Chapter Text
Robert stared straight ahead as the CPS worker drove him through a quiet, well-kept suburb. His backpack sat in his lap, clutched tightly in both hands — everything that mattered to him crammed inside. The Pulse was hidden at the very bottom, tucked away in a small box.
The car slowed, then pulled up in front of a neat, welcoming house. Two kids played in the yard while a man and woman watched from the porch.
The woman stood as the car came to a stop, smiling warmly.
The door opened.
Robert climbed out without a word, eyes fixed on the ground, his grip on the backpack tightening.
“Robert, this is Grace and John,” the CPS worker said gently. “You’ll be staying with them until… your situation gets sorted out.”
Robert didn’t respond.
Grace stepped forward, her smile bright and inviting. “Hey, Robbie, we’re so happy to have you—”
Robert flinched hard, immediately raising his arms to shield his head as his body started to shake.
The CPS worker dropped to a knee beside him. “Hey, hey— it’s okay, Robert. You’re okay.”
She glanced up at Grace. “Sorry. ‘Robbie’ was his father’s name. He’ll only respond to Robert.”
Grace blinked, her expression shifting, but she nodded quickly. “Of course. I’m sorry, Robert.” She softened her tone. “Come on, let’s get you settled into your room.”
Robert didn’t argue. He let her guide him inside, his steps quiet and mechanical.
Upstairs, she led him into a bedroom. He paused in the doorway, eyes flicking to the bunk beds.
“Look,” Grace said gently, trying to sound encouraging. “You get bunk beds. Billy prefers the bottom bunk, so you can have the top one. Isn’t that nice?”
Robert barely acknowledged her. Instead, he moved to the dresser, opening drawers one by one until he found an empty one. Without hesitation, he shoved his entire backpack inside and shut it.
Then he turned and walked out.
Downstairs, he curled up on the couch, small and tight, staring at nothing.
In the kitchen, the CPS worker sat across from John at the table.
“I feel for him, I really do, Miss James,” John said quietly. “Having a parent murdered… that’s—” He exhaled. “But is he safe?”
“His father’s killer has been arrested,” Miss James replied. “The police don’t believe Robert is in any further danger. He doesn’t require protective custody.”
John nodded, though his concern didn’t fully ease.
Grace lingered near the doorway, watching the boy curled up on the couch.
“He’s awfully quiet…” she murmured.
Miss James’ expression softened. “From what I’ve been told… he hasn’t said a word since the murder.”
“How long can we expect to keep him?” John asked.
Miss James folded her hands lightly. “His father was a single parent. His mother died in childbirth, and from what we’ve been able to confirm, his paternal grandparents are deceased. His father was an only child.” She paused briefly. “We’re still trying to locate any maternal relatives who might be able to take him in. Hopefully no more than a month — just until we can find next of kin.”
Grace glanced toward the living room. “We can keep him longer if needed,” she said gently. “I’m sure once he’s had some time to process everything, he’ll start to come out of his shell.”
John nodded, though his gaze lingered on the small figure curled tightly on their couch.
Miss James followed his line of sight, then stood and walked over to Robert. She knelt beside him, offering a soft, reassuring smile.
“Okay, Robert,” she said quietly. “I’m going to head out now. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out, alright?”
Robert didn’t respond.
Miss James’ expression softened with a hint of sadness. She hesitated, then gently squeezed his shoulder. Robert barely reacted.
After a moment, she stood and made her way to the door, closing it softly behind her.
Silence settled over the house.
Grace and John exchanged a look before both turning their attention back to the boy on the couch.
They could already tell this wasn’t going to be easy.
It would take time. Patience.
But they hoped — quietly, cautiously — that with both, Robert might eventually begin to heal.
“Robert, sweetie, dinner’s ready,” Grace called, her voice bright with forced cheer. She hoped that if she sounded warm enough, upbeat enough, he might respond.
He didn’t even twitch.
He just kept staring at the wall.
John stepped in, gentler but firmer. “Robert, come on, bud. Let’s eat.”
Nothing.
No movement. No acknowledgment.
Billy, another foster kid they’d taken in after CPS removed him from a neglectful home, scoffed from the doorway.
“Freak.”
John reacted instantly, reaching out to smack the back of Billy’s head — not hard, but enough to make the point.
“Don’t you dare,” he snapped. “His father was murdered. He’s grieving.”
Billy flushed, rubbing the back of his head. “I didn’t—” He trailed off, muttering under his breath as he turned away and headed for the table.
Grace’s smile had long since faded. Her eyes drifted back to Robert, still curled up on the couch, small and unmoving.
