Chapter Text
If Robert Robertson had to pick a torture arrangement, hanging upside-down wouldn’t be it.
Obviously if he really had a choice, he would, dunno, choose to not be tortured at all. A shocking revelation, he knows, but he’s not that depressed, contrary to what some of the Z-team might think. Most people likely would opt out from torture had they the choice, but funny enough their opinions are usually not taken into account.
Anyway, if he had some say in the matter, this is not something he’d pick. Of course there probably are much worse ways to go about it, but still.
It sucks.
He feels sick from all the blood pooling into his head. His blood is also pooling underneath him, the slow, slick drip drip drip of the crimson droplets a fucked-up clock for him to time his torment. The ticking has been slowly growing faster with all the cuts, courtesy of Coupé, but she’s a true professional and he hasn’t been losing too much blood. It would be a shame if he passed out in the middle of Shroud’s monotonously smug villain speech.
He hopes he’d get dizzier, maybe that would blur the pain a bit, but unfortunately he still feels all too well the sharp tip of Coop’s blade resting on his ribs. He hates how he flinches and tries to twist away from the inevitable agony, but there’s nowhere to go. The blade moves, drawing a careful line. Enough to hurt like a bitch, not too deep to actually be of danger.
“How long are we gonna keep this going?” he slurs, stupidly satisfied with the way his voice still keeps its typical unimpressed tone despite the current, shitty circumstances. “I haven’t got all night, y’know.” They have already determined he doesn’t have the Pulse. Invisigal does, apparently, and that deception is a cut that hurts even more than Coupé’s ever could.
“How predictable of you to keep up the brave face,” Shroud says. Robert hates how calm and collected he sounds. He doesn’t even sound like he’s enjoying Robert’s torment that much.
It should be a relief, to not be tortured by a sadist, right?
But it’s not. Efficient villains are much more dangerous than the ones who do it for enjoyment. The latter are easier to stall. So, Robert is slightly regretting his words. Maybe for once he should have kept his mouth shut. Then again, maybe that would have also led to the same outcome. Maybe everything would have. It’s not like he could have fought his way free anyway.
So. Maybe all doors led to the same option in the first place. That’s depressing as fuck, he can later think.
“But maybe you are right,” Shroud is saying.
“Nah, I was wrong. I’d love to hear you talk a bit more.”
That earns him a little chuckle. What a victory! Mecha Man proves he’s a funny guy just before being gutted like a fish. A true act of heroism and proof that anyone can make it as a hero!
Right.
“Coupé,” Shroud says.
Robert would like to think Coop hesitated. That there was a flash of regret, of indecision in her eyes before she drew the blade and plunged it in Robert’s stomach. That maybe there was a silent apology in the way she cut his guts open.
But to be honest, he has no idea.
Robert’s whole body spasm and twists, his grunts of pain turning into a cut-off scream as the burning agony turns nearly excruciating.
Hot blood gushes out. It flows down his chest, onto his face, into his hair, joining the rapidly growing puddle underneath him. It’s burning in his eyes, but twisting his neck slightly he can still see the wound in his abdomen. A bad one, like really bad. But not immediately lethal, like a knife to the heart or slitting his throat would be.
No, this one’s gonna last a bit longer before he’s finally going to pass out from blood loss and never wake up.
“And don’t bother waiting for the cavalry to arrive,” Shroud says, his voice devoid of all and any emotion. “They all have rather pressing matters to attend to right now.”
Robert tries to speak, but first he needs to calm down his rapid breathing, approaching hyperventilation. There is a horrible leaking sensation in his stomach that feels wrong, so wrong. His heart is beating in his chest, each thud taking him closer to a line there is not coming back from. This cannot be happening. Somewhere, the universe must have taken a wrong turn.
He’s not supposed to go out like this.
Shroud crouches before him. The mask seems to swing back and forth in Robert’s vision, the red eye in and out of focus.
“The probability of you dying in that crash months ago was closer to seventy,” he says thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, the odds are even worse for you now. What a shame, to die like this and not in the suit, that’s what you are thinking, right?”
He stands up.
“Well, we cannot all choose our destinies. It’s been a pleasure, Mecha Man.”
Then he turns his back on Robert. Robert can hear him give out orders. Then they are leaving, walking out through the back of the bar. He can see the goons sneer down at him, chuckling at the pathetic display of the former hero slowly bleeding out like a stuck pig. Coupé gives him one final, unreadable look before she too walks away.
Robert tries to say something. Maybe have some defiant last words, maybe beg Coupé not to leave. Maybe just to gasp a final fuck you at Shroud’s back. But his mouth is full of blood and he has trouble breathing and forming words through the debilitating haze of oh my god I am going to die in his head.
No, he won’t. There must be something he can do. He tries to wriggle free from the chains, but it’s a laughable attempt. Even if there was a way for him to escape the bindings, he’s way too weak to actually accomplish anything else save for a couple of sad twitches.
