#dispatch waterboy

“Blazer! You copy?”

Malevola opened all the portals she had energy for. Robert didn’t want to stretch her thinner, so he took the long way, following the node on his map. Blazer was closer, and he directed her once he realized where Herman was going to exit. One of the older tunnel pipes, exited near a beach he used to go to when he wanted quiet time. Barred up in some haphazard attempt to stop trash from spilling out. Uncountable gallons of water rush out of it, filling the empty inlet.

“Got it! Grate was all rusted, popped right off. I don’t see him yet.”

“He’s close. Few more seconds. I can see you. Be right there.”

Thanks to you cracking open this extra drain, almost every single civilian in the tunnels made it out. The ones not accounted for are simply still missing. He’s not losing hope yet. Some of the heroes, though…Coeus was strong. He did a real number on Sonar. The hybrids that stayed to fight felt the sting of loss. Someone named Lurch didn’t make it. And another, though Robert didn’t catch their name. He wanted to do right by them all. They deserved a commendation, a proper service.

First, he had to keep a promise. A lump in his throat, he touches down and hops out of the suit just as a gangly shape floods out of the pipe, splashing into the shallows gathering below. Limp. He slumps into the sand with a hard thump, and Blazer helps Robert move him to stable ground. And he recognizes him.

Robert almost fucking laughs. The cutesy student ID he found in his research didn’t register, but the disheveled, battle-torn version of him does. He was the guy at Sardine. In the bathroom. Robert can only guess the woman he had pinned to the wall was you. The humor hits him bittersweet. He was so close to you both, didn’t even know it. If he caught on and apprehended either of you, he very well may have set off a chain reaction leading to the death of one Beverly Fischer.

Instead, he never even thought that couple he interrupted could be his prime suspects, and…now you might be dead. Robert isn’t sure there’s a version of these events where everyone got to live. But the idea that he may never meet you in person fills him with sadness.

“Blazer, go in there. Dreamweaver, she might — please.”

Without a word, just a nod, she disappears inside.

His CPR is rusty, but, Robert gets to work.

He takes a breath, pinches Herman’s nose. Covers his mouth with his own, and breathes into him, watching his chest. When it rises, he pulls back, waiting. It falls. He counts the seconds, then goes again. He checks Herman’s pulse to make sure he doesn’t need to pull the defib kit out of his suit. Robert keeps it up until he starts to worry. You said he couldn’t drown? Or, that he didn’t drown like normal people — what did that fucking mean?!

Mouth around Herman’s again, Robert gets ready to keep the air flowing, but feels the man tense. It happens so fast. A strangled little yelp, strange gurgling, a loud retch: and then what feels like a firehose is hitting the back of his throat. Robert wheels backwards, sputtering and coughing. It went in him. He swallowed some. The rest came out his nose. It wasn’t seawater, either. What the fuck.

“Augh, ah, oh God did you just puke—”

Herman’s weakly flailing, looking around, bewildered, choking. Spitting out bloody water. Crying.

Water. Herman’s powers are all about water. With growing unease, he realizes that perhaps that pack on his back wasn’t a source for his water blasts, but an overflow catch.

Oh GOD.

Robert makes a face and smacks his lips cautiously, rubbing his tongue along the roof of his mouth. It’s. It doesn’t taste bad. But he is uncomfy with what just happened to him.

He’s going to have to unpack that later.

“Hey, hey, calm down, I got you, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

Herman tries to say something, but he just passes out.

He wakes in a dim room that smells too clean, beneath a familiar feeling blanket, beside familiar sounding machines. He dreamed about visiting his mother in the hospital again, and now he knows why. He’s in one. Herman doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Bits and pieces of memories flit back into his mind. He drifted in and out of consciousness after you rang his bell, his first trustworthy memory being on that beach, barely hanging on.

Herman doesn’t even feel bad for thinking it. You brought it on yourself.

No; he lied to himself. He feels bad. Worse than bad. His heart aches more than the wounds Technomancer left all over his body; aches more than his head. Uncertain as always. Should he hate you? Should he be glad you’re gone? Or did you really try? Did you just make a mistake? Should someone die for a mistake?

It hits him like a truck. Herman’s alone now. Truly alone. Without her. Without you. What’s left? What was it all for?! What was it all fucking for?! Tears fog his vision. He wants to go back to sleep. Forever. He can’t think about this if he’s not awake. Just put him in a coma, doc, and stuff him in a basement somewhere, use him as a cautionary tale for hubris or something, he didn’t care anymore. Anything to not feel like this. Alone in a room, surrounded by machines, alone in the world, Herman doesn’t notice at first.

Barely able to move his body in general, he blinks away his silent tears, wiggling his fingers. Only when he lets out a soft whine, lolling his head to the side, does he see that someone’s sitting right next to him, thumbing through a novel. Someone who can’t possibly be there.

“G-Grand…Grandma?!”

Maybe he’s really high. Who knows what’s in this IV.

She nearly throws her book down. “Hermie! Baby! Oh! Hey!” She throws one arm around his neck. The other’s in a sling.

It’s real. She’s real. His body remembers it exists, and he can move, albeit slow. Hot tears fill his eyes and he tries so hard not to crush her. He holds her tight, close, crying at the limit of his dry throat. “You—Isaw—thenews—you—were—dead—”

She covers his cheeks in kisses, laughing. “No, no, sweetheart. Obviously, no!”

“B-but. I.” He’s so confused. “I was, I was in Snakehead, the TV was on—and. Your house, on the news, the stretcher, a, a body bag—”

Grandma chuckles, patting her injured arm. “I will tell you all about it later.” He stares at the sling, and she waves her hand. “I’m fine. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for four days, Hermie. Nobody can find Dreamweaver. Do you remember what happened to her? Did she get out in time?”

He resettles on his pillow, jaw tight, fixing his eyes on the ceiling tiles. There’s a big water stain on one, and it’s a little off-kilter, a black abyss peeking through. The memory surfaces. Just a small, tiny sliver that he knows in his gut isn’t a dream he had between then and now. “She’s dead,” he says quietly.

