Chapter Text
“So, what do ya got left on them shields? I said 40%—but boss man says you’re down to 28, and he is not wrong about these things.” Toxic taunts. The taunt was clearly meant to get into Robert's head. Robert doesn’t pay any mind to the taunt.
He ignores the irritating alpha as he forces himself to remain calm as warning lights go across his screens. Power readouts flicker. Structural integrity dips another fraction with each impact.
Going after Shroud like this had been stupid, especially since he knew he was being led into a trap since the beginning. It was obvious. Shroud laid out this trap perfectly. Even then, this had been a chance. One he might never get again. Shroud rarely exposed himself directly, and Robert had taken the risk knowing exactly how high the cost could be.
“Good news, Buddy,” The naked green alpha continues, much to Robert’s annoyance, “Shroud says he just wants the astral pulse. Which we all know isn’t really yours anyway.”
Through the jagged hole burned straight through the front plating of the mecha suit, he looks up to see Shroud. Every strike against the shield jolts the cockpit, rattling his teeth and sending vibrations through the harness. The omega feels nothing but anger. This man murdered his father, and now Shroud will definitely kill him too.
Robert has always known this suit would be his grave someday; that truth settled into his bones long ago. But knowing it and facing it are two very different things. His heart slams against his ribs, too fast, too loud. The air in the cockpit feels thick, heavy with heat and the sharp bite of adrenaline. His thoughts blur at the edges, and his head feels hot from the amount of adrenaline coursing through his body. Despite that, Robert remains calm.
“System check, calculate the damage per second hitting shields, then tell me how many seconds I need to divert Astral Pulse energy to rocket boosters.” Robert says already set on the half baked plan he had formed in his head. If this doesn’t work, he knows he will not escape.
“12.89 seconds of damage before critical” The Mecha system reads. That is not a lot of time, but maybe it could be just enough.
“Oh, hey. Boss man says if you’re planning on diverting puss pow- Sorry, pulse power to the boosters, it won’t work.” Toxic says, “This is a limited time offer dude, what's up. You were so fucking talkitive earlier.”
Another hit slams into the shield, and the cockpit jerks violently. Robert’s harness bites into his shoulders as red warnings flare across his screens. Robert ignores Toxic. He needs to focus if he is going to get the fuck out of here. Taking Shroud down right now is out of the question. The suit won’t last. Survival is the only objective left.
“Hey, mathblaster. I don’t give a fuck, ok? I’m just the messenger here,” Toxic continues, “He says you’re not calculating that shit stuck to your leg, Dumbass.”
The thing is, Robert had calculated that. Robert knew this plan may or might not work the second he had committed to it. Robert is out of options, so just like before he ignores Toxic. Power surges through the frame as he diverts pulse energy straight into the boosters. The mecha screams in protest—metal shrieking, systems overloading, stabilizers flickering in and out. Heat floods the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes as gravity shifts violently beneath him.
“Aye. Great. All going to plan. Now get out of there, Babe.” Toxic says. The omega barely even hears him as the mecha suit struggles to lift itself out of the trap.
Robert feels it the instant the resistance gives way. The suit tears free with a violent shudder, and then up. The boosters roar as the mecha launches skyward, clouds rushing to meet him in a blur of light and motion. Gravity presses him hard into the seat, but he welcomes it. He’s moving. He’s alive.
Relief crashes over him so fast it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
He laughs—raw, unrestrained, the kind that shakes his chest and leaves his throat burning. “Yes!” he shouts into the cockpit, voice cracking as adrenaline finally finds somewhere to go. He didn’t complete the mission. He didn’t get justice. But he escaped death, and right now that feels like a victory all its own. For a moment, he lets himself feel it.
“Run a diagnostic scan,” Robert says, still smiling as the mecha stabilizes its ascent. His hands tremble slightly on the controls, the aftershock of survival settling in. Repairs will be a nightmare—he already knows he can’t afford them—but that’s a problem for later. Problems are easier to face when you’re breathing.
