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The thing is, Robert should be dead right now.
Not in a fucked-up way, or anything. It’s just that Robert Robertson and Mecha Man have always been synonyms: they’re one and the same. You can’t kill one of them without killing the other.
And Mecha Man is dead. Without a doubt, for sure, unquestionably dead. Which means, by extension, that Robert should be too.
Royd’s been trying to convince him the suit’s fixable. And honestly, Robert’d actually believed him for a little while, because if anyone out there could fix it, it would be Royd. The guy’s brilliant.
The problem is, Royd’s great at a lot of things. Lying isn’t one of them. And Robert knows how Royd looks at him, he noticed the way the guy started acting after seeing his apartment. Encouragement, optimism—it’s all very sweet. He means well.
He also hasn’t learned how to catch his microexpressions in time. Which means that Robert also knows how big of a problem the astral pulse really is. Just how unlikely it is that the suit’s ever actually going to work again.
It was worth trying. But at some point, Royd’s going to give up.
Or, worse, he won’t. He’ll just keep pretending the suit’s fixable forever, because he’s too scared of what’ll happen if he doesn’t.
Because he wants to keep Robert alive.
What Royd doesn’t get—the thing no one seems to get—is that Robert is Mecha Man. There’s never been a line. He was always meant to die along with Mecha Man, and he technically didn’t, but that doesn’t mean he’s still alive. He’s just another piece of shrapnel.
If he can’t die in the suit, he’d rather die as himself. Or at least pretending he’s still himself.
“I’m Mecha Man,” Robert says, neutrally, and waits.
“No fuckin’ way. Can’t be.”
“Could be?”
“That’s, like, a real superhero.”
Which is about what he was expecting.
Flambae stands over him, ruined eyebrows drawn together. Staring him down. “It is you.”
Which is not what he was expecting. Not quite, anyway.
I am Flambae, a real superhero. And you are not Mecha Man anymore.
It’s time for you to accept that you don’t got it anymore, and pretending you still do is bumming people the fuck out.
If anyone’s supposed to get it, it’s Flambae.
Personally, Robert was expecting outrage. Or maybe betrayal? Disbelief, smugness, disparaging comments—you know, that kind of thing. Some variation on shock, followed by disgust, followed by violence.
(Followed by nothing.)
Except that’s not what he’s getting. This isn’t surprise. It isn’t even anger: it’s recognition. The others look confused, but Flambae’s just staring at him like he can see it. Like it’s obvious.
He sounds… almost vindicated, actually.
Which doesn’t make sense. No one should have been able to recognize him. There’s not enough of him left to recognize. All the Z-Team’s really seen is the guy behind the desk, and that’s not Mecha Man. It’s barely even Robert.
Mecha Man’s already dead, which means Robert’s dead, too: he just hasn’t made it all the way there yet.
The Z-Team didn’t know enough to understand that, before. But they should get it now.
Flambae’s looking at him like he doesn’t get it. For maybe the first time, he’s looking at him like an equal. A threat.
Still, based on his expression, he has opinions on Robert’s continued existence anyway. “You little shit,” Flambae snarls, fire curling up his arms.
Yeah, okay. There’s that anger he’d been waiting for.
Robert knows what’s coming.
After fifteen years, though, it’s hard not to flinch.
(and he’s on his feet—
and it’s dark, but something’s burning—)
Mecha Man throws up an arm to defend himself.
Nothing actually hurts. He’s still alive.
But he can hear the muffled roar of flames, licking up against his shield: the heat seeping through, hanging in the air. Whatever’s making its way through.
Probably at risk of frying some circuitry if it keeps up for too long. But it’s not sounding that warning, yet, so it’s fine for now. If he can just make it through—
There’s no shield. No working circuitry. The suit is in shambles, and Mecha Man is dead.
When Robert opens his eyes, Golem’s standing in front of him.
Right. There’s a distinctly inhuman growl—slabs of concrete sliding against each other, low and menacing. Yeah, okay.
A grunt. A hiss.
Malevola throws her drink and shrugs, distinctly unapologetic.
The tension breaks: the rest of the Z-Team breaks out laughing.
This is good, Robert remembers, a little too late. They’re being heroes, they’re protecting people.
That’s… that’s a good thing.
It’s great, actually, he rationalizes, watching Flambae take off into the sky. They’re not protecting just anyone, they’re protecting me—the narc, asshole boss—even against each other. That means I’m making real progress here, right? I should be proud of them.
“Thanks,” he manages. “You saved my life.”
Golem smiles a little. “Yup. Thanks for the drink.”
I am proud of them.
“So, um.” Where does he go from here? “I expected to be burned to a crisp by now, and I didn’t plan any of this next part.”
Robert means it as a joke. It’s only after he says it that he realizes that it really, really isn’t.
When people start glancing away—looking a little uncomfortable—he sucks a breath in through his teeth. Right. Maybe it didn’t sound like a joke, either.
“Anybody else got something to say?”
For a second, there’s an actual glimmer of hope. When he sees his team gathered around the window like that, sees the mech actually start to work—
Mecha Man blows up around him.
Robert wakes up in a hospital room. Again.
“It’s ovah, bruddah,” Royd mournfully admits, hunched in on himself: graver than he’s ever seen him. “I cannot recreate da astral pulse.”
“You did your best,” Robert says. “I can’t ask for anything else. Thank you.”
(It could have just killed me, this time, he doesn’t say. You could have just let me die in the suit.)