Chapter Text
It starts the same way it always starts.
His father is sitting at the kitchen table from his childhood home, the one with the warped leg Chase fixed with ducked tape and a sheepish smile. The light above him flickers, buzzing softly, and everything smells faintly of motor oil and too strong coffee.
He doesn’t look up.
His hands are folded in front of him. Too still.
Robert knows before he reaches him.
“Dad?” His voice echoes strangely, as if the room is too large, stretched thin around them.
No answer.
Robert takes a step forward and the floor creaks beneath his weight, the sound loud and accusing. His father’s head lolls slightly to the side, and that’s when Robert sees it: the color drained from his skin, the grayish cast that doesn’t belong to the living.
Dead people in dreams are never gory. They’re worse, wrong in a quiet way.
Robert’s chest tightens but he reaches out, anyway.
The moment his fingers touch his father’s shoulder, the scene shatters. The kitchen dissolves into fluorescent light and sterile white walls. The smell changes — antiseptic, metal, the familiar smell surrounding him, almost comforting. Robert is in a hospital corridor now, his hands shaking, curled up in a plastic chair with snot running down his nose.
Footsteps approach. Chase.
He looks the same as he did that day: hair disheveled, jacket half-zipped, eyes carrying the weight of the words even an eleven years old Robert has dreaded to hear a million times before. In the dream, Chase doesn’t hesitate nor does he falter. He never does. Still, Robert knows he's been crying from his red nose and puffy eyes.
“Rob,” he says softly. Robert already knows what’s coming, but his body doesn’t believe it. His heart stutters, hopeful in a way that makes him hate himself. Something in his face makes Chase swallow harshly before he crouches down in front of the child and stays at eye level. There are tears in the near black eyes meeting his own but somehow, Robert knows he'll never see them spill. “I’m so sorry.”
The words land with the same dull force they always do — not a blow, but a collapse, like something vital giving way inside him and digging a hole so deep in his chest that he wasn't sure, even back then, that it would fill up again someday.
“What do you mean, you’re sorry?” Robert asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds.
Chase looks past him, toward a door at the end of the hall. Something twitches in his face and he has to close his eyes for a second to keep his composure. When he speaks, his voice seems so young, it shatters him. “He didn’t make it.”
That’s it. No dramatic pause. No explanation. The scene doesn't happen in slow motion and the noise doesn't fade away like it would in some movie. It's pain, raw pain taking over his body and mind, and Robert wants to scream, to tell Chase to stop it, that it can't be, that he's lying.
The scene shatters as always, flashes of white dancing behind his eyelids and he braces himself for what he knows is coming, and then-
bip, bip, bip
Robert jerks awake with a gasp, his hand clawing at his naked chest, heart slamming against his ribs so hard it almost hurts. For half a second, the hospital corridor is still there — fluorescent lights, closed door, his father’s stillness burned into the back of his eyes. Then the ceiling comes into focus.
Cracked plaster, white paint turned almost yellow with water stains he doesn't have the energy to mind. Outside, it's dark, pitch black except for the glowing moonlight entering through his opened balcony, the low hum of the city bleeding through the walls of his apartment.
The beeping doesn’t stop.
It pulses from somewhere to his left, steady and merciless, cutting through the lingering fog of sleep. Robert groans, dragging a hand down his face, fingers trembling. His skin is damp with sweat, sticking to the cotton sheets he's thrown over his mattress before collapsing on top of it. His throat feels raw, like he's been screaming through his dream. Has he?
The beeping device, lying ignored, starts flickering, aggressive red light burning through Robert's skull as he rolls onto his side and fumbles for it on the floor, knocking aside a half-empty glass of whiskey. His fingers close around cold metal.
“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m up.”
The tracker.
Its screen flickers to life as soon as he presses his thumb against it. A red pulse blooms across the display, slow and deliberate, its glow lighting Robert's exhausted face and he has to blink a couple of times for his eyes to adjust to the light.
