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Chapter Text

Norway, 1952
Bobby Robertsen I was born in Bergen, Norway, on a winter morning so cold that the midwife later swore the baby's first breath had formed visible frost in the air. His mother dismissed it as the woman's fanciful imagination-it was February, after all, and the old farmhouse was drafty. But she noticed, over the years, that her son's hands were always cold to the touch, even when he ran in from playing in summer sunshine.

"Cold hands, warm heart," her own mother would say, the old Norwegian saying offered as comfort.

Bobby grew up with mountains in his blood and ice in his veins, though he never thought of it that way. He was simply a boy who never felt the cold, who could play in snow until long after other children had fled indoors, whose fingers never went numb even when he forgot his gloves. His family thought nothing of it. The Robertsens had always run cold.

When Bobby emigrated to America in 1970, settling in Los Angeles of all places, he brought with him more than just Norwegian traditions and a thick accent that would never quite fade. He brought a heritage he didn't understand, a genetic legacy dormant in his cells, waiting.

He became an engineer. Built things. Solved problems. And when Los Angeles needed a hero, when conventional law enforcement couldn't handle the rise of superpowered crime, Bobby Robertsen did what Norwegians do best-he endured, he innovated, and he built something that would last.

The Mecha Man Prime suit was his masterpiece. A mechanical marvel that turned an ordinary man into a superhero. And if the suit's cooling systems always seemed to run more efficiently when Bobby piloted it, if ice never formed on the exterior even during extended aerial combat in sub-zero temperatures at high altitude-well, he attributed that to good engineering.

Bobby Robertsen I died in 1986, crushed beneath rubble while saving a little girl from a collapsing building. He was forty-four years old. His hands were still cold when they pulled his body from the wreckage.

His son, Robert "Robbie" Robertsen II, inherited the suit, the mission, and the family quirk of cold hands. He also inherited his father's complete lack of awareness about what that quirk actually meant.

---

Robert Robertsen III was eight years old when he nearly died because of his father's suit.

It was a Saturday afternoon in late summer. His father was in the workshop-his father was always in the workshop-and young Robert had been told, as always, to stay upstairs and not disturb him. But Robert was eight, and curious, and lonely, and his father had been down there for six hours without coming up once.

The workshop was in the basement, a converted space filled with tools and equipment and, dominating the center of the room like a technological altar, the Mecha Man Astral suit. It was sleeker than his grandfather's version had been, incorporating new materials and the revolutionary Astral Pulse power core that Robbie had spent years developing. The suit was inactive, powered down, standing in its maintenance cradle like a sleeping giant.

Robert had seen it dozens of times before, but something about it always drew him. Maybe it was the way his father looked at it-with more warmth than he'd ever shown his son. Maybe it was the legacy it represented, the weight of expectation that even an eight-year-old could feel pressing down on him.

Or maybe it was something else. Something in his blood that recognized the suit for what it really was: a substitute, a replacement, for powers that should have been his birthright.

He didn't remember picking up the hammer. Didn't remember the first swing, or the second. He just remembered the rage, sudden and overwhelming, the feeling of cold fury that started in his chest and spread through his whole body. He remembered the satisfying sound of metal on metal, the way the suit's armor plating dented beneath his blows.

He remembered his hands feeling colder than they ever had before. He remembered frost forming on the hammer's handle, spreading up his arms in delicate crystalline patterns that he was too young and too angry to understand.

The suit's defensive protocols activated.

One moment Robert was swinging the hammer, tears streaming down his face, trying to hurt the thing that had stolen his father from him. The next moment, the suit's chest cavity opened and its automated defense systems came online, red targeting lasers painting across his small body.

"THREAT DETECTED. NEUTRALIZING."

The mechanical voice was emotionless, final. The suit's right arm rose, laser cannon charging with a high-pitched whine that would haunt Robert's nightmares for years.

He remembered being too frozen with fear to move. He remembered the cold in his body turning from rage to terror, ice crawling across the concrete floor beneath his feet. He remembered thinking, with perfect eight-year-old clarity: I'm going to die.

Then Track Star was there.

Chase-younger then, not yet aged by his cursed powers, and still going by his hero name-had been upstairs visiting Robbie when the alarms went off. He moved faster than thought, faster than the speed of sound, and scooped Robert up just as the suit fired.

The laser clipped Robert's right ear, shearing off the top portion in a flash of pain and burning flesh. Robert's thumb, caught in the blast while pulling Robert close, dislocated with an audible pop. They tumbled together across the workshop floor as the suit's targeting systems tracked them, more weapons systems coming online.

"DISABLE! SECURITY CODE ALPHA-ROBERTSEN-ASTRAL-NINE!" Robbie's voice, panicked, from the top of the basement stairs. The suit immediately powered down, its chest cavity closing with a hydraulic hiss.

Robert remembered the pain in his ear, hot and sharp, blood running down the side of his face and neck. He remembered Chase holding him, the speedster's heart hammering so fast it felt like a vibration more than a heartbeat. He remembered his father rushing down the stairs, face pale, eyes wild.

And he remembered his father's hands as they examined his ear-cold hands, so cold they made the burning pain feel momentarily better. His father's touch was clinical, efficient, checking for arterial damage, assessing whether Robert would bleed out or just be scarred.

"Get up."

That was all his father said. Not "Are you okay?" Not "I'm sorry." Not "I love you, I'm so glad you're alive."

Just: "Get up."

Robert got up. Ear mangled, thumb dislocated from where Chase had grabbed him, but he got up. His father was already turning away, back to the suit, checking for damage to his precious armor.

Track Star drove Robert to the hospital. Got his ear stitched up, his thumb relocated. Bought him ice cream on the way home, talking rapidly about anything and everything except what had just happened. Robert barely heard him. He was too focused on the strange coldness still lingering in his body, the way his hands felt like he'd been holding ice for hours.

The emergency room doctor had commented on it. "His hands are freezing. Possible shock. Monitor for hypothermia."

But Robert wasn't in shock. He was just... cold. The way he'd always been cold. The way the Robertsen men had always been cold.

That night, alone in his room, Robert stared at his bandaged ear in the bathroom mirror. The doctors said the scarring would be permanent. The top curve of his ear was just... gone. A permanent reminder of the day he'd nearly died because of his father's suit.

His hands were so cold he could barely feel his fingers. When he touched the mirror, frost spread from his fingertips across the glass in a perfect starburst pattern.

He told himself it was just the air conditioning.

---

Robert was ten when he started noticing other things.

Summer in Los Angeles was brutal. Temperatures regularly hit the high 90s, sometimes pushing past 100. Other kids complained constantly about the heat, sought shade, guzzled water, came home from school with sunburns and heat exhaustion.

Robert never felt hot.

He wore long sleeves even in August. Not because he was cold, exactly-he just never felt the need to dress lighter. Other kids thought he was weird. His teachers asked if everything was okay at home, if maybe his family couldn't afford summer clothes. His father, on the rare occasions he noticed, told him to "dress appropriately for the weather."

But the weather didn't affect Robert. The LA sun beat down on the back of his neck and he felt... nothing. Comfortable. Neutral. While his classmates sought air conditioning, Robert could sit outside at lunch and feel perfectly fine.

His father was the same way. Always in long sleeves, always comfortable when others were sweltering. But Robbie Robertsen had grown up in Norway, had spent his childhood in actual cold, so people assumed he was just acclimated differently.

No one questioned why a ten-year-old American kid who'd spent his entire life in Los Angeles and some occasional visits to Norway would have the same tolerance.

"Your dad's side of the family," his teacher said once, when Robert showed up to field day in jeans and a hoodie while everyone else was in shorts and tank tops. "Some people just run cold, I guess."

Some people just run cold.

That became the explanation for everything. For the way Robert's hands were always freezing to the touch, so cold that other kids didn't want to hold hands during circle time in elementary school. For the way ice formed on his bedroom window even when the house was heated to 75 degrees. For the way, when Robert got angry or upset, the temperature around him seemed to drop.

"Norwegian blood," his grandmother (his mother's mother, American, had never even been to Norway) would say with a knowing nod. "Vikings didn't feel the cold either."

Robert accepted this explanation because he didn't have a better one. His father never talked about it. His father never talked about anything that wasn't directly related to hero work or the suit. The few times Robert tried to bring up the cold hands thing, tried to ask if his grandfather had been the same way, his father would shut down the conversation.

"Focus on your schoolwork, Robert."

"The Robertsen family has always run cold. It's not important."

"Stop asking pointless questions."

So Robert stopped asking. He just... lived with it. Lived with being the weird kid who never got hot, who had ice-cold hands, who occasionally left frost patterns on things he touched without meaning to.

