Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You are a poor gas station worker.

Relative to you, there have been recurring reports of fuel thefts from gas stations in Motown, varying from location to location. The culprit was still yet on the large, and the fact of the crimes taking place at night was not helping. Not only that, but witnesses on account were useless, with every one of them with the similar inability to discern much of any identification, other than remembering the silhouette of a car speedily taking off—and no, they didn’t see a license plate.

For a chain of abnormalities in this picturesque seaside town, it's something concerning for sure. News even spread to your neighbors, the elderly duo you pass by each morning hushing and gushing about the endless mysteries the crimes invoke. You can guess that they might be more excited than on edge, self-preservation lacking.

Yet, there are other things in your life that take more priority in your brain…such as the woes of being able to pay your rent this upcoming week. Oh. Even still, the circumstances—without your say—come right to you, without warning, timed in the middle of a late-night shift.

The first circumstance of that night to deal with is a strange customer. More levels of strange than the usual oddball you get. This customer, ah, they’re coming on too invasive for your liking. Flirting, making inappropriate remarks, their spittle pelting everywhere when talking, prolonging their stay in the small store, even having the gall to encroach on your personal space a foot too close past the threshold of socially acceptable. All nine yards met, except those yards err on the side of horrid.

With it, you are nervous. A little irate, maybe.

As the single person on site today, there’s not a soul around to dissuade the situation. You don’t know what to do. Plus, is it even a situation, or was it overthinking?

You come to the misguided verdict that you can handle it. You’ve fared worse.

The older man, the customer, asks for "help." Over and over. Things like, Where’s this product? Can you get me a cigarette pack behind there? You got more drinks from this brand? When does this restock?—and similar queries dribble past your canals.

 The last thing he asks you to do—and to do, in your case, is meant begrudgingly—is emboldened in a plea to help him with refilling his car, the reason being that he’s not used to the terminal system at this station. You don’t believe it, since this was a chain gas station and systems were the same across all branches. You’ll humor him to get him out of here faster though.

Note, at least this is actually familiar to you. You do the usual routine.

The tank gurgles as it fills up. His eyes are latched onto you.

Staring.

Staring.

It’s quiet. You feel tense.

The puttering stops. The tank is filled. You’re about to hand over his change for the cash. But the bills and coins messily fall out of your hand, multiple resounding pings of the little disks tumbling onto the concrete—

—because the stranger has moved with your nose almost brushing against his as you turn.

You whip back, not enough separated between you, letting out an embarrassing noise. It can’t be helped, with how the nerves are now hitting hard. Your back prickles. What were you thinking? You can’t handle this. You can’t take someone openly threatening you. Pursuing you so unashamed. His yells are ringing in your ears, yet you can only focus on the ill stench of his wafting breath. Drunk. His voice is turning shrill and violent. He’s stepping closer. He’s about to reach his hands out to touch you. You shut your eyes, frightened out your mind, preparing to push him away,

only for the rev of an engine to startle the both of you.

Bewildered, you stiffen and swivel to the sound’s direction, the man doing the same in mutual distraction. White flashbangs your vision, bathing your two figures head-to-toe in light. By instinct, you shield your sorry eyes. Still, you were curious, and peeked through the spaces inbetween.

There’s a muscle car, adorned by…amazing illegal headlights, rolling on into the station. 

Another customer? At least they broke the chain of events leading up to what god awful thing might’ve happened to you. Granted the brief reprieve, you shimmy away from the drunk to jog off towards the driver, ignoring the complaining shouts of the former. They must be wanting to get their tank filled. And the distraction is welcomed—though your intentions are left as an afterthought, for when you approach the car, it begins to rearrange itself. What the hell?

Metallic shuffling and slotting fills your ears as you stare, frozen at what strange shuffling of pink, golden, black morphing metal person of a phenomenon is unfolding in front of you. The hunk of metal forms together to create a neat visage reminiscent of that one cartoon you watched when you were younger. Transmorphers? The thing, whatever it is, also reminds you of an angry, little, well, not little, bug. The golden ridges lining the head of it remind you of antennas. A, ah…shrimp? Ahh, a roach? Not that it makes sense, nothing makes sense, anything to familiarize yourself with what is THERE. What is THAT? What?

