✧ Rookie ✧ | Robert Robertson iii | Part 04
Robert Robertson iii x fem!reader
Contains: workplace setting, slow burn, cursing, mentor!robert, action scene, gun violence, hostage situation, injury, emotional distress, flashbacks, past trauma, grief, team conflict, PTSD themes
Word count: 4k+
Author's Note: This chapter ended up being pretty emotionally heavy, but I really loved writing it! If you feel like it, please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!
Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03
Your head is spinning, scenarios crashing into each other at light speed. What now? You can’t fuck this up. Losing two heroes on your first day is not an option. You need their trust, and pulling this call off is the fastest way there.
“Dead, I need a silence zone. Just where you guys are for now.”
On the camera feed, the armed men start getting twitchy, glancing around, communicating with quick nods. One of them opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His eyes go wide. He snaps his gun up, scanning for a threat. The others follow suit.
“Nightbloom, can you stun them with toxins?”
“Not without hitting Dead too… Which is why I usually work solo.”
“You gonna keep chatting or what? I can’t hold this forever,” Dead snaps.
Nightbloom lets out a quiet chuckle.
“—Okay,” you cut in, your voice shaking before you can stop it. “What if you get closer to them?”
“Alright,” you say, forcing steadiness back into your tone. “Then let’s get you there.”
Even through the camera feed, you can almost feel it. The silence feels wrong. Thick, heavy, unnatural.
The armed men shift their weight, weapons still raised, boots scraping against the floor without making a sound. One of them snaps his fingers near his ear, clearly disturbed by the sudden temporary deafness.
“Dead,” you murmur, keeping your voice low. “How long can you hold this?”
“Couple more minutes,” he replies. “Don’t push it.”
Your eyes flick back to the screen.
“Nightbloom, move. Slowly.”
She slips out from behind cover, hugging the shadows behind all those men. Her steps are light, despite the artificial silence. As if she’s dancing, her body moves with quiet, effortless grace. The toxins bloom faintly around her fingers, barely visible, a soft green haze that clings to the air.
One of the men turns suddenly.
You feel your heart slam against your ribs.
The scene unfolds in a split second. He raises the gun, ready to fire at Nightbloom, but the shock of finding someone he didn’t expect makes him hesitate.
Nightbloom doesn’t. She steps into his space and places her hands on his face with deliberate calm. There’s nothing gentle about it. Her expression stays unreadable, her breathing slow and even, as the toxins bleed from her fingers and invade his ears, nose and mouth, leaving the man helpless under her touch.
His body crashes to the floor like it weighs a ton.
Another one follows. Then another, as the toxins spread through the air.
Suddenly, she’s the only one left standing, surrounded by bodies scattered across the floor. Not dead. Just unconscious.
You flinch when Dead lets out a deep, shaky breath right in your ear through the comms.
“Holy shit…” he pants. “Pretty sure I just blew out one of my eardrums.”
“Good job, guys. We don’t have much time before the ones inside the store realize something’s off. We need to move. Two hostages to extract: one child, one adult male.” You push the instructions through, forcing your voice steady, keeping them locked in.
On the camera feed, you watch your two heroes move fast, slipping through blind spots like they’ve done this a hundred times before. You can see the experience in the way they move, especially Dead.
Inside the store, more armed men. About six of them. Two guarding the hostages, kneeling near the register. The kid is crying uncontrollably, a gun pressed to their head. The other two are grabbing cash and merchandise, while the remaining goons watch the perimeter.
“Dead. You know what to do.”
“Shit, yeah. I know. Argh, for fuck’s sake” he mutters before dropping into deep focus, pulling every last sound out of the room. The effect is instant. The child’s crying cuts off mid-sob, like someone hit mute on the world.
He’s less stable this time. You notice it right away.
His body sways, tipping sideways now and then, dizzy, barely holding himself upright.
We’re running out of time.
“I’m locking down all exits. Giving you more safe space to move, Nightbloom,” you say, clocking how much sunlight is pouring in through the windows.
