Archive of Our Own

It’s not like there aren’t any Koreans around; it’s fucking LA. 

Robert’s been to Koreatown, when he needs to be there, and he’s always had an alright time. A lot of the older folk recognize the suit, which makes him think about how Dad never bothered with any outreach beyond the cookie-cutter standard even though he could’ve done more and just didn’t, because he—but one time Robert saw this huge advertisement for an Asian men dating app (for people to date Asian men) that made his head burn like whiplash, not like mushy feelings, and he thought that Dad might’ve been correct on that call. Go figure. But who was Robert to make that call? Who was Robert to make any call? He never fucked around in Buena Park or Fullerton, or accepted any appearance offers from UCLA or UCI.

So it shouldn’t be surprising that nobody knows that Robert Sungho Robertson-Cho is half-Korean. Maybe it’s that they don’t care. Maybe it’s that Robert doesn’t care.

Maybe he doesn’t.

He could’ve explained the entire name thing to Blonde Blazer if he was already vomiting up that much of his tragic superhero backstory, but he didn’t really want to. It seemed too complicated in the moment. Too much to mention on a first whatever-the-fuck-that-was. 

The first Robert Robertson didn’t have to think about any of this bullshit. Hell, he wasn’t even a Senior, because he died before meeting any Robert Robertson Juniors. Not that Robert’s a real Junior with his un-American middle name and the interrupted line of succession. 

The interruption isn’t for Mecha Man, which is why he claims the III, but for the Robertsons.

Dad married into the family. His mother was not not-eligible for the suit, but she was his grandfather’s only daughter, and he never wanted any of his children to risk their lives but least of all a girl. Dad wanted to ingratiate himself to his wife’s cultural values, to her family that was a little edgy even without the mech-elephant in the lab. So he took up the suit. He knew he had to work twice as hard for everyone watching the suit and twice as hard as that for everyone watching the man inside it. He proved it, though. He fucking proved it.

What Dad didn’t have to prove was his own name. It was a genuine coincidence that he chose Robert (and then Robbie, to match a Korean nickname tradition) as his American name when he immigrated to the states, and it made for a great story the family could tell with a laugh in public but never mention in private. Not that there was ever much talking. Sunghyun “Robbie” Cho believed children should be seen and not heard, and an empty dinner table doesn’t make any more noise when it’s missing a mother, not just a father.

Well, she clearly hadn’t said anything when Dad chose his middle name, though the female Robertsons traditionally held that honor. Maybe it was a compromise. Robert just knows that it ended up being Sungho, which means something similar but not quite the same as Sunghyun. 

His two last names was definitely a compromise, but he just writes Robertson on anything he needs to. Dad always thought preserving that legacy was more important than his own. Everyone else agreed, or didn’t care enough to say otherwise. Except for his fourth grade teacher, who insisted on calling him by his “real name” even though she didn’t really pronounce it right. Not how Dad pronounced it.

But Dad said it special. Called his name like it really meant something. Like no one could have it. No one could take it away from him; only Robert could.

Dad never told Robert any of this because he was a Korean-American man of his generation, but Robert picked it up. Robert picked a lot of his shit up.

It’s not a joke that he’d really hear in 202X, but sometimes Robert wonders if anyone would take issue with his dog being named “Beef.” Eating dogs is racist against Chinese people, sure, but if someone’s going for low-hanging fruit then they wouldn’t care about the differences between Asians. 

There’s not a lot of easy racism against Koreans. He could take being called “Kpop” or, more likely, “gayass Kpop reject.” Doesn’t mean anything. He won’t change the radio if they start playing one of those trendy girly pop songs, but he’s not gonna seek it out. Music doesn’t do much for him even when he can understand the lyrics.

There’s even less easy racism for half-Koreans. Go figure. There was this clique in middle school who kept calling him Twinkie, but the metaphor didn’t hit that deep. He’s more of a Golden Oreo. The white is on the inside but still visible through the yellow. 

Robert likes Twinkies and he doesn't like Golden Oreos, so.

There is a lot of weird, easy shit about wasians, which isn’t the worst thing Robert will ever be called (usually indirectly) but always feels weird to hear. Sounds like a dog breed. Like a dog breed most people gawk at and other people pay fuck-you amounts of money for. He doesn’t know what Beef is mixed with, but that doesn’t fucking matter. He loves Beef. That’s what matters. 

