#z-team

The mirror is completely fogged when he finally emerges, steam billowing out behind him like he’s some kind of discount superhero making a dramatic entrance. Which is ironic, considering he feels about as heroic as a wet rat right now. Less, even. Wet rats probably have better emotional regulation. That’s why they're tested on so much, right? Because rats are smart. Smart like humans, even smarter than some. Smarter than him right now most definitely.

He’d been rehearsing it in the shower—the apology. Trying to find the right words that would explain without explaining too much, that would smooth over the weirdness he’d created without revealing the complicated mess of feelings he can’t untangle himself.

Hey, sorry about earlier. Long day. Didn’t mean to be short with you.

Too casual.

I was out of line. You didn’t deserve that.

Too formal. Too much like admitting fault, which he absolutely should do but the words taste bitter.

Look, I know I was being weird—

Understatement of the century, Robertson.

He towels his hair roughly, the threadbare fabric catching on the places where his auburn strands are getting too long. He needs a haircut. Needs a lot of things, actually. A new apartment that doesn’t have water stains on the ceiling. A life that isn’t held together by cereal and stubbornness. The ability to have a normal emotional reaction to normal situations instead of whatever the hell today had been. These were old habits coming back to him, old habits that kept him strapped down in life with doing everything for the Mecha Man legacy and nothing for himself. For his life. For his best friend.

The towel drapes over his head, hanging down around his face as he opens the bathroom door, already forming the words.

“Hey, so about earlier—”

Yet his words fall short.

Silence welcomes him. Not the comfortable silence that sometimes falls between the two of you, that easy quiet where words aren’t necessary because presence is enough. This is different. This silence has weight to it, has absence carved into its center like a hollow tooth.

Robert’s eyes scan the space automatically, a mix of paranoia and fear that's kept him alive since he was 11 and Dad’s enemies were trying to kill him the moment it became clear Mecha Man had a spawn.

The lights are off—of course they are, you have the healthy habit of partaking in proper home etiquette. It's endearing in a way. Given you’ve turned off a light on him once or twice while he was doing something before quick to flick it back on with an apology.

But your shoes… Your shoes are gone from their usual spot by the door. Your jacket—the one that’s practically become part of the apartment’s ecosystem—is missing from where it usually hangs over the back of his sorry excuse for a chair. His bed, that piece of cheap plastic.

The space is empty, not just Mecha Man suit empty, but empty. The suit was just the first domino, and your absence had been the inevitable cascade that follows.

Beef is lying near the door. Not in his bed because at least Beef has a bed. Not in his usual sprawled-out, belly-up, completely-relaxed position that suggests he’s accepted his role as the world’s laziest guard dog. Instead, he’s curled up, nose tucked toward the crack under the door, and as Robert watches, the dog lets out a soft, mournful whimper that seems to echo in the emptiness.

“Buddy?” Robert’s voice comes out rougher than intended. “Where’d—”

But he knows. Of course he knows.

You left.

The realization settles over him like a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders, making the humid air from the bathroom feel suddenly suffocating. His feet carry him forward on autopilot, towel still draped over his damp hair like some kind of absurd mourning veil, droplets of water sliding down his neck to soak into the collar of his t-shirt.

That’s when he sees it.

A note.

It sits on the single plastic chair—the one that’s held together more by spite than structural integrity at this point—positioned where it can’t be missed. The paper is slightly crumpled, like maybe you’d gripped it too hard while writing, or maybe your hands had been shaking.

Robert approaches it the way he used to approach potential traps. Slowly. Carefully. Like the paper itself might explode if he gets too close.

He doesn’t pick it up immediately. Can’t quite bring himself to, because once he reads it, whatever it says becomes real. Concrete. Undeniable.

The chair creaks ominously as he lowers himself onto it, the plastic protesting under his weight with the kind of groan that suggests it’s one bad day away from giving up entirely. He can relate.

The towel hangs on his scalp, draping half around him like the silk of a saint’s veil, water still dripping occasionally onto his shoulders, his neck, the floor. He should probably take it off. Should probably do a lot of things. But his hands are reaching for the note instead, fingers careful as they lift it, mindful not to smudge any of the words even though they’re already dry.

The handwriting is yours—familiar in the way that years of friendship make familiar. He’s seen it on grocery lists and birthday cards (many of which he's kept tucked away) and sticky notes left on his fridge reminding him to eat something that isn’t cereal. He’s seen it shaky and barely legible on hospital paperwork when you were too exhausted and too worried to hold a pen steady, even when he was awake and well. Or as well as he could be then. He’s seen it careful and deliberate when you’re trying to make something nice, when you’re putting effort into presentation because you think it matters.

This is somewhere in between. The letters are mostly even, mostly controlled, but there are small inconsistencies. A word that’s slightly more pressed into the paper, suggesting tension in your grip. A letter that trails off just slightly, like maybe you’d paused, reconsidered.

Don’t know if you heard me yell out over the water but I headed home tonight.

He hadn’t. Hadn’t heard anything over the sound of water beating against tile and the noise in his own head. Hadn’t realized you’d even tried to say goodbye. (Because, in reality, you hadn't. I guess not loud enough to even give him a chance, that is. Just a half-whisper because you couldn't bring yourself to say it beyond that.)

There’s dinner I made in the fridge and some banana bread that you can heat up.

Of course there is. Of course you made dinner. Of course you thought about him even when he’d been—

The note ends there. No signature. No nickname. No little doodle or smiley face or any of the small flourishes that usually punctuate your notes to him.

Just nothing.

The absence of closure feels louder than any words could have been.

Robert reads it again. Then again. Like maybe the third time will reveal some hidden message, some indication that you’re not upset, that everything’s fine, that he didn’t just fuck up spectacularly in ways he’s still trying to understand. But he's asking for too much because God knows he deserves this. After years of friendship, years of moments of vulnerability that you both shared, he knows this hurt you. It devastated you and it's all his fault.

The paper crinkles slightly in his grip before he forces himself to relax his fingers, smoothing it like it’s something precious. Fragile. Which it is, in a way—physical evidence of the moment he drove you away without meaning to, without understanding what he was doing until it was too late.

Beef whimpers again, the sound feeling louder now that his back is to his dog’s agony, the sound pitiful and accusing all at once.

“Yeah,” Robert mutters, his voice rough and aimed at the dog even though he’s really talking to himself. “I fucked up. I know.”

The apartment feels cavernous around him. Strange how a space this small can feel so empty, how the absence of one person can make everything else seem diminished. The water stain on the ceiling that he had wondered if it looked like California or a Pterodactyl—wasn't that just last night, holy shit it's been a long day— just looks like water damage now. A blob. A nothing. The scattered evidence of life—his work bag, Beef’s toys, the cereal boxes that have become their own food group—all of it feels hollow. Staged. Like props in a play where the main character has left the building.