As fast as your fingers can move, you tap into the store’s system. Windows lock. Doors seal shut. The place drops into near-total darkness, except for thin slivers of light leaking through the cracks of the now-sealed exits.
Inside the store, the remaining men start to panic.
He spins in place, confused, fear stamped all over his face. The boy can’t be older than twenty. Other men fire blindly, the gunshots swallowed whole by Dead’s silence zone.
Luckily, none of the bullets hit anyone, but they tear past Nightbloom’s position, close enough to rattle her and knock her off balance for a split second.
She exhales deeply and regains her composure almost immediately.
Nightbloom doesn’t rush. She glides. And now, in the darkness, it’s clear: her eyes and the tips of fingers glow a vivid, toxic green as her swift movements carry her effortlessly through the shadows.
One by one, the men drop, just like before.
“I used a lighter toxin this time because of the hostages,” Nightbloom murmurs, slightly out of breath. “Which means we don’t have much time before they wake up. Called the cops already?”
“Yes,” You made the call as soon as they entered the building, but like always, they’re taking forever. That’s why people need superheroes. “They’ll be okay, right? The hostages?”
“They will. Hospital for sure,” she says. “But that’s better than fucking dying, i think.”
Your shoulders sag in relief, just for a second.
“Dead?” you ask. “Status?”
Your eyes snap back to the screen, scanning the darkness.
Dead is down on one knee now, one hand braced against a shelf, the other clawing at his throat like he can force air back into his lungs. His silence field flickers, unstable.
“Dead,” you say again, sharper this time. Your heart is pounding in your throat, a desperate heat creeping up your arms, leaving them numb. “Talk to me. Dead?”
“I—” His voice crackles through the comms, strained. “I don’t… feel right, Y/N.”
“Fuck,” she mutters. “The toxins.”
Her head snaps toward him, pupils narrowing as she finally sees it.
For some reason, the haze is thicker around him. Way too thick.
“Fuck,” she mutters again. “Dead, you need to get out of here. Now.”
“I can’t just—” He stumbles, nearly collapsing. The silence zone warps, distorts. Sound starts bleeding back into the room.
Your heart leaps into your throat.
“Nightbloom, why the toxins—” you start.
“I don’t know,” she cuts in, voice sharp, guilt leaking through the edge. “I don’t know.”
She moves fast, hooking an arm around Dead’s waist and dragging him away from the densest cloud.
“Y/N, where the fuck are the cops?” Nightbloom snaps, her voice finally cracking, panic slipping through. “We need a medic. Now.”
“I’m calling them again, I’ll—”
Your words are cut off by a loud sound. Sharp. Sudden.
Everything happening around you — in the room, in your ear — feels like it’s coming from somewhere else. Another dimension.
Your eyes scramble for the source of the sound, and in the darkness, you catch the silhouette of someone still standing, gun raised and aimed at your heroes.
The shot wasn’t for them.
It was for one of the hostages.
Blood spreads across the floor in a vivid red stain.
Through the night-vision camera, you see the adult man’s body collapsed beside the child, who’s unconscious from the toxins. Thank God she didn’t have to witness something like that.
With effort, you piece it together: the man with the gun is wearing a mask. That must be what’s blocking Nightbloom’s toxins.
Your heroes are down, cornered at the edge of the store. Dead is barely conscious in Nightbloom’s arms, his breathing shallow, and her face twisted in pure terror. Their powers mean nothing right now.
“Fight!” you almost scream, impulsive and desperate.
She moves instantly, relying on her speed and mobility. Dead Channel stays on the floor, gasping for air, blood trickling from his nose.
Watching Nightbloom fight is a spectacle.
Her movements are sharp, precise. Her flexibility lets her land high kicks, dodge bullets and blows with terrifying grace. But every now and then, the man lands a hit — and it shows. She staggers, weakened, her fragile health catching up to her.
With a powerful kick, Nightbloom sends the man’s gun skidding across the floor. He lunges at her, hands closing around her throat, slamming her back into a counter stacked with products.
It’s been a long time since you last felt so helpless, and you hate how familiar it feels.
