Suprise Adoption (Part Two)
Summary: As a teen living on the streets, your life is turned upside down when the Z-Team literally stumbles into you
Words: 3,098
Pairing: Z-Team x Teen!reader
Notes: My master list is here, Part One there
Tag List: @dreamndestiny, @shroombloom95, @acicadahumsitstune
The first thing you hear is a voice- low, academic, and entirely too calm for someone hovering over a sleeping stranger.
“…it’s a decentralized financial ecosystem with future-investor utility and promising long-term liquidity-”
You jolt awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Your shadows snap upright with you, bristling like startled animals, spreading across the sheets in jagged, defensive shapes. They blur into blades without your permission, every edge a hiss of black static.
Sonar’s huge bat face is inches from yours, white eyes unblinking, voice smooth like a college professor reading bedtime stocks. He smells faintly of apples, printer ink, and whatever memory foam does when it’s dying.
“Good morning,” he says, as if this is normal. “Have you considered investing in cryptocurrency?”
You stare at him, genuinely stare.
Your brain can’t form words. Not speaking is easier than saying what the hell and accidentally summoning a shadow guillotine.
Sonar continues anyway, cheerful like a haunted TED Talk.
“As a previous teenager, I know how important it is to diversify your assets. Back in my formative years, I nearly purchased a private island from a man who never existed. It would’ve been a tax haven with-”
You lie completely still.
Your shadows inch upward, creeping over your head and face as if trying to cover your ears for you. Their darkness muffles his voice, but he keeps going with the confident persistence of someone who believes they are helping.
Sonar leans in. “It’s never too early to think about your financial future.”
Before you can fake your own death, a voice yells from outside the medical room:
“SONAR, STOP TRAUMATIZING THE NEW KID!”
Prism bursts in like she’s making a dramatic entrance on stage, even though the door was already open. She gasps as though she’s witnessing a crime scene.
“Sweetheart, you cannot just wake up to a jump-scare lecture about Bitcoin. That’s practically assault.”
Sonar tilts his head.
“You prefer stocks?”
Prism gives him the look someone gives a dog right before it eats an entire sock.
“Leave them alone before their soul runs away.”
Finally, Sonar nods- slow, solemn, with all the weight of a man reluctantly agreeing to peace talks.
“Very well. I’ll send you links.”
The break room smells like coffee, cleaning spray, and ozone from Coupé’s blades. Waterboy tries to make small talk, but nervousness tangles his words, and halfway through a sentence about favorite ice cream flavors, he panics and chokes on nothing but air. Punch Up thumps him on the back so hard a fork ricochets off the table and clinks onto the floor.
They feed you empanadas and pretzels for breakfast. The combination makes no sense- sweet, salty, slightly burnt- but food is food, and your body devours it before your brain can argue.
The warmth hits your stomach, but hunger hits harder, hollow and gnawing, like all those nights you spent finding food in vending machines and dumpsters and whatever the city forgot to lock.
You look down at your empty plate. You didn’t even taste the last bite.
You don’t want to ask for more. You don’t want to need.
Punch Up notices anyway. He’s been leaning back in his chair, massive arms crossed, expression permanently set to “ready to jump in a fight or open a jar.” He doesn’t say anything, just slides his whole plate toward you with a casual push of one hand. Like he’s passing a book. Or a small car.
“Here,” he says. “I’ve had, like… four breakfasts today, I’m good.”
You stare at the steaming empanada, unsure if you’re supposed to refuse, accept, or run.
Punch Up sighs, gentle but annoyed on your behalf.
“It’s food,” he says. “Not a debt.”
You don’t mean to take it so fast. The greed is instinct, months of hunger stored in muscle memory. Your shadows stretch across the table with you, pulling the plate closer like a tide.
Punch Up raises a brow. “Whoa. That’s new.”
Waterboy nods rapidly. “Y-yeah! It’s like a… a… um- like a Roomba! A hungry Roomba!”
On the other side of the room, Coupé sharpens a dagger against her metal wings, one long, precise stroke at a time. The scraping note is metallic and cold, but she’s humming Vivaldi bright and elegant under her breath, like murder is just another classical art form she has mastered. Punch Up cracks his knuckles rhythmically, percussion to Coupé’s humming.
