Title: Caught in Traffic (Pt. 2?)
Warnings: Creating a background. Deal with it.
Rating: G
Continuity: Brave Police J-Decker
Characters: Gunmax, Deckerd, Brave Police
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Gunmax - Deckerd
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"Gunmax always got a reaction."
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There came a time in every Brave's life where he had to face that most irritating of chores, the most tiresome of tasks, the just plain annoying side-job. Today was Gunmax's time.
"Say again?" The English words earned a confused look, and Deckerd had a particularly effective confused look on call just for days he dealt with Gunmax. The already expressive optics turned down at the corners, and the big optical lights behind the orange glass suddenly brightened and then dimmed slowly. The long lines of the cheek lengthened as Deckerd's mouth drew down into a not-quite frown, and his brows puckered, one higher than the other. The whole look combined into a 'I don't understaaaaaand' expression not even utter jerks were immune to.
The rogue Brave's helm rocked back, and he visibly reined in the second language. "What. Did you. Say?"
Dealing with the Motorcycle Detective was kind of like attempting to sit on a mechanical cactus. There was no safe area, and inevitably it ended with Deckerd getting pricked. Also, having a sore bottom. "You have soccer duty today," Deckerd said again, a little more cautiously this time. He kept his back to the wall, because such cautions were a necessity around Gunmax. At least out in the hallway, where Yuuta or, uh, other witnesses weren't around to keep the rebel BP unit's sense of humor in check.
He felt relatively safe for now, as the green mecha seemed to be concentrating more on Deckerd's words than his aft. "Soccer duty." The question came out flat and totally unimpressed. "Come on. Really." Even behind the visor, the level of impressed visibly dropped into negative zones in Gunmax's optics. Deckerd knew that next would come the - "You humor the brat too much," was scoffed right before, yep, there was the hip-sway as Gunmax turned on a heel, and there was the insolent little salute thrown back over a shoulder. "Soccer's not covered in my programming. Later, patrol car."
Deckerd caught the salute out of peripheral vision, considering the fact that all of his visual sensor filters were locked on the cocky roll only Gunmax managed to get out his hip joints. Uh, not that Deckerd would admit to that fact. But he'd caught a couple of the other Braves outright staring at that swaying green aft, too. There was something so frustratingly mesmerizing about Gunmax walking away, and it didn't just have to do with Gunmax going away. Well, most of the time. Some of the time. Occasionally.
All the Braves enjoyed watching Power Joe and Shadowmaru in motion when they did their respective martial arts, but Gunmax moved like…Gunmax. His deliberate strut and sashay made their Super A.I.'s spark and fizzle, and none of them could pinpoint why. Dumpson had compared it to how their first visit to the Art Museum had stimulated their A.I. self-development sub-programs, but the ability to be overly self-confident until everyone in the room was irritated wasn't art. Talent, maybe, but not art. If the BP units were developing because of Gunmax, it was as if they were somehow missing a critical point of data about him. His aft, in particular. And…thighs. Legs in general, really. How they moved, but also how they looked when Gunmax crossed his legs while sitting at his desk, or stood up, or leaned over, or sat on Gunbike, or - well. Yes.
Shadowmaru had grinned and mentioned how his automatic targeting system kept zeroing in on the Motorcycle Detective. McCrane had uncomfortably admitted to a similar thing happening to him around Colonel Seia, and Dumpson had muttered something about Miss Ayako. Power Joe just buried himself in his soap operas and pretended he hadn't been staring, nope, not him. Gunmax who? Long legs and shiny white what?
Much to the Build Team's not-so-subtle relief, Drill Boy didn't seem to suffer the rest of the BP department's baffling fixation. Er, except for the comment about how Gunmax had nice legs…for running around a soccer field.
Speaking of which.
...the soccer, not the nice legs, oh, Deckerd was getting flustered again and Gunmax hadn't even done anything. Nothing but be Gunmax, and that was sufficient some days. He really needed to talk to the chief about the way his Super A.I. just started running itself around in weird, pointless circles lately.
The Brave Detective yanked his attention back to the matter at hand. He took a couple step forward, hand outstretched after Gunmax. "Gunmax! Stop!"
The green mecha did, standing with his back to the taller Brave. Out of respect or sheer curiosity was always a toss-up, but most of the time Gunmax actually did listen when Deckerd said something. Not necessarily closely, but hey, it was more than he did for other people. Deckerd appreciated it, either way. Sometimes with Gunmax, you took what you could get. Hell, you grabbed it with both hands and a rivet gun in Deckerd's case, because he knew better than to give up any ground he won in the battle to win the Highway Patrolman's chary trust. It was like trying to tame to hand a feral iron beast, fickle as a cat and twice as arrogant to cover all the abuse it'd gone through.
Fortunately, Deckerd had a thing for caring for stray cats.
