#flambe x reader

You jolt awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Your shadows snap upright with you, bristling like startled animals, spreading across the sheets in jagged, defensive shapes. They blur into blades without your permission, every edge a hiss of black static.

Sonar’s huge bat face is inches from yours, white eyes unblinking, voice smooth like a college professor reading bedtime stocks. He smells faintly of apples, printer ink, and whatever memory foam does when it’s dying.

“Good morning,” he says, as if this is normal. “Have you considered investing in cryptocurrency?”

You stare at him, genuinely stare.

Your brain can’t form words. Not speaking is easier than saying what the hell and accidentally summoning a shadow guillotine.

Sonar continues anyway, cheerful like a haunted TED Talk.

“As a previous teenager, I know how important it is to diversify your assets. Back in my formative years, I nearly purchased a private island from a man who never existed. It would’ve been a tax haven with-”

You lie completely still.

Your shadows inch upward, creeping over your head and face as if trying to cover your ears for you. Their darkness muffles his voice, but he keeps going with the confident persistence of someone who believes they are helping.

Sonar leans in. “It’s never too early to think about your financial future.”

Before you can fake your own death, a voice yells from outside the medical room:

“SONAR, STOP TRAUMATIZING THE NEW KID!”

Prism bursts in like she’s making a dramatic entrance on stage, even though the door was already open. She gasps as though she’s witnessing a crime scene.

“Sweetheart, you cannot just wake up to a jump-scare lecture about Bitcoin. That’s practically assault.”

Sonar tilts his head. 

“You prefer stocks?”

Prism gives him the look someone gives a dog right before it eats an entire sock.

“Leave them alone before their soul runs away.”

Finally, Sonar nods- slow, solemn, with all the weight of a man reluctantly agreeing to peace talks.

“Very well. I’ll send you links.”

The break room smells like coffee, cleaning spray, and ozone from Coupé’s blades. Waterboy tries to make small talk, but nervousness tangles his words, and halfway through a sentence about favorite ice cream flavors, he panics and chokes on nothing but air. Punch Up thumps him on the back so hard a fork ricochets off the table and clinks onto the floor.

They feed you empanadas and pretzels for breakfast. The combination makes no sense- sweet, salty, slightly burnt- but food is food, and your body devours it before your brain can argue.

The warmth hits your stomach, but hunger hits harder, hollow and gnawing, like all those nights you spent finding food in vending machines and dumpsters and whatever the city forgot to lock.

You look down at your empty plate. You didn’t even taste the last bite.

You don’t want to ask for more. You don’t want to need.

Punch Up notices anyway. He’s been leaning back in his chair, massive arms crossed, expression permanently set to “ready to jump in a fight or open a jar.” He doesn’t say anything, just slides his whole plate toward you with a casual push of one hand. Like he’s passing a book. Or a small car.

“Here,” he says. “I’ve had, like… four breakfasts today, I’m good.”

You stare at the steaming empanada, unsure if you’re supposed to refuse, accept, or run.

Punch Up sighs, gentle but annoyed on your behalf.

“It’s food,” he says. “Not a debt.”

You don’t mean to take it so fast. The greed is instinct, months of hunger stored in muscle memory. Your shadows stretch across the table with you, pulling the plate closer like a tide.

Punch Up raises a brow. “Whoa. That’s new.”

Waterboy nods rapidly. “Y-yeah! It’s like a… a… um- like a Roomba! A hungry Roomba!”

On the other side of the room, Coupé sharpens a dagger against her metal wings, one long, precise stroke at a time. The scraping note is metallic and cold, but she’s humming Vivaldi bright and elegant under her breath, like murder is just another classical art form she has mastered. Punch Up cracks his knuckles rhythmically, percussion to Coupé’s humming.

Robert slumps into a seat like gravity hates him personally. His hair sticks up in a few places, freckles fading into a tired complexion. He’s surrounded by paperwork and coffee stains. 

Without even looking at you, he plucks a small plastic card from the pile and flicks it across the table. It skids to a stop near your plate.

“Take it.”

You stare at it.

He doesn’t look up. “Building access card. Means you can come and go without someone escorting you like a package. I don’t do hostages. They snore.”

You take the badge.

No one claps. No one cheers.

They just… let you have freedom.

It sits in your hand like something fragile, like something earned, like something you could lose if you breathe wrong. Your shadows curl around your wrist, trembling in confused awe, unsure whether to shield it or hide it.

Robert just mutters, “Don’t lose it,” about the access badge, and Sonar nods solemnly as if crypto has been replaced by a more vital lesson: Building Security.

Then the room divides like it’s a practiced maneuver.

Robert speaks without raising his voice, the way someone gives orders they already expect to be followed.

“Sonar. Invisigal. Coupé. You’re with me.”

Invisigal flickers into view just long enough to flip her collar up, halfway transparent, like an afterimage made of fog. Coupé stands, steel feathers whispering like knives being breathed on. Sonar lumbers behind them, still clutching a notebook scribbled with numbers and something labeled “Crypto Pyramid Logistics.” You don’t know if that’s a scam or a weapon.

Robert gathers a stack of photos and printouts- blurry images of your silhouette, cameras catching something too dark and shapeless to be a person.

He looks directly at you for the first time today. Just once.

“We’ll figure out who’s hunting you.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise, a threat, or homework. Before you can react, Prism grabs you by the shoulders like she’s claiming a prize.

“And we,” she announces, “are going shopping.”

One moment you’re in the team’s break room, and the next you’re shoved into a cluster of mismatched personalities: Prism glitter-bright and excited; Malevola, elegant and permanently unimpressed; and Flambe, who seems physically incapable of not being on fire.

You blink. “…Why?”

Flambae grins, flames flaring tall. “Because your hoodie smells like alleyway soup and fungus.”

They don’t take you to a mall.

They take you to a warehouse that looks like a cross between a thrift store, a costume department, and a tactical armory. Racks of street clothes sit next to fireproof jackets and “100% Ballistic Loungewear.”

Prism shoves a pile of clothes at you. “Try these, they match your whole edgy gremlin vibe.”

You whisper back, “I don’t have a vibe.”

She snorts. “Sweetheart, you practically ooze tragic backstory. It’s a miracle you didn’t come in with theme music and rain.”

Malevola points daintily at a rack of black coats. “Nothing with zippers on the sleeves. Screams wannabe antihero.”

Flambae holds up a jacket that looks fireproof, knife-proof, and fashionably sinister. “This one. It says: ‘I could hurt you, but I don’t want to.’”

You stare at it.

Prism is on a mission. She piles clothes into your arms like a glittery avalanche. 

“We want iconic, not ironic. Dark, but not broody. Dramatic, but not edgelord. Something that says: mysterious kid with a destiny, not I hiss at the sun for fun.”

You try to breathe under the weight of three jackets, four shirts, and something that might be both a vest and a cloak.

Flambae steps in before Prism crushes your ribs with aesthetic.

“Okay, glitterbug, slow down,” he says, prying a stack of clothes out of your arms. His flame dims to something gentle, like sunset warmth. “Kid needs to move. And they have shadows to manage. You think they want to trip over a belt that does nothing but sparkle?”

Prism gasps. “Okay, first of all, belts can be emotionally supportive-”

“Not if they’re stabbing you,” Flambe replies, holding up a studded strap that looks like medieval taxidermy. He gives you a look, uncle-ish and knowing. “You ever worn something that looked cool but tried to kill you after ten minutes?”

You don’t need to speak.

He nods firmly. “Function first. You’re gonna be running, hiding, bending into the dark. You need room at the shoulders, nothing too heavy, breathable fabric, and boots that fit like you’re not borrowing someone’s life.”

Prism rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, comfort is important, but if they’re going to be seen with us, they have to look like they belong.”

Flambae crosses his arms, flame flickering. 

“Looking like you belong doesn’t mean dressing them like a side character.”

You freeze.

You’ve spent so long blending into shadows that you’ve always dressed like a background blur.

Malevola reads the freeze instantly, eyes softening. “We’re not trying to erase you. We’re trying to help you… be seen on your terms.”

