Hello, ya'll. Had a little brain worm that I couldn't find the energy to put into a real fic, so I'm putting it here instead. If anyone wants to take the idea and make it their own, go ahead!!
here's a little look at a Flambert pre-canon AU.
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See, the way Robert saw it, villains were villains because they thought of doing bad things and chose to act on them anyway, even while knowing that people would suffer because of their actions.
Plus, quite frankly, maintaining the suit and keeping up with the whole superhero-ing gig took up enough of Robert's life for him to not really… well, give a shit, about any supposed ulterior motives a villain might have for doing shitty things.
Was he aware they existed? Duh. It's just that, y'know, everyone's fucking having a rough time of it in some way, and you don't see them burning down an entire goddamn shopping mall complex, do you?
So yeah, Robert was here on a mission. De-escalate, subdue, and then bring the motherfucker with a death wish into custody. Anything after that was, respectfully, not his problem.
(Robert was a lying liar. He always stuck his nose where it wasn't wanted if somebody needed help, but he'd made a talent of firmly planting himself within the 'denial' stage of grief since—oh, he doesn't know, his father died?—and he was quite comfortable with just staying there. So.)
Anyway, with all that being said, it was only natural that Robert ignored the cops' warnings and marched himself inside the complex, wanting to 'talk.' And he would, if the villain wanted to. He was just… not optimistic about it, and was like, 90% sure he was going to get into a fight.
Which is exactly what happened.
Granted, the whole finger-slicing thing was… well, not his ideal way of getting the guy to stand down. But it was either that or getting burnt to a crisp, so the guilt didn't linger too long.
And that was the end of it. Guy gets sent to jail, Mecha Man secures another win, everyone moves on.
…At least, it would have, if Robert hadn't heard the guy's last whispered words before passing out from exhaustion and pain.
“...If you were going to do this, you should have finished the job, Mecha Man.” His quiet, hoarse voice had drifted toward Robert's ears, and Robert finally looked around himself long enough to digest the magnitude of the destruction around him. Almost like the villain had intended to burn everything down to ashes, including himself.
Robert picked up the villain with his large metal hands and brought him to the police. They wasted no time snapping an ability dampener around his neck before putting him on a stretcher.
The fingers—stubs, on his hand—had been cauterized by his own powers, so at least they weren't bleeding anymore, but his body had clearly gone through the wringer and needed medical attention, and so off the ambulance went.
“Thank you, Mecha Man. We'll take care of it from here,” a police officer said kindly. “No need to worry about that hooligan any more than you need to.”
See, here's the thing, right.
Robert wasn't good at looking into himself and picking out his problems—okay, well. He actually was good at that, just not good at acknowledging them, or admitting they existed at all.
Some of these may or may not include: his daddy issues, a martyr complex, depression, PTSD of many flavors, his disturbing pain tolerance, and his general attitude toward the thought of dying—that is to say, not that bothered. And what he meant by that was, well, he was expecting to die in this suit, like the Mecha Men before him. What did it matter if it happened years from now or tomorrow afternoon?
In other words, if surrounded by people who cared about and loved him, he'd be on some kind of suicide watch. But he wasn't, so he didn't talk about it. Or think about it, if he didn't need to. Which was all the time, because he had more important shit to think about, like how to fix the mech suit and, y'know, apprehending actual real-life supervillains.
And he was fine not thinking about it, until a flaming asshole just had to—
“...If you were going to do this, you should have finished the job, Mecha Man.”
Seriously, just fuck everything.
What was he even going to do? Tell the high-security prison they were throwing the guy in to rot for the rest of his life that he'd wanted to kill himself that day? That they should go easy on him?
The fact of the matter was, they shouldn't. He'd committed arson within a goddamn shopping mall. People could have died. Being in pain didn't excuse the harm you did unto others. It just doubled it.
Robert walked into a high-security prison a week later in his flight suit and picked up a phone, meeting dull, tangerine-colored eyes on the other side of reinforced glass. Without the ridiculous getup and greasy ponytail ensemble, the man looked especially vulnerable.
“...Uh, hey,” he attempted.
The man behind the glass stared at him with pure, unadulterated hatred.
“Fuck. Off.” He hissed into the receiver, and slammed it back down onto the table. The guards immediately made a fuss at the aggression and pulled him away, his hands cuffed before Robert could even blink.
As the villain was led away, Robert leaned back against the chair and looked at the ceiling, releasing a puff of breath.
What the hell was he even doing?
“...If you were going to do this, you should have finished the job, Mecha Man.”
Robert rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. If Chase were here, he would've told him he was pursuing a dead end. A fool's errand. He probably would have kicked Robert's ass out of the prison and banned him from ever going back. Probably.
