The Gravel Wars had ended, the teams disbanded. With the Mann brothers dead and the Administrator vanishing soon after, the chaos finally subsided. Though Mann Co. was still operational, their primary customers no longer needed weapons, their stocks briefly tanked.
Dr. Quincy Norman couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet relief. The war was over. People weren’t getting hurt anymore, at least not in New Mexico. But that relief was tempered by a deep sense of loss. Team Ajax was gone—his friends, his teammates, the people who had been his family for so many years. Along with that was the loss of time and effort. How many years of life wasted on this forever war?
Quincy sighed deeply, adjusting the thin medical mask over his face as he knocked on the door of the Conagher household. Gently rocking back and fourth on his feet with a nervous energy. He had gotten the address from the return label on a letter Dell had sent him weeks ago.
Quincy winced at the thought of the promise he had made. He’d told Dell he’d let him see the blueprints when the war was behind them, when Dell retired from Mann Co. Now, that day had come. It was only right that Dell finally see his father’s handiwork. The war stole Fred’s time and Dell had to grow up without a father. The least Quincy could do for Fred is try to give Dell a more complete picture. Perhaps it would be easier to sleep at night.
"Comin'!" The sound of his boots echoing faintly as he made his way to the gray wooden door. The footsteps slowed, his hand twisting the doorknob to reveal a familiar face — a friendly one, at that.
His smile widened, the crinkles and wrinkles around his eyes deepening with genuine warmth. Even after seven years, Quinn didn't seem to age a day. God bless that man's genetics, he mused.
"Howdy, Quinn," he greeted warmly, his voice carrying the easy cadence of someone glad to see an old friend. "C'mon in," he added, stepping aside to make room.
After the war, he'd bought a piece of land back in his old hometown to settle down. He spent his days helping out folks around the neighborhood — fixing up broken things like fridges, lights, and even children's toys. In between lending a hand, he finally found time to work on some of his own projects, as well as his predecessors — those half-finished ideas and prototypes that had been gathering dust for years; the owners that had died and never see them through. One of which was the EMP grenades he'd never quite managed to perfect, still a stubborn thorn in his side.
Blueprints covered one entire wall of the living room, their edges curled and surfaces layered with dust, as though they'd been unearthed from someone's grave. Some of the drawings were faded to the point of illegibility, the result of years spent forgotten. The sofas and coffee table in the room looked almost untouched — clearly meant for guests — while Dell's real workspace was in plain view. His well-worn worktable sat nearby, cluttered with tools, gears, and sketches in various stages of completion. It was clear where he spent most of his time.
"Make yourself at home. I'll rustle up somethin' for ya," Dell said as he ambled off to the kitchen.
Baking had become a regular pastime for him after the war. It scratched the same itch as engineering, with all the measuring, mixing, and precise steps. He liked the rhythm of it, and folks around town didn't seem to mind him bringin' over batches of cookies or pies now and again. Pyro, bless their heart, was his biggest fan — couldn't keep their hands off his pastries if they tried.
Moments later, Dell returned with a plate of freshly baked cookies and two steaming cups of coffee. He set them down on the coffee table and gestured to the cookies.
"Made these this mornin’. Chocolate chip, mama's recipe," he said with a touch of pride, settling into a couch near Quinn. "Help yourself."