The Mecha systems read, “Foreign device detected.” He knows exactly what that means, but he has no time to react. The smile vanishes. His stomach drops so hard it feels like his insides twist. Cold dread seeps through his veins, snuffing out the last of the warmth from his victory.
“Wait-” he starts, fingers flying toward the controls.
Too late.
There’s no explosion, no warning siren. Just a sudden overwhelming surge of fear, and then the cockpit goes dark. Everything goes black.
Sterile antiseptic, recycled air, and the faint underlying tang of metal—unmistakable. A hospital. The realization settles in. He can hear the beep of the heart monitor increase as his heart involuntarily beats faster. His chest feels tight as his heart accelerates against his ribs. He lets out a low groan and tries to force his eyes open, only to wince as harsh fluorescent light burns through his lids. What is with hospitals and the bright fluorescent lights?
“Mr. Robertson? Can you hear me?” A feminine voice asks Robert gently.
There’s the soft click of a button being pressed, followed by the muted rustle of movement—someone alerting the doctor. Robert swallows, throat dry, and drags in a shallow breath through his nose.
Her scent reaches him then.
Clean linen, rain-soaked stone, and petrichor—clearly the scent of a beta. The steadiness of her presence helps ground him more than he expects. His heart rate slows, the monitor’s frantic beeping easing back into a steadier rhythm.
With another strained groan, Robert finally manages to crack one eye open. The ceiling swims above him, white and featureless, before sharpening into focus. A moment later, the door slides open and footsteps approach.
The doctor enters, and her scent blooms gently through the room.
Honey, wildflowers, and ripe berries— unmistakably omega. It’s pleasant, soothing in a way that makes the tension in his shoulders ease despite himself. She moves with practiced confidence, eyes sharp but kind as she approaches his bedside.
“Hello, Mr. Robertson. You’re at Super Central Hospital,” the doctor says, her tone calm and practiced. “The Heroes’ Living Association has already been notified. They visited your home and made arrangements to ensure your dog is being properly cared for.”
Relief floods Robert’s chest so hard it almost hurts. Super Central Hospital. A private facility. One of the few places designed specifically for heroes and their families, where identities are protected behind layers of security and discretion. No press. No civilians.The Heroes’ Living Association makes sure a hero’s home and loved ones are taken care of if a hero becomes seriously injured. If the Heroes’ Living Association had to get involved—it must’ve been really bad.
Robert swallows, throat tight. At least his dog is safe. The knot that’s been sitting in his chest since he woke finally loosens, just a little.
“H-how long…?” His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, like he hasn’t used it in years. He clears his throat and tries again. “How long have I been out?”
The nurse answers gently, as if bracing him for the impact. “You’ve been in a coma for four months.”
“Four months!” Robert jerks, instinctively trying to sit up, panic overriding common sense. His vision swims violently, stars bursting across his sight as pain flares through every inch of his body. The heart monitor spikes into frantic protest
Sure Robert had been injured many times in this line of work—broken bones, internal bleeding, near-death encounters—but never this. Never a coma. Never four months of lost time. The damage is probably worse than he has ever had.
Strong hands press gently but firmly against his shoulders, guiding him back down before he can do any more harm.
“It’s okay, Mr. Robertson,” the nurse soothes, releasing a controlled wave of calming scent into the air. “You’ve only just woken up. Your body needs rest.”
“We can contact the Heroes’ Living Association,” she continues softly. “They can bring your dog to visit you, if you’d like. Would that help?”
Robert doesn’t trust his voice at first. He just nods, throat tight. Then, quietly, “Yes… please.”
The nurse smiles at him gently and reassuring before stepping out to make the call.
Left alone with him, the doctor moves closer, pulling up a screen at his bedside. “Now,” she says carefully, “I’m going to explain your injuries, the treatments you’ve received, and what recovery is going to look like for you.”
Robert nods for her to continue.
