#flamdad dispatch

When he's finished, Robert grabs the edge of the couch. He's more concerned with keeping his hand from getting stabbed by a spring than he is with keeping the mess off the cushions. Honestly, he can't even remember what color the couch originally was after all the times he's curled up on it, seeking a comfort that will never come.

The couch, however, is able to give him just enough support for him to stand up. Blood loss and starvation (and likely some dehydration, too, just as a treat) leaves his head cold and his vision blurry. His hands aren't as shaky as they could be when he starts picking up the bandages, cotton balls, tissues, and other poor excuses for medicinal care off the ground and couch. He gathers them all into his arms and brings them to the closet, arranging the pitiful amount into something that could, in theory, be an acceptable first-aid kit.

Before Robert can spiral or even go deal with the nosebleed (that he wouldn't mind so much if the dripping blood would at least take his headache with it), there's a firm knocking against his door. Robert frowns slightly. He approaches his front door, expecting to see an angry landlord here to harass Robert about rent again.

But when Robert opens his door a crack, it is not his landlord who looks at him or even one of his neighbors. It's an older man—at minimum, forty years old, but likely even more than that. He has a few black strands in his short ponytail, but his hair has mostly gone ash gray. It frames his deep, amber eyes and dark skin. Possibly Middle Eastern? Somewhere sunny, at least. His clothes fit and are well-worn, so it's between those being his actual clothes or him getting lucky with finding someone of his exact body type (broad-shouldered, muscular, heavyset) to steal the clothes of. Neither option disqualifies him as a spy, but Robert can't figure out what his cover would be since he's openly holding grocery bags filled with... well, it looks like actual groceries.

"...can I help you?" Robert asks, trying not to sound as distrustful as he feels. He doesn't know who this man is, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's a bad person. Given his age, maybe he's just confused, or maybe Robert has a new neighbor or—more likely—one of his neighbors has a few friend/paramour/something.

"Oh, Robert," The man whispers. There's a familiarity to his tone and a wonder in his eyes. Robert immediately wants to question that, but the man takes a step forward. Robert is about to slam the door shut when his body instinctively releases the door handle. He stumbles back, realizing belatedly that his skin feels hot. The man forces his way into the apartment. He shuts the door with his heel, but Robert checks and—the handle isn't hot. It likely wasn't in the first place... so why did he let go? Why is his skin pink from the lingering heat?

Robert whirls around. The man is... in his kitchen. He's unpacking the groceries because that what they are—groceries. For some reason, the man knows where to put everything like he's familiar with Robert's apartment. Antsy, Robert keeps his composure, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Ah," The man throws his hands up. He sets one over his heart and lets the other reach toward Robert without touching. "I forget, I forget. I am Faizan." He has a thinned Afghanistan accent, so he's likely been training it away or it's naturally gone away through time in America. There's no telling which it could be, especially since 'Faizan' sounds like a normal name. It isn't something a supervillain would call themselves. "I brought you food. I wanted to bring more, but very, very hungry stomachs make for small ones. We must make more room, and then I will make you your favorites."

Favorites? What the hell is this man talking about? Robert doesn't have a favorite food, and even if he did, why does Faizan sound so confident that he knows what it is?

"Look, Faizan, sir, I believe you're confused. I'm not the person you're trying to find. There must be another Robert you've mixed me up with. It's fine, though. I'll help you find the other Robert."

The amber-eyed man shakes his head. "There is no other Robert, silly. Only you. What other Robert would live like this because he is Mecha Man?"

Faizan laughs humorlessly. Robert feels all the blood drain from is body. Okay, maybe Faizan isn't confused. No, no, he's well-informed. Robert doesn't know how sold him off, but as he quietly pulls open the drawer beside him, he's about to find out.

When Faizan shuts the refrigerator door, he turns around. Robert aims a handgun at the man. His hands are steadier than he thought they would be given everything he's gone through today (and because he really, really doesn't like guns). "Who are you? What do you want from me? Who sent you and why?"

