Chapter Text

Act 1: Bars, Sparks, and Tension

The bar hums with a low, loud, and self-assured feel. It’s the kind of place where exhaustion and ego mix freely and where the night’s work clings to people in the form of scuffed boots, loosened gloves, and half-finished drinks. Neon lights flicker overhead, catching on polished metal accents and the occasional glint of reinforced armor. Somewhere in the back, a jukebox struggles to compete with overlapping conversations about near-misses, victories, and things that almost went wrong.

It’s a hero bar, which means no one here bothers pretending they’re anything else. At the counter, Chad leans back in his stool like he owns the place, one leg stretched out, the other hooked lazily against the rung. His suit is still on, the ever-revealing outfit giving way to exhaustion more than pure sex appeal. There’s a drink in his hand, barely touched, and a look on his face that sits somewhere between bored and unimpressed.

“I’m telling you,” Janelle says, flicking her wrist as she talks, her voice sharp, “if you had just listened to me for five seconds, we wouldn’t have had to reroute the entire mission last year!”

“Oh, here we go,” Chad cuts in, rolling his eyes, already settling deeper into his seat. “You say that like your plan didn’t involve blowing out half the grid.”

“It was controlled damage,” she shoots back immediately.

“Yeah? Looked real controlled from where I was standing,” Colm mutters into his glass, not even looking up.

Janelle glares at him. “You weren’t even standing, you were—”

“Strategically repositioning,” Colm finishes.

Chad snorts, finally lifting his drink for a lazy sip. “Is that what we’re calling ‘fake it until you make it’ now?”

The three of them fall into that familiar rhythm of bickering that’s more habit than hostility, words thrown without weight because they all know exactly where the lines are. It’s easy. Predictable. Safe, in a way that doesn’t require thinking too hard about anything beyond the surface.

And then, there’s a ripple in the mood, a hesitation in the flow of movement near the entrance, a few conversations dipping just slightly in volume before picking back up again. Chad’s gaze flicks up, sharp without looking like it, tracking the movement before it fully registers. And then it lands.

Shadow Mech. 

The name alone carries weight, even here. Maybe especially here.

He’s not dressed like the rest of them—not the polished, gleaming armor or heroic insignias. Instead, his suit is matte black with jagged lines of muted silver tracing the joints and panels, like lightning caught in metal. The edges of the armor are intentionally roughened, scratched, and scuffed as if from a thousand fights, giving the impression that he’s been in too many battles to care about appearances.

Where Mecha Man would shine with a near-blinding, sanitized perfection, Shadow Mech absorbs light. His visor is a dull, smoked lens that hides his eyes, yet somehow seems to track subtle movements, reactions, even shifts in the room’s energy. It makes him unnerving to look at, like the calm before a storm, and yet there’s a quiet intelligence in the way he stands: upright, deliberate, every motion precise, measured, like a predator who knows exactly what to do next.

The hands are gloved in reinforced matte-black plating, slightly oversized, giving mechanical weight to gestures that are otherwise restrained. The boots leave quiet impressions, but the soles are reinforced, ready for impact or sudden movement without announcing it. There’s no unnecessary flourish, no villain's posturing. Just presence, control, and a subtle, constant tension, like a spring coiled to snap at a moment’s notice.

Even the tone he carries is one of exhaustion.  Years of running, fighting, hiding, and surviving have left their mark. Yet, within the weariness, there is an undeniable aura of authority, of someone who has stared into darkness and come back changed, not broken.

That’s the first thing Chad really clocks. That doesn’t stop the smirk from curling at the corner of his mouth, sharp and immediate, like muscle memory kicking in before anything else can.

“Well,” Chad drawls, turning just enough on his stool to face him properly, voice carrying easily across the small space between them. “Look what crawled in.”

Colm lets out a low whistle under his breath, glancing between them. “Should we stop ‘im?”

Janelle doesn’t say anything, but her posture shifts. Colm takes her silence as a yes.

Shadow Mech doesn’t stop. He walks straight toward them, steady, deliberate. The tension in the air tightens, threads itself through the space between them, waiting for something to snap. Chad sets his glass down with a soft clink, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to sharpen the edge of his expression.

“Didn’t realize this place started letting in villains,” he says lightly, voice laced with just enough bite to draw blood if it lands right. “Or are we doing some kind of redemption tour now?”

There it is. Normally, that’s all it takes. Normally, Shadow Mech bites back.

But this time, Shadow Mech stops a few feet away, close enough to make it personal, close enough that the noise of the bar feels just a little more distant. For a moment, he just looks at Chad, not with anger, just flat. Empty in a way that feels heavier than anything sharp. Like he’s already had this fight a hundred times and doesn’t have the energy for a hundred and one.

Chad’s smirk falters. “What?” he prompts, the word slipping out before he can dress it up into something sharper.

Shadow Mech exhales. It’s quiet and controlled. Instead of stepping forward, he shakes his head once, small and dismissive, like he’s brushing the entire situation off his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

There’s no anger in it. That’s what makes it strange. He turns, slides off the stool he’d barely even touched. Chad straightens without meaning to, something sharp and unfamiliar flickering under his ribs.

“Hey,” he calls, a little sharper now. “That’s it? No comeback? No dramatic speech?”

Shadow Mech pauses at the edge of the room. For a second, it looks like he might ignore him completely. Then, slowly, he glances back over his shoulder. And there’s something in his expression now. It’s a kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes everything else feel small.

“I’ve got better things to do,” he says, voice low, steady, cutting clean through the noise around them, “than pick on some prissy hero.”

The words land. And before anyone can respond, before Chad can fire something back, sharper this time, something that lands, Shadow Mech is already gone. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click, the night air slipping in for just a moment before the noise of the bar fills the space again, swallowing the interruption whole.

