#adhocstudio

“…Sharp Shoota,” Robert repeated carefully.

“There you go.” The man grinned, clapping his hands once before rubbing them together, clearly pleased. “Now we’re talkin’.”

The grin was easy. Confident. Almost disarming.

For a brief second, Robert forgot where they were, and why.

He adjusted his grip on the file, finally studying the man properly. A Black man in his forties. Broad shoulders. Calm posture. No twitching hands. No nervous energy.

If this was someone who never missed, he didn’t carry it like a threat. He carried it like a fact.

“You understand why you’re here,” Robert said, settling back into his chair. “Correct?”

“Yeah,” Shoota replied with a shrug. “You tryna figure out if I’m worth not throwin’ back in a box.”

Robert didn’t correct him. He was technically right.

“Right. And before we go any further,” Robert continued, tapping the edge of the file once, “you should know this isn’t about charm. I’ve read your record. I know what you’ve done. This is about whether I can trust you under pressure.”

Shoota nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Alright, Robert thought, straight to the questionnaire. “Why do you want to join the Phoenix Program?” he asked, watching him closely for any discrepancies or discomfort.

The slight grin faded, not dramatically, but deliberately. The man leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, voice lowering just enough to matter.

“My mom.”

Robert’s pen paused mid-stroke.

“She’s sick,” Derrick continued. “And if I stay where I’m at… I ain’t really seein’ her again. Not in any way that counts.”

Robert looked up, meeting his eyes now.

“How sick?” Robert asked quietly.

Shoota hesitated. Not long—just enough to be honest.

“Cancer,” he said. “Stage three. She’s fightin’, but… time ain’t on her side.”

A beat of silence followed, Robert a bit stunned at the revelation.

Not only did this man seek redemption; he wanted to see his family.

Shoota continued, “I don’t want to watch my momma die while I’m behind bars, and I don’t want to just listen to her voice through phone calls. I…” he shakes his head, as if he physically rejected the emotions to go through. “I just want to see her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “Truly.”

Shoota nodded, his hands clasped together in front of him, his hands now finally nervous as they fidgeted.

“Thing is,” he added, “she ain’t the only reason.”

Robert waited.

“My pops was around,” Derrick said. “Before you ask; He was a good man. Worked docks outta Oakland- Port of… Port of Oakland. Pop taught me patience. Taught me aim.” A faint smile flickered. “Used to say, ‘if you gotta rush a shot, you already lost’. I just wanna see my old man’s resting place, pay some more respect.”

Robert said nothing. He let the silence do the work.

“He died when I was sixteen,” Shoota continued. “Stroke. Outta nowhere.” His jaw tightened, just a little. “After that, everything got louder. Streets. People. Opportunities that don’t come with receipts or paper trails.”

“So you followed the wrong ones,” Robert said gently.

“I followed the fast ones,” Derrick corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Robert nodded and wrote that down.

“My mom and I moved with my little sister,” Shoota went on. “Held the house together. Told me I was better than the dumb shit I kept gettin’ pulled into.” He exhaled through his nose. “Guess I just learned that lesson late.”

The room fell quiet.

Robert glanced briefly toward the one-way glass behind him, where Royd, an LAPD social worker, and several correctional officers observed in silence, before returning his attention to the man across the table.

“I’m not askin’ to be a hero,” Shoota said. “I just wanna sit with her without cuffs around my wrists. Maybe prove to myself I ain’t a lost cause. Show her I can be better, that pops was right about me.” He grins, “That I am one of the good fellas.”

Robert nodded once, deliberate. He sat across the man with the same goal as him, redemption, a chance to prove himself. “Thank you for being honest. Very honest and… transparent.” Robert responds kindly, making a note in the margin.

Then, after a beat of silence, Robert spoke up again.

“One more thing,” Robert said. “Your name. Mr. Shoota… it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue in formal settings. What should I call you?”

Shoota scratched his head, considering it like it actually mattered.

“You seem solid,” he said. “Not the type to run your mouth.” A easy grin crept back in. “Name’s Derrick. Derrick Coleman.”

