Chapter Text
Robert was used to getting strange calls from strange subscribers in the quiet hours of the afternoon, but this latest one was an entirely different kind of strange, and not just because the villain being reported had apparently left his victim emotionally shaken but physically untouched.
“It was like, so fucking weird, this stranger I’ve never met before just starts staring at me with these freaky eyes, and then out of nowhere he asks me about my sister’s death, and I was like, hello??? In the middle of Walmart???? I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead I ended up just sorta… telling him all about it? It was fucking weird, it was weird, it was like… like the words were being… I dunno, pulled? Out of me? Like… Kinda like a horsehair worm pulled reluctant and wriggling from the abdomen of a terrified mantis. Horrific and disgusting, but honestly kinda cathartic, you know?”
Robert didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. So he’d elected to send Flambae to apprehend the villain in question, figuring the flamester would love an opportunity for free therapy, that he’d relish getting to rant about his many grievances and woes to some poor schmuck villain while on the clock. Because according to the database on file, that’s exactly what this villain did. Jonathan Sims, or ‘Archivist’, had the power to reach into people’s psyches and draw out their deepest fears and traumas, make them recount the worst moments of their lives with a poetic, narrative cadence they may not usually speak with, all with nothing but the compulsive power of his voice. He knew things he shouldn’t, he spoke them into the world without care, and he seemed to… feed off of the fear of others.
Bizarre. But also kinda neat, if Robert was being honest, and he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a little curious to hear if Flambae would turn into Shakespeare for a bit or if he’d just torch the guy on the spot, though it was looking more and more like it might be the latter. Sims didn’t seem at all interested in Flambae’s issues, which was clearly pissing his inner diva off in a major way.
“What, am I not good enough to hypnotize?” Flambae sounded deeply offended, voice nasally and annoyed over the comms as he spoke to Sims, “Your palate too fucking sanded down from years of nasty-ass British food? Can’t handle a real meal with real spice?”
“Look, I’m flattered, but you… wouldn’t be a particularly filling meal.” Sims’ admittedly sonorous voice sounded almost sheepish, embarrassed even, “You have trauma, yes, I imagine losing your fingers and doing time was deeply jarring, and no doubt having five fireproof guards hold you down so they could shave your head was quite traumatic for you-“
“-wait wait waitwaitwait, I didn’t tell you any of that, how the fuck did you know that without doing your weird hypno-thing-“
“But it’s not enough.” Sims said, his voice reassuring, as if Flambae should be grateful the guy didn’t want to… eat his trauma or whatever the hell he did to people, which to be fair Flambae probably should have been, “Compared to others I have… taken statements from, it’s simply not enough. To expend the energy to compel you would be akin to… a hungry huntsman spending the day chasing down a single squirrel. Not worth the effort.”
“Not worth the effort!?” Flambae’s outraged exclamation was accompanied by the distinct sound of his body catching fire, and Robert couldn’t bite back a snicker at the man being compared to a squirrel, “Oh that’s it, I’m definitely going to kick your scrawny ass now, you tasteless little basic bitch with your fucking ugly-ass nerd sweater, who even wears that shit in Cali-“ Robert sighed with fond exasperation as Flambae went on, barely noticing the subtle buzz of static leaking into his comms until Beef began to whine, but before he could ask the little guy what was wrong, Sims spoke again.
“Your dispatcher, on the other hand...” he said quietly, and all at once Robert’s amusement was wiped away by a spike of cold fear. He quickly stamped it down, but Sims seemed to… sense it somehow, which did not help the fear, “Apologies, Mr. Robertson, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What the fuck?” Robert whispered to himself, a knot forming in his stomach, “Flambae, did you put me on speaker or something?”
“No, I fucking didn’t.” Flambae’s dramatics had abruptly vanished, his voice tense now, strained, “Hey, you fucking creep, how did you know his name? Have you been stalking my dispatcher?”
“Not at all, I don’t need to.” Sims explained calmly, “I just… Know things.”
“Alright, well know that I’m gonna light your stupid hair on fire in the next five seconds if you don’t-“
“Life has been difficult, hasn’t it, Mr. Robertson?” Sims spoke gently over Flambae, soft and yet still clearly audible in Robert’s ear, only growing clearer the longer he spoke, “You never had any real autonomy, did you? Not since you were born.”
