Chapter Text
SDN is always loud this time of day: a messy orchestra of ringing lines, alert chimes, overlapping hero chatter, and the low hum of old fluorescent lights that should’ve been replaced ten years ago. The whole floor looks like a call center designed by someone who’s only seen one in movies: rows of desks crammed too close together, tangled cords, holographic screens flickering with incoming calls, case files stacked in unstable towers, and the distinct smell of burnt coffee and electrical wiring that’s definitely overheating.
Robert sits at his station, surrounded by monitors that reflect harsh blue light across his already tired face. The headset digs into the side of his skull. A giant digital map pulses on the center screen, tracking every hero in the Z-Team. Each blip flashes in real time: Prism darting around like a glitch, Sonar stationary on a rooftop, Courtney taking smoke breaks, Flambae glowing red-hot in some alleyway downtown.
"Yo, man, word on the hallways is… you went on a date! That true?!" Flambae’s voice blares through the line, loud, teasing, dramatic as hell. Even over comms, his accent is impossible to ignore.
"You jealous or something? Look, if you wanted to grab dinner all you had to do was ask..." Robert shoots back, dry as always.
He had gone out with Invisigal the night before, but it wasn’t a date. Not even close. They just went to the movies because she needed a break and he… well, he needed to remember how to be a person.
"Yeah… hah. You're not my type." Flambae sounds weirdly uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, and Robert’s eyebrows lift slightly. He’s never heard the man hesitate in his life.
"Girl, that’s the biggest lie I’ve heard!" Prism laughs before he can even respond. "You’re actually saying you’re not into a sad little twink like him?"
"I’m not a-" he tries, but Prism cuts him off.
"Shut up" Flambae snaps, irritated now.
"Oh my God!" Visi joins in, sliding into the conversation like she’s been waiting to roast someone all morning. "Robert, you totally are. I mean— you’re so skinny it hurts to look at you, and you’ve got those doe eyes like you’re always begging for some dick."
And just like that, everyone is laughing — playful teasing, chaotic as always, like they’re all in the same room instead of scattered across the city. Jokes about his love life, his sex life, his appearance, whatever "type" they think he has, the way Flambae would fuck him. It’s not cruel, it's how they make jokes. Strangely, Flambae is the only one who stays silent.
Still, Robert hides his face in his hands and lets out a quiet groan. He knows they don’t mean anything by it, but still... it's weird.
"Well, that’s the nicest thing either of you have ever said to me, so I’ll just take it as a compliment." He tries to sound unbothered, activating dispatcher voice. "But… that’s very inappropriate. Let’s just focus on our jobs, shall we?"
"Just answer this: if you didn’t know him, wouldn’t you match him on Grindr?" Invisigal insists.
"Mhm- I’m not really into dating apps," he shrugs, even though they can’t see him.
He’s too fucked up to date anyway. And he knows— truly knows— that nobody would ever actually be attracted to him. He’s all sharp bones and deep-dark eyebags, with scars etched across his skin like a map of every mistake he’s ever made. Some self-inflicted, some earned as Mecha Man, some carved into him during a childhood he still pretends didn’t happen.
And the pain since waking up from the coma never lets up. His muscles burn every time he moves. Sleeping in a plastic chair doesn’t help either. He literally has zero energy to fuck anybody.
"Or into dating… at all. Can we not talk about this, actually?" he continues.
"That’s really fucking sad, bro," Golem mutters.
"But also... you didn’t deny!" Malevola grins through her voice. "I think we’re onto something here."
"Yeah, right. You’re totally delusional." Robert jokes weakly, and then the screens flash red. "Oh, thank God! We’ve got some calls!"
The shift continues, a loud blur of mission routing, banter, and questionable HR violations. By the time the alerts settle down, Robert’s brain is buzzing and his spine feels like someone lodged a hot metal rod inside it. He tries to let his brain cool down for once before finally stanting up.
But then—
Beep.
"You there?" a voice asks. Flambae.
Robert straightens in his chair instinctively.
"Uh- yeah. I’m here." There's a pause. Not long enough to be dramatic, but just long enough to feel… weird. "Do you... need something?"
"I was just checking in," Flambae says, casual in a way that sounds very not casual. "You know... just tell me if they crossed a line today, okay?"
He hesitates, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
"Crossed a line? Nah, it’s fine. They were just… being them” He murmurs, eyes dropping. "Maybe I was a little weird with what I said, but that’s on me. I’m just… tired." He winces at how pathetic he sounds. "Sorry... it’s whatever. I'm fine. Thanks for asking."
"Mmhm... sure. ‘Fine.’ " He sighs, annoyed. "Next time they start acting stupid, just say something. Or text me. I’ll roast all of them for you. I’m good at that."
Robert lets out a small breath that sounds almost like a laugh. "Trust me, you don’t have to go after anyone for me. They’d eat you alive for that." He tries to make it a joke, his hand dragging up to the back of his neck and rubbing at the tension there. "Really. I’m good. Just… end-of-shift brain rot. Nothing new."
