"Hey, Gunmax. Wake up, Gunmax: we need to go." The voice was subtly urgent, yet held an everlasting patience buried within it. He loved it — how couldn't he love it? It compelled him to raise his head, but that was potentially one of the worst decisions he had ever made.
Upon doing so, he was struck with a dizziness so fierce he had no choice but to settle back down. The urge to purge was near overwhelming, and a scowl etched itself into his faceplate.
"Tell the world to stop spinning." He snarled.
"That would be counter-intuitive. The day/night cycle would halt completely, then where would we be at?" Ah. Hello, Deckerd.
"Shut up." Gunmax groaned. It was half-hearted, and held about as much malicious intent as a blade of grass, but his helmache seemed content in staying a while and the pounding in his processor did, too.
His servo clenched as another throb hit him full-force. Clenched around a servofull of sand.
A devious grin lit up his features, snaking mischievously across his faceplate. He cracked open an optic, barely, just enough to gather Deckerd's location atop him.
He faked a yawn, tightening his digits around his servo's payload as he brought the closed appendage nearer to the artificially gaping mouth.
And in the last second, he struck — his fist opening, unleashing the hailstorm of the coarse substance directly into-
The open air.
Deckerd was looking quite nefarious, standing up with both fists suspiciously balled, a vexatious smirk playing upon his lips. Standing up. His leg was healed.
Oh no.
Gunmax rolled away, previous processor pain forgotten, as he dodged the oncoming plethora of grainy, ground up rock and pebbles.
He whipped around, optics screaming of mock-betrayal. Diving for the nearest form of cover — a double-trunked palm tree that covered about twelve percent of his body, according to his combat readouts — he scooped more of the tiny pellets into his palms, joints curling carefully as he cupped the heaped ammunition.
A dangerous yet necessary glance around his biotic shield revealed a floundering Deckerd scanning his environment for protection. Upon finding none, he resumed his onslaught.
Ducking back behind the trunk and crouching low to decrease exposed surface area, he yelled out a threat.
"I've got the upper hand, Deckerd! Give it up!"
"You can't make me!"
Well then. He wished it hadn't come to this. He really did. But the mech left him no choice.
Deckerd had been approaching slowly, cautiously — and now he was mere metres from his cover. It was time to shine.
He sprung out from behind the tree, relishing the surprise on his partner's face before he tackled him to the ground.
"Yield!" He roared, grabbing hold of the other's servos.
"Yield!" He repeated, slamming the pair above Deckerd's head.
"Alright, alright! I yield. There, happy now?" An actual, full-blown pout pursed the blue mech's lips, and he looked away dejectedly.
"Very." He responded, a smug smirk settling on his faceplate.
"Oh, by the way — your leg. Is it alright?" Concern seeped into his tone against his will, but his façade of innocent curiosity stood strong.
Deckerd's expression fell.
"Slightly. It might heal fully in a day or two: I just need to move it a little. Right now, it hurts to run."
Gunmax was straddling the lead detective, and once a silence settled in, he awkwardly removed himself.
"Um. Yeah, right. So- uh… hm." Gunmax had forgotten what he was going to say.
Deckerd picked up the slack with enthusiasm.
"We need to explore this island if we are to have any hope of finding fuel. Perhaps there's an abandoned settlement. Or better yet, an occupied one!" Childlike glee still shone through his optics, but his tone now spoke business. "There may yet be a few gas canisters, scattered around." It wasn't uncommon that Decker's expectations or hopes surprised him, whether from their unrepentant ridiculousness or sheer positivity.
It was uplifting, if nothing else. When he was around Deckerd, he felt powerful — a better version of himself. His presence alone could make Gunmax's day a good one.
"Alright, fine. Let's go."
The detective smiled kindly, soft quirks at the corners of his mouth.
But he was vulnerable. Deckerd could wrench his metaphorical heart out of his frame with as simple as a downturned lip in his direction. Deckerd could utterly ruin him so easily.
And it scared him.
Deckerd knew him. He could probably play him like an instrument, by now. But he didn't, and he never had, and, and-
And Gunmax trusted him, damn it- and he hadn't broken that trust yet.
And meeting Deckerd was probably simultaneously the single best and worst thing that had ever happened to him, in hindsight.
Gunmax was unsure how to support Deckerd. Currently, Deckerd was just keeping close, but the rocky, naturally formed pathway leading between the palm trees as high as they were tall provided many an opportunity for the blue mech to lose his footing. His leg — left, thankfully. He likely would have been immobilised if his dominant leg had been eliminated — was distinctly uncooperating; limp and useless behind the rest of his frame as he worked with the environment around him, using it as a third-rate crutch to drag the deadweight along.
