Chapter Text
"Ack—!"
The sound was ripped from Herman's throat as his shoulder connected with the unyielding frame of the doorway. The impact was jarring, a bone-deep thud that vibrated through his entire frame, sending a spray of water skidding across the polished tile floor in a chaotic arc. He stumbled back a step, the world tilting for a moment as his shoulder throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. He barely had time to register the pain, to shake the stars from his vision, before the cause of his distress was already a distant memory.
Malevola and Invisigal barreled past him, a whirlwind of motion and sound. Their laughter was sharp and high, echoing in the sterile hallway like they were five years old tearing through a playground and not grown adults with jobs and responsibilities. They moved with a complete disregard for anything or anyone in their path, their energy a destructive force that left Herman in its wake.
"Sorry!" Malevola called over her shoulder, the word tossed back at him with the same carelessness she'd used to shove him aside. It was flat, devoid of any genuine remorse, like the word itself meant nothing, was just a formality to be checked off a list. She didn't even look back to see if he was okay.
They didn't even slow down. Their footsteps faded down the hall, their laughter gradually swallowed by the building's ambient hum, leaving Herman standing alone in the aftermath of their passing.
He stood there for a long second, blinking slowly, trying to process the sequence of events. The throb in his shoulder was a steady reminder of the collision, the dampness splattered on the wall a testament to his unique predicament. He slowly, deliberately, wiped a hand across his damp shoulder, the fabric of his long sleeves clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The water clung to him, stubborn and persistent, dripping steadily onto the floor in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to mock his lack of control.
Days like these made him dislike his coworkers.
…No. That wasn't right. The word felt too weak, too mild for the roiling pit of resentment that churned in his stomach.
Hate fit better. It was a stronger, more honest word for the feeling that coiled in his gut whenever he had to share a space with them.
Of course, he knew better. His grandmother had raised him right—drilled it into him like gospel, repeating it until it was as much a part of him as his own bones: Everyone deserves kindness. And if they can't give it to you, you give it to them anyway. It was a noble philosophy, one he'd tried to live by, one he desperately wanted to believe in.
Yeah.
Well.
His coworkers made that philosophy feel like a cruel joke, a punchline he was never in on. They were the living embodiment of everything his grandmother's teachings warned against, yet they were the people he was forced to see day in and day out.
They were loud, their voices carrying across the dispatch center with no regard for anyone's concentration or comfort. They were arrogant, striding through the building like they owned the place, their confidence a palpable force that seemed to push everyone else aside. They were invasive, constantly digging into his nerves like they were trying to strike something important just to watch him react, to see him lose control. It had to be intentional. No one could be that naturally irritating, that consistently oblivious to the effect they had on others.
Right?
The only somewhat tolerable person in the entire building was Robert.
And even that came with an asterisk, a footnote of complications that Herman couldn't quite ignore.
Robert was nice—too nice, honestly. Calm, steady, patient in a way that should've been comforting, that should've made Herman feel safe. But instead, it made him feel…small. Babied. Like he was something fragile, something delicate that needed constant monitoring, like a piece of glass that might shatter at the slightest provocation.
Which was ridiculous. Herman was stronger than they gave him credit for, stronger than he often gave himself credit for. He had to be, to survive in this environment.
If anything, Robert was the one who needed taking care of. Herman had never seen that man eat a proper meal unless it was something Herman couldn't finish himself and had pushed onto his plate. It was like he just…forgot basic human needs, like sustenance and self-care were optional extras he couldn't be bothered with.
Still.
Better awkward kindness than whatever the rest of dispatch had going on. At least Robert's concern, however misplaced, came from a place of genuine care, not a desire to provoke or humiliate.
Herman had thought he escaped this kind of thing after graduation. He'd naively believed that the professional world would be different, that adults would behave like, well, adults. That the petty cruelties and casual bullying of his school years were behind him.
Apparently not.
"Move, bitch."
The words hit just as hard as the shove that followed, a sharp, deliberate impact between his shoulder blades that sent him stumbling forward. It felt deliberate. It was deliberate. Flambae brushed past him, her shoulder connecting with his in a move that was too calculated to be accidental, her expression smug as she continued on her way without a backward glance.
