Chapter Text
Most heroes avenge their family. You, did the opposite. You killed their legacy.
Robert downs another glass, the burning sensation caused by the alcohol slushing around his mouth before being gulped down slowly numbs. It’ll never sting as much as those words have.
The hilarious part was that it was just a question in an interview he had all the chance to sit out of. A simple, justified question that should not, by any means, be absolutely fucking up his mindset right now. It’s got to be either the whiskey’s fault or the fault of the rough beat-up he took before limping his way to this hero bar.
It didn’t help that he’s lost the ability to use his left arm in action. He almost finds it a bit funny that the third–and worst–Mecha Man was taken down by a bunch of lowlife burglars. He’s only grateful that those shitheads snapped him out of spiraling into darker areas of his mind before it got too challenging to.
It’d be better if he died than be a mecha coward, you know?
Oh, he knows alright. The first punch that collided with his jaw, snapping him back and throwing his weakening body onto the ground, really reminded him of what he had become. His legacy destroyed, abolished by his own misdoings; whatever pieces left of it lying beaten and bruised on the dingy ground of a run-down road at the scene of a low-level crime he could’ve easily stopped with his suit.
Robert downs another glass, no sensation dragging him out of his thoughts this time. Just a moment of silence, that’s everything but a moment of peaceful loneliness. He’s in a bar for heroes, but he’s no hero–he never avenged his father, his grandfather. After all, he got almost annihilated by the very man who betrayed his father in the first place.
He half-wishes he had died, alongside the existence of the Astral Pulse, in that crash.
He could’ve died a hero.
It wasn’t worth feeling the shards of glass stab into the many limbs he forgot could feel pain.
It wasn’t worth staring in horror as blood oozed out of his wounds, the material of the collapsing suit cruelly grinding against them, leading to a pain that stung worse than any other he could feel before.
It wasn’t worth it when his vision went white as an explosion somewhere behind and under him slammed his head against another falling piece of debris. The heartstopping crack made was the last sound he processed before everything suddenly disappeared—his sight fading, his hearing blank, unable to feel the difference between his blood and what he presumes are his tears.
How did he survive that ordeal with just a broken arm? He hasn’t the faintest idea, but the numerous scars and bruises littering his body from before that beat-up session today tell the tale he felt.
Robert’s breathing grows heavier, his hand tightening around the glass of beer he’s holding. Hold on—beer? He just ordered a glass of whiskey. Eh. At a shit bar he doesn’t even belong to, it shouldn’t matter.
A slippery substance coats his fingers, and he looks down, about to complain about a shit drink pouring or something along those lines. But there’s blood. A fuckton of blood seeps out through the space between his fingers.
“Fuck. Just what I need,” Robert curses under his breath, his grasp on the glass lightening, only to see a very visible break towards the bottom some-fucking-how.
He chuckles dryly to himself, darkly amused at his strength now but not earlier.
He pressed his lips together in thought, ignoring the pain in his jaw at even that slight movement. He needs more alcohol to numb that shit, but as he glances back up from the counter he’s sitting on, he notices the bartender nowhere to be found—the dim light overhead flickers.
His fingers sting. He absentmindedly wipes the blood on the counter, not giving a shit about how hard that’ll be to clean when dry. It’s not his job to worry about that. He’s not some fucking hero.
Robert steps up from his seat, the alcohol in his bloodstream working its way to numb the sharp pain extending through his legs, side, face… everywhere, actually.
He’s always been alone. But today he feels especially fucking alone.
His vision spun as he made his way to the nearest exit, extremely unsure of what to do with his life. He knows he needs to get back to Beef, but he doesn’t want to risk his only friend watching him possibly bleed out on the ground of a musty apartment with no bedding.
Too lost in thought, he doesn’t realise he collides face-first with a chest that just seemed to block his only path to an exit perfectly.
His nose burns from the impact, and the first thing he registers isn’t the pain–it’s the smell. Smoke. Heat.
Great. Out of all the people to run into tonight, it had to be that stupid pyromaniac cosplayer from ages ago.
Robert blinks hard, trying to focus. The dim overhead light flickers again, and the figure in front of him finally comes into full view–an unfortunate one for Robert.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “You.”
The man in front of him doesn’t look surprised, but rather a bit of annoyance, built up frustration, and a bit entertained.
“Didn’t think you still came to places like this,” Flambae says, voice smooth, almost sing-song. “Thought they’d banned you from hero bars after, you know…” He makes a vague explosion motion with his hands.
“Didn’t think you’d come to places like this,” Robert mutters, his tone slurred but still edged. He really didn’t need to deal with this; his head was dizzying from reasons more than just the alcohol in his system. “You’re no fuckin’ hero.”
Flambae narrows his eyes, smirk faltering as he shoves the already stumbling man back, jabbing a finger in his face that very well could light up in flames any given moment now. “Bold of a bitch like you to say after doing all you’ve done,” he states bitterly, accent thicker.
Robert catches himself on a nearby stool, his breathing quickening, feeling so overwhelmed from this entire day. Or month. Or year.
“Shouldn’t you be off playing villain somewhere?” He asks, trying to sound steadier than he feels but sharper than he intends. “This bar ‘s for people who actually did somethin’ with their lives.”
Flambae’s grin fades just enough to sharpen into something meaner. “Please. You shouldn’t be talking about ‘people who did something’ when your biggest achievement lately is bleeding on a bar counter and getting ridiculed on the news, Mecha bitch.”
Robert growls under his breath, shoving the ex-villain harshly and accidentally staining him with said blood, with surprising strength despite his current state, darting out the door just in sight. He swears the other man shot an arm at him, trying to stop him from getting away just yet, but that moment blurred and was over in the blink of an eye.
He finds himself outside, the gentle breeze of Los Angeles glossing over his face.
“I just can’t fucking do this,” he murmurs under his breath, the air feeling almost too thick to breathe as he barely navigates his way through the alleyway he suddenly found himself in. He stumbles every few steps, an aching pain slowly making its presence known in his body as the alcohol does almost nothing to numb it.
Fuck, he just wishes that he had done something right with his life. A powerless hero is always a somber tale, but his doesn’t end in honour–no, this is almost worse than the honourable death his father had.
God, he misses that man so fucking much. That man who spent almost no nights with him in his childhood. That man who chose the world over him.
He can see why.
He slumps against the wall, taking off the mask of Mecha Man. No one is Mecha Man anymore. He should burn this stupid, fucking mask–this identity–himself—
Robert Robertson is a nobody, son to someone who would be disappointed as hell in him if he were still alive. Mecha Man is gone–dead to the public, who knows he’s alive, the legacy gone in a hundredth of the time it took to start it.
He huddles his body closer to itself, knees protesting as he almost hugs them to his chest. Well, as much as he could, with a broken arm and a bleeding one.
There’s nothing left for him in civilian life. He should’ve ended this mecha coward when he had the chance. There’s still enough time to.
“...Robert? Robert Robertson?” A voice of a woman, soft yet firm, cuts in through his thoughts. He doesn’t look up, clearing his throat, hoping he doesn’t sound as pathetic as he looks in this moment.
“What’s it to you?” He murmurs, not giving a shit that whoever knows his name sees him in the Mecha man suit.
But no exclamation came from that sight. Instead, the presence of this person settles beside him–at a distance, but still there.
Robert lifts his head slightly, eyes making contact with that of this woman’s–blonde, blue mask matching perfectly with her blue eyes–oh.
“I have an offer for you… If you’re willing to give me your time?” The Blonde Blazer smiles, gently, and almost a bit sympathetically.