For a moment, the line fills with a weird kind of quiet. Not actual silence — there’s static, wind, but between them, it feels like a held breath. The kind of pause that makes your heart speed up for no good reason.
Robert stares down at his keyboard, tapping his fingers against the plastic just to feel grounded. He could end the call. He should. But something about Flambae’s voice is still lingering in his chest, warm in a way he didn’t expect. "…But, uh. Thanks. For checking in." The words come out low, almost embarrassed, like he’s sneaking them past his own defenses.
On the other end, Flambae releases a soft, thoughtful sound, almost a hum. "Yeah. Anytime."And then the connection ends. Not abruptly, not awkwardly, just… gently. Like someone walking out of a room on tiptoe so they don’t wake you.
Robert stays frozen for a second, watching the dim reflection of his own face in the darkened screen. The sudden quiet of the dispatch floor presses in around him, heavy and intimate, and something tightens in his chest — not painful, just unfamiliar in a way that makes him want to curl in on himself. Flambae had noticed. Really noticed. And that’s supposed to feel reassuring, but instead it twists something inside him he’s not ready to look at.
He drags both hands down his face, inhaling slowly as if oxygen alone could make sense of anything. Then he removes his headset with unnecessary care, setting it down like it might break.
"Coffee," he mutters, pushing his chair back. “I need coffee.”
He gets up, back aching with every step, and heads toward the break room — not because coffee will help, but because physical pain is so much easier to deal with than the thought of a hot, confident hero actually worrying about him. For a few minutes, the quiet hum of the room and the empty chairs around him give him a rare moment to just breathe and pretend the world can wait.
The place is depressing in a way that feels intentional. The flickering overhead light throws ugly shadows across his face, making every scar on his arms and hands look deeper than it already feels. The vending machines are half-broken, humming ominously, and the coffee machine spits out something that barely qualifies as liquid, but he fills a mug anyway. Robert’s stomach growls, but he just ignores it and takes a long sip of the terrible coffee. He doesn’t care about flavor. He cares about escape. A moment’s silence from the noise, the jokes, the laughs... just a second without hearing their voices mocking him like he’s trash. This is already part of his routine: one meal per day, sometimes not even that. He feels like he deserves to be hungry sometimes, like he’s not worthy of real food. It’s just another way he punishes himself.
Because, honestly, that’s what he feels like. Trash. Used-up hero. And it's not the teams fault - Robert knows that they actually care about him. He sees how Sonar’s smile softens whenever Robert hesitates. And the way Prism always circles back to include him, even when she’s bouncing between three conversations at once. He also appreciates that Courtney never pushes him when he’s quiet — she just sits nearby, like she’s making space without making it obvious.
The last time he put on the suit, it exploded. The last time he tried to "be the hero," a bomb nearly killed him. And now? Now those harmless jokes catch on old nerves he pretends aren’t there. Not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind him they exist.
He remembers his childhood: the "training" sessions that were anything but training. The "endurance tests" his father swore would make him a hero one day. He remembers Robbie’s voice telling him that pain meant progress. That suffering meant strength, and failure meant he deserved what happened next.
He shifts in his seat and the movement sends a burning ache up his back. The chronic pain is so constant it has become background noise. It's sharp when he moves, dull and suffocating when he sits still. Ever since the coma, every muscle feels like it’s made of glass. Even breathing feels like it costs something, and he feels that it's not worth it.
Robert stays there, head in his hand, staring at nothing while the cheap coffee settles heavy in his stomach. The silence doesn’t fix anything, but at least it doesn’t demand anything from him. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to ease the fire climbing up his spine, and lets out a soft groan into his palm.
His eyelids dip.
Just a little.
Not enough to sleep, but just enough for his brain to float for a moment. He knows he shouldn’t. He still has half a shift ahead of him, and if he lets himself actually fall asleep his back will butcher him for it later. But his whole body is begging for just a minute. One minute where he doesn’t have to be alert or clever or handling six crises at once.
He lets his eyes fall shut anyway. Just to stop existing for a second.
The hum of the vending machine, the faint drip of the old coffee maker, the buzzing in his own skull... it all blends together into something almost comforting. Not peace, exactly, but the closest thing he’s going to get today.
He breathes in, slow. Lets it out even slower. Maybe, if he’s lucky, no one will need him for the next few minutes.
But after some time, a light, insistent poke on his shoulder jerks him upright. "Hey," a voice whispers, low but impossibly familiar. Robert blinks, groaning as the room sharpens around him. Flambae’s leaning slightly over the table, smirk half-hidden in the dim light. "Time to wake up, Bobert. Shift’s not over yet."
Robert rubs his eyes, cursing under his breath softly, but there’s a weird ease in the way the voice fits against his chaos. It’s not demanding, not teasing. Just… noticing. And somehow, that’s enough to pull him back into the world he usually wants to hide from.