to the lair and makes his way upstairs.

He slides back into his seat and pulls the headset on, listening to the crackle of the comms booting back up before he’s assaulted with overlapping chatter.

“–just flew off,” Malevola is saying. “Didn’t say a damn thing to us. Just took the guy and dipped.”

“Fucking asshole,” Flambae huffs. “I had Thundercuck, really–”

“Well, my burps still taste like emo bitch,” Sonar says. “But I’m counting it as a win.”

“I’ll be picking feathers out of my fucking hair for a week,” Coupe hisses bitterly.

Robert clears his throat. “Everyone alright?”

“And where the fuck have you been?” Flambae barks out. “What, we can't even get a single fucking order–”

“The comms went offline, Flambae,” Robert sighs. “It's not like I wasn't trying.”

You're fucking welcome, by the way, he thinks pettily.

“...Well, fuck,” Flambae says, much more calmly. “Yeah, okay, my fucking bad. Are you– is everyone okay over there?”

“I think so,” Robert says. “How about you guys? Please tell me no one got hurt. The system’s been glitching out since the power got cut here.”

“All good,” Golem mutters. “Got a piece of rebar stuck in my ass, though.”

“Could have been a lot worse,” Visi says quietly. “Thank fuck for Mecha-Man, I guess.”

The comms go tensely silent for a moment.

Then, Prism says, “Hey, did y’all know that Waterboard guy fucking talks?”

An executive decision is made by Blonde Blazer that Z-Team can head home for the rest of the shift.

“You guys did great,” she says with a proud smile. “I wish we knew what happened to Lightningstruck, but… probably better not to dwell on it.”

“Bet he's drowning in an oil tanker or something,” Visi mutters. “Good fucking riddance.”

Blazer winces. “Well. Again, great job today. You saved a lot of lives. I'll check in with all of you tomorrow, but for now, just try to rest up and recuperate.”

The Z-Team starts filing out of the conference room, but Flambae stops Robert when it's just the two of them left.

Robert sighs quietly. “Rain check for tonight?”

Surprisingly, Flambae nods. “Yeah. Was gonna say the same.” His hand drags down Robert's arm to his hand, stroking a thumb over scarred knuckles. “Get home safe, yeah?”

Robert smiles softly. “You too, Flambae.”

And Flambae goes without another word, leaving only Robert and his relentless shame, overwhelming exhaustion, and increasingly troubled thoughts alone in the room.

Robert drives back to the lair in a daze, his brain fully clocking out until he reaches the private parking spot hidden in foliage. The workshop is already abuzz with conversation when he makes it downstairs, and the attention immediately falls on him when he lets the door shut behind him.

“That was fucking risky,” Chase hisses. “You had no way of knowing if that would work–”

“A-are you okay?” Waterboard asks, his eyes wide. “I-I got her– Prism, and she only kind of, um, freaked out, but–”

“I witnessed the ordeal on the news,” Phenomaman says in his Tweety Bird pajamas. “I am sorry I could not come assist in the battle–”

“Guys,” Robert sighs, picking up Beef as the dog sniffs him curiously. “Just… one at a time, okay? It’s been a long day.”

“No fuckin’ shit,” Chase huffs, crossing his arms. “What happened with Lightningfuck?”

“I ripped out his evil eyeball,” Robert deadpans, “and dropped a cinder block on his head.”

The room is silent for a moment. Then Chase says, “Yeah, that sounds about fucking right. Gimme the damn dog, psycho-bot.”

Robert willingly hands over Beef so he can rub at his temple, trying to placate his growing stress headache. “Had to send a message to Shroud,” he mutters. “I can’t have him going after Z-Team. They don’t need to be involved in this.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before becoming their fucking dispatcher,” Chase says lowly, bitterly, and Robert sighs.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re probably right. Sorry.”

“Fuck off.” Chase huffs out a sigh, too, and his expression softens. “Glad you’re alright, kid. Thanks for saving those assholes.”

“They managed fine on their own, for the most part,” Robert says, tugging off his jacket. “I just don’t like how involved they’re getting in all of this. Shroud’s clearly planning something big. We need to get one step ahead of him.”

Beef sneezes. “Bless you,” Waterboard says, and Robert manages to laugh at that. He tosses his jacket on the desk chair next to the sidekick, and–

It’s floating. Stuck in the air, in a weird, lumpy shape. Almost like there’s someone under it. Someone like–

Robert’s heart seizes in his chest as all eyes snap to the one person it could be. “Fuck,” he breathes shakily. “Visi?”

The room is silent enough that a dropped pin could be heard like a bomb going off. Then, a familiar voice says, “Shit.”

The jacket quickly falls to the ground, but Waterboard is faster than Visi, managing to grab her before she can get too far. She appears with a yelp as Waterboard shoves her against the wall, pinning her by the collar of her coat with a rare scowl.

“God fucking dammit,” Chase grunts, setting Beef down so he can place his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. “Great. Fan-fucking-tastic, this is just what we fucking need.”

“What do we do with her, Robert?” Waterboard asks, not a hint of a stutter in his voice, as he keeps his gaze firmly on the intruder he’s holding a few inches off the floor.

“Whoa, hey,” Visi says, holding her hands up placatingly. “Look, I know you're secretly a big ol’ softie, but you're still kind of fucking terrifying, so let's cool it for just a second, okay–?”

“How did you find out?” Robert manages to utter, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

Visi's throat bobs with a nervous swallow. “Wasn't gone yet when you called this guy to scoop Prism out of the Pacific. Didn't take a genius to figure out who you were.” She turns to Waterboard. “She thinks you're cute, by the way. Congrats on the big, wet puppy rizz.”

Waterboard blushes furiously at that, so shocked that he lets her go. She falls to the floor with a grunt, but when Phenomaman takes a step closer, she quickly says, “Chill, okay, I'm not gonna go ghost on you again, I swear!” She glances around the lab. “Not sure I could fucking get out of here, anyway. Kinda snuck in behind Robert when I hitched a ride.”

“Visi,” Robert grits out. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

She looks up at him, her brow pinched nervously. “I need a favor. From Mecha-Man, not our everyday dispatcher guy. If you want me to keep quiet about this–”

“So by ‘favor,’” Robert says sharply, “you mean ‘blackmail.’”

“Oh, please,” Visi scoffs. “You're a fucking villain league. What, squishing Lightningstruck's head is totally fair game, but blackmail is where you draw the line?”

And, fuck. He can't really argue with that.

Robert sighs wearily. “I don't– what the fuck could you possibly need from Mecha-Man? Just a few days ago, you were talking about how terrifying it was when– in the steel mill,” he finishes with, because it's still a sore subject that makes him nauseous with guilt.

Visi bites her lip, her eyes nervously darting from Robert to Chase, before she says, “I need you to– I need Iron Titan dead.”

“Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me.” Chase barks out a humorless laugh, crossing his arms. “You wanna put a fucking hit out on a hero. Are you fucking serious? Did that asthma shit cut off the air to your brain so fucking bad that–”

“He's got something on me,” Visi cuts him off, her shoulders hunching, her breath hitching. “And he's threatening to– I need him fucking gone. And Mecha-Man can–”

Chase frowns even deeper. “What the fuck did you do, Courtney?”

The room is quiet, tense, like all the air has been sucked out of it, as Visi’s bottom lip trembles. She stares at Chase for a moment, before her eyes fall to Robert. They’re pleading, regretful… scared. She looks so fucking scared that it makes Robert soften, just enough for her to finally speak again.

“It was me.” Visi swallows roughly, takes a deep breath, and–

“I was the one who pulled Shroud out of the steel mill.”

Chapter Text

It feels like the floor drops out from beneath Robert's feet. That he’s been punched through the chest, that there’s a fist clenched around his heart that’s squeezing it so hard it might burst.

If looks could kill, Chase would already have Visi six feet under. “You fucking did what?”

“I didn't have a choice, Chase–”

“The fuck you didn't,” he barks. “There's always a fucking choice. I should fucking run through you like a bug on a fucking highway–!”

“Visi,” Robert interrupts, his own voice sounding like an echo in his ears, like he's stuck in a fucking nightmare. “Why? Why the fuck would you save him?”

Her expression hardens. “You're not the only one who's been lying to everyone, Robert.”

She lifts her tank top to reveal– scars. They cut over her ribs like spiderwebs, nasty and jagged like something was ripped out of her flesh.

“You– you did get them,” Robert breathes. “How did you–?”

“I just– I didn't want to fucking die, okay?” she says, on the edge of tears. “I thought that as soon as Mecha-Man figured out the augments, he'd probably do something to make sure Red Ring wasn't a problem anymore. And lo and fucking behold, I was fucking right.”

Robert's stomach lurches, his breath seizing in his chest as Visi tugs her shirt back down and glances at him, turmoil swirling in her wet eyes.

“I just needed Shroud around long enough to remove them, okay? I saved him, he saved me; that was the deal. That's all it was. Once he fucking ripped them out of me, I told him I'm done for good, and to leave me the fuck alone.” She crosses her arms, sniffling as her gaze flits to the floor. “But somehow Iron Titan knows that it was me, and if he tells M– Blazer… I can't go back to working for Shroud. So I need Titan gone, as a message to Red Ring, and because trust me, he fucking deserves it.”

“I do agree that he is certainly not the kindest man,” Phenomaman says with a sad grimace, “but I am not sure we can justify his murder simply because–”

“Well, for one thing, he's a racist, homophobic asshole,” Visi grits out. “Why do you think he antagonizes Flambae so much?”

“And, yeah, that’s fucked up. The guy is a massive fucking prick, no one’s arguing with you there. But… it still ain’t enough to take him out for good.” Chase’s voice goes quieter, more personal, and his gray eyebrows draw up in concern. “If he does tell people, it's not the end of the world, Visi. We're– Team Mecha ain't great, morally speaking, but we're not bad. You could–”

“No.” She quickly shakes her head, looking down at the floor as her shoulders hunch. “No, I-I appreciate it, really, I do, but… I'm not a villain anymore. I don't want to be, I can't–”

“Hey.” Robert ducks his head, trying to meet her gaze, and when she looks up, her eyes are filled with turmoil and unshed tears. “It's okay. I get it.”

Visi nods, just barely, her fingers clenching in her purple jacket.

“His real name is Eric Bowers,” she says, nodding at the computer. “Never got convicted of anything, but I'm betting that his personal history will be enough to convince you he's a good target for your alternative justice.”

Sometimes Robert forgets that Chase and Visi must have been close, at one point, but that phrase reminds him with the force of an incoming bullet train.

With a tired sigh, he turns to Chase. “Hey, uh. Can you start looking into him for me? I think both of us could use a smoke break.”

“God, that sounds fucking nice,” Visi huffs, and Chase rolls his eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ, fine. Try not to let any more dipshits follow you dipshits back inside.”

“Great to see you, too, Chase,” Visi sighs as she goes to pass him, but the speedster quickly grabs her and envelops her in a tight hug that makes her eyes widen, before she melts into it with the intensity of someone who really fucking needs it.

“You too, shithead,” he says as he lets go. “I'm still fucking mad at you, though.”

“Oh, however will I live with the knowledge that a geriatric henchman is–”

“Bitch, I will drag your Hot Topic ass down the fucking highway if you fucking call me that again.”