“When you were brought in, you were not in good shape,” the doctor begins, folding her hands as she speaks, expression serious but not unkind. “Some of the damage we found didn’t even come from the incident itself. Many of your joints had already been under significant strain, microfractures, chronic wear. Years of repeated impact and overuse.”
That tracks. Robert had known his body was paying the price long before this.
“The explosion caused extensive nerve damage,” she continues. “Your lower back and legs were the most affected. You also had preexisting nerve trauma in your hands, which the blast aggravated significantly.” She pauses, watching his face carefully. “There was also brain injury, both from the concussive force and secondary oxygen deprivation.”
Robert exhales slowly through his nose.
“I won’t lie to you,” the doctor says quietly. “When you arrived, paralysis was a very real possibility.”
“I did everything I could,” she goes on, voice firm with conviction. “And I brought in specialists—doctors with healing abilities who focus specifically on neural and cognitive repair. We managed to restore what we could, but the damage was… extensive.”
She lets that sink in before continuing.
“You will have chronic issues going forward. Pain, primarily. There are medications we’ll prescribe to help manage it—especially during flare-ups or on bad days—but it won’t disappear entirely.”
Robert nods once, jaw tight.
“We were able to repair most of the brain damage,” she says, softening slightly. “However, you should expect migraines, light sensitivity, and increased sensitivity to sound. Overstimulation may become an issue, particularly during recovery.”
“As for the nerve damage,” the doctor continues, “we’ve improved it significantly. You went from a projected outcome of paralysis to what we believe will be manageable nerve pain with physical therapy, medication, and mobility aids.”
She offers him a small, proud smile. “That’s not nothing, Mr. Robertson. You’re a very lucky man.”
Lucky. That’s one word for it.
“I strongly recommend investing in high-quality sunglasses,” she adds. “And the Heroes’ Living Association has already taken the liberty of purchasing a cane suited to your needs. It’s been fully paid for.”
Robert can’t help the snort that escapes him. “I thought I was dead,” he says, a quiet chuckle escaping despite himself. “So needin’ a cane like some geriatric old man doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Well,” the doctor says after a moment, her expression tightening, “there’s more you’re not going to like.”
Robert braces instinctively.
“You need to stop hero work,” she says plainly. No hedging. No softening the blow. “Your body has been worn down by years of cumulative damage. Even before the incident, you were operating on borrowed time. After this—” she gestures vaguely toward him, the monitors, the scars still hidden beneath sheets, “—your body will not be able to handle that level of strain again.”
Silence stretches between them.
“Being Mecha Man has been my entire life since I was fifteen,” Robert says finally, voice steady but hard. “I gave everything I had to it. If I can fix the suit, then I’m going back out.”
The doctor exhales slowly, clearly resisting the urge to argue. “I’m sorry,” she says instead, “but we need to discuss something else. And this can’t wait.”
That gets his attention.
“You’ve been abusing scent blockers and heat suppressants,” she continues, tone turning clinical but edged with urgency. “We stopped administering both the moment you were admitted. And despite that…” She frowns slightly. “We can still barely smell you.”
“There’s damage to your scent glands,” the doctor says. “Significant damage. The good news is that they can heal. The bad news is that you cannot—under any circumstances—use scent blockers again.”
She lets that settle before adding, “Your hormones are also severely destabilized. Your endocrine system has essentially been forced into suppression for years.”
She looks at him directly now. “When was your last heat, Mr. Robertson?”
Robert hesitates. He takes a moment to think. He was 13 when he presented, which is when his father drilled into him that being an omega is a bad thing, and he started taking heat suppressants ever since. “I was thirteen,” he says quietly. The doctor looks both shocked and horrified by that information.
Her expression hardens. “Mr. Robertson,” she says sharply, professionalism cracking just enough to let genuine alarm through, “this can kill you. Prolonged suppression at that level causes organ damage, hormonal collapse, and extreme neurological strain. You are actively working yourself into an early grave.”