A soft, quiet sob fills the following silence, and she draws a hand up to her mouth. “H-how did she…?”

“Coeus got her.” He is still angry. Grieving. Grieving who he thought you were. “I. I t-tried first. She knocked me out.”

A series of baffled noises and stammers comes out of her, and she scowls at him. “What on earth would have possessed you to—Herman, what?!”

Through an unsteady voice, he explains. “Sh-she was. The whole time, Grandma, she was using m-me. Working with S-SDN. To s-save herself. Coeus, he, he found out, and because we were close, that. That is why. He s-sent. He sent Flayer and—how did you s-survive?”

Grandma’s baffled. Visibly angry. “Herman. Oh, God. Herman.” She leans back in her chair, forlorn. “Maybe keeping you in the dark was not the plan.”

He sits up.

“Wh-what?”

Now, she looks uncertain. Her bottom lip trembles. A shaky sigh. “H-Herm. I knew. She told me. She told me from the start. She was worried if you knew, you’d be too on edge to not be suspicious. We decided she should work around you to keep you safe.”

It feels like the planet falls out below him. So small, so quiet, he whimpers, “what?”

“She was worried it could get me killed, and I told her to save you. Save those people. Even if it meant that. Herman, I had a letter all ready to go for the worst case scenario explaining this but I was.” She sighs, a tear falling. “I was confident she was being careful enough. I really thought it would all work.” And she looks at him in a way that breaks him more than the revelation: like she doesn’t know him anymore. “You tried to kill her?”

“I thought—you—you were dead, I th-thought, I. I couldn’t. Ev-everything I did. Was to. Keep you alive—and she ruined it—but—oh. NO. No.” Herman covers his face. He sobs so hard he can’t hear anything beyond the pressure in his ears.

He was wrong. He’d never been more wrong in his pitiful life. You tried. You didn’t even do it without her knowledge. You let Grandma choose whether or not you’d risk her life, and she chose go ahead, and…

Herman killed you for it.

There were no semantics, no hairs to split. He saw you. He remembers. Your arm at that wrong angle, your battered face, the way you barely held it together before you found the strength to hurt him. If he hadn’t put you in such a state, you could have fought off Coeus.

He killed you.

So, about that coma, doc.

SDN’s clinic kept Herman for the rest of the week. Mostly because they were fascinated by how fast he healed from a fractured skull, several broken ribs, and a whole lot of minor-to-moderate wounds. You hit him hard. The way he remembers it — which is foggy at best — it felt like you weren’t trying to, though. The cops showed up, inevitably. Grilling him about his entire career, giving him barely any space to think, and Herman broke down again. A man missing a part of his ear eventually shooed them away.

“Let me handle this. Christ, guys. Did you skip training or what?”

“I, just, send me—wherever, you’re gonna, I’m. Too tired.”

The freckled man at his bedside smiles in a way he can’t place. It’s the way Herman would smile at himself in the mirror to make sure he could still pretend to be happy about something. It feels like he can see straight through him, into his thoughts, and not only does he know how Herman feels, he’s mourning it. “Hi, Herman. It’s nice to finally meet you while you’re conscious.” He holds out a hand.

Herman weakly shakes it. “W-who…”

“I’m Robert. We’ve met before, though. Picked you up once, you blinded me, I dropped you on a rooftop…” He lists the events with a lazy kind of smirk, pulling his rough hand away, looking at him like that again. “Oh! Also, Sardine! I have to know. Was that her idea, or yours?”

He remembers the name, now. Coeus told him. Mecha Man. This is fucking Mecha Man. He looks so normal? Well, the scars and all but — he’s not what Herman really expected to see under the cowl.

“Uh. Uh. It. It was—kind of. Mine. I. I p-panicked.”

“Interesting way to panic.”

He blushes. “I. It. Worked out.”

A soft laugh. He laces his fingers together and leans on the railing of his hospital bed. “How you holding up?”

“L-lived up to my name, finally. So. N-not good.”

It takes Robert a beat to get what he means, and he offers him a slow, sad nod. “I understand why you feel that way.” He’s so…Herman can’t describe it in one word. “I…I promised her, I’d save you. You’ve really been through it. You know they found a bullet in you? We took it out. Looked like it’d been there a while.”

“Mmhn. Y-yeah. I. Got shot like. T-two, three. Years ago, I think.”

“He says, casually.” Robert sounds so amused. He’s smiling at him.

Herman can’t look at him. He stares at the machine beside his bed, frowning. “I-I.” Even if he knew how to articulate what he’s feeling right now, there’s just no life left in him for it. He sighs. Closes his eyes. “She. She’s gone?”

“Missing. I don’t like to call it before I know it for sure. I sent Blazer in after you popped out, but she didn’t find her. Listen, Herman. There would have been a body there, that soon, if she died in there. We’re still looking through the tunnels, cleaning debris, helping the hybrids rebuild. Lockjaw’s missing, too. I’m hoping they helped each other and maybe are hiding somewhere.”

He exhales. “I hurt. I hurt her.”

“I know.” Now, he looks at him. Robert’s smiling a little. “But she called me, before she went missing. Planted her phone on you so I could find you. She wanted you safe so bad, man. So. You must not have hurt her enough. She was still on your side.”

He can describe it, now; how Robert is.

Robert feels safe, in some kind of spectacular way. Like a Saint Bernard with a little barrel collar that you know’s full of medicine, digging you out of the snow. Like a rescue chopper cresting a lonely horizon. With him in the room, Herman can breathe a little easier. Cry freely instead of trying to fight it. So he does. And he lets him. He sits there with his hand on his arm and just lets him go through it.

When he’s all out of steam, hiccuping and sniffing, Robert gives him that much more time. He quietly hands him a wad of tissues, then places a recorder on his food tray. “In your own time. From the top. Just tell me everything. All the way up to now.” He clicks a button. “This’ll keep the suits from pestering you.” A smile.

Herman breathes.