He should eat the dinner you made. Should appreciate the gesture, the care you put into making something good for him even when he’d been—

But the thought of opening the fridge, seeing whatever you’d prepared, knowing you’d made it before he’d been short with you, before whatever the hell happened happened.

His stomach turns.

The towel is still on his head. Water has long since stopped dripping, leaving only the damp weight of it pressing down on his skull. He should take it off. Should get up, do something productive, stop sitting here like some tragic figure in a painting titled Man Who Ruined Everything Through Inexplicable Emotional Constipation.

Instead, he just sits.

The chair continues its ominous creaking, a metronome counting out the seconds of his failure.

Beef eventually gives up his vigil by the door, padding over with the resigned gait of someone who knows comfort isn’t coming but figures proximity is better than nothing. The dog pauses at the chair, looking up with an expression that’s somehow both sympathetic and disappointed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Robert says, but there’s no heat in it. He leans down, scratching behind Beef’s ears absently, the familiar motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiral.

He could text you. Could call. Could show up at your apartment—the one you barely use anymore because you’ve been living here despite having been so excited to have your own place. To make your own space. Your own home. Only to be distracted by your own life because you had tto ake care of him. Because you knew no one else would. Because you wanted to be there in ways no one else has or would.

Like you were fulfilling vows…

He doesn’t reach for his phone. He can't. Doesn't even want to get up and stalk his sorry ass to his bag—or did he leave it in his pockets—to rummage for it.

Because what would he even say? How does he explain something he doesn’t understand himself? How does he articulate the weird sludge of emotions that had hit him when Royd talked about you with that warm appreciation in his voice? When Chase had asked pointed questions he couldn’t answer? When he’d tried to ask Blonde Blazer to dinner only to discover she has a boyfriend, a fact that should have been relieving but instead left him feeling… what? Disappointed? Embarrassed? Both? Neither?

The note sits on his lap, silent and damning.

Don’t know if you heard me yell out over the water—

You’d tried to say goodbye. Had probably stood in this very spot, calling out to him, hoping he’d hear, maybe hoping he’d ask you to stay.

And he’d been too wrapped up in his own bullshit, too busy letting scalding water attempt to burn away feelings he couldn’t name, to hear you.

Story of his life, really. Missing the important moments because he’s too busy trying to be something he’s not, or trying to figure out what he should be, or just generally being a disaster wrapped in skin and poor decision-making skills.

The saint’s veil of a towel slips slightly, draping more across his face, blocking his view of the note even though he’s already memorized every word, every absent signature that screams louder than any accusation could have.

He’ll figure it out. Will find the words, will apologize properly, will somehow unfuck this situation he’s created through—what? Jealousy? Over your friendship with someone you’d just met? Over hypothetical scenarios his brain invented to torture him with?

But he has to. Tomorrow hopefully but that’s a comfortable lie he tells himself, and Robert knows it even as he thinks it. Because this—sitting in the growing darkness of his shitty apartment, towel on his head like some kind of penance, dog at his feet, note now heavy in hands of him documenting his failure in your handwriting—this feels easier than action. Easier than confronting whatever mess of emotions is tangled up in his chest, all knotted around fear and longing and the certainty that he’s already ruined something he can’t afford to lose.

Beef sighs, a long, suffering exhale that suggests he’s judging Robert’s life choices and finding them severely wanting.

“Yeah,” Robert agrees quietly, leaning back to crane his head back. Eyes falling closed. “Me too, bud. Me too.”

It was late—later than safe on a workday—when you woke up.

Un-fucking-fortunately, it's the next day.

Because it all felt like torture.

A cocktail of last night’s confusing encounter infused with being covered in cats for hours—which meant overheating and dealing with the agonizing allergies of fur and itchy lips because one of them very much so decided to use your sleep deprived face as a cushion, is your own variant of a hangover. You can't remember the last time you've drank (this occasion calls for it though and no one could blame you) but this definitely feels like the aftermath of ‘one too many.’ Guess that saying goes with cats too.

The coughing and clearing of your throat that follows is… icky. Maybe that's the first step toward you becoming a cat; coughing up a hairball. A thought that is oddly pleasing despite the horrific sounds escaping your throat that also uncomfortably scratches it and makes this situation ten times worse.

But hey, if it means living the luxurious life with an owner like Miss M and never having to feel the way you did last night… it's a win.

At the very least the couch was comfortable. It always has been. They always have been comfortable. Couches. You've experienced varying ways of beds. You could say you're a bed-not-bed extradionarie.

From inflatable mattresses that have no business being as loud as they are only to end up with magical holes in them that duct tape can't even fix—therefore waking with your ass ruined by the floor—odd chairs, some of which were pushed together in hotel rooms because sometimes you just didn't feel comfortable sharing a bed. Maybe because you didn't like the whole vulnerable thing that could possibly lead to someone too close for comfort. To a time half-under a table because an old roommate saged the house and for some reason that knocked you out (you joked it was because the demons were being released) or floors or… against a Mecha Suit… on the shoulder of—

You heavily sigh, running your hands down your face—which you’ll regret when you spend thirty minutes rubbing at your eyeballs because they itch and it feels too relieving to stop only to suffer from very pissed off and irritated peepers…

Anyway.

Work.

Because there's no greater distraction than making the first cause of suffering be distracted (or in reality, added on to) by a different cause of suffering. And it simply hurts too much… looking at a phone screen with no notifications.

This bar—not the literal official Superhero bar this time because in reality, sometimes seeing other heroes (real heroes) just isn't worth the time—was one of those places that existed in the grey area between “hero hangout” and “definitely don’t ask too many questions.” Dim lighting, sticky floors that had seen better decades, and a bartender who’d served everyone from capes to crooks and treated them all with the same level of disinterested professionalism. It was off the books, off the record, and most importantly—off duty.

Which is exactly why half the Z-Team had congregated here on a Sunday night, sprawled across a back corner booth like a dysfunctional family at Thanksgiving; the same ones who had the occasional slip away to likely indulge in not so legal things. Gambling, fighting, drugs.

The usual Sunday night activities.

Well, not so usual. There is something different tonight. Invisigal had been circling a topic for the better part of an hour. Dancing around it. Testing the waters. Dropping hints that were about as subtle as a brick through a window. And now, finally, with enough liquid courage coursing through her system to make her reckless, she was going for it.

