Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He loves his dad, because his dad loved him.

It has to be love. He needs it to be love.

Because if it's not—

There’s an avian standing in the meeting room.

They seem like some sort of mix between a raven and a mockingbird: fluffed neck feathers, thick and glossy, but a smaller and crooked beak. 

They reach out a taloned hand to him as he shuffles inside, the door clicking shut behind him, muffling the click and whirr of the printer and a dozen voices of dispatchers talking in their cubicles.

He shakes it, meeting the eyes of Blonde Blazer, standing at their side, arms crossed, eyes steely underneath their facemask.

“Robert, this is Matil, dispatcher of X-Team. Matil, Z-Team’s dispatcher, Robert.”

Matil hums, beak clacking in what could be a smile. “Pleasure to work with ya Robert. Heard great things over the intercomms.”

Their voice is dual-toned. It itches in the back of his brain the same way a distant hurricane siren does.

He gives a firm handshake, nodding. “Pleasure’s all mine. Heard you’ve been working with your team for years.”

Matil hums again, a twinkle in their beady, black, eyes, but they don’t elaborate.

With that, Blonde Blazer sits down, and the two of them take that as their cue to as well.

“I know this is a bit unorthodox,” She says. “But it’s been made clear that one team handling this on their own isn’t going to work. We need all hands on deck for this, so to speak.”

Matil hums. Robert leans forward.

Blonde Blazer continues. “Your teams will be specifically targeting a smuggling operation spanning across X and Z’s districts. Normal calls will be rerouted to other teams.”

She takes another breath, as if she’s holding something back.

Matil pipes up instead. “My team’s got wind that this group’s a bunch of ‘nappers. Holed up their base of operation somewhere nearby.”

Robert tries to blink. His eyes feel frozen. His hands go numb.

Blonde Blazer pinches two fingers against the skin between her eyebrows. “... yes. Amber Alerts in these districts have mostly been children between the ages of five and twelve. Your team’s job is to locate, infiltrate, and apprehend the ones responsible, as well as ensuring the children are safe.”

Alive isn’t said, but it’s implied.

In this line of work, there’s no telling if it’ll be true by the end.

It’s when Sonar hears the sound of a kid crying through thick slabs of concrete out in the middle of dilapidated-construction-nowhere that the whole thing really starts to sink in. 

He snatches a moth out of the air and crunches it between his fangs. Anything to drown the sound, even for a second.

He’s perched on some half-cobbled pillar, fully bat and fully ready to tear out some asshole’s throat, itching to move, but Bob-Bob said wait, for the kid’s sakes, so that’s what he’s going to do.

God, these freaks are the fucking worst.

“Hey Mel?”

It takes a moment for Malevola to respond. When she does, it’s just a hum.

None of them are feeling too talkative over the comms today… tonight. It’s uncanny.

He’s… not sure what to say either. If he had anything in mind to begin with.

“Sorry. Just… forget it.”

“Sorta hard to do with the silence.” Says a new voice. Glasgow, from X-Team, if he’s remembering names properly. A super with a permanent smile, uses the reflection in their teeth for hypnosis. “We got nothing else to do.”

“I think I was just trying to fill the silence. Sitting around sucks ass.”

There’s multiple exhales over the comms. Agreements without words.

“I get it.” That’s Bob-Bob’s voice. “But if we go in ‘guns blazing’ we’re going to cause more harm than good. Getting the kids out quietly first thing is our best bet.”

“Which we are working on.” Invisigal adds.

“Right on.” Hisses another. X-Team’s Octo-hybrid.

Sonar’s ears flatten against his head as the sound folds through the slabs: a thin, ragged sob, like someone trying to keep noise from spilling out.

Fuck. These poor kids.

“When I get my hands on those fuckers.” Flambae spits over the comms, wind whistling through his teeth as he exhales something close to fire. “There’s not going to be bones left when I’m done.”

