But in spite of the confidence he has in the route of taking leadership with a heavy hand, he can’t fight the tingle of apprehension. Cutting a member of the team is a hard hit. It’s certain to ruffle some feathers. But if the Z-Team wants to advance in heroism, they need to understand that this program isn’t recess. There’s a likelihood that this plan completely backfires. But Robert doesn’t spare too much thought of the negative repercussions. What’s the worst that could happen? Invisigal hits him with a left hook instead of a right this time? Flambae finds a car he deems dorky enough to be Robert’s and sets it on fire? He’s endured worse. And he’s positive he will again. 

Robert has approximately 12 minutes before the lines open, and he has to inform the team that they’ll be down a member come tomorrow morning. He wants this meeting to go well. He wants to say something that strikes a chord with them, something that never strays too far from their minds, and something that drives them forward. Like your father did for him. It wasn’t private knowledge that Robert’s father was more absent than he was present. He could count on one hand how many times he threw a ball with him in the backyard, how many times he gave him a pep talk in the kitchen. Robert loves his father. Despite all of his faults. And he doesn’t doubt that his father was a good hero. But your father somehow managed to be both. A good hero and a good father.

He still remembers the speech he gave at his father’s funeral - still remembers both your hands cradling his in your palms - the words he spoke, how his eyes drifted to him through the crowd of people. Robert couldn’t say how many late-night chats in the backyard over beers they had, or how many stories he told of the lessons he had learned in his years that stuck with him, but he was grateful for every one. Your father’s death shook the state to its core. That a man like him could be taken by something like that. Robert doesn’t like to spend much time dwelling over the fact that your father was more of a pillar in his life than his own, but Robert wishes to be somebody like your father was to him. 

He’s so focused on figuring out what he wants to say, stumbling over words and metaphors in his head that just don’t sound right, that he doesn’t even notice the other person in the rec room until they’re right in front of him. 

“Christ!”

The large car mascot stands as still as a statue, large plastic eyes staring through him. The mascot extends his arm, SDN coffee mug in hand. He doesn’t say a word, and Robert can’t help but stare. Another wordless moment passes, and the cat gestures to the coffee mug again, but with a nod of his head this time. Hesitantly, Robert takes it. 

“Uh, thanks?” he says. 

The cat nods his head and shoots him the best pair of finger guns he can manage before he turns to pick up the other two mugs and walks towards the door. Once his large frame makes it through the threshold, your figure appears in his absence. You make a sound of surprise and press yourself to the door to give him more space to leave. You halt in your step once your eyes settle on him. Your lips roll together, and your arms fall down to your sides. You look as though you weren’t expecting to see him, and Robert can’t help but wonder how exactly you feel about him working here now. He’s sure it was jarring for you to see him here. But that’s all he knows. He doesn’t know if you can’t stand the sight of him, if every time you look at him, all you see is the end. He wonders if you feel just as uncertain and out of place as he does, if you’re wondering where the line is drawn between you now.

Which consequently spurs him to wonder if the seemingly nice gesture he thought of this morning was a step over that line. 

“Hey,” You greet. “Good morning.” 

“Morning.” 

That’s a safe bet, right? Nonchalant. Fresh.  You walk past him to get to the cupboard, and he gets a trace of the signature scent you had spent years perfecting. White florals and Napa leather. A mixture of bright and deep. 

“You get that from Whiskey?” you ask, neck craning to look at him over your shoulder, eyes slipping down to the mug in his hand. 

“Is that the mascot guy?” He asks. “What’s the story with that, by the way?” 

A gentle chuckle falls from your mouth. 

“Yeah. The office calls him Mr. Whiskey. No clue about the story though.” 

Robert’s face twists into an expression of confusion, amusement tugging his mouth into a smile. 

“Why ‘Mr. Whiskey’?” he questions. 

“Oh, shit,” he chortles. “That’s dangerous.” 

“Oh, he puts whiskey in the coffee.”

Robert looks at you with his browns scrunched, unbelieving. You huff through your nose with a smile and nod to the mug. Silently daring him to take a sip. Which he does. There’s no overwhelming burn of alcohol as he swallows his sip; it doesn’t hit you the second you drink it. It doesn’t make you cringe or hiss at the sting going down. But it’s still there. A hint of spice and oak that nips at the back of the sip. 

You laugh along with him as you pour yourself your own cup of coffee, sans whiskey. 

“That cat can mix a drink. Had my fair share of Mr. Whiskey’s special brew.” 

For a moment, that goes as quickly as it came, he can’t help but wonder if this was still while you were in the midst of your post-breakup rut. He’s quick to chastise himself over the thought. Your existence doesn’t start and end with Robert. Not to diminish the consequences of your breakup, but you’ve gone through more, if not worse, than what happened all those years ago. In that conference room, you told him you had too much going on in your life for another area to be difficult. Robert isn’t the center of your orbit. And he hasn’t been for a long time. 

Once your coffee is poured, and your cream and sugar ratio added, you take a long sip and sigh as you lean back into the counter. And unnoticed, Robert mirrors your posture. Hip propped against the cabinet, elbow against the lip of the counter. It’s eerie how off the image of you appreciating a good cup of coffee feels to him in this moment. He’s looked at you in this same scene countless times before, and he realizes, towards the end, that he stopped appreciating it. You had been in his life for as long as he could remember, and he guessed that in that time, he’d grown used to your presence in every aspect of his life. You and Beef on his lockscreen, your comforting warmth next to him in bed at night, your texts in his phone, and your notes in his lunch. Towards the end, Robert wasn’t falling asleep with you every night. He wasn’t taking his lunch, and he wasn’t watching you make your morning coffee. It’s odd, witnessing something you’ve seen a million times and have it feel unfamiliar. 

“So, you think you’ve got the hang of the whole dispatching thing?” You ask. 

“Honestly, yeah.” Robert admits, “The dispatching part is pretty simple. You’re just matching the criteria to the job. The management of the team is a different subject.” 

You chuckle, and Robert can’t help but huff out a breathy laugh with you. 

“Chase told me a bit of the trouble they got up to yesterday,” You say. “Didn’t hear anything about you doing a bad job, though. If you make it to the end of the day, then I think you’ve got it made.” 

“Oh, you have no idea.” Robert starts, “Not only do we have to make it through the day without catching the whole city on fire, I somehow have to convince all of them to sit in a room and tell them we’re cutting someone from the team by the end of the day. So, if they don’t kill me before I make it home tonight, then I think-” 

“You’re cutting someone from the team?” 

Robert stills, breath catching in his throat. The air grows wiry, and his eyes go wide. 

“I-yeah. I thought somebody would’ve told you,” he breathes. 

You sigh, heavy and from your chest. Your hand coming to rub at your forehead, 

“No uh,” You laugh in disbelief, “nobody told me anything about making a cut.” 

“Fuck, Lume- I’m so sorry-” 

You shake your head, still looking at the speckles of age on the floor, hand raised. 

“Don’t apologize, Robert. Blazer and I talked about it before…” You trail. “We just never committed to it.” 

“Still,” Robert says, regret and worry wafting off of him in waves, “I wouldn’t have sprung it on you like that if I knew no one had told you. Chase told me you guys are close.” 

Robert pauses, 

“Sort of?” He adds, “I couldn’t really gauge just what the relationship was through all the griping.” 

 You laugh at the image you must have conjured up in your head, and Robert feels a weight lift off his chest. Your gaze is still a bit far off, but it clears with every passing moment. 

“Yeah, Chase isn’t exactly fond of them. Or the fact that they like me enough to want me as their full-time dispatcher. Probably another reason why he was so keen on getting Blazer to recruit you.” You take a moment. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth and turn back to him. 

“It’s fine though, really. It was bound to happen eventually.” You say. “And Blazer’s ideas usually work out pretty well.” 

“And what if I said it was entirely my idea?” Robert asks, praying to every god he can think of that you pick up on his jest. 

“Oh, then it’s a terrible idea.” You grin. “They’re gonna eat you alive.” 

The two of you share another laugh. Robert couldn’t recall the last time the two of you had laughed this much. It feels nice to laugh with you again. 

“How’s my boy doing?” 

For a second, Robert doesn’t say a word. His head tilts slightly, and his brow furrows. Until his memory catches up and the question registers, plucking at the strings of his heart. The realization that you haven’t seen Beef in three years settles deep in his stomach. The way things ended didn’t make it easy for either of you to reach out. And Robert has a lot of guilt in a lot of areas in that regard. But Robert regrets not having made any effort to give you the opportunity to see Beef. He couldn’t imagine not seeing him for three years. 

“He’s uh, he’s good. Fat.” Robert says. “He’s here, actually. I could bring him by during lunch if you want?” 

A smile pulls at your lips. Not a switch of your lips, or a quirk of the corners. Not the compromising smiles you stitch on to your face.  A real one. The one that rounds your cheeks and makes your eyes sparkle. 

“Yeah, I’d love that.” 

“Okay.” Robert breathes, “I’ll bring him by. I’m sure he’ll be excited to see you.” 

 The clock continues to tick, marking every passing second, and neither of you say a word. His heart beats heavy and deep in his chest, and his fingers start to twitch at his sides. It’s a fragile air that’s settled between you, and seemingly, you both choose to embrace it. Neither of you look away; there isn’t an awkward cough to fill the silence, a jumble of words or a quick escape. Just the two of you and a moment. A moment Robert finds himself not wanting to pull away from. But irony is a killer, and always on time. Your watch pings, and as you tap at the screen, Robert looks to check the time. 

7:56. 

“Shit, I gotta run, but I’ll see you at lunch?” 

Robert is halfway out of the rec room by the time the words get out, but he still stops in the doorway to wait for your response. He watches you nod and take another sip of your coffee. 

“I’ll be here.” 

He pats the frame of the door in his leave and takes a fast pace to his station. A new pep in his step and something to look forward to. 

The knock on your office door comes not long after you’ve taken your seat. You have just enough time to plop into it, sighing dramatically as you sink into the leather, before it cuts through the silence. But you do not have the time to call out to the knocker before a head of blonde hair peeks through the crack in the door that they’ve created. 

