Chapter Text
Robert Robertson shoved his earbuds as far as they would go. He thumbed the clickwheel of his scuffed-up iPod, hunting for something to match his particular blend of pissed-off. The second he hit play, the opening chord exploded in his ears, loud enough to drown out everything else. He slouched back in his seat, shoulders grinding into the cracked vinyl, backpack sliding down to his feet. Right on cue, the bus jerked into motion, lumbering out onto the street.
He stared out the window as Torrance slid by in sunlit chunks. The morning outside was scrubbed so bright it made his eyes sting, the kind of light that didn’t care if you’d gotten four hours of sleep or if your breath still tasted like last night’s regrets. Even the power lines glinted, perfectly spaced against the expansive blue sky. People drifted along the sidewalk or lounged on benches, all moving with the same languid energy, as if they had nowhere urgent to be.
In Robert’s ears, the song revved with a jittery guitar line, all jagged edges and wired momentum. The percussion stacked beneath it, steady and relentless, while the bass pushed with urgent hunger. Nothing gave him a second to brace. It just chewed forward, setting his jaw tight. When the vocals arrived, they didn’t settle into melody so much as break into it, ragged and breathless. The bus, the morning, the staring faces all went a little farther away, until there was only the beat and the dull throb behind his eyes.
He almost missed the buzz of his phone, tucked under his thigh. He dug it out and slid it open, squinting at the message displayed on the fingerprint-smudged screen.
[Where r u at?]
Track Star. Rolling his eyes, Robert typed back with one thumb.
[omw]
He closed the phone and stuffed it away. It buzzed again almost immediately.
[U r late]
Robert held the phone open with his thumb hovering over the plastic keypad, considering a reply that would actually be satisfying. He pictured the words, imagined Track Star’s reaction, but in the end, he didn’t send anything. He snapped the slider shut and buried it deeper in his pocket.
Across the aisle, a middle-aged woman with a work bag was staring at him. Her head was angled just enough that she could pretend not to be looking, but her eyes unmistakably flicked to Robert’s earbuds, then to his face, her mouth pressed into a thin, uneven line. He recognized the look; a measured suspicion of someone who’d decided that a hoodie and ripped jeans meant hassle. He considered flashing her a smile. He had a pretty decent one if he tried. But instead, he glared back until she looked away, blinking at her own reflection.
He turned the volume up another notch, felt the vibration in his fillings, and slumped against the window. The glass was comfortingly cold against his temple.
At least the city remained civil outside: a jogger checking his watch at the crosswalk, a guy being dragged by his dog, a parent towing strollers past shuttered stores with their hopeful “OPEN” signs. Every block looked practically identical. Robert let the details fade, turning the world into a blur of colors and vague shapes, broken only by the flash of street signs overhead.
The bus rattled over a pothole, and for a moment, he saw the whole row of passengers bounce, then played it off as if they’d all been caught in the middle of a sneeze.
Robert checked his phone again. The screen flashed the time: 9:49. Five minutes burned away in a smear of music and motion.
He thumbed over to texts with his dad. The thread was brief, like it always had been between them, containing only the bare necessities of information. Last night’s message sat there in three lines:
[Wilson Ridge Park]
[1850 Crenshaw Blvd]
[Be there at 10]
Not even punctuation. No frills. Just a destination and a time, like he’d been given a drop-off point.
Robert stared at the words, reading between the blank spaces for what was left unsaid but no less clear. Show up. Be on time. Don’t fuck this up. Tough love, delivered with the tenderness of a dumbbell to the face. That was his dad’s language. Training. Discipline. Execution. Like he could fix people the way he fixed his suit, hammering until nothing was bent out of shape.
The bus idled momentarily at a stoplight. Through the windows, Robert caught “Crenshaw” on a street sign, then watched it slide past as the bus started again. He was probably still a couple of blocks off. His stomach tightened.
He checked the time again. 9:54.
His foot bounced once, twice, then he caught himself to stop. The backpack strap twisted between his fingers, already threadbare in spots where he'd worried it daily. The track changed in his ears. Slower. Heavier. The vocal came in as a full-throated shout, each syllable punched out like a fist through drywall. Robert felt it in his chest, that familiar burn of being backed into a corner.
Robert slid the phone shut and shoved it away. He should still make it.