The sky is starting to shift to pink and orange hues when Robert brings Visi through the old hatch of the train tunnel, both of them sitting on the curved roof as they light their cigarettes. It’s quiet for a minute. Not tense, but… pensive. Robert finds that he doesn’t mind it.

Eventually Visi says, “I want you to know… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was my last fucking option, okay?” She taps the cigarette, watching the ash drop to the ground. “I really– I know what I said, after Sardine, but I don’t think you’re a bad guy. What you did needed to be done.” She takes a deep drag, her eyes going to the shifting skyline.

“You've been feeling guilty because you've been lying to us for just a few weeks,” she murmurs, her voice rough and full of tired anguish. “But I've been feeling like the biggest piece of shit on the planet for years for– for saving him. For keeping it to myself. For lying to everyone about it, and now he’s back, and…” She looks over at Robert, her eyes narrow and wet, her lips a tight, thin line. “I'm really– I'm so fucking sorry, Robert. I should never have saved him. I just… I didn't want to–”

“Hey. I'm sorry, too,” he says, just as quietly. “I'm sorry you were in the steel mill that night, and had to see… everything I did. I'm sorry you– that you felt like you had no other choice.” He places a hand on her shoulder, and she lets out a shaky breath, relaxing from the reassurance. “We’re good, okay? You fucked up, but you're a great fucking hero. You were meant to do it. And I’ll– I'm going to help you, okay? I’ll figure it out.”

She nods jerkily, taking another hit of her cigarette. “Thank you. Really.” She nudges him with her shoulder. “For the record. You’re kind of a shitty villain, but you’re a great dispatcher. Everyone thinks so.”

Robert’s chest clenches painfully, like a vice around his heart. “I wish I could say that helps, but.”

She sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

When they go back down to the workshop, Chase is scowling at the screens that are showing an array of articles and police records. Waterboard is sitting at the table, frowning down at his clenched hands, and Phenomaman is staring vacantly at the television that isn’t even on, clearly deep in troubled thoughts.

“Visi was right,” Chase sighs, his voice dark and angry, as Robert sidles up to him. “This guy’s a real piece of shit. There was a girl in high school that accused him of sexual assault, but nothing came of it, even after she jumped off the gym roof. Then back in his college days, a pledge died trying to join his dumbfuck frat. Family got paid off, but it sounds like Titan was the douchebag ringleader when it happened.”

“That’s not even including the shit he pulls at work,” Visi huffs, sitting at the chair where she was caught in the first place. “Plenty of bitchy little comments about people who aren’t milk-fucking-white like him. Or shitty remarks about people who might not be straight as a fucking arrow. And he’s always particularly fucking brutal when the criminals he’s after are POC. Even fucking jaywalkers, or petty corner store thieves.”

She crosses her arms, worrying her bottom lip, before saying, “I don't have any proof, but… I'm worried he's gonna pull some shit on Flambae soon. With the way he looks at him lately– I wouldn't put it past him to do something during a mission and just claim it as an accident, y'know?”

Robert's jaw clenches to the point that he gets a twinge of a headache. “I've heard enough. Chase, you mind taking Visi home?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Chase says, then sighs quietly. “Do I wanna know your plan in case it goes tits-up?”

“I find him, I kill him.” Robert shuts the computers off and heads towards his suit. “Won't need backup if I'm not pulling my punches.”

He already has Iron Titan’s schedule memorized. Certain heroes have been working overtime since Phenomaman’s retirement, and Titan is one of them. It’s easy to hack into the SDN dispatch network to find his exact location, which happens to be the warehouse where a big drug trade might go down, according to an 'anonymous source.'

Robert flies down and swings the door open. Titan is the only one in the empty room, and when he turns around, his expression goes dark but maliciously excited at the sight of Mecha-Man. He starts strolling closer as Robert approaches with single-minded intent.

“I should have fucking known it was you,” Titan scoffs when they’re barely a few feet apart, cocking his head with unbridled arrogance. “Are you sure you don't want to wait for your flaming–”

His words are cut off with a grunt when the Mecha hand grabs him by the torso, pinning his arms as his feet kick wildly, his hands flexing as he charges up an energy blast. But before Titan can even try, the other Mecha hand reaches for his face, hiding the twisting rage and spewing threats, wraps entirely around his head with a closing fist and–

Crunch. Blood and brain matter spills out between the clenched metal fingers, sending splintered bone and teeth clattering to the ground. Mecha-Man drops the hero’s twitching body, and what remains of Titan’s head lands on the pavement with a foul splat.

Robert takes a deep breath. Shakes the Mecha hand to get rid of the chunky gore and bits of blood-soaked blond scalp that linger on the metal. Takes one long, last look at the crumpled corpse that's splattered on the floor. Lets that breath out, and takes off through the roof.

He flies through the night sky for a while, his mind empty and thoughtless as he watches the skyscraper lights that blur past, the cars down below that are as small as ants, the wandering civilians in Torrance that are completely unaware of how fucked everything is about to become.

Robert isn’t upset about Titan. He deserved it. And Visi deserves better. He can’t be mad at her for simply wanting to survive, for wanting to right the wrongs she made all those years ago. That night in the steel mill, they switched sides. Visi is undeniably a good hero, who cares about fixing the world as best she can. Mecha-Man is a villain. All the charities he donates to, the power-hungry shitheads he kills, the corrupt heroes he takes down for what he considers the greater good– nothing will change the fact that Mecha-Man is rotten to the core, just like every other villain. And Robert realizes that more and more with every passing day.

He drifts the suit lower as he reaches an empty part of the city, about to call it quits and head back to the lair so the team can plan their next move, maybe pick up a bottle of whiskey on the way there to keep those dark thoughts at bay when–

“Mecha-Man!”

He whips the suit around at the vicious voice, and watches in horror as Blonde Blazer, her face screwed with rage and her eyes glowing with power, rises in the air up to his height.

“You went too far,” she bellows, gritting her teeth in a way that sends a chill down Robert's spine. “We overlooked the banks, the destroyed companies, but this is– you killed a hero!”

“Blazer,” Robert stammers, cautiously drifting back as she floats closer. “Please, I don't want to do this with you, alright? Just–”

“It's too late for that.”

She charges at him fist-first, prepared to tear through the suit and whoever's inside, and Robert just barely manages to dodge out of the way in time. But she doesn't relent, just keeps coming for him, growling and roaring with the strength of her attacks–

Robert drops down out of the air to evade her again, and raises the Mecha hands in a futile attempt to placate her fury. “Blazer, it's not what you think–”

“I don't want to hear your excuses!”

She swoops down and manages to collide with him, plunging both of them into the street below with a deafening crash, sending rubble flying as they skid through the concrete. “You took Phenomaman, and I could accept that because he– he needed out, I know that, but you killed Iron Titan–!”

“I did what I had to do!” Robert argues, managing to grab her by the cape before she can rip a chunk of metal off the suit, and using it to hurl her into the street as gently as he can. The impact makes a dent in the pavement, and he's quick to pin her down with a hand. “Please, if you'll just listen–”

“You're a villain!” Blazer chokes out, wrapping her hands around the wrist of the suit and using that brute strength to lift it before hurling Mecha-Man back into the crumbling debris. “You killed a hero, and I can't let that slide, you know that!”

“Blazer–!”

Robert’s desperate pleading is cut off as she tackles him, reaching for the front panel again and curling her fingers into the metal, making it creak precariously as she goes to rip it off–

“Blazer, stop!”

“I can't!” Blazer barks back, her eyes glowing furiously, the gem on her chest glinting in the flickering lights of the street lamps. “I have to do this! You can't just–”

She's almost got it fucking pried off, and while Robert's personal uniform does have a series of augments to save him in a bind, there's no way he'll be a match for her. She looks so angry, so disappointed at the mess he's made, and that red gem is glowing like it's powering up with her to–

Fuck it.

As alarms blare out inside the suit that she's about to destroy, Robert manages to grab Blazer by the front of her suit, clenches the Mecha fist around that bright red jewel, and yanks.

“No–!”

Her scream, terrified and spine-chilling, rattles Robert so violently that he forgets to breathe. A bright yellow-white light explodes around them, blinding Robert and making his screens glitch out as the creaking of the metal panel stops, and the suit rocks for just a second as the weight on top quickly disappears.

As the systems come back online, the last thing he sees is a short, dark-haired figure scrambling away and ducking into an alley. Robert catches his breath inside his suit, willing his heart rate to go down as nausea bubbles in his stomach. When he opens the Mecha fist, a scarlet pendant on a broken chain stares back at him like a death sentence.

“Fuck,” he huffs out, his voice a shaky mess as he drags his hands down his sweat-drenched face, and then one of his fists flies out, slamming against the metal side of the cockpit. “Fuck!”

The flight back to the lair is probably record-settingly fast. He practically crashes into the workshop, still breathing like he’s fighting off a panic attack– because he fucking is– as he tumbles out of the suit and pulls his uniform mask off, nearly collapsing on the ground when–

A massive hand grabs the front of his uniform, hauling him up off the ground and slamming him against the Mecha suit. When his blurry vision refocuses, it’s to the sight of Phenomaman’s clenched jaw, his deep scowl, his dark eyes that are filled with fury and hurt and betrayal.

“Fucking shit, man, what the fuck, put him down–!”

Chase’s panicked shouting overlaps with Waterboard pleading, “Stop, Phenan– Phem– Katon, please, don’t–!”

“You hurt Blonde Blazer,” Phenomaman grits out through clenched teeth, his grip unwavering as Robert helplessly tries to pry him off. “We witnessed the overhead drone footage on the news. I do not care about Titan, but if she is dead–”

“She’s not!” Robert chokes out as he tries to jerk his head at the Mecha-Man suit. “The hand, ch-check the hand, it’s–”

Chase quickly grabs the pendant that dangles from the clenched metal fist, staring at it in confusion. “What the– this is–”

“It gives her the powers,” Robert gasps, staring at Phenomaman with all of the guilt and remorse that he’s been suppressing all night. “I didn’t kill her, I wouldn’t do that, and– and I didn’t mean to, I swear–”

Phenomaman glares for a moment longer, then drops Robert, watching as he collapses to the ground and coughs until his breath regulates. “You promise she is fine? I will not hesitate to–”

“Blazer is one of the good ones,” Robert says hoarsely as Waterboard quickly helps him to his feet and over to a chair for him to collapse in. “I would never hurt her intentionally, okay? And I didn’t know the pendant was– I’m fucking sorry, Phen, but I had no choice.”

After one more tense, quiet second, Phenomaman nods once and turns to Chase, still brimming with outrage. “I wish to ‘hit the bong,’ as you refer to it. I do not like feeling this… angry.”

“Fucking go for it, man,” Chase huffs with relief, waving a hand at one of the toolchests. “Bottom drawer.”

The former hero stomps off, and Waterboard carefully rests a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “H-how are you– are you okay, Robert?”

Robert laughs humorlessly, a tad hysterically, and finds that he’s fucking crying. “No. Not even a little.”

“We need to start preparing for the inevitable shitstorm that’s coming,” Chase mutters, leaning against the table with crossed arms. “This shit just got so much more fucking complicated–”

“You don’t have to fucking tell me that–” Robert snaps his mouth shut, takes a shaky breath, and buries his face in his trembling hands. “Sorry. You’re right, I know. But I just– I need a minute, okay?”

