I should have listened.

TOUGH SHELL

bruised knuckles.   bloody noses.   eye rolling.   empty bottles.   messy hair.   sarcasm.   lip biting.   unwashed jeans.   coffee breath.   loud music.   broken neon signs.   chipped nail polish.  leather jackets.  always wearing headphones.   swearing.   sneaking out at 3 am.   dark lipstick.   frown creases.   burning cigarettes.   plaid shirts.   under eye circles.   dark colors.

SOFT INSIDE

honey tea.  flower crowns.   giggling.   blowing kisses.   dancing without worries.   white lace.   soft textures.   fluffy throw pillows.   using too many heart emojis.   empathy.   constant daydreaming.   handwritten letters.   fairy lights.   bullet journals.  designated driver.     warm hugs.   garden picnics.   quiet.   smile lines.  optimism.   flowy clothes.   pastel colors.

joseph’s eyes flickered over the napkin the moment it was slid to him, uncertain, then back up again. he would take it to tuck it beside the notebook he kept in the front pocket of his waistcoat for safe keeping, at least until he could parse some research of his own.  he would need to be careful to keep his own hands clean, if this were some ramblings of a deranged man, to take his time and weigh the situation carefully.

yet what reason would one man have to try to take on an entire corporation, risking reputation, family, perhaps worse if those horrific photos of his held any merit?  stranger had happened, he supposed.

“ another witness would help to cement your credibility. finding people is what i’m here for. ”  admittedly impossible, he didn’t much like the sound of, but joseph was not one discouraged so easily by what seemed possible, at least not until he tried for himself.  it may, however, mean he would need to find help of his own, though he was sure he could make that happen as needed … even at the risk that his client would likely not be thrilled at the prospect.

what did he mean, to imply he wouldn’t be believed? perhaps he was just used to being brushed aside as often as he was - one quick search had initially been more than enough for joseph to discern just what sort of disturbed individual he may well be dealing with.

something about it had eaten at him all the same, cool rationality aside, until he was here. what that meant, it was far too early to tell.

“ you’ve got my time. i’ll take anything you’re comfortable sharing. ”

He could hardly call any of this comfortable. There’s no space for comfort -- no relief to be found when someone sincerely wants to help, because it could all come crumbling away at any moment. Even if Murkoff doesn’t figure out he’s involved, this well-meaning Detective could turn his back upon him at any time, see to it that his ability to cope out in the real world is called into question. 

Some might even think it’s a kindness, however mistaken they may be. If that trust is broken, he-- He doesn’t know what he’d do.

          “Before I get to any of that, I want to make one thing perfectly clear to you: I have absolutely no intention of hurting myself.”

Waylon knows exactly what will show up on his medical records if the worst should come to happen. Recent history of mental illness, so-called ‘voluntary’ admission for treatment -- treatment now left unfinished. He doesn’t want to get brushed under the rug as a potential suicide when, in truth, death is the very last thing he wants. 

He did not fight this hard for his freedom just to end up smothered and silenced.

If Jeremy Blaire -- ex-boss and asshole extraordinaire -- gets to give him one last ‘fuck you’ from beyond the grave, it’s this. And Murkoff can only continue to play on that, make it so much worse for him. Anyone in their right mind would have reservations.

          “If something happens to me at any point, then please-- Please treat it with suspicion. Not even for my sake, but for my wife and kids. They deserve the real truth, not the one that’s been invented for me.”

If something looks crazy and sounds crazy... Doesn’t that make it crazy, by definition? Why should Joseph listen to any of this? Is he telling him what he wants to hear, only to let him down later down the line?

Probably better to give him some space. Offer up some time to look into things and decide if this is really something he wants to pursue further.

     𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐒  𝐁𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓  𝐀  𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐄  𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐎𝐅  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃  𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅  𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐑  𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒  𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍  𝐈𝐓 .          the  shattered  bones  from  his  broken  ribcage  made  for  a  decent - enough  base ,     and  he  used  his  flayed  skin ,     tendons  for  the  layers ,     staggered  to  keep  the  pyre  strong .          for  kindling ,     he  used  his  hair  and  the  notion  that  life  after  mount  massive  might  be  anything  but  UNRELENTING  PAIN .          he  burnt  the  sins  of  the  man  he  used  to  be   —   this  is  the  same  man  he  sees  in  the  mirror  though  HE  DOES  NOT  RECOGNIZE  HIM .          and  yet ,     he  does  not  have  empty  hands  to  show  for  it .          YOU  SEE ,     THERE’S  THIS  BOY   .   .   .  

