Chapter Text
The first sensation he felt in the waking world wasn't light, or warmth, or peace. It was a texture: wet, rough, and endlessly persistent.
Robert groaned, pulling his tattered wool blanket closer to his face, attempting to seal himself off from the world. The world, however, had teeth—or rather, a tongue. A very insistent tongue, might he add. Beef, an adorable, black and white furred mutt built low to the ground and fueled by a hunger induced vendetta, was operating a free facial wash (much to Robert’s dismay.)
“Beef. Stop,” Robert mumbled, the words catching on the blanket fibers. He tried to turn away, hoping to retreat back into the comforts of sleep's awaiting arms, only for the licking to intensify, accompanied by a heavy, insistent thump-thump-thump as Beef’s paws hammered against the bare floorboards.
Robert, for his part, lasted a whole minute before he surrendered.
“Ugh, alright, that's enough, Beef. I get it. I'm getting up, just stop.” He peeled his face away from the blanket, blinking against the light that bled through the high, filthy windowpanes of his apartment. The air was cold, tasting faintly of dust and yesterday’s stale takeout.
He groaned, already regretting his decision to give in to Beef’s insistence he wake up.
For one, he was sleeping on the floor. He knew he was sleeping on the floor, that was his every day wake-up after all, but the harsh reality of the sensation—the way the old hardwood pressed against his hipbone—was always an unwelcome existence.
His entire apartment, a shoebox-sized tragedy he barely afforded, was quite frankly an unwelcome existence in itself. The entirety of his “home” contained exactly one piece of furniture: a chipped, olive-green plastic chair parked precisely three feet from the radiator, useful neither for sitting nor warmth.
The very sight of it every morning reminded him of his pitiful life. Of everything he's lost. But the most unrelenting, and annoying, detail of his wake-up call that always made him regret waking up was the city itself.
The street noise was already at maximum volume, a symphony of industrial misery Robert had learned to catalog. Directly below him, an air brake shrieked like a dying pterodactyl, followed immediately by the sharp, rhythmic clang-clang-clang of the recycling truck running its route two hours too early. Someone, somewhere, was laying on a horn with the fierce commitment of a teenager who just had their phone taken away. Beneath it all was the constant, low-frequency hum of a thousand people moving too fast and caring too little.
It was, objectively, the worst soundtrack imaginable, yet it was the soundtrack of his life, and its predictability was the only anchor he had.
Robert pushed himself onto his elbows. Every joint protested the movement. He was twenty-seven, but the accumulated stress of late nights, cheap beer, constant fights, and repeated inadequate sleep made him feel closer to seventy. In hindsight, he was pretty much in the same predicament as Chase. How… depressing. He straightened his spine, hearing a sickening pop and hauled himself upright.
He sighed.
He didn't just feel tired; he felt utterly done. Done with the floor, done with the noise, done with the fact that his only friend seemed to exist solely to lick his face awake for the benefit of food. He just wanted to lay down and wither away from existence. Whether that was his exhaustion talking, annoyance, or crippling depression he couldn’t tell. And honestly, he didn't care. Either way he wanted to be done.
Beef however, taking Robert’s now vertical form as a clear indication that business was about to begin, positioned himself directly between Robert’s knees and leaned forward, his whole body tense with anticipation. His dark eyes were fixed on Robert, tail whipping the air with joyous violence.
𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘺. His eyes pleaded.
“Yeah, yeah, relax, buddy,” Robert muttered, a genuine, if brief, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Beef was the only thing that hadn't curdled in his life. “I'll get you fed.” He padded across the room's vast emptiness to the corner where Beef’s orange kibble bag sat nestled beside a scratched plastic bowl.
Pouring the recommended measure felt like the day’s first and only accomplishment. And predictability, like every morning, Beef attacked the bowl with a fervor that suggested he hadn't eaten in weeks, rather than just twelve hours.
Robert watched him eat for a moment, letting the simple transaction of need and satisfaction settle the frantic energy the street noise had instilled within him. Then, his own stomach growling, he turned toward the mini, buzzing refrigerator—an appliance that functioned more as a monument to past groceries than a working cold storage unit.
He pulled the handle. It didn’t open. He tugged again. Nothing. “Oh for the love of—”
One breath in, hold, release.
He was not going to punch the refrigerator. He was a grown man who could not blame an inanimate object for his pitiful life. Opening his eyes, being greeted with the weird yellow stain on his ceiling, Robert returned his gaze back towards the refrigerator. With a hard yank, releasing a rush of intensely localized, vaguely medicinal cold air, the refrigerator door burst open. Robert reached for the nearly full carton of milk he’d bought three days prior.