And if he didn't? Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd disappointed the great Mechaman. Probably wouldn't be the last, either.
***
He didn’t make it on time.
The bus hissed to a stop and let Robert off at the curb. He started moving the second his sneakers hit the pavement, hands burrowed into the front of his hoodie, the vocals still growling in his ears. He headed uphill toward the park, past a corner café with its patio already filling up, past a convenience store with the door propped open. Weekend crowd wandered in and out of the low shops and aged apartments that lined the street. A bike bell chirped as someone threaded past on the sidewalk. Robert kept his eyes forward and his pace up just a little more than casual.
He checked his phone at the next corner. 10:06. Robert cursed to himself.
Eventually, Wilson Ridge Park came into view like a punchline. He pulled his earbuds out and glanced up. The sign, sun-bleached and overly cheerful, radiated a civic optimism that clashed against reality. Beyond it, the park lay ripped apart, exposed under the light.
The scene looked familiar, the kind you got from seeing it in the news the night before. Same place, same framing, just without the reporter’s voice trying to sound calm. The perimeter was dotted with plastic cones and sagging yellow tape, but inside, there were no police, no news vans. Just the clean-up crew and a few passersby. Daylight didn’t do the place any favors. It painted every crack and gouge in great detail.
The grass had been churned into mud. Concrete slabs sat cracked and buckled, rebar jutting out like broken bones. A trash can lay caved in, its metal crumpled and bulging at the seams. Benches had been flung off their pads, boards split, and hardware torn loose. The walking path disappeared beneath a scatter of debris. It looked like something had seized the park itself and shattered it with a single violent shake.
Minimal casualties, the news had said. Thankfully. As if the park had nobly taken on the brunt for everyone else. It didn’t make the wreckage any easier to look at, or what happened here any less savage.
Robert drifted toward a tree nearby: a massive sycamore, split clean down the middle and charred black along the seam. The trunk had exploded outward, splinters still clinging to the bark, refusing to let go. Robert reached out and ran a hand along the ruined surface, then jerked back with a sharp sting. A thin cut welled up. He wiped it on his jeans.
Last night’s coverage flickered in his head. Shaky footage, a blur of blue and red lights, neighbours mouthing the same platitudes. The reporter’s voice had been syrupy, just short of condescending. “Officials are calling the response a success, but the community is left with questions.” As if there would be answers.
Then there was Mechaman, standing tall in the haze, the proud “M” emblazoned across his chest; a beacon of authority and justice. The mech suit loomed behind him like a loyal beast, its titanium shell unmarred despite the battle. The reporter shoved a mic in his face. “Authorities say the metahuman behind the attack is in critical condition after your takedown. Any comment?”
Mechaman’s reply had come flat, immediate. “My responsibility is to neutralize anything that threatens our community. That’s what I did.” He hadn’t even looked at the camera. They cut the segment before he could walk away.
Robert stared at the tree’s gaping wound and wondered if his dad ever pulled his punches when his enemies screamed. Or if he hit harder to shut them up.
A voice cut through his thoughts from behind him. “You’re late.”
Robert turned. Track Star stood a few feet away, his red-and-cyan suit almost garish against the park’s devastation. Robert couldn't see well beyond the visor, but he felt the gaze travel over him, assessing. There was no anger in his demeanour. Nor disappointment. Something worse. The slight tilt of his head said he had been worried about Robert. Robert's jaw clenched.
“Traffic was a mess,” Robert said, jerking his chin at the park. “Hard not to be when half the streets are blocked off.”
“Don’t get smart with me, kid.” Track Star crossed his arms. Robert shrugged. Whatever.
His stance shifted, just a tick. “Where’s your pops?”
Robert scratched the back of his neck, gaze sliding toward the ruined park’s center. “Dunno. Haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. He just texted me this location.”
A beat. The silence stretched between them, heavy with what Track Star wasn’t saying. The visor reflected Robert’s slouched form back at him, distorted and small.
The hero's shoulders rose and fell, weighted with resignation. "Of course," he muttered, too quiet to be meant for Robert but loud enough to be heard.
Then he sighed, not even bothering to hide it, and closed the distance, tapping Robert’s shoulder to herd him along. His gloved hand lingered for a moment, like he was about to say something else, then fell away. “Come on.”
