Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's not like Courtney sat down one day and decided: yeah, this is how it's going to be, now. You get dolled up during work for a date on fucking Valentine's Day.

She never considered it would all go this far. That it would go anywhere at all, really.

But now, here she is, in the locker room of all locker rooms, hips pressed against the sink, leaning close to apply precise flicks of eyeshadow in the filthy mirror.

Again.

At least, this time, no one's giving her—shit.

A glowing black-and-red disc fills the grease-stained mirror as a matching red figure, tall and muscular, steps out, black heels clacking on the tile.

"Oh, shit. Visi, what's this about?"

Malevola reaches over with a long nail to tug on Courtney's full-sleeved cream turtleneck crop. Courtney smacks her hand away without turning from the mirror.

"Fuck off, I'm working here."

"From what I hear, you're not working at—is that cashmere? Since when do you wear cashmere?"

"I don't, it's a—mind your fucking business, Mal," Courtney responds, voice low and irritated as she applies lip-liner.

"It's my business if I'm covering all your calls on a fucking Saturday." Malevola eyes Courtney through the mirror, one corner of her mouth tilted.

"It's really not, that's what PTO fuckin' means. Not my fault we got weekend rotation. Don't be a bitch."

Malevola steps closer, leaning on the adjacent sink as Courtney swaps to a dark-berry lip stain.

"Well, my request got denied, bitch." Malevola's face falls into a scowl. "So fuck me if I wanna know why."

She huffs. "Sucks to suck."

Malevola scoffs right back. "Right. Bet this has nothing to do with Robert being off, yeah?"

Courtney doesn't respond, focusing on getting the stain applied perfectly.

Malevola attempts to nudge her with an elbow—Courtney twists out of the way at the last second, holding the stain tube up high.

"Fuck off! Do you know how hard it is to get this off if it smudges?" she snarls, heat rising in her cheeks.

"If you want me to leave you alone, you know what to do," Malevola responds with a sly smile, her long red tail circling around Courtney's ear.

"Fucking fine, whatever," Courtney scoffs, glaring at her through the mirror. "Just—grab my earrings from my locker."

"And then?"

"And then you'll get one question."

"Three," Malevola barks back, eyes narrowed.

"Okay, fine. Three." Courtney rolls her own.

Malevola clacks away. Courtney finishes off with a coat of dark-berry gloss before hiking up and then resettling the waistband of her cream slacks, making sure that her hip bones are just showing.

One last sweep of her hair and Malevola's back, a pair of small silver hoops in hand.

"These the ones?"

"Gimme." Courtney snatches them out of Malevola's red fingers, then puts them on at lightning speed before taking a step back for a final check in the mirror.

"Fuckin' Hell, babe. Looking good."

"Fucking hot, you mean."

She really does. Her lips look full and dark, the eyeshadow extending the natural flick of her lashes. The cashmere clings to her neck and chest, soft and warm, the sleeves running down to meet a small, silver watch on her right wrist and a slim tennis bracelet on her left. The slacks hug her ass, the pant legs snug, outlining her thighs and calves. Her black pleather platform boots give her just a little bit of extra height—enough to add some flair, but not enough to make her eyes level with Robert's.

It's better than she ever imagined. She can't help but smile at her reflection, turning one way, then the other.

She's gonna blow his mind. Now, and more, later. Fuck, she can already see his face, head tipping back—

Malevola hums, the sound bringing Courtney back into the locker room, dim fluorescent lighting stinging her eyes. She blinks, pretending to brush something off of her shoulder.

"Okay, first question. Why did Robert take the whole day off?"

"Come on, Mal. You don't give up the goods before the trade's done. That's amateur shit." Now Courtney smiles as she struts over to her locker, silent, taking another quick look in the cracked mirror on the door before reaching for her purse—just to see a red hand cross through a small portal and confiscate the black clutch.

She spins around, grunting in frustration, the blood pumping in her veins immediately palpable. "What the fuck?"

Malevola stands with one hip cocked, a crooked smile on her face.

"Like these goods?" She holds up the clutch.

Courtney works her jaw, fuming. She could go after the purse, and probably grab it. But then there's a chance she ends up on the floor, and she's not fucking up this outfit. She could lie. But then what would be the point? It's not like Robert told her anything.

"Fuck, fine. I don't know."

Malevola's brow arches, her tail flicking once behind her.

"Bullshit."

"No, seriously, I don't know. He told me last night, and then just said, 'Uh, don't wear heels and bring a jacket.'" Courtney delivers her best Robert impression—perfectly-calibrated to be as insulting as possible—as she pulls said jacket out of her duffel bag, a cropped black leather number she smooths with her fingers before hanging it over her shoulders.

She looks Malevola right in her yellow eyes, chin up. I'm fuckin' telling the truth. Her black brows soften in response.

"No shit? He didn't tell you what you were doing?" Malevola asks, tone incredulous.

"Nope." He didn't. "Just said I'd get picked up at 4:45."

Malevola's eyebrows raise even further, before that telltale look comes back across her face.

Courtney tilts her head, suspicious. "Why? You know something I don't?"

"Nah, mate—I'm the one asking. You gotta have some idea what he's planning, right? Otherwise why the fuck would you dress up—"

"—like a hooker? Fuck you," Courtney responds, tone light. Malevola's eyes widen.

"Nah, nah, I wasn't—"

She laughs. "Calm down, I was just fuckin' with you." She watches Malevola's shoulders drop. "It's just—it is Valentine's Day. Figured I'd go all in."