“Wh. When I was a k-kid…”

Everything’s real fuzzy for a long time. Like you’re in your dream hall, but you can only see it through an old cathode TV. For the longest, longest time, you figured you were dead. Or, worse: maybe you’re stuck in Coeus’s head. Maybe everyone he drains is in here. Maybe the people he kills don’t get a true death. You’re not sure if that in itself is horrifying or if it’s the idea you might be trapped in here with Ethan.

But you never see him. You don’t see anyone, really. Just flickers of things, so fast you can’t decide what they were. Mostly darkness. Is this death?

Because if it is, you’re really fucking bored.

After a while, a voice creeps through. Deeper than the ocean, rumbly as a diesel engine. Who is it? You can’t remember. It’s an important voice, but, there’s too much fog. You drift. In and out. The voice comes back. The voice leaves. Different voices mumble things. The darkness starts to feel like it has something behind it. The rumbly voice returns. You don’t know how long it was gone.

But now, you can name it. You remember.

Lockjaw’s reading something. One of his favorites, he said. But you can’t remember the title, or register more words.

It’s still comforting, though.

Something important happened. Something terrible. And you lost something. Something precious, something you can’t replace. You miss it. What was it? Fuck. What was it?!

Does Lockjaw have it?

You lose time. He’s reading. Then he’s not. Then it’s just a weird humming silence, with odd noises that are vaguely familiar to you. Something flickers again; you remember pain. So much fucking pain. For some reason you thought it was funny. Happy about it? Maybe. You’re tired. You have no body. You’re just in this space. Floating. Like…like you’re in.

Water.

Water.

That sound fills the darkness. The rushing, the roaring. A scream. A scream you never wanted to hear again, so much pain behind it. The chill of it surging around you. You had to do something horrible. Something went wrong, and it was your fault. You don’t know how, though, and you’re not sure if it’s because you forgot or if the memory has been ripped from you forever. Parts of you are missing. Something is hollow where it shouldn’t be. Maybe people die in stages, you think. Different sectors of your mind shutting down, shredding their documents, shuttering their doors.

Something is missing. The hole hurts. Someone’s gone. Gone forever.

It hurts.

This feels like forever, but maybe it’s just minutes.

Maybe you’re still there, where it’s cold and loud and sad. Time slowing down as you die.

He’s reading again. You want to ask him why you can’t see. Where you are.

You’re scared.

You remember again. You cling to it before you lose it.

The book is Catcher in the Rye. He said it’s about a man in deep pain, learning to let go, learning to stop trying to control fate, learning to accept what he’s lost and love what he still has. Learning to stop being so terrified of losing it because it’s affecting his ability to love.

What do you still have?

SDN’s lawyers are on his case. Herman’s story, now occupying physical space on a digital recorder, corroborates with a lot of real-world facts. What he did to Lanky Frankie was so long ago, clearly self-defense, and involved a man nobody even liked. The legal team isn’t worried about the prosecution on that regard, even though there’s no statute of limitations on murder. And rumors? Rumors weren’t admissible as evidence. Then there was the matter of that poor kid he knocked out and delivered to his death.

Herman couldn’t remember the address exactly.

Robert dug around for him. The kid’s name was Joel Tandle, and he crossed the wrong loan shark. From his confession, the people that killed him (who were already in the system, no surprise there) were looking at yet another charge in their massive grand jury trial for the absurdly long list of crimes they’d been up to. And if Herman agreed to be a material witness, they’d spare him aiding and abetting.

He really did not want to go to court and testify against anyone for any reason, but it was mostly because he barely even wanted to be awake anymore. Still, he agreed. The Phoenix Program already had an ID number for him. Robert asked him how much money he needed to afford Grandma’s insulin, and his pay scale started there. Robert also arranged for the legal team to examine just how unfair it is that she was ineligible for life-saving medical coverage just because a man refused to marry her.

“Seems pretty barbaric to me,” Robert said.

If life was different, Herman would be so excited to be this man’s friend. He actually really liked Robert.

But the spark’s gone. The hope died with you. This victory is so fucking hollow, Herman can’t bear it. Colors aren’t as bright. Food’s not as good. He’s not living, anymore. He’s existing.

He sleeps a lot. Even if he’s not tired. Every time, he hopes to see you. Any sign of you, proof that you actually lived. All he dreams about is what he can’t have. What haunts him. Sometimes you’re there, but it’s not you. It’s the memory of you. Every time, he asks the important question.

“Are you real?”

He’s on a beach he vaguely remembers, and you’re standing in the surf. Water breaks against your shins. You don’t look at him. “Don’t think so,” you say. “It’s okay, though.”

“I don’t think it is,” he replies.

You walk further into the ocean. “No, it’s fine.”

He says your name. You turn back. Smile at him.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

Herman tries to rush to you, grab your wrist, but he’s sinking in the sand. You’re still smiling. “I told you. It’s fine.”

You disappear into the oncoming swells.

Lately, not dreaming is preferable. Herman doesn’t usually dream if he takes a shitload of melatonin, so he’s developed some kind of addiction to it these past few weeks, spending as much time unconscious as he can. He’s neglecting his chores. And by neglecting, he’s just…not doing them at all. Just desperately, hopelessly trying to be less aware.

They gave him all his effects back when they discharged him, and among the parts of his gear he didn’t shed in pursuit of you, was your cell phone. Your lucky colors wrapped around it. A braided bracelet, looked like you made it yourself out of hair ties. The last thing you ever did, even after what he did to you, was save him.

And as if that didn’t shatter him enough, you’d set up messages to send automatically to certain people, should you not survive. It was almost like you knew. How long? Herman wondered how long you felt that way — that you would have to choose between yourself and him. All those times you looked a little sad after he talked about what you both could do after just hurt. He thought you were just worried.

And then, briefly, he thought you’d just been lying. Keeping things from him. Building the lie on firmer ground. But that wasn’t the case, either.

But you knew, didn’t you?

You knew you wouldn’t make it.

Was there ever a plan in your head that allowed you to live? Had you always been primed to die instead of him?

Did you know he’d be the one to kill you?