“I’m not saying I can’t, of course I can.” Sonar argued pointedly, swooshing his cup in that way he did when he was being defensive. The amber liquid—something expensive he’d insisted on ordering, naturally—sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “I just want to know why. Especially if it’s to get back at Bobert. I mean, I know the rest of you hate Robby but the guy got me in with Vanderstenk so…” He paused, those pure white eyes somehow conveying genuine conflict despite their lack of pupils. “I’d feel bad for betraying him.”

Malevola couldn’t help but roll those yellow eyes of hers, an amused smirk pulling at her red features. She was nursing something dark and probably stronger than it had any right to be, her tail swishing lazily behind her. “Just say you want to fuck him, Bats.”

“I—what?!” Sonar’s voice cracked, the Harvard graduate veneer slipping entirely. “That’s not—I don’t—Mal, what the fuck—” his ears flattened, eyes narrowed in a mix of indignation and betrayal. "I have standards!"

"The last I remember, your ‘standards’ blur when you’re drunk. Remember that time—"

"You promised to never speak of that again!" He hissed.

“Oh my god, what are we talking about?” Prism materialized at the edge of the booth like she’d been summoned, her phone balanced with her vape while her drink of choice in the opposite. “Is it about Roberto? What did he do now? Did you punch him again?” She leaned forward eagerly, her eyes sparkling with the kind of glee that came from other people’s drama. “Did you record it? Tell me you did! Wait—” Setting her things down smoothly, her perfectly manicured nails reached for the folder Invisigal had been clutching. “What’s that?”

“Hands off!” Invisigal snatched the file away, hugging it to her chest protectively. Of course she’d been compiling stuff. It wasn’t that hard to gather information when you were literally invisible. Privacy was more of a suggestion than a rule when you could walk through walls and eavesdrop on literally anything.

Even so, the folder was embarrassingly thick. Photos. Work schedules. Address information. Your routine. Your boss’s information, complete with annotations about what a complete piece of shit he was. Some of which were just indulgence on her half. Rants. Maybe she’d gone a little overboard. Maybe this was edging into territory that would make a normal person uncomfortable.

But Invisigal had never claimed to be normal. Because she fucking isn't.

“Is this about Robert’s friend?” Golem’s deep, rumbling voice cut through the chaos. He was taking up a good portion of the booth’s end, his massive earthen form somehow managing to look relaxed despite the structural concerns he posed to most furniture. Probably because this has become his spot after consistent visits to this bar. Repairs would be necessary for any other establishment but the owner had simply accepted the fact it's best to just leave it as is. “The one you told me about on Friday?”

There was a pause. A very specific kind of pause. The one Invisigal really didn't want to deal with at the moment.

“Wait, what?” Prism’s head whipped around so fast, elbow nearly taking out Punch Up—and his drink—as she did. Thankfully, narrowingly missing. The small strongman’s brief glare going largely unnoticed.

“Hold on—” Coupé, who’d been sharpening one of her knives, actually looked up with interest.

“Friday? What happened Friday?” Punch Up leaned forward, eyes dancing around the table with interest. “And what friend? Bob’s got friends?”

“Besides us?” Flambae added with a smirk, gesturing to the group with his beer. “Which, let’s be real, is already charity work.”

“We’re not his friends,” Invisigal snapped, but it lacked her usual venom.

“Then what are we?” Punch Up challenged, brow raising. “His employees? His prisoners? His little crime-fighting rehabilitation project?”

Uh. Yes, actually.

All of that.

Because, in reality, none of them are friends with him. To be fair, that was only one day of getting to know each other but even then, that one day was more than enough of Robert for their lifetimes.

“His future murderers,” Coupé suggested mildly, watching the stained liquid swoosh. “Depending on how the week goes.”

“I’d pay to watch that,” Malevola mused, cheering to the air. Coupé shooting a brief smirk in response to that before her features smoothed out to neutrality—which also consists of the ever present hint of consistent annoyance or musing assassination. It’s often both though.

“Can we focus?” Invisigal’s voice cracked slightly, desperation bleeding through.

The group went quiet again. This time, thankfully, the shared silence held a more serious energy than before.

“Golem.” Invisigal’s voice was tight, controlled in that way that meant she was barely holding it together. Her light brown eyes fixed on him with an intensity that would’ve been intimidating if he wasn’t literally made of rock. “Have you been telling people about our conversation?”

“Nah, just asking a question.” Golem’s response was characteristically calm, unbothered. But then he paused, his massive head tilting slightly, those yellow-orange eyes narrowing with sudden realization. “Wait. Is that what you’ve been doing? Stalking them all weekend?”

The silence that followed was damning.

“Oh my god,” Prism breathed, her eyes wide. “You have! You totally have! That’s—that’s so—”

“That’s called a felony, lass,” Punch Up interjected, though he sounded more impressed than concerned. For it’s a party of criminals, why would any of them be truly judgmental about breaking a law…? Even if they’re trying to be ‘redeemed.’ “Stalking’s illegal, yeah? Even for invisible people. Especially for invisible people, probably.”

“I wasn’t stalking,” Invisigal protested, but her face was flushing. “I was just… observing. Gathering information. Making sure—”

“Making sure of what?” Coupé’s voice was sharp, curious. “You don’t even know this person.”

“That’s the point!” Invisigal’s hands slammed down on the table, making several drinks jump. “None of you get it! This person—Robert’s ‘best friend’—” she made aggressive air quotes, “—has been taking care of his pathetic ass for months. Dealing with his depression. Making him banana bread for fuck’s sake. And what does he do?”

The team exchanged glances because, again, they’re still in the dark. Or, some of them are.

“Acts like a jealous boyfriend when Royd mentions seeing them in a towel,” Goldm supplied helpfully.

“Tries to ask Blonde Blazer to dinner literally hours after getting all territorial,” Sonar added, his tone thoughtful now, analytical. “Which, from a strategic standpoint, is terrible timing—”

“Then goes home and apparently has some kind of one-sided argument with said best friend,” Malevola finished as she waved for another refill. “Who then left in a rush.”

“And how the fuck do you all know this?” Flambae asked slowly.

Invisigal cringed as her memories—which, have been a bit foggy since her obsession with this recent ‘mission’ has taken hold of her life. Right, she told at least one other person besides Golem since then.

“She ranted to me on Friday,” Golem clarified. “For like an hour. Maybe two. I lost track.”

“She told me about the Blonde Blazer thing on Saturday,” Malevola pointed out, swirling her drink. "After I caught her creeping around."

“And I overheard you telling Mal,” Sonar confessed, unrepentant. “I was in bat form. In the rafters. Nobody ever looks up.”

More than one set of eyes land on Sonar with a mix of disgust, irritation, and suspicion.

“That’s actually really creepy, mate,” Punch Up observed.