She steps closer to Malevola as she talks, watching the demon's yellow eyes fixate on Courtney's hands under her leather jacket, clutch still held high in long, black nails. She knows something. Don't spook her.

Malevola laughs softly, her eyes closing for a moment. "Well, you did it. For the record, you look high-class. Three-thousand an hour, minimum."

She chuckles. "Not for sale."

Malevola hums, then turns to look in the mirror herself, running one finger through her hair.

"You don't seem that excited," she says out of the corner of her mouth, eyes flicking to Courtney through the mirror.

"I'm fine." Courtney's words come out faster than she can think them, harsher than she means. She turns back to the mirror herself, checking her lip-line. Her eyes find their reflected counterparts. That was an overreaction.

She swallows past the tightness in her throat. Chill. Don't make a big deal out of it.

"Just—tryin' not to expect anything. I'm sure—" Malevola's yellow eyes stare at her through the mirror. Courtney takes another breath. "I'm sure whatever Robert's cooked up is gonna be fine. It's gonna be...great."

The last word comes out breathier, huskier. The corners of her mouth turn upward. She turns them down as fast as she can, just a small curve remaining.

Malevola laughs, watching Courtney's face as she clamps down on her smile.

"Wow, mate. You must really—"

Courtney cuts her off, her smile now sly and crooked.

"Nope. That was three, Mal. Give it back."

Malevola lifts the clutch higher, far out of reach. "Ay, don't forget—I still got the bag, mate."

"Oh, fuck off." Courtney pauses for a moment, mulling over her options. Don’t fuckin' fight. Robert would—ugh. "You know what?" she starts, watching Malevola step back, her brows drawn together, hands ready by her sides.

"Portal me to the parking lot and I'll answer one more fuckin' dumbass question," Courtney finishes, voice gruff.

Malevola's teeth flash. "Sweet as." She extends the clutch on a long black nail.

Courtney snatches it. A flick of Malevola's free hand, and her massive red sword appears, cutting another large, glowing black-and-red disc into the air beside them.

They step through and into the SDN Torrance parking lot, late afternoon sun on asphalt, parked cars glinting in the light.

The portal seals behind them with a soft hiss. Concrete sounds under Courtney's boots as the familiar smell of the refinery greets her already aching lungs.

Malevola walks beside her, sword on her back, heels still clacking, a little quiet. Oddly quiet. Courtney turns to look at her just as she opens her mouth.

"As I was saying—" she starts, turning to meet Courtney's gaze, adjusting her pace to compensate for the latter's shorter legs.

"—you must really trust him, yeah? If you'll just...go along with all this." Her voice is soft, almost gentle.

Courtney stops mid-step, something cold in her chest arresting her motion.

Which was weird, considering she wasn't afraid or anything. She knew what fear felt like.

Shit—the first rock Courtney put through a window almost killed her. Fourteen and scrawny, her breath frozen, dirty pane in front of her, she watched her reflection mock her as something rough in her palm, heavy yet not, pulled her down, along with something in her stomach. She closed her eyes and heard it all. Sirens. Car doors slamming. Men's voices as they yelled. Felt cold steel over her wrists, smelled dirty leather and gasoline. Orange fabric scratched her skin as she landed hard on the concrete, the grate crashing closed behind her, sealing her away forever with every other dumbass who fucked up—a criminal, stupid, worthless. Heard the cackling as she failed, chickened out, the insults and whispers hurled at her in the halls. Felt rough forearms press her up against the grate of a locker so hard it dug into her back, emptiness on either side in the cafeteria. Watched the rock sail through her invisible heart, carrying the knowledge that she'd be alone forever and ever, until the end of time.

Then she threw.

The glass shattered, echoing through the night, around her skull. She waited—waited for fate to come, the sinking in her chest perpetual—always cold, never quite reaching past her stomach. Some hours later, she finally released her breath, reappearing to the world, eyes opened to a dizzying absence. No sirens, no laughter—just a jagged hole clearing a path to a new life she didn't know she signed up for. A path she walked for years, carrying that same cold with her. Past a second rock through a second window. Past locks she picked, trap houses she robbed, evidence lockers she broke into. Each action pushing the shiver down, away, lower and lower. Until, one day, she reached the doorstep of a supervillain's lair and could just...walk inside. Without a second thought.

It's not that she didn’t feel it still, that sinking sensation below her heart. It just didn't matter. Because, underneath it all, there was another feeling—one that cleared her mind and slowed her breath, carried in the set of her shoulders.

Certainty.

"Visi?" Malevola's stopped now, a little ahead of her, head tilted to one side. The concern in her voice pulls Courtney back to the hot asphalt of the parking lot below her, the low sun warming her skin.

Fuck, what did she say?

She replays the sound in her mind: You must really trust him, yeah?

"Yeah," Courtney starts, resuming her stride, looking Malevola directly in the eyes as she walks past her—face straight, tone confident.

"Yeah. I do."

It was true. Completely true. She did trust him. And she didn't have to think about it. But—

When did that happen?

And why was that icy feeling, the one that didn't matter, sinking deeper into her stomach?

Malevola smiles in return as she matches Courtney's pace, placing a soft hand on her shoulder as she goes.

"I know you do."

"Then why'd you fuckin' ask?" Courtney's own brows raise as the expletive comes out with a slight crack.

Malevola turns to look where she's going, falling silent again as they pass by gray sedans and white SUVs.

Courtney can feel her breath quickening again, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "You know something," she blurts out.

Malevola barely glances at her. "I know a lot of things. You'll have to be more specific."

