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It’s half past midnight when you sail past the usual string of billboards and neon signs to SDN for your early morning shift.

The air whizzing by you as you swerve through the usual sights is noticeably chillier than normal. You’re warm enough, with your light blue and orange windbreaker snugly fitted over your black uniform. …But you still miss the balmy heat of summer. Around this time last year was when you found Toad, your second cat (still then a stray), perched up on the ledge of a commercial posterboard. To this day you have no idea how he got up there, dusty black fur ruffled up with fear.

It’s this absentminded trail of thoughts that tugs your line of sight towards the giant signs whooshing along your periphery. The breeze carrying you slows, then falters when you do actually spot something along a sign. Someone. It’s a person waving at you from the bottom of a well-lit billboard: one with that top hero with the tongue twister name.

“Hi, yeah, sorry to stop you all of a sudden, but would you mind getting me off this thing?” The man calls out as you float closer. He has a nice voice. Tired, and a little rough-sounding, but not in an unpleasant way. Reminds you of… Something. You can’t place it.

“Sure.” Your boots lightly clunk against the metal grates as you land.

“Thanks. I owe you one.” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face, which you recognize with a start. “Was ten seconds away from saying ‘fuck it’ and just taking a leap of faith. Literally.”

You tear your eyes away from his cinnamon-brown hair and freckles to glance over at where he motions. The nearest ledge would take a long jump. You’re not exactly sure he would’ve made it to the other side, and your face inadvertently winces at the idea. The man shrugs at your look.

Yep. That’s him, alright.

Hot dog guy.

Correction: Hot, Dog Guy.

That’s the man you’ve spotted occasionally at the grocery store near your apartment. You don’t come across him every time, but when you do, it’s always in the pet food aisle. You’ve seen him grabbing dog food while you browse for cat kibble. Your eyes linger on him. You can’t help it—he’s just your type. If you even know what your type is, now.

You don’t really know the guy. You guess all you can really say is that the first time you saw him, you noticed he was cute. Then the other times you shopped for things, you spent a little longer in the pet section than strictly necessary. And then there was that one time you accidentally backed into him because you were distracted and didn’t notice him standing behind you… After which you practically swooned at hearing his voice and replayed his startled greeting in your head (more than a few times). ‘Woah, hey. You good?’ …Mortifying.

Now, you hesitate for just a second before walking closer to him. You haven’t seen him around in a long time—months, maybe. What’s he doing all the way out here? You try to think of a way to ask without sounding like a stalker.

“So… Do you get stuck in high places often, or…?” Is what makes its way out of your mouth as you offer a hand for him to grab. He takes it, and you’re distantly surprised at the rough callouses you feel when he does.

He exhales a short, amused huff. “No, I uh. Got recruited for a job, actually. But I got left here by accident.”

Out of the answers to give, you weren’t expecting that one. But, well, in this neighborhood? Stranger things have happened.

“Maybe it’s your first test,” you suggest, only half-joking. “Find your way down without dying, and you’ve got the job for sure.”

He shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “Extra lucky I found you, then. Not convinced I woulda landed well.”

It is extra lucky you found him, you think, as you gradually float the two of you down to the ground. Then the delight you feel at the surprise encounter is tampered by what you happen to catch a glimpse of underneath his tan jacket.

Holy crap. Even if you hadn’t been keeping up with the news, there’s no way you wouldn’t recognize that logo. The iconic M. You feel his hand tense in yours and know that he’s noticed you noticing. Your feet touch the ground at the same time he jerks his hand out of yours.

“Shit.” He mutters, zipping up the jacket in one quick motion.

“I’m with SDN!” You rush to assure him, slapping both hands over your eyes. “I’m not gonna use your identity against you, I promise.”

“I mean that I know how important keeping identities a secret is. I won’t tell.” You add when you don’t hear a response. You peek through your fingers. Did he leave?

He’s still there. His hands have paused halfway to his face, midway through pulling on his mask. What makes you nervous is the look he’s giving you. Your hands fall from your eyes and hover somewhere in front of your chest, fidgeting together under his scrutiny.

