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@managersmanager
Hi I'm Plane, I'm 23, and I write Jeremy Blaire from Outlast.
By following this blog you agree you are at or above the legal age in America (18 years of age) to view content that is considered adult or "NSFW", and I, the blog owner, will not be held legally responsible for your reactions thereof.
18+ ONLY.
managersmanager:
“Get the fuck OFF me–”
Thrashing, lips peeling back in a snarl – if he could move his head, he would’ve been biting at anything he could reach. Kill the little shit with just his teeth if he could.
But the leather is tough, the chair is solid, and the buckles don’t break. Waylon isn’t moving, isn’t even listening. Jeremy’s words, his threats, his pleas, all fall on deaf ears. All he gets for his trouble is a cold sting at his neck– and a glimps at an empty syringe as Waylon’s hand moves.
Fuck.
“Shit! What– Wha wah thah..”
It’s a stupid question. He can already tell what it was by the icy tendrils swiping through his veins. The cold, numb ache they leave behind, all radio towers severed from the mainland. No communication in, no communication out. Already his once manic struggles weaken to squirming, then twitches. He wills movement, he wills freedom. Yet gets nowhere.
“Fuhhn– bauthuh, Ahhkiuhhyuh.”
Jeremy’s heart is thudding, but his body refuses to act. If any watching parties didn’t know better, one might even assume he was calminng down, dozing off even. Even if his pupils contract, his slack jaw starts to drool and his breathing stutters once and then again (as if trying to hyperventilate). For all intents and purposes, Jeremy is calm.
There is going to be no shutting his eyes to escape the Engine this time.
“… right. Okay.”
Okay.
Waylon offers a kiss. A single, quick kiss at the side of Blaire’s face before he begins to paw for Jeremy’s - there it is - phone.
Redialing the last number called, Waylon begins to play out a script in his mind. There was an accident. Someone got out. Blaire got caught in the crossfire. He’s fine, just medicated. He’s fine, just dazed.
The Engine hums idly on, the phone rings twice before Waylon begins to soothe the panicked voice on the other end.
“Hey, this is Wayl – yes, that Waylon.”
Christ. He’s going to talk to Blaire about that.
“Look. Hey. He’s fine. Yeah. No, he won’t be able to see you tonight. Um. A patient got loose and…” Mindlessly, hands drift across the body of the Engine, appreciate the cold smoothness, the lack of contours, gentle vibrations that rock through the thin wall of steel, “Well. Long story short - he broke an arm. They gave him morphine, and they want to keep an eye on him before letting him out. What? God, no,” now he’s going to have to break an arm. Great. Wonderful, “no, he’s fine. He’s fine. Go home. He’ll call you in the morning.” Upstairs, in the observation room, there’s a hammer to break windows in case of fire. Somehow, the idea of smashing an arm is a lot more comfortable than gripping Blaire and snapping it in two with his own hands.
“Yeah.”
Push the button. Reset the timer. Nod to nobody. Close the door behind him.
“Yeah. See you then.”
The Engine stirs back to life.
Not even 'fuck' is a strong enough word to describe his situation. Blaire's mind is going a mile a minute, though nothing physical moves to catch up. Not even his breathing offers a hitch, a stutter. Waylon could release the restraints and not only would he be unable to get up, he might even flop out of them, completely boneless.
He can't yell as Waylon draws close. Can't complain as he takes his phone. Can't throw obsenities as he dials the number. Can only whine in the background, a small pitiful noise to his predicament. Praying to gods that don't listen or care.
God, Satan, bystanders, anyone actually listening -- he can't even beg.
Not that Waylon is listening anymore.
Those nine screens are the death of his resistance as they flicker back on.
For a moment, he feels he might be floating, might be able to escape through the roof, can look away and shut his eyes and beat the shit out of Park before---
nothing.
Visions, memories, it doesn't matter what he sees. He's not even sure how to describe the sensation, not that he could. Stupified with whatever Waylon has given him. Drooling on his egyptian cotton shirt, having so many epiphanies and thoughts and feelings and emotions and sensations and experiences -- it's almost like having none at all.
