Chapter Text
Only one month in the hospital, and he had already been bored beyond compare.
Which is exactly why he took the first chance he could to sign himself out. He was far from fully healed, and the doctors and nurses recommended he stay for longer, but he really didn’t need it. After all, he had been deemed stable enough to not be attached to a bunch of machines at all times, so he was practically healthy in his own opinion. Either way, he’s always hated hospitals, the chemical scent and the blinding white that penetrated the place, that made him feel sicker. For that reason, he’s always kept his visits brief if he was ever in dire need of medical attention. It’s for the better anyway, saving space for the ordinary people that certainly needed the care more than he did. He was a hero first and foremost, and heroes didn’t have time to sit around while they recover.
He wobbled on his feet as he entered his house, holding another box filled with the suit’s remains using his uninjured arm, his right arm still trapped in a cast and sling for at least another week. Fuck, his head was killing him; the medication he was given to combat the pain must’ve faded. It didn’t help that he was carting around heavy boxes with one arm, a balancing act he hasn’t had time to train for. He’d returned to the scene of the explosion as soon as he could to scrap up whatever there was left of the suit that was still usable. Sadly, he doesn’t think there’s enough parts to repair the suit, and even if he could, without the Astral pulse he can’t power the damn thing anyway. Well, not that it matters now, since he will never wear it again. He chucks the box alongside the other boxes he’s collected and placed in the empty space that is his living room. He roves his eyes over the place he calls a house, at the thick dust on furniture he hasn’t touched in months, maybe even years, at the mustiness that floats in the air, the minimalist furniture from selling things to keep himself going without his team. He’d never realised how much life Robert and the Brigade brought to the house until they were gone, and the place seemed to wilt like a dying rose even when it had still been unchanged physically.
With a heavy sigh, he goes to collapse onto his couch, and he immediately feels the aches and pains within his body start screaming for his attention. Okay, perhaps he shouldn’t have left the hospital so prematurely. His body was still having a rough time after that explosive stunt from a month ago. He’d quickly discovered that the crack he’d heard when he hit that wall had in fact been his head, resulting in a skull fracture he had to get surgery for, along with the concussion he’d received from the multiple blows to the head. Thankfully, the fracture hadn’t been too severe, and he was given painkillers and the order to rest as often as possible once he was released from the hospital. Shockingly, this was the least worst of his injuries. The most severe were the numerous chemical burns he received, obviously from that asshole Toxic, but also from the explosion of the pulse. It had been severe enough that he had needed surgery to replace the burned skin with grafts, and even after he had been fully treated, he felt wrong. Too rough, his skin pulling awkwardly when he moved even an inch. He hasn’t yet braved looking in a mirror, but he can only imagine he doesn’t look any good. If he would even be able to see himself, his vision has significantly worsened after the explosion, especially in his left eye. He supposes that’s what happens when you’re barely two feet away from an explosion.
The worse is that it had all been for nothing. The medics had recovered Shroud’s body from the collapse, somewhat injured but alive, protected by his thick clothing and mask. After he had been swiftly treated, he was returned to prison, placed under extreme increased security to ensure he doesn’t try to escape again; the police had promised him as such as he laid in a stiff hospital bed several weeks ago. He hadn't cared, only focused on the dreadful news he had just received. Shroud has survived. Shroud is still alive, just like Robbie. Most people would agree that ensuring that your son’s killer is forced to face his punishment for the rest of his days is successful revenge, but Robbie doesn't feel like he's succeeded anything. A failure of a hero. A failure of a father. Unable to truly avenge his child the way he deserves. Now, he has no suit to fight in, and no Astral pulse to power it even if he had it, left as nothing but an ordinary, lonely man who has let his family down. What would his father think? What would his mother say? He’s squandered the family legacy they’ve worked so hard to create; what a pathetic excuse for a child and heir. He looks back at the boxes containing the remains of the suit, charred and lonesome, then he thought back to that night. The shattering of the pulse, its shards scattering on the ground before they exploded, fragile pieces of dim blue light flickering in and out of consciousness before engulfing the world in a flash of white for that one heady moment. Perhaps he ought to do the same.
He was invited for a conference meeting for tonight to tell the news, tell the world the state of Mecha Man. He can go there, let the world see him one last time, give them the damn best of Mecha Man, then leave forever.
