Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since Chad was little, he knew that he wanted to meet his soulmate.  Honestly, it was imperative that he turned twelve as fast as he physically could, just so he could get a hint of who he was destined to be with was meant to be.  His parents encouraged him to be patient -- "Discover yourself first, don't get ahead of yourself".  It only made Chad more impatient, really.  He spent his days asking his family about their own soulmates -- his parents how they first met, what they first ever said to each other.  That, or his older sister, who had just gotten her own mark when Chad was just eight.  It only took so long before they stopped humoring him, which now that he was older, he kind of understood.  He couldn't imagine some pushy little brat begging to know about shit like that.

Finally, finally, after waiting so long, Chad's twelve birthday had rolled around.  It was probably the most excited he's felt, ever.  He would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for any hint of a mark to show.  When it did, he had nearly cheered.  The writing was unfamiliar -- an almost professional seeming scrawl, with just a few hints of what was probably someone having learnt cursive.  The words were on Chad's forearm, which was perfect for him to both see and show off.

The words themselves were honestly going to be impossible to miss.  Seriously, who would say something like "Damage is done, all I want is a conversation," in everyday conversation?  No one.  That was the answer.  It was geeky, sure, but that was Chad's very own soulmate, so he probably couldn't say that.  Young Chad had eagerly run out of the bathroom, shouting for his parents and sister to come look; "Mama!  Papa!  Look, look, I got my mark!" He had called, charging into the kitchen while they prepared for his birthday.  Obviously, Chad's parents had stopped what they were doing to look.

Chad remembered his father's expression well: heavy brows furrowing once he initially read the message.  A pause, then he read it again.  He remembered his father gesturing for Chad's mother to look too, and near instantly a look of worry crossed her face.  Chad's father had rested a hand on her shoulder, and they glanced to each other, with a look Chad didn't recognize staining their faces.

His father had kneeled, to look at Chad eye level.  "Chad," He had started to speak, before pausing.  "Those words you have, son, they're-"

"They're meant for villains," his mother had finished, her expression stale with more emotions Chad just couldn't recognize at the time.  Now, Chad knows that she was disappointed, angry, and resigned -- she knew then, her hot-headed son would let his anger get to him.  His father had looked at her with a flash of frustration, probably, before looking back to his youngest child.

Chad had frowned, before looking back at the inscription on his arm.  He was quietly simmering with what his parents thought, and something struck him -- was he really destined to be a villain?  The mere thought made his blood boil, smoke and sparks starting to fly off of his shoulders and quivering hands.

"Chad, stay calm, I'm sure it's only a coincidence- You're a gentleman, perhaps ah... perhaps you meet your soulmate at a school play, yes?  Or while you're at eh... recess."

Really, it was too late.  Chad clenched his fists, hands shaking, as he stormed away into his shared room with his sister -- thankfully, she was out shopping for his birthday.  Chad had slammed the door, and he remembered crying out in rage as the flames engulfed his hands.  His face was red, both from the building tears and red-hot anger broiling deep inside him.  He thought he'd hate his soulmate.  He honestly should have hated them -- they condemned him to villainy before he even really knew who he was.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to hate his unmet soulmate.  It only took a minute for Chad to stop flaming, as he collapsed in his bed, pulling his knees to rest against his chest.  He remembered hot tears rolling down his face, staining his shirt and pants with the pathetic wetness.  He couldn't hate his soulmate, no matter what they imposed on him before they even met.  Honestly, if Chad imagined hard enough, he really could meet his soulmate at recess.  Maybe there would be a new kid in his class, and then they went to play superheroes -- with Chad as the villain.

Really, he could never actually imagine himself as a real villain.  He had good powers, and he wanted to put them to use -- saving people, even if his powers were inherently destructive.  There were other heroes with fire powers, he knew, so he would just have to be like them.  That was how Chad had justified the odd words on his arm.

Yet, as time passed, this hope began to melt away.  Literally.

He never did meet his soulmate at some weird school play, or while playing superheroes at recess.  He should have known his luck would run short, really.

When Chad was sixteen, his parents died in a brutal car accident.  That was just the first domino that began to fall -- His dear sister had moved away as soon as she could.  So, Chad was alone.  He remembers he was just so, so angry.  Angry at the world, at his parents for leaving him, at his sister for abandoning them all.  So, Chad did one of the only things he really knew at this point -- burn.  He destroyed his family house in a fit of furious rage, with his powers.  It was funny, he reflected later in juvie.  He told himself he would be a hero, and yet he goes and does something like this.

The introspection didn't really stop him, though.  Even after he was released from juvie, and having moved in with his sister, he was still furious.  In retrospect, it was genuinely a miracle he had gotten his high school diploma, with how often he just didn't show up to school, or picked fights with other kids.  Chad often found himself leaving his sister's apartment at night, to pick petty fights with thugs, and set shit on fire.  Genuinely, it was a miracle he wasn't caught for so long.

The years passed.  Chad had taken the name "Flambae", which was a stroke of genius in his opinion.  He rampaged, setting anything that even mildly pissed him off on fire, whether it was some smelly ass dumpster, or an abandoned building.  Yet, despite his anger, his rage- He never did try to set anyone on fire.  It was just a line he couldn't make himself cross -- hurting someone for the sake of hurting them.

It was a miracle he wasn't caught for so long.  Well.  Until he was.

One night, he had a brilliant idea.  Well, brilliant according to him all that time ago.  He remembered it clearly, as if it just happened yesterday.  He had set an enormous mall ablaze, at night, when he was sure everyone would have left.  But he was wrong.  He had forgotten to account for some poor employees that were left inside for night shift.  It wasn't long into his attack that the police had come, and with them, a hero.  A real hero.

Mecha Man.  The third one, if he remembered correctly.

Flambae hadn't realized the hero had entered the wreckage of the mall, until he heard words that shook him to his core.

