Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Robert was seventeen when he realized what it meant to be a hero. 

He watched with a blank face as they lowered his dad's casket into the damp soil. It was almost funny, how it rained the day of his funeral. Everyone carried black umbrellas as they gathered around the grave site. There weren't many people there. The only ones who really knew his dad were the Brave Brigade. It felt so cliché. Robert almost felt like he was in a movie, could almost pretend as if it wasn't real, that his dad wasn't really gone. He turned when he felt a hand settle on his shoulder. Chase peered down at him, a look of sorrow on his face. 

"You're going to catch a cold out here."

Robert didn't respond, just looked at the patch of dirt which his dad resided under. He hadn't even realized how long he had been standing there. Long enough for them to finish burying him, apparently. He heard Chase sigh before he walked away, the wet grass squelching under his dress shoes. 

They had picked the spot next to Grandpa Bobby. It was fitting, that they were together. His grandpa's tombstone was well-kept. They had placed new flowers on his grave after placing some on his dad's. His eyes traced the single line next to his grandpa's name. He was the first, the original Mecha Man. An ordinary person who decided he could be a hero. Grandpa Bobby was good at it, too. They held parades in his honor whenever he pulled a particularly impressive feat. When he was buried in rubble before Robert was even born, they held vigils instead. He wasn't even fifty.

He looked back at his dad's tombstone. For obvious reasons, it was nearly identical, save for an additional line at the end of his name, and, of course, the dates. Shot in the chest and left to bleed by someone he thought he could trust, someone Robert thought he could trust. He never even made it to forty. 

Robert turned his head towards the empty space to the right of his father's grave. There was enough room for another grave, for his grave. He could imagine it already. Here Lies Robert Robertson III, Beloved Father and Son. It would only be fitting for him to follow the family tradition. Then his son would take over, then his son after that. Robert Robertson V would likely be born after his death. Though, if he really follows tradition, there likely won't be a fifth. He would die before he was thirty, then his son before twenty. No one will know who they were or what they did. Mecha Man is mourned, not Robert Robertson. Even he couldn't mourn his father. He knew Mecha Man better.

That's what it meant to be a hero. You fight for as long as you can, save as much people as possible, and then you die. Your name will never be known by anything other than the stone it's carved into, and that, too, will eventually fade. The public will mourn, and then a new hero will come along to take your place.

Robert was seventeen when he decided he would never be a hero.

Chapter Text

Robert stared down at the body collapsed on the sidewalk. Its limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood began to pool on the concrete below his balcony. Robert sighed. He would have to move again. It wouldn't be hard to tell which balcony the body was thrown from. Whatever. It wouldn't be the first time he had to move to cover his tracks. At least he knew Shroud's location now. 

The goons were easy to take out. A disappointing of them were entirely ignorant of their surroundings. It wasn't as fun when they didn't fight back. There was no challenge in slitting a throat from behind.

"I've been waiting a long time for this, Shroud."

Robert's voice was muffled by the mask covering the bottom half of his face. 

"Ooh, so scary! Face to face with your father's killer and you come in with that lame shit?"

The figure in the chair spun around, revealing the talkative lieutenant he thought he had disposed of. 

"Where the fuck is Shroud?"

"He'll be here in a sec," the goon looked up from his phone. "You know, I talked to Shroud after our little conversation."

Robert tuned out the man, typing commands into his control pad. The suit punted him through the window, the sound of glass shattering filling the room. He walked to the suit, climbing into the cockpit. The visor cast a purple glow across the floor as it powered up. The door to the warehouse creaked open, the annoying goon limping into the room. 

"Let's just get this over with."

The bar was sketchy, but any bar that would let him in without checking his fake ID too thoroughly was bound to be. It had been a few days since the funeral, but Robert still felt numb. Robert sat at the end of the bar, cradled by the shadows that covered it. He wrinkled his nose at the taste of the beer. It wasn't his first time tasting it, but it still wasn't pleasant. He stared into nothing as he drank. The noise of the conversations in the bar slowly faded into a dull buzz in the back of his head as he made his way through his pint, then the pint after that. He was halfway through his third when the bartender silently placed a glass of water next to him. Robert knew how to take a hint. 

After finishing his glass of water, he decided to use the restroom before he made his way home for the night. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked towards the back of the bar. The water was almost too hot when he washed his hands, but he didn't care. It made him feel real. The door to the bathroom swung open as he went to open it, knocking him back. He just barely stayed on his feet, swaying a bit before stabilizing himself against the wall. A tall, scrawny man scowled at him as he walked past him. 

"Watch it, runt."

Robert eyed the back of his head as he headed further into the bathroom, muttering under his breath.

"Fucking asshole..."

The man whirled on him, glaring at him in a way that would have been menacing if he weren't so scrawny.

"The fuck did you say to me, bitch?"

