Work Text:
The devil's lair is homelier than he thought it would be.
Gentle blue walls and a matching fluffy rug. Clean bookshelves with thousands of mechanical guides on models of cars he's never heard of before, physics, metallurgy, tool magazines and more besides. A vase of white chrysanthemums sits on the mantle in front of an old oil painting. Dust motes glow gold in the light of dusk, streaming from tall windows.
Nighttime would bring the monsters out, he thinks, silently crawling onto the sparkling tiles. He doesn't want to alert the devil to his snooping.
There's no point wasting more time running up and down the streets, calling out for two names in a city of a million souls. He's put aside emotion and made his training take over, formed the most logical conclusion.
Two cars go missing, where do you look? A real cop, an officer like his father, would start with reviewing their closest contacts- and who was more suspicious than a mentor figure with a reputation for missing cars and black market trade?
Sergeant won't take the missing persons case, but if he can find proof that Rundown sold them for parts, he can at least bring the old devil to justice. He just has to ignore the part of him that remembers Rundown's soft, fond glances at the two missing teens. The gentle way he threw them blankets and snacks and let them track mud over his polished floor. That look in the old man's eyes when Firestorm declared his brother missing.
Mark needs to stop playing games with street racers and back-alley frauds. A criminal is a criminal.
Mark glides through to the front counter and then behind it, where his back is to more thickly-stacked shelves of books and, unnervingly, the stairs to Rundown's living space. He's being quiet as he can be as he pulls out book after book of carefully maintained sales volumes, but they're all full of jargon and completely useless to him. No names, just rows of coded shorthand, dates and prices. He finds the pages with the week they went missing on and carefully pulls them out, leaving no trace except a sudden blip in the dates.
He's loathe to sneak upstairs. He could make a convincing lie if he's spotted down here, but not if he's in Rundown's own loungeroom. He doesn't quite know where the devil is.
He should definitely have planned this when Rundown was away. He's trying to snoop around a dangerous individual who's infamous for cutting up cars while they're still alive and selling them. He has nothing but his taser and pistol, no escape plan, and no one even knows where he is right now. His father thinks he's fishing on the coast with his friends (his friends who are gone).
Suddenly, the rooms' cosy look feels as fake as a stage front. Mark's plating locks tight in fear and he feels quite stupid and young, sitting in the tire-marks of that awful scary Jaguar. He swears he can smell deeply rich nerve-blood in the air.
He should definitely run. He's going to get caught and he's going to get killed, just like Ricochet and Austin-
No.
He refuses to abandon them. They deserve closure. This is the most logical conclusion and it's his sacred duty to see this through.
Even if he remembers the look of pride on Rundown's bumper as Ricochet presented his first trophy. Even though he can see the little piece of cheap pewter on the top shelf, right next to the desk, where anyone can see it.
Stay alert, Mark. He needs to stop getting distracted with his thoughts. There's likely more clues in the shop, so he slips the papers into his cab and soundlessly glides across the room again, past the open doors for freedom, and nudges open the curtain to the depths beyond.
It's a normal looking hallway. Two closed doors on the left, a hall to outside and another door on the right.
First door on the left shows a clean work bay with a fake wall between the next room. Tools by the millions line the walls on shelves and peg-boards. The two-poster in the centre has a recent servicing check sticker.
Second left is much the same, but with a four-post hoist.
Mark carefully cracks the door on the right, and hears a muffled sob from within.
His coolant drops to zero degrees kelvin in an instant. His mind is a blank slate, except that he's so so glad the hinges are well-oiled.
What can he do? Oh Manufacturer Above, what should he do? Closing the door could make noise, but leaving it open could alert Rundown to his tyres creaking, but-
Another quiet hiccuping noise. The part of Mark trying to meet his family's expectations melts away, and the part of him that's him wells with sympathy.
Thing is, he knows what Rundown is. First week on the job, Sergeant warned him about patrol in this sector. "Watch for a dark green Jaguar with dual-headlights and bumper decorations. His name's Rundown, and he's extremely dangerous. Better cops'n you and me have disappeared, going after him alone. Alert me immediately if you see him at all and do not engage."
Only time Sergeant had said anything like that before or since. Rundown is the type of crazy hardened criminal they make in horror stories and glamorous TV shows. Mark knows he's killed and will again.