Then relief and dread collide as the doors and windows burst open, men flooding in.
Weapons raised, uniforms crisp, moving fast and loud. A breath slips out of you as your back hits the chair.
Now it’s on them. You contained the situation.
Not cleanly. Not well. But you contained it.
Your thoughts cling to one thing alone: the hostage.
Your vision blurs as tears well up. Your sister — your half-soul — was taken from you the exact same way, seven years ago.
“Fuck… what a nightmare,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. The office barely feels real anymore, your focus locked on the old computer screen. On it, a group of SDN medics helps Nightbloom and Dead into an ambulance, which speeds off through the streets toward the company’s building.
“Are you going to lunch?” Robert’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. When you turn to him, his expression twists with genuine concern. “Wait, are you crying?”
“I—” Your throat tightens. Talking about it hurts too much.
Thinking about your sister feels unbearable. You’ve tried to bury those memories for seven years now, but they always find a way back.
“Hey… easy. Easy, rookie.” Robert’s voice is filled with real concern. He steps closer, first resting a hand on your shoulder, searching your eyes for permission.
And he pulls you into a tight embrace. Your body seems to melt into his warmth, and you finally let it all spill out. The tension from the mission. The frustration of hurting two heroes with rushed decisions. The crushing guilt of letting a hostage get hurt.
“It’s okay. You did well.”
“You don’t know that,” you reply, breaking down between sobs.
“I may not have your powers, but I know a few things. And from the little I know about you, I’m sure you did the best you could.”
You don’t answer, just focus on the feeling of his embrace. His arms around you, chin resting on the top of your head, the scent of his cologne, the steady, grounding rhythm of his heart beating against your cheek.
“Let’s get something to eat. You must be starving.”
Later, in the company’s cafeteria, you poke at the meat on your plate, appetite completely gone. Robert eats in silence, but his eyes never leave you. Worried, alert, ready to step in if you fall apart again.
“Was your first day a disaster too?”
“Yours isn’t a disaster. And yeah… it was.” He exhales. “I got punched by Visi after one of my first calls.”
You look up at him, eyebrows raised. He nods, eyes closed, a weak smile tugging at his lips.
“They didn’t like me very much at first.”
Silence settles between you again. He looks like he wants to ask something, but is afraid of crossing a line. So you speak first.
“One of the hostages was shot.”
“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out flat. Your gaze stays fixed on your plate. “Maybe. There was a lot of blood.”
“Is that why you were crying earlier?”
“That too. But not just that.” You take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of strength you have to talk about something that still hurts so much. “It made me think about my sister.”
“When we talked about your family yesterday, you didn’t mention her.”
“I know. I don’t like talking about it. But seven years ago—” Your body freezes. Like hitting an invisible wall.
“We don’t have to talk about—”
“I want to tell you, Robert. I need to talk about this shit with someone.”
He keeps his eyes on you, saying nothing. The tenderness in his expression alone is enough to make your eyes burn again.
“Seven years ago, my sister was murdered right in front of me during a robbery at a coffee shop we used to go to every Tuesday."
The memories crash back in full force, and you feel your body nearly fold under the weight of the pain. Emotional, and almost physical.
“It was our thing. After my parents died in that car accident I told you about, it was just the two of us. We were inseparable. The same soul in different bodies.”
“And we had these little rituals to make life feel lighter. So every Tuesday, that coffee shop was our meeting place. I just didn’t know it would be the last one.”
You keep talking, narrating the scene that’s still painfully vivid in your memory...
The bell above the door rings when you walk in.
It’s always like this. Every Tuesday. Same time, same smell of burnt coffee mixed with sugar and steamed milk.
Your sister walks ahead of you, already smiling, already pulling out your usual chair. You don’t even need to talk. You never do. It’s automatic. A small ritual, but a sacred one.
That day, your sister decides to try something new. Blueberry pie. And you stick with your usual strawberry pie drowned in chocolate filling and frosting.
You remember thinking, for one stupid, completely random second, that you were exhausted that week. That maybe you should’ve stayed home.