Faizan frowns. He's upset—more sad than angry. Robert swallows thickly. He's not afraid to shoot. This man broke into his apartment. He poses a threat to Robert. It's self-defense. And he won't do anything if Faizan would explain himself and get the fuck out.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to scare you." Faizan's amber eyes narrow at the gun. A soft glow appears in the irises. It doesn't take long for Robert to realize why when the metal starts heating up in his grasp. Robert tries holding on for as long as possible, but his body rebels against his mind when the pain becomes too much. He drops the gun, pulling his hands to himself. The outer layers of the bandages are ashy, and his skin might have a first-degree burn.

Faizan caught the gun, so it did not hit the ground. He sets it away, showing no signs of feeling the heat. Robert prepares himself for a fight, pushing down the mounting terror at the situation. He reminds himself that this isn't all that different from his usual fights—it doesn't matter that the mech isn't ready for him or that this enemy knows his identity.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Robert," Faizan promises, far too honest and downright wholesome for this situation. Robert tenses as he approaches. He doesn't step away even when Faizan's hands cradle both of his cheeks. There's nothing forceful or painful about the touch, yet it hurts so awfully all the same. "I'm here to take care of you."

Why the fuck does he mean that?

---

@spacedace 's au about Flamdad going back in time and basically fixing his children's lives (you know, his actual kids and Z-Team). In my head, he woke up in his past verson's body, so there isn't two of him running around

Also, I used the same name "Faizan," but this is NOT the reverse social distancing au's Faizan. In my version of this AU, Faizan has amber eyes. When he focuses his attention on something through his sense of sight, he can increase its temperature

I'm vaguely considering making him a former minor supervillain just because I've really missed reading supervillains adopting abused superheroes as their sons (it's so good every fucking time), but I'm hesitant because I completely normal civilian going through all of this to save his children is hilarious and could be interesting to explore

But her knives are sharp as they can be. With a sigh, she sets the one she was working on down on couch alongside all the other ones and the frame for the wings they are attached to.

Coupé rises from the couch. She walks over to the windows. They are difficult to see through since they're so tinted, but there's just enough that Coupé can see people walking on the streets far below her. She sets her hand against the cool glass. She knows she could never be like them, and the part of her that wishes she could has died. Still, the space it left behind leaves her with a hollow ache.

Before she can dwell on it, knocking sounds throughout the apartment tucked away in the shabbiest, dirtiest corner of the city. Coupé grabs a knife as she walks by them since that was not the knock of her handlers. She looks through the peephole first to find a foreign man with amber eyes holding a white box made from what looks to be paper. Though she doesn't see any weapons, he could have powers, which can be deadlier in many cases.

Cautiously, Coupé opens the door just enough to peek through the crack. Clearing her throat, she tries to suppress as much of her original accent as possible. "Can I help you, sir?"

The man's entire face illuminates when he sees her. There's even a smile on his face. It's a unique reaction to encountering Coupé, to say the least. "Janelle! I'm glad—"

She grabs him. Though he seems strong within his own rights, she easily drags him into the room and shoves him against the door when she slams it shut. She holds her knife against his throat, breathing just a tad more heavily than a calm assassin such as herself should. "What did you call me?"

The man blinks as if confused, entirely unphased by the sharp blade at his throat. "Your name. Janelle."

Given their positions, it makes no sense why Coupé is the one who feels visceral fear, yet she's barely managing to keep her breathing intact. That name—Janelle. No one is supposed to know it. Anyone who would've remembered it is long-dead. She buried that name with those people so that she might be Coupé to the world. It was a defense against all who could hurt her with that identity, and now she's stuck with the knowledge that this stranger knows what not even her handlers know.

It's because of this panic in her heart that Coupé drops her knife when it starts overheating in her hands instead of powering through the pain to maintain the offensive position. The man steps forward, setting his foot right over her knife. Without a weapon, Coupé lets the air around them get darker and darker, calling upon all the shadows in the room to heed her call.

The man does not care. He sets the box—and a book?—against Coupé's chest. She finds herself holding them both. The man opens the box. Instead of a bomb, it looks like he's brought her macarons. "I made your favorite dessert as an apology for showing up unannounced."