"It's not in your programming, but it is in Drill Boy's," Deckerd stated in that peculiarly coaxing tone he had labeled in his databanks as Yuuta: Homework Vs. Playtime. It now had a second label as Gunmax: BP Duty Vs. Highway Patrol. Hopefully, as a detective, offering a tidbit of information would interest Gunmax enough to ask a question or two. Get his mind engaged, and - yep, just watch at that hip swivel. Deckerd had to force himself not to.
"What? That makes no sense," Gunmax said. He waved a hand. "Not that the brat ever does, but obviously soccer's in his programming or he wouldn't be crazy enough to punt soccer balls as a weapon. Why would that mean anything to me?"
Sniff sniff. Look at the undomesticated detective find the trail. Heeeere, kitty kitty. Follow the trail of info-bytes into Deckerd's gentle hands.
"It's not something Drill Boy can just turn off. It's as present in his processors outside of fights as it is in the middle of one. You may have noticed he's always bouncing a ball or two in the Decker Room?" he asked dryly, because it was hard not to notice the amount of soccer balls Drill Boy stashed around the place for use wherever he ended up sitting or standing at any given moment. Gunmax just gave him the This Is How Unimpressed I Am look and Deckerd smiled. "The commissioner supplies him with so many regular, non-weaponized soccer balls our size because the need to play is code-deep. If we don't have a fight, Drill Boy's urge to play becomes an obsessive compulsion. We started a rotating 'soccer duty' to keep him from shorting out. He did, once," he added when Gunmax opened his mouth to spout an exasperated wisecrack. "He went two weeks without a match and, ah, glitched. Badly. Chief Toudou tried to fix it, but it's part of how he is. We decided this was the best solution."
The green mecha subsided slightly, turning his head with a tuh! grunt, but Deckerd took note of the way he folded his arms and wasn't outright dismissing the whole idea anymore. Apparently, the chief carried some weight with him. Hmm. That was potentially useful.
"This isn't an indulgence, Gunmax," he said, bringing out the stern police officer tone now. "It's something we all have to do to keep Drill Boy functioning at peak condition." He put emphasis on the 'all' portion, giving the other mecha a significant look. Technically, Gunmax was part of the Brave Police. That didn't make him any less part of Highway Patrol, however. Shadowmaru was working on tracing the political situation in Police Headquarters, but getting Gunmax himself to actually start committing to them would be something not even Vice-Commissioner Azuma could manipulate.
Grumble, grumble, bitch and moan. The Highway Patrolman glared at the hallway wall, and his fingers twitched against his upper arm. To Deckerd, it looked like he was calculating something. Rapidfire emotional reaction equations, perhaps. Deckerd took another step forward, easing into the green mech's personal space bubble like a diver dipping a toe into water that looked fine but could shoot to boiling at any second. That got a flash of orange through the visor, but for the moment his invasion was tolerated. It was a minor triumph, and Deckerd chalked one more point on his internal scoreboard. The blue mecha repressed a smile, although he was sure his pleased aura leaked out anyway. Yuuta always managed to catch it when he'd been coaxed into 10 minutes more of homework, anyway.
The Brave Detective handled Gunmax as if he were a starving wildcat. Catmax would let hunger temporarily overcome independence when someone set out a bowl of food, but he wouldn't be gracious about it. 'I will allow you near me, but I don't need you. Not really. I'll bolt if you try and get familiar with me.'
Good kitty. Nice kitty. C'mere and let Deckerd pet you, Gunmax.
Deckerd froze for a split second, optics flickering. Something about that, if he could just -
No. It was gone as quickly as it'd come.
…okay, his Super A.I. had just taken the stray beastie comparison in a direction he wasn't sure he completely understood. He felt some confusion and - um. Confusion was the most identifiable emotion, yes. He replayed the thought, trying to pick it apart, but the reason behind his reaction slipped through the cracks and disappeared.
Deckerd definitely needed to have that talk with Chief Toudou.
The wall had been thoroughly glared into submission when the dark visor finally turned toward Deckerd again. "What exactly," Gunmax growled, reluctant acquiescence hidden in a warning sound, "is 'soccer duty'."
A smile broke through, a radiate beam of approval. Deckerd was a firm believer in positive reinforcement, so showing approval was never bad. Gunmax had made the right decision. Good kitty! "Yuuta has a game manual from his P.E. teacher you can read," he said cheerfully as he turned to lead the way back to the Decker Room. "Drill Boy's always willing to talk us through the rules, so you just have to ask if you prefer to listen instead of - yeep!"
Later, Deckerd would staunchly deny that such an undignified yipe came out of him, but he couldn't deny the newest scuff marks on his aft. Discerning optics could map out the shape of fingertips.
"Will you break out the handcuffs if I break the rules, baby?" came from behind him as his pace suddenly quickened to a near-run, and that cat comparison was going to haunt Deckerd. Or at least pinch him on the aft.
Gunmax's purr followed him all the way back to the Decker Room.
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