It’s a robot.

After the unfathomable process, it stretches, looms over you, silent, halting your extraneous thoughts, and you notice the pinch of its eyes when you shiver. The color green, too? Excessive palette. The brilliance of them makes you think back to your cat at home—cute, for her, intimidating on a thing that is leagues larger in stature than you.

You can only fumble the customary greeting drilled into you from training due to the worry that you may have just subjugated yourself to something more dangerous. A drunken guy versus this? If it can be avoided, there’s no desire in you to be squashed today. By car.

“Oh! Ah. H-hello! Welcome…?” You bow repeatedly, hands tense and woven together like threads.

To your utter surprise, the robot lets out a vibrative snort. The sound lingers.

It places its hands on its hips, cocking its funnily-shaped head, curious. It then leans down a bit towards you, looking every bit as if inspecting you like you were the bug.

That much is true. If it decides to raise a fist and smack it down, you would be rendered nothing less than a splat of sun-dried tomato paste in this passing world. But, in some odd way of being, you consider the feelings of fear cascading over you. It's different from what you experienced with the drunk moments ago. There’s awe mixed in.

A nasally, snarky voice comes out of nowhere. There’s no mouth on its person to read. “Heh, what a surprise.” It straightens up, a faint whirr with the movement, seemingly closing its eyes like a typical human would—the green shaping into little curved lines. “You’re the first person that hasn’t run away from me, screaming.” It unshutters them back into their cat-like shape prior, nodding in approval. “You’ve got props.”

You’re dumbfounded by the praise. “Wuh?”

In response, it waves a hand, impatient. “Never mind that; I need fuel. I’m a customer!”

This you can do. You’re unsure of the merits and logistics of giving a rogue robot fuel. But also there’s indulgence to be had, for the sake of it. This isn’t an everyday instance, and your life could use a little more excitement, so you go along with it. A decision you hope you won’t regret in the future.

You nod, however tentatively. “Ah. Of course, this way, please.” As you walk with your back to the being, it occurs to you that in the mess of the moment, you blanked the presence of the unruly customer. You find the man in question has relocated. Situated stock-still, half-tucked behind one of the plinths supporting the forecourt of the station. He’s shivering. 

And when the rumbling steps of the robot follow from behind you, his conduct exceeds the strange, with his mouth gaping and the meat of his brows lifting. He squawks in fright then proceeds to speed off to nowhere, the perfect portrayal of an absolute goner. 

You...feel thankful for the presence behind you, kind of. The next you see your manager, you’re filing a report. Getting him banned from here would be nice. The cranker ditched the car he came with—so you know he’ll have to return for it.

At the filling station, you happen to glance behind, noting the robot is still standing vigilant to you. Observing it, its posture is, worrying? It looks…sluggish. Slack. But when you turn around, it tenses, not unlike a stick, lengthening back to its proper height, glaring at you. As if refuting that you ever thought that. You raise a brow, though refrain from commenting. You cough. 

“So, we have different forms of fueling here. What would you prefer, um, ah...?” you gesture vaguely. The bot doesn’t fill in the void of a response, awkwardly watching you, almost seeing through you.

Blink. “Okay then. Uh, we service gas in regular, mid-grade, premium, and diesel. If you would prefer, there’s also an option for EV charging for electric vehicles.” You point to each as you talk. “Which do you want?” you ask, expecting a run-of-the-mill answer. Even if it’s a robot, it’s a car, first and foremost.

“I want all of it,” the idiot insists, instead. Its eyes are pin-pricked in intensity.

Taken aback, your shoulders lift, chin recessed in shock. “..What!? I mean, agh, I can’t just give you all of it!” You wiggle your hands, freaked out. You don’t want to disagree, but... “We need it for other customers.” Your head shakes. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I can only give you a certain amount.” You could only be so tolerant in one day!

To your dismay, the robot appears to ponder if it should deign to smash you into bits, which you keep thinking about, judging by the fearsome face it takes on, the anticipatory stomps it starts harshly towards you. You’re stuck. Before it can come alarmingly within reach, you jut your hands in front of you, yelling, “Wait a second!”

