Engineer has given this so much thought.
The more he thought, he more he doubted himself, yet at the same time a confidence unlike any other grew in the pit of his gut. He has felt gut instincts in the past. He listened. His gut always, adamantly, proves him right.
Yet now, the Texan feels like he is letting himself down.
The robotic hand, crafted from his grandpa's blueprints, displayed on the counter next to his arm. An awesome as hell robot hand.
The sweat plastered on his forehead, slicking down as his eyes dart back and forth.
The cloth tied at his wrist, blocking circulation, pigmenting his hand blue.
The hacksaw positioned on his arm, blades tickling his skin, as he pins his right arm down.
His gut is the only one cheering him on. He'll be able to do more for his team. He can do it. He can make more guns with this. The more gun, the better. His mother always said his gut isn't always telling the truth. Engineer hasn't believed that since the day she said it. It'll be over before he knows it, that's what his gut is saying, and Engineer honestly, honestly wants to follow its rules, but—
Dagnabit damnit…
The Texan has felt ungodly pain before—had his brains batted in, got mowed down by bullets, had the flesh melt right off his body just before he could make it to water, to safety, to MEDIC! But he stands here, frozen in shock, time ticking by as he stares at his now purple hand. Like the coward he used to be as a child.
He's taken all the precautions. A dispenser hums at his side, the gentle beam of red soaking into him like a sponge. He feels like he can do anything. Anything, except chop his whole goddamn hand off.
But Engineer is no coward. He has murdered the very same men he works with every day. Busts their skulls with a wrench, tears them a new one with sentries, never hesitates to shoot them in the knee with a shotgun, only to finish them off with a bullet in the frontal lobe. Goddamn Spies...
Do it.
It's going to hurt like a hell he's never experienced before.
Just for a second.
A lump in his throat, Engineer swallows. Sweat drips from his forehead, sullying the counter.
Get it over with.
A breath is heaved into him. Gently, he lifts the saw ever so slightly—
You're going to be fine. Think of all the good this could do. Help the team. Be a team player. More opportunities to be an MVP. Think of how much of a badass Scout will think you are.
—On the count of three.
The more gun, the better.
"One…"
Replace it as quickly as it came off.
"Two…"
Do it, Dell Conagher.
"Three…!"
"Hey, Engie!"
The Texan almost jumps out of his skin. He whirls to meet eyes with Scout, whose head pokes in from the workshop entrance. Out of paranoia he hides the saw and the robotic hand.
"Didn't mean ta scare ya," says Scout. "Just lettin' ya know dat we got stuff grillin', dey said ta ask what ya like."
Jesus Christ…
With a weary sigh the Texan answers, "Anythin'. Actually, I could really use a hotdog right about now. Mind makin' one for me, boy?" He grins, masking the panic that suddenly surged through him. He practically begs to not let Scout see the saw. Anything but that.
But Scout almost mirrors him. "Oh, you bet! I'll make the best damn hotdogs you'll ever see! Oh, uh, you gunna be joinin' us, or…?"
"Yeah, I'll join y'all. I'll be right there."
"Sweet! Cya!"
That settled, Scout takes off running, slamming the workshop door as he departs. For a moment the Engineer stands there, staring at the hand, breathing hitched as ambiguous thoughts course through his head. The hacksaw hungers to continue. He, however, lingers in silence.
If Scout had arrived even a second later...
...
Gently he unwraps the cloth from his hand, the skin flooding to a healthy color. He slowly places the saw down on the table, covering it with the white cloth, ready to be used for another day. His drum of a heartbeat pounds, the mere thought of what could have happened had Scout not interfered playing in his head like a movie.
The pain.
The blood.
The regret.
And, oh god, the pain—
Engineer snaps back to reality, shaking his head and those awful thoughts away. He snatches his guitar and makes a beeline for the exit, shutting off the lights, abandoning the cursed Gunslinger in the dark.
Engineer always listens to his gut, and right now it's telling him to walk away, use what time his right hand has left wisely, and experience those dreadful feelings another day.
He could really use a hotdog right about now...