"About tonight." Courtney's voice comes out strong, sure. "All these fuckin' questions—why do you care so much? Unless—"

"I told you, mate, my PTO got denied," Malevola responds, exasperated. "I was planning on surprising that idiot over there—" she points one long finger at the silhouette of a massive bat, closing in from the distant sky. "—but your boy Robert had other ideas."

Courtney's brows draw further together as they reach the edge of the parking lot, stepping onto the sidewalk. She turns to face Malevola.

"Bullshit. I know when you're lying, Mal."

Malevola chuckles. "No, you don't, Visi. But I'll bite." She smiles. "All I know for sure is that, whatever he's doing, it'll be special. Robert doesn't half-ass things." One corner of her mouth drops. "Especially when it comes to you."

Courtney can't stop the heat from creeping into her cheeks, bowing her head instead.

She's not wrong.

"Well, sorry that you and Sonar couldn't bang or whatever."

"Hmph."

They both stand there on the sidewalk, watching the sky as the sound of beating wings grows closer. Courtney glances at her watch. Seven—wait, no—eight? Plus three, then plus five...eight. Eight more minutes.

Wait, who's picking me up?

She hadn't even thought about it—which was pretty fuckin' weird. She used to know everything—always in every room, invisible, watching anyone and everyone. Always a step ahead, never caught with her pants down. If you knew everything, you didn't have to trust anybody. That's how she survived twenty-seven years in LA.

But, somewhere in the past two-and-a-half, shit got a little easier, a little less pressured. At some point, she found out she didn't actually need to know everything. And sometimes people could actually handle their shit—like Bruno in Duos, or Colm on a mission, or Chad at a bar, or Mandy with paperwork. Like Robert over comms, or Robert with the dishes, or Robert with a table at Cento, or Robert with his head between her legs, stubble pricking her thigh—

Jesus. Get your head out of the fuckin' gutter.

Her ears perk up at the sound of an engine approaching in the distance, the sidewalk briefly cooling under a passing shadow. She snaps her gaze to the end of the street, breath catching—just to see Alice's busted-ass Charger come around the corner. She bites down on her cheek to stifle a groan, then glances at Malevola long enough to catch her raised brow as she turns her yellow eyes away from Courtney's face toward the approaching vehicle.

She rolls her eyes, her cheeks burning now, before clapping her hands over her ears as the Charger screeches to a halt, the window already rolled down.

"Holy shit, who the fuck is this?" Alice's voice cracks on the last word, pitching up into a squeal. "Waterboy, you seein' this shit?"

"Hey, Visi," Herm calls out from the passenger seat, his head leaned forward to see past Alice's hair. "You look good! Uh, pretty. Not that you don't usually—I just meant—" His face is already red.

"Thanks, Waterboy." Courtney chuckles. "And you—" she points at Alice, "—can keep it movin'."

"Girl, I'm parked." Alice leans further out the window, scanning her up and down, her mouth hanging open in an unashamed grin. "So that why Blazer denied my PTO? Because you need the whole team on standby for a fuckin' fit check?"

"Denied mine too," Malevola adds from behind.

"Jesus, nobody's shit got denied because of me. Lemme guess, you put yours in last week?"

Alice scoffs, her pink and blue hair swinging. "No. Okay, maybe. But still—fuck you."

"Yeah, fuck you too." Courtney's mouth twists into a crooked smile.

Suddenly, she's blinded by familiar orange light, instinctively recoiling to protect her clothing from the heat on her skin. She opens her eyes to see Chad leaning over her, inspecting her turtleneck, his eyebrows practically in his hairline.

"Oh shit! You ditching us for a Sade cover band? You look—"

She grunts, pushing his face away with her hand. "Back up. You're gonna singe my shit."

"I'm just saying—"

"Well, don't."

"You look—"

"Watch it." Her skin prickles under the cashmere where his eyes land, her hand curling into a fist.

Chad grins, hands up. "Ooh, scary lady. I surrender, I surrender."

She hums, smiling. "Good choice."

"Seriously, though, you look terrifying. Those Dalmatians are fucked."

"Oh, fuck off." Her frown comes right back.

"Well, that answers my question," Victor sounds from the parking lot, voice level—almost bored. Courtney turns around to see him walking up, fixing his tie, and—to his credit—keeping his eyes on her face.

"What question? Nobody asked you shit."

"The question of whether Robert is punching above his weight class. Which—" he adjusts his cufflink, one corner of his mouth lifting, "—was never really a question."

"Ugh." Courtney plants her feet a little wider, crossing her arms, clutch still in her left hand. "Is everybody done? Can we stop doing this?"

"I'm not done," Alice calls from the car.

"I barely started," Chad adds, voice bright.

"I'm done," Herm offers, quiet.

"Great. One out of five." Courtney checks the time. Three minutes. "My ride's gonna be here soon, so all of you can go do literally anything else."

"Hell naw, I gotta see what he pulls up in." Alice is practically leaning out of the driver's side window now, scanning up and down the street.

"I bet it's a limo," Victor says. "That's a power move."

"Please. That cheap bitch is gonna show up in his Civic," Chad chuckles.

"It's an Accord."

She immediately feels her face sizzle.

Fuck. She’s such a dummy. They’re laughing already—she can almost hear it.

Heat creeps into her throat. Courtney tucks her chin, cuts her eyes up through her lashes, brows drawn together, looking Chad right in the eyes.

Don't say any—

"The car. It's an Accord," she continues.