The stomping stops. You flutter your eyes open, all while timidly lowering your arms. Phew.

Here’s its turn to say, "What?" although more annoyed in tone than aghast. It has crossed its arms, prudish, the metal armor covering every length of its body looking rather tightened together, at least compared to earlier.

You have an idea. Your work won’t be in favor of it—not that it matters if you keep well to this all being a secret. Here goes nothing.

“I know I shouldn’t be doing this.” You look off to the side, avoiding looking at the thing. “...maybe you shouldn’t be here either.” Your eyes end up back on its face anyway, and you’re rubbing your sweaty palms together. Fretting. You gulp. “I, what matters to me, is that you helped me out. And I’m not even sure you were aware of it.” You gaze up at it. To your favor, it’s paying attention. You feel safe enough to go on.

It even tilts its head. It’s, ah, sort of endearing. Wait, what? Abort. Abort.

“And?”

Hesitant, you continue, thumbs fiddling, “And, um, while I can't... can't give you... all of the fuel. I can give you a good amount. Of one thing! But for free. Because you helped me.”

A funny noise sounds. Half an electronic gasp and the bizarreness of choking on something, although you’re pretty confident in your assumption that there are no fleshy lungs under all that shine, “Really? So easily? Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t come here to save..." The pupils of its eyes seem to have shrunken into specks of ant-sized dots. Arms crossed moments ago are raised in front of it. Is it nervous? 

You interrupt before it goes on, firm in your choice to return favors. “It doesn’t matter.” A pause on your part, an inhale. “Look, yes or no? Pretty soon, I won’t be able to give it to you. I have to close up. It takes a while.” 

The bot relaxes. It regards you with no clear emotion. 

Then, dips its head, agreeing. The armor on its body is lax, not tensed up. “Hmph. Okay. I want…electricity. And I do want a lot! So, don’t try and stop me, unless I stop!” A peculiar way to word someone wanting to use a reusable charging station, but trivial. You’re the one who proposed this; you want to see it through.

Lifting a hand over, you guide the bot to the area of the charger in question. It kneels over a bit to accommodate the height of the device. 

It's simple, modern, easy to navigate with the included touch screen, fast, and has been installed quite recently. Not to say any of that was basic knowledge on your part, but instead an abbreviation from the basis of your manager’s rambling claims. So, knowing that, you are expecting it'll satisfy the metallic thing. 

Unholstering the charger gun from the slot, the dragging cable supported elsewhere, you turn around in expectancy that the bot will turn reform back into a car again, let you pop its port, plug in, bam, it's charged woooo, and you’ll be done with each other and you can forget this eventful night ever took place—only for a huge hand to snatch the cord out of your grasp.

You might’ve barked a small “Hey!” but your righteousness trails off as you observe the bot bringing the charger up to one of its boxy fingers. 

You’re puzzled. What’s it doing? From your view on the low ground, you don’t see any slot on the bot's body, much less the hands. 

It simply plonks the end against a fingertip. Evidently, that’s enough for it to charge. Huh.

With the action, its armor droops even more, the seams in the metal plating parting. And. You’re not positioned that closely, though with your placement, you can feel a wave of warmth whirling its way on over from the bot. The sensation is pleasant on your skin, braving the chilled air of the evening. Its eyes doing that closed look again. This time, not shaped like curved arcs of green, instead a horizontal line. Put together, the image paints the fact that it's happy. Happy and frozen in the feeling. 

A few minutes pass. Give or take, you’re getting a bit anxious by the 5th, debating threatening the ire of a huge metal being via scolding—versus, facing the distress of tomorrow’s staff gobsmacked by an obscene electrical bill. Before you decide, it displays signs of life, eyes flickering on and off, languid. It removes the charger. 

You wobble over in panic that it’ll cause property damage to that particularly expensive equipment—probably throw it at you or off into the street. It subverts those fears by plopping the charger in your hands. Oh. You hastily put it away, but in the process of just so, you hear the same series of noises implying the transformation you were subject to with the first meeting with the thing. 

The bot, now a car, makes streaks all over the station ground with a questionable amount of doughnuts. The EV charge must have really pumped it up. You feel a tinge of fondness watching the big blur spazz around.

