Chapter Text
He's not in his bed. This is the first thing he realizes as panic seizes his consciousness, retching it from the depths of sleep to alert him that something is wrong. That something wrong is obviously related to the fact that he isn't in his bed when he clearly remembers tucking himself in the night before. It's related to the fact that he feels uneven, cracked concrete through the thin material of his clothes. The surface is damp, too, and he hears a rhythmic dripping somewhere close by to prove that he's likely in a shallow puddle. A light falls over his closed eyes, not harsh enough to be direct. All of these details combine with the most obvious one—the rancid smell in the air—to inform him that he's in an alleyway, not his bed.
He's proven right when his eyelids snap open. His vision orientates itself into a balanced state. He was right about being in an alleyway. There are two brick walls on either side of him, one rising higher than the other but only by a single floor. Between the two roofs, he can see a sliver of blue sky. The sun is tucked behind the left building. Until he figures out which direction he's facing, however, he can't know if that means it's morning or afternoon. He hopes it's morning because his father would not be happy to hear he'd been sleeping in an alleyway for over twelve hours.
He glances around the area immediately around him. He doesn't see anyone. He doesn't hear anyone, either. It's just his breathing over the distant sound of pedestrians and vehicles. Determining that he's not in immediate danger of getting knocked right back out, he pushes himself into a sitting position. He does so carefully, intimately aware that his body doesn't like him sometimes (and also that he could have received wounds while he was unconscious that aren't acting up just yet).
The pain doesn't send him falling onto the ground, so he starts to take stock of his situation. He assumes, at first, that this is another test from his father. He would be dropped off at some random location and told to find his way home himself. It was to develop a sense of courage while also increasing his familiarity with the city he would one day protect. Whatever the reasoning was, he didn't have a choice in the matter, so he doesn't complain about it.
He's not complaining now, either, even as he acknowledges that his shirt and pants are damp with dirty water. He doesn't care what happens to the pants. Sure, they're soft and he likes the plaid pattern, but he can do without them. The shirt is different. It's something Chase gave him. A gag gift of Track Star merch, something he can't ever let Chase find out how much he cares about it. At the moment, the only problem would be if he gets sick from the cold wind slamming into his back.
Before he can rise onto his feet and start figuring out where he is, he discovers that he's not alone in the alleyway. Panic jolts through his body greater any electrical shock could. He tenses, pushing himself back into a defensive position. As he silences his breathing, he realizes why he didn't immediately know someone was with him. First, he can't hear their breathing, barely sees it moving their chest. Second, they're a rather small figure—perhaps a child just like him. Third, it genuinely looks like the shadows are trying to hide the figure. The darkness moves unnaturally like a thick mist, perhaps muffling the noises made by the figure even further.
Perhaps the smartest decision would be to walk away. He couldn't care about that, however, because he's a hero (training to be one, anyway). This child is unconsciousness in an alleyway with him, and though the shadows can try hiding it, his nose is finally picking up on the scent of blood hidden by the putridness in the air. He's already done a check over his own body, so he knows that he's not the injured one. If this is a trap, it's one that he'll just have to escape from because there's no way he can't not spring.
He shuffles closer to the body. The shadows react to his presence. When he reaches his hand into their bubble, they lash out immediately. They cling to his skin. They can't physically injure him, so they instead siphon the heat from his body. He hates the cold, but he refuses to leave the child alone. He presses his fingers into their shoulder. He doesn't even get to shake a little before the shadows explode outward. The child moves immediately upon waking up. They land on the balls of their feet, thighs up to protect their vital organs, balancing masterfully.
He's so impressed that he doesn't even realize there's a knife through his hand until the sound of blood until the child is pulling it out. He would have preferred if it was kept inside, but what's done is done. He'll just need to hurry home or to another safe location to wash and tend to the wound.
Until he can do that, he keeps his hand where it is, stretched out toward the child. The shadows have lessened, framing her body rather than crowding around it. She has dark skin. Her black hair has been cut weirdly, some chunks longer than others. Her yellow eyes are sharp and fierce, reminding him of a bird of prey. The expression on her face adds to this comparison.