The Charger idles loudly. Alice's face stretches as it opens to bark—Chad muffles a snicker with his fist, chest heaving slowly. Even Malevola's turning, eyes wide.

Something behind Courtney’s forehead fires.

"Fuck you guys," she growls before turning away and starting toward the corner.

"Hey, where're you going?" Malevola calls out after her, tone soft, confused—heels already chattering. "We didn't—"

"I just need a minute," Courtney calls back, cutting her off. "I'll be right back."

She hears a car door open, footsteps behind her—other than Malevola's heels—quickly replaced by hushed whispers, turning her head a little to listen as she walks.

"Where she going—"

"Let her be—"

"Fuck, I didn't mean to—"

"She'll be fine."

"But R-Robert—"

"Just shut it, yeah?"

Courtney's fingers tighten around the clutch, nails pressing into the leather.

Of course they know. So fucking stupid. Why am I always the last bitch to know what's up? Why do they get to—

Her breath comes shorter—a wheeze threatening the edges. She keeps walking. Doesn't turn around. Listens to Malevola's question echo in her mind, tumbling over a hundred other thoughts.

"You must really trust him, yeah?"

She must, right?

He was there when that fucker in his dumbass white coat told her the metal in her chest would have to stay. At first, she just laughed. At just how fucking stupid she was. To think that she could erase her sins. That, one day, she could take her shirt off in bed, let him touch her there. The laughter filled her head, the room, pressing out from behind her eyes. But then she was sideways, torso bent, shoulders down, hands dropped, something plastic digging into her hip. Her head rested against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. Nothing left but her cheek against his pulse, her nose in his shirt. His hand warm on her back, the other threaded through her hair. His lips pressed soft against her temple, sounds in the shape of words floating into her ears—low, quiet, reassuring. He was there. For her, and no one else.

And she's there for him too.

Like the time—no, times, plural—when she woke up in the middle of the night, eyes searching the dark, a warm weight on her chest. When she found her fingers already in auburn locks, her lips on damp skin, a whimper in her ear. Felt her hand running up and down the length of his shaking back, pulling him in closer. Felt a warmth in her chest, still spreading, knowing that he went to her in his sleep. And so she held him even tighter, arms squeezing. Told him in soft, slow tones that it was just a dream, that nothing bad was happening. That she got him, that everything would be okay. And she knew—she meant it.

No, they definitely got each other.

That first party was going to be a nightmare, they were sure of it. There she was, in the kitchen chopping onions, her breath shallow, trying to do that thing where you put the knife against your knuckles, watching Robert tense up over the stove and already seeing it all—purple smoke pouring from the oven, brisket leather-tough. Everybody chewing politely, hands under their thighs. Robert's palm finding the small of her back—warm, certain—and the moment she leaned into it, Chad's eyes catching it. The corners of his mouth lifting, lips parting. Heat running up the back of her neck, looking down at her lap. Robert not talking, going to bed early, mouth downturned. The rest of the house falling silent. Staring.

And yet, a few hours later, there they were, the two of them hosting together, laughter and sizzling echoing off thin walls. It was easy, almost deceptively so, to stand there together, her arm around his shoulder, his around her hips, as a unit—touching, proud, unashamed in their happiness. Taking and talking shit as they fed a small army, celebrating the signing of their—oh, fuck. Lease.

It was almost renewal time, the bullshit that sneaks up on you just as you finally got a chance to fucking breathe, to build a routine, to push down the trauma of moving trucks and back injuries and dipping into savings neither of them could afford to lose—memories that dumped dread into her core, mingling with the ice in her stomach.

Though whatever she feels now is nothing compared to what she felt when they signed that first lease. It was only a few months—just adding Robert to hers—but it still felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. Even with stick-on wallpaper and velcro hangers, it all seemed too permanent, overloading whatever short and fragile thing they shared. Her skin buzzed as she saw her past reflected in their future: him, crying in the spare bedroom, pulling something threadbare over him after she screamed about some dumb shit like cleaning. Her, alone on the floor, swiping through photos on her phone, pining over a dog that was never hers. Reliving how she lost the one who got away.

The second lease was easier—much easier. Picking up the keys was something she could actually celebrate that time. And now this third one? She’s realizing, again, that—suddenly, without her knowledge or consent—it's a no-brainer. Super easy. Hardly an inconvenience.

A whole 'nother year, in the same spot, with the same guy, and she doesn't even have to think about it. Which is somehow scarier than that first lease ever was.

She reaches down into her open clutch, only to see toothpicks already in her mouth in the periphery of her vision. Oh.

Her fingers find a lighter instead. She brings it to her mouth, flicking the wheel, watching as sparks fly out, igniting nothing—a useless attempt to push down a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with her lungs and everything to do with how chickenshit she is.

"Look, when you’re just trying to make it," she told her therapist—that still felt new too—"you don’t really get to think that far ahead." In a good week, perhaps a week. In a bad one, maybe a day. In a really bad one? The next meal.

But, for a while now, she's been thinking ahead for more than just meals. At first, it started simple. Those first weeks following that insane night—the one that changed everything? It was all about the next weekend, the next time the two of them would sit on opposite ends of the couch, inching closer as the credits approached. Always just apart. Until some time in the third act, when she looked up and realized they were lying down on the lumps, her good shoulder pressed into his chest, his elbow propping him up over her. All smiles and laughter, breath mints freshly swallowed, lifting up to reach soft lips.