You’re chatting excitedly about life, laughing, arguing about the future. About your shared dream of moving south, living near a beach, maybe even working together someday.
The conversation dies when the door opens again.
This time, the bell sounds wrong.
You don’t understand what’s happening right away. No one does. The brain needs a few precious seconds to accept when reality shifts its tone.
The metallic sound of something being pulled hard.
The word comes late, but when it arrives, it’s heavy.
“Everyone on the ground!”
The air turns suffocating.
Your sister grabs your arm hard, pure instinct, her nails digging into your skin. You feel it before you think. Her fear passes straight into you, unfiltered, the way it always has between you.
You kneel, hiding under the table.
The floor is cold. Dirty. You hate that this detail sticks in your memory, but it does. Like everything that matters. Like the way she looks at you — a silent goodbye, as if she already knew what was coming.
The robber paces back and forth. Nervous. He’s way too young. The gun trembles slightly in his hand.
You try not to look. But you do.
And that’s when you see him. A strange man, seemingly untouched by what’s happening.
He’s not on the floor. He’s not screaming. He’s not begging.
He’s standing by the counter, like he’s waiting for his order to be ready.
His gaze is fixed. Not on you. Not on your sister. On the robber.
You want him to get down.
You want to scream at him to get down.
“You!” the robber points the gun. “Get on the ground!”
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing something. Like he’s doing a silent calculation.
For a strange moment, the world seems to hold its breath along with him.
You can’t explain it, but something in the air changes. Like time itself has thickened.
The robber swallows hard, clearly unsettled by the man who isn’t reacting the way he should.
“I told you to get on the ground!” he shouts, his voice cracking.
The man finally moves. Not much, just enough. He takes a step to the side. A small, harmless step. Almost nothing.
And in that same second, you notice his hand discreetly shove the stool he’d been sitting on backward. Metal scrapes against the floor, the sound way too loud in the charged silence.
The robber, already shaking and terrified, startles. His finger pulls the trigger on reflex.
The shot explodes through the café like thunder. Too close to you.
Your sister’s body stiffens beside you. For one impossible second, everything goes quiet. Then you feel the heat.
Her weight collapses against you, and your brain refuses to accept the red spreading far too fast across her light-colored shirt.
“No—” your voice breaks, desperate, your hands shaking as you try to stop something that can’t be stopped.
Your sister’s eyes are wide, confused. She tries to say something, but only air comes out. You lean over her, sobbing, begging, calling her name like repeating it might pull her back into the world.
And then, through the chaos and your tears, you see the man again.
He isn’t looking at the robber, or the blood, or anyone else.
His face is pale. His eyes dark, empty of any victory. His jaw clenched tight, like he’s holding something inside that’s about to tear him apart.
He’s the first to turn away, disappearing into the chaos before the police arrive.
All that’s left is you, your sister in your arms, and the cruel certainty that something was ripped out of place that day.
The coffee cup doesn’t burn your mouth, even though it’s still very hot.
Across the table, Robert’s eyes are filled with tears, and all he manages to say is:
“Me too.” A weak smile curves on your lips. “She was my best friend.”
Cutting the moment short, Malevola approaches you with a smile and a pack of Twinkies in her hands. She hands it to Robert, bumping her shoulder against him as she sits down at the table.
“I don’t know what you like, so I brought chocolate,” she says, placing a small wrapped bar in front of you.
“Thank you so much, Malevola. I think you’re the kindest person on Robert’s team,” you reply, forcing a smile despite the ache and emptiness in your chest.
“Wow. Funeral vibes. What happened?”
Robert opens his mouth to scold her, but you lightly kick his leg under the table.
“We were just talking about my first morning as a dispatcher, that’s all.”
“So that was your team that came in earlier?” Malevola asks. “They rushed them straight to the infirmary.”
“If I were you, I’d go check on them, girl,” Malevola says, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Looked like a cat-and-dog fight.”
You exchange confused looks with Robert, and he shrugs, just as lost as you are. You both stand up quickly, and a few seconds later, shouting echoes down the hallway.