"How do you—" She cuts herself off. Although it's not worse than knowing what her name is, the fact that he knows her favorite dessert is also alarming. Her handlers don't care enough to remember that tidbit of information, and she has no one else who could have ever found out about it.

"I also brought a book! I remember it being a genre you liked. I'm sorry if you've already read it." He pulls the book out from under the box. He uses the book to shut the box, leaving a paper-back copy of a romance book between an elven prince and a mortal woman. Her fondness for this genre is just one more piece of information that no one is supposed to know.

"Who are you?" Coupé whispers, so shocked that the shadows slip back into their original positions. Though the room is brighter, nothing compares to the glow of the man's amber eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"Oh, I forget! I'm Faizan. I don't want anything from you!" Neither the name nor the accent is French, so she doesn't think he comes from her homeland. It isn't American, either, though, so where the hell did he get his information from? "But I do have someone who you would be great friends with! I'll introduce you."

A target, maybe? Is he blackmailing her: if she doesn't kill this person, he'll expose her? It's certainly one to get out of paying. Or he could have negative opinions of her handlers and decided to go straight to the source. The problem is that Coupé doesn't know.

Faizan pushes past Coupé. He examines the room with a thoughtful expression. "For now, we must do something about this place. Too dreary and undecorated. We clean and we add. Yes?"

She instinctively wants to kill him here and now, but there's no guarantee that he's the only one who knows the truth. He could've given it to someone else, or it could've been given to him. Coupé needs to determine that truth first.

It's for this reason that she picks her knife off the ground and puts it away. "...yes."

----

Coupé sits on the roof of the house across the street from Faizan's house. Either he isn't the mastermind she thinks he is, or he's playing games with her because most of his blinds aren't closed. She's able to watch him and another person (lover, no doubt, and possibly, more specifically, a partner, fiancée, or spouse) moving around the house.

This is her second night of doing this. The first one went off without a hitch, but this time, she's interrupted by someone. She prepares a knife, ready to strike. She looks over her shoulder to meet a pair of brown eyes in the dark blue mask belonging to Mecha Man.

"Let me guess: nothing today, either?" Coupé nods slowly. Mecha Man sighs. He slides down the rest of the shingles to settle on one knee beside her. "I've already hacked through his entire digital footprint. He didn't find his information that way. At this point, we have to conclude that he met his contact in person."

When Coupé was looking for Faizan, one of her first attempts was the internet. Unfortunately, she's not very skilled with it, so she didn't get very far. What she did do was attract the attention of someone with the same goal as her. Though they're both aware of who the other is ("I've heard about you. A black-market assassin with a perfect record. You're very expensive. Never thought I'd ever get to meet you in any circumstances that wasn't you hunting me down."), they've decided to work together until they can figure out what Faizan's up to.

"Did you check the rest of the family?"

Mecha Man nods. "As thoroughly as I did Faizan."

"I imagine one was more thorough than the rest," Coupé notes with a very tiny smile creeping onto her face.

Though he wears a mask, Coupé can see his cheeks tinging with a light shade of pink. He otherwise maintains a stony expression. "That is not a conversation we are having right now."

"But we will have it, yes?"

Mecha Man shakes his head. "Stay focused."

Coupé says nothing else, fully aware that they will, in fact, be talking about it later. Strangely, it makes her happy. It's like having a friend, she thinks, though she's never really had one of those before. Who would have thought that her first one would be a hero? Mecha Man himself, at that.

Robert with Skye vs. Robbie with Robert

They're still laughing when Chad walks away from the table. He weaves through the crowd of people, energetic yet unfriendly in this particularly seedy location. Underneath the grime, there's a vibrant atmosphere and alcohol of sufficient quality to bring people with money to burn (and even money they don't have) to this establishment. That includes him and the group of people that he could, if he wanted, call his friends, though he's not entirely sure how truthful a descriptor like that would be for what he has going on. Drinking buddies, perhaps, is a more accurate way to phrase it.

Whatever the case, he's getting the next round for everyone as he promised, leading him to find an empty space at the bar. Crossing his arms over the wooden surface, he attracts much attention, but the only one he cares for is the worker standing behind the bar. They lean forward, turning their ear toward him so he can rattle off the list of drinks he requires. In the end, the worker nods and says nothing, heading off to handle the task.

