Work Text:
A tool is made for its purpose. Screws are made to hold things together. Bandages are made to dress wounds. Wrenches are made to twist bolts. If a screw gets bent or a bandage gets ripped, its former use is gone. If a tool breaks, it’s no longer helpful. If a tool breaks, it was created for a purpose it cannot fill.
Mike has always been a broken tool. That’s simply what he is. He’s never been able to fulfill his purpose. He’s never been the perfect heir for Roghost, never been the perfect quarterback for his old team, never been the perfect leader for his frat. Everything he does, he messes up and someone gets hurt. He’s never done anything useful, anything helpful. He tries. He swears he tries. But trying isn’t succeeding. Trying isn’t enough, it never has been.
His father, Pete, Grayleigh, Rotation.
And as he locked Rotation into that machine, listened to him shout and yell and protest, all he could think of was how maybe, just maybe, if he could do this, do something good for once in his life, maybe he’d feel good about himself. Maybe, just maybe, by saving Rotation he could make up for killing Pete.
No. No, he could never make up for that. Pete would never forgive him for that. Pete should never forgive him for that. Mike wasn’t sure he wanted him to.
And Mike was a broken tool, something created for a purpose it cannot fulfill. But, as he locked himself in the right side of the machine — a dark fog resting over his mind that usually worked to block out his father’s shouts instead blocking out Grayleigh’s sobs and begs and screams — all he could think was,
Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found a purpose he could fulfill.