Its last donut made, it rolls to an idle. Now’s when it goes. I mean, it’s right next to the exit to turn out and leave through the main road. You’re finished here.

“Thanks,” it mumbles. 

It revs its engines once more, almost as if to say farewell. An anomaly with you for only 10 minutes, what felt like hours, now only a smear merging into the black that's ditching you to your newfound consideration.

You realize that this might’ve been the so-called thief of the news. 

There goes your spotless resume, palm to your head…and only mildly distracted by the smell of gas. Mildly.

Chapter Text

You’re at work again, at a different time of day, the gracious person you are, covering for the sick and sometimes picking up after college students. 

Unfortunately, rather than being dedicated to the crucial sweeping you’re doing, your mind has preoccupied itself with the news once more. Because you know the culprit—and their crimes have come to an end?

Reporters remarked on it with babbles about “miracles” and good fortune for the town. You’d agree, if the conclusion of it didn’t do the opposite on your half, worsened your thinking about the bot still. Where it might be. 

It's been a week since, yet the image of it looming over you, pressing that cord to its finger, circling around you, and heading off with its cloudy exhaust of a parting ‘thank you’, cemented a place in your mind. You’ve tried to plaster over the insanity it was by indulging in a few reruns of robot-centric cartoons, assuring yourself that it really was only a false memory. But it wasn’t working.

Focus on the candy bars that line the register shelving instead. They’re all mixed up from those kids earlier. You need to re-organize them…

The jingle of the automatic door plays. You flit your eyes over, thoughtless. There’s no one.

Facing. Packaging, the red with red, the blue…the blue, ah, there’s a green one here…the jingle replays, this time with the clacks of something. There’s pebbles on the mat. 

Cautious, you stand, prepared to shoo away some tiny no good doer fixing to prank. You grab the rocks, step one foot out, then a red blur above forces its way into your view.

“HEY!” is followed by you falling back in surprise, your ass bruised. You rub it, hissing.

It’s, “—what gives!?” You reproach, standing.

A string of warbling giggles from it, “I had to get your attention somehow.” The head dips away and with dramatics the bot flips, flourishing to the front of you. You gawk. It stares back, expecting…? 

“Don’t tell me. Oh, brother.” You deflate, hands clawed into your head. 

“Brother?” It scoffs. “My name is Red Blitz!” It declares, posing, in a certain, quirky way, a hand spread? Smoke billowing from his back? Well, having a name for him—you were guessing it was him—that piqued your interest.

“Red Blitz? That name suits you.” You nod. “And, Red Blitz. Why are you back here?”

“I want the charging thing. Gimme.”

“I’m thankful for what you did but I…really can’t do that, that was a one-time thing,” you deny, chucking the rocks out of the way. “Er, unless you have cash. Or card.” You are placating him…once again with the ordinary way someone would do it. He makes a haughty noise. 

“Hah, I knew you'd say that!” he exclaims, and pulls out five generators from behind his back. What the fuck. You start. “No! Don’t give me those! W-Where’d you even get them?” 

He pauses. “Oops.” The generators are tucked back. “I didn’t mean to get those out, I meant to take this out.” His fingers are pinched onto a brown wallet. He fumbles with it, and a fifty-dollar bill floats out amidst wads of receipts and other ephemera.

He must have thrown away whatever ID was in it. “I’m not going to ask.” His helm flicks. “Huh? Eh, some guy dropped it when he was running away from me. I took it.” The fifty is shoved in your face. “Here.”

“Come along,” you mutter. The two of you amble over to the pump like last time. You’re taking this quite well compared to then.

Waiting nearby, you can’t help but want to ask things. To fill the silence, even though this is as universal as other transactions would be, in a way, despite the absurdity. I mean. Seeing the scuffs of marred paint on his frame, the clumsiness of his gait. The unusual shape of his head, his glowing green lights as if illuminating jewels on his otherwise sporty frame. It’s in the obvious light of the day, now. It’s easier to scrutinize, to actualize as something that is real and physical. This is a stark difference to the groove of your life. It’s something stuck in your throat.

The lodged thing is dislodged. Blurted. “What does that feel like?” An awful question to start.