It was an easy plan, one that removed the gross, thick feeling from his chest and allowed him to finally drag himself from the couch. He even finds himself humming a song as he pulls on his fabric suit for the last time. The song has no words he can remember, nor does any proper title come to mind, but he knows which boy had enjoyed this tune once. When team meetings got dreary and he was sat close enough to him, he could sometimes hear Track Star hum to himself whatever song he enjoyed at the moment to will away the boredom. He'd hated it once, snapping at the younger man to stop the incessant noise, and now he'd give anything to hear it again. It's a shame Track Star hasn't wanted anything to do with him for well over a decade. He'll probably cheer to see Robbie's dead body on the news. The thought makes him pause in his movement, letting out a sad sigh as he looks down at the last pieces of his costume, the armour that kept him protected and connected to his suit. He places them back down, he'd hardly need them after all. Besides, he can't really wear his armour with his bandaged arm. The fabric suit will have to do.
He doesn't remember driving himself to the location he was given by the news anchor. He does remember finally entering the stage, what feels like a million cameras pointing at him. This was familiar; the flash, the constant overlapping talk, the copious amounts of eyes staring at him. It felt like home, like the rewarding feeling of a successful fight, like the comfort of his suit alive around him. He clears his throat once, taps the microphone to make sure it works, then begins the well practiced act of public speech.
"As you all have probably have noticed, I have been unavailable for the past month. This has been due to a series of injuries that required time to rest and heal before I was able to get back on my feet. Thankfully, I've faced no setbacks and I will soon be able to return to the field. I thank everyone for being so patient and understanding while I take the time to recover in private." he says, his voice steady, his back straight, the image of confidence. It's a lie, of course it's lies, but how could he tell the public the truth? He has the feeling that telling them that he's stepping down from being a hero forever will not go over well with any of them. He can't disappoint the public, Mecha Man cannot do that. "Any questions?"
Immediately, the room explodes into chatter, questions pilling up over each other as more lights flash in his eyes. The people on the left side sound notably quieter, as if their muffled by an invisible plastic wall. Fuck, is he losing his hearing or something? The doctors certainly hadn't mentioned anything about his ear being damaged. He hopes it's nothing, that he's just overwhelmed or something, and ignores it. He takes another deep breath to steady himself, looking over the room filled with blurry figures. This was going to be rough.
"One question at a time please! I can't speak to everyone at once." he says, trying desperately to look at someone to speak to first while being unable to tell these people apart. The first human shaped blob to speak to him clearly enough sounds like a woman, and he thinks she has light hair, but that's about all he knows.
"Ashley Rhiness. San Pedro Daily. What is the state of your suit? Can you repair it?" The question leaves a stone in his stomach. His suit, destroyed beyond compare, no pulse to power it. He can't answer with that though.
"I'll admit, the suit is in pretty bad shape. The repairs necessary to bring it back to working order may take months, but I remain steadfast in my mission to return back to hero work as soon as possible. Next question?" Hopefully that answer should satisfy the public enough, to give them something to look forward to for a short while.
"Chris Stratton. Torrance Tribune. Answer me honestly, are you or are you not retiring as Mecha Man? Word on the street says your donezo." The next person says, a man with an odd use of words. Donezo? Really? Not even the people in his father's time spoke like that. Also, retiring?
"Excuse me?" he says, caught off guard. It was never good to be off guard when speaking to reporters. It gives people too much space to question your words, and he could beat his head in for letting it happen. How could he not though? There are people that speak of him retiring. Of course, they were quite right in their statement, but the public isn't supposed to know about that until he was permanently gone and unable to hear about it.
"People are speculating that you're retiring, buddy boy. Now, can you answer the question? My readers need the skinny, and I intend to deliver." the man says impatiently, waving a glowing rectangle around that must be his phone. Great, one of these gossip fuckers. Just what he needed. He takes a deep breath in to stop himself from saying something he ought not to.
"Well, to answer your question, no, I'm not retiring for the moment. There may come a time where I will, but that time is not now. Hope that was enough 'skinny' for your readers." he ends up saying. Honestly, the fuck does he even mean by skinny? Either he's getting old, or the people are getting weirder. His legs are starting to ache from standing too long, so he think the former might have some merit. Fuck, he needs to finish this up. "Alright, one last question for the night, preferably someone I can actually understand." and who doesn't sound like a really bad teenage bully stereotype from some coming of age movie. What appears to be a man with grey hair steps up at the invitation, and Robbie turns slightly to look at him, even if he can barely make him out.
