Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hospital room had settled into the kind of quiet that only came after visiting hours.

The monitors beside the bed hummed in a soft, steady rhythm, their glow reflecting faintly against the metal rails. Fluorescent light from the corridor slipped in through the half-open door, pale and still, while the rest of the ward murmured with distant footsteps and the occasional rattle of a medication cart.

The rest of the team had already been shooed out hours earlier. Visi had been escorted back to her ward by the medical staff, and Chase had gone to grab food for Beef. For the first time since they’d arrived at the hospital, it was just Robert and Mandy.

Robert shifted slightly against the pillows, a slow, careful adjustment. He watched the ceiling for a moment as if assembling his thoughts one at a time, then finally lowered his gaze to her.

“Hey… about the thing I told you earlier,” he murmured, voice low, contemplative. “I… need to ask a few favours.”

He paused, the silence stretching just long enough to weigh the words. “To not complicate things… just yet.”

“You don’t have to explain,” she replied gently. “If this is what you want, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” A small breath left him, almost relief, almost resignation. “I think I just need to… take my time. Not rushing it.”

Mandy snorted softly, though the concern in her eyes softened the sound.

“You’d better take your time. With the state you’re in?” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t make me call you a jerk while you’re lying in a hospital bed.”

That earned the faintest, tired huff of laughter from him—exactly the reaction she’d been aiming for.

“Well,” Robert murmured, settling back against the pillows, “I’ll leave it in your hands then.”

Mandy rose from the chair, stretching her back with a quiet crack that betrayed how long she’d been sitting there.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smoothing down the sleeve of her jacket.

“I’ll handle it. And you—” she pointed lightly at him, more fond than scolding, “—are going to focus on resting. Proper resting.”

He gave her a look that was half amusement, half weary surrender.

Mandy reached over and adjusted the blanket near his elbow—a small, unconscious gesture. “I’ll come by in the morning. Call the nurses if you need anything. And don’t try getting out of bed on your own, or I will yell at you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Robert laughed gently.

She gave him one last look, making sure he truly was all right for the moment, then exhaled and headed for the door. “Goodnight, Robert.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, the room returned to its low, humming stillness.

Robert stared at the ceiling again, the dim corridor light casting a thin bar across the far wall. The weight behind his ribs wasn’t the ache of healing tissue this time. It was the slow, unfamiliar steadiness of thinking ahead—really ahead—for the first time in a long while.

There were plenty of uncertainties waiting for him, more questions than answers, but—like he’d told Shroud—even if he doesn’t truly know what he is doing, Robert was going to trust his gut and make his best guess.

It was odd.

Actually, “odd” was putting it mildly, but the Z team didn’t have the vocabulary—or the patience—to find a better word for it in the days following the absolute meltdown of a night they’d had. Odd was good enough. Odd was accurate.

First there had been the city-wide attack that wrung every drop of stamina out of them, then the showdown with the ringmaster behind it all, then the terrifying blur of sending their dispatcher to the hospital. And after that? They had been shoved straight back to work the next week with zero indication of PTO being approved anytime soon because there was simply too much cleanup after the world had briefly been on fire.

It was Prism who noticed it first.

Of course it was Prism.

Chasing viewership numbers and metrics was practically a second language to her, so she was the one whose eyes drifted toward algorithms and public reaction long before anyone else’s. It made sense that naturally she was the one who picked up on it while her teammates remained blissfully oblivious.

But it bugged her enough that she brought it to their attention too.

After the fight with Shroud—after the chaos and debris and the combined effort of their powers and the echo of Mecha Man’s fist hitting metal—Prism fully expected the news to explode across every social platform on the planet.

Mecha Man’s return. The impossible comeback of a hero everyone assumed had retired for good.

It should have dominated headlines. Should have clogged timelines and break at least three gossip accounts and one conspiracy subreddit.

But when she checked?

Nothing.

“What the fuck…?” someone muttered when Prism showed them the complete absence of Mecha Man anywhere online.

Prism had been scrolling nonstop—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, Reddit, news apps, livestream archives, even the cursed local neighbourhood Facebook group that still posted about raccoons digging in rubbish bins. But there was nothing. No blurry photos. No “OMG IS THAT MECHA MAN?!?!” captions. Not even a fan account speculating based on a suspicious shadow in a grainy video.

The team then split off to search every corner of social media themselves.

Still nothing.

Nothing from news outlets. Nothing from gossip blogs. Nothing from the loudmouth local stations that usually leap at the chance to broadcast anything vaguely exciting, including—but not limited to—dogs stuck in fences and people arguing in supermarket aisles.

The sheer absence of news was unnerving, if they were honest.

Granted, by the time any reporters got close to the scene, Robert’s newly repaired (and unfortunately already newly battered) Mecha Man suit had been discretely evacuated from public view by the SDN heroes who arrived for cleanup. The whole operation had been clean, efficient, and purposeful in a way that wasn’t just professionalism but intent.

But even then—first responders had seen it. Police officers. Firefighters. EMTs. Anyone who showed up early enough absolutely caught a glimpse of that towering metal silhouette before it vanished behind secured doors.

And still… nothing.

No leaks.

No whispers.

No “MECHA MAN IS BACK OMG” viral posts from a firefighter’s cousin’s girlfriend’s brother.

A motley crew of reforming disaster-gremlins. Ex-villains turned heroic idiots. A unit stitched together by trauma, spite, and one chronically exhausted dispatcher who made it all function. Against all odds, they’d saved the day—and that was the story the world saw.

The story they saw when they searched around about Shroud’s defeat. Just that. With a faint sprinkling of “Shroud taken down by unnamed SDN dispatcher” tacked on the end like a footnote.

Initially, the team wondered why none of them had picked up on this sooner.

But to be fair—

“We were running on fumes and a whole lot of shit happened afterwards,” Prism said later, almost defensively. And she wasn’t wrong.

Riding the high of survival, of applause, of interviews where they actually got complimented instead of interrogated. For the first time in their lives, people weren’t looking at them like ticking time bombs—they were looking at them like heroes.

They were too dazzled to notice anything strange. Too flooded with endorphins, too shocked to still be breathing, too overwhelmed by the sudden avalanche of praise and microphones and cameras being shoved at them by reporters who, bizarrely, no longer seemed afraid of standing within five feet of them.

That, and the fact that the celebration had ended with Robert’s stupid body finally giving out after internally bleeding far more than he had admitted, meant the Z team had absolutely zero mental bandwidth left for analysing public reactions. Their brains had collectively funnelled every last functioning neuron into one urgent priority: follow Robert to the hospital and check that he didn’t died from sheer stubbornness.

So, you couldn’t really blame them for not picking it up. Honestly, Bigfoot could have walked across the street juggling UFOs and they wouldn’t have noticed a single thing.

Only later—once the adrenaline crash finally hit, once they were no longer in hyper-crisis mode with their collective attention glued to Robert’s vital signs instead of the world outside, once they’d sat with the replay of the night long enough for the noise to settle—did it strike them that something about the aftermath felt… arranged.

Shaped. Curated. Cleaned up around the edges in a way that made their skin itch.

SDN had always been a giant, sleek PR machine with too much money and too many lawyers to ever let a narrative slip through their fingers.

That’s why they immediately dropped their golden poster boy—Phenomaman—and benched him to the Torrance branch the moment he displayed his post–break-up depression a little too openly for the public to see.

It wouldn’t have surprised them if the higher-ups had pulled strings to keep Mecha Man out of the spotlight.

What the Z team did wonder—quietly, resentfully—was who exactly had given the order.

SDN’s upper management was the obvious answer.

Blonde Blazer was the second. They suspected her, because of course they did—she ran the Torrance branch and usually was the one SDN sends to make PR nightmares evaporate before they ever reached daylight with her charming smile on camera.

But the longer the Z team sat with the memory of that night, the more they became convinced someone else had nudged things into place. Someone whose motives didn’t align cleanly with “liability control” or “corporate reputation management.”

The more they replayed it, the more certain they were that Robert had been part of that call.

Not just part of it.

Possibly the one who requested it.

Possibly the one who insisted on it.

“Think about it,” Malevola said quietly one morning. “He never once stepped into a spotlight that day.”

The Z Team were a messy bunch, but they weren’t stupid.

The clue had been there the whole time—in the way Robert positioned himself after the fight. While the team was pulled into interviews and cheers and flashing lights, he’d lounged on the hood of a miraculously undamaged car. Bruised, exhausted, pretending to be some random bystander next to a powered-down Blonde (Brunette?) Blazer, casually drinking a beer.

He’d tried to blend into the background.

Tried to make sure the attention didn’t swing toward him. Tried to redirect every camera, every question, every ounce of praise onto them.

And that smug little half-smile he’d given them?

Yeah. That had been a clue too.

He wanted them to have that moment.

Not him.

It annoyed them in a way they didn’t fully understand.

It annoyed them so much that, in hindsight, they were kind of glad they’d accidentally dropped their snarky bastard of a dispatcher on the pavement during the celebration.

Kind of.

If you ignored the fact that dropping Robert might have been the last straw that pushed his already haemorrhaging body over the edge and sent them into a panic spiral. (They still felt guilty about that. Even though Robert kept insisting it had been Shroud ragdolling Mecha Man through several walls that caused the internal bleeding to worsen.)

“But… why though?” Sonar whispered finally, like the question had been building in his chest the whole time—as if he genuinely suspected a conspiracy, or at least something bigger than all of them.

And all of them quietly contemplated why Robert would choose to hide this when they knew it was something he’d ached for—something he’d grieved like a severed limb when it was taken from him.

They’d seen the disappointment in his eyes when the explosion sent him to the infirmary and Royd deemed it impossible to recreate the astral pulse. They’d seen the spark return during the party when there’d been the slightest shimmer of hope that the original astral pulse was not destroyed.

And they’d seen how he thrived—truly thrived—after finally getting to pilot the suit again, regaining some pieces of himself after the destruction of suit had hollowed that part of him out.

So why hide now?

None of them had an answer.

Only the lingering, unsettled silence of realising they were missing a piece of a puzzle Robert wasn’t ready to share with them.

Herm had never realised how unnervingly pristine the SDN infirmary was until he stepped inside it alone.

It didn’t feel like a hospital ward. Hospitals had noise—wheels squeaking, nurses muttering, monitors beeping, someone in the next room yelling about grapes.

This place was… quiet. Too quiet.

Like the walls were soundproofed not to comfort patients, but to keep secrets from leaking out.

He clutched the paper bag in his hands and followed the soft glow down the hall until he reached the only room with the door propped open.

Robert’s temporary “workspace.”

Royd had apparently taken the phrase work from bed as a personal challenge.

A slim, curved monitor was mounted on an adjustable arm beside the bed. A secondary holographic display hovered at the footboard. Royd had installed a silent cooling pad beneath the mattress too. The bed rails had handmade padding unmistakably matching Royd’s usual foam prototypes. Robert had joked that with how much Royd was spoiling him, he’d have a miserable time going back to his standard workstation—the one SDN still had the audacity to call a “functioning computer.”

Herm swallowed hard.

He knocked lightly on the doorframe.

Robert didn’t look up. “Chase, if you’re here to threaten me with porridge or congee or whatever again, the answer is still no.”

“It— it’s, uhm—it’s not Ch—Chase,” Herm managed, stepping inside.

Robert blinked, then relaxed minutely when he saw him. “Hey, kid.”

“It’s break time, s-so—before the next shift, they… Chase—the team sent me to see… check up on you.”

Herm lifted the paper bag. “I, uh— I b-brought— I… I got you… soup. I was going to bring… something more, um, more… solid, but I wasn’t sure if you could… or should… chew.”

“Chewing’s still in my skill set, Waterboy,” Robert laughed. “But soup is perfect. Anything that isn’t Chase’s plain, boring porridge counts as gourmet right now.”

Herm placed the bag on the small rolling table Royd had installed—one that swung over the bed with buttery-smooth hinges. The paper bag, predictably, was already moist and sagging from his powers, but thankfully, the soup container was plastic. He tried very hard not to stare at the monitors or at the faint pallor under the infirmary lighting that made Robert look unhealthy pale. He knew it was mostly an illusion—Robert’s colour had already come back. It was just that the sterile lighting made everyone look half-ghostly.

Despite needing hospital-level rest, Robert had apparently spent all of Sunday negotiating—with Chase, with Blazer, with anyone unlucky enough to stand within ten metres of his bed—that he would return to work on Monday. Neither Blazer nor Chase had been pleased that he’d only been admitted Saturday morning and yet was already bargaining like a man possessed.

Originally, Robert had planned to keep working straight from his hospital bed. It wasn’t ideal, sure, but in his mind a laptop, some extra encryption, and a stubborn refusal to rest were more than enough to keep the Z team running.

The problem was that the hospital was a public facility—outside SDN firewalls, outside their network security, and very much outside the list of approved places to casually open classified tactical dashboards. Robert claimed he had enough skills to guarantee the extra encryption needed, but even he understood that SDN’s cybersecurity team was absolutely not willing to test that theory. So he wasn’t surprised when Blazer shut down the idea before he could finish his sentence.

But both Blazer and Chase also knew Robert well enough to realise that forbidding him from working would only make him more likely to secretly discharge himself the moment he got bored and felt slightly less like death.

So a compromise was made: if Robert insisted on working, it had to be inside SDN’s own medical wing. Their network. Their systems. Their oversight. And, conveniently, much easier access for Blazer, Chase and the Z team to march in and force him to rest when needed.

After a weekend of arguing, paperwork, and one very disgruntled hospital administrator who had to work overtime because of this, Robert was informally transferred to the SDN infirmary—still in a bed, still under medical supervision, but close enough to his job that he could work without inevitably sabotaging his own recovery the moment no one was watching.