“All good. I get it.” Chase pats Robert’s shoulder, then tousles his hair as gently as he can. “Shit, take the night. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Need me to get you home?”

Robert swallows around the lump in his throat, feeling fucking shaken and miserable and cold and–

“No,” he says quietly, making his last terribly stupid decision for the night. “No, I– I’ll be fine, I think.”

The door swings open only a few moments after Robert knocks. “Fuck is it? You got any idea what fucking time–”

Flambae frowns down at Robert, though his posture relaxes as he takes in the man in front of him. “Robbo? What–”

“Sorry. I know it’s late, but.” Robert holds up the take-out bag in his hand. “You still down for dinner? My treat.”

Orange eyes stare at Robert like he’s completely lost his mind, then finally Flambae grins and moves aside, leaning against the doorframe as he says, “You’re so fucking weird. Get the fuck in here.”

Ten minutes later, they're sitting on Flambae's lush couch with cardboard boxes of Chinese food in their laps, and Flambae– he won't stop staring. Like Robert's act of everything-is-normal isn't convincing him in the slightest.

“So why'd you decide to drop by so fucking late with enough food for ten fucking people?” Flambae asks. “You miss me that much, bitch?”

Robert cracks a smile. “Something like that.”

Flambae hums, clearly pleased, but then he cocks his head and continues, “You wanna tell me what's wrong? Or are we just gonna pretend that you don't look like someone just shot your fucking dog?”

“Don't even joke about that,” Robert deadpans with a glare, but when Flambae laughs, he finds himself relaxing just from the sound of it. “Today was just… rough. I don't–”

He sighs, setting the food down on the table and clenching his hands in his lap. Flambae does the same, folding his arm on the back of the couch so he can lean his head on it, turning to Robert with his full attention. Finally Robert says, “I don't like… today scared me. You guys in the middle of that fight, when you– I guess I realized that I can't always help, no matter how hard I fucking try. Something will always go wrong, and that's– terrifying.”

Flambae nods, reaching over to take Robert's rigid hand and dragging a thumb over scarred knuckles until that tension melts away. “I get it. But that’s the job, baby.” Robert looks up at him, and it’s like those eyes burn through him, like he sees everything Robert’s tried to hard to push down and hide. “People get hurt. We get fucking hurt. But we’re the good guys. We save the fucking day.” He scoffs like he has an afterthought. “Or fucking Mecha-Man swoops in and plays guard dog. Guy’s such a fucking freak.”

He says it with affection, a small smile that makes Robert’s heart hurt. And he doesn’t know what to say to that, not without fucking crying again and probably admitting everything, but thankfully Flambae fills the silence first. The hero leans in close, kisses Robert gently, his tongue darting over his bottom lip, and he grins when Robert shudders.

“I could take your mind off of those shitty little thoughts, if you want,” he says cockily, his eyes locked on Robert’s parted lips. “Throw you on my bed, take you apart until you’re begging like a slut, fuck you until your brain is leaking out of your ears.”

And that’s the best idea Robert has heard all fucking day, so just to be an asshole, he says, “Wow. Pretty high standard you're setting. You sure you can live up to– oof!”

Flambae practically tackles him, winding his arms around Robert's middle so he can hoist him up over his shoulder before standing. A red-hot hand smacks his ass wonderfully as Flambae carries him to the bedroom and grunts, “Mouthy little shit.”

He throws Robert on the bed, just like he promised, and crawls over him sinfully slow, his loose hair brushing Robert's cheeks as he stares down at him like a meal waiting to be devoured.

“Like you don't like it,” Robert hears himself saying breathlessly, and Flambae smirks, his eyes going soft for just the briefest moment.

“Hm. I do,” he admits, his voice rumbling as he drags a thumb over Robert's bottom lip. “Probably a little too much.”

Then he kisses him, hot and heavy and full of intent, and Robert’s heart soars like a hero in the night sky.

Chapter Text

SDN is quiet.

It's Friday, and no one is talking about weekend plans. No hushed gossip. No intriguing rumors. The air is heavy with unsaid defeat, loss, fear. The only sounds in the bullpen, besides rustles of paper and tiptoed footsteps, is the televisions turned down so low that it feels like a ghost is haunting the office.

Shockingly, the comms are just as quiet when Robert clocks in. It’s tense. Anxious and strained. Every now and then he hears Visi’s shaking breath, a quiet sigh from Punch-Up,  the clatter of Prism's drumming fingernails, or a sad noise that Sonar tries and fails to mute.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says eventually, and the comms start coming alive, though still nerve-wrackingly suppressed.

“Mornin’,” Punch-Up replies. “Ya seen the news, lad?”

“Yeah,” Robert sighs. “Have we gotten any updates?”

Is Blazer okay? Was she seriously hurt? Has anyone even heard from her?

He doesn’t voice his real questions. Thankfully, and surprisingly, it’s Visi who answers. Her voice is low, croaking, when she says, “Talked to her this morning. She’s alright. Rattled, but. Could have been a lot worse.”

It almost sounds like she’s saying thank you, and maybe I’m sorry.

“So is anyone gonna address the bitch-ass fuckin’ elephant in the motherfuckin’ room?” Prism cuts in, undoubtedly angrier than the rest of the team.

“I’m sorry about the fucking mice in the microwave this morning, okay, I didn’t think they’d burn like that after just two minutes–”

“Not that, you big-eared bitch,” Prism scoffs. “Fucking Mecha-Man!”

“I will admit,” Coupé murmurs, “I was surprised that he went that far. Titan is one thing, but Blonde Blazer…”

“Titan had it fucking coming,” Flambae says, because of course he does, and Robert tries to ignore how his heart beats a little faster.

“Don't think it matters,” Golem grumbles. “Guy was on the roster. One of SDN’s golden boys.”

“Yeah,” Malevola sighs. “Offing a guy like that, as violently as that, kinda puts a target on your back. Can't be surprised that Blazer went after him.”

“How…” Flambae clears his throat, clearly feigning nonchalance, and only half-succeeding at it. “How did, uh, he do it?”

“Crushed his head like a bug,” Malevola replies. “Like a squishy, mangled, racist bug.”

“Heard they only recognized him from that god-awful suit,” Punch-Up says. “At least it were a quick death, I suppose.”

“Fuck,” Flambae breathes, and Robert squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to cut this off now, get all of them into work mode–

“Funny how I’m hearing a whole lot of excuses,” Prism cuts in, “and not a whole lot of ‘what the fuck are we gonna do about it?’”

Punch-Up grunts in confusion. “How d’you mean?”

“Look, I know we make our little jokes ‘n shit, but this is fuckin’ serious,” she says. “This ain't like Phenomaman, or that shitbag Iron Titan. He took out Miss Blazer. She gave us these fuckin’ jobs. So we're against Mecha-Man, right? For real this time.”

“Why would that fall on us?” Coupé asks.

“Gee, I don’t fuckin’ know, maybe because the three top heroes here are either AWOL or dead?” Prism barks. “And we all know Mecha-Man’s got a special little soft spot for our top-ranking Z-Teamer. You ask me, it’s only a matter of time before he shows back up with some supervillain bullshit. And we ain’t fucking around this time.”

“And why do you get to make that call?” Visi asks lowly.

“‘Cus I don’t hear anyone else here throwing out ideas! That’s fuckin’ why.” Prism huffs, shuffling like she’s crossing her arms and shifting her feet in annoyance. “So my hot take is, he’s on fuckin’ sight. Can we all agree on that? For Miss Blazer?”

There are murmured agreements, even from Visi, though it sounds like it’s ripped out of her by force. But one voice stays quiet on the comms.

“Bae,” Prism snaps. “I’m sorry that he’s your flirty nemesis or whatever, but please, just– be fuckin’ serious. You know I’m right. Mecha-Man’s on our shit list from here on out. Right?”

“Yeah,” Flambae says eventually, hesitantly. And then with much more feigned bravado, “I mean, yeah, of c– obviously.”

“Good,” she huffs. “Fuck.”

“Glad we can all agree on that,” Robert says, as the notifications finally start coming through. “But in the meantime, you all have assignments to do. Planning Mecha-Man’s demise will have to wait for later.”

“Yippee,” Visi says morosely, and then they get to work.

It’s a crappy shift. Busy, awkward, tense, the whole nine shitty fucking yards.

By the time Robert leaves SDN, it’s nearing evening. They had a decent amount of Red Ring calls today, and even though this is the worst possible time for it, he needs to patrol.

Half an hour later, he’s soaring through the sky as the sun sets, keeping the suit’s lights off and his movements as subtle and hidden as he can. There isn’t much going on tonight, but he’s got this feeling of impending doom itching at the back of his mind, and he isn’t sure if it’s Shroud-related or just his own guilty conscience.

An hour into patrolling, he's surprised to see a familiar figure on the roof of an office building, sitting on the edge with his shoulders slumped in defeat. It looks… wrong. And makes Robert want to do something very, very stupid.

Accepting that he's probably making a massive, potentially fatal mistake, he turns in the air and makes a soft landing.

“Believe it or not, I come in peace,” Robert says carefully as he walks up to the hero.

Flambae doesn't even turn to look at him. Doesn't seem surprised in the slightest that Mecha-Man is here. Like all of the vigor, that fiery drive to fight is drained from him, because of Robert, and that hurts more than a furious blast of flames ever would.

“I’m supposed to be fighting you,” Flambae mutters. “You’re at the top of our fucking hit list now.”

“I figured,” Robert sighs.

Flambae still doesn’t look at him. Like maybe if he doesn’t actually see Mecha-Man, he doesn’t have to attack. “Why did you do it?”

“Titan was–”

“Oh, fuck Titan; who gives a shit about Aryan fucking Titan,” Flambae scoffs. “Blazer. Why the fuck would you–”

He shakes his head, looking down at the streets below them. “You fucked everything up. You fucking know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Robert deadpans. “It occurred to me.”

“I don’t want to–” Flambae shakes his head, closing his eyes as his hands clench, before he looks back to the setting sun.

“I don’t like this, either,” Robert says. “For what it’s worth. This was never… I never wanted things to turn out like this. I swear.”

“You could turn yourself in,” Flambae says quietly, like even he doesn’t truly believe what he’s saying. “Maybe it wouldn’t– you could join the Phoenix Program, and we could… it could just–”

“It wouldn’t,” Robert sighs. “You guys were never really evil. Not even the creepy knife chick, or the literal demon in the Cindy Crawford get-up.”

Flambae pauses for a moment. “Huh. I never put that together. That’s fucking iconic.”

Robert laughs, softly and brokenly. It’s nice, having that one moment where they’re just assholes again. Like the world isn’t crumbling around them.

“One last fight?” Robert says, because really, that’s all he fucking wants right now. One last snarky, bitchy blast of a brawl before all of this explodes in their fucking faces.

“No,” Flambae murmurs. “We joke ‘n shit, but. That’s not why I fight you.” He barks out a humorless laugh as he drags a hand through his hair. It’s already a mess, like he’s been nervously doing it for a while. “Even when we’re in the middle of a fucking fight, I’m already thinking about the next one. Fucking looking forward to it. But now…”

Finally he looks over to Robert, tired and miserable, and undeniably beautiful in the warm glow of the sunset. “I’m not a good enough hero to have a legit supervillain as my nemesis. Especially now that I know– fuck, you killed Titan like he was nothing. Was I ever even a real threat to you?”