“Derrick Coleman,” Robert repeated, relieved. “I can work with that,

“My people call me Derry. Some fine ass chicks down Wilson Street call me Daddy D,” Derrick said, leaning forward and tapping the table once. “But you—”

He pointed lightly at Robert’s chest.

“You can call me Derrick. Until I know I fuck with you.”

Robert blinked, a bit jarred from how the tension— that was not there before— suddenly became charged. Like he was warning Robert.

Do. Not. Cross. Him.

“Fair enough,” Robert said, trying to deescalate the strange energy. “I’ll take that.”

And for the first time since the interviews had begun, Robert felt something unexpected settle in his chest.

Confidence, a bit of fear, but overall pride that he found a genuine piece of gold in the system to work with.

Robert closed the file, but he didn’t stand immediately.

He studied Derrick for a moment longer, as if committing him to memory.

“Well it was nice meeting you, Mr. Coleman.” Robert concludes.

As if on cue, the door opened. Cold air rushed in the sterile and metallic rooms carrying the sharp scent of disinfectant and old concrete.

It cut through the warmth Derrick had left behind like a warning and recall to what his life will be like if he doesn’t turn it around. Correctional officers stepped inside, boots heavy against the floor, radios murmuring low static at their hips, no sign of firearms on their utility belts, cautious of Derrick’s power and his abilities.

However, Derrick stood without protest, like it was second nature. He complied, hands behind his back and everything.

As they moved to cuff him. Robert didn't know the multitude of his power yet. So far, Robert didn't see Derrick as aggressive as his past crimes suggested, he was just... human.

Derrick glanced back once, meeting Robert’s eyes.

There was no anger. No resentment.

Just expectation.

“What’s your name, man?” Derrick called out while his cuffs were adjusted from being attached to the table, do being attached to the other wrist behind his back.

“Robert. Don’t worry, you’ll be hearing back from me soon, Mr. Coleman.” Robert responds, a slight smile on his face.

Derrick shared a soft smile and a distant, “Later, man!” A casual quip, but one that held a slight tone of respect.

Then he was gone, escorted down the corridor, the door sealing shut with a hollow click that echoed longer than it should have.

With a soft sigh, Robert looked up at the one-way glass. He was trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone, but met his own gaze.

This is going to be a long day...

⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬

The chair across from Robert scraped loudly against the floor as it was pulled back to make room, an excessive amount of room, for the next interviewee.

“I’m assuming you already know my name,” the mass of a man said, sitting down onto the ground without waiting to be told. His voice was steady, edged with irritation rather than nerves.

Robert looked up. Mid-forties. Tall, boulder-like humanoid, with grey, bubbled, rough skin.

That nuclear accident must have seriously fucked up his genetics, Robert thought.

The man rested his large, rough hands flat on the table, looking down at Robert while sitting on the floor. He may have been able to withstand a large threshold of strength, but the same did not apply to the average interrogation chair.

“I heard of you, but please, humor me,” Robert said evenly. “For the record.”

A breath through the nose. Almost like a chuckle.

“Anchorman,” he replied. “That’s what they’ve got me under in that little folder of yours,”

Robert chuckled softly. “And what should I call you? What do you prefer?”

The man tilted his head slightly, studying Robert.

“My real name works just fine, the one I went by before… I changed,” he said. “Ron Tucker, and yes, I am that Ron Tucker.”

Robert chuckled slightly, a mirror to Ron’s. He remembered how much of an icon Ron was on NBCLA way back then, a charismatic, high energy reporter that had respect in the journalism community. He almost had his own segment for NBCLA.

Almost Robert nodded once, then glanced down at the file. “Alright then. You understand why you’re here, correct?”

Anchorman gave a short laugh, his body rumbling the entire room, a grin on his lips, “Yeah. I know. This is about the Phoenix Program, isn’t it?”

After a beat of silence, a mutual action of seeing who makes the first move, says the first world, Anchorman leaned forward.

“I don’t know what those files in your hand say, but I need to make it clear to you, I didn’t hurt anyone,” he said, firmer now.

