Madness: DxD

Incident: Unwarranted Suggestions

I popped the heavy steel hood of my Mustang, the metallic groan echoing through the quiet air. The desert heat was already radiating off the pavement, but my focus was entirely on the engine bay. I leaned over, my senses immediately picking up the subtle, wrong signals: the faint, acrid bite of scorched friction material, the microscopic metallic dust dusting the bellhousing, and the irregular hum of a drivetrain that wasn't transferring torque the way it should.

I didn't even need to tear it all the way down to know the verdict. The clutch disc was completely shot, friction facings worn down to the rivets, slippage waiting to happen the second I dropped the hammer.

He's staring at that greasy metal like it owes him money. Touch it harder. Show that transmission who's boss before I get jealous of a torque converter.

A pair of soft footsteps approached from behind. I didn't need to turn around. The scent of rosewater mixed with raw energy told me exactly who it was.

Rias: What are you doing down there, Y/N? You've been staring into that engine bay for twenty minutes like you're trying to interrogate it.

I wiped a smudge of black grease off my thumb with a rag, my voice flat, dry, and thoroughly unimpressed.

Y/N: I'm diagnosing a homicide. The victim is my clutch disc. The cause of death is friction, neglect, and possibly a stray bullet.

Rias leaned over my shoulder, her long crimson hair trailing uncomfortably close to the hot exhaust manifold. She peered into the mechanical maze with genuine confusion, then looked back at me, her blue-green eyes wide.

Rias: I didn't realize you were such an expert on internal combustion engines. Is there actually anything you aren't good at?

Y/N: Yeah. Women.

Rias blinked, a flush immediately creeping up her neck onto her cheeks. She cleared her throat, crossing her arms and shifting her weight.

Rias: Well... you know, practice makes perfect. Maybe if someone took a lovely lady out for dinner... say, tonight... you'd get a little better at it.

Oh look at her, dropping hints like anvil loads! Tell her you only take orders from high-caliber ordnance! Or tell her to get in line behind me!

I tossed the grease rag into the toolbox with a dull thud.

Y/N: I don't need practice, Rias. I need a socket wrench and a hydraulic lift. Besides, the Mustang is dead to me.

Rias raised an eyebrow, her subtle ploy completely derailed.

Rias: Dead? Y/N, it's just a clutch disc. Can't you just replace the broken part?

Y/N: I could. Or I could take this as a sign from the universe  that it's time for an upgrade. I've been planning to build an armored vehicle for three months. Steel plating, bulletproof glass, reinforced bumpers. This Ford was too light anyway. It's time to go shopping.

Rias sighed, throwing her hands up in mild defeat, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

Rias: You are utterly hopeless. Fine. If we aren't fixing it, I'm coming with you to the dealership. You aren't buying a tank without supervision.

The local dealership lot in Carson City was blindingly bright under the afternoon sun. Row after row of polished chrome and fresh paint baking in the heat. Rias walked beside me, her heels clicking on the asphalt, while I scanned the inventory with a critical, cold eye.

Before we could reach the sedan line, a man in a neon Hawaiian shirt bounded out from between two pickup trucks.

Bredda: Wah gwaan, bossman! Ya lookin' fi a crispy ride today? Me got di wickedest wheels pan di lot, seen? Dat red one ova deh go mek ya fly like a bird, mi breddda!