He learned to hide it. Learned to pretend he felt the heat when everyone else complained about it. Learned to keep his hands in his pockets so people wouldn't comment on how cold they were. Learned to laugh it off when frost formed on his water glass at lunch, attributing it to the ice inside even though the glass had been empty.

He was Norwegian, that was all. Norwegian heritage manifesting in ways that seemed strange in sunny Los Angeles but would have been perfectly normal in Bergen or Oslo. Cold hands, warm heart-wasn't that how the saying went?

---

Robert was fourteen the night he found his father crying.

It was 2 AM. Robert had woken up from a nightmare-the same recurring one he'd had since he was eight, where the suit's laser cannon fired and this time Track Star wasn't fast enough-and gone downstairs for water. The house was dark except for the light spilling out from under the basement door.

His father was always in the basement. Always working on the suit, upgrading systems, running diagnostics, preparing for the next patrol. The Mecha Man Astral suit demanded constant maintenance, constant attention. Attention that might otherwise have been devoted to, say, a teenage son.

Robert should have just gotten his water and gone back to bed. He knew better than to disturb his father during workshop time. But something made him open the basement door, made him descend the stairs quietly, made him peek around the corner.

His father was sitting on the floor next to the Mecha Man suit, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. On the workbench beside him was an open laptop showing a video call screen-empty now, the call disconnected. On the floor was a photo album, open to pictures of Bobby Robertsen I in his original Mecha Man Prime armor.

Robbie Robertsen was crying. Sobbing, actually, in a way that Robert had never heard before. Deep, wrenching sounds that seemed torn from somewhere fundamental.

"I can't do this anymore," his father was saying, voice raw. "I can't- he's fourteen now, Dad. Same age I was when you started training me. And I look at him and I just- I don't know how to talk to him. Don't know how to be his father and also this-" He gestured at the suit. "How did you do it? How did you manage both?"

Robert stood frozen on the stairs, hand gripping the railing so tight that frost spread from his fingers across the wood. His father had never, not once in Robert's entire memory, expressed doubt about the suit. About the mission. About the Robertsen legacy.

"He deserves better," Robbie continued, talking to the empty workshop, to his dead father's photograph, to no one. "Deserves a dad who comes to his school events. Who knows the names of his friends-if he even has friends, I don't know, I don't know him-" His voice broke. "What kind of father doesn't know his own son?"

The kind who loves a suit more than a person, Robert thought bitterly. The cold in his chest spread through his whole body. The temperature in the basement dropped ten degrees in as many seconds. His breath misted in front of his face.

Robbie looked up suddenly, eyes scanning the room. "Hello? Robert?"

Robert fled. Back up the stairs, into his room, under his covers where he lay shaking-not from cold, never from cold, but from something else. Some emotion he didn't have a name for.

His father never mentioned that night. Never acknowledged that Robert might have overheard. The next morning at breakfast, he was the same as always: distant, distracted, mentally already in the workshop even though his body was still at the kitchen table.

"Don't forget you have a dentist appointment next week," he said, not looking up from his coffee. "Track Star will take you."

Track Star. Not "I'll take you." Not "Let's reschedule my patrol so I can be there."

Track Star, the babysitter. The surrogate father figure who actually remembered Robert existed.

"Sure, Dad," Robert said, stirring his cereal. The milk had frozen into slush without him noticing. He quickly poured it out and got a new bowl before his father could see.

That was the same year Robert stopped trying to connect with his father. Stopped asking to help in the workshop. Stopped hoping that maybe, someday, Robbie Robertsen would care more about his son than about living up to a dead man's legacy.

It was easier to just accept reality: The Robertsen men loved the suit. They married the mission. Everything else-family, relationships, personal happiness-was secondary at best.

Robert Robertsen III learned that lesson well.

Perhaps too well.

---

Robert was fourteen when his father died.

Shroud-Elliot Connors, a former member of the Brave Brigade, a man Robbie had trusted enough to help design the Mecha Man Astral suit-shot Robbie Robertsen II in the chest with his own service revolver. It was revenge, plain and simple. Revenge for being rejected from the team, for being beaten in a fight, for being denied the glory he thought he deserved.

The bullet went through Robbie's sternum and shattered his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Robert stood at the funeral in his ill-fitting black suit-a suit that was too big in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves because he'd had a growth spurt and no one had noticed he'd outgrown his formal clothes-accepting condolences from heroes he'd only seen on TV. Phenomaman clasped his shoulder with gentle strength. Blonde Blazer held his hand with her impossibly warm fingers. Track Star stood beside him the entire time, a silent presence that was the only thing keeping Robert from completely falling apart.

Robert felt nothing but cold.

Not grief-that would come later, in waves that threatened to drown him. Not anger-that would come too, burning hot and then freezing into something sharp and purposeful.

Just cold. Bone-deep, penetrating cold that made his fingers feel numb even though it was June.

The funeral was outdoors. It was 85 degrees, sunny, perfect California weather. People were sweating in their formal wear, dabbing at their foreheads with handkerchiefs, seeking the shade of the funeral home's awning.

Robert stood in direct sunlight and felt nothing but cold.

"Your father was a hero," someone said. One of the Brave Brigade members, he couldn't remember which one. They all looked the same through his grief, just vague shapes offering empty words. "He died protecting this city."

He died because he rejected Shroud from the team, Robert thought. He died because of old grudges and hurt feelings. He died because being a superhero made him enemies that eventually killed him.

He died the way grandfather died. In service of a legacy that demands everything and gives back nothing but pain.

The cold in Robert's chest intensified. The air around his him dropped a few degrees. The funeral director, standing a few feet away, shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter.

Track Star noticed. He'd always been perceptive, had always paid more attention to Robert than Robert's own father did. The speedster leaned in close, voice low: "Hey. You're doing that thing again. The cold thing."

"I can't stop it," Robert whispered back.

"I know. Just-try to breathe, okay? Focus on something else."

Robert focused on the casket. Focused on the fact that his father was in there, cold as Robert had always been cold. Cold hands, warm heart-except his father's heart wasn't warm anymore. It was still. Stopped. Destroyed by a bullet fired by a man his father had once called friend.

Track Star had tried to save him. Of course he had. Chase had spent years as Robbie's partner, had been like an uncle to Robert, had cared more about the Robertsen family than Robbie sometimes seemed to. When Shroud pulled that trigger, Chase had tried to race the bullet, had put his hand on Robbie's chest trying to stop it, to shield him, to do something.

But even the fastest man alive can't outrun a point-blank gunshot.

After the funeral, after the reception where people told endless stories about Robbie Robertsen's heroism (never his fatherhood, Robert noted-no one had stories about what a great dad he'd been), Chase drove Robert home.

They sat in the car in the driveway for a long moment, neither speaking.

"Your dad loved you," Chase finally said. "He didn't know how to show it, but he did."

"Did he?" Robert's voice was flat. "Because from where I'm sitting, he loved the suit. The mission. The legacy. I was just... the next generation. The next pilot. The next Robertsen to wear the armor and die young."

"Robert-"

"I'm fine." Robert opened the car door. The interior temperature had dropped so much that their breath was visible in the air. "Thanks for the ride, Chase."

"Kid, wait-"

But Robert was already out of the car, walking toward the house, shoulders hunched against a cold that no one else could feel.

Chase called after him a few times in the following weeks. Called to check in, to offer support, to try to maintain the relationship they'd had when Robert was younger. But Robert never called back. Never returned the messages. Never reached out.

By the time Robert turned fifteen, Chase had stopped trying.

Robert told himself he didn't care. He had other things to focus on now. Like the suit in the basement, waiting for its next pilot. Like the mission that had killed his grandfather and his father, now passing to him whether he wanted it or not.

Like the cold in his blood that grew stronger every day, that manifested in frost on his bedroom window and no need for air conditioning, that he continued to attribute to the Norwegian heritage that was just the Robertsen family's way.

Cold hands, warm heart.

Except Robert's heart wasn't warm anymore either.

---

Robert was sixteen when he first wore the suit.

His father's workshop had become his workshop now. The Mecha Man Astral suit stood in its maintenance cradle exactly as Robbie had left it, like his father might walk in at any moment and resume his work. The tool bench was still organized Robbie's way. The laptop still had his father's password (robert1990-his son's name and birth year, which should have been touching but just made Robert angry because it was the only time his father had really acknowledged his existence).

The core technology passed down from his grandfather, improved by his father to use the Astral Pulse, now inherited by Robert. Three generations of Robertsen men, three generations of Mecha Man, and each one had died or would die in service of a city that would forget them eventually.

Robert wasn't a genius like Bobby Robertsen I had been, wasn't the engineering savant his father was, but he was smart enough. He had enough technical knowledge to do basic repairs, enough computer skills to hack into systems when needed. Where his father and grandfather had been builders, innovators, Robert was an adapter. He understood existing systems, could modify them, could make them work.