"Hello," He says, keeping his voice soft for a myriad of reasons. Her eyes narrow even more than before, more so in confusion than anything else. He tilts his hand. She jerks her attention toward it. He doesn't move his hand far, though, just offering it to her. "My name is Robert. What's your name?"
Her eyes quickly flick from his hand to his face several times. She lifts her knife higher, ready to use it against him. She doesn't, however. When he wonders why, Robert realizes that it's only a safety precaution because she wants to look around their surroundings. He remains completely still for her sake (and because he doesn't want to be stabbed again). He watches her eyes since they're more telling than the rest of her expression is. Through them, he finds that she doesn't know where they are, either, or what they're doing there.
Well, Robert knows what he's doing here. It's a test from his father. But what is she doing here? Was she here before or after Robbie dropped his son's sleeping figure onto the alleyway ground? While both options have merit, Robert is inclined to think she was already here. She must be part of his test. Robbie wants to see what his son will do.
What would Robbie want him to do, though? As unfortunate as it is, Robert doesn't know his father all that well. Even with all the training, they don't talk much. All Robert knows is that his father is a hero and he wants Robert to be one, too. What would a hero do? Would they follow their mission to the letter, or would they save someone? If Robert did want to save this girl, how would he do it?
"Ro-bert."
He blinks. It takes a moment to recognize his name, but it's just because this girl has an accent. It's definitely European. He'll need her to say more words to pinpoint where exactly. To get those more words, he nods and smiles at her. He points at his chest, repeating his name for her, "Robert."
She says something in a different language. Despite recognizing it now as French, he doesn't know the language. He only knows a few phrases ('I'm here to help,' 'do not panic,' that sort of thing). She must pick up on this because she clears her throat and asks, "English?"
Robert nods. "Sorry."
He doesn't know if she understands the apology, but the nod causes her expression to shift. Her brows furrow together in concentration. "Where is…" She taps her finger against her thigh. She keeps her eyes focused on him, but he can tell she's thinking hard about the word she's looking for. When she can't find it, she lifts her hand to gesture around them.
"Here?" Robert offers. She considers it before nodding. Robert glances around again. "Somewhere in Los Angeles."
"Los An-ge-les," She repeats. "Cal-i-forn-ia?"
"Los Angeles, California. I live around here. Where do you live?" Robert asks.
"Not… here. I… don't know. I live in… with, uh… big men?" Robert has no idea what that means. Does she live with her father and brothers? The girl, seeing his confusion, continues. "Big men… pow, pow." She uses her free hand to mimic what Robert assumes is a gun based on the noise she made.
Robert's eyes slide away from the finger gun to the shadows still rolling around her feet, lapping at her ankles like waves. A power like that, an uneven haircut that says no one cared about it, the black and featureless clothes she's wearing, the immediate reaction to waking up being to stab someone… The pieces are starting to click together in Robert's head. She has to be part of a gang in some capacity—maybe a villain group, maybe the mob, maybe something else entirely—just nothing good.
And, though Robert might be wrong about this, she likely isn't from a Los Angeles gang. This is important because if she's from another gang, the villains in this city will not be happy about her being here. At best, she's killed. At worst, she's tortured and raped, and the gang who finds her attacks the one she's from in a war that will only lead to more people getting hurt.
It doesn't matter what the correct choice is. Robert cannot let this girl suffer.
"I don't know how much you understand, but you can't be here. You're going to get hurt. I know somewhere you'll be safe until we can find a place for you," Robert says. He reaches his hand forward even further. She looks at the appendage like he's the one who stabbed her, but she doesn't attack him. Those yellow eyes look at him, searching for answers in his expression. He smiles as kindly and honestly as he can.
It's still not clear if his words made it through to her, but she lowers her knife back down to her side. She takes his hand, unbothered by the blood he's smearing across her palm. "Janelle."