Herman didn't even argue. What was the point? It would only escalate things, draw more attention, more ridicule. He just kept walking, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the floor ahead.
Water slipped from his body with every step, forming small puddles that trailed behind him like evidence of his passage, like a trail of tears he couldn't stop. By the time he reached the break room, his control was shot—liquid dripping from his fingers, his legs, the ends of his hair, a constant, humiliating reminder of his vulnerability.
He dropped into one of the cheap plastic chairs with a wet squelch, the sound drawing a few amused glances from the others in the room. He ignored them, focusing on the ache in his shoulder, the exhaustion that settled deep in his bones.
"You good?"
Robert's voice came from beside him, low and even, cutting through the noise of the break room.
Herman didn't answer right away, couldn't find the words past the lump in his throat.
Robert gently took his wrist, turning his hand slightly as water rolled off Herman's fingers in slow, steady streams, pooling on the table beneath them.
"You're real wet," Robert noted, his voice completely monotone, yet his touch was gentle, careful. "Somethin' happen?"
Herman shook his head, careful—careful—not to fling water everywhere. A few droplets still escaped, landing on Robert's sleeve, dark spots on the worn fabric.
"…C-coworkers," he mumbled, the word barely audible.
His head dropped into his hands, then onto the table, arms folding into a makeshift pillow. His cheek pressed against the cool, smooth surface, leaving a faint damp imprint that would evaporate all too quickly, just like his patience.
"Oh."
Robert let out a quiet, amused breath, his calloused hand moving to rest on Herman's arm. His thumb traced slow circles, a grounding pressure that was both comforting and condescending.
"What'd they do this time?"
Herman turned his head just enough to look up at him, his eyes tired, his expression weary beyond his years.
"Every t-thing."
"That's rough," Robert said, and this time there was actual sympathy in his voice, a genuine understanding that made Herman's throat tighten. "I thought you were getting along."
Herman groaned, dragging his face across his arms before lifting his head, the skin of his cheek pink from the pressure.
"They're all weird," he muttered, his voice a low grumble. "S-Sonar keeps making sex jokes. Malevola's kinda nice, but I think that's just…her. Golem freaks me out. So does Phanomaman. Prism's mean. Flambae is—Flambae. Invisigal is—"
"Mean?" Robert finished, a small smile playing on his lips.
Herman blinked. "Y-yeah… how'd you know?"
Robert chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine.
"That's the longest I've heard you talk without stuttering," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Didn't know hatred fueled you like that."
Herman frowned, his brow furrowing.
"…Are you saying I'm h-hateful?"
Robert tilted his head, considering, his thumb still tracing those soothing circles on Herman's arm.
"Not fully," he said after a moment. "More like… hate-ish."
"I don't wanna be hate-ish," Herman mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, the admission feeling like a betrayal of his grandmother's teachings.
Before Robert could respond, a soft knock cut through the room, a sound that always commanded attention.
The door creaked open, and Blonde Blazer leaned in, her presence immediately filling the space despite her small frame. She smiled politely, like she always did, her expression a carefully constructed mask of professionalism and warmth.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said, her voice smooth and measured. "We have a meeting—be there in ten."
Then she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of caramel and a sense of impending doom that settled over Herman like a shroud.
…
The meeting room was already half full when Herman slipped inside, his movements quiet and unobtrusive as he tried to find a seat that wouldn't draw attention.
The leather seat let out an unpleasant squeak as he sat, and he immediately cringed, shoulders curling inward as a few heads turned in his direction. Everyone else was spread out around the oval table, too relaxed
too relaxed, too loud, their conversations a low hum that filled the room with an energy Herman could never seem to tap into. He felt like an intruder, a damp mistake in a room of dry confidence.
"Alright, team!"
Blonde Blazer's voice cut through the chatter, sharp and clear. She tapped the table with a pointer, the click echoing as conversations died down and all eyes turned to her. She stood at the head of the table, posture perfect, her blazer a stark, professional white against the muted tones of the room.
"We've made a deal with our ex-competitors."
Herman frowned, the word "ex-competitors" sticking in his mind. Since when was that a priority? Their job was to save people, to manage crises, not to play corporate games with other hero agencies. People's lives were at stake on a daily basis; shouldn't that be their focus?