God, the look on your face. You were scared. Distraught. But his memory must be trying to spare him, because he swears you died laughing. That last glimpse he got before he fully lost consciousness; Coeus surrounding you with his horror, clutching your head. You couldn’t have been laughing.

The messages were ready to go. Written two weeks before. All you did was change the date they’d send.

You sent one to his personal cell. You must have pulled it off the laptop you gave him. You knew he might not have his burner anymore, and you wanted him to hear your final words.

He couldn’t open the text.

Still can’t.

“How’s he doing?” Robert stands at the door. Beverly presses her lips together, shaking her head.

“I shouldn’t have told him. I thought it’d help him be less angry, forgive her, be at peace. But. Now he. He’s just.” A long, long sigh.

Robert’s in charge of the Phoenix Program, so things can go however the hell he wants them to, and he is giving Herman plenty of time to collect himself. But it would seem that he’s getting worse, if anything, and Robert doesn’t want to ask her if they should put him on a watch. He doesn’t want to stress her out more; say the dreaded S word, suggest to her that he might not live through his ordeal after all.

But he’s worried. Which, of course, is why he’s here. “What’s he doing right now?”

“He’s been in his room for three days listening to the Mountain Goats,” she frets.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Yeah…”

“Can I take a crack at him?” He shrugs. “Already here. Can’t hurt.”

“He does like you,” Beverly confirms. “Come on in. I’ll get some tea going. Or, do you want coffee?”

“Either’s fine,” he says with an easy smile. “Whatever’s easier for you.”

She picks coffee. Herman’s room is up the stairs, to the left, across from the bathroom.

One of your final acts was queuing up an email with a link to an encrypted document that incriminated a hell of a lot of villains in a lot of unsolved cases, along with a long list of everything you’d done. Overnight, dozens of cold cases closed. Robert didn’t necessarily agree with killing anyone, no matter how bad they were — even though he came close once himself — but there was a pattern worth acknowledging about your list of crimes. Cleaning out accounts of manipulative assholes. Sabotaging court cases that would have let an unsavory person walk free.

Fifteen people, you carried out hits on. All of them some flavor of murderer, rapist, or abuser. One was a well-connected child molester who walked free after shattering a family.

If you were here, he could tell you that while they were still crimes and you’re definitely in trouble, the courts would probably be soft on you since your targets were people with rap sheets four times the length of yours. Privately, Robert didn’t particularly miss the child molester. He didn’t see anything that would bar you from the Phoenix Program. Coop was worse. Her recruitment led to some rocky PR, but, it died down.

You nearly always took jobs that, more or less, turned you into a vigilante citizen that refused to follow the law more than a true-blue villain. People would probably think the Phoenix Program would hold you back. The public opinion on the worst of the worst always amounted to “can’t we just kill them?”. Robert understood. The logic wasn’t even that unsound. But he’s learned, in all the years he’s done this, that whether you kill them or imprison them, there’s an endless supply of bad people.

It’s better to try and pull them back across the line.

He still hopes he can do that with you.

Robert can’t possibly know exactly how Herman feels right now, but he has a rough idea, because he’s not exactly grief or guilt-free over what happened to you, nor is he a stranger to feeling like he failed catastrophically. He imagines Herman feels close enough to how wrecked Robert was over Chase. He has a good enough understanding to feel confident that he can help.

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but, Robert still isn’t convinced you’re gone. Even after weeks of nothing.

Something in his gut.

Muffled vocals hum on the other side of his door. Robert moves to knock, but if Herman would hear it, he doubts he’d come to open it.

I write down good reasons to freeze to death In my spiral ring notebook

He at least needs to get a different band going. Robert eases the door open as the vocals hit a crescendo, the music slows, and the next track takes over.

Herman’s laying on his side, back to the door, listless. Water beads on resistant bedding, dripping to the floor. He’s laid down a lot of towels to catch the bulk of it, layering them and layering them. Occasionally, his body shakes. Wearing just a pair of swim trunks, sniffling. Robert clears his throat so he’s known, and steps closer.

I am gonna make it Through this year If it kills me

Well. At least this one’s kind of hopeful.

Robert approaches the record player and nudges the volume down a little, and only then does Herman acknowledge his presence. Just barely. A slight shift. Eyes trained on him. Puffy, red. And that look Robert knows way too well. Nothing left. No light. Dead. He’s been there more than once. Damned if he knew how to fix this, though. This kind of grief didn’t really have an out. Eventually it lets you go. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Herman doesn’t say anything. He goes back to staring at nothing in particular. Maybe one of his plants. It smells like a greenhouse in here. Really pleasant, honestly.

He goes to sit on the edge, and Herman sucks in a breath and hurries out, “w-wait, no, it’s. Wet.”

Robert pauses only for a second. Then he shrugs. “Eh. Just water.”

He sits. There’s a delay before his ass goes instantly cold, then the backs of his thighs. “It’s, it—we can. Go s-somewhere, um. Else. I’m. S-sorry, I.” His voice is so raw and quiet. “I g-get, lose control. When I’m.”

“It’s all right, Herman.” Robert lays back. Makes a pillow of his bony shins. The cold seeps against his back. “I don’t care about it.” His lips twist into a smirk. “You probably don’t remember but, I gave you CPR and you kinda turned me into a human water balloon for a second.”

“O-oh. God.”

Robert chuckles. “Just, you know. This isn’t so bad, is all.”

“I’m. I’m s-sorry.”

Dozens of those glow-in-the-dark space stickers litter his ceiling. Robert smiles. They look old. So, so old. He bets they don’t even glow anymore. That they’ve been there for all of Herman’s life. Herman shifts his legs a little, hands down a dry pillow. Robert takes it with a nod, flips it behind his head, and settles back. “You wanna go somewhere?”

The scene ends badly, as you might imagine In a cavalcade of anger and fear

“L-like. Where?”

He shrugs. “Fresh air’d do ya something good. Food, too. You like tacos?” Robert knew a place with tacos so damn good it would make a guy forget he has a concussion.