When Robert’s voice came through the comms that Monday morning, most of the team marched straight to his desk in outrage, only to find the chair still empty. Which made them confused. Then irritated. Then more confused.

That led to the next logical step: several of them then attempted to sneak into the public hospital to lecture him in person, only to discover he wasn’t there either.

By that point, the team was hovering dangerously close to panic, already debating whether they needed to file some kind of missing-person report, completely unaware that Robert was quite literally just a few floors below them the entire time.

Herm had to admit—it was kind of funny.

How Robert deliberately withheld his location for the entire day not only to dodge the incoming ambush, but to dangle cryptic hints like some twisted incentive to keep everyone actually focused on their missions. It almost felt like Robert was playing a villainous round of hide-and-seek with the Z team as if he had been privately mentored by the villain Brainteaser himself.

He only revealed where he was the next day, after he made the team collectively promise they wouldn’t murder him for being such a menace.

And when the team finally visited—well, charged at—him in the infirmary with all sorts of rage and relief and disbelief, Robert laughed. Wholeheartedly.

He laughed so hard his injuries protested, a sharp wince flickering through the sound, but even that didn’t stop him. Herm and the team had never seen Robert laugh like that before. He was in an absurdly good mood, brighter than Herm had seen him in maybe ever.

It… was nice.

Herm was, however, also caught in a strange tangle of feelings.

He was truly relieved—deeply relieved—to find Robert working again, because the idea of the Z team running without him for any length of time felt impossible. Terrifying, even.

But at the same time, a coil of unease tightened beneath that relief. Because Robert working meant Robert wasn’t resting.

And Herm wanted him to rest properly—to stay still long enough to actually heal instead of grinding himself straight back into the ground.

His eyes drifted to the bruises and cuts visible around the edges of the thin hospital gown. It had been days since Robert’s transfer back to the SDN infirmary, but the injuries were still fresh, still slow to recover. Herm remembered how quickly he had healed after getting hit by a car on his first day—how dramatically different it looked from this.

Herm swallowed. “…You really shouldn’t be working already, though.”

He fidgeted with his gloves. “Y-you’re supposed to be on bed rest. B-bed. Rest. Two words.”

“I am in bed,” Robert said. “And I am resting. My butt hasn’t moved in hours.”

“That’s not— that’s not what that means.”

Robert raised an eyebrow, unrepentant. “Pretty sure that’s exactly what it means.”

Herm face flustered, a bit frustrated but also fond. Then, quieter: “We’re w-worried.”

Robert’s typing slowed. He didn’t look away from the screen for a long ten seconds, then he paused halfway, hands hovering above the keyboard just enough to show he was listening.

“…I know,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

Herm swallowed again. “You… you lost a lot of blood. You are allowed to… to rest—not work. Just for… for a bit—while.”

Robert rubbed a thumb along the edge of his blanket, thoughtful. “Habit, I guess.”

“It’s a b-bad habit.”

“That’s your opinion,” Robert murmured—then paused, the faintest softness crossing his expression. “…but you’re not wrong.”

Herm’s fingers twisted tighter together. “Y-you should be resting. On purpose. Not… not like this.”

Robert’s smile softened—not sharp, not teasing, just warm in that quiet way he reserved for very few people. “Believe it or not,” he said, leaning back against the pillows, “this is me trying to slow down.”

Herm blinked at him, baffled. “This… this is slowing down?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Because how could this—Robert half-propped up in a medical bed, surrounded by monitors, fingers still hovering near the keyboard as if muscle memory refused to let them rest—possibly count as slowing down?

If this was Robert easing off… just how bad had the fast version been?

“I know how it looks,” Robert said gently. “And I know it’s not perfect. But I’m trying.”

Herm stared at him for a long moment, conflicted. “It doesn’t look like trying. It looks like… like you’re scared to stop.”

Robert let his hands fall away from the keyboard. The monitors dimmed automatically, casting the room in a softer glow.

“That’s… also not wrong,” he admitted. There was no defensiveness. Just honesty. “Stopping has never come naturally to me.”

“Why?” Herm asked, voice small.

“Because working gives my head something solid to hold on to,” Robert said. “It keeps the rest of the noise from getting too loud. And before you worry—” he lifted a hand gently, not to deflect but to reassure, “—I’m not running myself into the ground. This is very manageable.”

Herm wasn’t too convinced.

So Robert softened his tone further, quiet but steady, the way he spoke when he actually wanted someone to understand him. “I’m not trying to push myself. I’m not trying to be Mecha Man tomorrow. I just… need a bit of structure while I lie here and wait for my bones and organs to stop complaining.”

Herm swallowed. “But you almost— you almost died, Robert.”

“I know.”

Herm’s hands tightened. The memory of Robert collapsing—white-faced, gone limp before anyone could react—flashed uncomfortably close to the surface.

And the lighting in this room didn’t help. It made Robert look too pale, too much like that day.

“We were scared,” Herm said quietly.

Robert’s expression softened into something unmistakably remorseful—rare, and rarely shown to anyone. “I know you were. And I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Herm blinked, startled by the sincerity.

Robert continued, voice steady, careful, guiding—like a mentor explaining something important. “I’m trying to do better, Waterboy. Slow steps. Smaller tasks. Letting the medics fuss at me, staying put, not touching anything dangerous. I promise I’ll be okay.”

Herm’s shoulders loosened slightly, but the worry was still there.

“You just… you deserve to rest too,” Herm muttered. “Properly.”

Robert nodded once. “You’re right.”

No argument. No sarcasm.

Just agreement.

“And I’m working on that,” he added softly. “Really.”

Herm finally looked up at him, eyes uncertain.

Robert offered a small, reassuring smile—the kind he didn’t give lightly. “You don’t have to keep carrying that worry on your own. I’m okay. And I’m not planning on doing anything that puts me in immediate danger, not for a long while.”

Herm hesitated, chewing at the inside of his cheek. The reassurance helped—more than he expected it to—but something else tugged at him.

“Is… is that why you asked SDN to keep Mecha Man’s return a secret?”

Robert blinked.

For the first time since Herm entered the room, he genuinely looked caught off-guard.

“…Where did that come from?”

Herm flinched, immediately regretting it. “S-sorry— I didn’t mean— it’s just— the team’s been… been talking about it.”

“They have? Huh,” Robert leaned back slightly, eyes widening another fraction. “I didn’t think any of them would pick up on that so fast.”

Herm nodded, fingers tightening around the hem of his gloves. “They, um… they’ve been wondering. A lot. About why you’d want to keep something so important a secret. They— we—didn’t want to pry. Or… or make you upset. So we didn’t ask.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter—soft, fond.

“I’m impressed,” Robert said. “Genuinely. The fact that none of them barged in here demanding answers is… honestly growth. Shocking growth.”

Herm’s ears warmed. “They, um… they were worried. More than they were curious.”

Robert’s expression softened again, a subtle fondness settling into the lines around his eyes. “Good. That means they’re learning to be decent human beings.” He paused. “And you?”

Herm swallowed. “I… I didn’t want to assume. But I thought… maybe it had something to do with… you trying to slow down. Or not wanting people to expect too much too fast. Or— or something else I don’t understand.”

Robert leaned back against the pillow, exhaling slowly.

“Leave it to the Z team to piece that together before the higher-ups even finished filing the paperwork,” he murmured, half amused, half impressed. “Look at them. Growing up fast when I wasn’t looking.”

Herm watched him carefully. “So… was it?”

A beat of silence.

Then Robert nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I asked them.”

Herm held his breath without meaning to.

“I had a few reasons,” Robert continued. “Some practical, some personal. Some I’m still sorting out.” He looked toward the dimmed screens, their glow catching the edges of his expression. “Part of it is what you said. I’m not ready to be in it again. Not physically. Not mentally. I wanted time before the world tries to pull me back into expectations I can’t meet yet.”

Herm felt something shift in his chest—an uncomfortable, quiet ache.

He hadn’t considered how heavy those expectations must be. How fast people would flock back the moment they heard Mecha Man was active again. How quickly they would demand things Robert wasn’t ready to give.

It made sense.

Too much sense.

Almost painfully so.

Herm’s voice was barely above a whisper. “So you really are taking things… slow now?”

Robert gave a faint, appreciative smile. “You catch on fast.”

Herm flushed, warmth crawling up his neck. He wasn’t sure why the praise hit as hard as it did—maybe because Robert wasn’t the type to give it lightly. 

“And,” Robert added, more serious now, “the last thing I want is for the media, or SDN, or anyone outside that door to decide for themselves that Mecha Man is back. That kind of stuff tends to make things more complicated than they should be.”

Herm nodded, absorbing—but the word complicated landed heavier than he expected.

He could picture it too clearly: cameras, headlines, demands, the entire world pulling at Robert with claws disguised as praise.

Of course Robert wouldn’t want that, not right now.

“I also wanted all of you to have that moment,” Robert said with a small shrug, “You earned that. Every last one of you. And you all deserved to shine without my shadow getting in the way.”

Herm’s breath caught.

“But yeah,” Robert said at last, “I just needed… a little time.”

The words were quiet.

Not sad. Not dramatic.

Just honest in that a way Herm had always known Robert to be—measured, steady, a truth he’d finally put into order.

Herm gently shifted the soup container on the tray, letting the warmth seep faintly through the plastic and into his palms as he gathered his thoughts.

“That makes sense,” he murmured. “A lot more sense than what the others came up with…”

Robert snorted softly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Y-yes,” Herm said without missing a beat.

Some on the team had already spiralled into theories so chaotic that Herm was beginning to worry they might accidentally burn the entire SDN headquarters down in their attempts to “investigate.” Mainly Sonar.

Robert laughed under his breath, the gentle sound easing the tension in the room. “I’ll brace myself.”

Herm hesitated again, then gathered his courage.

“Um… c-can I—then—can I let them know?”

He fidgeted with the cuff of his glove. “About why you… why you asked for it to be quiet? It might… stop them from worrying. Or at least… stop them from making up theories.”

Robert tilted his head, considering it.

Then he gave a small shrug, easy and unguarded. “Yeah. I don’t see why not.”

Herm blinked, surprised it was so simple.

Robert added, dry but fond, “Especially if it’ll save me from Prism trying to interrogate me with a ring light, or Sonar pacing outside this door like a lost puppy.”

“…They would do that.”

“I know they would,” Robert said, deadpan. “Which is why you have my full permission to tell them before they storm this place and try to perform an intervention.”

“Oh… by the way. We—the team’s still planning on your bed—buying! Your bed. Buying you a bed!”

“After me finally getting used to this bed? You guys really don’t need to, just steal this one from SDN and save some money.”

Herm’s laugh was small but genuine.

“I… I should get back.”

Robert nodded once, no teasing, no sarcasm—just that steady warmth again. “Go on. I’ll be on comms for the next shift.”

“D-don’t forget the soup” Herm hovered another second, reluctant to leave. “You’ll… try to rest properly?”

“I’ll try,” Robert promised, and it sounded real. “I might even take a quick nap now, if that helps ease your worries.”

Herm nodded, hesitant at first, then eased back toward the door—comforted, just a little, by Robert’s promise this time.

“See you on shift,” Robert called—not in person, but in the way that meant he’d be listening, guiding, watching their backs the way he always did.

Herm allowed himself one small smile before slipping into the hall.

Behind him, the infirmary hummed quietly—screens dimmed, work paused, and for once… Robert was actually resting.

Herm clung to that thought as the door eased shut, hoping it would still be true when the team come visit Robert together after work.

Chapter Text

There is something fundamentally different about Mecha Man Blue.

People sense it before they can explain it—a shift in tone, in presence, in the way the blue armour passes through a crisis without leaving ripples behind. Anyone familiar with the legacy of the symbol can feel the contrast immediately, because Mecha Man did not begin this way.

The legend began with Mecha Man Prime.

Prime stepped into the world at a time that adored spectacle and towering champions, yet he himself was neither towering nor enhanced. A man with no powers and no extraordinary lineage, armed only with the machine he built and a will that could not be bent. To the public, he wasn’t only remarkable—he was relatable. He walked among heroes far beyond his calibre, and that only deepened the affection people held for him. Prime embodied the reassuring idea that heroism could be an act of will, not destiny. For years, he stood as a testament to what an ordinary person could achieve through sheer resolve. He felt like a hero the city had raised itself, and the public outwardly celebrated and paraded him for that.

Mecha Man Astral, who came after, belonged to a brighter, more ambitious period of heroism.

Where Prime carved out a place for the symbol to exist, Astral broadened the entire horizon around it. He didn’t merely operate beside other heroes—he organised them, led them, shaped them into the Brave Brigade, a team that came to define their generation. The public adored him as a figure of vision and momentum, someone who seemed destined not just to protect the world, but to guide it. Sleek armour under stadium lights, confident speeches, coordinated missions broadcast across the nation—Astral embodied heroic ambition, a symbol lifted to its grandest potential.

And then there is Mecha Man Blue.

He appeared quietly, at a time when the city was still grieving Astral’s sudden death. With no announcement, no ceremony, no introduction, the blue lights of the suit simply returned to the skyline one night—familiar, but unmistakably changed. Blue inherited the emblem, the silhouette, the weight of two legends before him, yet his arrival carried none of the spectacle associated with the name. He did not inherit the pageantry his predecessors had carried.

Blue never stepped forward to claim attention; he simply arrived where he was needed and left when the work was done. He moved through crises with the quiet focus of someone who measured success by what was protected, stabilised, mended, or prevented rather than by what was witnessed. Blue moved with the practicality of someone who measured heroism not by applause but by outcomes. For fifteen years, he occupied the space between headlines, the quiet intervals where no one expects legends to live.