The food sat waiting.
But Robert didn’t move.
John glanced at Grace. He could see the worry in her eyes — the same worry sitting heavy in his own chest.
They’d taken in a lot of kids over the years. They’d seen anger, fear, defiance, shutdowns.
But this…
This silence was different.
They didn’t know how to reach him.
After a while, John sighed and fixed a plate, walking it over to the couch. He set it carefully on the coffee table within Robert’s reach, like he might startle if he got too close.
“Just in case,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Robert didn’t look at it.
Didn’t move.
Hours passed.
The house grew quieter as the night stretched on. Grace and John checked in every so often, their footsteps soft, their voices even softer.
Each time, nothing had changed.
The plate sat untouched.
And Robert… just stayed there, curled into himself, staring straight ahead like he was somewhere else entirely.
After several hours, John stepped into the kitchen and called Miss James.
“He’s not moving,” John said quietly. “He hasn’t eaten… hasn’t reacted to anything. It’s like he’s somewhere else entirely.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Well… I don’t really know what to tell you,” Miss James admitted. “Robert hasn’t shown much response since the murder.”
John rubbed a hand over his face. “Is there anything in his file that might explain this? Anything we should know?”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry, but… his records are sealed.”
John straightened. “Sealed? He’s eleven years old — why are his records sealed?”
“I don’t know,” she said, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. “That came from higher up. I don’t have the clearance or the authority to unseal them.”
John frowned, glancing toward the living room where Robert still sat, unmoving.
“Then who exactly was his father to warrant something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Miss James replied. “I only have his name. I can’t access any of his records — not even estate information.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” John muttered.
“The lawyer handling everything told me there were… very specific instructions,” she continued. “Robert is the only one who can access anything tied to the estate. Not even guardians are allowed to touch it without him present.”
John went still.
His eyes drifted back toward the couch.
The small, silent boy curled in on himself… holding onto a backpack he wouldn’t let out of reach.
“…You’re telling me,” John said slowly, “that whatever his father left behind—”
“—is locked behind an eleven-year-old who won’t speak,” Miss James finished softly.
Silence settled between them.
John swallowed, unease settling deep in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “That’s… not concerning at all.”
“I wish I could tell you more, but I just don’t have access to anything,” Miss James said. “I can’t even read the police report for his father’s murder.”
John blinked, thrown. “What do you mean you can’t read the report? You’re with Child Protective Services — you’re supposed to have that kind of access. How are you meant to protect him without it?”
A quiet frustration slipped into her voice. “You can take that up with whoever sealed the records. Because right now, even the details of the murder — or the person who did it — aren’t available to me.”
John stared at the wall for a moment, jaw tightening.
“That’s…” He exhaled slowly. “That’s not right.”
“No,” Miss James agreed softly. “It isn’t.”
John’s gaze drifted back toward the living room, where Robert still hadn’t moved.
A kid who wouldn’t speak.
A past no one could see.
And a situation no one seemed to fully understand.
“…So we’re just supposed to sit on this?” John asked quietly.
“For now,” Miss James said. “All we can do is make sure he’s safe… and hope he starts to come back to us.”
John swallowed, unease settling deeper in his chest.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s hope that happens sooner rather than later.”
Robert had been with John and Grace for weeks now.
He still hadn’t spoken a single word.
He didn’t come to the table for meals, didn’t sit with the family, didn’t even linger nearby. But every morning, John would find the evidence — crumpled snack wrappers shoved beneath Robert’s pillow, tucked into the corners of the couch.
Proof that he was eating.
Just… not with them.
He didn’t look at anyone.
Didn’t respond when spoken to.
Didn’t acknowledge anything around him.
Grace had tried, more than once.
Soft voices. Gentle reassurances. Careful hugs.
Each time, Robert pushed her away — not violently, not angrily, just… firmly. Like contact itself was something he couldn’t tolerate.
John had tried too, in his own way. A light ruffle of his hair, something easy, familiar.
Robert had ducked out of reach before he could even touch him.
So they stopped trying to touch him.
Now, most days, Robert just sat somewhere quiet — the couch, the corner of his room, the floor by the window — staring straight ahead.
Blank. Still.
Like he wasn’t really there.
Like he was holding himself apart on purpose.
Not lashing out. Not breaking down.
Just… refusing to connect.
And the longer it went on, the more it felt less like shock—
—and more like he was making sure he didn’t get attached to anything that could be taken away again.
John didn’t know what else to do.
Most of his time lately had been spent on the phone with Miss James, checking in on Robert’s case, hoping for something — anything — that might help.