Robert exhales sharply.
Shroud.
Or not Shroud himself. Never Shroud himself.
The device chirps again, more urgently this time, and a set of coordinates locks into place beneath the red mark, the position too close to hesitate.
Robert pushes himself upright, muscles protesting, the weight of the dream still clinging to him. His gaze drifts, unbidden, to the corner of the room where the Mecha Man suit rests against the wall.
Next to him, curled into a ball, Beef makes a sound of protest as the mattress dips. Robert's eyes soften, his fingers stroking the fur on his dog's head as he stretches and spreads his toe beans. "Go back to sleep, buddy. I'll be right back."
He plants his feet on the floor, cold seeping into his skin, and stands, the last remnants of sleep leaving his body as the familiar feeling of anger takes over.
Robert puts on some clothes, shoves the tracker into the pocket of his blue hoodie, and glances once more at his suit before grabbing his keys.
The beeping follows him as he moves, following the red dot until it stops in some dark alley behind what seems to be a sketchy bar. Music leaks through the brick walls in a distorted thrum, bass-heavy and drunk, the sound too loud even for a city like Los Angeles that never fully goes to sleep. The alley smells like stale beer, oil, and puke, and the mix of it all has Robert swallow the lump in his throat. He throws his hood on, the shadow of it hiding his face and tucks down the device. He melts into the shadows, moving on instinct more than thought. The years of training, the comforting feeling of being someone else, wraps around his body like his favorite blanket
The guy stands near a dented dumpster, back turned, shoulders hunched against the cold, face turned down and glowing blue from his phone screen. He’s smoking, the tip of the cigarette flaring orange with every drag. From where he's standing, Robert can see the tattoos scattered on the guy's skin, black ink against olive skin. He's unaware, relaxed.
Robert closes the distance soundlessly.
For one suspended second, he hesitates — not out of mercy, but out of dull worry, the absent weight of the mecha man suit almost making his hands shake. Then the tracker buzzes faintly in his pocket, and the moment snaps.
He moves.
Robert grabs the man from behind, one arm locking around his throat, the other clamping down on his wrist before he can react. The cigarette drops, hissing as it dies against wet concrete.
“What the—”
The guy thrashes, elbow driving backward into Robert’s ribs. Pain flashes white, sharp and grounding and he grunts but doesn’t loosen his hold. He shifts his weight, dragging the man off balance and slamming him into the brick wall. The impact knocks the air out of him.
The goon claws at Robert’s arm, fingers scrabbling for purchase, for skin, for something. He doesn’t look back, he can't, as Robert makes sure he won't be able to see his face, and he tightens the choke, just enough.
“Don’t scream,” he murmurs close to the man’s ear, voice low. “Be smart about this and I won't kill you.”
The goon panics, and Robert feels him gasp more than he hears him before he stomps down hard, heel catching Robert’s foot. Robert swears under his breath, loosens his grip just long enough for the man to twist free and spin around wildly, fists swinging and catching Robert's nose, making it crack.
Robert ducks the second punch and drives his shoulder into the man’s chest, making them crash into the dumpster with a metallic bang that’s swallowed by the music from the bar. Robert pins him there, forearm pressing against his throat, the cold edge of metal biting into his back.
The guy gasps, eyes wide, darting, searching for familiar features in the darkness. “Who the hell are you?” he chokes, wind pipes crushed by Robert's hold on him.
Robert doesn’t answer. He clips the man’s knee out from under him and lets gravity do the rest, taking a step back as the goon hits the ground hard, breath leaving him in a broken wheeze. Before he can recover, Robert kicks him in the head, moves fast and practiced. It’s over in seconds. The goon lies there, unconscious and probably concussed.
Robert steps back into the shadows, eyes scanning the other man's face, taking in the gang related tattoos scattered all around his temples and neck. Around them, the music is still as loud as it was, the noises of their fight muffled by it, his presence still unknown.
