Chapter Text
The day had started off fairly normal, believe it or not. Robert might even dared say that it started well.
He woke up early this morning—the recently bought mattress, as much as he hates to admit, did wonders for his aching back, and he actually felt well-rested for the first time in years. He took Beef out for a short walk around the neighbourhood, feeling lighter than usual.
After showering and changing into his work attire, he filled Beef’s bowl with some kibble and water before bidding the pup goodbye with a rub on the belly. It was during the walk to SDN that he spotted the coffee shop near his house was doing a 70% off deal on a few of their items.
So Robert walked through the SDN doors, holding a cup of good coffee in one hand and an uncharacteristically great mood.
The shift had gone well. It was a lazy day, with not many calls coming in. The most intense thing he handled was an argument that broke out at a nearby bar, which had escalated into a small brawl. Punch-up handled it by himself well, though, and the conflict solved itself without much theatrics.
Even the team’s constant barrage of hoots and insults wasn’t enough to deter his good mood. It amused Robert that it clearly unnerved them; reactions ranging from an annoyed huff to a frustrated grunt when he kept avoiding falling for their baits.
“Well damn, what’s got you all happy and dandy today, bobby-boy?”
“Ha. I walked in and saw him practically farting sunshine and rainbows all over the place—it’s sickening,”
“Did it smell good, at least?”
“...Ugh. Gross.”
“Yeah, Sonar. Gross,”
“Why were you talking about his farts in the first place, Flambae?”
“Something you not telling us?”
“Hey, we won’t judge, man. No kinkshaming here,”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Robert snorted despite himself, lifting his coffee to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.
“Tragic as this is,” he said dryly, “I’m going to have to cut it short; we have a few calls coming in.”
A chorus of groans followed.
“Aw, c’mon. Not even gonna snap back?”
“Nope.”
“Dude, happy Robert fucking blows,”
Lunch came and went uneventfully. Robert ate an actual meal, for once—a chicken wrap he bought discounted from last night, instead of the usual diet of stale Twinkies and shitty coffee. He didn’t run into any people in the break room when he went to reheat his wrap, which was rather unusual. Not that he complained, the peace was much appreciated.
The rest of the day coasted by on that same unremarkable wavelength. Calls came in, calls went out. Robert answered, delegated, and logged. He even caught himself humming under his breath at one point—something so rare that Chase had swivelled in his chair just to stare at him like he’d grown a second head.
When the clock ticked closer to the end of his shift, Robert allowed himself the dangerous, foolish thought that the day would end on a good note for once.
Of course, that was when the alert came in.
A sharp ping cut through the ambience of the bullpen, and Robert’s screen lit up red. His shoulders straightened immediately, fingers flying over the keyboard.
“H- hi? I’m at um, at a 7-eleven—at the intersection. I think someone’s robbing the store, right now? They’re threatening the cashier, right now—please help??”
“Okay,” Robert said, voice steady on instinct alone. “You did the right thing calling. I need you to stay calm for me. Can you tell me how many people you see?”
As the caller babbled, Robert’s fingers typed rapidly on the keyboard, pulling up the location and searching for a CCTV to peek into.
“Okay, team. We have a robbery at a convenience store on Fifth,” he stated, switching into the Z-Team’s main channel. His eyes scan the camera feed, spotting two distinctly unimpressive-looking individuals yelling at the front of the store, a few scared civilians cowering behind the shelves.
The computer made a loud whirring noise as it scanned the blurry faces of the villains, before it made a loud ping as it pulled up two profiles.
> MATCHSTICK
Real Name: Richard Dean
Abilities: Pyrokinesis (Weak)
Prior Convictions: Arson, Trespassing, Shoplifting.
> UNKNOWN
Robert hummed in thought, looking at Matchstick’s mugshot plastered on his profile—the kid looked like he was on the verge of tears—Robert almost felt bad for him. The other one didn’’t even have a profile in the database, which means that this was probably their first time committing a crime.
Small fries, then.
“Alright, Malevola and…” his eyes glanced at the profile again. “ —Waterboy. You’re up. One of them has a fire ability, so there’s a risk of him burning the place up.”
The two heroes’ icons lit up green in confirmation.
“Yeah, fine…”
“O- on it, Sir! Robert!”
Robert relaxed his shoulders, watching the two icons move streak the map towards the same direction. Those two, against all odds, worked surprisingly well together. He noticed that Waterboy had the highest success rate with the demonness than any other Z-Teamers—it probably had something to do with her laid-back attitude.
The dispatcher smiled despite himself. He was happy for the kid—it looked like he’d settled down well with the rest of the team. It looked like the pep-talk Robert gave Waterboy some time ago worked well—he noticed the man stuttered less around a few of the members, and he was improving tons on the field.
Robert felt a warm feeling in his chest at the thought of the other man, before quickly snapping himself out of it.
“This should be quick,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
And, at first, it was.
On the CCTV feed, a red tear opened in front of the automatic doors of the supermarket, followed by its creator stepping out with a long, bored yawn. Malevola dragged her claymore lazily out of the portal, eyes already locking into the two shocked villains.
