Chapter Text
Gunmax had conducted no less than twenty seven traffic stops by the time his shift was over, resulting in a net sum of six hundred and eighty nine traffic incidents as his monthly total.
This, of course, meant six hundred and eighty nine traffic incidents that must be logged, sorted, and processed before the month was out, lest all manner of fire and brimstone (a mild rebuke) be rained down upon him by the Braves’ walking blue filing cabinet. Naturally, this ordeal seemed less than appealing to Gunmax—after a twelve hour shift no less—and his first instinct was, of course, to put off his work for a few more precious hours.
Gunmax’s favorite form of procrastination involved maintenance. Of any kind, really. Nothing could beat the thrill of freeing new and interesting components from a cold metal shell, toying with silicon organs just to parse their function. This process did not exclude himself.
He had been picking himself apart ever since his Highway Patrol days, but it had been without purpose and direction. He opened himself up just because he could, out of boredom more than anything else. He was listless.
This changed when he joined the Brave Police. His old man took notice of his talents and molded them into something more practical beyond licking his own wires to see which one would cause the biggest shock to his nervous system. Nowadays, he was more than happy to assist Toudou with maintenance in his off time.
Of course, old habits die hard, and he’d sooner put a bullet through his brain than give up the freedom that came with experimentation. Especially after work.
He sat crosslegged in the headquarters garage, hunched over heaps of white metal stripped from his Gunbike like birch bark. He ran a cloth wet with cleaning solvent over the back fender and set it aside when the job was done. He ran a reassuring hand down the bike’s exposed exoskeleton and her engine thrummed in what felt like contentment. The Gunbike needed a good wash, but that wasn’t the real reason for her disassembly.
No, he had a theory. A theory he crafted three hours prior while in the middle of his twenty-first traffic stop, but a theory Gunmax had full confidence in nonetheless.
What he was really after was the J-Decker docking mechanism, nestled deep within the Gunbike’s interiors. Its sole function was to link the Max Cannon with J-Decker, but his theory proposed a new function entirely.
He began the tedious work of removing the interior docking panel from her prone side and he silently wished Toudou would build him a pair of giant power tools.
The screws supporting the panel hinge finally came loose under his fingers after a few teeth-grinding minutes, and they dropped unceremoniously to the floor with a clatter. Thank God all the humans had gone home for the night, or he would’ve feared squishing a rogue technician under a pair of the world’s largest screws.
This was the first time he ever actually saw the docking mechanism. He could certainly feel it when combined into the Max Cannon, but he couldn’t be expected to look at it with his own two optics if a human didn’t need to see their back to know it was there.
As he inspected the mechanism, his heart soared. It was just as he thought; the shoddy little engineers didn’t even bother to line it with any insulating material. The Max Cannon was intended — keyword, intended — to siphon solely from Gunmax’s energy stores, but clearly the technicians failed to put any real dampeners in place to maintain that hard limit. Good thing poor Deckerd wasn’t the curious type, or Gunmax might’ve received a real shock to his systems if that straight-laced little cop decided to supply some of J-Decker’s energy along their connection.
Of course, this was all still theory without the proper tests. Good thing Gunmax was a willing test subject.
He yanked the Gunbike’s connector cable from its manual release panel and hastily drove it into his own panel. The Gunbike’s gentle hum grew to a proud roar as her systems devoured the charge Gunmax sent her way, her frame preparing for a Max Cannon transformation that would never come.
It took everything in Gunmax’s power to keep his systems online long enough to bask in his own ingenuity. He cackled through the pain, lips drawing into a smug grimace. It felt wonderful to be right.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t properly appreciate that fact if he were knocked unconscious. He ripped the cord from his body just as smoke began to pool from the Gunbike’s undercarriage. She protested with a weak mewl before her engine stilled and she slumped back onto her side. Gunmax is quick to follow. He gripped her side for dear life while he worked to dismiss the persistent red warning messages scoring his HUD. His forehead pounded with each frenetic jump of his buzzing energy core. He drew his hand away from the Gunbike to massage his temple; the paint on his palm had bubbled from the heat like dough. Despite this, he was excited to run more tests.
