╳ ┊ ιnveѕтιgaтor

      {( i told you so. )} he’s staring straight at me. {( i told you so. )} oh lord i don’t think i can  handle this. {( i told you so! )} yes i know! i know, i know, i know that this is so wrong on so many levels! think! think! think! think of as many excuses as you can! but the words are failing in the most spectacularly miserable fashion waylon can imagine, so he ends up just standing there shifting his weight on his feet and fidgeting with his sleeves. is there any explanation for the clean cut he made to the string that connected the two? well yes, but is there any explanation that miles would accept? 

     it’s been seven years, seven long, long years. when was it that waylon found it too difficult to face his best friend? after his wedding. those lingering hands and accusatory stares were too much to bear. waylon found himself all but crumbling under the journalist’s heated, amber gaze, the kind of gaze you could only attribute to a man who has dealt with far too many LIARS in his day. seven years, and then out of the blue there was that one email. who else could he turn to? the biggest liar here is…

     waylon sighs. not even close to relief, closer to PANIC instead. there’s no way around this. miles showed up at his door and is pushing past him and wow waylon, not even a little bit of fight left in you? no, even now, what is there to fight? when miles turns again to face waylon and there is ink in his eyes, waylon shivers and hesitates to follow after him, thinking to himself that he must really be the unluckiest man on earth. 

     “d’ye still drink coffee? is ‘at still a thing fur ye? ah still hae some left…” // @dccumentally· ♥’d

some integrally human part of him is grateful that waylon park was difficult to track down. gave him hope that murkoff truly wouldn’t add him & his happy little family to their body count. yet another tragedy miles could not bear witness to, lest he wished to completely submit to the static whispering false promises in his ears. it was precisely that buzzing, that darkness, which drew upon his bitter feelings about a bitter past with a bitter conclusion. & the worst part? it wasn’t even the poor bastard’s fault. the blame game had long lost its impact, or so he was convinced. miles didn’t HAVE to give waylon advice, didn’t HAVE to attend the bloody wedding, didn’t HAVE to investigate mount massive, didn’t HAVE to fucking show up at the slippery fucker’s door.

but here he was & here he stayed. contemplating. it was tempting to just do a 180 & disappear. then waylon truly would have been visited by a ghost of his past. left to dwell on memories gone by, to remember all the wrongs & rights of their history. somehow, it felt more productive to actually leave a mark. he shoulders past the speechless statue ( probably still trying to work out the details via internal monologue, as per usual ) & makes himself home. tries to not take notice of the discernible lack of any human activity. the silence which echoed off the walls, the missing thuds of active children. they’re not here. somehow this only served to rile him more.

so when coffee is ‘offered’ to him, he lifts the brewing pot off the machine & pops the lid open to take a whiff. the strength has his nose recoil momentarily. the darkest roast cheap money can afford. taking a sip straight from the pot’s rim, he opens the liquor cabinet & ruts the lid of a captain morgan against the countertop’s edge, busting the cap off in the process. he is humming you make me feel so young as the rum drizzles into the concoction. the pot is now a cauldron, enchanted with the magic of alcohol & drowning your sorrows.

    Flattery gets you everywhere. “ Keep your eyes on me, rat. ”

he had traversed hallway after hallway, & had yet to come across the first unstained porcelain doll in this whole asylum. not a single crimson tear tarnished the man(?)’s blinding white lab coat. without hesitation, he begins to carefully note his first observations. 

          sleek. confident. oozing intelligence and probably           something else. sex appeal, maybe? goddammit           miles you’re in the middle of a horrific journey into           the atrocities of man and you’re still gonna be gay? 

maybe he’d have to delay his self narrated journal & focus on the quite likely insane person before him. after all, any one who hadn’t escaped by this point & were practically sashaying through this hellhole, willingly, had to have lost some brain cells. so what did that say about himself?

miles chews at his lip nervously, carefully lifting his most precious cargo & starts recording the strangely erotic creature. photogenic would not even begin to describe how the man absorbed the full lens of the camera. it made focusing extremely difficult. just what kind of inhumane bullshit did this one perform?

o!  someone had a wit!  the demon would not deny that he was PLEASED ( he had to entertain himself somehow )!  his mouth widened into a grin.  “ see what up close,  pretty? ”  he asked,  feigning sweet innocence.  “ your middle fingers?  i’ve seen enough’a that in my day,  IF YA COULD BELIEVE IT. ”

      hot air is caught by the throat, seized by the quite unexpected compliment. so miles must look absolutely ridiculous right about now, caught between verbally stomping the man's ass to kicking at the floor like a bashful teenage girl. left hanging agape, he works his mouth into a cocky crescent, body language visibly relaxing.

