Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bank is quiet in that clinical sort of way that makes Robert feel like he’s about to take a test. Everything smells faintly of printer ink and cleaning chemicals. The line moves slow, people shifting their weight from foot to foot, eyes glazed over. A toddler whines somewhere behind him, and the sound scrapes down his spine.

He checks his phone even though there’s nothing on it. A few promotional emails. A notification about a sale on dog food. No messages. No calls. When Blondie had made him use up his vacation days, she probably hadn’t anticipated how boring his life was.

“Robert,” she’d said, that bright, corporate tone cutting clean through the background noise. Her voice carried the kind of cheer that was impossible to ignore, as if she could bend the mood of the entire room by will alone. “You’ve still got twelve days of PTO left. You need to use at least five before the year rolls over.”

He blinked up at her slowly, like it took his brain a moment to catch up with her words. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges from disuse.

Blonde Blazer didn’t so much as twitch.

“You’ll lose them,” she said, a lightness in her tone that almost masked the authority behind it. “Only a third carries over.”

He didn’t look away from the screen. “I don’t mind losing them.”

“I do, though, sooo...”

She’d leaned forward slightly, bracing a hand on the back of his chair. The scent of her perfume reached him; something sharp and clean, like citrus and champagne and static. Her shadow fell across his desk. The smile she wore wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t soft either. It was the kind of smile that didn’t leave room for negotiation. “Take a week. Go outside. Touch grass. I’ll see you next Monday.”

He had opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. She had already turned away, confident enough in her authority not to need his agreement. Her heels clicked against the tile, steady, certain, until the sound faded into the dull murmur of the office beyond.

When the queue lurches forward, he steps up automatically, half dazed.

The clerk behind the glass has the faintest shimmering of scales where the desk light hits her face. She smiles like it’s part of her uniform, sharp toothed. “How can I help you today?”

“I want to open a savings account,” he says. The words sound strange coming out of his mouth, like he’s borrowed someone else’s optimism.

She brightens, taps a few keys. “Wonderful. Do you already bank with us?”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughs politely, though her eyes don’t flicker up from the screen. He slides over his ID, listens to the clack of her nails against the keyboard. The hum of the air conditioning seems to vibrate right through his ribs.

It happens so fast he almost doesn’t believe it. One moment the world is orderly, held together by the dull rhythm of fluorescent lights and tapping keyboards. The next, it splits open.

The explosion is a single, brutal sound that crushes everything else flat. The far wall erupts inward, spitting glass and chunks of plaster. The air goes white with dust and smoke. Heat punches across the room, a rolling, animal thing that knocks him from his feet before he even thinks to move.

He hits the floor hard, cheek hitting tile. His breath bursts out of him, a sharp noise swallowed by the roaring in his ears. Somewhere nearby, someone screams. Another voice yells for help, strangled by the cough of fire alarms.

He covers his head as glass keeps falling, a rain of glittering knives. The acrid stink of smoke burns his nose and throat. The floor vibrates beneath him, trembling with the aftershock.

When he dares to look up, the world is tilted wrong. Part of the roof is gone, torn open to daylight and chaos. Papers drift through the air like feathers. A printer burns quietly on its side, coughing black smoke.

Robert’s heart slams in his chest. His ears ring so loud it feels like a physical thing. He can’t tell if the noise around him is real or if it’s all just that high, piercing tone. Someone grabs at his shoulder, shouting words that come through like underwater sound.

Fire. Screams. The stink of blood and burnt plastic. He moves before his brain catches up. His voice cuts through the ringing in his ears, instinct steadying his body before panic can.

“Everyone out!” he shouts, throat raw from the smoke. “Stay low, move to the exits—go, go!”

People move when someone tells them to. They always do, if the voice sounds sure enough. He sounds sure. That helps.

A woman stumbles past him, face streaked grey with dust. He guides her toward the doorway, hand firm on her shoulder, then turns back into the mess. The smoke’s thick now, crawling across the floor like a living thing, turning light into murk. Every breath tastes like metal.

He spots a man half-pinned under a fallen beam, legs kicking weakly. Robert’s there before the thought’s even formed. He plants his feet, wedges both hands under the hot, splintered wood, and heaves. His ribs protest, the burn slicing up his palms, but the beam shifts enough for the man to crawl free.

“Out,” Robert barks, and the man nods, limp and wild-eyed, before bolting toward the light.