Robert would never call himself wasian, but sometimes it feels like it doesn’t really matter what he calls himself. He’s Asian. He’s white. He’s an exclusive or. He’s a secret third thing. He’s his father’s son. He’s a failure to his family’s legacy. He’s a failure. He’s whatever people want from him.

Yeah, yeah, external judgements don’t define him and he’d shut it down immediately if anyone came to him with this self-defeatist mentality, but all that doesn’t seem worth it, for something as silly as this. 

Robert doesn't seem worth it.

After he introduces himself in front of them, there’s a weird second of silence before the Z-team re-erupts into verbal violence. Robert doesn’t bother figuring out who says what, since he wasn’t expecting anything worse or better. None of this posturing is new. Being called bitch isn’t new. Being called small isn’t new. He’s always been too small, short, skinny, whatever. Smaller than people expect or remember or want. Whatever. Dad was tall, so it’s not like… anyways, being called small isn’t new.

The small dick jokes also aren’t new, even though they made his ears burn like his head was being slammed from both ends and his throat tighten like he’s being choked out and his chest ache like a giant slab of metal was ramming into it and his legs itch like someone was poking a badly sharpened pencil into his thighs. Go figure.

At least everyone still shuts the fuck up even though his voice is attached to his face. The squinting explains part of it. They’re trying to figure him out, beyond how he’ll act as a superior in charge of consequences and norms and not letting them get away with the bullshit they’re used to living in. The fatalism, the arrogance of self-pity, the selfish comfort in letting life slowly ruin you so you can yell “I told you so! I was never gonna get better than this!” while slipping off the cliff’s edge. 

Yeah, yeah, Robert fucking gets it. But nobody in this room is interested in him proving that right now. They’re already humiliated by believing this program can make them into someone better than what people see them as. They’re desperate for Robert to laugh at them. They had a plan for the boring white guy in a polo shirt behind his name and voice, but Robert can’t give that to them.

Won’t give that to them. He’s gonna give them something better, someone better. The Z-team’s trying to beat him to the punch by figuring out who that is before he does. So: the stares.

Robert’s used to stares. There’s just something off about his face. His hair’s too wiry. His eyebrows are too thick. His nose too flat, his jawline too soft, his build too slim. Not that he’s tried to put on weight recently, but he’s never quite gotten what he wants any time he’s tried to bulk. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t want to look like this, at least.

So maybe the problem’s in his eyes.

By now, Dad would’ve reamed him out about being better at dealing with people, since a superhero couldn’t afford to slack off about PR, which stood for Public and Personal Relations with him. People would expect more from the legacy of Mecha Man: Astral. Robert would’ve told him that he’s never slacked off a day in his fucking life and he has to trust Robert’s word on that because Dad never bothered using his own eyes, but…

But he has avoided thinking about whatever’s going on with Blonde Blazer and Invisigal and him.

Blonde Blazer keeps on smiling when she passes his desk on her daily rounds. Robert will simply nod back, since smiling might not look right on his face, especially when it risks highlighting his eyebags. It might also look pathetic. He stopped letting himself think about anything after Phenomaman rocketed into the stratosphere with her cuddled up in his impressively buff arms and against his massive chest—even after their subsequent breakup and Phenomaman kissing him, too. (He hates that he still wonders what his tongue would’ve felt like.)

None of that meant anything. Robert was just overreacting to a pretty woman being nice to him for once during a vulnerable moment in his stupid fucking life. Fucking embarassing; he knows better than to fall for that trap. Girls like that don’t want guys like him. He shouldn’t take advantage of her politeness.

On the other extreme of politeness, Invisigal seems to have ramped up the amount of inappropriate comments lately. He’s not taking any of that personally, either—maladjusted young woman surrounded by immoral activities and criminals during her critical social developmental years ends up with maladjusted boundaries regarding her sexuality. Textbook. 

It’s not like there’s anything impressive about Robert as a “guy.” He’s nothing more than a rusty new toy, even if she’s terrified that he’s a golden opportunity waiting to slip out of her grasp. Robert’s not anything close to golden. There’s nothing worth grasping about him. Not this fucked-up, wasted body that’s running on stolen time he’ll never be able to pay back. Not this traumatized, hypocritical coward that can’t meet his own squinty eyes in the mirror. Robert isn’t worth shit.

