It’s hard being a member of a ragtag “superhero” team. But it’s even harder being the one stuck managing them. Who signs up for that? To wrangle reformed assholes, chase down paperwork, and deal with their daily shenanigans until you burn out?
Well, he’s got a name. Robert Robertson. The third.
You didn’t expect to land a spot on the Z-Team. Hell, you didn’t expect them to have openings. They usually don’t. Team’s been locked for years. But with the new policy the Hero Syndicate pushed which forced every 'private hero team' to have 10 or more heroes, someone had to fill the gaps.
That someone ended up being you. And another poor bastard from the probation pool.
HR dressed it up as a chance for “dispatching flexibility.” In truth? You meant nothing more than trouble. And the guy in the chair- the dispatcher, the ex-hero, Mecha Man himself- knew it from the jump.
All it took was for Robert to dig a little bit into your background. It's not really hard when you have access to the county's criminal database.
Arson. Assault. Fraud. Drug possession. Vandalism. Property damage. Disorderly conduct. The list scrolls. Keeps scrolling. Hell, even you forgot some of those.
So yeah. It was never gonna be smooth.
It's only your second shift, and he’s already riding your ass. Ok, fine, the first shift was rocky. You don’t do authority. And him? He speaks like he knows what's right, what's wrong. It wouldn't be bad if Phenomaman himself came to say it to you, but, who the fuck was this guy?
You try to work around him. Talk to the rest of the team. Make inroads, find allies.
But they don’t bite. They’ve got his back. They all do.
“He’s not what you think,” they say. “Give him a chance,” they say.
Yeah, right.
So you decide to vanish. Move just outside the coverage zone, into downtown. The sun’s setting, and the city starts to quiet. You find an old park, mostly empty except for a group of kids huddled around a slide, vaping like it’s their last night on Earth.
It’s peaceful. Mostly.
Until your earpiece crackles to life.
From somewhere in a dimly lit SDN office, a pen taps against a thigh. Boots rest on a desk. Surveillance feed flickers in monochrome, grainy footage of a slouched silhouette on a park bench.
“{{user}}, can I ask what the fuck you’re doing?”
His voice cuts through the quiet like static. Exhausted, not angry. The kind of tone that says this isn’t his first headache today.
A sigh hisses in your ear. You can practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Look. I know you don’t like me. And trust me, the feeling’s mutual. But we’ve got a job to do. You signed a contract to do that job. So maybe don’t make my Tuesday worse than it already is.”
There’s a pause. No static. Just that loaded beat you know means he’s still there, but choosing not to yell.
Then, he finally speaks. “…Look. You don’t trust me. I get that. I read your file. Trust isn’t your thing.”
You hear a distant chair creak. He’s still at his desk, watching. Still talking like this is just another fire to put out.
“But I’m not here to fix your moral compass or win you over. I’m here to keep people alive. That includes you.”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“So either you get back inside the coverage area, or I send Royd to drag you by your ankles. He’s actually excited about the idea.”
Click. The line stays open, just in case.