Chapter Text
“You’re a fucking asshole, man,”
Flambae scowls and passes over the money. Sonar laughs, counting the money before waving it in front of Flambae’s face.
“Don’t hate the player, hate the gays,”
“That is not the saying,” Coupe adds flatly.
A faux disappointed noise escapes Prism’s mouth. “Damn, boy. And during pride month too,”
“What?” Sonar balks, “It’s not homophobic! If it weren’t for those lesbians I wouldn’t have won the bet. I said there would be boobs, and none of you believed me!”
“Whatever,” Prism scoffed, reluctantly forking over her cash.
“I don’t even want to know,”
The Z-Team’s attention was caught by the low rumbling voice, pleasantly surprised to see their dispatcher already sitting at a breakroom table.
“Bobert!,” Sonar says, happily collecting his fee from Punch-Up “You will NEVER guess what we just saw,”
“How is it that you’ve already created an HR violation ten minutes into your lunch?”
“Talent,”
Robert hums noncommittally.
Chatter overtakes the room. The microwave starts, the blender runs, and obnoxious laughter cuts through it all. Conversation overlaps like latticework. Prism and Flambae are arguing back and forth about who gets to play the music during their carpool after work. Sonar is smushing a frozen mouse into a tray of microwave mashed potatoes. Malevola and Coupe are talking about the best blade sharpeners. Punch-Up is washing his hands, using Waterboy as a stool.
“Y’know Robert, it was ONE time,”
“It was not ‘one time’, you named yourself after how you punch people in the dick. You should be washing your hands every time you eat,”
“But I already washed ‘em…”
“No, you didn’t,”
“No I didn’t,”
Robert let himself laugh a little at that, the smooth little chuckle he does while shaking his head.
Then he smoothly collects a crumpled up five dollar bill from his pocket, and heaves himself up.
The room goes silent one by one.
“What the fuck is that?!” Invisigal asks incredulously. The rest of the Z-Team seems to agree: what that fuck IS that?
Robert sighs. The “that” in question was his stomach. It’s heavily distended, enough to cause him grief while standing up, and to stretch out the t-shirt he was wearing. He doesn’t blame them for asking about it. In all honesty, he had felt similarly when he woke up like this. It was perhaps the only time he had ever willingly gone to a doctor.
“When I was on patrol, I stopped some wannabe villain reject. Shouldn’t have been an issue, except the kid was so frail I felt bad about crushing him with the mech, so. Decided I wanted to fight the old fashioned way,”
Robert made his way to the vending machine, trying to ignore how his friends’ eyes were dipping back and forth tracking his movement. Fuck, is he waddling? He thought that was a myth… best not to think about it. Robert shoved the money into the slot and typed in the code for a packet of twinkies.
“Turns out, the kid had a power I didn’t know about, and continued not to know about until I beat the shit out of him and handed him over to the police. Well, actually, I didn’t know about it until this morning, but that’s beside the point,” Robert shifted his weight uncomfortably as the twinkies thudded into the slot, “The fact of the matter is, it won’t affect you guys so. You know. Just ignore it or whatever,”
He goes to punctuate the claim by grabbing his snack, but is shocked to find he can’t reach the slot. He’s not sure why he’s shocked; the doctor had said he’s nearly 8 months along. Or, the equivalent, he supposes, seeing as it happened overnight.
Robert bends sideways, trying to get the twinkie that way, but failing yet again. So not forward, not sideways… he stares blankly at the machine. His hands automatically find the bump as if he could figure out how to work around it that way. Maybe he could put his back to the machine and slide down a little?
“Rrrright…” Malevola trials off, clearly disbelieving, “It won’t affect us,”
Silently, Waterboy picks up the twinkies from the slot and hands them to Robert. It’s obvious that he’s worried. Even though Robert hates that look (pity, pity, pity), he pats Waterboy on the shoulder in thanks and shuffles back to his seat. The moment he settles himself into the chair, the room explodes. Incredulous tones, a million questions, a slew of ‘Oh, hell no’ s.
“Alright, alright!” Robert is too tired for this, “Look, it’s not gonna last very long. SDN is looking into it and figuring out how to reverse it as we speak. Even if it did affect how I do my job- which it doesn’t- it would only last a few weeks, max, so you can all chill,”
Awkward glances are shared between the Z-Team, and finally, Punch-Up speaks up.
“Look lad, I’m sure you believe that, but you look like you could very well pop before they even come close to figurin’ that shite out,”
Mutters of agreement begin to filter through the room, and Robert decides he’s finally had it.
“I didn’t ask the fucking peanut gallery,” He says coldly, “I told you what I know, I told you it doesn’t matter, and that’s all you should care about. I’ll do my job, you do yours,”
Robert pries himself up again. Faster this time, but not without difficulty. As he makes his way back to his desk, his unbuttoned SDN uniform shirt flutters behind him like the world’s saddest cape. Every pair of eyes in the lunch room follow him until he’s out of sight.
“What the fuck was that,” Flambae sputters.