Then, footsteps. They were as clamorous as they were awkward and Gunmax already knew who they belonged to before he even tumbled through the doorway. Still, Gunmax whipped his head around and failed to contain a gasp borne entirely of embarrassment.
“... Drill Boy?”
“G-Gunmax?!”
Drill Boy, caught mid-step between the threshold and the garage, squeaked in fear as the soccer ball tucked under his arm slipped from his gasp and rolled away out of reach. His optics darted between Gunmax and the ball, and Gunmax could practically hear the gears turning his head as he deliberated on whether he should chase after it or not.
Gunmax coughed and Drill Boy startled out of his dilemma, finally letting his other foot fall to the ground as he took an uncomfortably rigid stance. One wing stood at the attention; strangely, the other hung limp at his side. Drill Boy, sensing his suspicion, shifted his body to the side before Gunmax could get a good look. The young Brave flashed him a strained smile and tapped a nervous foot on the floor.
“Heyyyy, Gunmax! Uh. I didn’t think you’d be up so late—n-not that that’s a bad thing! It’s just—well. I thought everyone would be sleeping by now? But you’re…” Drill Boy trailed off and his darting optics finally rested just behind Gunmax himself. “... Doing whatever it is you’re doing with your bike.”
Gunmax gritted his teeth and took a step to the side, shielding the Gunbike from prying eyes. “Hey, hey, I’m performing sensitive calibrations here! We don’t all have the luxury of a 9:00p.m. bedtime, squirt.”
“It’s 9:30, actually!”
“9:00… 9:30… doesn’t make a difference to me; It’s not like I’d be home early enough to know. If you actually paid attention to the schedule. You might know just how late I can be out when Deckerd gets sick of me and sticks me on ticket duty.” Gunmax huffed, dismissing any previous embarrassment with a wave of his hand in Drill Boy’s general direction. “You know, that makes me wonder what you were doing out so late anyway…”
Drill Boy sucked in an audible breath, one wing flicking nervously while the other twitched lamely at his side. He shifted his weight on both pedes like he was planning to make a bolt for the door. “I… sleepwalked? Yeah, yeah, I sleepwalked. It’s actually been a problem lately, I should probably get that. Checked out with Toudou. Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow.” Drill Boy scrambled after his previously neglected ball and swivelled on both pedes toward the door. “Anyways, it’s been fun, but I reaallllly need to go to bed — I mean, get back in bed. I’ll see ya later, Gunm—Ow!”
In Drill Boy’s haste to escape, he failed to account for his broken wing. It scraped against the door frame, bent at an awkward angle, prompting a cry of pain from the young Brave. Drill Boy’s ball slipped from his hand, left abandoned a second time as he shivered in poorly concealed pain.
The kid was hurt.
“Drill Boy…”
All pretense from before was sidelined. Drill Boy swivelled back around, crumpling to the floor like a piece of wet paper.
“PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE don’t tell McCrane!” Drill Boy wailed, tears welling up in his wide optics.
Gunmax took a compulsive step back, one arm placed awkwardly on the back of his helmet while he stared in bewilderment at the snivelling mess below him. Whenever the Boss was upset, he knew it was his time to leave and for Deckerd to take over…. but now he couldn’t leave Drill Boy even if he wasn’t hurt. All Gunmax could do is ask himself what Deckerd would do in this situation.
“Whoa, whoa, kid, settle down!” Gunmax hissed under his breath. Drill Boy yelped and Gunmax wrangled for control over his tone. “You’re gonna ‘tell’ the whole building what happened if you don’t take it down a notch for a sec. Just… tell me what happened and I won’t tell a soul, alright?”
Drill Boy sniffed, drawing an arm over his face while he attempted to smooth his wings against his back. He flinched, and gave up trying to coax the lame one in a comfortable position.
