A/N: My first MC fanfic. And to tell you the truth, I'm not that happy with it. ;_; This sounded so much better in my head. I wish I hadn't been outside when I thought this up; I had forgotten quite a bit of it when I finally got to my laptop. :( Nontheless, I hope that you enjoy this short drabble of an average day in the life of Hank J. Wimbleton, after the Auditor is defeated.
Things had gone back to normal after the destruction of the Improbability Drive. Despite the widespread media attention the event gained, life had gone back to normal for most of the citizens in Nevada. There were still debates going on about what had exactly happened, and who had been involved. Though many bodies had been found, it seemed that regardless of what had occurred, one thing was for sure; no one in a mile radius had survived the normality restoration.
But of course, when you were in Hank's line of business, you had to be good at covering your tracks.
Hank worked quietly, setting up the bi-pod and assembling the rifle that he planned to use as an instrument of death in his latest mission. Like most people in Nevada, his life had gone back to normal after the Improbability Event; as normal as his life had been in the first place, anyway.
He had gone back to his career of assassination and death. At times, he wondered if maybe it would have been wiser of him to retire, or to at least try and live a normal life. But he didn't think that that was possible for him. He had been programmed to kill, and all that training wasn't something he could just forget about. Taking life had become something important to him, something necessary for survival. He needed to kill like he needed to breathe.
His mind wandered back to everything that had happened. It was amazing to think that he had survived all that, and had somehow managed to get away while everyone else had died. Well, supposedly everyone, but........no. He wouldn't let his mind wander down that path. He had work to do.
It was strange to think that he owed his life to those two strangers, what had their names been? He racked his brain until he remembered; Sanford and Deimos, that was it. Of course, they had only revived him because it was their job to. The Organization they worked for had approached him after everything was said and done, explaining their goal of killing the Auditor and how they had needed Hank to do so. They had even offered him a job, a place among their ranks, but he turned them down. He had always worked alone, and he didn't feel that he would be able to adjust to working with and for other people. Though he was thankful to the Organization for his final revival, he had assured them that he was no hero. He was a killer, plain and simple, and it was better if they left him alone and let him stay that way.
As he finished setting up his weapon, his vision suddenly went red. He could see nothing but static, and red, and his body instantly broke out into a cold sweat. Then, after what couldn't have been more than two seconds, his eyesight returned; still, he was left sweating and shaking slightly, his heart pounding deep and hard in his chest. Fuck, he needed to get a hold of himself. Taking a shaky breath, he finally stilled, and returned to the task at hand with the cold professionalism he had come to master.
Hank looked through the scope of the sniper rifle, and quickly found his target, sitting in a random chair around the table and looking rather bored. Ever so carefully, he centered his aim directly on the oblivious man's forehead.
Truth be told, he disliked using long range weapons. There were so many things that could go wrong. And you only had one shot; if you missed, then the target realized what was happening, and before you could shoot again, had already fled and found cover. It was much easier with a handheld weapon, were all you had to do was either stab or bludgeon everyone in the room- and sometimes the entire building- to death. Much more thorough, if nothing else.
A flash of red static danced across his vision, and he couldn't see anything again. A streak of green skin, the glinting of an iron welders mask. Then he saw his target, casually talking to another man as the meeting came to a close.
He removed his eye from the scope and rubbed at his face wearily. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take this. He knew his fear was irrational, perhaps even ludicrous. Yet no matter how he reasoned with himself, his mind always brought the fear back up.
Taking a deep breath, he looked down at his hands. They, like everything else on his body, were bandaged. Bandages that hid the scars and the cuts that would never truly heal. Another flash, and his body changed; his right side missing, blood oozing out in torrents. His whole body aching, hurting, literally smashed and broken. He usually landed on his feet, but something had gone wrong that time. Too much stress, too much to deal with all at once; he couldn't focus. And now his body was hurting again like it had before; agony flooded his entire being, and all he knew was pain. The pain of injury, the pain of failure, the pain of not being able to die. Torture.
With another flash, his body was back to normal, and he was left gasping desperately for air. It seemed like he couldn't get enough oxygen into his lungs, and he suddenly wondered if this was how he would die, the result of an irrational hallucination. It then occurred to him how absurd it seemed, after all he'd been through, to worry about something as trivial as death. One would think that he would no longer fear it, after all his encounters with it.
Shaken and disturbed, he sat still for a moment, taking deep even breaths as he tried to clear his head. Finally, he calmed. Despite what he expected, he looked back through the lens, and sure enough, he found that his target was already gone.
Cursing himself for his inability to successfully do what he had always been an easy task for him, he leaned away from the gun and reached into his pocket. Pulling out his tracker, he was relieved to see that the man was heading toward another public area, a restaurant where he would probably spend at least an hour dining. There was still time to complete the assignment as long as he left now, so that he'd have time to find a vantage point and set up. It was a lucky break, he knew.
With shaky hands, he reached into another pocket of his coat and drew out a pill bottle filled with small blue tablets. Still trembling, he dumped four pills into his hands and swallowed them dry.
Though he didn't like going to the doctor's, even he occasionally had the sense to show up. Sometimes a check-up was necessary, though it was often hard to convince his physician to ignore some of his more "prominent" injuries. Nontheless, he went; but he usually didn't do so for a physical check-up.
The pills he took were prescribed by his doctor; they were a very strong and very high dosage given for a very bad case of coulrophobia.
A/N(aka more complaining! ^^;): Well, I guess that it wasn't that bad. Still, I liked how this was originally planned in my head a lot more. :-/ Not only was there a lot more mention of Tricky (making the title fit much better), but Hank was also more of a sympathetic character. I mean, if anyone who didn't know what Madness Combat was read this, they probably wouldn't feel bad for Hank at all because he's such an ass. My plan was to make him seem more human, but I don't think that I did a very good job. :(
A lot of what I wanted to put into the story was lost, due to me being outside when I caught the plot bunny. By the time I reached my laptop, I was trying to grasp at certain parts I really liked, which resulted in my writing this fic backwards...meaning that most of the original beginning was lost. It was also more poetic in my mind, but I just couldn't get it all down in paper that way. So it turned out like this.
Nontheless, I hope that at least some of you like this. Don't be afraid to give (nice!) advice! :)