     sometimes ,     just  love  isn’t  enough .          (  he  does  not  have  the  luxury  of  growing  up  with  this  knowledge ,     because  he  is  of  many  privileges ,     the  least  of  which  are  parents  who  loved  each  other .  )          BUT  IS  IT  STILL  CONSIDERED  A  PRIVILEGE  WHEN  IT  HURTS  THIS  BAD  TO  REALIZE ?          [  his  mother  sits  him  down  at  the  kitchen  table  to  sterilize  and  dress  his  scraped  knee ;     she  pours  alcohol  into  the  wound  and  tells  him  it’s  going  to  hurt ,     but  it  will  keep  him  clean .  ]          AND  GOD  DAMMIT ,     HE  NEEDS  TO  BE  CLEANSED !

     he  yanks  the  bottle  waylon  so  gently  tried  to  take  out  of  his  hands  back  into  his  chest .          ❝     don’t   —     ❞          his  voice  is  so  tired  the  vowels  drag .          ❝     don’t .          [  THIS  IS  THE  ONLY  THING  THAT’S  MADE  THE  LAST  THREE  YEARS  BEARABLE .  ]     ❞

generated  starter     RE :     @wh1stleblower​   [  waylon  ]

          “I know--“

Insistent as Miles may be, Waylon possesses nothing but endless patience as the bottle is pried from his own fingertips. His expression is one of quiet exhaustion as he looks to the man before him, recognizing this pain. Something similar to what he kept so carefully hidden away.

They’ve been through hell and back, haven’t they? In what can only be described as a fucking miracle, they clawed their way out of Mount Massive through sheer force of will alone. Park did not leave that dreadful place in one solid piece. He’d scattered bits of himself along the way like a trail of breadcrumbs, and now he must always peer over his own shoulder, worried that they will somehow lead Murkoff back to him -- and to everything he holds dear. 

         “I know, Miles, but I can’t let you do this to yourself.”

A father first and foremost, it is in Waylon’s nature to protect those he cares for, to put loved ones first before he ever dares to let this affect him. And it takes everything he has not to crumble here like he does on those long, sleepless nights when Lisa and the boys are tucked safely away. 

Not even his own wife can claim to understand how this must feel, for try as she might to get him to open up, he has refused time and again. No, he would prefer to suffer alone than to share those burdens with those who would surely suffer all the more for hearing what had happened to their beloved husband and father.

But, Miles... In his own way, he loves Miles as he loves his own family. They share a bond like no other: a fucked up sort of kinship born of their shared trauma, and there is comfort to be found in the fact that neither one of them need share a word of their experience to be understood. But what an awful thing that is: to be relieved by the suffering of another when it shouldn’t have been that way to begin with! 

If only he had never sent that damn email, they wouldn’t need to share a damn thing.

The thought of giving up doesn’t even cross his mind.  Quietly determined, Waylon’s eyes are impossibly soft as he outstretches his hand once more for the bottle. But he is not forceful in his actions. He never really could be. 

...

shocked, yeah. shocked, and then bouncing back, persevering through the nightmare bearing down upon them because standing around shocked did shit nothing for either of them. hiding in every other locker wasted time, and who the hell knew how much they had left?

yet, much as he would have loved to express this all in the most thorough manner possible, sebastian knew better than to press and spark another quarrel they also did not have the time for. getting out was priority—and if he was good, he could multitask their bickering while they walked.

‘ yeah, like i’m dying to be here. ‘

rolling his eyes, mouth opening to throw in an additional quip of how moving was a necessary evil, he froze before he could so much begin to form the words. head jerking about to fix into the darkness, as if his eyes could slice through and see the source of the wailing scream, silence lingered for a beat. christ, he didn’t have time for this.

‘ whatever. ‘

waylon didn’t need to tell him twice, for he had already begun to move. ‘ just know that bein’ behind me means nobody’s watching your back. ‘

lord, if they wanted to have any hope of escaping, they need to figure out how to get to the power. there was no chance in hell that they would have an easy time traversing a pitch-dark maze like this place, not when he was certain the doors would be all locked. where did they keep the keys here?

‘ keep an eye out for anything that can be used as a weapon. ‘ a glance back was paid towards waylon, voice low and quiet as they inched along. ‘ there isn’t gonna be a locker to hide in everywhere we go. ‘

        “Oh, would you stop that?”

His patience slips for but a moment, and Waylon snaps back in that instant. He’s not usually so hot-headed -- but then again, he’s never had to suffer this sort of stress in the presence of another.

        “So what if I was hiding? I’m just a regular guy who doesn’t wanna die. An I.T. tech with a love for watching horror stories, not getting caught up in them. If I’m not cut out for danger, that’s not my fault.”

He quietly fumes, reminding himself that this isn’t the time nor the place to tear into each other for... What? A difference in personality? Their lives are on the line, and if the pair of them don’t shut up and cool it, they might miss something of some actual importance.

...Ugh. Great. Can’t see shit, no matter which way one might look. 

 Quiet, cautious, Waylon trails after Sebastian, scowling into the murky blackness ahead of them as he feels the wall with one hand as a way to roughly guide him along. He’s silent for a beat or two, before the reluctant apology inevitably comes.