Flambae nods, expression turning surprisingly serious. 

“My niece hated attention. Would hide under tables to avoid family photos. But she liked having clothes that made her feel like herself, you know? Not like she was stuck being the quiet kid. You pick things that fit the life you want, not the one you’re stuck in.”

You don’t know what life you want. But you know the one you don’t.

He holds up the fireproof, knife-proof, shadow-friendly jacket again. “This one. Clean lines. Light padding. High collar if you want to disappear. Hidden pocket inside the sleeve. Good for snacks or secrets.”

Prism snaps her fingers. “Okay, that is iconic. And practical. Fine, we can compromise.”

The shopping bags still dangle from your hands when Malevola slices open the air. Reality splits like it’s made of glass and red ink, forming a doorway between the parking lot and the Z-Team break room’s stained linoleum floor. You step through, shadows tightening around your ankles like they’re suspicious of indoor teleportation.

Coupé sits at the table with a notebook, sharpening a dagger as if it helps her think. Sonar stands by the sink, drinking tea like he’s trying to look less like a bat. Robert is at the counter, glaring at a computer that’s making noises like it wants to unionize.

You barely have time to adjust the weight of all your brand-new clothes before Coupé’s eyes lift, precise, and sharp enough to cut you without touching you.

“Welcome back,” she says. 

Malevola pats your shoulder like a proud, terrifying aunt. 

“We got them outfitted. Food happened. No incidents, unless you count Flambae trying to suggest boots with flames on them. For a shadow kid.”

Flambae, who arrived through the portal with you, throws his hands up.

“Themed fashion is important! It’s commitment!”

Robert shuts the computer with enough force to make it behave. 

“We can make fun of your questionable taste later. Right now, we need information.”

The shadows around your feet prickle, reacting before you do. They curl and uncurl like nervous fingers.

Sonar gestures toward a chair. His voice, normally smug professor, softens to something careful, the way someone might narrate diffusing a bomb.

“Sit. We’re not here to interrogate you. We’re here to protect you.”

Coupé flips to a fresh page of her notebook. “Protection requires intel.”

Malevola adds, voice low enough to settle the panic rising in your lungs:

“No pressure. They just need to know what we’re up against.”

You sit, trying not to curl into yourself. The chair squeaks, loud and uneven, like it’s telling everyone how afraid you are.

Coupé leans forward, not close enough to intimidate, but close enough to show she could.

“Who were they?”

Her tone isn’t cruel- it’s clinical, professional, terrifyingly efficient.

You pick at your sleeve, fingers trembling. The fabric is new, clean, too soft. You feel undeserving of it.

“Testing facility people.”

The words taste like metal on your tongue. You don’t say illegal. You don’t have to.

Robert nods once, disgust flattening into something venomous.

“So, vultures.”

“Private contractors, likely,” Coupé adds. “Enforcement squads, if they were pursuing you openly.”

Sonar taps his claws on the counter, thinking. 

“Were they augmented? Armed? Powered? How many?”

Prism huffs from where she’s admiring your new boots and fixing the laces for no reason.

“Maybe we could try asking like they’re a human teenager and not a war criminal on trial?”

Coupé huffs. “I am asking nicely.”

Punch Up walks in just in time to snort. “This is her asking nicely.”

That does not help your pulse.

Your shadows climb the chair’s back like ivy, shielding you from questions, faces, memories.

Robert notices first and lowers his voice.

“Hey. We’re not judging you. We just need to know how fast we have to hit back.”

That… helps.

You nod, slowly. The words start to come out in pieces.

“They… they wanted to test how my shadow stuff evolved under stress. They were trying to push limits. They said… it was for hero research, at first. But they stopped- listening. They just wanted more.”

You remember needles, restraints, wires, the smell of bleach. Light too bright to hide from.

Coupé writes in neat, efficient lines. She catches the parts you can’t say and notes only what she needs. 

“How many hunters?”

“Four I saw. More watching, maybe. They weren’t sloppy.” Malevola answers that question for you.

“Uniforms?”

“Plain clothes. Tactical gear underneath.”

“Tech?”

You freeze. The question lands like a trapdoor opening under you.

Sonar leans forward, gentler this time. “Were they carrying anything that interfered with your shadows?”

Your pulse spikes. You nod.

Coupé’s expression sharpens, eyes like blades catching light. “So someone studied you long enough to design restraints.”

Punch Up’s jaw sets. Robert’s stare darkens.

“So someone has your data,” he mutters, like a threat.

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t let yourself think that far.

“They… they talked about someone. Someone they were trying to impress. Someone they wanted on their side. A sponsor? A boss?” You swallow hard. “They kept saying his name like it mattered. Shroud.”

The room changes.

Punch Up looks up sharply. Sonar’s ears twitch, listening like he’s catching signals only bats can hear. Coupé stops writing. Robert’s fingers tighten around his coffee like he’s debating using the mug as a weapon.

Malevola squeezes your shoulder, grounding you. “They’re not getting you back. That’s the only part that matters right now.”

Flambae nods firmly. Even he’s quiet for a moment.

“Let them try. I’ll charbroil them.”

Prism smiles at you- bright, dramatic, kind in her own loud way. “Darling, you’re with us now. Whoever comes after you will be leaving in pieces.”

You almost laugh.

Coupé stands, wings unfolding slightly behind her. She speaks like she’s announcing a contract. 

“Then it is decided. Anyone who tries to take them will answer to the Z-Team.”

Robert adds dryly, “And if they try twice, they answer to me first. They won’t like it.”

You don’t know what he means, but judging by how Flambae flinches instinctively, clutching the air around a missing finger, you know they won’t enjoy it.

Coupé closes her notebook softly, like the conversation is over.

It isn’t.

Robert notices something the way only people who’ve seen too much notice things. His gaze sharpens, not cruel, but cutting through you like he’s trying to locate a bruise beneath your clothes.

“How long have you been on the run?” he asks.

You try to shrug it off. Shrug like it’s nothing. Shrug like normal teenagers pack a backpack and disappear. But whatever the gesture is supposed to look like, it feels more like you’re slipping under water.

“Since… I left.”

Punch Up’s voice comes in gentler than the size of him suggests it ever could. “Ran away or escaped?”

You swallow. The shadows respond before you can, they creep up the table like spilled ink, eager to cover you.

“Both.”

There’s a silence. Not the heavy, intimidating kind. The slow, careful kind, like everyone suddenly realized you’re thinner than you should be, quieter than you should be, hunched like someone expecting a blow.

Robert’s voice shifts into something flat but dangerous. “They didn’t help you, did they.”

Your eyes drop to your lap. The fabric of your new clothes is too crisp, too warm, too clean. It feels like lying just to wear them.

“They kicked me out.”

Punch Up’s shoulders tense; the room seems to lose a layer of air. Sonar’s claws curl slightly against the counter, his voice low and precise in that Harvard-graduate way:

“They discarded a minor with a volatile ability and zero resources? That’s not negligent. That’s criminal.”

You shake your head quickly, as if the speed might make it untrue.

“They were scared. I didn’t mean to hurt anything. It just- happens. The shadows do things when I’m scared.”

Prism’s expression softens immediately, theatricality dropping like a mask. She kneels beside you, boots squeaking against the floor.

“Sweetheart,” she says, quieter than you’ve ever heard her, “parents don’t get to abandon you just because they’re cowards.”

Flambae doesn’t look at you when his temper flashes- his eyes stay fixed on a far corner, like if he looks away long enough, he won’t ignite something. When he finally speaks, it’s low, tight, and controlled the way a lit stove is controlled.

“I’ve got a niece your age. If anyone tried dropping her on the street because she got powers, I would personally reheat their house from the foundation up.”

Waterboy, who’s been silent until now, frowns hard enough to wrinkle his goggles. 

“People are supposed to take care of you. Even when they’re scared.”

You look at him. He means it. Completely. No apology behind it. No fear. Just belief.

Invisigal crosses her arms, voice resonant and final. “Until we solve this- after, if you choose- you stay with us. We will not abandon you.”