Where Prime symbolised possibility, and Astral symbolised aspiration—

Mecha Man Blue symbolised endurance.

And when that endurance finally broke, the world did not soften—it let him fall.

For the first time in a week, Robert could walk down the infirmary hallway without Mandy pouting at him from the doorway or Chase swooping in like a warden to herd him back into bed. He was moving decently well now, tolerating the dull ache still threading under his ribs—but every time he so much as leaned forward too quickly, he found himself stared down by a very irritated flying speedster until he reluctantly retreated to his mattress again.

Still, upright was upright, and apparently that counted as sufficient progress to permit a supervised stroll around the infirmary wing—and, on good days, even a brief trip up to the main office floor to check in on the team before he was inevitably escorted back downstairs by all of them. Light movement, they’d said, would help recovery. Rest, they’d also said, would help recovery. Recovery was full of infuriating contradictions—don’t move, but also move more; lie still, but not too still. He supposed the key was balance. Robert had never been good at balance.

He found it faintly amusing, in a tired sort of way, that he was the one allowed to walk around while Invisigal was still stuck at the actual hospital.

Then again, Visi had torn open her shoulder wound for the third time, which made the doctors’ refusal to discharge her more reasonable. Or predictable. Possibly both.

Honestly, Robert wasn’t sure why the hospital kept trying. Visi escaping and re-injuring herself seemed less like a medical complication and more like an inevitability. She healed faster than he did; she just refused to sit still long enough to let the healing happen. He half-suspected that if they simply let her go, she might actually recover better—if only because she wouldn’t spend every waking minute attempting to break out of the ward like a feral raccoon in a containment unit.

The irony, of course, was that he wasn’t really in a position to judge. If Mandy hadn’t allowed this compromise—infirmary only, proper bed rest, supervised movement, dispatch work allowed as long as he didn’t touch anything heavier than a clipboard—he would almost certainly have been on the exact same escapist path she was. He wasn’t proud of that. But he wasn’t surprised either.

He and Visi were similar that way.

Too stubborn for their own good, and incapable of inaction even when their bodies demanded it.

It was just unfortunate that Visi’s work out in the field actually required her to be fully healed before she could return, while his didn’t. Dispatching could be done sitting down with a headset and a functional spine. Visi had to throw punches and outrun explosions.

Unfair, really.

If the jobs were reversed, he doubted he’d be handling confinement any better than she was. He certainly hadn’t back when he was still Mecha Man.

But while dispatch, fortunately, was still allowed.

Anything else was not.

Eight weeks of “no pushing or pulling anything heavy” and “avoid lifting,” followed by a blunt instruction on his discharge summary the hospital administrator begrudgingly shoved in his hand when he transferred back to the SDN infirmary:

RETURN TO SPORT: 3–6 months.

His stomach had turned a little when he read that.

Three to six months of being unable to train properly and potentially losing the strength he had only just regained after the coma. He only hoped that this time—actually conscious, not dying with a dozen tubes in him, able to move, able to eat—he wouldn’t lose as much muscle.

Shroud had managed to hinder his physical condition twice in a single year. The thought alone was enough to sour his mood.

Still, the doctors kept telling him he was recovering remarkably well for someone without powers. Surprisingly fast, even. A week wasn’t much, but they seemed genuinely pleased. Cautious, but pleased.

He hoped it meant he wouldn’t be completely banned from the gym for an extended period of time. Maybe—with careful planning, with actual medical supervision—he could start exercising in some limited way. Surely there was a middle ground between “bedridden” and “don’t even think about touching a dumbbell.”

And if there wasn’t…

Well. He would just have to deal with it.

Still, the thought lingered: if he ended up not recovering as fast as he’d hoped, was there a way to speed up the healing itself?

Malevola came to mind first.

She had wound-transfer abilities, though the mechanism was unpredictable and he wasn’t sure what internal injuries would look like when filtered through her power. He could ask—but he wouldn’t. The idea of her taking on even a fraction of his injuries made the decision for him. She was part of his team. He wasn’t about to gamble her safety on his impatience.

Maybe SDN had a hero he could get in contact with, someone whose power specialised in healing. There were certainly heroes like that. But he didn’t know the other teams well enough to name any, and if it were really an option, Mandy would’ve arranged something already. More likely it was just the timing—there was still so much to clean up, everyone was exhausted and overworked—and Robert’s condition was stable enough that he wasn’t a priority. He’d need to remember to ask around once he was officially cleared to stay out of bed.

Vitalia surfaced after a moment. She was one of the only heroes he knew whose power centred on healing.

He hadn’t thought of her in years—not any of the Brave Brigade, really. Most of his memories of the Brigade were vague childhood impressions: armour glinting at backyard barbecues, unfamiliar adults laughing too loudly, people his father trusted but whom Robert never quite grew close to.

Chase was the exception.

Chase had been… well. Chase.

For Vitalia—Robert remembered the faint memories of her hands on his shoulders when he scraped his knee, remembered her kneeling to his eye level instead of towering over him like the others.

Small things.

Soft things.

In some ways she reminded him of Mandy—Blonde Blazer.

He last saw her at the funeral.

Robbie’s funeral, not Astral’s—the private one, the lonely and quiet one only a handful attended because the world wasn’t allowed to know who had died. The only one that Robert was allowed to attend. Most of the Brigade had already spent their grief at Astral’s public service, very few could bear to do it twice.

He remembered Vitalia had been one of the rare ones who came anyway.

The Brave Brigade had fractured soon after.

Too much grief, too many fault lines Robbie had unknowingly held together while he lived.

He doubted she was still active now. Most of the Brigade—including Chase—had been inactive for years for their own reasons. The glorious years of their heroism long faded; he doubted even more that any of them were anywhere near SDN’s sphere except for Chase.

Robert leaned a shoulder carefully against the wall and exhaled.

“The fuck you look like you’ve been hit by an existential crisis, kid?” Chase’s voice snapped through the hall like someone whipping a towel.

He floated in backwards—actually backwards—trying (and failing) to hook a foot around the door to nudge it shut, all while holding Beef under one arm and a container of something steaming under the other.

Robert blinked. “Hello to you too.”

Chase finally managed to kick the door closed with a graceless thud and rotated mid-air until he was facing Robert. His eyes narrowed immediately.

“Don’t ‘hello’ me you little prick,” Chase squinted at him, unimpressed. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look.”

“The look when people are thinking about shit,” Chase continued, drifting closer, “big fucking shit. Existential shit. The kind of stuff people start journalling about before they shave their heads.”

“No, I’m not going to shave my head. And no, this is my ‘please mind your business’ look actually,” Robert replied, deadpan.

Chase snorted, landing with a soft thud. “Yeah, yeah. Deflect harder.”

Robert huffed. “Chase.”

“No, no—don’t try it. I know that face. That’s the face of a man who’s been thinking about shit he shouldn’t be thinking about. Old shit. Philosophy shit. The kind of shit people get into fistfights with strangers over.”

“I wasn’t thinking about philosophy.”

“So you were thinking about shit.”

Robert exhaled slowly.

Chase could read him too well.

He always had.

Probably because he’d practically helped raise him—shoved into the unofficial role of babysitter back when Robbie was still alive. Chase had been the one who always noticed when Robert was upset and made the effort to cheer his crybaby ass up, stepping in whenever Robbie disappeared into work or into his own storms.

Robert wasn’t sure whether that was comforting or exposing—maybe both.

But there was a warmth in the thought, a familiar, worn-in fondness that didn’t hurt the way most memories of childhood did.

Robert sighed and relented.

“I was thinking about the medical stuff,” he said, keeping his voice even. “The restrictions. How long I’ll be stuck here. When I’ll be allowed to do anything more strenuous than strolling around like someone’s retired grandfather.”

Chase froze — then his posture loosened by a fraction, shoulders dropping out of attack mode.

“…That’s it?” he asked, still suspicious, but no longer bracing for a defensive response.

Chase eyed him for another beat, but the tension bled out of his stance. “Okay. Fine. That’s normal—people shit. Thought you were spiralling into some metaphysical abyss again.”

“Not today.”

Beef, who had been patiently dangling under Chase’s arm like a furry potato, let out a muffled wff at the shift in tone. Chase looked down at him.

“Yeah, I know,” Chase muttered. “False alarm. Your dad’s fine. You want me to stop judging.”

Robert felt a small, quiet swell of pride at that—his dog, indignant on his behalf.

Good boy.

Beef wriggled, offended at still being held.

“Oh—right, right, sorry,” Chase said, and gently lowered him to the ground as if setting down the crown jewels.

The moment Beef’s paws hit the floor, he trotted straight to Robert with the single-minded purpose of a creature who believed affection was a medical necessity. He pressed his warm bulk against Robert’s shin, tail thumping gently against the wall.

Robert’s expression softened despite himself.

“Hey, buddy.”

He crouched slightly to ruffle the dog’s fur, earning a pleased huff and an enthusiastic lean.

Chase pointed at them, betrayed.

“Unbelievable. I carry him in like the devoted uncle that I am, and he immediately goes back to you.”

He scooped Beef up protectively again, kissing the top of his head like a man wronged and then comforted in the same breath.

“He is my dog,” Robert reminded.

“Yeah, well, I’m the fun one,” Chase shot back. “And Beefy boy knows it.”

Robert couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped him—because Chase wasn’t wrong.

With how thoroughly Chase had spoiled Beef with gourmet dog treats, personalised collars and a bed shaped like a tiny hovercraft, it was a miracle Beef hadn’t defected entirely.

Robert still remembered the day Beef took one look at his modest setup, then toddled straight into Chase’s cubicle without hesitation.

“Anyway,” Chase muttered, adjusting Beef so he could glare over the dog’s ears. “—what the hell were we talking about?”

“The medical restrictions,” Robert said, straightening.

Chase clicked his tongue, shifting Beef to his other arm. “Right. The ‘don’t lift shit, don’t sneeze too hard, don’t fucking exist’ list.”

“That’s the one.”

Chase gave him a long, assessing look—one Robert had learned meant concern disguised as irritation.

“…You’re handling it better than I thought,” Chase admitted quietly, almost begrudgingly.

Robert shrugged. “Not much choice.”

“You always have a choice, kid. You just never picked the easy one.”

Before Robert could answer, footsteps and loud voices echoed from the hallway—unmistakably bright and chaotic.

Chase’s expression shifted instantly into a familiar mix of irritation and resignation.

“…And here comes the fucking circus.”

The door kicked open with entirely too much confidence for someone carrying lunch.

Flambae swept in first, chin high, a very large and very suspiciously ornate lunch container tucked under his arm like he was presenting a royal offering. Behind him, Prism wandered in without looking up from her phone, absently scrolling as if she’d been teleported here by accident.

“Good,” Flambae declared the instant he saw Robert. “You’re upright. Saves me the trouble of propping your decrepit ass up just so you can thank me properly.”

Robert blinked. “For… what?”

“I have heard the rumours,” he declared, voice echoing like he was performing onstage. “That Mecha Bitch has been slowly perishing in this infirmary, forced to survive on nothing but plain porridge and congee, like some tragic Victorian chimney boy. Fortunately for you, I... Flamebae—your saviour—have arrived.”

Prism, still scrolling, muttered a quiet “mmhmm” that suggested absolutely no interest or awareness of what was happening.

“Fuck you,” Chase snapped immediately. “The congee is my congee. And I made it bland on purpose to spite this stubborn motherfucker.”

“Normally I’d applaud making Mecha Bitch suffer. Grandpa. But… bland congee is a crime I can’t ignore,” Flambae said, not looking at him. “A culinary hate crime.”

Before Robert could respond, Flambae snapped open the ornate container with a flourish.

A warm, fragrant wave of spices drifted out — saffron, cardamom, cinnamon, browned onions — delicate, not intense. A gentle, savoury richness.

“Just be fucking grateful that I bought my leftovers for you to eat.”

Robert blinked again. “…it looks amazing, what is it?”

“Of course it looks amazing,” Flambae said, sharp and smug. “It's Hyderabadi biryani. With basmati rice. And proper seasoning. Made by me.”

Chase squinted at the dish like it might explode.

“Hold on Matchstick. He can’t eat spicy shit yet. Did you even check? Did you use that tiny, smoke-coated brain to even—”

“I checked,” Flambae snapped back, far too quickly.

Both Chase and Robert looked at him.

Flambae’s jaw twitched.

“I— I made it mild. Extremely mild. Pathetically mild. I even added yoghurt to balance the heat because somebody’s weak ass digestive system is currently held together by duct tape and hope.”

Prism did not look up from her phone, but the slow smirk spreading across her face implied she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Robert’s eyebrows rose. “So… this wasn’t leftovers.”

“It—” Flambae visibly malfunctioned. “It could have been leftovers.”

Prism snorted. Loudly.

“He was Googling ‘safe foods for abdominal injury’ yesterday.”

“PRISM.” Flambae spun toward her, betrayed. “Shut your mouth!”

“Oh, bitch made me taste-test it like four times,” she added, still scrolling. “He was pacing. Like a damn cat.”

“BITCH.”

Robert had to bring a hand to his mouth to hide a smile. “You made this… for me?”

Flambae whipped around so fast his ponytail nearly whipped Prism in her face. “I DID NOT—it’s— I just— I had extra ingredients! And your sad fucking hospital menu offended me on a spiritual level!”

Chase threw his head back, laughing so hard Beef startled. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just admit you cooked the man a whole goddamn courtship meal, you dramatic fire hazard!”

“I swear I will set you on fire you old fart—”

“Thank you.”