At one point or another, Jeremy had drifted off, though "sleep" was far from any description correctly assessing his situation. Head half dipped, huge pupils locked onto those screens. Screens holding answers, questions, and something of a mixture between the two.
Not that he'd be able to explain or even remember upon "waking".
managersmanager:
“FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT–!”
His voice is strong as ever, tears carving tracks through his dirty face from how hard he’s clenched his eyes shut. But it’s fine. He did it. He survived. The engine turned off, what felt like years in the chair finally come to an end.
Waylon must know he can’t win. He must. He’s a lower level peon compared to Blaire, not nearly as important. Sure, he knows how to work the engine, but they can just as easily find a replacemeny. Jeremy is sure of it.
“I’m going to make you fucking EAT that cigarette you shitty girl haired whiny bitch.”
It’s not original. It’s not even that cutting of a remark. But all Jeremy can do is froth and spit and hurl insults – and it feels leagues better than just sitting there waiting for him.
“Let me out, you bastard. Fucking let mE OUT-”
His sentence not even finished, just dissolving into more unintelligible cursed and yells as he makes the buckles on the restraints jingle and sing from his movements. He WILL get free and he WILL give Waylon a scarf made of his own intestines.
“That’s not what you were saying when I tried to cut it.”
Unafraid of Mr. Blaire’s rage, Waylon so gently draws closer to the chair and his arms wrap around neck and shoulders, face pressing against face.
“Listen.”
Listen, underneath the yells, underneath the groans of the chair, there’s a soft hum from the Engine. Unyielding, ever-present, there is some alien type of love dripping from each octave of the Engine. It’s some type of comfort for the fervid and paranoid, if Mr. Blaire had only kept quiet and listened…
But even if Mr. Blaire heard the song of the Engine, could he possibly understand? Would the wolf ever know anything more fulfilling than crushing rabbit bones for marrow? There is one more thing Waylon knows he can try, before he’ll give up and leave Mr. Blaire for dead.
Even if Mr. Blaire must die, Waylon is still showing more pity than Mr. Blaire had ever granted him. More pity than the wolf had ever shown the rabbit.
Out, comes the muscle relaxant. In, the needle sinks into the wolf’s neck.
"Get the fuck OFF me--"
Thrashing, lips peeling back in a snarl -- if he could move his head, he would've been biting at anything he could reach. Kill the little shit with just his teeth if he could.
But the leather is tough, the chair is solid, and the buckles don't break. Waylon isn't moving, isn't even listening. Jeremy's words, his threats, his pleas, all fall on deaf ears. All he gets for his trouble is a cold sting at his neck-- and a glimps at an empty syringe as Waylon's hand moves.
Fuck.
"Shit! What-- Wha wah thah.."
It's a stupid question. He can already tell what it was by the icy tendrils swiping through his veins. The cold, numb ache they leave behind, all radio towers severed from the mainland. No communication in, no communication out. Already his once manic struggles weaken to squirming, then twitches. He wills movement, he wills freedom. Yet gets nowhere.
"Fuhhn-- bauthuh, Ahhkiuhhyuh."
Jeremy's heart is thudding, but his body refuses to act. If any watching parties didn't know better, one might even assume he was calminng down, dozing off even. Even if his pupils contract, his slack jaw starts to drool and his breathing stutters once and then again (as if trying to hyperventilate). For all intents and purposes, Jeremy is calm.
There is going to be no shutting his eyes to escape the Engine this time.
managersmanager:
“Waylon?”
His panic is evident as Waylon stops responding. Mounting mania, ripping and thrashing at his restraints. Jeremy goes nowhere, but still acts like the feral animal his terror demands he is.
“Waylon!”
He’s not responding, he’s ignoring him and goig to turn it on anyway he’s going to shove jeremy in the engine no matter how much he protests and fights and screams–
“WAYLON!”
This can’t be happening. Jeremy has felt paranoia, discomfort, anger, love, lust – he'e felt a lot of things, many different emotions. But somehow? This is different. This fear, it almost chokes him. Helplessness makes him want to vomit. Despair– oh this one. This is new.
Despair is new to Jeremy Blaire and Jeremy Blaire fucking hates it.
“Waylon listen to me! Don’t– Don’t you dare turn that machine on!”
