Chapter Text
The video goes online four days after the crash.
No way of telling who got ahold of it, or how - just that it is undeniably footage from the inside of the Mecha Man armor, of the pilot himself, face grim as his fingers fly over hi-tech controls, warning lights flashing as gunfire and energy blasts overwhelm the audio.
A tight spot for the hero.
“Come on!”
Which he does, of course, escape.
He’s a superhero, what other option is there?
One ear-splitting metallic screech and the sudden roar of thrusters later, and the camera footage jostles, a relieved grin breaking onto Mecha Man’s face as he likewise breaks free of whatever physical restraints were holding the armor down. He even whoops. “Fuck! Yeah!” Head dipping back down, breathing hard, he asks, “Status?”
“Hull Status: Stable.”
For a moment, it seems like everything is going to be fine.
And then-
“Foreign Device Detected.”
Viewers can see in seconds the way Mecha Man reacts, frowning, eyes widening. “Shit- scan the device, what’s the readout-”
“Explosives Detected.”
“Radio signal? Any kind of uplink?”
“Negative. Warning: Pilot Ejection Advised.”
With a muffled curse, he reaches out of view of the camera, yanking at what seem to be loose wires, sparking and fluttering from a rush of wind, as if there’s already a hole punched through the armor. “Right on top of the rear hatch, fuck-”
“Warning: Pilot Ejection Advised.”
“Not while we’re still over the city, no- can’t risk this thing blowing up and landing on top of civilians. Maintain cruising altitude, calculate shortest route to minimal population area.”
“Altitude Locked - Calculating.”
For a moment, just a split second, Mecha Man visibly hesitates. Then, he switches hands, keeping the flight controls steady while reaching for a panel on the other side of the cockpit. A faint chime sounds, followed by a ringtone. Three repetitions. A voice speaks, too faintly to be heard over the wind, then a louder beep.
“Hey, buddy,” Mecha Man says, gaze locked onto the viewscreen in front of him, almost directly at the camera recording all of this. “Don’t think I’m going to be able to make it to dinner this weekend after all, sorry. Uh- I know we were going to talk about what you want this summer to look like, maybe- maybe spending some time in the workshop with me, but-”
“Warning: Pilot Ejection Advised.”
Scowling, Mecha Man flips an overhead switch. “Sorry. Sorry, that- look. I don’t know if we’re actually going to get to have that talk or not, so I need to say my piece now: you do not ever, ever, need to put on a uniform or climb into this suit to make me proud, okay? The only legacy I want is for you to be happy, to build a life that you enjoy, that you stay yourself. No matter what anyone else tries to tell you to be.” His voice grows thicker as he goes on, brown eyes becoming visibly shinier, although there are no spilled tears or other breaks in the man’s composure. “You’re always so excited to try different things, and I love it whenever you have something new to tell me about. It’s- it’s good, kiddo. It’s great. And you’re going to be great, no matter what. I know it. I love y-”
Boom
Static and error codes fly across the footage. After a few moments, though, the visual and audio elements resolve again, displaying a dark cockpit illuminated only by a single flashing red light, Mecha Man’s slumped form obviously unconscious as the wind whistles and that automated voice returns: “Warning. Warning. Warning. Alert: Incoming Call. Warning. Alert: Incoming Call. Warn-”
Impact.
Social media ran rampant with speculation. Everyone from newscasters to bums on the street needed to put in their two cents. Whether Mecha Man was alive, first and foremost, followed by if he was brave or stupid to skip ejecting in favor of piloting the suit towards the city outskirts, and then, of course, any and everything about the child he’d called. Age, gender, what they looked like, what they must be feeling, whether or not there’d be a fourth Mecha Man on the horizon any time soon, so on and so forth until all of it spun around and around like a whirlpool at the bottom of Chase’s stomach.
He watches the video at least half a dozen times before getting ahold of himself. Calling out sick for the day, then hunting down every damn favor he can think to cash in, to find out what actually happened behind the scenes with regards to the suit and its pilot.
Which, eventually, leads him to Southland General Hospital.
Helps that Chase knows the fucker’s real name. A little bit of polite sweet talking at the front desk, and he makes a point of tottering off like any other kindly old grandpappy motherfucker visiting a friend of the family. As soon as the elevator doors close, though, Chase straightens up and scowls, more than ready to stalk into that little shit’s room and give him a good shake for staying out of touch, for getting hurt, for having a kid and never dropping so much as a card in the mail-
But.