So it doesn’t matter if Blonde Blazer or Invisigal or anyone else “likes” him. It’s all the same joke. 

Go figure.

Robert has no idea how someone from middle school recognized him in a random gas station, but it’s probably his fault for being this desperate while the usual vending machine is under maintenance. Seriously though, his hair isn’t even black anymore (it’s fucking stupid, but one of the first things he did after getting out of the coma was buy a box of at-home bleach so he could feel a little closer to normal). 

Though, it is easier to recognize someone when they’re holding the name-brand snack that cemented their easily-picked-on status. And it’s even easier when there isn’t an imposing, buff-as-fuck superhero standing right behind the still-nondescript scrawny kid, since she slinked away after Flambae popped up behind him, who also had no business being here. 

In fact, he’s about to ask if Flambae was legally allowed to be near gas stations when Flambae demands, “Twink-y?” He sounds righteously offended on Robert’s behalf, and Robert is choosing to be more impressed by the display of righteousness instead of him being the reason Flambae’s wielding it. “You are not a fucking twink. You are much too old, and you don’t have the right face for it. Too much of that pathetic stubble, which is the first time you’ve ever heard that fucking line before.” Ending his questioning with a direct jab satisfied him enough to entertain a conversation, but Robert isn’t interested in this one.

“It’s not—ugh, it’s something else.”

“What the fuck else does twink mean?”

“Not twink. Twinkie. The snack, you know it?” He waves the freshly purchased packet in the air, but quickly continues as Flambae balls his fist up and draws his arm back, “It’s yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Like—” Robert really doesn’t want to continue this part, and Flambae should be have figured it out by now. He chances a glance, but those shaped eyebrows are raised so high up on his face that they’re about to fly off. His arm is frozen in mid-air.

“I’ve never fucking heard of that before.” 

He’s started to recognize when Flambae’s glare is intense because he’s figuring out how he should feel, not where his next punch should land. Robert can reward that effort: “I don’t think it’s a common saying anymore. And it was really only popular with Asian—East Asian kids. For them to say, obviously. It’s not exactly a compliment.” This isn’t the first time he’s had to explain the joke, and this is where it always ends: Robert contributing to his own humiliation. He’s ready to seal the deal by walking away with his slightly squashed Twinkies, but Flambae interrupts:

“A lot of fucking idiots don’t realize I’m Afghan. Or they don’t think I’m Afghan enough.” Robert blinks. He remembers reading Flambae’s birthplace on the database, but that didn’t seem as important as the criminal record. “Or when they do figure it out, they get fucking weird about it. There still aren’t a lot of out Middle Eastern guys.” Robert blinks again. Sexuality definitely isn’t in the database (not like he’d need a note to know), but that didn’t seem as important as figuring out the warning signs for when a kamehameha reference would turn into an actual flame thrower to his face.

But, yeah, he’s looked. He’s a bisexual man in his early 30s and Flambae’s ass looks like that in a skintight bodysuit, what the fuck else is he supposed to do? Not look? But he gets what Flambae’s saying. People get “fucking weird” about Asian guys, especially other Asian gays. They want actual twinks. Or gym bunnies. Kdrama leads with perfect hair. Soft, boyfriend-material types with fluffy sweater paws from a Kpop photocard. Robert doesn’t look like any of that. Can’t do any of that, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. 

He does hold a certain responsibility in this collared shirt, in or out of work (it’s still funny to think about superheroes having contract hours), so he says, before he can worry about being righteous on Flambae’s behalf, “‘A lot of fucking idiots’ don’t bother working through the bullshit they’ve been subjected to before subjecting you to it. It sucks, but it’s a good reminder that you’re lucky to see a bigger, brighter world than they can.

“You’re making our world better.”

Flambae snorts, “They are all fucking lucky if I’m the one lighting up their world. Those bitches won’t even need the fucking sun after I’m done with them.” Robert laughs and it bursts through his chest like a good punch does, but Flambae’s arms are crossed over his own chest, relaxed.

Robert’s always been bad about his Twinkie consumption rate in times of distress. Just ask Chase. Or don’t ask him, since Chase would have to confess as an accomplice. But Chase can’t testify about that time Robert only ate two Twinkies for the day. 

Or the multiple times he’s done that.

