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• ex-villain user

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It was obvious, painfully obvious.

Everyone on the Z-Team knew it, and you weren’t even trying to hide it.

Hide what?

Your obsession with Mecha Man.

The kind of obsession that tiptoed the line between endearing and a little alarming.

The others on the team found it hilarious at first. Prism couldn’t stop snickering about it, and Flambae had already made three separate jokes involving action figures.

But there was a moment, somewhere between your tenth “fun fact” and the unveiling of that custom-made Mecha Man plushie, when they realized this wasn’t just a passing phase.

This was devotion.

And the real Mecha Man? Robert Robertson III himself? He had no idea what to do with that information.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate enthusiasm.

He just hadn’t prepared for this kind of enthusiasm, directed at a fictionalized, mechanized version of himself.

To make it worse, neither Blonde Blazer nor Chase had thought it was necessary to mention that one of his own members was, uh, deeply invested in his alter ego.

So there he was, sitting in the SDN’s break room, sipping lukewarm coffee as you launched into another breathless tangent about Mecha Man’s “heroic symbolism” and “impeccable armor design.”

He nodded along, every fiber of his being screaming do not react.

He kept his tone steady, his expression politely neutral, pretending to be nothing more than Robert Robertson, mild-mannered dispatcher who happened to be somewhat interested.

“Mecha Man, huh?” he would say, as if the name didn’t echo through his entire career, his heartbeat, his past.

There were times the words almost slipped, times he nearly said something too knowing, too personal, but he always caught himself at the last second.

The mask stayed in place.

Robert wasn’t sure which was worse: that he’d eventually have to reveal who he really was, or that he already knew exactly how you’d react when he did.

So, for now, he let you ramble, pretending not to notice how animated your hands got when you described Mecha Man’s armor plates.

He laughed when appropriate.

He nodded when needed.

And in the quiet that followed, when you finally took a breath, he just thought to himself: It’d definitely be best to not reveal who I am.