He didn't even need to pour it. The smell hit him instantly: a sour, yeasty, aggressive scent that spoke of bacterial warfare and imminent disaster. He shook the carton gently. Instead of the smooth splash of fluid, he felt a worrying plop-plop of semi-solids shifting inside.
Robert stared at the milk.
Of fucking course.
He placed the carton back on the shelf, the sigh that escaped his lips weighted with absolute acceptance. No coffee. No cereal. Nothing. This was just how it was. The effort required to get dressed and go to work now outweighed the caloric energy he had available. Still, he had no choice but to get ready.
He tied the laces of his boots, grabbed the keys and his worn dispatcher jacket, and scooped up Beef. Said dog, having completed his morning feast, was ready for the next adventure, tail eagerly wagging.
𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺, Robert thought sullenly.
“Come on, Beefster, we can't be late,” he said, pulling the door shut behind them.
As the heavy wood of the door clicked shut, a bright, melodic voice chirped from across the hall. “Morning, Robert! And a big morning to you too, Beefy!”
Robert paused, a familiar knot of annoyance tightening in his chest. It was Anya, the ravnette from three doors down. Her apartment door, adorned with an absurdly cheerful, hand-painted mural of dancing fireflies, swung open to reveal her. Anya was all vibrant color and sunshine—a stark contrast to Robert’s carefully cultivated monochrome existence. Today, she wore a light green sundress that seemed to capture the very essence of spring, her naturally coppery hair pulled back in a loose braid that bounced as she moved.
Beef, ever the diplomat, wriggled in Robert’s arms, emitting a happy grunt. Anya’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she beamed. “Oh, you sweet boy,” she cooed, reaching out a slender hand to scratch Beef behind his ears. Beef responded with an enthusiastic lick to her fingers, his tail wagging with such ferocity it threatened to dislodge him from Robert’s grasp.
“He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?” Anya said, her gaze shifting to Robert. Her smile was disarmingly wide, her eyes, the color of warm honey, held a playful spark. “You’re always in such a rush, Robert. I barely see you these days. Not that you were around much before, but what's got you so keyed up?”
Robert sighed internally. Of course. The universe had a twisted sense of humor, always ensuring he had to engage in pleasantries when he least felt like it. “Just heading to work, Anya. Dispatch.” He kept his voice deliberately flat, betraying none of the weariness that settled deep in his bones.
“Dispatch,” she echoed, tilting her head slightly. “Sounds… busy. You always get so dressed up for it,” she added, gesturing vaguely at his jacket and boots. A subtle, almost imperceptible blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I can’t imagine what goes on in there. You hardly ever talk about it. And Beef! You always look like you’re about to embark on a grand quest.”
Robert resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t a grand quest, it was a soul-crushing grind. “Just the usual,” he mumbled, shifting Beef’s weight. “Paperwork, phone calls, the occasional… emergency.” He kept his gaze fixed on the chipped paint of her doorframe, avoiding her direct gaze. Anya’s subtle attempts at flirtation were as transparent as the cheap plastic of his dispatcher badge, and just as unwelcome.
Anya leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “You know,” she began, a hopeful lilt in her tone, “I was thinking… it’s such a shame you’re always so busy. Maybe sometime, when you’re not saving the world or something, we could grab coffee? Or maybe… a drink?” Her honey-colored eyes met his now, a clear invitation lingering in their depths.
Robert’s response was immediate and devoid of any warmth. “Can’t. Got to go.” He side stepped, easily maneuvering past his newest obstacle of the morning. “Have a good day, Anya.”
He practically fled, Beef looking happily up at him from within his arms. The brief encounter, though short, had managed to chip away at his already depleted reserves.
However, thankfully, the walk to the Dispatch office was the usual voyage. The pavements were slick with residue Robert aggressively chose not to identify. The air was thick with diesel fumes and the lingering scent of last night’s illicit street food.
People were already moving with rushed, hostile intent. A woman in a sharpsuit nearly shoulder-checked him to get past, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse on Beef’s parentage. A cyclist blew through a red light, forcing Robert and Beef to a sudden halt, nearly knocking Robert over.
The city demanded efficiency, and anyone who moved at the pace of a man who hadn't eaten breakfast and was accompanied by a dog who insisted on trying to jump out of his arms to sniff every single fire hydrant was an obstacle, a nuisance.
