Chapter Text
“Obviously, I love him. He's my dad.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that ‘hmm’ mean? Just say what you wanna say.”
“It's just… when you add ‘obviously,’ it feels a little less obvious. So, I'll ask again…”
“How do you really feel about your father?”
3 generations.
3 generations of sheriffs, who all wore a mask to protect their identity, all specialized in arresting ‘special’ victims.
Those whose minds had gone through the gutter.
Those who didn't know right from wrong and had turned to violence.
The worst, yet most depressing, kind of criminals.
“It's as if, maybe, it's a little more complicated than you feel comfortable.”
…
“I didn't know him well. He was always busy, doing all kinds of stuff. LA isn't known for inhabiting the most… mentally, well, people. But I love him, alright? That's the truth.”
“Loved.”
“That's what I said—”
“You said love. Your dad's dead, so you don't love him; you loved him.”
What a reminder.
“Just… so sensitive.”
He felt something trickle out of his nose, the liquid sliding down to his chin.
“Listen, if I didn't love him, we wouldn't be here, right?”
“We don't have to get into it.”
Robert laughed at the man's words.
“Nope, we're getting into it now. Why would I be trying to find the man who killed him if I didn't love him?”
He continued, not minding the smell of blood and steel in the interrogation room.
He wiped his nose, looking at his knuckle to see that blood had dripped out of his nose.
“Ugh, shit. My nose is bleeding. Thought I was getting… emotionally snotty.”
“No, it's probably from when I… kicked you in the face.”
“Yeah, thanks for reminding me. So, here's what's gonna happen.” He stood up, walking up to the man, who was handcuffed to a chair.
“You’re gonna tell me where Shroud is, and I’ll let you out of this room a free man. Or…”
He paused, just for the suspense.
“I’m gonna have to get you an attorney, and who knows how you’ll defend yourself with evidence of assault, resisting arrest, trespassing, and being a self-proclaimed accomplice of Shroud… all caught on video.”
The man scoffed, "C'mon, man. I thought we were having a breakthrough!”
“Hey, we did. Ya know, for being a real piece of shit, you're pretty easy to talk to.”
He grabbed the man's face, staring deeply into his eyes.
“But the only breakthrough I need right now is the location of Shroud.”
Silence. The interrogation room was fogged with tension. Robert hoped the man would give in…
“I'm not telling you shit, you fucking loser!” The man spat, tiny droplets of spit landing on Robert's face.
“See, this is more like how I thought this would go.”
“I hope Shroud kills you, just like he killed your father!” He barked angrily, watching as the unamused sheriff rolled his eyes.
“I hope he fuckin’ spanks your little daddy-issue bitch ass to death. To death, you hear me?!” He grunts as he makes a futile attempt at breaking his arms out of the back of his seat.
“You know you’re being recorded, y’know. Not helping your case.” Robert gripped the sides of his chair, leaning close as he stared down the struggling man. “And considering you’re just a regular ol’ guy… you’ll be rotting in jail in no time for maybe… about a few years in jail, a 4000 fine, and a felony.”
He watched the man go through a mix of expressions before finally…
“... Fuck, fucking fine! Steel mill—uh, Llewellyn Steel Works, okay? Fuck.”
“You sure about that—”
“Yes, fuck! That's all I know!”
Robert stared into the man’s eyes for a few more seconds before roughly pulling away. “Honestly, it was nice talking to someone about this stuff.” He sighed.
“I guess what I’m saying is… I’m really glad I arrested you tonight.”
He walks out of the interrogation room, leaving him to be dealt with by the other police officers.
He grabbed his sheriff hat and adjusted his mask before making his way out of the building.
“Sheriff,” A police officer walked up to him, a concerned expression on his face. “Where are you going?”
“Just gonna do a quick patrol around the city.” He replied, not turning to look at the man as he walked out the door and into his police car.
It was a car that was passed down through every generation, just… extremely renovated and modernized. He couldn’t exactly chase down criminals with a dusty old car, which made him wonder how his grandpa did back then.
