Chapter Text
Wile E. Coyote worked at the great ACME company, a multinational brand that did everything. In recent years it had gained great popularity with beauty and cleaning products. Although many times Wile himself thought that those kinds of products made the company's origins (those kinds of weapons and machinery) leave the mechanics department looking stupid.
Little by little they had discontinued those kinds of machines because apparently they exploded too much, although most companies or even the government often need someone to handle the heavy work. Or don't they?
In my case, for about 4 years now I had been assigned a tedious job.
Making sure the brand's star athlete had good footwear.
The Roadrunner.
I never understood why marketing gave him that name.
Rory isn't bad at all.
I've never liked him, he's always running and interrupts me at the worst moment. I even have to chase him when he won't let me give him his attachments or new footwear.
I was still lost in my thoughts when suddenly:
"Beep beep!"
My muscles tensed at that horrible sound, making the damn experiment I was working on fall and crush one of my feet.
"Shit!" My voice echoed through the lab like an anvil, letting my body fall to the cold floor. My vision went a little blurry until I gathered myself enough to observe that blue lock of hair.
A small giggle made me focus my sight again.
"Didn't you say you were going to stop hurting yourself?" The ungrateful one didn't take long to stick out his tongue as usual. He extended one of his arms covered by a sports shirt.
I immediately refused and pushed his hand aside.
"Not even in my worst nightmares would I let you help me. I'd rather you get caught." I let out a small huff and then took his hand.
It was already somewhat normal between us. A dynamic, so to speak. Although the change is that now the speedster had decided to help me and not just mock me every time one of my experiments went completely wrong.
Once I was back on my feet, I shook the dust off my lab coat. Rory watched me with that perpetual smile that never seemed to fade. His dark eyes shone with amusement.
"And now what did you want?" I asked, examining the fallen experiment. Another prototype of sneakers with reinforced cushioning. Ruined.
"The boss wants you to test the new resistance," said Rory, giving a little jump in place. "He says the latest models don't hold up to my... you know."
"Your races? Your speed? Your ability to be insufferable?"
"That one."
I sighed, picking up the remains of the prototype. It wasn't the first time I had to subject the Roadrunner to resistance tests. The company wanted to certify that its footwear could withstand absurd speeds, sudden braking, impossible turns. And I was the idiot who had to chase him with sensors and cameras to record every damn movement.
"Fine," I murmured, heading to my desk to look for the measurement attachments. "But this time you're not getting away from me."
Rory let out a laugh.
"Me? I never run away. You're the one who can't keep up with me."
I ignored the comment. I took out of the drawer a pair of wireless sensors, a tablet with the measurement software, and a set of new sneakers. The "Dynamite" model, ironically named for how explosive its results had been in previous tests.
"Put these on," I ordered, tossing him the sneakers.
Rory caught them with irritating ease. He sat on the floor and began changing his footwear while I prepared the sensors. The lab light was white and cold, and the hum of the machines filled the uncomfortable silence.
"You know you could be nicer?" Rory commented, tying his laces. "After all, I'm the star of the brand."
"You're an employee, same as me," I responded without looking at him. "Except they pay you to run and they pay me to clean up your disasters."
"Someone has to do it."
I turned to look at him. He was standing, stretching his legs, with that idiot smile on his face. Rory was five foot seven, slim, with the build of a long-distance runner. His dark blue hair fell messily over his forehead. He always wore sports clothes: tight t-shirts, shorts, sneakers that I myself designed for him.
"Ready?" I asked, placing the first sensor on his ankle.
"Always."
The first test was simple: sustained speed in a straight line. Rory shot off like a bullet, and I had to run after him with the tablet in hand, cursing every step. The lab had a test track that extended through the back hallways of ACME, a labyrinth of concrete and fluorescent lights.
Rory ran with an elegance that drove me crazy. His feet barely touched the ground, and his body moved as if the wind carried him. I tripped over cables, dodged boxes, slipped on puddles of oil. All while the tablet recorded data I couldn't even read while moving.
"Faster!" I yelled, though I knew he wouldn't hear me.
The second test was braking. Rory had to run at maximum speed and stop dead. He did it three times, and all three times the sneakers held up. The fourth time, the right ankle sensor flew off and smashed into my face.
"Ow!" I brought my hand to my nose. Blood.
Rory stopped immediately and returned to my side.
"Are you okay?" he asked, and for a moment his tone was genuinely worried.
"Perfectly fine," I lied, wiping the blood with the sleeve of my lab coat. "Keep going. The impact resistance test is still left."
"You should go get checked out."
"I said keep going."
Rory looked at me for a long second. Then, with a sigh, he returned to the starting line.
The impact test consisted of running while I threw objects at him. Rubber balls, first. Then metal discs. Finally, small explosive charges (non-lethal, just loud). Rory dodged everything with an ease that bordered on supernatural, and I grew more and more frustrated.
"At least try to let one hit you!" I yelled, throwing a ball that passed inches from his head.
"And ruin the experiment?" he responded, laughing. "No, thanks."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're slow."
I ended the day with a swollen nose, a lab coat stained with blood and oil, and a tablet full of data I would have to process during the night. Rory stretched, yawned, and headed to the lab exit.
"See you tomorrow, Coyote," he said, waving his hand.
"I wish not."
But as I watched him walk away, I couldn't help but notice something. Rory walked slower than usual. His shoulders were slightly slumped. And for a second, before disappearing through the door, I thought I saw something in his expression. Tiredness. Sadness. Something that didn't fit the image of the star athlete.
I ignored it. It wasn't my problem.
That night, in the employee locker room, I heard rumors. Two of the marketing guys were talking in low voices.
"Did you hear? They want to increase the Roadrunner's workload."
"Again? He barely sleeps as it is."
"The director says he needs more appearances. More campaigns. More races."
"He's going to end up burned out."
"As long as he keeps running, nobody cares."
I stood still, listening. It shouldn't matter to me. Rory was just a coworker. An irritant, a problem, a constant nuisance.
But something in those words stuck with me.
Something I didn't know how to identify until much later.