Speaking of said kid.
There’s a huddled bundle of dark green cloth in the chair closest to Robert’s bed when Chase steps through the door.
Looks like a big hoodie, stretched over legs pulled up onto the seat so only a pair of sneakers are visible. Blue and white, Mecha Man themed, because of course. Both arms are wrapped around the kid’s knees, face ducked and hidden, but a few curls of brown hair have slipped free. Same shade as Robert’s. Robert, who’s laying way too pale and quiet in the bed, tubes and wires and all the usual machinery keeping tabs on him.
Chase would rather keep looking at the kid.
He coughs.
And that’s enough to reveal a small face. Tear-stained and snotty, squirt’s been crying too recently to bother wiping the mess away yet. Red-rimmed hazel eyes peer at Chase; uncertain, wary. Underlined by a bigger continuous splash of freckles than Robert. Other than those details, kid’s practically a mini version of the unconscious bastard. “Um- sorry, I think- you have the wrong room...?”
“Nah,” Chase says, pausing at the foot of the bed so the kid doesn’t feel crowded. “Robert Robertson the Third, and- Fourth?”
Hazel eyes blink. “N- no. I’m, Riley.”
He offers his softest smile, the one usually reserved for scared puppies. “Nice to meet you, Riley. My name’s Chase. Been a while since I’ve seen this twerp,” a nod to Robert, who still hasn’t so much as twitched, “But he and I go way back. Used to be his babysitter.”
Another blink. And then shock hits, as the kid straightens up, feet slipping off the chair, giving Chase a glimpse of two pins on the front of the hoodie: blue and pink stripes, the other proudly declaring He/Him pronouns. “Wait, you’re- are you Track Star?”
“Shhh,” a quick glance over his shoulder reveals no lingering nurses or other staff, but Chase leans back to swing the door shut just in case. “Yeah, that’s me. Surprised he mentioned that, honestly.”
“Are you kidding?” Wariness has gone fully out the window. Riley scrambles to stand, eagerly sharing, “I heard SO many bedtime stories about you when I was little, I know Dad made up a lot but at least some of them were real adventures and he said you used to swipe things for him at the store and hung out after school- I can’t believe you’re here!” And with that, this scrawny slip of a kid darts right up into Chase’s personal space to give him a big hug.
He’s surprised.
Taken aback, to put it mildly.
But very, very touched, by both father and son alike.
Of course he hugs back.
Riley turns out to be a bit of an odd duck of a teenager, but it doesn’t even take a full hour for Chase to decide he loves this kid just as much as the idiot who made him.
Fourteen, but with a birthday in two months, closing in on the end of his first year at some fancypants high school. Friendly, bright-eyed when talking about Robert, has a folder full of photos on his phone of the two of them. Loves to sing, enjoys a wide range of hobbies and school clubs, lives with his mom and step-parent, and is currently looking after Robert’s dog.
“He has gotten super fat since Dad brought him home,” the kid says, sharing a snapshot of the adorable little angel in question, “But he was also like, literal skin and bones as a puppy, so. If it’s gotta be one or the other-”
“No false shortages,” Chase agrees, cooing at the next photo too. “Have you asked if he can come for a visit here?”
“Yeah. The doctor said they usually wouldn’t, but- well. Anything that might, might help Dad-” Wake up, Riley doesn’t say, and Chase doesn’t push. He just rubs a soothing hand up and down the kid’s back. “...anyway, uh. Mom says she can’t really take time off work, and Mimi is busy with Ash and Clover, so. It’s. Just me and Beef who’ll keep coming. And you, now.”
“And me, now.” Yeah, that hesitant little smile is a gut punch straight from Chase’s memories, of a pipsqueak too used to his old man being busy and knowing an emergency might draw his babysitter away at any moment too. “Say, kid, you like Twinkies?”
Riley’s face lights back up.
Chase gradually gets to meet Beef, and the kid’s mom Sarah, plus step-parent Minami and two lively little half-siblings, ages 5 and 3 respectively. He regularly visits the hospital on weekends, drops in more occasionally at the end of a long shift, spends the odd night when he’s particularly melancholy and the nurses don’t mind tiptoeing around an old man on the fold-down recliner in the corner.
Three months.