He was a hacker more than an engineer. Breaking into things came naturally. Reconfiguring code, rerouting power systems, finding backdoors and exploits-those skills translated well to suit maintenance.

But more than that, he was determined. Grimly, coldly determined to take up the mantle that had killed his family, because what else was there? The Robertsen legacy demanded it. The suit demanded it. And if he was going to die young like his father and grandfather, at least he'd die living up to expectations.

It took him two years.

Two years of obsessive work, two years of ignoring school and friends and anything resembling a normal teenage life. He'd dropped out of high school the day after turning sixteen, citing the need to "manage family affairs" and "handle his father's estate." The social workers had tried to intervene, concerned about a minor living alone, but the Robertsen lawyer had smoothed things over. There was money from the life insurance, from his father's savings. Enough to keep Robert housed and fed and off social services' radar.

Track Star had tried to check in a few times. Robert hadn't answered the door.

So Robert worked. Alone in the basement workshop, rebuilding his father's suit piece by piece, modifying it, making it his own. Streamlining the weapons systems. Improving the armor plating. Upgrading the computer interface. Installing new targeting software he'd designed himself, code that would let him hack enemy systems mid-combat.

The suit's cooling system was the one thing he didn't touch. It had always run cold-colder than it should have, more efficiently than the specs suggested. Robert attributed this to his father's good engineering. Robbie had always been meticulous about temperature regulation, knowing that overheating was one of the biggest risks for suit pilots.

(It never occurred to Robert that the suit ran cold because the Robertsen men who wore it had always been cold, that their bodies somehow affected the suit's internal environment, that there was something in their biology that manifested even through layers of metal and circuitry.)

The first time Robert put on the full suit, he was seventeen years old. It was three AM on a Tuesday in February. The anniversary of his grandfather's death, though Robert tried not to think about that.

He stood in front of the open chest cavity, wearing the undersuit and pilot gear, staring at the interior. This was it. This was the moment he officially became Mecha Man, became the third Robertsen to wear this armor, became the latest iteration of a legacy that would probably kill him.

His hands were so cold they were almost numb. His breath misted in the heated workshop. And for just a moment, Robert hesitated.

What if I don't? he thought. What if I just... walk away? Sell the suit, use the money to go to college, live a normal life. I didn't ask for this. I don't owe it to anyone to die young for a city that didn't save my father.

The cold in his chest spread through his whole body. The temperature in the workshop dropped twenty degrees. Frost spread across the maintenance cradle, across the suit's exterior armor, beautiful and deadly and completely impossible to explain away as air conditioning or poor circulation.

Robert stared at the frost patterns on the suit's chest plate. Delicate crystalline formations that looked almost like Nordic runes, like the old designs his grandfather had once drawn about from Norwegian folklore.

Cold hands, warm heart, he remembered his great-grandmother saying, back when he was too young to understand what it meant.

But his heart wasn't warm. It was cold. Cold like the Robertsen men had always been cold, cold in a way that went beyond mere temperature, cold in a way that was starting to feel like something more than just a family quirk.

Robert Robertsen III stepped into the Mecha Man suit.

The chest cavity closed around him. The systems came online with a familiar hum. Screens lit up showing diagnostics, targeting data, system status. The heads-up display flickered to life, overlaying the workshop with data streams and tactical information.

And Robert felt... nothing.

No sense of legacy. No weight of responsibility. No pride in carrying on the family tradition.

Just cold. Bone-deep, penetrating cold that felt more like home than anything else in his life.

"Hello, Pilot Three," the suit's AI said, using the designation his father had programmed. "Welcome to Mecha Man Blue."

"Call me Mecha Man," Robert said. Not Pilot Three. Not Robert. Just Mecha Man.

Because Robert Robertsen III was going to stop existing now. From this moment forward, there was only the suit, only the mission, only the cold.

---

Robert was Mecha Man for seven years.

Seven years of patrolling LA streets, from the downtown financial district to the beach communities of Santa Monica, from the hills of Hollywood to the industrial areas of San Pedro. Seven years of fighting tech-villains and bank robbers and the occasional supervillain with delusions of grandeur. Seven years of slowly, methodically building a reputation as a hero who didn't quit, didn't fail, didn't compromise.

Seven years of being completely, utterly alone.

The suit became his identity. Robert Robertsen III existed only as the man who wore it-and even that existence was tenuous, barely real, more concept than person. He had no friends. No romantic relationships. No hobbies, no interests, no life beyond the mission.

He lived in a small apartment that was more workshop than home. Just enough space for a bed, a bathroom, a kitchen that mostly went unused, and a massive workspace filled with tools and computer equipment and spare suit parts. The basement workshop at his father's old house had been sold with the property, the money added to his dwindling savings.

Beef, his corgi-chihuahua mix, was the only living thing he interacted with regularly outside of combat. The dog had appeared one day about a year into Robert's career as Mecha Man, a stray mutt limping around the apartment building with a cut on his paw. Robert had bandaged the wound, intending to drop the dog at a shelter the next day.

Beef had other plans. The dog refused to leave, following Robert around the apartment, curling up next to him while he worked, offering unconditional affection that Robert didn't know how to accept but couldn't bring himself to reject.

"Beef," Robert had said, eating a roast beef sandwich while the dog stared at him with pleading eyes. "Your name is Beef."

He'd never been good with names. Beef seemed perfect in its simplicity, and the dog didn't object.

The isolation didn't bother him. Or rather, he told himself it didn't bother him. He had the suit. He had the mission. He had the Robertsen legacy to uphold. What else did he need?

The cold helped. The constant, pervasive coldness that had intensified since he started wearing the suit regularly. His apartment was kept at 65 degrees-any warmer and he felt uncomfortable, overheated, wrong. His hands were always ice-cold to the touch. His breath misted slightly even indoors. Small frost formed on his windows even in summer.

He attributed it all to the suit's systems. To spending so much time in climate-controlled armor. To the Robertsen family quirk manifesting more strongly now that he was doing the same work his father and grandfather had done.

It never occurred to him that it might be something more. That the powers were manifesting more strongly because he was under constant stress, constant physical strain, constant emotional suppression. That his body was trying to express something his mind refused to acknowledge.

By twenty-one, Robert's body was a map of old injuries. Broken bones that hadn't quite set right because he'd refused to take time off for proper healing. Torn muscles that ached in cold weather (ironic, given that he never felt the cold). Nerve damage in his left shoulder from a fight with an electricity-manipulating villain. Chronic pain in his lower back from the constant strain of wearing a mechanical suit that weighed close to three hundred pounds.

He managed it with over-the-counter painkillers, ice packs (again, ironic), and a grim determination to ignore anything that didn't actively prevent him from functioning. The pain was just part of the job. The Robertsen men had always sacrificed for the greater good.

His grandfather had died for it at forty-four. His father had died for it at thirty-eight. Robert assumed he would too, probably before thirty if he was being realistic about life expectancy.

The family tradition, if there was one, was dying in the suit. Dying young. Dying for a city that would mourn you briefly and then move on.

Robert had made peace with that. Or thought he had.

Looking back, Robert should have noticed the signs earlier. The way his hands were always cold, even inside the suit's climate-controlled interior. The way he never felt hot, even during LA's brutal summers, even during extended combat that should have left him overheated and exhausted.

The way ice would occasionally form on his water glass when he was particularly stressed or angry, thin fractals of frost that he attributed to faulty air conditioning. The way, in his worst moments, when the isolation felt like it was crushing him, the temperature in his apartment would drop ten degrees and his breath would mist in front of his face.

The way, during particularly intense fights, he sometimes felt colder than usual-not uncomfortable cold, but cold that felt like power, like something trying to break free from his skin.

He attributed it all to the suit's systems. To poor circulation. To the Robertsen family quirk of running cold. To stress and exhaustion and the physical toll of being a superhero.

It never occurred to him that it might be something more. That the cold wasn't a quirk but a gift. That the frost wasn't a malfunction but a manifestation. That the ice in his veins was literal, not metaphorical.

The first real hint came during a fight with a fire-powered villain.

---

It was a cold November night-cold even by LA standards, one of those rare evenings when the desert wind brought a bitter chill that had people pulling out jackets they only wore three times a year. The temperature had dropped to 48 degrees, which in Los Angeles might as well have been arctic conditions.

Robert didn't feel it. He never felt the cold.

The call came in at 10:47 PM: structure fire at Wilshire Plaza, a large shopping mall in Mid-City. Possible arson. The pyromancer had been burning buildings across LA for three weeks, his pyrokinesis making short work of security systems and fire suppression measures. This was his biggest target yet.