Yet, he's amicable. He’s still a jerk, yeah, blunt, clipped, rude with his words, but he’s launching into explaining the abstract concept of what eating electricity, fuels, and any edible chemical fumes are like, revealing some ambiguous stuff about his species and what places he’s robbed so far in the area, and allowing an array of details falling from him fleetingly to you. That is, up until you ask about the generators. Like why doesn't he eat from those, instead of going through this crap.

“It’s for someone else.”

So, that meant there were more robots like him here. Of course there’d be! The thought made you giddy.

“Someone else, huh..? Another robot friend? That’s cool. It’s nice that you’re not alone here, on this mudball. Not the best place to be, especially alone,” you gush.

“It’s not a friend. It’s my dad. And we’re not robots, we’re Metal Cardbots, like I said. Get it right. At least I know you’re human.”

Your eyes boggle with the first half. “Metal Cardbots, got it. So…a dad?” 

Red Blitz shoots you a quizzical look. “Uh-huh. He’s like one to me, so that’s what he is. He’s also the captain of the Spellanza.”

“If he needs that many generators, he must be a humongous bugger,” you whistle, visualizing a bot the size of five Red Blitzs stacked. It’d be amusing if his dad was the same color as him.

This accompanies a lengthy pause. It’s fine. You dig at the flesh of your palm, spare a glance at him. 

His helm is downed. You can’t see him. 

“I’m not sure of—where he is,” he croaks. “I’ve been trying to find him.”

You find yourself a few steps nearer. Palms stretching out to pat the plating of his crossed legs. 

Some of the paint catches in your skin, leaving flakes in ridges for you to wash out in the restroom later. It’s no biggie. He uncurls at your light contact. 

“...what are you doing?” 

What you’re doing has evolved to alternate between smoothing and patting harder. You’ve put effort into standing on your tippy-toes to maximize the area within your reach. The metal is cold, rough, and damaged in many-a-place with scratches. And that only means the texture is nice, so it’s a win-win sensory experience for you. You’re not sure what Red Blitz might be thinking, though.

“I’m touching you, duh.”

He makes a sort of silly, snorting, affronted sound, leaning over to hover you. His shadow crawls over your frame.

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, your grubby hands won’t cut it. I can barely feel them.” He wobbles the offended leg, although you can tell it’s a frankly half-ass fake-out to spook you, having intention but weak to ward you away. “Enough,” he grouses.

You harrumph and bite your lip. “...You’ll find him. There aren't a lot of places a giant can go around here. He’s bound to show up,” 

“And you don’t seem the type to give up, do you? Just look at you, stealing all these generators for him.” You step back to give him some room. “I think he would appreciate that, a lot, when you meet again. And I’m sure he misses you too,” you affirm.

Red Blitz only answers with a groan. “Why did I even tell you this,” 

“I think you’re stressed pal, and want to share. And that’s okay.” Your mouth twitches. 

The glee you have at seeing him perk up lends to you dealing him a hearty smack of encouragement. His resounding “Ouch!” is undoubtedly that of a liar.

Chapter Text

It’s a downpour. The grey haze from the phenomenon filters over the aisles. In the back, drops plop into the buckets you set up to accommodate for leaks. 

Your knuckles knock against the counter.

You’ve met Red Blitz over and over for a few months. He doesn’t come here in set patterns, but more often than not, it’s at hours where there’s not much business, minding the few where he comes in exceptional daylight, and you have to herd him behind a dumpster or some other when a customer wanders in. He’s testy about the interruptions from fueling, although calms down like a newborn back on the thumb when they inevitably leave. 

Huddling near the dumpster makes him stink. Rolls of spare towels, many of them red, get stashed with your work pack after the fact.

He’s a chatterbox, observant and snarky. Presenting you with much, but little in the meaningful scope of things. You don’t push for more. Unwarranted, you prattle on about the customers, of the animals that haven’t been adopted yet at the nearby pet shelter, the same people you pass by each time you go for a jog at the community park. What you cooked for dinner the other day. He’s not terribly in tune to the drivel, but he listens. He listens, he interjects with intermittent questions, not afraid to oppose or learn about the things you say, as if evaluating the current world, drastic as the one he claimed to live in ages ago. 