Then it was a mark and star on the calendar, months out. Graduating from the Phoenix Program—no longer probationary, no longer a fuck-up. She could feel it under her skin for weeks, buzzing, pressing out. A real fuckin' hero—the one she knew she was, she could be—hustling the leaderboards, watching the calendar refuse to turn, mocking her.

And then, there she was, sitting in a conference room, paper in front of her, pen in-hand. She could feel the acid burning in her throat, surging. How something in her set her jaw, her shoulders. Watched herself sign on the dotted-line, committing the next two years of her life to SDN, to heroism. To staying.

Just thinking about it made her feet numb, unsure if the earth pressing up under her was supporting her or making her tip forward, doomed to eat shit.

She sniffs, looking over her shoulder. Alice and Herm are out of the car now, chatting with Mal, Victor, and Chad on the sidewalk, the five of them alternating glances at the corner on which Courtney stands.

She checks her watch. Her eyes widen at the time. 4:48 PM.

Holy shit, it’s been six fuckin' minutes. Wait—

Her gaze scans the street, looking left, then right, then left again. Nothing. Her eyes fall.

He’s late.

A new source of heat rises from her sternum, creeping up past her collarbones, through her neck and into her throat.

She closes her eyes, but she can still feel theirs on her back from down the block. Watching her, laughing as she stands at the corner, dolled up under a lamp, like a goddamn—

Stop it. It's just been a few minutes. You have no right to say shit anyways.

She really didn't. Because he actually had a plan, even if it seemed like she was the only person who didn't know what it was. And her? She was still a fuck-up. A bitch who woke up in bed today, next to a man who told her last night to expect a surprise, and realized she had nothing. No plan. No gift. No reservation. Valentine's Day, and she was showing up empty-handed. Again.

She should have done something, she thought, as she laid there, useless, unable to look at his face. Robert always planned shit—that was his whole thing. And there she was, running through options in her head while he slept next to her, his breathing slow, one beautiful arm heavy across her chest. Flowers? Lame. Lunch? Where?

You fuckin’ suck. He's out here planning surprises and you can't do shit for him.

But that wasn't totally fair, was it? Last month, when he was having that fucked week running kaiju cleanup—didn't she stop by that food truck with the pork belly he loves, the one that's only open for two hours at some fuckass random time every week? Or what about last week—didn't she make Mandy kill his lunchtime meetings so he could eat shitty sandwiches with her every day? And she couldn't forget about last night. Not when she waited around at work for two fuckin' hours so they could still drive home together after he got all his paperwork done, then rocked his shit once they got to bed. Wasn't that—

She felt a familiar cold slide into her stomach.

Fuck. That was Valentine's Day shit. She'd already been doing it—all of it. She just didn't know it counted.

She squirmed against the mattress at the thought, a huffy Beef standing up and walking over to Robert's pillow. So she was good at this. She could plan, she was doing it every day—every time she went to work, every time she ran an errand, every time she went out. All those plans considered someone else, someone special. And she liked it—the way her day always had him in it, the way he always had her in his.

A toothpick shatters in her teeth, sending a shard into her cheek. Courtney sputters, spitting splinters out of her mouth onto the street. Grunting and shaking her head, she pulls her leather jacket further over her shoulders, the ice in her chest sending a shiver through her body despite the warm evening sun.

Because if that was Valentine's Day shit, then what else had she been doing, convinced she was doing something else? When did all of this start, when did she change? And what would happen if she made the woman who hid in that conference room two-and-a-half years ago see her now—dressed in all cream, waiting on the corner for a man, willingly blind to what happens next? Would she recognize herself? Or would she see someone else altogether?

Footsteps approach, someone jogging, the steady thump drawing her back into the cooling evening air. Courtney's shoulders hitch on instinct—she forces them down as she looks up to see Herm running up to her from down the street. She puts the lighter back in her purse, then a smile on her face, eyes not quite crinkling as she watches him come to a stop a few yards from her.

"Hey, Waterboy," she calls, her tone soft and light.

"Hi! Uh, are you okay? I heard you—coughing? And I just wanted to—um—make sure that...things were okay." Herm stands there, forehead creased, goggles fogging a bit as one hand comes up, then falls back by his side.

"I'm good. Just choked on my own spit." Courtney attempts a laugh—it catches in her throat. "That's sweet of you to check, though."

"Yeah." Herm looks over his shoulder. She leans to the side, looking past him to see Alice, Malevola, Victor, and Chad still chatting, each sneaking quick glances at her in the distance.

Herm turns back to look at Courtney, stepping forward a little. "Um, Invisigal. What about—are you okay—like." He sighs. She exhales with him.

Just let him get it out.

He swallows, then opens his mouth again. "Are-you-okay-with-everything-today-do-you-feel-good." Courtney's brows raise as his words come rapid-fire, jumbled together—something she's heard him do when he's having trouble asking a question.

"Yeah, Waterboy. I feel good." Another smile—this one easier, more organic. "Why? Do I not look like I feel good? Look at this shit." One corner of her mouth drops as she extends her arms, turning back and forth.

Herm's gaze drops to her pants, then goes back to her face.

"Yes."

Courtney stops, lips parted, hearing the confidence in his voice.

"You look—upset," he continues, eyes now on the sidewalk. "And I just wanted. To see if...I could, um. Help."

Her shoulders drop, her head tilting. She sighs.

Wow, it's that obvious.

"I've just got some shit on my mind. But I'm good, really." She walks a few paces forward, putting a soft hand on his wet shoulder. "I'm serious. I'm just gonna call Robert real quick and then I'll be right over."