“Mm’not hungry,” Herman mumbles. As if on cue, his stomach gurgles and squeals.

“I feel like that’s a big fat lie,” Robert chuckles.

Now you see me Now you don’t

Herman curls downward so he doesn’t disturb Robert, hugging himself. “Don’t wanna, I guess.”

Now you say you love me Pretty soon you won’t

Robert should have brought Chad. He was a prickly bastard but, under it all was mountains of tough love with a gentle flavor to it. If you knew how to read him. Chad had this magnificent ability to bully someone into taking care of themselves, like, literally bully them, but not in a way that made them feel bad or worse about themselves. He credits his abrasive boyfriend with his continued survival, in fact. Robert couldn’t do that reliably. He was quieter, as a default. Softer. Maybe that wasn’t what Herman needed. Maybe he needed a kick in the ass.

Still, he was here. Chad wasn’t. May as well keep trying.

‘Cause you just can’t do Things your body wasn’t meant to

“Do you know what she sent you?”

He goes tense. Quiet. Robert glances, and sees that he’s screwed his eyes shut. Tears flow. His hair’s drenched. Robert pulls his phone from his pocket, taking that as a no, and elects to scroll through what you sent to SDN. ATTN: Robert Robertson. Important info. “She sent me something, too.”

Herman opens his eyes. Sniffles. “Wh-wha?” He grimaces, losing his voice again.

It’ll actually be hard for him not to break a little, reading this aloud. But he feels like Herman needs to hear it.

“Here’s my rap sheet. Should solve some crimes, I hope. If you’re getting this, things went fuckways.”

Herman snorts hard, laughing through his sobs, then falling prey to another wave of tears. Robert smirks over at him. You certainly had a way with words.

“If things went real bad, he probably hates me. Don’t let my mistakes ruin his life. He’s good. Help him stay good, Robert.” He pauses to swallow the lump in his throat. “If I fucked up extra bad, you might be the only thing he has. Don’t let him be alone. Please save him.”

The bed’s shaking now. Herman’s buried himself in a pillow, hugging it tight.

“Way I see it,” Robert huffs, clearing his throat. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “I promised someone I wouldn’t let you become the next tragic villain, and so. I just really think you should come get tacos with me.”

And my palms start to sweat And the tears won’t hit my face Til my cheeks are hot and red and soaking wet—

“Or at least a walk. Have you really been in here for three days?”

There’s this odd, muffled sound that Robert figures out is a laugh after a few moments. It’s wracked with sadness, littered with sobs, but, it’s a laugh. Herman pulls his face away, heaves out a breath, and swallows loudly. “I. D-do. They have. Burritos?”

His smirk widens. “Oh yeah.”

His stomach nearly roars. “Ch. Churros?”

“Herman. You can have so many churros if you just at least step outside once this week.”

“I. I n-need. A sh-shower.”

Robert sits up and pats his leg. “Atta boy.”

By the time Herman washed all the depression off himself, Grandma’d decided she wanted to tag along. He felt horrible. His whole life was just lying in bed and answering questions and scheduling court dates with his lawyer and, fuck, how long had he been neglecting her? Was this even Robert’s first visit? Someone was picking up his slack. The house was spotless. Grandma had been eating properly. He took a breath to apologize and she shushed him, hugged him tight, and quipped, “you smell better now.”

Time skips. He’s squinting in the sun. His head’s against the passenger side window. And then his body’s remembering it needs food the moment the smell of marinated ground beef hits his nose. He tries not to eat too fast because he knows he’s going to wreck a bathroom if he does, but, Herman sends three burritos to the shadow realm before the nausea reminds him that stomachs have finite space.

“We found Technomancer,” Robert says after a while. Up until now, he’d just been making pleasant small talk with Grandma and Herman was too focused on correcting his malnourishment to listen too much. “He was all crushed up, full of holes, barely alive. He kept talking about how someone called his bluff and then, just.” Robert makes the universal death sign, swiping his palm across his neck.

“Huh.” Grandma chuckles a little. “Bet he threatened the wrong person down there. I wonder…”

Herman somewhat figured that this wasn’t just an attempt to drag him out of his malaise; Robert was kind of his guardian now, and his case was a whole damn mess. He was probably going to come out of this with maybe one felony on account of the harbor bomb, but the big sympathy card hanging over the jury and the judge was the fact that Coeus was going to kill his only family if he didn’t obey. Obviously he could have gone straight to the cops, and maybe that would have been the objectively right thing to do.

One life versus many; the good ol’ trolley problem rearing its head. Seal your grandmother’s fate to stop a crime spree? The cold logic states Herman was in the wrong, but he lived as a human, among other humans, and emotions mattered. His lawyer said that nobody in his shoes would have done different.

“You’re thinking she did that to him,” Herman says quietly. Then shakes his head. “N-no. She was. She had, uh. Phenomaman’s powers. You said he was t-torn up?”

“Badly. And then when he died he kind of.” Robert curls a lip. “Melted. All that was left was wires, metal, plastic. And the Techno Pulse.”

“Wh-what about the others? The big…thing he. Wanted to do.”

“Seems like the one in Technomancer was some master conduit. It’s not unlike how Shroud and his augments worked. There were thirty of these total, and once we got this one we were able to use it to track the others and safely remove them. Got the lab studying them now. But. Coeus is MIA. Makes me nervous. Still can’t find Lockjaw, either.”

Robert shifts. Herman gulps down some soda, trying to act like it’s not coming.

“And, Dreamweaver…”

The knife twists.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up. But. We’ve been working with the hybrids, rebuilding their home, repairing damage, and in the process, scouring those tunnels. There’s no bodies left to find. I even asked some aquatic people to search around the immediate ocean for me. None of them will hold a funeral for Lockjaw unless they know he’s dead for sure. But we’ve found nothing. Not a single scale.” Robert taps his fingers on the table, chewing his lip a little. “I don’t expect you to understand but, my gut’s telling me, there’s something more. I’m not letting them close the case yet. And if they do it anyway, I’m not giving up.”