You do parse that he doesn't take well to humanity, though as it stands, he seems to find you tolerable. Without a word, he’s started to lean into your strokes, your nudges at the divots of his frame. 

Which…makes you feel funny. Despite how simultaneously it still feels as if he holds you at arm’s length.

So, at times he takes more than he’s allowed to. It’s because he doesn’t have enough for the road, with the pocket change he brings to you. It’s because it’s cracked into your budget, and it’s because the fool you are—you don’t mind, when you should.

There’s a bang at the entrance. You grab your umbrella.

Here he is. You talk louder than usual over the roar of the wet tumbles. “—Hey there. I keep telling you to come to the back, not front.” 

Water showers across his plating, dripping off in pellets on your tiny shelter, the curve of your cheeks. He stares from the overhang.

“Hello?” You wave your hand.

The motion perturbs him enough to crawl off the roof. You feel stuffy.

“Um, are you good…?”

“Can I—” The words grate out. “—Do you know a place where I can. Go.”

His fists are tight. The water soaks in asphalt.

“...What do you mean?” 

You thumb at the handle button.

He looks up but doesn’t, really. He’s staring off to the side, maybe at your nose, shoulders hiked up. Maybe he’s ready to prance off to never come back. “I need a place to stay.”

Your mouth gapes, then you close it to mash your lips with your teeth. You want to lick a tooth or two. “Where have you been staying all this time?” Droplets pelt on your umbrella when you’ve drifted below to his feet. 

He won’t look at you. He’s complained about the rust he gets from being wet, and here he is, taking it full throttle.

In the distance, the sky sparks white cracks. 

He jerks.

“I don’t have anywhere I can go!”

Your sight is filled with reds and greens and yellows. His hand slams down. It’s useless, the effort hardly forcing a dent into the ground. Stray pebbles fly up, pitter-patter away.

The umbrella drops out of your hand. The blue of your shirt turns navy.

He recoils. “Wait. No! I’m…ugh! I-I should just leave.” His back turns to you. His voice is small. He’s blurring into the grey. Is your face feeling fuzzy?

“Don’t.”

Your chest twists. But…

“I know a place where”—you swallow a lump—”you could stay.”

The sky’s lightened up to drizzle. You’ll still have to clean off the hard water stains. In your rearview, Red Blitz tails behind, stopping as you do on the curb. Thank the gods he bothered to listen to your pleas of “pretending to shut his eyes” or his time waiting for your shift to end would’ve been a waste. You weren’t going to let any accidents happen on the way home.

Home is taken care of by shared rent with roomies. It’s on the outskirts. And with the other two out on vacation, you’ve got the space for yourself for a decent time. They’ve left their pay in advance.

Which brings you both here.

Turning the engine off, you clamber out. Red Blitz peeks an eye open, but it disappears as it clenches shut again. You’d giggle, if it weren’t for the remaining tension you had.

“Can you go,” you motion at your empty driveway.

He comes up. “What about your car,” he nags, pulling in. You shrug, hulking the shutter for the garage shut.

“...My car will be fine. I just don’t want you to rust. Speaking of rust…” You have rags from your pocket.

“I know it’s cramped, but you’re going have to deal with it for however long you want to stay. You'll fit anyhow, I think,” you consider.

He tilts a fraction when you sniffle.

“Why’d you stand in the rain like that?” The rag in your hand begins rubbing circles on Red Blitz’s damp plating. 

He’s not going to elaborate with his windshield still darkened. 

So, with dirt staining the rough fabric brown, you grab a bucket and amble inside the kitchen to fill it at the sink. You change into a drier shirt while you’re at it. Hefting the heavy weight back is soothing. 

You’re then privy to his scrutiny of the new surroundings, with it coming to a stop when his pupils pivot to you next. It’s those lines of wrinkles between his optics again.

Your lips quirk, as easy as it is for you to sigh. 

The bucket clacks onto the ground, and you start the grueling process of really swabbing him, wringing each rag you use free of filthy water. You’re scrubbing one of the rear windows when Red Blitz grunts. 

“...orry.”

“Hmmm?” You have no idea what he said.

He starts teetering back and forth. “Please stop moving, I’m trying to clean you,” you scold.