Blazer gestured to the projector behind her, and an image flickered to life on the screen—a group of vaguely familiar figures in redesigned, almost-too-shiny costumes. "We'll be showcasing their newly reformed villains—"
"Knock-offs," someone muttered from the other side of the table, earning a few snickers.
"—and in exchange," Blazer continued, her voice unwavering as she ignored the interruption, "they'll be promoting you and the program."
Herman's stomach dropped. The word "promoting" hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It felt like a death sentence. Being watched by strangers was bad enough, but being sold by a group he once looked up to? It was a recipe for disaster. His anxiety spiked, and he could feel a fine mist of water begin to bead on his forehead.
He raised his hand slowly, a small, trembling motion that felt impossibly loud in the quiet room. Water trembled at his fingertips, a single drop falling to the table with a soft, almost inaudible tap.
"Yes, Waterboy?" Blazer said immediately, her gaze landing on him.
"You have to go," She stated
"…But Miss Blazer—"
"You and Robert will act as peacekeepers," she continued smoothly, cutting him off as if he hadn't spoken. "Your presence has a calming effect. Whenever you're around, the team is noticeably less…violent."
Because they redirect it at me, Herman thought bitterly, the words a silent scream in his mind. They didn't become less violent; they just found a more acceptable target.
"Yeah, you're like a therapy dog!" Malevola snorted, leaning back in her chair with a wide, unkind grin.
Sonar leaned over the table, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "Like a big, biiig version of beef."
"But way more skittish," Prism added, her voice dripping with condescension.
"And pale as fuck," Flambae finished, her contribution a final, cutting blow.
Laughter rippled across the table, a wave of sound that crashed over Herman, leaving him breathless. It wasn't just laughter; it was a unified front of mockery, a reminder that he was the outsider, the odd one out, the target.
Herman stared down at his hands, watching the water pool between his fingers, a small, sad lake on the polished surface of the table. He could feel Robert's gaze on him, a silent offer of support that he couldn't bring himself to accept.
…Okay.
Cool.
Nothing new.
He just had to spend an unknown amount of time—24/7, according to the mission brief—with people he actively hated. People who took pleasure in his discomfort. People who saw him as a joke.
That was fine.
Totally fine.
.
Y’all remember how Herman said he hated being babied?
…Yeah. Scratch that.
He loved it.
Not that he’d ever admit it out loud—but right now, half-asleep and leaning his full weight against Robert as they pushed through the chaos of the airport, he wasn’t exactly in a position to argue.
This is fine, Herman thought drowsily. This is temporary. This is… strategic.
Right.
Strategic.
Because Herman knew—knew—how annoying it was to sit next to someone constantly leaking water. The looks, the shifting away, the awkward wiping of sleeves… yeah. He wasn’t doing that to some poor stranger on a flight.
So he’d taken melatonin.
Probably more than he should have.
Now his body felt slow, heavy, and pleasantly numb, the usual constant trickle of water reduced to almost nothing.
No water. No problems. See? Genius.
…He was also barely conscious.
“Alright, big guy.”
Robert’s voice cut through the fog as he guided—manhandled, honestly—Herman into a soft armchair near their gate.
Herman melted into it instantly.
His long legs curled up toward his chest, sweater bunching around him. The oversized black fabric swallowed his frame, sleeves slipping past his hands.
No water.
No stupid uniform.
No ridiculous bathing suit.
Worth it.
“You want something?” Robert asked, glancing down at him. “Tea? Cookies?”
Herman shook his head weakly.
The motion was… too much effort.
His head lolled off the armrest, hanging at an awkward angle as he stared at the airport upside down. People rushed past in a blur of shoes and luggage. Somewhere in the distance, his coworkers were arguing—loud, sharp voices overlapping into noise.
Of course they are, he thought. God forbid they exist quietly for five seconds.
His eyes started to drift shut—
—and then—
Warm air.
Right on his nose.
Herman’s eyes snapped open.
And there he was.
Flambae.
Oh my God, I can’t even nap in peace.
“Get up, bitch. We’re leaving.”
Herman’s face scrunched immediately, brows pulling together as he stared at him.