"Charles Kingsley. South Bay Signal. Let me get this straight; Shroud kills your son, goes to jail for 15 years, then escapes. You ignore his existence for several months, then when you finally acknowledge him, he manages to blow up your suit and an old warehouse, gravely injuring you while you didn't even touch a hair upon him, and he's then taken back to jail. Is that correct?" the man says, his voice straightforward, but laced with something else Robbie can't put a name to. Venom? Judgement? Mockery?
"Well, yes, but I asked for a question, not a statement of fact." Robbie says back, trying to keep the sound of offense from his voice. Other than for a few flashes, the room has gone eerily quiet at the reporter's words.
"Two parter. First, why didn't Shroud kill you the moment he had you down without your suit? He certainly could have done it, it wouldn't have been hard." the reporter asks, and Robbie needs a moment to think. Well, plain and simple, Shroud didn't want to kill him. Not outright. Sure, he would've liked for him to die, but at the end of the day, he wanted Mecha Man gone, and he succeeded. He wanted the Astral pulse too, but Robbie would rather die than allow that to happen. Now neither of them can have the pulse, simple.
"Well, to put it simply, Shroud didn't want me dead. He wanted Mecha Man gone, and as far as he's aware, he's largely succeeded." Robbie says, hoping the defeat in his voice isn't too obvious. If he hadn't destroyed the Astral pulse and gotten Shroud caught and sent back to jail in the process, then this would've been a perfect success for the villain. He had just barely put a stop to that. Barely.
"Right, of course he did, which leads me to my next question. Most heroes avenge their family, but I think we can all agree that you did the opposite. You've not only failed to punish the killer of your child, but you've also killed the family legacy, whether you admit to it or not. How disappointed do you think they'd all be?" Robbie can't help but freeze at that question.
Disappointed. Of course he's disappointed them all. He already knows that so deeply in his veins it's practically its own sustenance. It's why this has to end, why his life must be put on pause. He has failed so deeply, and apparently everyone can see it, no matter how he tries to hide it. The world seems to echo in his head, as if he's moved so far yet so close.
"Your poor son, and your father. The man must be rolling in his grave right now." the reporter continues, seemingly taking a bit too much enjoyment in proving to Mecha Man that he's a failure. Robbie can't stand by this disrespect anymore, not as Mecha Man at least. After a moment of silence where the reporter waits for a response, Robbie gives a heavy exhale.
"It is beyond disrespectful for you to enquire such things. I refuse to answer that question." He hopes the shakiness in his voice isn't too obvious. "I'm done here. Have a good evening." and with that, he walks off stage and doesn't look back, no matter who calls for him.
He doesn't remember his own footsteps, if he'd gotten here by car or by foot, but the next thing he knows he's at a bar. He does recognise where he is, some superhero bar he may have gone to before, but he can't remember the name of it. Well, the name hardly matters, now that he has a glass of beer in his hand to soothe his agitated mind. Maybe he could drink himself to death. Although that would be a pathetic way to go, not to mention embarrassing as hell, which is the winning factor in the end for him to forget the idea. Outside of his head, the atmosphere is light and warm, pleasant chatter filling up the air as all sorts of heroes drink and take the time to relax their muscles after a day of saving lives. The place is bathed in a soft yellow light that is comforting for most, but Robbie is getting a massive headache from. The throngs of people moving around leave him feeling small, shoved to the side and forgotten. He felt so naked without his armour, the integral part of his costume.
Perhaps it was the words of that reporter that were actually making him feel like a dehorned rhino rather than his unfinished costume.
How disappointed do you think they'd all be?
He knows the answer to that question. Is he willing to say it aloud though? Certainly not; not for his sanity, and not for his reputation. Selfish perhaps, but he'll forever value that the most.
Suddenly, he can feel something watching him, a burning gaze right across the back of his neck. He sees no one looking in his direction when he turns around, no one seems to be acknowledging him at all. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He's probably just getting paranoid, it is very late and he has no power to fight back anyone right now. Perhaps this is a sign that he should call it a night, put the drink down before he gets too drunk and get himself home. He can figure out a way to end it all tomorrow. He doesn't move, he can still feel that burning on the back of his neck, making the little hairs along his back rise. A chill crawls up his spine, his hands turning shaky and restless, the drink suddenly tasting like acid on his tongue. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He sets the drink down on the table and rises from his stool, stepping out the back of the bar to get a breath of fresh air that wasn't so stuffy. It's probably just the crowds agitating him. The cool air burns his nose and his lungs, clearing his head of the cotton it's been stuffed with for who knows how long. The burning hasn't left his back, but at least it's easier now to convince himself it's merely a figment of his imagination. He closes his eyes to block out the brightness of a near by streetlight, immediately being greeted with a sharp coldness of metal sliding against his neck.