“I-I… Excuse me, what are you-“
“Never given a choice over your destiny, never having any control over your own life, your own decisions.” Sims continued easily, casually, as if he was rifling through a filing cabinet containing all of Robert’s secrets, “Your entire life was decided before you were born, and any attempt at deviation was harshly punished. You are a compact bundle of ivy, trimmed and compressed into the vague shape of a man, given no room to bloom outside the stiff metal framework that was chosen for you before you were even conceived.”
Robert suddenly felt very cold, the static from the comms seeming to seep from the headset and into his very bones.
“Hey. Shut the fuck up and leave him out of this.” Flambae growled lowly, angrily, a protectiveness to his voice that would have made Robert’s heart skip a beat in any other circumstance, “Don’t you fucking talk to him, I’m the one in front of you, you talk to me.”
“And you’re afraid of everyone seeing that, aren’t you, Mr. Robertson?” Sims ignored Flambae as if he was inconsequential, as if he had nothing to fear from a man who could immolate him with a thought, “Of your team, these people whom you respect so deeply, love so deeply, seeing you for what you are; a facsimile, a hollowed-out husk, a man whose worth lies entirely in what he can do for others, a shallowly written role for a stage play you cannot exit, for the curtain does not fall until you do. And you cannot bear the thought of them seeing that, seeing you with such clarity, knowing you in a way you are not ready to be known; flayed bare, exposed, unable to hide the gnawing emptiness inside you.”
There was the sound of the comm chirping, the group channel being opened without his input, the team’s voices laughing and joking with each other, warm and teasing, and Robert felt a sick sort of dread rising in his chest as he realized the man’s plan
“Who is Robert Robertson, really? An empty cup that can never be filled; cracked, chipped, and diminished.” Sims said simply, his words like fingernails dipping into the fleshy grooves of his brain, “A flaking mask, worn by the hollow vessel of Mecha Man’s pilot when he’s not out performing his assigned role. A child’s plaything, a doll that likely should have been thrown out long ago, played with over and over until nothing remains but jagged edges too dangerous to touch, all your uniqueness and potential gradually worn away. And if the ones you love understood that… they would not want to play with you anymore.” Robert frantically hit the mute button to no avail, the oblivious chatter of the team continuing to fill his ears, almost as loud as the static filling the channel and his own pulse pounding in his ear.
“What are you doing?” he whispered, trembling, feeling terribly exposed, “Whatever you’re doing, cut it out.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Robertson.” Sims said, and he had the gall to sound genuinely remorseful, “But I am so very hungry, and I have long given up on being kind.”
“Fucking hell, Robert, turn the comms off!” Flambae snapped, causing the rest of the team to quiet down at the unexpected shout.
“I can’t.” Robert said as calmly as he could, trying to pull up his hacking interface despite his shaking hands, despite the strange interference getting in the way, despite the prickle of unseen eyes boring into him from no singular direction, “He’s doing something to them, I need a moment to-“
“Hey guys, forget to hit mute?” Invisigal chuckled with amusement, her laughter echoed by the team, “Man, if you two were having phone sex on the job and I missed it-“
“Everyone shut the fuck up!” Flambae snapped, uncharacteristically panicked, “Turn your comms off, now, fucking… Shit, Robert do something!”
“I’m trying, just let me-“
“Speak.” Sims said softly, a request, an order, and Robert’s fingers paused their frantic typing as something shifted in his throat, a prickly mass that made him want to gag, like dozens of spiders suddenly packed into the soft constriction of his windpipe.
“I-I don’t…” he tried to swallow around it, but the mass only grew, shifting and undulating as it made its way to his mouth, pressing up behind his teeth like a skittering command, “What are you… Stop. Stop.”
“Robert?” Flambae called, sounding scared now, “What’s going on? Is he… shit, shit, fight it, Robert!”
“Speak.” Sims intoned, and the mass pressed harder, until Robert’s jaw ached with the urge to obey, trembling with the effort of refusing.