They cut through the damaged paths toward the center clearing, where a fountain once stood. Now it was a taped-off crater, raw concrete and twisted rebar jutting through the surface. Around it, city workers in hard hats moved with tired efficiency, shovelling grit into wheelbarrows and hauling rubble into piles that grew high.
To the side, a folding table was stacked with volunteer gear: vests, gloves, trash bags, the whole package. Track Star thrust a bundle into Robert’s hands.
“You know the drill. Lunch at noon. We wrap at four. Don’t wander off. Sign out before you go.”
Robert pulled on the vest, which was two sizes too big and smelled like rubber cement. He grabbed a pair of gloves and jammed his hands in, flexing his fingers.
Track Star jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re with him.”
Robert glanced past Track Star’s shoulder, following where he’d pointed. A scrawny kid in the same oversized volunteer vest sat cross-legged in the grass, hands neatly folded in his lap. Perfectly normal looking, if you ignored the full-face motorcycle helmet, visor down in broad daylight like he’d shown up for MotoGP.
Robert stared a little too long.
“Seriously?” he said incredulously. “I’m supposed to babysit him?”
“Actually, asshole, he’s babysitting you,” Track Star retorted dryly. “Your dad asked for precautions. After the stunt you pulled last time.”
Robert rolled his eyes. Like his dad ever batted an eye at a bloody nose or fractured ribs.
Track Star waved the helmet kid over. He stood and stretched casually as he pleased, vest gaping for a second. The helmet sat low, chin strap tight, and beneath it, Robert caught dark fur spilling up his neck above the T-shirt collar. His eyes flicked back up to the helmet. Right. So, not just a kid. The hybrid walked over in no hurry at all. Even through the tinted visor, Robert could feel himself being sized up, measured from head to toe.
Track Star didn’t waste time. “Aight, kid. This is Robert. Robert, this is…” He trailed off, fumbling for the name. “What was it again? Vi—”
The kid cut in. “Sonar.”
Track Star threw him a look through the visor that said sure, then shook his head. “Whatever. You two, follow me.”
He led them through the worst of the wreckage toward a stretch that hadn’t been hit as hard. Trash littered the grass in damp clumps, snagged in shrubs and fence wire. A tipped-over bin had spilled its guts across the path, paper and plastic ground into the mud by a hundred footsteps. A cooler sat on its side like it had been punted, lid hanging open, its contents long gone.
Track Star handed them a crumpled printout, the park divided with markers.
“This is your area,” he said, tapping the marked region with his gloved finger. “Stay out of the taped-off zones. Pick up everything else.”
His visor swept over them one last time, all warning. “Do. Not. Leave the premises.”
“I’ll be making rounds,” he added, turning away with a deliberate slowness, keeping them in his sights as long as possible. “So don’t get creative.”
He tapped the side of his helmet (maybe checking in on comms, maybe just for effect), then headed off toward the crater, leaving Robert alone with the helmet kid and a trash bag that felt too flimsy for the kind of day this was shaping up to be.
Resigned, Robert snapped the bag open and started moving, because standing still invited attention. He jabbed the tongs around a flattened paper cup and dropped it in. The plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet.
Sonar fell in beside him without a word. He moved like he definitely had done this before: pick up the thing, drop the thing, move on to the next thing. Efficient. Bored, maybe. He didn’t look at Robert so much as angle the helmet in his direction whenever they crossed too close, like he was still keeping track of him.
They got into a rhythm, working their section in parallel lines. Robert kept his eyes trained on the ground, scanning for trash: cigarette butts, soggy napkins, food wrappers curled in mud. He found a banana peel stuck under a rock, blackened and reeking of sweet rot. When he tugged at it, it came apart in slimy ribbons that dripped onto his glove. He made a face as the garbage bag swung and bumped against his knee.
Sonar didn’t say anything. He just pushed the rock with his boot and held it there until Robert could snag the last of the peel cleanly. When Robert looked up, the helmet was already moving away.
Time dragged its feet. The sun crept higher, beating down as midday approached. The park made small noises around them: a loose strip of plastic snapping in the breeze, gravel crunching under their shoes. Somewhere far off, a shovel rang against concrete, a metallic clang that reminded them they weren’t the only ones trapped here. Before long, Robert’s bag reached critical mass, sagging with the weight. He yanked the drawstring tight, forcing it to submission. The plastic whined back.