He coughs, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes, and goes again. Someone’s crying near the back, a thin, desperate sound. He kicks debris aside, shoves over a broken chair, reaches for the hand sticking out between bricks. The alarms scream above them, high and steady, lights flashing red against the smoke.

“Come on,” he says, dragging the woman upright. “You’re alright. Keep your head down.”

He ushers her forward, one hand pressed to the small of her back to keep her moving. His lungs burn now, the world narrowing to the next person he can pull up, the next voice in the smoke.

Then, a woman’s voice, high and horrified. He spins toward her before the words even make sense. She seems to be an employee, wearing a pressed pantsuit, though minorly singed at the hems. “My son! He’s still inside!”

“Where?” he shouts, stepping closer.

“The— the offices, I think! He wasn’t supposed to– the sitter cancelled and I–”

That’s enough. He doesn’t think. He yanks his shirt up over his mouth, the fabric hot and damp with sweat already, and turns back into the ruin. The air hits him like a wall. Thick, acrid heat claws at his throat and fills his lungs with the taste of burning plastic.

The lights are gone. Fire paints everything in orange and black. The ceiling groans above him, metal bending and popping. He crouches low, knees slick against the dust and broken glass, moving by instinct. He can hear the bank’s alarms still shrieking somewhere beyond the roar of the flames.

“Kid?” he coughs, voice cracking. “You hear me?”

Every word rasps against his throat. He squints through the haze, eyes stinging so bad they stream. A desk lies half-collapsed ahead, one leg melted at the joint, and beyond it the faintest whimper.

He drops to a crawl, sweeping the floor with one hand, feeling the heat of the wood, the grit of plaster and ash under his palm. The smoke shifts just enough for him to see movement beneath the desk. A small shape curled tight. A child’s voice hitching on sobs.

“Hey,” he says softly, lowering himself, throat raw and lungs burning. “You hurt?”

The boy shakes his head, face streaked with soot. His little hands fist in Robert’s shirt as Robert scoops him up, light as air. “Good,” Robert murmurs, voice hoarse. “Let’s get you out.”

He turns toward the doorway. Then stops.

Two figures stand in the ruined hall. Smoke curls around them like stage fog.

The one in front wears a suit of black leather that catches the light in sharp, orange reflections. His gloves are thick and scuffed, fingertips scorched.The bottom of his face is hidden by a rebreather. Along his arms, metal rings are strapped tight, wired into a crude harness that hums faintly. Sparks spit from one of the wrist bands.

Beside him, the second is leaner, his outfit pieced together from what looks like stolen tech—armoured plates bolted over a blue-grey bodysuit, circuitry running up his sleeves and pulsing in slow rhythm. A visor masks half his face, screens flickering with data that seems to shift with every breath he takes.

The one in leather nudges his partner with the back of his hand. “Oi,” he says, voice muffled slightly. “There’s still people in here, Cortex.”

The man with the visor, Cortex, turns, following the gesture. His eyes narrow behind the glass. He studies Robert, studies the child in his arms, and his posture changes. He straightens, shifts one foot back, spreads his hands like he’s already calculating distance and timing. The air between them feels heavier.

Robert sets the kid down behind him, keeping one arm out as though that alone could hold them back. His breathing is rough and dry in his throat. The smoke claws at his eyes. “You really want to do this here?” he says.

The one in leather seems to shift his feet excitedly. “You had your chance to dip,” he says. “Should’ve taken it.”

The first hit comes fast, a blur of movement through the haze. Robert ducks under it, shoulder-checks the man hard enough to send him stumbling into the wall. He pivots, sweeps a leg, connects solidly with the back of the other’s knee. The visor catches the light as his opponent folds. Robert drives a fist into his ribs and hears the wet crack of impact, followed by a short grunt.

It feels good for half a second. Then the world closes in again.

A blast of heat rips past him, scorching the tiles. The sound stings his ears. He throws up an arm, the sleeve catching fire for a breath before he smothers it against the floor. He’s already moving, already striking, his body running on memory. Elbow, knee, hook. The air tastes like blood and ash.

The one with the tech visor recovers first, slamming a boot into Robert’s side. The kick lands deep, bruising muscle and bone. The pain flashes bright in his skull. He goes down hard, rolls, comes up again. He catches the next punch, twists the man’s wrist until something pops, then throws him into a pile of broken desks.

