Chapter Text
For not the first time, Robert awoke to the sound of barking.
Like most afternoons when he finally decided to spring into consciousness, he snapped upright with a loud snort, muscles tensed and startled as he lept from his seat with his fists raised and his heart pounding. It didn't matter that he'd been so deep in a dream he was still more unconscious than not; instinct was more than enough to dictate his movements as he spun about the apartment and readied himself for a fight.
Nobody was there. Nobody except Beef of course, who was staring up at him with a confused tilt of the head and an outstretched tongue, fat little body heaving as he panted where he sat. No intruders. Just the whispers of dreams and a paranoid survival instinct on edge from a few sleepless nights in a row.
At least he'd definitely slept this time round. Given the dryness of his mouth and the crusting line of drool on his chin, he'd be willing to guess he'd crashed out hard.
It was only after a few moments to re-orient himself that the light caught his attention - a blinking from his shirt pocket, strewn over the floor of his otherwise empty apartment, indicating an unread message.
"Thanks buddy," Robert muttered, rubbing his temple. The sunlight filtering through the slit in the blinds cut stripes across his bony knees, mercifully missing his eyes. He hadn’t bothered with pants today. Or yesterday, if he was being honest. There was no real need for clothes when his every waking moment had been spent elbow-deep in one mechanism or another, with very little to show for it.
Beef gave him a look that suggested a hint of pity - or perhaps just a glimpse into his bottomless hunger - and waddled off towards the kitchen to stand over his empty food bowl. Given the placement of the sun and how much his back ached, it was far too late in the day to still be dozing, and equally about time to rustle up some dinner (supper?) for them both.
With a long suffering groan he kicked back the lawn chair and forced himself to get up and face the day.
It rattled pathetically, the hunk of white plastic the only piece of furniture left to his name. The rest had been pawned, or in the most recent case, thrown into a dump truck for the sake of intimidating a particularly annoying lackey.
What was it for? Even, with all the sacrifice; all the exhausted nights; all the endless research -he was no closer to finding Shroud, nor fixing up the expensive hunk of metal that represented both the legacy and the career that had consumed his entire life.
Robert exhaled through his nose, flexing his fingers and stretching his back until it popped, tossing aside those fickle thoughts in favour of scooping out his phone and checking over the message. Whatever notification deemed itself important enough to disturb his meagre amount of sleep over, it had better be good.
Much to his surprise, it was good news. Mandy's name flashed at the very top of his notifications; not her personal number, but her burner. Blazer. It shouldn't have been much of a shock. It wasn't as if there were many other people that messaged him these days, beyond the villain report networks sending out warnings of the most recent threats, or the local fast food chains advertising $10 off orders over $50. As if he even had $50 to piss down the drain on fast food. The current offerings of his food cabinet consisted of a single can of beans and a half eaten pack of twinkies.
If it weren't for one person - well. Two, really (and the first was split under two contacts; that should at least count for two and a half) he'd probably just pawn off his phone too.
Mandy, though - Mandy was a pretty good reason to force himself to stay connected. By all accounts, she was technically his boss. It certainly seemed like a hilarious misrepresentation to think of her as his pimp - though by some description, she was technically that too.
The best way to think of her was as a dispatcher, of a sort. She organised the clients, matched them up with a suitable partner, reviewed the contracts, set the safety tools and dealt with all the boring admin stuff; all he had to do was show up where he was needed and get the job done.
If his dad could see what had become of him, he'd be rolling in his grave. All that was left of the Mecha Man name was a hunk of rotting metal and a son who spread his legs to make a bit of easy money.
The shame that curled like a brand in his stomach was nothing new, and as he pulled open the message, he was able to shrug it off as easily as the last, just like every other negative emotion floating around in his head.
Thinking about it wouldn't change shit. Whatever his dad would say to him if he was alive couldn't be worse than anything he's already told himself, over and over again. He was a washout, a loser, a failure and now, for almost an entire year, a whore.