The words were simple. Soft. Not dramatic enough to freeze the room, but honest enough to make Flambae falter—just slightly, like someone tripping over their own heartbeat before pretending they hadn’t.

It was a tiny lapse, barely a breath’s worth, but Robert saw it. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it so plainly; sincerity usually came out of Robert wrapped in sarcasm or softened by a joke, because that was safer. Cleaner. Less exposing.

Flambae blinked once, recovered almost immediately, then snapped back into character with the precision of someone slamming a door on their own feelings.

“Just shut up and eat” he said, as if the moment hadn’t existed at all.

“Yeah. Alright,” Robert huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “But seriously, thank you.”

Flambae crossed his arms, chin tilted in a way that was meant to be imperious but didn’t quite hide the fact he was flustered.

“You’re making it fucking weird.”

“I’m not.”

It was all bluster, all heat, all the familiar defensive bristle Robert had come to recognise—yet beneath it sat something sincere, something that didn’t need to be named.

“It does smell really good,” Robert said, lifting the container again. The steam curled up toward his face, warm and gentle in a way that felt almost indulgent—real food warmth, not hospital-grade mush.

Flambae immediately looked away, nose wrinkling as if gratitude itself offended him on a personal level. “Yeah, well—just fucking eat the food, Robert, before I take it back.”

There. Perfectly balanced—one quiet beat of connection, swallowed immediately by noise and attitude. They’d landed back in familiar territory. And honestly, Robert didn’t mind that.

He shifted the container in his hands and began eating, “Relax. I’m cleared for most food now.”

Both Chase and Flambae turned their heads in perfect suspicious synchrony.

“…Cleared how?” Chase demanded. “Cleared-cleared, or ‘cleared because you argued with them until they gave up’ cleared?”

“Actually cleared,” Robert said, mumbling through a spoonful of rice. “As long as it’s nothing too aggressive—no deep-fried, heavy, oily stuff. They want me eating normal food again. And moving around more. Apparently, lying here twenty-four hours a day is suddenly bad now.”

Prism finally glanced up from her phone. “So what else did the doctors say?”

Robert paused, thinking back to the conversation he’d had during morning rounds.

“If everything keeps looking good, they’ll stop confining me to the infirmary in… maybe a week. Week and a half if they want to be extra cautious.”

Prism finally paused her scrolling, eyes flicking up with mild surprise.

“A week?”

“Roughly,” Robert said. “Then they’ll probably send me home. And by home I mean my apartment. Guess I’m finally getting divorced from the infirmary. Tragic. I was practically living at the Torrance branch. Talk about married to your work.”

Chase shifted Beef to his other arm. “About damn time they let you loose. I was starting to think you were gonna apply for permanent residency here.”

Robert huffed softly. “Wouldn’t be the worst. Rent-free. Terrible food. Constant medical supervision. Really living the dream.”

“Uh-huh,” Chase deadpanned. “Truly luxury living.”

Flambae, meanwhile, had gone oddly still for someone who operated at a baseline frequency of dramatic dumpster fire. His eyes narrowed with the intensity of someone performing mental calculus at alarming speed.

Even Prism stiffened as if struck by urgent mathematics. She blinked twice, then muttered under her breath— “Shit.”

Robert frowned. “What?”

Flambae snapped his head toward Prism. Prism looked at Flambae.

They shared a single, loaded beat of eye contact that Robert recognised from exactly one context: The Z-team “we forgot something important and now we have nine minutes before consequences hit” look.

“We need to move fast,” Flambae declared, whipping out his phone.

“Bae, I’m already on it,” Prism replied, texting furiously. “Like—today fast.”

Robert blinked. “Move fast for… what?”

Chase groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Leave it to a whole team of idiots who didn’t think ahead. Should’ve left it to Blazer and myself.”

“Think ahead about what?” Robert demanded, more confused by the second.

Flambae pointed at him like the accusation itself was a public service announcement. “You don’t have a bed.”

Robert stared. “…What?”

“You. Do not. Have. A fucking. BED,” Flambae repeated, stabbing the air with each word. “A mattress. A frame. Something designed for sleeping. Like normal, functioning humans.”

Robert opened his mouth—then closed it again.

Because technically—

…yes.

That was correct.

He had been planning to use the futon couch they’d given him before he got admitted to the hospital—perfectly functional, perfectly horizontal, perfectly fine. He’d tried to insist the futon couch was enough, only to be shot down by the entire Z-team, Chase, and Blazer in a rare moment of collective outrage. Apparently no one trusted his “body held together by stitches and stubbornness” to recover properly on something he’d casually called good enough.

And before the couch?

The floor. The sad plastic chair he owned. Whatever was closest when exhaustion hit. It genuinely hadn’t seemed like a big deal.

However, according to everyone else, it apparently was.

They were absolutely right though, that Robert cannot deny.

To be fair, he wasn’t a psychopath who hated beds on principle.

He did have one. Once.

Well—not a bed. A mattress, technically.

Before it met its extremely undignified end as a landing cushion for a certain asshole he’d shoved off his balcony during an interrogation.

He just… hadn’t seen a compelling reason to replace it afterwards.

Until now.

He probably needed a proper bed this time.

If he actually wanted to his body to heal faster.

Prism shoved her phone into her pocket with grim purpose. “If you’re getting discharged in a week, we have—like—negative time to fix this.”

“You know I—”

“SHUT UP,” all three said in perfect chorus.

Robert shut up.

Prism stepped forward, palm out. “Keys.

“…To my apartment?”

“Yes, bitch. To your apartment.” She snapped her fingers. “How else are we supposed to measure the space and buy you a bed frame that won’t collapse under your horrible life choices?”

“Look,” Robert said, “I appreciate the effort, but… what’s the point? Malevola is just going to portal you all in anyway. Keys feel redundant.”

Prism recoiled, hand to her chest like Robert’d just insulted her lineage. “Excuse me? We are trying to be respectful here.”

“I’m honestly surprised you lot haven’t broken in already.”

“Respectful,” she repeated, louder, offended in her soul. “Damn boy, we are trying to gain permission like decent human beings, and you’re here SLANDERING us like this?”

Flambae scoffed. “You really think we’d break into your depressing little cave without asking?”

“You lot literally did that a few weeks ago.”

“You were home though,” Prism said, as if that absolved them.

“Still breaking and entering,” Robert shrugged.

“Just give them the goddamn keys, Robert,” Chase added, sounding like a tired parent.

“…Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll give you the keys when I find them. If I can’t find them, I give Malevola permission to portal you guys into my apartment.”

Prism snapped her fingers like she’d just won a bet. “Progress.”

Robert sighed—but under the exasperation, a small, treacherous spark of pride glowed warm.

They were trying.

In their own chaotic, profanity-ridden, morally-questionable way… they were actually trying.

Slowly turning into decent human beings, he thought with a mix of fondness and disbelief.

God help the world.

Flambae crossed his arms, giving Robert a once-over that felt more like an audit than a glance.

“Honestly,” he said, “maybe it’s faster if you just move. Upgrade. Get a real fucking apartment. One that comes with actual real fucking furniture instead of whatever the fuck you’ve been nesting in.”

Chase snorted. “Yeah, why are you still in that shithole? SDN dispatchers get paid enough. And it’s not like you need to fund the suit alone anymore.”

Prism didn’t bother looking up. “Baby, you really should get a condo.”

Robert blinked. Then let out a slow breath.

“I’m not renting it,” he said. “I… own the place.”

Both Prism and Flambae froze.

“You own that shoebox?” Prism demanded, scandalised.

Flambae looked personally offended. “You’re telling me you had homeowner money and still chose to live like a fucking raccoon in a cereal box?”

Robert felt genuinely insulted by the comparison. Bracing himself, he expected Chase throw some snark at him too.

But Chase didn’t jump in with the jokes.

He didn’t even move.

He just stared at Robert—steady, sharp, too perceptive for Robert’s comfort.

Like he’d been waiting fifteen years for pieces like this to fall into place.

The room noise thinned without anyone really leaving. Prism went quiet mid-scroll; even Flambae’s commentary stalled.

“…Why that place?” Chase asked, voice low enough that it cut through everyone else without needing volume. “Why that one, kid?”

Robert’s stomach tightened.

He hadn’t meant to step into this conversation, but the look on Chase’s face left little room to dodge.

“I bought it right after I sold the family house,” Robert said, keeping his tone light, factual. Easy. “Somewhere cheap. Functional. I didn’t have any reason to want more.”

Chase’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in that frighteningly parental way he had sometimes, the one that went straight through armour.

“…Didn’t have a reason,” Chase repeated slowly, “or is that just the excuse you’re going with?”

Robert forced himself to meet his gaze, spine straightening on instinct.

“It was practical,” he said, more firmly this time. “The market was decent, the place was cheap, I could buy it outright and not worry about rent bleeding me out on top of everything else. Small, low-maintenance, close enough to where I needed to be. It made sense.”

Chase held his eyes for a long moment, like he was weighing the words, looking for cracks.

“And all the extra?” he asked, quieter now. “From selling the house, your dad’s life insurance and the rest of your inheritance—”

Robert gave a faint shrug, the movement careful around his ribs.

“Maintenance. Repairs. Replacement parts,” he said. “The suit wasn’t cheap to keep running. Every time it got wrecked, I either paid to fix it or it stayed broken. I put the money where it mattered.”

“‘Where it mattered,’” Chase echoed, a hint of bitterness under the words. “You mean the suit.”

“Of course I mean the suit,” Robert replied, calm, factual. “It was a necessity compared to other things. That’s all.”

It came out smooth enough, logical enough, that it almost sounded sensible even to his own ears.

Almost.

Chase searched his face a second longer, then exhaled through his nose and let it go—for now.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Of course that’s what you did.”

Robert didn’t say the rest out loud.

That the cheap apartment had been deliberate in more ways than one.

Nothing in it that mattered meant nothing in it that could be used against him.

No heirlooms left to smash. No history sitting there waiting to burn. No trace of Robert Robertson III that couldn’t be abandoned without consequence.

It was also why relocating had never genuinely crossed his mind, even after he’d compromised the place by dragging a villain straight into it.

When he hauled Toxic into his apartment, it wasn’t because it made sense. It was because the apartment carried no value in his mind—no meaning, no weight. It was a space he didn’t care about, the same way he’d stopped caring about a lot of things. It was necessary at the time, and necessity always overruled everything else.

Fifteen years of keeping the legacy alive on fumes—fifteen years of being shredded by grief he never let heal—had left him running dangerously close to empty. He’d been running on the fumes of bad decisions for a long time by then.

The balcony.

The mattress.

The interrogation.

It all made sense in that half-functional, half-fatalistic headspace he’d been living in.

In hindsight… it had been incredibly stupid. Exposing himself and jeopardising his own safety, all because he was too worn down to construct anything resembling a safer plan. And the worst part was knowing it wasn’t strategy—just exhaustion wearing a mask.

It was a miracle Shroud hadn’t decided to finish him off right there. A miracle the man hadn’t walked into the apartment he surely knew of and killed him in the one place Robert had deliberately left undefended.

He recognised the same pattern at the bar.

Walking into a nest of villains by himself. No armour. No backup. No exit strategy. Too emotional to think, too indifferent and tired to care.

Head full of self-destructive impulses and a spiteful desire to knock out some Red Ring goons while drunk—and a quiet, unspoken willingness to accept whatever happened after. If he staggered miserably back to work the next day, fine. If he didn’t… well. That thought hadn’t stopped him.

Both times, Shroud had exploited that crack in his judgement and torn it wide open. Both times he survived more by luck than merit.

Looking back now, the through-line was obvious.

He had a tendency to drift toward a place where his own safety felt… negotiable.

Where using himself as a resource, as padding, as collateral, wasn’t a last resort but simply part of the job. Where the idea of getting hurt didn’t register as a deterrent—just another cost to absorb. Where he’d worked himself to the ground and burn for it.

Robert was going to have to work on that.

On all of that. Preferably before it managed to kill him a third time in the same year. Because he knew, with an uncomfortable clarity, that luck wasn’t a resource that would last him forever.

Maybe the extended recovery time wasn’t a bad thing. It was already forcing him to stop long enough to actually look at the parts of himself he kept throwing at the fire—before he put the suit back on again.

And this was exactly one of those moments.

The tension between him and Chase must’ve stretched long enough to turn noticeable.

Prism’s thumbs hovered over her screen for half a second too long before resuming their frantic tapping. Flambae shifted his weight, jaw tight, the corner of his mouth pinched in a way that had nothing to do with disdain and everything to do with not knowing where to put his eyes.

“…Doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it that way,” Chase eventually relented, almost offhand, as if he hadn’t meant for the thought to escape.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Robert said, the reply landing before the quiet could sink in. “That’s why I’m reluctantly letting all of you buy me a bed.”

The silence lasted half a second—just long enough for Robert to wonder if that had come out too honest—before Chase scoffed and looked away like someone trying to hide relief behind irritation.

“Good,” Chase muttered. “About damn time you let somebody fix something in your life without fighting like a feral cat.”

Flambae recovered next, sniffing. “Yeah, well—a bed is the bare fucking minimum, Robert. We’re not gonna applaud you for basic human function.”

Robert rolled his eyes.

They were halfway up the stairs before Flambae realised he’d stopped hearing his own footsteps.

They were still there, obviously—boots on concrete, echoing up the stairwell in that hollow, stairwell sort of way—but they felt distant. Dampened. Like someone had stuffed cotton between his ears and left the rest of the world on low volume.

Beside him, Prism typed furiously on her phone with the vicious focus of someone waging war against an online shopping cart. The screen lit her face in sharp angles and cool blue, and every so often she muttered something obscene about delivery fees under her breath.