Inefficient was an understatement. Travelling like this was a waste of resources, and Deckerd knew it.
"Gunmax, do you still think you can make it to the mainland?" When the mech turned to check on him, Deckerd had stopped. He was looking neither angry nor frustrated. "With your remaining fuel, could you make it?"
He looked defeated.
The visored mech narrowed his optics. They weren't having this argument again, he refused.
"No."
"Huh?" The confused mech had raised his optics from the ground, and they were now in his, searching.
"I said no. I'm not fighting with you. I hate me when I do, I hate you when I do, and I hate hating you even more. Take it either way you want— no." Gunmax appeared resigned. His shoulders were slumped, and he wasn't looking back anymore; his gaze rested solely on a pebble before him. Letting out a roar of frustration, he lashed out, sending the rock flying away to a place unknown.
Few words were exchanged as they reached the apex of the hill, but they climbed slightly further apart, now.
At the peak of the island, an old, likely abandoned radio tower stretched skyward above the treeline. A red light periodically blinked on and then back off, inconsistent in its flashes. Perhaps not currently operational, but it was still powered. Gunmax was sure that with just a little coercing, he could make the tower sing.
Sing a distress call, granted, but he was indiscriminate in his labelling; a song that spoke of love and romance differed very little to one that screamed for help, to Gunmax.
Upon nearing the landmark, Deckerd let out a mildly impressed sound akin to a hum. "A radio tower." He remarked.
"Really, boy scout? You sure about that one? Not gonna double check your database for any potential mistakes?" Gunmax didn't know why he was taking out his anger on the lead detective — he had no right to. But the wrong place and the wrong time had culminated into this; there was no turning off the tap once the sardonic statements began to flow.
"What's next, you're gonna tell me that the sky's blue? What do you mean grass is green? Yeah, no fucking shit it's a radio tower, Sherlock. Slap my aft and call me Watson, that isn't exactly the unveil of the century. You know what else isn't? We're stuck on an uninhabited island ten kilometres from civilization, I'm running out of juice and you're not running at all for the foreseeable future! Together, through the power of cooperation and friendship: Gunmax and his suicidal injured teammate have to brave the harsh wilderness on their own! Sound like the start of a bad joke, not an obituary." He spat out the final word, turning away and glaring daggers at the rocky floor once more.
It took a few seconds for him recompose himself, but he did so eventually.
"Look, look I'm. I'm sorry…" He hazarded a glance at Deckerd, but the blue mech only looked saddened as he stared back. Saddened and pitying.
Gunmax hated pity.
It made him feel inadequate; worse than the competition.
It made him feel ashamed, as if he wasn't enough already.
Scoffing in indignation, he focussed his attention on the mast, nearing it. In close proximity to chain-link fence surrounding it cowered a small, lonely and out-of-sight brick shed with a resonant transformer supplying electricity to the complex. Taking the slightly less subtle path, Gunmax punched the door in and neared the now opened opening. Inside, he spied the control panel for the tower. Following his own trend, he hooked two digits on the top of the doorframe and pulled the roof off of the shack.
"Gunmax…" Deckerd's tone was disapproving, but Gunmax didn't care. Not yet, anyway. Now, he had a mission; and if he had to hurt Deckerd to save him, then he would. And now that he could, he will.
The walls looked dubiously upright without a ceiling, as if the building would barely withstand a gust of wind. Or a brush of metal, as Gunmax had just proved in his noticeably reckless attempt to reach his arm into the room. The bricks had fallen outwards and away from the delicate wiring, but Deckerd keened none the quieter.
"Gunmax..." He repeated, more of a plea, now, than a reprimand.
"Sorry." The mech mumbled in English.
Deckerd's frown lessened, then disappeared entirely when a series of beeps indicated his partner's entrance to the antenna's operating system.
"Have you…?" The mech was guarded in his hope, but leaned forward anyway.
Gunmax tensed momentarily, the foreign touch seeming alien to him. Deckerd's chin was snugly placed on his pauldron, and the soft, warm venting of the mech brushed against his exposed backstrut. Humiliatingly, Gunmax's fans whirred on.
And unsurprisingly, the extremely forced coughs that followed did very little to cover up the fact.
Deckerd didn't seem to mind, however. He waited patiently behind the overheating mech, silent in his civility.
"Yeah: that's it. That's access to the outside world."
Gunmax leaned backwards for support — his haunches could only handle so much, naturally. The quiet mech held him still, allowing him momentary rest against him.
Deckerd had waited long enough. It was time to go home.
Lazily, his arm reached out, interfacing with the ports beneath the panel.
Three dots.
Three dashes.
Three dots.