“Not if I get to them first.” Golem adds.

Someone else laughs. A quiet and tense chirp.

“Your team’s got quite a mouth, Robert.” X-Team’s dispatcher says.

Bob-Bob sighs. “This isn’t even that bad, honestly.”

Someone else whistles over the comm. Deliberate. Over the speaker, something clicks open.

Lock-Smith, then. Probably. 

“Reinforced door’s open. Where did you say you heard the noises, Sonar?” Lock-Smith whispers.

Sonar squints down at the weathered ruins below him, ears tipped back towards the foundations and below. His wings tighten at his sides as the sounds hit him again. It feels like a punch in the dick.

“Sound’s coming out from the east side. Basement levels, I’d assume. Muffled like it’s coming out through concrete.”

“Yeah, it’s a whole fucking maze down here,” Invisigal says. “Looks like they repurposed the whole thing into something military-grade. The security system’s not half-bad either.”

Sonar exhales through his nose, long and slow. The sobs come again, shorter now. Exhaustion, not hope. He hates how he can tell the difference.

He shifts, wings twitching. “They’re fading. Kid’s running out of voice.”

Static crackles, followed by Bob-Bob’s steady tone. “Copy that. Teams one and two advance. Minimal noise.”

“Keep your ears open for any change, Sonar.” X-Team’s dispatcher adds.

“Yup.” Is all he can manage to say as footfall of familiar boots and shoes floods his ears.

There’s the click of locks opening. The subtle slide of metal hinges swinging open. The muffled gasps behind hands and snuffles from small noses.

“Headcount done.” The Octo-hybrid says. “We got all seventeen.”

“Portal’s up and running,” says Malevola. Then, in a softer voice. “Just close your eyes, alright? We’re getting you out.”

Two minutes pass longer than two minutes ever should. Sonar’s body is drawn tighter than he’s ever been, even more than watching the stock market crash of 2020.

Finally, it all snaps when Bob-Bob says. “They’re out.”

Another hum over the comms. Something two-tones and predatory.

“Give them hell.”

Sonar drops into the ruin with the softest flap and the loudest, blood-curdling screech, followed by a dozen other SDN heroes. The moon slices the site.

And they sure as hell don’t hold back.

Out of the thirty-something freaks they apprehend in the ruins, only seven are alive enough to be dragged into the SDN building for proper detainment and questioning.

That second part is complete bullshit, in Flambae’s opinion.

He’s pacing the hallway, smoke coiling off his shoulders and fists.

Off in the corner, someone cracks open a window. He doesn’t give a shit.

Sonar’s off to his right, pressed against the wall, ears flat in the way that reads, without words, I’m done with this. He doesn’t want to listen. None of them do.

Malevola’s gone for the night. Invisigal’s wrestling one of the seven into an interrogation room, the cuffs click dangerously tight. Punch-up’s rinsing blood from his knuckles in the sink, water steaming over red. Golem thundered off to the gym, because pain that can be worked out is easier than pain that burns a hole through your chest. X-Team are cleaning, debriefing, laughing half-hearted jokes that don’t reach their eyes.

Robert Roberson is the opposite of motion. Robert Roberson sitting at his desk, fingers clacking over the keyboard.

Flambae can still hear his words ringing out in his mind like a scream, or the whistle of a Kamikaze Jet.

“You all weren’t supposed to kill them.”

Like a fucking narc.

Like a man who’d rather a monster walk free with a clean record than hear a child’s name taken seriously.

But Robert is typing. He’s not debating. He’s not yelling. He’s copying. Every word that crawled out of those scumbags’ mouths in the armored car, every variant of their excuses and bragging, he’s transferring into the record with a calm that makes Flambae’s skin prickle.

Wanted them sick fucks alive.

What kind of a hero thinks scum like this deserves to walk the earth?

There’s not many lows a villain won’t stoop to, but children sure as hell are one of them.

No one does thins like that to a child.