For the first time, someone else is willing to fight before you have to. Someone else is saying stay behind us.

Your shadows hesitate, then loosen, then retreat. Not gone, but calmer- like they’re watching her, considering the promise.

“Demon child,” your mother spat, venom curling at the edges of her words.

Your father didn’t say a thing. Silence, you learned, was its own sentence.

That was around three months ago. And now? You’re running through alleys, your chest burning, shadows clawing up your arms like they’ve grown teeth.

The men after you don’t yell anymore- there’s no need. They know they’ll catch you; they always do. You can still hear the whir of their containment gear, smell the antiseptic on their gloves from the lab, the one that promised money for powers, then started saying things like weaponization, risk factor, extraction.

Extraction. Like you’re a resource to be mined.

Your breathing stutters.

You’ve learned to hide in true darkness. Not just “nighttime” dark. Not “close the blinds and bury your head under a blanket” dark. You hide in the kind of dark that swallows streetlights whole, where nobody can see you unless you want them to. Where the shadows listen to you like loyal pets, curling around you for warmth, shaping themselves into a mattress so your back doesn’t touch the cold pavement.

That’s where they find you.

Well… crash into you.

A foot slams down right next to your head, kicking through the shadowy cushion you made. 

You jolt upright, shadows tightening around you like a spooked cat’s fur, and the first thing you see is a pair of glowing, pupil-less yellow eyes and a panicked voice.

“Sorry I didn’t see them!”

Another voice- gravelly, low- shouts back.

“You didn’t see a human person on the ground?!”

Your pulse rockets. Every instinct screams: run, hide, fight, survive.

The shadows fight for you, faster than reflex, faster than breath. They drag at their feet, bind their wrists, try to pull them into the asphalt. You don’t know who they are and they didn’t announce themselves, and you are not going back to the labs.

You’d rather die here.

Then the red woman slams her blade through space itself and reality splits open under your feet. And then, the air shatters.

It feels like falling into a hole made of static and ash. 

You drop hard, shadows collapsing with you. Your hands tremble so badly you can’t summon anything again. All you can do is try to crawl backward, away from them, cold sweat mixing with dirt. 

The shadows twitch in your trembling fingers, ready to flare again the moment someone moves wrong. You can’t breathe right. The air feels stuck in your chest. 

You’re not sure if you’re talking when you rasp, “Don’t touch me- don’t- I’m not- I’m not going back there-”

The presence towering over you steps back.

Red skin. Horns curling from either side of her head like twisted crowns. Pupil-less yellow eyes. A long, flexible demon tail flicking behind her. She wears a white leotard, denim shorts, and black heels that somehow make her look taller than a skyscraper. She lowers her sword to the ground, letting the tip rest against the pavement. 

Back.

A demon-looking gladiator is giving you distance.

Her voice coils low through the air. “Don’t fight. We aren’t here to hurt you.”

Your heart doesn’t believe her. Your arms shake, shadows trying to form weapons. The man immediately raises both hands, palms out, huge and open like stop signs.

Then the man speaks. Short, dense with muscle, knuckles thick and scarred, cauliflower ears standing out from his skull like trophies. Short black hair, a meticulously groomed mustache, green eyes that study you without judgment. A rose curls across his forearm in ink. 

“I’m Punch Up,” he says. “This is Malevola. No one’s taking you anywhere.”

His voice is soft. Gravelly, but soft.

Soft. But that softness makes your chest tighten. Lies are always soft. Always promises before pain.

You’re swallowing broken breaths, but they don’t know you can’t stop shaking. They don’t know breathing feels like drowning in cold air.

They don’t-

Gunfire rips through the alley, a sudden, sharp intrusion.

Bullets hiss past your ears.

You flinch so violently the shadows surge again, but this time they don’t stab forward. They shield, forming a jagged wall around you without direction, like instinct instead of intent.

Malevola whips around.

One sweep of her sword- clean, silent- slices open the air itself. A portal yawns wide like a monstrous mouth.

The bullets disappear into it and clatter uselessly onto some rooftop across the city, metal screaming on pavement. Punch Up storms forward, knuckles cracking.

“You wanna shoot at a scared kid?” he roars. “Alright, I’ll break EVERY part of you that reloads!”

Bodies slam. Bones meet brick. Punch Up fights like an earthquake, loud and unstoppable. Malevola fights like a guillotine- precise, efficient, every strike sending someone falling into portals and reappearing far, far away. Every strike, every portal, every throw, every punch ensures you remain untouched.

They never once aim you toward danger. They don’t use you as bait.

They move in front of you, shielding you.

The last attacker tries to drag you away, reaching with gloved fingers to grab your jacket. A reflex makes your shadows spike up, but before you can react-

Malevola’s blade touches the attacker’s throat.

Her voice is a death sentence made of velvet.

“Let. Them. Go.”

He drops you. Fast.

She doesn’t slice him. She opens another portal and kicks him into it like throwing trash into a bin.

Then there’s silence, except Punch Up dusting off his knuckles and yelling, “AND STAY LOST!”

Malevola turns toward you, weapon lowered, but voice still dangerous.

“You are not property.”

A statement. No room for argument.

“You are not a weapon.”

A vow.

“You are a child in danger.”

Punch Up nods, breathless but sure. “And you’re with us now, got it?”

No contracts. No cage. No lab.

Just two strangers who fought for you.

You try to speak, to force words out, but your voice fails you. Your throat feels raw, scraped clean on the inside, your breath trembling like a broken instrument. You just nod. Small. Slow. Scared.

Punch Up grins like he won something. Malevola just lets out a quiet exhale- almost relief.

Your shadows continue shaking around you, nervous animals, crawling up your arms and ribs. You can’t help it. You don’t know how to calm them, you never learned how. You never had time.

Malevola lowers herself just enough to look less like a looming executioner. Her voice is steady, low, like a warm fire held at a distance.

“We need to get you somewhere safe.”

Safe.

The word scrapes through you. It doesn’t feel real.

Punch Up gestures with one thick, scarred hand.

“C’mon. Our HQ isn’t far. Trust me, okay? We got food, beds, thick walls, and nobody with needles.” His tone tries to be joking, but the word needles ruins your breathing again, sharp and jagged.

You swallow, but your mouth is dry. Shoes scraping asphalt, chest stinging, your voice comes out small, almost painful.

“Don’t…don’t touch me.”

They don’t.

Punch Up nods once, hands still up. “Alright. No touching. You walk on your own. Just stay close so we don’t lose you.”

Malevola adds, “And stay within my shadow if you can.” 

It takes you a heartbeat to understand she means her literal shadow- long and dark beneath her heels. Your own shadows twitch at the invitation, crawling toward hers without waiting for you. They feel strangely calm near her darkness, like her presence is a stable anchor they can cling to.

You’re not sure how you feel about that.

They walk slow, matching your trembling pace. Punch Up keeps to your left, cracking his knuckles occasionally but not talking much. Even his silence feels protective. Malevola walks on your right, sword hilt glinting at her shoulder, tail swishing like a cat’s, irritated but careful not to hit you.

A few people stare as the three of you leave the alley. Not because of you, because of them: Malevola looks like she was sculpted out of blood and myth, Punch Up is shorter but carries himself like gravity bends around him.

No one approaches.

No one even thinks about it.

You keep expecting sirens. Footsteps. Needles. Containment gear.

Your heart won’t slow down.

You try to hold onto that word the whole walk to HQ, but it keeps slipping away like water through a cracked cup. Your shadows trail behind you, jittery and uneven, clinging to Malevola’s shape without permission.

When you arrive, Sonar gives you a once-over. It’s not harsh. It’s observant. Like he’s scanning for injuries, not weaknesses. 

“You okay, kid? Blink twice if Punch Up made you listen to him complain the whole walk.”

You don’t blink. You just stare. Sonar sips his coffee again.

“Yeah. That’s the face of someone who met Punch Up.”

Malevola steps forward, all quiet wrath. “They need rest. They were being hunted.”

Something ugly flashes across Sonar’s eyes- not pity. Anger. Directed somewhere else. 