"Janelle," Robert responds. He has the name, but he obviously said it different than her because he doesn't have a French accent. It's all fair, he supposes, since she says his name in a funny way, too.
Case in point, she says, "Ro-bert."
Robert smiles. They could probably go back and forth, repeating each other's name, for hours. It'll be great entertainment once they get back to the Robertson household. For now, they have to actually get there, so Robert pulls Janelle onto her feet.
Before they set off, he looks around her body. She glares at him until he gestures to the wound on his hand and then her body. Janelle, then, starts looking for herself. Surprisingly, they don't find any injuries. Robert is happy neither of them are injured, but the blood seems a little too fresh for his liking.
Not like he knows what to do with that information. He shrugs at Janelle. She repeats the action for seemingly no reason other than mirroring him. Robert chuckles in amusement. Janelle's lips rise with a slight smile. He points forward to the street at the end of the alleyway. "Come on! Let's figure out where we are so we can get back to my house."
The Z-team have their own corner in the bullpen ('resting area,' as it's officially called), forced there by their own disgust for the other teams and by the other heroes' resistance to be around them. It isn't as bad as it used to be. While the groups haven't bled into each other yet, there isn't such a large gap. Sometimes, the heroes even tread closer, just trying to get through but no longer frightened that someone from Z-team will bite them. Likewise, the friendlier members of Z-team aren't against dropping into another conversation for a little while if the heroes talk about one of their niche interests.
At least, this is how it's slowly become, but today, the Z-team are given a wide berth. They're antsy like animals, each one ready for someone to dare pick a fight. There is, however, a reason for it. Robert and Coupé did not come today. Obviously, the Z-team don't care. Punch Up is constantly checking his phone, and everyone sometimes look at Sonar for information, but they don't care, and they'll tell anyone that. They're only upset that Coupé (perfectly punctual, ready to accomplish any mission for the right price) being absent means more work for them, and someone who is somehow worse than Robert (Mr. What-is-PTO, wouldn't take a day off even if he was dying) is dispatching them.
"What the fuck is this?" Said dispatcher mutters through the chat for the entire team. Flambae grits his teeth, tapping his finger against the table. He's so ready to be sent out because he needs to set something on fire. Not even for the points, anymore, since Robert's dispatching gets him the points he needs, but because he can't stand the guy they're listening to anymore. Oh, he's so going to destroy another car at this rate. "Okay, are any of you good with children?"
"Why the fuck are you asking us? You have that stupid fucking journal, don't you?" Invisigal responds, cutting through the rest of the team's grumbling. The journal she's talking about is Robert's. He's got rigorous notes about all of their abilities. He used to look to it for a guide about who to send where. He grown past his need for it, but he keeps it updated for situations when someone else has to fill in. The Z-team made fun of him for it for several reasons, including that comment about someone else filling in, but none of them thought he would be an actual no-show one day.
"I have it," The dispatcher hisses, as frustrated with them as they are with him. "But it says Flambae is the one whose good with children. Do you really expect me to believe that? Fuck, I bet none of you are good with kids. Why the hell should I send one of you fuck-ups to talk some kids down?"
Flambae slams his palms against the table. He pushes himself into a standing position. The others glance over at him. Prism arches a brow. "What are you—"
"He said my name," Flambae shrugs. He walks ahead to the exit made specifically for heroes that can fly.
"Wait, Flambae, where are you going?" The dispatcher says, voice cackling through the communication system.
"Shut the fuck up," Flambae tells him.
He's about to switch the comm off when Prism appears beside him. "I'm with him. Stop bitching and assign this mission to us."
"Wait a minute, you two don't even—why the hell do you two synergize?" Flambae and Prism make eye contact. This is probably the first dispatcher who didn't immediately clock that Flambae and Prism were the best pairing for each other.