Sonar watched him wrestle with it for a beat. “You’re gonna rip it,” he said.
“I’m not gonna rip it,” Robert muttered, and promptly ripped it.
The bag split along the seam with an ugly tearing sound. Garbage slumped out onto the ground in a sad, pathetic pile. A soda can made a break for it, rattling down the path until it hit Sonar’s shoe.
Robert froze. For half a second, he just stared at it, jaw tightened, as the heat slowly climbed up his neck for no good reason.
Sonar made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d been normal and not a talking helmet. “O—kay,” he said, “So you are gonna rip it.”
Robert glared at him, then crouched to scoop up the mess. Muddy paper clung to his glove, and he shook it off with a sharp snap of his wrist, shoving it back into the torn bag, his jaw tight and eyes stubbornly fixed on the ground.
Sonar made no further comment, picking up the runaway can before kneeling beside Robert to help gather the rest. When the bag threatened to gape open again, he pinched the split seam together in his fist while Robert worked. Robert reached for a fresh liner from the stack, yanked it open, and dragged the ripped bag into it. He doubled it up and cinched it with a tight knot, pressing his palm against the bundle to test that it wouldn’t explode again.
Standing, Robert adjusted his glove, tugging it snug at the wrist as if that had been the problem all along. He cleared his throat. “…Thanks” he muttered, looking away from the visor, and started walking. Sonar fell in a couple of steps behind him.
After a while, as the new bag filled about halfway, Sonar piped up, casual, like they were old buds killing time instead of picking trash for their community hours. He flicked a cigarette butt into the bag and angled his head at Robert. “So, what are you in here for? Arson? Grand theft auto? Or—" he dropped his voice to a stage-whisper, "—did you forget to return a library book?"
Robert stared at him, grabber poised over a damp clump of newspaper, not impressed. “What am I in here for? You know this isn’t a jail, right?”
Sonar shrugged, boot nudging a plastic fork off the path. “It kinda is,” he said. “Held against my will, forced labour, authority figures just out of sight. But I guess the jumpsuits are optional.”
Robert huffed, almost a laugh. He lobbed the soggy clump into the bag.“Fair enough,” he said. “Point to you.”
They moved on. The wind spun a candy wrapper in lazy, mocking circles. Sonar planted a foot, pinning it, and let Robert snag it with the grabber.
“C’mon,” Sonar pressed, “What’d they pin you with?”
Robert hesitated for a beat. He watched pigeons squabbling over French fries a few feet away, then reached under the bench to drag out a crushed energy drink can, dripping sticky liquid. “Petty theft. Some 502 stuff. Nothing headline-worthy.”
There was a noise from behind the visor. Hard to place. “Cool,” Sonar said. “502. Alright. That’s not nothing.”
Robert side-eyed him, “You?”
Sonar scratched under the chin guard before answering. “Fraud. Possession,” he said, not even pretending to be coy.
Robert’s fingers paused on the grabber trigger. “…What level?”
Sonar kept walking, shoulders loose, voice flat. “Like you said, not in jail, am I?” He nudged a broken chunk of plastic with his boot. “Wrong place, wrong time. I was just enjoying a vibe.”
Robert snorted. “Yeah, I bet.” He dug a broken bottle out of the mud and shook off the loose dirt before dropping it in. “How many hours did you get for that?”
Sonar shrugged, head tilting. “Today makes sixty-two. Thirty-eight to go.”
“You’re counting,” Robert said.
“Hard not to,” Sonar nodded at Robert’s bag, which had started to sag and swing heavier with every step. “You?”
Robert shrugged, eyes back on the ground. “However long it takes, I guess.”
That earned him a pause. The helmet tilted, as if Sonar were trying to read what wasn’t being said.
Robert felt the prickle of it, the scrutiny even through the tinted shield. He wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. So he changed lanes instead, physically and otherwise. “So,” he said, lifting the grabbers between them, “your name’s Sonar?”
“Sort of,” Sonar said. “It’s what they call me. It stuck.”
Robert snagged a plastic fork from a puddle, flicking droplets from the tines. “Why do they call you that?”