"Damage is done.  All I want is a conversation."

It rang out against the crackling of the flames, in a voice altered by the mech's speakers.  Flambae couldn't believe it.  His soulmate -- it was fucking Mecha Man.  And Mecha Man was about to kick his ass, probably.

Flambae his amongst the crackling flames, eyes blown wide with shock.  His soulmate, here.  At the worst fucking time too, honestly.  Yet, before he could do anything, that familiar anger began to bubble up again.  It was illogical, and yet- He couldn't help himself.  Flambae let that anger control him, the boiling inside hissing at him, "He hates you", it said.  "He thinks you're a dirty villain, he doesn't even know you're his soulmate."

He couldn't let him know.

On impulse, Flambae engulfed himself in the flames, and flew past the enormous mech in a blaze miserably sweltering flame.  Mecha-Man looked back, beginning to speak in that infuriating voice of his.

"No need to do anymore-"

He was stopped by Flambae whizzing past again, pushing against the mech ever so slightly -- just enough to knock the hero off balance.  The flames didn't catch to the metal, but Flambae had a plan for that.  Flambae knew, really, he couldn't stop.  It didn't matter if the hero had wanted to just talk to him, it was probably a lie.  A lie to get him off guard, to make him vulnerable.  Besides, giving in now wouldn't sate that fury that rested deep inside of Flambae's bones.

He readied another charge, yet Mecha Man was ready this time.  As Flambae charged toward the hero, he had managed to land a solid punch on the man, knocking him to the side.  He remembers hissing in pain, his encompassing flames flickering for just a moment.  Flambae growled, his flames returning, yet twice as furious.  It became a sort of dance -- Flambae would charge, and Mecha Man would attempt to strike him.  He got a few hits in; it was hard not to tell when you were getting knocked around by god knows how many tons of metal.  It was actually starting to hurt like a bitch.

Flambae tried again, after he got knocked away by a well-aimed punch from the hero.  He growled as he slid across the solid concrete.  It was probably scorching hot, too.  Flambae was glad that his skin didn't burn, otherwise he imagined he would be in a fuck ton of pain right about now.

He grunted, pushing himself to his hands and knees as he watched the hulking hero approach.  Another charge, one that Mecha Man couldn't have anticipated.  Flambae slammed his shoulder into the suit of armor, and it was flung across the mall and into a pillar which collapsed onto the metal hero immediately.  Ouch.

With his luck, though, he knew he hadn't won, no matter how hopeful it seemed at that point.  It didn't take long for Mecha Man to be pushing the concrete that had fallen on top of him away, and pushing himself to his feet.

The rage inside of Flambae began to broil up again.  Why wouldn't this bitch just stay down?  Was it really that hard to just give up?  Considering Mecha Man was the real deal, he probably didn't know how to.  Bleh.

He couldn't help the snarl that erupted from his lips, as he lugged a giant piece of concrete with rebar through it onto his shoulders, and he threw it at the hero.  Mecha Man had barely avoided it, by flying upward.  Flambae smirked, and launched himself toward the hero.  With a swift motion, he threw Mecha Man upward into the ceiling.  It was honestly surprising, Flambae had thought to himself, that the ceiling didn't shatter.  Good structure.

Mecha Man fell into a convenient clearing, with a lack of rubble.  Flambae watched from above, as the hero struggled to get to his feet.  Then, the floor broke.  Bummer.

Mecha Man had fallen into the basement, which Flambae quickly followed him into.  It was like another game of cat and mouse, really, where Flambae would try to charge into the hero, and he would dodge.  Yet, once Mecha Man had hit him away this time, the anger inside him had surged.

"Kill him!" the fury screeched, the crackling of flames accompanying him.  "Burn him until he's a puddle of melted metal!"

And Flambae happily complied.

He had pulled himself to his feet after being thrown through a wall, and took sauntering steps toward Mecha Man.  He stared up at the hero's visor, and wiped a trail of blood from his mouth, a smug smirk resting comfortably on his face.

"Cool down, and I won't have to hurt you," Mecha Man said in that same robotic monotone, in a placating town.  Flambae threw his hand forward, and flames erupted forth, which Mecha Man had easily blocked with a shield.  Thankfully, metal melts.

Mecha Man was being pushed backward by the sheer force of the flame, and Flambae's other hand joined the first as he snarled in frustration.  When would this stupid hero fuck off, he wondered to himself.  Then, he reminded himself that Mecha Man was still a real hero.  Real heroes didn't just give up because a villain was giving them a problem.

The ideology only infuriated Flambae further, as he forced more power into the blast.  He knew that shield had to be melting, now, there was no way it wasn't.  Mecha Man had tried to launch nets to restrain Flambae, but they were simply scorched into nothing.  He was getting desperate, Flambae could tell.  He began trudging forward, and Mecha Man tried and failed to stop him.

He shouldn't have gotten cocky, really.

In a flash of blue, a blade had emerged from Mecha Man's free arm.

He sliced forward, and Flambae felt agony he never felt before.  His fingers -- gone.  They had been sliced off, and what remained were stumps spurting blood.

He collapsed to his knees, staring at his hand with wide eyes.  Everything else was a blur to him, the only thing keeping him at least mildly grounded the pain in what was left of his fingers.  He was restrained, he dully noted, and he was lugged away.

Mecha Man was a fucking bitch, he decided.

Flambae spent the next few years in jail, when he was made an offer.

He was offered to join the Phoenix Program.  He was able to finally be a hero, like when he was little.  He felt almost... Euphoric, honestly.  So, he accepted the offer.

Then, Mecha Man had exploded in the sky of Los Angelas.

Everyone saw it.

Flambae thought he'd rejoice, over that piece of shit bitch dying.  Yet, he only felt a distant dread.  That was his soulmate, he still thought about it nearly every day.  It hurt.  It hurt that his soulmate would damage him in such a way, and that he could never properly meet the man.