“Platform bed or divan?” she asked at one point without looking up.

“Whatever doesn’t look like it belongs in a student hostel,” he said automatically. “Divan, actually. Bitch probably needs to fill his apartment with more stuff too.”

His voice sounded normal enough. Casual. Appropriately judgemental.

It was his head that refused to cooperate.

He wasn’t thinking about the fucking bed anymore.

He was thinking about him.

Something ugly and unfamiliar sat under Flambae’s ribs—something that hadn’t been there before they visited the infirmary. He didn’t know the details, didn’t want them, but he knew the shape of what he’d overheard. Chase didn’t drop heavy lines for fun, and Robert never admitted vulnerability unless it was already leaking out of him.

What Flambae caught from the conversation—just the edges, the tone, the shifts in the air—wasn’t the kind of heroism Flambae was used to.

Flambae could understand risking your life for a thrill. For applause. For the impossible high of standing in the middle of a burning scene and knowing every eye was on you, waiting to see what you’d do next. He’d lived off that high for years. And somewhere in there, he’d realised he actually liked saving people. That the rush hit different when it ended with someone breathing instead of choking. Robert had been part of that change, whether Flambae liked admitting it or not.

Robert…

Maybe the idiot genuinely liked helping people.

But helping people shouldn’t look like this—welding himself so tightly to the job he couldn’t tell where Mecha Man ended and where the man began.

Flambae rubbed the back of his neck, fingers flexing around the ghost of pain he didn’t like remembering. His missing fingers ached sometimes—not physically, but in that weird phantom way where the body remembered what the mind tried to forget.

He hated Mecha Man for cutting them off. But the bitterness knotted with something messier when it came to Robert.

Because that same Mecha Man—the one who’d taken pieces of him for the greater good—had been standing in that infirmary talking about his own life like it was worth less than the means he used to save people.

The stairs curved; the fluorescent light overhead flickered. Prism slowed for half a step, then eyed him sideways.

“You’re brooding,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re not walking like your usual I’m hot and I know it stance, baby. You’re literally brooding.”

He glared at her. “I’m thinking.”

“Uh-huh. Cute synonym.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose, thumb still scrolling. After a beat, she added—more quietly this time:

“You think he's messed up, right?”

Flambae didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Prism clicked her tongue. “Yeah. Same.”

“I knew he was gonna be fucked up in some way like the rest of us. No way he’d survive being our dispatcher otherwise,” Prism said, “but that was… different. Like, levels-of-unhealthy different.”

Flambae scoffed under his breath. “That would be a fucking understatement.”

Prism hummed, sliding her phone into her pocket for once. After a small pause she murmured: “He doesn’t know how to take care of himself, does he?”

Flambae barked a humourless laugh. “Bitch probably doesn’t even know he’s supposed to.”

That earned Flambae a glance—sharp and knowing.

Prism might’ve been obnoxious on the best of days, but she wasn’t oblivious. She’d grown up scraping through alleys and public bathrooms and busted apartments same as he had. She knew the shape of neglect—self-inflicted or otherwise. When you did whatever it took just to survive.

But the version Robert carried was something neither of them knew how to touch.

They reached the landing, the air easier to breathe now that the weight of the infirmary conversation wasn’t pressing directly on his chest.

Prism finally broke the silence with a small, practical shrug.

“I mean… he’s letting us buy him a bed now,” she said. “If that’s not progress I don’t wanna know what progress is.”

Flambae snorted, the sound sharper than a laugh but lighter than before. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Obviously there’s also your biryani.” Prism rolled her eyes. “Man actually smiled while eating it. That’s gotta count as a damn breakthrough.”

“Yeah, well. Hard not to smile when the food’s fucking good.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, baby… it tasted good but I’ve tasted better,” she said “Bed, biryani, and… I don’t know. Maybe teaching him what ‘basic living standards’ means.”

Flambae huffed, the tension in his shoulders easing another notch.

“Yeah… can’t believe we’ll need to start there,” he said quietly. “Who would’ve known, Bob-Bob needs to be taught ‘basic living standards’ by a bunch of ex-villains.”

Prism’s phone buzzed twice; she glanced down, thumbs already moving.

“Group chat’s awake,” she muttered. “I told them we’ve got, like, a week tops before our boy gets cleared to go home. We need opinions on the bed before I commit. Last thing I need is Coop scolding me for buying the ‘wrong firmness’ or whatever.”

“Just buy the fucking expensive one. Beds are investments.”

“Exactly what I said. But apparently the rest of them bitches need ‘options.’ Whatever. They can vote while I ignore half of them.”

“Hmph.”

“So,” Prism continued, “we sort the bed. Then sheets. Then a duvet. Then maybe a bookshelf or something so the place doesn’t look like a witness-protection safehouse. We need to do something about all the lamps too.”

Flambae rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.

“I’m pretty sure a witness-protection safehouse would look less depressed than that. What? We’re furnishing his whole damn apartment now?”

“Not today,” she agreed, “but eventually? Maybe. He doesn’t look like he has the intention of moving soon, and if we’re gonna hang out at his place more I wanna make sure the place is at least cosy and shit.”

“Look at you,” Flambae muttered. “Planning his entire domestic makeover.”

“Someone has to,” Prism said. “And it sure as hell isn’t gonna be Mr ‘Floor Is Fine Actually.’”

She kept talking—bookshelves, lamps, maybe a rug if she could bully him into it. Flambae let it wash over him.

If Mecha Man Blue was gonna keep dragging himself back to the front line again and again, then the least they could do as his team was make sure he had somewhere decent to fall when he came home. Somewhere soft to land.

And every now and then, maybe a bowl of biryani.

Next time, he’d make it spicier.

Chapter Text

Robert had made it as far as the infirmary doorway before the ambush arrived.

“What do you mean I need to stay here,” he said flatly, one arm holding onto his jacket, discharge and aftercare papers tucked under the other. The glare he gave the Z team suggested he had already identified the culprit and was now performing the bureaucratic equivalent of aiming a loaded gun.

Only half the team was actually present—Prism, Flambae, Visi, Sonar, and Phenomaman stood clustered like they’d rehearsed this intervention, with Mandy and Chase’s approval. The others were conspicuously absent, which meant this disaster had been engineered by whoever was here.

Prism raised both hands as if warding off a wild animal. “Okay, before you get pissy—”

“I’m not pissy.”

“Before you get pissier,” she corrected, “let us explain.”

Robert exhaled sharply through his nose. It was the sound of a man who had fought supervillains, lost a mech suit, nearly died twice, and somehow still found this moment the most exhausting of the week.

“I was told this morning that I’m cleared to go home.”

“Correct,” Mandy said apologetically. “You were cleared.”

“…And now I’m not.”

Her hesitation made him pause. If Mandy had been roped into this, then there must have been some legitimate reason. But the Z team hovering behind her… that was what made him suspicious.

“Well,” Visi said gently—as if speaking to an unstable bomb. She had only just returned to work and Robert was honestly impressed she’d finally managed to hold still long enough for her shoulder wound to heal. “You can go home. Technically. Physically. Legally. Medically. All true. It’s just that—”

“There’s an issue,” Prism supplied.

“With what.”

“With… the bed.”

Robert blinked. Once. Slowly.

“The bed,” he repeated, testing the word like it might collapse under scrutiny.

Sonar winced. “Yeeeah. About that.”

Then the situation unravelled.

The Z team, apparently, had spent the last seventy-two hours conducting what could only be described as a paramilitary operation to choose a bed for him—one with optimal spinal support, anti-compression design, temperature regulation, adjustable incline, and a warranty long enough to outlive several of them. They had argued, researched, voted, unvoted, revoted, and—after a dramatic tie-breaker involving a coin and Coupé’s uncanny luck—finally agreed on what Prism called the perfect one.

They had even pooled money for it. Using money from whatever unholy bet they have been placing for the past however long it was. Robert had tried very hard not to react to that part.

But Shroud’s attack, and the sluggish cleanup at the ports, meant half the city’s shipments were still gridlocked in containers no one could access. Including, tragically, catastrophically, inconveniently: His bed.

“We would’ve asked Big Strong Alien Man here to help with the shipping,” Flambae muttered, jerking a thumb toward Phenomaman. “But…”

“But even if he moved all ten thousand containers with his bare hands,” Visi sighed, “we still wouldn’t know which one the bed is in.”

Phenomaman gave Robert a sad smile.

“It’s in a fucking container somewhere,” Flambae said. “We just don’t know which.”

Robert just stared at them for a long, silent beat.

A thousand shipping containers.

One bed.

And somehow this was the obstacle preventing his discharge.

He didn’t know what was worse—that this was happening at all, or that it genuinely sounded exactly like the kind of logistical nightmare Prism would lose sleep over. Part of him wondered, grimly amused, whether the bed was sitting under three tons of mislabelled scrap metal or buried alive beneath someone’s forgotten bulk order of ergonomic office chairs.

The image alone made him exhale slowly through his nose—the universal expression of a man realising the universe had chosen violence in the pettiest, most administrative way possible.

“They shouldn’t even sell the damn bed if they can’t find it!” Prism snapped. “Stupid bitches!”

“I know girl, it’s totally not your fault,” Flambae said immediately, sliding in behind her to give her a supportive shoulder rub—as though she were the one being forcibly detained in medical custody instead of him.

Robert watched the display for a moment, equal parts irritated and—against his will—mildly entertained. The two of them were somehow more distressed about the shipping delay than he was, which, considering he was the one being barred from going home, said unfortunate things about their collective thresholds for chaos. But he couldn’t deny it: seeing Prism unravel over a missing bed was… almost funny.

“So,” Sonar concluded, “until the bed arrives, you can’t go home.”

“I have a couch,” Robert retorted.

Several members of the Z team made sounds usually reserved for witnessing crimes. Chase glared at him so hard Robert felt himself wincing.

“No,” Chase said immediately, disgusted. “Absolutely fucking not. You are not going home to sleep on a motherfucking couch after a coma, being tortured, a raptured spleen and however many fucking months of sleeping in a motherfucking plastic chair like a depressed Victorian ghost.”

He wanted to argue back but he definitely slept in that chair depressed, occasionally, acting like a Victorian ghost when he felt like it.

Even Flambae jabbed a finger at him. “You were literally going to sleep on that couch, weren’t you.”

Robert did not answer. Which was answer enough.

Chase folded his arms. “You stay here until the bed comes. Non-negotiable.”

“Why don’t you guys just cancel the order and buy another one?” Surely that’s faster than whatever this logistics hell is.

“We already put down a deposit,” Prism said grimly. “Non-refundable.”

“Honestly it’s such a scam,” Sonar muttered. “But it’s a really good bed too.”

Robert looked at the ceiling, presumably appealing to any deity willing to intervene. Then he looked at Mandy.

Mandy sighed, reluctant but resolute.

“Robert… as your superior, I can’t let you go home knowing you don’t have a proper bed to rest on.”

“It should only take a few days,” she added quickly. “Maybe four. Maybe five. Hopefully less. Unless the port situation gets worse. Which it might. It probably will. But—but that’s beside the point.”

Robert surrendered with the weary resignation of a man who understood that resistance would only prolong the ordeal.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

Relief washed through the group like they had collectively prevented a natural disaster.

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. “But let me be very clear: I’m also cleared to work upstairs again.”

A few blinks. A few exchanged glances.

“…Upstairs upstairs?” Sonar asked. “As in office upstairs?”

“Yes,” Robert said. “As in a desk. As in not this bed. If I have to stay in the infirmary one more day and still can’t walk fifty feet without someone dragging me back to this bed, I’m going to lose my mind. I’m already starting to feel like I’m being institutionalised.”

Chase opened his mouth—likely to protest on principle—but Robert cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“I’m doing my shifts upstairs,” he said firmly. “This—” he tapped the infirmary mattress, “—is temporary accommodation. Strictly sleeping. Nothing else.”

The Z team tried to look encouraging, but their collective expression radiated the energy of people who were moments away from installing childproof locks on an adult man.

He narrowed his eyes.

“…You sure this wasn’t some ploy to keep me confined?”

All of them, Mandy, Chase and the Z team shook their heads with sincerity. Robert stared at them like he was conducting an autopsy on their collective decision-making.

“So. The bed is stuck in a shipping container you can’t identify. And because of that… I now need special permission to occupy medical real estate for the sole purpose of sleeping. Do I have that right?”

“Look,” Visi said, hands raised. “We didn’t plan for the shipping backlog. Or the container situation. Or… whatever fucking cosmic curse is happening to that damn bed okay?”

“But keeping you in the infirmary is not a bad thing Boberto!” Sonar added. “Medically speaking. Safety speaking. Sleep speaking.”

Robert turned to Mandy—his last potential ally in logic.

She did not look apologetic anymore.

She looked… pleased. This was not a good sign.

“Mandy,” he said slowly. “How exactly are you convincing the medical staff to let me stay here? They’re not going to love the idea of me taking up a bed just because furniture logistics have failed.”

“Oh,” Mandy said, brightening in a way that did not ease him at all, “they’ve already approved it.”

“…They what.”

“They’ll continue monitoring you at night,” Mandy said cheerfully. “Vitals, wound checks, pain management if you need it. It’s safer this way.”

“You’re telling me the infirmary staff willingly agreed to let me stay here,” Robert said in disbelief, “even though the only reason I can’t go home is because a piece of furniture is trapped in shipping purgatory.”

“Yes,” Mandy said simply.

“And,” he pressed, “they have no problem with me spending my days upstairs and only returning here to sleep.”

“They actually prefer it,” Mandy said. “Less bedrest at this stage is good for you, and they want to monitor your pain levels overnight while you’re still tapering off medication.”