Right now, you’re the biggest threat to me, Robert wants to say.

“You nearly got me, during that first fight,” Robert says instead, and Flambae’s expression falters, softens, for just a moment. “Almost melted the armor down to the core. You’re… insanely fucking strong, Flambae. You’re a great hero. Honestly, one of the best. It’s why I–”

He swallows roughly. “You’re different. You were always different, from the moment you charged at me. But… it’s not the same anymore. You’re strong enough for any villain that’s thrown at you, but… I don’t think it should be me anymore.”

Flambae scoffs, but it’s broken, sad, as he turns back to the skyline. “You fucking breaking up with me, Mecha-Man?”

“Something like that.” Robert sighs quietly, and the Mecha voice modulator just barely echoes it. “I didn’t want to hurt Blazer. Guys like you, real heroes, are never my target. And I– I don’t want to hurt you like I hurt her.”

Flambae takes a deep, shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his fingers clench divots into the concrete roof’s edge. “The worst fucking part of this is that I know, whoever the fuck you are inside that ugly fucking suit, you’re not actually that bad of a fucking guy. You were holding back on me, but I was holding back, too. I never wanted–”

He shakes his head. “This fucking sucks, man.”

Robert feels his heart break in real time, like a punch through the chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Flambae sighs as he gets to his feet, stepping onto the roof ledge. “Me, too.”

He takes off in a fiery blaze, leaving a trail of tantalizing flames behind him, and Robert wants nothing more than to chase him.

Instead, he heads towards the liquor store.

Robert is almost through with his second whiskey when there's a knock at his door. When he cautiously opens it, he's surprised to find Flambae leaning morosely against the frame, out of uniform and his hair in a loose bun, with a half-empty bottle of Fireball in his hand.

He looks devastatingly attractive. Robert does indeed want to climb him like a fucking tree.

“Uh. Hey,” Robert says carefully. “You alright?”

“My nemesis broke up with me,” Flambae pouts. “What are you doing right now?”

Robert holds up his glass, the ice clinking against the sides.

“Man after my own fucking heart,” Flambae sighs, lurching off the doorframe to come in, completely unaware of how that makes Robert's own heart pound faster. “So. I saw Mecha-Man.”

I know, Robert thinks. But he says, “Based on the conversation on the comms this morning, I'm guessing it didn't go well?”

Flambae is already rooting through his cabinets to find a glass he doesn't object to. “Nah, went fucking great. He said I was a good hero, and that he didn't want to fucking fight me anymore.”

Robert takes a deep drink, relishing in the harsh burn of it. “Why is that a bad thing?”

“It's not.” Flambae pours a healthy shot, immediately throwing it back, his throat bobbing tantalizingly. “But it fucking is.”

“I'm not following.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Flambae sighs again, already pouring another shot. “Arch nemesis shit, Bob-Bob. It's complicated.”

“Isn't it supposed to be pretty straightforward, though?” Robert asks, because he likes to suffer. “You fight. Someone wins. That's what enemies do.”

After a moment, Flambae scoffs. “Maybe that's why–”

He shakes his head to himself, tosses back the shot, and drags a hand down his face. “Can we sit down?”

“Yeah, of course.” Robert takes his hand– warm, always so fucking warm– and pulls him over to the couch. He tries to put at least a little bit of distance between them, but Flambae immediately flops down and lays his head in Robert's lap. Scarred fingers instinctively find their place in his thick hair, tugging it out of that bun so he can gently scratch his scalp.

Flambae's eyes slide shut, and there's a pinch in his brow that Robert wants to kiss away. “It's real now. That's the problem.”

Robert cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“Enemies,” Flambae murmurs. “Me and Mecha-Man, we– we bitch, we fight, yada yada. But it's never… serious. It was never real. It was– fun. Like a fucking sport. I go after him, he goes after me, but we never fucking–”

He swallows roughly. “But now, I have to– I never wanted to be actual enemies with him, y'know? He's… he was different.”

You were always different, from the moment you charged at me.

Robert knows what he meant by that, but he's not stupid enough to assume Flambae means the same.

He is, however, drunk enough to ask.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but.” Robert cards his fingers through Flambae's soft locks. “Do you have feelings for Mecha-Man? I won't be upset.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Robert, no,” Flambae scoffs. “God, you have, like. Negative self-esteem, don't you?”

Thankfully his eyes are still shut, so he doesn't see the flush on Robert's cheeks. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Means I have feelings for you, dipshit, fucking hell. Thought you were supposed to be fucking smart or some shit.”

“Oh.” Robert's fingers still in Flambae's hair, until the hero makes an affronted noise, and Robert manages to boot his brain back up so he can keep raking them through those infuriatingly lovely locks.

Flambae sighs, like he didn't pull out Robert's bleeding heart, just to hand it back to him like a beautifully wrapped gift. “He's just– Mecha-Man was a challenge. Made me stronger. Better.” He pauses, then, “I wouldn't be a hero without him. I guess… I respect him. Like Coop said. He's a villain, but he's not a bad guy, y'know?”

Robert bites his bottom lip, trying not to let tears well up. “Even after what he did to Blonde Blazer?”

“I think… he made a mistake,” Flambae says quietly. “Whatever he did to her, I don't think he meant to do it, or wanted to in the first place.”

“Are you gonna fight him next time you see him?” Robert can't help but ask.

“I think I have to,” Flambae replies morosely, tilting his head up to look at Robert. “Don't you?”

Robert thinks to himself for a moment, still dragging his fingers through Flambae's hair, staring deep into those orange eyes. “I think,” Robert says eventually, carefully, “you deserve better than Mecha-Man.”

Flambae sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, he fucking said the same thing.”

And Robert doesn't know what to say to that without incriminating himself even further, so he just watches Flambae. His long eyelashes, his slightly hooked nose, his tantalizing stubble, his stupidly attractive jawline. Thinks about how Flambae came here after talking to Mecha-Man, wanting to spend time with Robert without the precursor of fooling around first.

“You really…” Robert clears his throat, trying to force his heart out of his throat. “You really feel that way about me?”

Flambae rolls his eyes. “No, fucking idiot. I came here and bitched about my Mecha-Man bullshit and vomited all of my fucking feelings into your stupid polyester pants because I don't like you.”

“Well, it's not like you could go to Prism,” Robert points out, even as his face goes bright red. He's going to pretend it's just from the whiskey. “What with her declaration of war this morning.”

“Please,” Flambae scoffs, closing his eyes again. “Like she didn't wax fucking poetics about how Waterboard apparently has the biggest, bluest eyes and goofiest little stutter after he hauled her ass out of the ocean.”

“That's… kind of adorable.”

“You're kind of adorable,” Flambae says, his voice heavy from the liquor. “Bitch.”

Robert bites his bottom lip. Tries to talk himself out of it, really, but says, “I like you, too.”

Flambae smirks. “I know.”

Robert laughs at that, tipsy and happy and so fucking in over his head, and when he looks back down, Flambae is watching him with so much affection that Robert's chest aches.

“Okay,” Flambae sighs after a moment, flopping over so he can practically crawl up Robert, sliding his warm hands under Robert's shirt, “I feel better. Let's have sex now.”

Robert barks out another laugh, which becomes much breathier when Flambae starts sucking marks into the sensitive spot under his jaw. “You sure you don’t want to talk about Mecha-Man more, first? I know that really fires you up–”

“Little fucking bitch,” Flambae growls, shifting them so he’s practically smothering Robert with the heat of his own body, grabbing his wrists and pinning them down so he can swallow Robert’s laughter with a heated kiss and a filthy grind of his hips.

“Wanted to ask you something,” Flambae murmurs into the dip of Robert's back, slowly kissing and biting his way up the scars on his spine. “Needed you all relaxed and buttered up and…” He slides two fingers into Robert’s hole, still open and slick from their activities from just ten minutes earlier, grinning into his shoulder at the gasp it elicits, “...loose first.”

“Mission accomplished,” Robert huffs, reaching back to tangle his fingers into Flambae's hair as the hero bites at the junction between his neck and shoulder. “What did you, ah– want to ask?”

“There's a gala,” Flambae says quietly, kissing gently over the aching mark he just left. “Might get postponed from the Blazer shit, but. Might not. Radiant Valor, a night of– I dunno, saving puppies or some shit.”

“Sounds like a propaganda rally,” Robert gasps as those talented fingers brush over his prostate.

Flambae hums in agreement, then pulls his fingers out and thrusts back inside of Robert with one quick motion, making both of them groan into the sheets as one of Flambae's arms wraps around Robert's chest to pull him closer, and his other hand skates down Robert's side before firmly gripping his hip. He grinds in deeply, agonizingly slow, as he murmurs into Robert's scarred ear, “Want you to come with me.”

“Keep this up, and you'll have me coming in just under a minute,” Robert says, and nearly whimpers when Flambae growls and bites his ear. “You want me to be a– hng– babysitter?”

“Fucking bitch,” Flambae huffs, kissing behind Robert's ear to feel him shudder around him. “Want you to be my date, idiot. Let me dress you up all nice and pretty, have you hanging off my arm all night, let everyone see that I was the one who bagged the new office twunk everyone's fucking thirsting after.”

Robert chokes on a moan. “The office what–?!”

Flambae pulls back suddenly, hauling both of them up so they're up on their knees, with that one steaming arm keeping Robert's back pinned to Flambae's chiseled front, and he starts thrusting, hammering into Robert's prostate as his free hand skates down Robert's torso until it's just above his aching cock, scratching at the hair above it as Robert leaks onto the sheets below.

“Say you will and I'll let you come,” Flambae grunts into his ear, his voice a low rumble, and Robert can swear he feels Flambae's eyes burning bright even as his own are screwed shut from agonizing pleasure. “C'mon, baby. Just say you’ll be my date and I’ll touch you. Or can you really come just from this?”

He moves his arm lightning-fast, and Robert nearly falls into the sweat-damp sheets until Flambae catches him by the biceps with both hands, making his back arch and his ass stick out perfectly for Flambae to pound into him. Robert can't help but let out embarrassing little ‘ah-ah-ah’s as his eyes roll up into the back of his head, making him feel like he’s the one on fire, like he’ll combust and burn to ash just from being stuck on Flambae’s cock like this.

“Fucking– holy fuck, okay, yes, I’ll– Flambae, shit–”

Flambae rumbles, undeniably pleased, and he lets go so Robert can fall to the sheets, pinning him down with one hand on the center of his back while his other snakes around to jerk him off in time with his vicious thrusts, and it’s only a few seconds until Robert practically fucking screams, coming into the bedding below him as his vision whites out and his brain melts out of his ears.

“There,” Flambae murmurs, kissing up Robert’s back as he slows down his thrusts, grinding slow and deep into his heat as Robert shakes and gasps below him. “Was that so hard?”

“You’re a dick,” Robert huffs, but he’s laughing, and he can feel Flambae smiling against his skin.

“You like it.” Flambae slams forward one more time before groaning, filling Robert up so deep he’ll probably be leaking all fucking night, and Robert’s ears are still ringing when Flambae grabs a fistful of his short hair to jerk his head back so he can kiss him roughly, passionately, so fucking affectionately that Robert nearly combusts all over again.

Chapter Text

“Oh, fuck–”

Flambae stays the night. In the early morning, he's still in Robert's bed from where they passed out last night, laying face down in the sheets with his bare ass peeking out from under the blanket.