The helmet stayed on him for a beat, reflecting nothing useful. Sonar’s head dipped once. A decision. “I like you,” he said, “but I don’t think we’re there yet.”
Robert snorted. “Whatever,” he said. He flicked his eyes at the visor. “Just pick up the trash, Stig.”
He waited for Sonar to get the reference. Three… Two… One…
The helmet cocked, almost imperceptibly, but Robert caught it. Good. He’d been right. Sonar was a weirdo, but not a complete alien.
Sonar stepped past him with a loping, loose stride and yanked a wad of plastic netting out of the grass. He held it up for Robert to see, a little flourish, before stuffing it down into the bag. Robert bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
***
The minutes stretched into hours. Grab, lift, drop. Grab, lift, drop. Bag after bag. The work settled into a mindless rhythm, mechanical and backbreaking. Still, the park managed to reclaim itself in small increments. First, a stretch of concrete path, then a patch of dirt where grass might grow again someday. Cigarette butts no longer dotted the ground like diseased confetti. With each filled bag, a little more of the wreckage faded, revealing glimpses of what had been there before: benches, walkways, open spaces. Places where people came to breathe.
Track Star had shown up once. He stopped at the edge of their little cleared-out zone, visor sweeping the ground like he was taking inventory. Robert looked straight at him, a half-filled bag hanging from his hand, sweat stinging his eyes. Track Star tipped his helmet in the barest acknowledgment, and then he was gone again, a red-cyan streak cutting through the park.
By late afternoon, the sun sat lower, and the shadows stretched long across Wilson Ridge Park. The clean-up crew still worked the center, their shovels scraping concrete in the distance. Back here, though, it was just Robert and Sonar, the fence rattling in the breeze, and the soft drag of Robert’s sneakers through grass and dirt.
Their last stretch ran along the chain-link fence, where everything seemed to have ended up somehow. Napkins snagged in thorns. Flyers glued to the wire with old rain. A yellow-stained shirt half-buried in weeds that neither of them wanted to reach for. Despite it all, they pushed through, picking up speed now that the end was in sight.
Then, Robert rounded a clump of shrubs and caught the smell before he saw them. Cigarette smoke. Something moved at the edge of his vision.
Three metahuman teens loitered near a maintenance gate, hidden by overgrowth and a sagging sign that read “CITY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” They were dressed in the same neon volunteer vests as Robert and Sonar, which meant they were supposed to be working too. One leaned against the fence, broad-shouldered with a heavy jaw that made him look more shark than human. Another sat on the dirt with her knees up, cigarette dangling from her fingers, bald head slick with fine scales catching the light along her cheekbones. The last stood by the utility box, the most ordinary-looking of the trio until you noticed the faint glow in his blank stare beneath the hood.
Robert’s stomach tightened. Shit. He didn't stop walking (that would be a tell) but adjusted his path with practiced nonchalance, angling away through the trash-strewn grass. He kept his breathing even, pretending not to have noticed them at all.
Unfortunately, the wet grass and twigs squelched louder than Robert had hoped. He bit his lip.
The bald girl lifted her head. Her eyes narrowed, pupils contracting to razor-thin vertical slits, then widened again with recognition. “Shit,” she said, words sliding out with a thick lisp. “Ith that you, Robertthon?”
Sonar’s stride faltered, helmet swivelling toward the confrontation brewing. Robert kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to participate.
The bald girl’s face hardened. She clenched her teeth so tight her jaw muscles bunched into knots beneath her skin. “Don’t you fucking walk away,” she snarled.
She launched herself off the dirt and hit the ground with a heavy thump right in their path. She loomed over Robert by at least a foot, every inch of her blocking the path. Her long, lizard-like tongue unspooled from her mouth, curling sideways in a slow, deliberate show. She hissed.
Robert’s gaze went straight to the gauze wrapped around the middle of her tongue, stained the sickly yellow-brown of old antiseptic and dried blood. She pressed her tongue against it, and her whole face twitched with a flash of pain.
“You think you can juth fuck off?” The words hissed between her teeth, consonants mangled by swollen flesh. Spittle gathered at the corners of her lips as her voice rose. “You made me eat out of a thtraw for a whole fucking week!”