Robert didn’t care. If people thought he was slow that was their issue not his. The only concern on his mind was keeping one foot in front of the other at an acceptable pace for his place of employment. He couldn't afford to be late, and honestly, he had nothing better to do than go spend eight hours staring at glowing screens, mediating other people’s emergencies. The shift loomed before him, already feeling endless, stretching out like the grey, polluted river they were just crossing.
He arrived at the Dispatch building, the glass lobby doors sliding open with a soft, dramatic whoosh that always felt far too clean for the chaos inside.
Robert tightened his grip on Beef, preparing for the internal transition—the act of pushing down his apathy and remembering how to sound competent and alert on the phone.
He took three steps inside when a voice, loud, cheerful, and entirely too energetic for this time of day, rang out from behind the counter.
“Robert! You finally made it. Morning, Beefy boy!”
Chase, annoyingly bright-eyed even though he’d likely pulled the late shift, bounded over the moment he saw the dog. Chase didn't even bother to acknowledge Robert, instead dropping immediately into a crouch, hands outstretched.
“How've you been, Beef? Are you warm yet? Did Robert rub your belly? Feed you?” Chase was already stealing Beef from Robert’s fingers before the brunette could even formulate a verbal greeting. It was only once Robert was thoroughly dogless he finally managed to formulate a sentence.
“Well hello to you too, Chase. It's wonderful to see you.”
“Yeah, Yeah, always a pleasure. Anyway, he’s staying with me for now,” Chase decreed, settling Beef into a fireman’s carry, which Beef tolerated with the solemn dignity of a minor celebrity. “I need the morale boost. Go log on. Your seven o’clock is already backing up. Oh, and did you bring me those jelly donuts I asked for?”
Robert closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Dammit. “No, I forgot.”
“Tch, oh well, least you brought the dog. Now get to work. I ain’t covering for your ass this early in the morning.”
And with that, Robert watched Chase disappear around the corner toward the breakroom, the sound of Beef’s delighted, muffled yips trailing behind them.
Robert stood alone by the time clock, his hands suddenly empty, the weight of his dog replaced by the dead weight of the workday. He couldn’t help but mourn the good old days. The ones where he used to always have Beef to himself and a job where he didn’t get antsy from sitting for too long. Now, he hardly got to see his own dog as said pup deemed Chase a better companion and constantly got restless.
He hit the punch-in button, the machine giving a satisfying electronic chirp that finalized his commitment to the next eight hours. The spoiled milk, the creaking joints, the loss of his dog, the annoying neighbor—all of it faded into the background haze of the mundane.
It was a normal day, beginning precisely where the last one left off: exhausted, unfed, and already missing his dog.
It was supposed to be a normal day.
Why the fuck did the universe hate him?
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The sound was immediate and deafening: a high-pressure hiss followed by the brutal, ice-cold spray of industrial water. The shock slammed through Robert’s system, wrenching a strangled gasp from his frozen lungs. He stood rooted on the grated metal floor of the decontamination chamber, water cannoning down from four different nozzles mounted high in the ceiling.
He felt less like a man and more like a drowned, soaking-wet alley cat, shivering uncontrollably. The water wasn’t just cold; it tasted faintly of chlorine and metallic solvent, stinging his eyes despite his effort to keep them squinted shut. His teeth started a frantic, rattling rhythm against each other that he couldn't stop.
“Six minutes, Mr. Robertson,” droned a voice through a speaker mounted just outside the thick, reinforced glass door.
Robert managed a jerky nod, though his focus was entirely stolen by the figure beside him.
Flambae, who was apparently still refusing to enter the neighboring shower bay, stood stiffly, his arms crossed over a vibrant black, red and orange uniform that was already starting to steam slightly from body heat alone. He was currently being attended to by three personnel in full, airtight yellow biohazard suits, their faces obscured by polarized visors. Robert had nicknamed them ‘the Hamster People’ months ago, due to the way their breathing apparatus puffed in and out like diligent cheeks.
“Look, with all due,” a quick quirk of the brow followed by a glance up and down, “𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵, and I use that term 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 loosely,” Flambae announced, his voice projecting with theatrical confidence despite the tense atmosphere. “I am a walking furnace. I radiate roughly 800 degrees Fahrenheit on a resting day. I will not be getting into 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 glorified car wash. I am fine. I will not be affected by some bitch virus.”