It was a car that had seen the death of his grandpa, his father, and… probably him, too, in the future.
It was like a curse. Every Robertson would die in that car, one way or another.
He turned on the car's GPS, and he began driving to Llewellyn Steel Works.
Once he had arrived near the location, he parked his car by an unassuming convenience store.
He could immediately tell that the building had become overrun by the Red Ring.
So he knew the vile leader of their gang was in there too. Probably waiting… for him. Shroud was always good at predicting things. It was sorta like a superpower.
Breaking in was easy… much easier than expected. The doors were unlocked, the cameras were broken, and there were barely any Red Ring accomplices patrolling the area.
Perhaps a little too easy.
It was less than maybe… 15 minutes when he arrived at Shroud's presumed location. It was surrounded by a multitude of TVs, all producing loud, static noise, with a large computer chair in the middle, its back turned to him. He had seen it all before, but all in different locations.
“It's over, Shroud.” Robert sneered, pulling out his gun with practiced, deliberate ease. He had been waiting for this moment.
“Ohhh, it's over, Shroud.” The man behind the comically tall computer chair mocked, completely ruining the outcome Robert had hoped for.
“All this build-up, face-to-face with your father's killer, and you come in here with that lame shit?” The computer chair spun, revealing…
“What the fuck are you doing here? And where the fuck is Shroud?” Robert inquired, still tense and alert to his surroundings.
“He'll be there in a bit.” The man hummed nonchalantly, texting someone on his phone.
“Oh, hey. After our conversation, I asked him about your dad.” He chuckled, leaning towards Robert. “Fun little tidbit: he was very well hydrated. Turns out, right after Shroud shot him in the chest, your dad pissed his pants.”
He teased, his voice softening with fake empathy.
“Betcha didn't know that, huh? So after that bullet tore through his insides, he still had enough time to know how absolutely fucked he was and just pissed himself like a little bitch! It was like, so much piss—”
“Hey, I get it.” Robert, unamused, pulled the trigger without much thought, which quickly hit the man's forearm.
“Agh, fuck!” The man yelled out in pain, instinctively gripping the bullet wound with his other hand.
“Can we just skip to the part where everyone else comes out of the shadows and we have some big gunfight?” He watched as the man struggled to gain his composure, collapsing in pain momentarily, before shakily pulling out a revolver.
“Ugh, fuck you.”
He pulled the trigger, and though being dazed and in constant pain, the bullet shot at a random light bulb.
But Robert could see something in the shadows—well, a group of people. “Took you guys long enough.”
He immediately dove behind the desk as gunfire filled the room, with him being the sole target.
“Shit.” Robert groaned under his breath, aiming his pistol and firing with practiced ease, taking down a few people.
He lunged towards one of the steel mill machines, though not before getting shot in the leg.
“Ugh, figures.” He cocked his gun, squinting his eyes as he fired another few shots. Fuck, he didn't hit too many targets; the flashing muzzles provided cover for the others.
Fuck, this was too much.
Out of breath with the realization that he couldn't take them all, Robert analyzed his surroundings and found an exit with a safe enough path.
Reloading his gun, he sprang up and fired, using up all of his mag, taking out a supple amount of them, though getting a few shots to the shoulder in the process.
He took the opportunity to run out, scrambling towards the exit and avoiding as many bullets as he could.
He came out of the building with a few bullets to the shoulder and his leg, though thankfully alive and conscious.
Limping to his car, he pulled out his walkie-talkie.
“Dispatch, this is Mecha-81, need units to my 20. I've located multiple Red-ringers inside of Llewellyn Steel Works. I'm injured, I repeat, officer injured.”
He groaned, not waiting for a reply back from his walkie-talkie as he entered his police car. He grabbed his keys and twisted them, turning on the car before reaching into his dashboard for his first aid kit.
The screen in the center of his car opened up, showcasing the dash cams on his cars.
He was wrapping up the bullet wound on his leg when he noticed something strapped on the back of his car.
Oh shit.
“It was just over four months ago when videos flooded social media showing what many thought to be the death of Mecha Man… again.”
