Chapter Text
It was a particularly busy day at Torrance's dedicated branch of the Superhero Dispatch Network.
Having had their hands full with criminal activity byproduct from a turf war between a couple of rival Normie gangs, the Z-Team had found themselves stretched thin across the city. It was nothing they weren't well prepared for, but when Robert's plate stacked up too high with subscriber reports of petty crimes, there followed a bit too many few failed dispatches for comfort.
Halfway through the hustle and bustle of the Z-Team's daytime shift, the door to the break room softly creaked open to reveal a somewhat battered Waterboy. His feet seemed unsteady, causing him to stumble over his own feet a few times as he inched through the doorway. A bloodied Kleenex (that was, presumably, used to mitigate his very active, very bloody nose) was crumpled tightly into his shaking right fist.
To the few Z-Team heroes occupying the room—taking full advantage of their sweet, well-deserved rest time after wrangling what seemed like the literal entirety of Torrance's n'er-do-wells—this wasn't an unusual sight by any means. Being as inexperienced as he was, though he did almost make up for it with bravery and sheer dumb luck, Waterboy would often return to base a little bit beaten up after certain, more demanding dispatches like today's. Like clockwork, brushing off his defeat with a slight sigh, he'd dust himself off, carefully stitch up the rips in his suit, get himself a snack or drink from the vending machines, and slump down on the couch with the clunky waterproof headphones he always kept in the break room at full blast.
Today, though, it seemed the clock was broken.
After he hobbled all the way through the doorway, Waterboy stood firmly in place, hunched and stiff, oddly swaying from side to side. He almost resembled an old, tall tree in a storm, remaining quiet as heavy winds rocking him from where he had rooted himself on the floor. Blood steadily dripped from his nose and showed slightly through the gauze wrapped around his battle wounds. He said nothing to any of the heroes in the room as the door to the break room clicked shut behind him.
After a few moments worth of awkward silence and Waterboy refusing to move, Punch-Up leaned forward from his chair, his brow furrowed with concern and a bit of curiosity. "Ye okay, lad?"
Waterboy didn't respond, but Punch-Up's unease prompted Flambae and Prism to finally look up from their phones and examine the situation. Upon their inspection, a slight shadow seemed to have settled upon Waterboy's face. The heroes could make out a slight scowl curling at his lips, but his thick, opaque goggles made it difficult to discern exactly what he was thinking.
Kind of unusual behavior for someone as predictably optimistic as Waterboy usually was.
Prism wasn't having it with this mysterious shit; as was her nature, she tried for more clues. "What is up with your attitude today, wetguy? Rough dispatch?" Mid-tease, she noticed something else. "We've all been there, babe. Don't... Oh shit, you're steaming," she stated matter-of-factly. "Hey, why didn't you tell us you could do that? Looks like you got some competition now, ‘bae!"
Prism lightly elbowed Flambae, who scoffed in response. Before he could offer any verbal banter, though, the two were startled by a sudden, impassioned shout as Waterboy punted the water cooler by the door.
The sudden impact sent the cheap machinery clattering in an arc across the floor; after taking the brunt of the force, the plastic jug burst open, splashing dramatically and flooding a small corner of the break room. The heroes then watched in stunned silence as Waterboy lurched forward again and punched a sizable hole in the drywall, trails of hot steam marking the swift paths of his violent movements.
What felt like hours passed before the room settled and Waterboy finally spoke, shrinking back into his usual, hunched form. "I'll... I'll clean that up." he heaved, waddling off towards the supply closet while still avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.
"Damn, man!" Flambae addressed him anyway, breaking the tension in the room with loud, incredulous laughter. "Didn't realize little wet-wipe-boy had that in him! Must've fucked something up big time out there, huh?"
"I tr-try not to." Choosing to ignore the last part of his comment, Waterboy stopped to face Flambae, his voice now feeble but level. He shifted in discomfort, straightening the collar of his suit. "Get... angry like that. My grandma a-always tells me to... uh, redirect my emotions to better- other things. It... usually helps." He chuckled humorlessly. "N-Not... not today, I guess."
Flambae was still laughing, which registered almost as a taunt to the upset Waterboy. "Maybe you should 'redirect' them to fighting crime, yeah? Then you wouldn't have messed up all these missions."
All that seemed to have hit a nerve. Waterboy huffed a bit, averting his gaze from his coworker's. "I'm... I'm doing my b-best, Flambae."
"Psh. Maybe I could believe that if you weren't slipping in your own puddles all the fucking time." Flambae stood up, giving Waterboy a condescending pat on the shoulder. "It's all good. We all have our rough days here. You, a little more than the rest of us, though."
"Please stop."
