Work Text:
Robbie is a busy man.
Busy was a bit of an understatement. Crime wasn't going to be considerate of your personal life, or plans, or responsibilities. Such responsibilities include but are not limited to spending time with your teenage son. At worst, his patrols often took up the majority of his day, causing him to return home late. This was one of those days. Initially, there had been some guilt over leaving his son to his own devices, but Robbie trusted enough in his son's independence and discipline to let the worry go.
Robbie parks his car up to his house, the walls bathed in the car's headlights. it's hard not to notice the way one of the windows were brightly lit, sticking out like a sore thumb against the night sky. Robbie shook his head. It's already three hours past midnight, far too late for Robert to still be awake.
Cool January air breezes through his hair as he walked up to the front door, keys jingling in his hand. The door unlocks with a click and squeak. He should really do something about those hinges.
It's quiet. Too quiet for someone who's supposed to be awake.
"Robert." He called out, stern. "Are you still up?" The question echoes up the stairwell, unanswered.
Robbie sighs, he starts climbing the stairs. Oddly enough, his heart rate spikes, whether from fatigue or pure instinct, he doesn't know. The pit in his gut whispers that something's wrong. He makes his way towards Robert's room.
"We already talked about this, Robert. You have a schedule for a reason, stick to it—"
Empty.
Not just empty, but also clean. Eerily clean. Robert's bedroom looked like it belonged in a hotel. His bed laid there—pristine, blankets neatly folded on the mattress. The trash bin and laundry basket completely empty. The walls, shelves, drawers, all empty. His desk was no exception, almost.
The desk was bare, like the rest of the room, devoid of any sign of previous use. Except for a small piece of folded paper that laid in the center, beckoning him closer.
Robbie felt his stomach drop.
He moved across the room in less than three strides. The piece of paper felt insurmountably heavy in his calloused hands. He hesitates for a split second. He holds his breath and unfolds the note open.
Dear
Sir, Father,Dad,When was the last time I called you that?
Dad, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.
Shit. Robbie's reflexes instantly kick in, shoving the barely read note in his pocket as he dashes out the bedroom. His heart pounds against his ribs.
"Robert!" He yelled to no avail.
Kitchen.
Garage.
Living room.
Basement.
All nothing.
"Where the hell are you?" Robbie shouted, only to be returned with silence. He carries on, rushing around the house, searching when it occurs to him:
The bathroom.
Light peeks through between the doorframe. Robbie's faced with an all too familiar distinct coppery scent seeping out from the crack beneath the door. He tries the handle. Locked.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The spare keys aren't with him.
He steps back, braces his shoulder against the wood and slams into it.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Time was running out.
THUD.
THUD.
He curses the door's sturdiness.
THUD.
THUD.
Almost there. His shoulder ached.
THUD!
The door finally broke open. The first thing that hits him is the strong metallic odor. His head snapped towards the source.
"Fuck— Robert!"
There laid his son, curled up into a fetal position. He looked far too pale, his lips a shade of purple. His wrists. A singular long, deep, gash ran along the length of each forearm. The one on his right more crudely done and shakier than the one on his left. Red streaks lined the walls of porcelain, trailing down and disappearing down the drain. Robbie was no stranger to gore, the nature of his work made that unavoidable. But the way these wounds on his son seemed to seethe pure hate for himself made Robbie's stomach churn.
He slips a hand beneath Robert's knees and shoulders, lifting him with shaking arms. He's cold. Robert weighed far too light for his age. He never noticed until now. This was the first time he's carried his son in 5 years. The box-cutter Robert loosely held fell, clattering against the tub. He laid Robert down onto the tile as carefully as his trembling arms would let him. He brought two fingers up to Robert's jugular. Nothing.
Robbie fumbled for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts until he spots Trackstar, and sets it on the ground next to Robert.
The phone's ringing bounces off the smooth bathroom wall. Robbie desperately summons the hero inside himself. What would Mechaman do? He shrugs off his jacket and ties each sleeve tight on Robert's biceps, an improvised tourniquet. He centers both hands over Robert's heart. He inhales a shaky, cold breath and begins performing chest compressions.