Robert stared.

The math wasn’t mathing.

The logic wasn’t logic-ing.

And Mandy—calm, competent Mandy—was smiling like this arrangement was not only rational but ideal.

The kind of “good solution” that suggested several medical professionals and at least one overworked branch director were going to sleep better at night knowing he was under supervised care until a bed—a bed—materialised.

He exhaled, long and resigned.

“Fine,” he said—because this battle had been lost fourteen minutes ago, and possibly before he even grabbed his jacket.

“I’ll work in the office. I’ll sleep in the infirmary. I’ll utilise the gym shower. But the moment that bed arrives—even if it drops from the sky—I’m going home.”

Robert wondered how he’s going to do laundry.

His first day back working properly at his desk felt as normal as it could be.

Fellow dispatchers greeted him the same way they would greet anyone returning from sick leave. A few asked if he was recovering well—polite, brief, the kind of workplace concern that slotted neatly between emails and coffee refills. If anything, the only real change was how overworked the place looked. Dispatchers hunched over terminals, the air thick with stress and caffeine.

Mr. Whiskey didn’t even attempt to hand him an Irish coffee this time—instead, he went straight for the miniature bottle of actual whisky. On the other hand, Galen practically pounced on him—not out of awe or nerves, but sheer relief that he finally had Robert in person to unload his overtime grievances on. He launched into a rant before Robert had even set his bag down. Robert could only shudder at the thought of how bad things must have gotten in the office.

But still it was a somewhat pleasant return. Familiar. Usual. Then he sat at his desk and saw the betrayal waiting for him.

Not the dramatic kind. Not the “city in flames, villain monologue, countdown clock” kind.

The technological kind.

He lowered himself into the swivel chair of his old cubicle and stared at the monitor waiting for him there. The monitor stared back. Dull. Matte. Beige in spirit if not in colour. A relic from an era before ergonomics were invented.

After two weeks of working on the elegant, ultrawide, custom-calibrated in bed workstation Royd had built for him in the infirmary—complete with seamless overlays, glare-reduction filters and a refresh rate that had briefly made him believe in God—coming back to this… thing… was an insult.

It hummed when turned on.

Modern technology should not hum when turned on.

Robert pressed the power button again, as if the machine might apologise. It did not.

A cheerful, booming voice came from behind him, the kind that suggested someone was deeply sympathetic and also deeply amused.

“You missin’ it already, eh, Brudah?”

Robert glanced over his shoulder. Royd was leaning against the partition, arms folded, grin wide and unrepentant.

“It’s a screen,” Robert said. “They’re all the same.”

Royd laughed in the very specific way someone laughs when they know a lie has just been told.

“Ayy, nah. Dat so not da same,” Royd said, shaking his head. “Da one downstairs? Dat one was preeemo, Brudah. Fresh calibration, no flicker, colour so clean even my auntie would cry lookin’ at it. An’ she cry at nothin’.”

Robert stared at his old monitor again. It was somehow getting sadder by the second.

“I’m aware it was… better,” he admitted carefully.

“Better,” Royd repeated, offended on the monitor’s behalf. “Brudah. Da one I set up for you downstairs? Dat thing was life-changing. You touched paradise. You touched digital heavens. How you gonna come back to… dat?”

Robert had no answer. The screen flickered in what might have been agreement.

Royd stepped closer, lowering his voice like someone offering illicit goods.

“A’ight. I know you hurtin’. I can see it in your aura.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Hey, Royd might not be able swap da work computer, but lissen…” Royd clapped a hand on his shoulder, warm and solid. “Da whole set-up downstairs? I’m givin’ it to you.”

Robert blinked. “…You’re what.”

“Givin’ it,” Royd repeated brightly. “Man’s gotta look after his Brudah. Da screens, da mounts, da calibrator, da whole sweet package. You takin’ it home when you go home, aye?”

“I don’t… I don’t follow.”

“Whole ting already saved with your specs, your shortcuts, your everytin’. It’s yours. Built for you from da beginnin’.”

“That workstation is SDN property,” Robert said carefully. “I can’t just—”

“Nah, Brudah,” Royd cut in with a wave. “Dat ain’t SDN gear. Dat’s Royd gear.”

Robert stared. He had genuinely assumed—reasonably, he thought—that Royd had scraped together whatever spare parts the SDN had confiscated over the years and jury-rigged a temporary setup for him in the infirmary. A stopgap solution. A practical convenience.

He had not expected this.

Royd continued, utterly unbothered.

“Look… some parts I bought. Some parts I salvaged. Some parts maybe came from hardware confiscated off bad guys—maybe,” he added with raised hands. “But mostly? Nah. Dis a Royd Special. No serial numbers da SDN gonna miss.”

“…Why are you doing this?”

The question slipped out before Robert could stop it. He needed a moment to process the absurdity.

This wasn’t like rebuilding the Mecha Man suit. There had been a clear agreement behind that, a purpose aligned with the Phoenix Programme and mentoring the Z team. Royd had gone above and beyond, yes, but it was still part of something official.

This… this was voluntary. Unprompted. Unnecessary. Generous in a way Robert hadn’t accounted for.

Just like the bed.

Royd clapped his shoulder again, steady and sure.

“Cuz you need it, Brudah. Point is—you gonna be Mecha Man again soon, yeah? You need proper gear. Royd not lettin’ Mecha Man workin’ on somethin’ so old—” he tapped the office monitor, which buzzed weakly in humiliation, “—like some man lost in da Stone Age.”

The laugh that escaped Robert was small, startled, genuine.

And the smile that followed was bigger than he himself expected—unrestrained, warm, like a child who had just been handed a Christmas present weeks early.

“Thank you,” he said. And for once, it didn’t feel like politeness. It felt like relief.

Royd beamed. “Da Man’s finally Mecha again, an’ Royd gonna make sure he get all da proper tech support.”

Robert paused, the warmth in his chest briefly undercut by something quieter, more complicated.

“I’m… not going back to being Mecha Man anytime soon I think,” he said lightly. “I don’t even have medical clearance yet. And I’m fairly certain there are still… finer details that need sorting.”

A wry shrug. “SDN paperwork. Contracts. Whatever complications come from the fact they’re the ones who’ll be funding and supervising my return.”

He meant it as a joke, but it landed with the faint weight of truth. Internally, the thought continued further than he voiced it.

His injuries still needed to heal properly and the residual effects of the coma lingered in ways he couldn’t simply power through. Even once the wounds faded, he would need time—months, probably—to rebuild the strength, reflexes, and conditioning required to pilot the suit without compromising its performance or his own safety. He hated that recovery felt like an obstacle rather than a reprieve.

And the contract—The idea of Mecha Man becoming something beholden to SDN subscriptions, limited to paying clients, tied by corporate parameters rather than public need—He didn’t like it. Not even a little.

But without SDN, he wouldn’t have a suit to return to. Wouldn’t have a future as Mecha Man at all.

So he would have to see. Negotiate. Adjust. Endure.

He exhaled softly. “But… thank you for thinking ahead, Royd.”

Royd nodded, unconcerned, steady as always.

“Ayy, take ya time, Brudah. No rush. Heal up. Sort out da politics later. We gonna get you back in da sky when you good an’ ready.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation. Just certainty—gentle, immovable, like a pillar placed behind Robert before he could fall.

And Robert found himself grateful—again—for the support he had never asked for but was being given anyway.

Keeping Mecha Man secret had meant keeping everything else secret too. The repairs, the maintenance, the late-night fixes he’d done half-conscious, the parts he’d welded together with more stubbornness than engineering sense. Having someone else shoulder even a fraction of that still felt unfamiliar. Good. Just unfamiliar.

“Right,” Robert said, steadying himself with the word. “One thing at a time.”

Royd grinned like that answer was perfect, clapped Robert once on the shoulder, and peeled away toward the stairwell—already humming to himself, already satisfied.

Robert turned back to the sad beige monitor. It hummed again, as if mocking him. He rubbed his temples and reached for his headset.

“Okay Z team… status check when you’re ready.”

The first half of the shift made one thing painfully clear: something was off with the Z team. Not the city—calls were manageable, standard weekday chaos. It was them.

“Sonar, you’re drifting off-target. Left three degrees. No—your other left.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it—shit—”

On the camera feed, Sonar overshot his intended rooftop, landed hard on the adjacent one, and had to scramble across a ventilation maze to regain line of sight. Not catastrophic, but sloppy—and the third time in twenty minutes.

“Punch-Up, you were supposed to catch the drone courier, not punch it into the side of a building.”

“It startled me!”

“It wasn’t a pigeon, it was a scheduled delivery—”

Malevola, usually razor-sharp, kept lagging half a beat behind his instructions, forcing him to repeat himself. Prism snapped at him over comms twice—once for telling her to watch her six and once for… existing, apparently.

By the time he coaxed Sonar through a relatively simple containment incident for the third time, irritation was settling behind Robert’s eyes like the start of a migraine.

They were already down two people—Waterboy was out taking his grandmother to a health check, and Phenomaman had gone to the LADT branch for a quick catch up with his old team—so the reduced roster made every mistake stand out even more.

Flambae, Invisigal, Golem, and Coupé were at least holding steady at their usual slightly-chaotic-but-functional baseline. Distracted, sure, but not actively trying to sabotage his blood pressure.

“Alright,” Robert said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose as another call came in. “Everyone breathe, reset, and focus. I don’t know what’s distracting most of you today, but park it.”

“It’s just—” Sonar started.

“If this is still about the bed,” Robert cut in sharply, “drop it. It’ll get here when it gets here. You have a job to do. Do it.”

“It’s not the bed!” multiple voices snapped at once over the line.

Robert stared at the mission board like it might explain their collective descent into madness.

It did not.

The shift dragged. Mistakes. Delays. Miscommunications. The kind of operational sloppiness that made Robert genuinely wonder if someone had pissed in the cereal and they’d all collectively eaten from the same box that morning.

By lunchtime, he felt wrung out. His stamina had dipped faster than he expected after two cushioned weeks working from a bed, and the team’s performance was sanding down whatever patience he had left.

He had just logged the last incident report when a stack of folders landed on his desk with a soft, apologetic thunk.

Galen hovered, wince already in place. “These need sign-off. Old backlog. Admin says today if possible?”

Of course they did.

Robert eyed the stack. Old forms that hadn’t existed when he’d been confined to the infirmary. Now that he was back upstairs, every overdue document in the building had apparently remembered his name.

He was still contemplating whether sheer willpower could set them on fire when the air beside him rippled.

Invisigal phased into view, leaning an elbow on the edge of his desk.

“Y’know,” she drawled, “if you’re gonna wander into the break room, you should probably expect an ambush.”

Robert didn’t look up from the paperwork. “What now.”

Visi snorted. “The team’s acting weird about something. Weirder than usual. I have a theory, but honestly?” She flicked her hand dismissively. “Not my problem.”

“Great. Add that to the list of disasters I don’t have the stamina for.”

“Relax, Robert. Suffering looks good on you. Just… maybe avoid the medically significant kind.”

“Right. Says the woman who got benched an extra week because she couldn’t stop wandering off with an open shoulder wound.”

Visi clicked her tongue. “Low blow.”

He waited. “So what is it.”

Visi just grinned, sharp and unhelpful. “Where’s the fun in telling you that?”

She straightened, gave him a lazy two-finger salute. “Figured I’d warn you anyway. Consider it… professional development on my side.”

He gave her a look that could have wilted crops.

Visi only shrugged—and vanished.

For a moment, he considered staying at his desk forever. But the weight behind his eyes, the drag in his limbs, and the familiar fuzz at the edges of his concentration made the decision for him. If he didn’t get caffeine, he was fairly certain his soul would abandon his body and ascend directly to the ceiling.

He pushed his chair back, picked up his mug, and resigned himself to whatever waited for him in the break room. Robert didn’t expect the break room to be empty. Visi’s warning had already killed that hope.

But some part of him—deeply delusional, clearly—had still imagined he might manage a thirty-second window of peace. Enough to pour coffee, inhale it, and maybe remember why he’d returned to the office instead of staying sedated downstairs forever.

That delusion died the instant he stepped inside.

Sonar could not let it go.

That was the problem.

Because here was the thing: Sonar was absolutely certain the entire SDN Torrance branch knew Robert was Mecha Man by now.

Most had seen the suit. Some had helped clean up, maybe some locked everything down, scrubbed footage, and probably signed some soul-binding NDAs Blonde Blazer had slammed in front of them at three in the morning—because Robert had asked for Mecha Man’s return to stay quiet for now. Because he wasn’t ready.

This wasn’t speculation or paranoia.

This was fact.

And yet—

Nobody was acknowledging it.

Not once.

Sonar watched it all morning, jaw tightening minute by minute.

People greeted Robert like normal. Asked him to look over forms. Dropped paperwork onto his desk. Asked him to deal with the printer that had been dying a slow, miserable death since January.

That was the part that made Sonar feel like he was losing his mind.

He had been expecting something. A reaction. A moment of awe. Maybe someone crying. Maybe someone fainting. At least one person dropping their coffee.

Instead the branch collectively went, Ah. Yeah. That checks out, and moved on with their lives.

Like what the actual fuck.

They accepted it. Casually. Effortlessly. As if finding out dispatcher Robert had been one of LA’s most iconic heroes for the last fifteen years was about as surprising as hearing the day’s weather report.

It was absolutely insane.

At this point, Sonar was half-convinced the entire branch had collectively decided to behave normally just to spite the Z team.

