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When CB sees Electra, he immediately decides that he’s dreaming. The superstar engine of the future, all dazzling and shiny and illuminated with glowing neon lights, hanging out in the grimy back corner of the train yard where he’d been dropped off after that unfortunate run in with the IRS? Yeah, right. As if!
Since he’s definitely dreaming, he takes the opportunity to ogle this dream version of his favorite electric engine. They’d liked it when he’d done that, when he’d looked at them all appreciatively – or at least the real, non-dream Electra had. Electra is a vain locomotive, that much had been clear even when he’d first met them; all massive ego, with the speed and power and looks to back it up.
And oh, the looks. Last time he’d seen Electra had been in the aftermath of that crash that hadn’t been his fault, and they’d been all damaged and dented. But in this dream they’re squeaky-clean, plating new and unblemished. If CB were to squint really hard, he could probably make out his own reflection in the metal covering their stomach and chest. With the exception of a few small details that must be the product of his imagination – different metal on their shoulders, a change to the display sitting in the center of their chest – they’re the same Electra who had dragged every train in the yard towards themselves with their magnetic attraction, the same Electra who had been delighted by the news of CB’s less savory hobbies, the same Electra who he’d raced with and crashed with.
Were CB able to move, were his wheels not locked in place by the damn IRS, because apparently he’s a flight risk, he’d slide right up to this dream version of them. He’d run their hands over their chest and hips and shoulders and maybe sink his teeth into the gap where their chestplate meets their neck. It would probably hurt his jaw more than it would hurt Electra, and they’d probably shock him, and his insides would light up with the sudden pain of electricity. The whole thing would be absolutely delicious.
But alas, his dream wasn’t kind enough to free him, so he just stays in place and drags his eyes up and down their body. The IRS is even ruining his fantasies. Damn.
This dream Electra looks pissed, mouth in a flat line and eyes all narrow and sharp, which is weird because usually CB imagines them looking at least a little bit happy to see him. He’d never go so far as to visualize something as sweet as a smile, not unless there’s a cruel edge to it, but usually they don’t look quite so irritated in his dreams.
And then they reach out, and a flash of electricity jumps from their hand to his chest, and holy fucking ow he’d forgotten how badly that hurt. The pain means this isn’t a dream, and his pink cheeks go a little pinker; on second thought, he’s kind of glad he can’t move his wheels. Getting electrocuted for biting Electra is one of those things that works better as a fantasy.
“Heyyyy! Electra!” CB smiles, reaches up, tips his hat a little at them. This is fine. He can play this off. They aren’t a mind reader, he’s certain of that, because his brain had been going in some really weird directions back when he’d first met them, and they hadn’t told their weird security guard to kill him or anything like that. “Did you come all this way to visit little ol’ me? I’m flattered!”
He can’t help but wish the circumstances were better and he wasn’t all locked up, but hey. He hasn’t seen them since they’d raced with him and crashed with him, and he’ll take what he can get. Besides, he is flattered, in a strange sort of way; they’d taken time out of their busy superstar schedule to come and visit, and that has to mean something.
Instead of actually responding to his greeting, Electra opens their mouth and says, “tax fraud,” and ooooh, he’d missed their voice, he’d missed the weird robotic edge to their words. Still, ‘tax fraud’ isn’t exactly a great opener to a conversation; they could have said something nice instead, like ‘good to see you, CB’ or ‘you’re looking nice and shiny today’ or ‘I missed you’.
Ha. Fat chance of that.
“Yup!” CB pops the ‘p’, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as he looks around. He can’t see the rest of Electra’s little entourage, but he’d bet his hat that they’re all nearby; that whole group is an absolute mess of codependency. It’s the sort of thing he can’t help but want to dig his fingers into, to poke and prod and push and pull to see if they’ll all fall apart like the emotional equivalent of sending a freight train off a hundred-foot cliff. “Tax fraud!”
There’s a long pause. Electra stares at CB with a strange mix of rage and incredulity. And then, as though it needs to be repeated: “tax fraud.”
Well, it isn’t much of a conversation if all they’re doing is repeating the same two words. Electra had been much more fun to talk to in his memories and fantasies. CB rolls his eyes. If his wheels weren’t locked, he’d roll right over and poke them in the side or something; they’d responded well to physical contact, he remembers that much.
“Yes, tax fraud!” He puts his hands on his hips, staring at them with the full force of his smile. “Gee, Electra, didn’t you hear me the first time?”
And that – the ‘didn’t you hear me?’ – makes CB think about the crash again, and the way he and Electra and Greaseball hadn’t been able to hear much of anything in the aftermath. From the way one of Electra’s eyes just visibly twitched, CB thinks they’re going down the same train of thought.
“I heard you just fine,” Electra bites out, with a little whirr. It isn’t a sound diesels or steam engines make, something uniquely electric. The rest of their entourage had made similar sounds, he can remember that much. Using his incredibly deductive reasoning, CB looks at their expression and at the way their fists are clenched and determines that this particular whirr is annoyed. It’s hard to tell with electrics; their happy whirring and angry whirring and upset whirring all kind of sound the same to him. “I’m just trying to figure out why you committed tax fraud.”