Chad remains frozen, a glass halfway to his lips, eyes fixed on the empty space where Shadow Mech had just been. The usual chatter, the predictable bickering of Janelle and Colm, the clink of glasses and low laughter, all suddenly felt sharper.

“He just left,” Chad mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. 

His jaw tightens, fingers drumming lightly against the counter, a nervous tick that doesn’t suit him at all. He’s fought Shadow Mech before; it’s what lost Chad his two fingers. Normally, the villain would have snapped a barb, lit the room on fire with sarcasm, or drawn the fight out just because he could. But this wasn’t a fight to win. Shadow Mech had simply walked away.

Colm finally breaks the silence. 

“Well… that’s one way to make an impression.” His tone is teasing, but even he’s aware of the weight lingering in Chad’s gaze.

Janelle scoffs, shaking her head. “One-liner and gone. Classic.”

Chad’s eyes flick between his two friends, smoldering. “One-liner? That was a one-liner?” He swallows hard, irritation and curiosity twisting into something sharper. “He didn’t insult me like he always did. Didn’t—nothing!” His hand clenches slightly around his glass, tightening until the ice rattles. “…and he got under my skin anyway.”

Colm chuckles softly. “Maybe he’s just tired of your shit, Lad.”

“Sometimes I’m tired of my shit,” Chad mutters, voice low, almost bitter. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a scowl that doesn’t reach his eyes, because he’s not just annoyed, he’s intrigued. And that annoys him even more.

Janelle leans back in her stool, arms crossed, smirking. “You’re gonna think about him all night, aren’t you?”

Chad glares at her, but the glare doesn’t burn. It’s slow, simmering, a mix of curiosity, irritation, and something he refuses to name. “Yeah. I probably am,” he admits, quietly enough that only the air between the three of them could hear.

Colm leans a little closer, lowering his voice so only Chad can hear. “Hey, y’know, it’s fine to let it get to ya a little. Not everything has to roll off your arse.” 

There’s a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that carries the weight of experience, someone who knows that Chad rarely admits he’s shaken, but everyone around him sees it anyway. Chad snorts, brushing the comment off with a lazy wave of his hand. 

“Yeah, yeah, save your pep talk, you fucking leprechaun. Not worth the energy.” 

He lifts his glass, amber liquid catching the low light, and takes a measured sip, the warmth of whiskey sliding down his throat. His eyes drift to the door again, though, a small tell, a quiet admission that the thought isn’t going away. The soft thump of boots on polished floor draws his attention, and a new presence slides into the space next to them. Blonde Blazer, her hero persona just as bright and energetic as her hair, plops down with a casual ease, flashing a grin at the group.

“Mind if I join you lot?” she asks, voice light but carrying the authority of someone used to commanding attention.

“Not at all,” Janelle says immediately, moving her glass just enough to make room. 

Colm offers a slight nod, and Chad just tilts his head, giving the newcomer a once-over before shifting back to his drink. Blazer settles in, leaning slightly against the table, and soon the conversation drifts to easy chatter: how the trio’s been holding up, what missions they’ve taken on since Flambae retired, and the slow shift from heroics to quieter, less public work. Chad exhales, dragging the edge of his palm over the glass, letting droplets of whiskey spill gently across the table. He doesn’t bother wiping them up; the gesture is half frustration, half fatigue. 

“I’d do anything to take care of my family,” he says, voice quieter now, almost vulnerable, a truth he doesn’t often speak aloud. “They mean everything to me.”

Blazer’s expression softens immediately, a hint of sympathy in her sharp, golden eyes. “They’re lucky to have you,” she says gently. “And you’ll make a great dispatcher at the SDN, you know. Still a hero, just in a different way.”

Chad smirks, the playful curl returning to his lips, masking the undercurrent of seriousness in his tone. “Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.” He waves a hand toward the bartender and signals for another round. “Let’s get a few more drinks for everyone. I’m feeling generous tonight.”

Glasses clink, laughter returns to their corner, and the conversation drifts toward lighter topics: missions, mishaps, and the occasional teasing jab at one another’s heroic reputations. Blonde Blazer leans back, swirling her glass idly before tilting her head toward Chad, her tone softening slightly. “So… how is your family?”

Chad pauses, just for a beat, before answering. 

“Laleh’s bakery’s doing well,” he says with a faint smile, almost proud. “Mom’s well. And Parisa’s thriving in school.” His voice lightens with each word, the warmth for his family slipping through the usual prickliness.

Blazer nods, a small, approving smile tugging at her lips, then leans forward slightly, her eyes sharper now. “And your dad?”

Chad stills, swallowing the last of his drink before the words even leave his mouth. There’s a flicker of tension in his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders.  “He could be better." 

The pause hangs heavier than the words themselves.

Blazer’s expression softens further, an unspoken apology in her gaze. She doesn’t press. Instead, she gestures toward the bartender and quietly pays for everyone’s drinks. Chad’s brow quirks upward immediately. 

“Hey—hey! It’s fine! Really! It’s just a normal ass question to ask,” he protests lightly, the sharpness in his voice only half-hearted.

Blazer waves him off with a soft laugh. “Just let me be a good friend, Flambae.” 

Her tone carries no judgment, only a quiet insistence, a way of making space for him without prying too much. Chad exhales, the fight leaving him slowly, and he leans back in his stool, letting the small gesture settle around him. 

“Fine,” he mutters, almost under his breath, and though he doesn’t say more, there’s a subtle acknowledgment in the way he relaxes his shoulders, quietly accepting the kindness being offered.

For a moment, the clatter and chatter of the bar feels distant, and he allows himself the small comfort of friends around him, of Blazer quietly supporting without judgment. The night moves on, but something about the gentle exchange lingers, a quiet tether in the chaos of the world outside.