“You know, you’re usually supposed to wait for someone to respond before you come in,” You joke. “That’s the point of the knock.” 

“Hey, you busy?” 

Blazer pays you no mind as she opens the door wider and lets herself in. 

“I’m taking that as a no.” 

She closes the door behind her, shutting the blinds and switching the lock. To anyone else, the sight of Blonde Blazer closing their blinds and locking their door would incite a bit of fear in them. But you only chuckle at her dramatics and patiently wait for her to take her seat. 

“I already know about the cut.” You announce. “So, you don’t need to worry about it.” 

You watch as her eyes shift in shock before they soften. Her lips slip downwards, and her shoulders sag. 

“You’re right. It’s not gonna go over well with all of them, but they need to start taking their jobs here seriously. If this doesn’t put things into perspective for them, I don’t know what will.” 

“I know it’s sudden.” She says. “But I think it’s time. I really think this is the right decision.”

You’re not upset she chose to move forward with cutting someone from the Z-Team. Yes, it’s sudden. And yes, it would’ve been nice to be included in the decision, but at the end of the day, that decision isn’t yours. You were hired to be a hero mentor. Your job is to guide and teach. To observe and figure out what teaching techniques would be most efficient for each individual. You don’t get to decide who gets to stay and who has to leave. And you can’t fault her for a decision that you agreed shouldn’t be taken off the table. 

Her eyes slip closed, and she sighs deeply. You can practically see the stress melt off of her as she falls back into the seat. Shoulders rolling back and muscles relaxing. 

“Thank you.” She says. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you first, though.” 

“It’s fine, M. Don’t worry about it.” 

Blazer nods her head and purses her lips. She doesn’t immediately say anything else, but you can see the gears turn in her head. She sends you a quick look through her lashes and taps her hand against your desk. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“You don’t have to ask if you can ask me a question.” You say, a chuckle tumbling out of your mouth. 

“Did you ever meet Robert?” she asks. “Not now, I mean. He said Chase used to babysit him when he was younger, and I know he did the same for you. So I was just wondering.” 

It’s not the question you expected her to ask. You don’t know why, but you weren’t exactly expecting Robert to come up in conversation. And maybe that’s where you go wrong. You didn’t expect Robert to be the new dispatcher, or for him to be in the rec room, after you took the scenic route to the rec room to avoid seeing him at his desk. There was a time when you believed there wasn’t anything in regards to Robert that would be unexpected. But time and time again, you’ve been proven wrong. You can’t fight off the huff of a laugh you exhale. 

“Uh, yeah. Definitely knew him.” You say. “You remember that ex I told you about?” 

You watch as the realization settles on her face. Her eyes go round, and she sits up straighter in her seat. 

“Oh, shit. Robert?-” She doesn’t finish her sentence - She doesn’t need to. 

In the years you’ve spent at SDN, you and Blazer have grown into quite a pair. It wasn’t something that happened immediately. There wasn’t an instant connection; you didn’t meet her and feel as though you’ve known her your entire life. Your friendship was built slowly over time. It started with a few drinks at one of the many hero bars after work, bonding over the chaos of the job. But before long, those nights out at the bar turned into nights at your house, nursing a bottle of wine and a bottle of her choosing. Without the costumes and the hero names, nestled in the protection of your home. You order in and watch shitty movies on your couch until the pair of you fall asleep from exhaustion. Before Mandy, you didn’t have hero friends you could be yourself with. With the heroes you could classify as being your friends, they knew you simply as Lume- Luminara. They don’t know your face or what your go-to rolls are from the sushi place you always go to. They don’t know your dog’s name, and they’ve never drunk so much that they fall asleep on your floor and complain about their back hurting the next day at work. But Mandy does. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry.” She says. “Do you want me to fire him? I mean-  I don’t know if I can, technically. He hasn’t given me a reason to, and I’m not sure if that’ll cause some push back from HR, but I totally would if I could-” 

“No, no.” You laugh. “I don’t want you to fire him. It’s fine. Robert’s a good pick for the job. Just maybe not the best pick for a boyfriend. In the end, at least.” 

The words come out before you have a chance to think about them. It’s not as if Mandy doesn’t know everything that happened between you and Robert, but the words still make you wince. You shouldn’t have said them. But regardless, they’ve been said, and now you’re forced to sit with it. She leans over and places her hand on yours. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks. 

“About what?” 

Her expression is soft, and her eyes gleam with invitation. 

“About everything.” She answers. “About Robert being here, about the cut. About anything else you might wanna talk about.” 

The question makes your chest tight. You wish you had the answer to that question. Every time you begin to try and find those answers, everything gets lost in translation. The wires cross, and they tangle, you lose the thread you start with, and all you’re left with is a matted mess, a chest that’s compressed, and the inability to get a full breath of air into your lungs.

“Yeah, cause that always ends up going well.” 

“I haven’t even begun to try and figure that you. I honestly don’t want to. Right now, I’m pretty content with ignoring it until it goes away.”

She laughs, but you know a simple laugh isn’t enough to distract her. 

“I just can’t right now.” You admit. “I don’t have it in me to open that box. I mean- we were together for eight years, M. That’s not something that gets hashed out over morning coffee. It’s gonna be a fucking mess and I just really don’t have it in me to deal with it right now-”

“Hey,” she cuts you off with a squeeze of your hand, “You don’t have to.” 

She exhales through her nose and leans in closer. In the time it takes for her to gather her thoughts, you decide to learn from your past mistakes and prepare for the words that are about to be spoken. 

“I mean, not right now. But, for now…Robert seems to be pretty permanent. At least until we fix his suit. So it’s bound to happen eventually. So, whenever you do, I’m here. Whatever you need, okay? I’m always here for you.” 

You don’t have the words to give her. You want to speak, to thank her for all she’s done for you, but it all gets caught in your throat. So you smile, flip your hand over, and give her hand a similar squeeze, and hope she can understand everything it is that you’re trying to tell her.

“I got some things I need to take care of, but let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

“I will.” You manage to say, “Thank you.” 

All she leaves you with is a warm smile, and then she’s gone. Your office goes quiet, and the thump in your chest gets louder. She’s right. Ignoring things won’t make them go away, and it won’t be long before everything comes to a head. But this time, you won’t be caught off guard. You’ll be prepared, as hard as you know it will end up being, for whatever may come your way. 

You take a glance at the clock and wince at the time. Your head falls into the palms of your hands, and you groan. Not having to fill the dispatcher shift leaves you no excuse not to tackle the paperwork you’ve been avoiding. And if you don’t want to spend the rest of your week playing catch-up, you have to start now. You take a breath and pull begrudgingly open your top drawer. You reach for the plethora of folders that have found permanent residence in that compartment, only to find a sandwich, neatly rolled in deli paper, sitting on top of them, a yellow Post-it stuck to the wrapper. 

To starting fresh. - R.

JANUARY 9th, 2022. FOUR YEARS PRIOR. 

You’re in the middle of a meeting when you get the news. Your manager steps out to take a phone call, and despite his absence, the meeting continues. You pay close attention to every word that is said, every flash of a photo on the projector, every name that is stated. This task mission will come to be the biggest assignment you’ve ever been placed on. And if you plan on surviving it, you have to pay attention. Your notebook is open, pen is in hand, half-filled with notes already by the time your manager returns. You hear the door squeal on its hinges and feel his heavy hand on your shoulder as he crutches to whisper in your ear. He cuts no corners and sugarcoats nothing. 

“Shroud has just escaped prison.” 

You’re gone before anyone else can speak another word. You can only imagine what your manager has to say in your leave to avoid major reprimand on your part, but it isn’t a question of whether you stay or go in this moment. 

The flight home was quick, faster than you think you’ve ever flown before. The wind was as cold as ice, and by the time you make it home, your teeth are chattering in your skull. The skin exposed from your suit was littered with goosebumps and cold to the touch. But none of that mattered. All that matters is finding Robert. 

There is no scurrying of claws against the floor as you walk through the door. There is no extravagant greeting from Robert, and the house is a mess. Two of your dining chairs are knocked over and strewn across the floor, and the big light in the living room picks up every shard of glass in an iridescent shine. The TV is still on, the news still broadcasting the prison break, spewing information and offering tips of safety to civilians. But you don’t bat an eye. 

“Robert?” You call. 

The only response you get is a muffled bark from Beef. 

You carefully step over the mess of your living room and manage to catch a glimpse of Beef through the glass of your patio door. You quickly grab one of the discarded throw blankets up off the floor, shaking it to dislodge any glass that may have gotten stuck, and pull open the back door. The air isn’t as cold down here as it is up past the clouds, but it still bites at you. You aren’t sure how long Robert’s been out here, but the tip of his nose and the tops of his cheeks are bright red. He’s trembling. But you don’t know whether it’s from the cold or something more sinister. 

You wrap the blanket around him wordlessly, and he doesn’t move an inch. He lets out a breath, and it curls into a vapor. Upon your arrival, Beef bounds out into the yard, seeking out the warmth of the sliver of sun that cuts through the dense clouds. You crouch down in front of Robert in hopes of catching his eye and cup his face in your hands. Even though your skin hasn’t warmed since your flight, you can still feel just how cold he is once his cheeks are in your palms. Robert only spares you a quick glance before he looks away again, but it’s all you need. His eyes are bloodshot, waterline ringed red. Your thumbs stroke at the slope of his cheeks, and you hope the motion can bring him some comfort. It feels like a lifetime before he speaks, but when he does, his voice is strained. 

“He’s out.” 

You can hear the tremble in his voice, the jitter of his teeth. You can see the dried trail of tears that ran down his cheeks and pooled in the cotton of his hoodie. It breaks your heart. 

“I know.” You say. 

It’s all you can think of. It’s not enough. But what are you supposed to tell him? You can’t tell him it’s okay. Because it isn’t. You try to rack your mind for something, anything, you could say to ease his pain, but in the end, you come up empty-handed. You don’t think there’s a group of words in the English language that you could arrange that would help him right now. And it makes you sick to your stomach. 