It’s just hard to eat, sometimes. Not physically—he’s not planning to die of starvation after every-fucking-thing he’s been through—but, like, mentally. There’s too much bullshit to deal with when he’s busy. He doesn’t like cooking because he hates doing the dishes but seeing the sink pile up is depressing. He doesn't like doing the math about balanced food groups and calories and cents per ounce while grocery shopping. Sometimes he just forgets. He doesn’t like eating out because being surrounded by so many people is draining. He doesn’t like delivery services—he doesn’t want to link his address to his face and he doesn’t want to store any personal information on an account.

And, sometimes, Twinkies are the only thing he can stomach. Just thinking about eating will make him nauseous, but he’s learned to not ignore the lightheadedness and spiraling thoughts the hard way. So he prays he remembered to refill his stash of Twinkies the last time he went to a store and carefully unwraps the packaging so no crumbs get stuck in the plastic crinkles. He mechanically chews the fluffy bread until it turns to soft mush, savoring the sweet vanilla cream coating his teeth before he finally decides to swallow. The second Twinkie always takes longer to eat. Afterwards, he licks his tongue around his mouth to carry the taste a moment more, and then he moves on with his day (or finally gets to sleep). 

Robert won’t ever get sick of Twinkies. He’s even proved it.

See, Robert has this crystal-fucking-clear memory of staring at this revolting clump of smushed-up yellow and white in his sink. It smelled so, so sweet, almost overpowering the bitter taste of stomach bile coating his tongue. It smelled like warm, sunny afternoons spent savoring each bite because he only got to eat Twinkies when Chase was on babysitting duty. It looked like vomit. It reminded him that he’d never get to have those days again because Dad was dead and he was a man now, and men didn’t need babysitters. Chase would have told him to clean it up himself, anyways. 

He didn’t know what Dad would have said. He only knew that Chase would’ve… and he knew that didn’t fucking matter anymore. Robert drowned the vomit and ran the garbage disposal until the blades started clicking. He didn’t try to scoop the Twinkie up and swallow it down again. 

He did think about it.

Go figure.

“Do I really have to?”

“All this damn whining sounds like I went back in time to when you were a little bitch of a kid and the only thing causing my back pain, dipshit. Of-fucking-course you gotta do the safety trainings! You’re the one who’s been yammering on about ‘proper protocol and procedures.’ Not like you to be a hypocrite.” Beef woofs, as unnecessary but fitting punctuation.

Robert can’t glare at his dog, so he glares at Chase, who is cuddling his dog. “This is the one time I’ll play this card, but: I’m literally Mecha Man. Why do I have to go through the dispatcher self-defense course? You know these training videos are bullshit.”

Chase grins, bright white teeth glinting, and Robert preemptively facepalms. “You’re not nepo-babying your way out of this one, kid.”

“I only nepo-baby my way into bullshit, not out of it!” Robert laughs, and Chase acknowledges his role in this particular bullshit with a slow nod. As soon as his chin reaches his chest, he whips his head up (slower than Robert remembers, even through fuzzy, buffered childhood memories) and asks: 

“Then you got any actual fucking arguments?”

“I have a black belt.” Sure, it’s only the third dan and old enough to drive and any physical certificates or belts are lost or destroyed, but it is a black belt in a martial art. Better than the newly disassembled suit in the lab.

“What, you’re gonna go fucking Jackie Chan on me? You think we’re gonna get away with some Rush Hour 6 shit?”

“No, no, it’s in taekwondo. Korean shit.” Most of the kids in his class were Mexican. He doesn’t think Dad “approved” of that, but he obviously didn’t care enough to find him a new kwanjangnim. He obviously didn’t care enough to—

Chase groans, “Fucking obviously. I had to pick your slow ass up from those longass practices, and you were the one who fucking always fell asleep during our Rush Hour marathons, so don’t think you can speak on that. Still, Karate Kid’s the best of that genre. The one with baby Jaden Smith?”

“Still, it’s Chinese,” Robert says, lazily spinning around in his chair. “But also Japanese, for some reason.” He could think of some reasons.

“So where’s the Korean star?” Chase’s tone is pointed, but only as sharp as the edges of a crumpled paper ball. 

“I don’t know.” Chase’s silence is now as pointed as shattered glass.

“What, you want me to paste the South Korean flag on the mech-suit like it’s a football helmet?” Robert never played flag football during school, but he remembers keeping up with some of the random Korean Americans in the NFL (since that was Chase’s favorite sport to talk about), which always carried the awe of novelty even as they lost the “first-ever.” Similarly, it’s not like there haven’t been Asian-American superheroes, or Asian-American supervillains. They still carry the awe of novelty.