Robert arrived to find the mall engulfed in flames. The fire department was already on scene, evacuating civilians, trying to contain the blaze. But this wasn't normal fire-it burned too hot, spread too fast, defied the usual laws of combustion. This was superhuman fire, fire given purpose and malice by someone who could control it.

Robert helped with evacuation first. The Mecha Man suit's sensors could detect heat signatures through smoke and walls, could find people trapped in sections the fire department couldn't reach. He pulled a woman and her two children from a collapsing department store. Found an elderly security guard unconscious from smoke inhalation. Retrieved a teenage employee who'd gone back for her phone and gotten trapped.

When the building was clear, when every civilian was accounted for, Robert just stood there, staring at the burning mall.

A police officer approached, voice crackling over the radio: "Mecha Man, everyone's out. Building's clear."

Robert turned his armored head toward the officer, then back to the mall. The whole structure was on fire, flames leaping from shattered windows, smoke billowing into the night sky. The pyromancer had left a trail of melted glass and scorch marks in his wake, turning what should have been a simple robbery into a statement of power.

Robert decided that he would catch the pyromancer. Tonight. Now. Before this escalated further.

"Not worth it!" the police officer called as Robert walked toward the burning building. "The building's coming down! You'll die in there!"

But Robert was already moving, stepping through the shattered entrance, into hell itself.

The heat hit him first. Should have hit him. Except... it didn't. Not really. The suit's cooling systems activated automatically, but Robert barely noticed. The temperature that should have been overwhelming, that should have had him sweating within seconds, felt almost... comfortable.

Strange, he thought. But there wasn't time to dwell on it.

"Damage is done," Robert's voice came out mechanically filtered through the suit's speakers as he walked through the burning mall, searching. "All I want is a conversation." He could see the fire moving unnaturally, following patterns that didn't match normal combustion. The pyromancer was still here, still in the building, using his powers. "No need to do any more-"

Before Robert could finish, the villain struck.

A figure fully covered in flame, appearing from behind a pillar, punched the Mecha Man suit in the head with enough force to send Robert staggering. Then the villain was flying away, using his pyrokinesis for propulsion, flames jetting from his hands and feet.

Robert turned, tracking the movement. His targeting system locked on. The villain was preparing another attack.

They fought.

It was brutal. The pyromancer was good-better than most villains Robert had faced. His control over fire was precise, creative, dangerous. He used his flames for mobility, for offense, for area denial. Kept Robert on the defensive, forced him to use the suit's cooling systems to their maximum capacity.

The villain flew at him again. Robert was ready this time, throwing a punch that connected with solid force, sending the pyromancer crashing into a concrete barrier. But before Robert could follow up, the villain was airborne again, circling, looking for an opening.

They traded blows. Robert's armor dented under the assault, warning lights flickering on his HUD. The pyromancer struck the suit hard enough to send Robert flying back into a support column, breaking it. The mall groaned, structure compromised, beginning to collapse around them.

Robert threw off the concrete debris. Stood up. The villain was diving at him again.

Robert caught him.

The pyromancer struggled, flames intensifying, but Robert's grip held. He used the villain's momentum against him, hurling him into a piece of structural steel. The impact was sickening.

But the pyromancer wasn't done. He flew up, circling higher, and then dove down with all his power, crashing into Robert's suit. The force sent them both off-balance. The suit, heavy and now damaged, couldn't compensate fast enough.

They fell through the weakened floor.

Robert landed hard, systems screaming warnings about structural integrity. He rolled, narrowly avoiding another attack, and managed to grab the pyromancer as he flew past, slamming him into a wall hard enough to leave a crater.

The villain finally transformed, flames dissipating enough to reveal his true form: tall, muscular, with a ridiculous V-neck suit and a ponytail. He looked like he belonged in a nightclub, not a burning building.

Robert took a defensive stance. "Cool down, and I won't have to hurt you."

The pyromancer's response was a gout of flame hot enough to melt steel. The fire washed over Robert's suit, forcing him to raise his shield. But even behind the shield, even with the cooling systems running at maximum, Robert noticed something strange.

He wasn't overheating. The suit's temperature gauge was rising, yes, but Robert himself felt... fine. Better than fine. The cold that was always in his body seemed to be pushing back against the heat, creating a bubble of comfortable temperature inside the armor.

That's not normal, he thought. That shouldn't be happening.

The pyromancer intensified his assault. Robert tried to use capture nets-the villain burned them away with one hand. Tried to use the suit's firearms-the metal barrels melted before he could fire. The flames pushed Robert back, step by step, until his back hit a wall.

The fight was getting desperate. Robert's HUD showed critical damage to multiple systems. The cooling was failing. He should be cooking alive inside the suit right now, should be screaming from the heat, should be unconscious from heatstroke.

But he felt cold.

Impossibly, inexplicably cold. Like his body was generating its own climate, its own resistance to the pyromancer's power. Like something inside him was waking up, responding to the threat, pushing back against the fire with ice that Robert didn't understand and didn't have time to question.

Robert got inside the pyromancer's guard during a moment when the villain was close enough for melee combat. He used one of the suit's wrist-mounted plasma cutters, activating it in a desperate gamble.

The blade bit deep, slicing a long gash from the villain's elbow to his wrist.

The villain screamed, his flames guttering out from shock and pain. Blood ran hot and dark, steaming where it hit the cold pavement. The mall's structure groaned around them, fire spreading, everything collapsing.

Robert remembered feeling a strange sensation in that moment. A coldness that went beyond the November chill, beyond even the suit's systems. For just a second, he could have sworn he saw frost forming along the edges of the pyromancer's wound, the blood crystallizing before his eyes.

Ice. Actual ice. In the middle of an inferno, in a building that was burning down around them, Robert saw ice forming from his proximity alone.

Then the villain collapsed, and Robert was calling for an ambulance, and the moment passed. He got the pyromancer out of the building just before a section of roof collapsed where they'd been standing.

The paramedics took over. Police arrested the villain. Robert stood there in his damaged suit, watching the mall burn, trying to process what he'd just experienced.

Frost. I saw frost. In a building that's literally on fire. That's not possible. That's not- the suit doesn't do that. The suit doesn't freeze things. So what-

"Mecha Man?" A firefighter approached, voice concerned. "You okay? You're just standing there."

"I'm fine," Robert said automatically. The lie came easily after years of practice.

But he wasn't fine. He was cold. Colder than he'd ever been, even by his standards. And somewhere deep in his bones, something was stirring, something that had been sleeping his entire life, something that wanted out.

He remembered the cold. He remembered the frost.

He remembered thinking: That was strange.

But there wasn't time to dwell on it. There was never time. Always another crime, another emergency, another reason to ignore the warnings his body was giving him.

Robert flew home. Catalogued the damage to his suit. Began repairs. Fell asleep at his workbench at 4 AM with Beef curled up next to him, the dog's warm body a contrast to Robert's ice-cold hands.

He didn't think about the frost again. Didn't let himself. Because if he did, if he questioned it, he'd have to acknowledge that something was changing. That the cold wasn't just a family quirk. That the ice wasn't just a coincidence.

And Robert Robertsen III wasn't ready to face that truth yet.

---

The next seven months passed in a blur of pain and patrol, of damage and repair, of slowly wearing down both the suit and himself until something had to break.

Robert was twenty-five years old and his body was failing. The chronic pain that had been manageable was now constant, a baseline of discomfort that occasionally spiked into agony. His left shoulder was getting worse-the nerve damage from the electricity villain had never properly healed, and every fight aggravated it further. His back spasmed regularly now, forcing him to lean against walls and breathe through waves of pain until he could move again.

He managed it the only way he knew how: painkillers, ice packs, and denial. Over-the-counter NSAIDs by the handful. Prescription pain medication when he could get it. Ice applied to injuries that should have required surgery and physical therapy but instead just got numbed until he could function again.

The irony wasn't lost on him. The colder his body became-and it was getting colder, he couldn't deny that anymore-the more he needed external ice to manage the damage he was doing to himself. As if his body was trying to heal itself with ice but Robert kept pushing through, kept fighting, kept refusing to acknowledge what was happening.

By November, the suit was barely held together. Systems that should have been replaced entirely were jury-rigged with spare parts and hope. The armor plating was dented, cracked, repaired with patch jobs that Robert knew wouldn't hold up in serious combat. The cooling system- ironically the one system that seemed to work better than it should-was the only thing that hadn't degraded.

Robert's inheritance was gone. Spent on repairs, on ammunition, on the constant upkeep a technological suit required. He'd burned through millions over seven years, and now he was down to his last few thousand dollars. The money from selling his father's house had carried him this far, but there was nothing left.

