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Oh, his fucking head hurt. The pain in his temple flares with each beat of his heart. Robert has to brace himself against it, squeezing his eyes tight for a few moments before he can even attempt to open them. He quickly tries to reorient himself to his surroundings. He assumes he's on the ground, his legs and ass aching from the hard surface, and he's leaned against something warm and oddly sludgy — ah, it must be Golem. He can hear the construct's deep rumbling as it talks to someone else. Flambae? Robert could recognize that irritatingly suave tone anywhere. Where the fuck is he?
Robert's vision is still swimming as he scans his memory for clues. They had a fairly successful two shifts (at least for the Z-team), and someone had suggested going out for drinks. Robert had said yes, they went out to the only superhero bar Flambae and Invisigal aren't banned from, had a good night and… Shit. They'd been ambushed as they were leaving the bar. Okay, so they've been kidnapped. No big deal— Robert's been 'napped a ton of times already. Once by Coupé, even.
Speaking of the Z-team, it looks like most of them are here. Golem's an obvious one, his signature sludge staining Robert's clothes as he sits up. Flambae and Prism must be on the other side of the big lug, because Robert can't see them. Malevola is next to Sonar, who's making a "sleeping beauty" comment about Robert waking up that Robert promptly ignores. And Coupé is tied up in front of him, Punch Up chained to her lap. Kinky. Robert scans the group again, and isn't sure if he can't see Invisigal because she's invisible or if she's just not here.
He can't see any immediate villains, and the group is talking casually enough, so he chances a quick, whispered question. "Where's Visi?"
"Not here," Sonar shrugs nonchalantly, as if they haven't been abducted. The bat boy has some weird, elastic material tied around his body, effectively binding his hands behind him. Robert guesses it would be incredibly uncomfortable to transform, if not incredibly arousing to the weird bastard.
Looking around, it seems that everyone is securely tied up. Robert has it the easiest— simple rope binds his wrists and ankles— but it seems whoever's kidnapped them has thought this through. With Punch Up chained to Coupé as he is, it would be dangerous for either of them to break free without injuring the other. Malevola's arms are tied in some sacrilegious rosary that causes steam to rise from her skin, and her sword is nowhere in sight. Flambae and Prism aren't doing anything, so Robert can only assume they're in a similar state of bondage. And who knows what's around Golem— something heavy and crackling with an odd, teeth-tingling energy whenever Robert looks at it.
"So, uh… Where the fuck are we?" he asks. He tries to stretch out, his muscles tight and cramped. The immediate answer from his team is sarcastic and caustic. He lets it roll off until someone finally gives him a straight answer.
"We're not sure," Coupé says flatly. "They've checked on us a few times, but my guess is that they want all of us awake." She gives a pointed look to Robert.
"So now that you've joined us in the land of the living, the torture will start," Sonar adds. "Joy."
"Have they made any demands yet?" Robert asks, already knowing the answer.
"Nope. Not a peep!" Punch Up grins. His smile is tight, but Robert wonders if he's excited about the prospect of being a punching bag. "Don't know who the bastards are, either. Quite a few of those augmented shites and some naked green cunt."
"Green?" Robert dares ask. Please, don't be who he thinks it is.
"Yup. Had his dick out and everything," Malevola answers. "Called himself… what was it? Toxin? Toxic?"
Robert bites back a groan as his crew continues to babble on. This was highly unideal. He almost wants to ask if it seemed like Toxic recognized him, but he doubts the team would know. It seems that the villains have been pretty hands-off so far. How long has he been out? He's about to ask when a large door opens. Robert tucks himself back into Golem's side, hoping to be camouflaged amongst the more immediate threats.
Sure enough, Toxic strolls into the large warehouse room, followed by a few augmented goons. He's whistling, the cocky prick, but he's clothed and fleshy right now. His smarmy eyes casually survey the group as he ignores the biting comments thrown his way. He perks up when he sees Robert awake.
