deadboywalking | for @10_20_15_5

for @10_20_15_5_50

It was supposed to help.

They'd sold the Pinto for this -- Joyce white-knuckled and tight-lipped at the car dealership, trying to get the most money possible, because tickets from Indianapolis to Sacramento weren't cheap, even if, at 12, Will could still get a child's seat. They'd spent all this money, because Joyce had heard from a doctor who'd heard from a nurse from an orderly from another nurse that this guy in California was supposed to be the best.

But hundreds of dollars and an exhausting all-night flight later, they had nothing to show for it. The doctor had done all the same tests, EKG and blood tests, so many that Will felt shaky and dizzy afterwards. He'd asked a thousand questions and Will had talked until his throat was sore about the episodes, about the things he could see, about the place he sometimes went. And all the doctor had been able to say was, "Probably PTSD. You said he was lost in the woods for a week?"

She wasn't talking, but Will could tell his mother was starting to lose hope. She had that blank, faraway look in her eyes, she kept spacing out and didn't seem to hear Will when he spoke. Even worse, she'd missed the turn to get to the airport, so they'd missed their flight and had to rebook for another one, early in the morning.

So there they were, sitting in the Sacramento airport at three in the morning, waiting for their flight to begin boarding. Joyce had a now-stone-cold cup of coffee in front of her, untouched, and she kept nodding off where she sat. Will was on the other side of their luggage, just as exhausted, but unable to let himself sleep.

Instead he glanced down at where his long sleeves rode up, displaying the numerous bandages on his lower arms. It had taken the nurse multiple tries to find a vein for the IV, or to draw from, and Will sort of felt like one big pincushion. He absently tugged at the sleeves, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. People liked to assume, after all.

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“Government loans specifically for tuition, and, if you're lucky, a portion of your living expenses when you're a university student.” Sam untied the sweater around her waist, leaning forward and twisting a bit awkwardly to free it from behind her body; she pulled it loose and passed it to Will, who (huddled in his corner of the cab) looked like he could use it. She snapped her fingers at Breakdown's initial answer, and frowned at his second shrug, though 'Stuff.' earned the big brawler a slightly less serious Look.

It was then that Sam decided the next time Breakdown asked her about magic, her answer would be obviously bullshit.

“Anyone ever tell you you're a brat?”

"Oh." College stuff. Will has about a million more years before he has to worry about that. He takes the sweater happily, wiggling into it and letting out a relieved sigh. Sam's by no means huge, but he's basically a stick bug, so it swallows him up.

There's a little bit of alarmed sweater-paw-waving at this comment from Breakdown. Not the squishing part (he's over that). "Wait, there are more of you guys!?"

He can't help but chuckle at Sam. "It's not like I really think about everything I can do, I don't really think of them as anything special, they're just natural things I can do. It's not like your magic, when you learn new things, it's just a part of me."

The boy's blurted question got an outright laugh out of him. "Of course there are, Runt, you didn't think I was the only alien robot on this planet, did you? Never look at a car the same, will ya?" Now, he's a brat.

It takes some doing, but Sam manages to tamp down the 'aw,' that almost escapes at the sight of Will swimming in her hoodie. He's a cute kid---and cuter still for that energetic, totally unaffected reaction. Committed, now, to being a brat right back at Breakdown, she leans over, as if conspiring, to tell the boy, “Nine that I know of, though he won't tell me the total number. Why that is, I don't know... but I guess there's no help for it now.” She'd punctuate this statement by blowing a very brief raspberry, again looking to the rearview mirror.

“How about you ask yourself 'what could I not do, if I were a little meat person?' and start from there?”

"I...kinda did think you were the only alien robot on the planet," Will admits a little sheepishly. Like ET, honestly. Breakdown phone home, that kinda thing.

Then, looking very serious, to Sam: "Probably top-secret. Can't compromise their cover."

He hasn't bothered to give a number because that number keeps changing...dropping as casualties added up.

"Somethin' like that, Runt."

Same's comment made him chuckle. "That'd be pretty much everything, or haven't you noticed yet?"

The possibility of compromised cover got an exagerrated (if affectionate) eye-roll, though it wasn't exactly aimed at Will. More like the turn the conversation had taken. “Between the two of us, cover's about as compromised as a quilt with every second square gone. But hey---” She flicked both hands out, mock-indignant at the chuckle.

“That's unfair, but I'm not going to get into this now because we'll be bickering for like, an hour, and this kid should be back to his mom sooner rather than later.” Sam glanced back at Will, offering the boy an apologetic smile. “Last couple of questions?”

"Awwww." Will's protest is very soft, like he almost doesn't want Sam to hear, but his shoulders slump like a balloon with the air let out. He huddles down in the sweater for a moment, a meditative bundled-up lump, before piping up: "Can you fly?"

It's...not entirely clear which of them the question is addressed to.

He'd let it go, for now, he knew they'd likely "discuss" it more later.

"No. My partner and I both chose vehicle alts. Knock Out likes to race."

"Sure." The word is out before Sam can really stop herself from saying it, since it's late and she's tired and she has a bad sense of humour that has not improved in any way, shape, or form, with Breakdown's influence. "You saw my boarding pass."

