The fluorescent lights of the Z-Team headquarters buzz softly overhead, a strangely calm soundtrack for a group of heroes whose collective mood is anything but calm. The shift had ended barely ten minutes ago, yet the tension feels like it’s been simmering for hours—thick, heavy, and unmistakably salty.

Invisigal materializes on the couch with a flicker, dropping her head back dramatically. “Waterboy,” she groans. “They actually picked Waterboy. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Flambae is already sprawled in an armchair, flames along his fingers burning hotter than usual. “I know, right? Dude panics when someone spills a drink. And he’s supposed to replace Sonar? SONAR. Make it make sense.”

Malevola drapes herself lazily across the back of another chair, smirking with venomous elegance. “It doesn’t make sense. Sonar was competent. Waterboy is… wet.” She flicks her hair. “And far too delicate for field work.”

Punch-Up is halfway through lifting a coffee table—mostly because it’s the heaviest thing within reach—when he snorts. “He tried giving me a fist bump and splashed me. I didn’t even know that was scientifically possible.”

Prism stands near the wall, arms crossed tight, jaw clenched. She tries to stay composed, but even she can’t force positivity into this situation. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, shaking her head. "I can’t defend this one. We needed a tracker, a sensor, someone with precision. Waterboy’s powers don’t fill that role, not even close.”

Golem shifts with a grinding sound, stone joints creaking as it turns its massive head toward the group. “WATERBOY… MEANS… WELL,” it rumbles.

“Yeah,” Invisigal mutters, “so do houseplants.”

Coupe enters the break room, her knifes floating behind her. “I heard the news,” she says flatly. “Please tell me it’s a joke.”

“It’s not,” Prism sighs.

Coupe drops heavily into a chair. “Great. Amazing. Fantastic. We lost a guy who could detect enemy frequencies through concrete, and gained a dude who can… sense damp floors.”

Flambae laughs sharply. “Perfect for spill cleanup duty. Truly essential.”

Punch-Up sets the table down with a thud. “Z-Team deserves someone sharp. Someone who boosts the lineup. Not—” he gestures vaguely, “—a moisture meter.”

*Malevola folds her legs beneath her, eyes glittering.& “If this is our new lineup, I want it on record: I object.”

“You always object,” Invisigal says.

“Yes,” Malevola replies smoothly, “and I’m usually right.”

For a moment, nobody speaks. The frustration settles over them again—heavy, shared, quietly unifying.

They’re a team. A strong one. A proud one. And this decision? It stings.

Prism exhales, rubbing her temples. “We’ll deal with it,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “But right now? I just want five minutes to be annoyed.”

“Only five?” Flambae asks.

“Ten,” Prism corrects.

Golem rumbles. Punch-Up sighs. Coupe mutters something about “lost potential.” Invisigal sinks deeper into the couch.

A room full of tired villains trying to redeem themselves, trying to become heroes, to turn around..and trying to swallow a decision none of them agree with.

And the knowledge that tomorrow, they’ll be expected to welcome Waterboy like he belongs, which they won't.