And there was nothing wrong with that.
Society be damned, he didn't give a single shit what anyone else thought. Of course not. He's met a couple of the other recruits; normies and supers alike, all looking to make a bit of extra money in a safe way.
He never felt any kind of animosity towards them, but instead a sense of comradery. Like him, he was sure, they must take a small amount of pride in their work, no matter how shameful other people might have seen it. They were providing an important service that specialised in discretion, with a carefully curated interview process to ensure they weren't being coerced into the role. He didn't care what anyone else did behind closed doors for money. And he sure as shit didn't care what his dad would think.
It was just a job. One purely to make ends meet, so he could someday afford to pull himself up by his bootstraps and get back to his real calling.
Much as he liked to beat himself up about it, if he was being totally honest, this newer turn in the career ladder didn't feel all that different than his life before. At least this time he had a choice, instead of being saddled with a suit and a million expectations; countless hours of thankless work that slowly destroyed him from the inside out.
Point being. Aside from the occasional private shame spiral, he liked his job. It was easy money - a hell of a lot easier than all the other ways he'd tried at least - and nothing paid as well whilst still allowing him control over his free time. The job market was tough; there weren't a lot of people willing to spread their legs for a super, given how unpredictable they could be as clients, and a discreet, professional service came with a premium price tag, so the pay was good and the work was consistent enough to keep the lights on.
In this economy? He'd be stupid to let this go.
The first message was just a pdf - a signed contract finalised with one of the most admittedly picky of clients that had slid across her desk as of late. It wasn't the guys first time contacting the agency either, but the initial attempt was apparently a complete disaster. Robert could have predicted that, considering the client sounded like a total dick and Herman was stil wet behind the ears when it came to dealing with prickly customers, but that had been Mandy's call, not his. Something about the client requesting someone okay with being, quote: "wetter than a geyser to make it fit", and hell, if anyone technically matched that description, it was Herm.
It had been straight back to the drawing board before they even got out of the pre-meeting negotiations. According to Mandy, his attitude was not a good match for such a new recruit. Reading between the lines, that meant he was probably going to be a total pain in the ass; pun unintended.
Luckily, he was a bit better equipped to deal with such things, and it wasn't too much of a surprise that he was next in line for consideration. After reading over the initial contact form four days ago, he'd accepted with little more than a scoff and a raised eyebrow. Standard stuff; nothing too kinky, beyond the unnecessary emphasis on needing someone incredibly flexible. It wouldn't be the first time - nor the last - that a client would feel the need to warn the agency that his dick was "too big."
Man. As a guy born without a horse in the race of that particular little insecurity, he didn't understand the need to exaggerate. He was a sex worker - he wasn't there to judge someone's endowment, and he'd certainly seen enough to know that a hundred times out of a hundred, those clients were perfectly average. Superpowers might improve things like physical stature or limitations, but he'd never seen that correlate with what they had swinging between their legs any more than the average normie.
But it didn't really matter, did it? If it made the guy feel better to pretend he was in a porn movie for a night, who was he to deny them that part of the fantasy?
He skimmed over the finalised contract with a discerning eye, though it seemed largely unchanged from the first draft. Nothing that immediately stood out to him as weird - just some perfectly normal sex, a lot of foreplay, and a few limits he wasn't really interested in pushing anyway.
It was a long fucking contract, even when he didn't factor in Mandy's carefully worded legalise. He remembered how wordy the initial contact form was too. Each box allowing further comments and extra information had been full to the brim.
Momentatily he ran down the list of the most important bullet points near the middle of the contract just to check, and yep - all the same, though Mandy had done a lot of work to trim the fat.
For example, 'idk man if you can get someone to sit on this thing w/o breaking in half the rest is a bonus, but if they want to smack me around a little bit and acknowledge how hot I am while they do it thats cool with me. I like praise and shit. Maybe a bit of degrading too idk.' became: 'In contact form, item number 14.b, Client "Chad" consents to aspects of praise and degredation, and rough play.'