Robert doesn’t flinch.
“A lot of people in this line of work end up in an early grave,” he says evenly.
The doctor stares at him for a long moment, eyes searching his face, not for defiance, but for something else. Fear. Regret. Anything.
Instead, she finds resignation.
“That is not reassuring.” The doctor scolds,”You will be here for a while. While you are here you will be doing physical therapy.”
Robert internally groans. He has done physical therapy before for other injuries, and it is not fun.
A few minutes later, the door opens again. A man steps inside, holding a leash, and at the end of it is Beef.
He’s slimmer than Robert remembers, but not in a worrying way. Healthy. Strong. His coat gleams under the hospital lights, fur thick and glossy, and the moment his eyes lock onto the figure in the bed, his entire body lights up. His tail starts wagging so hard it looks like it might take flight.
“Beef,” Robert breathes, a smile breaking across his face before he can stop it. “There’s my boy.”
A sharp pang of guilt follows close behind the relief. He’d always overfed him—extra treats, bigger portions—because he never knew which patrol would be his last. Never knew if this would be the day Mecha Man didn’t come home. Better a spoiled dog than a hungry one left behind.
Beef lets out a joyous bark, nails skittering against the floor as he tries to surge forward. Laughing, the man lifts him easily and sets him gently onto the bed, careful of the wires and monitors.
Robert barely has time to brace himself before Beef is on him, all warmth and enthusiasm. A flurry of doggy kisses lands across his cheeks and nose, damp and relentless. Robert laughs, full and unguarded, the sound easing something tight in his chest.
“Okay—okay,” he chuckles, one hand coming up to scratch behind Beef’s ears.
Beef whines softly, pressing closer, tail still thumping against the mattress as if afraid to let go.
“I know, boy,” Robert murmurs, voice thick as he cradles the dog’s head gently. “I’m so sorry I was gone.”
Beef doesn’t care about apologies. He just curls closer, solid and warm, as if making sure Robert stays right where he is.
Robert stays in the hospital for two months. He gains back some strength with Beef by his side for the entire time. They are long, exhausting months—measured in physical therapy sessions, medication schedules, and the slow, humbling process of rebuilding strength he once took for granted. Beef is there for all of it. Curled at his side during sleepless nights. Encouraging Robert in physical therapy. A constant, warm reminder that Robert is still needed.
Learning to walk again is the worst part. His legs tremble under him, nerves screaming as they relearn how to fire properly. Every step feels wrong—too heavy, too sharp, too slow. There are days when the pain leaves him biting down hard enough to taste blood, days when frustration becomes too much. But he keeps going. He always has. And eventually, progress sticks. By the time the doctors clear him to leave, he’s functional.
The cane the Heroes’ Living Association provided fits comfortably in his hand, solid and well-balanced. It feels like a tool. One more piece of equipment to get him through the day. Which he supposed that’s what all mobility aids are. Surprisingly, that thought does make him feel better.
Luckily, he lives nearby the hospital he recovered in, so he will walk on foot. Beef is a very good boy who stays by Robert's side as they walk. The neighborhood changes as they walk—clean streets giving way to cracked sidewalks, paint peeling from buildings that have long since stopped pretending they’re not falling apart. When the run-down apartment complex comes into view, Robert frowns. He has a press conference today.
When Robert finally makes it to his apartment he is surprised by the sight that greets him. There is a note on the counter from the Heroes’ Living Association.
Dear Robert Roberson,
We left a few gifts to show you our appreciation for all that you have done for LA. You are truly a hero. You deserve a place that feels like a home.
Love, The Heroes’ Living Association
Robert snorts softly. What a nice way to say your home looked like shit. Which Robert couldn’t argue against. Before, the apartment had been practically empty—bare floors, blank walls, and everything arranged around Beef’s needs. Food bowls. Toys. Beds. He’d always made sure the dog was comfortable, even when he didn’t bother with himself.