He nods, voice softening. “Alright. Let’s get them out of public view before someone starts filming.”

He pivots inside. Punch Up motions you forward.

You take exactly one step into the building before almost walking directly into a human refrigerator.

No.

Not a fridge.

A man. A thing?

Earbuds hang from his ears, and he turns down his music.

He sees you, then Malevola, then Punch Up, then the shadows shaking around your ankles like rabid ink.

His eyelids droop. Voice rumbling like rolling stones:

“Is this the kid?”

Punch Up: “Yes, and don’t call them the kid, we don’t know their name yet-”

Golem leans down. You don’t move. You’re too stiff, too tired, too close to panic to flinch. He studies your face, your shaking hands, the way your feet keep inching toward the nearest shadow.

Then he steps back. Slowly. Carefully.

Like someone backing away from a wounded animal.

His voice is low, respectful. “You’re safe here.”

You want to scream at him for assuming that. For believing safety exists. For saying it like it’s real.

Your throat hurts instead.

Then someone gasps.

Loudly. Dramatically. Like she just walked in on a murder or a discount sale.

She’s tiny, fierce, decked out in neon and gold, and strikes a pose like someone should be taking pictures. You don’t know who she is, but she looks like she knows exactly how fabulous she is.

“Oh, COME ON,” she groans, tossing her half-pink, half-teal bob with theatrical exasperation. “Did someone kidnap a medium and not invite me?”

Malevola responds, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Prism. Not now.”

Prism immediately softens. She sees you, really sees you, eyes widening behind her visor.

“Oh. Baby. Did someone try to kill you?” she asks, not mocking.

Furious on your behalf.

You can’t answer. You don’t know how.

Before you can react, a dry voice cuts in from the side. Slouching in the hallway, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-untucked, freckles scattered across a tired face that looks like it hasn’t slept properly since the Cold War.

“We don’t kidnap people,” he mutters without looking up from a clipboard. “Paperwork’s a nightmare. Also, illegal. Allegedly.”

“Robert,” Punch Up sighs. “Please don’t scare them.”

“I’m not scary,” Robert replies, deadpan. “Life is scary. I’m just honest about it.”

He finally glances at you. One eyebrow raises slightly. Something in his gaze sharpens, less judgment, more… calculation? Assessment? He takes in the bruises, the way your shadows curl tightly around your arms, like bandages.

He checks something off on the clipboard. “They’re terrified.”

You freeze. Shadows stiffen around you like spikes. You don’t want him reading you that easily.

Robert notices that too. He lifts his free hand, slow, palms out. Not approaching. Not forcing anything.

“Hey. You don’t have to prove anything. We believe you.”

You don’t remember anyone ever saying that to you before.

Then a blur of ratty wetsuit and nervous energy skids into view. A lanky ginger guy nearly trips over his own flippers. He salutes awkwardly.

“H-h-h-hi! Waterboy, uh, janitor and, um, part-time hero and-” he panics mid-sentence, voice cracking. “Do you- want water? Or a towel? Or a sandwich? Do you need- something??”

He’s shaking more than you are.

Your shadows twitch. Confused.

A woman with mechanical wings and a voice like a razor blade drops down from the upper hallway railing without warning, landing in a crouch, silent as a guillotine.

Coupé. You recognize her from news feeds.

She could kill entire governments and treat it like a grocery list.

She eyes you. You tense.

Then she straightens, offering a precise, military nod.

“No assassins will harm you here. Unless you request it. In writing. Through HR.”

Waterboy whispers, horrified, “You can’t say that.”

“It is protocol,” she replies, deadly serious.

Before you can recover, someone suddenly appears beside Coupé with a snort of laughter- short spiky hair, jacket half-zipped, septum piercing glinting. Invisigal. You didn’t even hear her arrive.

Of course you didn’t.

“Oh my god, can we please not threaten the refugee?” Invisigal snickers. “They look like they’ll pass out if someone blinks too loud.”

She grins at you. Not mean. Mischievous.

“Don’t worry. None of us bite. Anymore.”

Then someone clears their throat. Loud. Judging.

A tall, dramatic man with a ponytail and a suit cut so low it’s practically a crime walks in like an opera villain. Fire patterns lick across his costume. Flambae. 

“You are safe here,” he says calmly, “And we have empanadas.”

Prism gasps. “OH, we ARE keeping them! They’re adorable and tragic. That’s my brand!”

Malevola steps in front of you, raising a hand like she’s fending off paparazzi. “We are not keeping them.”

Punch Up nods, earnest. “Right. They’re not a pet.”

Prism winks at you. 

“Not yet.”

You don’t know whether to run, cry, or laugh.

You settle for breathing. Very slowly.

Your shadows ease. Just a little.

Malevola notices. Her voice softens, iron cooling into something protective.

"You can stay here. As long as you need. No tests. No cages. Just food. Rest. Safety.”

Then she adds, like a contract: “And if anyone comes after you…”

Coupé finishes the sentence with a smile sharp enough to cut diamonds.

A dozen Dispatchers in mismatched business-casual groan in unison. Someone drops their iced latte; it splashes across the floor, narrowly missing a wheeled printer.

Another person mutters, “I swear to god, if that bird activates the firewall again-”

You flatten yourself against the check-in kiosk as the whole lobby scrambles.

Clipboards fly. Elevators ding open like startled animals. Three Dispatchers sprint past you toward the tech wing, one already pulling on protective gloves.

You glance at your orientation schedule.

REPORT TO ROBERT - 09:00DO NOT WANDER OFF.

You check the time.

09:01.

Great. Perfect. Fantastic.

You start edging your way around the room, trying not to get run over by emergency bird-containment protocols. A large digital sign pauses briefly on an HR safety tip: REMEMBER: FLAMBAE IS FIRE-RESISTANT. YOU ARE NOT.

A dispatcher with a headset nearly collides with you. “Sorry! Are you tech division? Bird specialists? Legal? Tell me you’re legal-”

“I’m… an intern?” you manage.

His expression flickers between disappointment and sympathy. “Oof. Good luck.” He jets off without further explanation.

This was supposed to be simple: arrive on time, report to Robert Robertson III, former Mecha Man, current dispatcher, avoid any major disasters. Instead you’re 60 seconds into the job and the building is descending into owl-related chaos.

You clutch your new ID badge, the one that says Intern in small print, as though the building might swallow you if you dare to breathe.

You wait. And wait, and keep waiting. No Robert. No welcome packet. Just you, your lanyard, and the Off-Brand Lobby Music that loops every forty seconds.

Then, from around a corner, you hear a slow crunch- heavy, deliberate footsteps that make the floor creak.

You brace yourself- and then see him: Golem.

He’s huge. Seven‑and‑a‑half feet of clay and rock, molded into a broad-shouldered frame, every inch of him made from dirt and stone. His eyes glow a warm, dull orange. Despite his size, there’s a gentleness in his posture, like he’s trying not to knock over a lamp just by breathing.

“Hey, intern, right?” Golem rumbles, his voice low but surprisingly soft. “I’m Golem.”

You nod, heart pounding a little. “Yes. I’m [Your Name]. I… Robert told me to check in here.”

He gives a little clay-muscle shrug.

Golem’s movements are almost slow‑motion, but you get the impression that everything in his world has to be steady, measured.

Before you can respond, the air hums faintly, and a shadow shifts.

He’s… odd in a way you can’t quite place.

In his human‑bat hybrid form, he’s tall and slender, but his head is unmistakably bat-like: big ears, sharp fangs, and pure white eyes. He’s dressed in a sharp navy suit with a red tie- looking like a very business-savvy, slightly predatory executive who may just happen to have wings sometimes.

“You must be the intern,” Sonar says, his voice slick and precise, like he’s giving a presentation. “Sonar. Pleasure.”

You swallow. “Yes, very nice to meet you.”

He leans forward slightly, as though studying the faintest tremor of your nerves. “Robert said you were coming. I’m… curious how someone survives this place their first day.”

Golem grins (or, well, the clay equivalent of a grin). “They’re doing pretty good so far.”