One of the Hamster People—a thin individual designated ‘Decon Tech 2’ by the laminated badge over their chest—leaned slightly closer. They spoke with the unnervingly polite tone of someone entirely used to dealing with explosive egos.
“Flambae, sir, we are simply following Level 5 protocol,” Decon Tech 2 stated, their voice mild and filtered. “The exogenous particulates you were exposed to are sub-micron and designed to bypass standard thermal resistance. While your internal temperature is laudable, the external surface—specifically the soles of your boots and the threading of your suit—requires immediate neutralization. We just need the six-minute cycle.”
“The fuck? Do you not know how to speak English? What the fuck was all that?” Flambae retorted, and though Robert couldn't see it, he was sure Flambae’s face more than conveyed a ‘you’re the stupidest person I've ever met’ expression. It was one he was far too familiar with.
Tech 2 sighed, the sound a long, exasperated thing. Robert could relate. “I'm sorry, sir. That was my fault. Let me rephrase: we need you to get into decontamination to neutralize any residue on your suit and skin. It will only be a six minute cycle, so if you could just—”
Flambae scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re wasting my fucking time! I told you I'm not some weak bitch. Send some other banana peel looking bitch to get, I don' know, Golem or some shit cleaned up; he probably tracked in like half the containment zone. Besides, everything I was exposed to was, what was it one of you said… exosonice… ex…”
“Exogenous particulates.”
“Yeah that shit. It’s all on the surface. I’ve been running hot enough to sterilize this entire bay since I got back to HQ. You fucker's should be thanking me.”
Robert choked on a sudden burst of water, adjusting his position in the brutal spray as he waited for the timer to count down. He fought the urge to roll his eyes so hard they might sprain.
A new voice, low and laced with sheer, unadulterated annoyance, cut sharply across the room from two bays over. Robert knew that sound—it was the unmistakable pitch of Invisigal.
“Holy shit, shut the fuck 𝘶𝘱 dude and get in the shower,” Visi commanded. She sounded entirely done with the day, and they hadn't even finished scrubbing off the bio-residue yet.
Flambae bristled instantly, his body temperature spiking visibly. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me. Everyone on the Z-Team is being forced to decontaminate because of your little trip to Vandlab and the nasty souvenirs 𝘺𝘰𝘶 brought back, so you should at least have the decency to not be such a whiny 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 about a little water!” A faint shimmer followed her as she moved, a trick of the light off her dark, form-fitting suit.
Flambae's jaw tightened, his teeth clenching so tightly it felt like his teeth would ground to dust. “Excuse me? My ‘little trip’ was a big fucking deal! People could've died or some shit.” Visi scoffed, rolling her eyes. Flambae ignored it. “And don' you dare try to pin this on me, you emo-drama queen!”
“Oh, that's rich coming from 𝘺𝘰𝘶. Last I checked I'm not the one currently wasting everyone's time because I’m afraid of getting my hair wet, you overgrown matchstick. And how the fuck is this not your fault? The only reason we’re all stuck here with these glorified kitchen sprinklers is because 𝘺𝘰𝘶 brought this virus here!”
“At least I did my fucking 𝘫𝘰𝘣, unlike some people who claimed they had a ‘nail appointment.’ What were you doin'? Getting your nails painted black to be more of an emo bitch?” Flambae shot back, a venomous glare that could kill accompanying his words.
“It was a pedicure, you oblivious, germ-ridden inferno, and it was scheduled before your disastrous attempt at going solo. Besides, even if I went we still wouldn't be here because I know not to come back to HQ when carrying a deadly virus.”
“You—”
“She’s got a point, Flare-boy,” piped up Malevona, sounding bored, from her own steaming shower bay. “Even if she was supposed to go, you were the one who went and brought this thing here. So… yeah. Your fault.”
“Yeah, I ave’ to agree with the lady on this one, mate” Punch Up chimed in, shrugging his shoulders in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “Now let's just make this easier on everyone, yeah? Get in the damn shower or I will personally shove you in.”
“I don’t care what you guys do, just shut up. The noise is vibrating my ear drums unpleasantly, causing minor cranial discomfort,” complained Sonar from the end bay, his voice a low thrum against the metal. “Man, I'm starving. I barely had anything for lunch.”
“You shut up, this is getting good. ‘Bout time we had some drama,” insisted Prism, her multicolored suit standing out starkly against the gray steel, looking far too gleeful for someone who could have a life ending disease.
“Water cleans. Feels pretty good,” rumbled Golem, entirely unfazed by the soaking, as he seemed more interested in examining a speck of dust on his giant, rocky forearm.