"Are you going to tell them about the mission, or…?" Malevola voice joins in through the comms. Flambae starts flying. Prism runs across light-made platforms beside him. They don't even know where they're going because their dispatcher sucks. He doesn't think any of them can do anything other than fight, and even then, he doesn't like sending them out to fight because he thinks they're rabid animals that won't return after getting a taste of blood.
If Flambae were the type to say sorry—which he's not—he would apologize to Robert for ever thinking that he had the biggest stick up his ass. While he does have a stick up his ass, it's not as big as this new guy.
"Ugh, whatever. It's out of the Torrance area, but it's nearby so it was given to us. A family called about two kids—somewhere between 10 and 14—breaking into their house. Not much of a description. They just want the kids out of the house. Try not to encourage them to be villains."
"We're going to teach them to be the best fucking villains ever," Prism says. She inclines her head to the side. "Or just make them look like it. I'm not above makeovers."
"Prism, you—"
Flambae turns off the comms. Prism likely doesn't because she's still arguing with the dispatcher, a shit-eating grin wide across her face. While she's having the only amount of fun the entire team will likely have today, Flambae checks their SDN-sanctioned devices for more information about this mission. More precisely, he's got the location. It only takes a little course correction for him and Prism to be on their way to a suburban house in the distance, the kind of house that Flambae has never and likely will never live in. He doesn't care; he just has to fight the urge to set the entire neighborhood on fire when he drops onto the sidewalk in front of their target house.
Prism wrinkles her nose at the front yard with its garden and gnomes and outdoor toys left strewn about the manicured grass. "Rich people. I can see why the kids broke in. Let's just see if they stole the good shit or if they're fucking idiots like all children are." Flambae glares at her from the corner of his eye. Prism rolls her eyes. "All children except for your niece."
Flambae and Prism climb the steps to the porch. The front door is locked. There's no sign of breaking in from this entry point. Either the family let the two kids in, or they picked a different method to get inside. That, or they used the key Prism finds inside the potted plant beside the door. She bumps Flambae aside, using the key to open the door for them.
There's no in the mudroom, only shoes and coats and a mirror hanging on the wall. As Flambae strains his ears, he doesn't hear anyone else in the house. A frown pulls down his lips because there's supposed to be a family and two miscellaneous children in this household.
"Don't blind the kids with your fire," Prism's voice cuts through Flambae's moment of observation.
"The fuck are you talking about?" Flambae retorts, stepping deeper into the house. Prism trails behind him. "I know you're not saying that shit to me. You're the one who blinds people."
"I blind motherfuckers, not 'people'," Prism corrects.
Before Flambae can respond, he hears a noise. He lifts his head toward it. He sees part of the ceiling. He also sees the railing of the space beside the upward staircase. Before he can figure out what's leaning over the banister, water falls down. It splashes over him. He's soaked completely in a matter of seconds. He blinks his eyes several times and coughs up the water that landed in his mouth and nose.
He hears Prism laugh. It doesn't last long. He hears the quiet thumping of something moving above him. It lands behind him, and based on the noise of exertion Prism makes, it was someone coming to fight her. Flambae would love to turn around and figure out what it is, but there's suddenly a bucket slammed over his head. A heavy weight jerks Flambae forward. Although he can't see, he knows the bucket has hit the railing with his head still inside. That weight that sent him forward is now swinging around to his back, and that combines with the hurt in his head to send Flambae onto the ground.
He does not remain down there. He swings his arm back at the same time he throws his body to the side. Whatever was on top of him is flung off. Flambae continues turning until his feet are steady beneath him. He removes the bucket, melting the plastic in his hands. He stares down his opponent, kneeling on one knee in the hallway underneath the second floor.
The first thing Flambae realizes is that this is a child. It's one of the children that broke into this house that he was sent to talk down and arrest or whatever the fuck he was told to do. The second thing Flambae realizes is that this isn't just a child. It's a familiar one. Age changes people, but there's foundational stuff. Hair, eyes, the way someone carries themselves, a permanent exhaustion in their bones, a chip in the ear—all of this makes it very clear who Flambae is looking at right now even though that's impossible.