He needed to find Shroud. Needed to avenge his father before he lost the suit entirely, before the Robertsen legacy ended not with a heroic sacrifice but with a whimper of bankruptcy and failure.

That's when the Soothing Goon came into his life. A low-level criminal who Robert caught during a routine patrol, a man who turned out to have connections to Shroud's organization. The interrogation in Robert's apartment-dangling the man over the balcony, threatening to drop him, playing good cop/bad cop with himself-yielded a location.

Llewelyn Steel Works. An abandoned factory where Shroud was reportedly hiding.

Robert prepared for what he knew would be his final confrontation. He put on his pilot suit, checked the Astral Pulse, made sure his face mask was secure. He looked at the murder board he'd created-photos of Shroud, newspaper clippings about his father's death, maps of possible hideouts, a web of connections he'd spent months piecing together.

Shroud had killed his dad fifteen years ago. Spent that time in prison. Broken out six months ago and immediately started building a criminal empire, as if his father's death had been nothing, meant nothing, changed nothing.

This ends tonight, Robert thought. One way or another.

He walked to the Mecha Man suit. Stood in front of it, looking at the dented, damaged armor. Seven years he'd worn this. Seven years of being Mecha Man, of living up to the legacy, of being everything his father and grandfather had been.

The chest plate opened. Robert got in. Pressed the button to activate the suit. Inserted the Astral Pulse to give power to the system. The screens lit up, system diagnostics running. Structural integrity at 73%. Weapons systems functional but degraded. Cooling system at 100%-the one bright spot in a sea of red warnings.

Robert flew to the Steel Works.

He took out the guards quietly-dropped from the ceiling, disabled their weapons, knocked them unconscious with precise strikes that seven years of experience had made routine.

He hacked into the factory's security systems using a tablet he'd stolen from a guard, bypassing firewalls and extracting building layouts, security camera positions, personnel locations.

He found what he needed and made his way deeper into the complex.

The confrontation room had security cameras showing Robert fighting the guards. He walked in, ready for Shroud, ready for the final battle.

Instead, he found the Soothing Goon.

The same man he'd interrogated, the same man he'd dropped into a dumpster with a mattress, sitting in a chair and typing on his phone, completely unbothered.

"Hey, can I get a copy of that video when we're through here?" Robert asked, looking at the footage of himself fighting. "Cause I'm about to fuck you up and those videos do numbers.

Maybe we can go viral-"

"All this buildup," the Goon interrupted. "Face to face with your father's killer and you come in here with that lame shit?"

The fight that followed was a blur. Robert's suit getting damaged further. The Goon revealing himself as Toxic, a supervillain with... well, toxic powers and Shroud's augmentation technology. Other villains joining in-one with electricity, one with blade weapons. Robert fought them all, using every trick he'd learned in seven years, every advantage the suit could give him.

But he was outnumbered. Outpowered. Running on fumes and desperation.

They got him. Hooked his suit with a crane. Electrocuted him through the chain. The suit shut down. The Astral Pulse ejected, sparking, barely functional.

And then Shroud appeared.

Robert saw him through the hole Toxic had melted in his chest plate. Elliot Connors. The man who'd killed his father. Standing there calm and collected, observing Robert's failure like it was a science experiment.

"So what do you got left on them shields?" Toxic asked, leaning on a railing. "I said forty percent but boss man says you're down to twenty-eight, and he is not wrong about these things."

Robert checked. The shields were at 28%. Exactly.

"Good news, buddy. Shroud says he just wants the Astral Pulse. Which, we all know, isn't really yours anyway."

A rocket hit Robert's back. The suit shuddered. Shroud walked closer, standing directly in front of the Mecha Man suit, looking through the hole at Robert's face.

Robert looked around frantically, trying to think, trying to find an out. There wasn't one. He looked at the Astral Pulse, glowing blue in its housing.

"System check," Robert said. "Calculate the damage per second hitting shields, then tell me how many seconds I need to divert Astral Pulse energy to rocket boosters."

"12.89 seconds of damage before critical failure," the Mecha Man AI replied.

"Oh, hey," Toxic called out. "Boss man says if you're planning on diverting pulse power to the boosters, it won't work. This is a limited time offer, dude. You were so fucking talkative earlier. What's up?"

Robert ignored him. Ran the calculations. 12.89 seconds. He needed to-

"I'm just the messenger here. He says you're not calculating that shit stuck to your leg... dumbass."

The hook. They'd shot a hook into his leg to keep him grounded. Of course. He'd forgotten about it in the chaos.

Robert looked at the Astral Pulse. Looked at Shroud staring at him with those cold, calculating eyes. Looked at the damaged suit, at the villains surrounding him, at the complete and utter failure of everything he'd tried to accomplish.

This is it, he thought. This is how the Robertsen men die. In the suit. Just like Dad. Just like Grandfather.

And for a moment-just a moment-Robert felt peace about it. The family tradition fulfilled. The legacy maintained. He would die in the suit, die trying to avenge his father, die as a Robertsen should.

Cold hands, warm heart.

Except his hands weren't just cold anymore. They were freezing. Frost was forming inside the suit, crystallizing on the interior plating, spreading from his fingers through the damaged systems. His breath misted inside the helmet. The temperature was dropping so fast the suit's sensors were giving contradictory readings.

Something was happening. Something was trying to break free. Something in his blood, in his bones, in every cell of his body that had been cold for twenty-five years.

"Fuck it," Robert said.

He slammed the Astral Pulse back into its housing. The shields dropped. He diverted all power to the rocket boosters.

"COME ON!"

The rockets fired. The hook held for a second-then the suit's leg tore away, metal shrieking, hydraulics failing. Robert shot up through the factory roof, trailing sparks and coolant and pieces of armor.

"WHOOOOOOO! FUCK YEAH!" he yelled, high on adrenaline and desperation and the impossible fact that he was alive, he was alive, he'd escaped-

"Status?" he asked.

"Hull status: Stable," the Mecha Man AI replied.

Then, a second later: "Foreign Device Detected."

The display showed his back, near the boosters. There was a bomb. Small, efficient, already armed. Shroud had planted it while Robert was trapped. Of course he had. This had been the plan all along.

Robert had 2.3 seconds to register the device before it detonated.

He remembered thinking: This is it. This is how the Robertsen men die. In the suit. Just like Dad. Just like Grandfather.

He remembered a strange sense of peace about it. The family tradition fulfilled. The legacy maintained.

The world exploded into white-hot light and cold-

So much cold-

Colder than anything he'd ever felt, colder than Norwegian winters, colder than death itself-

And then his powers activated.

The ice that had been sleeping in Robert's blood for twenty-five years woke up all at once. Not gradually, not gently, but in a catastrophic surge of power that his body had no idea how to control. In the split second between the bomb detonating and Robert being vaporized, his subconscious seized control and did the only thing it could think of: it turned him into ice.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Every cell in Robert's body crystallized, transforming from flesh and blood into something else, something that looked like ice but was harder than diamond, something that shouldn't exist but did because the Robertsen bloodline had always been more than human.

The explosion hit a body that was suddenly immune to heat, to kinetic force, to everything the bomb could throw at it. The air around him vaporized. But Robert's transformed body remained intact, protected by ice that was also somehow him, that was his skin and his bones and his blood all transmuted into frozen perfection.

For 0.7 seconds, Robert Robertsen III ceased to be human and became something else entirely.

Then the transformation failed.

His body couldn't maintain that level of change. The ice shattered, reformed into flesh, shattered again. He was falling through the sky, trailing frost, metal and blood and pieces of the exploded suit, his body flickering between states of matter as his powers tried desperately to keep him alive.

When he hit the ground four seconds later, he was human again. Mostly. Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Severe bruises and cuts on his arms and legs where the suit had melted and torn through and against his skin.

But alive.

He should have been dead. The explosion should have killed him instantly. The fall should have finished the job.

But Robert Robertsen III had ice in his blood. And the ice had finally woken up.

The Mecha Man suit sparked and smoked around him, scattered across the impact crater. Warning lights flickered. Systems failed. The armor-generations of Robertsen legacy-destroyed beyond any possibility of repair.

Robert's last conscious thought before darkness took him was:

Cold. So cold. But I'm alive. Why am I alive?

Then nothing.

---

Robert woke up in a hospital room four months later.

The first thing he felt was pain. Not the usual chronic ache he'd learned to live with, but a sharp, immediate agony that radiated from his chest through his entire body. Like every nerve ending had been set on fire and then frozen. Like his body had been shattered and put back together wrong.

The second thing he felt was cold. Bone-deep, penetrating cold that made his teeth chatter despite the warm hospital room. But this wasn't the familiar cold of his hands, the chronic coolness he'd lived with his entire life. This was different. This was internal, pulsing through his veins with every heartbeat, spreading from his core outward in waves that made his skin feel like it was covered in frost.