He stops. “...I said, sssssorry.” 

You sprit water from a bottle. “And what are you sorry for, hm?” You’re having an issue with a pesky bit that won’t wipe. You leave it for another day and move onto the backlight. You’re proud of the polish on his mirrors, so far.

“Nothing’s been working out for me,” he grumps. His engine growls with the claim.

“Uh-huh."

“Cielo left me—then, Musclehyde betrayed me—and 'dolt that was intended to be my partner left me too,” he puffs. “Rock Crush, or whatever...”

That sounds tough. And this ‘Rock Crush’ person was new. “...Uh-huh. Alright.”

His front doors flap open, slamming open and shut. “And on top of that, stupid workers started coming into where I was sleeping! I had a whole set-up and everything—no one was even in there when I first came,” he blazes, body lowering to the floor.

“It’s all because of that kid,” he whines. His engine starts sputtering. Enough of that.

You’re done so you walk to his hood, question in your throat. “What kid?”

His top panels flare. “You can’t do anything.”

“Okay, let’s say I can’t,” you oblige, palms held out. “But I can keep a lookout for you, try and keep them away from you?” you suggest.

The panels flatten. “He’s a kid with blue hair...” Easy enough.

“...and I’m not keeping away from him. He stole something important, damn it!” This ruins it. Important?

“I’m not helping you go after a kid, Red.” You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“R-red?” He falters.

You squirm. Tug at the rag on your neck. “Oh, do you… not like me calling you that?”

“No, I don’t care, it’s fine,” he blurts.  

You gather the bucket and reach for a mop. “Welp, Red. I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but I’d gladly let you rest here, if you ever need it.” It clatters to the ground, and you squeak. “—I have faith that you’re not really as troublesome as you try to be,” you huff, picking it up.

“Um. You really did…scare me earlier…though.” You finger at your collar.

Red Blitz offers nothing but mock sweat collecting at his windshield. 

“I won’t do it again,” he says. 

“Okay,” you breathe. You step to the garage door and snap the shutter up. “Follow me,” you urge, and he untransforms.

The two of you stealth a path to the fencing that lines the backyard. Your neighbors live removed to the sides, so you’re allowed some leeway. There’s bits and weeds and trees at the edges, the last of the list cresting up skywards, bound to offer higher than the modicum of coverage. Thing is, the entrance was from the house. Red Blitz has to creep over by his lonesome then pick you up.

“I need a lift.” You whisper, stabbing your pointer at him, head whipping back and forth to spot pedestrians. He’s bent with his hands braced on the fence.

“Bring out your hand or something, I don’t know—hurry up,” you hiss. Thinking you’ll be stepping on his palm; he goes to snatch you like nothing. You’re caught off guard, yelping, clutching for purchase. The metal enveloping you is warmed and hardy. 

You blink up at him. “What’s the big deal?” He mocks.

He plops you on the grass and pokes a digit to twirl at your hair, messing it up. “—Stoppit,” you squawk, the picture of unpleasantry. Water is spilling everywhere!

You brush him away. “Thanks for nothing,” you jab.

The mop and the bucket are taken care of with a second trip inside. You encourage Red Blitz to lie in the shade, that you’ll bring stuff for him to fuss with. He’s expressed a fair interest in the consoles you owned. And you, excited, get to also surprise him with…

Mrrrrrrrrt. It’s your Tortie in your arms. Red Blitz jumps from his place situated leisurely in green, warping his imprint. “What was that.”

She’s purring a storm. “You should…see the look in your eyes.” You let out an amused puff. “It’s my little guy I’ve been telling you about, see?” You wave with her paw. Red Blitz seems less than impressed, and you also know he’ll come around. You put her down and she sashays towards him. “Be careful with her,” you stress.

He’s letting her sniff his finger. “Is that the Nintendo thing you’ve harped on about,” Red Blitz notes. “It’s puny.”  

“You say that, but imagine this bad boy on a big screen, huh?” Your tongue sticks out as you comb through your recents. Mario Kart, hmmm. “You wanna see if I can tug my television to the window?”

“Sure,” he muses, dangling the ball of fur by the scruff, eyes glued to you.