“I-I couldn’t sleep…” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “And I t-thought it wouldn’t do me any good to toss and turn in my charging rack. S-so I snuck out when I wasn’t s’posed to… thought I could fit a little more practice in. But it was dark and—well—” Drill Boy gestured to his wing.
“You hurt yourself, didn’t you?” Gunmax provided.
“Y-Yeah. I didn’t even think about how many trees there were until I couldn’t see them! Who plants trees near a soccer field, huh? Humans don’t have to worry about tripping on trees either; how unfair is that?” He tapped his chin. “Y’know, I really hope the elementary school doesn’t uh—sue us. I fell pretty hard on that tree…”
Oh God.
Gunmax rubbed his temple. “Let’s just. Focus on what we can control right now, okay? Like this,” Gunmax said, pointing at Drill Boy’s wing. “You can’t walk around with that malfunctioning, let alone fly. Wait—did you walk all the way home?”
Drill Boy was too preoccupied with producing another round of tears to answer that last part.
“I’ll haveta to go see Toudou for real tomorrow!” Drill Boy whined, as if that was the worst thing in the world. “Oh, McCrane is gonna kill me! I t-told him I’d be on my best behavior, told him I’d act like a real Brave, but I just had to go and throw that out the window too! They’re never gonna trust me!”
Drill Boy wrapped both arms around his knees and buried his head into the crook to muffle his snivels.
“A ‘real Brave?’ Drill Boy, who told you that you weren’t?” He rested a tentative hand on Drill Boy’s shoulder. It’s what Deckerd would’ve done.
“Nobody, but I know that’s exactly what they think of me,” Drill Boy complained into his arms. “My brothers don’t treat me like they treat you or Deckerd or Duke or anyone else for that matter. They don’t let me do anything, don’t let me have fun. All because they think I’m a kid!”
Unprecedented jealousy surged through Gunmax, drawing old memories to the shallows of his processor like diesel dregs. Why was he jealous of Drill Boy of all people? It’s not like he’d ever been a kid in the first place… the Highway Patrol made sure of that.
Why was he making this about himself anyway? Drill Boy needed help and now certainly wasn’t the time to reminisce over old mistakes.
“Well… you are a kid,” Gunmax said as gently as possible. Still, Drill Boy scoffed and shrugged off Gunmax’s hand anyways. He sat up straight, meeting Gunmax’s optics head-on.
“You don’t think I don’t know that? It makes me wonder why I’m… different from everybody else. Why did I turn out this way? If they want me to be an adult, then they should treat me like one!” Drill Boy sighed and kicked a piece of gravel on the floor, then rose back up to his full height and turned toward the door. “... Not like I’d expect you to understand… you don’t have brothers.”
“Drill Boy, wait–”
“What?”
Gunmax was not doing a very good job at ‘being Deckerd.’ He didn’t want to push Drill Boy any further—he certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if he was in the kid’s position—but he also couldn’t let him walk off now, not when he was hurt and angry. Deckerd would’ve known how to walk that fine line between sensitivity and assertiveness, would’ve known how to make Drill Boy feel better about a situation neither of them had control over. Gunmax could do none of those things, at least not in the way Deckerd would. He supposed the only way to salvage the situation was to help the kid in the only way he knew how.
“Lemme fix you up.”
Drill Boy paused, turning back around to shoot him a look of confusion. His optics bounced between Gunmax and the Gunbike and the loose cables strewn about, and Gunmax wished he’d kept a tidier workspace for once.
“Do you… know how to do that?” Drill Boy questioned, interest piqued despite the furrow of his brow line.
“I wouldn’t be offering if I didn’t know how,” Gunmax shot back. He kicked a stray cable out of the way, then stepped carefully over the pile of assorted Gunbike parts to withdraw a schematics sheet from a conveniently Brave-sized filing cabinet. “The old man—err—Toudou made me practice in simulations before he started letting me poke around in anyone else’s interiors; I had to memorize every single BP-system competent, top to bottom, front and back, inside and out, yadda yadda.”
“Gross.”
