#flambe

You’re already seated, logged in, headset adjusted. The glow of the console panels warms your hands. Your heart’s still beating faster than you want to admit. More… residue from yesterday. From Flambae. From everything.

Flambae hasn’t looked at you since backing away. Or maybe you haven’t looked at him.

There’s a single soft whff beside you.

“Don’t worry, Beef’s fine. He’s just, uh… union-mandated comfort weight.”

Beef perks up at comfort, tail thumping with the entitled confidence of someone who knows he is adored.

You slip him a treat you absolutely, totally did not bring on purpose.

Robert notices, and something in his tired expression lifts. “Okay. You definitely get to stay.”

He begins walking you through mission queues, caller categories, and acronyms that absolutely should not exist. While he talks, his abandoned coffee sits at the edge of his desk- half-full and slipping into its “cold and tragic” phase.

He hasn’t sipped it once. Not while teaching you the difference between “non-emergency unusual noise” and “absolutely a villain doing something stupid again.”

Robert is running purely on adrenaline, stubbornness, and Beef.

When he stops to sort through the mission roster, you quietly slip away to the break alcove, dump the cold coffee, and refill it with a fresh cup.

You return, placing it next to his elbow like it belongs there.

Robert blinks at it, then at you.

“…Was my suffering that obvious?”

“You were teaching with the dead look of someone who forgot caffeine exists.”

He snorts and lifts the cup.

“Intern, if you ever quit, HQ collapses within the hour.”

Once Beef settles by your chair like a lumpy guard lion, Robert guides you through the morning update.

“Prism’s on patrol. Golem’s hauling debris from yesterday’s explosion. Punch Up is… Punching Up somewhere.” He sips his coffee. “Sonar’s doing sonar things.”

You nod, clicking through the interface. “And Flambae?”

Robert shrugs. “Eating breakfast. Burning breakfast. Hard to tell.”

You definitely do not react to that.

He points to your screen. “Your job today is simple: handle inbound calls. Route missions. And if anything catches fire-“

“I stay away from Flambae,” you say automatically.

Robert frowns. “…No? You call me. You don’t run from coworkers.”

Your ears burn. “Right. Yes. Of course. Totally.”

“Dispatch, Flambae reporting in.”

You press the button- and for once, your pulse doesn’t spike. Talking is safe. Sound doesn’t burn. Voices don’t flare.

“Good to have you, Flambae. Try not to light any snack machines on fire today.”

“Hey! That was ONE TIME!”

Robert gives you a slight side-eye. The good kind. Like he noticed your tone was comfortable. Normal. You pretend to focus on your monitor.

The shift itself starts calm- that lasts twelve minutes.

“Dispatch! We’ve got- uh- problems!”

Sonar adds helpfully: “Golem sneezed and broke the walkway.”

“I’m sorry… it was dusty…”

Robert sighs into his palms. You pull up their map before he can even ask.

“There’s a maintenance ledge two floors down,” you say.

A pause.

Then Prism’s bright voice: “New intern coming in clutch! Nice call!”

“Thank you.” Golem rumbles.

You grin before you can stop yourself.

“Punch Up here. Found a fridge in the alley. Gonna suplex it.”

“Copy that. Uh… try not to break your spine.”

“Hah! Spine’s for cowards.”

The next lull in missions comes forty minutes later, and Robert finally leans back in his chair.

“You’re doing really well,” he says, rubbing his neck. “Better than most new hires. You actually listen.”

“I try.”

“You can also stay calm on coms. That’s rare. Invisigal is convinced you’re some kind of zen master.”

Zen master. Right, if only she knew.

Before the quiet can properly settle, Flambae’s voice bursts through the headset again, louder this time, over the sound of crackling heat.

“Dispatch, I need eyes on the south plaza. And before you ask- no- I did not set anything on fire.”

You pull up his feed, there’s a street vendor cart smoldering beside him. You decide not to comment on that.

“Got you,” you say, clicking into the map.

“You’re boxed in by construction fencing. Head east- there’s a service alley leading straight to the plaza fountain. Two left turns.”

Flambae scoffs. “Wow. Amazing. The intern can read a map.”

Robert gives you a do not respond glare. You ignore your impulse to apologize.

“Just giving you the quickest route,” you reply evenly. “Avoid the main road. There’s a stalled bus blocking half the street.”

There’s a beat of silence. You think, maybe, he’s surprised you’re still being helpful.

“Yeah. Great. Thanks, Intern. Truly life-changing directions.”

The line cuts.

Robert leans back in his chair with a sigh.

“So,” he says lightly, “you and Flambae… uh… not getting along?”

You shake your head. “It’s not that.”

He tilts his head. Not judging, not prying, just… concerned.

“Look,” he says after a moment. “You’re allowed to have boundaries. But Flambae’s… sensitive. Don’t tell him I said that.”

A heavier guilt settles in your gut.

But you don’t defend yourself, don’t explain, don’t confide in Robert. You can’t. Not when you’re still terrified of the truth. Not when your power still feels like a loaded weapon in your hands.

Robert doesn’t push the issue.

He just pats Beef, gathers his paperwork, and mutters: “If anything’s bothering you, you can talk to me. Or Blazer.“