And that’s exactly how Robert wants it.
--
The goon comes back to consciousness slowly. The ache in his wrists first, then the dull throb at the base of his skull. The smell of dust and old concrete fills his nostrils and his mouth tastes like metal — like blood. Robert knows he's awake when he hears him groan and try to stand up from the green plastic chair he's tied to. The chair shifts and creaks beneath him, legs scraping softly against the concrete floor.
“Hey—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, swallows hard. “Hey, man. We can talk about this. Think you've got the wrong guy.”
The goon squints, blinking against the blindfold he's got on, trying to make sense of where he is.
Robert doesn't answer from where he's lying on the ground. His eyes scan the ceiling once again, cold hands tucked inside his hoodie's pocket as he fidgets with the tracking device.
“You broke my nose,” the tattooed guy says weakly, attempting a laugh that doesn’t land. “That wasn’t necessary.” Robert doesn’t respond. The silence stretches, the sounds of the city coming from the opened balcony door almost too loud in the confines of Robert's apartment. The goon shifts in the chair, the restraints biting into his skin, and the sound of his breathing starting to speed up betrays his fear.
“Look,” the man says, louder now. “If this is about money, I don’t have—”
“Tell me where Shroud is.” Robert says, his voice cutting and hoarse.
“Shroud?” The man says, panic starting to rise in his voice as he fidgets in the chair once more, a telltale sign Robert's got him where he wants to. “I don't know what you're talk—”
Robert tilts his head, making his neck crack. “You’ve got the mark on your neck,” he says. “You were carrying a burner. And you showed up exactly where my tracker said you would.” He sets the device down beside him with deliberate care, the sound of metal against concrete making the goon force down on his ties. Robert realises he might think it's a gun or weapon of some sorts. Voice steady, he continues, “So let’s be smart about this and skip the part where you lie.”
The goon's mouth falls open for a couple seconds before a small laugh escapes his lips in recognition. “Oh hell nah,” he says in disbelief. “Mecha Man? Is that you, bro?”
Robert exhales through his nose, tired. “Don't cream your pants, alright? Tell me where Shroud is and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you live. How does that sound?”
“Man, ain't no way you're going after Shroud. You got a death wish or something?”
“Okay, hey, I didn't bring you here to chitchat, alright, it's an hostage situation in case it wasn't clear. I asked you a question and I'd like to hear you answer it now.” Robert's voice is deadpan, controlled, even though he can feel the headache building behind his eyelids.
“Damn, man.” The guy says, and Robert is annoyed to notice that he doesn't seem so scared anymore. “Didn't think you had it in you. Almost believed it when you threatened to kill me, shit. Wait, is this about your dad?” When Robert doesn't answer, too busy sinking his fingertips into his sockets, he keeps talking, voice ten times more confident that it was moments ago. “It ain't healthy to hold a grudge like this, my guy. It's been what, fifteen years?”
“I appreciate your insight but I didn't bring you here for a therapy session. Now, I'm gonna ask again-”
“I dunno, man. Maybe a therapy session is exactly what you need if you're going after Shroud on your own.” Robert's eyes drift to his armor before he focuses his gaze back on the ceiling. “But I'll bite. How do you feel about your father, then?”
He huffs, rolling his eyes and tightening his jaw as the situation slips through his fingers way quicker than he thought it would. He sighs, resigned, blasé, and says, “Obviously, I love him. He's my dad.” The other guy hums like he doesn't quite believe him. “What does that hmm mean? Just say what you wanna say.” He says, turning his head to look at the other man's tied up figure.
“It's just,” he starts, calmer, “When you add obviously it feels a little less.. obvious.” Robert almost sighs again, his eyes moving to Beef's sitting frame. He's licking his private parts, unbothered by the whole "tied up guy" situation, just happy to be involved. “So, I'll ask again... How do you really feel about your father?” Robert rolls the words around in his mouth, feeling the bitter taste of the memories flood his throat. “It's as if, maybe, it's a little more complicated that you feel comfortable admitting, which, you know, is completely understandable.”