Sonar’s white eyes flick to the crate Golem set down. “Heavy stuff?”

Before Golem can respond, Flambae walks into the middle of the room balancing a mug of cocoa on a tiny flickering fire circle. Unfortunately, he notices you.

“Hey, new person!” he calls, waving with his free hand. A spark pops off his palm. “Welcome to the Z-Team! I promise I only accidentally set interns on fire like… twice.”

You take a full step back.

To you, it’s survival- because the spark that jumps off his hand arcs toward the ceiling, and your power surges so hard your fingertips burn cold. You clutch your lanyard tighter until the feeling fades.

Flambae’s smile collapses a little. He lowers the mug. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I’ll… keep the fire stuff over here, then.”

You want to tell him it’s not you, it’s me, but that sounds like a breakup line and you’ve known him for ten seconds.

Robert, finally catching up, claps you on the shoulder, completely oblivious. “Right! Onward! Let’s get you settled at your station.”

Finally, Robert stops in front of a cluttered desk, piles of paperwork teetering like miniature skyscrapers. He gestures at a chair. “Sit. Here’s the command center.”

You take a seat and your gaze immediately lands on a framed photo propped against the monitor.

Flambae’s flame-hands hover too close to Robert, Prism has photobombed herself not once, but twice, stretching her grin across the picture, and someone put googly eyes on Sonar.

Robert leans back in his chair, clearly aware but unwilling to disturb the chaos of the display. Around the edges of the photo, little notes in sloppy handwriting mark incidents: “Mug set on fire- Flambé,” “Camera hacked- Vis,” “Bat-scream incident- Sonar.” A coffee ring smudges the bottom corner of that one.

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.“

Prism gasps like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a concert.

“Oh my god. Are they hot? They’re gonna be hot, right? Please tell me they’re hot.”

Punch Up grins, cracking his knuckles. “I call sparring first. I’ve always wanted to punch a vampire.”

“You will not punch the new hire,” Malevola says calmly, not looking up from her tablet.

Sonar adjusts his tie with visible skepticism.

“Statistically speaking, vampires are inefficient teammates. Sunlight vulnerabilities, feeding requirements, dramatic personality flaws-”

Invisigal, half-visible in a swivel chair, hums thoughtfully. “Do we need to update the break room fridge? Like. Label blood?”

“I thought vampires slept in coffins.” Golem blinks slowly.

“They brood,” Flambe adds flatly, eyes never leaving his microwave meal. “They always brood. Capes. Trench coats. Standing in corners like they’re waiting for the rain to match their mood. And they will have a tragic backstory they insist on hinting at instead of just explaining like a normal person.”

The expectations solidify quickly, stacking atop one another like a poorly balanced Jenga tower.

Dark. Brooding. Tall. Black coat, red lining. Eyes like knives. Fangs like threats. An aura that says I have lived for centuries and I am unhappy about it.

Prism snaps her fingers. “Ooo, what if they only come out at night? We’ll need mood lighting. Fog. Maybe a theme song.”

Robert sighs, rubbing his temple. “This is why HR hates us.”

The elevator dings.

Every head turns.

The doors slide open, and instead of shadows and menace, you step out into the room.

You’re dressed in light colors- light blue sweater vest layered over a pale button-up, sleeves rolled neatly, trousers pressed. You hesitate at the threshold, blinking under the fluorescent lights.

“Hi,” you say, voice gentle. “Sorry, are you the Z-Team?”

The silence is profound.

Prism’s visor flickers as she slowly lowers her phone. Punch Up’s fists unclench. Flambae’s flame sputters in confusion.

Robert finally looks up.

“…You’re the vampire?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “Yes. Um. I’m [Y/N]. Thank you for having me.”

You smile again, and that’s when Prism notices it.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, leaning forward. “Your fangs are tiny.”

Flambae squints. “Those wouldn’t scare a juice box.”

Malevola shoots him a look.

“Flambae.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to stand straighter. “I should probably explain a few things.”

Sonar folds his arms. “Please do.”

“I don’t drink blood,” you say.

A beat.

“…Then why are you a vampire?” Punch Up asks.

You hesitate, then gesture vaguely at the air. “I feed on negative emotional energy. Stress. Fear. Guilt. Anger. Existential dread. That sort of thing.”

You glance around the room.

“…This building is, um. Very nourishing.”

The room goes quiet again.

Invisigal lets out a low whistle. “Oh, you’re gonna thrive here.”

Robert pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. Another one who runs on bad vibes.”

“I do my best not to,” you say earnestly. “I prefer ambient sources. Crowds. Bad days. Offices with… unresolved interpersonal tension.”

Flambae snorts. “So you’re like an emotional parasite.”

You wince subtly.

“I prefer ‘empathetic recycler.’”

Prism is already circling them, eyes bright. “Light colors. Soft layers. Small fangs. Emotionally sustainable diet. You’re like if a vampire got a humanities degree.”

Your expression brightens in return. “I did, actually.”

“Of course you did.”

Golem crouches slightly to get closer, studying you with gentle curiosity. “You don’t feel dangerous.”

You smile. It’s small, polite, but something about it lands wrong.

“That’s because I’m not trying to be,” you say mildly. “Danger is loud. I work better when people underestimate me.”

Sonar scoffs. “That’s not intimidating.”

You glance at him, eyes warm and attentive in a way that makes even Flambae's fire flicker uncertainly.

“You bring up Harvard when you’re insecure,” you say gently. “Which is… most of the time.”

Prism makes a strangled sound, half laugh, half gasp.

Sonar stiffens. “I am not-”

“You don’t have to explain,” you interrupt. “Your anxiety tastes like burnt coffee.”

Invisigal snorts so hard she almost goes fully visible.

“I don’t explode,” you continue. “I don’t snarl. I don’t do dramatic monologues or glowing eyes or blood on my chin.”

Your gaze flicks, one by one, across the team. Prism. Punch Up. Sonar. Robert. Invisigal, half-visible and suddenly very still.

“I know exactly which thoughts keep you awake,” you add softly, “I know which regrets echo the loudest. I know how to press on a soul until it buckles without ever touching it.”

A pause.

The air feels… thinner.

You take a step forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just close enough that everyone’s instincts start whispering at once. Like standing too close to the edge of a deep well and realizing you can’t see the bottom.

You smile again, a little sharper this time.

One moment, you were mid-swing, momentum clean and familiar, body aligned with gravity in that effortless way you’ve trusted a thousand times before. The next, the air thickened. Not resistance, confusion. Like reality itself forgot what it was supposed to do with you.

Colors inverted, sharp and wrong. The skyline warped, buildings stretching upward and inward at the same time, like reflections pulled across broken glass. Sound stuttered- your own breath echoing twice, then cutting out entirely.

For a fraction of a second, there was no up or down. No forward. No sense of where your body ended and the world began.

Then the city rejected you.

You hit concrete hard enough to drive the air from your lungs, pain blooming bright and immediate, blessedly real. Rain soaked through your suit. Your head rang. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm wailed, tinny and distant, like it wasn’t quite convinced you belonged there either.

You stayed down longer than you normally would have.

Not because you were injured, though you were bruised, but because the world felt… off. The buildings were familiar in shape but not in detail. The street signs used the right alphabet, but the names didn’t ring any bells. The rhythm of the city- the heartbeat you always feel beneath the noise- was present, but like a song played half a beat too slow.

You took to the rooftops, because up there the city couldn’t crowd you. You listened instead of rushing- learning the new cadence of sirens, the way traffic pooled and ebbed, how voices carried differently between buildings. You learned which districts went quiet too early, which ones never slept, which alleys smelled like trouble before you ever saw it. You helped where you could.

It had taken only a few days to map the streets in your mind, to feel the rhythm of patrols and predators, and to recognize the smell of trouble before it announced itself.

Tonight, it announced itself louder than usual.

You don’t land so much as arrive, boots skidding across a rain-slick rooftop like you meant to do that the whole time.

“Okay,” you say, rolling your shoulders as your spider-sense hums, “Rule one of crime: if you’re going to rob a biotech lab, maybe don’t do it three blocks from me.”