Before Flambae can wrap his head around what he's seeing, the brat darts to the side. He slips through a door Flambae can't see from the angle he's at, disappearing from sight. Grumbling a few cuss words, Flambae runs after him.
Even though it's a child and a normie, Flambae should have known better than to run into the room without checking first. Now, he's standing in what appears to be a home office without the brat anywhere in sight. Fire rumbles through Flambae's body, trying to dry him off while he searches and waits.
Flambae hears glass shatter. As he whirls around to search for the source, the brat reveals himself by leaping into Flambae's back. Startled, fire explodes from Flambae's hand. The brat pulls his sunglasses off his face with one hand while the other one pours a glass of… alcohol, Flambae realizes, as the fire grows beyond his control. The light stings his eyes without his sunglasses. He forces himself to look away before the pain can grow into something more permanent. Flambae closes his fingers around the fire. He opens his eyes, still seeing a few dots dance across his vision.
The brat drops off of him. Flambae turns to glare at him. The kid slams the bottle he was holding against the doorframe. He holds the sharpened glass in front of him like a weapon. It looks like one, too, because there's already blood smeared across it. Flambae didn't put the fire out in time, and now the kid has burns along the side of his hand. He must not have removed it in time, or knowing him, he thought this sacrifice was necessary.
"Will you fucking cut it out? Shit, you're as feral now as you are as an adult," Flambae says. The brat tenses, face contorting with confusion. Flambae takes a deep breath. His head repeats a mantra about not hurting a child as he continues. "Look, you don't… know me, but I know you, Robert Robertson the Third."
"I don't know what you're talking about," The brat responds.
Flambae grits his teeth. He considers his options. He can't fight a child; he can't fight this one, either, because there's no telling what the brat would do. But now there's a question of what does he do. Fuck, there's a reason he's the one sent on mission with children.
Flambae squats (ignoring how uncomfortable his suit is when it's wet). He lifts his hands, showing that there's no spark growing between them. "I'm Flambae. I work with that old fu—I mean, Track Star." The brat gives nothing away, but Flambae knows he's getting somewhere with how the tension leaks out of him. "He told me to come get you."
A pause, and then, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Shit, this is easier with his niece.
He needs something that the brat will believe to convince him. "Chase. He babysat—babysits you. He's the one who told me to get you. Something happened, and we need to get out of this house."
The brat considers Flambae and the words. His head tilts to the side, glancing at a picture hanging on the wall. "This isn't my house anymore, is it?"
Flambae blinks. "…no."
"I don't know what's going on," The brat says slowly (good thing he doesn't say 'I don't know what you're talking about' again because Flambae will set the house on fire). He relaxes his body, lowering the broken bottle he was clinging to. "But you're not lying about Chase, right?"
Flambae nods. The brat considers it for a few more seconds before he drops the bottle. He relaxes completely, smiling sheepishly at Flambae. "Sorry about all that. This used to be my house. I guess I got scared when I saw strangers here. But this is their house, isn't it? I have go apologize, and—wait!"
Robert turns. He runs out of the room. Flambae should have shut the door behind him. He's already racing after Robert. Thankfully, the kid doesn't go far. He heads into the living room where Prism is fighting the other child. Once Robert's steady, he yells out, "Janelle!"
"Janelle?" Flambae repeats knowingly.
"Fucking Janelle," Prism huffs, setting her hands on her knees.
The other child—who, yeah, looks like Coupé—stops immediately. She glances from Prism to Robert. He approaches her carefully. Flambae hears an apology somewhere in the midst of all that, but he's not listening to that as Prism slides up to him. "You know I don't like agreeing with my exes, but I think I'm fucking crazy right now."
"You're definitely crazy, just not hallucinating," Flambae whispers.
"Bitch, I know you ain't talking."
"Hey," Robert says, looking over his shoulder. Janelle leans forward to look around his body at them. "Can we go untie the people under the stairs?"
Prism and Flambae look at the children. "What the actual fuck—?"