Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was all over, Robert Robinson the third in his 15 year career as a hero—as Mecha man—is over, as he flew to the air it was already too late; a bomb was latched onto his mech and he didn't even realized it till it all blew up in his face—literally.

Mecha man—Robert—knew his body better than anyone else, knew how strong it is and how it would do in this situation. This time however, he overestimated himself and paid the price for it as he pummeled and landed on the ground.

In another life he would have survived the fall and the explosion with injuries and falling into a coma but not this time, as a chunk of metal sheet from the body of his armor—his livelihood passed down from his father, from his grandfather—inevitably broke off and hit him exactly where his stomach was. Pierced by the very thing he found pride in, it was as if the universe was playing a cosmic joke on him and by the time he woke up it would say “jokes on you, you still gotta suffer the precautions on what happened!” But not this time. 

The universe said this was the end of the line, and he was just another victim to this cruel twisted world—as he looked into the sky, blood gushing out of his stomach wound, puking blood mixed with saliva.

“God, the stars are so bright today, what a damn nice view to die in.” he uttered with barely a breath to hold onto, closing his eyes, breath hitched and then—the world was nothing but pure darkness once again, and this time it will stay that way.

Chapter Text

The first thing Robert saw was the light of the world shining bright once again—two pairs of eyes, one blue and one an old shade of gray.

“Oh, Robert… you stupid fucking brat.” The man in yellow spoke with a tone so sad that even Robert felt bad for whoever had made the old guy sound like that.

But then he realized—his name had been said. By a guy he had never met, yet who spoke it with such familiarity and familial love that Robert had to do a double-take.

“Chase… come on, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to see you like this—”

Chase.

The old, devastated-looking guy was Chase.

The Chase who used to babysit him when he was a whiny little bitch—Chase’s words, not his. But he looked too old for his age; none of it made sense.

“You don’t know shit about him, Blazer! Don’t tell me what he would’ve wanted or not wanted, damn it!” the old man—Chase, his uncle Chase—shouted as he turned back toward the… body?

Curiosity got the better of Robert. He moved closer to see who they were mourning, and figure out why they couldn’t see or notice him.

All his questions answered themselves the moment he saw it: his own damaged, mangled, most definitely burned body.

He was dead.

Mechaman Blue—Robert Robertson the third—was dead, and for some godforsaken reason he was a ghost. All that fucked-up legacy—if it even counted as one—ended with him. No son to pass it on to. Mechaman was fully and truly dead this time. No punchline. No jokes. A full stop.

Fuck. What was he going to do now? Shroud was still out there, and what happened to the astral pulse? He couldn’t remember anything except a loud explosion and then a sky full of bright stars shining like they were congratulating him on a job well done.

(Yeah, it wasn’t a job well done. He was fucking dead.)

Before his ghost brain could spiral any further, a ringtone snapped him back to the present.

“Oh my god—sorry, I have to take this. It’s the SDN,” said the woman in the hero costume. Blonde Blazer—he’d know her anywhere, she's quite popular within the hero groups…not that he mingles with the community that much.

“Yes… right, okay, got it.”

Before Robert could get a breather, Blazer’s face shifted into something even sadder than before.

“I have to go. They’re calling me about the Z-Team, and I need to announce Mechaman’s death to the public.”

Z-Team? Weird. He didn’t know Blazer had a team—but then again, he never cared to learn much about her.

“You stay if you want, Chase. And take a few days off… You’re all he has left. No one else to bury his body or go to his funeral.”

With that, Blazer rushed out, leaving Chase staring at Robert’s corpse like he was waiting for a miracle that would never come.

“Oh, Robert… what am I gonna fucking do now?”

Robert wanted to comfort him—say something like “I’m fine” or “It takes more than that to keep me down, unc”—but he couldn’t. Because he was dead. And the worst part was that nobody could see him. It was starting to piss him off.

“Oh my god… BEEF! CHASE, YOU HAVE TO GET BEEF—”

Luckily for him, Chase somehow found his house keys and after some time managed to track down his apartment—retired, older, but sharp as ever. Robert couldn’t have been happier. At least Beef would have a new owner and a better life. Robert always feared he’d die one day and leave Beef alone with nothing but an overfilled food bowl.

“Would you look at that, you cute handsome little fellow!” Chase said with genuine warmth as he saw Beef scurrying out of his little hiding spot just to check who was opening the door. Chase then stepped into Robert’s sad, minimalist apartment.

“Fuck, you lived like this, kiddo,” he muttered—clearly talking to Robert, not that he knew Robert was listening. Beef suddenly barked loudly from Chase’s arms—yes, he started carrying the moment he saw the cute dog—searching the room for someone he couldn’t find.

“Sorry, buddy… Robert’s dead. He ain’t coming back. Fuck—you don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

And Chase was right. Beef didn’t know the word dead. But he knew Robert. Robert, who took care of him… gave him too much food… loved him. And now he couldn’t find him.

Chase walked out carrying Beef and a bag of dog food. As the apartment door closed, Beef whined and flailed in Chase’s arms. Somehow, the dog knew his Robert wasn’t coming back this time.

Robert stayed there—floating—watching Chase leave. A tired, hunched old man and a loyal little dog… the only ones who would mourn his death. Not as Mechaman, but as Robert Robertson III. A whiny brat, and a damn good dog dad.

That was so fucking depressing, and Robert knew it.

Rather than stay in that miserable apartment complex, he decided to fly around. He eventually realized he could go anywhere he wanted, as long as it was within L.A. Weird, but he didn’t question it. It was more freedom than he’d ever had.

Breaking News:

According to Blonde Blazer of the SDN, Mechaman’s condition has been confirmed. Yesterday around midnight, many had witnessed the Mechaman suit crash landing. He was rushed into the E.R., but doctors failed to resuscitate him. It is with great sadness that we confirm the death of an incredible hero who always protected and loved the people. Let us mourn Mechaman and support his loved ones.

“No fucking way—NO FUCKING WAY THAT MECHABITCH IS DEAD!”

A man immediately burst into flames upon hearing the news, the barstool beneath his hand scorching black.

“Whoa, calm down, twin. I know it’s hard to believe but—”

“Don’t you dare say it, Prism! How can that bitch die before I got a fucking rematch!?”

Flambae burned hotter, Prism trying—and failing—to calm his temper.

How could he accept it? The bastard who ruined his life was dead before Flambae could beat the living shit out of him. How could a guy whose whole shtick was wearing a metal suit die? Sure, an explosion—but it was Mechaman. He survived worse.

“Ain’t no way you just shouted at me, bitch. We may be cool, but ain’t nobody shouting at me,” Prism snapped back, standing her ground.

Flambae knew if he didn’t get out soon, he’d torch the whole bar and land himself in prison again. The Phoenix Project be damned.

Damn it.

It couldn’t end like this. Mechaman couldn’t die that easily.

No fucking way.