The Mechanic || 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳¹

two

  It takes several months until you're happy with what you've built. The metallic arm lies in front of you, reflecting your face. You look at it emotionless. Somewhere deep inside you, there's a feeling of pride. You don't know yet for sure if the arm will work well enough to please your boss but can't think of anything you could've done better. This is the first time you've ever created anything like this – the first time anyone has ever created anything like this.

  You grab the metal and walk out of the door, in the direction of the room where the man, whose name is Bucky, lives. He asked you countless times what your name is, who you are, where he is, and what you're doing when you measured his arm and fingers, but you never answered. The blank stare on your face must've scared him enough to shut up after two weeks.

  From then on, the visits were silent, both sunk in their thoughts. But it wasn't uncomfortable, for you at least. You like having him around. He's different from the agents and guards. He doesn't lighten up the mood like you hoped but it's nice having someone who would listen in case you talked.

  He looks up when you enter, his new arm in your hand. The look on his face shifts from confusion to realization to terror when you kneel beside him.

  "What are you..." he mumbles, shifting away from you. But his bed is narrow, and he can't avoid you when you come closer again, holding the arm to his side.

  "It will be alright," you say, your voice coarse. "It will be alright."

  "Will it?" he asks. He looks down at his right hand, blinking rapidly as if holding back tears. And you know the answer. No. It won't be. It will never be alright. But you don't say it out loud.

  Then you stand up and nod to one of the guards. He straightens his back and raises a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  "It's time," he speaks. You know who he's talking to. And for a moment, you just want to throw the arm to the ground and destroy all the efforts you've gone through to build it. For over two months you didn't work on anything else, you hardly slept or ate, and all you did was work on the prototypes of this arm until you passed out at your workbench. If this was the only thing you were good at, you would only do this anymore.

  You wish you could just destroy it. Your grip the special metal – Vibranium, they called it, you would never be able to even scratch it – tightens and you feel the urge to use the little knife, strapped to your working belt, to stab the guards stronger than ever. Why wouldn't you? You could. Kill them and let the others kill you. It would be easier. To just let go. You couldn't handle this life anymore.

  Your boss enters with a wide predator-like smile plastered on his face. A shiver runs down your spine as you watch him walk closer and lay his arm around you.

  "Perfect," he mutters, watching the arm in your hand. "You're perfect. It's perfect."

  He pulls it out of your grip, and you can't prevent him from holding it up, admiring his reflection in the metal. Bucky watches you fearfully and you try to give him a reassuring look. You fail miserably, it has been too long since you've had any contact with... normal humans.

  Your boss grabs your arm and commands the guards to bring Bucky to the lab. They take hold of him on both sides and drag him through the hallway like you're being dragged by your boss. The clatter of your shoe's heels echoes through the base and it's not the first time you wish you'd be allowed to wear other shoes.

  The medics are already in the lab when you enter. They stand around the operation table, their white smocks being spotless. You feel a bitter tug around the corner of your mouth as you watch the guards pinning Bucky onto the table and securing him with belts around his right arm, chest, and throat.

  You close your eyes when the medics put the metallic arm on the right spot and take out terrifying-looking instruments. They start cutting his shoulder open to expose his nerves to connect them to the arm.

  You don't look when his screams shake the room. You don't look when they stop, and the only sound is the one of sharp metal blades cutting skin and flesh. You don't look when you hear blood dripping on the floor and collecting in a small puddle. You don't look when the medics clean up the instruments again and the guards move Bucky down the hall, back to his room.

  Only when you arrive in your room, you allow yourself to pass out on the bed.