"A murder machine. That's undoubtedly the best way to describe this man. Standing at six feet, his visage was a grotesque amalgamation of stolen flesh and scrap metal, giving rise to a jaw that struck terror into anyone who dared meet his gaze. I had the misfortune of knowing him personally. He would go on his brutal rampages, returning with his own head dangling from his hand, a guttural groan escaping his mangled lips as he rasped my name..."
With a deafening crash, the door flew open, protesting loudly from the accumulated years of abuse. In one hand, he clutched his severed head, while the other gripped the door handle. He staggered through the building's dimly lit interior. Red-tinted goggles were strapped tightly to his face, alongside swaths of bandages and a black bandana that concealed most of his face.
"Doc..." He groaned, and his large, gnashing teeth grated against the harsh steel of his artificial jaw. The sound was akin to a fork scraping across a ceramic plate, making it agonizing to the ears.
'Doc' swiveled his chair around, his expression revealing clear displeasure. He had grown weary of this routine.
"Wimbleton, did you succeed on your mission?" Wimbleton nodded as best he could, considering his head was not attached to his shoulders.
"Good." Doc gestured for the man to recline on the operating table beside him. He stood up, preparing for the surgery without the courtesy of anesthesia. After all, Wimbleton had developed a high pain threshold from his numerous ordeals.
Wimbleton winced as he gingerly lowered himself onto the table, wincing as he inadvertently pulled at a previous mission's stitches. Doc heaved a sigh of exasperation.
"You really have to exercise more caution. These wounds won't heal if you keep tearing them open." He noticed Wimbleton picking at a scab on his arm and swiftly swatted his hand away.
"Stop it."
The doctor commenced the painstaking task of removing bullets, one by one, each extraction accompanied by an unpleasant squelching sound. While in the process of stitching up the neck wound; Wimbleton suddenly slumped over, life extinguishing from his body. The scene would have been morbidly comedic if not for the fact that all of Doc's work had been undone as Wimbleton hit the cold, unforgiving concrete floor.
Doc's fingers flipped a switch to start charging his defibrillators. He tugged at Wimbleton's lifeless form to ensure it lay flat on the ground, his practiced hands swiftly discarding his jacket and shirt. He rubbed the defibrillator paddles together, the friction sending sparks flying before he forcefully applied them to Wimbleton's chest. Nothing happened.
Undeterred, he repeated the process, rubbing the paddles together and then pressing them firmly. The body jolted, and Wimbleton sat upright, hand on his chest, gasping for air.
"If you're finished with your little episode, kindly get back on the table," Doc spoke with an icy detachment, his years of experience having numbed him. He rose to collect his tools, but he paused as he heard something unexpected from the man behind him.
"Thank... You."
Doc's eye twitched in response to this unusual display of gratitude. For a man who had been more machine than human for quite some time, hearing a genuine 'thank you' was nothing short of remarkable. Doc had pieced him back together countless times; he knew how to take him apart.
"Hank, get off the floor," Doc addressed him by his first name, an odd hint of emotion in his voice. He extended a hand to assist Hank.
Hank's head flopped to the side, prompting Doc to reach over to his counter and retrieve his needle and thread. He continued stitching up Hank's neck, glancing down to notice that the man still wore the ring from their long-forgotten marriage.
"...and I wouldn't have it any other way."