He looks… beautiful, frankly, in the dim light that peeks through the curtains, his face soft and relaxed, the toned curve of his glutes hanging out so tantalizingly like a beckoning siren.

So Robert does what any normal, sane, dignified person would do, and buries his face in between Flambae's stupidly perky cheeks to wake him up. Flambae wakes up after just a few minutes with a choked moan, and ten minutes after that, his legs are wrapped around Robert's waist as the dispatcher pounds up into his prostate, as petty revenge for the bullshit Flambae pulled last night. 

It's filthy, hurried, so fucking good, and Flambae is making these lovely little gasping noises around his strangled words and pleas.

“Fuck, Robert, yes–”

Robert smacks a hand down on one of Flambae's annoyingly supple pecs, twisting his nipple viciously to hear him cry out in pained pleasure. “That was a dirty truck you played last night,” he mutters. “Think I'm gonna keep you in my bed all day as punishment.”

Flambae chokes on a laugh, shuddering around Robert's cock as he throws his head back. “Gotta eat at some point, Bob-Bob.”

“I already ate, remember?”

“God, you cheesy fucking dork–”

Robert slams in as deep as he can, making Flambae yelp beautifully. He's leaking all over his chiseled abs, his skin practically smoking from a lack of control, and that just spurns Robert on even further. He ducks down, bites Flambae's other nipple, and– fuck, Flambae comes untouched with a broken moan, all over his own chest and hitting Robert in the fucking chin, before he melts into the sheets with a lovely, dazed look.

“Wow.” Robert smirks as he slows down to long, deep thrusts that leave Flambae shuddering from oversensitivity. “You're so easy.”

“Shut the fuck up and come in me, bitch.” Flambae grabs him by the back of his neck, yanks him down to kiss him all wet and filthy, and he's grinning against Robert’s parted lips when he squeezes around his cock to tip him over the edge, milking him until Robert collapses on his stupid hot body.

Then Flambae stays for breakfast. Or, rather, he rifles through Robert's fridge and cabinets until he finds enough ingredients to make French toast with a homemade caramel glaze.

“Holy shit,” Robert says after the first bite, shutting his eyes and moaning at how fucking good it is. “Y'know, I would've been just fine with regular scrambled eggs–”

“Fine, I can just take that back–”

Robert quickly pulls the plate out of Flambae’s reach. “Don’t you dare.”

Flambae smirks, far too pleased with himself as he leans away to eat his own food. “I could have just made scrambled eggs, bitch, but it’s worth it to see that stupid happy look on your stupid fucking face.”

Robert snorts around a massive bite of food. “Well. Thanks, Flambae.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Got any plans today?”

“Yeah,” Flambae replies, tossing a plain piece of toast to Beef so he stops begging under the table.. “Wanted to blow your back out on your tiny-ass sofa again, then blow you in the shower, and maybe have you fuck me on this table in a little bit–”

“Wow,” Robert chokes on a laugh. “That’s– a lot. You sure we have time for all of that?”

Flambae shrugs. “You planning on kicking me out at any point?”

“Not if that’s on the table.” Robert smiles into his mug. “Still a lot of spare hours in the day, though, since I don’t have the recovery time of a superhero. You’re not gonna get tired of me in between all of the mindblowing sex you have planned?”

Flambae rolls his eyes. “Don’t know how else to fucking say that I like you, Robbo, not just the sex. Your boring fucking personality, your basic-ass little fucking outfits, your horrible taste in fucking television, your fat fucking dog–”

“Kinda sounds like you don’t like me at all,” Robert says, but he’s still smiling, and it just spreads wider when Flambae nudges his foot under the table.

“I’d like to spend the fucking day with you,” Flambae says easily. “If that’s alright with you. Bitch.”

Robert’s heart aches, nearly breaks into a thousand painful pieces, because he really is selfish enough to reply, “Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

“Oh, wow.”

Robert looks over from where he’s typing away at his laptop, discreetly looking into new Shroud leads that Chase sent him last night. Flambae is sitting at his couch, flipping through a book that–

Fuck.

Flambae holds the book up. “This is adorable.” He flips through some of the pages as Robert shoots out of his chair. “You really got a book on how to be a better dispatcher–”

“Flambae, don't–” Robert instinctively reaches out for it, but Flambae pulls the book away and starts climbing over the sofa as Robert scrambles to get it away from him.

“Oh, I can't wait to tell the team about this,” Flambae says gleefully as he ducks a swipe. “Such a fucking dork, it's so cute–”

“Can you stop being a dick for five seconds–”

“No.” He's running around the armchair now, practically giggling as Robert leaps over it to tackle him. The end up on the floor, with Flambae crawling away as he reads out loud, playfully kicking Robert away as he says, “Outcome Over Output: A Manager’s Guide to Results-Based Leadership–”

“Shut the fuck up!” Robert laughs, successfully reaching high enough to snatch the book away and toss it back on the sofa as Flambae turns around so they're chest-to-chest, grinning wildly at each other as they pant from exertion. “You're a menace.”

“And you're a nerd who cares about leadership and team-building and–”

Robert ducks down and kisses him, both still smiling into it, as his hands tangle in Flambae's hair while Flambae tenderly cups his jaw. When he finally pulls away, he keeps their foreheads pressed together, and Flambae looks utterly beautiful with his eyes shut in content and comfort.

“It's sweet,” Flambae says, “that you care that much. ‘M just fucking with you.” His warm hands slide down Robert's shoulders, then his sides, before settling on his waist, where he seems to like them most. “Not gonna lie, you're probably the best dispatcher we've had in fucking years. I'm not the only one who wants you to stick around, y’know?”

And Robert– he tries to smile at that, really, but there's no ignoring the turmoil, the guilt that hits him with that one little statement. He knows he's wincing, probably looks borderline devastated. But Flambae's eyes are still closed, and he's still rubbing gentle circles into Robert's sore hip bones, so all Robert can really do is lean back down to kiss him again.

It’s late in the afternoon, or maybe closer to the evening, based on the sun that’s lowering in the darkened sky outside of Robert’s apartment. Robert isn’t quite sure, not when all he can focus on is Flambae as he licks into his panting mouth, his warm hands that drag down Robert’s spine, his gentle thrusts that have Robert shaking in his lap and letting out embarrassing little moans that Flambae soaks up and swallows like they’re a decadent treat.

They aren’t whispering words of filth to each other like usual. Just trading stilted breaths, needy gasps, staring at each other as they both edge closer and closer to–

But then Flambae does speak, quiet and ragged, right against Robert’s kiss-swollen lips. “Wanna keep you here,” he murmurs, staring at Robert like he never wants to look away, wrapping his hands around Robert’s waist, but not moving him, not urging him to ride him harder or faster, just feeling. “Just like this. Love watching you come undone like this.”

“Fuck, Flambae–” Robert has to screw his eyes shut, snap his mouth closed so he doesn’t say something stupid, or just outright cry at how intimate, caring, and fucking sweet this is, how horrible and wonderful and guilty he makes Robert feel.

But Flambae just takes his reaction as encouragement, tugging Robert even closer somehow so he can crush their lips together. And Robert does let the tears fall, then. Lets go of all of that raw emotion that haunts him with every waking moment, and even every dream. He’s so fucking selfish for this; he knows it. For doing this to himself, for doing this to Flambae when– fuck, when Robert really does like him, so fucking much that it hurts sometimes.

Robert wants to keep Flambae here, too. In his home, in his bed, in his life outside of– the whole fucking mess that Robert’s put both of them in. Maybe he could have it, he thinks hysterically as Flambae starts jerking him off, slow and tight. Maybe, when this shit with Shroud is over, he could… Mecha-Man could save the day. He could come clean about everything. He’ll fix the shit with SDN, Blazer, Z-Team– all of it. Then he could have this all the time. He could have Flambae. He could be Robert, and they could just–

His delusions are cut off as he comes, out of nowhere and hitting him like a fucking train, and Flambae groans into his mouth as he follows him over the edge just moments later, like he was waiting for Robert to come first, to feel him shudder and shake around him.

They keep kissing, even when they’re both soft and sated and so fucking worn out. Outside their bubble, the world keeps turning, but right now it feels like it’s just them, and Robert’s going to bask in that for as long as he fucking can.

Eventually, once it nears midnight, Flambae does leave. He cooked one more time, wrapped everything up so Robert could have leftovers tomorrow, held Robert in his arms while they watched some B-rated scifi movie that neither of them really paid attention to.

Now Flambae is back at Robert’s door, pulling him close by the collar of his t-shirt so he can kiss him one more time, gentle and affectionate and so fucking sweetly that it makes Robert’s head spin and his chest flutter.

Flambae pulls back, smirking down at Robert like he wants to eat him, like they didn’t fuck– Christ, five times today. “So,” Flambae says. “Z-Team is going out for drinks at Crypto Night tomorrow. A rare Sunday outing, since Sonar got unbanned for doing Dopple’s taxes on the house. You’d know about it if you agreed to be in the fucking group chat.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well. Don’t get too fucked up. We still have work–”

“Fuck off,” Flambae interrupts. “You’re coming with us. And drinking, and having fun, and not starting any fucking bar fights–”

“Okay, technically that was Visi’s–”

“Anyway.” Flambae kisses him one more time, quick and firm before gently pushing Robert back so he can open the door. “I’ll text you the details. We’re gonna be suited up, because it’s a superhero bar, but still. Dress cute, bitch.”

And then with a wink, he leaves as swiftly as he arrived yesterday. And Robert is left with his swimming thoughts, his rapidly growing affection for the man he just spent the whole day with, and his overwhelming guilt for what the fuck he’s doing to him behind the scenes.

He’s still stuck in that lovesick, guilt-ridden daze when he makes it to the Mecha Lair in the morning. Waterboard and Chase are at the table that’s covered in maps and miscellaneous papers, with the screens behind them lit up with whatever they’ve been putting together. Phenomaman is lying back on the sofa in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and boxers, playing a game on a Nintendo Switch that Robert is positive Chase bought for him.

Robert smiles tentatively as he stops by Phenomaman. “You still pissed at me?”

Phenomaman doesn’t look up, but he does shake his head, and doesn’t seem to be riddled with anger like last time.

“I have come to the conclusion that Blazer is safe from whatever Shroud may have planned while in her current… predicament.” And then his brow pinches, just a little. “She told me once that he always had a special interest in her. I did not like hearing it. So I am content knowing that she may be left out of his nefarious plans.”

He holds up the Switch. “I have made friends with this little cat that has a penchant for naps and shrimp tempura. His name is Punchy.” He looks back at the screen, his expression serious. “I would die for Punchy.”

Robert barks out a laugh. “Glad you’re having fun, man.”

“I would like shrimp tempura.”

“I’ll pick some up later.” He makes his way over to the tables, and Chase greets him with a grunt. “What have we got?”

“Whole lotta nothing, honestly,” Chase sighs.

“N-not nothing,” Waterboard protests, and Chase rolls his eyes.

“Okay, fine; we’ve gotta whole bunch of weird itty bitty bullshits that equate to one big, steaming pile of ‘fuck if I fuckin’ know.’” He gestures to one of the screens. “There’s proof of someone fucking around with the broadcasting systems, and Shroud was always big on showmanship, so that’s a maybe. Then there’s a few disappearances of some local dumbfuck villains that might have joined Shroud, or they might have just fucked off to do other shit somewhere else. We got nothing concrete. Nothing that proves anything fucking tangible.”