And somehow, the only man in the room acting like it’s a normal day is motherfucking Roberto.

“Why the fuck would you want them alive?”

Robert’s fingers still mid-type. His head slowly turns to face Flambae, and the face he sees, expressionless, dull-eyed, he’d even go as far as to say bored, makes his blood boil.

“So they could—what? Get off on the stand? Lie again? Protect their—”

“It’s not about protection,” Robert says. Swivels his chair away from the screen, leaning forward, hands handing between his legs. “A corpse says nothing, Flambae. A corpse can’t be cross-examined. You want to pulverize monsters? Fine. But if every time we snap a neck we lose a thread back to a bigger machine, then the machine keeps running.”

“Are you fucking hearing yourself right now?” Invisigal shouts, storming down the hall, pausing for a moment to suck in a breath from her inhaler. “You’re starting to sound like them.”

“I’m doing a job,” Robert answers. “You did yours… somewhat. Let me do mine.”

“Oh. Okay. So your job now is defending pedophiles. I didn’t know Heroes had that on their job description. My apologies, Mecha Man.” Flambae sneers.

A silence follows that practically sucks all the air from the room. With the late night meaning only the two teams and their dispatchers in the building, it’s a dangerously long minute of it.

The X-Team filter out long before Robert’s sigh breaks the silence.

He pushes himself to his feet, voice even, conversational, the way someone might discuss the weather.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, a boy speaks out. About something that was done to him. Something that makes people uncomfortable to hear. The kind of story that ruins dinner parties and campaign trails.”

One step forward.

“So he talks. He names a name. The police take statements, start sniffing around. But then the man being accused, he says it’s a misunderstanding. The boy’s emotional. Imaginative. You know how kids are.”

A roll of the eyes, a smile that looks more like a dolls, words that sound like someone quoting rather than his own.

“And this man, he’s not just anyone. He’s a Hero. One of the most popular ones, in fact. The boy? He’s small. Prone to lying when he’s scared. The kind people don’t take seriously because he’s just some spoiled brat living in the spotlight of a great legacy.”

Flambae matches his gaze, but that’s not boredom darkening the edges. No. It’s a haze, a fog, something dark and distant. Like he’s looking a thousand yards away.

“So when it comes down to it… whose word do you think they believe?”

No one breathes.

Robert pulls in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, tugs at the cuffs rolled up his arms.

“Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

And with that, he walks out, steps measured, echoing down the hall. The door hisses shut behind him.

Flambae’s jaw tightens, flame flickering weakly through his teeth.

Sonar doesn’t answer. He just presses his claws to his temples, listening to the faint sound of footfall, steady and unbroken, traveling away from the closed door.

Chapter Text

You’re gonna bleed when you’re a hero.

So this must be worth it if he wants to be in the suit.

He calls in sick.

Well, really, he calls Chase and says he can’t make it in today, and answers whatever Chase assumes is going on with vague acknowledgments until he’s able to hang up the phone with only a “you better get better soon you prick” for his troubles.

He’s not really sick.

Sure, he’s been vomiting in the toilet all morning, but that’s not sick. Sick is ‘the world is spinning and I’m too weak to push myself up from the floor.’ This is just a minor inconvenience.

Just his brain deciding to dredge up the scum at the bottom of his memories.

With a groan, Robert spits into the basin and leans his head against the cool edge of the toilet.

Beef whines from the other side of the bathroom door, paw raking against the gap underneath. The door rattles.

“No, Beef. Stop.”

The whine continues, but the rattling stops.

Robert lifts his head enough to drag a hand down his face. His palm smells like metal, like the doorknobs in the old house. Like the sour smell of alcohol on a breath—

God. No. Not today.

He flushes the toilet even though there’s nothing left to flush, wipes his mouth with trembling fingers, and braces himself on the counter to stand. His legs wobble. Not from illness. But from the way the memories claw their way in and make the world feel distorted.