“You’re freezing.” Your hands leave their place on his cheeks to rub at his arms over the blanket. “Let’s go inside, okay?” 

He doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t nod his head. You get no visual signs that he’s registered a word you’ve said, but you still take his wintry hands in yours and take him inside. He lets you lead him through the mess he’s made of your home and sit him on the couch. He watches you stretch to manually turn off the TV instead of taking the time to locate the remote, and you make quick work of turning on the fireplace. Once you’re content, you kneel down in front of him again. 

“I’m sorry about the house.” He says, voice small and cracked. 

You shake your head and run your thumbs across his knuckles. 

“It’s okay. It’s just stuff. None of it matters.” 

He’s slouched into the sofa, his shoulders curved over his chest, and his head bows towards his knees. He shakes his head softly, but that’s all the fight he can manage. You can tell that he wants to push back, to argue that it isn’t just stuff. That it was your stuff. The things you and Robert bickered over in the furniture store, the glassware, and the centerpieces that both of you had chosen. But he doesn’t have the energy to do any more than that. Your heart twists at the sight of him looking so defeated. If you had the ability to take the pain and despair from him, you would, without question. You’d take it all and craft it into something good. Care for it until he was ready to hold it again. Your eyes blur with tears, and you turn your face, quickly wiping at your nose and rapidly trying to blink away the tears. You don’t want to cry. You can’t. At least not right now. Because this moment isn’t yours. And if a single tear were to fall down your cheek, in spite of Robert’s exhaustion, he’ll put in the effort to comfort you. Right now, it shouldn’t be Robert’s job to comfort you. Not in one of the moments that could prove to be one of his darkest. 

You bring his hands to your mouth, placing a soft kiss on the skin of his fingers before resting them against your cheeks in hopes of sharing what bit of warmth you may have built. 

“I’m so sorry, Robert.” You say. “I’m so sorry.” 

He doesn’t respond. His lack of response doesn’t hit you in the chest; it doesn’t make you shrink. You aren’t instantly filled with the urge to speak again in attempts to coax a response out of him. You let him choose silence as you brush your thumb over his hands, a quiet reminder of your presence. In spite of his state and his reticence, you still feel the tips of his fingers trace the stretch of your jaw. You lean into them and press a kiss to every one. He doesn’t retract his fingers once you’re done; he doesn’t make any moves to change the space. He simply shifts his hand and traces the outline of your lips. He does this, over and over. Again and again, until your lips tingle. Once he grows bored of following the same track, he settles on sweeping his thumb across the soft skin of your bottom lip. He still hasn’t spoken a word, but his eyes seem to have focused. He’s looking at you now, versus looking past you. His eyes haven’t fully regained their shine, but they aren’t as hollow as they were before. 

“I'm going to find him.” 

Robert’s declaration comes as no surprise to you. You knew he would want to go after him. You couldn’t begin to count the nights you’d spent with Robert, awake in the late hours of the night, cloaked in darkness, allowing each other to divulge whatever comes to mind. Nights when Robert has spoken about just how angry he was that he didn’t have the chance to do anything about his father’s death. How, yes, of course, he was happy Shroud was caught. But it didn’t stop the gnawing crave for retaliation. Robert was young when Robbie died. He had no time to cope before he was thrust into the world of heroism and into the suit his father died in. The second you heard about Shroud’s escape, you knew Robert would want to go after him. But that doesn’t mean a pin-sized hole doesn’t tear itself in your stomach, one you know will grow and grow until it’s a pit you’ll never be able to fill. But what were you to do? Tell him that he can’t? That he shouldn’t join the effort to find and capture the man who murdered his father? You can’t ask that of him. There isn’t a world where Robert could sit by and not do anything as the man who took his father from him walked free. Not when he’s spent this long living with the want of reprisal. 

The idea scares you to your core; you wouldn’t deny that. Shroud had always been dangerous. 15 years spent in prison didn’t change that fact for the better. If he could take out a Brave Brigade member, a man he knew well, he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to Robert. You try to remind yourself how much you believe in Robert. How great a hero he is. How he’s shown the essence of what it means to be a hero since he was young. But it does little to ease the smothering feeling of fear. Because great heroes die every day. And you don’t want Robert to be another name on that list. 

“Okay.” You respond, ignoring the way your body opposes you. “I can call some people-” 

“No,” Robert speaks. The clearest and steadiest he has since you’ve come home. “I need to do this by myself.” 

Your stomach sinks. Your forehead comes to rest on his knees, and you feel the warmth of your breath fan against your face. 

“Robert- this…you need more hands. Shroud isn’t somebody who does things without a plan. He isn’t somebody who gets taken down easily. The first time was sheer luck - he’s not gonna let it happen without a fight. I have connections, they can-” 

“Just because I don’t have powers doesn’t mean I can’t do this.” He says. 

Your head snaps up to him, eyes rounded with panic. His face is stiff, and his eyes have darkened. Dread seeps over your body, and your hands come to grasp at the expanse of his forearms. 

“Baby, no- I’m not saying that. That’s not why-” 

“I don’t need powers to be a hero.” 

Heroes without powers had a more difficult time persuading the public. Those who were born with powers earned the favor of the masses much easier than those who weren’t. The heroes with powers could simply show up, do a couple of dazzling performances, and instantly skyrocket in popularity. People like Robert, who didn’t have any flashy powers to fall back on, had to work ten times harder to prove themselves to earn the right to be called a hero. And as much as Robert waves off the bias, you knew it bothered him. Being viewed as weak because of something completely out of his control. You had never viewed Robert any differently because he didn’t have powers. Your offered help was meant to be that simple.

“I know,” You whisper. “You are a hero, Robert. I would never try to imply otherwise. I just want you to be safe.” 

“I’ll be safe.” He replies. “But I have to do this by myself.” 

The look he gives you leaves you no room to debate. So, you run a hand down your face and lean into the hand he places on your cheek. A silent, reluctant acceptance. He leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and both of you soak in what could be the last moment of normalcy before everything is changed.

APRIL 2025. PRESENT. 

The first shift of the day advances just as terribly as Robert imagined it would. He didn’t expect anything less. By the time the Z-Team takes their seats, Robert already has a headache and is already too aware of his blood rushing through his body. He allows them to get settled, gives time for Chase and Blazer to take their spots behind him, before he takes in a deep breath. 

“As you know, by the end of the day, someone will be cut from the Z-Team.” 

The sentence has barely left his mouth, it doesn’t get the time to flow through the air and settle before Maleovola interjects. 

“This is bullshit.” She states. 

A groan threatens to fall from his mouth. He knew today wouldn’t go well, but he didn’t account for the amount of frustration he would feel this early into the workday. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “You already said that.” 

“Cut me from a job I didn’t want in the first place,” Punch-Up mutters. 

Robert begins to form a rebuttal, the sentence forming on his tongue and his lips parting. But before he gets the chance to speak, Prism cuts in. 

“Miss Blazer,” She begins. “Maybe if you gave us a dispatcher who knew what they were doing, you wouldn’t have to throw no one out.” 

He wouldn’t deny the fact that he had never been good at holding his tongue. Words dripping in sarcasm and contempt fall from his mouth without a hint of hesitation. So, Robert isn’t surprised by just how fast he responds. 

“Hey, Nicki Mirage, I’m standing right in front of you. You can talk to me.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you, bitch!” Prism exclaims. “Which weak ass superhero did you come from, the fuckin’ geek squad? I ain’t know Luminara to be a liar, but this “great hero” bullshit they told us about, ain’t showing.” 

“It doesn’t matter where I’m from, Cardi C. What matters is, I’m here to figure out who stays and who goes.” 

Robert’s mind is moving so fast that it takes a moment for the words to dawn on him. 

“Wait-” His face scrunches and his hand raises, “What does Luminara have to do with any of this?” 

There is no share of confused looks amongst the team, so it’s clear to Robert that every one of them is aware of what Prism is referring to. It isn’t long before Coupe shrugs. 

“We had a meeting to discuss how our shift went.” She says. “Luminara likes to check in with us after a new dispatcher is hired.” 

Sonar laughs, his chest buckling in tandem with the sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Especially after what happened in the rec room.” 

Instantly, Robert stiffens. He turns to look at Chase, who does nothing but shrug and pop his eyebrows, unbothered, before he goes back to petting at Beef’s head. He should have seen the fact that Chase couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it came to you a mile away. But he thought that if Chase could kind of keep a secret from Blonde Blazer, then he could keep one from you. But now, it’s clear. That being honest with him as to why his nose was bleeding yesterday was the wrong decision. 

“What happened in the rec room?” Blazer questions. 

No one offers her a response, but Robert can’t be bothered to spare the time it would take to explain. 

“What exactly was said in this meeting?” He asks. 

And the room goes deathly silent. Some of them roll their lips shut, some completely turn their face from him. They tap aimlessly at the table and are content with tracing the seam where the ceiling blends into the walls. Only now does Robert truly realize how much weight you hold with this team. He knew you’d worked with them far more than you were required to, that without a clue as to how, you had formed a connection with them. But he didn’t know that the connection was so strong that they would go completely closed-mouthed when he simply asked about you. 

“We’re not about to snitch,” Golem rumbles. “If that’s what you’re asking.” 

“I’m not asking you to snitch,” Robert replies. “I’m asking what was said during this conversation that I was clearly involved in.” 

“Sounds like snitching to me.” Flambae retorts. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert can see Chase’s shoulders bounce in agreement. He has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at him. His chest heaves with the deep breath he takes, and his shoulders fall as he releases it. 

“The bottom line here is, Luminara is not your dispatcher. I am. I’m the one who’s making the decisions, and I’m the one who’s making the final cut. Not Luminara. They aren’t the person you need to prove yourself to anymore.” 