Robert slumps into a seat like gravity hates him personally. His hair sticks up in a few places, freckles fading into a tired complexion. He’s surrounded by paperwork and coffee stains.
Without even looking at you, he plucks a small plastic card from the pile and flicks it across the table. It skids to a stop near your plate.
“Take it.”
You stare at it.
He doesn’t look up. “Building access card. Means you can come and go without someone escorting you like a package. I don’t do hostages. They snore.”
You take the badge.
No one claps. No one cheers.
They just… let you have freedom.
It sits in your hand like something fragile, like something earned, like something you could lose if you breathe wrong. Your shadows curl around your wrist, trembling in confused awe, unsure whether to shield it or hide it.
Robert just mutters, “Don’t lose it,” about the access badge, and Sonar nods solemnly as if crypto has been replaced by a more vital lesson: Building Security.
Then the room divides like it’s a practiced maneuver.
Robert speaks without raising his voice, the way someone gives orders they already expect to be followed.
“Sonar. Invisigal. Coupé. You’re with me.”
Invisigal flickers into view just long enough to flip her collar up, halfway transparent, like an afterimage made of fog. Coupé stands, steel feathers whispering like knives being breathed on. Sonar lumbers behind them, still clutching a notebook scribbled with numbers and something labeled “Crypto Pyramid Logistics.” You don’t know if that’s a scam or a weapon.
Robert gathers a stack of photos and printouts- blurry images of your silhouette, cameras catching something too dark and shapeless to be a person.
He looks directly at you for the first time today. Just once.
“We’ll figure out who’s hunting you.”
You’re not sure if that’s a promise, a threat, or homework. Before you can react, Prism grabs you by the shoulders like she’s claiming a prize.
“And we,” she announces, “are going shopping.”
One moment you’re in the team’s break room, and the next you’re shoved into a cluster of mismatched personalities: Prism glitter-bright and excited; Malevola, elegant and permanently unimpressed; and Flambe, who seems physically incapable of not being on fire.
You blink. “…Why?”
Flambae grins, flames flaring tall. “Because your hoodie smells like alleyway soup and fungus.”
They don’t take you to a mall.
They take you to a warehouse that looks like a cross between a thrift store, a costume department, and a tactical armory. Racks of street clothes sit next to fireproof jackets and “100% Ballistic Loungewear.”
Prism shoves a pile of clothes at you. “Try these, they match your whole edgy gremlin vibe.”
You whisper back, “I don’t have a vibe.”
She snorts. “Sweetheart, you practically ooze tragic backstory. It’s a miracle you didn’t come in with theme music and rain.”
Malevola points daintily at a rack of black coats. “Nothing with zippers on the sleeves. Screams wannabe antihero.”
Flambae holds up a jacket that looks fireproof, knife-proof, and fashionably sinister. “This one. It says: ‘I could hurt you, but I don’t want to.’”
You stare at it.
Prism is on a mission. She piles clothes into your arms like a glittery avalanche.
“We want iconic, not ironic. Dark, but not broody. Dramatic, but not edgelord. Something that says: mysterious kid with a destiny, not I hiss at the sun for fun.”
You try to breathe under the weight of three jackets, four shirts, and something that might be both a vest and a cloak.
Flambae steps in before Prism crushes your ribs with aesthetic.
“Okay, glitterbug, slow down,” he says, prying a stack of clothes out of your arms. His flame dims to something gentle, like sunset warmth. “Kid needs to move. And they have shadows to manage. You think they want to trip over a belt that does nothing but sparkle?”
Prism gasps. “Okay, first of all, belts can be emotionally supportive-”
“Not if they’re stabbing you,” Flambe replies, holding up a studded strap that looks like medieval taxidermy. He gives you a look, uncle-ish and knowing. “You ever worn something that looked cool but tried to kill you after ten minutes?”
You don’t need to speak.
He nods firmly. “Function first. You’re gonna be running, hiding, bending into the dark. You need room at the shoulders, nothing too heavy, breathable fabric, and boots that fit like you’re not borrowing someone’s life.”
Prism rolls her eyes.
“Yes, comfort is important, but if they’re going to be seen with us, they have to look like they belong.”
Flambae crosses his arms, flame flickering.
“Looking like you belong doesn’t mean dressing them like a side character.”
You freeze.
You’ve spent so long blending into shadows that you’ve always dressed like a background blur.