The third thing he felt was surprise that he was alive at all.

"Easy, easy." A nurse was there immediately, pressing him back down when he tried to sit up. Her hands felt like brands against his ice-cold skin, and she flinched at the contact. "Mr. Robertsen, you need to stay still. You've been in a coma for four months. Your body needs time to-"

"The suit," Robert croaked, his throat raw and painful. Every word felt like swallowing broken glass. "Where's-"

"Destroyed, I'm afraid." The nurse's voice was gentle, professional. The voice of someone who'd delivered bad news many times before. "The explosion- well. There wasn't much left to salvage."

But Robert had already known that. Had felt it in the moment the bomb went off, felt the suit disintegrating around him, felt seven years of work and generations of legacy reduced to scrap metal and ash.

The Mecha Man suit was gone.

Robert closed his eyes. He should have felt devastated. The suit had been his identity for seven years, his purpose, his legacy. Its destruction should have broken him.

Instead, he felt... relief?

No. Not relief. That wasn't right. He was grateful to be alive, certainly. But the suit- the suit had been everything. Without it, he was just Robert Robertsen III, powerless, broken, a failed continuation of a failed legacy. Without it, he was-

"How am I alive?" he asked, opening his eyes to stare at the nurse. "I was in the suit. I should be..."

"Dead?" The nurse's expression was carefully neutral. "Yeah, you should be. Doctors can't explain it. Said you should have been vaporized by the explosion, or at least burned beyond recognition. But when they pulled you out of the wreckage, you were just... unconscious. Broken ribs, some internal bleeding, severe burns on your extremities, but nothing that should have survived a reactor explosion."

"That doesn't make sense."

"No," the nurse agreed. "It doesn't. There have been a lot of things not making sense lately."

Robert wanted to ask what that meant, but exhaustion was pulling at him, dragging him back toward unconsciousness. His body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every breath was an effort. And the cold-the cold was getting stronger, spreading through his limbs like ice water in his veins.

"Why..." he mumbled, fighting to stay awake, "why is it so cold in here?"

The nurse frowned. "It's seventy-two degrees. Hospital's got the heat cranked up. You should be sweating."

But Robert wasn't sweating. He was shivering, his breath misting slightly in front of his face. The air around him felt arctic, like he was lying in a snowbank instead of a hospital bed.

"Mr. Robertsen," the nurse said slowly, her voice taking on a concerned tone. "Your hands are..."

Robert looked down at his hands resting on top of the white hospital blanket. They were pale-paler than they should be, almost blue-tinged. And there, on his fingertips, spreading slowly across his palms, was the faintest trace of frost.

Actual frost. Not moisture. Not condensation. Frost. Ice crystals forming on his skin, delicate and beautiful and completely impossible.

"Probably just the medication," Robert said, though he didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. Because he was staring at his hands and watching ice form on his skin and the only explanation was the one he'd been denying his entire life.

Cold hands, he thought distantly. Warm heart.

Except my hands aren't just cold anymore. They're ice.

Neither did the nurse, judging by her expression. She was already reaching for the call button, probably to summon a doctor, probably to report this impossible thing she was witnessing.

But before she could press it, the frost on Robert's hands evaporated. Not melted-evaporated. Gone in an instant, as if it had never been there at all.

Robert stared at his now-normal-looking hands. Then at the nurse.

"Did you-" she started.

"Medication," Robert said firmly. "Just the medication. I'm fine."

The nurse looked like she wanted to argue. But Robert closed his eyes, feigning exhaustion (not entirely feigning-he was exhausted, bone-deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with the coma and everything to do with twenty-five years of ignoring his own body). After a moment, he heard her leave the room, footsteps quiet on the linoleum floor.

Robert lay there in the dark behind his eyelids and felt the cold pulsing through his veins. Felt something in his body that had been dormant his entire life, something that had protected him from the explosion, something that was now awake and demanding attention.

I can't explain this, he thought. What is this? Some kind of power? The Robertsen men have always been cold. Cold hands was a quirk. Was it a gift instead? And if so, then I'm the first one in three generations to survive long enough to actually use it.

The irony would have been funny if it wasn't so terrifying.

---

The next three weeks were a blur of physical therapy, medical tests, and slow, painful recovery.

Robert's body had been through hell. Four months in a coma had atrophied his muscles significantly. He had to relearn basic movements, rebuild strength, endure exercises that left him trembling with exhaustion. Simple things like walking to the bathroom or lifting a cup of water required enormous effort.

The doctors said he was lucky-that most people in comas needed months or years of rehabilitation to regain basic functionality. Robert managed it in three weeks.

"Remarkable recovery," his physical therapist said, making notes on her clipboard. "Your muscle memory is exceptional, Mr. Robertsen. And your pain tolerance is... well, honestly, it's almost concerning. Most patients would be complaining much more about the exercises we're doing."

Robert just shrugged. Pain was nothing new. He'd been managing chronic pain for years. This was just more of the same, just a different flavor of suffering.

What was new-what was strange and impossible to ignore-were the cold sensations that came and went unpredictably.

Sometimes his hands would go ice-cold, cold enough that his physical therapist commented on it when she touched him during exercises. Sometimes his hospital room would drop ten degrees for no apparent reason, leaving nurses puzzled about malfunctioning climate control. Sometimes, when he was particularly frustrated or in pain, he'd notice frost forming on the metal railings of his hospital bed.

Nobody else seemed to really notice. Or if they did, they attributed it to faulty hospital equipment, to the building's old HVAC system, to anything except the truth: that Robert Robertsen III was generating cold. That his body was manifesting ice. That the powers he'd been born with were finally, fully, undeniably active.

Robert kept quiet about it. He just... observed. Tried to understand what was happening to him. Tried to figure out how he'd survived what should have killed him, why his body felt different now, why the cold that had always been in his blood was suddenly so much more.

The explosion had done something. The bomb going off, the suit being destroyed, his body being pushed to the absolute limit of what it could endure-all of it had triggered something in his DNA. Something that had been sleeping for three generations, waiting for the right circumstances to activate.

The cold had saved his life. Robert was certain of that now. In that split second between the bomb detonating and him dying, his body had reacted on instinct, had turned itself into ice or something close to it, had protected him from forces that should have vaporized him.

And now those powers were active. Not fully under his control, not reliable, but there. Present. Undeniable.

Robert didn't tell anyone. Not the doctors. Not the nurses. Not the case worker who came by to discuss his living situation and financial status (bleak on both counts). He just kept quiet, watched, learned.

He noticed patterns. The cold manifestations were strongest when he was emotional-angry, frustrated, afraid. They were weaker when he was calm. He could sometimes feel them coming, feel the cold building in his chest before it spread outward. And on one occasion, lying awake at 3 AM and staring at the ceiling, he'd deliberately tried to make frost form on the hospital bed railing.

It had worked. Just for a second, just a thin layer of ice, but it had worked. He'd done that. Consciously. Purposefully.

Robert Robertsen III was certain he had ice powers.

The same powers his grandfather had probably had. The same powers his father had definitely had. Powers that three generations of Robertsen men had ignored or dismissed or simply never lived long enough to fully manifest.

Cold hands, warm heart, he remembered. The old saying. The family explanation.

Except the Robertsen men's hearts hadn't been particularly warm. They'd been cold. Isolated. Dedicated to a mission that consumed them. And their hands had been cold because they'd had ice in their blood.

Literal ice.

Robert wondered what would have happened if his grandfather had known. If Bobby Robertsen I had understood that the cold hands and frost and temperature drops weren't quirks but symptoms of dormant superpowers. Would he still have built the Mecha Man Prime suit? Or would he have trained himself, developed his powers, become a superhero without needing mechanical armor?

Would he have lived longer? Would Robert's father? Would the Robertsen legacy be different if they'd known the truth?

But they didn't live long enough to find out, Robert thought. They died in the suit before their powers could fully activate. I'm the first Robertsen in three generations to survive long enough to become what we were always meant to be.

The thought should have been empowering. Instead, it just felt lonely.

---

Three weeks after waking from his coma, against every doctor's advice, Robert held a press conference.

He shouldn't have. His body was still healing. He was exhausted constantly, in pain constantly, struggling to adjust to life without the suit. The chronic pain from seven years of being Mecha Man hadn't gone away-if anything, it was worse now, compounded by injuries from the explosion and fall. His left arm was in a brace. He moved stiffly, carefully, like an old man despite being only twenty-five.

But the press was demanding answers. The public deserved to know. And Robert needed to make a statement before someone else controlled the narrative.

So he stood at a podium in a hospital conference room, facing cameras and reporters, with his left arm in a brace and exhaustion pulling at every cell in his body.