The team grumbles. Their molars grind, and their eyes roll. But it doesn’t deter him. Robert continues on with the speech he spent the majority of his morning planning, but he cannot fight the creeping rise of anger. Robert understands that you’ve bonded with this team. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you had gone behind his back, that he feels slighted. He feels the anger curdle in his abdomen, crawling up his spine and curling heavily into his chest. His face grows tight, and his hands begin to shake. It wasn’t your place. He was used to your excessive extensions of help, even when he didn’t need them. He knows that you mean well. But the intention doesn’t outweigh the outcome. And maybe that’s why he’s so quick to anger, why his body reacts so easily. Because this isn’t the first time your help has made him feel this way.  Small. 

The second he finishes his speech, he leaves. He wishes the team good luck on their second shift and starts his track to find you before he has the chance to talk himself out of it. It won’t be a hard task. There are still ten minutes left of lunch, and you told him where you’d be. And that’s exactly where he finds you, sat at the opposing end of the table that he was punched at just the other day, sandwich in hand. 

You perk up as he enters the room. It does nothing to ease the weight in his chest. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He says. 

The door is still wide open, and the office still bustles with life behind him. And you freeze. Mouth still slightly parted in preparation to bite into the hearty sandwich. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Robert has to swallow down the “you should be” that threatens to spill from his lips. 

“The meeting with the Z-Team.” He clarifies. “You shouldn’t have done that. I had everything under control.” 

You gape at him, sending him long, calculated blinks from across the room. Without a word, you place the sandwich back onto the paper it came with, your elbows coming to rest on the table. 

“Robert. Invisigal punched you.” You state. 

“Yeah, I know. I was there.” Robert snaps. “But this is my team now, and they need to respect me.” 

“And how does having a meeting with them make them not respect you?” You question. 

“It makes me look weak, Lume.” 

A surprised huff of breath tumbles out of your mouth. 

“Are you being serious right now?” 

The question only causes his heart to beat faster. 

Your mouth parts as you prepare to speak again. Fast and reflexive. But then, to Robert’s surprise, you don’t. Your eyes snap shut, and you take in a large, quick breath as you raise your hand. 

“Yes, I’m being serious!” The rise of his voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard, but once the tone is set, he can’t change it. “What you did made it look like I don’t have the balls to stand up for myself and instantly ran off crying after an incident on the playground.”

He watches the muscles in your face tense, your eyebrows furrow until he can imagine the crease you get between them when you’re angry. The air in the room feels natural for you - heavy and bristling. A crushing weight that he’s grown familiar with over time, the fact that another piece will be broken, and he’ll forget how to glue it back together. Habits and repetition. Ever the silent killer. 

“Listen, Robert. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.” Your voice artificially soft, but the prickle of anger still lurks under the surface. “ I was trying to help. The team takes what I say into account. I was doing you a favor.”

Your choice of words only makes the anger that fills his body spike, and he can’t help but huff. 

“Yeah, of course. Just the all-powerful Luminara doing what Luminara does best. Helping the needy.” 

He knows it’s a low blow. But he still chooses to say it anyway. And then, with a flip of a switch, all bets are off. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” The bite is back, and your once raised hand falls back onto the table with a sturdy thud. “You get assaulted by a member of your team, who as of right now couldn’t give less of a shit if you were to choke to death on your own spit, and I hold her accountable for her actions, and I’m the one who gets reprimanded?” 

There’s a throbbing pain building in the middle of his forehead, and his teeth grind in his skull. 

“This is my team, Lume. It’s my responsibility to hold them accountable for their actions.” 

“Then start fucking acting like it.” You spit.

“You didn’t give me the chance to!” He exclaims. “Blazer and I have the whole thing planned out before you decided to swoop in and play hero.” 

He spots something in your face shift, a flicker of something in your eyes that’s just a flash too quick for him to place. You shake your head lightly, and your tongue prods at the inside of your cheek as you lean back into your seat. 

“Okay then,” You say. “How did you hold Invisigal accountable for her actions?” 

Robert has always prided himself on his quick reaction time. It’s saved his ass more times than Robert could begin to count. But your question stumps him. In a moment's time, he’s dragged out of the ring, and the spotlight is placed on him. He doesn’t know how to answer. He tries to replay the meeting in his head, scanning every moment to try and find something of value that he could reference, but ends up with nothing. 

“Probation? Suspension?” You suggest. “What did you do to make sure this doesn’t happen again?” 

“I…” He hates that his voice trails, hates that he can’t think of a response fast enough. “I spoke with them.” 

You fold your arms over your chest and raise your eyebrows in wait. 

“Invisigal, Robert.” You say. “What did you say to Invisigal?” 

He blinks, fast. His eyes twitch, and his jaw rolls. He’s backed into a corner, and there’s no opening for him to escape. You’ve got him on your line, and you aren’t letting up. Robert was the one who started this fight, and you won’t let him get away. Not this time. 

“She showed up late.” He admits. “We ran out of time.” 

You chuckle, and he can feel himself shrivel. 

“Well, isn’t that just swell?” You smile, hands coming together in a muted clap. “If it wasn’t for me, Invisigal would’ve gotten away with assaulting an SDN employee scott-fuckin-free. But you know what, Robert?” 

The frame of your chair scratches against the floor as you slide out from the table, clumsily wrapping the sandwich he bought for you this morning back into its wrapper before you stand. In a blink, you’ve rounded the table and come to stand directly in front of him. 

“You’re right. They are your team now. You hold the big guns, and you get to make the tough decisions. So, you don’t have to worry about Luminara stepping on your toes again. Go Wild.” 

You don’t make the decision to leave once you’ve finished speaking. You stay. Toe to toe with him, less than half a step away from your chest brushing his. Robert knows he isn’t walking away from this conversation victorious. Deep down, he knew that before it started. The sinking feeling of the aftermath is already crawling in, but Robert never walked away easily. And when he did, it was messy. Bloodied. And rarely was Robert the first to walk away. He chooses not to back down, despite the fact that he can feel his tail begin to tuck itself between his legs. Not even when he feels a new presence appear behind him. 

“You gonna eat that?” 

Your eyes are still boring into his own as you shove your uneaten sandwich into Sonar’s chest. 

“Take it.” You say. “Lost my appetite.” 

And then you’re gone. 

He finally lets out the breath that was trapped deep in his chest, and suddenly, the comedown is upon him. The anger dissipates, and all he’s left with is the hollow feeling he always got after an argument with you. His heart still races and his stomach is still tired, only now is it accompanied by the familiar pangs of conscious. 

“Good sandwich.” 

Fuck. 

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The third anniversary of your hiatus is approaching fast. In three months in six days, it will mark three years since you’ve been active in hero work. The thought always weighs on you heavier whenever it gets closer to the date, but that doesn’t mean you don’t sit with it every day. And with the anniversary on the rise, it also means that the news articles recapping your career, your task force, and questioning whether or not you’ll ever return to hero work will flood your feed and newspaper stands in no time. You think that you’ve learned to hide the fact that you’re on the verge of drowning very well, but everyone in the office has learned how to tell exactly when it finally sinks in for you.

Blonde Blazer brings you coffee and, coincidentally, can’t finish her breakfast pastries. Galen offers to pick up the random dispatcher position that opens up when he can tell you’re really down. His attempts at being nonchalant, the shrug, and his “More work makes it easier for me not to watch the clock. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor, Lume,” are weak at best, but you like to let him believe he got one over on you. And Chase ups the ante on how often he hounds you about hiring another official dispatcher for the Z-Team. You know he means well - you know that they all mean well. But you can’t take on another person to look after right now. Especially when you know just how likely it is that within a week, you’d be in the same position you are right now, taking over as dispatcher instead of assisting Blazer in teaching your rehabilitating new heroes. 

The sun reflecting off the glass windows of the SDN building hurts your eyes, but still, you take the moment to let it warm your skin. You’re tired of carrying this weight. You feel it in your bones, in the deepest part of your soul. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to shake it; it clings to you. It’s attached itself to you in ways you didn’t even realize, embedded itself, and taken root so deep you feel as though you’ll feel it forever. You didn’t know just how much being a hero had become such a fundamental part of how you viewed yourself until you weren’t one anymore. Your hero costume feels like just that. A costume. Days like these, you feel like you're masquerading, playing make-believe, and imposing yourself on the people who are the real heroes. But in the end, what did it matter? Your watch still dings as it ticks to your clock in time, you’re still expected at work, and maybe despite it all, in the technicality, you are still- 

“Luminara!” The young girl who mans the front counter sends you a bright smile and a big wave, “Good morning!” 

She’s a sweet young girl, a sophomore in college who only works about three days a week. You still remember the first day you met her. Her eyes lit up, and her mouth parted as you walked in the door. She introduced herself with shaky hands and an even shakier voice. She told you that she was a big fan, that she had even met you once when she was about seven years old. That she still has the picture on her nightstand. She’ll never know just how much that moment meant to you. Or how, after that encounter, you locked yourself in your office and cried for almost an hour. Her eyes are still just as bright the first time you met her as she looks at you now. Maybe even brighter. She looks at you like you’re still a hero. It twists your gut into a knot. And you still can’t place whether it ignites something in you or drags you deeper into the abyss.

Nevertheless, you greet her the same way, passing her the Red bull and the granola bar you packed yourself for lunch. She tries to refuse it, but you’re already at the elevators, waving her off with a smile. 

You sigh as the doors slide shut, thankful that you’re the only one inside. It gives you the time to mentally prepare yourself for the day. The management of the villains turned heroes, especially the Z-Team, the hovering. You don’t have the luxury of being able to feel bad about yourself. Not here and not today. It’s not fair. To your colleagues, to the members of the Phoenix Program - they deserve you at your best. So that’s what you’ll do. No matter how hard it is to distinguish the fire in your mind, you will be the best you can be for them. A few short moments later, the elevator dings, and you open your eyes. The doors slide open, and Chase stands at the ready just outside, hands locked behind his back. 

“Well, well,” he says, “real gracious of you to finally show your face.” 

“Chase, it’s 8:06,” you reply. 

All Chase does is huff through his nose and begin his regular track of following after you.