“For nearly fifty years, a Sheriff R has protected Los Angeles, all using the same car to catch even the most deranged and disgusting criminals.”
“Three generations of sheriffs, their identities kept secret, were known as Los Angeles's real-life superheroes. They all have given everything to protect our community… including their lives.”
“After the tragic passing of Sheriff R the First, his son, Sheriff R the Second, teamed up with the Brave Brigade detective agency and police enforcement, leading to an unprecedented period of peace in the Southland. After years of service, tragedy struck again when Sheriff R II was murdered in cold blood by rising gang leader, Shroud.”
“But then again, not all hope was lost. As Sheriff R III was crowned the next law enforcer of LA, a bulwark against crime in the greater Los Angeles area, until… today.”
“Sheriff R finally broke his silence and addressed the media.”
Robert sat backstage bound to his wheelchair. His body was riddled with bandages covering burn scars, courtesy of the explosion.
And he didn't even want to think about his right leg… well, the lack thereof.
He took one last look at his bandaged face before fitting on his mask, trying to ignore the pain that pulsed throughout his body.
He wheeled out of the bathroom and into the backstage.
“You're on, sheriff.” The manager said.
Peeking outside, he could see quite an audience, all holding phones and cameras, and the cameraman himself, who gave a signal for him to come on stage.
He pushed himself into view, taking a deep breath.
He stared at the microphone in front of him and then at the audience.
“There’s been a lot of speculation about my health and the state of the police car. And I'm here to put that speculation to rest.”
He announced, trying his hardest to keep his composure.
“The police car has been damaged beyond my ability to repair, and my health has been obviously less than stellar. I am bound to a wheelchair until I am able to provide myself with a prosthetic leg suitable for my work.”
The words stung more than he wanted them to. 50 years of work, history, and renovations, all destroyed from one explosion. The ass prints on the front seat left by his dad and grandpa were… gone.
“So I am momentarily stepping away from being sheriff… at least until my wounds heal and I get a prosthetic leg… effective immediately.”
There was a chorus of questions from the crowd, as well as the flashes of light from cameras. Robert couldn't hear or understand them; they all just felt like gibberish. “One question at a time, please.”
One woman stood up. “Ashley Rhiness, San Pedro Daily. Do you have anything to say to your fans? The public outpouring, the vigils… A lot of them were worried you wouldn't wake up.”
Robert sighed. “I suppose I want them to know that I did my best. I worked as long as I could, as hard as I could, and…”
Robert hesitated. Reflecting on how he would've never seen himself in this situation.
Disabled, unfit to work, stepping down from his position.
It felt like a bad dream.
“That's all anyone can do.”
Next question.
A man stood up. Chris Stratton, Torrance Tribune. Does this mean you're retiring as sheriff? Word on the street is ‘you're donezo.’”
Robert raised an eyebrow. “Are you a hundred years old? Why're you talking like that?”
The baffled journalist answered. “Answer the question, buddy boy. Are you retiring? The readers need the skinny, and I aim to deliver.”
“Look, I'm not retiring, not yet at least. Due to my current state of health, I'm temporarily stepping away.” Robert had to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Alright, just one more, please. I gotta get back to... uh, just one more. Preferably someone from this century.”
“Charles Kingley, Southbay signal.” An older man stood up.
“So, Shroud kills your father, goes to jail fifteen years, breaks out, and immediately dupes you into some trap. Where he destroys your car and your leg, then puts you in a coma for four months…”
“I didn't hear a question in there.”
“Two-parter. First, why didn't Shroud kill you? You haven't been conscious for months; it'd be easy money, taking you out.”
“Okay, Shroud wanted to get rid of Sheriff R. He got that, but without the killing.”
“Right, you're alive. Which brings me to my next question.”
“Most heroes avenge their family. You did the opposite. You killed their legacy. How disappointed would your dad be if he were here right now?”
The question struck Robert like another bullet to his heart. He knew deep down he was right. He killed the legacy.
“Your father, your grandfather... they must be rolling over in their graves.”