"There's been a lot of speculation about my health and the state of the Mecha Man suit," he said, reading from prepared notes because he couldn't trust himself to speak coherently without them. "And I'm here to put that speculation to rest." He looked up, making eye contact with the reporters. "The suit has been damaged beyond my ability to repair, so I will be stepping back from superhero work effective immediately."

The room erupted. Questions shouted over each other, cameras flashing, everyone trying to get his attention.

"Does this mean you're finished?"

"Can you repair your suit?"

"What's next for Mecha Man?"

"Does this mean your career is over?"

Robert squinted against the flashing lights. Too many questions. Too much noise. He was going to have a headache. After four months in a coma and three weeks of physical therapy, his body wasn't ready for this level of stimulation.

"How badly were you hurt?" One voice cut through the chaos, actually sounding concerned.

"One at a time, please," Robert said. The room quieted somewhat.

Ashley Rhiness from the San Pedro Daily stood up. "Do you have anything to say to your fans? The public outpouring. The vigils. A lot of them were worried you wouldn't wake up."

Robert was so tired. Tired of being Mecha Man, tired of the expectations, tired of living up to a legacy that had killed his family. Tired of ignoring the ice in his blood, tired of pretending he was just a normal man in a suit, tired of lying about everything.

"I just want to say thank you for the support," he managed. "I hope to be worthy of it." Another camera flash. "Next question."

Chris Stratton from the Torrance Tribune stood up. "Does this mean you're retiring as Mecha Man? Word on the street is, you're donezo."

"Are you a hundred years old?" Robert asked, unable to help himself. "Why're you talking like that?"

People giggled. It felt good to make them laugh, even accidentally.

"Answer the question, buddy boy. Are you retiring?" The reporter persisted. "My readers need the skinny and I aim to deliver. Let's get it on the record."

"Look, I'm not retiring. Not yet at least." Robert wasn't sure if that was true. Without the suit, what could he do? He had powers now, sure, but he didn't know how to control them.

Didn't know their limits. Didn't know if they were even reliable enough to build a hero career around.

"Any idea what you can do without the Mecha Man suit?"

"Not yet," Robert admitted. "Alright, just one more, please. I gotta get back to-" Back to what? To his empty apartment with no purpose? "Just one more. Preferably someone from this century."

"Charles Kingsley. South Bay Signal."

The room quieted again. Robert had a bad feeling about this.

"So, Shroud kills your father, goes to jail fifteen years, breaks out and immediately dupes you into a trap where he destroys the Mecha Man suit and puts you in a coma for months..."

The reporter waved his pencil at Robert. "I didn't hear a question in there."

"Two-parter. First, why didn't Shroud kill you?" The reporter's voice was aggressive, accusatory. "You haven't been conscious for months. It'd be easy money taking you out."

Robert took a breath. The cold in his chest stirred. He forced it down. "Shroud wanted the Astral Pulse and Mecha Man gone. He got both. I'm not sure I mattered much."

"Right. You're unimportant." The reporter's smile was cruel. "Which leads me to my next question. Most heroes avenge their family. You did the opposite. You killed their legacy. How disappointed would your dad be if he were here right now?"

The room fell silent. Robert felt the cold surge in his chest, spreading down his arms. His hands were freezing. The temperature in the room dropped five degrees.

"Your father, your grandfather-they must be rolling over in their graves."

Something in Robert snapped.

How dare this man- this stranger who'd never worn the suit, never felt the weight of the Robertsen legacy, never sacrificed everything for a city that barely remembered the heroes who died protecting it- how dare he pass judgment on Robert's relationship with his father?

Robert stepped down from the podium. Walked toward the reporter. People moved out of his way. The temperature kept dropping. Robert's breath misted in front of his face.

"Mr. Robertsen-" someone said, but Robert ignored them.

He grabbed Charles Kingsley by his collar and punched him. Once. Twice. The reporter went down. Robert followed him, kept hitting him, and the cold in his body was spreading, was manifesting, was turning his hands blue with frost that crept up his forearms.

Security pulled at him. Other reporters were encouraging him. It took four people to get Robert off Kingsley, to drag him away, and even then he wanted to keep going, wanted to let the cold out, wanted to freeze this man who'd dared to speak about his father-

"Sir! SIR! You need to calm down!"

Robert looked at his hands. They were so cold and covered in frost. Actual, visible, undeniable frost. And everyone had seen it.

The press conference ended in chaos. Security escorted Robert out. The hospital administration gave him a stern lecture about inappropriate behavior. Someone mentioned pressing charges. Robert barely heard any of it.

He'd lost control. Had attacked someone at a press conference. Had let his powers show in front of cameras.

The footage would be everywhere within hours.

---

Robert watched the news at the TV store later that day, standing on the street with a flask of whiskey in his pocket and self-loathing in his heart.

The footage of him attacking Kingsley played on loop. The news stations loved it. "Former Hero Attacks Reporter." "Mecha Man's Meltdown." "From Superhero to Supervillain?"

The interview with Kingsley was worse:

"Do I want to sue? Of course. But there's two issues there-he clearly has nothing left and... he was wearing a mask, so..."

Robert took a drink from his flask. Watched himself on the screen, looking unhinged, attacking an unarmed man. This was his legacy now. Not saving lives. Not fighting criminals.

Just this moment of losing control.

"How do you feel about the crowd seemingly encouraging him?" the on-scene reporter asked.

"It did explain why after the first three or four minutes no one was stepping in, yes," Kingsley replied. "I was disappointed with the chanting."

People had been chanting? Robert vaguely remembered hearing something but he'd been too angry to process it. The cold had been filling his head, demanding release, and he'd let it.

The store window next to him shattered. Masked figures appeared, stealing TVs from the display.

Robert sighed. Put down his flask. Looked at his face mask-he'd started wearing it again after the press conference, needing some sense of identity even without the suit.

"Hey. Assholes," he called out, pulling on the mask. The robbers looked at him. "Yeah. Just put the TVs back and you can leave. I won't say anything to the cops and this doesn't need to escalate."

The Red Ski Mask guy in the truck: "Aye! Who're you callin' assholes, asshole?!"

"I'll handle this idiot. Keep loading." Orange Ski Mask stepped forward with a crowbar. "Who the fuck are you? Go go fuckin' hobo ranger. Who the fuck are you?"

Robert took off his cloak. "Right now, I'm someone with nothing to lose. Which is probably bad news for you."

"Well, what nothing you have, you're about to lose again."

"Whatever the case," Robert said, "I'm enough to deal with a pack of fuckin' skittles idiots like you."

The fight was pathetic. Robert was in no condition to fight-his left arm still in a brace, his body still recovering from four months in a coma, chronic pain flaring with every movement. He tried to throw a punch with his right hand. The Orange Mask caught it easily. Pushed him down.

Robert kicked out, got the guy off balance. But then the others joined in. Red, Yellow, Green, Purple-all of them, kicking him while he was down, and Robert couldn't defend himself properly with one arm, couldn't move fast enough with his damaged body.

They beat him. Thoroughly. Humiliatingly. Robert curled up, protecting his head with his good arm, taking kick after kick to his ribs, his back, his legs.

This is pathetic, he thought. Four months ago I was fighting supervillains. Now I can't even handle street-level thugs. Without the suit, I'm nothing. Just a broken man with powers I can't control.

Then a woman appeared. Flying. Blonde hair streaming behind her, amulet glowing on her chest.

Blonde Blazer.

She threw the Purple Mask into the truck. Slammed the Red Mask through a window. Launched the Yellow Mask into a fire hydrant. Tossed the Green Mask onto a roof.

"That guy I threw... he landed on the roof, right?" she asked, concerned.

"All good!" Green Mask called from above.

"Phew." Blazer put her hands on her hips, looking down at Robert. "Hi. I'm Blonde Blazer. I work over at Superhero Dispatch Network."

Robert looked up at her from the ground, his face bloody, his body aching. "Hey. Hi. Yeah. I know who you are. You're, like, famous."

She helped him up. His arm was dislocated again-the left one, the one that had just healed. Of course.

"You look like you could use a drink," Blazer said after relocating his shoulder (painfully, efficiently, like she'd done it before).

Robert looked at her, holding his throbbing arm. "What makes you say that?"

---

They went to Crypto Night, a superhero bar in West Hollywood. Robert had never been-Mecha Man hadn't exactly been part of the superhero social scene. But Blazer seemed familiar with the place, greeting the bartender by name, leading Robert to a quiet corner booth.

Robert cleaned blood from his face with bar napkins. Drank his beer. Tried not to think about how pathetic he'd looked getting beaten up by a group of color-coordinated thieves.

"Oh shit," Blazer said suddenly. "They were all Skittles colors. I didn't even realize it."