“Still late. Another minute and I woulda called in for a wellness check.” 

You’ve known Chase since you were a child, still notching your height on the doorframes in the house you were born in. Your father was a busy man before his illness stole his life from him. He was California’s top hero and a part of the Brave Brigade, so the majority of his time was spoken for. And your mother had other places she would have rather been than be at home raising you. So in came Chase. The youngest member of the Brigade and the unwilling babysitter of both you and Robert. Half of your childhood was spent with the two of them, bouncing back and forth between your and Robert’s houses, driving Chase up the wall with your antics. Chase likes to tell you that this is your karma. Payback for all the years you spent on his heels, driving him crazy with the thousands of questions you badgered him with. And he tells you that he has a lot to pay back. 

“Har, Har. Another year and I’m buying you a Life Alert, old man.” 

“Fuck you,” he says, “Always were a little punk.” 

You smirk and swallow down a chuckle. He’s always been so easy to piss off. 

“And yet, who’s following who?” 

Chase grumbles in his acquired old man fashion, but still follows you down the hallway. You would find it odd that he didn’t have a quick quip up his sleeve to throw at you. Had you not known him as well as you did. Chase likes to have the last word. Unless he has something else he wants to bring up. You know that it’s coming. Because at this point, it’s routine, teetering on the edge of being a comedic bit. He asks you whether or not you’re ready to give in. You tell him no. He rants and he raves about how you’re too fuckin’ stubborn for your own good. How you’re gonna run yourself into the ground. You think that’s what your father would’ve wanted? For you to work yourself to death inside of a sad, gray fuckin’ cubicle? All good points, in his defense. But you still tell him no, that you don’t do sidekicks and wander off to find some work to occupy you. Which is never hard at SDN. 

“Don’t even start.” 

He lets out a grumbled sigh, and you hear the pitter-patter of his feet pick up pace as you near the cubicles. “You know it’s time, kid. You can’t keep going like this. And I ain’t gonna be around forever to take care of your sniveling little ass. Shit! I’ve spent too long doing it already! So why don’t you stop being a pain in my ass and give this old man a break, huh?” 

You force yourself to chuckle. Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. 

“Chase, really, I’m perfectly fine! I got it all managed!” Your head cranes over your shoulder to look at him as you round the corner. “And like I always say, I don’t do sidekicks-” 

The sight makes you rebound into a full stop, Chase nearly crashing into your back at the sudden cease in movement. The cubicle you mentally prepared to sit at for the entirety of your day is filled. A man sits in the chair you bought out of pocket, clad in an SDN distributed button-up that looks to be about a size too big, hunched over the desk, pressing randomly at the buttons of the dispatcher monitor. But it’s not the fact that there seems to be a new Z-Team Dispatcher that stumps you. It’s the familiar stature, the body language, the fluff of auburn hair. For a moment, you sit in denial. A lot of people have hair that color. A lot of people are lean, a lot of people slouch, and a lot of people poke and prod at things they’re unfamiliar with. And even though you try to convince yourself that you’ve just seen someone who happened to look like him, you feel it in your gut. It’s not a wonder, it’s a fact.

You don’t need him to turn around; you don’t need the confirmation. You just know. Because you’ve learned everything there is to know about him. You learned the arch of his neck, the part of his hair, the curve of his shoulders. The tips of your fingers tingle at the phantom memory of how he felt against your skin. You remember everything about him. Every freckle, every burn, and scar. Every bump and ridge, and missing piece. You retained every lesson given about his body, his silent language, his soul. No matter the size of the room or the number of people who filled it, you could always find Robert. It was strange, really. The gravitational pull that tethered the two of you to each other. The one that is clearly still alive because, unprompted, Robert turns in the swivel chair, takes the headset off, and turns to you. 

And for a moment, it feels as though the world stops spinning. Everyone else in the room seems to blur out of frame, and it’s just you and Robert left. You, Robert, and the halo the traitorous sun casts upon him. 

It’s been three years since you’ve seen Robert. Three years since you’ve seen him stand to his full height, see his lips part and his eyelashes flutter. Three years since you’ve heard his voice, and when you finally do, it hits you straight in the gut. 

“Lume.” 

And it’s utterly world-shattering. Hearing him call you by the name the public refers to you by and not your name. You see it form on his mouth before he takes the moment to correct himself. It sounds awkward and clumsy. Hesitant, almost. And above anything else, it sounds wrong. You can’t recall if there was ever a time he’s ever called you by your hero name outside of the public eye. 

“I didn’t know you worked here.” 

It’s been years since you last spoke, more than the sad excuse for a text that you were angry to receive, and the pathetic drunken voicemails that you hoped he never listened to. How could he have known? There’s no way that he could have. You doubt Chase told him- 

Chase. 

At least the motherfucker has the decency to look a little sheepish as you turn to him, eyes flickering from you to literally anywhere else in the room. You and Robert differed in many ways, but one noticeable way was that while Robert lost touch with Chase after his father died, you grew closer to him. You talked on the phone frequently, texted regularly, and sent birthday and holiday cards every year in the mail. It was Chase who convinced you to get back out there, ten months deep into your hiatus, the one who told you about the mentorship role opening up at SDN. He’s done so much for you, you don’t believe you’ll ever be able to repay him. But all you want to do right now is send the old pruny bastard flying out the fucking window. 

You force a deep, hearty breath out of your nose and point your first two fingers in his direction. 

“We’re talking about this later.” 

“You’ll have to catch me first.” Chase doesn’t spare a second as he scurries off to his neighboring cubicle and squeezes himself close to his desk, “This body can be fast when it wants to be.” 

“You’re lucky I waited this long!” Chase adds. “I ain’t got the time to sit around and wait for you to come to your fuckin senses. So take the fuckin’ help, kid.” 

Your body feels like it’s vibrating with the amount of emotions that swirl through you. Your skin heats up, and your heart bangs itself around in its cage inside your ribs. In the years passed since you’ve seen him, you’ve come to believe that if the time ever came that you did cross paths again, you wouldn’t feel this way. You imagined that you’d see him and just feel a sense of nostalgia. That by the time you saw him again, Robert would simply be a boy you grew up with. A man you shared similarities with. A part of your childhood you’d always hold dearly. Not the ex you spent almost a year mourning the life you built with him in your head, not the man who left you in such a state after the breakup that you spiraled downwards hard. So hard that you scared people. That you’d see him and your stomach wouldn’t squeeze, and your skin wouldn’t tingle. And it makes you so angry. That your own body revolts against you just at the sight of him. Even after all this time. Even after all the destruction. 

Those eight years come rushing back at full force as you take him in. The nights on the couch. Wearing his old, tattered sweat pants and sharing a beer you couldn’t stand the taste of. Robert asleep on your chest, his fingers indenting in your shirt as they flexed on your waist like he was scared to lose you in his sleep. The nights where you fought in your kitchen, on opposite ends of the island, when both of you were at the ends of your ropes, and they were no longer adult conversations or you and Robert versus the problem. When they turned into you versus Robert, screaming matches and insults that ended with you crying yourself to sleep in your bedroom and Robert lying awake on the couch, unable to sleep due to the sound of your sobs reverberating off the walls. 

Robert rubs at the back of his neck in an anxious habit. There’s a look on his face that’s a mixture of hope and hesitance, and the question you’d been dreading tumbles out of his mouth.  “It’s been a while…how have you been?” 

You don’t know how to answer that. 

Should you be honest? Tell him that you’re tired? That you’re stuck in what feels like a constant state of fight or flight, that you spend half of your time reckoning with the fact that you don’t know if you’ll ever have what it takes to be a hero again after what happened to you, that going the trauma you did and your breakup right after the other changed you on a fundamental level? That seeing him now for the first time in three years, now working at the same place you do, makes you feel things you don’t know how to explain yet. Or do you smile at him, be polite, and tell him you’re doing fine? 

And despite the mask you have on,  he can tell. 

“Loaded question, I know. Probably isn’t the best thing I could’ve said. Sorry.” 

He lets out an awkward chuckle, but your heart still squeezes at the sound. 

“It’s fine, Robert. Have you met the Z-Team?” You ask. 

His eyebrows pop to his hairline, then he blinks and sputters, 

“I, uh- No, not yet,” he scrambles to take his seat and put his headset back on. “You’ve worked with them before?” 

He looks up at you for your answer. Flashing those soft brown eyes at you, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks. It makes you want to run your fingers through his hair, feel him lean into your touch, and have him kiss your palm. It’s instinctual. An instinct you thought you’d shaken years ago. And you decide at that moment that it’s better not to look directly at him. 

“You can say that. They’re definitely an acquired taste.” 

“They’re a gaggle fuck group of jackasses if that’s what you mean by an acquired taste,” Chase calls over the wall.

You can’t help but chuckle at Chase’s commentary. As much as you want to be professional, Chase’s words held some truth. Robert will definitely have his hands full with this lot. But in the plethora of dispatcher shifts you had with them and the few lessons you had with a few of the members, you’ve managed to form an odd sort of bond with them. Which Chase thinks is troublesome, seeing how many times they’ve been such a pain in the ass that their dispatchers quit before the week was up. He believes it to be a ploy so that Blazer will get so fed up that she’ll have no choice but to put you as their dispatcher full-time. And Chase “will be damned if you spend any more time in this fuck ass cubicle with these no-good-shitty-ass-hero-wannabes.” 

“Well, you know me,” Robert says, “I’ve always been one for a challenge.” 

Robert’s eyes flick up to you again, a sly smirk pulling on his lips. You’ve always been so infatuated with Robert’s eyes. They truly were the window to his soul, ever expressive. They shine and crinkle in the corners when he’s happy, fade and blacken when he’s angry. And they shine just like they are now when he- Yeah. You definitely shouldn’t look directly at him. 

For a second, you find your exterior softening. Your shoulders dip in towards your chest from the curved position of leaning on the desk, and you can feel your lips try to tick up in the corners at his implication. But then it hits you all over again. How things ended, how it took him seven-and-a-half weeks to reach out after the breakup- as if you hadn’t begun to build a life together. As if that life wasn’t ripped away from you, as if it wasn’t his choice. 