"Oh, goodie!" he coos, a wicked smile splitting his face. "You're all up. It's about time, I was getting bored."
Robert stays quiet, letting his team handle the back-and-forth. He needs to gather more information. Why the fuck are Shroud's men interested in the Z-team? Sure, they've been doing better, but they've hardly made a dent in Shroud's nefarious business. Did one of them piss him off in their past lives? Robert hopes it's not for him.
"Alright, you pistachio-lookin' nutsack, are you gonna tell us what you want from us now?" Sonar asks, his voice rising over the others.
Toxic doesn't answer him right away, but his stupid grin tells them that he heard Sonar's question. He busies himself by pulling a chair to the open space in front of them. He doesn't sit in it.
"Right to business," Toxic starts conversationally. "I can respect that. Unfortunately, I don't give a shit about most of you. I only want one of you."
Shit.
Every muscle in Robert's body is tensed as Toxic approaches the group. The other goons train their weapons on the Z-team, allowing Toxic to stroll right into the middle of them. He stops right in front of Robert, grinning down at him.
"Hey there, babe," Toxic grins. "Mind if I borrow you for a sec?"
Robert is promptly manhandled, grabbed by the front of his shirt and hauled to the front. His team, unsurprisingly, immediately begins to question the "babe" comment. They hurl insults ("No offense, but you can do better than Bob Bob"), question Robert's sanity ("I didn't know that was your type, Robbie"), and demand answers for inane questions ("Who tops? My bet's on Wastoid"). Everything is ignored in favor of Toxic tying Robert to the plastic chair he's brought out.
It's not until Coupé asks a valid question that Toxic's attention is grabbed. "Uh, no offense, but… Why would you want a dispatcher?"
Toxic looks over at her and the now-quiet group for a moment. Robert's heart drops to his balls when Toxic looks back at him, a certain knowing in his gaze that tells Robert he's in serious trouble. Every hair on his body raises in anticipation of what's to come.
"I heard a rumor that all dispatchers are retired superheroes," Toxic begins to explain. "I'm just curious who he used to be, is all."
The short bursts of laughter grate on Robert's ears, his eyes not daring to look away from Toxic.
"Robert Robertson? A hero?" Flambae cackles. "We do not even know what his powers are. He would have been a very poor superhero."
"Seriously, all of the others are old or disabled now," Malevola points out. "They had reasons to retire. Robbie probably just sucked arse at being a hero."
Toxic's smile grows slowly as the team continues listing reasons why they think Robert would make a poor superhero. Scrawny, sarcastic, bad at his job, weak— the list goes on for a while before Toxic finally interrupts.
"You assholes really aren't interested in what this boy's packing?" he asks. His eyes narrow. "Never been curious about his powers?"
"'Course we are, dumbass," Punch Up says. "He just won't tell us."
Robert keeps his face as neutral as he can as Toxic leans down, towering over him. He hopes he hides the clench of his jaw when Toxic says, "Let's find out, shall we?"
The tests begin slowly, but not painlessly. Toxic has his lackeys slash at his back to see if he has hidden wings. They wrench his jaw open wide to look at his canines and shove things down his throat with a poor excuse of testing for "acid spit." They untie an arm and pull it to test elasticity, stopping only when his shoulder painfully dislocates. Each test is awful, and Robert has no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it. The Z-team, although finding a bit of humor in it at first, slowly falls silent.
"Maybe it's elemental?" Toxic purrs, clearly having fun. He soaks one of his fingers in his toxins, drawing it across Robert's neck. It sizzles against his skin, white-hot pain drawing a low keen from Robert's throat.
They try fire next. Robert expects Flambae to offer his own flame up, but the man surprises him.
"Hey, there's only one hottie on this team," Flambae protests. "And that's me. Bob Bob is no fire starter, I can assure you." It's not until Toxic has a lighter flame pressing against the palm of Robert's hand that Flambae begins to shout. "Hey! Listen to me, asshole!"