Even as he screams, Jeremy has turned his head as far as it will go. Scrunched his eyes so tightly they HURT, blooms of purple and pink striping his vision. He won’t look. Easy. He won’t look, won’t get curious, there’s nothing Waylon can do to force him to look. He can strap him down, can turn it on, but Jeremy just won’t look.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking murder you Park, mark my fucking words CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THERE? I’LL FUCKING RIP YOU IN HALF, FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT– I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
This cruel streak is a new taste in Waylon’s mouth. Too weak for Waylon to grab the microphone and taunt Jeremy, bitter enough to drive him to wave down to Jeremy. There is nothing in his face; no smile, no pathetic attempt at comfort, no effort put into disguising revenge as anything but.
One minute. Waylon undoes his ponytail, bends over, redoes his ponytail to suit the headphones more comfortably. A prompt flickers on the screen - PROCEED? - YES.
And that’s it, really. Nothing more to do than to sit back and skip through a couple of songs, killing around fifteen minutes.
How stupid does Jeremy think Waylon is? Of course he’s aware he’d be fired, institutionalized if precautions were not taken. And Waylon had. A favor here for Andrew, a favor there for night security. And Jeremy himself? Fifteen minutes to declaw him of any malice. Fifteen minutes to make him - how did Jeremy think of it? Soft and pliable.
Underneath a sign that says NO SMOKING, Waylon lights up. There’s a lot that one can get away with should they have the right amount of power. There’s a lot more Waylon can get away with through unrelenting kindness and letting the other guy hit him as many times as he likes.
Cigarette smoke betrays Waylon’s re-entrance.
“Hey. Calmed down?”
"FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT--!"
His voice is strong as ever, tears carving tracks through his dirty face from how hard he's clenched his eyes shut. But it's fine. He did it. He survived. The engine turned off, what felt like years in the chair finally come to an end.
Waylon must know he can't win. He must. He's a lower level peon compared to Blaire, not nearly as important. Sure, he knows how to work the engine, but they can just as easily find a replacemeny. Jeremy is sure of it.
"I'm going to make you fucking EAT that cigarette you shitty girl haired whiny bitch."
It's not original. It's not even that cutting of a remark. But all Jeremy can do is froth and spit and hurl insults -- and it feels leagues better than just sitting there waiting for him.
"Let me out, you bastard. Fucking let mE OUT-"
His sentence not even finished, just dissolving into more unintelligible cursed and yells as he makes the buckles on the restraints jingle and sing from his movements. He WILL get free and he WILL give Waylon a scarf made of his own intestines.
managersmanager:
The question has him furrowing his eyebrows, confusion written across bruising features. What was he fighting for? His freedom. Keeping his sanity. Staying out of the engine. Maybe even fighting to get loose and beat the little shit to a bloody pulp.
The question’s answer dies on his lips as Waylon gets closer, helps wipe the blood from his chin.
There are so many levels to unpack from these last twenty minutes it’s starting to make Blaire’s head spin. Goddamn he should’ve left early, he was missing his booty call for this shit.
“You’re telling me you don’t think I could give you what you want if you let me out right now? Pa– Please. Waylon. You know me, know who I am. What I can do. I pull one string and people suck dick to appease me. What do you think that means for you?”
As he speaks, his phone vibrates. He can feel it – sure Waylon can hear it too. Madelyne, probably. Wondering where her 300$ for two hours is. She knows him, knows his schedule. Knows he tips too. He doesn’t answer, she’ll know somethings up.
A thousand– maybe two if she calls the police. He’s promising her in his head right now. Just for the love of god, get to him before Park turns on that fucking machine–
“La–Last chance.”
His voice cracks as his heartbeat spikes. Park knows the machine as well as Blaire does. It’s nearing starting time, almost ready to turn on. He doesn’t want to know what it’s like, doesn’t care. Just wants to go home. Fuck he’s gonna kill the little shit so slowly.
“Waylon please.”
Gently, as if handling broken glass, the handkerchief is tucked back away in Jeremy’s breastpocket.
