Work Text:
Your fingertips grace over the inner hull of one of your new drone prototypes, the shell removed to reveal the inner machinations and complexities. It might even be a bit too complex, because for the past three hours you’ve been putting this thing together and testing its functions, it’s done nothing but fuel your frustration. Like throwing pine needles to a fire, more or less. You can’t stand this thing. Your patience, apparently, has limits, and you’re burning through it like kerosene-coated matchsticks being tossed into a fucking volcano.
Sometimes you just get so, so angry. Like someone's unloaded an entire nest of hornets in your head, and all that consumes you is the buzzing of the swarm and the violent impulses that come with it. Your brain is practically a hive. Festering, boiling, rotting away from the sheer intensity of evil emotion and the undying drive to kill. To feel the slick of blood on your hands. To fix something the quick and easy way. Getting rid of a problem at its very root.
It didn't used to excite you as much as it does now. You remember the first time you took someone's life, watched them bleed out and collapse until they were nothing but a pale husk. The encouragement you got from what you can only call an ex-father was enough to delay the shock for a good few hours until you woke back up and vomited, staring at the floor until you felt like a person again. But after that, it didn't take long to get used to.
They told you the quickest ways to get out of a sticky situation, and how to hide your tracks afterwards. You got damn good at being stealthy. Likely the best there is to offer, alongside your partner. You've beaten a few faces until they were completely unidentifiable, given some poor fools some unlucky bullet holes (you're not really fond of guns, actually. They may get the job done quick but they sure as hell aren't quiet).
You thrived in those good ol’ days, chasing the thrill with a racing heart and a wild grin. Power was never hard for you to come by, especially given the circumstances of your kind, but taking what you had and leading a charge with an iron fist always sounded sweet as cornsyrup to you. People were afraid of you, afraid of what you were capable of. Playing dirty was the only way to go.
Of course, nothing takes the pleasure out of a kill like the deteriorating mental health of the aforementioned partner. You'd guess he didn't take the shock quite as well as you did, or he just had too much empathy, or both. Either way, you didn't quite understand why it made you so upset whenever he was, so... you stopped. Took a chill pill, for lack of a better description. Settled down more comfortably to fix yourself up, change your ways in behavior. Started saying things that hurt less and confused more. You know that, morally, violence is not the greatest habit to have. The only problems worth killing for are the biggest ones, of course.
You condemned your old ways, pushed them far back into the deepest recesses of your mind.
But the impulses never really left. You took those lessons to heart; and who wouldn't at such a young age? You said to yourself, fine. I don't want to kill anymore. As if that was ever the last step. But as long as you don't hurt anyone who matters, there's no harm done in your book. Shitty outlook to have, but it's every person for themself, and you've got 10 people you have to keep an eye on.
Your anger gets taken out on yourself most of the time. You've never taken the time to really think about the implications of setting up numerous death traps around your living space (it's definitely a form of self-harm, sure, but it's not the same when you do it), but it comes to mind when you've asked your main man to come over with his spare computer parts and he starts yelling your ass off. You honestly can't tell if you're doing it because you're bored or if you want to keep people out of your business that badly, that you would rather let someone die than be vulnerable in any way.
Regardless, the noise snaps you out of the hyperfocus you slipped into working on new hardware, and the buzzing of that internal swarm ceases in an instant. You put on your mask again, the one you force yourself to wear whenever you're anything less than completely alone.
Dismas's face is flush with anger, bits of his clothes scratched away and gently bloodied. You're impressed that he managed not to get more fucked up, but then again, you know exactly how many scrapes he's gotten in, and they've left him a lot worse for wear. He's got a backpack clutched over his shoulder with one hand and a cane in the other, its original purpose abandoned for a brief moment to deliver a firm smack to your leg. Yeah, you deserve that.
"I thought you'd have fucking turned it off, you asshole." He puts his backpack on one of your worktables and empties the contents. Most of it is salvageable, which you didn't expect. Then again, you'd rather have something that's actually a challenge to work on. Keeps you occupied.