Unbelievable.
“I’d d-do it,” Herman muttered, voice thick with sleep, “if you said it nicely.”
He pushed himself upright, wobbling slightly as the cold air of the airport hit him full force.
Why is it freezing in here? Is this a punishment? Did I do something?
His legs—bare except for his Batman pajama shorts—did absolutely nothing to protect him.
Great. Fantastic. I’m gonna get hypothermia in an airport. That’s how I go.
“…Where’s Robert?” he mumbled, squinting around.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
Flambae crossed his arms, muscles stretching against his tight black shirt.
Herman blinked slowly.
Oh. Still here. Of course he is.
“I’m not a dog,” Herman said, words dragging. “I’m not b-beef.”
He stumbled toward his suitcase, legs awkward and uncoordinated, like a newborn deer figuring out gravity.
Why are my legs like this? I walk every day. This is embarrassing.
“I work better,” he added, gripping the handle for balance, “when people are sweet to me.”
“Well I’m not your fucking grandma, pissboy,” Flambae snapped, shoving him lightly toward the conveyor belt.
Herman frowned.
Rude. Consistently rude. Impressively rude, actually.
“I’m sweet to you,” Herman shot back weakly. “I’m not your g-grandma.”
Flambae groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“No amount of money is worth dealing with a high Herman,” he muttered.
Then don’t, Herman thought immediately. Literally no one asked you.
Before he could say it out loud, he was suddenly pushed forward—
—and caught.
“Don’t worry, babe, I’d do anything for spare cash.”
Malevola wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her.
Heat radiated off her instantly, soaking into Herman’s cold skin.
…Okay.
That was—
…actually nice.
No. No, it’s not. Stay focused. She’s annoying.
“Alright—seriously?”
Robert’s voice cut in again, sounding more strained this time.
Herman peeked over Malevola’s shoulder.
Robert stood there with an absurd amount of luggage stacked in his arms—bags that were very clearly not his.
Of course he’s carrying their stuff too, Herman thought. Why wouldn’t he be. That’s normal. Totally normal behavior.
“Let go of Herman,” Robert said.
Malevola didn’t move.
“Mm… nah,” she said easily. “Me and Hermy are sitting next to each other. I already checked the seating.”
Herman blinked.
…Hermy?
Absolutely not. No. We are not doing that.
Across from them, Prism narrowed her eyes.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “Obviously you’re going to win.”
Win?
Herman’s gaze shifted between them slowly.
…Win what?
Sitting next to me is not a prize. This is not a competition. Why are they like this?
“Sore losers,” Malevola shot back. “All of you.”
Herman just stood there, swaying slightly, suitcase barely upright in his grip.
I took melatonin to avoid being a problem, he thought, exhausted.
And somehow… they’re still the problem.
Nothing had changed.
It was just louder now.
.
Herman woke up to scratchy sheets.
Scratchy… and dry.
That alone made his eyes snap open.
…That’s not right.
He lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, his brain slowly catching up with his body. The sheets weren't damp. His clothes weren't clinging to him. There was no lingering chill, no puddle, no evidence of anything. The air in the room was still and neutral, smelling faintly of industrial cleaner and something floral he couldn't place. The pillow under his head was a perfect, dry rectangle, not the usual misshapen, damp lump he was used to.
The melatonin wasn't that strong, he thought, frowning. There's no way I stayed dry all night.
Which meant—
I must've been calm.
…Weird.
Suspicious, even.
Herman pushed himself up slowly, running a hand through his hair. It stuck up in uneven, dry tangles—bedhead without the usual damp weight pulling it down. He felt the unfamiliar texture, the lightness of it. His pajama t-shirt, a faded grey thing with a peeling logo, was soft against his skin, not stiff and clammy. He flexed his fingers; they weren't pruned. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding without the usual tight, wet constriction he sometimes felt upon waking.
“What time is it…” he mumbled, his voice a dry rasp.
Then he paused.
“…Wait.”
He looked around, really looked this time. The room was too big. The bed was too neat on the other side, where he hadn't slept. The carpet was an inoffensive beige, the kind designed to hide every stain. The artwork on the walls was generic abstracts—splashes of color meant to be soothing but achieving only a profound sense of nothing.