A kiss feels appropriate. Waylon does not act on it. Love, the most human action of all, is something Jeremy fails to comprehend. He always will. Perhaps that is the greater tragedy of Waylon. Perhaps this is what will justify Jeremy and the Engine; afterwards, after peering into his own lucid dreams, maybe then he’ll…
In a dream of his own, Waylon breaks his touch and drifts away.
Three minutes until the Engine awakens.
If a look could communicate anything - anything at all - there would be something akin to an apology, another futile confession of love. Waylon would have been able to explain himself, this revenge scheme, how it’s all for Jeremy’s sake rather than hatred and punishment. He’s doing good for once.
No. No, looks don’t communicate enough. Waylon’s expression is mournful and that is it.
Two minutes until the Engine awakens.
Headphones slip on, Madonna plays quietly. Waylon exits, back to his comfortable view above the Engine and patient.
They’ll get coffee afterwards.
"Waylon?"
His panic is evident as Waylon stops responding. Mounting mania, ripping and thrashing at his restraints. Jeremy goes nowhere, but still acts like the feral animal his terror demands he is.
"Waylon!"
He's not responding, he's ignoring him and goig to turn it on anyway he's going to shove jeremy in the engine no matter how much he protests and fights and screams--
"WAYLON!"
This can't be happening. Jeremy has felt paranoia, discomfort, anger, love, lust -- he'e felt a lot of things, many different emotions. But somehow? This is different. This fear, it almost chokes him. Helplessness makes him want to vomit. Despair-- oh this one. This is new.
Despair is new to Jeremy Blaire and Jeremy Blaire fucking hates it.
"Waylon listen to me! Don't-- Don't you dare turn that machine on!"
Even as he screams, Jeremy has turned his head as far as it will go. Scrunched his eyes so tightly they HURT, blooms of purple and pink striping his vision. He won't look. Easy. He won't look, won't get curious, there's nothing Waylon can do to force him to look. He can strap him down, can turn it on, but Jeremy just won't look.
"I'll kill you! I'll fucking murder you Park, mark my fucking words CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THERE? I'LL FUCKING RIP YOU IN HALF, FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT-- I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
@managersmanager | closed
Nobody is staring.
Nobody cares.
“Miles. You’ve gone off the fucking rails.”
The baristas are talking about loser complexes, a couple whispers to each other, and Waylon can’t stop sniffing, can’t stop tapping his nose.
It tastes like fucking NutraSweet.
What Jeremy gave him couldn’t be snorted, it hangs in the back of his throat with an ominous sweetness - he should have put it in his coffee. If he coughs, Waylon is vaguely positive he’ll hack up thick stringy clumps of blood and a sugary mucus. It’s burned into the folds of his brain, withering up something horrible.
“I’m not - I don’t want to do this anymore, man.”
Miles lives on a proverbial movie set. Deep slow breaths. The best coping skill he learned from a high school counselor. Miles thinks the world is going to follow the script of some B grade spy film. And Waylon, loyal sidekick, is going to go to the bowels of hell for him. Because of him and his noble causes.
“I think you should go. Now.”
"We can't quit now," comes the reply, sucking down his own drink with vigor. The guy had been wanting to pull out for so long, weeks ago, but Miles knew they were so close to cracking this so wide open the upper echelon bastards at Murkoff couldn't HOPE to cover it up.
He's come so far, sacrificed so much -- he can't quit. Not now.
"Waylon, do you realize what this means?"
Miles taps the computer screen in front of him, causing little ripples of pixels to die and revive in waves. Excited. He's too excited. Needs to calm down.
"It means we have an opening. This shit right here? You said was one of THOUSANDS of files. One of these leaked, sure they can claim it was a typo or forged or the guy doesn't exist. But thousands? We could sink them for GOOD man -- you -- you can't leave me hanging. Just this last one, arrite?"
managersmanager:
His words, his movements, contradict that last statement. He is crazy. Deranged. Seeing things through some kind of lens Jeremy doesn’t even know what. Seeing things how he wants to.
Through that lens – the sudden term looking glass almost making Jeremy laugh – jeremy is waylon’s friend. maybe more, given how he reacted their last rendesvous in blaire’s office. waylon and murkoff do good work. help troubled people. no experiments, no violation of h.uman ri.ghts. everything is how it should be.
