Hello, all my fanfic reading people! Are you all enjoying your Father's Days? I know I am! Then again, it might be the euphoria from graduating form high school, which is the reason behind my absence. However, now I am back, and ready to write!

Calhoun knew he hated Sugar Rush the second he flew in on his cruiser, Fix-It in tow. The noise, the brightness, and the overall sweetness of the place was giving him a headache that he knew wouldn't go away until he left this cavity kingdom. Besides, all this pink reminded him of her.

Everything about her was pink. Her clothes, her overbearing perfume that stuck to Brad's armor hours after he returned to the barracks, with a dumb, sappy smile on his face and an inability to answer questions, even his own name. Hell, even her attitude was pink, in a weird sort of way. All she was was pink, soft and fluffy, with no real substance to her. If given half a chance, she would probably try to hug a Cybug into submission.

Calhoun hated pink, all the fluffy, girliness of it. The fact that it apparently stood for gay pride, for a celebration of the weakness he hides away each day, when he swallows the urge to just pull Brad over and kiss him for doing something so sweet and stupid it practically rots teeth, came in only second in the list of reasons why he hated that color.

Calhoun shook off the feeling of rage and despair that came whenever his programmed memories overcame his senses. It wasn't real, it never really happened, and he couldn't act like it mattered, because it didn't! Instead, he surveyed the damage that could only come from years of experience.

"They don't call your friend 'Wreck-It' for nothing." He said it casually, but kept a watchful eye on the tiny protagonist, to try and get a feel for the relationship between him and his antagonist. While it was likely that there was no love lost between the two of them, it might cause some trouble if Fix-It had torn loyalties. That was a weakness that the big buffoon could try an exploit. It was likely that he wouldn't be smart enough to try it, but if the big guy could take down a member of his troops, even if it was just Markowski, then Calhoun didn't want to take any chances.

Just as he had figured, Fix-It fidgeted, but didn't say anything to deny any relationship, friendly or otherwise. Calhoun knew not to push it, and simply directed the cruiser to where he saw the wreckage of the escape pod.

"Is he dead?" Fix-It asked, worriedly. Calhoun noted his aghast expression, but ignored it for the moment. He could interrogate him later on the status of his relationship with the wrecker. Right now, he needed to check on whether the wrecker was ALIVE in there.

He opened the hatch, and saw that the big guy, as well as the Cybug was gone. A quick survey saw that the seat ejected, most likely taking both passengers with it. Calhoun slammed the hatch shut, then turned to face Fix-It. "He's gone. Lucky for him, or else I would have slapped his corpse."

The fixer went pale at that, but Calhoun gave him no mind, instead pulling out his tracker to find out where the Cybug went off to. Possibly the wrecker as well. He didn't think he was dealing with the type to bring something as dangerous as a Cybug around with him, especially since he seemed so squeamish around them before, but who knew what kind of lunatic they were dealing with. Somebody who abandoned their game to go to one like Hero's Duty might very well have a death wish.

Calhoun grimaced when he saw that the tracker was jammed, the green blip of the Cybug blinking all over the map. "Must be from all the sugar particles in the air," he muttered, glancing over at Fix-It.

For a minute, he considered asking him if he could take a whack at it, but decided against it. No, it was most likely to complex for a character made back when the skies were constantly dark by graphic necessity, not to create an atmosphere. Besides, him taking a whack at it would be him literally taking a whack at it, and magical or not, Calhoun doubted that hitting a piece of high tech machinery with a hammer made of gold would really improve it. Speaking of...

Calhoun walked briskly over to the nearest tree- which was made of candy canes, because why would this place make any logical sense- and pulled out his machete from the inventory system, starting to saw away at the branch. In no time at all, it snapped and Calhoun casually threw it towards the approaching Fix-It, who caught it with both hands. "Here. I got you something to fight with."

The platformer adjusted his hold on it awkwardly, trying to hold the branch more like a hammer instead of a club, despite it being the entirely wrong shape. "Are you sure this is necessary?" He asked fretfully, trying to move the branch into a less awkward position, but only managing to look like he was trying to swat away a bug.