“I think he'd be proud… cause I'm alive.” He lied. He knew how his father was. He always went on about carrying on his legacy. The same legacy that he, Robert Robertson the third, had just destroyed.
“Which, as you so sensitively pointed out, isn't. I think he knows that I've sacrificed everything and that I did my best. Being Mecha Man, protecting my community…was the greatest honor I'll ever have. Now I have to live knowing that.”
He was thankful his voice was so monotone. His voice never really cracked easily. “Thank you for coming.”
Robert found himself in an alleyway, taking a long, much-needed smoke.
His life had fallen apart. He was poor, he had temporarily lost his job, and he had permanently lost his leg. He had destroyed his family legacy…
Oh, and not to mention the fact that he was in constant pain with all the burns he got.
“I'm so fucked.” Robert mumbled before shutting himself up with another long puff of smoke.
Then he heard the clack of a gun behind him. Another mugger.
“Give me all your money, bitch!”
Robert just groaned. He couldn't turn around to take a look at him, since he had no idea how to operate a wheelchair other than going forward or backwards.
“I have no money, kid. Just… kill me.”
What a coward he was, accepting death so easily, but what else could he do?
He closed his eyes, waiting.
…
…
There was a loud crack, then a groan and a thud.
“Hey, are you okay?”
He heard a woman's voice ring through the air, taking gentle footsteps into his view.
It was a woman with blonde hair, fairly muscular. “I'm Mandy. I work over at the Phoenix rehabilitation program. I also used to be a police officer over at Washington County.”
“Hey, hi, yeah... I know you; you're, like, famous.”
Robert had seen her before on television, publicly speaking about the Phoenix rehabilitation program. It was where a lot of the criminals he arrested back then were put.
“Oh, I don't know about that. I'm just a recruiter and manager. You're the real deal, the famous one.” Mandy chuckled, looking down at the wheelchair-bound man.
“Well, I dunno if being infamous is the same as being famous, but—” Robert tried to stand up but realized he physically couldn't. Right, he didn't have his right leg. Damn, it felt like it was still there… still burning.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, just not used to being… y’know.”
“Right… Well, I've come to find you because I knew you would be in need of a job. Robert Robertson.”
Robert raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued… Wait.
“How do you know my name…?” He looked suspicious.
“Do you know a man named ‘Chase Trakstar’?” Mandy asked, hoping to ring a bell in Robert's mind.
“Remember? Of course, he's like my family… that I haven't spoken to in a while. What about him?”
“I work with him at PHP. He recommended you since you have good experience in dealing with people with mental illnesses and whatnot. Mentioned that he worked with your father?”
Robert let out a sigh of relief. He was glad the woman that he didn't know but somehow knew his real name wasn't some… bad person.
“Yeah, rookie officer, youngest member of the Brave Brigade. He was kind of like my babysitter. How is he?”
Mandy smiled. “He's doing great. He's…why I'm here.”
She walked to a nearby box, sitting down. “I'd like to make you an offer.”
Robert wheeled closer to her, curious. “And that is…?”
“In exchange for rehabilitating some of our patients and mentoring them to be…law-abiding members of society… We can help you get a new car and get you a high-quality leg, free of charge.”
Robert's eyes widened. “I don't think I'd get used to having a fake leg.”
“But it's better than sitting all day, right? And we can train you to get used to it.
… but it's a big investment. It'll take a considerable amount of time and money to make you a leg that can withstand all you do as a sheriff, let alone train you to even use it.”
Mandy placed a hand on Robert's shoulder, then another on his cheek, taking off the mask that he wore.
“But plenty of time to get to know our patients and help them heal. Your experience, your work ethic, your perspective… it's all invaluable.”
“Share it, Robert. You have a lot left to give.”
Robert felt himself hesitate.
He didn't want to surround himself with mentally ill, deranged criminals all the time.
Oh, wait. He already was surrounded by mentally ill, deranged criminals all the time anyway…
Damn, and he really needed a prosthetic leg and some money… and his old job back.
Besides, if he could help them become… civil, then…
“So, when do I start?”