Robert thinks he says more, but it's hard to hear over the pain flooding his brain. He can't even move his hand or clench it— they're using his dislocated arm. No movement with all the pain. It's a special kind of hell. It's not over soon enough, and Toxic is moving on to the next "test" with little pause. He wants to assess Robert's proclivity for earth by shoving sand and dirt down his throat, forcing Robert to choke. By the time he can breathe again, his ears are ringing. He can only faintly hear the protests from his team.
"Leave him the fuck alone!" Prism shouts. "He ain't shit, which means he ain't do shit to you!"
"Pick on the professionals!" Punch Up tries. Robert can hear the straining of chains and a grunt from Coupé.
His knees are trembling. Robert can't really feel it, but he can see it as he watches Toxic untie his legs from the chair. His attempt to kick the bastard is quite pathetic, but hey— he had to try. Toxic seems entirely unbothered as his flesh melts away into the toxic pseudo-sludge Robert is familiar with. Hands shove under Robert's armpits and within seconds, Robert is floating several dozen feet in the air. The Z-team shouts up at them, their concern poorly disguised as they try to reason with Toxic. They're ignored, of course. Fuck, Robert wishes his mouth wasn't so dry. He'd love to spit in Toxic's face.
Robert isn't given a chance to spit, kick, or retaliate in any way before Toxic smiles at him. With a caustic, "Fly, bitch," he drops Robert. The fall is swift and heavy. A cry is ripped from Robert's throat as he lands with a sickening crunch. His leg bends at an awful angle, reminiscent of Toxic's leg in their last fight. Robert lays crumpled on the floor, teeth clenched against the waves of new pain. The voices blur into background noise as he's hoisted back into the chair. Fuck, he can't catch his breath. Did he break a rib?
"Okay, you've done your tests! What more do you want from him?" Robert hears someone shout. At least, he thinks that's what he hears. Everything is ringing and distorting weirdly.
"I still don't know what his powers are!" Toxic laughs. Even through the haze, Robert can hear the dripping sarcasm. "Honestly, I didn't think he'd last this long. Pretty tough bastard, huh?"
"Maybe he doesn't have any!" Sonar offers. Robert's hearing clears a bit, but he still second-guesses the edge of panic he hears in Sonar's voice. "Maybe he's just a powerless little bitch."
Robert lets the conversation lull over him, taking the opportunity to catch his fucking breath. His chest sears with each inhale. Everything hurts. Toxic leaves his vision, strolling in front of his team. Robert tries to ignore how much relief that gives him, knowing it'll be short-lived.
"Maybe you're right," Toxic is saying. "Maybe Mr. Robertson really is powerless. That would explain why he's letting me beat his ass like this."
"Exactly. He's a regular ass civvie, so leave him the fuck alone," someone says. Prism, maybe? One of the girls. Robert's brain is starting to lag.
Toxic tuts his tongue, shaking his head. He squats in front of the Z-team, ignoring the groans as his dick swings free between his spread legs. "No, I don't think that's right. Why would the SDN hire a normie? That just doesn't make sense."
"You already confirmed he doesn't have powers, smartass," Punch Up says. It sounds like he spits, but Robert can't tell where it lands.
It's clear that Toxic is leading this conversation to a dramatic, unwilling reveal. It's also clear that he's getting frustrated with the Z-team's lack of response so far. His tone is losing some of the humorous lightness and trading it for a sharper edge of annoyance.
"Yes, and— the SDN only hires former superheroes, dumbass. What the fuck do you think that all means?" Robert imagines a few of them catching on— Coupé for sure, probably Sonar and Prism— but it's clear that Toxic is fed up. "Who the fuck do you know that's a powerless fucking superhero? C'mon, guys, it's not rocket science."
There's a light murmur that Robert can just barely make out. He's not sure how much time passes until Flambae's grating laugh pierces the air.