He didn't tell anyone how he felt, though.  He couldn't.  What would the rest of the z-team say to his soulmate being the man who put him here?

Five months passed.  He had nearly forgotten about Mecha Man.

Then, he was announced alive.  He was on the news, talking to nosy reporters.  His arm was in a cast, and he was without the suit.

The suit, it was destroyed.  The astral pulse, lost.  Mecha Man's greatest enemy won.

He was going to retire.

Chad had stared at the bar's TV, shocked.  He didn't know how to feel, anymore.  Then, some old ass reporter began speaking.  Something about destroying a legacy, but he couldn't care less -- until Mecha Man had attacked the bitch.  Nobody in the room said anything, and Chad swore he saw Punch Up pump his fist as he watched the TV.

That old fuck deserved it anyway.

Yet, that wasn't what Chad was focused on.  Instead, he was watching Mecha Man speak, his eyes move.  His voice was the same as he remembered, just- without the robotic filter from that stupid mech.

Something interrupted his thoughts, however, when he saw Blonde Blazer enter the bar with...

Mecha Man.

That same old, familiar anger began to bubble up again.

Chapter Text

Ever since Robert was little, there was one thing that had always been drilled into his head: he did not need a soulmate.  His dad always made it clear to him, especially when Robert was nearing his twelfth birthday.  It was always so weird -- it was always one of the first things his dad ever said when he was home from a particularly lengthy and harrowing mission.

Robert remembered it well, in fact.  His dad would kneel down, hand on his shoulder, and brown eyes would meet brown eyes.

"Robert," he'd say.  "I need you to remember this.  You can't ever, and I mean ever, rely on a soulmate.  It's all a hypothetical," and that was always so weird to Robert.  All the other kids, in his school and his neighborhood -- they were excited to meet their soulmate.  Robert was too, until his father began giving him the talks.

His dad was honestly just... well.  Robert wasn't sure how to describe him.  He loved his dad, but...

He was distant, maybe.  Weird.  Reclusive.  Robert remembered that Uncle Elliot had told him that that was just how Robbie expressed himself, but really?  Couldn't there have been a better way?

...Probably not.

It was funny -- Elliot had always seemed more like family then his own dad was.  When the Mecha Man suit had nearly blown out his brains, Elliot had been furious -- not at Robert, but his dad.  Robert couldn't exactly recall why, though.  His father was just giving him the tough love he needed to one day become the Mecha Man LA needed.

Honestly, Robert's memories of back then were always hazy.  The most notable things were always just the few conversations that he had gotten to have with his dad.  A lot of them didn't end out well.  In fact, there was one that was always just... engraved in Robert's memory.  He'd been young, maybe around seven, and he'd fallen out of the giant tree in the front yard, on one of the rare days that his dad was home.

Robert felt like crying, the pressure in his chest and burning in his cheeks, when his father had scolded him.

"Only little bitches cry," he said.  Robert took it to heart.  The third Mecha Man couldn't be a little bitch, so he just tried to never, ever cry.

It was hard sometimes, though.  Like when his dad would be gone for days at a time, and his only company was Chase.  Chase was honestly great, but the fact he was being paid to watch Robert hurt.  Like he wouldn't spend this time with him if he wasn't getting paid, which Robert felt he really wouldn't have.  Elliot wasn't even at the house most of them time, when he was alone.  When he was, he wasn't really supposed to hang around him -- he was always working on something dangerous, that Robert probably shouldn't ever come into contact with.

So, it got lonely.  So, Robert began to try and place his hope into his soulmate, against his father's wishes.

Maybe, maybe that was a mistake.

When Robert turned twelve, the party was short, and sparse.  His dad hadn't even shown up, "important business," he'd said.  It was just Elliot and Chase, and one of those boxes of store-bought cupcakes.  It was kind of a shit birthday, actually, but at least there was something Robert was supposed to be able to look forward too: his soul-mark.

After the meager party, Robert turned in for bed, and he noticed it -- the mark rested on the right side of his stomach, in a sharp, rushed handwriting.  He had to look in a mirror to see what it said, but...  It hurt.

"You stuttering, bitch?" were the words permanently printed on Robert's body.  He had just at the mirror, practically burning a hole into his side with how intense it was.  What else was he supposed to do?  What kind of person has an insult as their soul-mark?

Hopefully, it was enough for Robert to not just be out of place, compared to everyone else.  His hopes weren't high, though.

When his father had come back the next day, Robert had avoided talking about the soul-mark.  Actually, his dad wasn't even there for long -- he was just there to pick something up for a mission.  And then Elliot shot him, four times.  The loud gunshots were impossible to miss.

The funeral was bleak.  The sky was grey, as a light drizzle fell on the attendees.  Many were from the Brave Brigade, but the majority were just... associates.  Robert couldn't recall what he felt, just the static numbing his brain as he watched the casket be lowered into the dirt -- right next to the first Robert Robertson.  Chase had tried to talk to him, after everyone else left, but Robert just... couldn't.  He couldn't force himself to look at who was probably his only friend in the world, now.

Robert went home, after that.  He found himself in the garage, staring up at the suit, and it peered back.  Robert's fists shook, as hot tears began to gather at his eyes, his chest tightening.  The city, it still needed a Mecha Man, that was something Robert had always known.  He'd always known he'd take his father's place, after he died.

He just didn't think he'd die this soon.

Robert loved his dad.  Of course he had to carry on the legacy of the Mecha Man.

Chase tried to call him, of course.  He never answered.  Robert was busy adjusting the suit, so that he could use it.

Robert was twelve years old when he took on the mantle of Mecha Man.

It was hard on him -- such a young body had a difficult time dealing with the constant injuries that came with being a super-hero.  When Robert was just fifteen, his body was already riddled with scars.  At a point, he began scrounging up money for make-up, to hide the scars on his face.