“Says the man who admitted to following Danny Diaz home to ‘have a conversation’ about that article,” Coupé countered.

“That was different and you know it! He talked about my mother!"

“Can we please,” Invisigal interrupted, her voice rising, “get back to the actual point?”

Prism leaned forward, genuinely invested. In other words, no phone, no flare (or just maybe a bit toned down; just a bit), but actually, very very, invested. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Robert’s got this best friend who’s apparently perfect—”

“I didn’t say perfect—” Invisigal argued which Prism ignored.

“—who takes care of him, makes him food, stays at his shitty apartment—”

“It is a pretty shitty apartment,” Invisigal agreed.

“—and Robert’s what? Too stupid to realize he’s in love with them? Or too much of a coward to do anything about it?” Prism’s expression was calculating now, that same look she got when she was planning a new music video or orchestrating drama for engagement. “Because if that’s the case, that’s like… prime content! The pining! The yearning! The eventual dramatic confession! I could write a whole album about this.”

“Please don’t,” Invisigal groaned.

“Too late, I’m already thinking of lyrics. ‘Best Friend Blues’? No, that’s too obvious. ‘Invisible Love’? Wait, that’s your thing—”

“Prism, I swear to god—”

“What I don’t understand,” Coupé interjected, her voice cutting through the returning chaos with pointed precision, “is why you care. You hate Robert. You’ve made that abundantly clear. You punched him on his first day.”

“He deserved it,” Invisigal muttered.

“Probably,” Coupé agreed. “But this—” she gestured to the folder, “—this isn’t about hating Robert. This is about helping someone you’ve never met. Someone who, by all accounts, hasn’t asked for your help.”

The words hung in the air, Invisigal’s jaw working and gaze pointedly kept lowered. Not wanting to meet anyone's eyes.

“So?” Punch Up pressed gently. “What’s the real reason, Visi?”

Invisigal kept quiet for another long moment. Her fingers drummed against the folder, a nervous tell she usually kept better hidden. The bar noise filtered around them—laughter from another table, the clink of glasses, some terrible pop song from the jukebox that Flambae had probably picked.

“I saw them,” she finally said, her voice quieter than they’d ever heard it. “Friday night. After work. I was still invisible, and I was going to follow Robert home—”

“Again with the stalking—”

“Shut up, Punch Up—and I saw him come home. He was being… weird. Off. Kind of how he gets when he’s trying not to be an asshole but failing.” She paused. “And then they started talking. His friend. And Robert just… he was cold. Dismissive. Talking about Blonde Blazer and how he had stripped—” pointedly keeping her own involvement in that situation out.

“Wait, what?” several voices said in unison.

“Long story, not the point—the point is, he was being a dick. And his friend was just… trying. Trying so hard to understand, to be supportive, to do everything right. And I could see it. See them pulling back. Getting smaller. Trying to make themselves less of a burden even though they’ve been carrying his burden for months. Years, even.” She fidgets with the edge of the folder. "Like a dog who's known nothing but to keep quiet or get kicked."

The table had gone quiet again. Even Flambae wasn’t making smartass comments.

“And then they left,” Invisigal continued. “Gathered their stuff—and they didn’t have much, they’ve basically been living there but they didn’t have much, just some basics—and they left this note. I read it. Very polite. Very careful. Very ‘I don’t want to bother you.’” Her jaw clenched, brows drawn tight. “And then I followed them.”

“Of course you did,” Malevola murmured, but it wasn’t judgmental.

“They went home. To their own apartment, which is in this building run by this tough old lady. And they…" A pause, her eyes tracing unseen patterns on the table that's seen much better years. "broke down. Just completely fell apart in the hallway. And this landlady, she just… took care of them. Got them inside. Made them tea. Let them sleep on her couch.”

Invisigal looked up, meeting their eyes one by one.

“And Saturday? Saturday they worked. A double shift at this clinic where their boss is a complete piece of shit. I looked into him—” she gestured to the folder, “—and he’s awful. Worse than Flambae."

"Hey!"

"Harassment complaints. Making employees work overtime without pay. Forcing them to ‘volunteer’ for events. This person’s been dealing with months of that, on top of all this bullshit that their ‘bestfriend’ puts them through, and what do they get for it?”

She laughed, bitter and sharp.

“Robert Robertson being jealous about a guy seeing them in a towel. Robert Robertson trying to ask out his boss. Robert Robertson coming home and taking out his bad day on the one person who’s been nothing but supportive.”

A mix of reflection came with the following silence. An understanding that came from personal experiences because of course, of course villains turned heroes like them know at least a little bit about that. They're humans just like anyone else, or at least in the way that matters (emotionally). Being seen as enemies, as sacks of shit that had a better place behind bars, just makes it easier to understand. The world misunderstands. The world, for all it is—sucks sometimes. Maybe all the time. And those who have it good feels like they were born for it while the others… The others are just kept down.

“Fuck,” Punch Up finally breaks the hush with the simple murmur.

“Yeah,” Invisigal agreed.

Sonar had gone very still, his bat-like features somehow conveying deep thought and perhaps—sympathy. His eyes lingering on a middle point before he blinks back to reality. “Why do you want me to get them hired at SDN?"

“I want you to make it look legitimate,” Invisigal explains, meeting his eyes. “Background check that’s spotless. References that are glowing. Qualifications that are just good enough that Blonde Blazer can’t say no without looking like she’s being arbitrary. And I need it to happen fast, before they do something stupid like quit their shitty job without a safety net because they’re too nice to put themselves first.”

“That’s… that’s a lot of forgery,” Sonar said slowly, fingers idly tapping on the table. “Document manipulation. Identity verification bypassing. I’d have to hack into several systems. SDN’s hiring database. Their current employer’s records to make the transition look natural. Maybe even create some fake professional contacts who could serve as references—”

“I know what I’m asking,” Invisigal interrupted.

“And you’re asking me to do this,” Sonar continued, “for someone I’ve never met. To potentially get them involved in our mess. The Z-Team’s mess. Which, let’s be honest, is a considerable mess. We’re reformed criminals trying to be heroes under a program that’s barely holding together, dispatched by a guy who’s clearly having some kind of emotional crisis, working for an organization that pulled us out of prison cells and could throw us back in them if we fuck up too badly.”

Invisigal’s response is both swift and sure: “Yes.”

“And you think this is a good idea because…?”

“Because they deserve better than what they’ve got,” Invisigal declared firmly. “Better than a boss who exploits them. Better than a best friend who doesn’t appreciate them. Better than working themselves to death for people who don’t give a shit.”

“You’ve known about this person for three days,” Coupé pointed out. "Through stalking, not even personal encounters."

“And how long did it take you to decide someone deserved to die?” Invisigal shot back.