Robert looked up at the man, at least what was left behind in his rough exterior.

“Didn’t pull a trigger. Didn’t plan violence. Hell, I wasn’t even on site when half of it went down.” Anchorman said solemnly, as if he was trying to convince Robert that he was innocent.

“You were involved,” Robert said calmly after looking over the file in front of him. “You were at the scene for a lot of these… minuscule crimes,”

“I was adjacent,” Anchorman corrected. “There’s a legal difference. A very important one.”

Robert watched him closely.

No shaking hands. No visible fear. But there was tension, tight in the jaw, coiled behind the eyes.

This wasn’t a man haunted by guilt. This was a man irritated about placement.

“So,” Robert said, folding his hands, “why the Phoenix Program?”

Anchorman scoffed, then followed it with a light hearted chuckle. It was like Robert told him a plain joke.

“Because I don’t belong here. Because my sentence doesn’t match my actions. And because if this system is actually about rehabilitation instead of optics, then someone should have flagged my case months ago.”

“That’s not an answer,” Robert said, “At least, I’m not convinced that’s all this is about.”

Anchorman exhaled, then sat back. “Fine. Because I won’t survive 3 more years being treated like I’m something I’m not.”

Robert tilted his head slightly. “And what is it you’re not?”

Anchorman met his gaze without blinking.

With a pause, leaning back now, shaking his head and opening his heart, he finally muttered; “A… A monster.”

The room went quiet. Robert didn’t write that one down. Not yet.

Anchorman shifted slightly, the table creaking under the weight of his arms. “I may appear as one, maybe I scare the hell out of everyone. Once beloved Ron Tucker reduced to skin as hard as rock, body as big as a kaiju. I was a beauty who turned into a beast. All because I wanted to reveal the truth behind that reactor to the world.” He let out an hollow laugh, “And it worked, they shut it down after the world saw what it did to me.”

Robert leaned forward, pen poised, ready for the story behind the stone-like presence.

“You keep saying you don’t belong here,” Robert said carefully. “Then tell me why. What really landed you in this system?”

Anchorman’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing. “Just for what’s on my file. That ‘minuscule’ stuff,” he began, voice low and measured. “Nothing violent. Mostly trespassing, evading arrest, resisting. Things that make people nervous seeing a monster like me doing. Things that make cops nervous. Me being me. The big, ugly, me.”

Robert raised an eyebrow, catching on to one of the charges that he wanted to press more on. “Evading arrest?”

“Yeah,” Anchorman said, leaning back just enough to let the weight in his arms settle. “Evading arrest is one of them. But not like you think. I’m hard to apprehend. Not because I run fast. Not because I’m tricky. Because I’m this.” He tapped a fist lightly against the metal table, making a cacophony of scraping rock to metal. His grey, bubbled, rock-like skin reverberated the sound.

“You try to cuff a boulder. You try to shove a seven-foot-whatever … thing… into a squad car. It isn’t happening without collateral damage.”

Robert stayed silent, letting him speak.

“The city,” Anchorman continued, “they … they decided I’m a liability. But, I wasn’t hurting anyone, I’m just different now. Too strong. Too uncontainable.” He raised his thumb, pointing to the one-way glass behind him, “So they put me here. Just in case. Because it’s easier to lock me away than admit they don’t know what to do with someone like me.”

Robert nodded. “And minor offenses piled up because you were hard to manage, not because you were dangerous.” He said, more in revelation than anything.

Anchorman’s rugged jaw flexed. “Exactly. I wasn’t a threat. Not really. But I’m a problem. And to these people-“ he nods back towards the one-way glass, referring to the correction officers watching their interactions, “a problem like me… it’s a crime.”

Robert jotted a note in the margin while he listened to the man speak;

Anchorman- minor offenses, imprisoned largely as a liability, evading arrest due to physical uniqueness, no evidence of malice or threat to others. Great strength, important asset for Z-Team

“And yet you’re here,” Robert said. “Applying to the Phoenix Program. You think this is your shot to prove that? That your differences can be used for good and don’t have to be contained from the public?”