It takes almost sixteen whole weeks for Robert to wake up.
Chase gets a text from Riley on his way to work, lots of emoji symbols and exclamation marks followed by a photo of familiar brown eyes peering up blearily at the camera. The relief makes him pull over and park for a minute, just so he doesn’t become a hazard on the road. It’s tempting to call out sick, make a sharp U-turn, haul ass for the hospital just so he can drag that fucker into a long awaited hug, but- hell. Not like Robert’s going anywhere. And Riley deserves to get the first day all to himself.
So Chase puts his car back into drive. Heads for the Torrance SDN branch. Clocks in and spends a day covering Z-Team’s dispatches since those fucking morons scared off yet another employee. By the time Chase leaves and makes a beeline for Southland General, whatever portion of the day Robert spent awake clearly wore him out and sent the man into a heavy sleep.
A good twenty minutes are spent sitting and holding onto his hand regardless.
-Dispatch-
Riley can remember very clearly the day he told his dad he was a boy, not a girl. He was seven, wearing a green shirt with a wolf on it, and his favorite pair of jean shorts, and red flip-flops. Sitting on his dad’s hip, hugged close, safe and snug and giddy from spending a whole day with just the two of them.
And of course, getting to see Mecha Man for the very first time.
He’d known before then that his dad was a hero, sure, but as a little kid he’d thought Mecha Man was, well, a robot, never considering there would be someone who sat inside.
The mech has automatic systems that let it do plenty of things by itself, his dad explained, hoisting Riley a little higher so his fingers could reach the big metal arm. But pretty much everything else needs a command from me, either on my wrist computer, or the control panels inside.
Wow!
Riley’s pretty sure he knew he was a boy before then. Thinks he’d talked about it with Mimi, who wasn’t a girl or a boy. But that day is what he really remembers, looking from Mecha Man to his smiling dad, and saying, I’m a boy! Can I be Mecha too?
Remembers, all too clearly, the way his dad’s smile vanished.
Robert Robertson the Third did what damage control he could at the time, and for years after, always telling Riley he could be whatever he wanted, as long as it was something he picked, not something he thought he needed to be. And- that was good! Never a single doubt or question about Riley being a boy instead of a girl. Just a constant insistence that he didn’t have to become a superhero, Mecha or otherwise.
Which... honestly? Felt a little like he thought Riley couldn’t. That something was... lacking. Unlike his dad, his grandpa, and his great grandpa. And it was stupid, Dad never once said he couldn’t, he just- got overeager with encouraging Riley to try other things, sometimes. Which, again, NOT a bad thing, but it did leave the unspoken question hanging for years:
Am I not good enough?
Not enough of a man? Or a fighter? Engineer? Or just- not good enough to be a hero altogether? If there’s something missing, that he didn’t get, some lack of a Robertson spark that Dad knew would mean he couldn’t cut it as a superhero?
The voicemail is an answer.
You do not ever need to put on a uniform or climb into this suit to make me proud
The only legacy I want is for you to be happy
You’re going to be great, no matter what
Not just the words themselves. An extension of the sentiment Dad has been trying to tell him for years, without blatantly saying ‘I don’t want you to be the next Mecha Man’. No, it’s the harsh beeping of multiple system alarms, the roar of wind that shouldn’t be inside the hull, the suit’s voice declaring Pilot Ejection Advised-
It’s the fear in those words.
The apology in Dad’s tone, calling Riley with a bomb attached to the suit.
His roundabout way of offering a final goodbye, sent when Riley was in the bathroom without his phone, he didn’t get to answer, his return call too late, and then that stupid video sharing what could have been his dad’s last words with the whole world-
I love it whenever you have something new to tell me about
Chase is awesome.
He brings snacks, and tells stories, and adores Beef even more than Riley.
And, unintentionally, he helps fill in some gaps.
“I’m glad,” the man says quietly one day, after Riley finishes explaining how he managed to rope his dad into helping paint sets for the musicals he performed in as a middle schooler. “Your grandpa never would have taken the time to do that.”
You do not ever need to put on a uniform or climb into this suit to make me proud
Grandpa Robbie trained Dad to be Mecha Man.
Apparently, Grandpa Robbie didn’t do much of anything for Dad besides that. Or at least, so little of anything else that Chase can’t think of even one example. Which is a piece of context for why Riley’s dad has always asked about what he’s up to that the teen honestly isn’t sure how to process.