Robert straightened up, leveling him with a glare of his own. 

"I said you were a fucking asshole, or could you not hear me over the echoes in your empty head?"

The scrawny man let out a yell as he swung at Robert. Normally, Robert would have been able to dodge it, but his drunken state had apparently hindered his reflexes. The punch hit him straight in the jaw, making his teeth knock together. Robert lunged, hitting the asshole straight in the nose. He stumbled back, blood beginning to trickle from his now broken nose. Robert stalked forward, punching him in the gut while he was busy clutching at his nose. The man made a strangled noise. 

"Oscar!" He yelled, loud enough to be heard outside the bathroom. "I need so-"

A blow connected with the side of his face before he could finish his sentence. That finally knocked the fucker on his ass. Robert climbed on top of him, holding him down with his body weight. He reeled his arm back and hit him in the face. The man grunted at the force, trying to hit Robert back, but Robert just knocked his fist away before it could land. He just kept hitting him. At some point the man stopped making noise. Maybe Robert should have been concerned, but he was still breathing. Blood dripped from his knuckles. The face of the man under him was already turning purple underneath the red that covered it. Robert felt better than he had in a long time.

He was interrupted when a hand suddenly gripped the back of his shirt, throwing him off of the scrawny man. His back hit a wall, knocking the air out of him. The newcomer was considerably bulkier than the man on the floor. Judging by the look on his face, this was Oscar. 

"The hell is wrong with you? Crazy fucking kid!"

Oscar started towards him, and Robert barely made it out of the way in time. His fist connected with the wall instead, cracking the tile. Robert made to run farther from him, but the man grabbed him by the neck. He shoved Robert against one of the mirrors. The glass shattered, a few pieces falling out of the frame. Robert would feel it cut into his shoulders as he struggled against the man's grip. The sink below it dug into his lower back. He blindly fumbled around the sink with his hand before he found what he was looking for. The shard dug into his palm as he gripped it and swung it at the man. He let out a guttural scream as Robert buried it into his shoulder, forcing him to let go of his neck. 

Robert could hear the faint sound of approaching sirens. The commotion had to have been audible from outside the bathroom. He rushed out, leaving the two men bleeding inside. The bartender shouted at him when he spotted him, and Robert quickly darted out the backdoor. He had never been more thankful his dad made him memorize the map of Torrence as much as he could. Backstreets and alleys zoomed past him as he ran home. 

The front door slammed shut behind him. Robert slumped against it, sliding to the floor in a heap. The action made him painfully aware that there was still glass embedded in his back. He should have been scared, or even horrified at what he'd done, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Those assholes deserved it. Adrenaline still coursed through his body. For the first time since before his dad's death, he laughed quietly under his breath.

Robert opened his eyes to a blinding light. He blinked rapidly until his eyes adjusted, making out the panels of a hospital ceiling. His throat felt dry. At the very least, he wasn't intubated. He tried to lift his arm, only to be stopped short with a clink of metal. Each hand was cuffed to the sides of the bed, keeping him in place.

Goddamnit.

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for Robert to figure out a system to get his fix. Drunk people were particularly easy to rile up, and the alcohol leveled the playing field a bit when it came to the real heavy hitters. Robert didn't come out unscathed, not usually. He'd gotten his nose broken a couple times. They weren't bad enough to warrant a hospital visit, but he definitely noticed a change in the shape of his nose in the bathroom mirror whenever he patched himself up. At least the scars he was steadily accumulating were easy to hide. 

However, there were only so many times you could start bar fights before you start being blacklisted. The fact that a majority of bars wouldn't fall for his fake ID didn't help either. Fact of the matter was, he was running out of places to find that rush of adrenaline, the feeling of electricity that coursed through his blood when he got his hands dirty. 

It was surprisingly simple to find fighting tourneys. There were several scattered throughout the underbelly of Los Angeles. The participants were all here for the same thing, to fight. Sure, some wanted the money that came with victory, but at the end of the night, what really mattered was who was left standing. Of course, the money was a plus. Robert hadn't gotten a job after his dad died. There was the inheritance, but that wouldn't last forever. He mostly just used it to keep the utilities running in the house and to buy food and medical supplies. Robert went out often enough to start recognizing the regulars at the fights, but he couldn't risk anyone recognizing him outside of the ring. He used some of the reward money to buy a cheap balaclava. It got hot while he fought, but he preferred that over anyone learning his face.

He'd been fighting in tournaments for about a month when the problems started. Robert wasn't big. He knew that, but he was fit and knew how to fight proper. His dad made sure of that. He also knew how to fight dirty. His bar fights made sure of that. The man he was fighting was big. Robert's beat up sneakers kicked up the dirt covering the makeshift ring as he evaded his lumbering punches. He was a super. Fur covered a majority of his bulging muscles, and he was fast. Robert could tell the hits he managed to get in did little other than aggravate his opponent, and he wouldn't be able to avoid his blows forever. He feigned tripping, collapsing against the dirt in a way he prayed looked convincing. A booming laugh erupted from the crowd, and the super he was fighting joined in as he stalked towards him. Robert clenched his fist in the dirt, the abrasive particles scratching his nails and knuckles. 