Beef barks from behind the door.

“Yeah, yeah,” Robert mutters, reaching for the doorknob.

The door’s not even open far enough before Beef’s barreling through the sliver of space, a 90 pound missile of fur, into his leg, and headbuts him out of the bathroom one small furry thunk at a time.

His apartment’s got more lamps than any other furniture, but he sinks into a chair and stares out the window. Morning light filtering through smudged patio windows overlooking Los Angeles.

For a moment, he just stares at the light slowly crawling over the city.

It’s better than listening to the thoughts clawing their way up.

Better than letting the memories talk back.

Better than hearing him.

Shut the fuck up.

Robert clamps a hand over his mouth and sucks a breath through his nose, screwing his eyes shut. Like that’ll shove down the rest of it worming its way under his eyes.

He holds his breath.

Beef barks. Once.

The noise makes him jump in his chair.

A second later, there’s a fist loudly-but-politely punching the door in an attempt at a knock.

Beef barks again, claws skittering across the floor as he scrambles toward the entryway.

Robert wipes his face with his sleeve—pointless, nothing there—and forces himself upright.

Shaking fingers slip just a bit on the lock as he yanks the door open.

His mouth is primed with something akin to verbal harassment for the poor door-to-door salesman stuck with him on the other end.

He snaps his mouth shut a second later.

Because it’s not a salesman.

It’s Prism.

Casual clothing, vape in one hand, some small bag in the other.

“Uh,” Robert says, eloquently.

“Heard you were sick.” she says, and shoulders past him and into his apartment.

Not for the first time, but for fucks sake.

“Yeah, and aren’t you on the clock?”

“Not today, we aren’t,” she says, depositing the bag on his kitchen counter. “Something to do with our dispatcher not being able to make it in today. Anyways.”

Prism turns to him, one hand on her hip, the other waving towards the bag.

“Soup.”

Robert blinks at her.

“Sick people get soup, right? That’s, like, a thing people do?”

She says it like even she isn’t too sure about it.

Robert’s still trying to make the words she’s saying make any sort of sense.

“…You brought me soup,” he says, mostly to confirm he’s awake and not hallucinating a member of Z-Team in his kitchen.

Wouldn’t be the first time, but still.

“Yeah.” Prism takes a long pull from her vape, exhales a blue plume that smells vaguely like cotton candy and battery acid. “Because you’re sick.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Scrubs a hand over his face before another thought hits him.

“You’re not the only one showing up, aren’t you.”

Prism just leans against the kitchen counter and takes another pull of her vape. Beef headbutts her boot to get headpats.

She does not answer him.

Which is, unfortunately, the same thing as answering him.

Robert groans into both hands. “Prism.”

“What?” she asks innocently, like a raccoon pretending it didn’t just chew through drywall.

“Tell me they’re not coming here.”

She gives Beef a lazy scratch behind the ears. “Okay.”

He narrows his eyes. “Tell me the truth.”

Prism sighs, long-suffering, like he’s the unreasonable one.

“Look. Chase may have mentioned checking up on you later... with all of us in the room."

Robert drops his forehead onto the counter with a dull thud.

Prism gestures vaguely toward the front door with her vape.

“Hey, at least I came first. That gives you time to emotionally prepare.”

Robert bristles. “I called in sick. People do that.”

“You’ve never called in sick.”

Prism spins the vape between her fingers.

“Not once. Ever. Not even when you had the stomach flu and kept muting the comms to puke.”

“That was allergies.”

“Nah. That was bile.”

She looks up at him, expression unreadable, but not unkind.

“So yeah,” she says. “We’re all showing up. Sorry.”

She does not sound remotley sorry.

Beef chooses that exact moment to leap up and prop himself against Prism’s leg.

He grimaces. “Beef, don’t encourage this.”

Beef absolutely encourages this.

And that’s when a portal opens up in lieu of a knock.