He opens his eyes to find a knife lightly pressed against his throat, held by the hands of a woman who seems to be adorned in knives that glitter in the streetlight like stars. Her amber eyes are sharp as they glare at him from the silver mask that covers half her face. Her expression is impassive, unmoving as she watches him, waiting for the smallest twitch to strike like an animal hunting for food; a predatory bird, looking at the wings hoisted on her back made of the same blades as the one in her hand and those sharp, focused eyes he can't escape from. His breath comes out heavy, like a horn in his ears, accompanying the ringing he can't escape from. Breathe.
"Can I help you?" he mutters between a gasp of air, trying desperately to calm down his lungs and heart from their ongoing competition of who can go fastest. The woman moves the knife at his throat back slightly, a few inches not enough for him to slip away, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Do you not remember me?" she says, her voice calm and controlled, but holding the hints of a sneer.
"Well, I can't say I do." he says, and a growl rises from her throat before she pulls the knife back completely and slots it into an empty space on her wings.
"Coupé is what you may call me." she says, lifting one of her knifes with a dark force that hisses as it engraves itself into the wall right by his working ear. "In my time as an assassin, I have been assigned to eliminate 70 people, and I have succeeded in my duty 68 times. I've only had 2 failures, and of those 2 failures, only 1 which has embarrassed me beyond compare." she says, stepping closer with each word, the same dark force rising around her as she pushes him up flat against the wall. He supposes there can only be one person she's talking about. "You."
"Lucky me." he says with a chuckle. Really, he truly is lucky. If her intention is to finish up the job, then he'll get exactly what he wants from this night. Not how he intended it, but he won't complain. "Also, I remember you now. You're the freaky ballerina lady that tried to jump me in front of my own house. Can you just get it over with already?"
He hears a small huff of air from her before she pulls away again, taking the knife by his head with her. Her right arm seems to spasm as her face twinges with pain for a second, and she pulls it up to her chest while furrowing her eyebrows at him.
"I would love nothing more than to end your miserable self, but I do not kill anymore. I am a hero now." she says, massaging her arm while looking away from him. The black and metal adorned suit she wears largely covers her body, but he knows that beneath the fabric on her arm likely lies a scar, raised tissue from a deep knife wound. He ought to know, he's the reason it's there after all. "I merely aim to warn you that if you dare to cross my path and wound me as you did that night, I will make certain that you suffer a most painful and brutal death, hero or not."
By the time she finishes her threat, she's approached him again, leaning her face forward so that he has no choice but to face those peering eyes. He nods his head, some poor attempt at showing he'd understood that threat. Yet, she still doesn't move. The ringing his ears seems to be blaring, and his heart beats like a drum in a canyon. His body is frozen, yet it's also screaming to move, to evade this obvious threat when he still has the chance. He hears a door opening and light laughter filtering through open crack, but it may as well be miles away from him. The staring contest finally ends when a cleared throat grabs Coupé's attention, looking over to the open door to gaze upon a very, very short man made of muscle.
"Watcha doing out here, lass? I thought you'd left without saying goodbye when you disappeared so suddenly." he says, the accent adorning his words doing little to cover up the curiosity at the scene before him. Coupé finally pulls away entirely, walking up to the man with only a passive glance in Robbie's direction.
"My apologies. I was merely letting an old friend know where he stands with me, lest he forget." she says, which seems to fill the man's eyes with recognition, narrowing his eyes at Robbie in judgement for a second before ignoring him completely. "I'm done here."
"Well, hurry on back inside then! Flambae's about to go up on the karaoke stand, and I know you'd hate to miss his awful singing." The words of the man bring a smile to the woman's lips for the first time since the beginning of their encounter. He even hears what seems to be a chuckle from her before moving forward to re-enter the bar.