His opponent screamed when Robert threw the dust into his eyes. He clutched at his eyes with his massive hands, trying to claw out the dirt. Robert took the opportunity it gave him. He struck at his exposed throat, making the man let out a choked sound. His hands moved from his eyes to his throat. The beast wretched, dry heaving as he forced air into his throat. He collapsed on the ground, desperately trying to recover from a direct hit to his larynx. 

He failed. The man twitched before he went limp. Robert stared at the body with a blank expression. It had been either him or Robert. He'd had to make the same decision several times before. 

Only a small part of the crowd cheered, the rest scowling as money passed between hands. Robert collected his cut from the bookie before he left the dilapidated building. He waited until he was in an alley a few blocks away before he removed his mask, sighing at the relief the cool night air brought as he stuffed it in the pocket of his hoodie. 

A crash from behind him made him whip his head around. He stared into the darkness of the alley, trying to make out any figures that could have made the noise. What he didn't expect was a blow to the head from behind. Robert fell to his knees, a pained groan leaving his lips. The world shifted under him. He pressed a hand to the throbbing ache on the back of his head, hissing at the pain. 

"You cost us a lot of money, jackass."

The sound of footsteps cam from all around him. He turned his head at the person who spoke, who was evidently the one who knocked him down based on the baseball bat he held in his hand. He tapped the bat against the wall of the alley, the sound of the wood hitting the brick making Robert's head throb. A kick from one of the other figures connected with his stomach. Soon, they were all wailing on him. Robert threw his hands around his head, trying to defend himself as much as he could while lying on the cement. 

A sudden grunt came from one of the men. He heard someone collapse on the ground, a weak sound coming from them. Robert kept his arms around his head as the sound of fighting erupted from around him. To his surprise, he wasn't taking any of the hits. Silence followed the sound of the last man falling to the ground. 

"You alright, kid?"

Robert slowly pulled his arms away from his head, his ribs complaining as he did so. He blinked his eyes open and looked up at the man who spoke. Though, he didn't have to look up as much as he expected to. A very short man stood in front of him, a look of concern on his face. Judging by the bandages wrapped around his arms, he was a brawler. He had a thick accent as he spoke. Irish, if Robert had to guess.

"Can you hear me? How hard they hit your head, lad?"

"Thank... you," Robert rasped out.

Then the world went black.

Chapter Text

A soft sound left the boy's lips as he shifted on Colm's beat up couch. Colm himself sat at in his arm chair, arms folded over his chest as he monitored the boy. 

He'd had an eye on the kid for a while. It was impressive how the boy took down opponents twice his size. While he did use some underhanded tactics sometimes, like he did last night, the type of fighting tourneys he fought in weren't exactly fair and square. Hell, one of own favorite moves was a literal low blow. It was beat or be beaten in the underground, or, more often than not, kill or be killed. Colm had been worried the first time he saw the kid step into the ring. Scrawny teenager like him, he expected him to be chewed up and spat back out. Instead, the kid landed the guy he was facing flat on his ass, leaving him on the ground with a few broken ribs. 

Colm himself had started young. He knew what it was like to have to fight for yourself tooth and nail. But that's not what the kid was doing. The way he acted on the rare occasion he lost didn't give off the impression that he needed the money. No. He needed the fight. Colm may not have been able to see his whole face before last night, but he saw it in the look in his eyes when he knocked someone down, when he kept hitting them anyway. The kid was an adrenaline junkie, and just like the normal kind of junkie, he was a danger to himself. He'd keep seeking out more thrills without purpose until he got himself killed. 

The kid looked even younger without the mask. His hair was messy, like he hadn't gotten a proper haircut in a while. He wouldn't be surprised if he was still in high school. There was still the telltale fat on his smooth cheeks hinting at his adolescence. When he saw a group of regular betters follow him out the building they used as a base of operations, he couldn't stop himself from following. Good thing, too. He was beat like a piñata by the time he caught up to them. 

Colm shot to attention when the kid began to rouse, letting out a pained noise. He hopped off the armchair and ran to the kitchen, retrieving one of the bottles of water he kept in the fridge. The kid had just begun to crack open his eyes when Colm returned. He groaned, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to wakefulness. Colm had made sure to keep the room dim so as not to irritate his inevitable headache. The only light in the room came from a yellow lamp on one of the tables. 

The kid's eyes widened when he registered Colm's presence. He shot up. Or, well, he tried to. He immediately fell back into the cushions of the couch, grasping his no doubt hurting head.