Well, that was when he was still going to school.  When Robert was sixteen, he dropped out.  He was the Mecha Man, after all, and he had to be ready at all times of the day to stop the villain of the week.  Or day.  Or hour.  It started blurring together, at a point.

At some point, he adopted a puppy.  He was this chubby little corgi, who he found abandoned in some alley.  He named him Beef.  Honestly, Beef was his only friend these days, which was actually kind of depressing, considering he was a literal superhero.  Despite that, he kept pushing on, doing what he did best.  Saving people.

Obviously, though, good things never last.

When Robert was twenty, he did one of the few things supers just weren't meant to do.

He cut off a man's fingers.  What kind of hero permanently cripples someone?  Was Robert even a real hero?

He tried not to let the thought get to him, really.  Robert needed to just... Calm down.  He needed to deal with what he could, when he could.  He knew, really, he was capable of dealing with many things.  So, when Elliot- Shroud, was released from prison, he knew what he had to do.  He had to do what every other legacy hero did for their family.

He was going to avenge his father.

So, when Robert was twenty-six, he kidnapped one of Shroud's goons.  It was a great time, actually.  It was the first time in forever that someone had just... listened to him.  Tried to guide him through his feelings.

"Y'know," he'd told the guy while he pushed himself from the concrete floor of his shitty apartment.  "You should've been a therapist.  You'd probably make more money than you are now."  He wiped dust from his pants.

"Thanks babe, you think so?" the soothing goon almost sounded hopeful, maybe that Robert would let him go.

"Yeah, now tell me-" He pressed his hand into the goon's shoulder, and he felt the man tense under him, "where is Shroud?"

There was a pause.

"Hell if I tell you, go to hell!"

Robert sighed, pulling away and putting his bloodied hands in the pockets of his hoodie.  A shame, really, because this was the best interrogation he's had in ages actually.

"See, this is how I thought you'd be acting earlier.  Now shut fuck up, I have neighbors."

The not-so-soothing goon did not shut up.  Robert clenched his teeth, before grabbing the back of the chair the man was tied to, and dragged it into the balcony.

"Wait, are we going outside?  It smells like outside!" was the only insightful commentary the goon provided, as Robert raised the chair, so the goon was basically upside-down, and only being held by the roped on his wrists and ankles.  Seriously, what is up with these fuckers and screaming?

"If you tell me where Shroud is, I won't drop you.  Sounds good?" Robert offered.  He was genuinely sick of this guy, now.  He was staring to piss him off.  Meanwhile, the goon finally relented.

"The- fuck, he's at the steel mill!  Fuck!  Put me back, put me back!"

Robert huffed, before shoving the man down the balcony.  Below, there was a loud bang, as he landed on his mattress.  He's going to need to buy a new one now.  Fuck.

The rest of the night, though- It was a blur.  He suited up and went to pursue Shroud.  There was something about the goon being called Toxic, and he had his entire dick out, and he was also trying to kick his ass.  It didn't matter, though.  Not when, after he escaped that shit-show, he realized there had been a bomb stuck to the back of his suit.

Robert had been in a coma for four months.

Everything was a blur, until he made it to that god forsaken interview.  He stood behind the podium, peering at the clamoring reporters.  He felt his throat tighten, as he tried to gather his nerves.  Who could blame him?  What kind of sick freak wanted to tell millions of people that Mecha Man was dead?  Certainly not him.

Finally, finally he took a deep breath.

"There's been, uh, a lot of speculation about my health, and the state of the Mecha Man suit," he began, peering at his script with squinted eyes.  He risked a glance upward, before taking another deep breath, and continuing.

"And I'm here to put that speculation to rest," he paused.  "The suit has been damaged beyond my ability to repair, so I will be stepping back from superhero work.  Effective immediately."

The reporters in the room began practically yelling for him to answer their questions, the camera flashes going off incessantly in his face.  He had to squint against the lights, as he felt that ever familiar twist in his chest.  His heart pounded against his ribcage, in what was probably adjacent to some kind of panic or fear.  He took another deep breath.

"Please, one at a time."

"Ashley Rhiness, San Pedro Daily," a woman began.  "Do you have anything to say to your fans?"

Robert furrowed his brow, glancing off to the side.

"The public outpouring, the vigils... A lot of them were worried about you." she continued.

>> I did my best.

There it was.

"I suppose I... want them to know, that I did my best."

Murmurs washed through the crowd.

"I worked as long as I could, as hard as I could, and... That's all anyone can do."

More camera flashes, more whispers through the crowd.

"Next question."

The next reporter was quick to claim his spot, "Chris Stratton, Torrance Tribune," one called.

Robert's gaze slid over, staring at the man.

"Does this mean you're retiring as Mecha Man?  Word on the street is, you're donezo."

Robert paused.  Did that guy really just say fucking 'donezo'?  Who is this dude supposed to be?  "Are you a hundred years old?  Why're you talking like that?"

Robert couldn't help himself.  Seriously, who the hell was this guy?  Was he like, secretly a time travel from the 18th century?  Fuck knows.

The reporter seemed as perturbed as he was, "Answer the question, buddy boy.  Are you retiring?"

"Well..."

Robert cleared his throat.

>> Pretty much.

"My suit is destroyed, and I don't have any superpowers so... Pretty much."

The camera flashes surged in intensity again.  God, they needed to stop with that shit.  It's hard to see when you're constantly being flashes with camera lights.

"Is pretty much the same as definitely?"  Oh, the nerve of this guy.

"Pretty much is the same as pretty much, buddy boy," he emphasized the second 'pretty much', hoping that this guy would get it into his head to shut the fuck up.

Robert was getting tired of this.

"Alright, just... One more question please.  I have things I need to do.  Preferably, someone from this century," he added, to hopefully piss off that last guy.  God, he was annoying.