“Hey, guys,” she drawled over comms. “It’s late, and I’m kinda like, super tired, right now— So let’s not do anything we’ll regret, yeah?”
Waterboy entered the scene a second later, stumbling out of the portal. He nervously adjusted his goggles before scanning through the store. Robert watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his shoulders squared.
“P-please put your h-hands up,” he said, voice shaking but loud enough. “N-no one needs to get hurt.”
“And who the fuck are you?!” Matchstick yelped, stretching out his hand before shooting numerous bolts of fire rapidly at the two heroes. From his file and seeing it in action, Robert knows that the firebolts weren’t powerful enough to gravely injure someone, but enough to leave a nasty burn.
Malevola didn’t even flinch.
A portal snapped open in front of her, rim glowing crimson, and the first volley of fire vanished into it with a wet fwoom. Another portal bloomed above Matchstick’s head a split second later, and his own firebolts rained back down at an angle, sizzling harmlessly into the tiled floor near his feet.
“Shit—!” he yelped, immediately firing again. And again. And again.
It was clear almost instantly that this was the only trick he had.
On Robert’s screen, the CCTV feed lit up with erratic flashes as Matchstick spammed his pyrokinesis wildly. They were messy—more sparks than substance, streaks of orange-red light spitting wildly across the store in rapid succession. They latched onto the various flammable packaging, which sped up the fire crawling all over the building. The air inside probably smelled like ash and burnt plastics.
“Oh my god, dude,” he heard Malevola say flatly, stepping forward as another portal swallowed a bolt inches from her face. “At least aim, damn.”
On the other side of the store, Waterboy was moving.
The moment the first fire-shot flew, he snapped into action—water surged from the air around him, condensing into a shimmering barrier that snapped into place between the villains and the nearest aisle. Steam hissed where stray embers struck it.
“E-everyone, please move away from the front!” he shouted, voice strained but clear. “This way—behind me!”
Civilians hesitated only a second before obeying. Waterboy guided them with sweeping gestures, reinforcing his shields as he went, corralling people behind shelves and toward the back exits. A child tripped; he caught them one-handed without breaking stride, setting them gently behind cover before throwing another glance toward the villains.
Matchstick kept firing.
The other villain—shorter, hood pulled too low over their face—did nothing but cling to Matchstick’s jacket, peeking out from behind him like a frightened animal. Every time their companion shot a bolt, they flinched harder.
“This is bad, this is bad,” the unknown muttered. “You said this was going to be easy!”
“Shut up and let me think!” Matchstick snapped, unleashing yet another volley.
Malevola, meanwhile, had gotten bored with their game.
She stepped forward, portals blooming in a staggered line ahead of her, each one swallowing a fire-shot and spitting it somewhere useless—into the ceiling, the floor, back toward empty aisles. The distance between her and the villains shrank rapidly.
“Alright,” she said lightly. “Fun’s over.”
A portal opened beneath Matchstick’s feet. He yelped as gravity betrayed him, dropping him flat on his ass a few feet back, skidding into the end of the store near the frozen food section. Then, another portal opened, and a huge claymore shot out from it, its flat side slamming directly into his face with a sickening thud.
Matchstick was down, falling face-first onto the dirty floor.
Malevola grunted in annoyance before turning her attention back towards the accomplice.
Their eyes were wide in shock, body pressed against one of the shelves like a cornered animal. They squeaked once the demonness took a step towards them.
Red portals snapped open around them one by one, boxing them into a narrow space. Shelves towered on either side, trapping them neatly in place.
“Nowhere to run, now,” Malevola smirked, walking towards the cornered villain like a cat hunting mice.
Waterboy reappeared nearby, skidding to a stop as he finished guiding the last civilians away. He planted himself a few steps behind Malevola, breathing hard as droplets of water fell from his chin.
That was when it happened.
The unnamed villain screamed—a raw, panicked sound—and finally did something.
“No—no, no, no, get away from me!”
A harsh beam of pale energy erupted from their hands, wild and uncontrolled, splitting through the ashy air of the store. Robert’s breath caught as the trajectory lit up his whole monitor.
The beam missed Malevola by a wide margin.
Instead, it veered sharply—skimming past the end of the aisle, ripping through a hanging sign—
Straight toward the civilians Waterboy had just finished evacuating.
“Waterboy, No—!”
Waterboy didn’t think.
He moved on pure reflex, arms outstretched as he threw himself into the beam’s path—
And then there was a flash, white and blinding—the sheer force of it glitching Robert’s monitor for a second—before everything went impossibly still.
Then—Static.
That was the first thing Robert heard.
A sharp, ugly burst of white noise tore through his headset, followed by a high-pitched whine that made him yank one earcup off instinctively. His eyes snapped back to the monitor just in time to see the CCTV feed stutter—freeze on a frame of blinding white—then fracture into a mosaic of corrupted pixels.
“No. No, no, no—”
His fingers slammed down on the console, bringing up the team status window. Waterboy’s icon blinked a few times before flashing bright red.
> WATERBOY — DOWNED
The word might as well have been a gunshot.
Robert shot to his feet so fast his chair clattered backwards into the cubicle wall.