“Don’t you fucking dare give him orders, you scrawny little-” Flambae snarled, the sound of a scuffle erupting, ending in Flambae gasping in pain and the nauseating pressure in Robert’s throat growing heavier, sharper.
“Speak.” Sims sounded completely unaffected, and Robert gripped the edge of the desk, intent on shoving away from the headset, to find a place to hide where no one could hear him, but the buzzing in his limbs kept him rooted to the spot, like he’d been immobilized by the silk of a spiderweb, or the crushing grip of gravity itself.
“Someone better tell me what the fuck is going on!” Prism demanded over the comms, her outrage and confusion echoed by the team, “Is this British bitch bothering our boy?”
“Speak, Robert Robertson the Third.”
“I…” Robert’s voice cracked, “My dad, he-“ He bit his tongue hard, coppery warmth flooding his mouth, but the static receded only for a moment before returning full force, more insistent than ever.
“Speak.”
“Leave him alone-“ Flambae snarled.
“My family’s legacy is to die in the suit.” Robert whispered, the words forced from his mouth like vomit, like some terrible insect had pried his lips open and dragged itself from his gullet, pulling all his putrid stinking insides with it, “D-Dad reminded me of that all the time. Every day. ‘Son, Mecha Man is our past, our present, and our future. Mecha Man is our gift to the world, our way of ensuring tomorrow comes. Nothing matters more than that. Our little lives mean nothing in comparison’.”
“Ay, well that’s fuckin’ depressing.” Punch-Up said over the comms, not yet grasping the severity of the situation.
“Hey guys, why can’t I turn my comms off?” Golem’s low voice rumbled, “This seems like it might be some serious personal shit, but uh… yeah, comm’s stuck on.”
“Shit, mine too, what the fuck?” Sonar sounded confused, upset, “Is this technology bullshit or magical bullshit?”
“Those are the words of wisdom I remember most from my dad.” Robert continued, frozen in place, mind screaming at him to shut his mouth, to bite his tongue, to cover his mouth with his hands, anything, but his body refused to obey, “Mostly because he didn’t say much else. It was always Mecha Man this, Mecha Man that, nothing else mattered to him. It was all he lived for, all he cared about. Even me, I mean… he only had a kid so I could carry on the legacy after he was gone, my mother was paid well not to ask questions or try for custody, just have me, hand me over, and be on her way. The legacy was… all I really was to him. Just… an extension of himself. A tool. An annoying roommate he had to put up with to ensure his name lived on.”
“Anyone else having difficulty removing their comms?” Malevola asked, cheerful if not for the slight strain in her voice, “Like… it won’t come out of their ear?”
“You fucking piece of shit, you want us all to hear? That what gets you off!?” Flambae sounded furious, practically hissing, the sound of sputtering flame and heavy impacts audible through the comm as he presumably attacked Sims, “You think this is fucking funny? Stop!”
“And I was fine with that. I was. I thought it was normal.” Robert spoke clearly, his voice only wavering a little, a strange calm settling over him, the calm of a sedated man being slowly submerged in warm water, “Chase said it wasn’t, but what did Chase know, right? My dad was Mecha Man, he was a hero, he saved people’s lives every day, of course he wouldn’t have time for his clumsy crybaby son who clung to him whenever he was home like an annoying barnacle, making noise and taking up space and air until he was old enough to be useful. And if I worked up the courage to ask him to spend time with me…. let’s just say I was soundly rejected. Which was fine. I didn’t like Dad being away all the time, but I didn’t have to like it. I wasn’t Mecha Man. I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t even one of the civilians he saved. Although… I can’t deny it stung a bit, watching the news and seeing Mecha Man being all caring and attentive with some kid he rescued while I had to beg for scraps. But it was fine. I was fine.”
“Jesus fucking… Hey, Malevola, can we find Robert’s bitch dad and kill him again?” Sonar asked, a rippling sort of rumble in his voice, like the moments before a storm cloud broke, or a bat hybrid shifted forms, “Asking for a friend.”
“Oh, I think we can definitely pay the cunt a visit.” Malevola said, a sharp sort of malice in her tone, “We’re such big fans of Mecha Man, after all.”