A voice called out, one Robert could already tell was going to be insufferable.  "Charles Kingsly, South Bay Signal," he announced.

"So," he started.  "Shroud kills your father, goes to jail fifteen years, and immediately dupes you into a trap."

What the fuck?  First, was this guy holding a cigar?  He literally said someone from this century, fuck.  Robert clenched his teeth, staring down the reporter.

"Where he destroys the mecha man suit and puts you into a coma for months..."

Where the fuck was the question, secondly?

"I, uh.  Didn't hear a question in there."

"Two-parter," this Charles Kingsly guy was quick to retort.

"First, why didn't Shroud kill you?  You haven't been conscious for months; it'd be easy money taking you out."

He stared at this guy incredulously, as he snapped his notebook closed.  Didn't he need that, for like.  Taking notes.  Why'd he do that, dramatic flair?

"Ookay, Shroud wanted the Astral Pulse and Mecha Man gone.  He got both, I'm not sure I mattered much," he offered with a slight shrug and a shake of his head.  Oh fuck, didn't he say it was a two-parter?

"Right, you're unimportant, which leads me to my next question."

Yup, there it was.

"Most heroes avenge their families, but you did the opposite."

What the fuck?

"You killed their legacy."

Robert couldn't help the rising anger in his gut, as he clenched his fist.

"How disappointed would your dad be if he were here right now?  Your father, your grandfather -- they must be rolling in their graves."

That was the last fucking straw.

>> ATTACK.

Thank you.

Robert pushed himself away from the podium, and stalked toward that bastard, piece of shit reporter.  With a wave of his hand, he motioned for him to come closer, before he slammed his forehead into that piece of shit.  His mind was buzzing, as he watched the old fuck collapse to the ground.  He started kicking him, pushing his steel-toed boots into his side.  His ears were staticky, as his breathing shallowed.

Fuck this.  Fuck all of this, genuinely.

He found himself watching the interview from a TV store, not even an hour later, sipping from a flask in his trench coat.  His mask was off, but the coat hopefully covered his suit.  Hopefully, people think he's some lame ass cosplayer.

Next to him though, there was the sudden shattering of glass.  When Robert looked to his side, he saw a bunch of guys in skittle colored face masks.  Like.  Sure, okay, whatever.  He clenched his fist, rolling his eyes, before slipping on his mask again.  Might as well do what he was basically raised to do.  Fuck.

>> That's pretty disrespectful.

Corny, but fair enough.

"Hey, assholes."  He called out, stepping into their line of sight. The thugs looked to him, the one in the fan adjusting his side-view mirror to get a better look at him.  He was pretty sure he heard a scoff, but whatever.

"Yeah, all you assholes.  Pretty disrespectful for you to be doing that in front of me."

Looks like that worked out in the end.

"Aye!  Who're you calling assholes, asshole?!" That was the red skittle, probably.  Then, the orange skittle stepped up -- that was the one who broke the glass, probably.

"I'll handle this, idiot," he glanced back to the red and purple skittles, "keep loading, we're out of here in thirty."  Then, orange skittle turned to look at him.  "And who the fuck're you s'posed to be?" He asked in that really annoying, snide tone petty thugs like these guys loved to use.

"Yeah, you," ugh, he was coming closer.  "Go go fuckin'- hobo ranger.  Who the fuck are you?"  Wow.  That sucked.

>> I'm Mecha Man.

"I'm Mecha Man," Yeah, that probably wasn't the right choice, but whatever.  Who cares?

Green skittle piped up, "Uhh, you're not Mecha Man.  That's Mecha Man."  He gestured toward one of the TVs behind him.  Is he fucking stupid.

"Uh, I'm Mecha Man dipshit, okay?  That's my fucking suit."

Orange Skittle scoffed, raising his crowbar.  "Yeah, well, you're gonna be wishing you had it."

He was right, actually.  As soon as Robert threw a punch, he was knocked down.  Everything after that was honestly just... a bit of a blur.  A golden flash of yellow came to save him, which he later remembered was the Blonde Blazer herself.  Crazy, actually.

She took him to the Crypto-Night, a superhero bar he sparsely went to.  The tone was probably flirty, but...  Well.  She wasn't his soulmate, obviously.  Nothing about a stutter, nothing about bitches.  Fuck.  Imagine having the literal Blonde Blazer as your soulmate.

At some point, though, they left the bar together.  In the back of Robert's head, he thought he felt eyes on him, but that was probably because he was Mecha Man.  But like, not in the good way 'he was Mecha Man', more like, 'what's Mecha Man doing here, he's not a hero anymore.  Yeah.

Also, he did accidentally spit actual, straight alcohol into her mouth.  Oops.

After that, though, they left the bar, and Blonde Blazer genuinely just picked him up.  They ended up on a billboard, where Blonde Blazer revealed she apparently knew his civilian name.  It was actually kind of scary, but she tried to quickly clear it up.  He spoke about his cringe ass, pathetic superhero origin.  Then some cringe ass, cheesy romcom scene equivalent happened, but...

>> LET THE MOMENT PASS.

He was kind of worried to know what the other option was supposed to be, actually.

"Ah... I'm really sorry, the way I went about things tonight-" She glanced around, holding the glass of Nightcap she snagged from the bar.  "It was all a little loose -- a little unprofessional."

Yeah, no shit.  Robert wondered why she was even worried about professionalism right now, though- though, the fact she's one of those heroes for hire does make it make a little more sense.

"Unprofessional?  I'm not sure that that applies to this, but-"

Blonde Blazer interrupted him, though.  "I'm actually here on official business..."  She offered, and Robert quirked an eyebrow at her.  "How I know your name, the proposition from earlier, before you spit alcohol in my mouth...."

Ouch.  Robert winced

"Still mortified about that," he sighed, staring at the ground below.

"It's fine," she was quick to answer.  "Do you remember a superhero called Trackstar?"