He'd never seen a system so fucking complicated for getting laid, but he knew how important it was for her to do it by the book.
He reacted with a thumbs up and set his phone down to fill Beef's bowl.
A series of chimes from the otherwise bare countertop indicated several follow up messages, and he sighed as he left the dog to his dinner with a final pat behind the ears. At least the money might help the strain of keeping up with his truly impressive appitite.
The messages came through in the typical stilted, professional style Mandy insisted on at all times, as though they hadn't been friends and loosely professionally involved for eleven months at this point.
Sign this as soon as you can. His end finalised ten minutes ago. Did you see the requirement list?
I know it's short notice but if you're willing to go ahead, the client proposed a meeting at Vanderstenk Plaza Hotel in two hours.
Finalized pay is triple your going rate so long as you meet his minimum requirements.
Triple. That was... Robert hesitated as he did the math in his head, fingers twitching as he calculated as fast as he could. Yeah; that was definitely enough to cover what he owed in bills, and there'd be more than enough left over to pour into fixing up the hydrolics on the suit.
It did feel weird, though. Definitely not that big of an ask. Who paid triple price for some basic penetration?
He thumbed out a quick reply before he could think better of it.
Noted. I'll dress up nice.
Mandy replied almost immediately, and he could practically feel her rolling her eyes through the screen.
I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle. Please try and treat this with some delicacy, Phoenix. He seems rather particular.
The next message was just a location ping, for one of the nicer hotels on the other side of town. He knew the place - anyone with half a mind recongised the hotel chain of the richest asshole in town - but it was still appreciated. Whoever this Chad guy was, he had money to burn. And speaking of burning...
Remember this super has fire powers. He's prepared the room accordingly, but make sure to keep in touch and utilise all safety tools as needed.
A phantom pain twinged in his shoulder and for just a moment, he let himself grimace. It wouldn't be his first client with pyro powers, but they weren't so common that he'd become fully desensitised yet. Just like with every other uncomfortable feeling, he pushed it away until it was far enough that he could pretend it didn't exist at all.
As if sensing his momentary doubts, another message pinged through almost immediately.
No hard feelings if you need to back out. I trust you to let me know if this is a bad fit for you.
He knew it was well meaning, but it irritated him, just a little. He'd thrown himself up against supers with little care for his own well being for about as long as he could remember. He could handle spreading his legs for one, no matter what their powers were. He wasn't about to bitch out just because he'd gotten burned.
But he didn't say any of that, instead choosing to swallow it down. It wouldn't help anything to get defensive.
Thanks, B. I'll keep you posted.
With a deep sigh, he rummaged around in his backpack for his charger, shot off ons final message to the only other person he really gave a shit about texting, and left his phone to get some juice while he prepared for the appointment. Whoever this client was, he'd be able to rest easy with a bit more money in his pocket and food in his stomach when the job was done.
---
The shower in his apartment had a fifty-fifty chance of being freezing cold or begrudgingly tepid, but the odds were in his favour. It leaned just slightly towards the more tolerable side of lukewarm, the dribbling pressure allowing him a moment of reprieve to wash himself over thoroughly.
He went through his usual routine of shaving and prepping, cleaning every last nook and cranny until he was satisfied. The client hadn't specified if he should shave, so he went for the option he was most comfortable with, a deep clean and a trim, but retaining just enough hair to help him feel less dysphoric.
He didn't really feel that way any more. Not often, at least. He might be a bit out of shape, but he was still strong, his body rugged and masculine after years of training and a brief period of self-indulgency where he convinced himself top surgery was a worthwhile expense. He'd felt guilt over it for weeks after, but it was easily drowned out by how fucking good it felt to not have to worry about wearing binders all the time. He had enough chronic backache as it was.
As fucked up as it was with all the years of superwork etched into his skin, he liked his body. But sometimes clients wanted him to change - to shave himself bare. or wear certain clothes, or wear his hair a certain way. He didn't mind most requests, and Blazer vetted out any he'd be uncomfortable with. But these types of clients - the ones who didn't seem to care - were a blessed relief. He didn't have to overthink it too much.