“…Where the fuck am I?”
The room came into focus in pieces. Large windows, floor-to-ceiling, let in bright sunlight that stabbed directly into his eyes, forcing him to squint. The view outside was of a parking lot and, beyond that, the flat, uninteresting rooftops of other identical buildings. The walls were unfamiliar. Neutral. Generic. A hotel.
Probably.
Two other beds sat across from his, both messy—sheets kicked off, clothes thrown everywhere like the occupants had either rushed out or didn't care. A discarded pair of sparkly heels lay near one bed, a crumpled tank top near the other. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume, an aggressive cloud that had probably been lingering for hours.
Of course they don't care, Herman thought. Why would they. Their mess is a performance. My mess is a liability.
Voices filtered through the closed bathroom door.
Loud.
Sharp.
Annoying.
Herman didn't even need to guess.
Flambae and Prism.
Fantastic. I wake up dry for the first time in weeks and immediately have to deal with them. Balance in the universe restored, I guess. One small victory, immediately canceled out by the universe's profound sense of cosmic justice, which apparently has a really shitty sense of humor.
The bathroom door swung open with a burst of steam and the scent of mouthwash.
“Ugh, you're still in your pajamas?” Prism said, already judging. Her eyes, perfectly lined with what looked like liquid silver, swept over him with the same detached criticism a mechanic might give a broken-down car. “We gotta go. Like, now.”
She walked toward him, heels clicking lightly against the tile before they me floor. Her outfit was… very her. Sleeveless black bodysuit that clung like a second skin, teal sequin skirt that shimmered with every step—loud.
On brand, Herman thought. Obnoxiously on brand. Like a walking, talking magazine ad for a life I can't afford and wouldn't want if I could.
“What—why?” Herman blinked, voice still rough with sleep. “B-but the event is t-tomorrow.”
“Team bonding,” Flambae cut in from his position leaning against the bathroom doorframe. He had a toothbrush in his mouth, his words garbled around it. He spat into the sink, the sound echoing. Then, after a beat—
“I doubt anyone wants to bond with you.”
He leaned against the wall like he owned the place, cropped black tank sitting just above his navel, sweatpants low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-lines of his abdomen. He was effortlessly, infuriatingly cool.
Oh my God, Herman thought. Do they practice being insufferable or does it come naturally? Is there a morning ritual? A chant? A five-point plan to be as monumentally grating as possible before 9 a.m.?
“But—”
“Just get up,” Prism snapped. Her patience was clearly a finite resource, and his was costing her dearly.
Her manicured hand grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin just enough to be uncomfortable without leaving a mark. She yanked him out of bed before he could even process it. He stumbled, his bare feet hitting the scratchy carpet. She turned him and shoved him lightly toward the bathroom, the doorframe catching his shoulder.
“Get dressed,” she added, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And at least try to dress well.”
Herman stared at the closed bathroom door once she left. The click of the latch sounded final, like the door to a prison cell.
Try to dress well, he repeated in his head. Okay. Sure. I'll just magically become someone else real quick. I'll rummage through my bag and find the version of me that wears things that 'sparkle' or have 'purpose' or whatever the hell that means. I'll find the Herman who doesn't have to calculate the absorbency of every fabric he owns.
…
He didn't.
A few minutes later, Herman stepped out in a loose muted-blue shirt with a small sardine printed on it, paired with relaxed jeans. Comfortable. Safe. Non-offensive. The fabric was soft and breathable. The jeans were broken in just right. It was an outfit that said, 'I am here, but I would also like to be left alone.'
His crocs completed the look.
Practical, he told himself. If I get stressed and start leaking, I'm not ruining another pair of shoes. I'm learning. Growth. This is what progress looks like.
“Wow,” Prism said immediately, not even trying to hide the disdain in her voice. “Super… on-theme, Waterboy.”
She rolled her eyes, a gesture so fluid it seemed to take more effort than it was worth.
Herman just squinted at her.
Tone-deaf, he thought. Actually impressive. Like a talent. She saw the sardine and thought 'water,' not 'a small, oily fish that exists in a tin.' The nuance was completely lost on her. Of course it was.
…
The car ride was worse.