Herm looks at her hand on his shoulder, then in her eyes. He nods, then pulls a small plastic bag out of his back pocket, opening it for Courtney. She reaches in and takes out a thick napkin, already starting to wipe her hand. Herm keeps his gaze on her face for a moment longer, then turns and starts to jog back to the group. She watches with focused eyes as all four figures by the Charger snap their heads to Herm's lanky frame as he approaches the halfway point of his return.

She tuts. I actually should call him. Just that second, her phone chimes.

She extracts it from her jacket—nearly letting it slide off her shoulders in the process—then raises it to check the message.

She rolls her eyes, opens the text, and types out a quick reply.

Her thumb taps the send button, then swipes over to the Phone app. She hovers over "Robbie 💙️". Then the sidewalk begins to vibrate—subtle, low. A rumble starts through the air, the glass in the parked car next to her rattling.

No fucking way.

She looks up at the sky, searching. The rumble's turning into a low roar now, her lips curling upwards.

She glances down the street to see Alice and Chad standing next to each other, eyes skyward, Herm, Victor, and Malevola a few yards behind them, the latter on her phone. Courtney's feet are already moving, carrying her back toward the Charger.

The roar's getting closer. She listens carefully as she walks, eyes forward, waiting for that specific frequency to—there it is. That sharp hum, the whine of spooled thrusters, the crackle of electricity underneath it. She doesn't have to look anymore.

The rumbling gets louder and louder, then cuts down, the whirr of turbofans and the steady thump, thump, thump of heavy bass taking its place. The concrete warms under Courtney's boots as she walks up to the hood of Alice's Charger and takes a seat on top, pulling a compact out of her purse for one last look at her makeup as the suspension buckles. It takes Alice a second to notice. She opens her mouth—

WOOSH.

The mech thuds to the street with a massive metallic THUNK, thrusters still whining, the roar and whirr dying to whispers as it straightens its torso, gleaming in the evening sun.

"Holy shit."

Courtney smirks at the awe in Victor's voice, keeping her eyes on the compact's mirror. Pressure valves release and servos whine as the doors to the mech's cockpit open, heavy bass and synthetic horns pouring out as stairs unfold at its base.

She shoots a sly smile at her silent companions as she flicks the compact closed, puts it back in her purse, and stands.

"Sorry, bitches. Love to stay and chat, but—my ride's here."

"No shit, bitch," Alice responds, breathy.

"You get fucking entrance music?" Chad asks, brows furrowed, indignant.

Courtney shrugs, dusts off her butt—"Prism, you gotta clean this fucker"—then turns toward the mech, just to stop in her tracks.

The mech stands there, towering, coated in fresh purple metallic paint with dark-pink accents. The lights on the outside pulse in time with the music, a soft pink glow matching her hero jacket filling the air in front of it. A soft spotlight illuminates the interior.

'Holy shit' is right.

He didn't just send the suit—that would have been sick enough by itself. No, he painted it. Her colors, her music. And he's not even in there, which means—

Her whole body lifts, her skin alive and warm, thoughts buzzing and free, muscles tensing and relaxing at the same time. She's already grinning wide, lips parted, her breath catching, her heart swelling.

Robert trusts her. She. Courtney. Invisigal. Whatever. Her. To pilot the suit. His father's suit. His grandfather's suit.

She blew it up. She destroyed it. Demolished it. Ended it. And even after all of that—

I'm going to be the first person outside the Robertson family to fly the Mecha Man suit.

She clears her throat, blinks hard. Then puts the smirk back on her face and walks forward.

The interior cockpit light grows brighter as she gets closer. She can see the joysticks now—one on either side of the chair—the new throttle on the left, the backs of the side monitors, all shining. Then the chair. The headrest. The safety harness points. The seat.

That seat.

The seat she first saw him in, those years ago in the Steelworks. The seat she saw in the lab when she asked him if he jerked off. The seat she clambered over, settling in his lap as he got them the fuck out of dodge. The seat she's seen him climb into so many times, waiting for the day he doesn't come out.

The seat she's sat in by herself exactly once before.

"Okay, Visi," Robert calls from the across the testing chamber. "You ready?"

She nods, lips pursed tight, hands trembling.

"Hey, look at me."

She drags her gaze to meet his. He's smiling, eyes soft, head tilted a little forward, auburn hair glinting red in the fluorescent light.

"You're gonna do great." His smile grows wider. "I promise. Now get in."

Her chin dips towards the Charger. Then she turns back toward the mech, looking up at its head one more time before finally putting her boot on the first stair-step. Then her other boot on the second. Then the first boot on the third.

Slowly—carefully—she climbs in, ducking her head as she turns around, shrugging the leather jacket off her shoulders and tucking it behind the headrest before finding the seat by feel. Her cream slacks meet soft leather, the bolstering cradling her hips and encouraging her to sink further back until her spine touches the backrest. She reaches up, pulls the four-point harness over her shoulders and across her hips, clicks it home. Her arms fall on the rests naturally, the joysticks already positioned perfectly for her hands.

She looks back through the open cockpit doors at the testing bay.

"Good," Robert says in that confident, cool tone—that special voice that ignites the fire in her belly and sends heat into her hips.

"First thing you're gonna do is hit the switches up top, right in front of you."

"These ones?" She points at four red toggle switches on the panel above her.

Robert nods from behind the glass.

Alice calls out from next to the Charger.

"Go kick ass, bitch!"

"Go get that Mecha-Dick!" Chad screams.

"Fly the fuck out of that thing, Vis!" Victor yells.