Will stares at Sam for a long moment while the pun sets in, then he turns to the rearview mirror and gives Breakdown a perfect you seein' this BS? look.

That look. Oh, Runt, that look. He can't help the guffaw that comes out of him that that. "Yeah, she's a bit crazy, huh Runt?"

Sorry, not sorry, Sam.

Sam pressed a hand to her mouth, but despite her best efforts, a snigger escaped. A full laugh followed, and she forced a “Sorry,” out for Will before pointing at the rearview mirror to admonish Breakdown as firmly as she could: “Don't you get him started, here.”

Feeling, perhaps, a pang of conscience, she looked to the boy as she moved to open Breakdown's driver's-side door. “I couldn't resist, alright? But to tell you the truth, no. I drive this beat-out old suburban, and sometimes a skidoo, but 'broom' and 'vacuum' are not, and will probably never be, among my options. Next question?”

"That was a terrible joke," Will informs Sam with grave seriousness. Then his shoulders droop a little, because he knows what that opened door means. Back to real life. He tucks a little snugger inside the sweater.

"What's a skidoo?" He's definitely stalling now.

They kid isn't moving fast, but he's still got another question after this one is answered, so Breakdown just chuckles, amused. "Aww, why not? He's perfect to influence. Young and impressionable."

"Most of my jokes are bad. Sorry." As she answered, Sam stepped down to the parking lot pavement. Resting a hand against the doorframe, she watched Will expectantly, knowing a stall when she saw one. "Ah, snowmobile? Skis in the front, treads under the body, seat and handlebars like a motorcycle. I don't know that they're called anything else, except by brand names; I don't know if you'd get enough snow to see 'em in use."

She shook her head, looking upwards (as if for an answer to 'what did I do to deserve this') even as she drummed her fingers on the doorframe---affectionately enough. "Because he's young and impressionable, and you're already a bad influence on me." It was a bold assertion from someone who had been a bad influence back, but it sounded good; better for being delivered with offhand ease.

"I'm not that young," Will protests, wiggling across the seat to the door. He may be reluctant and wanting to stall as long as possible, but he's obedient to a fault as well. He's not going to refuse a prompt like Sam's giving, as gentle as it is. He starts shivering the second he's outside again, crossing the floppy arms of the sweatshirt over himself and burrowing down into the collar.

"Can the snowmobile talk too?" This is half-addressed to Breakdown, because...at this point it seems logical.

"Runt, I'm over six million Earth years old, all humans are young to me." It's said with a chuckle. He's totally serious, though, he's old; you're young.

His seat gives a little shrug-jiggle. "If they were Cybertronian, but I don't know anyone small enough to take that as an alt." Would probably be an Autobot too, but be'll not bring up factions or war, it would only get the kid asking more questions.

"Maybe you're not that young, but he's that old. If you want to get melodramatic about it, we're chillin' with an ancient entity from beyond the stars." Sam was able to complete her sentence before sniggering, but not without really trying to stay sort of straight-faced. "Just one who happens to be more agreeable than the average."

Once Will was out and within arm's reach, Sam set a hand on his shoulder. She'd noticed that he was shivering again, already, and schooled her expression to keep from frowning in concern. (The kid had been anxious enough when she'd shaken her head at him, so she figured a frown was ambiguous enough for a fright.) Answering his question made it easier. "It's an ordinary skidoo, so no."

Will is very quiet and very still for a moment, trying hard to wrap his brain around Breakdown being an ancient entity from beyond the stars. All he can manage, after opening and closing his mouth a couple times is: "But...cars were invented in...1886."

Because he's a tiny nerd who knows this type of thing.

Oh his smirk is clear in his tone. "Yeah, on this planet. We just scanned your vehicles to blend in once we got here."

"Which brings me to something I've really wondered." Aware she should be steering Will back towards the building, and of the seconds ticking by, Sam stood where she was and ran her mouth a moment more. "How many places have Cybertronians gone and actually successfully snuck around thanks to having local machines large enough and common enough that something---or someone---who looks like one can go unnoticed almost anywhere?"

Will is still trying to wrap his brain around Breakdown's previous statement, leaning absently against the metallic side of the vehicle. Is that rude? It's probably rude, but his brain is breaking a little. Then he interjects, with an odd look in his eyes -- "Are there other alien things out there? Do you know how to fight them?"

"Lots of places," he answers Sam easily. "There are places all over the universe where we're either not all the different or can blend in one way or another."

He turns his attention to Will again, noting the look, but not sure what to make of it. "There are lots of alien things out there, and I can fight any of them." How well he'd hold up to any given one is questionable, there are some he's pretty sure could prove a challenge, but that doesn't mean he can't fight them.

If it's rude to lean against Breakdown, it probably doesn't register as rude after the time he's spent with Sam. She's leaned on him, sworn at him, climbed on him---a very little---threatened him a time or two, and kicked him the once, so Will's remarkably well-behaved in comparison. Rather than be a bad influence, the skin-witch followed suit, one hand against Breakdown's side, the other planted on her hip as she considered the boy; Breakdown's answer got an acknowledging nod (which she was sure he'd see, somehow) but no more.

“Why d'you ask?”

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breakdown vs xenomorph queen let's go