Chapter Text
Rarely did anything good come from years of bad habits and wasted money. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Whatever could distract him long enough to not think about himself. That was the life he adopted after following in his father’s footsteps.
When Robert took over the Mecha name after his father died, he promised himself things would be different. He had been trained by some of the best musicians Los Angeles had to offer, but nothing could have prepared him for what Mecha actually was.
The man behind the suit was never supposed to be human.
Mecha had always been a secret. A costume. A silhouette beneath stage lights.
And despite the helmet hiding his face, people noticed the difference immediately. Robert sounded different than his father. Moved differently. Performed differently.
The pressure reached him fast.
A drink before shows became drinking after shows. Then pills to keep himself moving. Then more pills to come back down again.
Before he realized it, three years had disappeared.
And so had almost everything else.
The final blow came in the form of an unexplained house fire that destroyed what little he still owned. All that made it out alive was him and his dog, Beef.
Now he sat in a cheap plastic lawn chair outside a shitty apartment complex staring directly at rock bottom.
His thoughts were interrupted by his phone vibrating violently in his pocket.
How the fuck does this thing still have service? he thought.
He pulled it out and squinted at the screen.
Unknown number.
Perfect.
Probably another scammer trying to squeeze blood from a corpse.
He let it ring through to voicemail. Listening to scammers ramble had become strangely entertaining lately. Half the time he wondered how anyone actually fell for that shit.
After a moment he pressed play.
“Hello Robert, this is Amanda Rodgers with Superstar Direction Management, or SDM. A colleague gave me your contact information along with some of your resume details. I was calling to see if you had time to speak with me. We would like to help you. Give me a call back if you are interested. Thanks.”
SDM?
The name sounded vaguely familiar.
One of his instructors talked about it constantly back when he was still in school. Some talent development company. Guidance. Management. Corporate bullshit.
Robert stared at the screen for a long moment.
Call a possible scammer back while sober for once?
Or continue rotting in a lawn chair?
“Fuck it,” he muttered aloud.
It was not like things could realistically get worse.
He dialed the number and waited.
A snarky voice answered almost immediately.
“What can I do for ya?”
Robert blinked.
The professionalism from the voicemail vanished instantly.
“Uh… I am looking for Amanda Rodgers?” he asked carefully.
The voice immediately cackled.
“When is that bitch gonna stop giving strangers her full government name?” the person laughed, clearly speaking to somebody nearby. “You are looking for Blazer.”
Robert rubbed his forehead.
“Alright. I am looking for Blazer,” he said flatly.
“Alright, Eeyore, let me see if I can transfer you.”
Robert immediately regretted calling.
Hold music exploded through the speaker like a war crime. Blown out. Raspy. Horribly compressed. As someone with an unusually sharp ear for music, it felt physically offensive.
Thankfully another voice rescued him quickly.
“Thank you for holding, this is Amanda.”
Robert hesitated awkwardly.
“I am looking for… Blazer?” he muttered.
Amanda sighed loudly.
“Please ignore that. I am Blazer, but just call me Mandy,” she laughed softly. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Robert. Robert Robertson. You left me a voicemail a few minutes ago.”
“YES!” she exclaimed instantly. “You are Mecha, correct?”
Robert’s stomach tightened immediately.
“Who are you? How did you get my information?” he asked sharply.
Mandy took a careful breath before answering.
“Your old vocal instructor, Dr. Chase, gave me your contact information. He mentioned you might be going through a rough time right now and thought we could help.”
Robert stared blankly ahead.
Fuck. Chase is still alive?
“No offense,” Robert said slowly, “but why did he not contact me himself?”
“He said you would ask that,” Mandy replied confidently. “He also said you probably would not answer if he called directly.”
Robert hated how accurate that was.
He leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes.
“Alright. What does Chase want?”
“We cannot discuss it over the phone,” Mandy said. “But I think you will be interested. If you want to hear the offer, be in the SDM lobby tomorrow at nine a.m.”
The call ended shortly after Mandy gave him the address and thanked him for his time.
Silence returned.
His headache was already coming back.
He did not want Chase to see him like this.
Truthfully, he did not want to see Chase at all.
But he had nothing left.
And Beef still needed to eat.
So he decided he would go.
Robert slowly stood from the lawn chair, joints aching, and walked back into what barely qualified as a bedroom.
His bed consisted of two blankets stacked on the floor.
Beef was curled directly in the center like he paid rent.
Robert let out a tired laugh through his nose before crouching beside an old backpack shoved into the corner of the room. He dug through it quietly before pulling out his last bag of weed along with a crumpled pack of rolling papers.
“California sober it is,” he muttered.
Smoke slowly filled the tiny room.
The familiar calm settled into his body almost immediately.
He pulled his shirt over his head revealing skin battered by years inside the Mecha suit. Scars stretched across his chest, shoulders, and back from stunt rehearsals, stage accidents, and long brutal tours that slowly destroyed him piece by piece.
Moonlight poured through the curtainless window illuminating every scar. Every insecurity.
Robert stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
Then groaned softly.
Too high to care anymore.
He laid beside Beef, set an alarm for 7:30 a.m., and for once actually fell asleep.