Chad remains where he stands. When boredom strikes, he does not turn toward his phone. Instead, he glances around at the others standing and sitting around the bar. There's no one of interest on one side of him. When he turns his head in the other direction, he meets someone's eyes immediately. Chad blinks in surprise, and for some reason, the man does, too. He continues staring, but his expression is so neutral that Chad can't tell if the red in his cheeks is from embarrassment or the empty glass held in his hand.

He lifts his forearm, forming a fist to set his cheek against. With a smile, he asks, "Like what you see?"

Those deep brown eyes widen. His lips pull into a sheepish smile, adding to the awkward chuckle he releases. He shakes his head subtle, turning back to his drink. "Sorry, you just… remind me of someone."

"The man of your dreams, perhaps?" Chad asks. He leans closer to this mysterious stranger. There's something about him that intrigues Chad. Nothing could come from this, and he would be fine if nothing did. But he wouldn't be fine if he didn't try, just a little.

"Well, I'm hoping this isn't dream." The man's smile lifts a tad higher on one side, slipping into a crookedness that Chad could get used to seeing. As close as possible, too, as the man mirrors Chad's actions, getting close enough to grab a lock of Chad's hair and twisting it around his finger. "Or at least, it's one that won't end soon."

"I may be too good to be true, but I'm no dream." It's a theory this stranger clearly wants to test if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Before anything can happen, Chad hears his name from across the room. He turns to look back at the people he's with. They're laughing again—the damn hyenas. Addicts, too, since they're only doing this because they want him to bring the alcohol to them. Chad rolls his eyes. Though he turns his back to them, he picks the drinks off the table. He balances them as carefully as he can when spinning back around. After a few steps, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. Though not looking at Chad, the stranger is clearly paying attention to him. "You want to join?"

The stranger's eyes flick over to Chad. At this particular angle, they darken significantly, like two portals into an unfathomable abyss. "Sure. Beats drinking alone."

---

In Robert's defense, this really wasn't his intention. He went drinking to cope with being Mecha Man, the approaching anniversary of his father's death, and the new stressor of this 'Faizan' in his life. He wanted to get as fucked up as he did when his recent ex broke up with him—wanted to feel like a zombie waking up in a dumpster. He needed everything to go away for a while, and he wanted it to be the alcohol that did that to him.

Chad was an unexpected variable. Only a few sips in, of course Robert would recognize that Chad looked awfully similar to Faizan, and he knew for certain this was one of the children he vaguely remembered Faizan having from his copious amounts of research about the man. A good man would have ignored Chad; a good hero would have outright asked the questions he had about this man's father.

As Robert stares at an unfamiliar ceiling on a mattress that isn't his, he reconciles with the fact that he is neither a good man nor a good hero. Both facts he knew in some regards, but he's reaching a new low. Skies above, what would his father think of him now?

Well, disappointed in how Robert got to this point or not, Robbie would ripped Robert a new one if he didn't take advantage of the opportunity presented to him.

Robert turns his head. Chad lies on his side with his arm wrapped around Robert's waist, grip tight despite being asleep. For someone who favored a rougher approach, he would surprisingly sweet about aftercare and cuddling, and Robert was far too weak in all senses of that word to reject such kindness being offered to him despite not deserving it in the slightest.

Between the guilt and the hangover, he's halfway to puking, but that's not the reason he wiggles his way free from Chad's grasp, replacing the space beneath Chad's arm with one of the thick, heavy pillows he was sleeping on not too long ago. He stands, leaning against the side of the bed for support. He is too young to be telling himself he should really start stretching before he has sex (if he ever has it again).

Persevering through the pain and strain, Robert kicks up his shirt from off the floor. He puts it on as he walks around the side of the bed. There is a small window of time in which he can fool himself into thinking he's only going to grab his phone, but the truth of the matter is that he picks up Chad's phone. The man was too drunk to hide his passcode, so it doesn't take long to get into the phone. Robert snorts at the sheer amount of apps he's faced with. He feels less amused when he realizes it's mostly social media and dating apps. It's the selection of a deeply lonely person, and as someone who heavily relates, Robert really needs to leave this room before he starts puking.