Trackstar?  Chase?  Of course he remembered him.

"Remember?  I mean, of course I do, he was like family...  That- I haven't spoken to in... a while."

"What about him?" Robert added.

"Well, I work with him.  At SDN.  He recommended you."

His eyes widened, something like... hope, pooling inside of him.

"He mentioned that he worked with your father?"

Robert chuckled, looking out at the city skyline.  "Yeah, he was the youngest member of the Brave Brigade.  Was basically my babysitter, when my dad was out."  he sighed to himself, before finally tearing his eyes away from the lights below, and looking back to Blonde Blazer.

"How is he?"

"He's great.  He's- ah, he's actually the reason why I'm here, talking to you."

As it turned out, they wanted him to be a Dispatcher at SDN.  In exchange for this, SDN would work on repairing his suit.  So, of course he accepted the proposition -- he has to die in that suit.  It was family tradition, after all.

Blazer had given him some training course and told him to show up at SDN the next day.  So, obviously, he did.

Before she left, though, she did let him know not to show up in his suit.

Also, she left him on a fucking billboard.

Anyways, he didn't show up in his suit.  While he waited in the lobby, he watched some shitty commercial and helped some really fucking tall, really moist guy tie his tie.

Blazer gave him a tour around the office he'd be working at, introducing him to a few of his co-workers -- Lana who was "from another galaxy", according to Blonde Blazer, and Galen.  From Florida.  Awesome.

Also, he gave some guy in the bathroom a bro-fist, and this guy was also apparently meant to help work on the Mecha Man suit.  Cool.  Actually, it was a little scary for a second, but whatever.  Happens.  Sure love when people randomly know his name.

Eventually, Robert was taken to the record room, to get introduced to his team.  Some old guy was already in there, though.

"Holy shit, who's this freckle-faced fuck?" Old Guy exclaimed, "How are ya?"

Then, Robert was suddenly hugged by some old guy he didn't know.  Obviously.  The obvious answer.

"Ohhkay, wow, that is an aggressive way to greet someone-" He started, before the old guy interrupted.  "Look at this skinny latte prick, you're bones, kid."

Robert genuinely had no clue why this was happening.

"You here to whip these assholes into shape, or what?" he continued.

>> Why is this happening?

That was exactly his point.

"Whyy is this happening?" Robert asked, and the old guy pushed away, looking like.  Actually, really offended.  "What?  It's a hug, not a hand job, lighten up."  Old Guy put his hands on his hips.

"Uhh, be that as that may, I'm still a little confused..."

Realization seemed to hit Old Guy, as he nodded.  "Oh, right, 'cause I'm old as shit.  How 'bout this.  This jog your memory?"

Then, the old guy hit an ever-so familiar pose, and it was Robert's time for a realization.  His eyes widened, "Trackstar?  Holy shit!"  Robert was quick to hug the old guy- Chase, with an exasperated laugh.

"Yeah, ya fucker," Chase chuckled.  "Why're you accepting hugs from old men you don't know?"

After that, everything was just a blur.  Most he remembered was the sad-ass reason Chase was old now, and his team members.  Chase lead Robert to his desk, and he slipped the headset on.  Robert took a deep breath, before introducing himself to his team.

"Hey team, this is your dispatcher, Robert Robertson," He said into the mic, with a sigh.  "I'm starting my first shift-" then, he was very rudely interrupted.

"Tell me that's not your real fuckin' name?"  Prism asked.  It was probably prism, because it was her icon on the screen that lit up.  Then, Robert heard something he thought he never would.

"You stuttering, bitch?"

Robert tensed up, staring at his screen.  There was a ringing in his ears, and he shook ever so slightly.  He shut his eyes tightly, trying to breath, before opening them again.  Later.  He will think about that later.  He doesn't think he can deal with it if he tries to think about it now.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Robert couldn't help the slight shaking of his hands as he stared at the screen of his computer, eyes trained on the profile of one of the ex-villains in particular.  His brain felt like mush, an ever so familiar feeling that he'd gotten used to after so long.  The cotton clogging up his skull, and the growing static ringing in his ears.  He couldn't tell, but he felt like his breathing was harder to keep up.  Robert thinks he hears Chase using what he thinks is an ungodly amount of swears, but the disturbance is gone in just a few seconds.

However, a tap on his shoulder made him jump, and Robert was greeted by Chase.  He quickly slipped off his headset, peering at him.

"Kid, what the hell is wrong with you?  You can't be this fucked up on your first day."

Robert stared at the very old version of his basically-best-slash-only-friend, before he shrugged.  Chase only raised a brow, putting his hands at his sides.

"I ain't doing your work for you, kid.  Get your head in the game," Chase pat his shoulder, before turning back to his desk.  He paused, though.  "If you ever need t' talk to someone, kid, remember that I'm in your corner.  Always have been."

Wow.  Wasn't that sweet.

>> Thank you.

"Uh, yeah.  Thanks, unc.  I uh, really appreciate it."

Chase only snorted as he sat down back in his cubicle, "Don't let it get to your head, fucker."

Robert only nodded, before turning back to his computer and putting his headset back on.  He was met with the chatter of the "heroes", and he was quick to notice that he was close to missing a few jobs.  On his first day.  God, that'd be fucking embarrassing.

He was quick to assign heroes to appropriate missions -- Sonar to some podcast with "the Bone Zone" (seriously, what kind of name is that), Punch Up to break up some kind of fight, Malevola to deal with this weird ass cult.  Who knew that they'd be dealing with cult problems?  Robert figured the best person to deal with that sort of thing would be a literal demon.  Well, half-demon, but still.

"So," Prism started.  "How long do ya'll think he's gonna last?"

Oh joy.  He certainly couldn't guess who that "he" was.  (He could.  It was him.  Unless he was being narcissistic, but he thought it was a safe assumption).