“I know, right?” Gunmax said, tossing the sheet to the side. “Needless to say, I have the methodology down, even if I haven’t been able to apply my skills to every single BP model outside of training sims. I get the sense you tend to avoid the medbay then, huh?”
Drill Boy shuffled his pedes and fixed his gaze on a particularly interesting piece of gravel on the floor.
“... Well, yeah, definitely not my favorite place to be. Whenever I get hurt during practice, Dumpson freaks out and makes me go; but they’re never careful about my wings or my drills. They’re delicate, ya know! So I just try to walk things off whenever I can,” He glanced over his shoulder. “I… guess that won’t really work now, huh?”
“I can’t force ya to take up my offer,” said Gunmax. “I’m not gonna make you do something you don’t wanna do, I’d just feel real bad if you were walkin’ around hurt and I knew about it.”
Drill Boy blinked in surprise. Was that really such a foreign concept to the kid? Did nobody ever think to teach him what it meant to be his own person? Once again, Gunmax felt that undeniable pull, lulling him back to a time before Drill Boy or Deckerd or schematics or the Brave Police at all.
“... Helloooo? Earth to Gunmax?”
Gunmax refocused his optics and was met with a reflection of his own youth, wide curious optics staring at him with cautious interest.
“Hm?”
“I said I’d let you fix me, soooooo—” Drill Boy plopped down on the floor, ‘criss-cross-apple-sauce’ as Yuuta would describe it, and fanned his wings outward for easy access.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Gunmax muttered as he moved to sit down next to the young Brave. He took the broken wing in one hand and inspected it for any hairline cracks that would alert him to exterior damage. Drill Boy’s entire body tensed with every touch, anticipating pain that Gunmax was careful to avoid.
Gunmax knew firsthand how sensitive wing components could be; he’d been the target of Shadowmaru’s ire (claws) more times than he could count on one hand, all because he’d been “too rough” whenever the ninja rolled in from that week’s top-secret-international-incident and didn’t have the patience for the medbay technicians’ usual incompetence.
Gunmax found himself compelled to agree. Really, Gunmax didn’t know how the others could stand the shoddy work they were often subjected to, but he knew he’d never be satisfied regardless. Toudou was the only one he let touch his systems, because frankly, he was the only useful human in the entire technical department. Also since he was his old man, of course. It’s how they bonded. Drill Boy didn’t have the luxury of familiarity; maybe that’s why he was so wary of the medbay.
“I believe I’ve sniffed out the problem at hand,” said Gunmax, breaking the heavy, awkward silence they had shared. He gently tapped Drill Boy’s wing hinge and the wing itself creaked with use. “Looks like the hinge was bent the wrong way when you took a fall. Painful, to be sure, but definitely not a serious operation. I can tighten it up.”
“Mm.”
“Look, the point is, you don’t seem to have any exterior damage minus a few scrapes, thank God,” Gunmax continued as he picked a stray twig out of his aileron. Gunmax is deliberate in his next choice of words. “That’d be much harder to fix on my own, and I doubt you wanna be grounded any longer than necessary, yeah? You’d be able to get back to soccer practice too…”
At that, Drill Boy perked up, shifting from side-to-side at the implication. “That’d be terrible!” he squeaked, flailing his arms out to accentuate his point. Gunmax narrowly avoided a wing-slap to the face. “It’s, like, second nature to me. I love to fly! Almost as much as I love soccer!”
Soccer. Right. He loved soccer. Who knew, right? Gunmax braced himself.
The prospect of soccer—the concept of ‘soccer,’ anyway—seemed to chase away the cloud of dread that had been hanging low over the young Brave. His pain now an afterthought, Drill Boy’s wings bobbed excitedly, and the incessant chatter Gunmax had been expecting was finally released in full force. First it was about soccer, then about soccer cleats, then about soccer video games; on and on it went until the conversation—as one-sided as it was—had diverged completely from the subject itself.
Gunmax was on his fourth ‘Mhm?’ and his sixth ‘Oh, yeah?’ by the time he had finished tightening the hinge.
