Dogbert AU: if nothing else changes that means that Flambaé still has beef with Robert the Dog, who is somehow 100% responsible for his arrest, the loss of his fingers, and the Bar Incident where he loses a tooth or his eyebrows. But he’s a dog.
Note(s): This is a fleshing out of my idea for a No Powers! Zombie Apocalypse AU for Dispatch, I just wanted to see how this would do as a concept piece. The headcanons for this idea are here. Please forgive my spacing, I typed this on mobile.
Tag(s): @shroombloom95
The smell hit before anything else-cutting through the damp, familiar stink of rot that clung to everything.
Not the slow, bloated reek of decay they’d grown used to ignoring. This was sharper. Thinner. It bit at the back of the throat and clung there, dry and insistent. Acrid. Burning. The kind of scent that didn’t belong to something dead, but something actively being undone.
Sonar stopped mid-step.
Robert’s nose wrinkled faintly, breath pulling slower, more measured, testing the air again to be certain.
“Smoke,” Robert said.
Even his voice seemed to tighten around the word.
Sonar’s hands moved immediately- reflex more than thought- fingers tugging at his cuffs, smoothing the fabric with precise, practiced motions. His gaze lifted, sharp and searching. It traced the treeline in quick, calculating sweeps, catching on the spaces between branches, the subtle shifts in light, the faintest suggestion of something out of place.
“Recent.”
Colm’s grin spread before the word had even fully settled.
It was quick, easy, too easy. The kind of smile that leaned toward trouble instead of away from it.
“Oh,” he said, a quiet laugh threading through the syllable. “That’s new.”
There was a flicker of something bright in his eyes- not concern, not quite. Interest.
Malevola didn’t slow. Not a step, not a breath.
But the movement was there if you knew where to look.
Her hand adjusted on the hilt of her broadsword, fingers tightening just slightly as her thumb dragged along the worn leather grip. The material creaked softly under the pressure, familiar and reassuring.
“Stay sharp,” she said, voice even. “Fire draws more than curiosity.”
Echo stirred. The bat shifted inside Sonar’s pocket, small body tense, wings giving a faint, restless twitch. It climbed just enough to peer out, nose quivering rapidly, ears flicking toward the distant crackle. A soft, uneasy chirr slipped from it- sharp, questioning.
“Wonderful,” Sonar muttered. “Even my bat disapproves.”
They crested the hill. And the world below them broke open.
The parking lot stretched out in fractured gray slabs, asphalt split and buckled like something had tried to claw its way up from beneath. A line of walkers dragged themselves across it- maybe a dozen- limbs jerking, bodies sagging, their movements slow but inevitable.
But they didn’t matter.
Not really.
The fire owned the scene.
It roared in a wide, sweeping arc across the lot, a living thing more than a hazard. Orange and gold lashed outward in violent tongues, snapping and curling as if tasting the air. Heat shimmered above it, bending the world into something warped and wavering. Every crackle sounded too loud, too close, like bone snapping in a quiet room.
And behind it- a figure.
Tall. Solid. Unmoving in the chaos he’d made.
A tank was strapped to his back, metal glinting dully beneath soot and heat distortion, hoses snaking down into something clutched in his hands- something crude, welded, pieced together from scavenged parts and bad ideas.
A continuous jet of flame erupted from the barrel, not just burning but howling but a violent, pressurized scream as it tore through the air in a sweeping motion.
Wherever it touched, the world ignited. The walkers caught first- dry, eager fuel- going up in stuttering bursts as the fire devoured them whole.
And he was laughing.
Not loud; but visible in the way his shoulders shook, in the reckless, unrestrained way he swung the flame from side to side, painting the lot in destruction like an artist with no intention of stopping.
Colm’s grin didn’t just widen, it stretched, sharp at the edges, something bright and feral flickering behind his eyes as the firelight danced across his face.
“Oh,” he breathed, almost reverent. “I like him.”
Robert didn’t look away from the scene below, but something in his posture drew tighter, more contained- shoulders squared, jaw set just enough to show the tension he refused to fully give voice to.