Oh, that’s easy to answer. He shrugs at them. “I was bored.”
It’s an honest answer, but clearly not the one Electra was looking for, because wow, the whirring is noticeably louder now. CB can’t help but wonder if they’re going to explode. Now that would be a sight! Little bits of wire and metal scattered around, the smell of smoke and burning electronics filling the air…maybe their whirring would go higher and higher before the explosion, almost like a scream. He’s never really heard them scream before. It would probably be glorious, all shrill and ear-splitting, with that sharp robotic edge he’s so fond of. Ooh. That’s going into the mental compartment labeled ‘think about later’.
“Not like I’ve got anything better to do, these days,” CB continues, fiddling with a glove. “I don’t do a whole lot of caboose-ing anymore.” His smile twists a little, something mean and sharp fighting to crawl out of his insides and plaster itself on his face. “Nobody wants unreliable brakes, y’know. Nobody wants to crash.”
Electra’s eye twitches again. They should probably get that checked out. Clearly that repair truck they employ doesn’t do a very good job of actually repairing them.
“You’re a train,” they say. CB squints at Electra, a little incredulous, because no shit. Is their computer broken or something? Is that why they keep saying such stupid things? Is that why they’re here in the first place, because of some software problem? Maybe he should open up their head and mess with their circuits, just to see if he can fix it. Maybe he’d break them more, but in a good way.
Another thing to fantasize about later.
“That’s true,” he replies, with a little nod of assent.
There’s another long pause, and CB suddenly gets the distinct impression that Electra is contemplating strangling him.
“Trains don’t even have to pay taxes,” they say between gritted teeth. It’s a good point, really, but CB is a caboose of many talents! And one of those talents is breaking just about every rule that’s been invented and even a few that haven’t been invented.
Just to mess with Electra – because that’s always fun – he looks at them in faux horror, eyes going all wide. “My goodness! Electra, have you not been paying your taxes?”
The whirring is definitely frustrated, CB decides; it goes a little higher-pitched as Electra stares at him with something approaching fury. While the noise isn’t nearly as loud as it had been while they’d been racing, when their fans had been running at top speed to keep their motor cool, it’s certainly loud enough to make CB’s smile widen; he just loves pulling these reactions from them, like finding loose wires and yanking on them until they spark in his hands.
“I don’t pay taxes,” Electra says slowly, “because I’m a train.”
CB staunchly ignores that very valid point. “The IRS is coming for you next,” he replies mercilessly. “They’re gonna lock you up all alone. All by yourself.”
And ooooh, that hits a nerve; electricity crackles across Electra’s chest and shoulders. CB isn’t sure whether or not it was an involuntary reaction, but either way, it’s not a reaction he’s going to forget; the codependence isn’t limited to just their little gang, it seems.
“They’re not coming after me, because I haven’t committed tax fraud!” Electra snaps, voice shooting up in pitch; the words ‘tax fraud’ are more of an angry squeal than anything. It hurts to listen to a little bit; CB wants to hear it again. Wants to drag that sound from them until his head rings with the frequency of it. He’s not sure why the tax fraud is such a sticking point for Electra. It’s not like they were particularly upset about his other crimes. If anything, hearing him talk about all the crashes he’s caused in his time on the rails had seemed to fascinate them. They’d liked it, he’s pretty sure. They’d liked seeing the dark, nasty thing beneath his polished surface and wide smile.
“Oh,” he says in a flash of understanding, voice going sickly-sweet. “I get it now. You only like it when I commit crimes that help you.” He looks down, goes back to fiddling with his gloves. It really shouldn’t be a surprise, shouldn’t make his chest ache; the caboose is only useful when it’s braking the train, and CB is only useful when he’s helping Electra win races. Saying it out loud doesn’t make him feel better, just kind of weird and gross.
“What?” CB glances up again at the sheer confusion in Electra’s voice, as though the thought of disliking his penchant for crime – like a normal, sane, well-adjusted train – hadn’t even occurred to them. “No,” they snap, “I don’t like you getting caught.”
And that makes CB stop and just kind of stare, smile falling away entirely with the shock of it.
“I don’t– what?”
“Of all the stupid things you could have gotten caught doing,” Electra hisses out, with another of those irritated whirrs, “you were caught because of tax fraud? When you don’t even have to pay taxes?”
Still entirely caught off guard, because for a moment it actually sounded like they care, CB manages to stretch his mouth back into a grin. “A pretty sad end to my long and illustrious criminal career,” he says agreeably. It is a little embarrassing, when put that way; countless trains derailed, countless crashes of increasing severity, and this is how the feds get their grubby hands on him. Tax fraud. How unfair.
Electra doesn’t respond right away, watching him closely. They’re thinking hard about something, watching him as though they can see right through his plating. ‘Don’t strain yourself’, he wants to say. And then all at once they turn on their wheels. Over their shoulder, they say, “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” he responds with a huff, gesturing at his locked wheels. “What are you gonna do?”
They don’t respond, rolling away, and CB can’t help but whistle appreciatively after them; he hates to watch them go, but boy oh boy does he love to watch them leave.