Malevola reads the freeze instantly, eyes softening. “We’re not trying to erase you. We’re trying to help you… be seen on your terms.”
Flambae nods, expression turning surprisingly serious.
“My niece hated attention. Would hide under tables to avoid family photos. But she liked having clothes that made her feel like herself, you know? Not like she was stuck being the quiet kid. You pick things that fit the life you want, not the one you’re stuck in.”
You don’t know what life you want. But you know the one you don’t.
He holds up the fireproof, knife-proof, shadow-friendly jacket again. “This one. Clean lines. Light padding. High collar if you want to disappear. Hidden pocket inside the sleeve. Good for snacks or secrets.”
Prism snaps her fingers. “Okay, that is iconic. And practical. Fine, we can compromise.”
The shopping bags still dangle from your hands when Malevola slices open the air. Reality splits like it’s made of glass and red ink, forming a doorway between the parking lot and the Z-Team break room’s stained linoleum floor. You step through, shadows tightening around your ankles like they’re suspicious of indoor teleportation.
Coupé sits at the table with a notebook, sharpening a dagger as if it helps her think. Sonar stands by the sink, drinking tea like he’s trying to look less like a bat. Robert is at the counter, glaring at a computer that’s making noises like it wants to unionize.
You barely have time to adjust the weight of all your brand-new clothes before Coupé’s eyes lift, precise, and sharp enough to cut you without touching you.
“Welcome back,” she says.
Malevola pats your shoulder like a proud, terrifying aunt.
“We got them outfitted. Food happened. No incidents, unless you count Flambae trying to suggest boots with flames on them. For a shadow kid.”
Flambae, who arrived through the portal with you, throws his hands up.
“Themed fashion is important! It’s commitment!”
Robert shuts the computer with enough force to make it behave.
“We can make fun of your questionable taste later. Right now, we need information.”
The shadows around your feet prickle, reacting before you do. They curl and uncurl like nervous fingers.
Sonar gestures toward a chair. His voice, normally smug professor, softens to something careful, the way someone might narrate diffusing a bomb.
“Sit. We’re not here to interrogate you. We’re here to protect you.”
Coupé flips to a fresh page of her notebook. “Protection requires intel.”
Malevola adds, voice low enough to settle the panic rising in your lungs:
“No pressure. They just need to know what we’re up against.”
You sit, trying not to curl into yourself. The chair squeaks, loud and uneven, like it’s telling everyone how afraid you are.
Coupé leans forward, not close enough to intimidate, but close enough to show she could.
“Who were they?”
Her tone isn’t cruel- it’s clinical, professional, terrifyingly efficient.
You pick at your sleeve, fingers trembling. The fabric is new, clean, too soft. You feel undeserving of it.
“Testing facility people.”
The words taste like metal on your tongue. You don’t say illegal. You don’t have to.
Robert nods once, disgust flattening into something venomous.
“So, vultures.”
“Private contractors, likely,” Coupé adds. “Enforcement squads, if they were pursuing you openly.”
Sonar taps his claws on the counter, thinking.
“Were they augmented? Armed? Powered? How many?”
Prism huffs from where she’s admiring your new boots and fixing the laces for no reason.
“Maybe we could try asking like they’re a human teenager and not a war criminal on trial?”
Coupé huffs. “I am asking nicely.”
Punch Up walks in just in time to snort. “This is her asking nicely.”
That does not help your pulse.
Your shadows climb the chair’s back like ivy, shielding you from questions, faces, memories.
Robert notices first and lowers his voice.
“Hey. We’re not judging you. We just need to know how fast we have to hit back.”
That… helps.
You nod, slowly. The words start to come out in pieces.
“They… they wanted to test how my shadow stuff evolved under stress. They were trying to push limits. They said… it was for hero research, at first. But they stopped- listening. They just wanted more.”
You remember needles, restraints, wires, the smell of bleach. Light too bright to hide from.
Coupé writes in neat, efficient lines. She catches the parts you can’t say and notes only what she needs.
“How many hunters?”
“Four I saw. More watching, maybe. They weren’t sloppy.” Malevola answers that question for you.
“Uniforms?”
“Plain clothes. Tactical gear underneath.”
“Tech?”
You freeze. The question lands like a trapdoor opening under you.