“You would.”
Another walker went up in flames below, its silhouette collapsing in on itself as fire consumed what little remained. The smell carried up the hill in a thick, greasy wave.
Robert’s expression hardened.
“Those are people,” he added, sharper now, not louder, but edged. “Or they were.”
Colm didn’t even flinch.
“Yeah,” he said easily, already shifting his weight forward, boots grinding against loose dirt as if the decision had been made the moment he saw the flames. “And now they’re not.”
His grin sharpened, eyes tracking the sweeping arc of fire like he was watching a performance.
“Look at that- clean, efficient-”
“Loud,” Sonar cut in, the word snapping through the air.
Colm paused, barely.
“Reckless,” Robert continued, finally tearing his gaze from the fire to look at him, something cool and cutting settling behind his eyes. “A beacon for anything within a mile.”
As if to punctuate it, another burst of flame roared to life below.
The man swung it in a wide, indiscriminate arc, the fire stretching farther than before, too far. It caught the edge of a rusted car, flames licking eagerly along the corroded metal before climbing, fast and greedy, into what remained of the interior. The vehicle groaned faintly as heat took hold, paint blistering, glass cracking in sharp, brittle snaps.
Malevola moved.
She stepped past all of them without hesitation, her pace unhurried but absolute, as though the argument behind her had already resolved itself into something irrelevant. The firelight traced along her silhouette as she descended, steady and unyielding.
“Enough watching,” she said, her voice calm- too calm for the chaos below.
Sonar exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath measured, deliberate. Some of the tension eased, not gone, but redirected, shaped into something usable.
“Finally,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “some sense.”
Behind him, Colm let out a quiet huff of amusement, then he cracked his knuckles.
The sound was sharp, metal striking metal as the brass knuckles shifted over his fingers, catching the firelight in brief, flashing glints.
“Yeah,” Colm said, rolling his shoulders as he started forward, already falling into step behind Malevola. “Let’s go say hi.”
By the time they reached the lot, the fire had begun to lose its fury. What had been a roaring wall of orange was now breaking apart into ragged tongues of flame, clinging stubbornly to whatever they could still consume.
The last walker staggered once more through the haze.
Then it collapsed.
Its legs gave out in a jerking, uneven motion, body folding in on itself as it hit the ground with a dull, final thud. Embers clung to it, glowing faintly along its ruined frame. It twitched- once, a residual flicker of something that used to be movement- before going completely, irrevocably still.
The weapon dipped slowly, the barrel still faintly glowing at the edges, a thin wisp of smoke trailing from its mouth like the last breath of something just barely contained. The tank on his back shifted with the motion, straps creaking softly.
He exhaled.
Not tired, satisfied.
“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, voice roughened by smoke and heat, but edged with unmistakable pride. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Bold strategy.”
The man turned sharply, boots grinding against scorched asphalt as his head snapped toward the sound.
They stood a few yards away.
Sonar at the front.
Untouched by the chaos in a way that felt almost unnatural: his posture straight, composed, every line of him deliberate. Ash drifted through the air around him, catching in the light, but none of it seemed to cling. His clothes remained immaculate, unbothered by soot or heat, as if he existed just slightly outside the mess of the world.
Echo peeked from his pocket, small face emerging cautiously. The bat blinked against the smoke, nose twitching as it took in the scene, ears flicking toward the dying fire.
Just behind him and slightly to the side stood Robert. He stood with an ease that bordered on disinterest, hands tucked loosely into his pants pockets. Ash had settled on him, lightly dusting the collar of his blue button down shirt, catching in his hair, but unlike Sonar, he didn’t seem exempt from it. He simply didn’t care.
His gaze moved across the scene, unhurried and thorough, taking in the burned bodies, the warped metal, the lingering heat. Then it settled, quietly observant, on the man with the flamethrower- like he’d already filed the situation away and was now waiting to see if it would become interesting again.
Behind them, Colm shifted with barely contained energy.