Robert presses both hands to his face.

“Kill me.”

“Nah,” Prism says, waving at the portal. “We brought soup for that.”

“And blue Gatorade.” Malevola adds, stepping through her portal. “Not sure why it’s a requirement, but people kept saying to get the blue kind specifically.”

Chapter Text

“You’re doing so good.”

Despite it all, he glows at those words.

Then, he can pretend it’s just a hug, and that Dad is just proud of him.

His apartment was not meant to fit this many people.

Not physically, not emotionally, and not in a “my coworkers are currently arguing over whether my chair counts as furniture” kind of way.

Prism has already claimed a barstool. Malevola is carefully setting down the bottle of blue Gatorade with her tail. Flambae is yanking open the patio sliding glass door and depositing something that looks suspiciously like a board game in the middle of the room. Beef has chosen violence and is enthusiastically greeting everyone by slamming his entire body weight into their shins one by one.

Robert stands in his own kitchen like a guest.

“Where do you even… how did all of you get here that fast?” he asks.

“Portal,” Malevola says.

“Also portal,” says Punch-up, who squeezes into the apartment sideways. “Would take the bus, but traffic’s ass.”

“Dropped from the roof,” Sonar mutters, climbing in through the now open balcony door like that’s a perfectly normal entrance.

Robert pinches the bridge of his nose. “My door opens. My door exists.”

“Yeah,” Prism says, tapping the fridge with her knuckle.

“I’m using it.” Golem says, lumbering through the door and closing it softly behind his form.

“Thank you.” Robert deadpans, then blinks, because Invisigal is piggybacking on him.

She gives him a two-fingered salute and hops off the construct with a smile.

“Well, the gang’s mostly here now. Did Coupé say anything?” Flambae asks, dusting off his hands with a loud clap.

“Coop’s got mandatory CMTY. She’ll be showin’ up a bit later.” Punch-up shrugs, making himself at home on top of the kitchen counter alongside Sonar. “You got any beers?”

Prism opens up the fridge for him, and scoffs.

“Dude, why is your fridge naked?”

Robert steps forward as if to defend it. “There’s food.”

“There’s mustard,” she says.

“And a lemon,” Golem adds.

Robert closes his mouth.

They all go quiet for a moment, and the Z-Team shares a glance between them all, and a silent conversation takes place.

Then, Malevola steps closer. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Robert forces a shrug. “Last night. I think.”

Flambae frowns. “Think?”

“I was busy.”

He means: I couldn’t keep it down.

He means: My body won’t let me swallow when my head’s like this.

He means: Don’t ask.

Sonar hops off the counter, landing lightly, and swipes the bag off the counter and deposits it in Robert’s hands.

Heat seeps through the plastic.

“You should eat.” Golem rumbles, patting him on the shoulder, gently, but still nearly dislocating it.

He opens his mouth to argue—

Invisigal grabs him by the shoulders and practically dumps him onto one of his barstools.

Someone sets an empty glass down next to the Gatorade bottle.

For the next minute, he’s left staring at the countertop while everyone shifts around him. Not watching him too closely, not hovering over his shoulders, but there. Unable to be ignored.

“So why’d you bring the board game?” Punch-up asks.

“Niece likes it,” Flambae says as the sound of hard plastic and cardboard shifts around. “Beats the shit out of me every time we play, though.”

“Physically or emotionally?”

“Both, sometimes.”

“Sick. Deal me in.” Invisigal says.

“Not how this works.” Flambae fires back.

“Coward,” Invisigal mutters, already grabbing a handful of plastic pieces anyway.

Robert stares at the soup container like it might get up and walk away if he hesitates long enough.

The plastic is warm. Too warm, almost... like someone else’s hand. It makes something unwelcome crawl up his throat.

He peels the lid off. Steam curls out. Beef’s nose immediately presses against his knee, sniffing like a bloodhound with a one-brain-cell mission.

