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Mission Abort
By : Prentice
Category: Marvel Verse Movies > Avengers, The
Views: 1602 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. - Chapter List
There is a man with a heavy accent standing across the room. He doesn’t speak to you, but you’ve heard him speak. Heard him say things.
“Herr Rusk does not like to be kept waiting,” you’ve heard him say to the man in uniform. He sounds angry and perhaps a little frightened. Disgusted, even, nauseous.
He doesn’t like the sight of blood, you think. Doesn’t like the harsh sound of flesh meeting flesh. Doesn’t like the smell of sweat and blood and bile hitting the mat as you are dropped to the floor by a fist into your stomach.
It is the second time you have done this. The second time that you have fallen. There will not be a third time, you think, as you push yourself shakily to your bare feet, blood trickling out your nose and down your chin.
He is – a paper pusher. Yes, a paper pusher. That is the correct term.
Even though he wears a uniform – black – and boots – polished – and has a shiny stylized row of medals pinned carefully – pompously – above his uniform’s breast pocket, he is nothing more than a mouthpiece.
A messenger.
An eager little lapdog, you think disgustedly, rage you’re not quite sure what to do with welling up inside you as you slam your fist again and again against the side of your opponent’s face. Your knuckles split beneath the impact, blood welling slick and wet against your skin as you twist and turn and slam your opponent into the ground. He goes down hard, head smacking against the pavement, and you’re on him in seconds, bruised and bloodied fingers biting mercilessly into his skin as you push your knees into his chest.
You could easily snap his neck like this. You could suffocate him like this. You could even dig your fingers into the tender flesh beneath his eye sockets and make him beg for mercy. You could –
“Enough,” a voice barks at you from across the room, tone sharp and familiar and you comply with it immediately, heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings inside your chest as you force your hands away from your opponent’s throat and his carotid artery. “Let him up.”
You do, slowly.
Fingers uncurling from around the man’s neck one by one, split knuckles stinging as you gain your feet.
It isn’t easy.
Your ribs are aching sharply now that you’re no longer fighting, bones grinding together unnaturally as you force yourself to stand at attention. Blood and sweat prickle on your skin, sliding down your flesh in little rivers that dampen and dirty your already soiled work clothes. Everything about you is painful and sore; bruised in ways that are becoming familiar.
Far too familiar, you think. It is not your place to say this, of course. You would be beaten for it. Worse than beaten for it. You would be –
“Mechanic,” a new voice says to you, and it crawls across your skin, the rage inside you rumbling in your chest like an animal. Like a feral thing made of flesh and bone and blood and metal. Like – like – something made of – of – iron, you think.
Iron.
Why is that so –
“We have work for you.”
*
The build goes – badly.
There is no other way to say it. It goes badly and continues to go badly. The blueprints they’ve given you are decades old and incomplete with sloppy calculations that are not just wrong but dangerous, so much so that you’re forced to abandon them entirely and begin anew.
It isn’t easy.
The schematics are clumsy at best and amateurish at worst. The main framework so unclear that you can’t help but wonder what exactly the original inventor had been trying to achieve. A weapon of some kind, clearly, but with plans as old as these surely it couldn’t have been –
“Mechanic,” a voice growls from the doorway, the heavy squeak and scrape of polished boots against concrete enough to make you stiffen, hair rising on the back of your neck as you straighten and turn because you know what comes next.
You know.
Even though you shouldn’t.
Even though you couldn’t.
Even though…
*
You wake in a chair.
There is screaming.
Lots and lots of screaming.
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