He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, shoulders loose, hands flexing like he hadn’t quite accepted that the fight was already over. His gaze swept the lot, not with caution, but with disappointment, like he’d arrived just a few seconds too late to something he would have enjoyed.
To the side, Malevola stood.
She didn’t need to move to be noticed. Her presence settled into the space with a quiet, unshakable weight, grounding everything around her. Where the others carried motion or tension, she carried certainty- an unmoving point in the middle of heat and ruin.
The man’s amber eyes flicked between them.
“Depends,” he said after a beat, shifting his grip on the flamethrower. The metal let out a faint creak as his hand tightened, the barrel angling just slightly- not raised, not yet, but ready. “You here to thank me, or complain?”
Robert smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes.
“That depends,” he said, his tone mirroring the man’s earlier answer with quiet, deliberate precision. “Are you in the habit of announcing your location to every hostile within earshot?”
Colm stepped forward into it without hesitation.
“Hey- easy,” he said, lifting a hand slightly, though the gesture lacked any real intent to stop anything. His grin was still there, bright and unbothered, eyes flicking between the two like this was shaping up to be something entertaining. “He just burned a whole crowd solo.”
He jerked his chin toward the smoldering remains scattered across the lot.
“That’s worth something.”
“Well,” Robert added, tilting his head a fraction, “on the bright side, subtlety died before the walkers did, so at least that’s consistent.”
The man’s jaw tightened.
His grip on the flamethrower adjusted again, not quite raising it, but no longer casual either. The barrel dipped, then steadied, the line between ready and restrained growing thinner by the second.
“It worked,” he said, voice rougher now, not louder, but edged.
He gestured slightly with the weapon toward the blackened, motionless shapes littering the lot, toward the dying fire, toward the proof laid out in ash and ruin.
“Didn’t it?”
Malevola stepped forward with the same measured pace she always carried, black heels pressing lightly into ash-dusted asphalt, leaving faint impressions that were almost immediately swallowed by drifting gray. The heat didn’t seem to touch her, didn’t bend her posture or shorten her stride.
Her gaze settled on the man, steady and level, not challenging, but not yielding.
“You cleared the Walkers,” she said, her voice calm, even, threading cleanly through the lingering crackle of dying flames. “That matters.”
A faint hiss sounded nearby as something smoldering gave way, collapsing into itself. She didn’t look at it.
“But he’s right about the noise,” she continued, just as evenly. “Fire carries.”
The man exhaled, the sound heavier this time- less sharp, less coiled. Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders, not disappearing, but loosening its grip. The flamethrower dipped a fraction, the barrel angling closer to the ground as if the fight had finally, truly ended.
“Yeah,” he muttered, glancing off to the side for half a second, jaw easing just enough to show he wasn’t fighting the point anymore. “I know.”
Sonar’s eyes flicked to Malevola. Just for a second.
“What’s your name?” Sonar asked.
The question came cleanly, as if the conversation had always been headed there.
The man hesitated. It was small, but visible. A brief pause where his eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was weighing the answer, deciding whether it mattered, whether they mattered.
“Chad.”
The name landed with far less weight than everything that had come before it.
Colm blinked.
“…Really?”
It slipped out before he could stop it, disbelief written plainly across his face as he leaned forward just slightly, like maybe he’d misheard over the crackling fire.
Chad shot him a look.
“Yeah,” he said, flat and unimpressed. “Really.”
Colm held his stare for about half a second.
Then his grin broke wider, something bright and amused sparking behind it as he shook his head.
“Nah,” he said, already dismissing it with an easy wave of his hand. “We’re not calling you that.”
Sonar sighed softly, like the world had disappointed him personally. Echo shifted in his pocket, peeking out again as if curious how this part of the situation would unfold.
Colm tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like he was lining something up in his mind.
His gaze dragged over the man, taking him in piece by piece. The blackened edges of the leather jacket, still faintly smoking in places. The cobbled-together flamethrower, metal scorched and discolored from repeated use, its barrel still radiating a dull, wavering heat. The set of his stance: loose, but ready. And beneath it all, that lingering intensity in his eyes, something hot and restless that hadn’t cooled with the fire.