“Well, a start’s a start.” Robert takes a seat at the table, his eyes scanning over the information splayed out in front of him. “I’ll patrol tomorrow night. Maybe we’ll get a solid lead.”

Chase raises an eyebrow. “Why not tonight?”

Robert freezes. Doesn’t say anything, until Chase crosses his arms and fixes him with that big brother look he’s so good at. So Robert sighs and says, “I’m going to Crypto Night with Z-Team.”

“What, so you can start another fucking bar fight–”

“Why does everyone think I'm the one starting bar fights?”

Chase doesn't respond to that, just keeps glaring. “I think you're getting into this secret identity bullshit a little too fucking deep, Robert. You can't keep this up forever. Eventually they're gonna find out–”

“I know,” Robert interrupts, his jaw tight, his fists clenching as his stomach lurches uncomfortably. “I know, alright? I'm– I'm figuring it out.”

“And what exactly is this ‘it’ that you're so fucking keen on doing here? Digging a deeper fucking grave for yourself before we even get to Shroud? You can't–”

“Chase.” Robert looks up, and something in his expression makes the speedster relent, uncrossing his arms and looking more concerned than angry. “I just need a little more time. We're getting close to Shroud. I can feel it.”

“Yeah. Shroud,” Chase murmurs. “Whatever. Just be fucking careful. ‘Cus if something fucking happens to that team…”

He shakes his head, and walks off to the gym without another word. Waterboard worries his bottom lip as he watches Chase go, seemingly unsure of what to say, or what to do.

Robert sighs, and picks up one of the police reports that litters the table. “So what's your take on all of this?”

Waterboard does brighten at that, and starts delving into his research, thankfully filling the silence and distracting Robert from his ever-increasing troubled thoughts.

“Are you fucking serious?”

As he sips on his freshly poured beer, Robert raises an eyebrow at Flambae, who's glaring down at Robert's shirt like he’s considering torching it on the spot. “What? It's not work clothes.”

“It's a fucking blue button-down,” Flambae growls. “You did this shit to piss me off on purpose, didn't you?”

Robert smirks, and Flambae rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too, and takes the shot he's been holding since Robert came up to him at the bar. “Bitch.”

Crypto Night is pretty empty, aside from the Z-Team, which isn't much of a surprise. There are a few heroes playing darts, and a handful at the pool tables, but Z-Team has parked themselves at the outside patio, taking shots and goading on Malevola and Punch-Up as they seemingly gear up for an arm wrestling match.

“I really don't see that ending well for either of them,” Robert says as he watches the team fondly.

“Eh, they'll be fine.” Flambae waggles his eyebrows. “Wanna fuck in the bathroom? We can be quick.”

Robert rolls his eyes, and grabs Flambae's arm as casually as he can to pull him towards the back door. “Maybe later. C'mon.”

As the door shuts behind them, half of the team erupts into cheers as Punch-Up raises his thick arms in victory, while Malevola shakes her hand in mild pain.

“Pay up!” Punch-Up crows, holding his palm out.

“Fuck,” Malevola huffs as she slaps a ten into his hand. “Really thought I had that.”

Visi perks up when she spots Robert and Flambae as they approach. “Oh, shit! Look who actually fucking came!”

“Not yet, you haven't,” Flambae purrs, just loud enough for only Robert to hear, and Robert barely manages to hide his smile as they join their friends in a round of shots.

The night passes slowly, but is endlessly entertaining nonetheless. Prism managed to bribe Dopple into letting her stream music on the overhead television, and the team is going over their worst first jobs at SDN. Flambae’s been finding little ways to touch Robert all night. A hand on the small of his back when he gets up to buy the next round; a subtle drag of his thumb along Robert’s palm when he takes the shot glass; a tap of his index finger against Robert’s cigarette to light it, while his other hand grabs Robert’s knee to ‘steady’ him. It lights Robert up each time, makes his chest flutter with warmth, makes him feel happy and comforted and damn near loved.

Visi is talking about how she managed to get banned from Granny’s two weeks into being a hero, when Robert notices the music starts skipping. He doesn’t think much of it until Sonar frowns, waving a hand to silence the group.

“Um, guys?” Sonar says hesitantly, pointing up at the TV. “Am I tripping absolute fucking balls, or is that–?”

“Hello, Mecha-Man.”

Robert looks up. The screen is flickering, glitching out with shades of red coming into view, and after a moment an all-too-familiar face becomes clear.

Shroud. In his old mask, that mechanical skull-like design with the dead, glowing eyes. There’s no doubt in Robert’s mind that it’s him. Only Shroud talks like that, moves like that, makes the hair on the back of Robert's neck raise like that.

“Oh, fuck,” Visi breathes as they all get to their feet, with her and Robert quickly making their way to the front of the group. Front row fucking seats, he thinks hysterically, as Shroud just barely tilts his head, emanating power and malice and–

“It’s been… a very long time.” That same modulated voice comes through, sending a chill down Robert's spine, making his stomach flip with nausea and dread.

“I grew tired of waiting,” Shroud continues. “Seven years of waiting, planning… recovering from your admittedly impressive attempt at taking me out for good. Vicious. Cutthroat. Much like your father.” Robert clenches his jaw so tight that his teeth creak under the pressure. “But obviously it didn't work. Your little birdie just couldn't keep quiet.”

Visi’s breath hitches, but she keeps quiet otherwise, her eyes trained on the screen with the rest of the bewildered team.

“I've been watching for a while,” Shroud says. “I have eyes everywhere. I know what game you've been playing behind the scenes. You’re not the only one who can hack into CCTV cameras.”

The security camera next to the television blinks red in a subtle greeting. Robert scowls at it for a moment, before focusing back on the screen. He’s watching now.

“Nothing has changed,” Shroud continues. “You know what I want.” He cocks his head just barely, and Robert clenches his fists, so tightly that he feels his nails cutting into his palms. “But I'm not unreasonable. I only care about outcomes.”

“The fuck is this?” Flambae grits out, and Robert wants nothing more than to reach for him, grab his hand until his own stops shaking and bleeding–

“I'll give you three options,” Shroud says. “The first is the easiest: you give me the Astral Pulse. Same thing I’ve always wanted. But I don’t see you doing that easily. So here’s what else I’m offering, out of the kindness of my heart.”

That blinking red light stares back at Robert like the warden in a prison. The judge for the executioner.

“Option two: I release the identities of your two little sidekicks. Their names, their addresses, their fucking credit scores. Waterboard and Warp Speed will be arrested, and just for fun, I'll reveal how I managed to survive your attempt at my life.”

Visi freezes next to him, her eyes widening just barely and her lips parting, but thankfully none of the others seem to notice. Robert, meanwhile, forgets how to breathe entirely.

“Or, option three. You stop playing your little game. You come clean about who you are, what you've been doing. Tell everyone the truth. Let them see what you really are, and we can see how deep their affections truly lie.”

Fuck.

He should have seen this coming. He practically handed the idea over on a silver platter. Mecha-Man has proven that he's protective over Z-Team; of course Shroud would use this as his ultimate bargaining chip.

And of course he knows it's the only option Robert can take.

“Choose quickly, Mecha-Man,” Shroud says. “I'm tired of waiting.”

The television switches off by itself. The silence is overwhelming, tense, borderline painful, and finally– Robert can't take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Robert mutters, just barely audible. But Visi whips around to him, and he meets her eyes, and– she looks terrified. Not for herself, but for Robert. Just barely, she shakes her head. Don’t.

But Robert has no other option.

“It’s me,” he breathes, feeling just as sick as Visi looks when he utters those words. The words that have plagued him for weeks, that he’s been so scared of, but… it’s been long enough. He has to face his fears. And he can’t take down Chase, Herman, or Visi with him. “I’m Mecha-Man.”

There it is. The shoe that’s been waiting to drop like a ticking time bomb in deafening silence. It comes out of Robert like razorblades against his vocal chords, like the final words uttered before the executioner flips the switch.

The gasp Visi lets out is broken, shuddered. But the quiet murmurs behind him are worse.

“No fuckin’ way,” Punch-Up says, frowning deeply and clenching one of his fists against the table. “Can’t be–”

“Yeah, right,” Flambae says, but– fuck, he’s taking a step back, and his smile is forced, his tone laced with confusion and denial, and Robert swallows nervously, but it does nothing to quell the rising nausea in his stomach. “Couldn’t be. You… that doesn’t fucking…”

Flambae’s orange eyes are darting over him, like he’s putting the pieces together in real time, and with each passing moment that smile fades until Robert can’t take it anymore.

“Flambae, I–”

“Could be…” Malevola squints as she cuts him off. “Holy shit, it would kinda make sense, right? The secret job before this–”

“The fuckin’ save from Lightningstruck,” Prism hisses, her eyes filling with rage as she shoots up from her chair. “The comms going down right when Mecha-Man arrived, and then fucking Waterboard–”

“You're Mecha-Man?” Sonar says, his big eyes downcast and his ears dropping, before he slams a hand on the table. “I've been saying for weeks that I have open availability and am flexible on salary–!”

“So not the fucking point, dude!” Malevola scoffs, crossing her arms. “He fucking lied to us!”

Sonar points an angry finger. “Yeah, that’s pretty fucked up, too!”

“I didn’t want to,” Robert tries to say, but another voice, harsher and much angrier than the rest, cuts him off. The one that Robert hurt the most, the one who Robert has been selfishly buying his time with, because he knew how much this was going to hurt both of them.

“So this whole time,” Flambae grits out, his eyes burning, his jaw clenched, his hands flexing like he's fighting the fire begging to be unleashed, “you were just, what? Fucking with me? Playing some stupid fucking game, making me– fucking feel for you, and the whole time you're just laughing behind my back about… God, I'm so fucking stupid!”

“Oh, shit,” someone else says, but it’s white noise, utterly unimportant when Flambae is looking at him like this.

Robert quickly shakes his head, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch, to quell that rage that's burning Flambae alive, that rage that he caused. “No, I swear, it wasn't–”

“Then what the fuck was it?!” Flambae bellows, but that rage is being replaced with– fuck, a combination of doubt, hurt, betrayal, and that's so much worse than the fury. “You fucking– I fucking trusted you, and you've been lying to me, to all of us since day fucking one!”

“I–” Robert swallows around the lump in his throat, nearly choking on, and hopes that he fucking does, “Yes, okay, I lied, but I swear, I wasn't lying about how I feel about you, about all of you. Flambae, I'm so fucking sorry, please just–”

“And why the fuck should we believe you?!”

Robert's pleas are cut off as Flambae stalks forward, looming over Robert, his eyes glowing in the darkness while heat radiates off of him like a warning. “You know what? I changed my mind. You are evil. You're evil, and cruel, and fucking– fuck you!” Robert recoils, wincing, curling into himself, but Flambae doesn't give a shit, and Robert can't blame him. “I can't believe– I can't believe I thought you were good. Fuck, I was fucking falling for you, and you knew that, and you still–”

“I didn't want–” Robert flounders, his breath coming in panicked huffs, just wanting this to end, for everything to go back to normal, except– except he fucking deserves this. And all he can do is beg for forgiveness, for the team to hear him out, for Flambae to somehow see the truth hiding behind the mess of Robert's lies. “Flambae, I swear, none of that was a lie. I do–”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Flambae's hands burst into red-hot flames, the heat of them already making Robert sweat, and it just keeps going, traveling up his arms and over his shoulders as Flambae's growl turns into a furious roar. 