"Easy there, kid. You're safe," The kid looked at him with wary eyes. "Can you understand me? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Colm held up a single finger. The kid raised his middle finger.

"That many."

He let out a loud laugh at that, stopping when the boy winced at the sound.

"Sorry 'bout that. At least we know your sense of humor is intact. Do you know your name?"

The kid shot him a suspicious look.

"I'm not going to do anything with it. You got knocked in the noggin, lad. Gotta make sure You can think straight."

There was a moment of silence before the kid spoke.

"Robert. Robert Robertson."

"Oh God," Colm started looking around frantically for his phone. "I wanted to avoid it, but if you're talking like that we're going to have to call an ambulance."

To his surprise, the kid chuckled softly.

"No, that's my full name. First name Robert, last name Robertson."

Colm leveled him with a serious look.

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"...Jaysus, kid. Your parents must have hated you before you were born."

That got a full laugh out of the kid. It made Colm relax a little, even if the kid clutched his ribs after he went on for a bit too long. He suddenly remembered he was still holding the cold bottle of water.

"Here, Robert," He held out the bottle. "Don't need to worry about poison or anything. It's sealed."

Robert accepted the bottle, instantly sighing in relief when he pressed the cold surface to the back of his head. 

"Uh, I meant for you to drink it, but I guess if it works."

Colm went back to sitting in his armchair, letting the kid orient himself. By the time Robert spoke again, he had finished half the water bottle.

"So... Why'd you really save me?"

He looked at the kid. Robert was looking at him appraisingly.

"What? Can't do something out of the goodness of my heart?"

Robert's face stayed neutral.

"People who fight in those tourneys don't do things out of the goodness of their heart. We're all their for our own reasons, but it's all ultimately for ourselves. So what do you get out of this?"

Colm leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"You reminded me of myself at your age. I guess if you didn't, I wouldn't have done anything. There's your reason."

"Okay," Robert nodded slowly to himself. "And what do I have to do for you?"

"Nothin'."

"Bullshit." Robert spat. "I'd rather know now then have you try to cash in a favor later."

Colm didn't really need anything from the kid. He really had done something for selfless reasons, just this once.

"Tell you what, stop fighting in the tourneys," He held up a hand when Robert opened his mouth to protest. "Work for me instead. Whenever I got a job, I'll call on you for help. You'll still get your fair share of fighting."

"That's a pretty fucking open ended deal. How long would I be working for you?"

Colm toyed with his moustache as he thought of what to say.

"How old are you, kid?"

"Seventeen, why?"

"Work for me until you're eighteen, then you can fuck off for all I care. At least then I won't have a kid dying in the ring on my hands."

"Okay... I turn eighteen in seven months."

"Seven months of working for me, then. Sounds reasonable for saving your life, don't it?"

The kid paused for a moment.

"Alright."

Colm hopped off the chair, striding towards Robert. He stuck a bandaged hand out to him, and the kid shook on it. 

"Give me your number. I need to reach ya somehow."

Robert sighed as he closed the door to his house behind him. He leaned against it, body still aching from the beating it took. 

He wasn't sure what to think of the man who saved him. Robert probably shouldn't have agreed to working, likely illegal, jobs for seven months, but he meant what he said about the man asking him for a favor. If he hadn't gotten it out of the way, there was a considerable chance that the man would approach him later, saying he owed him for the help. At least this way he was able to negotiate. He should have asked for the man's name. It was risky telling him his full name, but he honestly wasn't thinking straight right after he woke up.

A ping came from the landline phone, notifying him about missed calls. He shuffled over to the kitchen counter it sat on, collapsing onto one of the stools. Five missed calls from Chase over the course of one week. He pressed the button to play the first one.

“Hey, kid. How are you holding up? Haven’t seen you in a month. I know it’s been… hard, for both of us, especially you. I’m here whenever you need me.”

Robert’s finger hovered over the button to call him back, but pressed the delete button instead. Chase didn’t need to see him like this.

“Yo. I’m running to the store on the way to your place. You want anything? Call me back quick if you do.”

Delete.

”You weren’t home when I came by. I waited around for an hour, but you never showed up. Where’ve you been, kid? I got you a box of those Twinkies you love so much. You’re gonna get cancer or something from how many of those you eat. I still have the key your dad gave me, so I left them in the pantry.”

Delete.

”Is there some money you haven’t paid me back or something? You keep dodging my calls. There’s no way you’re that busy, bitch. I know you don’t have a job. Call me back.”

Delete.

”Listen. I’m worried about you, okay? You’re like family to me. It doesn’t have to be now, but, please, don’t hesitate to reach out. Let’s catch up sometime soon. Love ya, kid.”

Delete.

Robert set the phone back on the stand with a click. He loved Chase too, he just…

He never had a good track record with family.