Colm’s grin sharpened. Recognition- not of the man, but of the vibe.
He snapped his fingers, the sound cracked cleanly through the air.
“Flambae.”
A beat.
The man blinked in return, the word clearly not landing where it was supposed to.
“…What?”
“Flambae,” Colm repeated, already more confident now, pointing at him like he’d just solved something important. “Like flambé. Fire guy. It works.”
There was a pause.
Robert exhaled quietly through his nose.
“Ah,” he said, tone dry enough to leech the moisture from the air. “Yes. Nothing inspires confidence like being named after a cooking technique.”
Chad let out a brief, reluctant huff of laughter, the kind that escaped before he could fully stop it. His head dipped slightly, like he was annoyed at himself for reacting at all.
“…That’s stupid,” he said, though the edge had dulled, something lighter slipping into his tone despite himself.
“Yeah,” Colm agreed immediately, grin widening like that had been the goal all along. “It is.” He jabbed a thumb toward him. “It’s perfect.”
Sonar lifted a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose as if physically containing the moment.
“Of course it is,” he murmured, voice low with quiet resignation, like the outcome had been inevitable the second Colm opened his mouth.
Colm glanced sideways at him, grin turning sharper.
“Hey, don’t start,” he said. “You didn’t complain when I named you.”
Sonar didn’t even look at him.
“My name,” he replied flatly, lowering his hand, “is Victor.”
“Was,” Colm corrected instantly.
“Names stick,” Colm added, tapping his temple once with a knuckle. “Real ones, especially. People hear them, remember them, pass them along. Next thing you know, the wrong person knows who to look for. Flambae, though?” He spread his hands slightly. “That’s a story. That’s something people talk about without knowing anything useful.”
Sonar sighed softly.
“Or something they remember too well,” he said, tone even. “Which creates an entirely different problem.”
Colm shrugged.
“Yeah, but at least they’re chasing the idea of you, not you.”
“…Flambae,” Chad muttered, testing it under his breath.
His mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
But not rejection either.
His gaze flicked back to Colm.
“…So what,” he said, gesturing faintly with the barrel of his weapon, “you do this for everyone? Hand out fake names like it’s a service?”
“Not fake,” he said. “Safer.”
Flambae’s gaze shifted- past them, briefly, like he was checking something that wasn’t there. When he spoke again, the edge had changed.
“…You said names matter,” he said, looking back at Colm.
Colm tilted his head.
“They do.”
Flambae hesitated.
“I’m looking for someone. Her stage name is Prism.”
Colm’s grin didn’t disappear. But it changed.
The sharpness dulled at the edges, something more attentive sliding into place behind it. His posture adjusted, just slightly, weight centering, focus locking in fully now. Whatever this was, it had his interest.
“Yeah?” he said.
Flambae’s grip tightened slightly on the strap at his shoulder, the movement small but telling. His eyes didn’t wander this time. They stayed forward, fixed- like saying the name out loud made it more real, or more fragile.
“I lost track of her,” he admitted, the words coming out rougher than everything else he’d said so far. “Figured I’d find signs. Smoke, noise, people talking.”
Malevola rested the flat of her blade against her shoulder.
“Where did you last see her?” she asked.
Flambae rubbed the back of his neck.
“Two towns over,” he said.
Robert gave a small shrug.
“I do enjoy a good performance,” he said. “Even post-apocalypse. Standards shouldn’t completely collapse.”
Colm’s grin sharpened just a little.
“Stick with us,” he said. “We’ll help you find your Prism.”
“Well,” Robert added, brushing a bit of ash from his sleeve with minimal effort, “welcome to the Z Team.”
“Z Team?” Flambae echoed, half-laughing. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Robert said calmly, eyes still on Chad- or rather, Flambae, “we’re not the first choice, rarely the second, and yet-” a slight tilt of his head, the faintest suggestion of something knowing beneath the dryness, “things have a habit of working out anyway.”