The bad guys- six of them, all black masks and tactical vests that scream I bought this off a website with a skull logo- freeze. One of them points. Another swears.

You wave.

“Hi! Friendly neighborhood interruption. Don’t worry, this’ll only hurt emotionally. And maybe physically. Hard to say.”

Gunfire answers you. Rude.

You flip backward off the edge of the roof just as bullets chew up the concrete where your head was, spider-sense tugging you left, then right, then down. You fire a web mid-fall, swing under the ledge, and kick back up like gravity is just a suggestion you politely ignore.

You land in the middle of them.

“Good news! You’re about to be featured in my cardio routine.”

A baton swings toward your ribs. You duck, slide between someone’s legs, and pop back up behind them, webbing their ankles together.

They go down like a dropped action figure.

“Oops!” you say, wincing as blood drips from their nose.

You cartwheel as another thug lunges, webbing their gun clean out of their hands and yanking it toward you. You don’t even look when you stick it to a vent behind you.

Thwip.

“Ah- ah- nope!” you announce.

Your spider-sense flares: sharp, insistent. You twist sideways just as a knife whistles past your ear. You catch it midair with a web, yank, and the guy stumbles forward, face-first into a web you slap across his mask.

He makes a muffled noise that sounds like regret.

You grin under your mask. You love this part.

You spring off a wall, rebound off a skylight, and somersault over two guys firing wildly. Upside down, mid-flip, you tag both of them with webs across the chest, slamming them together like action figures smashing into each other.

“Now kiss,” you mutter.

One left.

The last guy backs away slowly, hands shaking, eyes darting between you and the unconscious pile of his coworkers. You crouch low.

“Buddy,” you say, tilting your head. “I’m having a great time. You?”

He runs. You let him get three steps, then you web his back, yank him off his feet, and stick him upside down to a billboard advertising protein powder.

You land lightly beside him, hands on your hips.

“Tell your friends,” you say. “Tell them Spider-” you pause, considering. “-Person was here. Still workshopping the name.”

The rain starts to ease, drizzle thinning to mist, steam curling up from warm vents and busted adrenaline. Sirens are already threading their way toward the block. You straighten slowly, head tilting as something large shifts at the edge of your awareness- not threatening, not stealthy, just… present. Like a mountain deciding to acknowledge you.

Golem stands there like a piece of the ground decided to get up and walk around. His body is all compacted earth and stone, broad and solid, etched with shallow cracks like an old cliff face that’s seen weather but never yielded to it. Amber eyes regard you with quiet curiosity, steady and warm rather than sharp.

Your brain immediately does something deeply unhelpful.

That’s Golem.

Not a golem. Golem. Z-Team. Peace-loving mud giant. Canonically chill. Canonically difficult to knock over.

Dispatch. The video game. The one you played until your hands cramped. The one where you memorized team synergy and banter and unique abilities like they were survival instincts.

And now he’s… here. On a rooftop. Looking at you.

You have to physically bite back the urge to say holy shit I know you.

When he shifts his weight, the rooftop feels it, a subtle vibration under your boots, but his movements are slow, deliberate. Controlled.

Okay. Focus. Do not infodump. Do not ask for an autograph from a sentient landmass.

“Okay,” you say instead, pointing at him with one hand like this is all perfectly normal, “are you here to arrest me, recruit me, or gently place me in a reinforced box somewhere?”

Golem considers this. Rain beads on his shoulders, sinks in, vanishes.

“Cleanup,” he says. “Assessment. Making sure no one is hurt.”

Yep. That tracks. That is exactly his dialogue cadence. Low. Calm. Minimal words. You swallow your grin.

You glance at the thugs. All breathing, all alive, all stuck.

“Check, check, and aggressively check,” you say. “I even left them with a motivational billboard.”

Golem follows your gaze to the upside-down criminal slowly spinning in the wind. He hums, deep, thoughtful.

“Efficient,” he decides.

You feel an absurd, traitorous burst of pride.

Another slow blink.

“You protect civilians,” Golem says. It isn’t a question.

You shrug. “Someone’s gotta. Plus, they scream less when I crack jokes.”

“That is… considerate.”

You snort. “Wow. High praise from the geological community.”

A corner of Golem’s mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. But close.

Okay. Golem approves of me. Do not mess this up.

“You should come with me,” Golem says. “The team will want to meet you.”

The Z-Team.

The group you’ve watched in cutscenes. The squad you optimized loadouts for. The characters whose idle banter you’ve listened to on loop while waiting for missions to load.

You absolutely cannot say any of that.

You clear your throat and aim for casual. Normal. Regular masked vigilante energy.

“Meet me how?” you ask. “Like… coffee? PowerPoint?”

“Debrief,” Golem says. “Introductions. Evaluation.”

Evaluation. Right. Totally not a dream scenario.

You nod slowly, like this isn’t the single most surreal thing that’s happened to you today, and you were just upside down on a billboard.

“Sure,” you say. “Yeah. Lead the way. I promise I only break stuff on purpose.”

Golem inclines his head, accepting this as sufficient reassurance.

He turns and starts walking toward the far edge of the rooftop.

You follow.

And immediately realize you are walking next to Golem like this is a completely reasonable buddy-cop situation, instead of the moment you’ve been bracing for since your brain first went oh no I recognize him.

Do not smile. Do not bounce.

“So,” you say, because silence will make you vibrate apart, “you guys always do rooftop pickups, or am I getting the VIP tour?”

“This is efficient,” Golem replies. “And discreet.”

You glance down at yourself. Bright suit. Big eyes on the mask. Zero stealth.

“Ah. Yes. Discreet. My brand.”

Another almost-smile.

He stops at the edge of the building and looks down at the street below. The SDN transport van waits there, lights muted, engine humming low.

“I will carry you,” Golem says, like this is the most obvious solution in the world.

Your brain screams.

Outwardly, you manage: “Oh. Uh. You don’t have to-”

“It is faster,” he says. “And safer.”

You swallow. Nod. Play it cool.

“Right. Yeah. Sure. Totally. Normal piggyback with a sentient mud giant. Happens all the time.”

Golem crouches slightly, one massive arm bracing so you can climb up onto his shoulder. His surface is warm and solid, packed earth holding together with impossible cohesion. When you settle your weight, he barely notices.

You absolutely notice.

From up here, the city looks different. Smaller. Like a map.

Do not whisper this is so cool, you instruct yourself mentally.

Golem steps off the building.

The drop is smooth, controlled, like an elevator that just decided gravity was optional. He lands with a muted thump, barely disturbing the wet pavement.

Robert Robertson

Robert clocks your costume in exactly half a second and mentally files it under “Not my problem if it works"

Absolutely cracked a smile once when a kid copied you behind police tape

His first verbal reaction to seeing you pose mid-crisis was: “Huh. That’s… a choice.”

Has timed each of your poses, and is impressed by your consistency

He reroutes civilian evacuation paths to keep people where they can still see you

He has shut down exactly three internal complaints about your “unprofessional presentation"

He once told a higher-up: “They’re laughing instead of trampling each other. If you’d prefer screaming, we can try that next time."

Once muttered over comms, dry as dust: “Congratulations. You’re a human morale patch.”

Invisigal

You land in a dramatic pose after an unnecessarily flashy flip. Civilians laugh. Invisigal’s eyes narrow, unimpressed

Despite her attitude, she notices everything you do- your timing, your exaggerated gestures, the way you draw attention away from civilians. Her analytical side quietly approves

“I swear, you look ridiculous, but… somehow it’s working,” she mutters under her breath, a smirk tugging at her lips

Invisigal occasionally mutters sarcastic quips to the civilians to match your ridiculous antics. “Yes, please clap for the human neon disaster,” she says, deadpan, earning a few laughs

Sonar

He immediately starts explaining why the color palette is inefficient for stealth

He calls your posing “theatrical inefficiency", but he doesn't stop you from doing it

When civilians fixate on you, Sonar tilts his head, listening to heart rates slow down. That's when he finally approves

Tells you later: “Actually, bright colors reduce panic responses in crowds. I read a paper on this at Harvard.”