Behind her, the burly one peeled off the fence, boots grinding on the gravel as he closed in. The hooded one slid away from the utility box and stalked along the weeds, his eyes trained on Robert and Sonar. The space around them shrank with every step.
The bald girl stared down at Robert. Her mouth hitched to one side into a crooked grin, like she’d already decided how this would end.
“I told you,—” she growled deep. Certain. “—if I thee you again, I’m gonna pay you back. I’m gonna make you thwallow your own teeth.”
Sonar shifted beside him, gloved fingers flexing at his side. The other two edged closer and closer. Cold sweat prickled at the back of Robert’s neck.
Robert’s gaze dropped to his shoes, pulse pounding loud in his ears. He didn’t want to be here. His dad. Track Star. The hours. The whole stupid day. And now this.
He exhaled hard through his nose. Fine. If this was how the day was gonna go, then this was how it was gonna go.
He looked up and met her glare, a thin smile cutting across his lips. “Still running your mouth, huh? Guess I should rip it out for good.”
The brawny teen’s hand closed on Robert’s collar and yanked. Robert’s feet slid in the mud before he caught himself, chest bumping into the brute’s forearm. He ended up on his toes, held there by a fistful of fabric twisted tight at his throat. The world narrowed to the bite of the hoodie against his neck and the hot, stale stink coming off the other teen. Robert didn’t flail. He just stared at the grip on his collar and pulled short breaths through his nose.
Sonar stepped in, raising both his hands, palms out. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s all take a breath here. Robert’s just kiddin’. He’a hilarious!” he said, laughing nervously. He tipped a hand between them, small and careful. “We’re all in the same court-mandated boat. You want your probation officer calling? Because mine’s already threatened to make me clean highway roadkill next.”
The brute gave Sonar not even a single look. His fingers flexed against the hoodie, bunching the fabric tighter. He leaned in, grin splitting wide. “You remember me?” he asked. One of his front chompers was missing, the gap clean as if someone had taken it as a trophy.
Robert’s eyes flicked to the gap, then back to the kid’s face, fixing him a shit-eating grin. “Now I do,” he said. The words came out evenly, though his pulse didn’t.
Sonar’s helmet snapped to Robert for half a second, like: please don’t, then back to the trio. “And he’s really, really happy to see you, again. Right, Robert?”
The bald girl dragged on her smoke, watching the chokehold and clearly enjoying it. She exhaled through her nose, a thin stream billowing up her face, and the corners of her mouth twitched.
Sonar tried again, hands still up. “Look, we’re almost done. You guys can finish your smoke, and we’ll just pretend we never saw you. Everyone wins.”
The bald girl pinched the cigarette between two fingers, took one last pull, and flicked it off into the weeds without looking. “Get lotht, freak,” she said, eyes never leaving Robert. “Unleth you want to join him.”
Sonar’s helmet swivelled between the trio and Robert, then snapped behind them to the open path, clear and unobstructed. An exit. The brawny teen tightened his fist and gave Robert a rough shake, hauling him higher by the collar. Robert’s sneakers scuffed mud as they searched for ground, and his hand came up to clutch at the grip on his throat. He flicked Sonar a look, not quite sure where Sonar’s eyes were behind the visor, but it held for a beat anyway. Then Robert closed his eyes, resigned.
“Fuck…” Sonar muttered inside his helmet.
He snapped to Robert for a short second. “Cover your ears,” he said.
Robert didn’t ask why. He brought his hands up and clamped them over his ears, palms pressing hard.
Sonar turned back and shoved at the brute’s shoulder. “HEY!” That finally got him to look. Sonar reached up and flipped his visor open.
A piercing shriek tore through the air like a chainsaw screeching at full throttle. Robert’s eardrums clenched, pressure slamming into his sinuses like he’d been shoved underwater. Even with his hands over his ears, the vibration still carried through, rattling his teeth and turning his skull into a tuning fork. The chain-link fence rippled like heat waves. His vision blurred and doubled, colors bleeding at the edges.
The three teens recoiled like someone had driven a spike into their heads. The bald girl stumbled back, eyes rolled back, showing whites. The hooded boy dropped to his knees, shoulders hunched to his ears. The brawny teen’s face contorted, tears streaming from bloodshot eyes as his grip weakened on Robert’s collar.
