Drinking horn with gilded copper mounts, Europe, 15th century

🔥 Full view please 🔥

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Flambae stood at the balcony of Robert's dilapidated apartment, eyes closed, listening to the rising wind whipping around the buildings.

Since the fateful day of Shroud's attack and Roberts' subsequent disappearance, this had become his daily ritual.

To stop on his way home, to wait here in this dump, to lean in the hope that Robert would magically be back.

He had rented the apartment when the landlord made clear that, if no one would pay the rent, he'd have to rent the rooms again. They had been giving an ultimatum while still trying to cope with the aftermath and searching for the lost dispatcher.

It's safe to say that Flambae was in no mental condition to make wise decisions.

As the result, this was his home now, too. At least for the time between evening and night, when they had searched the street, the sky, the goddamn underground for any sign of Robert on a daily basis.

It smelled like rain.

Flambae opened his eyes, letting his thoughts wander much like his gaze over the lights of the neighborhood.

It was stupid to be here. To long for long-lost days. Since it's not like his dispatcher would come back home like a stray if he just let the balcony door open on stormy nights.

With a deep sigh, he got his phone out of the pocket of his civilian clothes. His hero suit lay discarded, dirty on Robert's couch. He let his eyes wander to the furniture, only to be interrupted by said phone vibrating, indicating a new message.

It was most likely Prism.

Glancing over to the clock, he knew what the text was about, but he took a quick look at the phone nonetheless.

"Hey Bae, did you find anything? I know you won't respond, you never do - but please at least open the damn chat so that I know you've read this.

The message preview that had popped up blinked out of existence.

It started raining.

At first only a few drops, then it quickly changed into a downpour.

The smell of smoke and ash that still clung to the hero suit on the sofa mixed with the heaviness of rain and the wind of change of this night.

He wasn't ready to tell her - or the Z-team - what had transpired.

He felt empty, but in the vast darkness that occupied his heart, there was a kindling burning, not enough to warm his heart but enough to light the way, to enable him to walk this path to the end.

However painful it may be.

This night, this fire had given him the first, bitter taste of a terrible illusion:

Hope.

--------------------------------------------------

Flames fell like rain.

Not the chaotic inferno of destruction, but a controlled storm of fire that bent itself around the man standing at its center. Heat shimmered through the air, turning the ruined alleyway into a wavering mirage of orange light and drifting embers.

Flambae and the Team had been searching for years.

Every lead. Every rumor. Every whispered sighting of a man with too much snark for his own good and tired, dead eyes. A dispatcher who had vanished like smoke.

Robert.

Or what was left of him.

Now he was here.

He sat casually atop a half-collapsed concrete barrier as if the fire surrounding them meant nothing. One leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed, gaze steady but distant. The glow of the flames reflected in the metal seams embedded along his neck and collarbone—dark augments running under his skin like veins of black glass.

A pistol rested loosely near his hand on the ground.

He didn't reach for it.

Instead, he watched him.

Studied him.

Like a stranger.

Flambae felt the heat gather around his shoulders, licking along his toned arms, his solid back. The fire responded to his emotions, rising higher the longer he held that stare, a stare without recognition.

“Robert, I need you to stand down”. Fear crept into Flambea's voice. Uncertainty followed.

His former dispatchers' brows shifted slightly. Not confusion. Not memory. Only analyzing him.

“That's not my name,” he replied calmly. “I am referred to as –Revenant-“

His voice was the same; that was the cruelest part.

Flambae took a slow step forward. Flames curled up from the ground beneath his feet but stopped short of touching Robert.

“I've been looking for you,” he said. “For three years.” Not commenting on the different name.

Robert tilted his head slightly. “Then your search parameters were inefficient.”

The words hit harder than any weapon. The analytical tone was twisting the metaphorical knife in his heart one more turn.

His hands clenched. Fire flared along his arms.

“You disappeared,” Flambae said accusingly. “You vanished amidst the fight with Shroud. No message. No trace. Nothing.”

Still nothing in his eyes.

Robert’s fingers absently brushed the metallic plate set into his chest. Beneath the exposed section of fabric, faint red light pulsed from the augments embedded in his sternum.