It didn’t help that when Robert walked past a cluster of dispatchers, none of them even glanced twice. No whispers. No awkward pauses. No frantic pretending to look busy. Just a few nods. A quiet morning. Someone sliding a folder into Robert’s hands like this was any other Tuesday.

Sonar stared after them, unsettled.

By mid-morning, he found himself sidling up to Malevola between calls.

“Okay,” he muttered, low. “You’re seeing this too, right?”

“Seeing what.”

“The… vibe.”

She shot him a flat glance. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, dude. There are several bad vibes in this building at any given time.”

“This one’s new,” Sonar insisted. “Everyone’s acting like nothing happened.”

Malevola frowned despite herself. “Define nothing.”

“Come on Mal! You know exactly what I mean!”

That earned him a slow blink. Then a pause.

“Oh! You mean Robert!”

“Yes!”

“…Okay,” she said carefully. “Yeah. It’s weird.”

Relief hit him immediately.

Once Malevola noticed, she couldn’t un-notice. She started watching too—how people spoke to Robert, how they didn’t ask questions, how they didn’t look at him like they were sitting on the biggest secret in the city.

That was when Punch-Up got pulled in.

Then Prism.

Prism started talking about it in the chat, and eventually the whole team was aware too.

It distracted most of the team enough that they performed badly during the morning shift—and they could feel Robert’s patience wearing thinner by the second.

By the time Robert finally made it into the break room, Sonar was vibrating with the need to say something.

Robert glanced at them only briefly before heading straight for the coffee machine. Man on a mission. Get the coffee. Get out.

Good, Sonar thought. Now or never.

By the time Robert filled his coffee and turned around, they were already there—Sonar front and centre, a few others orbiting close enough to be deliberate. Not aggressive. Not confrontational. Expectant.

Robert sighed, long and flat, before any of them could speak.

“If this ends up being stupid,” he said dully, lifting the mug, “I’m baptising whichever one of you I like the least today with this coffee.”

Sonar took that as permission.

Words spilled out. Theories. Observations. The unbearable wrongness of it all. The certainty that everyone knew and the insanity of nobody reacting.

Robert listened for a grand total of ten seconds before lifting his cup again for a very deliberate, loud sip. A sip that communicated, please kindly shut the fuck up, without requiring him to expend a single calorie.

They watched him in silence through the entire fifteen-second sip.

When he lowered the mug, his expression didn’t change.

“Wow,” Robert said flatly. “It is almost as if people, unlike some, aren’t nosey and actually have important things to get on with.”

Sonar spluttered. “Oh come on, Bobby boy, you don’t get it. People are acting weird. Weird. This is not normal office behaviour.”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “Explain to me what normal office behaviour is.”

“I don’t know? Like… chit-chatting about you and glancing at you when you’re not looking or some shit?” Malevola shrugged.

From the table behind them, Golem and Flambae chimed in without even looking up from their food.

“Ask you to sign their Mecha Man figurine?”

“Ask us for juicy details about your pathetic, boring life?”

Punch-Up slapped the counter. “Jerry should be choking on his tea. Jerry always chokes on his tea around famous heroes and today he did not.”

“I can confirm that,” Coupé added solemnly.

Prism snapped her compact shut and turned. “This office gossips about everything. Lunch. Shoes. Carpet colour. And you’re telling me they ain’t gossiping about you being Mecha Man? Baby, that don’t track.”

Sonar nodded hard, vindicated. Yes. Exactly that. This wasn’t about exposure. It was about reaction. About acknowledgment.

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sounds like you and I work in two very different workplaces,” he said evenly, “but go on.”

“We’re not saying they should expose you,” Sonar insisted. “But the silence is— I dunno. Unnatural. Unholy. I’m talking full-on horror-movie quiet.”

Golem nodded. “We just think it’s strange.”

Robert stared at them long enough that Sonar felt his own momentum wobble. The uncomfortable part wasn’t Robert’s annoyance. It was the creeping sense that Sonar was asking for something he couldn’t name.

“Let me get this straight,” Robert said finally. “You’re all upset because no one is reacting in the way you want them to.”

“Yes,” Sonar said immediately. “I guess so.”

“Yeah,” several voices echoed.

He set the mug down very carefully.

“Fascinating,” Robert said. “Truly riveting. Unfortunately, none of that changes the fact that people here are professionals. They have work. Rent. Families. Bills. Problems. They are—miraculously—capable of functioning without turning every piece of information into a spectacle.”

Sonar leaned forward. “Robert, Rob, Bobby boy… they’re acting like the fact that you’re Mecha Man is the most boring information imaginable. That is not normal.”

“Or,” Robert said, drawing the word out like he was explaining basic addition to a room full of toddlers, “they understand boundaries. They know it’s none of their business. And unlike some people in this room, they have work to finish before the city catches fire again.”

“We’re not asking for gossip,” Malevola said quietly. “Just… a human reaction.”

Robert’s patience edged sharp. “Secret identities are secret for a reason. People are tired. Busy. And shockingly capable of keeping their mouths shut when something is confidential.”

Something in Sonar deflated.

Not anger.

Not exactly.

It was closer to disappointment.

He hadn’t realised until that moment what he’d been waiting for—some confirmation that this mattered in the way it felt like it should. Some shared outrage. Some acknowledgement that the silence was wrong.

Robert didn’t give him any of that.

“So,” Sonar said finally, slower now, “you’re saying the entire building is just being respectful.”

“Yes.”

“And not weird.”

“Correct.”

“So this is supposed to be normal.”

“Yes,” Robert said. “People do not come here to gossip or place bets about their coworkers. They come here to work. I know this concept might be difficult for you guys.”

Several offended noises followed. Robert ignored them, topping up his mug with the last miserable drops in the pot.

“Incredible,” he muttered. “A team of alleged adults with powers and combat experience can’t comprehend the idea that maybe—just maybe—everyone else is better at basic confidentiality than you lot.”

The room started to talk over itself again—defensiveness, outrage, half-formed points—until Robert cut through it.

“Alright,” he said. “Since we’re apparently not done being ridiculous, let me ask you all something.”

The room stilled to something in Robert’s tone.

“Why,” Robert asked, eyes moving from face to face, “do you care so much about how everyone else reacts to this.”

Silence.

He let it stretch.

“What does it matter,” he continued evenly, “whether people gasp or scream or swoon or drop their drinks over me being Mecha Man. Why is this your problem.”

Mouths opened.

Nothing came out.

Robert watched them struggle like a disappointed teacher who already knew no one had done the homework.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Grade A answers.”

He picked up his mug, gave the sludge inside a slow swirl.

“And for the record—” he added, not looking at anyone in particular, “it shouldn’t matter.”

That got their attention.

“It doesn’t change the work,” Robert continued. “It doesn’t change the calls coming in. It doesn’t make anyone safer, faster, or better at their job.”

Even Flambae looked up.

A faint crease marked between his brows as his gaze caught on Robert—tight, measured, like something had just been weighed and found missing. 

It passed quickly—Flambae masked it almost immediately, attention drifting back to his food—but the moment had already landed.

Sonar saw it.

“So whatever reaction you think you’re owed?” Robert finished. “It’s irrelevant.”

He took a sip, grimaced, and set the mug down again.

“I’m going back to my desk before the paperwork avalanche kills someone and the office becomes an active crime scene. Finish your lunch. Or your existential crises. Or whatever this is.”

He turned to leave, pointing at them with the mug.

“Evening shift starts in twenty minutes. Sonar—don’t think I didn’t see that bag of cocaine. Do not test me today. you’ve been distracted enough by whatever this is. I will reroute every one of your missions to emergency siren-testing sites if you so much as breathe near that powder.”

Before they could react, Robert pushed the door open and slipped out, leaving the break room behind without a single backward glance.

Sonar didn’t move.

Around him, the break room resumed its low, ordinary noise. A chair scraped softly. Someone shifted their stance. The vending machine hummed, patient and indifferent, like nothing worth stopping for had just occurred.

He’d been called out. Plain and simple. For making a big deal out of something that, apparently, wasn’t supposed to be one.

He tried to tell himself that was fair. That maybe he’d read too much into the silence. That maybe this was just how things worked, and he was the one lagging behind. But no matter how many times he ran it through his head, the feeling wouldn’t loosen.

It was a big deal.

At least, it felt like one.

And the worst part was that he couldn’t explain why.

Sonar stared at the door Robert had disappeared through, jaw tight, unease settling deeper instead of fading.

Twenty minutes until the evening shift. Plenty of time to get his shit together. To refocus. To stop spiralling over things that clearly weren’t his to fix and annoy his dispatcher even further.

He sighed. Big deal or not, the shift was starting soon.

The second shift went much more smoothly.

Calls came in, were handled, resolved or handed off without incident. No spiralling mistakes. No tension bleeding through the comms. The city settled into something approaching routine, and for the first time that day, Robert felt like he was actually doing his job instead of fighting fires that refused to go out.

He still noticed things.

Sonar was quieter than usual.

Not withdrawn, exactly—just more contained. Focused in a way that felt deliberate, like someone holding something down instead of letting it spill everywhere. It wasn’t enough to disrupt the shift, but it lingered at the edge of Robert’s attention all the same.

He might have been too harsh on them, on him.

Robert wasn’t in the best mood earlier—being forced to live in the SDN infirmary for who-knew-how-long because of a fucking bed would do that to anyone. Add the endless paperwork, the mess of post-Shroud cleanup calls, the team performing badly and the general fatigue of having his body refuse to keep up with his brain… his tolerance had been… thin.

Still—there was a small, quiet warmth in him when he thought back on it. On the way they’d circled him, talked over one another, fixated on something they didn’t quite know how to name. Bickering. Spiralling. Making it everyone’s problem.

For his sake.

He definitely was too harsh on them.

The Z team had always been like that. Loud. Emotional. Dramatic to the point of theatre. Subtlety simply did not exist in their collective vocabulary, and honestly, he wasn’t surprised they were thrown by the branch’s response—or lack of one.

Recognition mattered to them. Spotlight mattered. Maybe because for so long they’d been seen as problems instead of people. They chased praise with the same reckless hunger they brought to everything else, leaning hard into the light now that they were finally allowed to stand in it without being burned.

Especially Sonar.

Robert could see how badly he wanted the Phoenix programme to work. How much he wanted this version of himself to stick, despite the history, the relapses, the mess. To prove to everyone, but especially himself—that he could do this. That he deserved to be here.

Robert couldn’t blame him for that. Robert couldn’t fault any of the Z team for that. And if he was honest, he thought they deserved the recognition they fought for. Every bit of it.

It was just… different for Robert, that’s all.

By the time he finished the last of the paperwork, the office was empty. Lights dimmed. Screens dark. The building settling around him like a held breath finally released. His fingers aching faintly from too much typing and not enough rest.

He packed his things quietly, already considering what counted as dinner at this hour, when he should use the gym shower, and how long he could reasonably delay returning to the depressing glow of the infirmary ward—

When he caught sight of a familiar hybrid bat-man lurking near the stairwell.

Waiting.

Sonar straightened when he spotted Robert, takeaway bag clutched awkwardly in one hand.

“Uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his furry neck. “Hey. Bobby. Sorry. I know it’s late. I just—I wanted to apologise. For being distracted today. And, uh… ask if we could talk? If that’s okay.”

Robert paused, then shrugged.

“Honestly,” he said, “I’m headed back to a ward to stare at beige walls. Company’s an upgrade.”

Sonar looked visibly relieved, then held out the bag like an offering. “I got us some burgers.”

Robert took it, nodding once in approval. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial since noon, if only caffeine and twinkies counted. He peeked inside out of habit—more to check if there were also fries than anything else.

He froze.

Very slowly, Robert reached in and pulled out a small plastic bag containing a substance that was definitely illegal, aggressively white, and absolutely not part of any recognised fast-food combo.

He looked up.

Sonar was already sweating.

Robert didn’t say anything. He just stared at him—long, flat, and lethal. The kind of stare that had made armed criminals reconsider their life choices.

“I—okay—before you say anything—” Sonar blurted, hands up. “I swear I wasn’t gonna use it. I swear. I’m clean. I am. I’ve been trying, like, actually trying—”

Robert closed his eyes.

“Explain,” he said, through his teeth.

“I wanted a witness,” Sonar rushed on. “Like an accountability thing. I figured if I told you and did it in front of you, I couldn’t back out. So I was gonna flush it. Right away. I swear.”

Robert glanced down at the bag again. Then at Sonar. Then back at the bag.

“I’m… not entirely sure flushing drugs down the toilet is legal,” he said.

Sonar blinked. “It’s not?”

“I genuinely don’t know,” Robert admitted. “I feel like there’s a public health poster somewhere that would yell at us.”

Sonar visibly deflated. “I can throw it in the trash?”

“That feels worse.”

“…Burn it?”

“None of us are Flambae and I don’t want to start a fire in the office building.”

They stood there for a moment, both staring at the bag like it might offer guidance.

Robert sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “Bathroom. Now. Before I start asking questions I don’t want the answers to.”

They went. Sonar flushed the bag with the solemnity of someone performing a ritual, standing there until the water finished cycling, as if daring it to come back. It didn’t.

He stood there, breathing hard.

Robert watched him carefully.

“…You okay?” Robert asked.

Sonar nodded, a little shaky. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I just—wanted it gone. I’m… glad it’s gone.”

Robert gave a short nod. “Good.”

They washed their hands—because Robert refused to leave that part ambiguous—and headed back to the break room in silence.

Once seated, Sonar finally relaxed a fraction, unwrapping his burger with care, like he didn’t quite trust himself not to rush it. Robert watched him for a second, then reached for his own. The food was lukewarm, but at this point that barely registered as a flaw.

He took a bite, chewed, then glanced sideways.

“Where’s Malevola tonight?”