Robert didn’t miss a beat. He twisted free and drove his fist into the exact spot he remembered where the ribs had given out last time. The hit landed with a harsh, satisfying crack.
The brute howled, a sound like a punctured bellows. He doubled over, and Robert surged into the opening. A mean right hook connected cleanly with his jaw. The brute toppled backward and hit the ground sprawling.
Robert followed him through, pouncing on the fallen teen. He cocked his fist back for another strike when something whistled through the air. He had only seconds to register before the boot leather smashed into his face.
The bald girl, still reeling but vicious, had thrown a desperate kick. White light burst behind Robert’s eyes. Copper flooded his mouth as he went down hard, one hand touching his face and coming away slick with blood. The world around him sharpened to crystal clarity, time slowing as his body buzzed with adrenaline.
Oh, yeah. We’re doing this.
Sonar rushed in, reaching for Robert’s shoulder to help him up, but the hooded boy moved in first. His palm slammed into Sonar’s side. Blue-white electricity erupted, arcing out with a vicious snap.
Sonar's body went rigid. His back arched, muscles seizing as the current ripped through him. A strangled gasp escaped his helmet. He staggered sideways and crashed into the fence, one hand clawing at the metal mesh, the other clutching his side.
Robert's focus split. Sonar was struggling to stand as the hooded boy closed in, eyes burning bright, electricity crackling from his fingers. Then— a metallic click sliced through everything.
The bald girl held a switchblade in her hand, the sharp edge catching the light as she flipped it around. Her bandage bobbed as she hissed. “I’m gonna fucking gut you!”
Robert's eyes locked on the glinting blade. His hands came up in a defensive stance as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. “This is community service,” he said, eyes flicking to the grabber lying in the mud where it had been tossed in the scuffle. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She came at him anyway, shrieking. Her arms swung wide, the knife carving a silver crescent in the air.
Robert sidestepped just in time. He dodged once, twice, mud sliding under his shoes, back brushing the fence. The blade whispered past his hoodie, close enough that he felt the cold wake it left behind. But the third swipe bit him, a hot line opening across his cheek, warmth sliding down his face a second after the cold sting.
He dropped to the ground, fingers scrabbling for the grabber, but came up empty. The girl was on him again, arm snapping forward in quick, frantic jabs. Behind her, the brawny teen wheezed like a wounded animal, still clutching his ribs, eyes fixed on Robert with a promise of murder. Robert felt his space running out, inch by inch. Then it was gone.
His heel caught on something. A root, a stone. For one suspended heartbeat, his balance went. The blade flashed toward his stomach, straight and committed.
He braced for the hit, breath locked in his chest. But in that instant, the air split.
A red-cyan streak slammed into the bald girl’s wrist, the knife flying high in the air. Her forearm snapped wildly, twisting at an angle no arm should bend. Something inside gave with a sickening, hollow pop. For a moment, her mouth gaped in silent shock. Then her scream ripped through, animal and splintered.
Track Star was there, his body still trailing a red-cyan smear that hadn’t caught up to his stop. He reached out, catching the girl before she could crumple.
Robert stood there with his fists still up, heart slamming against his chest. The world held for a breath, then came crashing back; his sliced cheek burning hot, his breath raking sandpaper down his throat, the adrenaline souring in his gut like spoiled milk about to come back up.
The girl writhed in Track Star’s arms, clutching her mangled limb. His hand clamped around her wrist, holding the break together. She tried to jerk away on instinct, then recoiled with a sharp, broken cry. Track Star didn’t budge. He kept her upright, palm pressed firm between her shoulder blades.
“Enough,” the word fell between them like a stone into still water. Straightening to his full height, his visor swept across the tableau.
The hooded boy stumbled back two steps, hands half-raised, eyes wide with shock. The brawny teen stayed down, splayed in the dirt. When Track Star’s visor found him, he jerked like he’d been kicked, scrambling backward on his elbows without ever finding his feet. Sonar sagged against the chain-link fence, heaving, fingers clinging to the metal as his feet kept slipping under him. Robert staggered up, spitting a thick bead of red onto the stones.
Track Star dropped his gaze to the bald girl’s arm. Bone pressed white against skin at a grotesque angle. Her face had gone pale, tears cutting black tracks through smeared makeup, saliva stringing from her open mouth. Track Star’s jaw clenched until his teeth ground together, the sound audible and grating. Then his head snapped to Robert.