"Are you implying that jackass is Mecha Man?" he asks.
"What a load of bullshit," Malevola adds, though there's more doubt in her voice. "I remember Mecha Man being… y'know, bigger."
Robert takes a chance to look over at his team. His shoulder protests, but his curiosity overrules it. One of his eyes is blurry, but he can make out the array of expression. From Coupé's quiet acceptance to Golem's bewilderment, it's clear that they're putting the pieces together. For a moment, Robert finds Flambae's eyes. The man seems dazed, flinching for a moment before his expression hardens into a glare.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he nearly shouts, leaning forward as much as his bondage will allow. His eyes are trained on Robert.
Slowly, the rest of the team follows along. Down the line like dominoes, they each begin to hurl insults at Robert or shout increasingly angry questions. Robert tries to follow them— it's the least he can do, despite not liking it— but eventually they get loud enough to cause pain. Toxic lets it continue for several minutes before walking up to one of the goons.
"That's the reaction I was looking for!" he laughs triumphantly. Robert tries to ignore him until he hears the smooth, metallic shnnk of a knife. Another spike of adrenaline chills his blood. "Now I can start the party for real!"
Toxic makes his way back to Robert, a wicked blade gleaming in his hands. Robert sits up straight, leaning away as far as the chair will allow. The tip of the knife finds a soft patch of skin just under his jaw. Robert tries to brace himself for the interrogation that's sure to come.
"Now," Toxic purrs, ignoring the startled noises from the Z-team. Are they mad at Robert or not? It doesn't matter— all the matters right now is the blade drawing a bead of blood at Robert's throat. "Where the fuck is the Astral Pulse?"
The world stops for a moment.
"What?" Robert whispers. It's just loud enough for Toxic to hear.
Toxic scoffs, pushing the tip of the knife deeper into his throat. "Don't play dumb. We all already know you're Mecha Man. Just tell us where the Astral Pulse is, jackass."
It takes several long seconds for the world to right itself again. A startling sudden burst of relief floods Robert's veins, and he laughs. All this time, ever since the crash, he's been so frightened of the idea that Shroud already had the Pulse. He couldn't find it, after all. How could he not think of that possibility?
"What's so funny?" Toxic demands. Any humor in his voice is gone.
"You mean you don't have it?" Robert laughs breathlessly. His lungs sear with pain each time he does, but he can't stop himself. "Is that why Shroud didn't have me killed in the hospital? He thinks I have it?"
"Of course you have it, it was in your fucking suit!" Confusion pulls at the edges of Toxic's expression.
"No it's not!" Robert feels nearly manic. He's been so worried over nothing. "I don't have it! I lost it in the wreck. I have no idea where it is!"
The knife finally leaves his throat, and Robert allows himself to double over with hysterical laughter. His nervous system is absolutely shot— already strained under the adrenaline of torture, it's impossible to stop himself from breaking into a fit of red-faced, breathless cackling. Toxic growls from where he stands, irritation causing his toxins to leak into the air.
"Then why the fuck are you still alive?" he seethes. His grip on the knife shifts and he holds it at a deadly angle, ready to plunge it into Robert's gut.
"Wait!"
The sudden cry pulls Toxic's attention. Both he and Robert look over at Flambae. He's kneeling now, having gotten his legs under him, and he's looking at Robert with an intense, almost panicked energy. After a moment, Flambae's face falls into a scowl again.
"You can't kill him. Not yet," Flambae argues, looking directly to Toxic. "You're going to tell me we don't get a chance at him, too?"
The question— and it's implications— hang in the air for a beat. Toxic, intrigued, lets the knife falter.
"You want a chance at him?"
"Of course I do!" Flambae spits. Flames begin to lick at the edges of him, as if illuminating his anger. "I fucking hate the guy. If you're going to kill him, at least let me burn him up a little."