“Not for you,” Robert mutters, nudging him away half-heartedly.

He picks up the spoon.

His wrist hesitates. Just barely. No one calls it out, but he feels it, half a dozen pairs of eyes pretending to be busy.

He forces the spoon through the broth. Brings it to his mouth.

Swallows.

The soup tastes like nothing. Like warm water with a memory of salt. His stomach clenches in protest, but doesn’t reject it.

He takes another bite. And another.

Conversation builds back up around him. Small gripes and bets and things he can filter out. Someone wins the first round of whatever game their playing, Golem insists someone cheated.

He’s halfway through when Sonar’s voice carries over the rest.

“So… hypothetically.”

The game continues. A card slaps down on the cold floor.

Robert’s hands go numb. He sets the soup container down as gently as he can manage.

“The hero sounds like a dick.”

It’s not directed at him. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t.

He focuses on the scrape of plastic against tile. The soft thud of someone shifting on the counter. The clatter of game pieces.

Not the conversation.

Not the word hero sitting like a detonator in his skull.

“You’re playing it wrong,” Invisigal says absently in the background. Cards shuffle. Someone groans. Someone else laughs.

Normal noise. Harmless noise.

“And hypothetically,” Punch-up adds, “if this hero was supposedly good at his job but actually sucked as a human being—”

“Piece of shit,” Flambae supplies.

“—yeah, thanks—then why’d anybody even trust him in the first place?”

Robert places both hands on either side of the soup container to steady himself. His fingers leave damp prints on the countertop.

He doesn’t say anything.

Sonar hums. Quiet, but edged. “Maybe because heroes get believed by default.”

“Mm.” Prism deals another tile. “And kids don’t.”

“Especially if the kid’s already got some kinda reputation,” Invisigal says lightly, like she’s reading off a grocery list.

Golem rumbles. “Hypo-thetically.”

Robert’s jaw locks so tight his molars ache.

He stares at the soup. Watches it tremble minutely from the small tremor in his own hand.

Malevola’s tail flicks. “Hypothetically,” she drawls, “that boy wouldn’t exactly forget something like that.”

“Or get over it,” Golem adds, voice low. “People don’t just get over that.”

Robert exhales through his nose. Sharp, barely controlled. Like trying not to retch.

He reaches for the soup again, even though the warmth now feels like it’s burning his palms.

Flambae lets out a humorless huff. “Yeah, well. Hypothetically? Sounds like the kid never had a chance.”

Robert’s throat tightens.

The spoon clatters against the bowl, louder than it should be.

He doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t look at any of them.

If he sees even one sympathetic face, he’s going to break in half.

“Hypothetically,” Prism says carefully, “that kind of thing doesn’t come from nowhere.”

The room is warm. Too warm. The steam from the soup crawls up into his nose like it’s trying to choke him.

He leans forward slightly, breathing shallow.

Invisigal mutters, “Hypothetically, bet the kid tried to say something. Bet he tried hard.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Prism’s voice is soft. Almost too soft.

“And hypothetically… what made him stop?”

Something cracks in his chest. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… a tiny break. A dam giving way a drop at a time.

Robert forces a breath out.

His voice comes out thin, ragged at the edges.

“H–hypothetically. The kid already tried, and no one believed him. So why bother?”

Someone inhales. Someone else stops mid-fidget.

Robert stares at the countertop. At the soup he’s no longer eating. At the way his own hands shake. He hopes no one can see.

They can. They all can.

Malevola breaks the quiet first. Her voice is low, deliberate, like she’s choosing every word with surgical care.

“Hypothetically… kids bother because they hope someone will believe them the second time.”

Robert’s laugh is barely a breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just empty.

“Yeah. Well."

He swallows.

“The kid wasn’t stupid.”

“Hypothetically,” Punch-up says, “sounds like the adults around him sure as hell were.”

That squeezes something inside Robert’s chest. Like the floor tilts a degree under his feet.