"I give it a day," Coupé offered, voice monotone yet elegant in the really intimidating way.  Like some kind of evil queen from a Disney movie.

"Aye," Punch Up agreed, as he started returning to SDN after his mission.  He and Coupé seemed to be traveling together, from what Robert's computer was telling him.

"Surely he has to last longer than the last guy," Flambae snorted.  "He only quit after two!  Why would they hire a bitch who can't take the heat?"  He added, the words rolling off thick in his accent.  This guy should do ASMR.  Robert had to take a deep breath before he thought about that deeper.

"Why uh... Why did the last guy quit after two days?" He finally mustered the courage to ask.  The line was quiet for just a second, before Flambae spoke again.

"I set his car on fire.  Yeah.  It was a Kia Soul, shitty car anyway."

Robert paused.  He frowned, before running a hand down his face.  Oh joy.  He's pretty sure he heard Prism laughing over the line.

"Oh-kay.  Good to know," Robert drawled, assigning Invisigal on a mission that her stealth would probably benefit.

"What, you scared I will set your car on fire too, bitch?"  Flambae was definitely threatening him, judging from the snide confidence in his tone.

"I don't have a car."

The line went quiet for a second, before uproarious laughter broke out.  Robert had to take a deep breath, and wring his hands for a moment, before continuing to do his work.  He really, genuinely hoped this wasn't going to bite him in the ass later.

"Damn, bitch!" Prism cackled, "What, you walk to work in the morning?"

"Uh.  Yeah.  I do.  Why is that like, unusual?"

"You're kind of fucking lame," Invisigal finally added to the conversation.  Robert was sure this sigh was audible over the line this time.

"Gee, thanks."  Yeah, Robert kind of couldn't be bothered to care about the insults being thrown his way.  It was obvious that they'd probably make fun of anything he said, but it wasn't really the worst thing.  That buzzing slowly returned, as he followed through the motions of his job.  It almost felt like a comfort, so that he wouldn't really hear whatever these guys would be going on about.

Despite this, the shift felt like it was dragging on.  Devastatingly, this only really gave Robert time to reflect -- both on how he got here, and how fucked up his situation was probably going to end up being.  Really, how do you end up having an arsonist soulmate who probably wants you fucking dead because you chopped off two of his fingers ages ago?  He couldn't help the shudder wracking up his body as he thought back to that day.

The mall was swelteringly hot, everything doused in orange light from the roaring flames.  He felt angry, but it was dulled after years of cases like this; a serial killer here, a druggie selling laced shit there, the anger was common, at this point -- Robert was positive every hero felt some kind of rage at the misdeeds of others, when they decided they didn't need to respect the lives of others.  He took a deep breath, his grip around the levers inside of his suit making his knuckles hurt.

Robert assigned Golem to a mission where his unique durability would be particularly useful.  Turns out, he was also very adaptable to his surroundings, if the little stat bubble was anything to go by.  Which rose the question of, "how does SDN even measure this shit?".  Maybe they test the heroes weekly, or something.

It almost made him wonder what his stats would have been, if he still had his suit.

Being inside an enormous hunk of metal didn't help much with the raging heat from the mall, and he wasn't sure if the suit could even handle such an absurd amount -- it'd be a good stress test.  If Robert used some of his funds leftover, maybe he could work on proofing the suit further from such elements?  He paused his train of thought as he tried to speak to whatever villain was doing this.

>> Damage is done.

"Damage is done," he called, the suit distorting his voice.  "All I want is a conversation."

Robert sent Prism to judge for some school talent show.

"I remember my first talent show," she commented.  "Lost to fuckin' Lizzy Galupo."

"You lost?"  Flambae sounded like he was in disbelief, "That shit had to be rigged."

Those two had to be friends, then.  Actually, it was obvious from the few interactions he's heard from the two.  Maybe he'll send them on missions together -- hopefully it'll tone down whatever fucked up behavior the old dispatchers had to have been dealing with.  Preferably less cars on fire.

The suit was being barraged by a man, who was on fire.  He had braced himself, trying to offer an olive branch or whatever to whoever this guy was, "No need to do anymore-"

He was very, very rudely interrupted, when the villain had whizzed through his line of sight and knocking him off balance.

The burning dance of metal and flame continued.

Robert's remembrance of god knows how many years ago was interrupted by Invisigal forcing herself on a mission to Granny's Donuts.

"Aren't you banned from there?"  Golem had asked, which like, how do you even get banned from a donut shop?

"Uh, yeah, I have to get unbanned," and Invisigal was as casual as ever, probably.

"Sure, fine.  Just keep an eye out, okay?  It's a B&E, so the perp might still be in there," Robert had offered, before Invisigal's laughter rung in his ears.

"Dude, 'perp'?  Just how old are you, lieutenant, uhh..."

Robert had to take a deep breath.

"Just go do the mission, Invisigal."

However, it wasn't long before Invisigal requested eyes on the scene, where Chase helpfully told him that SDN had access to all of their subscribers' cameras.  Privacy violation, much?

"I didn't do this," was the first thing she said when he finally got the camera on.

>> I'm sure.

What the fuck?  Did he even need a choice here?

"Yeah, I'm sure you've said that a lot in your life."  Robert didn't like that one.  That was a shit answer.  Invisigal thought so too, because her expression was wrenched into one of probable annoyance.

"Sorry.  I'll check if the perp is still in the building, stay there," he sighed, before trying to switch cameras.  Devastatingly, there was a lot of security on this camera specifically.  Weird shit.  When he finally got into the camera, his brow furrowed.

"Invisigal, the perp is in the kitchen.  I need you to be careful-" He was rudely interrupted when the guy barged out, and upon noticing Invisigal, he started yelling and taking shots.