You stand to your full height once more and step back. And then that displaced look on his face returns. 

“Good luck on your first day, Robert. Don’t let them push you around. They respect that.” 

The wheels on the swivel seat drag against the floor as he pushes himself out from the desk, straining to follow you until you’re out of his line of sight. 

“Lume, wait a sec-” 

You make the conscious decision to keep moving. And start to believe that is how you’ll navigate this new area with him. Not lingering, and always moving. Maybe in the long run, this will be best. You’ve hurt each other enough over the course of your lives, and until you’re sure being around Robert won’t hurt you more, you’ll keep moving. 

JULY 16th, 2022. THREE YEARS PRIOR. 

“And so, effective immediately, I will be going on an indefinite hiatus from Hero Work.” 

Prior to this announcement, the room had been pin quiet. The occasional click of a camera or pop of a water bottle sounded, but not one person in that room had made a noise until now. The gasps are loud, they fill the air, and strike you straight through the heart. A woman in the front row covers her mouth with the tips of her fingers, a man in the far right corner bows his head and takes his wide-rimmed glasses off to rub at his eyes. The disappointment is evident. There’s shock, and fear, and grief written all over their faces. Reporters look around the room for answers that only lie with you and murmur amongst themselves. 

They react to your announcement like death. They’re grieving the kid of the Brave Brigade member who followed in their father's footsteps, the one who grew into the shoes they laid out to fill and earned their place amongst the new top heroes of California. Your father made a legacy for you, made space for you in the legend that became a household name, and you’re hanging it up. Because if you’re not around to soar through their skies and keep the streets safe as you have been for the past decade, Luminara is as good as dead. 

“I could never thank you all enough for the endless amount of support and opportunities you’ve given me. And I hope, despite my decision, you can still look back on my efforts to keep the citizens of Los Angeles safe with pride.” 

You can feel the tears begin to burn behind your eyes, and a strangled cry tries to crawl its way out of your throat. The tears you must furiously blink away irritate your head injury, a deep, hidden pain underneath the gauze the doctors carefully bandaged around your forehead. You clear your throat and push yourself to finish. 

“Thank you all for being here. I will not be accepting questions at this time.” 

Then the crowd erupts. The cameras flash until the room is white, and reporters shout your name. Your team scurries to usher you away, your publicist taking your place behind the podium to take over where you left off. Your manager, the same one you’ve had since you were seventeen, takes you under his arm and tells you that you did good. But it doesn’t feel that way. You feel your failure every time you move, the stabbing pain in your back, the sting of your head injury, the scrape of your bones. You’ve only just announced that you will no longer be taking part in being a hero, and you already feel as though you’ve lost a piece of yourself. It makes you want to pull away, push your publicist out of the way, and take it all back. Shove the words back down your throat and rip your bandages off to prove you’re okay. But you know this is the decision that must be made. And that hurts the worst. 

For the past ten years, you could always say that you knew what tomorrow had planned for you. You’d wake up early, just as the sun begins to peak over the mountains, and prepare yourself to be Luminara. Sore through the Californian skies and protect the city you’ve called yours since you were young. But now…you don’t know what tomorrow holds for you. All you know that is waiting for you is an empty house and a fridge full of booze you can’t drink. 

Your team escorts you into a nearby break room, depositing you in a hard plastic chair and pushing bottled waters and muffins in your direction. They talk amongst themselves, attempt to talk to you, but it all sounds so distant. You want to respond, you want to answer whatever questions it seems like they’re asking you, but all you can manage to do is stare wordlessly at the crack in the wall and try to fight off the breakdown you feel building under the surface. 

“Excuse me, Luminara?” 

A hand comes down on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. The meek young intern who has seemingly been calling your name much longer than necessary quickly removes her hand as she feels you flinch under her touch. 

“You got a text,” she says. 

“Oh,” you murmur, taking your from her outstretched hand, “thank you, Amber.” 

The brightness stings your eyes, but it only takes a blink for you to adjust and read the notification. 

Robert

You doing okay? 

Robert I just saw your press conference. 

Robert 

I’m proud of you. 

The first emotion you feel after days of embarrassment and grief is anger. Your blood rushes, and your chest tightens. He’s proud of you? After everything that happened, he has the nerve to tell you he’s proud of you? 

-

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” 

The clock is close to ticking to your second hour of this fight. A fight you’ve had a countless amount of times by now. Dinner is abandoned on the table, Robert’s chair is still pulled halfway out from where he stood in attempts to flee the return of this conversation. You don’t blame him for wanting to run from having this argument again because you don’t want to have it either. But the difference here is that you’re willing to have difficult conversations to save Robert from himself. You refuse to grow accustomed to the bruises and gashes on his skin. You refuse to allow him to continue to ignore the fact that his unorganized plans to find Shroud will end with him getting killed. It isn’t a matter of if anymore. It is a matter of when. You’ve woken up from too many nightmares of burying him, alone in a bed that’s still made up on his side. Too many nightmares of having to speak at his funeral, once as Luminara and once again as who he truly knows you as. Of having to throw dirt on his casket and only having pictures on a mantle and distant memories to remember him by. 

“How am I a hypocrite? Please, tell me! Because all I’m trying to do is make sure you don’t push yourself somewhere you can’t walk away from.” 

He stands on the opposite side of your kitchen island, lit by fluorescent light. His molars grind against each other as his chest continues to stutter with angered breaths. 

“You sit there and get on to me about losing myself?” He gasps out an angry chuckle and stretches his pointer finger at you. “You’re in the same boat as me, sweetheart. How many nights have you spent at headquarters?-” 

“That’s different, and you know it!” you interject. 

“How many nights did I have to make sure you’ve eaten? How many times do I have to tell you to give it up and get rest, just for you to tell me you don’t have the time to rest? But I do it, and it’s a problem?” 

You let your head fall into the comfort of your palms, fingers rubbing and pulling at your temples. Your ears are ringing, and a migraine starts to build at the base of your skull. It’s been months since things between you and Robert followed the normal way of life. Quiet nights spent tucked into one another on the couch, falling asleep still sticky with sweat but too exhausted to shower, waking up to a kiss on the forehead and a cup of coffee on the nightstand had all been replaced with this. Leaving for work before the other has come home, if they have at all. Notes left on counters about Beef running low on food with no loving sign off, arguments in the kitchen you danced in, laughing into his neck as he spins you.

It’s been so long that you can no longer pinpoint exactly when this all started. You don’t know if it was the first time you found Robert on the brink of exhaustion, eyes ringed with dark circles, and fighting sleep to the death just to follow one more lead. Or the first time you found Robert sewing up a new gash in your guest bathroom at 3:52 in the morning. But you’re tired. All you need is for this task mission to be over and for Robert to at least try to understand where you’re coming from. That’s all. Just one clean break, where you two can start fresh and put in the effort to getting back to being okay again.

“These are two entirely different circumstances, Robert. They can’t be compared,” you sigh. 

“They’re not, though! You’re fighting against the goddamn Syndicate,” He huffs out your name in a tempered growl, “You’ve got no clue what you’re up against. You think just because you have a few extra hands than I do that you can take down one of the most powerful villain organizations like it’s easy? You’re going in just as fucking blind as I am.”

His voice doesn’t raise in volume but grows weighty. 

 “The only difference between you and me is that I dedicate my time working to successfully complete my mission. You do it because if you stop running, you’ll actually have to sit with all your loss, and all your mistakes. And you can’t fucking stand it the idea that maybe you’re not as perfect as the billboards have made you out to be.” 

The anger and frustration falters. It’s true that in the months you’ve spent going in circles, running round 2’s and 3’s of the same argument, that you’ve grown accustomed to the way things unfolded. You’d bring it up, Robert would huff and bare his teeth like a cornered animal. You’d try to clarify your reasoning, hands outstretched in offering that was up to him whether he wanted to take or bite. Despite believing you had your walls built high enough now in preparation for what would inevitably take place, Robert is able to pierce through them. He always had. Just never like this before. Never has Robert pierced your soul like this before. Never has he been armed and chosen to wield it against you.  The soft brown eyes you’ve spent half your life gazing into, watching irises gleam, and pupils expand, have hardened- the beautiful highlight of gentle expression extinguished and replaced with a look of anger you’ve never seen directed at you before. 

“You like to forget that I know you.” He says. “And I know you’re a fucking hypocrite.” 

-

You feel the material of your phone creak under the clench of your hand, the pathetic thread of messages taunting you through the screen. For a moment, you consider letting the message sit forever unanswered in your phone. Because eventually, his name will shift downwards in your messages, sit at the bottom forever out of sight. Eventually, the memories won’t haunt you, you won’t replay every fight, every smile, every late-night postcoitus come down where all you did was lie wordlessly in each other’s presence, tracing shapes onto the other person’s skin. You consider taking a deep breath, shutting the damned thing off, and handing it back to Amber. But something else takes over you, and before you know it, your fingers are frantically typing at the screen. 

I have a skull fracture, two broken vertebrae, and just told the country I might never keep them safe again, so I’m doing fan-fucking-tastic, Robert. Thanks so much for deciding to reach out. 

You get no reply. And you can’t decide whether or not that makes you content or sends you deeper into anguish. 

APRIL 2025. PRESENT. 

A lot of things have transpired in the last few months that Robert had not been expecting. 

He wasn’t expecting to get blown up, fall hundreds of feet out of the sky, and spend four months in a medically induced coma. He wasn’t expecting to get jumped or rescued by Blonde Blazer, of all people, and spend the night with her at a hero bar. He wasn’t expecting to walk away at the end of the night with a new job and a chance to be Mecha Man again, and he absolutely was not expecting to now be your colleague. Or employee? Underling? He wasn’t exactly sure about your position or the hierarchy at SDN just yet, but he’s now sure he will be seeing you for eight hours a day, five days out of the week. 