Offers to help create a crypto directly themed off of you

Malevola

Malevola understands immediately that you choose levity as armor

When others grumble about optics, she shuts it down gently but firmly. “People are laughing. Their panic has dropped. Focus on the objective.”

She positions herself slightly behind you while you pose- deliberate, protective

When command suggests changing tactics that would pull you off morale duty, Malevola pushes back. “They need someone to look at who isn’t bleeding or screaming.”

If you miss a landing and eat concrete, she is already there- not hovering, just ready if you need healing

She heavily respects that you use joy as a weapon

Punch Up

Punch Up thinks you’re amazing. Not ironically. Not jokingly.

He believes villains deserve to be beaten by someone dressed like a children’s show

When you flip into position, he whoops. “Did you see that? They flipped!”

When you cartwheel out of a strike and rebound off a wall, Punch Up grins like it’s his birthday. “That’s good footwork!”

When command grumbles about “unnecessary flair,” Punch Up waves it off. “Nah, nah. It’s good. Keeps it fun.”

“You gotta show me how you do that spin-kick thing.”

Coupe

Coupe notices you immediately, after you vault over a flipped car, land in a clean three-point stance, and snap into a ridiculous, over-the-top pose that screams look at me

Coupé exhales through her nose.

Where you are color and noise, Coupé is absence- appearing behind the villain without sound, blade flashing once, twice, clean and controlled

“You announce yourself before every engagement,” she criticizes after one particularly bad fight, stepping closer, eyes scanning you for injuries. “That makes you predictable. Predictable gets people killed.”

You shrug- civilians are still watching, still laughing. Coupé follows your gaze. She sees it, then, the way tension drains from the crowd when you exaggerate a bow, the way kids mimic your stance, the way fear loosens its grip. She clicks her tongue once. “Reckless,” she says.

Another beat. “…Effective.”

Flambae

When you vault high, he scorches the ground beneath, herding the enemy exactly where you want them

Treats your poses like choreography- will adjust fire arcs to backlight you

After the fight, when command complains about your “presentation,” Flambae crosses his arms and glares

He remembers his niece, the way she bounced on her heels the last time she saw you on a screen. "Did you see them? They spin!" and "They make the bad guys look silly!"

Flambae feels it in his teeth. That tight, hot pull of grudging admiration “…Hmph.” Not irritation. Definitely not jealousy.

Prism

The camera is already rolling by the time you finish your introduction pose.

“Hold that,” she says, spinning on her heel. “No- wait- turn your shoulder slightly. Yes. That’s the angle.”

More often than not, she slides into place beside you, striking a pose so sharp and deliberate it looks rehearsed, visor scattering light into prismatic arcs across the street

Later, when command complains about you being “too theatrical,” Prism scoffs so hard it’s practically a weapon. “Please,” she says. “People were smiling. That’s half the job.” She flicks her wrist, scattering light like punctuation.

“Besides,” she adds, glancing at you over her phone, “they’re fun to perform with.”

Golem

“You move like wind,” he says, voice deep and unhurried. “Very… enthusiastic wind.”

You spring off his arm like a launchpad without asking, and Golem adjusts his stance automatically so you don’t slip

He positions himself so kids can see you over his shoulder

“People seem less afraid when you do that,” he says, watching civilians relax as you exaggerate a bow. “That is… good.”

Whenever you pose, Golem is ready, acting as a shield if a villain gets too testy

Waterboy

Waterboy thinks you’re incredibly cool- he even helps you set up dramatic water backdrops

“You make people laugh… and also… not die. That’s… really cool.”

Every exaggerated motion you make sends him into mini-panic mode and hyper-helpful mode at once

After one fight, you exaggerate a bow for the audience. Waterboy tries to bow in return, nearly toppling over

Blonde Blazer

Has coached you on sightlines and posture multiple times, and you have helped her with hers in equal measure

Every exaggerated stunt you pull makes her grin wider, like she’s genuinely enjoying the show and the positive effect on the civilians

“Keep it up! The people are loving it!” she shouts as she moves to help civilians clear debris or reach safety

After a fight, she straightens her cape, smiling proudly at you. “You’ve got spirit. Never stop doing this- people need heroes like you… even if they’re a little silly.”

Phenomaman

You pull off a ridiculous flip‑into‑pose to distract a villain and make civilians laugh? Phenomaman will literally smile because the crowd is calmer- peace of mind matters to him

Phenomaman struggles with complex human behavior, so your ridiculous posing doesn’t embarrass him, he understands the purpose even if he can’t fully articulate it

He’s polite, well‑mannered, and earnestly curious about why you do what you do. “Do humans use laughter as a form of energy?”

The Wolf rumbles inside you, coiled and impatient, muscles twitching with restrained power. Every nerve fires, every fiber screams, every heartbeat echoes with the rhythm of fight. You don’t think. You cannot think. You only react.

Your shoulders jerk violently. Claws scrape the metal, sparks of friction tearing through the edge of your vision. Every slam and wrench reverberates up your spine, a shockwave through ribs, shoulders, arms. You bite, testing the muzzle, tasting metal and leather, teeth scraping uselessly against restraint.

You twist again, shoulders screaming, claws flexing, every movement violent and precise, full of a kind of intelligence buried deep beneath instinct. The Wolf dances in your veins, a predator in a cage, testing every limit. Your chest heaves, breath scraping through the muzzle, moisture fogging the leather.

“Enough!” Punch Up calls, voice strained. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

You don’t care. You can’t. All you want is to move, to bite, to strike, to feel the world bend under your power. Every second of restraint is an insult. Every shackle a challenge.

Then the sedatives hit.

A sharp prick at the neck, a hiss of cold fire spreading under your skin. Instantly, the world becomes heavier, fuzzier, slower. The Wolf snarls and rumbles, resisting, coiling tighter, but the poison- or whatever this is- slips between nerves and muscles, weighing you down, dulling the edges without extinguishing the core.

You buck and writhe, teeth snapping, claws scraping the table and the shackles. Vision blurs. Breath hitches. Every attempt to fight is met with fog, a creeping heaviness that pulls at your limbs and dampens the Wolf’s fury.

And then- they don’t leave you alone with it. That’s the first thing that messes with your head.

You expect silence once the explanations are done. A door closing. Guards posted just out of sight. Time stretching thin and cruel the way it always does when people decide you’re dangerous but still useful.

Instead, they keep coming back.

At first it’s Golem.

He arrives without announcement, the floor giving a faint, respectful shift beneath his weight. He positions himself where you can see him clearly- never looming, never turning his back. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he simply stands there, an immovable presence that makes the room feel… anchored. He tells you when the sedatives have fully cleared your system. Tells you your vitals are steady.

“You heal fast,” he says once, almost thoughtful.

You bare your teeth behind the muzzle. It’s the only reply you trust.

Punch Up shows up with more noise.

He breezes in with coffee you can smell from across the room, complaining loudly about how the machines never get the order right. He leans against counters. Sits backward in chairs. Talks like you’re not strapped to a reinforced table.

“You know,” he says one visit, nodding at your restrained arms, “I’ve fought a lot of people with super strength.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. So have I, you would’ve replied.

“You’re the first one who made it feel like getting hit by a truck that hates me,” he adds. “So. Respect.”

A growl slips out of you. He grins.

“I mean that as a compliment.”

And then, inevitably, the pattern repeats. You fight the cuffs. Snap your teeth at the muzzle. Flex claws against cold metal. They don’t flinch. They don’t yell. They just wait. Adjust. Step in only when the Wolf’s panic turns inward- when you’d hurt yourself before you’d ever reach them.

The cycle becomes disorienting. You want to lash out. You want to tear the world open and show it the teeth you’ve been forced to hide. But they are always there. Watching. Waiting.

Time blurs. Days pass, or something like days. You stop counting hours, instead counting visits.

And you notice something else, they don’t touch you. That part becomes impossible to ignore.

You notice it after the third visit. Golem adjusts systems without entering your reach. Punch Up stops himself mid-gesture if it would bring his hands too close to your face. Like they’re giving you control of the space they can’t give you anywhere else.