A pause, and then, “Look, I love my dad, alright? I love my dad. That's the truth.”
“Loved.” The goon interrupts, and Robert startles.
“That's what I said.” He's not sure why his tone is so defensive.
“You said 'love'. Your dad's dead, so you don't love him, you loved him.”
Robert almost huffs again, head turned to the side as his face starts to tingle. “Just so sensitive.” He deadpans, voice controlled but dripping sarcasm. “Look, if I didn't love him we wouldn't be here, right?”
“Look, we don't have to get into it.” The goon says casually, and if Robert was looking at him he'd see how relaxed he almost is. Like they're two friends talking and he's not tied up to a freaking plastic chair.
Robert laughs dryly, eyes moving back to Beef as the dog makes his way over to him happily. “Oh, but we're in it now,” He says, scratching the chihuhua's head as he starts licking his face. “Why would I be trying to find the man who killed him if I didn't love him? Why would I be doing any of this—” The tingling in his face worsens as Beef moves away, and as Robert lifts a hand to wipe the dog's spit from his skin, he's surprised to see blood smeared on the back of his hand. “Ah, shit, my nose is bleeding. Thought I was getting emotionally snotty.”
“Nah, it's probably from when I punched you in the face.”
Robert is suddenly very done with this whole predicament. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me.” He says, sitting up and cracking his stiff back for good measure. “So, here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to hang you off the side of this building, and you're gonna tell me where Shroud is, or I'm gonna drop you to your death.”
“Come ooooon,” the goon drawls. “I thought we were having a breakthrough.”
“Hey, we did,” Robert says, standing up and walking the three steps he needs to to be face to face with the blindfolded villain. “You know, for being a real piece of shit, you're pretty easy to talk to, but the only breakthrough I need right now is the location of Shroud.”
Maybe it's the sudden proximity, maybe it's just lack of common sense, but the goon loses any sense of control on his behaviour and yells in Robert's face, tiny drops of spit landing on his freckled cheeks. “I'm not telling you shit you fucking loser!”
Robert chuckles, face breaking into a grin as he looks at the tight line of the other man's lips. “See, this is more like how I thought this would go.” He moves to grab the back of the chair, pulling the other man towards the opened balcony pretty easily.
“I hope Shroud kills you just like he killed your father,” the goon spits, voice louder and louder as he starts to feel the cool night air on his skin. “I hope he fucking spanks your little daddy issues ass to death, you hear me!?” A sound of shock escapes his lips as Robert slams the chair against the balcony's concrete railing, and the goon's voice falters as he asks, “Are we outside? Why are we outside?”
“Windy up here tonight, huh?” Robert says, unfazed, as he looks at the dumpster below. “No telling where you'll land.”
“It smells like outside smells!” He says, panicked, and another gasp escapes the man as Robert lifts the chair with both hands and hangs the man, head first, off the railing. See? He's a man of his word.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Wait, okay, wait!” The tattooed guy yelps, tied up hands fighting for support on the armrests of the chair, ignoring Robert's attempt to quiet him.
“Hey, shut up, alright? I have neighbors.” Robert says quietly. “Use your inside voice and just tell me where Shroud is.”
“Okay, okay! Uh, it's, he's at—” He takes a deep, panicked breath, hands raising as high as they can in surrender. “Steel Mill. Lleweyn, uh, Lleweyn Steel Works, okay? Fuck, man.”
“You're sure about that?”
“Yes!” He yells again, stirring in the chair and making it harder for Robert to hold him up. “Please, fuck, that's all I know!”
“Stop screaming, god damnit!” Robert says, not so quietly, brows furrowed, but the other man doesn't listen.
“HELP! Help!!” He screams louder, biting Robert's hand when he slams it on his mouth, barely holding the chair with the other one. Something red lightens up on the goon's neck.
