#richardtrager

❛ yeah. well ... women are complicated. ❜ he remarks offhandedly. when @richardtrager crouches , blaire finds himself taking a half step backwards ; maybe to get more leverage when he kicks the little creep ― or maybe just to get a better look at him. the cigarette is brought back to his lips , another drag taken.

hand pauses its cycling through the file cabinet ; waylon tenses up, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek. god, he's fucked up now. no one was supposed to be in here — it was supposed to be quick, in and out. grab the folders, and get out of here before anyone noticed. he should have known it wouldn't be that simple. nothing ever is.

still, it's too late now.

what matters now is coming up with an excuse and committing to it. the last thing waylon needs is to draw more attention to himself than he already has.

so, grabbing the manila folder, waylon turns to face the newcomer — none other than richard trager himself, looking at him as if he knows exactly what the fuck waylon is up to. surely park is just imagining that, though. there's no reason for anyone to suspect him. not really. waylon has done a pretty damn good job of covering his tracks. it's just his paranoid subconscious projecting guilt — right?

expression twists into one of embarrassment, free hand rising to awkwardly rub at the back of his neck. “ some of the digital copies got corrupted — i thought i'd go find the original files and restore them on the servers. it's an easy job, it just takes a while to find all the physicals, y'know? ”

❝    i  keep  having  nightmares.    ❞     alice  sits  with  her  knees  drawn  to  her  chest,   blue  eyes  peering  up  at  him  through  a  mess  of  blonde  hair.   those  dark  circles  beneath  her  gaze  speak  for  themselves.   the  cicadas  fill  the  silence  outdoors,   and  without  awaiting  his  reply,   the  girl  shifts  her  gaze  away,   continuing  to  stare  into  the  darkness  of  the  night.

❝    it’s  like  a  pressure.   i  can’t  move  or  breathe.   i  can’t  wake  up.    ❞

      A haze obscures the memory of their last meeting, as it does everything predating Miles Upshur’s descent into the bowels of Mount Massive. He’s been eaten alive by the asylum, chewed up and sent spiraling directly into the belly of the beast. The freezing tunnels were like a labyrinth of intestines, complete with a Minotaur breathing down his neck ready for the kill.

      He’d been made to read Dante’s Inferno for a literature and writing course in college. Too dogmatic for his tastes, but as with most information he encountered aspects of it caught like a burr in his mind. In Dante’s vision of Hell, so too was the deepest level of punishment a frozen wasteland.

      Such reflection, however, is far from his mind at present.

      The thing that stands before the doctor now is not the same reporter from mere hours earlier. He is the hollowed-out remains of Miles, his flesh and his bones and whatever pieces of his mind that have managed to persist in spite of the unthinkable. It’s those remnants of consciousness that have brought him back to the Male Ward to settle a score, for petty vengeance is nothing if not a frighteningly human trait.

      Truthfully, the Walrider couldn’t care less if Trager lives or dies. But the whims of its Host are impossible to ignore in the strengthening connection between them. It sees little reason to deny him this.

      No immediate verbal answer comes in response. Dark eyes are fixed upon the surgeon, though the features of Miles’ face are all but indiscernible through layers of blood and grime, and the film of nanites that makes his skin seem to shift. The bullet holes scarring his torso bleed the color and consistency of congealed ink, matching the steady stream of nanoswarm refuse leaking form his nose and his ears and his mouth and his eyes. When he does speak it’s a wounded sound, sandpaper-rough as though he’s been screaming for hours.

@richardtrager

     “Does it look like I’m lyin’ to you, baby? Eh?” Trager gives the bars on his little holding cell a nice jiggle for emphasis. Just checking to make sure they’re still holding up alright. This isn’t his own personal apartment. This is shared space, free real estate for any drooling fuck to come on over and bash his head in against them all day. They’ve got the blood stains to prove it, corroding into the metal. Sometime they might just GIVE.

Someone outta shell out the cash to replace the things, eh? Not a chance in hell.

Richard holds a finger out, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that she doesn’t get a smart ass urge to bite it off. She’s feral. “Now. For the last goddamn time. One of the showers got busted up. I’m talking smashed to pieces by big fucker. Now there’s a hole there that leads right back into a storage room. I know this shit hole like the back of my hand. You really think ole’ Rick’s gonna lead you astray?” His hands hang limply over the bars now, relaxed with his best smile. She won’t be able to resist. And if she does, the engine’s either broken or working really well. He’s no scientist.

She watches him point at her through the bars of his cell and instinct is to bite. Not with any malicious intent. Just to teach him some manners. It's a wonder that he lets her put her mouth on anything with her inconsistent self control; some days it's easier for her to keep herself in check than others. 

But, today is a good day and, though she's dangerously close to the bars, she decides to play nice. After all, what kind of person just takes off someone's fingers?

Blue eyes shift from his hand to his face. It's intriguing how he bends over backwards trying to flex his charm when she's already bought what he's selling. Whether his storage room plan is a good one or not, she's prepared to do whatever it takes to make some alone time a reality. 

Her hands find the bars of his cell and she comes in closer, letting his dangling hands graze the front of her beige uniform. He has her full attention.

     there was no attempt to hide the roll of her eyes that his answer prompted - shaking things up? was that really the most fitting terminology for sharing your homicidal impulses? well, she conceded inwardly, he wasn’t technically wrong - she’d give him that much.

     an eyebrow raised as he drew closer to her desk, his posturing and tone assertive to say the least - was that supposed to intimidate her? (he’d have to try a lot harder than that.) that bold attitude and the fact that he had, apparently, decided that they were on a first-name basis now, left her fixing him with a look that was half unimpressed and half uninterested as she leaned her chin onto her hand with undaunted disregard.