But since that first week he's gotten close to a couple crazy hardened criminals, and underneath they're all desperate, pained cars. Rundown is in pain, right now. He may have done terrible things, but if Mark doesn't reach out to him, who will?
The door creaks as it opens all the way. Rundown is facing away, and by the time he turns around his expression is cool as silver.
"Little Sheriff," the Jaguar says. His tone is the still surface of a cavern lake.
"Mr. Turboski. Sorry for intruding, I just... uh," Mark stalls for a second, suddenly regretting everything he's ever done under that ice-chip stare. Rundown doesn't wait, instead begins rolling out from what seems to be a materials and spares room. He scrambles to get out of his way, and trails nervously behind as they go back to that cosy foyer.
"You were going to ask your team for assistance." Rundown states, tone flat. He rolls on behind the counter and begins shuffling around somewhere beyond the bookshelves. There's glints of dark racing-green paint between the rows, pale and grey looking.
"Sergeant refused to take the case. Ricochet and Austin were both wanted for street racing." Bitterness wells up in his chest at the reminder. What use is 'protect and serve' if they choose who to protect? Besides, Mark thinks again, the street racing had been fairly tame. He'd seen all the safety measures those racers tried to implement, and how much they had loved the competition.
"Unfortunate, but predictable." Rundown finishes shuffling around, and comes out with two cups and a kettle. He sets one cup in front of Mark, and pours tea into both. "Sugar?"
"If it's not a trouble." He watches as Rundown spoons two cubes of sugar out to each cup, sure that he hadn't expected this but also not sure what he'd expected in its place. Rundown rumbles as he finishes the serving with milk.
"I could start a conversation about the troubles with law enforcers such as your Sergeant, but you're a bit young to confront those concepts yet." Rundown takes a sip. "Why are you here?"
Mark blows on his cup, has a sip. Something gingery and warm. He's not going to tell the entire truth, but... "I didn't know where else to go. If I couldn't find them in the past, they'd always end up here."
Rundown's expression shifts into something much sadder and more resigned. It's too much for him to bear, so he focuses on rolling his tyre tread over the fluffy blue carpet instead. He's never dared step a tread inside before, knowing what Rundown is.
"Are you... okay? I didn't mean to, but I thought I heard you... crying." It felt weird to say. The old Jaguar has always had an expression like carved stone, unless he was looking at his boys. Mark had not been one of those boys.
"Any excess of emotional energy is dissipated through tears. If a car refuses to cry, the energy will reroute through their humours and cause long-term distress." Rundown's voice takes on a smooth lecturing cadence, like he's said these words a thousand times. He hesitates, catching. "Ricochet and Austin meant a lot to me. My shop feels empty without them."
He thinks of the beach, too quiet without their whooping calls and screaming motors, too large and cold when they're not there to press up close and shove his nose in the sea. And dim, without Austins' gold paint sparkling and Ricochets' scarab beetle iridescence to shine green refractions along the sand and waves. Boring, when there's no one to harass the fishermen with him, chatter about racing and basketball and tell stupid made-up stories about ghosts in the trainyard on top of the cliffs. But he can't say all that out loud.
"I know what you mean." He says instead.
They finish their tea in silence. Mark sets his cup down and twitches, not making eye contact, unsure what to do next or, more than that, unsure if it's the right thing to do. Rundown watches him blankly. Exhausted and old.
Finally, he catches the old Jaguar's icy gaze. "If Firestorm drops by, could you let him know I want to meet him by the old pizzeria on Saturday? I need to talk to him."
"If I see him, I will remember to."
"I haven't decided yet, but I'm thinking of moving divisions to something smaller. Where I can make a real difference to people. Sergeant's rules about this missing persons case don't sit right with me."
"You want my advice, kid?" The old Jaguar looks him up and down, reaches a conclusion. His next words are surprisingly brisk. "Get outta here while you still can. The officers in this city will crush your empathy into dirt if you stay."
He blinks, then smiles. First time he's genuinely smiled since they went missing.
"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Turboski. I'm sorry again to have interrupted you like this."
"Little Sheriff, don't expect such a warm reception next time. The Law and I make bitter enemies."