"Relax, Waterbitch. Don't get your wetsuit in a twist. I'm just messing with you. So, anyway—" Flambae circled around the now clearly agitated Waterboy— "how'd it go out there? Clearly not well. Just look at you." He smirked. "You smell like a damn ashtray. Did you try to spit on a grease fire or something?"
"Flambae." The perpetual moisture surrounding Waterboy had begun to evaporate into thick clouds of steam. He clenched his fists tightly as he spoke. "Why wou-would I tell you?" he muttered just loud enough for the other heroes to hear. "You're the one always... get- fucking up disp-dispatches and setting e-everything on fire. At least I have a rea- excuse... how long ha-have you worked here?"
"Ooh, shit! Burn!" Prism piped up.
Flambae's glowing eyes narrowed, tiny sparks jumping from his shoulders. Absolutely not. He could probably let this go, but he did not intend to be humbled by a wimpy human faucet/humidifier combo today, tomorrow, or ever. Waterbitch could handle a little bit of friendly competition, right?
He leaned down slightly to match his own height with Waterboy's slouch, smirking to mask his apparent irritation. "The fuck did you just say?"
By now, a few more heroes had piled into the break room to not-so-subtly spectate the argument. It was, after all, quite an interesting scene seeing the feeble Waterboy so worked up—and what better than a little drama to add some spice to a difficult day? Sonar and Malevola, returning (conveniently, with snacks) from a mission together, had just claimed their spots on the couch next to Prism, and Invisigal had long given up on holding her breath to eavesdrop.
"I sai-said... at least I have an excuse for doing- m-messing things up. At least I try. A-All you do is half-ass everything. It's like you... d-don't even want this job."
"Are you serious right now?"
That was probably too far. All of this was. He was letting Flambae get in his head, when none of those insults were really meant to be personal, probably. Fuck, why was he like this? Waterboy crossed his arms tightly over his chest, stuttering various curses under his breath. He attempted to swiftly escape from the various (metaphorical and physical) messes he had made in the break room, but Flambae was quick to block his path, his glare almost as intense and fiery as the literal flames dancing on his back.
"Are you actually gonna speak to me like this, wet-fart-boy?" he sneered. "I think you need to remember why you're even on this team. Coupé got cut so the Phoenix Program could make a point. And the only candidate for the opening other than your little wet janitor bitch-ass was Superman with a bad case of depression." He leaned in closer, his sneering smile appearing visually closer to the bared teeth of a defensive animal. "You're not the hero here, bitch. The only potential Robbo saw in you was potential to be a stand-in."
Waterboy, though steaming and trembling like a leaf in his anger, was quick to retort. "A-And... and you're only h-here because all that pro-property damage caught- finally caught up to you. C-C'mon. I m-might not as much enough time- experience as you, but I'm... a law-abiding ci-citizen. Arson could-couldn't have been, uh, cheap. All you... really are is a vil-villain with debt!"
Oh, shit.
The Z-Team mutually understood in the moment that Waterboy was probably just upset and talking out of his ass, but that one comment had crossed about twenty lines that definitely should not have been crossed. Now, the remainder of the team, who had silently accumulated in the room in the heat of the argument, stood, tense, with bated breath as Flambae reached his arm out to lightly shove Waterboy.
"Really? Yeah, go ahead, tell me why I'm here. I got accepted to the Phoenix Program because they knew I could handle the job of being a hero. I can use my powers to save people. You're helpless. All you can do is put out little fires and heal little cuts with your magic throw-up. Clearly, you can't even handle one simple dispatch on your own without a real hero to babysit you." Flambae started to laugh again, his amusement somewhat sincere. "I don't know why Robert puts so much trust in you when you somehow keep fucking over all the civvies in Torrance just by trying too hard."
Before anyone in the crowd gathered in the break room had time to process any of the deep-cutting insults that had been thrown between the two, Waterboy had taken a running start towards Flambae. His fist swung at a wide arc as he launched his entire body forward at full force, inducing the almost grotesque sound of bones shifting as his bloody, steaming knuckles connected squarely with the crook of Flambae's jaw.
A palpable shockwave of bewilderment could be felt by everyone in the room. Holy. Shit.
Though this was not a coordinated display of strength by any means, the unsuspecting Flambae was nonetheless sent reeling backwards for a notable distance from Waterboy's punch, the kinetic force catapulting him straight through the glass wall of one of the vending machines. (The guy may not have quite enough muscle to show for it, but he is not a Normie.)