“—And then, Joey’s all like ‘everyone knows only losers like Pteranodons,’ and then I tell him ‘well, it says a whole lot about you that your favorite dinosaur’s a microraptor—”
“Okay, kid, we’re done.”
“Hm?” Drill Boy spun around to face him, as if he had forgotten why he was here in the first place.
“Go on,” Gunmax said, rising to his pedes. “Give your wings a test to see how it feels.”
“Oh… okay!” Drill Boy gave his wings an experimental flick, then a flutter, then a flap. The hinge held true and Drill Boy’s ailerons quivered in delight. “Still a little sore, but! Much better!”
“That’s to be expected; should feel better in the morning. Speaking of, you should go on and hit the hay, as they say,” said Gunmax. “I won’t be held responsible if Dumpson gets ornery because you couldn’t drag yourself out of bed for group training tomorrow.”
“Y-Yeah. You’re right,” Drill Boy said, that shyness from before slowly creeping back in. He skittered away to retrieve his ball for a final time, dribbling it between his pedes before guiding it with a skilled bump of his thigh into his soccer crest.
“Thanks. For helping me out. I mean it,” said Drill Boy as he made his way toward the door. “Thank you for being uh… patient. With me. I know McCrane would appreciate it too.” Drill Boy glanced around, and he shot Gunmax a comically serious glare, “But he can never, ever know about this. Okay? I’ve been trying for weeks to get on his good side, and I can’t blow my chances now.”
Chance? Just what was Drill Boy playing at? Frankly, it wasn’t any of Gunmax’s business; he was just the mechanic after all, and he wouldn’t be wrapped up in any more of Drill Boy’s schemes regardless.
“Don’t worry, squirt, I’ll take it to my grave. Patrolmen’s honor,” Gunmax responded, tapping his police badge.
Drill Boy nodded, and with that, he was off to the charging racks where Gunmax sincerely hoped he would stay for the night. The prospect of sleep pulled at the fringes of Gunmax’s processor, but he shook the temptation away with a pointed look at his Gunbike. He still had work to do, after all.
Then, suddenly, he remembered.
Paperwork. He had to do paperwork.
“Fuck.”
Twenty-three pages of six-hundred and eighty-nine traffic stops glided smoothly across Deckerd’s desk, guided by a hand nearly shaking with fatigue. Gunmax might be running on two hours of recharge and literal fumes, but he would be damned before he’d let any of the others know, not when an amused Shadowmaru and an unamused Duke peered over their monitors with scrutinizing optics.
“Thank you, Gunmax, I almost thought I wouldn’t see them this month,” Deckerd teased. “Though I am noticing a distinct number of typos on the first page already.”
“Ah well—” Gunmax brought a hand to the back of his helmet and grinned. “I can’t say I have the greatest handwriting on the team. But I could fix it if it’s a problem, Patoka.”
“I appreciate the offer, Gunmax, but it ‘s… legible. I believe I've gotten some practice decoding chicken scratch… You’re not the only one that hates paperwork around here.” Deckerd gestured to a framed picture of Yuuta and his sisters on his desk.
Gunmax didn't possess the strength to protest the comparison, not when he was close enough to reach out and give Deckerd’s audials a nice scratch. Not that he was tempted, of course. Still, he planted a hand flat on the desk for good measure, relishing in the slight twitch of Deckerd’s cheek. He fixed his gaze firmly on the Brave, with only his fleeting confidence propping him up.
“Nevermind that. Y’know,” Gunmax started with a practiced grin. “I’ve been workin’ on somethin’ down in the garage I think you should know about.”
Deckerd’s optics widened in surprise, then quickly dimmed as a hand slid forward to tuck his papers safely in a filing cabinet. The rest sat trapped underneath Gunmax’s palm. A part of Gunmax is disappointed that Deckerd doesn't rise to his challenge.
“That could mean many things, knowing you,” Deckerd retorted. It sent a thrill down Gunmax’s spine that quickly melted into doubt.