"Indeed. The fucker sounds like he's choking on screws whenever he sings, yet he can't stop himself. It's amusing to witness, I'd hate to miss it again." she says. She might be saying more, but her voice gets lost within the building. The man goes to close the door, but not before motioning with his fingers to Robbie to show that he's keeping an eye on him. Then, the door's left to slam shut, taking away the warm light and dragging Robbie into a choking quiet.
Great, just what he needed. An ex-villain hero wannabe and her friends threatening him because he did the necessary thing to defend himself and the city. Can it get any worse? Perhaps he should take her up on that threat. Walk back in there, start a fight, and let her finally finish the job. He could, but he doesn't, the energy in his muscles melting away as he walks from the bar and back to his car. Thank goodness he came here by car and not foot.
He drives and drives, to where he's unsure but he finally stops when he catches a glimpse of the Hollywood sign. It's still very far, but he doesn't intend to actually go on the sign. He gets out the car once he finds a billboard that faces the scene, climbing up to the best of his abilities while only using one arm. Once he's finally safely situated upon the billboard, he stands on the edge and stares forward at the familiar words. He remembers the first and only time he'd gone up on the actual sign, at the bright age of 15, when life was simpler and his parents were still around. The special occasion for the trip had been his first date with his late wife, girlfriend at the time. The view of the city had been magnificent, and the company had only made it better. Her smile had rivalled the city lights in its shine, and the glow upon her face had made the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks stand out like little stars, ones which she'd passed down onto their son along with the colour of autumn leaves her hair held. His beloved Bea. He misses her, her easy laugh and her ability to find the good in everything and everyone. He's never allowed himself to admit to how much he missed her, he's never had the time, with his duties as Mecha Man and trying to keep his young child alive giving him little time to think about it, but he dearly does so. He looks down, down at the ground he's about the plummet towards. Perhaps he'll see her again in death, her and Robert together, and maybe he'll finally feel some relieve after cracking his skull open wide.
Right as he's about to step off the platform and end it for good, he gets interrupted by the voice of a woman calling out to him coming from above. He looks to see a young hero with blonde hair and a blue uniform land beside him, her mask doing little to hide the natural sparkle in her eyes or the easy-going smile upon her face, her fists rising to rest on her hips. Blonde Blazer is her name. He knows that, because of course he does, considering the well earned popularity and praise she's attracted being a damn good hero. Why is she here though? Fuck, has she noticed what he's about to do?
"Hey! I've been looking for you everywhere! I was starting to think I'd never find you." she says in a friendly tone, as if she's known him forever and not just passed by him once in a while during hero work. "I'm Blonde Blazer. I work at the Superhero Dispatch Network."
"Yeah, I know." Her smile falters for a moment in surprise, only to return again with a lot more fluster.
"You do?"
"Of course. I think I'd be harder for you to find someone in this city who doesn't know you." He hears her chuckle awkwardly at the passive compliment, her cheeks turning a light pink before she gets the chance to recover.
"Well, I mean- I'm just a corporate hero. You are the real deal." she says back. Robbie can't help but notice a certain glow in her sky blue eyes, one he has seen plenty of times in the eyes of Mecha Man fans who look up to him as the hero of heroes; from regular civilians, to other heroes just like Blonde Blazer who admit that Mecha Man has inspired them to do good, to become heroes. That doesn't answer why she's come out to look for him specifically, since she clearly hasn't noticed what he's been contemplating. What could she want?
"Don't put yourself down like that. You're a real hero, perhaps even more than I am." Damn, perhaps he shouldn't have said that last part. He can see Blazer's eyes widening as she looks over the scene before her, at Robbie standing on the very edge of the billboard. Concern fills her gaze, but he doesn't let her get a word out before he continues. "Besides, I think you've come here for something much more important than to talk to an old man." The hero perks up, the smile she had when she first arrived returning to her face.
"Oh, yes! I've come to give you a proposition." she says, taking something out of her pocket. He can't help the confusion in his voice.
"A proposition?"
"You mentioned that your suit was in pretty bad shape, right?"
"Yes, I did. Unfortunately, it blew up after one of Shroud's goons managed to get a bomb on it to weaken me." he says, raising an eyebrow at the question. "I've tried to scrape up as many pieces as possible from the wreckage, but it wasn't a lot. Fixing it is going to be rough. Why do you ask?"