Sonar leans forward, gentler this time. “Were they carrying anything that interfered with your shadows?”
Your pulse spikes. You nod.
Coupé’s expression sharpens, eyes like blades catching light. “So someone studied you long enough to design restraints.”
Punch Up’s jaw sets. Robert’s stare darkens.
“So someone has your data,” he mutters, like a threat.
Your stomach twists. You hadn’t let yourself think that far.
“They… they talked about someone. Someone they were trying to impress. Someone they wanted on their side. A sponsor? A boss?” You swallow hard. “They kept saying his name like it mattered. Shroud.”
The room changes.
Punch Up looks up sharply. Sonar’s ears twitch, listening like he’s catching signals only bats can hear. Coupé stops writing. Robert’s fingers tighten around his coffee like he’s debating using the mug as a weapon.
Malevola squeezes your shoulder, grounding you. “They’re not getting you back. That’s the only part that matters right now.”
Flambae nods firmly. Even he’s quiet for a moment.
“Let them try. I’ll charbroil them.”
Prism smiles at you- bright, dramatic, kind in her own loud way. “Darling, you’re with us now. Whoever comes after you will be leaving in pieces.”
You almost laugh.
Coupé stands, wings unfolding slightly behind her. She speaks like she’s announcing a contract.
“Then it is decided. Anyone who tries to take them will answer to the Z-Team.”
Robert adds dryly, “And if they try twice, they answer to me first. They won’t like it.”
You don’t know what he means, but judging by how Flambae flinches instinctively, clutching the air around a missing finger, you know they won’t enjoy it.
Coupé closes her notebook softly, like the conversation is over.
It isn’t.
Robert notices something the way only people who’ve seen too much notice things. His gaze sharpens, not cruel, but cutting through you like he’s trying to locate a bruise beneath your clothes.
“How long have you been on the run?” he asks.
You try to shrug it off. Shrug like it’s nothing. Shrug like normal teenagers pack a backpack and disappear. But whatever the gesture is supposed to look like, it feels more like you’re slipping under water.
“Since… I left.”
Punch Up’s voice comes in gentler than the size of him suggests it ever could. “Ran away or escaped?”
You swallow. The shadows respond before you can, they creep up the table like spilled ink, eager to cover you.
“Both.”
There’s a silence. Not the heavy, intimidating kind. The slow, careful kind, like everyone suddenly realized you’re thinner than you should be, quieter than you should be, hunched like someone expecting a blow.
Robert’s voice shifts into something flat but dangerous. “They didn’t help you, did they.”
Your eyes drop to your lap. The fabric of your new clothes is too crisp, too warm, too clean. It feels like lying just to wear them.
“They kicked me out.”
Punch Up’s shoulders tense; the room seems to lose a layer of air. Sonar’s claws curl slightly against the counter, his voice low and precise in that Harvard-graduate way:
“They discarded a minor with a volatile ability and zero resources? That’s not negligent. That’s criminal.”
You shake your head quickly, as if the speed might make it untrue.
“They were scared. I didn’t mean to hurt anything. It just- happens. The shadows do things when I’m scared.”
Prism’s expression softens immediately, theatricality dropping like a mask. She kneels beside you, boots squeaking against the floor.
“Sweetheart,” she says, quieter than you’ve ever heard her, “parents don’t get to abandon you just because they’re cowards.”
Flambae doesn’t look at you when his temper flashes- his eyes stay fixed on a far corner, like if he looks away long enough, he won’t ignite something. When he finally speaks, it’s low, tight, and controlled the way a lit stove is controlled.
“I’ve got a niece your age. If anyone tried dropping her on the street because she got powers, I would personally reheat their house from the foundation up.”
Waterboy, who’s been silent until now, frowns hard enough to wrinkle his goggles.
“People are supposed to take care of you. Even when they’re scared.”
You look at him. He means it. Completely. No apology behind it. No fear. Just belief.
Invisigal crosses her arms, voice resonant and final. “Until we solve this- after, if you choose- you stay with us. We will not abandon you.”
For the first time, someone else is willing to fight before you have to. Someone else is saying stay behind us.
Your shadows hesitate, then loosen, then retreat. Not gone, but calmer- like they’re watching her, considering the promise.
You don’t know if you can trust them completely. But it feels like you might learn how.