“If you must know, I've uncovered some meaningful information about the Gunbike while makin’ some adjustments, and I’ve been meanin’ to test it out with the Max Cannon.” Gunmax swallowed; what was he so nervous about anyway? “I was wonderin’ if you wanted to uh— come down to the training room with me after work and—”
“Heyyyyyyyyy, Gunmax!”
Gunmax and Deckerd whipped their heads in unison to the source of the interruption. Gunmax felt a piece of paper crinkle under his fingertips.
“Oh, Drill Boy!” Deckerd said with a polite wave. “Did you get back from flight training with Shadowmaru already?”
“Yup!” Drill Boy exclaimed with a flap of his wings. He shot a quick glance at Gunmax and grinned. “Full marks today; she let me get off early.”
“That's wonderful news, Drill Boy,” Deckerd said with a patient smile. Gunmax resisted the urge to drag his hand over his face.
“Did you, uh, need me for somethin,’ Drill Boy?” Gunmax said while drilling his fingertips against the desk.
“Oh! Uh, yeah, I almost forgot! I was wondering if you wanted to uh— play soccer with me when you get off work today!”
Of course. It’s not like Drill Boy had anything else on the mind.
“Well, kid, I’m sorry but me and Patoka here already—”
“I think that sounds like a great idea!”
Gunmax guffawed and shot an accusatory glance at Deckerd. If the Brave sensed any objection, he pretended not to notice, instead opting to nod enthusiastically, as if he was more excited than Drill Boy.
Geez, did he really want him gone that badly?
Fine. Maybe it wasn’t time to show off the Gunbike anyway; it’s not like it was in a good state at the moment… Well. The only thing Gunmax could do was take the hint. Never one to disappoint, he pushed himself off the desk and set a practiced hand on his hip.
“S-sure!” Gunmax bit out while sneaking another pointed glare at Deckerd. “How about we go now. Actually.”
“Really?!”
“Really. Not like I've got anything better to do.”
Deckerd made a pained noise in the back of his throat and Gunmax smiled in satisfaction. He knew he shouldn't be pleased, that he was making things needlessly… complicated, but he just couldn't help himself. Of course, it was a stark reminder that he had never really changed as much as Deckerd seemed to think. It was wishful thinking to ever believe he'd reach the heights that Deckerd believed him capable of.
He felt two pairs of optics drilling into him from opposite angles. He’d been standing around too long. He hopped to his pedes and guided Drill Boy by the shoulder, nudging him toward the door. He didn't look back until the door swished shut and Gunmax could only hope that Patoka was missing his company.
“YES! GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! THAT’S 35-0!”
Gunmax worked to untwist his arms from the rope of the soccer net while Drill Boy jogged to retrieve the ball that sent Gunmax flying back in the first place. How he got coaxed into playing goalie, Gunmax would never understand.
“Oh uh. You good, Gunmax?”
“Never better.”
With a twist of his wrist, he wrenched his arm free and stumbled to his pedes, then popped the cavernous indent in his chest back into place. There was mud and grass and rocks lodged in unbecoming parts of his chassis that would surely chafe until he got a proper solvent shower. And to think he had waxed himself a couple days prior.
“Good!” chirped Drill Boy, sarcasm whiffing his thick head by a few good meters. “Heheh, this is my biggest streak yet! I'm on a roll today.”
“... Might help that Dumpson usually plays defense… “ Gunmax mumbled while he wiped the mud from his visor. Why was he even doing this to begin with? “Hey, kid, I think I’m gonna have to call it for today. It’s gettin’ a bit late and I should be rollin’ to HQ soon.” (and the showers.)
“Oh, come on! Just a few more minutes? Please?”
Gunmax groaned. “Hey, don’t you normally do this with your brothers? Even if Dumpson or McCrane weren’t available, then surely Power Joe would be willing, it’s not like he does anything useful anyways.”
“Oh, well…” Drill Boy’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I could, but…”
“Drill Boy!”
Drill Boy flinched and turned sharply on his cleats, wings pricked high at attention.
“... T-that’s why.”