Now his apartment actually has furniture. There’s a couch. Small, but clean and sturdy. A modest TV sits across from it, already plugged in. A throw blanket folded neatly over one arm, like someone had tried to make the place feel actually lived in. When he walked further in he discovered a bed in the bedroom. To be honest Robert completely forgot that there was a bedroom inside this apartment.
Beef trots past him and hops onto the bed without hesitation, curling up like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
Robert moves slowly to the closet and pulls out his hero outfit. It’s simpler than the armored suit—fabric instead of metal, symbol instead of weapon—but it still carries weight. The clothes fit a little differently now.
“Okay, Beef,” he says softly, crouching just enough to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Be a good boy. I’ll be home soon.” Beef whines once, then sits, watching him with dark, trusting eyes as Robert grabs his jacket and heads for the door.
Robert, unlike his father, absolutely hates going in front of the press. He avoids it as much as he possibly can. He doesn’t need to speak to the press to do his job. Cameras don’t save lives. Headlines don’t stop villains. He avoids press conferences whenever he can, letting actions speak for him instead. Unfortunately, this time he doesn’t have a choice. Everyone thinks Mecha Man is dead, and unless he comes across millions of dollars to fix the suit he can’t be Mecha Man.
He leaves the cane by the door. The last thing he needs is anyone’s pity. Plus he will already look weak enough. He can already feel it waiting for him—sympathy disguised as concern, questions sharpened into speculation. Showing up with a mobility aid would only confirm what they’re already thinking. He does however take his doctor’s advice on wearing his sunglasses. He is glad that he did, because once he stood on the stage there was a ton of flashing from the cameras.
“The suit has been damaged beyond my ability to repair, So I will be stepping back from hero work effective immediately” Robert says bluntly. It is obvious that he doesn’t want to be here.
The crowd explodes with questions. Maybe he should’ve worn his ear plugs too.
“One at a time please,” Robert says.
“Ashley Rhiness. San Pedro Daily, Do you have anything to say to your fans?” A reporter asks.
“Everything I have done, every sacrifice my and my family made has been for the people of Los Angeles. Next question.” Robert says. Which is true. He may have spent the last few years hunting Shroud. But, all the years before that were spent fulfilling his legacy, which he had done until now. He saved many people and saved a lot of lives over the past 15 years.
“Chris Stratten, Torrence Tribune. Does this mean you’re retiring as Mecha Man?” A reporter asks, “Word on the street is you’re donezo.”
Of course the first thing Robert thinks about isn’t how he probably has to retire now. The first thing he thinks is, “Are you a hundred years old? Why are you talking like that?”
“Answer the question buddy boy.Are you retiring” Chris demands, “My readers need the skinny, and I aim to deliver. Let's get it on the record.”
“Well I don’t have the suit, and I don’t have any superpowers, so yeah short of a miracle pretty much.” Robert answers.
“Is it pretty much the same as definitively?” The reporter asks. Well at least he aims for accuracy.
“Pretty much is the same as pretty much, Buddy Boy.” The Omega sasses, “Just one more please. I got to get back to- Just- Just one more. Preferably someone from this century.”
“Charles Kingsley South Bay Signal. So, Shroud kills your father, goes to jail, 13 years, breaks out, and immediately dupes you into a trap where he destroys the Mecha Man suit and puts you in a coma for months .” A reporter says.
Wow this guy is an absolute dick. “I didn’t hear a question in there.” Robert says.
“Two parter,” The reporter starts again, “First, why didn’t Shroud kill you? You haven’t been conscious for months. It’d be easy money taking you out.”
“Shroud wanted the Astral Pulse and Mecha Man gone. He got both. I’m not sure I mattered much.” Robert answers.
“Right, You’re unimportant.” The reporter says, “Which leads 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?”
Robert should beat this man up. He would deserve it.
“Your father, your grandfather, They must be rolling over in their graves.” The reporter taunts.
Seriously, what is this man’s problem?