Whoever this person is -- this angry, frustrated, frightened person -- it isn’t him.

          “Sorry. I just want to go home. It’s not your fault, either.”

And he won’t allow himself to die feeling like this. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good at fighting back, but it won’t stop him from trying.

The kids are thoroughly distracted by their game of soccer, so cue one very tired dad wolfing down a chocolate bar (sadly half-melted from the heat of his pocket) behind a tree in the park.

His boys, especially, are the light of his life. Conjure up the stereotypical images of Dads playing catch and going to Little League games to cheer for their kids on the sidelines, because that’s him!! Such a proud dad!!!!!

When his first son was born, he was newly-wed and honestly terrified of parenthood. But as soon as he saw that chubby little screaming face, it was love at first sight. This tiny, fragile little being depended on him, and by God was he going to step up and accept the mantle of Best Dad Ever!!! His second son arrived with (too) much excitement on his part, and people probably couldn’t wait for the kid to pop out so he could Shut Up about it... But he never did, you absolute fools!!!!!!!!! HAVE YOU SEEN HIS SON? HE’S  P E R F E C T. 

He’s the goofy, silly half of the parental equation. Lisa regularly has to play the part of the disciplinarian, because Waylon cannot possibly say no to his boys. They play him hard, and he falls for it every damn time.

Working for Murkoff sucked. (Obviously.)  Security was so tight that he had to spend an extended time away from the people he loved. Isolated and lonely, it was made so much worse by the fact that he couldn’t even build friendships at work. His colleagues were generally very pushy, forceful, and outright rude to him -- jarringly so -- and that kind of toxic work culture wasn’t something he could vibe with as an Actual Decent Human Being.

It made him miss home life all the more. But the money was good, and they were at a point in life where they couldn’t afford not to take the job. And so they hauled their lives over to Leadville, and Waylon spent his long days at work wishing he could be snuggled up in bed with his family.

Post-game, he wishes he could give his wife and kids the future that they deserve, and harbors a lot of guilt and self-hatred for endangering his family. Mount Massive would have happened whether he blew the whistle or not, and for their sake?

“ i understand. ” at least, he felt he did, as far as the obvious paranoia went, and he was no stranger to it. many of the individuals he dealt with on a day to day basis, witnesses, victims themselves, they all carried the burden of fear. many didn’t survive it, unable to stomach even another day more of glancing over their shoulders, crossing and dotting every letter twice.  fear was lethal, and it seemed the man fidgeting across from him was up to his neck in it.

that was what the police were supposed to be for, but trusting a uniform at face value was too idealistic.  even joseph knew so, maybe a little too well.

“ i am sure i’m willing to help you. i’ll be honest, this is … i’m just still not sure how qualified i am on my own. ”  everything joseph did was, for the most part a team effort, with the support of a precinct, a full government system.  on his own, off the records, what sort of power did he really have?  witness protection was made for this, entire teams of capable and similarly-minded people, yet if the man wouldn’t trust them, what other options were there?  ordinarily, joseph would lead, follow a process, but this was different. in every, horrific sense, it was different, but the images of death and misery he had just seen were still far too fresh in mind. if this were a hoax, it would fall apart quickly. if it weren’t, he would be letting an entire innocent family, maybe even more to drown, and couldn’t abide by it.

“ just tell me where to start.  ”

Where should one start when there’s so much to unpack?

Too many abuses on too many different levels. Corruption, bullying, and harassment in all of its forms. People bought, silenced, or simply made to disappear. Human suffering for the sake of profit, disguised as treatment -- a kindness.

Far too much for one lone man to investigate, certainly, but what else can he do when trust is in such short supply? The napkin at his side is slid over, a few words hastily jotted down in navy Biro. ‘Murkoff. Mt. Massive, CO. Morphogenic Engine.’

         “Not sure how far you’ll get. I worked for these people, and Legal is rock solid. There isn’t much that can’t be bought these days.”

Not him, though. They’ve done a fine job of ruining Waylon’s life in absentia, made damn sure he remains as little of a threat as possible until he’s tracked down. An intelligent, well-educated man watered down to little more than some obsessive conspiracist.

       “The place could be squeaky clean by now -- but the stuff I took away from there is legitimate, and the fact that it exists scares them. Video archives, internal emails and documents, all sorts.”

As far as the world knows, he’s crazy -- and how can he possibly blame anyone for thinking otherwise? Sometimes he wonders if he truly has lost his mind, but hard evidence doesn’t lie.

         “There was another witness, but finding him is... Difficult. Maybe even impossible. You wouldn’t believe me without first showing it to you.”

At this point, he’d give just about anything not to have to justify himself. If he can get just one person on the outside to see it for themselves, it’ll all be worthwhile.