Helping with production stuff for the musicals even if he couldn’t always promise to be at a performance. Walking Riley through a hard algebra problem while they sat together in a Waffle House booth for early dinner. Praising the pair of tomatoes that actually lasted long enough to be harvested from a brief attempt at getting into gardening.
The only legacy I want is for you to be happy
At this point, Riley would give up just about anything if it means Dad will be okay.
Maybe even - maybe especially - what’s left of the Mecha Man suit.
Which probably makes Riley an even worse Robertson than usual, but visiting his dad in the hospital and staying in his chosen seat when the nurses come by to check on things means an up close view of just how often that suit failed to protect its pilot. Pretty much as long as Riley can remember, there was always something up with Dad, a bandage or a limp or a wince just from hugging. He’s always known that sit-still games were better, that reading and drawing and singing songs were best, that cuddling for a nap on the opposite side of wherever hurts is the way to go. That’s just- how it is. How it has been. How visits from his dad always go.
But it never quite translated into understanding just how often Dad has been injured.
There are... so many scars.
Riley has spent years quietly wanting to figure out how to prove he could be good enough for Mecha Man.
You’re going to be great, no matter what
Sitting in a hospital room with a beeping heart monitor, he’s starting to wonder instead if being Mecha Man was any good for his dad.
Robert Robertson the Third wakes up.
Riley Byer-Robertson hugs the stuffing out of him.
And that’s as far as they get before things are just... off.
Well, Riley’s dad still being pretty loopy and disoriented doesn’t help, but even after the first couple of days and an awed reunion with Chase (who Dad didn’t even recognize until the old man did his Hero Pose), it’s pretty clear that coming out of a coma isn’t a cut and dry deal to going back to normal.
Still. School’s out for the summer, so Riley can visit every day, and listen to the doctor updates, and take notes during physical therapy. He brings Beef a few more times, and smuggles in Twinkies, along with a few old books they’ve read together before. Things should be improving. And they are, sort of, slowly, but-
But.
His dad is still just, off. Staring blankly at his hands, sometimes. Or out the window, when the shadows of overhead birds or superheroes go by. A few times, Riley arrives early in the morning to find his dad curled up in bed, fingers digging into his scalp, hissing “Get. Up.” under his breath. Those days are... not great. To put it mildly.
But Dad gets through them.
And after a couple of weeks, Robert Robertson the Third discharges himself from the hospital.
“Uhhh... Dad? Where’s your mattress?”
“Hm? Oh.” Lingering in the small bedroom’s doorway, Riley looks back over his shoulder, just in time to catch the grimace on his dad’s face. “Dumpster.”
Huh. Okay, well, that answers the question of whether or not a particularly weird thief broke in to just steal the twin-sized mattress sometime in the past four months. “What, did bed bugs get into it or something?”
“Or something,” his dad hums, setting down the box of Beef’s toys, then dropping himself into the hard plastic chair with a groan. There’s a slightly nicer fold-up camping chair next to it, for Riley’s use, but other than those, still no other furniture. Which, honestly, is kinda Riley’s fault.
He sets down the bag of clean clothes next to Dad’s empty bedframe, then sidles back out to sit too. “...’m sorry I couldn’t save the stuff in your workshop.”
Automatic payments have kept the apartment safely leased. The same could not be said, though, for the rented property and shed where Dad kept his suit and repair supplies, along with a much nicer set of chairs, and some cool rolling stools, and a couch that could fold down into a decent bed. That place was under-the-table, cash only, no questions asked. Riley only belatedly thought to go check far too late to retrieve anything. As far as he could tell, the owner emptied it all out before letting someone else take over the space. The one silver lining is that apparently none of it blatantly connected to Mecha Man, or else said owner was keeping their mouth shut.
So, instead, Dad is down to an empty bedframe, the ‘better than nothing’ chairs, and as soon as they get it disassembled enough to smuggle up here, the mech itself.
Callused fingers sink into Riley’s hair, pinching and gently tugging on a few curls. “Not your fault, kiddo. Not your problem, either. I’ll- figure something out.”
Right.
Because his dad doesn’t quit.
Even when there is quite literally no possible way to go back to being Mecha Man.
(No equipment or supplies for repairs. Not nearly enough money to invest in more. And as the cherry on top, no Astral Pulse.)