Anchorman’s eyes softened slightly, just enough for a flicker of something almost human to slip through the hardened exterior.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I want to show them I’m more than a liability. That I can exist without breaking everything around me.”

Robert nodded, taking a slow breath. The tension in the room was palpable, but Anchorman’s presence wasn’t violent. It was enduring, solid, honest, human in his own way.

“Alright,” Robert said finally, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s see if we can figure that out together.” He said with a soft smile.

He could envision a promising future for the Z-Team with Anchorman by their side.

⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬

The corridor narrowed as Robert and Royd descended, the walls shifting from painted concrete to reinforced steel and plexiglass.

The air grew colder the further they traveled, the sound of their footsteps dampened by the low hum of containment systems running nonstop.

Robert Robertson adjusted the file under his arm while walking side by side with Royd, glancing over at the man who curiously peered around the unfamiliar hall.

“So this is where they keep the ones who don’t fit the chairs,” Royd muttered beside him, “I don’t know, bro. If they keep these fellas in here, they surely will be a problem for the Z-Team, no?”

Robert exhaled. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. But we can’t be too quick to judge.”

As Royd was about to rebutal, the two stopped in front of a thick, transparent chamber.

Inside, the lights were dimmed low. The floor in front of the containment, one that resembled some shit he would find for the amphibian exhibit at the Los Angeles Zoo, was sloped, subtly grooved to funnel liquids toward a sealed drain.

There’s no furniture. No fixtures. Just smooth containment surfaces and reinforced seams.

A correctional officer waited for them beside the glass, standing tall, expressionless, with a tablet tucked against his chest.

“Silt,” the officer said without preamble. “Male. Liquefaction-class. Full body conversion. Highly evasive.”

He tapped the screen once, getting the attention of.. what seemed to be a puddle of blood and skin.

Robert nearly wanted to barf at the sight. He gulped, seeing the mass of biological matter just bubble and burble.

“Bro.” Is all Royd could say, as disgusted as Robert was. Whatever appetite he had, he lost it at the sight of the gorey human puddle.

“Rules are simple.” The officer said between him, Royd, Robert, and Silt, “You do not approach the glass. You do not respond to anything not directed at the interviewer. No physical contact under any circumstances. You only get 5 minutes with this one,”

Robert nodded. Royd did not look away from the chamber.

“He likes attention,” the officer added. “Uses distraction. Boundary testing. Don’t engage.”

Royd snorted quietly. “Okay, that sounds easy enough.”

The officer keyed the panel.

Inside the chamber, the mass on the floor stirred.

It rose slowly, gathering itself, shape forming with unsettling patience. Limbs pulled free of the sludge, features smoothing into something recognizably human. Not perfect. Not entirely stable. But somewhat human.

Silt stood upright, head tilted, eyes already on them.

“Well,” he said, voice slick and amused through the speakers, “you brought a friend.”

Robert stepped forward to the yellow and black caution marked line.

“I’m Robert,” he said. “This is Royd. We’re here to talk.”

Silt’s gaze slid past him immediately to look at Royd, who immediately avoided eye contact.

Royd felt Silt’s gaze settle onto him with narrowed eyes. It felt invasive and deliberate.

“Oh,” Silt murmured. “I get it; you’re the quiet one.”

His form leaned closer to the glass, stopping just short of the warning markers. His surface rippled faintly, like oil disturbed by a breath.

“Did they bring you for backup, like a body guard,” he asked Royd, “or just because you think I look like someone worth watching?”

Royd’s shoulders tensed, put on the spot. “Talk to him,” Royd said flatly, motioning over to Robert. “Not me.”

Silt smiled, liking how reactive the big man was. “Oh,” he said with a chuckle, a deep one that rumbled his humanoid figure. “So I found the line.”

Silt’s attention returned to Robert, interest sharpening rather than fading.

“And I wager you’re the director of the Phoenix program,” Silt said. “You must get lonely, very busy, don't you?”

Robert did not react to Silt’s condescending tactics. He just looked down at his file, writing a note on the margin.