Much worse.
Herman was wedged in the back seat between Malevola and Sonar.
Worst decision of his life.
The car, a rented sleek black SUV that smelled of new leather and vanilla air freshener, was suddenly the smallest, most claustrophobic space he had ever been in. Malevola had one arm—heavy, warm, inescapable—draped over his shoulders, holding him in place like he might disappear if she let go. Her other hand was scrolling through her phone, the screen's light illuminating her placid face. She smelled like blood orange and something else, something heavy and sweet.
Sonar, for some reason, had his legs thrown across Herman's lap. He was tapping away on a tablet balanced on his own knees, completely absorbed in some game or video.
Like that was normal.
Like that was acceptable.
Like Herman wasn't a person with boundaries, but rather a piece of human-shaped furniture.
I can't breathe, Herman thought, stiffening. I actually cannot breathe. The air is too thick. The scents are mixing into a cloying, suffocating soup. Her arm is a weight. His legs are an intrusion. I'm trapped.
The car felt too small.
Too loud.
Too full.
All the careful control he'd built up—the effort, the restraint—it started slipping the second he felt that familiar prickle at the back of his neck.
Water.
Beading.
Building.
No, no, no. Not now. Not here. Not in this expensive leather cage.
He fumbled for his headphones, shoving them over his ears, desperate for something—anything—to ground him. The world outside his skull muffled slightly, but the pressure points on his body remained. He pressed play, the opening riff of a frantic, thrashing metal song filling his head.
Too quiet.
Not enough.
The physical sensations were winning.
“Whatcha listening to, babes?”
Before he could react, Malevola lifted one side of his headphones. Her fingers brushed against his ear, and he flinched violently.
“W-wait—”
“Haha, no way.”
“What?” Sonar asked, glancing up from his tablet, his eyes wide with mock surprise.
“He's listening to rock.”
Metal, Herman corrected internally, irritation spiking. It's metal. There's a difference. There's aggression and complexity and—why am I even explaining this in my head? They don't care.
“No fucking wayyy,” Sonar laughed, a loud, braying sound that made Herman's teeth ache. “Wet guy's emo.”
Prism twisted around in her seat from the passenger side, her movements sharp and bird-like.
“Seriously?”
“Hey, givehim some spa—” Robert started from the front seat, his voice an annoyed, rumble that was immediately swallowed by the chaos.
He didn't get to finish.
“What else?” Prism leaned closer, her face inches from his, lifting her sunglasses to get a better look at Herman's face. Her eyes narrowed, scanning him like he was a puzzle she couldn't solve and was beginning to resent. “Are you, like, covered in piercings or something? Got a tramp stamp we should know about?” The questions were needles, each one designed to find a weak spot.
Why do you care, Herman thought, a hot wave of defensiveness washing over him. Why does any of this matter to you. Why is my existence, my clothing, my music, a topic for your panel discussion?
“Now that he's in actual clothes,” Sonar added, his attention back on Herman, a predatory glint in his eye. He saw the sardine on Herman's shirt as a target. “Let's see the little guy.”
His hand grabbed at the hem of Herman's shirt, his fingers pinching the fabric, pulling it up and away from his body.
Nope.
That was it.
The careful dam he had built all morning—the surprise of waking up dry, the shock of the hotel room, the deliberate choice of non-threatening clothes—it all broke. The invasion was too much. The touch was too intimate, too mocking, too violating.
A jolt of something sharp and cold shot through him, and for a terrifying second, he felt the familiar, dreaded shift deep in his gut. The tell-tale warmth spreading through his veins.
Herman shoved Sonar's legs off him hard enough to make the car shift slightly. He used both hands, a violent, desperate pushing motion. Sonar yelped in surprise, his tablet clattering to the car floor.
“Hey—!”
Herman didn't care.
Didn't apologize.
Didn't explain.
He yanked the car door open the second it slowed enough to park in the mall's lot, the handle cool and solid under his sweaty palm. The Robert yelled something, but the words were just noise.
—and got out.
Fresh air hit him instantly.
Cool.
Open.
His.