After a thorough shower and self inspection, it was time for the next obstacle: getting dressed. With increasing desperation, he dug through the small pile of clothes at the foot of his bed until he found the least offending item - a wrinkled button up in black. It wasn't until he was done smoothing out the worst of the creases and easing it on that he remembered the sleeves were still faintly smudged with motor oil from the last time he’d tried (and failed) to repair the Mecha Man suit's leg machanisms. Usually he didn't bother to wear clothes when fixing things up at all, but those particular pistons had a habit of catching on the skin of his forearms, and this had been the only longsleeved piece of clothing to hand.
Well, whatever. It definitely smelled faintly like depression and cheap detergent, but it was the best he could manage on short notice, and he doubted he'd be wearing it for long enough for the client to care.
As he wriggled on his pants he finally checked his phone and grimaced. He'd spent so long wallowing under the spray that he was getting pressed for time if he wanted to walk to the other side of town - which he had to, considering his lack of funds - especially if he had to make a stop first. Luckily, he had a message of the affirmative when he swiped over to the notifications, and he took a few extra minutes to try and look at least a little more put togeter before it was time to head out.
Beef whined when Robert clipped the lead to his collar, but he soothed him with a quick scratch behind the ears.
"Who wants to go to uncle Chase's tonight, huh? Don't worry buddy, I'm sure he'll give you as many treats as you ask for, okay?" Beef’s tail wagged excitedly, immediately on board with the plan, and there wasn't a peep of complaint as he walked him over to he familiar apartment a few blocks away.
If the guy knew anything about his night job, he didn't say shit about it. It was better not to ask - and he always followed through on looking after Beef where necessary. It shouldn't be that surprising considering how much he looked after his sorry ass when he was younger, and yet it still brought a smile to his face to see how the guy fussed over his dog like it was his own child. He'd be in safe hands tonight. Probably better hands than his own, but he didn't have the energy to waste on that line of self deprecation right now. He had other things to focus on.
"Who's ready to watch Fast and Furious IV tonight? I bet it's you," Chase cooed as soon as he opened the door, scooping Beef up in his arms before scowling up at Robert.
"You should at least try and seem less depressed before a hot date. You look like shit," he deadpanned.
Robert just laughed, happy to take the idea that Chase thought he could possibly land something like that right now. "At least I won't have to stress about pulling my dentures out at dinner," he joked, accepting the bark of laughter and weak swing to his side as revenge.
"Shut your mouth and be lucky I don't slap you stupid. Who taught you to be so fuckin' disrespectful to your elders, huh?"
"You did."
"Damn. You're right." Chase sighed, stepping back to rub Beef idly on the head, holding him comfortably beneath one arm. He paused just long enough to squint up at him. "You sure you don't want to come in for a sec? Have a little pre-dinner? I got leftovers."
Robert's smile softened, stepping back. "I'm sure. Don't wanna ruin my appetite."
There was a brief moment of silence, the two men staring at each other as they sized one another up. It was obviously a farce on both sides, but they'd be damned if they came out and actually called each other on their bullshit.
"Alright then. Have fun with your mystery girl," Chase conceded, flashing him a brief look that made his stomach turn uncomfortably.
He knew an out when he saw it. Slowly, he nodded. "I will. I'll see if she has a single grandma I can hook you up with."
"Man, get the fuck out."
With a laugh, they saluted each other with a single, raised finger and he ducked back out into the night alone.
---
He knows you're here. Just knock at the door; you should have no problems but if you do just tell the concierge to call the client.
Check in with me at 10 if not before. Let me know how it goes, Phoenix.
Robert wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or grateful for Mandy's diligence. To be fair to her, he wasn't exactly dressed like the sort of high class clientelle that frequented this sort of place.