“Run!” Robert shouts, voice cracking through the roar of the fire. He shoves the boy toward the door, hard enough to send him stumbling into the hall. The child hesitates only for a second before bolting.

Robert turns back, chest heaving, vision starting to tunnel. His body moves like it’s been through this before, clean and practiced. He lands another hit, catches the leather one across the jaw, cracking the rebreather a little, then takes one back that snaps his head sideways. The smoke thickens, choking his lungs. His arms feel heavy. The room spins.

A moment later he’s on one knee, the pair of them closing in again. The visor gleams red through the smoke.

The man in leather cracks his neck, glances at the burning ceiling, and snorts. “Not worth it,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Die slow.”

They back off through the haze, their shapes swallowed by firelight and dust.

Robert stays where he is, hands braced on the broken floor, trying to breathe against the noise of the collapsing walls.

At first, he tries to follow. His body jerks upright on instinct, his mind still fixed on the sight of the child disappearing through the smoke. He takes one step, then another, but the floor rises to meet him. His knee slams into the warped tile. A shock of pain shoots up his leg, sharp enough to blur his vision.

He pushes against the ground, trying to rise again. The air is a wall. Hot, solid, impossible to pull into his lungs. Every breath tears. Smoke stings his eyes until he can barely see. The fire makes a sound like breathing, a deep and endless rush that fills his ears.

He keeps crawling, dragging himself over scattered paper and glass. The floor vibrates under him. The world feels unsteady, as though it is tilting him toward something. He can’t tell what direction he is moving anymore. His hand reaches for the faint shape of a doorway, or maybe just a gap in the brightness.

What an embarrassing way to die, he thinks, not even sure if the words are inside his head or spoken aloud. He coughs, and the noise that comes out sounds nothing like his own voice. His vision flickers. The edges of everything fold inward, grey creeping over colour.

He drags one last breath that tastes of ash. The heat presses down until it feels like a weight on his back. His hand stretches forward once more, trembling, and the world blinks out.

⋆˚₊ 𖤓☽˚.⋆

Voices drag him back from the dark. Faint at first, like sound travelling through water.

“Is that—?”
“Rob-Bob? I think so—”
“What the hell is he—”

Then silence again, deep and smothering.

When he wakes, the world is all red and white and pain. The sirens keen somewhere nearby. His skin sticks to the stretcher, and every inhale burns. There are people moving around him, faces blurred by the bright lights. Someone says something he can’t catch. He reaches out without thinking and catches a hand. It is warm, real, alive. The contact anchors him just long enough for the fear to reach him properly.

“The kid,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Where’s the—”

The hand squeezes his. A voice, close enough to cut through the noise, says, “You got him out, man. He’s fine. Just relax.”

He tries to nod. The lights tilt. Relief sinks heavy through his chest, loosening something tight that had been holding him rigid. The sound of the sirens stretches, softens, and fades as he slips back under.

Chapter Text

He dreams of falling.

The air screams in his ears. The metal shrieks louder. The suit is on fire. The alarms are deafening and meaningless, a chorus of failure that drowns out his own voice. He remembers seeing the bomb fixed onto the panel, the way the scan bled red across the screen. He remembers knowing, in that instant, that there was nothing he could do. Then the flash. Heat at his back. The machine tearing open around him, light flooding in as gravity took him. His stomach lifts and his body drops. The flames rush up to meet him.

He wakes with a violent gasp. The air in his throat tastes of smoke and copper. His chest tightens, spasms. He coughs so hard he thinks he might tear something open. Hands are on him at once, steadying, pulling him upright. Someone thumps his back. A cup appears in his hand but slips from his shaking fingers and hits his lap with a plastic rattle. He barely feels it soak into the sheets.

“Damn it, dumbass,” says a voice to his right, “Obviously he can’t hold shit—”

“I don’t know, man, I panicked!”

Their bickering cuts through the static in his head, grounding him. He draws one ragged breath after another, blinking against the light until the room steadies.

Robert squints through the haze, the edges of the world refusing to focus. Shapes move before him, voices pricking through the muffled ringing in his ears. He blinks until two figures come into view. Flambae, arms raised in surrender, scowling, sheepish in the way only someone too full of themselves can manage. Invisigal, hands on her hips, clearly moments from throttling him. They are bickering. Of course they are.