But, he reminds himself, it isn't necessarily about loneliness. Chad could be a spy like his father with multiple identities he maintains through various apps to get information and meet clients and targets alike. It's this hollow reassurance that gives Robert the courage to plant a virus on the phone. It's not going to ruin anything; he's just about to learn a whole lot more about Chad.

His phone is only one avenue to explore who Robert is dealing with, of course, because he's in Chad's apartment right now. Setting Chad's phone back down, Robert takes his own and goes to retrieve his underwear and pants. He's putting them on as he leaves the bedroom. He keeps his stumbling to a minimum to limit the noise.

There are pictures hanging in the hallway. Robert stalls in front of them. Hesitantly, he reaches his fingers to touch the glass protecting one such photograph. It's a family. Chad's family, yes, but also Faizan's. There's a woman standing beside Faizan, and there's another woman beside Chad who holds a baby in the crook of her arm. They're all smiling, all close together. It could be fake. It probably is. It's part of Faizan's cover story. Part of Chad's, too. If this is all a grand scheme targeting Robert, a photograph like this would have been staged and put here on purpose. It's a mind game. It's torture to see the family he never got and will never have. If they're going to play this dirty, Robert doesn't give a shit about going through Chad's apartment to find the information that will finally get them off his fucking back.

And he finds… nothing. At least, nothing obvious. Everything could mean something, but Robert isn't informed enough about what he's dealing with. The only thing that strikes him as odd is a painting of a phoenix Chad has hanging in his living room. Is that the organization's network? One of their codenames? A symbol? If he at least knew what he was dealing with, this wouldn't be that difficult.

Frustrated, Robert marches to the front door since he's clearly gotten as far as he can with what must be a safehouse and not Chad's actual apartment. They're both in on it, aren't they? Faizan must have sent Chad to Robert. But why? What information was he hoping Chad would gain? Doesn't he already know everything about Robert? Or does he need to plant someone that can convince Robert to do something? No, Faizan can't be that much of a fool not to realize Robert would know the two of them have a connection. Appearances aside, there's actual pictures. No, this is all just a game. It wasn't an exaggeration to call it torture.

Hand on the door knob, Robert finds himself unable to twist it. What if… what if it isn't, though? Or what if Chad really is unaware of what his father is doing? What if he, too, is a pawn in someone else's game? Robert knows what it's like to be under that kind of control. He's not a good man or hero… but dammit, if he doesn't want to be.

Groaning to himself, Robert looks around the apartment. It doesn't take him long to find spam mail in the trash and a pen that works. Robert returns to the bedroom to set the envelope on Chad's nightstand beside the man's phone. He doesn't remove the virus just in case Chad is in on it or completely willing to follow the cause, but—whatever. It's fine.

It's fine, Robert tells himself as he finally leaves the apartment.

It's fine, he tells himself as he leaves the building and steps into the early morning air.

It's fine, he tells himself when his phone starts ringing when he's so close to his own home. Robert keeps his voice even as he presses the cool glass surface against his ear. "Hello?"

"Robert!" Faizan sounds happy. Does he know his plan worked? Did he get what he wanted from this? "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No… been awake for a while," Robert admits. He continues walking. He looks over his shoulder. He tries to be inconspicuous, but his throat is tightening the longer it takes him to find a tail. Unless Faizan is looking at him through the cameras? He has shown himself to be tech savvy (Robert has already gone through his digital footprint), but that could be a lie. Unless he has an alley who is good with it, or an ally with a power to watch people from afar. Fuck, what the hell is he supposed to be preparing for?

"Ah, that's no good. Mecha Man wasn't out last night. You should've slept for a long time. I love sleeping in." Robert slams his hand over his mouth. He really is going to be sick. Robert was already aware Faizan knew his real identity, and it isn't like it's difficult for people to figure out what nights Mecha Man are out. It just twists his stomach in the wrong way that Faizan knows. Is he trying to tell Robert to stop going out or bad things will happen, or that he needs to start going out again or bad things will happen? Are these bad things aimed at himself, or is Faizan going to take this out on innocent people?

