The Mechanic || 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳¹

nine

He doesn't come. He doesn't come for you, not for Pierce or Hydra, not to burn this place to the ground.

Maybe he didn't forgive you. Maybe he didn't realize you were forced to do what you did. Maybe he forgot about you. Maybe he doesn't want to think about you because he's finally happy. You have no way of knowing. You only know that you're feeling betrayed. Abandoned. Selfishly hurt.

Every day, they pull you out of your room, drag you across the hallways, shove you onto the chair, and torture you until you wish you would die. The pain is bad. But you can get used to it. What you can't get used to, is the feeling of losing something. Soon, you don't know what it is anymore. But day after day, you feel it less in your chest. It was the only thing that made you strain against the cuffs, shout curses at the guards, the only thing that made you fight back.

You don't know what it was. But you know that you had it. Someone. You knew him. You helped him. And he'll help you.

But you forget him. Slowly but surely. Three days after the first wiping, you still see his eyes, warm and friendly, remember his name. Seven days after the first wiping, you can still hear his agonized screams. Ten days after the first wiping, he's gone. He's gone and he left an empty space.

Now, you follow the guards with secure steps, as if you knew what you were doing. But you don't. You're lost. Not afraid. Just lost. Empty. And you hope that if you do what they want from you, maybe you'll find your purpose.

Today, the wiping is shorter. The pain eases after two minutes already. You've learned to count it, to count the torturing pain, to count to relieve the pain. Two minutes and thirteen seconds. The world is spinning around you. But you get used to it quickly. Too quickly.

A man stands in front of you. He holds a book in his hands. A red book.

"Холли," he says. Holly. The word stings. You close your eyes to escape the feeling.

"Двести." Two hundred. You grunt, feeling your chest tighten.

"Отвертка." Screwdriver. Something in your head screams.

"Ржавый." Rusty. Someone in your head screams.

"Девятнадцать." Nineteen. A voice you know all too well.

"Глаз." Eye. Who is he?

"Солнцестояние." Solstice. No one.

"Машина." Machine. This is to end soon.

"Шестьдесят." Sixty. You have a purpose.

"Осколки." Shards. Silence.

The voices in your head have stopped. There is nothing. There will be nothing. There was nothing. You're empty. You're ready.

"Доброе утро, Механик," the voice says. Good morning Mechanic.

"Готовность к работе," you answer. Ready to comply.

"I have a mission for you," Pierce says. You look up at him. "We need to introduce you to the world."

★★★

You're still their mechanic. You build. You construct. You invent. But now, the weapons aren't for soldiers. They're not for commanders, not for agents, not for assassins. They're for you.

You build, you construct, you invent. You kill.

Pierce is happy with you. Hydra is happy with you. You do what they want you to do. Without hesitation. Without grief. Without fighting back. Without failure.

They enjoy having you do exactly what they want. They enjoy having a weapon again – even more dangerous this time.

You can build. You're smart. No one sees the traps you make. No one sees you coming until it's too late. It doesn't matter why you do it.

The screams of people don't hurt you anymore. They beg for mercy, beg for understanding, beg for you to let them live.

You don't. You're not weak anymore. That part of you is long gone.

And if a trap goes wrong, you can kill personally. Holding up a gun against someone's head is easy. Hearing them cry, seeing them hold up their hands is easy. Pulling the trigger is easy. Watching the blood pool out of their head, staining the carpet, the wall, the window, is easy. Not having to care is easy.

For weeks, you're killing people in a pattern so obvious no one can ignore it anymore.

You're lying on a roof, a rifle aimed at some politician. Next to you is a remote control with a bright red dot blinking in regular spaces. You have a plan. You know what you're doing. You don't hate it. The politician starts to talk. People are listening to him; you know every one of them. They will all die today.

"Сейчас," your employer says over comms. Now. You smile. You pull the trigger.

The bullet shoots over the space between the two buildings, shatters the glass in the back of the politician, hits his head exactly where you wanted to. Blood stains his papers, the lectern in front of him, the floor.

People scream. They panic. They run out. Right where you want them. You press the button.

"Boom," you whisper. The building blows up.

It's almost beautiful. A yellow blaze of fire, filled with shards of metal and glass.

You stand up calmly. You know that they see you. The people on the road. They saw where the shot came from. They're looking up, looking at you, looking at the killer. They take pictures, videos, record you, and someday, the information will get to the important people.

You walk across the roof, your steps silent. You attach the rope on your belt on the edge of the roof. You jump down. You crash through the window below, thrown through the impact of your fall. You slide down the staircase, down to the garage. And before anyone notices, you've taken the motorcycle, jumped on it, and driven away. No one saw you. No one will see you. No one will remember you in a way you don't want them to.

You're in control. And you enjoy it.