“And when I wasn’t fine… I got punished.” Robert said quietly, weakly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Galen gesturing to people nearby, ushering them to step away from their cubicles, relocating them to ones further away where they couldn’t hear Robert’s rambling, and he wished had the capacity to show how pathetically grateful he was for it, “And rightly so, I thought. If I prevented Dad from working because I wanted attention, I got a guilt trip about how I was delaying his work, that people might die because I was too needy. And if I pushed, he… he would give me the cold shoulder for weeks. It… It kinda fucked me up a little, I won’t lie. Relationships aren’t really healthy when one party gets frantic if the other seems like they’re withholding affection as punishment. I… I get so scared when people withhold their love from me. Another fun trauma present from Dad, I guess.”
“Who… W-Who would ever…?” Waterboy sounded shocked, devastated, voice wavering like he was crying, “Who c-could stand… bear to… t-t-to deny-to withhold love from you, Rob-Mecha… R-Robert?”
“Someone who better watch they fuckin’ backs.” Prism’s voice was a sneer, dripping with venom and thinly veiled protectiveness.
“I… actually got this scar on my ear when I was eight, it was also a sort of… unwanted present from Dad.” Robert confessed dully, hearing a sharp intake of breath from multiple team members, “Had the bright idea that if I tampered with the mech, damaged it a little, then dad would have to spend time fixing it, which meant he’d be home, and if he was home then maybe I could say the right thing this time and make him love me. So I went into the workshop with a freaking hammer and tried to put a few dents in it, like a fucking idiot.”
“I do not like this.” Coupé hissed lowly.
“Boy, if this story doesn’t end with ‘and then my dad realized what a hateful piece of shite he was and changed for the better’.” Punch-Up said tightly, a low sort of timbre to his voice that promised pain to whoever it was directed towards.
“But uh… turns out the suit had self-defense protocols I didn’t know about.” Robert gave a hollow little laugh, even as he trembled slightly at the memory, “Nearly killed me. A laser bolt would have gone right through my head if Dad hadn’t shown up at the last minute to save me. But of course, quick-thinking old fuck had to make it a teachable moment. He pulled me far enough away that the bolt didn’t kill me, but he made sure it took out a chunk of my ear so I’d always have a lasting reminder of this, a lesson that would stick with me. He told me that. He told me he’d intentionally let it hit me. So I’d never forget this lesson, so I’d never be so selfish again.”
“What the fuck!?” Several members of Z-Team shouted all at once, a clamor of outrage and fury that Robert could barely hear over the static in his bones, the lead in his stomach, the sickening phantom sensation of his flesh sizzling away, the memory of heat so intense it evaporated the tears on his cheeks.
“I was sobbing. I was terrified. But you know what’s crazy?” Robert said, the slightest smile tugging at his lips, a hysterical little thing, “A part of me was happy, because Dad was holding me. Dad never touched me, not more than a pat on the shoulder once in a blue moon, and here he was holding me, actually holding me, and it felt so warm and secure and precious… and then he dropped me. Just… dropped me on the floor, and he looked… he looked so angry…”
“You’re a piece of shit, Sims.” Flambae’s voice was hoarse, winded, wavering with emotion, and Robert wondered just how long he’d been attacking Sims, trying to make him stop, to release his hold on Robert, “You hear me? You’re a fucking piece of shit for doing this! You couldn’t even let it be private! This isn’t for us! This isn’t for you, you ugly vicious hateful little fucker! I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you-“
“He told me to stop crying.” Robert wrapped his arms around himself, and Sims’ power at least granted him that small merciful movement, “He told me to get up. He told me I was such a disappointment, that he couldn’t believe his own son was such a stupid, mindless, selfish, brain dead little moron. He tossed a first aid kit at me and told me to clean up the injury myself, because he wasn’t taking me to a doctor. We didn’t need anyone asking uncomfortable questions.”
“Malevola.” Coupé’s voice was like ice, like the moments before steel shattered in extreme cold, “I wish to join you on your journey to punish Robert’s wretched father. I can provide many a… creative method of torture.”