Human Sludge Guy - Asshole.

After making his little note, Robert looked back up, “You know who I am, therefore I believe you understand why I’m here,” he said evenly. “So, let’s start with that. Why the Phoenix Program?”

Silt studied him for a long moment. The room felt smaller under the weight of his piercing gaze.

“Because,” he said at last, voice lower now, “this place was never meant to hold something that won’t stay solid.”

Royd chuckled softly behind Robert, who settled down when he got a sideways glance from both Robert and Silt

“But now I see, maybe my assumption of you being my redeemer was wrong” Silt added, eyes flicking briefly back to Royd, “You clearly don’t trust me. You brought someone who looks like he’d pull you back with all that strength if I tried to disintegrate you.”

Robert’s tone did not change, nor did he look afraid. He just grimaced, he knew that Silt wasn’t even the most difficult out of the 8 the selected.

“That’s not an answer,” he said. “You’re posturing, you’re sizing me up.”

Robert then got closer as he could possibly can, the toes of his shoes sneaking almost past the ‘danger zone’.

“What’s the motive here? Why apply for the program if you’re going to continue to act like an uppity villain? With the cheeky low-blow lines, and trying so hard to read people in the goddamn room down to filth like they’re your bigoted relatives on thanksgiving.”

Silt’s smile widened, slower this time.

“Because,” he replied, “It’s the fun of the game. And I am no villain. No. No I don’t do evil just because I want to. God, what a fucking joke,” he snickered

The officer near the door folded his arms, “Three and a half minutes,” he reminded them.

Robert nodded once to the office, but not break eye contact. He wanted to hear Silt’s pitch.

“You want the goddamn truth? I seek chaos.” Silt chuckled.

Robert deadpanned, maybe this wasn’t the best choice, but he still wanted to press.

“You’re a chaos seeker?” Robert asks with a bit of a scoff, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Silt, but the SDN seeks to maintain order. Not this--," He pauses, waving his hand, thinking of a word to describe the gross fascination Silt has, "...lust to be a maniac across Los Angeles.”

For the first time, Silt didn’t laugh. Not even out of the absurdity of the statement.

Silt's body stilled. When he spoke again, his voice came quieter through the speakers. Measured. “You think that’s what this is?” he asked. “A thrill thing? To seek destruction?”

Royd nodded behind Robert, "Not going to lie, bro, but that's exactly what it sounds like."

“I don’t crave chaos,” Silt continued, his words emphasized and his glare directed to Royd, before a smirk formed on his lips. “I understand it.”

Robert didn’t move. “What do you mean by that, exactly?.”

Silt straightened, now pacing as he began to explain;

“Cities leak,” he said simply. “Pressure builds in places no one monitors. Sewers. Transit tunnels. Sublevels. Infrastructure rot. Do you even know how many emergency response teams lose suspects because they hit terrain they can’t follow into?”

Robert fidgeted with his pen as he listened, taking the hook of the pitch carefully.

Silt continued, “I can go where your people can’t, I don’t break doors. I don’t trigger alarms. I don’t leave footprints. I slip through cracks you don’t even acknowledge exist."

The officer near the door glanced at the time on his watch, glancing at the trio, and clearing his throat.

“I don’t cause collateral,” Silt continued. “Liquids move around obstacles. They don’t smash through them. You want someone who can retrieve, infiltrate, extract, without turning the city into a headline.”

Royd crossed his arms. “And what do you get out of it?”

Silt grins, "Im glad you asked," and with a dramatic pause, he stilled his pace and faced the two, “Structure,” he said with a snicker. “Rules that make sense. A job where I’m not punished for existing the way I do.”

Robert studied Silt further, glancing down and sloppily jotting some points down. He noticed how Silt wasn't threatening, hadn’t crossed the line, hadn’t surged forward, hadn’t pressed the glass.

However, Robert knew this interaction may have been different had it been him and Silt alone, or not with him in a plexiglass containment.

“You’re saying not asking for forgiveness, is that correct?” Robert said.