“Waterboy! Malevola, do you copy?” he barked into the intercom, voice cracking through the bullpen.
Nothing.
Just static. And that awful, shrill whine.
“C’mon, come in,” he snapped, switching channels rapidly, hands shaking as he toggled frequencies. “Malevola, respond. Waterboy, if you can hear me, respond!””
The icons on the map jittered violently, flickering between positions before freezing entirely. The CCTV feed tried to reinitialize—only to glitch again, the image tearing sideways like it was being ripped apart to shreds.
“God—fuck—”
Robert slammed his fist against the desk, hard enough that the coffee cup tipped and spilt across a stack of freshly-done paperwork. He didn’t even notice.
His hands rapidly typed on the keyboard, tabs of cctv cameras all over the street where the store was popping up on his monitor. Robert let out a loud curse when they all displayed the same, staticky view. Clearly, something in that beam fried the shit out of the nearby relays.
The bullpen noise dulled to a low, underwater hum as adrenaline roared in his ears. Somebody was calling out for him—Chase, most likely. But he was too busy burning his eyes staring at the monitor.
He punched the button on his headset again and again like brute force might fix it.
“Malevola!” His voice broke outright now, panic bleeding through the professional calm he prided himself on. “Answer me! Are you hurt? Is Waterboy—?”
The words caught in his throat.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to finish.
“—Is he alive?”
The CCTV feed flickered once more—and for half a second, half a fucking second, he thought he saw something in the static. Then it vanished again, replaced by digital snow.
“No. No—no—”
He tore the headset fully off and slammed it onto the desk, hands braced on either side of the console as he leaned over it, shoulders heaving. His heart was hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.
The bullpen had gone quiet. The usual noise—banter, keyboards, background chatter—had died out as people noticed Robert standing there, hunched over his computer.
This lasted for around ten minutes, but it felt like hours.
Ten minutes of Robert pacing around his cubicle, mentally berating himself over the stupid decision that had caused this. His mind kept replaying the last few seconds of the footage before it went black—Waterboy running, Waterboy outstretching his hands, Waterboy falling.
Chase eyed him from his chair, white eyebrows creasing in worry. “Robert—”
“This is my fault,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I sent him. I—”
A sharp crackle cut through the room.
Robert froze. His head snapped up so fast it almost popped from his neck.
“—bert—”
“Malevola?” Robert breathed, lunging back toward the console. His hands clumsily slung the headset over his head, shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. “Malevola, do you read me?!”
The comms crackled again, the signal stabilizing just enough for her voice to punch through.
“—rt! I’m fine— Police— th– way! We got the villains—escorting them out. The crowd’s calmed down, too.”
The relief hit Robert like a punch straight to the gut. It nearly knocked him out, made him fall into his chair with a loud thud.
“Thank god,” he exhaled, gripping the edge of the desk. “Thank god—”
Then he swallowed, heart hammering.
“And Waterboy?” he asked, didn’t even bother hiding the tremor in his voice. “Talk to me. What’s his status?”
There was a pregnant pause.
“...Yeah,” Malevola muttered, her voice sounded a little tighter than usual—even through the static. “About that.”
Robert was about to open his mouth to ask again, before a sharp sound tore through his ear.
It was the unmistakable, high-pitched, wailing of a baby.
“—What?” he said sharply. “Are any of the civilians hurt? Is a child injured?”
“What? No! Uh—No injured civilians, thankfully!” Malevola responded quickly. “It’s just— Oh, you are not gonna believe this.”
Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache already starting to form in the back of his head. “Mal—”
“Here, let me just—”
The air beside his cubicle crackled. A red seam tore itself open with a familiar wet schrrrk, stretching vertically from floor to ceiling. The people in the office gasped in shock, scattering away from the sudden bending of time and space happening in front of their very eyes.
Robert watched as Malevola stepped out of the portal—and she wasn’t empty-handed.
She cradled a familiar bundle of blue-and-yellow fabric in her arms, held awkwardly against her chest like she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
The bundle squirmed, before another wail split through the whole room.
Every head snapped towards their direction, a few clatters of objects hitting the ground were heard. Robert just stared, mouth agape at the view in front of him.
“Malevola??” His voice came out strangled. “What— Where’s Waterboy?? And what the fuck is that.”
Malevola visibly cringed, shoulders hunching as if she’d braced for impact. She glanced down at the bundle, then back up at Robert.
“So,” she said carefully. “Funny story.”
She shifted her grip and peeled back the edge of the swaddle.
Inside the blanket was a baby.
Chubby-cheeked, red-faced, and absolutely furious about it. Tufts of auburn hair stuck up in damp curls. Tiny fists flailed in the air, one of them squeezing reflexively around the edge of the cloth. Strapped—somehow—to the baby’s tiny face were a familiar pair of goggles, oversized and sliding over his eyes.
A pair of very familiar grey-blue eyes.
“No,” Robert croaked, his mind already unconsciously connecting the dots. “No, no, no—”
“Bobby,” The demonness awkwardly smiled, holding forward the still crying babe. “Meet Waterbaby.”
…There goes Robert’s one good day.