01010011
01001111
01010011
S
O
S
The sound clip of an alarm siren.
The coordinates of their location.
Their names.
Withdrawing from the connection, the teal mech fell, his legs losing tension beneath him. The ground, enthusiastic in its opportunity, came rushing up to meet him.
And abruptly stopped when arms curled around his midsection, squeezing tightly.
When his balance tipped slightly, they hauled him back upright, steadying him with a gentle grace.
"Thanks, Dekkado." He twisted, looking back at the mech behind him.
"You're welcome, Gunmax."
Small steps. Baby steps.
To where — he didn't know. He was, however, uncompromisingly certain that he wanted the destination. The desire thrummed within his core like base programming, nearly indistinguishable from the lines of code that enabled him to live.
Deckerd smiled when he responded; his signature Deckerd smile that reached his optics and quirked his lips.
The signature Deckerd smile that set his internals ablaze — that set his heart alight.
That signature Deckerd smile he didn't know he craved so much.
Not until now; not until he found himself mourning its presence.
"We'll have to wait a while for any sort of response. The game of distress signals is a waiting one." He noted, breaking the silence precipitously.
"Oh? Shame." An honest-to-god smirk carved itself into Deckerd's faceplate, stretching the mouthpiece into an expression Gunmax couldn't help but feel guilty for.
"Indeed. Any suggestions?" He cocked his helm and hips, lids lowering playfully and grin spreading across his visage.
"Explore the rest of the island, perhaps. There could be fuel nearby." Deckerd dropped his guise, replacing the distinctly out of character look with his comfortingly common kind and determined beam.
A vague disappointment nagged the edge of his processor with the truth that he had not, in fact, corrupted the mech, but he pushed the distraction back and replied with similar seriousness.
"You're right. Let's go."
"Baby, there aren't settlements here. We would've seen any from the hill." The English transitioned awkwardly into Japanese, but Gunmax sounded earnest despite the whine his tone adopted.
"It's either that or you…" He seemed troubled by what his processor supplied, and visibly opted for an alternative. "…lose consciousness. It's one or the other, baby, so let's not be too hasty in our conclusions." A frown spread across Deckerd's forehelm: concern was beginning to trickle into his voice, hardening it both in tone and resolve.
Gunmax pursed his lips in silent disapproval, but begrudgingly admitted the merit in Deckerd's statement. Exaggerated, yes. Untruthful?
Never.
Gunmax nearly collided with the mech he was tailing when they halted unexpectedly, crouching.
"Deckerd!" The name held a variety of emotions within it, from chastise to surprise, but the name's owner seemed unphased.
"Look!" The lead detective whispered ineffectively as he pointed into the forest ahead, alerting all fauna within earshot of their potentially threatening attendance.
The biker peered over the blue mech's pauldron, briefly appreciating the humour of their reversed positions.
"A fox!" The blue mech crowed, tentatively inching forward as quietly as he could.
The canine had noticed them, but it sat simply and peacefully, unmoved and unperturbed. Its tail swished lazily, and their snout pointed regally at Deckerd's digit tip: sniffing curiously.
"They like you." Gunmax commented offhandedly. Granted, his beyond limited knowledge of wildlife left his conclusion so unfailingly empty; to ignore it would be the wisest choice, but his colleague seemed so enamoured with the concept he squeaked out a happy "Really?" before turning around to strike Gunmax with an expression of unabashed wonder.
His optics held their typical golden sheen, but inside them glimmered hope, awe, and something else.
Love.
Gunmax didn't know to whom the final emotion was being directed to — him, the creature? It was an enigma. In his righteous opinion, he deserved it more; he would be a far better-
Friend.
Completely platonic friend. Supporting, kind friend.
"Yes," He responded abruptly, shaking himself from his own reverie with impatience.
"Really."
Deckerd returned to his observing, sitting cross-legged as the biotic lifeform stared at him and humming contentedly with a large, dopey smile stretching his lips.
Wordlessly, Gunmax sat down beside him.
And when Deckerd looked over, the visored mech had a suspiciously similar unrestrained grin on his faceplate.
The fox had long since wandered off, unsatisfied with its entertainment, but neither mech had stirred yet in the hour of silence that had ensued the staring competition. Not out of an aptitude for indolence or lethargy: no. Instead, a peculiar contentment had stretched between the two — and neither had the heart to break it, not in either definition.
Fortunately, the ruthlessly determined virtue of time itself lived as a concept; without need for blood of any sort. It lived without emotion, but its cruel acts seemed undyingly unnecessary nonetheless.
Gunmax hated it. Its ticking impatience, sluggish boredom, unfeeling indecency. He hated it all, but he wanted so much more. He wanted so much more than the little he had.