"Robert? Are you sick? Do you need me to come over?"

"No—" Something between a hiccup and a burp cuts him off. Robert clears his throat. "Sorry about that. I don't need you to come over. I'm not sick, I promise. I'm just, uh… cleaning. The supplies are making me a bit nauseous."

"Be careful about that." Why? Did Faizan put something in the cleaning supplies he himself put in the cabinet under the sink? Robert knew he should have thrown everything out as soon as Faizan left his apartment. "Make sure to eat breakfast before you start doing your work."

Damn, he must have poisoned the food, too. "Of course, sir."

"No, no. No 'sir.' Just Faizan."

"Faizan."

"That's it! I—oh, I have to end call now. But it was lovely talking to you, Robert! I wish you a good day! Talk soon!"

As soon as Robert hears the familiar click, he throws himself into the nearest alleyway to vomit into the dumpster. None of this is what he wanted to happen, but at least he ended up in a dumpster like he said he would.

---

Chad huffs quietly to himself when he sees the pillow in his arms instead of a person. Only his clothes are on the ground, and he doesn't hear nor smell anything happening elsewhere in his apartment. There's no telling when Robert slipped away, but he has a few guesses as to why and—looking back at the pillow—a clear indication of how he did it.

He rolls over in his bed. Once he's lifted his phone, he sees the piece of paper tucked underneath. A sequence of ten numbers was left on the envelope in neat handwriting. Chad runs his fingers across it with a faint smile. He unlocks his phone with the intention of putting a new contact in his phone and setting a reminder to call in a few days (he can't have Robert thinking he's desperate).

Before Chad can, however, he notices that someone has texted him. Not just someone, though. For some reason, every morning for the past few days, Faizan has been texting his son to call when he wakes up. Chad has been assured to do this even when he knows his father is at work. Missing a day simply isn't an option. Faizan is really insistent about this, so Chad clicks his contact and presses the call button.

"Good morning! How did you sleep?" Chad can't stop the smile that stretches across his face at the sound of his father's exuberant voice.

"I slept good. How about you, Padar?"

"Very good. I had the strangest dream about sheep! Must be because your sister told me to start counting them before I sleep. Ah, wait, no, she will tell me." His father keeps switching to the future tense, but it could be because his English isn't his first language. Since that's a perfectly reasonable explanation, Chad believes it wholeheartedly and just continues on with the conversation as if that never happened.

The talk is about as long as it has been for the past few mornings, yet so much longer than their conversations in the past few years have been. It's like his father is trying to reconnect even though their bond hasn't really been suffering beforehand. Chad could complain. He really could, but then his father will go and— "Oh, and Chad?"

"Yes, Padar?"

"I love you. I'm proud of you."

His father will stay things like that with a startlingly amount of sincerity. Swallowing back the lump of emotions in his throat, Chad whispers, "I love you, too. Thank you. Goodbye. Have a good day."

"You, too!" His father says, perhaps too happy to notice how much of an effect his sheer honesty has on Chad. "Make choices you won't regret, my son."

That being said, I apologize for O’ Father of Mine. I’m reworking the ages right now because in my head, I had Robert as 21, but if I say he’s 30 in the game, that would make Prism 17 in my story, which does not gel well with anything I have written. But to bump her up to 21, Robert would have to be 25, which still works, but it’s not exactly what I’m going for. EITHER! She’s 20 and he’s 24 (I can live with that), or I bump down when Robert became Mecha Man to make him younger in general

The worst part, I think, is Chad. That motherfucker is 36 in game. Nothing I do with him is going to make his relationships with Robert and Alice not a tad bit creepy. At least, objectively, because we all know Chad is a good guy

Honestly, I might just say fuck it, and elaborate on no one’s ages. Except Golem, Ig, because this all makes him and I’m pretty sure Waterboy underaged. Faizan can just befriend Herm’s grandma, ofc, but I might have to give Golem as asshole “parent” and let Faizan adopt him a little more thoroughly/kidnap him for a good cause