“No, I can't fix whatever the hell I am” Silt replied. “All I’m asking for is employment. Stability.”

The timer beeped once. A warning.

"One minute left," The corrections officer said gruffly.

“You’ll be evaluated,” Robert said solidly. “No promises. No shortcuts. Your job is to follow orders. That's it. As simple as that. Think you can handle it?"

Silt inclined his head slightly, his eyes looking over at Robert, Royd, then the corrective officer in that order.

“That’s all I wanted,” he said. “A system that admits I fit somewhere and gives me shit to do, not sit around and rot in a glass cage.”

The officer moved for the panel, ready to escort Robert and Royd out."Times up, follow me to Ashwalker's holding cell."

Royd and Robert turn around, ready to leave.

As the chamber lights dimmed, and Silt’s body began to soften again, his form melting back toward the floor. Just before he turned into human muck, his voice came through one last time.

“Oh, Robert?”

Robert paused, turning around to meet a literal head in a pile of human slush.

“If you pick me,” Silt said with a determined voice, “you won’t have to worry about me slipping away. I’ll be exactly where you tell me to be.”

Then he was gone, spreading thin across the floor as the containment field sealed with a low hum.

Shit, Robert thought, I never asked for his name.

Royd let out a slow breath. “I hate that I didn’t hate that guy, but also hate how he is a literally liquid. I hope I don't slip on him when he is around the office," he attempted to joke

Robert didn’t respond right away, he only let out a soft snicker while pulling out the other file, hoping this interaction wasn't as daunting, or disgusting, as the last.

⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬

Ashwalker’s holding area didn’t look like containment. But it didn't feel welcoming either. That was the unsettling part.

The air felt dry, sterile to the point of breathing feeling like a discomfort. It was sharp enough to sting the back of Robert’s throat.

The corrections officer didn't follow them inside to the containment room, which Robert took as a good sign. He relaxed and walked through the door, hearing it shut and hiss the expelled air before it locked.

Airtight.

Ash, a young girl with sat on her metal framed bed near the far wall, barefoot, one shoulder resting against the plain white wall. She wore loose gray sweats with the number '294' branded on it with black ink, a plain black shirt loosely hanging off her shoulder, her dark hair pulled back messily, in a bumpy ponytail, some strands already slipping free.

She didn’t look dangerous. In fact, she looked normal. Like your run-of-the-mill tired college student.

The girl turned as Robert and Royd entered, eyes sharp and assessing, but not hostile.

“You’re late,” she said.

Royd blinked. “We just got here.”

“You still took your time,” she replied, unbothered, pouting softly, "Not that I don't have all the time in the world to wait, but it still is good practice to be punctual."

Robert stepped forward alone this time. There was no caution line, no warning stripes on the floor to remind him to keep his distance. He took this fact as a sign that he could step as close to the glass as much as he pleased.

“I’m Robert Robertson,” he said.

She tilts her head, "Really? Is... Is that your name, or are you giving me a really bad alias?"

"It's my name," Robert said a bit hastily, irritation seeping slightly though his tone. He already gets teased enough about it, he didn't need another person to do so.

With an amused giggle, the girl stands up from her bed and makes her way closer to the glass, "Ash." she introduces very briefly, no theatrics included.

He glanced briefly at her file, then opened it while clicking his pen. Setting the file on his lap, he looked up at her, “Is that what you want to be called?” he asks.

“It’s what I answer to,” she said with a soft shrug.

Royd lingered near the door, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch. Ash noticed him, then dismissed him just as easily.

"So," Robert got her attention back, her gaze flicking back to him, "Your power, teleporting through smoke and ash. Do you mind elaborating your ability?"

Robert then leans forward, wanting to understand exactly what she can do, "Explain it to me, how it works, how you even find out you can do such a thing. More importantly; how can it benefit the Z-Team?"

She exhaled softly, glancing up at the lights, thinking of a way to answer, taking her time before she finally speaks. “People think smoke means chaos. Fire. Loss of control. But, for me, it’s quiet. It’s a gap. A pause between where I was and where I need to be.”