Coupé’s lips twitched. “Fair point.”

“Listen,” Invisigal leaned forward, her voice dropping. The desperation was creeping back in, raw and uncomfortable. She hated this. Hated asking for help. Hated admitting she cared about anything or anyone. But here she was, doing both. “I know how this sounds. I know what you’re all thinking. ‘Invisigal’s lost it. She’s projecting. She’s making this about her own shit.’”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Golem offered gently.

“I was,” Flambae admitted.

Malevola kicked him under the table while Prism elbowed him.

“Ow! Fuck! I’m just being honest!”

“The thing is,” Invisigal continued, ignoring them, “you’re probably right. Maybe I am projecting. Maybe I see myself in this person—someone trying their best in a situation that’s designed to break them, surrounded by people who take and take and never give back. Maybe I’m doing this because I wish someone had done it for me back when I was in their position.”

Her inhaler appeared in her hand, a nervous fidget. She didn’t use it, just turned it over and over. A comfort item, both figuratively and literally.

“But does it matter? Does it matter why I want to help if helping is the right thing to do?”

Another halt, a pocket of hesitation. The bar seemed louder suddenly, or maybe it was just the blood rushing in her ears.

“I need it to look serious. Recommendations and bullshit that both Blonde Blazer and everyone else can accept easily.” She was aware she was rambling now, but couldn’t stop. “Nothing that would raise red flags or get them in trouble but enough that they’d actually have a chance. A real chance at something better. And I need help. I need help and yes—I’m doing this for someone I don’t even know. Someone who doesn’t know I exist. Someone who probably wouldn’t want my help if they knew how I got the information.”

“Definitely wouldn’t,” Malevola agreed.

“But after what I saw after work on Friday—beyond Robert, beyond the argument, I overheard more. Followed them through their weekend. Saw them at that clinic with their asshole boss, saw them forcing smiles for patients while clearly falling apart, saw them checking their phone every five minutes like they were hoping for a text that wasn’t coming.” Invisigal’s voice cracked slightly. “This person gives everyone chances. Patients who are rude. A boss who’s awful. A best friend who’s an idiot. They give and give and give, and nobody spares a chance for them.”

She took a breath, steadying herself.

“So please…” The word tasted like ash in her mouth. Her eyes shut in pain at having to beg. “Help me, Sonar.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then: “Oh shit,” Sonar said slowly, his white eyes somehow wide despite their lack of pupils. “You’re like—super serious about this.”

“No. I was just acting pathetic because I like to,” Invisigal grumbled, her eyes snapping open to glare at him. “Yes! I’m serious about this!”

Sonar sat back, his eyes narrowing in calculation. His Harvard education—because its alwyas Harvard this and Harvard that—was probably running overtime now in that bat head of his. “You realize if I do this, we’re all accessories. If it goes wrong, if they find out, Blonde Blazer will—”

“I’ll take the fall,” Invisigal interrupted. “I’ll say I did it alone. Hacked your computer. Forged your credentials. Whatever. You all stay clean.”

“That’s stupid,” Flambae said.

“That’s loyal,” Prism countered thoughtfully. “Stupid, but loyal."

“I don’t like it,” Coupé said, but her tone suggested she was considering it anyway. “Too many variables. Too much risk.”

“Life’s a risk,” Punch Up offered philosophically. “Every time I wake up at this height, that’s a risk.”

“That… doesn’t even make sense,” Malevola pointed out.

“Neither does this whole situation!” Punch Up gestured broadly. “But here we are!”

Golem’s rumble cut through the chaos. “I think we should do it.”

The statement, as simple as it was, drew everyones attention.

“You do?” Invisigal’s voice was small, surprised.

“Yeah.” Golem’s expression was thoughtful, as much as an earthen face could convey. “You told me about this person Friday. Ranted for hours. And I’ve been thinking about it all weekend.” His yellow-orange eyes found Invisigal’s. “You’re not usually wrong about people, Visi. You’ve got good instincts when you’re not letting anger cloud them. And if you say this person deserves help?” He shrugged, his massive shoulders shifting like continental plates. “I believe you.”

“Plus,” he added, almost sheepishly, “I’m kinda curious about them now. Someone who bakes banana bread and takes care of sorry men? They sound nice. We could use more nice around here.”

“We could use more banana bread,” Punch Up agreed, eyes narrowed just slightly in thought. When's the last time he's had a banana bread? Has he ever actually had banana bread? "Do you think they’ll make it for us if we kiss their ass enough?"

“I’m not doing this for banana bread—”

“But you’re not saying no to banana bread,” Flambae pointed out, causing Invisigal to roll her eyes.

Coupé sighed, the sound like wind through a graveyard. “If we’re doing this, we do it right. No half measures. Sonar, you’ll need to create a complete digital footprint. Not just employment records, but social media presence, professional networking profiles, maybe some published work if their field requires it—”

“Wait, what is their field?” Prism interrupted.

“Medical assistant at a clinic,” Invisigal supplied. “But they’ve got an EMT certification. Some emergency response training. First aid instructor certification. They’re overqualified for where they are.”

"Oh shit," Sonar mused. "That’s actually pretty fucking good. And convenient."

“It’s perfect,” Coupé nodded. “That’s perfect for SDN. We could always use more medical support staff. Make them a liaison between dispatchers and field medics. Someone who understands both the administrative side and the emergency response side.”

Sonar nods, fur bristling in a mix of actual growing excitement. Something that is rare when it doesn't involve drugs or boobs. “I could create a narrative where they’ve been trying to get into heroic support services for a while. Maybe some applications to other organizations that didn’t pan out—nothing that would reflect badly on them, just timing issues or budget constraints. Make SDN look like they’re finally getting lucky.”

“References?” Malevola asked. "We can't really put ourselves in there." She emphasized around the table.

“I’ll create a few contacts. Former supervisors from past jobs—real places but positions that don’t exist anymore, so there’s no one to contradict the story. Maybe a professor or two from their EMT certification program. All glowing, all professional, all completely verifiable if anyone actually bothers to check, which they won’t because I’ll make sure the trail is ironclad.”

“This is insane,” Prism said, but she was grinning. “This is absolutely insane.”

“This is Tuesday for us,” Punch Up corrects, rather on point despite his intelligence not being considered high most days. “Insane is our baseline.”

“What about Robert?” Malevola asked the question they’d all been dancing around. “He’s going to figure out something’s up when his best friend suddenly works at SDN.”

“Let him,” Invisigal said coldly. “Let him realize what he’s been taking for granted. Let him see them thriving without him carrying all their emotional weight. Let him panic about whether they’re going to be interested in someone else now that they’re in a better environment—”

“Oh, you want him to be jealous,” Flambae accused, yet his own smirk tugged at his lips. Near-glowing eyes dancing like particularly excited flames.