"Yeah, well, you know what, they can taste the rainbow in jail," Robert replied, putting his drink down.

"What do you mean? Like different colored dicks?" Blazer asked.

Robert laughed. Couldn't help it. The absurdity of the conversation, of sitting in a superhero bar discussing prison jokes with one of LA's most famous heroes, was too much.

Blazer laughed too. "Shit. Sorry. Sorry. I'm a little buzzed. I don't really make jokes like that."

They talked. About nothing. About everything. Robert watched Blazer drink pure vodka from a pint glass and barely feel it. Watched her demolish a whole bottle without slowing down. Her metabolism was incredible-superpowered people often had enhanced tolerances, but this was something else.

"Something to do with the powers," she explained. "It takes a lot for me to feel anything."

"What a sad sentence," Robert observed, taking another sip.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Blazer turned serious.

"You should give yourself more credit. To do what you did, for as long as you did-" She shook her head. "Especially without superpowers."

But what if I do have powers? Robert thought. I can't explain the ice or frost forming, but I feel like I've always had them. I just didn't know.

"So how'd you afford all that?" Blazer asked. "The suit. You must've spent hundreds of thousands-"

"Millions," Robert corrected. "So you'll understand when the check comes."

"You're serious. Millions."

"Yeah, I basically burned through my entire inheritance keeping it going. Last couple years have just been duct tape and sheer determination."

"Why did you do it?" Blazer asked. "Sacrifice everything to be a superhero to the point of financial ruin?"

Robert looked at his drink. In retrospect, he really didn't know. Honoring his father? Proving himself? Living up to the Robertsen legacy? All of those reasons seemed hollow now.

"In retrospect... I don't really know."

"Now that's a sad sentence."

"Yes it is."

They drank more. Talked more. Blazer mentioned a proposition, something about work, and Robert was intrigued until he accidentally spit his drink directly into her mouth.

"Ugh. This is like pure alcohol," he said, embarrassed.

"It's not like alcohol, it is alcohol. I know because you spit it directly into my open mouth."

While Blazer went to clean up, Robert sat alone at the bar. Picked up his water glass-the one with ice in it. The glass felt cold under his fingers. Colder than it should be. He could have sworn the condensation was freezing slightly where he touched it.

Is it getting colder or are my potential powers are getting stronger? he questioned. More active? I need to figure out what I can do. I need to process this and if I'm right that I have powers, then I need to-

"Hey! Bitch!"

Robert ignored it. Took a sip of water. The ice in the glass crackled slightly, freezing harder.

"Hey! I'm talkin' to you, bitch!"

Robert turned around. A man in a ridiculous suit with flame ornaments, wearing sunglasses indoors, standing there looking aggressive. What kind of people were sunglasses inside? Dochebags. And blind people, of course. There was something familiar about him but Robert's memory was still fuzzy from the coma.

"Alright, just so you know, I only turned around cause someone yelled, not because I'm a bitch or anything."

"Don't you watch the news? This is a superhero bar."

"Oh wow, are you a superhero? That's so cool. Is this your power? You're like, 'tell people obvious shit' guy?" Robert was too tired for this. The bar felt warm with the guy standing so close. Uncomfortably warm.

The person behind the guy laughed. The guy glared at them.

"You're really gonna act like you don't remember me?"

Do I know this guy? Robert searched his memories. The coma had scrambled things. But there was something about the fire-themed outfit, the aggressive posture...

"Wait, it's coming back to me... Hold on, yeah..." Robert placed the ice water glass against his forehead. It felt amazing. Cool and soothing. The glass started frosting over where his skin touched it. "Oh, wait, wait, oh I know it... You know what, you are Mr. Wet Ponytail. Your superpower is, obviously, your ponytail, which aside from being disgusting, has the ability to never not be wet. In battle you whip it around and anyone it touches fuckin' kills themself."

The guy's friend laughed again. "Haa- shit... that is- damn."

Robert turned back to the bar. The guy took off his sunglasses.

"No, Mecha Bitch. I control the fire-"

"The fire?" Robert wasn't really listening. Took another sip of water. Chewed on ice. The guy was warm, uncomfortably warm. Robert leaned slightly toward the heat despite himself.

"AND the flame... and my skin does not burn... I am Flambae, and you-"

Flambae.

The memory clicked. The mall fire. The fight. The way Robert had sliced the villain's arm with a plasma cutter. The frost that had formed on the wound.

"Wait, oh shit, I do remember you," Robert said, smiling slightly. The warmth from Flambae's proximity felt good. Robert hadn't realized how cold he'd been feeling. "You're that shitty villain I busted up."

"Not anymore, Mecha Dick." Flambae flamed his hand, showing off. "As I literally just said, I am Flambae, a real superhero. And you are not Mecha Man anymore. So you need to get the fuck out of here."

Robert saw the cut on Flambae's arm, peeking out from under his sleeve. The scar from their fight. Evidence of the only time Robert's powers had manifested before the explosion-frost forming on a wound in the middle of an inferno.

Flambae walked closer. "How, we can do this the easy way-"

Robert splashed his ice water on him, putting out the flames.

"There. Easy way."

For a moment, they both just stood there. Flambae dripping, Robert holding an empty glass. Then Flambae charged-

And slipped on the puddle of water. Crashed into a table. Hit his head hard enough that Robert heard the impact from ten feet away.

Flambae's companions rushed to help him. Coupé and Punch Up, Robert noticed-former villains turned heroes. They shot Robert dirty looks as they helped Flambae out, the pyromancer stumbling and clearly concussed.

The bartender appeared. "HEY! Mecha Dick. Get the fuck out of here."

"I get it. Can you just tell Blazer I'm outside?"

The bartender multiplied, four copies appearing. "OUT!"

"Relax. I'm leaving."

---

Robert waited outside, leaning against the wall next to a dumpster with spray-painted graffiti reading "FART BARF." The cold November night felt comfortable. Perfect temperature.

He didn't need his jacket but wore it anyway, more out of habit than necessity.

Blonde Blazer came out with two drinks.

"Nightcap?"

"You're trouble."

They talked. Robert deflected questions about what had happened inside, not wanting to admit he'd gotten into another fight, that he kept losing control. Blazer didn't push. Instead, she grabbed both drinks, took Robert by the waist-

"You're strong..." he managed.

"It's a little out there. Easier if we fly."

And flew them across the city. If Blonde Blazer noticed that Robert is cold despite wearing a suit and a jacket, she decided not to comment.

They ended up on a billboard overlooking the Hollywood sign. The city spread out below them, lights glittering, endless and beautiful and indifferent to the people who protected it.

"I really appreciate you coming to my rescue back there," Robert said. "I still think I could've handled it but- all I'm trying to say is... thanks."

"Don't you worry about it, Robert Robertsen."

Robert looked up. "How do you know my name?"

"Whoops."

She explained. About Track Star. About the SDN. About the proposition: Robert would work as a dispatcher, mentoring heroes, and in exchange, SDN would rebuild his suit.

Robert listened. Felt hope, small and fragile, starting to grow in his chest. Maybe there was a path forward. Maybe he could be Mecha Man again, or something like it. Maybe-

But underneath the hope was the cold. Always the cold. His powers, active and growing stronger every day, demanding attention he didn't know how to give them.

What if I don't need the suit anymore? A small voice whispered. I feel like I have powers of my own now. I know that I have them. I could be a hero without the armor. Without the Robertsen legacy. Just... me.

But he didn't say that. Didn't know how to say it. Didn't know if he even wanted it to be true.

"So when do we get started?" he asked instead.

Blazer smiled. Pulled out a device-AR glasses for the dispatcher assessment test. Robert put them on. Ran the simulation. Did well enough to qualify, which seemed to surprise no one.

When he finished, he found Blazer asleep on his shoulder. He woke her gently.

"Meet me at the SDN offices tomorrow," she said, flying off the billboard. "I'm not done saving you yet."

Robert managed to climb down eventually. Went home to his apartment where Beef was waiting, the dog excited to see him after weeks in the hospital.

Robert changed out of his clothes. Fed Beef. Collapsed on his couch with his phone, using the damaged Mecha Man helmet as a phone stand-a reminder of what he'd lost and what he'd survived.

He pulled up a video of Blonde Blazer on the news.

"The folks at SDN are the best in the business and we're striving to create a safer, stronger city every single day."

"I met a nice lady," Robert told Beef, petting the dog's head. "She wants to help us out."

Beef stretched and fell asleep next to him. Robert kept petting him, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cold pulse through his veins.

Robert Robertsen III didn't know he had ice powers yet.

But his body did.

And soon-very soon-the truth would become impossible to ignore.

The cold hands that had been a family quirk for three generations were about to become something more.

Something powerful.

Something that would change everything.