Hot dog guy—or, as you now have discovered, fucking Mecha Man—stares at you. His gaze bounces between your eyes first as if assessing your honesty, then it scans the rest of your face, lingering along your forehead. The sudden self-consciousness makes you remember that you forgot to tie your hair back like usual before leaving your apartment. It’s probably a mess right now, the way your hair can get when the air floats random strands any which way around your face. It’s an off day for you, for sure. You don’t even have your mask pulled over your nose and mouth—you figured it was overkill so early in the morning before work. It makes you feel somewhat vulnerable.

“…I know,” Mecha hot dog man eventually says, yanking his mask over his head.

You’re honestly still stuck on the fact that you’ve been semi-crushing on a famous generational hero for the past year or so, but you somehow manage to convey your confusion. “You… do?”

What were you talking about again?

“Well, I meant to say that I know you’re in SDN. But, ah…” He scratches his jaw. The stubble looks good on him. Is he okay? After everything that happened… No wonder you haven’t seen him in a while. He was—

“As it turns out, I do know who you are.”

You blanch.

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, watching for your reaction. “...Breeze, right?”

“You had the whole.. A/C thing going, right? And the movies, and….?” He trails off. Must see the look on your face.

You’re not sure what’s worse. That he knows you exist, that he knows you as who you used to be, or that he doesn’t remember ever seeing you around.

“...That’s why you understand. About keeping identities a secret.”

You feel your head tilt forward in a very slow nod.

“I… Y-yes. That… Was me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and will yourself to smile casually at him. “I actually go by Dart now. More of an undercover gig, at SDN…”

“Uh huh.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“I guess this makes us even.” He says this lightly, and you get the sense that it’s his attempt to smooth things over. “We both know of each other.”

“How’d you know I’m in SDN?” You latch onto the topic change, more than ready for a mood shift.

“I mean, you are sporting the merch,” he nods down at your clothes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“S-D-N,” he reads along the windbreaker, beginning to walk off in the direction of brighter street lights. “Big bold orange letters. Can’t really miss it.”

Your metaphorical feathers ruffle at his quirked eyebrow, and you fall into step beside him. “If you’re wondering why I’m decked out in all black skin-tight stuff, just to throw a bright jacket on top, it’s ‘cause they figured without it, I’d look like a villain.”

You’re rambling now. “I didn’t even think I gave off villain vibes. Oh, and by they, I mean people up top. Managers, and… yeah.”

Mecha’s eyes drop briefly down your body then back up to your face. “Wasn’t.. gonna comment on the skin-tight thing, actually, but—”

“It’s all company issued,” you interrupt, your face feeling hot. “I don’t really have a say in it. Didn’t even get a hero suit until I started moving up the ranks for EB calls.”

“EB?” That gets his attention, and he glances briefly at you as you walk.

“Early bird calls. That’s why I’m heading out so early. I work part-time EB shifts,” you explain, sighing. “...Just a corporate slave.”

He gives you an amused look sideways. “Right.”

“Uh. Did I say slave? I meant… Doll,” you awkwardly settle on. Employee. Employee was the word you were looking for. “A hardworking, loyal doll.” As soon as the words come out you grimace at how morbid they sound.

At least you get to hear his laugh as he responds. “Is that much better?”

“Shut it.” You squint. He grins, and seeing that makes you smile. “At least dolls imply pretty. Or something.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

You blink when his eyes meet yours, before you decide his reply wasn’t meant even remotely as a compliment. Just a casual, neutral response.

After another moment of quiet walking, he clears his throat. “So, you gonna escort me all the way home, or…?”

“I was planning on leaving once you got to a place with more people,” you grumble. “But if you’re so against it—”

“Never said I was against that,” he snorts. “But you do already know what I look like under this.”

You whip your head to face him before you understand he means his mask. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you flush.

“Under the mask.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you press a hand to your forehead in exasperated embarrassment.