“I want him to wake the fuck up,” Invisigal corrected sharply. "There’s a difference.”

“Is there though?” Prism mused.

“Also,” Golem interjected, “are we sure they’ll even accept the job? If they get offered? They might say no.”

That actually gave Invisigal pause. From what she's observed and now she thought about it without her mind racing. You probably WOULD say no if it's for Rob’s benefit. "They’d be stupid not to take it.”

“People do stupid things all the time,” Coupé scrutinized, shrugging a shoulder. “Especially when emotions are involved.”

“Then we make sure the offer is too good to refuse,” Sonar decided, beginning to list things out. “Better pay than the clinic, obviously. Better benefits. Health insurance that actually covers things. Paid time off that they’ll actually be allowed to use. A boss who isn’t a nightmare—”

“What a low bar,” Punch Up muttered. "And we’ve been to prison."

“—and maybe,” Sonar continued, “maybe we make sure someone reaches out to them personally. Makes them feel wanted. Valued. Like they’re not just another application in a pile.”

“Blonde Blazer could do that,” Malevola suggested.

“No,” Invisigal said immediately. “No, because then Robert might interfere. Might say something. Might…” She trailed off.

“Might cockblock himself?” Flambae supplied helpfully.

“That’s not—we’re not—this isn’t about getting them together!”

“Sure it’s not,” Prism sing-songed.

“It’s really not,” Golem agreed, surprisingly. “It’s about giving someone options. What they do with those options is up to them.”

Invisigal felt instant relief at her friend’s addition, shooting him a grateful look.

“Okay,” Sonar said finally, decisively. “Okay, I’ll do it. But—” he held up a finger. Those very human fingers that is a sharp contrast to his bat head in this form. “—I’m doing this because you asked, Visi. Because you clearly give a shit, which is rare for you—”

“Gee, thanks—”

“—and because maybe, just maybe, it’s time we used our skills for something that isn’t just rehabilitation PR or stopping low-level crimes. Maybe it’s time we actually helped someone who needs it.”

He looked around the table, his white eyes somehow conveying seriousness despite their lack of pupils.

“But if this goes sideways, if they turn down the job or if Robert somehow makes this worse, or if Blonde Blazer figures out what we did? I’m not taking the fall alone. We all committed to this. We’re all responsible.”

One by one… the team nodded. No throwing each other under the bus, no pointing fingers, together. They can't fire them all. I mean. Maybe they could. Details. But look at them! Actually being a team. Partaking in real teamwork.

“I’m in,” Golem rumbled.

“Me too,” Malevola agreed. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh, I’m definitely in,” Prism grinned. “This is the best drama I’ve been involved in all year.”

“Sure, sure, why not,” Flambae shrugged. “Not like my decision-making has been great lately anyway.”

“I’ll help with the forgery,” Coupé offered. “Signatures, document aging, physical evidence if needed.”

“And I’ll—” Punch Up started, only to pause. “Actually, what can I do? I punch things. Not super helpful here.”

“Moral support,” Coupé suggested sagely.

“I’m great at moral support!”

Invisigal looked around the table, at this group of reformed criminals and fuck-ups and people who probably shouldn’t be trusted with anything important, let alone someone’s future. And she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “All of you. This is—thank you.”

“Don’t get sappy on us now,” Malevola smirked. “We’ve got work to do.”

Sonar pulled out his phone—some expensive model that was probably two generations ahead of what was available to the public, because of course it was. “I’ll need everything you’ve got. Full name, date of birth, current employment details, educational background—”

Invisigal slid the folder across the table.

Sonar opened it, his eyes widening slightly. “This is… comprehensive.”

“Stalking,” Punch Up coughed into his drink.

“Research,” Invisigal corrected again.

“There’s photos in here,” Sonar observed, flipping through pages. “Multiple angles. Different times of day. Distance shots. Close-ups—how did you get close-ups?”

“I’m invisible. It’s kind of my thing.”

“This one’s from inside their apartment.”

“I had to make sure they were okay!”

“Visi,” Malevola said slowly, “you know this level is like… really creepy, right?”

“I’m aware,” Invisigal hissed. “I’m self-aware enough to know that I’ve crossed several lines. But also? If being a little creepy means someone gets a better life? I’ll live with it.”

“A little?” Coupé murmured, but she was smirking.

Sonar continued flipping through the folder, his expression growing more thoughtful. “Their current boss really is a piece of work. These complaints—they’re real? You verified them?”

“Called the state medical board anonymously. Most of them have been filed but not investigated. Apparently there’s a backlog.”

“Of course there is,” Sonar muttered. He paused on a particular page, his features softening slightly. “They volunteer at a free clinic on weekends.”

“When they’re not at Robert’s,” Invisigal confirmed. “Teaching first aid classes to kids. Completely unpaid.”

“Oh, they’re definitely too good for Robert,” Prism declared. Because yes, they've all formed their personal opinions on Robert after just one day of him being their dispatcher and the rest of it stemming from their teammates questionable way of spending their free time.

“Too good for all of us, probably,” Golem added.

“Speak for yourself,” Flambae objected. “I’m a catch.”

And for another moment tonight, everyone couldn't help but agree to stare at him.

“What? What!" He looked around. "I am!”

“Because nothing more than setting fire to a park during dispatch screams, ‘catch.’" Malevola remarked dryly.

"More like stop, drop, and roll. Away." Coupé adds, resulting into some stiffled or outright laughter from the others.

“That was—that was different! Robert was being annoying! And I don't need to drop and roll! I control the flame!" Flambae flushed, pointedly erupting his powers to engulf his hand.

“Can we focus?” Sonar interrupted, though he was fighting a smile. “I can work with this. Give me forty-eight hours. By Tuesday afternoon, they’ll have a job offer from SDN that looks completely legitimate.”

“Make it good,” Invisigal insisted. “Make it something they can’t say no to.”

“Oh, I will,” Sonar promised, his expression shifting into something calculating and mildly terrifying. “I’m going to make them an offer that would make their current situation look like the joke it is. And when Blonde Blazer sees this application? She’s going to wonder how we’ve been operating without someone this qualified.”

He snapped the folder shut with a decisive sound.

“Consider it done.”

The table erupted in a mixture of celebration and continued bickering—Prism immediately wanting to document this for her “personal archives” (which everyone knew meant eventual social media content), Punch Up ordering another round of drinks, Flambae and Malevola arguing about whether this counted as good karma or just interfering in people’s lives.

But Invisigal just sat back, feeling that tight knot in her chest loosen slightly.