Even if Blaire’s lip is split from a harsh slap, even if his muscles scream in protest and pain every time he moves. Even if he struggled against the position he’s been forced into. Even if every single available sign (and even subtext, should Waylon be able to read it) point to the opposite.
Alice you’re so fucked up and you’ve dragged me with you.
“Listen to me, Waylon,” name weaponized, full of silk and kindness despite the need to flay him open with a butter knife,
“You want a raise? Fuck – just ask for it. Corner office, secretary – fine. Whatever you want. But you turn on that screen? All you’ll get is fired. They’ll fire you, maybe admit you. And you don’t want that, do you?”
how quickly tactics change, once intimidating, now terrified snake in the grass playing dead and rolling over. exposing underbelly. pitiful. it makes him sick.
“Don’t – Don’t be stupid, Waylon.”
Here is everything Waylon could want. Here is Jeremy using his name, every syllable sounded out so gently, Wa - y - lon, an almost tender edge to it. If Waylon hits his head a little, closes his eyes, and listens to Jeremy say his name (His name! Not his last name. His name, his name; Waylon.), he can so comfortably pretend it’s a lover calling for him.
It’s…
Hands touch Jeremy’s breast, fishing out the decorative handkerchief, pressing the soft fabric to his broken lip.
Nobody has what Waylon wants. There is nobody who will save him from his life. There is nobody who will love him the way Waylon wants to be loved - nobody who needs him, nobody who wants him. He has tried, again and again, to fit into their world - as big and small as he could possibly have been. But there are no cliques to take him in, no hands outstretched to take his. Something is repellent about him. Something about him brings out everybody’s inner vitriol. Something is deeply wrong with Waylon Park, and they can all see it but him.
His answer: “You wouldn’t be able to give it to me.”
The Engine is dragging him down, he’ll take Jeremy down with him. He’ll make his coming end mean something.
“What are you fighting for, anyway?”
A lament for himself, more than a question to Jeremy.
The question has him furrowing his eyebrows, confusion written across bruising features. What was he fighting for? His freedom. Keeping his sanity. Staying out of the engine. Maybe even fighting to get loose and beat the little shit to a bloody pulp.
The question's answer dies on his lips as Waylon gets closer, helps wipe the blood from his chin.
There are so many levels to unpack from these last twenty minutes it's starting to make Blaire's head spin. Goddamn he should've left early, he was missing his booty call for this shit.
"You're telling me you don't think I could give you what you want if you let me out right now? Pa-- Please. Waylon. You know me, know who I am. What I can do. I pull one string and people suck dick to appease me. What do you think that means for you?"
As he speaks, his phone vibrates. He can feel it -- sure Waylon can hear it too. Madelyne, probably. Wondering where her 300$ for two hours is. She knows him, knows his schedule. Knows he tips too. He doesn't answer, she'll know somethings up.
A thousand-- maybe two if she calls the police. He's promising her in his head right now. Just for the love of god, get to him before Park turns on that fucking machine--
"La--Last chance."
His voice cracks as his heartbeat spikes. Park knows the machine as well as Blaire does. It's nearing starting time, almost ready to turn on. He doesn't want to know what it's like, doesn't care. Just wants to go home. Fuck he's gonna kill the little shit so slowly.
"Waylon please."
managersmanager:
It’s like he weighs nothing. Jeremy puts up his fight, struggles and kicks and yells, and for all it gets him he’s still in the chair. Hair dischevled, cheek stinging from the strike, Blaire can’t breathe for the longest time. Everything still hurts. But he doesn’t have to look when Waylon turns the machine on. All he has to do is wait for someone else to come down here, wait for someone to save him, to beat the shit out of Waylon and take him to the lower cells to be processed.
“Fuckgn–”
Of course he’d snap. Of couse he’d pull this shit. Of course. Blaire is a fool for ignoring it so long, Waylon needs to be admitted, lobotomized or murdered, perhaps all three if he turns that fucking machine on.
Teeth grit so hard his jaw pops audibly, Blaire struggles to steady his breathing. His muscles still won’t cooperate but he can still toss and turn, kick and pull and try to stand and rip the leather holding him down. Of course it doesn’t rip. Of course he goes nowhere. But he’s not giving up his sanity that easily.