He snickers. “Just saying. Finding out where I live seems overkill.”

“You use that word a bit generously.”

“What, overkill?” You nod. He shrugs.

“Pretty sure that goes against your job contract anyway,” he tosses out.

“Overkill…?” You get the joke right after you ask. Hero. Kill. “Oh. That was…”

You shake your head even as a tiny huff of laughter escapes you. “That was a really bad joke. Do better.”

“It’s more convincing if you don’t laugh before you say that?”

“Hot, famous, and a smartass. Just my luck.” The words are out before you can shut your stupid, impulsive mouth. You stiffly continue walking alongside him, refusing to look at him despite the glance you spot him give you in your periphery.

Mortifying.

His strides slow to a stop once you both hit the main street. It’s empty, save for the slow cruise of a car driving by. The rhythmic beats of pop music fades as it turns the corner. He gives you a slanted smile. You see the pink and blue neon sign-lights reflect off his tawny brown eyes like comets, and then…

Something inside you withers with unease. What are you doing? You should’ve left ten minutes ago, right after you helped him down. Stuff like this doesn’t end well. You should know better. You should know better.

Before he can say anything, you nod silently at him, sobering up from the residual warmth of having a nice talk. Bit by bit, your boots lift off the ground.

Mecha Man nods back, understanding passing over his face. You spot something like disappointment, too, but that’s definitely you projecting. “Thanks again for the lift. Or lower. Whatever you wanna call it.”

You smile a genuine smile at his words. “...Yeah. Thanks for the nice detour. I would give you a lift-lower back home, but my shift starts soon, and I think that’s technically overkill, so.” Your attempt to joke lands a little flat.

“See you around.”

He slowly bobs his head in another nod, scuffing the sole of one shoe against the sidewalk as he watches you rise. You float higher up, but not by much, your instincts going against your rationale to leave.

“...For the record, I strongly doubt you could ever look—uh, act like a villain. Dark suit or not.” He calls out.

“Yeah?” You pause, the comment tugging the corners of your mouth up.

“Yeah,” he smiles back up at you. “Helping strangers isn’t exactly the hallmark of an evil pro.”

Strangers. Right. No, it’s better to keep it that way. Safer. Your smile fades a little. You’re about one foot in the air now, and you continue to float slowly up and away from him.

“Y’know, if you’re at the Torrance branch…” He begins suddenly again. “Might see ya there. I start tomorrow—today, actually, if it’s as late as I think it is.”

You falter.

“No kidding?”

“Nope.”

Despite every worry in you, the news makes you beam. Is it because this is the most fun you’ve had talking to someone in an embarrassingly long time? Is it because you get to see him on a semi-regular basis now, or that your tiny crush is growing by the minute? You’re too pleasantly surprised to care.

You see him blink at you, then give you a small smile, and your chest warms.

“So, um, then. If you’re really grateful about earlier… Can I get your name?” You float back into closer range, hesitantly. His eyebrows twitch upwards.

“I’ve gotta know what to call you when I see you at work, right?”

He nods, looking a little lost in thought.

“So… what is it?”

“Uh, right. It’s Robert.” He pauses. “Robert Robertson.”

“! You’re kidding—”

“Very not kidding.”

“...”

You do your best to stifle the laugh that bursts out, and his eyes crinkle at you in grudging amusement at the attempt. You take a mental snapshot of the look.

Robert, Robert Robertson. Sounds like a droid name.

“You?” He prompts, and you decide to share your own name with him. Not Dart, like everyone calls you now, but the old one. The one you’ve tucked safely away for the real you, to feel like a real person again.

Robert tells you it’s a good name. “Not as roll-off-the-tongue as Robert Robertson,” he jokes, “But—”

“We can’t all be winners,” you finish, rolling your eyes, and he grins.

“It was nice meeting you,” he says, sincerely.

You smile, sincerely, back at him. “See you at work, Rob.”

You fly some distance away before looking back over your shoulder one last time, and spot his figure steadily receding into the distance, disappearing behind a building.