“Hey, hey, I will put you down if you just quiet the fuck down.” Robert says, gritting his teeth at the pain in his right hand and annoyed at the guy's muffled screams. He's losing time, losing his temper, and dealing with those things with blinding fury is not the way to go.
Still, when the goon starts moving so much the chair cracks, Robert's grip starts to loosen, and he makes a last minute decision: he drops the chair, leans above the railing to see the goon fall down inside the dumpster and on the mattress he put there just in case. Guess that wasn't for nothing.
“If you want something to scream about, I'll give you something to scream about.” He says right as the goon falls down, his panicked yell echoing.
“You piece of shit!” The goon screams back, still tied up, an old banana peel on his face. The sight makes Robert smile for a second.
“Hey, I ruined a perfectly good mattress to make sure you didn't die, okay? You're welcome.”
The guy throws some insults he doesn't hear as he's closing the balcony door behind him.
Robert has done his part, now it's Mecha Man's turn.
He suits up, takes the astral pulse, and flies away.
Tonight, he kills Shroud.
--
The steel mill is nothing particular as Robert infiltrates the place with an astonishing ease. He has to take down a couple guards, fights with two of them and after an easy hacking session, he's able to find the security room, and Shroud.
Or so he thought, as he enters the room discreetly, eyes wandering on the numerous security screens on the wall. The screens show him his own figure, fighting hand-to-hand with two armed guards and taking them down. The part of Robert that is still eleven years old, still stuck in that damned hospital corridor as Chase's words tear something inside of him that can't be fixed, feels pride at his own achievements. He's so close.
“Hey, um, can I get a copy of that video when we're through here?” He asks, and he's anything if not petty, “Cause it's over, Shroud, and it'd be nice to watch that back at a different angle.”
“Oh, no. It's over, Shroud!” A familiar voice mocks from the turned chair. Robert sighs, eyes rolling as the same tattooed dude he's thrown out the window two hours prior comes into sight. “All this buildup, man. Face to face with your father's killer and you come in here with that lame shit?”
“Ugh,” Robert groans, hands on his hips. Can this day end already? “Where the fuck is Shroud?”
“He'll be here in a bit.” The goon says, texting on his phone, never lifting his gaze to look at Robert. “Oh, hey, by the way. After our conversation, I asked him about your dad.”
Finally, he looks at him, and Robert has had it already. “Fun little tidbit, he was very well hydrated. Turns out right after Shroud shot him in the chest, your dad pissed his pants.” Figures, Robert thinks, unimpressed, using the built-in computer in his armor and ignoring the goon's taunting the best he can. “Bet ya didn't know that, huh? So after that bullet tore through his insides, he still had enough time to know how absolutely fucked he was, and just pissed himself like a little bitch. It was, like, sooooo much piss, cause your dad was wearing shorts, so it just—”
Robert only hesitates a second: kick or stomp?
One look at that guy's stupid face ends his dilemma. Stomp it is.
Mecha Man comes into action, stepping on that goon like he's nothing but an insect, which he kind of is, in Robert's humble opinion, and he climbs inside of it. The armor comes to life in shiny blue light and as Robert speaks, the voice that comes out of it doesn't belong to him. “Starting to think I didn't need to waste a perfectly good mattress to break your fall.
“Perfectly good?” The goon mocks but it falls flat as he struggles to get to his feet, his arms and legs clearly broken from Mecha Man's weight on his limbs. “I assumed that cum-stained thing was already in the dumpster.”
Robert watches as he crawls pathetically. “Can we just skip to the part where you reveal your bullshit superpower so we can fight for real?”
And so he does. Disgusting radioactive substance takes over his battered body, comes out of his nose and mouth in a way that has Robert's lips curl in disgust. He stands prouder now, showing off as if Robert's gonna cheer for him or something, his limbs magically fixed and- well, his soft dick hanging from between his legs.