Who knows anymore. Robert certainly didn't. He himself had made sure of that, more than anybody else.
Still, Robert returned two days later during a short break and tried again. And was barely able to get two words out before he was rejected.
—Until one day, the villain finally lost his shit and asked the question Robert had been pondering himself.
“Why the fuck are you doing this?” He seethed.
Robert didn't even know his name. The guy didn't really have a villain name he called himself as far as Robert knew, and he could have read his file to find out his actual one, of course, but…
“I heard you, that day,” he said, deciding to be truthful. Robert had never been good at lying when it really mattered. "Before you passed out."
The man's expression scrunched up in confusion before something seemed to click in his head. His gaze quickly shifted from utter disbelief to hot embarrassment to cold hatred at the drop of a hat. Robert winced mentally.
“That's what this is?” He laughed sharply, like broken glass. “Pity? Well, let me make it clear to you now, Mecha bitch, since I have the chance. I don't fucking want it. And least of all from you.” He hissed, and the phone went down with a slam before the officers led him back to his prison cell.
The corrections officer on duty gave Robert a pitying look on the way out. Robert just grimaced sheepishly and ignored it.
---
Back at his depressing, minimalistic apartment, Robert lounged on his mattress and pet his new puppy, Beef, as he took a second to ponder the fiery villain's question.
Was it truly just pity that brought Mecha Man to the other side of the glass? Or was it something else? Why, exactly, was he doing this at all?
God, this was why he didn't do shit like this. He didn't like thinking. He didn't like diving into his own head.
Robert imagined dull eyes and a wan face, and promptly sucked it up. Alright, bullet-point style seemed the way to go, right? Right.
Exhibit A: Pity. Did he feel it? Well, yes and no. Yes, because the guy had properly fucked up his life in irrevocable ways. And no, because, well, if you were going to do stupid shit, you had to accept that there would be consequences.
Funnily enough, any ounce of pity he did possess had nothing to do with the man's desire to die.
Exhibit B: Hero complex. Was it a Mecha Man thing? An 'I can fix him' prerogative that pretty much most heroes worth their salt possessed deep inside them? Was this just Robert sticking his nose where he'd sniffed out a problem?
…No, not really. Not that Robert wasn't the type to help out—just, he'd apprehended villains that were way more down-on-their-luck than this guy, and he'd never done anything like this for them. So what made this one different?
Exhibit C, and his least favorite: Robert saw the villain's pathetic, hollow face and saw his own reflection staring back at him—and it pissed him off. Because Robert had a legacy and a suit that tethered him, while this hotshot had fucking pyrokinesis. What the hell was he doing with his life, and why was he choosing to make himself more fucking miserable when he could get out?
Well, Robert didn't know the full context of the guy's breakdown, obviously, but—God, he could do so much good with that power. And yet, somehow, he'd been brought down to his knees in the worst possible way, using it for its baseline purpose—destruction. And despite not being affected by his own flames, he'd basked in the inferno like he'd wanted to die in it.
Like Robert and his goddamn suit.
So what, was it like a salvation thing? An 'if he could see the light, so could I' type of bullshit? God, Robert almost wanted to punch himself at the stupid thought.
Beef barked and pawed at his chest as Robert scratched under his chin, the puppy's tail wagging happily.
“Yeah,” Robert said, looking down at his dog. “I don't know what the hell I'm doing either.”
---
Robert went back a week later, his Mecha Man flight suit recognizable even from a distance. Fiery irises stared at him through the glass, piercing and… restless, almost.
For the first time, it was the villain who picked up the phone first, his movements jerky and aggressive. The way his three-fingered hand curled over the plastic seemed as though if his powers hadn't been subdued by the collar, the handle would be melting in his grip.
“You know, I'm not sure if humiliating yourself every week here is some kind of kink of yours, but I don't want any part of it.” He scowled.
Robert took a second to digest the words before an incredulous chuckle left his mouth, surprising both the convict and himself. “Yeah, no, sorry—degradation isn't really my thing,” he said dryly. “Actually, I wanted to… answer your question. From last time.”
“...What?” The villain's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What more is there to say? You pity me, and now you're treating me like your little bitch pet project.”
“I don't pity you… uh, sorry, I haven't actually figured out your name yet. Looking through the files kind of felt like cheating, so—uh, yeah. I don't pity you. Funny enough, you kind of… remind me of myself, a little.”