One screen zooms in on Malevola smiling in the distance—broad and warm. She winks before opening a portal and stepping through.

Courtney smiles, then toggles each of the switches in sequence. The side screens ("they're called MFDs, Visi") light up, all purple, pink, and yellow, as the cockpit doors start to close.

"We're rooting for you!" Herm shouts in the distance.

Courtney gives one last wave as the cockpit closes and locks into place with solid clicks and thunks, followed by another woosh of a pressure valve. The front MFDs in front of her light up, now projecting additional holographic displays in front of them—all themed purple and pink too. The main cameras come online, the three largest screens in front of her displaying her surroundings in sharp detail.

"Good," Robert calls through the glass, looking at a camera feed of the cockpit through a monitor. "Alright, now start the APU."

Courtney's fingers hover over a switch-cover. "This one, right?"

"That's the one," Robert affirms.

She opens the switch cover with ginger fingers, then toggles the switch, listening to a new whine enter the cockpit.

"APU online," the suit's voice calls out, some robotic mix of masculine and feminine she can't place and doesn't care to.

"Now the Pulse." There's a light grit in Robert's voice now.

Courtney fishes inside her pink jacket's pocket, then pulls out the bright blue cylinder, watching the helix inside spin and cycle with power between her fingers. She reaches up with her other hand and twists the handle above her, pulling down the power-core. She takes a deep breath, then places the Pulse inside and pushes the power-core back into place.

The air goes static, the smell of ozone briefly passing through her nostrils as she hears the suit hum to new life around her, vibrating the leather below her.

"Astral Pulse online," the suit informs her.

"Yeah, no shit," she murmurs.

"Awesome, levels are stable," Robert says from the lab, his voice a little tinny. "Let's start the walk-around."

The blue glow around her fades into pink, the testing bay receding from view as she shifts in her seat. The dust from the Charger's hood feels gritty beneath her thin slacks.

The music has stopped. The suit's voice comes back, speaking almost directly into her ear. She startles.

"Welcome, Ms. Invisigal."

"Suit," she replies, her voice steadying as the syllable completes.

"Mecha Man has filed a flight plan for your trip this evening. Please review and confirm prior to takeoff."

She glances at the holographic map to her left—

—then looks through the cameras at the Charger, catching sight of Alice jumping and yelling.

Courtney reaches over and turns the volume dial. Alice screams become legible.

"Put your comm in! Bitch, can you hear me?! Put your fuckin' comm in!"

Courtney reaches into her pocket, fishes out her comm, and slides it into her ear. She taps it once, then speaks.

"What do you fuckers want?"

"Visi. Tell me my phone's lyin' to me," Chase rasps, close in her ear.

Courtney lets her head drop back against the bolstering, a smile already tugging at her mouth. "Yeah, grandpa. Next text's gonna say your package is stuck at customs. Don't click it."

"Fuck off. Mal's goin' off in the chat. Says Robert sent the suit. Says you're in it. I said no fuckin' way. Robert does not—"

"Weeelll—"

"Bullshit."

"I'm literally sittin' in it, Chase."

"She's in it, Star," Colm cuts in, already laughing. "Prism dropped a video. Scroll, would ya?"

A beat. Then Chase exhales long enough that the mic catches the whole groan.

"Oohhh, Jesus. Robert. What in the fuck—"

"He can't hear you, old-timer," Alice chimes in, breezy. On the center camera Courtney catches her throwing her head back against the Charger's fender, grinning up at the mech. "He busy bein' romantic."

"Yo," Bruno drawls. "Yo, that color palette slaps."

"Thanks, Slowpoke."

"Like. I know that pink. He got it exact—"

"—'course he fuckin' did, have you seen how whipped he is?"

"Flambae, shut up."

"—trained him like a goddamn Labradoodle, I'm sayin'—"

"Magnificent," Janelle says, clean and level, cutting right through Chad. "I was beginning to believe Mecha Man had no eye for color. Credit reinstated."

"Barely."

"Barely."

Courtney snorts.

"Invisigal," Katon-Ur announces, earnest and slightly-too-loud. "To pilot the Mecha Man suit is a great honor. I am very proud of you. Also—Prism has told me there is a phrase one uses in moments of triumph. Olé!"

"Phen, that's bullfighting."

"Oh. Disregard, then."

"No, no—we need it, big man," Colm laughs, delighted. "Give us the olé."

"Olé."

"Olé!" Colm echoes.

"Olé!" Chad joins in.

"Please don't encourage—"

"Leave him alone, Vis, it's his moment—"

"It is literally not his moment—"

"For real though," Chad presses on, undeterred. "No way Mecha-Dick let you fly that thing solo without a tandem lesson. Or five."

"What?" Colm asks.

"I'm saying they fuck. In the suit."

A pause.

"Obviously," Courtney says, tone a little cheeky.

"HA!" Alice crows. "Bitch."

"In the pilot's seat?" Chad asks, delighted.

"On the pilot's seat. Over the back of it. Under it, once—"

"Stop—"

"—there's a little fold-down tray that's actually—"

"—I did not sign up for—"

"—really structurally sound. Takes my weight, takes a lot of loads, actually—"

"Jesus Christ, kid." Chase groans.

"You asked, old man."

"I did not ask."

"I asked," Chad says, reverent. "And I got an answer. I win."

"Ew," Bruno says.

"Is this customary?" Katon-Ur asks, genuine.

"I mean," Janelle says, "he did build it for you."

