Description: The world wants an adult. Robert gives them a lie.
Robert learns three things the week after his dad dies:
Adults believe paperwork more than people.
If he wants to be Mecha Man, he has to lie.
Its far too easy to make a fake identity.
The first letter comes just three days after his dad’s funeral. Sitting at the kitchen island with a bowl of reheated macaroni and cheese, surrounded by flower arrangements sent by various mourners sending their condolences. As if flowers would help him with his grief, as if it would take the pressure from his chest.
Loud banging tears Robert from his thoughts, discarding the bowl on the island as he cautiously peeks around the corner of the kitchen towards the front door. Wondering who it could be this early in the morning. It couldn’t be Chase; he’d already be telling him to stop being rude and open the door already. Peeking through the blinds of the living room’s window, watching the man retreat to his car and driving away after banging on the door for a moment longer.
Waiting a moment longer before climbing down from the couch away from the window and takes a peek out of the door. Laying on the worn welcome mat is a thick, manila envelope addressed to The Estate of Robert Robertson II. Grabbing an umbrella off the coat rack, Robert gives it a hard shove with it before hiding behind the door in case it’s a trap.
With no reaction, placing the umbrella back before bringing the envelope inside. Padding to the kitchen, pushing the assortment of gifted flower arrangements to the side as he takes a seat at the island. It takes him two reads of the letter to understand that someone, the government, wants to know who is taking care of him. Carefully, he folds the papers and tucks them back into the envelope. Setting it in front of him as he returns to the bowl of mac-n-cheese he’d originally discarded.
“I am,” he mumbles to himself as he picks at the food before him.
It sounds stupid, he knows that, but someone needed to take up the mantle. Someone needed to be Mecha Man. He couldn’t do that if he was taken away and put in some foster family, they’d never let him bring the mech let alone use it. The Brave Brigade aren’t an option; he barely knew them besides the cookouts his dad held. Plus, they’ve stopped reaching out after the funeral. That leaves Chase, beside the fact he’d likely try to talk Robert out of being Mecha Man, he’s too young to have to care after him.
It took days and searching through his dad’s office for leads to resources he needed. The ‘uncle’ comes together in pieces through countless less than legal online transactions. A name first. Richard. Sensible. Boring. No alliteration. No hero cadence. Last name: Robertson. Obviously. Uncle Richard works in “logistics.” He travels a lot, leaving him very tired and very busy and unfortunately cannot come to the phone right now. Running clips through the voice modulator his father used in the suit, Robert creates the perfect voice. Lower. Slower from exhaustion. Less precise. Adults don’t speak precisely unless they’re lying, and Uncle Richard is lying all the time. He sets up a voicemail greeting on the house phone.
“This is Richard Robertson. Please leave a message.”
He listens to it three times. Good enough. The last piece to reduce the discovery of this fake uncle? Avoiding Chase. Sending his old babysitters phone calls to voice mail. Staying out of sight from the windows when he comes knocking. Along with changing his routes to and from school as to avoid any attempts to catch him that way.
Becoming Mecha Man seemed easier than becoming an adult. The helmet seals with a familiar hiss, and for a moment he almost believes his dad is still there, just on the other side of the glass. He runs diagnostics the way he was taught. Power levels stable. Actuators nominal. Armor plating at its foot still stained where Shroud— he aborts the thought. Mecha Man doesn’t cry. But Mecha Man has never been eleven.
He does not abuse them; he just can’t help his naturally big brown beady eyes and that his default tired expression has the look of a neglected puppy. You know Deadlock is weak to even the slightest hint of a whimper from Beef, and it’s the same for Robert. You would also be blind to see his depressed ass face and not want to do everything in your power to make him feel better. Wait, where was I…
Robert definitely knows. I think he only ever does it on purpose in a playful context, in which he immediately cracks up with a mischievous smirk.
Oh, just don’t ask Chase about child Robert. He definitely abused the HELL out of it just to get whatever he wanted from him (and it even worked on his dad sometimes!)
