He holstered the gun and turned to go, but only made it three steps before the first wave of pain hit, sudden and sharp. How disappointing, thought Victor, as blood began to seep across the floor. The sound echoed through the garage, ricocheting off concrete and steel as the mechanic fell. But halfway there, the mechanic’s body slowed, as if caught in a sudden drag, and Victor swung the gun up and shot Linden in the head. “I do,” said Victor, eyes flicking open right as Linden lunged at him, wrench in hand. “You have to believe me…” he said, fingers closing around something metal. Heard a hand knocking against the tools strewn across the floor. “I swear,” said Linden, “I’d help you if I could.” But Victor heard him shift. The sensation was unpleasant, but not nearly as unpleasant as what would happen when the current peaked. It was already in his muscles, already threading his bones, already filling his chest cavity. He closed his eyes, measuring the current inside him. Things that worked, or didn’t, that broke down, and were repaired. People were more intricate perhaps, more nuanced, but fundamentally machines. He flexed his fingers around the gun, and the air crackled with energy. “I already told you,” said Linden, jumping nervously as his back came up against a half-built engine. Jack Linden was forty-three, with a five-o’clock shadow, grease under his nails, and the ability to fix things.

Victor followed slowly, steadily, watched as the man backed himself into a corner. Retreating-as if a few feet would make a difference. “I won’t ask you again,” said Victor Vale as the mechanic scrambled backward across the garage floor.

Vengeful schwab