He stumbled onto the pavement of the open mall, the rough concrete a stark, grounding reality under his crocs. The mall noise—music, footsteps , the murmur of crowds—was a chaotic symphony that was infinitely preferable to the curated torment in the car. His chest rose and fell sharply as he stood there on the sidewalk, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He could feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of his heart against his ribs.
I tried, he thought, jaw tight. I actually tried to be normal about this. I woke up on the winning side of the statistical probability of my own malfunction. I put on the nice, quiet shirt. I sat in the designated torture chamber. I tried. And it wasn't enough. It's never enough.
Behind him, he could already hear them reacting.
Voices.
Confusion.
Annoyance.
Maybe something else.
“What the hell is his problem?” Sonar's voice, indignant and loud.
“He’s probably just annoyed.” That was Prism, her voice sharp and final, like she was cutting a string.
.
Herman ran his hands slowly over the display of leather cat beds, fingers pressing into the soft padding that promised comfort for his feline companion. The cool, slick surface beneath his touch was momentarily comforting, a brief reprieve from the constant internal battle he waged against his own body.
He needed new ones for Whisky.
The old ones were… fine.
But not good.
Whisky deserves better, Herman thought, absentmindedly smoothing out a crease in the leather. And at least she doesn't insult me every five seconds. His cat had never once made fun of his stutter or the unfortunate side effects of his hydrokinetic powers. She simply purred and demanded food—simple, honest interactions he could handle.
He exhaled, shoulders finally starting to loosen as he considered which bed might best suit his cat's preferences. The leather was a good choice—it wouldn't absorb moisture like fabric would. Not that he planned on Whisky's new bed getting wet, but one could never be too careful when living with his particular condition.
He'd left the others in the parking lot.
Just… walked away.
Didn't explain. Didn't apologize. Didn't look back.
I needed space, he told himself. That's not a crime. That's basic human function. Something his coworkers clearly didn't understand.
Zero sense of space.
Zero sense of respect.
He tried. He really did. He tried to be nice, to be patient, to meet them halfway—
—but the second they found a weak spot, they dug into it like it was their job.
Relentless.
"Hey, piss boy—"
Herman felt the heat before the touch.
Flambae's hand barely brushed his shoulder before Herman rolled it sharply, flicking him off. The brief contact sent an involuntary shiver through his system, his powers reacting to the unexpected stimulus. A few droplets of water formed on his palm, which he quickly wiped on his jeans.
"Oops—fuck was that?" Flambae said.
Herman's eyebrows pinched together, irritation snapping into place as he felt more moisture begin to bead on his skin. Not again. Not here. Not in public.
"Flambae," he almost whined, voice tight. "Do I—i-is it not obvious I'm n-not in the mood to talk to you?" The stress was making his stutter worse, which in turn made his powers more unstable—a vicious cycle he'd been fighting since puberty.
Flambae blinked.
Actually blinked.
Like that answer surprised him.
"I'd ask if you didn't get your beauty sleep," he shot back, recovering quickly, "but you clearly did."
Herman huffed, foot tapping against the floor in quick, uneven beats. He could feel the dampness spreading under his arms now, the telltale sign that his emotions were getting the better of him. His hydrokinesis was tied directly to his emotional state, and right now, he was a faucet of anxiety.
Stay calm. Stay calm. Don't snap. Don't—
"Flambae," he tried again, slower this time, focusing on keeping his breathing even. "I-I'm trying to be n-nice."
Breathe. Just breathe.
Flambae tilted his head.
"How about you t-t-try to talk normal?"
…Oh.
Oh, that's it.
"Oh my God, Flambae," Herman muttered, voice dropping as he felt the unmistakable trickle of water down his back. The dam was breaking, both literally and figuratively.
He shoved past him—not hard, just enough—and walked straight for the exit, already feeling his shirt beginning to cling uncomfortably to his skin. This always happened when he got upset—his body literally sprang leaks like faulty plumbing.
I'm done. I am actually done. I tried being nice. That was me being nice. That's over now.
"What the fuck…?" Flambae muttered behind him.
Herman didn't turn back.
.
Food.
Food fixes things.
Not emotionally.
But… enough.
Something I can focus on, Herman thought as he walked, now acutely aware of the growing dampness spreading across his torso. Something that doesn't talk back.
