WHEN I WAS GONE

stefano watches joseph intently.

fiction, and justice. how...prosaic. "not every job needs to be a calling. in fact, your honesty is something others should likely strive for." in his own life, he quickly found that those who claim they are the mouthpiece of order to be ridiculous at best, and maliciously ignorant at worst. a man with a weapon is only that, whether at the behest of the law or his country. it's all the same, in the end.

the room joseph chooses is another excursion from the previously established décor. perhaps even more so—it reminds stefano of several things, though none quite match accurately. a factory is what comes to mind first, but there's something about the machinery that feels...off. something one wouldn't find in an industrial setting. the computer, too, feels out of place, even beyond its obvious age.

as he looks around, he can't help catching the vague whiff of something. disinfectant? it's hard to pin it down. something vaguely medical, disguising something far more foul.

—he can't get carried away by speculation just yet. something about this room is clearly weighing on joseph.

but all the thoughts about other times and learning and the day-to-day disappear, coalescing on this singular point of time in his past that has consumed both his present and his future.

his mouth is dry, his head suddenly quite heavy. his eyes don't feel like they're focusing as well as they should. "beacon mental hospital," he answers, the conversational tone of seconds prior gone; now his voice is clipped, like he's holding his breath. he isn't, but he doesn't feel like he's getting enough air.

"this is where we were first pulled into stem." stem. he only found out about it much later, when dr jee finally graced him with the most basic of information. at the time, it had been a very real nightmare. at the time, he wasn't sure he ever left. "not this exact room, but..."

he taps a button on the keyboard, watching the monitor flicker awake. what's on the screen is a document of sorts, and it takes joseph a moment to make sense of it. when it does, some sick part of him wants to laugh. it's almost funny. it's an alternate version of whatever mobius has on him, if he had to guess; some of the wording is similar from what he's got glimpses of. but instead of a mobius file, it's made up to look like a beacon file. the content is all the same, but the logo stands out.

he doesn't laugh, despite the mad urge. instead, he skims it with a blank expression — he takes in the way his captors view him, what they get from their observations, from everything they've put him through. he has no illusions that things have been omitted, but this is more than he's seen before. and it's a lot. it may as well be everything.

they want him to give in to the domination of stem. and he can feel it there, pushing at his defenses, waiting for something to give.

ever since they opened that damned door, it had been nothing but blood. literal pools of it. he glances at crimson stains that've begun to dry into skin and clothing. a hand swipes it off of bare skin with a rough movement and rather annoyed look. " 's not mine. mostly. " he's not sure. nothing here seems to work normally. wounds seem to come and go. each time he thinks there's still a mangled gash in the back of his leg, there's nothing there.

"i'm more of a traditional type, honestly," he admits. "there's just something about developing my own photographs that i find..." he pauses a moment, as if not quite sure how to phrase it. "...soothing, i suppose."

stefano follows after joseph, handing over the leadership position once again. "we can do whatever you prefer. after all, you are the investigator here." in his experience, it's often easier to get along with people (and convince them to forgive your past transgressions) when you acquiesce to their perceived authority. and, arguably, joseph might have a better sense of where to go next.

he lifts the camera to his eye, capturing joseph in the viewfinder for just a moment, but doesn't take the shot. just looking, for now.

"...if you do not mind me asking," he adds, tentatively changing the subject, "why did you decide to become a detective?"

he steps out into the hallway, taking a moment to look at the scribbled map in the notebook as he decides what to do next. the choice is his now, after all. he closes the notebook and catches sight of stefano with the raised camera — and for a brief moment he seems to look through the viewfinder, like the camera isn't even there. then he carries on, going to the door to the left. it's one of the last two unchecked doors.

"i grew up on old detective show reruns," joseph explains. it feels like a different life now. "i won't say i made the decision because i cared about justice — i did. i still do," he adds, "but it was the challenge that interested me more." his hand rests on the door handle for a moment. "that's why i moved to krimson city." he doesn't think he needs to explain that detail, he thinks as he opens the door.

joseph doesn't recognize the room at first, and he doesn't know how to describe it. dark tile walls, concrete floors. machinery he isn't sure he could identify in the corner.