“Nice, welcome aboard.” Malevola chirped, cheery and sharp all at once, like silk over a razor blade, “Who else is in?” There was a chorus of agreement from the entire team, even sweet stuttering Waterboy sounded outraged on Robert’s behalf, mumbling about waterboarding and ‘boiling with rage’, very on brand. Robert would have made a joke about it had his throat not been filled with static and spiders and regret.
“Dad didn’t speak to me for a whole year.” he continued, “Not a single word, he barely even looked at me, it was torture. He only started again because I turned nine, old enough to start training to replace him someday. Old enough to take a punch.”
“Fucking nine-“ Invisigal snarled, something vicious in her voice, raw and rabid.
“Who the fuck punches a nine year old?” Sonar sounded disturbed, his voice faint and quivering, “Like seriously, what the actual fuck?”
“Life was pretty simple from then on.” Robert felt his eyes begin to well up, and try as he might, he couldn’t make them stop, “Had to drop out of school to focus on training, couldn’t have any friends because they were distractions, every day was just… wake up, train, study hero stuff, train, get told what a disappointment I was, train, and then go to bed. Maybe if I was lucky Dad would cook dinner, but… honestly I think he really didn’t want to be a parent. He’d have probably never had me at all if it wasn’t for the legacy, he… he didn’t… like me. He didn’t want to deal with taking care of a kid’s needs, so he usually just left it to Chase, and then to me once I was old enough to be left alone. He told me I was lucky, that not every kid gets a roof over their head and food in their mouths and a legacy to protect. I just needed to stop being so demanding, so needy-“
“Flambae, where you at?” Prism’s voice was rasping and furious, “I can’t whoop Mecha Man Deadbeat’s ass right now but I can beat this two-bit British hoe into the goddamn ground, ain’t nobody gets off on messing with our boy!”
“Downtown, corner of Robinson and Khalid.” Flambae said, low and furious like the snapping of teeth, “Careful, he’s got some kind of barrier, my flames can’t touch him. And uh, the barrier is… staring at me. Just, you know, be advised about that.”
“This has gone on long enough.” Coupé declared, “I will fly to the office. Robert cannot speak if he is unconscious.”
“Shit, don’t announce your plan to the creepy eavesdropping villain!” Sonar yelped, the swooping of air indicating he was in flight, his tracker showing him en route to Flambae’s location, along with everyone else save Coupé.
“I don’t know if he can hear a word we’re saying.” Flambae scoffed, “He seems… I dunno, drunk? Like, he’s totally locked in, his eyes are glowing green and it’s fucking creepy. You think maybe Robert’s trauma is doing this? Like, the hypnosis goes both ways or something?”
“Who fucking cares, just keep hammering his arse until we get there!” Punch-Up demanded.
“Preferably in a manner that is more painful and less homosexual than he just made it sound.” Coupé added helpfully.
“When he died…” Robert’s voice cracked, “I… I wasn’t even all that upset. Can you believe that? My father had been murdered by a man who was like an uncle to me, and all I could think was… ‘Shit. That sucks.’ I didn’t cry. I didn’t break down. I just… kept going. Because that’s what Robertsons do, what Mecha Men do. We keep going. Avenging my dad was… more like an obligation than a driving force. It was just something I had to do, like any good and loyal son would. I… Honestly I was more upset by Shroud’s actions towards me than his killing my dad, and those thoughts made me feel… disgusting.”
He gave a choked little laugh, surprised to find that he was smiling, a strained little smile that must have looked deeply unsettling to anyone who might look at him, crying and smiling like he was Pearl or some shit. Tears streaming down a red and blotchy face, body straining uselessly against Sims’ compulsion, smile pinned like a butterfly to his face, god, he must look like a fucking nutjob.
“I’m disgusting.” his voice broke on a pitchy laugh, “I’m a fucking wreck. I can’t stomach food, I can only stand twinkies and coffee because I associate them with Chase, with the pathetic euphoria of having someone care enough about me to engage with me. I don’t have a bed because I don’t fucking deserve one. I don’t call and ask my partners to come over or to go on dates, no matter how badly I want to, because they deserve so much better than what paltry offerings I can give. I spend my nights alone in my shitty apartment sitting on the hard floor surrounded by the lamps they got me because they make me feel some semblance of warmth, clinging to it and preparing for the day they all realize I’m not a person, not really. I’m a vessel for the Mecha Man legacy, I’m a hollowed-out shell, a placeholder, not worth the effort, not worth the fucking baggage-“
“Jesus, Robert…” Invisigal breathed, horrified.