A life-support core.

Flambae knew what it meant immediately.

And dread settled in his chest.

“You let them change you,” he whispered. “Why the hell would you do that?” It was then that he noticed the scars. “What happened in that fight? Robert, talk to me!”

Robert blinked slowly.

“Correction,” he said. “I was recovered. My survival probability without augmentation was estimated at 20 percent.” His tone was still clinical, factual.

He tapped the metal lightly.

“These systems maintain cardiac rhythm, neurological stability, and oxygenation. Removal would result in immediate system failure.”

Flambae stared. “They changed you, brainwashed you, broke you.”

“Memory partitions were optimized,” he said.

“Brainwashed.”

“Stabilized.”

His fire surged higher.

The alley walls glowed red from the heat.

“You loved me.”

The words came out before he could stop them. Again, accusingly, hurting, dreading, praying. They had never really talked about this before, not in those words.

Robert paused.

For the first time.

A faint distortion flickered across his expression, subtle as static.

“…That statement cannot be verified.”

Flambae’s heart cracked.

He stepped closer, now only a few meters away. Heat distorted the air between them.

“You used to love Twinkies, our banter, our ribbing, the team,” he said quietly. “You fought for us, for Janelle and Victor to stay on the team.”

No reaction.

“You made us – the team - what we are now.”

Nothing.

“You told me once you didn't think someone like you deserved something like… us.” Flambae gestured between them both.

Robert’s gaze remained steady.

But his fingers tightened slightly.

A faint glitch pulsed along the augment lines in his neck.

His conditioning was struggling.

Memory scraping against locked sections.

“Emotional recollections are restricted,” he said flatly.

Flambae’s voice broke.

“Restricted by who?”

Robert didn't answer.

For a long moment, they simply stood there.

Fire drifting.

Embers were floating between them, like they were trying to connect them somehow.

Then Robert slowly stood up from the concrete barrier.

He was taller than Flambae remembered. Or maybe it was the rigid posture of the augment frame running through his spine.

His gaze dropped briefly to the flames swirling around his hand.

“Your ability output exceeds safe parameters,” he observed. “You risk cellular damage.”

Flambae laughed bitterly.

“Yeah, you used to call me out on that all the time. To control my fire.”

Another flicker.

Tiny, but real.

Robert stepped forward.

Flames curled instinctively around him but did not burn.

Flambae didn't stop them. His control over them honed in the last years. For Robert. To make him proud, to be what Robert had always seen in him. Greatness destined to be rivalled.

So if Robert wanted to walk through his fire, he could.

He stopped just outside arm’s reach.

Close enough that he could see the ugly scars where the augment ports disappeared beneath his skin.

Close enough to see the tiredness buried behind his emotionless stare.

“Why continue this search?” he asked.

Flambae looked at him as if the answer should have been obvious.

“Because I knew you didn't leave,” he said softly. “You were taken.”

Silence.

Robert’s eyes drifted over his face as if mapping it.

Cataloging features.

But then something else happened.

A micro hesitation.

His hand moved slightly.

Not toward the gun he had strapped to his belt when he has stood.

Towards Flambae.

Then the augment in his chest pulsed bright red.

His body stiffened.

The moment vanished.

His hand lowered.

“Your assumption lacks evidence,” he said clinically.

Flambae swallowed.

But he didn't move away.

Instead, he stepped closer until the heat of his flames wrapped around them both.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then explain why you're still here.”

Robert paused.

Processing.

He gestured behind him.

“You could have left anytime. I am sure you did before, when I got too close, without problems.”

The alley burned quietly around them.

Robert didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze lowered to the ground.

Then finally—

“…Unresolved variable.”

Flambae felt hope spark painfully in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That's called a feeling, Bob-Bob.”

Robert looked back at him.

For the briefest second—

A ghost moved behind his eyes.

Not recognition.

But something trying very hard to remember.

The fire between them flickered.

And for the first time since they met again—

Robert didn’t step away.

Even though the flames were rising higher.

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prepare for trouble

Flambae ends up posting photos of some Robert’s meals to r/foodcrimes and Robert becomes a cryptid of sorts