"Well, we here at SDN would like to offer you an opportunity. Work at SDN, and we'll use the company money and resources to repair your suit for you." He senses a catch, and he isn't sure he likes the sound of it. Working for a company has never been something he's intended to do. If he accepts this offer, he'll be indebted to SDN, and he isn't sure he can afford that. Yet, he isn't sure if he can afford to deny the offer either.
"I mean, that sounds like a lovely idea, but what could I offer to SDN? The whole point of Mecha Man is that I'm a powerless hero. Without the suit, I'm just a regular civilian. How could I possibly work for SDN?" Rather than being dissuaded, Blonde Blazer just giggles before she answers him.
"We don't expect you to work on the field. We offer you to work as an SDN dispatcher overlooking a group of young heroes. Your years of experience as a hero are extremely valuable, there is a reason your old teammate recommended you after all." Robbie perks up at the mention of one of his teammates. After Robert's death and the collapse of the Brave Brigade, he hasn't heard of anything from any of them.
"Who?"
"Track star. I work with him at SDN. He said he couldn't think of a better man for the job." Something on Robbie's face must show the shock he feels, because her smile lowers into a look of confusion. "Why are you surprised?"
"I'm sorry, it's just... Track Star and I haven't talked in years. The last time we did, we ended it off on bad terms." That was the understatement of the century. Track Star had made it very clear that he hates Robbie during their last conversation. It had followed almost immediately after Robert died, the boy's blood just beginning to dry on Track Star's arms. The younger man had gone silent and still after the body had been taken from him, not responding to any of the other members' pleas until Robbie had tried to touch his shoulder. That's when he'd gone into hysterics, saying a lot of hurtful shit to Robbie about his inability to actually be there for Robert, ending it with a classic I fucking hate you! before speeding away and disappearing forever, never to be seen by Robbie again. Of course he'd known how close the two boys were, he's the one who gave Track Star the babysitting duty after all, but it's the first time he's been faced with just how close they were. The young man had completely fallen apart the moment Robert stopped breathing.
Fuck, the kid is nearly 40 now. It really has been so long.
"Really? Well, Track Star didn't give any indication that he's upset with you. Maybe he's moved on." Now, that's a thought. He'll believe it when he sees it. Blonde Blazer takes his silence as agreement, moving on to hand him over the thing in her hand. They appear to be some weird advanced glasses that open up on their own with a bright green light. Robbie looks closer and he can see a screen on the inside. "That's apart of the assessment that staff go through. Maybe you should sit down first before you put them on though, you are standing on the edge of a billboard."
"Yeah, that's a good idea." he says, lowering himself into a sitting position before popping the glasses onto his face.
The training assessment seems to fly on by swiftly as he dispatches the small handful of heroes, most of which he recognises from a passing glance. The process feels familiar, safe, like the days where he'd assign his teammates and himself to different missions, both in meetings and while on the clock inside his suit. The stats each hero has written down along with the noted attributes needed for the missions makes the process easier then it had been back then, and by the end of it, he comes out the assessment largely successful. He removes the glasses from his face feeling satisfied, a genuine smile coming onto his face for the first time in who knows how long.
"Hm, that wasn't so bad. Actually, it was quite enjoyable."
"Does that mean you agree to my proposition?" Blazer asks, now sat down near him on the billboard. He lets the moment rest for a second. While he has never enjoyed the concept of working for corporate, does he have any other choice? It was either this, or finally go through with it and die.
He'll never be Mecha Man again, of that he is sure, but perhaps that didn't mean that it had to be the end of Robbie Robertson too.
"Yes, yes it does." Robbie says, and means it. The hero's smile brightens as she lifts herself up into the air, taking the glasses with her.
"Great! Then meet me at the SDN offices tomorrow."
"Got you. And, Blonde Blazer?" he says as the woman turns to fly away. Stopping in her tracks, she turns back around with a curious look. "Thank you. You've saved my life."
"Of course." she says back with a nod, letting the moment linger in comfortable silence before she turns around and flies away, leaving the typical sounds of night time be his companion. He wonders if she knows the full extend of her heroics.
He lets the cool air of the night fill his lungs, relaxing his muscles and hardly giving a thought to how he'll get down from this billboard. There had been many things he expected from this night, but to end it off with a chance of tomorrow had been the last thought on his mind. He almost doesn't believe it, he could always be dreaming, but the world around him feels so terrifyingly real. It's all real, and while he may never be Mecha Man again, he may just find another purpose, another way to protect the city.
For the first time in 15 years, he can't wait for tomorrow.