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe it would blow up in their faces. Maybe Robert would find out and hate her even more than he already did.

But maybe—just maybe—someone would get a chance they deserved.

And wasn’t that what being a hero was supposed to be about?

“Hey,” Golem’s voice rumbled next to her. “You did good, Visi.”

She looked at him, at his honest earthen face, and felt her throat tighten.

“I haven’t done anything yet.” She argues, arms crossing as she looked away.

“You’re trying,” he countered gently. “For someone you don’t even know. That’s more than most people do.”

Invisigal paused, her inhaler—now tucked under her arm—twitching between her fingertips.

“I just want someone to win for once,” she admitted quietly. “Is that stupid?”

“Nah,” Golem smiled—it's gotten better, his practice is paying off. “That’s human. Even for us monsters.”

Across the table, Sonar was already typing rapidly on his phone, Coupé leaning over his shoulder offering suggestions. Malevola and Prism were planning how to subtly help once the person was hired. Punch Up and Flambae were debating what kind of welcome gift to get. Which would be somewhat suspicious but hey, they're being rehabilated! Cured of vilinary and leaning toward being sweethearts! (not)

And Invisigal, for the first time since Friday, felt like maybe she hadn’t completely lost faith in everything.

“To Operation: Give Robert’s Best Friend A Better Life,” Prism declared, raising her glass.

“That’s a terrible operation name,” Coupé dryly observed, even as she lifted her wine glass.

“Operation: Banana Bread?” Punch Up suggested.

“Worse.”

“Operation: Cockblock Robert?” Flambae offered with a grin.

“Not what this is about!” Invisigal protested, but her smile countered any true irritation this time.

It wasn't until Golem spoke up that their choice was set on stone. “Operation: Do One Good Thing,” He said simply.

Malevola found herself smiling, a ghost of one that was a sharp contrast to her usual thrill—whether it came from kicking asses or drinking the night away. This one was softer. Warm. But anyone points that out and they're getting a fast ticket to Hell.

“Yeah,” Malevola nodded. “That works.”

They clinked glasses—well, those who had glasses. Golem just kind of bumped his boulder-like finger against the cheers in solidarity.

Do One Good Thing. A task dome without expectations and hopefully, it won't bite them in the ass like previous operations they've done. Which, to be fair, the compare and contrast shouldn't even be compared and contrasted. Drugs and fight clubs or something equally illegal aren't as illegal as this.

Or wait… well, it is but it's for the greater good!

Listen, they're a bunch of ‘former’ criminals. Any step toward being nicer and working as a team is better than yesterday.

So just cut them some slack.

And later that night, as everyone is disbursing—off to do whatever they wanted to do before work came knocking—Sonar paused by Invisigal. "You're going to owe me for this."

"I know," Invisigal sighed, her breath coming off as a cloud into the air that didn't come from the ciggarate that she bummed. "Anything."

"Anything?" Sonar's ears perked up. "Because I'm thinking—"

"Within reason," she amended quickly, shooting him a glare.

He sighed dramatically yet didn't seem willing to put a fight. "Guess I'll have to think of another favor if you won't show me your boobs."

"Gross."

Even so, with a final elbow jab from Invisigal and see you Monday, she—and maybe the others (hopefully them too) felt… lighter.

Yeah… Being good feels… nice.

Tuesday.

You plucked through your key ring with surgical precision, brows furrowed as a migraine thumps behind your forehead. Occasionally doing a little switch up and dancing at your temples before returning to its usual space.

The days have been…

they just have been, I guess. You try not to think about it most days. Most specifically, you try not to think of anything. Just do…

"Do do do…" A random tune falling from your lips from a voice that felt both over and underused. In reality, you wonder if you're even here right now. Maybe you're still zoning out at work. Or maybe, hopefully, you had been given mercy and was able to snag a nap in the break room. Is it really a nap if you're actually still sort of hard wired awake and expecting the worse? I mean… I guess it is. Just not a healthy one.

You yawn as you finally find the key—the one for your unit mailbox. Yawning wide and grand with sounds that were often kept in the private darkness of a bed that has been your rotting space that past few days. It makes you struggle to insert the key the first couple times before the bingo.

Twist and turn and pull.

You pulling out the stack of mail—likely mostly junk mail, as it is per usual. Given the government simply doesn't care and thinks it's fine to let businesses (and themselves) kill more of the trees and environment so they can harass you with spam via paper instead of just emails.

Junk, junk… bills. Junk. Junk. More junk. Something somewhat interesting so I guess I'll keep it but probably won't read it and by then it'll be expired—more junk mail.

Blah blah blah…

You pause, freezing in a way that even made your heart drop as you come upon another envelope. One that is surely either some mistake, joke, or… I don't know some, divine intervention.

"What the hell…?" You murmur even as you flip the envelope once, twice, three times. Like it'll just change and your sleep deprived mind will correct itself. But this isn't sleep deprivation.

It's an honest to god letter(?) directed to you from… SDN.

You manage to get your mailbox closed before moving through the ground floor. A bench that is colder than a motherfucker becoming your roost as you began to—very messily and roughly despite your best attempts—tear open the envelope. Trying your best to also keep the scraps from leaving a mess for you to pick up individually (you really need to invest in some cool mini mall opener).

There's multiple pages now that you pull them out, but as you unfold it. In bold with the SDN logo to the left reads: Employment Offer.

To a dear with your full government name and the emphasis of RE: Offer of Employment - Medical Liaison & Emergency Response Coordinator… And all of it, both the content and information was too good to be true. Because in some sad way, this was truly something you've always wanted. Maybe not orginally with SDN, and that'll be super awkward between you and Robert and you even feel bad for accepting if it means… I don't know, that he thinks your challenging him or something.

But this? This is something for you for once.

On behalf of the Strategic Defense Network, Torrance Branch, I am pleased to extend an official offer of employment for the position of Medical Liaison & Emergency Response Coordinator, reporting directly to the Dispatch Operations Department.

After careful review of your application, qualifications, and professional references, we believe you possess the unique combination of medical expertise, emergency response experience, and administrative capability that would make you an invaluable asset to our heroic support operations.

POSITION OVERVIEW

The Medical Liaison & Emergency Response Coordinator serves as the critical bridge between our dispatch team and field medical operations. This role requires someone who understands both the administrative demands of coordinating emergency response and the practical realities of providing care in high-stress, unpredictable environments.