Calhoun tried not to roll his eyes as he straightened out the repairman's hold on the branch to something more appropriate for hitting something other than his own face. "Unless you want to try and fix the Cybugs, then yes. Look, you wanted to be here. So, unless you want to hitchhike your way out of this sugary cesspool, hit me in the face."

"What?!" He squeaked, nearly dropping the branch. "I can't hit you! You'll kill me! Erm, I mean... What if I hurt you?! Then who'll track the Cybugs?"

Calhoun ignored the first half of Fix-It's panic attack as the verbal diarrhea it was. The fact that it was also true was neither here or there. "On the slim chance you actually hurt me, then it would be an excellent chance to test out if your magic hammer heals me the way it does you."

"But..."

"But nothing, soldier." Icy eyes narrowed as Calhoun glowered down at him, using all his height as a tactical advantage in this battle of wills. Right now they weren't two characters from two different games working together because they shared the same goals. No, it was boot camp, and Sergeant Calhoun was ready to become Drill Sergeant Nasty. "Do you want to head on home with your tail behind your legs because you weren't willing to do what needed to be done, eh soldier?"

"Sir No Sir!" Fix-It stood at the ready, holding a tight salute with the branch still in his hand.

Sergeant Calhoun knelt down to look his newest recruit right in the eye. "Well then, private, are you ready to do your duty and hit me one right in the face?"

Fix-It closed his eyes to a crack, then lightly swatted in his general direction. The Sergeant was not amused.

"Soldier, did a butterfly just fly by? I think I felt a breeze. Try harder!"

This time, he actually made contact, but it was like somebody lightly poking him on the cheek.

Sergeant Calhoun stood up again to his height, practically double the size of the eight-bit figure before him. He glared down. "Is that all you got? My grandma hits harder than that, and she's in cryofreeze! How do you fix buildings with that kind of aim? Your father must have given you a-"

-BOING... CRACK!-

Next thing Calhoun knew, he was on the ground with a hand over his mouth. He removed it, looking at the red against the black leather. Blood. He was bleeding?

In front of him, Fix-It appeared to have filled his pants with a colony of fire ants from the way he was jumping about, miniature boing noises coming with every half step. There was more red on the branch then there was before.

Calhoun slowly got up, mind piecing together the events that led up to him sitting in the dirt while his companion did what appeared to be the potty dance. So, Fix-It must have jumped up and hit him one in the mouth while he was trying to get a rise out of him. Good on him; Calhoun never would have guessed he had it in him.

He spit out a tooth before trying to smile reassuringly at the frantic figure. Either because of the lack of practice or the bloodstained teeth, Fix-It took one look and kept on panicking.

"Hey..." He muttered, trying to attract his attention. When that didn't work, he tried again, slightly louder this time around. "Hey!"

Nothing. Louder again. "HEY!"

This still did not break Fix-It out of his panicked frenzy. Finally, Calhoun just knelt down and calmly slapped him. That brought him back to reality... sort of.

"I am sorry. I am so, so, SO sorry! Oh, what would my father think of me?! Attacking a soldier! I am so, so sorry!" He rambled, to a degree that Calhoun was tempted to slap him again.

"Why? It was a nice hit. Knocked me clean off my feet even. Just keep up with that aim, and you'll do just fine."

Fix-It stared up at him in amazement, something Calhoun wasn't used to. "But... Your face..."

Calhoun lightly touched the side of his face, where it was still sore. He had to hand it to the little guy; he packed a lot of punch for such a tiny package. "Well, I wonder if there's something we have to fix the problem."

"Oh. Right... Hehe. Forgot about the hammer for a second there." He chuckled nervously, before taking out his hammer with an audible ting, briefly going into a well-rehearsed heroic pose before tapping it against Calhoun's bruised cheek.

It felt just like a kiss on the cheek, as sappy as it sounded. But the tingling feeling afterwards was his code reforming and not a blush creeping along his face, Calhoun hoped.

He stood up, feeling rejuvenated and energized, mind free of all his paranoid 'what ifs' and painful little reminders for the first time since he was plugged in. Resisting the temptation to laugh, he turned to his... Companion? Partner? It didn't even matter. He turned to Fix-It and resisted the urge to laugh.

"C'mon, pintsize. We have a Cybug to find."