He tries to scream for help. But his voice doesn’t carry far and it’s difficult to shout through the dizziness and the pain and the blood still in his mouth.
They will find him. Someone will. Blazer, the Team -
Someone will be there.
Someone will find him.
Someone will…
…
There’s nothing. No one.
He is alone in the bar.
The realization settles deep in his chest, a cold, empty void slowly growing and spreading towards his limbs.
No one is coming.
It really would have been a mercy to die in the suit all those months ago. Then he would have been spared from the absolute humiliation of slowly bleeding to death in an empty, darkened villain dive bar, hanging above a filthy floor littered with old beer stains and gum and god-knows-what else. What a pathetic way to go. Maybe it suits him. A sad, pathetic end for his sad, pathetic life.
He is freezing. The bar is so quiet.
Well. It does seem like this is how it ends for him.
Well, he thinks, his thoughts becoming slow and sluggish. Maybe he did do some good things with the additional time he was given. The Z-Team has the potential to be amazing. They have already come so far, they will surely flourish in the future. They’ll just have to get used to a new dispatcher. He really should have made a handbook on how to deal with the team, instructions to whomever comes after him. To not send Flambae near temptingly empty, dilapidated buildings that would look nice in flames, to keep Sonar a 100 feet away from Vanderstank at all times, to not be tricked by Invisigal into thinking she doesn't give a shit. To ask for the new hire to give them a chance, please.
They are good people. They just need an opportunity to prove it….
It’s so cold.
The blood keeps dripping.
For a long time.
The body of Robert Robertson III is already cold by the time he is found, so he is not there anymore to hear any of the following.
There is a crashing sound of the door being blown off from its hinges.
“FOUND HIM!”
“Shit, cut him down!”
“Fuck - that looks…”
“Holy hell.”
“Mal, MAL GET HERE RIGHT NOW -”
“...Fuck.”
“Roberto, ROBERT! Can you hear us?”
“Mal, what the fuck are you waiting for?”
“Visi…”
“MAL. HEAL HIM.”
“It’s too late..”
“Well shut the fuck up and at least try!”
“He’s fucking dead, Flambae! I can’t heal the dead.”
“The what fucking use are you?!”
There are sounds of breaking glass and furniture. Of roaring flames. Of curses and yelling.
Anything to fill in the silence.
Robert Robertson III is a workaholic.
That is such an obvious statement that no one who knows who he is and what he does has probably never said that aloud, only because it would’ve been such a redundant sentence to utter. Like saying doors are gateways to other rooms or that microwaving dead rats is bad office etiquette.
(Ok, the latter is something he’s had to explain out loud. His job is insane.)
It clearly runs in the family - workaholism, not microwaving dead rats - as both Robert Robertson I and II were also, lo and behold, workaholics. That probably explains many other features of Robert the Third as well. At least he doesn’t have a kid of his own that would suffer from his endless dedication to his vocation.
Anyway, it is time to get to work.
Another shift is about to start. Robert sighs as he checks the readings on his computer. A fine day, warm and sunny. A Wednesday, so hopefully it will be a peaceful one. What kind of a criminal would commit crime on a Wednesday, after all? It is the worst day of the week.
However, at least he gets to work with some pretty cool people, he has to admit. Even if they are a pain in the ass not even sometimes but most of the time. But still, they are his team. His fucked-up found family.
“Good morning people,” he says and -
Well, that is all he can say before all hell breaks loose.
There is a high, loud screech that feels like it is about to shatter his eardrums. What follows is not in any way gentler to his hearing.
“WHAT THE FUCK.”
“Guys, did you hear -”
“Of COURSE we did Golem, who couldn’t have!”
“The fuck is going on?!”
“R-Robert -?!”
Jesus Christ, Robert is just as confused as his team seems to suddenly be.
“What - just calm down people, what has gotten into you -”
But it’s useless to speak, as they are all yelling and cursing and screaming over his words like a group of lunatics. If this was just another inane prank… He is going to confiscate the coffee machine. And the vending machine. All the good machines.
“Who the FUCK is in there? I’m gonna burn them to a fucking crisp, motherfucker - “
It is not nice to be threatened the first thing in the morning, Robert would like to tell Flambae, but unfortunately he cannot get a single word in, as Prism’s voice cuts in:
“We’re almost there! Me and Punch-up were in the break room, we’ll catch whoever bitch is in there -”
“Not if I get there first.”
There is a sound of exploding glass, and footsteps, and yelps and shouts and gasps, and Robert thinks his team has finally gone bonkers, off the deep end, completely nuts, so he looks at the window -
he looks -
he tries to
what
But there is no window or bullpen or anything. There’s suddenly only swirling colors and white light and -
Prism’s shocked voice.
“There’s no one there.”
The white light intensifies until it engulfs everything.