"For the record," Victor says, voice flat. "The paint would've taken a week in the shop minimum. Probably two. Our Mecha Man has been planning."

"...Obviously, Sonar," Alice jumps in. "It's Valentine's Day, dummy."

"Right. Valentine's Day. Yes."

Courtney's eyes narrow at the MFD. Something cool and interested settles in her stomach, next to whatever else is already in there.

Come back for that one.

"Alright, ya shower of eejits," Colm says. "Let her fly. We've had our go."

"Yo, Vis," Bruno says. "Fly safe, yeah?"

"Yeah, Slowpoke."

"Enjoy the ride, Vis," Colm adds. "You've earned a good one."

"Fly well," Janelle offers.

"Be phenomamal," Katon-Ur says, proud.

"Don't crash his fuckin' mech, please, we just got it insured—"

"Flambae—"

"I'm helpin'—"

"You're not."

"Kid," Chase says, voice rough.

"Yeah, old man?"

"Robert wouldn't've put you in that thing if he didn't think you could fly it. That's all I got. Go."

Her throat tightens. She swallows, hard.

"Noted."

"W-we love you, Invisigal," Herm says, small and sure.

"Go get him, Vis!" Alice screams loud enough to come through on both the comm and the suit's speakers.

"Break that mech in proper, bitch!" Chad hollers.

"Give 'im hell, ya mad bastard—" Colm shouts over him.

"—love you, Vis—" Bruno gets in.

"Try not to crash," Janelle cuts through.

"OLÉ!" Katon-Ur bellows.

"Try not to die," Victor adds.

"Just go, kid, before I change my fuckin' mind!" Chase barks.

The screams coalesce into white noise, joyful and loud.

Courtney's cheeks warm again as she stifles a chuckle, her mouth curved into an open smile.

"Alright guys, I get it, I get it. I'll see you nerds later. Visi out."

She taps her comm. The voices die immediately, the sudden silence deafening.

Her chest rises, then falls. Rises, then falls. In through her nose, out through her mouth.

It's crazy. It's crazy. It's crazy.

'Cause it's not just him. The voices in her head didn't come from him.

They come from last Tuesday, Bruno on the headset drawling yo, Visi, behind you as she picked off headshots in Duos. From Colm at their kitchen table last month, half a meatball hanging off his fork, grunting Jesus, Vis, what's in this. From Janelle folded into the corner of the couch on a Sunday morning, tell me when you get to chapter four, shadows curling around her wrists while Robert made coffee and Courtney stared at the same page of the novel Janelle had pressed on her. From Chad on their balcony one Friday, sliding door still closing behind him, mouth already going, Courtney already rolling her eyes. From Alice on their couch a month ago, feet up on the coffee table, yelling at the Sailor Moon villain of the week while she painted both their nails.

Robert next to her, every single time.

She used to be the invisible girl on the outside, keeping track of everybody's angles so she didn't die. A murderer on a catwalk, sitting in her car, watching her kill in slow-motion, cigarette-in-hand. A villain, untrusted, doomed to fail.

Now she's the girlfriend in the recliner, soaking in the softness and smell of his shirt, smiling at whoever just told a story about her.

She's in it.

She's been in it. She just didn't know how big it'd gotten.

Something in her chest pulls tight for a second—something cold, sinking. She shudders, then releases her breath, inhaling deeply. Slowly, the whine of the thrusters filters back into her ears, the ice melting just a little.

She shakes her head. Opens her eyes. Looks at the map once more.

Point Mugu. Point Mugu! At sunset. It's going to be amazing.

That fuckin' asshole.

I love him.

She shakes her head again, still smiling wide. Her hands take ahold of the joysticks, thumbs on the hats.

Her eyes find the screen in front of her.

"Okay, suit. Put me through to the tower, or whatever."

A comm line opens on one of the MFDs.

"Well—whenever you talk to ATC, you want to keep your comms brief. Who you're talking to, who you are, what you're doing," Robert says, sitting next to her on the couch, angling his tablet towards her. "Mmhmm," Courtney hums in response, legs laid over his lap, swiping through reels on her phone.

She clears her throat.

Who you're talking to. "SoCal Approach—" Who you are. "—this is Mecha Man One." What you're doing. "Taking off from Torrance, VFR to Point Mugu."

A pause. Then a crackle, followed by a flat, feminine voice.

"Mecha Man One, SoCal, we have you. Squawk two-one-zero-three, departure at your discretion."

Fuck. She scans the MFDs in front of her and spots a blinking field—2103.

"Uh—two-one-zero-three, Mecha Man One."

"Radar contact. Congrats on your first solo. Have a good flight."

Her shoulders drop an inch.

Close enough.

Wait, 'solo'? What's—

The comms channel closes with a loud beep, startling her. The suit's voice sounds through the cockpit again as the seat starts to vibrate, the thrusters whining again as they spool up, turbofans whirring, her stomach dropping for a second as the mech's knees bend.

"All systems green. We have clearance for takeoff. Are you ready to depart?"

Courtney swallows. Looks at the map again. The throttle next to her. The power-core above her. The watch on her wrist. She closes her eyes and sees Robert's dumb face, his stupid smile, standing on some fuckin' pretty-ass bluff somewhere, waiting for her.

She nods. Then opens her eyes.

"Yeah."

The corners of her mouth lift, her gaze hardening.

"Let's do it."

"Autopilot engaged. Commencing takeoff. Engage thrusters when ready."

Courtney puts her hand on the throttle, pushes it forward, and—with a thunderous blast—launches into the sky.