Also—important detail—
Anything he had to hold was a bad idea right now.
He was dripping.
Again.
Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.
The stress had triggered his powers, and now small beads of water were forming on his skin and rolling down his arms and back. It wasn't a full-blown flood—at least not yet—but it was enough to be noticeable. His shirt was starting to show dark patches at the shoulders and underarms.
So—
Sushi.
Minimal contact. Controlled portions. Safe.
"Yeah," he mumbled, pressing a hand against his damp chest. "Sushi sounds good."
The food court was packed.
Of course it was.
Herman weaved through the crowd awkwardly, his height making him stand out even more than usual. At 6'5", he couldn't exactly disappear—and right now, that was a problem.
Because people kept bumping into him.
And every time they did—
Water.
"Oh—s-sorry."
"Oop—sorry!"
"Sor—apologies—!"
I am actively becoming a public hazard, he thought, cringing as he felt more moisture seeping through his shirt with each accidental touch. They're gonna put up a sign. "Caution: Wet Floor—It's Him."
By the time he reached the sushi place, he was already exhausted and noticeably damp, his powers continuing their slow but steady betrayal.
"Huh…"
The neon lights glowed softly, pulling him in. The little bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside.
Quiet.
Mostly empty.
Perfect.
He scanned the room—
—and froze.
"…No."
Of course.
Of course.
At a table near the window sat Invisigal and Malevola.
"n-no way…" Herman muttered under his breath, subconsciously crossing his arms over his chest to hide the dark, wet patches spreading across his shirt.
Invisigal spotted him immediately.
"Oh! It's wet bitch boy!" she called, waving him over like this was a fun coincidence. The nickname stung even more now that he was literally wet, his powers having betrayed him once again.
Herman's eye twitched.
I could leave, he thought. I should leave. I'm going to leave.
He didn't.
Because of course he didn't.
Malevola looked up at him, her expression softer than usual.
"Hey… buddy," she said. "Do you feel better?"
Herman blinked at her, feeling another trickle of water run down his spine at the unexpected concern.
"…What do y-you mean by that?"
"I mean this mor—"
"This morning—earlier when all of you got on my n-nerves?" Herman cut in, words picking up speed, frustration bubbling over. "And then you got s-surprised when I got upset!" As his anger rose, so did the moisture—his palms were sweating, his shirt was growing damper by the second, and he could feel droplets forming at his hairline.
Invisigal rolled her eyes immediately.
"You're being dramatic. We all joke like that."
There it is, Herman thought. Of course. It's a joke. It's always a joke. The injustice of it all made him feel even wetter, his body responding to his emotional turmoil with its usual betrayal.
"None of you respect me," he said, more firmly this time, water now dripping from his fingertips onto the floor. He clenched his fists to try to stop it, but that only made more water seep between his knuckles.
"I'm not a 'bitch boy,'" he added, air-quoting with visible irritation, small droplets flying from his hands with the gesture. "For caring about people. I'm s-sorry for having basic human d-decency."
He exhaled sharply, voice cracking just slightly from frustration as he felt a definite stream of water now running down his back. This was bad. This was really bad.
"All of you fucking suck. Jeez."
Silence.
Herman didn't wait for a response.
He turned—
and walked right back out, leaving a small trail of water droplets behind him as he fled the restaurant.
.
"Honestly, that's the most he's talked all day," Prism sighed, leaning back into one of the mall massage chairs.
The vibrations hummed under her.
"But like… we aren't that bad."
Flambae raised an eyebrow.
"We're rude," he said plainly. "That's kinda our thing."
"But that's our humor," Invisigal added quickly, slamming her hands on the armrest. "That's just how we are."
"That's your fucking problem."
All of them turned.
Robert stood a few feet away, coffee cup in hand—tilted dangerously, like he'd forgotten he was holding it.
"You all know he's different," Robert continued, voice still calm but edged now. "He's not ex-villains like you."
Silence.
"And on top of that," he added, "he's actually a nice person."
A couple of them flinched.
"…Unlike all of you."
"Robert—" Malevola started.
"What?" he cut in, letting out a short, humorless laugh. "Weren't you all just joking?" He tilted his head slightly. "I thought you could take a joke."
No one laughed this time