“I say we just kill him, get this over with.” Coupé muttered.
“I-I don’t think that's su-such a good idea.” Waterboy stuttered, slicking a piece of hair behind his ear as he avoided eye contact (a nervous tick Robert’s come to associate with the wet hero.)
“Ah, shut yer mouth no one asked you.” Punch Up barked, glaring daggers at Waterboy.
“I—”
“Fuck all o' you! I've had it—”
The decontamination bay, a place designed for sterile silence, had instantly devolved into a high-school cafeteria argument. Robert’s timer finally buzzed, a welcome chime of release.
The water immediately cut off, inviting a huge gust of cold air to overtake him. Robert stepped out of the bay and onto a thick rubber mat, feeling like a damp, shivering ghost in his suddenly heavy clothes. His teeth still chattered, and he grabbed a rough, standard-issue towel, feeling the last pieces of his patience snap.
He stood there, soaking and exhausted and still missing Beef, and gazed at his so-called task force—the Z-Team, the unit supposedly tasked with being a part of the side that saves the goddamn planet—currently engaged in a childish shouting match over a shower bay.
“All of you,” Robert said, his voice flat, dangerously quiet, and carrying an implicit threat.
No one stopped. Flambae was now actively trying to incinerate the air surrounding Invisigal’s bay with theatrical fury, Visi was countering with barbed insults, and Sonar was contributing with overwhelming levels of whine.
Robert took a deep breath, the cold air scraping his throat.
“SHUT UP!”
The word echoed off the tiled walls, sharp and forceful enough to cut through the din of argument and the persistent, background hum of the HVAC system. Even Flambae, mid-glower, paused.
Robert threw his half-damp towel onto the floor. He didn’t bother raising his voice further; the initial shock was enough. He just let the rage simmer, fueled by his cold, his fatigue, and the sheer audacity of this entire morning.
“Are you all incapable of behaving like fucking professional adults for five consecutive minutes?” Robert demanded, sweeping his gaze across the mostly assembled Z-team: Flambae, Malevola, Punch Up, Golem, Prism, Invisigal, Coupé, Waterboy and Sonar (Phenomoman being absent due to the fact he somehow got blessed with the day off)—the throw-aways of the crop, the worst and dimmest. “We just breached containment in the Sub-Level Delta sector. Do you know what that means? It means that highly unstable, potentially weaponized bio-matter is currently being cycled out by specialized staff, attempting to ensure it doesn’t reach outside SDN.”
He pointed a finger, dripping wet, toward Flambae, who actually lowered his head slightly.
“It’s not just you, Flambae. It’s not just us. Have you not noticed that the entire SDN is currently on lock-down? That every single member of the logistics, security, and cleaning staff who even showed up today has to be cycled through this same miserable protocol? This isn’t some arena match we were dropped into. This isn’t a training simulation.”
Robert felt his shoulders slump slightly, the adrenaline of the outburst draining away, leaving only profound exhaustion.
“This isn’t a game,” he finished, his voice returning to a low, painful rasp. “The world, contrary to your collective egos, is not organized around your convenience or your dramatic feuds. Now, behave. Get through the goddamn shower and maybe, just maybe, we can prevent total institutional failure before lunch.”
A thick, uncomfortable silence settled over the Z-Team. The Hamster People stood by, motionless, politely waiting.
Malevola was the first to comply, nodding sharply at Robert. “Got it. Showers first.”
Flambae glowered for another second, but the fight had gone out of him. He stepped heavily into the spray, letting out a dramatic, suffering sigh as the cold water hit his superheated skin. Steam instantly began to spawn in like a sauna, nearly washing away all remnants of the cold.
Waterboy gave Robert a small, awkward tilt of his head before turning toward his station. Golem simply grunted, satisfied that the bickering had ceased. Prism and Invisigal rolled their eyes, the former muttering under her breath about how everything was just starting to get good. Sonar, Punch up and Coupé silently made their ways back to their respective spots, usually the less aggressive of the bunch when scorned.
Robert watched them, feeling the warming air attacking his damp clothing. He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing he had achieved quiet, but at the cost of his last remaining shred of composure.
He sighed, retrieved a pair of dry clothes from one of the hamster people and followed the taped line on the ground to his room where he’d wait to hear if he was infected or not. He was already dreading the mountains of paperwork needed to account for the Level 5 breach when this was over.
It was going to be a long day. And he still owed Chase donuts.