“— Nobody told you to be a reckless fucking mess who can’t even control her own powers!”
“— And nobody told you to be a spineless motherfucker who can’t hold his field for more than three minutes. Probably the same amount of time you last in bed, huh, you son of a bitch?”
You and Robert barely turn the corner before running straight into chaos.
Dead is sitting on a gurney, his hospital shirt hanging open carelessly, wires stuck to his chest. He gestures wildly with his free arm.
Nightbloom is standing close to him, arms crossed, her uniform torn at the shoulder and a poorly hidden bandage around her neck. Her gaze is dangerously sharp.
“You two need to lower your voices—” a nurse tries.
“— Shut up!” they both snap in unison.
“Hey, guys,” you try. “I’m really glad to see you—”
“Oh, great,” Dead cuts in, turning his head toward you. “The newbie.”
Nightbloom follows his gaze slowly.
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “The strategist.”
The hallway suddenly feels smaller.
“If you hadn’t ordered us to advance right then—” Dead starts.
“— if you hadn’t locked the place down and thrown us into darkness—” Nightbloom cuts in.
“— I wouldn’t have pushed the field that long—”
“— and I wouldn’t have released toxins past the safe limit—”
They talk over each other, accusations piling up until they become painfully clear.
“I… did what I thought was best,” you say, your voice coming out smaller than you want. “With the information I had—”
“It wasn’t enough,” Dead snaps. He gets up from the gurney, ignoring a distant protest from the medical staff. “You don’t know our limits, rookie.”
“And you decided to test them,” Nightbloom adds, tilting her head. A thin, dangerous smile curls on her lips. “On your first fucking day. Brilliant idea!”
“Nightbloom,” Robert warns quietly.
She doesn’t even look at him.
“Do you have any idea,” she continues, taking a step toward you, “what happens when my toxins spiral out of control in a closed space? Did you even think about that?”
You don’t step back. You try to stay firm.
Your body still wants to run.
“I trusted you,” Dead says now, colder than loud. “And trust isn’t something I hand out easily.”
He rubs his face, breathing too hard.
Nightbloom takes another step forward.
Instinctively, Robert moves.
He steps between you, big and solid, filling the space like a door slammed shut with a body instead of wood.
“That’s enough,” he says.
His voice is low. Rough. Firm enough to make the entire hallway listen.
Nightbloom looks up at him, surprised for half a second. Then her smile returns, less playful now.
“Relax, handsome,” she says. “I just wanted to be clear.”
Robert doesn’t move. “You were.”
Dead is already grabbing his things, ripping the sensors off his chest impatiently.
“I asked to be discharged,” he mutters, walking past you without looking back. “Next time, try not to play chess with living people.”
And he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Nightbloom watches him leave. Then her gaze returns to you.
“You better learn fast,” she says as she finally steps away. “Or someone doesn’t come back next time.”
She turns and disappears down the hallway.
All that’s left is you, the distant beeping of monitors… and Robert.
You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.
“…Are they always like this?” you ask quietly.
“No,” he answers. “Today they were being nice.”
You let out a weak laugh, half disbelief, half exhaustion.
“Am I really that useless?”
He looks at you from the side.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “No. You’re not. Missions are hard. Dangerous. We do the best we can. And working with former villains… well. That comes with the job.”
You nod, still feeling the weight in your chest from everything that happened that morning. But this time, you’re not alone.
Or at least, it feels that way.
As you and Robert start walking back down the corridor, your gaze drifts, almost involuntarily, to the glass doors at the far end of the infirmary.
For just a second, you think you see someone standing there.
A man. Still. Watching you.
He doesn’t look like staff. Doesn’t look injured. Doesn’t look lost. And then someone passes in front of your line of sight, and he’s gone.
“I thought I saw someone,” you say, frowning. “Probably nothing.”
Robert hums, unconvinced but tired enough not to push. “Rough day. Your brain’s still in survival mode.”
You nod and keep walking. But the feeling doesn’t go away. And against your will, a thought settles in your mind, cold and unwanted: some problems don’t explode right away. They wait.
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