Robert frantically looked through the building's systems, trying to find some way to stop the guy, when he realized he could probably turn on the sprinklers.  Surely, that would short out the perp's electrical gloves.  Actually, now that he's looking closer, he's seeing this guy is Red Ring.  Robert's breath hitched, before he managed to report to Invisigal, his voice strained.

"Just- keep him off you and Granny, I'm going to turn on the sprinklers.  It'll- fuck, it'll short out his gloves, hopefully."

Hopefully Shroud overlooked the potential of the gear being short-circuited because of a little water.

The sprinkler system had way better security than a sprinkler system ever needed.  Granny was probably up to some suspicious shit, honestly, but sure, why not.  He was the client, customer's always right or whatever it is they say.  Fuck.

He felt his head start to blur again, every time he caught sight of the augments on this guy.  At some point, Granny woke up, and now he, the glove guy, and Invisigal were at a stand-off.  Somehow, Granny got ahold of a glove, which was.  Not good, in the simplest words.  Robert finally managed to say something over the comms.

"Invisigal-  You need to disarm Granny.  He's going to blow his fucking arm off if he tries to shoot that thing," he rasped.  Christ, he was sounding worse for wear.  Thankfully, Invisigal nodded, and went to do exactly that, instead of commenting on his deteriorating ability to do his job.

The perp got away, but Granny was safe.  Albeit passed out, ass out.  Yeesh.

Robert's morning shift ended, and he pulled himself out of his seat.  After taking off his headset, he ran a hand down his sweaty face, and made it into the break room.  He ended up sitting at one of the tables, cupping his face in his hands.  He didn't think he'd have to see Shroud's work again so soon, but he had his hopes too high.  He knew that.  Shroud, and the Red Ring by extension, ran half the crime in the city.  More than half, probably.

He felt his chest tighten, and his shoulders shook.  He barely acknowledged Sonar, who was settling into his own break.  The only thing that broke him out of his stupor was Invisigal appearing in the seat opposite his.

"Boo," she said playfully, almost making Robert fall out of his seat.

"Holy shit!-"  He gasped, finally wrenching his face from his hands.  Invisigal blinked, before raising a brow.

"Shit man, what happened?  You look like you're already gonna quit," she snarked, getting up and heading to the coffee machine.

Robert paused, frowning.  He barely knew her, she probably wouldn't appreciate the long and terrible tale that he'd get to weave, or whatever.

>> Good job.

"It's nothing," he sighed.  "Good job on the shift, by the way.  We'll just get the perp next time -- what's important is that Granny is safe.  Mostly."

After a few moments of silence, she returned to the table and placed a mug of coffee in front of him.  Robert paused, before giving her a questioning look.

"What, has no-one ever given you a coffee before?"

Apparently, Robert's silence answered for him.  He reached for the coffee, peering at it and savoring the warmth sinking into his hands.

"Yeesh, you really are a loser.  Shit.  Blazer was really trying to vouch for you, y'know."

He raised a brow, "Really?  That seems kind of surprising."

She shrugged, before leaning forward.  "So, Rob, what's your deal?  You look all messed up.  Kind of hot, actually."

>> Met my soulmate.

Thanks.

He quirked a brow at her, before shrugging and taking a long sip of the coffee.  Surely, surely it wouldn't be a bad idea to just tell her.  I mean, team bonding, building, whatever the fuck.  Robert set down his mug, before finally relenting.

"Well, I guess I finally met my soulmate."

Invisigal seemed shocked, actually.  "Holy shit, for real?!"

Sonar, who was still fixing up his lunch, was probably listening in.  Fuck it.

"Yeah.  I guess."

"You can't just say that and not spill who it is!"

Robert frowned a bit, before shaking his head.  He was kind of worried that she'd spill to Flambae about the truth.  And then he'd know he's Mecha Man, probably, and immediately kill him on the spot.  Ouch.

"Aw, come on, not even a hint?"  He snorted, before thinking for a few moments.

>> He's hot.

Wow.  Not going for subtlety here, huh.  Fuck.

"Don't tell anyone I said this, but let's just say, he's pretty hot."

A lightbulb seemed to go off in her head.  Her expression of mirth and glee shifted, and she grabbed his wrist and forced him out of his seat.  She was taking him somewhere.

"whoa whoa whoa, what's going on?" is all Robert could mention.

She shoved him into the record room, and shut the door behind them.  Suddenly, she was in his face, gripping his shoulders.

"Don't tell me it's fucking Flambae."

Apperently, Robert's lack of an answer was enough of one.  She let go of his shoulders and paced around the room, before stopping and pointing at Robert accusatorily.

"You're Mecha Man!"

"Whoa whoa, hey!  Keep your voice down!"

This is kind of what he was worried about, actually.  Exactly what he was worried about, really.  Fuck.

"Dude!  I cannot fucking believe this!  You're like, a legend!"

He raised a brow.  "Well-  My grandpa was the legend, really-"

She didn't give him time to continue, putting her hands back on his shoulders.  He frowned.

"You can NOT tell Flambae.  He will actually fucking kill you for that stunt you pulled-"

He pushed her away, "Look, fuck, I know!  I know, that's why I'm so fucked up about this, okay?  You cannot tell anyone, at all, under any capacity."

She stared at him, before nodding quietly.  "Break's gonna end soon.  You should probably get back to your desk."

"Right.  Of course."

Robert walked himself home after work.  The day was mainly uneventful, if you didn't count the accidental identity reveal.  Fuck, he needed to get home -- he felt like shit.  First he finds out his soulmate genuinely wants him fucking dead, then he accidentally drops his identity to someone he doesn't even know-  he's so fucked.  He needs Beef.  After what felt like forever, Robert stumbled into his genuinely depressing ass apartment, and scooped up Beef into his arms.  He settled into his shitty ass chair, holding the dog closely.  He whined, looking at Robert with those shiny ass dog eyes.

Robert's breathing was shaky, now.  He shut his eyes tightly, and let himself sink away into his mind.