Sonar swallowed. “Out. Night off. Karaoke, I think. With her Down-under crew.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I told Mal I might be late. Told her I wanted to talk to you.”

Robert nodded. That tracked. Malevola didn’t miss things like this, but she knew when to give space.

They ate in silence for a moment.

Sonar picked at his burger more than he actually bit into it, gaze drifting somewhere unfocused. The earlier nervous energy had burned off, leaving something quieter behind—hesitation, maybe. Thoughtfulness.

Robert noticed. He waited.

Eventually, Sonar cleared his throat. “I think I figured out why it bugged me so much.”

Robert looked up, attentive but unhurried. “Yeah?”

Sonar nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again, like he was arguing with himself. “It wasn’t about the office. Or the gossip. Or people being weird,” he said. He huffed softly. “It just… felt wrong that everyone acted like nothing happened.”

Robert said nothing. He didn’t interrupt. He’d learned, over the time he’d spent with his team, that Sonar talked best when he wasn’t rushed.

“I think it bothered me because they acted like you’re not… something,” Sonar said more quietly. “Like Robert’s just—nothing.”

He swallowed. “I know you don’t care about recognition. I know you don’t want it. That’s not— I’m not saying that.”

“Mm,” Robert replied, carefully neutral, inviting him to keep going.

“But we do,” Sonar said, exhaling hard. “The team. We care about being seen. About being acknowledged. And yeah, maybe that’s selfish or whatever, but for a lot of us it’s the first time in our lives we’re not being treated like walking disasters.”

Robert’s expression softened at that, just slightly.

“And when all this came out,” Sonar continued, words coming faster now, “when it was you—I dunno, man. It felt wrong that everyone just… moved on. Like it wasn’t a big deal.”

He gave a short, awkward laugh. “Which is stupid, because it obviously is a big deal. You’re Mecha Man!”

Robert leaned back a fraction, still listening.

“We just—” Sonar scrubbed a hand over his face. “Even if it was just this office… I wanted people to look at you the way they look at us now. I wanted…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Man, I don’t know. Something.”

Sonar didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” he admitted. “If anyone deserves that kind of recognition, it’s you. And because—” He hesitated, then pushed through it. “Because you believed in me. In us. You made the Z team work. You gave us a chance when nobody else did.”

His voice dropped. “So yeah. It feels like you being Mecha Man should matter. Like it should be acknowledged.”

There it was.

Robert let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, if it hadn’t carried so much tired fondness with it. “That’s… sweet, Sonar.”

Sonar flustered faintly. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Robert said gently. “And I appreciate it. I really do.”

He paused, choosing his words with care—not dismissive, not defensive.

“But it doesn’t work the same way for me.”

Sonar frowned. “Why not?”

Robert leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the far wall.

“Sonar,” he said quietly, “do you know why some superheroes keep their identities secret?”

Sonar shrugged. “To protect their families. Or, like… branding. Mystery. Maybe?”

Robert huffed softly. “Those are the popular reasons.”

“Most heroes who have powers don’t actually have to think about it much,” he said. “Some wear their faces publicly because they can, like… Phenomaman.”

Sonar nodded.

“When your body is the armour, your name stops being a liability. Invulnerability, regeneration, reflexes fast enough to make ambushes pointless—those things erase the gap between the hero and the civilian.”

He paused, choosing his words.

“Being recognised doesn’t increase their risk in any meaningful way,” he went on. “It just changes the venue. Street, home, live TV—same fight, same outcome. Violence gets absorbed. Threats get ignored.”

“And a few of them make a sport out of it. Bright colours. Flames. The whole please look directly at me approach,” Robert glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Some even design their own costumes to match.”

Sonar snorted. “You mean Flambae.”

“Yeah, I mean Flambae,” Robert confirmed with a fond huff of a laugh. “Look at how many bars he’s gotten himself banned from at this point.”

Sonar laughed, the tension finally easing out of his shoulders. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

“For heroes like that,” Robert said, “identity is an extension of power. Being recognised doesn’t make them more vulnerable—it just gives the danger a front-row seat.”

Sonar tilted his head. “So when they do keep it secret…”

“It’s usually not for themselves,” Robert finished. “It’s for the people around them.”

“Partners. Kids. Loved ones without powers,” he went on. “People who can’t absorb a threat the way they can. The secrecy becomes a buffer—a way to keep the people they care about out of the blast radius.”

Sonar absorbed that, then frowned. “So where does that leave you?”

Robert watched a fleck of grease soak into the paper napkin, then leaned back a fraction more, chair creaking. The hum of the building pressed in—ventilation, servers, the quiet insistence of systems doing their jobs. Familiar. Containing.

“You went to Harvard,” Robert said eventually, glancing at Sonar. “You’re not stupid. I refuse to believe you haven’t already worked this out.”

Sonar blinked. “Hey.”

“I meant that kindly,” Robert added mildly. “You’re smart. You know the difference already. You’re just used to standing on the other side of it.”

Sonar frowned, considering.

Robert exhaled through his nose, something like a tired smile ghosting across his face.

“The Z team—and most heroes—you all have powers. You can afford to stand in the open and be applauded without worrying in the way I used to. Without feeling that constant knife-edge awareness that the moment I stepped out of the suit, I was just a man anybody could ambush in an alley.”

He let that sit. Sonar’s ears flicked, attentive.

“That’s the difference,” Robert continued. “For you, being recognised feels like justice. Validation. Proof you’re not just a problem anymore. Proof the world sees what you’re trying to be now.”

He glanced up briefly. “And that makes sense. Given where you all came from.”

“For me,” he went on, quieter, “recognition was never necessary. It was… even unnecessary. Risky. And I wasn’t the only one who understood that. Other people did too.”

His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to Mandy. Still running the floor. Still steady. Just… Mandy now. No amulet, no spectacle, no whispered commentary trailing her through the halls. The office had adjusted without fuss, without curiosity, like it understood instinctively where the line was.

The same way it always had with him.

“The silence you’ve been noticing,” Robert said, returning to Sonar, “that’s how it always worked for Mecha Man. Long before I ever took up the mantle.”

“People chose not to know,” he added. “Or they chose to know—and then set it down carefully. Like something sharp. Because they understood that knowing isn’t harmless.”

He’d forgotten, after the suit was gone, how much of that restraint he’d taken for granted.

Strangers averting their eyes when they caught a crack in his helmet. Neighbours turning their backs politely when they heard the suit powering down in the shared garage. Acquaintances pretending not to notice the bruises he couldn’t fully hide.

And in the rare moments when he was truly vulnerable—when the suit was gone and there was no certainty he would wake—hospitals, security teams, and emergency staff had closed ranks around him with the same quiet intensity. No questions. No curiosity. Just protection.

Even when everything else went wrong, that boundary held.

That had always been the response to the truth behind Mecha Man. Respect and gratitude that showed themselves through the absence of intrusion.

Sonar hesitated. “Is that… because of your family?”

Robert’s fingers stilled.

“Maybe,” he said after a moment. “When the same armour keeps burying people, cities learn to be careful.” Robert had never imagined himself as the exception. He didn’t say that part out loud.

Sonar didn’t respond right away.

He stared at the table, ears twitching faintly, processing. When he finally looked up again, his voice had lost its earlier edge.

“So… all this time,” Sonar said slowly, staring at his half-eaten burger, “the silence wasn’t people not caring, but… caring enough to stop themselves?”

“Well,” Robert said after a beat, “yeah.”

Sonar let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

“That’s… actually worse,” he muttered.

Robert huffed quietly. “Depends how you look at it.”

Sonar frowned, turning the thought over. “Everyone knows there’s a person in that suit,” he went on. “And even when they could find out who… they don’t. Even if they do know, they act like it isn’t there.”

Robert didn’t answer straight away.

“They choose not to,” Sonar added. “Like—on purpose.”

Robert nodded once. Small. Precise.

“Deliberately,” he said. “Some questions are safer left unasked.”

They ate in silence for a moment, both men finishing what was left of their burgers.

“I get the safety part,” Sonar said after a while. “I’m not saying they’re wrong. But… that’s got to be lonely, yeah?”

Robert paused.

“…Lonely?” he echoed, like he was trying the word on for size.

Sonar hesitated, then pushed on anyway—careful, but stubborn in that way that had always made him dangerous in the worst years and sincere in the better ones.

“If nobody’s allowed to know or say it out loud,” he said, “if everyone knows and they just… step around it. Doesn’t that mean you’ve been doing all of this… alone?”

Lonely.

It was an absurd word to get snagged on. He’d spent years telling himself he didn’t need certain things. Didn’t want them. Couldn’t afford them.

He had inherited a legacy that left no room for any of that. The suit. The name. The expectation that whoever wore it would become less a person than a continuation. Everything personal was stripped down and rendered mythic. Grief became duty. Exhaustion became stoicism. Survival became inevitable.

And somewhere along the way, he’d agreed to it.

He’d learnt to keep himself at a distance. To let people applaud a symbol they could recognise, while the human part stayed out of reach—because the human part was where damage stuck, was where it hurts.

He had lived like that for fifteen years without questioning it. Sure it tired him out, but it had never occurred to him to ask what that discipline truly cost.

Sonar shifted at the extended silence, ears flicking back. His voice dropped, careful. “Sorry. Shit. That was— I shouldn’t—”

“No,” Robert said, too quickly. He reined it in. “No. It’s… a fair question.”

His gaze settled on the table, as if the answer might be hiding among grease stains and torn napkin fibres.

“I think,” he said at last, words chosen with deliberate care, “…I got very good at existing as Mecha Man.”

He paused.

“And not very good at existing as anything else.”

Sonar swallowed. “That’s—” He stopped, then exhaled. “That sucks, man.”

A flicker of humour crossed Robert’s mouth—brief, tired, edged with something older.

“Yeah,” he said. The word lingered, thin but honest.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The quiet settled—not awkward, just full. Robert found his thoughts drifting, unprompted, to how easily he’d learnt to confuse being unseen with being safe. It had worked and kept him alive. But somewhere along the way, it had crowded out everything else.

Fifteen years was long enough for a habit to harden into a rule.

“I… uh,” he said slowly, more to the table than to Sonar, “I convinced myself that if no one looked too closely, then nothing could reach me.”

Sonar stayed quiet. Let him.

“And maybe that was true,” Robert went on. “At first. When there wasn’t room for anything else.” A pause. “But I don’t think I ever went back and checked whether it still needed to be that way.”

He thought of Chase. Of Mandy. Of Royd. Of the strange, unplanned support he had allowed himself to have once more—after he’d lost the suit and was forced only to exist as Robert. He’d trusted them with pieces of himself without admitting that was what he was doing.

“I don’t think,” he said quietly, “the boundary has to be quite so absolute anymore.”

Sonar’s ears twitched. “Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s a difference,” Robert said, lifting his gaze at last, “between being careful and being completely unreachable.”

He held Sonar’s eyes.

“A few people knowing,” he added. “Create a… safety net. Somewhere I’m allowed to exist without choosing between Mecha Man and Robert.” A small exhale. “Allowing myself to get a bit of support. Learning how to… trust.”

Sonar hesitated. “Does that include—”

“The team?” Robert supplied.

Sonar nodded nervously. “…Yeah. Does that mean you trust us?”

Robert didn’t answer right away.

He thought of how they hovered and bickered and annoyed him. Loud, messy, infuriatingly sincere. How Sonar, in particular, had spent the entire day unsettled—not by danger, but by the idea that Robert might not be allowed to matter.

“Yes,” Robert said with a quiet smile.

Sonar blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Robert repeated. Then, more deliberately, “I trust the team. And I trust you, Victor.”

Something in Sonar’s expression broke open—surprise giving way to relief, then something warm and dangerously close to pride. He ducked his head, ears flushing faintly, the sheer energy of him radiating outward like a poorly-contained golden retriever.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh. Cool. Cool, yeah.”

Robert watched him for a moment, then let his gaze drift back to the table. There was a pause—comfortable now, not heavy.

Then Robert spoke again, as if the thought had surfaced only just now.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze still on the table, “the office isn’t actually indifferent.”

Sonar glanced up. “About you being Mecha Man?”

“Yeah,” Robert said. “They’re just… subtle.”

That earned him a sceptical look.

Robert huffed, faintly amused.

“Lana asked if she could take a photo with the suit this morning,” he said. “Not for social media. Not for anyone else. Just her. She asked first. Made sure I was okay with it.”

Sonar blinked.

“And Galen,” Robert went on, “visited me last week when I was still on bed rest. He handed me three Mecha Man posters he’s been sitting on for years. Said they were for his kid. Asked if I’d sign them—as Mecha Man..”

He paused, then added, dryly, “And considering Galen’s super-hearing?” He gave a small, crooked smile. “I am one hundred percent certain he knew who I was on my first day at SDN. Probably clocked it before I’d even finished orientation.”

Sonar laughed. “So he just… sat on that?”

“For months,” Robert said. “Man deserves a medal for restraint. Or therapy. Possibly both.”

“They didn’t make a thing of it,” Robert said. “Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t linger. They asked, they thanked me, and then they went back to work.”

He finally looked at Sonar then.

Sonar let out a slow breath, shoulders easing in a way they hadn’t all day.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “That actually helps.”

Robert nodded once. “I figured.”

Robert finished the last of his fries, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stood.

“Come on,” he said. “I should get head downstairs before Chase and Mandy decides I’ve been gone too long and sends a search party.”

Sonar stood too, still smiling faintly.

“Hey, Robert?”

“Yeah.”

“…Thanks. For telling me.”

Robert nodded. “Anytime.”

And for once, he meant it—letting someone else carry a piece of the truth with him.