“You,” he said, his voice low and tight. “What did I fucking tell you?”
Robert swallowed, jaw working as he pulled on the split on his cheek. “I didn’t start this.”
“No?” Track Star snorted, flat and humourless. ”Then why are you always in the middle of it?”
“They were smoking here,” Robert shot back, chin tilting upward. “They came into our zone. She pulled a knife.”
Sonar pulled himself to his feet, grunting as he struggled. “He’s not lying,” he rasped, with one hand pressed to his right. “They came at us. We’re just minding our own business.”
Track Star’s visor turned sharply toward Sonar.“You, motherfucker,—” he bellowed, voice echoing in the air. Sonar stiffened. His shoulders drew up like he was bracing for impact. “—used your ability on-site. Fucking, straight-up violation!”
Sonar flailed a hand toward Robert. “He was gonna get killed.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Track Star snapped. He hissed out the next words, cold and final. “This goes on record.”
Sonar took a shaky step forward, fist clenching. His whole body hitched like he was about to say something and stopped short, knuckles whitening. In the end, he let his hand drop, helmet dipping low, and said nothing.
Track Star turned back to the others. “You,” he barked at the hooded kid. “Get over here.”
The boy flinched like he’d been struck. He shuffled to his side, careful not to stoke Track Star’s temper any further. Track Star fixed him with a stone-cold expression. “Take her to medical,” he said, angling the snivelling girl towards the boy.
The hooded teenager slipped an arm under the bald girl’s good side. She hissed as he lifted her, teeth gritted, the broken limb hanging uselessly. Once her weight was off him, Track Star turned on the burly teen and jabbed a finger. “You. Go with them. Move.” He drew the last word out through clenched teeth, growling the threat plain.
The big kid hesitated, eyes darting between Track Star and Robert. Then he swallowed, heaved himself up with a groan, and fell in beside his friends without a word.
They limped toward the center of the park, each step a laborious effort. The hooded boy struggled to support her, her arm swinging and bouncing with every stride. She made small, involuntary sounds, thin sobs catching in her throat. The big kid hunched over his ribs as he trudged along, boots scraping against the dirt, not daring to look back.
Track Star didn’t wait for them to disappear. He turned back to Robert and crowded him in a surge of anger, all in his face. He stabbed a finger into Robert’s chest. “You think this is a game, huh?” he demanded. “You think someone’s always gonna bail you out?”
Robert pushed the hand aside but held his ground. He kept his eyes level with the mirrored visor.
Track Star leaned in closer, voice dropping low for only Robert to hear. “Do you have any idea how many favors your dad called in to keep your bitch ass out of juvie?”
A lump rose behind Robert’s throat, hot and threatening. He swallowed it down and just glared back at Track Star, letting the silent challenge speak for him instead.
Track Star fixed Robert with a long, hard stare, his visor giving nothing away. The pause stretched, heavy with words held back, neither of them willing to yield.
Then Track Star exhaled sharply through his nose, mouth twitching. He turned, breaking their staring contest, and pointed toward the park entrance. “You two fuckers are dismissed. Sign yourselves out.” A blur of red-cyan, and he was gone the same way he’d arrived.
Robert stood motionless, scowling at the empty space where Track Star had been. Tremor ran down his shoulder to his clenched fist, nails digging into his palm. He bit down, tasting rust and grit.
The park looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago. Same weeds. Same sagging fence. Same candy wrappers snagged in thorns. Only now the air carried iron and sweat under the stench of cigarette smoke.
He looked down at his volunteer vest smeared with mud, the trash bag half-collapsed at his feet, and garbage spilling out into the mud. His grabber still lay discarded where he’d lost it. The whole picture struck him as ludicrous.
Still, he crouched and gathered the bag up, twisting the top tight in his fist. He willed his hands to stop shaking.
Sonar came up to his side, close but hands to himself. He stayed hunched over his tender side, one hand bracing it gingerly. He clicked his visor shut, the sound a muted seal over everything that felt too precarious to address. He didn’t touch Robert, but his presence weighed like a pat on his shoulder.
Neither of them said a word. They just started walking.
Behind them, the chain-link fence gave one last faint shiver as it settled, and the hum died out.