Herman doesn’t know how you could be alive after all this time. He wouldn’t be shocked if Lockjaw was, because that man was a survivor, hard to kill on several literal levels, but you? You were strong. Stubborn. A real spitfire in a fight. But he saw it. He saw you die. He told Robert as much. Told Grandma. What the hell does he mean about not getting his hopes up, then? Maybe his eyes weren’t trustworthy. Maybe his memory is too muddy.

His lip trembles, and he rubs his face.

“I have to thank you for taking such good care of all this,” Grandma says, patting his arm. “Will you keep us posted on the investigation?”

“Yeah,” Robert says. “Partly because I want you in the loop. You’re going on my team once you’re cleared to.” He playfully jabs Herman.

He tries to pretend he is excited about that, but all he can do is nod with negative enthusiasm and a dead smile.

Maybe if you find what you lost, you can move on from here. You’ve been wracking your thoughts for what’s felt like an eternity. At least the darkness ebbed away. You’re sitting in a dim hallway filled with unique doors, doors you know you could open, but you can’t fucking remember where they lead. You pace, up and down, watching them as you think.

Sometimes they disappear. You used to know why they do.

There’s one that brings you unbearable grief. Dark wood. It drips. You can’t bear to even look at it. There’s another near it, inviting and warm, but you always feel confused and afraid when you look at it. Like it shouldn’t be here. Or, rather, it makes no sense that it is. It makes you question if any of this is real. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe that’s all death is. A long, long dream.

Could at least have a dog or something to keep you company.

One door, though.

It draws you just as much as it fills you with rage. Hints of fear. You have to go in there. You don’t know why. You don’t want to, either, but you…

Why does this feel like the exit?

What’s on the other side?

You pace, and pace, and pace. The rumbly voice muffled in the background, like its coming from a few rooms away. So much time passes, but also none at all. You stare back at the door.

If this is eternity, you’re going to go insane.

You step towards it. Grip the knob. And push it open.

It is freezing in here.

You look around at a room fresh out of a film set in a mansion. Rich wood, floor to ceiling book shelves, a quietly ticking antique clock. A beautiful carved oak desk that strikes a familiar chord in you basks in the light of a large, ornamental window. It smells like spices and smoke and leather, but you don’t remember why you didn’t want to open the door until you see him slumped on the Persian rug.

You spin to retreat, but the door’s gone. The man turns his head. “Of course it’d be you.”

You don’t remember him. You just remember how he made you feel. Anger and fear mingles in your mind; you’re a little satisfied to see him so disheveled, but you can’t fucking remember why.

He’s pale. His hair no longer in place. He actually struggles to stand, and all you feel in the air is weakness. No, not quite that. Resignation. “Well? Aren’t you going to gloat?”

You frown at him. Maybe you should? But, what would you gloat about? There’s memories behind a wall in your mind that you’re scratching at, but can’t break through.

He laughs. “Oh, that’s rich. Fantastic. You don’t remember. Guess I got a good grip on you after all.” He walks like an inexperienced puppeteer is directing his movements. It’s not quite a limp; it’s not even creepy. It’s like he’s fading by the moment. He swallows, falls into you, and drags you to the floor. “I felt him die. God, I felt him die.”

He curls up in your arms, clutching his heart. You frown. “We needed each other,” he rasps. The man wraps an arm around you with a sigh and closes his eyes. “It was like having half my soul ripped out.”

You watch a tear slip down his face. He grabs your wrist and shoves your palm against the side of his head. You feel it as if this is real, and that strikes you as odd for reasons you infuriatingly can’t recall. You shouldn’t be able to feel it like you’re here. “Take it back. Before it’s too late. Or you’ll be a fucking vegetable, and, fuck, you probably don’t even know how funny this is.”

A dry, low chuckle. He readjusts, forces your fingertips against his scalp. “You’ll hate me for this when you remember. I want you alive, Dream. I want you to have to live with it. One last fuck-you for the road.”

Your fingers push through with a crack. Wet warmth covers them. You scowl and try to wriggle away, but it’s like his bones and meat won’t let you leave. Coeus laughs up at you, cracked lips straining like they might split. “Take it back. Let me move onward. Take all you want. I don’t need it.”

The worst sensation imaginable hits you. It’s like your fingertips are the gateways to your veins, which are now nothing more than hollow straws: something cold and hot all at once surges under your nails, through your palm, up your arm, right into your heart, filling you with heat and ice and static and you scream—

Lockjaw is not easily startled.

A pile of books that’s been growing for months sits on your nightstand.

He’s been slowly getting through a well-worn copy of Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy, and he nearly throws it clean through the ceiling when you suddenly bolt upright in your bed, shrieking and clutching your head.

It’s good that everyone heard that, because he’s too busy trying to stop a heart attack to push the call button. His best medical team hurries into the room, checking your vitals, soothing you with something hastily injected into your IV, and by then, he’s steadied his breathing and let himself laugh.

“Boss?”

Bones hangs out in the doorway.

“Mmmhmmm?” Lockjaw rumbles.

“Mecha Man is persistent, boss. I’m holding down the fort real well. But he’s probably gonna find this secret wing sooner or later, and he’s probably gonna be mad that you have Dreamweaver and Co—”

“Sir!!” Carla, a fruit bat, shoulders Bones out of the way with an apologetic look, panic in her eyes. “Sir, he, Coeus, he just died.”

Lockjaw looks at you, woozy but awake at last, gears turning. “Just. Now?”

“Yes,” she pants. “We can’t, we can’t bring him back. No brain activity at all. He’s. He’s gone.”

Well. This puts a serious wrench in the plans. But, as always, he will forge ahead. He turns to Bones. “Call. Him. I am. Re-a-dy.”

On the four month anniversary of that awful night, Robert got a phone call that vindicated his gut feeling.

The tunnel hybrids had become a self-sufficient society for the most part, so Robert’s not surprised they have a hospital, but he is impressed they hid it so well. Bones led him through a winding series of hallways to a setup that was better than most clinics he’d been to topside, explaining as they walked.