“Fucking….psyco– you’re a fucking PSYCHO– No wonder you – fit in so well.”
His words come quickly, out of breath and RUSHED–
“Piece of shit. How the fuck do you expect this to go?”
So tiredly, Waylon shrugs. His face is totally empty of real emotion, dazed and reeling more and more from the shock of the slap than Blaire ever could – as if there’s a reason to pity himself over the man in the engine.
How the fuck do you expect this to go?
They both know the answer to that.
Quite easily, Mister Blaire, sir. I only need to turn it on.
But Waylon mouths something at Blaire, saying nothing. Hands too warm reach out to touch Blaire’s face, to gently run over stubbled cheeks. Waylon shakes his head, “You don’t get it, do you?”
The Engine, the swarm - all of it is a means to a paycheck. So easily left behind and forgotten once clocked out. The song of the hive goes unheard - indescribable, beautiful, drumming on in the night —–
“What? Huh? I don’t fit in - what?“ Waylon drops his hands, confusion replacing the blankness. “I… belong here. Just as much as you and everyone else. I’m not crazy.”
His words, his movements, contradict that last statement. He is crazy. Deranged. Seeing things through some kind of lens Jeremy doesn't even know what. Seeing things how he wants to.
Through that lens -- the sudden term looking glass almost making Jeremy laugh -- jeremy is waylon's friend. maybe more, given how he reacted their last rendesvous in blaire's office. waylon and murkoff do good work. help troubled people. no experiments, no violation of h.uman ri.ghts. everything is how it should be.
Even if Blaire's lip is split from a harsh slap, even if his muscles scream in protest and pain every time he moves. Even if he struggled against the position he's been forced into. Even if every single available sign (and even subtext, should Waylon be able to read it) point to the opposite.
Alice you're so fucked up and you've dragged me with you.
"Listen to me, Waylon," name weaponized, full of silk and kindness despite the need to flay him open with a butter knife,
"You want a raise? Fuck -- just ask for it. Corner office, secretary -- fine. Whatever you want. But you turn on that screen? All you'll get is fired. They'll fire you, maybe admit you. And you don't want that, do you?"
how quickly tactics change, once intimidating, now terrified snake in the grass playing dead and rolling over. exposing underbelly. pitiful. it makes him sick.
"Don't -- Don't be stupid, Waylon."
managersmanager:
It’s embarassing to realize what’s going to happen only this late in the game. It’s almost obvious, seeing things from this angle now. Perhaps it’s the pounding headache, the blurry vision, even the low vantage point while being dragged across the floor.
It could be any number of things that took him as long as he had, but none of it mattered now. Not when this is his last chance to do anything about it.
As Waylon picks him up, Jeremy’s heart leaps into his throat. No. No no. The faint sounds of computers, Waylon’s empty demeanor. Fuck, he was CRAZY crazy. How does he expect this to go? How does this man expect to survive the week after putting the regional fucking manager in the machine itself?
Jeremy doesn’t care. He’s too busy flailing, kicking his feet and arching his back to stay out of the chaif, anything but the chair. He values his sanity, doesn’t know what it’ll do to him but he doesn’t care because it’s not going to happen it’s not it’s not it’s not–
“Shit–”
Awake now. Or struggling to cling to it. Waylon was tiny, a fucking shrimp, it wouldn’t be that hard to stand up and plant his shoe in his ass. The Engine has clearly done more damage to their techs than he though previous. If it doesn’t kill him, he’ll have to put in an order to check it out further.
“guhh– Fughh–! Get– off me!”
It’s the first display of weakness tonight, when Waylon gathers a fistful of Jeremy’s lock in his grip and whispers, begs; “Stop it. Stop it - I don’t want to hurt you.”
The act of pulling Jeremy’s head back, hand on chest and pushing – it’s almost intimate to Waylon, the kindest touch shared between them in years. This moral quandary faces challenge now when panic enters Jeremy’s voice, when Waylon slams down his hand on Jeremy’s chest, fighting for cooperation.
