Work Text:
Wielding a phone instead of a microphone like a normal person, the black-haired reporter insists, "My readers need the skinny, and I aim to deliver. Let's get it on the record."
Mechaman resists the urge to sigh. Putting the barebones of his hero costume on while sporting a broken arm wasn't worth it, especially not for this.
It's barely been a minute and he's already done here.
"Well, I don't have a suit, and I don't have any superpowers, so," he tells the gaunt reporter, trying to not sound as condescending as he wants to, "Yeah. Short of a miracle? Pretty much."
"Is ‘pretty much’ the same as ‘definitively’?"
"Pretty much is the same as pretty much," Mechaman deadpans, then, unable to resist throwing the words back in the reporter's face, he adds, "buddy boy."
He looks offended. Mechaman can't find it in himself to care.
"Alright, just one more please." Mechaman says, "I got to get back to-"
Briefly, Mechaman stumbles over his words. He can neither say ‘Beef’ nor ‘my dog’. But with his hesitation and lack of specification, the chatter is starting up.
That's going to start rumours for sure.
"Just- just one more." he forces himself to promise, eyes start to really hurt from all the cameras flashing in his face, "Preferably someone from this century,"
He almost says something like ‘unlike this guy’, but cuts himself off early.
"Charles Kingsley. South Bay Signal." a different reporter introduces himself, ironically looking much older than the last reporter, "So, Shroud kills your father, goes to jail fifteen years, breaks out, and immediately dupes you into a trap. Where he destroys the Mechaman suit and puts you in a coma for months,"
Already annoyed, Mechaman waits for the next part. Then it dawns on him that this guy might be accusing him, of-? Working with the guy who killed his dad?
Projecting his confusion outwards so it covers up the hurt, Mechaman tells him, "I didn't hear a question in there."
"Two parter." the white-haired man says, "First. Why didn't Shroud kill you?"
It's illegal to beat people up, and in this case, it's immoral. Being accused of collaborating with his father's murderer is unrelated to his adrenaline spike.
"You haven't been conscious for months."
The sneer on the guy's face can only be described as ‘punchable’. But he won't, because he has self control.
"It'd be easy money taking you out."
The fingers on Mechaman's healthy arms twitch involuntarily. The expression he's making can't be good for the cameras, but the cold sweat on his neck is taking up a lot of his focus.
Feeling very backed-up-into-a-corner-y, Mechaman defends himself, "Okay. Shroud wanted the Astral Pulse and Mechaman gone. He got both. I'm not sure I mattered much."
He can't look the reporter in the eye while talking. Something ugly is resting at the bottom of his throat, making the saliva on his tongue taste bad.
The edge of the stage looks interesting. More interesting than the reporter talking to him, who he doesn't want to look at.
"Right," the other man says, and Mechaman forces himself to make eye contact, "you're unimportant. Which leads me to my next question."
Mechaman can't help but sneak a quick glance towards the other's body. With a broken arm, could he still beat this guy up? He has a gut, but it could be hiding muscle. What would be the best line of attack in this situation?
Bad thoughts, he tells himself. This guy is a civilian. A pushy dickhead of a civilian, but still a civilian, who he's not going to beat up.
"Most heroes avenge their families." the reporter continues, and Mechaman can't help but look away for a second because he knows where this is going, "You did the opposite. You killed their legacy."
Mechaman lets out a sigh, tense and strained instead of tired or bored like before.
The cold sweat reprickles on the back of his neck, but it's spread to his upper back and collarbones now.
Beating up civilians is bad.
"How disappointed would your dad be if he were here right now?"
The taste on his tongue gets stronger.
"Your father, your grandfather, they must be rolling over in their graves."
The cold sweat doesn't change. He can make a decision now. He should make the right one, and respond, even though he wants to leave. Or-
He doesn't. He can't, but with another sigh, his body decides on its own.
He walks over. Now he has to make a plan. This man doesn't hold himself like he has combat training, or extensive experience on the field. He's confident in the way civilians are while standing around before a villain attack. Not believing they're invincible, but simply believing themselves to be completely safe.
No microphone. Only a little pen and a flimsy book.
With his uninjured arm, Mechaman gestures for the old reporter to get closer. After a moment, he does.
Without a second's hesitation, Mechaman uses his forehead to collide with the bridge of the reporter's nose. He meant for it to be a lovetap compared to what he did to annoying villains, but a considerable amount of force went into it.
The old guy practically flies backwards. He lands with a thump, on his side, and Mechaman immediately closes the distance with a few steps.
Then he starts stomping. And kicking. He can't get lower, with his at-risk arm in a cast and sling, but he has both his feet.
Mechaman's vision burns in painfully salty liquid. He purses his lips and pushes through, even as blood rushes upwards and attacks his nose. Fat tears slip under his mask, pressing wetness close to his skin.
Everyone always said he was a pretty crier. He hopes it's true, because he's being recorded by over a dozen press workers.
Someone laughs a little. Someone else cheers, then another whoops. The first reporter who talked to him hides a grin behind her hand.
His brain takes the excuse to continue without his input.
"Get his ass!" a woman starts, repeats it, and gets other people in on it.
It's more embarrassing than he thought it'd be, to be egged on by civilians while beating up one of them. He feels like a fraud of a hero, a group of emotions that get inevitably stolen by the tide of upset rage.
How dare he? How dare this random nobody comment on his situation, like Mechaman didn't try his best to get Shroud? Like he didn't nearly die trying?
He shies away from his brain's suggestion to keep going until the man below his boot stops making noise, because it's not directed towards this man.
It's directed towards Shroud.
But Shroud isn't here, and he can't stop kicking. Encouragement in the form of cheer-like chanting fills his ears, keeping the pain inside him instead of letting it spill out.
He doesn't feel better. Each kick makes him feel worse, turning up the strain and heat in his chest. This man is going to feel vindicated after this, like he was right.
Mechaman can't go back to this identity after this, ever.
It feels like forever when his leg is beginning to protest at the strain. The bruise under his form-fitting outfit pulses angrily, but since the pain is only getting worse, it's entirely possible that the adrenaline is simply wearing off.
Consciously, of his own violation, he gives the reporter another kick. Agony lances its way upwards, white-hot agony clawing so far it stabs at his hip and nicks his waist.
Despite this, he manages to limp back up the stage to disappear off to the side. Behind him, someone whistles. Someone laughs. The chanting dies down so fast it's as dizzying as the pain. The press chatter among themselves rapidly.
All he wants to do is go home and cry between the safety of four scratched-at walls, but he settles for collapsing in a chair instead. He knows when his body is about to give up.