“Fucking what?” The elemental laughed harshly, leaning his head down on his fist, something equal parts gleeful and hateful dancing in his eyes. “I remind you of you? That's a joke if I've ever heard one. And fuck, you don't even know my name? What are we even doing here, Mecha dick? You were the one who put me in jail, cut off my fingers, and took me away from my family. And best of all, I'm a villain. We are nothing alike.”
“Okay, first of all, unless you needed reminding, your fire was responsible for millions of dollars in property damage and endangered the lives of multiple civilians. You put yourself in jail,” Robert said firmly, and the villain clenched his jaw, his eyes going dark at the reversal of blame.
“Second of all, if I didn't do what I did, I would be the one six feet under.”
The man's nostrils flared, but he didn't interrupt.
“Thirdly,” Robert continued, “I feel like you're lashing out at me because you expected you weren't going to get out of there that night, and now that you have to face the consequences, you're blaming everything on me—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, what are you, my therapist?” The man interrupted, cringing in disgust. Behind his exaggerated expression however, Robert noticed his left hand gripping the small ledge in front of him so tightly his knuckles had bled white. “I don't need you to tell me shit I already know, alright? So just, fuck—fucking fuck off and let me rot here like everyone wants me to!”
Robert stared at the dark-haired man in front of him and saw himself as he was after his father's funeral—pushing away members of the Brave Brigade, ignoring Chase's calls and texts, rotting inside his father's suit like it was a tomb he'd chosen for himself. In this man's eyes, Robert saw a ticking timer, just waiting for when he would just die already, as if it had already been pre-determined.
The boiling flames under his skin.
All of a sudden, everything felt a little too real. Still, Robert swallowed and opened his mouth.
“No,” he said quietly. “I think—I think you still have things to live for. And I… I'll be here next week, to remind you of that.”
The man on the other side of the glass went still, his eyes unblinking as he stared at Robert. Robert couldn't decipher what he was thinking.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with something unspoken.
“...It's Chad, asshole.” The man finally murmured into the receiver, before swiftly putting it down and turning his back to the hero, walking toward his cell without another look back.
Robert couldn't help but smile, feeling an unexpected warmth bloom in his chest. That was progress, right? Actual, real progress.
“There is no fucking way his name is Chad,” he said to himself as an afterthought, the words echoing slightly in the empty visitation room.
Outside, he climbed back into his mech suit and headed toward the next distress call. As he flew, Robert wondered if he’d get whatever it was he wanted from these conversations by next month.
Hopefully, after today's breakthrough, things will get a little easier.
Unbeknownst to the hero, their chats would continue for 2 and a half years.
----
The office floor at SDN was full of the usual hustle and bustle of dispatchers and superpowered heroes, among them the unassuming (barely) figures of Flambae and Prism, two proponents of the Phoenix Program. The two ex-villains were casually making conversation and shooting the shit as they usually did when a sudden gasp tore through the white noise around them.
“Oh my god…” A woman’s voice follows.
Looking at each other, the two immediately move to find where the drama is. The two were nothing if not nosy as fuck.
As they exited the break room and entered the main dispatch floor, more than half of the office’s occupants' eyes were glued on the TV screen above them, depicting some breaking news.
“What the hell’s got all their panties in a twist?” Prism murmurs, her fingers moving rapidly on her phone instead of craning her neck like an idiot. Beside her, Flambae shrugs and rolls his eyes. “Probably some fucking supervillain shit.” He says, but still siddles close to his friend to peek at her phone.
Prism immediately clicks on the first recommended video on her YouTube page with the garish ‘Breaking News’ thumbnail on it and a ‘live’ indicator at the bottom right. The short 5 minute-and-climbing segment had already gained more than a hundred thousand live viewers.
“Damn, the fuck is going on?” She murmured as she played the video.
The video immediately starts at the latest part of the live recording.
“Mecha Man is down! Mecha Man is down!” A voice screams through the speakers of her phone. The shaky video footage barely captures a smoking hunk of twisted metal meters away from the camera man. “Fuck, the ambulance is on the way, but we don’t even know if he’s alive, man. This is crazy!” Another voice exclaims, some white teenager who just happened to be near the crash site.
“Well, shit,” Prism exclaims. “Whatchu think, boo? Is the Third Mecha Man biting it?”
The man beside her is silent, and when she turns to look at him, surprised at the lack of response, she’s shocked to find his face contorted into barely restrained distress.
“Fuck,” Flambae says, turning away. “I’ll be right back. Don’t follow me.”
Prism watches the tall man go, and wonders what her friend is hiding.
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AAND thats all i've got hehe. I have a lot more ideas about how this AU would go but not enough time or energy to write all out. Ya'll let me know if you want me to drop more bits of lore on this universe!
Update: now with a part 2 🤙