That’s the other thing Riley has now realized in hindsight: all his life, he’s been aware of Dad downsizing from one apartment to another every few years, all of them slowly getting grungier, but up until being smacked in the face with ‘a new couch isn’t in the budget right now’ he hasn’t recognized the signs of vanishing funds.
He doesn’t want to feel guilty about the bank account set up in his name years ago, enough cash placed inside to cover emergencies or at least a first year of college.
The guilt creeps in anyway.
“Okay with pizza from that place around the corner for dinner?”
“Mmhm. I can go pick it up, if you want to skip the delivery fee.”
His dad sighs, and it’s fond, but Riley can hear the strain underneath. “Yeah, okay. Got your panic button?” The round blue and white fob always sits in his pocket. Proof of its presence is provided, and then Dad opens up his phone to call in an order.
There was a stapled packet of papers the hospital gave them during the discharge, stuff talking about the couple of surgeries and what Riley’s dad should be doing to keep up his own care, stretches and exercises and nutrition, that kind of thing.
A week after returning to the grungy apartment, Riley finds the packet in the kitchen trash can.
With a sinking pit in his stomach, he heads for the bathroom, which has a dinky medicine cabinet behind the small mirror over the sink. Inside are the prescription bottles Dad got too, one for mild painkillers he’s supposed to take regularly, one for a stronger kind meant to be taken during bad flare-ups.
As far as Riley can tell, neither has been touched.
There are groceries, at least, some cheap microwave meals that Dad prefers, but also a box of instant mashed potatoes and frozen vegetable medleys and pre-cooked sausage, things that Riley bought with cash that Chase slipped him. He doubles back to the kitchen, and sure enough, the microwave stuff has been eaten down, but nothing else.
A glance confirms his dad is still in the corner with the suit, painstakingly trying to reattach the lower half of one leg. Once again, not wearing the sling his arm is supposed to be in. Riley bites his lip. And goes to grab a measuring cup.
Ten minutes later, Dad blinks at the bowl of steaming food shoved in front of his face. “Uh- you cooked?”
Riley shrugs, offering a fork with the other hand. “I put stuff in the microwave and cut up some sausage, not a big deal.”
“...thanks, buddy.” Hot damn, his dad actually puts down the wrench to accept the meal. Although he does pause, before taking a bite. “You don’t have to do that. I should be the one cooking.”
Shrugging again, Riley goes to grab his own bowl. “I mean, you were busy, and I’m hungry. Not like I’m a five year old who can’t reach the counter.” And yet, there’s a conflicted expression on Dad’s face when the teen comes back, staring down into the mix of sausage and potatoes and veggies. He doesn’t start eating until Riley flops down and scooches in close, so the two of them are pressed together and leaning back against the suit. Riley takes a bite, and his dad does the same, and before too long both their bowls are empty. “There’s more, by the way. In a tupperware. You want seconds, or should I put it in the fridge?”
“Fridge,” Dad sighs, tipping his head back against Mecha Man’s armor with a dull thud. “That was about as much as I can eat at a time anymore.”
Yeah, Riley has noticed.
Next time he ducks into a grocery store before catching the bus to come see Dad, he’s gonna grab more cheap plastic containers along with bland, easy to fix foods. Maybe a package of instant mac ‘n cheese cups. Those are pretty good with an extra splash of milk and some cut-up sausage bits added.
Bowls set aside, Dad wraps him up in a hug. “I’m not doing a very good job of this right now.”
“Eh. Trauma and whatnot. It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” his dad sighs, chin on top of Riley’s head. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
Swallowing, Riley burrows deeper into the embrace, into his dad’s warmth and away from the cold armor. “You’ve got until school starts to get your shit together. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’m just worried you aren’t getting to be a kid, honey.”
“Mom,” Riley groans, hopping on one foot to keep his balance while he pulls on a sock. “It’s fine. It’s like- if I had a summer job, I’m being responsible and- oop-”
Hands catch his shoulders before he can faceplant on the floor, Mom sighing again. “A job to learn responsibility and earn some money is one thing, keeping your father from falling apart is another.”
