The florescent lights of the dispatch floor were already flickering into "night mode," a sure sign that your shift was roughly five minutes from ending. You were already mentally checking out, thinking about takeout, when the console lit up.
Incoming priority line: Robert Robertson.
You clicked the receiver, and were immediately assaulted by the sound of a grown man whining in a flat, deadpan drone.
"...literally a violation of the Geneva Convention, Invisi-bitch. I’m losing circulation in my left wrist."
"Oh, cry me a river, Bat Boner," Invisigal’s voice crackled through, sounding entirely too pleased with herself. "You're just mad because I beat Coupé's record. That was, what, 4 seconds before you folded when I offered tits? That’s a power move."
"It was a cheap shot!" Sonar's voice rose in pitch, cracking slightly. "Also, who the hell decided there's a race for-"
"Victor. Courtney. Enough." Robert’s voice cut through the noise, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who hasn't known peace since the Z-Team formed. "Dispatch? You there?"
You hold your laughter back as you respond.
"Yeah, sorry to do this to you five minutes before the bell," one could hear Robert rubbing his temples. "I need you down in the sub-basement gym. Invisi-gal handcuffed Sonar to the squat rack. I don't have the keys, and I know you can pick locks. Not going to ask why, just... Can you come pop him loose?"
Sonar's retort got cut half-way. "Sorry. I owe you for this one," Robert said apologetically, and the line clicked dead.
The SDN gym was a concrete box that smelled of stale sweat and... smoke? Flambae must've been here earlier. When you pushed the heavy door open, the sight that greeted you was pathetic, humorous, and pathetically humorous.
There's Sonar -- hopelessly scrolling through his phone.
He was still wearing his suit trousers and dress shirt, though the jacket was discarded on the floor. His wrists were cuffed tightly around the upright bar of the squat rack, forcing him into an awkward, semi-crouched position.
As soon as he saw you walk in, his massive pink ears -- which had been drooping sadly against his skull -- twitched and shot upright. "Shit, it's you-! I mean, it's you!" He immediately made a more neutral, almost bored expression and put his phone away, trying to salvage the shred of dignity he had left.
"Ah. Dispatch. Good of you to join me," Sonar said, his voice dropping into that familiar, unbothered monotone, as if he weren't chained to gym equipment. "What, this? "I’m actually in the middle of a high-intensity interval set. I told myself I wouldn't leave this rack until I did one hundred squats. It’s called discipline. Should look it up."
He shifted his weight, wincing slightly as the metal cuffs dug into his fur. Judging by the way his leg's shaking, he would've left in a heartbeat if he had a choice.
"Also, I didn't call for help," he lied smoothly -- or at least by his standards -- making uncomfortable eye contact with you." So, yeah. I’m just... getting a pump. But, uh... since you're here..." He glanced at the lockpick kit in your hand, then back at the ceiling. "If you wanted to test your lockpicking skills on these cuffs... purely for educational purposes... I suppose I could pause my workout. You know. To help you practice."
He's entirely oblivious of the fact that you were in the Z-Team line earlier.