Flambae recovered quickly from where he—and the shards of glass from the sudden impact—had been knocked to the ground. Steadily lifting himself back onto his feet and grasping onto his throbbing chin, his amber eyes flickered alight with a gaze one could only describe as downright murderous. Searing flames ignited from his shoulders all the way down his back like the sharply raised hackles of an ambush predator ready to strike, hot enough to melt the shards of glass lodged in his skin and to create a ring of glowing, molten liquid around his feet. And however muffled it was by his hand, the furious shriek of "Bitch!" that followed could most likely be heard from halfway across Torrance. Even so, Waterboy would have definitely gone in for seconds, seemingly either severely concussed or completely naïve to the danger before him, had Robert not made his presence known in the room by restraining him mid-pounce. His arms firmly wrapped around Waterboy's waist and wildly flailing wrists, Robert strained to drag him back towards... safety? Maybe sanity was a better word.
"Waterboy!" His normally stern tone was stifled, hissed through the grit of his teeth—somehow sounding even more threatening. "I don't know what in the fuck has gotten into you, but you need to snap out of it, now. Like it or not... complete, inconsiderate asshole or not," Robert corrected himself, his eyes aimed like daggers towards the living fireball in front of him, "Flambae is your coworker, and we can't have shit like this happening in the office. Do you want HR to shut us down?!—"
"A child died today!" Waterboy's brows were sharply furrowed, cutting deep, angry wrinkles into his face that felt almost unnatural in conjunction with his soft features. Tears of anger streamed down his hot, flushed cheeks, only to dissolve into small wifts of steam before they could fall. The room seemed to darken—save for Flambae's flames, which were indifferently unrelenting. "Are you... f-fucking hearing that, Flambae? Does that register to you? Two... two casualties. From an explosion. An older man, w-with a bouquet of roses in his arms. That he... he never got to give- deliver. And... and a beautiful little girl, not older than ni-nine—" Trails of water flung forward from Waterboy's mouth and quickly evaporated as his voice lowered into a sharp, level hiss. "—who almost looked like she could be your niece."
Promptly, flares of additional heat erupted from Flambae's body, sending pulses of uncomfortable warmth from his clenched fists throughout the room. He began to hover above the floor from the force of his powers, looking down at Waterboy with a merciless gaze. The two heroes slowly leaned toward one another in a threatening posture, each assumedly all but ready to tear each other apart to an unclear end.
"Do you have a-any idea how that feels? To watch someone die... in y-y-your arms, knowing it was your job to keep them safe?" Waterboy's wrinkled nose almost resembled a snarl. "To walk away, know-knowing... just knowing it was your fault, that you get to go home at n-night and they don't... of course you don't. Of- of course. You destroy. That's what you do, Flambae. Anything that da-dares to get in your way is ruined by your flames. Of course something like this was... w-was below you!" His voice cracked, straining painfully, as it reached a crescendo.
As if the tension in the break room hadn't already been thick enough to cut with a blade, the room was now dead silent, save for the fierce rumbling and crackling of a completely molten Flambae. Waterboy's eyes had this unrelenting, wild look to them, like he was a bull ready to charge the red in front of him at any moment.
"Waterboy." Robert understood now. His grasp on the trembling man loosened slightly as he adjusted to take a comforting hold of his shoulders. "You're upset you couldn't save everyone today. Trust me, I understand how it feels. It's rough."
The ringing in his ears stifling Robert's attempt at mediation, Waterboy promptly shoved him off of his back with both the ease and the utter carelessness of the act of removing an itchy coat. He stood in place, seething, for what must've been a full minute, boiling hot steam roiling off of his shoulders, before abruptly changing his mind. With an ugly sob, he turned on his heel and took off into the darkness of the nearby hall.
All eyes now timidly settled on Flambae, who was still sustaining a body-wide inferno with the sheer force of his indignation. The heat radiating en masse off his body scattered the light in the room, causing the space immediately around him to visibly churn and distort. The smoke accumulating in the air was almost suffocating. Robert instinctively tensed from the look in Flambae's eyes—one he recognized from their conflict outside of the villain bar—fully expecting him to go for the chase (and bracing himself for the stacks of reports he would inevitably have to file to HR after this).
Instead, the vibe of the room seemed to calm almost imperceptibly. Flambae's piercing gaze suddenly waned, his feet settling back onto the floor. Then, to everyone's disbelief, he—while still very much aflame—silently turned his back on the room and left. The Z-Team (and a few other nosy SDN employees who had craved a piece of the action) collectively craned their ears towards the dwindling sound of fire crackling as Flambae stormed away from the break room, then simultaneously recoiled from the sudden, loud boom of his takeoff.
The room was still silent, save for the volume of stunned looks the team unanimously exchanged. What the hell just happened?
"...I guess we're down two on our roster for the rest of the day." Robert finally sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Look alive, people. Try not to think too hard about whatever that was. I'll be having separate conversations with the both of them... as soon as I'm sure neither will try to kill me. But for now, Torrance still needs all of you." He made a faint wave of his hand. "Get back to it."
There was nothing else for the remaining Z-Team to do, really, but to nod and follow his lead.