Toxic laughs, the sound significantly more bitter than before. "You were begging me not to hurt him before! What happened to that SDN camaraderie?"
"That was before I knew he was fucking Mecha Man," Flambae grits through his teeth. His eyes find Robert again, and the fire in them chills Robert's bones. After all the work he's been through with this team, and he still gets looked at like the enemy. Prism and Malevola chime in, but they're ignored in favor of Flambae's brighter fury.
"Well, I'm not going to untie you, if that's what you want." Toxic walks over to him regardless, and hoists Flambae to his feet. He pulls the red-hot ex-villain over and unceremoniously dumps Flambae into Robert's lap. "You can do your damage from there. Should be easy enough, right?"
"Generous of you," Flambae says flatly. He wastes no time in shifting himself to touch more parts of Robert's body— he sits sideways to press his back against one of Robert's bound forearms, hoists a knee to touch the other, and roughly shoves his foot against one of Robert's. His shoulder presses painfully hard against Robert's dislocated arm, drawing a hiss of pain. The noise draws a thin smirk from Flambae, and he leans in press his cheek against Robert's.
"This will hurt," Flambae whispers directly into his ear. "Then, you move."
Robert only has a second to process what was said before flames lick at his skin. He screams, white-hot heat burning at the skin of his wrists and ankles. Thoughts come too slow, lagging behind the pain of the fire. It's not until the heat is suddenly gone, snuffed out a few seconds after it started, that Robert can think again. That fucking hurt, but now he can move his legs and good arm.
"What the fuck?!" Toxic shouts, alarmed and furious. Charred rope falls to the concrete floor, smoking and filling the warehouse in the god-awful scent of burnt hemp.
Toxic raises the knife, now aiming to strike Flambae— but he doesn't get the chance. A feather-shaped blade pierces his hand and his knife clatters uselessly to the ground. Confused, Robert looks over to see Coupé free from her chains. Hell, she's not the only one— Punch Up breaks the final piece binding Golem, and now they're all free. Then, a surprising voice cuts through the confusion.
"Mal, catch!"
Invisigal?
Sure enough, Invisigal is standing off to the side, throwing Malevola's giant broadsword through the air. The demon snatches it before smoothly cutting down the nearest goon, and the brawl truly begins. Robert looks to Flambae as the others engage in battle, and watches as the man slides off his lap— all he has to do is shake his limbs, and his bindings fall off. How long have they all been untied?
Robert attempts to stand, but even his good leg refuses to cooperate. It's all so chaotic, and he has to duck to avoid getting shot by a laser. He's just collapsed on the floor before red-skinned legs appear in front of him.
"Up you go," Malevola says, leaning down. A strong arm scoops him up and keeps him against her side. Robert's arm groans in protest, but he doesn't dare say anything as Malevola opens a portal. A quick jump and they're through, the shouting and clanging of fighting dulled on the other side. "You stay here."
That's all Robert is given before he's let go. He stumbles, his broken leg twisting before he manages to balance himself on a desk. A quick look around confirms that they're back at the SDN Dispatch Center. He turns, watching Malevola approach the open portal.
"See you later," she says, grinning and winking at him. "We've got some asses to kick."
"Wait! No, you can't—" Robert reaches for her, losing balance and falling. The portal is closed by the time he looks up. "Fuck!"
A new kind of fear pulls him to his feet. He knows what Toxic and Shroud's other lackeys are capable of. His team is improving, but he doesn't know if they can handle Shroud. He can't let them do this alone. Robert uses cubical walls and rolling chairs to drag himself to his desk. He grits his teeth through the pain until he's throwing himself into his own chair. He uses his good hand to begin booting up the computer before bracing himself against the desk. With a weak grunt, he forces his shoulder back into place— it hurts like a bitch, but now he can use his arm again. Sort of. The burn wound on his palm limits how fast he can type, but he'll manage. He has to manage.
He has to help his team, after all.