“Cool dick,” Robert mocks. “So you, uh, got some kinda clever supervillain name?”
“You can call me Toxic.” He answers, and Robert chuckles.
“Bro, that works on so many levels for you.”
“Yeah, no shit, that's the point.” Toxic drawls, launching himself at Mecha Man with renewed speed.
Robert braces for impact.
--
The smell of oil and metal is heavy in the air as she exhales her cigarette smoke.
She’s perched on a high platform overlooking the central floor of the steel mill, boots dangling over the edge, back pressed against a rusted support beam. The wind up here is colder, carrying the metallic tang of iron and dust. Below, floodlights carve the darkness into harsh shapes, throwing long shadows that crawl and twist with every movement.
Mecha Man stands at the center of it all; big, loud, heroic.
She brings the cigarette to her lips, inhales slowly. The smoke curls around her face, pale and lazy, before the wind steals it away. She doesn’t bother flicking the ash. It falls where it wants.
Down below, the goon rushes in, swinging a pipe like it’s an extension of his arm. The sound rings out sharp and satisfying as it connects with Mecha Man’s shoulder plating.
Invisigal exhales and almost whistles as Mecha Man fights in earnest. “Still standing,” she murmurs to no one.
As more punches are exchanged, Invisigal watches the suit absorb the impact — sees the micro-stutter in his movement, the half-second delay that gives him away; the suit is hurting, that much is obvious, and soon, it'll give up. That'll be her cue.
Mecha Man retaliates, one heavy punch sending the goon sprawling across the concrete. Invisigal tilts her head, studying the arc of the motion, the way the suit overcorrects at the end. She takes another drag, eyes flicking to the crane's cabin where the dark silhouette haunting her dreams is watching the scene. Feeling her gaze on him, he turns to her, and nods.
“Yeah,” she says softly and stands up. “Show time.”
The goon gets back up and right then, things move even faster. Mecha Man is outnumbered as dozens of villains join Toxic for a simultaenous attack. He fights, she has to give him that, but soon it's not enough, and the giant armor is hanging in the air by a giant steel hook.
Invisigal shifts her weight, boots scraping lightly against metal. It could've been over way sooner, she thinks, but Shroud had been clear.
Let him feel like he’s winning.
She scowls and taps ash from her cigarette, then glances at the compact bomb clipped to her belt. Small but efficient, designed to destroy, designed to kill.
Below, Toxic says something she can’t hear. He's probably just talking shit, taunting and mocking, so she doesn't try to hear the exchange. Mecha Man stiffens from where he's trapped. It's now or never.
She throws the cigarette over the railing, puts on her mask, and holds her breath, disappearing from view. Jumping into the battlefield, Invisigal slides on the hook's cables and jumps on Mecha Man's back with fluid precision, boots finding purchase in damaged seams, one knee braced between his shoulder plates. For a brief second, she falters, finding leverage as the armor's energy shield activates and surrounds them, protecting both of them from her team's attacks.
“Nothing personal,” she whispers, voice close to his ear, though he’ll never hear it, and slaps the bomb onto the exposed panel between his shoulder blades.
“Good news, buddy. Shroud says he just wants the Astral Pulse. Which, we all know, isn't really yours anyway.” She hears Toxic say.
A particularly violent attack hits the shield and Invisigal loses her balance, almost falling off the armor, her hand catching on the ridge of a hole one of Toxic's radioactive attacks has caused.
What she sees when she lifts herself shakes her to her core. There's a man inside the suit, and of course she knew that, but seeing him, looking right into the masked guy's brown eyes, it almost makes her fall down again.
Still, she finds her composure, her still invisible body moving fast and determined until she's back between his shoulder blades, and this time there's no hesitation. Not when she meets Shroud's gaze from a platform high up.
click
Magnetic lock engaged. Bomb armed.
She’s gone again before his systems even register the weight, the heat.
Tonight, Shroud kills Mecha Man.