He stood in the kitchen now, phone pressed to his ear, voice low.
“I understand these things take time,” John said, trying to keep the frustration out of his tone. “But we really think Robert needs family right now. Someone he knows. We’re not getting through to him.”
“I know,” Miss James replied. “I’m working with the courts to track down next of kin. Trust me — if we find someone, you’ll be the first to know.”
John exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“Honey.”
Grace’s voice cut in from the living room.
John turned, frowning slightly as he stepped closer, his eyes landing on the TV.
A news broadcast.
The banner at the bottom of the screen read:
MECHA MAN ASTRAL MEMORIAL SERVICE
John’s brow furrowed.
The hero had been declared dead weeks ago — killed in action, according to the reports. Details had been scarce, but the outlook for the rest of the Brave Brigade hadn’t sounded much better.
Grace didn’t look at him.
She was watching Robert.
John followed her gaze.
The boy was sitting in the window again, small and still as ever—
—but this time, he wasn’t staring at nothing.
He was staring at the TV.
Onscreen, a photo of Mecha Man Astral filled the frame as the anchors spoke solemnly about his long career, his sacrifices, the lives he’d saved.
For the first time since he’d arrived—
Robert reacted.
Not much.
No words. No movement.
But his attention was locked in.
Unwavering.
Like, for once… he was actually there.
John approached carefully, slow enough that Robert could see him coming.
“Robert?” he said softly, testing the name, reaching out just a little—
Robert moved first.
His hand snapped out, grabbing the nearest glass object off the table. With a sharp, broken shriek, he hurled it at the TV.
It smashed against the wall with a violent crack.
Before anyone could react, Robert was already gone — bolting up the stairs, his footsteps rapid and uneven before his bedroom door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the frame.
From outside, Billy poked his head in through the back door, blinking in confusion at the noise.
Upstairs, Robert paced.
Back and forth, back and forth, his breathing ragged as he tried to block it out—
the anchor’s voice,
the words,
the way they said it like they knew him.
They didn’t.
They didn’t know anything.
No one understood what he was really like.
No one understood what his dad was like.
He wasn’t just Mecha Man.
He was Dad.
And no one out there was crying for Robert.
They were mourning the hero.
The symbol.
The man in the suit.
Not the one who made him breakfast.
Not the one who tucked him in.
Not the one who—
Robert made a sharp, shaky sound in the back of his throat, cutting the thought off.
He dropped to his knees and yanked his backpack out from where he’d hidden it, hands fumbling as he dragged it open. The small box was still there, buried at the bottom.
Untouched.
Safe.
He pulled it out, holding it close for a second before opening it with trembling fingers.
Soft blue light spilled into the dim room.
The Astral Pulse.
Robert lifted it carefully, cradling it in both hands. It felt big — too big for him — heavy in a way that wasn’t just physical.
He remembered how it had looked in his dad’s hands.
Smaller.
Effortless.
Like it belonged there.
Robert swallowed hard, clutching it tighter.
Like if he let go—
he’d lose him all over again.
The images came unbidden.
The red.
The sharp, choking smell of gunpowder and iron.
Those piercing blue eyes turning toward him when the door opened — surprise flickering across his dad’s face.
Robert clutched the Pulse tighter.
His head lifted slowly, grief burning hot in his chest—
and then hardening into something sharper.
Anger.
Where were they?
Where were all those heroes when Robert needed them?
Where were they when Elliot went for the gun?
Where were they when there was still time—when his dad could’ve been saved?
Now they cried. Now they mourned. Now they stood in front of cameras talking about sacrifice and legacy like they’d been there.
They hadn’t.
They didn’t know him.
They didn’t know Dad.
Robert’s grip tightened around the device, knuckles whitening.
He could do better.
He would do better.
Grandpa Bobby had built the first Mecha Man suit out of scrap and sheer determination.
Dad had built the Brave Brigade out of grit, stubbornness, and the refusal to back down.
No one had been there to save him on the worst day of his life.
So what did that mean?
It meant he couldn’t rely on anyone else.
Didn’t need to.
Robert sucked in a shaky breath, steadying it.
No one came to save him before.
So he wasn’t going to wait for someone to save him now.
Heroes had failed his dad when it mattered most.
Robert wasn’t going to make that same mistake.
Somewhere out there, people still needed help. Still needed someone to show up.
And he wasn’t going to sit here—
waiting for something that might never come.
He tightened his hold on the Astral Pulse, the soft blue light reflecting in his eyes.
The world might have failed him.
It might have failed his dad.
But it didn’t change one thing.
People still needed a hero.
And Robert wasn’t going to wait to become one.