“You could do that.”

“Chase, you know I’m not planning on going fucking public, even after all this. And it’s not like I’m actually Korean or anything.” Robert’s stopped spinning around, but he can’t remember exactly when. “You saw that press conference. I don’t need to do that shit again, but now with the bonus round of people asking if I’m a North Korean agent. I doubt the Korean community will be thrilled I’m announcing this now that everyone’s calling me washed, and a lot of them will be the polar opposite of thrilled to find out I’m half-white.” He took care to not raise his voice at any particular part of that, but Beef’s tongue is uncharacteristically tucked inside his mouth, and Chase’s hand is lying still atop his head. Robert opens his mouth to say something (An apology? A defense? A PR statement? A plea?), but he closes it when Chase doesn’t move to intercept him. He watches as Beef nudges his little head up into Chase’s palm.

Chase peeks down at him and coos, but then straightens up so he’s fully looming over the divider between their desks. “I’m not asking you to do a fucking presscon, kid, but I know you’d kill it if you have to. You always do better than you give yourself credit for. When do you ever give this guy enough fucking credit?” Chase points at Robert’s face. Robert almost goes crosseyed trying to glare at his finger.

“But that therapy session’s not in the same tax bracket as my fucking paygrade. I’m just saying you can do some Korean community shit as Robert, not Mecha Man. It could be good for you. Get you something to hold onto that you didn’t inherit that damn savior complex with.”

Robert is acutely aware that they’re both thinking of the same childhood memory when Chase had jokingly asked if daddy ever told him I love you, and Robert said it was a cultural difference. “I know, I know. You just want to see if I can make some friends my own age.” 

Chase scoffs, returning to petting Beef with a vengeance. Robert looks at him, really looks at him. Crow’s feet, wrinkles, age spots, sagging cheeks, bushy mustache. The mustache isn’t exclusive to aging, it’s a fashion choice. A choice Robert never imagined Chase would go for. He doesn’t know when that decision changed or how to ask about it. He really fucking wants to ask, wants to look after Chase like Chase always looked after him. He loved Chase more than he’s ever loved anyone, because Chase gave him the opportunity to love him.

Because Chase loves him, too. “I know,” Robert repeats, softly, “Thanks, unc.”

“See kid, you already got some culture in you!” Chase says, and his smile is the brightest sight Robert’s ever seen. Beef woofs. Robert grins back.

He gets it, sometimes. Why Dad had to be Like That. Nobody would take him seriously if he wasn’t serious. Nobody would take him if he didn’t know when to stop being serious. How to laugh along with the joke, how to be one of the boys. Not one of the American boys, but one of the good ones.

Robert looks like one of the American boys. But he also looks like his father: a Korean immigrant too scared to share the culture he was so proud of with his son. A man too scared of not being the perfect hero to be anything else. 

A man who loved him, but saw too much of his future to see what he already had.

Robert’s honestly surprised it takes them this long to throw open the fridge once they’ve taken over his apartment. He knows what’s in there without looking: a door lined with soju bottles and an admittedly pathetic-looking plastic bag that’s holding a half-eaten container of kimchi. Probably expired by now, but hey, it’s supposed to be fermented. He’d still eat it.

Some of the Z-team looks like they disagree based on how they’re staring at his fridge, though they could just be counting the amount of half-empty bottles.

“Robert, you got a fetish for Asian girls or what?” Robert’s pretty sure that Invisigal’s Filipina, so he’s not really concerned about needing to put on his big boy pants and talk about why that joke is a line he doesn’t want crossed, not that anybody respects his big boy pants or that he’s wearing pants right now. 

Jesus Christ. Dad made him attend the Korean church a few streets over when he was little, but then Dad stopped going and then Robert stopped going and then nobody seemed to care. Robert’s never been back. It’s one of those things that he’s not sure what Dad would say about if he could see him. If he ever saw him. 

Maybe it’s one of those things that he’s not seeing in the bathroom mirror whenever he brushes his teeth, which he’s doing more consistently now that he talks to people in a close quarters workplace everyday. “I’m Korean, dumbass,” Robert says, and while the words scrape against his tongue on the way out, he doesn’t taste any blood.