“I have nightmares all the time. Nearly every night.” Robert couldn’t stop the tears if he wanted to, couldn’t quash the desperate smile, couldn’t kill himself right here and now the way he viscerally wanted to, “Dreams where the mech’s laser hits more than just my ear, where it hits my chest instead, but it doesn’t kill me right away. The searing plasma eats away at flesh and muscle until my ribcage is bared, my heart beating frantically against it like a trapped canary in a coal mine full of broken machinery. Blue and green fire seeping into my bones and searing them away until all that remains is corrugated metal, flesh burned away to expose wiring and rust, as if the mech, the legacy, has been quietly replacing the soft organic parts of me without my knowledge, and now there’s so little left of the man behind the facade. I writhe and scream and beg for my dad to save me, but he’s just standing there, watching, not lifting a finger to help. He’s so… so disappointed in me, and it’s only once the fire has completely hollowed me out, melted away everything that made me me, that I realize… Dad is hollow too, his chest cavity raw and exposed and glistening and empty, just like mine, just like the vacuous cockpit of the Mecha Man suit…”
“Coupé!?” Flambae snapped, frantic, scared.
“ETA one minute and four seconds.” she replied tensely.
“And sometimes I dream of being in the mech.” Robert continued, “Unable to get out. I pound on the metal and scream for help, cutting my fingers on jagged metal, but no help ever comes. I can hear people just outside, I can hear Chase and Blazer and my team, but they don’t seem to hear me, they don’t notice I’m… trapped. The cockpit of the suit shrinks slowly, pressing in on me, until I’m forced to curl into a ball so tight it hurts, metal bearing down on me like a gravity well, the safe familiarity of home twisted into the coffin I always knew it would become someday. The walls close in, tighter and tighter until I can’t draw a single breath, until my bones are grinding and my lungs are pressed flat, my body so constricted I can’t move a single half-inch. I can’t breathe, I can’t make a sound, and I just… exist, in that state of crushing asphyxiation. Past the point of suffocation, past the threshold of being pressed to death, chest straining and eyes bulging and head feeling like it might burst with the pressure of it. I’m holding my breath and I can’t stop, and it feels like years of this pointless meaningless suffering…”
“I’m gonna throw up.” Invisigal whispered, faint with horror.
“And then I wake up.” he shudders out, “Gasping for air so hard I throw up, sobbing like a hysterical child, wailing into Beef’s fur like it’s the only comfort I’ll ever receive. I wake up, and if I’m lucky, I’ll have some time to calm down and get myself together before it’s time to go to work. I do my job, I take comfort in my team, my partners, and I do everything in my power to stay entertaining for them, to keep being someone they want in their lives, to be strong. Even when sending them out in the field feels like tearing my beating heart out, even when getting into the mech feels like climbing into a coffin…”
There was a slight commotion at the edge of his periphery, and Robert had never been so viscerally relieved to see Coupé racing into the office with murder in her eyes. He’d never been so happy to feel a slender arm wrap tight around his throat, warm breath against his ear as she apologized, low and sincere. He’d never been so grateful to feel his air supply being cut off, his words growing strangled as Sims’ power kept him talking, even as breath became precious, even as the world began to tunnel, even as gratitude made the tears flow thicker and the smile stretch wider.
“And I’m… so afraid… all the time…” Robert instinctively gasped for air, but this gentle suffocation was blissful compared to the dreams he was used to, “That everyone will… see… they’ll know d-deep down I-I’m… I’m just a… scared kid… a fucking disa…pointment who… who was never… good enough… will never… be… g-good….”
“Hush, Robert.” Coupé said gently, her fingers lacing softly into his hair, her voice sounding far away, raw and aching, “Sleep. Let go, my love. He will not take another word from you. Let him starve.”
Passing out had never been such a bone-deep relief.