Golem shifts where he sits on the floor, stone creaking softly.

“Or,” he rumbles, “they weren’t stupid. They just didn’t care.”

Robert’s breath stutters. He grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles go bloodless.

It’s Invisigal who steps into the quiet next.

“And hypothetically… nobody should have to say something twice for it to matter.”

“That’s assuming it mattered at all,” Robert mutters, so soft the words fray on the way out.

Flambae scoffs, but the sound is strangely devoid of fire. “Hypothetically? It should’ve. That’s the whole fucking point.”

Robert shakes his head.

He doesn’t look at them. He can’t.

His eyes stay locked on the pattern of scratches in his own countertop, tiny scars in a cheap laminate surface.

He forces the next sentence out like he’s peeling off his own skin.

“The—kid learned pretty fast that talking only made things worse.”

A hush settles thick enough to drown in.

Sonar shifts again, ears angled back, voice pointed and fang-tipped.

“Worse how.”

Robert’s voice cracks. Just a little. Just enough.

“…Hypothetically.”

“Yeah,” Sonar echoes. “Hypothetically.”

The room waits, holding its breath around him.

Beef nudges his knee. A warm, heavy weight anchoring him to the moment he wants to run from. Robert inhales, sharp and unsteady, and presses his thumb into the countertop like pressure alone can keep the words from spilling.

He’s losing the battle.

Because the next thing out of his mouth isn’t controlled. Isn’t calculated. Isn’t distant. It’s just true, ripped raw out of whatever he’s been holding shut for years.

“Hypothetically,” he chokes, “the kid just let it happen after that, because it was the only time he was ever nice to me.”

The silence drops like a stone.

And Robert—finally, helplessly—breaks eye contact with the soup and clamps a hand over his mouth, like he can shove the confession back inside before anyone breathes.

He forces a laugh. It’s barely a sound. More a broken exhale.

“Hypothetically,” he repeats, quieter, as if the word can un-say everything else.

“Hypothetically,” Flambae spits into the silence that follows. “Your father was a piece of shit, Robert.”

Robert’s laugh dies in his throat.

The word father hits like a brick dropped straight onto his sternum.

Air leaves his lungs in a short, strangled sound he wasn’t prepared to make.

“I—he’s—”

His tongue trips over the words like they’re landmines.

He shakes his head. “Don’t—don’t call him that.”

Punch-up snorts, low and sharp. “What, ‘piece of shit’?”

“That,” Robert snaps. Too quickly. Too defensive. “And—” His voice thins to a thread. “The other thing.”

Prism blinks. “Your father?”

“Stop.”

It’s barely a whisper.

More plea than command.

His throat works around nothing.

“I don’t—” He swallows, then again, like his body can’t decide which direction is up. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Sonar’s voice drops. “We’re not talking about him. We’re talking about you.”

Robert curls forward, palms digging into his eye sockets.

“Hypothetically,” he says, muffled, shaking with the effort of staying upright, “I don’t want to be having this conversation.”

Punch-up shrugs. “Yeah, well. Hypothetically, we don’t want you sitting here thinking you deserved any of that.”

“Or that it was your fault,” Golem adds.

“Or that keeping quiet was the same as choosing,” Invisigal finishes.

Robert freezes.

Just stills completely.

Like one more word could knock the whole structure down.

And then, so quietly the room leans in to hear it. “…I didn’t choose any of it.”

Not a question.

Not quite a belief.

Just the first crack of it.

Malevola nods, once, solemn.

“Hypothetically,” she says, “that sounds like the truth.”

Robert exhales shakily.

And for the first time since waking up, he doesn’t feel like the apartment is too small.

Just crowded enough.

Because, for the first time in his life, there’s people who believe him.

Not people in his dreams or in his imagination.

Just this real, fucked up, little family of ex-villains trying to be better, wanting to see and hear instead of look the other way.