“Next time you try to help, maybe don’t fuckin waterboard someone we just pulled out of a burning building,” Invisigal says sarcastically.

Robert’s mouth moves before his brain catches up. “What the fuck..?”

Both heads snap toward him in unison.

“He lives!” Flambae announces, spreading his arms like it’s a miracle of his own making.

Robert just stares. His eyes sting, his skull feels like it’s full of sand, and he’s not entirely convinced this isn’t some hallucination. He opens his mouth again, closes it, gives up halfway through forming words. They’re still looking at him expectantly. His head pounds in time with his pulse.

“Eh, can you speak, Rob-Bob?” Flambae asks, leaning forward.

“Of course he can speak, dumbass,” Invisigal cuts in, her tone dripping with scorn. Then she hesitates, squints down at him. “You can speak, right?”

“Yeeesss..?” Robert croaks, voice rough and small, like it hasn’t been used in years. His throat burns. The sound of it barely fills the air between them.

“See?” Invisigal mutters, crouching beside him with another cup in hand. This time she doesn’t let go, fingers steady around his. “Flambae dropped the last one.”

“I did not fuckin drop it,” Flambae protests from somewhere behind her, sounding personally offended.

“You dropped it straight on his legs,” she says without looking at him.

“Because you scared me!”

“By sitting here?”

The argument builds quick and easy, bouncing between them like an old habit. It’s stupid, but the sound of it pulls something back into place in Robert’s chest. The ache in his ribs softens a little. He watches them through the blur, their voices overlapping in a way that feels almost normal.

He clears his throat, a quiet rasp of sound. Both of them stop instantly. The silence that follows is sharp. They turn toward him like guilty kids.

“How did I…?” Robert asks, the words scraping their way out of his throat. He can taste ash still, dry and sour at the back of his mouth.

Flambae jumps in fast, too loud for the small room. “You were in the bank. There was a fire. I was dispatched, of course—”

“SDN sent us,” Invisigal cuts in, sharp but tired. “We didn’t even know you were there until—”

“Until I spotted you dragging yourself out of the rubble and saved your sorry ass”. 

“I carried him,” Invisigal says flatly.

“You did not.”

“I did. You were too busy showing off.”

“Blonde Blazer told us to impress the publi—”

Robert blinks. His brain is slow to catch up. “Blonde Blazer sent you?”

“No,” Flambae says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The scary little old guy dispatched us. Blondie told us we could skip work if we kept an eye on you.”

Robert leans back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded. “You can just take the day off without babysitting me,” he says dryly. “I won’t snitch.”

Flambae reaches out and flicks his forehead, a quick, precise little tap. “Nah, we’re good here”, and then, as if realising that sounds a little too sincere, “Besides, Blazer has cameras like, fuckin everywhere,” he says. “She’d catch us for sure.”

“Bet she’s got trackers too,” Invisigal adds, face mock serious. “Blink twice if you’re in danger, Rob.”

Robert huffs out something that sits somewhere between a laugh and a cough. 

Invisigal sits back in her chair, frowning faintly as though something just occurred to her. “Wait,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Ya think secret trackers are legal?”

Flambae’s head tilts, his grin creeping in slow. “Why? You thinking of getting one?”

She turns to glare at him. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” he continues, shrugging one shoulder, tone teasing. “Slap one on people you like. See where they go after work. Bit fuckin creepy, but whatever does it for you, Vis.”

Within seconds, they’re shouting over each other—something about privacy laws, something else about Invisigirl being a “walking HR violation.” She laughs like it’s a compliment.

Their voices fill the sterile white room, a strange, bright contrast to the antiseptic stillness of it. The laughter and mock outrage ripple through the air until it almost feels normal here; almost like they’re anywhere else but a hospital.

Robert lets his head sink back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded. The ceiling swims a little, the voices dimming and sharpening again in turns. He lets the sound of them pull at the edge of his awareness, something warm and distant in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that they stayed. That they’d wanted to.

So he does nothing at all.

He just lies there, listening to them bicker. The rise and fall of their voices becomes a rhythm, a strange, familiar comfort against the faint buzz of the lights and the distant hospital sounds. Somewhere in between their laughter, he catches himself smiling, barely.

He thinks about the quiet of his apartment, the kind that pressed against his ribs until he couldn’t breathe. He can’t wait to annoy Blazer about this on Monday.