As much as Robert would love to beat the shit out of this man, would it even be worth it? Robert takes a breath. He’s not gonna kick this man’s ass as much as he deserves it.
“I think he’d be proud, because I am alive—which, as you so sensitively pointed out—he isn’t. I think he knows that I 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. Thank you for coming.” Robert answers before finally leaving and ignoring the reporters.
Robert starts walking with no specific direction in mind. He just needs to clear his head. While he is walking he comes across a store with TVs in the windows. The TVs are talking about the press conference. Some people were being street interviewed. Some people speak in his defense.
“He gave everything. Let the man rest.”
Others don’t bother hiding their contempt.
“I kinda wish he’d died in that explosion,” one man says bluntly. “At least then he wouldn’t be a coward.”
Robert exhales slowly, chest tightening. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d known this would happen the moment he stepped away from the suit. Still, hearing it out loud stings in a way he hadn’t quite prepared for.
“Yikes,” a voice says beside him. “Tough crowd.”
He startles slightly, turning his head. The woman standing next to him smells like peaches and vanilla— unmistakably omega. The scent curls into his senses before he fully registers her appearance. Golden-blonde hair falls neatly around her shoulders, and her blue eyes are sharp, bright, matching the vivid blue of the suit she’s wearing beneath a tailored blazer. He recognizes her immediately. Blonde Blazer.
“Yeah,” Robert says after a beat, voice dry. “They really don’t like that I can’t keep going.”
She watches the screen for another moment, jaw tightening. “They sound like assholes.”
A surprised huff of laughter escapes him. “That’s exactly what they are.”
She finally looks at him properly then, eyes flicking over his posture, the tension in his shoulders, the faint hitch in his step that he tries—and fails—to hide.
“No offense,” she says lightly, “but you look like hell. Want to go get a drink?”
The bluntness catches him off guard. He blinks. “I haven’t had a drink in six months,” he admits. Then, after a pause, adds, “I would love to get drunk.”
Blonde Blazer grins, sharp and unapologetic. “Good. I know a place.”
Somehow—he’s not entirely sure how—he finds himself following her down a side street, away from the TVs and the noise and the weight of public opinion. The place she leads him to is unmistakable the moment he steps inside. A hero bar. Low lighting. Reinforced walls. Familiar scents layered over old spills and stronger alcohol. The kind of place where masks come off and reputations are left at the door.
Robert reaches up and removes his sunglasses as he steps inside, because he is not a douchebag who wears sunglasses inside bars.
“I should probably be honest with you,” Blonde Blazer says, resting one elbow against the bar. “I didn’t bring you here just to drink.”
Robert snorts softly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before knocking it back. He can already feel the alcohol warming his chest, loosening the tight coil he’s been carrying all day.
“Oh really?” he says, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “What, get me drunk, lure me somewhere quiet, and kill me?” He glances at her sidelong. “You’d probably get away with it, too.”
Blonde Blazer laughs, genuine and unguarded, the sound cutting clean through the low hum of the bar. “Relax. Nothing that morbid.”
She straightens slightly, expression shifting still casual, but sharper now. Intentional.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Robert arches a brow. “A proposition?” he echoes, curiosity threading into his voice. “What kind of proposition?”
She watches him for a moment, as if weighing something, then says, “How would you feel about working as a dispatcher for SDN?”
The words land heavier than he expects.
Robert reaches for the bottle again and pours himself a shot, downing it in one smooth motion. The burn grounds him, gives him a second to think.
“I don’t know,” he admits finally. “I always thought I’d be Mecha Man. Since I was a kid, that was it.” He exhales slowly. “I never really considered… anything else.”
The bar’s lights glint off the empty glass between them.
“Now that is a sad sentence” Blonde Blazer says
From across the bar, three former villains watch them. Flambae’s gaze hardens as he tracks the familiar posture, the tilt of the head, the way Blonde Blazer leans just slightly toward him. She’s talking to Mecha Man. Of course she is. Probably taking him out on a pity date, because that’s what she does. Finds broken people, fixes them, moves on.