Robert shifted the file in his lap, ready to bring up another point, “Your record—”

“I know what it says,” she cut in, not unkindly, but a bit abrasively. “It says I did some shit that I didn't even do, shit that's pinned on me solely because I managed to be at the wrong place at the right time," Ashe grumbled, her voice slightly raising, "Does it tell you, huh, how many times I was placed? How far I moved across the fucking country all because of the shit people claimed I did?”

Robert tilted his head slightly. That was new. It was like a spark ignited in Ash. But he was unfamiliar with the terms, and wanted to press more on what she meant

“Placed where?” he asked.

“Foster homes,” Ash said bluntly, her eyes downcast. Her hands curled briefly into her sleeves, then relaxed.

He noticed her demeanor change, and he lowered his pen.

“You’re twenty-two,” Robert said carefully. “You’ve been on your own for a while, and you're still young to... learn to cope with that unresolved childhood trauma. To use it, to learn from it and make good choices.”

Ash nodded. “Its been long enough since them to know that freedom isn’t about running. It’s about not being chased in the first place.”

Royd looked at Robert then as. He recognized that look. That line landed. Royd knew that it would affect Robert, of course it would.

Because Royd and Robert both knew this young girl was just like Courtney.

“You applied to the Phoenix Program,” Robert began with a soft sigh, “Not because you had to.”

“No,” Ash agreed. “Because I want to stop disappearing, and stop hiding. I... I just..." Her voice croaked softly, crossing her arms and hugging herself, "I want to feel like I belong.

She met his gaze fully now. Steadily keeping the eye contact. He saw the unshed tears.

“In terms of my powers, I’m good at moving through situations that fill up with smoke fast. I don’t make it. I don’t control it. I just… navigate it. House fires, collapsed Metro rail, chem labs, riot smoke bombs. Im there. I always am."

Robert considered that. “And when there’s no smoke?”

A corner of her mouth twitched. “Then I stay put.”

That answer mattered.

There was a pause between Robert and Ash, the two silent debating within themselves.

Finally, Robert spoke, “You don’t look afraid, at least not to the point you want to disappear,” he said.

“I am, afraid” she replied, scoffing softly. “Just not of you.”

With a bit of a hurt ego, Robert just playfully rolled his eyes, then looked at her, "You do understand the weight of this, correct? It's high intensity, high volume calls. The citizens of Los Angeles will depend on you, your team will depend off you."

She nodded without hesitation. “Good, I don't mind that, I can handle pressure.”

“Right, so no vanishing when it gets hard.” Robert said, he felt like he said these words before, and felt a stir in his chest as he spoke them.

“I’ve done enough of that,” she said softly, a giggle escaping.

He studied her for a long moment, then opened the file at last—not to read, but to note the margin.

“I can’t promise you freedom,” Robert said, "But you can finally get out of this oxygen tank they built for you," He chuckled.

Ash shrugged lightly. “I wasn’t asking for promises, honestly,"

“What were you asking for then?" Robert asks curiously, finishing up the note before clicking his pen.

She thought about it. Really thought.

“A direction,” she said. “So I can stop moving in circles.”

Robert closed the file again.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you already know how to stay, and that you'd be a good addition to the Z-Team.”

Her shoulders loosened, just a fraction. She smiled warmly as she watched Robert stand and make his way to the entrance, "Awesome! I'll see you soon then, Robert!" She chimed, waving him goodbye behind the glass.

On their way out, Royd turned around. He had been silent for this inmate, knowing it wasnt his place to think out loud.

“For what it’s worth,” Royd added, “we could use someone who doesn’t run the second things get smoky.”

Ash smirked. “I won't run.”

She looked back at Robert.

“I show up and out.” She said with a toothy smile.

They enjoyed the optimism, and Royd and Robert carried on to interview the next person on file.

⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬ Note: For my sanity, and the general attention span, I needed to cut the chapter in half. I am proud of these original characters, and am excited to explore them more!Like and reblog if you wish to see more! the next few members are definitely more fun and dangerous, so I hope you guys are ready for that! Until next time!!