He raises those hands– the ones that he's used to fight Mecha-Man, the ones he's used to take Robert apart with so much care and affection, the ones Robert permanently disfigured– and braces his arms back to attack. Robert's seen it a thousand times before, but never this close, never this… human, and he squeezes his eyes shut, readies himself for the fatal strike, for the agonizing blaze that he deserves–

That doesn't happen. Several seconds pass, deathly quiet, and Robert tentatively opens an eye to peek.

Flambae is– crying. He's still angry, still seething, but the flames are out, and a lone tear is leaving a steamed streak down his face as he stares at his former enemy, his former lover, with more hatred than Robert's ever seen in his life. Finally Flambae drops his hands, like he's given up on everything. Like the will to fight is gone, snuffed out like the flames, and he just… shakes his head.

“Just– go.”

Robert swallows roughly, tentatively raising his head. “What–?”

“Fucking go,” Flambae hisses, his eyes still glowing bright, but they're so full of pain and regret that Robert wants to cry himself. “Get the fuck out of here, Robert. Go back to being Mecha-Man. Kill Shroud again. Kill another fucking hero, for all I care. But just… leave me, leave us, the fuck out of it.”

And Robert should. He really should, but his heart gets in the way of his logic. “I– Flambae, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, please, just let me–”

Flambae waves him away, turning on the spot and hunching in on himself in a way that's so unlike him that it breaks Robert's heart all over again.

The rest of the team isn't much better. Prism, Punch-Up, and Malevola glare at him like he's the evil shit smeared on their shoes. Sonar, Golem, and Coupé are looking away with furrowed brows, not as angry as the others, but still clearly hurt. And Visi just sits in the back quietly, her eyes wide and her lips parted, looking devastated like this is somehow her fault.

But it's not. It's Robert's. He's the one who lied for so long, who was stupid and selfish enough to think that this could somehow work out. That he could be both Robert Robertson: dispatcher for the renowned Z-Team, the basic bitch who managed to land Flambae; and also Mecha-Man, the supervillain of Torrance that murders in cold blood and destroys the company– the team that he grew to love so much.

Flambae is right. Robert is evil. He's cruel, and horrible, and deserves all of this, and so much more.

So before too many tears leak from his eyes, he nods, and leaves without another word. On the way to his car, he catches a glimpse of that security camera, the light still blinking red until it switches to a solid green. Undoubtedly Shroud, letting Robert know that he obeyed. That he doesn’t have the Z-Team on either of his sides now. That, this time, Shroud won.

Robert stares at it for a moment, his jaw set in determination and his eyes burning with remorse, with rage, with regret. For lying to the people he grew to care about for so long, and for not killing Shroud properly in the first place.

Hope you enjoyed the show, Elliot, he thinks as he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot, hiding the tears that slowly spill down his cheeks. Because next time we fight, I'm leaving with your fucking head.

Chapter Text

Robert isn’t quite sure how he makes it to the Mecha Lair. 

After he sent in his official resignation from SDN, no two weeks notice needed, his brain practically shut itself off. His vision is blurry, his ears ringing and hearing muffled, his lungs just barely working and leaving him lightheaded with every stilted breath. It’s like he’s underwater. Trying not to drown, but begging for the waves to just crash into him until they put him out of his misery.

When he gets to the Lair, it’s like getting flashbanged. It’s so bright, and so loud, with everyone coming up to him and talking, yelling over each other for answers, but he can’t even make a word of it out, can’t even focus long enough to try and tell them–

He makes his way to the fridge, pulls out the bottle of whiskey he hasn’t touched in a week, and downs half of it in just a few greedy swallows.

When he sets it down, wiping the spilt liquor from the sides of his mouth, his hands shaking like he just got out of a fight, it’s finally quiet. He can see again. Can see Waterboard and Phenomaman standing over by the table, their faces screwed with concern, their shoulders hunched. Can see Chase in front of him, his uncertainty reflected with hesitant movements and a furrowed brow.

“Robert,” Chase mutters, his hand gently clapping his little brother’s shaking shoulder. “What happened?”

And Robert– breaks. Into a million shattered little pieces, falling into Chase’s arms and sobbing into his stupid fucking grandpa sweater, hiccupping wetly as Chase’s hands soothingly rub his back, keeping him close until he can finally fucking breathe again.

Twenty minutes later, when he remembers how to talk, he’s sitting at the table with a glass of ice water, and the others silently sit around him, patiently waiting for him to speak.

Finally, his voice ragged and broken, Robert says, “I told them.” He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling so much older than some mere early-thirties. “I, um. I had to. And Shroud knew that.” He barks out a humorless laugh. “He got front row seats to the whole fucking thing.”

“You– we– you didn’t have to, Robert,” Waterboard says quietly. “W-we could have–”

Robert shakes his head. “There was no time. And Shroud meant what he said. If I didn’t give him the Pulse, or come clean about being Mecha-Man, you guys would have been plastered all over the news. And Visi– she would have been kicked from SDN, probably. I couldn’t let– Shroud would have made going back to the Red Ring her only option.”

“Do you think he still has eyes on us?” Chase says darkly, glancing over to the computers.

Robert sighs. “Nearby CCTV, maybe. But not here. I know how his brain works. I know how to keep him out. Hell, it’s probably why he resorted to this.” He takes a sip of water, his hand still trembling when he sets it back down. “I, um. He knew what Z-Team is– was to me. I was getting close to them. I was… caring too much. And he knew he could use that against me. Especially since…”

He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, waits for the fallout. “I was, uh. I was kind of dating Flambae. Just… without the actual dates, I guess. We never got that far before…”

Robert rubs at the pained furrow between his brows. “And it was– I really fucking like him. It wasn’t just some… fucked up ploy, some petty bullshit between nemeses like he assumed, for good fucking reason. I started caring. I was getting protective. And that shit with Lightningstruck– it was basically a declaration. Not just about Z-Team, but… that Flambae was–”

“Robert.”

When Robert opens his eyes, Chase is staring back at him from across the table, his eyes filled with pitying compassion and sympathy. “I know, man.”

Robert chokes on a breath. “You–”

“Wasn’t hard to figure out, kid. I had to fucking listen to you two flirt your way through fights for fucking years, remember?” Robert flushes at that, but Chase continues, “Figured it was only a matter of time before something like this happened, once you became Robert. ‘S why I was so fucking apprehensive about you doing this fucking shit in the first place.”

Chase leans closer, clasping his hands on the table. “You don't love lightly, Robert. When you give a shit about someone, you don't always know where to see the logic, or the consequences. Hell, when I called you out on your bullshit, it only took twelve fucking hours before you fixed my bullshit aging problem and helped me fucking run again. But you didn't even stop to think for a second that there might’ve been the slightest, smallest fucking chance that I–”

“You wouldn't do that,” Robert protests, but Chase shakes his head.

“Not the point. You brought Phen in after one little pep talk. And sure, that worked out just fine for us. He gets to fuck off and be happy, and play fucking Animal Crossing high as fucking balls.”

“And I am eternally grateful,” Phenomaman says. “I have not been this happy since my dalliance with Blonde Blazer. And this is far more freeing than that ever was.”

“But still,” Chase says, even as some of that sickening tension in Robert's chest dissipate. “My point is– I knew this was going to happen. Those Z-Team shitheads are annoying, cocky little fucking assholes, but they're admittedly stupid fucking lovable, and fiercely loyal, and it was only a matter of time before you hit the landmine in that hole you've been digging yourself into.”

Robert winces. “I regret lying to them for so long. I didn't– I didn't know how to come clean. Not in a way where I could keep them.” He sighs quietly. “And now they're never going to forgive me. Especially after…”

He thinks of how hurt Flambae was, when he heard the truth about how horrible Mecha-Man truly is. How badly he wanted to burn Robert alive, how devastated he looked when he just told him to go instead.

“I don't blame them,” Robert murmurs, taking a sip of water as his eyes start burning from unshed tears again. “I deserve their hatred. I lied to them; I betrayed them. When everything is over with Shroud, I'll– we'll get Blazer's amulet back to her, and I'll… I dunno. Pack it all up, I guess.”

Waterboard’s eyebrows draw together, concerned and fearful. “W-wait, Robert–”

He shakes his head. “You guys can keep the Lair. Herm, you could… you could even reapply for a spot at SDN. You never killed anyone. The Phoenix Program accepted villains for less.”

“Robert–” Chase tries to cut in.

“Warp Speed could be a hero, or a vigilante,” Robert continues, dragging the tip of his index finger around the chilled lip of the glass. “You're good at it. And the suit is yours, no matter what. Don't waste your talents.”

“Robert,” Phenomaman murmurs, “this is not what we–”

“And you can stay here, Phen. Obviously.” Robert gets up from his seat, going to set the glass down in the sink. Exhaustion hits him like a truck, and combined with the alcohol, he feels dead on his feet. “Stay retired; you deserve it. No one here would ever rat you out. You guys just–”

“Robert.”

Two firm hands grab him by the biceps, gently turning him around, and Chase stares up at him with all of the wisdom that comes with his age, on both the inside and outside. “We’ll figure it out later. Don't make all these decisions when– just lay down, okay? Get some rest. It's been a long fucking night.”

After a moment of swaying on his feet, Robert nods, and he lets Chase bring him to Phenomaman’s bedroom. Robert collapses on the bed, his vision swimming as Chase pulls the Barbie bedspread over him. He's already half-asleep from the fatigue and turmoil of tonight’s events, and from the alcohol he tried to drown it with, when he faintly hears Chase say, “Love ya, kid.”

“Love you too, unc.” Sleep comes all too easily, and thankfully, Robert has no dreams at all for once.

The days pass slowly. Robert thinks it’s been three, maybe four days since he revealed everything at Crypto Night, but time is blending together. Nothing feels real anymore. It’s all just… background noise.

He wallows in his apartment. Waterboard and Phenomaman text him regularly, just checking in, making sure he’s still alive since he’s practically disappeared into his self-dug pit of misery. Chase comes by frequently, just to make sure he eats, showers, does the basic necessities needed for merely surviving. Sometimes he tries to get Robert to talk, but it’s never more than a few words, and Chase always leaves with a look of concern and pity.

And one night, when he's just made sure that Robert has enough food for the next day, that the apartment doesn't look like a depression den, that he's showered and bundled up in an excessive amount of hoodies and blankets, Chase says, “It'll get better, Robert. I know it fucking sucks now, but. I promise, it'll work out.”

Robert just nods, even though he doesn't believe it in the slightest. Lets himself fall asleep on the couch once his thoughts start spiralling into despair again, and dreams about malicious glowing red eyes, of a fiery blaze that consumes Robert's heart and soul, of falling to the ground in the Mecha suit to fulfill whatever legacy he's made for himself–

He wakes up to a knock at his door. A glance at his phone tells him that it's the next day already, in the late afternoon. Waterboard and Phenomaman have already messaged him with words of care and concern.