He still remembers the last time he saw you. Unexpecting, and angered by the lack of resolution in your relationship, and drained from your undersupply of rest due to your task mission. He remembers seeing your smiling face on half the billboards in the city, hearing your voice on the ads that played in every app he opened, or on the TVs of restaurants and electronic stores he passed by. There were times he found himself standing in place, letting it play in its entirety, simply gazing. He remembers seeing your press conference on the news. He remembers reaching out to you afterwards, and he remembers instantly regretting it. But time passes, as it always does, and that memory gets lost in the log of the million other regrets that he has. In the end, your name had been added to that list more than he’d care to admit. 

The day goes by slowly, the clock seems to lose its pace, and Robert can’t stop looking at it. And he can’t stop looking for you. He tries to keep his mind preoccupied, to keep his focus on dispatching and not on you, but the task proves more difficult than he remembers warding off the thought of you being. You’re in the same building as him. For the first time in three years and that fact keeps biting away at the back of his mind. He just needs a glimpse, he thinks. Then he could center himself and try to get the team through their first shift of the day with the least amount of casualties that he could manage. He could get by with just a glimpse. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, his leg bouncing as he rubs harshly at his face. Chase was right. These guys are a gaggle fuck group of jackasses. They mock him, they don’t listen and refuse to take their job as heroes even remotely serious. Now, he understands why it’s been so hard to fill this position. The team laughs over the comms, cackling about yet another shitty joke about his name and about how Invisigal saw him in his underwear. So he takes the second. He puts his microphone on mute and dials down their volume. And like an angel, you appear just as he glances up. 

You round the corner, your face relaxed, teetering on the edge of looking tense to the average person. Someone must call your name because your face pulls into the well-practiced, softened look you wear to make sure you seem approachable. But your expression melts and your eyes warm, a smile pulling on your lips once you recognize the caller. The sun hits you at just the perfect angle that makes your skin glow. And as creepy as it may sound, as you speak to the person whose name he’s yet to learn, he takes the perfect moment to admire you. Not on a magazine or through the pixelated screen of his phone, but through the lens of his own eyes. The curves of your face, the shine of your eyes. The way your suit hugs your figure. The dip of your waist and the apex of your thigh that shows through the gap in the latex. A sight Robert no longer has the right to admire so blatantly as he is now. Not after how he left things. But he could never pull his eyes off you. 

“Listen, I get admiring from time to time, but this is starting to get fuckin’ weird.” 

Robert jumps. 

Chase is leaning over the divider, arms half folded and chin jutted down in silent jest. Robert doesn’t know how much Chase knows about your breakup. But if the interactions they’ve shared since he’s been is any hint, it doesn’t seem like he’s holding any grudges. Or, with some god-like strength, you chose not to tell him exactly what happened. He knows that you were close enough to Chase that you would. He can remember all the times he’d come home from work to follow the trail of your joyous voice into the bedroom to find you on a call. 

He’d kiss your forehead in greeting, then leave to shower before joining you in bed. You’d still be on the phone by the time he came out, laughing and recounting stories to whoever obtained your attention through the line. Leaving Robert to mouth at your neck and rub at the skin of your stomach to try and steal it back, just to find out the person you’d spent three hours on the phone with was none other than Chase. Even through all the hardship you faced towards the end, inside and outside of your relationship, that was one thing that never changed for you. 

“I wasn’t staring,” Robert says, adjusting the headset right again, “I was thinking.” 

“Yeah?” Chase goads, “Thinkin’ bout what?” 

“I…am not required to answer that.” 

Robert attempts to fake his focus on his dispatching, enjoying the seemingly rare moment of silence over the line when Chase’s voice travels through the air again. 

“Still single, y’know.” 

“What?” 

Chase says your name softly, and it sounds like a song, as he nods in your direction,

“Still single. If you were wondering.” 

The sentence lands heavy. Stupidly enough, that hadn’t even been a thought that crossed his mind. Even now, with the question he originally didn’t have now answered, it sparks something in him. You were a vision, a miracle on two legs. You were kind and generous to a point that if you weren’t stopped, you’d give until you had no more. Anyone would be lucky to have you. And at one point, he was that lucky person. But now he was…well. He didn’t know what he was to you anymore. Was he simply an ex? The guy who broke your heart after eight years spent together? Was he written off as simply a childhood friend you lost touch with because that was easier to explain than the mess of what your relationship turned into? Or was he something else? Something new, unconfirmed whether it was something good or bad.

“Listen, I don’t know how much you two talked about…what happened, but I don’t think that’s ever gonna be a possibility,” Robert says. “Like ever.” 

“Didn’t need to.” Chase replies, “I was there to witness the worst of it.” 

Robert’s heart sputters. It wasn’t as if he’d never thought about it. He did. Often. And even if he was stupid enough to believe that you were doing fine, he got the evidence to prove that you weren’t. Six 8-minute-long voice memos you sent to him, drunk, over the course of your first two weeks apart. The six voice memos that added up to roughly an hour would forever be ingrained in his mind. He can time every sob and sniffle, he deciphered every befuddled murmur, he listened to every curse of his name. He knew you were bad - because he was too. But Robert had not been okay for so long that it was hard to tell when he got hit with another blow. He was used to not being okay. He knew things were hard for you, but he never thought you’d be in a place where you needed help getting out of. And he never thought he’d be the one to put you there. 

“Wasn’t good. Drinkin’ a lot.” Chase says. 

Chase looks at you with a cocktail of emotion. A look he’d deny ever having on his face, but he looks at you with such pride, and fear, with love and hope all wrapped up into one. Robert and Chase have always been close, but Robert always saw Chase as the cool older brother he always dreamed of having. Somebody to talk to, to look up to. Somebody who would be there for him. Chase looks at you like a parent does as they admire the child they’ve watched flourish into adulthood. 

“Kid’s strong though. Came back in the end.” He states. “Who knows? Maybe you'll both come back in the end.” 

From across the room, you laugh, angelic and sweet. And he wonders if the person you’re speaking to feels the same warmth flood through their chests at the sound. He doesn’t fight the smile that appears on his face, but it falters as your eyes drift to him. Your brows cinch in confusion as you find him already looking at you, and Robert quickly pulls another half-assed grin and sends you an awkward wave. Which you return, just as unsure as he was. 

“But what the fuck do I know?” Chase says, “Maybe they fuckin’ hate your guts and think you’re an emotionally constipated cocksucker who needs to invest in a good therapist to work through the long fuckin’ list of issues you’ve got going on.” 

Robert’s face scrunches, and he flinches back at the statement, 

“Was that something that was said?” He asks, “That sounds way too specific to just come up with on the spot.” 

Chase only shrugs. 

“Private information. Not at liberty to confirm nor deny.” 

The thought had appeared to you earlier this morning, but it decides to revisit you during lunch. If there is a God, it’s obvious to you now that the guy really doesn’t like you. 

You imagine somewhere beyond the sky and the clouds, he laughs at your strife and torment, weighing out which would be the funniest option to fan the flames with to watch you struggle even more. This one is especially cruel, though. Somewhere deep in your mind, you began to believe you may never have to see Robert again. You’d never have to feel the swirl of emotions in your gut, never have to relive all those memories over again. But this isn’t a passing moment. You don’t see him in the corner of a coffee shop; you don’t get the choice to speak to him or pretend you never saw him at all. He’s here now, and there’s no way around it. 

Though the air in the building has shifted for you, those around you stay the same. People still wave to you as they pass in the halls, make conversation at the vending machines, and you do your best to keep up. But it’s hard. Your mind strays, retracing your steps to find its way back to every encounter you’ve had with Robert. Recent and former. Your chest grows heavy at the fact that you’ll now have more experiences to add to the list that your mind rewinds again. 

A hand wraps around your clad wrist, and you halt in your step. You don’t need to turn to know who it is. You knew that it was only a matter of time before Robert sought you out, ever the diplomat when he wished to be. You knew the conversation was coming; you just wish it didn’t have to be so soon. 

“Hey,” he breathes, “can we talk?” 

You roll your lips and take a look around the hall. This isn’t the place to have this conversation. But you don’t have much of an option- especially if you want to limit as much interaction with him as possible. 

“Let’s go somewhere private.” 

His fingers drag across your wrist as he lets you go, the feather-light touch fading slowly as you lead him down the hall to the first conference room you can think of. 

You let him in first, let him take a seat in whichever chair he chooses, as you lock the door and close the blinds. Dread sinks over you, head to toe, goosebumps erupting over your skin as you pull the chair out on the opposite side of him. You’re still close, less than three feet away, but any closer is dangerous. 

You don’t know where to start. You don’t know if you should speak first or let the awkward silence swirl through the air until Robert mulls over what he wants to say. You don’t know if the conversation will simply skim the top or if Robert believes that you’ll get to the bottom of everything that’s happened between you and come out people reborn. But you don’t have it in you to delve that deep. Not here and not today. 

“So..” you trail. “How was your first shift?” 

Robert blows a huff of a chuckle out of his nose, 

“It was, uh, something,” he answers, “definitely something.” 

His chair is angled towards you, pulled out from the head of the long table to close the gap, elbows resting on his knees, folded over. His presence doesn’t take up as much space as you remember. You wonder when he learned to make himself smaller. 

“How many times have you dispatched them?” He asks. 

“More times than what was in my job description.” You chuckle. “It’s hard for them to keep a dispatcher.” 

“Yeah. I can see why.” 

For a moment, the air is lighter. You share a soft laugh at the now shared experience of the chaos of the Z-Team. He looks at you through his eyelashes and his cheeks round with a smile. But then it all comes crashing down on you once again. 

“Listen, Lume.” he starts. “I can’t even begin to apologize-” 

You decide at this moment that you can’t. You believed that you’d have the strength to resolve this here and now, and move forward with a new slate. But the fear takes hold of you and drags you back. 

“Robert, let’s not do this. Not right now.” 

“I just want to-” 

“I know what you want to do.” You say, eyes softened and smile pained, “Just not right now.” 