Riley bites back a sharp I don’t see you doing anything to help, which. Would be unfair. His parents technically weren’t ever really ‘together’, it’s a bit of a stretch to even call them friends, Mom isn’t obligated to help Dad out. The most she needs to do is help keep Riley going, so he can pick up the slack. Which does NOT include trying to put a limit on how many days he goes to spend at that breadbox of an apartment. “It’s just until he figures out what to do next. Uncle Chase told me he’s going to talk to his boss about hiring Dad, that’ll help. And- he promised to be in better shape by fall, so I can stop worrying then and just focus on school again.”
Promises from Dad are a rare thing. He’s never broken one that Riley can remember. Agreeing to get his shit together in the next month means that he will, one way or another.
Mom doesn’t look convinced.
But she only sighs for a third time, and doesn’t stop Riley from pulling on shoes and ducking out of the house.
-Dispatch-
“There’s been a lot of speculation about my health and the state of the Mecha Man suit, and I’m here to put that speculation to rest. The suit has been damaged beyond my ability to repair, so I will be stepping back from superhero work... effective immediately.”
“Does this mean you’re finished?”
“Any comment on the video footage of your crash-”
“Can you repair your suit?” “What’s next for Mecha Man?”
“Does this mean your career is over?” “How badly were you hurt-” “Was that final call to a potential successor?”
“One at a time, please. And just to be clear, I will not be answering any questions about the call I placed before the crash.”
Robert isn’t what he would call a good parent.
That doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried.
The result so far has been a shitty sort of not-quite-absent, not-quite-present figure hovering around the edges of Riley’s life, more of a wayward uncle than a proper father, to be honest. An attempt at striking a better balance between hero work and home life than what his own dad achieved. Either he did something right along the way, or he simply managed to avoid fucking up too badly, because Riley is... good. Great. Amazing, and Robert wouldn’t change a thing about him.
He has friends. He reads, he draws, he loves to be goofy and sing in public. He’s a doting big brother to Ash and Clover, he gets along just fine with Sarah and Minami, he’s- happy.
Maybe most importantly, he doesn’t have a single scar from Mecha Man.
It was, less a choice and more a conviction, from the first moment Robert saw those wide brown-green eyes blinking up at him, that he would not ever risk this kid being hurt by his family’s legacy. Three Mecha Men would be enough. He didn’t need to ever drag Riley out of bed for physical training, or fill the kid’s afternoons with studying advanced engineering, or stand over a tiny fallen body and give the order to Get Up.
(Riley isn’t nearly that small anymore, but every time the familiar nightmare comes along, it’s an itty bitty mop of fluffy-curly hair, a gap-toothed grin, a high-pitched little voice going I’m a boy! Can I be Mecha too? And then the suit waking up, the defense systems coming online, and Robert can’t move fast enough-)
His kid is fifteen now. A birthday that Robert missed. Only one year younger than he was when Mecha Man Astral died, and the suit needed a new pilot. And Robert knows, he knows, that Riley hasn’t gotten even a tenth of the training he did growing up, that the kid wouldn’t be able to just step into the mech to fill his shoes right away, but he keeps waking up from a new nightmare of his broken body falling out of the hull, and Riley stepping over him to climb inside, blank-faced, or terrified, or angrily hissing you weren’t good enough, now I have to pick up the slack.
It never lasts more than a minute, but each time he jerks awake from that particular heart-pounding terror, Robert half wishes he’d never found out Riley existed.
Hi, Mecha Man, I don’t know if you remember me-
Smokebomb! Yeah, yeah of course I- hey, hi, how are you? Flashbang said you were stepping back from the whole, sidekick thing, are you uh, doing okay?
I’ve, been good. Well. I’m better, now. I had to bow out for ah, maternity leave.
Oh? ...wait.
Yeah. After we, y’know.
There’s- you had-
Her name’s Riley. She’s ten months old, now. My parents are mostly taking care of her, so I can focus on college and getting back into hero work, but uh. Do. Do you want to meet her?
...I- yes? Please.
The press conference ends on a sour note. One that doesn’t particularly leave Robert inclined to talk to anyone, hence. Wandering around for a bit. Jacket pulled over his uniform. Arm left in the sling just because that makes for a convenient place to keep his flask.
He should go home. But he gave Beef to Chase for the day, and Riley’s at a sleepover with friends, and his current apartment is just a little too barren to be tolerable right now.
So.
Wandering.
And then, stupidly, getting into a dumb fight that is, admittedly, more of a beating. For him, rather than the Skittles Gang.
But at least getting his ass handed to him ends better than it started.