“We were waiting for Lockjaw to wake up.” He glanced at Robert. “We. We have good blood with you, but, we were already vulnerable after the flood. If anyone in Coeus’s ranks wanted to take over, we couldn’t let anyone know Lockjaw was critical. We let you think he was missing. Because nobody would dare come down here if there was a chance they’d have to fight him.” He opened a door that only responded to a key card, and gestured for Robert to go in ahead of him. “It was my call. We were just. I’m sorry. I didn’t want more death.”

“I understand, Bones.”

Truth be told, Robert was a little pissed, but when he saw Lockjaw, he just felt relief.

The man before him looks like he’s been through it; his once pristine hide is riddled with scars, his human flesh even moreso. He does a quick nod to Bones, who gasps a little. “Oh! Right. He can’t talk fast but he wants you to know everything. You want the cliffnotes or the play-by-play?”

“Cliffnotes for now. Play-by-play for my reports later.”

“Noted. Okay. The worst night ever. Lockjaw crushed up Technomancer and spit him out like the trash he was. He told him that if he died, all of his tech would explode, but Lockjaw had a hunch he’d never risk killing his brother and just.” He makes a crunching noise. “He died after you guys found him and the hunch paid off. No kablooey. Thank fuck, too, because, you know. There’d just be a hole here. Anyway. Technomancer hurt him real bad, though, and he was woozy at that point, but he had to check on Dream because he sent her to open the biiiiiiiig drainage door we installed for emergencies like that and all he could hear was screaming and fighting. By the time he got there, Coeus was knuckle deep in her head, and boss man saw red. Snapped him right up, tore him away, cracked his head hard against the wall. Didn’t kill him. In fact.”

Bones stops to take a breath, snapping his fingers like he needs to jog his memory.

“Co. Ma.” Lockjaw gruffs.

“Yeah! That. Coeus and Dream were both in a coma. Lockjaw grabbed her, fought the current, got to higher ground, and by then all of you guys were finishing up the rescue efforts. Tending to the wounded. He was about to find you but Coeus got a second wind and tore him up bad before losing consciousness again. I found them all in a pile, barely alive, and Ripper helped me move them here and get them set up. The hospital wing is specifically designed to resist floods so nothing here got too badly damaged, and we were able to stabilize and save Dream and Lockjaw. Coeus, though, it didn’t seem to matter what we did. Not that we were excited to save him, but we figured handing him over to you guys able to talk would be a nice cherry on the sundae, so we tried. It was like he was in limbo. Didn’t get better. Didn’t get worse. He just. Was.”

“And…why didn’t you call me about this until now? I could have kept Lockjaw’s condition a secret.”

“Yeaaah, so, that’s just my bad honestly. I was in survival mode and I get super fucking paranoid and I didn’t want to do anything until Lockjaw was awake. But then he was up and…”

Bones gestures to the big man, giving him the floor.

“Conn-ec-ted.”

Robert looks to Bones, who elaborates. “We don’t know exactly why or how, but it’s probably because they’re both psychics. But they seemed to be keeping each other alive. Their brain waves were perfectly in sync. Lockjaw wanted to save her. He knew if news got out it would quickly get out of his hands, and we weren’t sure if it was even safe to even alter their meds let alone move them, and we knew that’s what would happen. We could resist but you’d come back with a court order and, so. We had to wait. And hope. And today. Today, she woke up screaming, and Coeus died.” Bones snaps his fingers again, just once. “Simultaneously.”

Well. That’s interesting. “So…”

“Lockjaw thinks he interrupted a connection and trapped them both in a coma as a result and, for some reason, somehow, Dreamweaver woke up before Coeus and that killed him. But we don’t know. She’s not talking yet. She’s just been crying, really. Like a whole fuckin’ lot. Um. It’s. Sad.”

“Can I see her?”

“This. Way.” Lockjaw nods, limping towards a room at the far end of the hall.

It’s kind of funny, just a little bit, in a way Robert keeps to himself because explaining the layers is too much work — but he gets deja vu. You’re on your side in a hospital bed, sniffling, hugging a pillow. All you need is some Mountain Goats and he’s definitely done this before. When you see him, this soft look occupies your face, but you just cry harder. Robert takes the chair beside you and lets you cling to his arm for a while.

“I couldn’t remember for…then he…it all came back at once and it hurt.” You suck in air, eyes pinned shut. “I. I killed her. He s-sent Flayer. I—I have his, some of his memories. He sent her before he even warned him, to give him this fucking, illusion that he could save her, just so he’d hurt more. She. She probably suffered.”

Robert kind of smiles at you, and brushes a stray tube out of your face. “Well. You won’t believe what happened, there.”

You sniff and shake your head. “I don’t want to know the gritty details. I knew I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have come to you. I…”

Robert is happy to interrupt you. “After she talked you into keeping with the plan, she got her husband’s old rifle serviced, Dream. New bits. She, ha, had it done illegally because she doesn’t have a permit for it but, she got it all in working order, got some ammo for it, put it in her kitchen for easy access, and broke her own shoulder putting five shots through Flayer’s chest and neck. Beverly’s fine. Flayer is dead.”

You sit up. Shock on your tear-stained face. “Wh. What?!”

Grinning, Robert nods. “I think she said something to the effect of:” He puts on his best old lady voice. “Superheroes forget about bullets too much. The look on her face was priceless. Come into my home…”

He has to catch you when you fall, because you nearly slip off the bed, crying and laughing all at once. “She’s…she’s alive?!”

“And well,” he confirms.

You sob out this relieved moan. “Fuck. Fuck. She’s. She’s alive. So, Herm, he’s—is he okay?”

“Mm. No. But he will be. He thinks he killed you, and, he is, uh. Not taking that well.”

Clumsy and weak, you start trying to get out of bed, and your face falls. “I. I c-can’t move my legs, Robert.”

Robert’s gone for the day, but Z-Team is still finishing up calls with Chase filling in, his unique brand of motivation keeping everyone amused and annoyed all at once.