A fucking loser normie who lost everything.
She’s always been drawn to people who look like they’re one bad day away from falling apart.
“How long d’you reckon she’s been talkin’ to that lad?” the short Irishman asks, nursing his drink. His magnificent mustache twitches as he squints across the bar. “Feels like a while.”
Coupe leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes sharp as he studies them. “They’re comfortable,” he says thoughtfully. “But not familiar. There’s ease, but also restraint. Slight hesitation. This is likely their first date.”
Punch Up snorts. “Didn’t that guy just crawl outta a hospital bed?” he asks. “What could they’ve possibly done while he was laid up?”
Coupe hums. “They may have met after he woke. An interview, perhaps. Information gathering. Conversations turn personal. Shared vulnerability often accelerates emotional attachment.”
Punch Up blinks. “You make it sound like a soap opera.”
“Or,” Flambae cuts in sharply, “she just feels bad for him.”
The others glance his way.
“Look at him,” Flambae continues, eyes narrowing. “He’s pathetic.” And yet—annoyingly—he can’t stop looking.
Even he has to admit that the man’s irritating face is somewhat attractive. The man has gotten smaller since he had arrested Flambae. Probably from the coma. Flambae always wanted to beat the shit out of Mecha Man for what happened, but looking at Mecha Dick now, he no longer feels that urge. He is still angry, but Mecha Dick looks like fucking shit. Life fucked that guy up for him.
They watch as Blonde Blazer excuses herself and heads toward the bathrooms.
Punch Up tilts his head. “Should we… see what’s up with him?”
Coupe hesitates, then nods. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.”
Flambae doesn’t bother answering. He’s already on his feet. He crosses the bar with easy confidence, brown hair catching the low light as he stops in front of Mecha Man’s stool. The former hero looks up slowly, expression unreadable.
“Hey, Mecha Dick,” Flambae says, voice sharp with practiced venom. “What the fuck are you doin’ here? This is a hero bar.”
Mecha Man blinks once. “You’re a super hero? wow, that is so cool,” The retired hero says with as much sarcasm as he could muster, “Is this your power? Are you like tell people obvious shit guy?”
For half a second, Flambae feels it—that familiar flare of heat in his chest— the instinctive itch to set something on fire. Violence snaps back into focus. Then he notices Mecha Man’s hands. They tremble. Subtle, but constant. The ex-hero has a bored expression, like he genuinely doesn’t care how this interaction ends, and Flambae can tell from his body language that Mecha Man isn’t feeling scared or nervous. That’s nerve damage Flambae suddenly realizes. Now it kinda just feels like they are even, because just like how Flambae will never be able to use his hand normally again, clearly Mecha Man also can’t. The anger dulls.
Flambae glances down at his own hand—twisted, scarred, fingers that will never move the way they used to—because they are gone. The price he paid. The thing that ended one life and forced him to build another.
Huh.
“Looks like we’re even, Mecha Dick,” Flambae says finally, lifting his mutilated hand into view.
Recognition flickers in those honey-brown eyes.
“You’re that flame villain I took down a few years ago.” Mecha Man says.
Flambae snorts. “Yeah. And now I’m a real superhero.” He straightens slightly. “Name’s Flambae. I control fire, flame, and my skin does not burn.”
There’s a pause.
“Good for you,” Mecha Man says.
That’s it? No judgment. No awe. No resentment. Flambae stares at him, caught off guard. Seriously? This guy arrested him. Changed the trajectory of his entire life. And he doesn’t even care? Before he can say anything else, Blonde Blazer returns, glancing between them with raised brows.
“I see you’ve met a few of my coworkers,” she says lightly. Then, to Mecha Man, “Let’s go somewhere more private. I know a good spot.”
Flambae steps back, fully expecting the two of them to leave—date resumed, conversation over.
What he does not expect is to see Mecha Man standing inside SDN headquarters the very next morning.