"We don't have long until the sun begins to set, we should continue our exploration." A level-headed and rational recommendation, certainly.
A likeable one?
In no discernible way, shape nor form.
But time itself ticked and tocked without pause; and the sand drained from the hourglass in a trickling, steady stream; and the gears of the clock spun smoothly — well-oiled as they were — and time slipped away, and his hours grew shorter.
Gunmax arose in silence, accepting the proffered servo with a nod of thanks.
The mossy greenish-brown mud they traversed across squelched unpleasantly against the base of Deckerd's pedes, a notable minority sticking stubbornly to the previously clinically white surface. His backstrut was protesting insistently now, and an ache had sprung at his midsection. The alternative, however, witnessed him pushing his faceplate uncaringly through frond after frond of the helm-high surrounding palm trees, and the concept appealed very little to the unvisored mech.
"Deckerd…" His partner keened pitifully, a servo grabbing unhappily at his pauldrons and tugging weakly.
"Gunmax?" He inquired, turning. The mech was exhausted; his venting sounded suppressed and his legs were stiff with strain and effort. He had been quiet, but to who's benefit? And why?
None of it mattered but the facts, to Deckerd — a coping mechanism he used to evaluate the least incorrect response to a difficult situation — and he reviewed the facts.
Fact: They needed the reconnaissance for fuel.
Fact: Deckerd had been unknowingly causing Gunmax's fatigue by not stopping in his exploration.
Fact: Deckerd was slightly guilty.
Conclusion: Make it up to Gunmax.
He smirked.
"Tired?"
An affirming groan responded heavily.
The smirk grew.
He walked jauntily to Gunmax, an amused swagger to his step as he stopped in front of the weary mech, sly in his body language and teasing in his posture.
His servos landed softly on Gunmax's chassis, left slithering around the frame to the backstrut and right trailing downwards towards the pelvic plating, then past it.
The servos found their desired resting places and the digits tensed, gripping tightly. Deckerd laughed softly as he hoisted the biker into his bridal cradle, smiling affectionately down at the confused, drowsy detective and winking an optic.
A self-conscious blush crept up the white polymer of Gunmax's cheeks, his visor glinting in the setting sun's final vestiges of light.
"Don't worry," Deckerd crooned warmly.
"I'll take care of you."
"I'll take care of you." The mech said.
I'll take care of you.
Gunmax was warm in his core — humiliation, he thought. Not affection, he hoped. He was asleep. They had fallen asleep, hadn't they? He'd wake up the next morning. This was a dream. He was dreaming. He was warm, and soft and gooey and his legs felt like gelatine but far weaker and his thought process was fuzzy and unsure at the edges; he was, he felt. He felt like he was. Like he was in…? With someone? He was in here with someone, and he hoped they were in it with him too.
The someone was Deckerd, he thought. The someone was Deckerd, he hoped.
The sentence left him feeling, left him being. Feeling warm, and soft and gooey. Being fuzzy, and unsure and in. And in…?
He loved feeling. He loved being.
He loved feeling the feeling.
He loved being in…?
The game of distress signals is a waiting one, but he didn't feel he'd be alive to finish it. His fuel tank had long since run out, and his reserves were laughably present. Mostly, he was running on fumes. And when the fumes finally ran out, he'd be gone, too.
Death by starvation was not a pleasant one. The mech would slowly begin to lose power to their limbs, one by one shutting off power intensive non-essential systems. First, the lower half of the body would weaken, beginning with the pedes. Next, the upper. Speech would become slurred. Cognitive abilities dampened. Vision blurred. Finally, the senses would give in, and his memory cells would lose power and wipe. Everything, anything — none of it mattered, in the end.
Unlike Deckerd. Deckerd would forever matter. He would be remembered always, by everyone, by Gunmax. Even when the memory cells delete their contents, Deckerd will still be there. His friend, his partner, his…
His…
The world around him was losing focus, and the colours less sure. Whites became greys, which became blacks. Deckerd, his- He was- calling out, exclaiming- saying- shouting-
"Gunma…!" What was he shouting? He was screaming it so loudly, so clearly; but nothing made sense. It was sharp, clear, precise — but it trailed off at the ends, and seemed to echo within his processor.
A part of him was being opened. Maybe.
He was being held, that was for sure. Was he? No, that must have been the rocks beneath slamming into him. He was slamming into them. He had fallen over, but there were quick, panicked vents exploding against his frame. He was being squeezed, he was quite sure, he thought; he hoped.
He hoped that it was Deckerd holding him, attempting to gather the life seeping out of him and squeeze it back in.
He hoped Deckerd knew that… that Gunmax… that he was his…
His-