He’s good at this, and it feels good. Feels right. He just wishes he could feel again. Things between then and now had been touch and go, with Herman nearly taking a little vacation to a psych ward when the guilt gnawed at him too much, but Chad and Robert were there at the time and helped him get through it. He feels like he’s been adopted into a weirdly dysfunctional family that cancels out each other’s issues and somehow makes it out okay.

They know he’s faking it, but so long as he doesn’t look like he wants to jump off the roof, nobody pries. This constant darkness was going to kill him, it felt like, and he couldn’t tell Robert he was just kind of waiting for it to finally tip over so he could sleep good again. He didn’t want to be on a watch again. He wasn’t going to do anything. Herman just wouldn’t be upset if his heart stopped for no apparent reason.

The leaderboard success meant nothing to him. The growing fanbase didn’t even make him smirk. Herman understands you, now. To his detriment. He thinks the plan was brilliant, honestly, now that all is said and done.

You lied to him. You manipulated him. But it was all a grand, titanic effort to keep him and his grandmother safe. And it worked. And he killed you for your trouble.

Robert reminds him that Coeus killed you. But he says it like he doesn’t believe it. That’s okay. Herman doesn’t believe it either.

This trial run to prove to the courts that he’s a Good Boy is going fantastic. He’s making way less money than he did with Coeus, but it covers everything he could need, and there’s no blood on it. Herman has everything he ever wanted. Except for you. Living day to day feels like dragging a shaving razor across his skin, pressed too hard, taking more and more off the longer he goes until it hits a nerve and by God does he hope it’ll sever and just go numb. Because he can’t feel like this anymore. Staying busy doesn’t help. A part of him died with you and he’ll never get it back.

He saved someone’s life today.

Every time he does that, he pretends it’s you. Maybe if he saves enough people, this won’t hurt so fucking much. How many lives is yours worth? So far, it’s not eight. So far, nothing seems to make him feel like he’s put this behind him. Not the suit, not the tattoo, nothing. Not a single effort feels enough. If raising the dead were possible, maybe that’d be his next move. But it isn’t, so he’s not out digging up cursed artifacts right now. He’s at work. Trying to act like everything is fine.

Visi saunters past him towards the women’s lockers and slaps his back as she goes. “You did fuckin’ great today, dude.”

He smiles at her. “Thanks. Y-you too.”

Herman wishes Robert hadn’t paired him up with Visi sometimes. But…she’s growing on him. Not in that way. But she knows how he feels. She’s been through some shit. Suffered the good ol’ existential dread. She knows that look in his eye, mostly, and knows how to get ahead of it. He’s not ready to admit it, but she’s helping him get a little better. Helping him…accept it all. He isn’t there yet; he still hopes one day he’ll wake up and feel nothing. But he appreciates her oddly abrasive brand of mentorship. She is, at the very least, a lot nicer than Flambae — or Chad, as he’s come to know him — although that guy has a weird ability to sound like he’s angry with him while also making him feel like he’s proud.

Still prefers Robert’s gentle words, his encouragement style. But he can’t knock their methods.

The men’s locker is empty, so he doesn’t bother changing in a stall. He pulls a pair of blue goggles off his head, and checks his suit in the mirror.

Herman sniffs.

A flexible waterproof weave, two pieces because the first version of the suit made bathroom trips feel so strangely vulnerable. A high-collared top, long sleeved, a built-in hydropack that connects to a removable mask. Working for SDN obviously means he can’t use what you coined the water death beam much, not that he wants to, but Royd gave the mask one hell of a focusing valve. Herman got hostages out of a bank vault with it the other week. The pants make him feel naked; no pockets, just more flexible weaving, and a tightness he had to keep going back and forth with the costume department about because…

There wasn’t room. For something. Eventually he had to spell it out. Once the team stopped blushing and giggling, they based these off his favorite pair of cargos, so they have a bit of give. No damn pockets though. So he’s back into thigh bag territory, and it’s working well. But he doesn’t know why he did this. He doesn’t know why at all, because he can’t usually look at himself when he’s in the suit. It just. Hurts.

He requested some black accents just to make it less loud, but, he was adamant about these colors at the time. Because he had to carry your memory somehow. Represent you in his own way. He almost wears it like a punishment, an advertisement of what he’d done and can’t undo, maybe even something to remind himself that he was not innocent. That he turned on the one person who fought so hard to save him.

So his suit is yellow and blue. And that bracelet, the braided one; the last thing you ever gave him, is always around his ankle, safe inside his boot.

He changes into normal clothes, heads home, cooks dinner, and tries real hard to pretend he’s fine but Grandma’s too perceptive. All she does, though, is watch him knowingly. With sympathy. She doesn’t have a solution, so she doesn’t pick at the wound. He’s thankful for that.

Shower. Teeth brushed. Laundry folded. He drops his phone behind his headboard, and, searching for it, he…

“Shit.”

Your shirt. The one neither of you could find. That…that night. That fantastic night. Christ, he hasn’t even thought about sex since the flood. Not even in his dreams. Sometimes he wakes up hard, but it’s like his body just has the habit of it. He can’t commit to the action of making it go away manually. He just lets it give up. Herman wonders if this will be the rest of his life — if he will never be whole again, be able to move on. Maybe you’ll be there when old age takes him. Maybe you both can pick up where you left off in whatever’s after.

He fishes his phone out, plugs it in. Lays on his side. Hugs your shirt close. And he sobs instantly, because even after all this time crumpled on the floor behind his bed, it smells like you. He can feel your arms around him. With blurry vision he meanders through his phone just to torture himself more, pushing the text you sent him at long last. He plays the song you attached to it, staring at your final words.

I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Whatever happened, I’m so sorry. Be good. I love you so fucking much and I’m proud of you. Go be a hero, Waterboy.

He already knows he’ll never be able to hear this song again.

Movies, by Alien Ant Farm.

Hugging the only thing he has that proves you were ever here in his room, Herman crumbles as the chorus hits.

I want you To be free Don’t worry, about me And just like, the movies We play out Our last scene