Your responsibilities would include:

- Coordinating medical support for active hero operations

- Serving as medical consultant to dispatch personnel during field emergencies

- Managing relationships with local hospitals, EMT services, and emergency response units

- Developing and maintaining medical protocols for heroic operations

- Providing immediate triage consultation during dispatch operations

- Training dispatch personnel in basic emergency medical assessment

- Maintaining medical supply inventory and emergency preparedness systems

- Documenting injuries and medical incidents for SDN records and insurance purposes

This position is not a field medic role, though your EMT certification and emergency response background will be essential to the consultation and coordination aspects of the work.

COMPENSATION & BENEFITS

Annual Salary: $68,500

(Represents a 34% increase from your current compensation, adjusted for experience and specialized skill set)

Benefits Package includes:

- Health Insurance: Comprehensive PPO plan with vision and dental

- $0 employee premium contribution

- $500 annual deductible

- Covers pre-existing conditions immediately

- Mental health services included (unlimited telehealth sessions, 20 in-person visits annually)

- Paid Time Off:

- 20 days PTO (accrued immediately, no waiting period)

- 10 federal holidays

- 5 personal days

- PTO rolls over annually (no “use it or lose it” policy)

- Retirement:

- 401(k) with 6% employer match (vested immediately)

- Pension plan eligibility after 2 years

- Additional Benefits:

- Life insurance (2x annual salary, employer-paid)

- Short and long-term disability insurance

- Professional development budget: $2,500 annually

- Tuition reimbursement program

- Student loan repayment assistance (up to $5,000 annually)

- Transit benefits

- On-site gym access

- Employee assistance program

Work Schedule: Monday-Friday, 8:00 AM - 5:00 PM

(Occasional weekend or evening work may be required during large-scale emergencies, with overtime compensation at 1.5x rate)

—Holy fucking shit this is like a wet dream. All these benefits—all this professiolism—feels so surreal. Like you've been drowning for years and finally, fucking finally, someone threw you a float. That someone finally pulled you back to the safety of solid ground and protected you against the horrors of the depths that you've been struggling with far too long alone.

You hadn't noticed you were shaking until it became difficult to shuffle through the papers. Until reading became a challenge as your vision blurred and this sudden relief felt like everything had finally been worth it.

Everything else was also in here. SDN Mission Statement & Values, Phoenix Program Overview, New Hire Information Packet, Parking & Transit Information, Map of SDN Torrance Facility…

It was the last page that caught your attention though. A separate document, a handwritten note. Something that already made your emotional state waver and crumble and crash and burn and cry. It gave you a mix of an odd sense of relief and a finally. Fucking finally, something that won’t terrify you of losing your place. Of experiencing loss and being forced to be driven even further to your wits end:

[Name] -

I don’t usually add personal notes to offer letters, but your application genuinely moved me. Your references talked about you like you’re irreplaceable, and your experience speaks for itself.

I also want you to know - I’m aware the timeline is tight. If you need an extra day or two to consider, or if you’d like to visit the facility first, just call me. The deadline isn’t set in stone if you need more time to make the right decision for yourself.

Whatever you’re leaving behind at your current position, I hope you know you’re not just getting a better job here. You’re getting a team that will value you, work that matters, and an environment where your contributions will be recognized.

We’d be lucky to have you.

Hope to hear from you soon.

— Blonde Blazer

P.S. - I noticed from your application that you volunteer teaching first aid to children on weekends. If you’re interested, SDN runs a youth outreach program that could always use someone with your teaching skills and patience. No pressure, but I wanted to mention it. We like to encourage our staff to pursue the things they’re passionate about, and it’s clear that education and community service matter to you.

—

A soft sound escaped your throat, tears pouring down your face as your shoulders hunched in a greater quake of flowing emotions. The salty droplets, heavy and grand are pulled by gravities embrace. The tears land on the page, absorbing and spreading like droplets in a disturbed pond.

You were conflicted—sure. Robert had just started working there and for whatever reason, his first day (which was just Friday, his second just yesterday) so obviously, in your people pleaser mind you wondered if this was the best choice. Not for yourself, but for him. I mean, he hasn't even contacted you and in truth, you haven't had the energy to reach out to him either. Mostly because Miss Matilda, with all her wisdom, ordered that you don't. Because despite being so contradictory to yourself, her words, her speeches, speak true. It wasn't your fault even if your traitorous mind tries to make it that way. It isn't you who should be apologizing even if you try to blame yourself for perhaps not acting differently, for being more 'understanding' like you usually are. In the end, Miss M said that you shouldn't be the one to reach out. That you shouldn't be the first one to break that awkward silence or strain or whatever came to be simply because you figure that you should. The only reason why you believe that so strongly is due to past relationships—romantic (even though in this economy and in LA that just wasn't common for you), platonic, or a mix of otherwise—that enforced that. That you were always wrong or at the very least, you had to continue being the peacemaker.

This time. This time you listened to Miss Matilda, even if it hurt. For it's true; relationships, no matter their type, need communication to thrive. They need unity. Not a 70/30. not a 40/60, not even a 50/50.

It's meant to be 100. A 100/100.

100 each.

Give it your all because if you don't, what's the point?

After that moment to yourself, of many more tears and sobs of relief--for you were honestly fit for bursting soon. After all, it's simply not expected for a human to cinch themselves of their emotions, of their wants and needs, for years on end without a relief... You found your way up to your apartment. Yours this time. Miss Matilda and the army of cats will understand tonight. You opened the slideable door to the patio, letting the stuffy air clear as you moved around the space to clear out dust and silver fish (your worse nightmare, or at least one of them)

...And if your cleaning has you walking past your bulletin board—the one you actually never truly needed but got anyways while thrifting—where you pinned the offer at the center… That's just a coincidence. And sometimes, coincidences are just happy accidents.

SPOILERS FOR 3-4; okay, a bunch of shit happened in those episodes. I will NOT making Invisigal have that situation with Robert in this fanfic but she was real for that, lol. Also either I'm tripping but like their relationships (no matter who you choose) feel so fast? Which makes me sorta uncomfortable or maybe I'm just getting the timeline wrong. Anyway, you will be make besties with a depressed alien in incoming chapters, get new companions, more complications and also… Who do you think I should cut from the team? I'll likely mention it again in the following chapters before that situation happens given I'm going to stretch out that situation for a couple of days instead of it just being like Monday bs like they did in the episodes because that really did suck. Plus I want a rapport built with reader/you and the Z-Team more before that. Sonar or Coupé? I will of course involve out of work interactions after that incident with you/whoever is chosen/written too so. Also I also base a lot of this with living both in and around L.A. and around communities who've struggled all my life. (Yes, born and raised, could you tell :P) But anyway. Yeah. Economy and current situation sucks ass and I think after years and years of struggling it would be a super emotional and inspiring situation despite the current situation (with a relationship) to have such an experience. After years of being your own hero, sometimes it's just one domino that can change it for the greater good.