His chest falls, and he drops his head. Your chest sinks at the disappointment in his posture. You’ve always hated the dejected stance on him, always hated when you hurt him. But this time you don’t extend your hand. You keep it tucked to your chest and don’t offer the chance to be bitten. 

He nods and finds your eyes again. 

“Okay,” he says. “How do you want to move forward?” 

Yet another question you have no idea how to answer. But you have to, nevertheless. 

“I have too much going on right now for things to be difficult in another part of my life,” you start. “I don’t know how things are going to progress from here, and I don’t know how either of us will feel in the future. But right now, I think the best way is to keep what happened outside of the office. Start fresh for now.” 

He takes a moment. Letting your words really ruminate before he decides what he wants to say. Then he nods again. 

“Alright. I can do that,” he replies. “Just know whatever you need, I'm here.” 

The statement stuns you. It’s been a long time since you viewed Robert as someone you could rely on. But it would be nice to be able to feel that way again. You send him a soft smile and nod,

“Okay.” 

“You weren’t as hard to find as I thought you’d be.” 

Chase turns to look at you and then swears, with a snap of his fingers. He pulls out a chair in defeat and plops down into it. It was always so funny to you when you got the upper hand on Chase. It’s not often, but the victory is sweet every time. 

“Let’s get this over with.” He says. 

You pretend to think, finger tapping obnoxiously on your chin, 

“Nah. I think I’ll wait. Drag it out a little longer.” 

You sit in the chair beside him at the small rec room table and slide him a Crunchbar. A peace offering that he hesitantly accepts. He looks at it like you poisoned it, keeps his eyes trained on you as he grabs it like he’s waiting for you to launch yourself at him. Once it’s in his hands, he tears the wrapper open and breaks it in half, sliding the side still in the wrapper over to you. 

“This’ll be good for you, kid. You need the break. And Robert will be good.” 

You know that. You know that you’re overworking yourself, and you know that Robert will be a great dispatcher. But it doesn’t ease the sting. You lean slightly to take the candy bar in your hand. 

“How’d the day go?” You ask. 

“As good as it could go for those shitheads,” Chase says, “Flambae lit a park on fire, Sonar fangirled in front of his hero and made a goddamn fool of himself- now, that was some funny shit - and Invisigal rocked Robert’s shit.” 

You stop mid-peel of the wrapper and almost choke on your breath. The other two instances you could predict. That was all in the realm of normal for the Z-Team. But what was that last one? You clear your throat quickly and ask for clarification. 

“I’m sorry- What happened?” 

And Chase tells you as if you had simply asked what the time was. 

“Invisigal happened.” He says, “Didn’t listen to what Robert told her to do - big fuckin’ shock there- they had it out right here, and she punched him.” 

Before you can truly register the thought that’s formed in your head, you’re up and out of your seat, phone in your hand, and on the way to the closest conference room. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” 

The door is left ajar in your leave, and you still have no idea what exactly is that you’re going to say when you type out your message. 

Team Meeting in 5. Conference room B.  

The team is already there when you arrive, which still surprises you. You’d like to say you know exactly how you earned their respect, but you don’t. It all happened before you had a chance to notice their change. One day, faith for you was born. And it showed. This gives you hope that the conversation that is to be had will go well. 

The small chatter that filled the room ceases, and they greet you all in their own personal manners. They smile, and all break out into the regularly chosen pieces of dialogue after a new dispatcher is selected. They tell you the new guy sucks, that he’s nowhere near as good as you are, that they want to talk to Blazer about making you their official dispatcher. Except for Invisigal, whose line of sight is strictly trained on the mahogany of the table. She chews on the inside of her cheek and takes a quick peek at you from the corner of her eye before she quickly looks away again. 

Insecurities lie deep within Visi. It wasn’t something that was hard for you to figure out once you really observed her. And you made the effort to try to help her work through them. But Invisigal has to want the change for herself. She has to make the conscious decision to do good and choose the right decision. And punching your dispatcher, no matter how angry they make you, is not the right decision. 

Punch-Up is the first to ask,  “When are ye comin’ back?” 

You take a quick breath and hope that as you begin to speak, the words will come to you. 

“I fully understand that the last batch of dispatchers you all have had has not been especially to your liking.” You start. Your tone clear and firm. Half of the room has the smarts to realize that this meeting isn’t like the others. This isn’t a meeting to simply see how they behaved and how they thought the new dispatcher was faring. 

Because you already know. There are no little white lies they can tell you about how, yeah, they fucked with the new guy, but it’s all in good fun! The day went well either way. Something has happened, and you’re already aware of it. And you’re here to set the record straight. Flambae takes his feet off the table, Mal and Prism share “oh, shit,” looks across the table, and Visi still has yet to look at you for more than a split second. 

“And I know that we all work well together as a team. But when I got hired at SDN, I was not hired as a dispatcher. I was hired to be a mentor. I was hired to connect with you all and teach you how to be the great heroes I know you all have the power to be.” 

“What’s this about, boss?” Sonar questions, ears twitching as he pushes himself off the wall he leaned on. 

“I’ve gotten word about a few things that have happened on today’s shift. And I don’t care about you giving the new hires a run for their money. If they can’t stick it out, then they’re not the right dispatcher for the team. But what I do care about is keeping you all on the right track.” 

The group is rag-tag. They’re disrespectful and hard-headed. But you’ve managed to earn their trust and their respect. And you will forever be grateful for that fact, and you would never consciously do anything to jeopardize that. And you can see it in their face that they understand that. So you choose your next words carefully. 

“And some of the behaviors I’ve learned about today are something I never want to hear has happened again.” You say. 

Invisigal’s posture deepens; she leans her body away from you and bows her head further in the opposite direction. She doesn’t like criticism. This is something you’re aware of. But the only way she can grow is if she accepts that she made the wrong decision and learns from it. 

“Robert was a great hero. And he’s good at what he does. And yeah, he can be a bit of a prick sometimes, but so can all of you-” 

“That is true,” Punch-Up interjects. 

“But he’ll do good by you. All you have to do is give him a chance.” 

The room looks at you apprehensively. Faces scrunched in reluctance and eyes clouded with uncertainty.

“I’m not telling you that you have to trust him just yet; that’s something he has to earn from all of you. Just like I did. So all I’m asking of you is to keep trusting me.” 

The room grows silent. The team looks amongst themselves as each of them tests the waters, waiting for somebody to make the first decision. Prism is the first to answer. 

“Fine. I still think he’s a bitch.” Prism says, “But if you think he’s got what it takes. I’ll give him a shot.” 

And it’s not long before the rest of the group gives a nod and soft murmurs of agreement. One by one, they all leave their seats and begin to file out of the conference room. You give Golem a pat on the arm and turn to keep Visi in your sight. She doesn’t go invisible, she doesn’t push Flambae out of the way to dash out of the door. She simply comes to a stop in front of you, face artificially stern but eyes gleaming with despair. 

“Well, go on,” she spits. “Just yell at me so I can leave.” 

“I’m not going to yell at you.”

Her brows furrow and her head twitches to the side. She doesn’t believe that you’re not here to berate her. And that makes your heart sink. You want the best for her. But she also has to face the consequences of her actions. 

“I believe you have what it takes to be a hero.” 

Despite the disheartened look she wears, her eyes still spark. 

“You have it in you to do infinite amounts of good. But there is only so much that I can do for you before it comes down to you. You have to want this for yourself, and you have to not let your anger control your decisions.” 

You reach out and touch her shoulder, and you smile when she allows you to. 

“You don’t have to be a villain anymore. But I can’t let this slide without any repercussions.” You say. “If I hear of this happening again, it will be on your permanent record. Am I clear?” 

A moment passes. Then she nods. 

“I understand.” She says. 

You give her a squeeze on her arm and move out of the door. But before she gets too far, you call out to her. 

“I believe in you, Visi. It’s time you start believing in yourself.” 

She doesn’t say a word, but the dispirited look on her face shifts into something softer, more hopeful, and her lips twitch like she wants to smile. And then she vanishes. 

Once you’re sure she’s gone, you flop into one of the empty chairs and finally take the moment to rest. While you didn’t plan for today to go smoothly with all that was already happening, you had no idea this would be the way things went. You sigh and throw your mask on the table, fingers rubbing and prodding where the migraine lurks under the surface. 

Life as you once knew is changing course. You’ll have to learn a new routine, a new way of thinking, and a new level of professionalism. You could never have imagined this would be the way you and Robert would meet again, and you could’ve never imagined you’d struggle with it as much as you are. The thought makes your heart beat haphazardly and makes your head spin. It’s involuntary, and that’s what makes this so much harder. You can’t fight against a threat you can’t predict, a threat you can’t control. The weight is crushing, you can feel your collarbones start to creak, and your knees bend under the mass you try to carry. The seams crack, and the stitches tug, and you fear that it’s only a matter of time before you completely crumble. You don’t know what you need, you don’t know what can stop it before it begins. You let out a deep sigh and curl your fingers into the soft skin of your palm. Your gloves protect you somewhat, but you can feel the curve of your nails dig crescent indents in your skin. 

The clock on the wall strikes 5:15. Your day is over. The office slowly empties, and you finally register the ringing of the alarm on your watch. You press a button, and it silences. The chair squeaks as you stand, and you take in one more deep breath. Despite the obstacles in the way, your day didn’t completely crash and burn. You finally got to do the job you were hired for, you got to mentor and teach members of the Phoenix Program, you didn’t burst into tears in the bathroom, and you didn’t wring Chase’s neck like you wanted to this morning. So, maybe that means there’s hope for tomorrow. 

You don’t know what the future holds for you now that Robert is inserted into your daily life again. You don’t know whether or not the road leads to you and Robert crashing and burning and hurting each other more than you already have. You’d be stupid not to believe that it wasn’t an option on the table. But there is another option, where you both don’t crash and burn. Where something happens, and that something is good. Whatever that may be. But that’s a bridge you don’t have the energy to cross yet. But whether you’re ready to take that step or not, that bridge is in sight, and one day you’ll be right in front of it. 

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