     "miles, please tell me that isn’t a      used condom on the floor of my camry.”           ┊ ✎ // @dccumentally

      it would be so easy to look the other in the eyes & affirm that this unidentified object was indeed a used contraceptive, but miles never took the easy way, did he? so instead, he would carefully prod the used condom with the tip of his shoe, stroking his chin in an inquiring manner. ah yes, this must have been tom hankley's dirty little secret. the guy next door. fun guy. couldn't call it a party without inviting him. & of course, miles would never disappoint.

@dccumentally // starter call

Well, GODDAMN.   The first thing of interest the demon noticed of him was,  OF COURSE,  his hands. “ Least you’ve still got your middle fingers,  right? ”

Too callous?  OH,  WELL. 

      oh, GOOD ONE. never heard that one before. new content was always such a PLEASURE to happen upon, even in the form of some poorly humored fella with a not-so poor taste in curiosities. usually the conversation started with a sympathetic passing comment, or even an INQUIRY to the how && why. it’s still a sore subject, in more ways than one, && miles can think of two VERY GOOD USES of those aforementioned fingers right about now, but he refrains. maybe he can SCARE him away.

     "so is your face, but you’re still here.”

“no.”

     another sleepless night, rocking back && forth in turmoil. no longer can he even attempt to blend into society. not when tasks as simple as grocery shopping set off his paranoia. murkoff agents or assassins could LIE IN WAIT at every corner, even behind the smile of a cashier. even so, he prefers being in the public eye as opposed to solitude. when he surrounds himself with people, the likelihood of an assault drops. after all, who’d want to cause a spectacle && bring attention?

     that was why he came here to this eatery, A SMALL TREAT for managing to not die. good job, me. a pat on the back. miles sinks his index finger into his glass of water, spinning spinning spinning. it looked the way he felt — spiraling out of control. a metaphor for his entire life ever since he stepped foot in that damn asylum. static fizzes behind his myringa, && its vibrations shake his entire body. the nanobots beneath his skin screech, echo, repeat. they want to be free to roam again.

     miles inhales a gulp of air, raising a half-hearted hand at an approaching waiter. surely he could order off the menu; the menu he was currently unable to concentrate on due to the background noise within his cranium. he looked like hell, PROBABLY SOUNDED IT TOO, but first impressions on strangers would be lost. looking “normal” was hard the moment dr. trager amputated two of his fingers.

     wow okay, that was rude, first of all, THIS WASN’T ENTIRELY HIS FAULT. the blame was split, a shared responsibility. but at the end of the day, they both would not be in this position if they weren’t caught snooping within reiden global’s private property, searching for incriminating leads for miles’ upcoming story. && yes, waylon had been softly coerced into tagging along in order to hack the system with whatever virus bullshit he programmed on that usb. so technically, IT WAS REIDEN’S FAULT for being so secretive about their recent funds allocation && potential bio-hazardous global calamity hidden within their products. you know, the global calamity they just prevented from happening? miles would call that a SUCCESSFUL new year’s. 

     ”you’re being overdramatic, you nubby tit. always so fucking extra,” he says, tone borderline ‘parent chastising their child’ as he turns tables with his hazel hues. the past hour detained was spent with the other pacing back && forth, as he himself relaxed ever-so comfortably on the cold, hard, unforgiving chair. “they can only prove we trespassed, && that’ll earn us a fine with a slap on the wrist. we still have our rights.”

     of course, he neglected to add the VERY REAL POSSIBILITY of getting sued by this powerful company && facing off against the richest, most successful lawyers money can afford. it remained unsaid, but he knew this tidbit was not something waylon was ignorant about. it was why, in spite of his seemingly composed demeanor, miles too was nervous, fingers tapping erratically at any surface available.