Red pools of liquid slowly spread out, seeping onto the tile's grout. He has a clearer view of Robert from this angle. His freckles stood out against his graying skin like ink splattered on paper. His deep brown eyes stare out, unfocused, dull, waxy. A sickening crack rips through the bathroom, which Robbie could only assume was his son's ribs breaking under the pressure. A tear rolls down Robert's cheek. It takes him a moment to realize it's his own tears.
"Astral?" Trackstar's drowsy voice is distorted through the phone's speaker. "It's kinda late dude, whaddyou want, Robbie?"
Robbie snatches his phone and nearly slips, smearing red on the tile.
"Vitalia." He commanded, voice steady and booming despite himself. "Get Vitalia. It's Robert—he's—" His voice falters.
"On it."
It took Trackstar approximately 25 seconds to arrive. 25 seconds that felt like hours.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Astral! Robbie!" His yells muffle through the door. "Unlock the fucking door, I have Vitalia!"
Robbie rushes to unlock the door.
"Your son," Vitalia ask. She's changed into her civilian clothes, likely just dragged out of bed. "what happened?"
Chase's eyes drift down to Robbie's red hands, then towards the trail of bloody foot prints behind him. His expression twists from concern into fear. He speeds right past Robbie, knocking down the coat rack to the ground with a loud crash.
"Robert!" He cries out.
They both run after him, they're greeted with the sight of Trackstar holding the boy tightly in his arms. He trembles.
"Wake up kid, come on. We need you awake." Chase shakes Robert's face. His head falls limp to the side. "Shitshitshit—Vitalia do something! Please!"
Vitalia kneels down, she inspects the slash on Robert's forearm. She checks for a pulse. Vitalia turns to Robbie eyes trembling, her jaw tense. "Robbie, he's—"
"I tried, okay?" Robbie grits out, his fingernails dig into his palm. "I tried to stop the bleeding—I did CPR—"
"This is beyond what I can do." Vitalia cuts him off, she lowers her voice to nearly a whisper. "I can't bring him back. I'm sorry."
Clever boy. Robert had been well-versed in all of the Brave Brigade member's abilities, including Vitalia. Especially Vitalia. He made sure of it.
Trackstar abruptly stands—Robert still in his arms—having made up his mind.
"And give up? Fuck no." Trackstar speeds away with Robert.
"Shit—I'll go after him." Vitalia turns to leave. "I'm sorry, Robbie."
He's left alone in the now empty bathroom. The silence rings in his ears. Robbie forces himself to sit on the edge of the tub before his legs could give out. He wonders if it'll stain.
With trembling hands, Robbie takes the crumpled note out of his pocket. It stares back at him, taunting. He returns to where he left off.
I tried, I really tried. I promise I did. I wish I could’ve been the son you wanted me to be.
I know you're disappointed, you would never say it out loud but I always knew. So I tried to change, be tougher, be better for you. I know it's not enough.
But I'm tired, dad. So so tired.
And I miss my mom. It's been so long since we talked about her, then again we don't talk all that much anymore.
Sorry again. I did my best, but maybe this is the best I'll ever get to be.
The world doesn't deserve a lousy Mechaman. You and grandpa don't deserve the stain I would've put on the legacy you worked so hard to build.
So I'll just save you the embarrassment. That's the least I could do.
If Chase asks, tell him his jacket's still in my closet. He probably wants it back now.
Thanks for the last 15 years. I'll tell mom you said hi.
I love you dad.
I tried not to make a mess this time.
Robbie had to move his thumb away to read the last line, leaving a red fingerprint on the word 'mess'. Ironic. He lets the note slip from his hands. The letter stuck to him for a moment, his hands were growing sticky with dried blood. The ringing in his ear grows deafening. Overwhelming. He buries his face in his hands.
Robert is dead.
My son is dead.
For the first time in years, Robbie is truly alone.