The knock intensifies, and Robert lurches off the sofa with a sigh. Rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he makes his way over to the door. Gets ready for another round of pity and emotional caretaking as he unlocks the three deadbolts and swings it open to see–

Fuck.

Flambae, looking just as fucking powerful and gorgeous as always. He's still in his hero uniform, but his hair is down, and he's standing at the threshold of Robert's door with crossed arms, a furrowed brow, and so much tiredness in the deep bags of his eyes that Robert's stomach flips with even more guilt.

For a moment, neither of them says anything. They just stare at each other, like two wild animals waiting for the other to pounce, to go for the kill. But Robert would bare his neck, ask for forgiveness, and wait for the bitter end if it meant making up for the mistakes he's made to the hero in front of him.

Eventually, Robert can't take the tense silence anymore. “If you're gonna kill me, I get it. But can you at least make it quick?”

Flambae doesn't respond. Just grabs the edge of the door, pushes it open enough to slip inside, and silently makes his way over to Robert's dining table.

Robert hates the silence, the tension. Honestly he would just prefer that Flambae yell at him again, just burn him to ash and be done with it. But Flambae motions for Robert to sit across from him, and Robert does so, because he's always going to be that moth drawn to the flame. Chasing someone for years will do that to a man.

It's still quiet for a minute. Flambae's arms are crossed, his two remaining fingers drumming against his thick bicep as he thinks.

But finally, he says, “Visi told us everything.”

Robert stops breathing for a moment. Because everything could mean a lot of things, but before he can even ask, Flambae continues, “Not just her, though. She called in a friend. Someone who, uh. Helped put all the fucking pieces together. Made everything make a lot more fucking sense.”

Robert swallows nervously. “Who…?”

And Flambae smiles, sad and soft, almost reminiscent. “Keep up, Robbo.”

Double fuck. “Chase,” he breathes. “He– goddammit.”

Flambae nods. “Should have fucking known it was him. The dick on the car should have clued me in fucking immediately. But he, uh, told us about Blazer. How you didn't mean to hurt her, how– how bad you fucking felt about it. And then he explained your… reasoning, I guess, behind all of the bullshit you pulled. That despite lying to us for fucking weeks, you really do… care. About Z-Team, our safety, our– what we thought about you.” He uncrosses his arms so he can clasp his hands together on the table. “I, uh. I get it. Why you did what you…”

Flambae trails off for a moment, shaking his head just enough for those curls to bounce over his shoulders. “Doesn't make what you did any less fucked up. You fucking know that, right?”

Robert nods jerkily. “I know. And I'm– I really am so fucking–”

Flambae holds up a hand, and Robert's jaw snaps shut. “Yeah. But that doesn't– I get it. And I think I know the fucking answer, but still, I– I need to fucking know, Robert. Did you ever give a shit about me, really?” His eyes are almost glistening when he meets Robert's devastated gaze. “Was I just some… fucking trophy for Mecha-Man to win? Getting to fuck your arch nemesis, making me–” He swallows roughly. “Making me fucking care about you, fucking fall for you, was it all just…”

Flambae's expression is full of hurt and apprehension, longing and imploring. “Did I ever mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” Robert says quickly, quietly, but far more determined than he's felt in days. “Flambae, you… you mean fucking everything to me. Even that first time in the gym, it was never about our stupid nemesis bullshit. I–”

He worries his bottom lip for a moment, and thankfully Flambae waits patiently for him to get his thoughts together. Eventually Robert says, “If I'm being honest, I always liked you. From the first time we fought in the bank, you were… different. I, um. I told you that before, but not as truthfully as I wanted to.”

“Then what did you mean?” Flambae asks quietly.

Robert sighs, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his eardrums. “You're fun. You're tough, and strong, and funny, and you fucking know it, which just made you even more intoxicating to me. Fighting you was always… it was one of the best parts of being a ‘villain.’ Having you as a ‘nemesis’ was… part of what kept me going. And, um. After the shit at Crypto Night, Chase told me– he said that I care with everything in me. When we became enemies, I saw you as mine. And that's… ridiculous, and selfish, but. That's just how I saw it.

“And then I got to know you, as Robert,” he continues. “I got to see this whole other side of you that's charming, and gentle, and caring, and… fuck, it was even more addictive than the fights. I wanted you all the time, even when I knew that I shouldn't. Even when– when lying to you hurt so fucking bad that I'd wished you'd just burn me to ash.”

He takes a deep breath. Lays all of his cards, and his heart, on the table. “I fell for you, too. Probably even before I started working as– as Robert. I swear, Flambae, I never wanted to hurt you. I just… I got stuck. The more time that passed, and the more I spent it with you, the harder it got to come clean about everything. And I-I’m so fucking sorry, for lying, for being so fucking selfish, but–”

His words are cut off when Flambae stands from his chair, the legs harshly scraping against the floor, and Robert prepares for the inevitable fatality as Flambae rounds the table, grabs Robert by the collar of his shirt, hauls him up to his feet and–

Their lips crash together so roughly, so desperately that it leaves Robert lightheaded. But he moans into it nonetheless, his hands scrambling to curl around the back of Flambae’s neck, tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as Robert finally, finally feels like he can breathe again, like the world isn’t crashing down around him.

Flambae kisses him furiously, passionately, practically biting at Robert’s lips as his hands grab Robert’s ass so he can lift him up and set him on the table, fitting himself into the slot between his legs and pressing their rapidly growing erections together, grinding against Robert and making both of them groan with it. Warm hands slip under Robert’s shirt, his nails skating sharp, burning trails along the scarred skin, his hair falling around both of them to the point that it curtains around their faces, making it so all they can see is each other when they finally pull away with ragged gasps. Flambae still looks angry, but also so fucking relieved, and just as lovesick and desperate as Robert’s felt for the past few days.

“I missed you,” Flambae admits, his breath hot and smoking against Robert’s lips. “Fuck, I missed you so fucking–”

“Me, too,” Robert murmurs, kissing and sucking and biting under Flambae’s perfect goddamn jawline to hear him gasp and feel him shudder. “‘M so fucking sorry, Flambae, really–”

A harsh yank of his hair has him choking on a moan as his head is pulled back, and Flambae stares down at him with lustful determination. “Promise,” he grits out. “Promise me you’re done with the fucking games, that this is real, that you won’t–”

“I promise,” Robert says, easily and eagerly. “I fucking swear, Flambae, I’m–”

“Zahir,” Flambae mutters against his lips. When Robert makes an inquisitive, confused noise, he clarifies, “My real name. It’s Zahir. Don’t fucking tell the others, yeah? They only know my English name.”

Robert laughs, relishing in the smile he gets in return. “Doesn’t that kinda go against the whole ‘no secrets’ thing–?”

“Smart-ass little fucking shit,” Flambae growls affectionately, his hands sliding back under Robert to scoop him up, leaving Robert no choice but to wrap his legs around Flambae’s waist as he carries them to the bedroom, both of them laughing against each other’s mouths the whole time.

Flambae tosses Robert onto the bed and immediately smothers him with the heat of his own body, crawling up the villain as he drags Robert’s shirt up and over his head. His mouth crashes back down on Robert’s, licking at his teeth and sucking on his tongue, biting at his lips until Robert is a needy, whimpering mess.

The bedroom is filled with steam and smoke, hitched gasps and grunts, the sinfully loud slap of skin against skin as Robert rides Flambae like he’s trying to win the fucking derby. He writhes in Flambae’s lap, one hand next to his messy hair while the other is braced against the headboard, rolling his hips so skillfully that it has Flambae throwing his head back, his heated hands scrambling over every inch of Robert he can reach, his toes curling into the sheets as he murmurs every dirty thought that hits him.

“So fucking– fuck,” Flambae grits out, his eyes rolling back into his head as Robert gyrates on his cock like a fucking pornstar. “God, azizam, feel so fucking good–”

“You look gorgeous,” Robert admits, his mind too far gone to even try and keep the words in. “Just like that first fight–”

“The fucking bank, fuck, yeah, I fucking remember.” Something about that memory spurns Flambae on, makes his hands regain confidence to clasp Robert by the waist so he can flip him over, splaying Robert out on the sheets and thrusting roughly into his warmth. The movements are relentless, sinful, ramming into Robert and carving out a place for himself, making Robert gasp and keen as his hands scratch down Flambae’s flexing back. Flambae’s hands are hot against him, dragging through his hair and burning hot against the curve of his hip, and–

And Robert has an idea. An insane one, but the mere thought of it has him gasping into Flambae’s mouth, has him feeling feral and desperate and greedy.

“More,” Robert hisses, wrapping a hand around Flambae's wrist, pressing his grip harder into the curve of his hip. The two fingers, thumb, and palm feel like a brand, and he doesn't want it to fade. “Hotter, c'mon, just–”

“It’ll burn you, baby,” Flambae argues, but he looks wrecked from the idea, too, and his hand is already starting to heat up more. “Are you–?”

“I know,” Robert gasps, shameless and needy, torn between leaning into the pain and flinching back, “I know it will, just do it, Flambae, fucking burn me–”

He throws his head back, choking on a broken moan as that hand sears against his skin, lighting him up from the inside, making him shake from euphoric pain and overstimulation as he comes, harshly and untouched, covering himself and managing to hit Flambae's chest hair, his fucking stubble– fuck, it's even on his lips–

Flambae growls, animalistic and damn-near predatory, as he ducks down to crush his lips against Robert’s, swallowing his whimpers and sharing the taste of his come between them. As Flambae's hand pulls away with a fucking sizzle, he comes too, grinding in deep and biting at Roberts lips like another claim he wants to stake. And Robert, blissfully soaring in the pleasant afterglow of their best fuck yet, lets him. Because he would have begged for more, either way.

By the time they finally tumble away from each other, panting and sated, covered in sweat and basking in the moment of peace and comfort, it’s starting to get dark out. Flambae’s eyes are still barely glowing in the darkness, and Robert can’t look away, wanting the sight of them to be burned into his mind for the rest of their lives.

“That was… intense,” he says, his lips curling up in a smile as Flambae hums in satisfaction, leaning back over Robert so he can press kisses onto his scarred, freckled shoulders. His fingers trail over the aching welt on Robert’s hip, where a bright red handprint, minus the last two fingers, is starkly visible against his skin.

There's no doubt that it'll scar permanently, leaving an imprint of Flambae on Robert that will never fade, and that makes Robert's heart soar with primal possessiveness, undying affection, something so close to love that he almost says something truly stupid in their comfortable afterglow.

“But good, yeah?” Flambae asks carefully. When he looks up, there's a touch of uncertainty in his eyes. Like he still isn't sure if Robert wants this the same way he does. “Wasn't too much?”

“It was perfect.” Robert smiles softly, cupping Flambae's stubbled jaw, and internally melting at how Flambae leans into the touch, practically nuzzling Robert's hand in return. “It’ll never be too much.”

Flambae purrs into the kiss he draws Robert into, lazily licking into his mouth, dragging his thumb once more over the burn he left behind. “Good,” he says when he pulls away, and then slaps Robert on the tit. “Okay. Get dressed. We gotta clean up ‘n get ready.”

He's already out of the bed, completely ignoring Robert's bewildered expression as he tugs his suit back on.

“Get ready?” Robert asks cautiously. “For what, exactly?”

Flambae looks over his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “Team meeting, bitch. Put your fucking pants on. Everyone’ll be here in thirty.”

“You– they– what?”