Crossing the field was a furious McCrane, dark silhouette stark against the orange and reds that streaked the Nanamagari skyline. Gunmax too felt compelled to stand up just a little straighter in the Brave’s presence.
Nothing set him on edge more than military types. It was unfortunate that he worked with one, and even more unfortunate he had been caught slacking off with his littlest brother.
Drill Boy stole a glance back at Gunmax, and they exchanged a look of mutual fear. Did McCrane know about Drill Boy’s injury? Something told Gunmax his good posture wouldn’t save him from the fresh hell speeding toward him like a tank shell.
McCrane planted both heels into the field grass, his cheek twitching so profusely that Gunmax would assume he had an interior malfunction if it were anyone else. He sucked in a deep breath and smoothed down his features to stifle the battle within, as McCrane always did before a lecture.
“Drill Boy,” he repeated, venom replaced with passive judgment. “Power Joe and I waited two hours for you to show up to target practice today. You wouldn’t answer your communicator either. What have we told you about turning it off? We feared the worst. Not to MENTION that Shadowmaru informed me that you never showed up for flight training.”
“Oh!” Drill Boy seemed to relax, if only just a little. Gunmax didn’t even know he was holding his breath until he let out a sigh of relief. Didn’t mean either of them were off the hook though, far from it. “I… well, I was so excited that Gunmax offered to play soccer with me that I uh… forgot. We were gonna do it later in the day but Gunmax offered to do it as soon as I asked, so…”
Drill Boy trailed off as soon as McCrane turned his sharp gaze onto Gunmax. Gunmax hissed under his breath as his scrutinizing optics swept over his mud-caked frame. He felt compelled to wipe the mud from his badge. He could never tell where he stood with McCrane, and that fact alone kept him distant.
“You got somethin’ to say?” Gunmax spat as he took one step closer to McCrane. The Brave stayed poignantly calm as he regarded Gunmax with passive optics. Gunmax felt his own cheek twitch in anger.
“I appreciate your attempts to entertain Drill Boy; I imagine he neglected to mention his schedule for the day.”
“It was my fault! I’m sorry, Gunmax didn’t know! I forgot to tell him—”
“Drill Boy, dragging others into your… shenanigans is not going to convince us to let you go to that soccer game.”
“Wait! But you said—”
“In fact, I think this is exactly why we can’t trust you to go in the first place. If you can’t even answer your communicator, how in the hell can we trust you to fly all the way to Tokyo without causing a national incident? I mean really…”
“You can't!"
“I can,” said McCrane. “I know you were excited, but I can’t, in good faith, let you go.”
Drill Boy made a choked sound in the back of his throat, tears already welling up in his pained optics.
“I knew you wouldn’t let me! I knew it!” Drill Boy exclaimed between growing sobs. “W-Why do I even bother to appease you if it doesn’t even do any good?! Y-you never treat me the same as Dumpson or Joe or anyone else. All you do is control me! I HATE YOU!”
Control.
McCrane stumbled, pain flashing in his optics as he made a move to reach for Drill Boy’s shoulder. “Drill Boy, wait—”
Before McCrane can catch him, Drill Boy is rocketing away in a flash of dirt and gravel. He ripped through the fading sunset and disappeared from sight as quickly as he had left the ground. McCrane was left to uselessly fan away the dust obscuring his sensors. He then turned to face Gunmax, optics hollow and his features haunted.
Drill Boy hadn’t even bothered to retrieve his soccer ball.
“I’m… sorry, Gunmax, that you got tangled up in the Build Team’s business, I can assure you it is just as embarrassing for us as it is for you. But I hope you can see why I cannot let him go. Not if he is going to act like… like… this.”
McCrane’s voice, so apologetic, soon faded away into the distant, ever-present noise of the city, replaced by the growing buzz in Gunmax’s audio sensors.
Similar. The appeasement, the denial, the anger, the fear. It was all so similar.
He didn’t care whether Drill Boy deserved his punishment or not. One way or another, he would go to that soccer game, and Gunmax would be the one to make it happen.