It shouldn't have been that much of a surprise that he'd end up in a place like this eventually. Supers tended to do quite well for themselves - he certainly would have done, if he'd been a bit better at selling himself, or investing. He'd always been more focused on the actual work; helping people, not fattening his pockets with bullshit brand deals. He'd been selective, pouring most of his sponsorship money into maintaining the suit even before it all fell apart, then burning through the rest post retirement.
Something like this would have been a waste, but that was easy for him to say when he's the one offering a service here. Even without the proffered triple pay, it was clear the client didn't have the same reservations. Maybe he'd just gotten used to living in an empty ass room, but this place felt almost uncomfortably gaudy.
The elevator was mirrored on all sides, which meant Robert got to watch himself fidget in high definition as he attempted to school himself into the proper mindset. Staring at his own reflection wasn't exactly helping him slip into the whole "cool sexy Phoenix" persona. If anything, he felt like a skeleton someone had slapped some skin on and stuffed into a shirt two sizes too big. He could see from every possible angle how sunken his cheeks had gotten; how the dark circles beneath his eyes emphasised the sallow paleness of his skin.
Fuck; he should have at least worn a little concealer. Most people didn't want to put their dick in someone who looked like a gaunt bag of bones at the best of times, let alone one they were paying handsomely for.
He spent the brief time on the ride up fussing with his hair and pulling at his cheeks, attempting to at least look a little more put together. Maybe the lack of sleep and motivation was finally getting to him. It wouldn't do to get sloppy.
In no time at all - certainly not enough to fix whatever the fuck was up with his hair - it glided smoothly to a stop. It was even easier to find the room (a top floor king with a view for Christ's sake, just how loaded was this guy?) and he paused for just a moment longer to steady his nerves in front of the door.
He knocked, twice, short and sharp, as dictated from Mandy to the client. Just a precaution for the first time - all communication was to be done through her. He didn't mind that particular rule. People could get into all sorts of trouble, no matter how tight the vetting process was.
Again, there was no time to fuss over stupid shit like that, and he let himself take a couple of deep breaths breaths as he wrestled his face into an expression of dull neutrality.
There was a moment of rustling and footsteps from within as the client - Chad, he reminded himself - made his way to the door. Slowly, it began to open, a hand appearing in the doorframe to balance it as the figure pushed it wide and leaned forward to greet him.
His breath caught in his throat so suddenly it was a miracle he didn't choke.
As polite as it would have been, it wasn't his face he noticed at first; the surprisingly pretty face, made up of sharp features and pouty lips, framed by flowing strands of dark hair eacaping the loosely tied ponytail.
Nor was it his body, though there was a lot of it to take in. He had to be six three at least, with shoulders broad enough to match; a well muscled chest peeping through the deep V of his shirt, expertly framing a wide chest meticulously sculpted into perfection.
He was too frozen in place to do the proper thing and tilt his head up to politely greet those curious, beautiful eyes as they gave him a non-too-subtle once over.
No; instead of any of that, he was transfixed by something else entirely.
It was his hand. The large, broad fingers that spooled over the wood from where he'd leaned to open up and let him in. Long, tanned, and lightly calloused - except for the two that were cut clean in half across the knuckle.
Fingers he'd cut off himself, in a split second panic with his back against the wall. It was a mistake that almost cost him his life; had singed his shoulder so hard it still hurt, and gave him enough of aversion to avoid taking contracts with fire users even all this time later.
Without even looking, he could map the face staring down at him; each and every atom that had etched intself into his memory ever since the fated night they clashed in a battle of cold steel and scorching heat. The face that had been the subject of more than one nightmare.
That cocky smirk. Those burning yellow irises. The curve of his lips, parted to greet him with an air of confidence, wholly unaware that he was face to face with the person who wrestled him into submission and held him down until he could be dragged away and thrown behind bars. He knew them so well it made something in his chest ache.
Because the man who'd hired him; the asshole who'd chosen the alias Chad of all things, wasn't a stranger at all.
It was Flambae.