Food comes regularly. Real food. High-protein, high-calorie, slid close enough that you don’t have to strain against the cuffs to eat. The muzzle makes it awkward. Humiliating. No one comments.

They talk anyway.

Golem explains SDN and the Z Team in pieces- what they do, what they don’t do, why illegal fighting rings trigger immediate response. Punch Up tells you about teammates you haven’t met yet, vague shapes of personalities instead of faces.

“They’re… a lot,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which is actually why we’re easing into this.”

One visit, Golem pauses longer than usual over the restraints.

“You haven’t tested them in three days,” he says.

You stiffen despite yourself.

“Your breathing stabilizes when we enter,” he continues. “You track movement, but you don’t strike. That indicates control.”

Punch Up nods. “Also you stopped trying to headbutt me, which I deeply appreciate.”

You huff a breath through your nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a snarl.

They exchange a look.

Golem steps closer than usual, massive hands moving with precision as he disables the first restraint. The hum cuts out. Pressure vanishes from your wrist.

You flinch despite yourself.

Nothing happens.

Punch Up holds still across the room, hands visible, posture loose but ready. “Easy,” he says. Not a command. A reminder.

One by one, the restraints come free.

Your arms ache as blood rushes back in. Your fingers curl and uncurl, claws half-formed but threatening, trembling more from caution than rage. Your legs stretch and flex, feeling weight and power return. When the last restraint clicks free, you don’t bolt. You sit there, coiled and shaking, power humming just under your skin.

The muzzle stays.

You shake your head sharply, muzzle creaking. A sharp, frustrated sound claws its way out of you.

Punch Up notices immediately. “Yeah,” he says, sheepish but firm. “That part’s staying on for now.”

Golem nods once. “We’re introducing you to the rest of the team.”

“And,” Punch Up adds, carefully casual, “statistically speaking? First meetings are when accidents happen.”

The door slides open.

She steps in without a word- Coupé. Black hair cropped short, eyes scanning every inch of you under the harsh lights. Her mask covers half her face, leaving only those calculating eyes visible. She doesn’t approach, doesn’t reach, doesn’t give the slightest indication of what she’s planning. She simply watches.

Your muscles coil automatically, instinct kicking in the moment she moves.

She doesn’t approach directly. She circles, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours, measuring. Every step carries predator confidence, the kind you recognize immediately. Your teeth press hard against the muzzle, claws twitch, and a low growl rumbles up from your chest. You almost launch forward. Almost.

Your mind flashes through escape routes, attack angles, weak spots. Your senses flare. Power hums hot and hungry beneath your skin, and every fiber of you is screaming to test her- to see if she’s prey or threat.

Coupé notices the shift before it happens.

Her pace slows. Her steps become lighter, more deliberate, almost cautious. She doesn’t close the distance. She stops circling, squaring herself just far enough away to make it impossible for you to lunge without overextending.

Coupé tilts her head once, expression unreadable. “Interesting,” she says finally. Voice flat, precise. “Controlled aggression. Observational. Most people don’t manage that under stress.”

Punch Up clears his throat. “Uh… she means you didn’t flip out. Which is… good. Very good.”

Your heart races. You want to snarl. To bite. To let her feel the Wolf press against your mind and body. But you don’t. You can’t.

Golem steps closer, massive presence anchoring the space between you two. “We’re ready to introduce you fully when you’re comfortable,” he says quietly.

Coupé’s eyes flick toward Punch Up and Golem, sharp and unreadable. Her voice cuts through the tension, low and deliberate.

“Do not circle. Do not approach too quickly. Do not move like a predator.”

Golem nods slowly. “We’ll adjust. Careful, deliberate movements only.”

Punch Up swallows. “Deliberate… got it. Basically, don’t scare the wolf, don’t act like a bigger wolf, right?”

Coupé steps back slightly, hands relaxed but ready. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

You watch all of this quietly, chest rising and falling, power humming under your skin, eyes following Coupé’s measured movements. Her caution, her respect for your instincts, makes the cage around your mind feel slightly less tight.

The door opens again, allowing Coupe to slip out as someone else walks in.

It’s someone taller. Broader. You notice her presence before you see her- like the space changes shape just because she enters it. 

Long black hair falls over red skin. Two large demon horns crown her head. Yellow, pupil‑less eyes lock on you without fear. A muscular build and prehensile tail sway like she’s always ready for motion, even when she’s not moving at all.

She stops a few steps away.

No hesitation. No intimidation. Just presence.

“…Hey,” she says- voice low, rich, and actually… gentle in a way that doesn’t match her appearance. “I’m Malevola.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then she continues, unflinchingly direct:

“I want to apologize for the way things went down between us the first time we met,” she says. “That fight wasn’t what I wanted for you. But it was necessary for containment at the time, and we didn’t know what your abilities would do.”

Punch Up shifts awkwardly. “Uh… she says, like… she didn’t want to rough you up,” he clarifies, stumbling over words.

Malevola lifts one brow at him before turning back to you.

“I may look… intimidating,” she says, flicking a glance at Golem and Coupé, “but I’m not here to hurt you. We’re a team now- and that means understanding one another, not just containing one another.”

You blink- jaw tightening against the muzzle.

The door opens again. Malevola lingers for half a second longer, meeting your eyes once, then walks out. The door slides shut behind her with a soft, final click.

Someone else steps in.

Your senses flare automatically.

And… stall.

Because the shape coming through the doorway is wrong in a way you can’t immediately translate.

He looks like a bat.

Not metaphorically. Not in posture or attitude. Actually- visibly- batlike. Large ears that catch and angle toward sound. A muzzle instead of a nose. Fur where skin should be. Pale eyes that don’t reflect the light the way yours expect them to.

Your instincts scramble.

Predator? Prey? Neither?

Your muscles tense, claws threatening to slip free as your brain tries to slot him into a category that won’t hold. The Wolf circles inside you, confused more than alarmed, unable to decide whether this thing in front of you belongs in the sky or the dark or nowhere at all.

He notices immediately.

“Oh,” he says, stopping where he is. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

His voice is soft. Human. Tired around the edges.

He doesn’t advance. Doesn’t circle. Doesn’t lower his stance or square his shoulders. He plants his feet and keeps his hands visible, posture deliberately neutral.

Good instincts.

“I’m Sonar,” he says gently. “And- uh- I promise I’m not here to startle you.”

You tilt your head without meaning to.

Bat. Man.

Bat-man.

The word doesn’t fit any better than the rest.

Sonar’s ears twitch, tracking the tiny shift in air when you move. He smiles faintly- not sharp, not predatory. Just… understanding.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You’re not sure what to do with me.”

Sonar tilts his head slightly, listening to something you can’t hear. “You’re not aggressive right now,” he says after a moment. “Just overstimulated. And curious.”

That makes your chest hitch. No one’s ever called you that.

Golem’s voice rumbles low, steady. “This is why he’s next.”

Sonar gives a small shrug. “I tend to… short-circuit threat responses. Sometimes.”

The Wolf perks up the moment it settles on what Sonar is- not human-wrong like before, but animal in a different direction. Echolocating. Aerial. All senses and instinct and awareness turned outward instead of inward.

Another beast, the Wolf thinks, bright and sharp.

Your pulse jumps.

There’s a sudden, almost embarrassing urge to show off.

Your jaw tightens reflexively, muscles straining as if you could bare your fangs- except the muzzle stops you cold, metal and padding firm against your mouth. A frustrated huff escapes instead, breath fogging uselessly against the restraints.

Your ears itch beneath your hair, half-formed and aching to lift, to angle toward him the way his do toward you. To say look, I have them too in the only language that feels honest.

You rock forward a fraction before catching yourself, chains long gone but habit still holding you in place. The muzzle remains, a hard reminder that you’re not allowed to communicate the way your instincts want to.

“You don’t get to show your teeth,” he says gently, glancing at the muzzle. “That’s frustrating.”

You give a low, involuntary sound in agreement.

He nods, like that confirms something important.