"Didn't even tell me when you were comin', caught me off my own guard." You reach over beneath your desk and grab a soda, gesturing it to him. "Can't say I won't make it up to ya, though."
He looks at you, then at the can, hesitantly grabbing it. "Already took one this evening," he mumbles.
"No harm in another swig. Does you some good; know it does to me. And I couldn't help but notice you brought your aid along with you."
A loud pop as his can is opened. "I don't want to become dependent on this shit. There's too many side effects. Also, it's not a painkiller, dipshit." You watch him take a couple drinks while he sorts through the parts.
“Not like you’ll be stayin’ for long anyways, I assume.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I’m not planning on it.”
Your eyes drift downwards to your work, fingers absently tapping a drumbeat to the side. You remember the problem that got you so worked up, so close to getting unstable. You exhale through your teeth, jaw clenched hard enough to break something. This model has a unique property to it that your other ones don’t; you’ve carefully disassembled a minigun- at least the most essential parts -and programmed a reassembly code that follows the exact, precise movements required to make it functional again. But each test just made the damn thing fall apart all over again, forcing you to pick up the wreckage and go through that same painstaking process once more.
From the corner of your eye you notice Dismas turning around to look at you. His expression is one of mild concern.
“What are you so pissed off about?”
"Stupid fuckin' thing isn't working." You give the hull a smack.
"Is that why you asked me to bring you more parts, or...?"
"Eh... yes and no. I just need 'em as a failsafe. In case the shit I'm doin' to this one makes it spontaneously combust in a fantastic display of shrapnel."
He inches towards you, eyes darting. "What are you doing with it that makes it that dangerous...?"
You look up at him, grinning like a shark. "Exactly."
He tenses. "I- excuse me?"
"It's got a little somethin' special, see." You turn it over, opening the side compartment to reveal the hidden barrel of the gun.
Dismas goes cold and freezes up right there, eyes wide in shock; only to retract a moment later with the same rage you caught him up in when he arrived.
"What the FUCK is wrong with you?! Why do you need a remote controlled death machine at your irresponsible disposal?!"
Normally, when he gets upset at you, his yelling is still somewhat reserved. He's a quiet man and typically keeps to it, says raising his voice makes it crack painfully. But this time he's letting his volume escape him. You recoil in your seat, grimacing.
"Relax, punkass, it's just a fuckin' prototype. Ain't started the 9 to 5 process on the real deal just yet." Your tone of voice comes out a lot more impatient than you had intended.
“Prototype for fuckin’, what, exactly? What use are you going to get out of this thing that doesn’t either hurt you or some innocent bystander?”
You feel wrong. Like you’ve been accused of something you’d rather not acknowledge. There’s truth to his words, red-hot and burning at your skin, trying to peel apart the mindset you’ve been trained to keep for the better part of your life. The metaphorical swarm doesn’t like it. The anger you feel now is a cover up for the guilt and shame.
Dismas doesn’t wait for you to abruptly stand up before he makes another comment. “You can’t look me in the eyes and tell me you’ve grown past all of that shit when you’re sitting in your isolation chamber building your own weaponry.”
That stings. You’ve changed, you’re different now. Hell, you’re making these things for his sake. Everyone’s, really. You’re going to save this nightmare of a planet no matter what it takes. And if what it takes is the life of some lime-blooded nobody in the middle of the woods, then so be it. The ends justify the means.
You glare at him, your voice going colder than it has in a long time. “This is some vital shit, buddy.”
You pretend you don’t notice the way he uncomfortably shifts back. “Vital in what way? Who the hell are you trying to go after this time?”
Immediately, you can picture her. Her innocence nothing but a front to what really lies under it. A shell of a person encompassing a monster. For a split second you think, “that’s what you are too.” No, you’re better than that. Certainly.
Your eyes avert him and you sit down. Guilt is painted plainly on your face like he’s walked right into an art gallery. He stares at you for a few more seconds, and then... it’s over. He picks up his stuff and walks right back out, not a final word exchanged. Not like you would’ve been able to say anything that didn’t stir the pot even more, though.
You’re stewing in those emotions for the rest of your god damn life, but at least you’ll save a few others.