“I don’t - I’m trying to do something for you, stupid fuck! Why -” One arm, one strap, “- do you have -” he’s echoing Jeremy’s words, he’s better than Jeremy, he’s doing the right thing, “- to make it so -” oh, why did it have to be Waylon? Second arm, second strap, anybody else could so easily justify this and anybody else wouldn’t have bitterly cared enough to even try.
“Difficult!”
Punctuated with a slap to Jeremy’s face.
A slap to Jeremy’s face…
Waylon staggers back, the impact shocking him more than his superior, no doubt.
“Oh my God. Um. I didn’t… mean to do that. Sorry. Sorry.”
He’s not the same, he’s not the same, he’s better than Jeremy, he’s better than every single soul in this place, he’s not the same as them, not the same…
It's like he weighs nothing. Jeremy puts up his fight, struggles and kicks and yells, and for all it gets him he's still in the chair. Hair dischevled, cheek stinging from the strike, Blaire can't breathe for the longest time. Everything still hurts. But he doesn't have to look when Waylon turns the machine on. All he has to do is wait for someone else to come down here, wait for someone to save him, to beat the shit out of Waylon and take him to the lower cells to be processed.
"Fuckgn--"
Of course he'd snap. Of couse he'd pull this shit. Of course. Blaire is a fool for ignoring it so long, Waylon needs to be admitted, lobotomized or murdered, perhaps all three if he turns that fucking machine on.
Teeth grit so hard his jaw pops audibly, Blaire struggles to steady his breathing. His muscles still won't cooperate but he can still toss and turn, kick and pull and try to stand and rip the leather holding him down. Of course it doesn't rip. Of course he goes nowhere. But he's not giving up his sanity that easily.
"Fucking....psyco-- you're a fucking PSYCHO-- No wonder you -- fit in so well."
His words come quickly, out of breath and RUSHED--
"Piece of shit. How the fuck do you expect this to go?"
managersmanager:
Everything hurts. Every single muscle feels raw and worn thin, every fibre of his being feels a thousand years old. And all that from a simple stun gun? Where did the little shit even get it?
…and where were they even going?
He manages to get his hands beneath him, forcing his tired body to react. Whatever Waylon is doing, Jeremy wants no part. They keep going deeper and deeper and he can’t even remember a time this building alone made him so aprehensive.
“….Park..”
At least his voice is recovering faster than his legs. Still tangling, still fumbling for purchase. He can move, but not enough to put up a fight for Waylon as much as a nuisance when moving. Grabbing at anything as he’s dragged, hoping to slow them down enough he can regain control of his useless limbs.
It’s hard to see through the bruising that comes with a broken nose. He can already feel it swelling, both his eyes threatening to swell shut. He’s going to kill the fucker, gonna make it slow and long and miserable. No one will ever find the body, buried so deep he’d only be sad he cant watch it rot.
“Fuck are you.. doing…”
“Trust me when I say; it’s for your own good,” Waylon chirps.
Fingers mindlessly glide over a keypad, prompting the great machine to awaken.
“Don’t bother running. I got tased once and couldn’t get up for like… thirty minutes. Can’t imagine how long it’ll take for you, since I hit you twice.”
How careless is Waylon’s tone, borderline mocking - unable to pretend there’s any trace of sympathy for his superior’s pain. Shake away Jeremy’s hand gripping his leg, hum to the tuneless beat, play with the settings as if there’s an intent other than to destroy the cortex.
In Waylon’s mind, Jeremy had done this to himself. He had forced Waylon’s hand to strike. There is nothing to question, no morality to challenge. When you have warned the child not to disturb the dogs, you do not punish the dog for snapping its teeth. A subtle glare to match the anger leaping up in his heart.
Waylon does not act on the malice in his eyes. Because Waylon is a better person than Jeremy. Because Waylon had promised; I won’t hurt you, I won’t kill you. No matter how badly he wants to bring his foot down on Jeremy’s hand and crush his fingers as Jeremy had once done to him in the past.
Jeremy should be thanking him.
“I’ll drive you home after this,” Waylon grunts as Jeremy is hefted into his arms, pushed against the patient’s chair, “you’ll be fine.”
It's embarassing to realize what's going to happen only this late in the game. It's almost obvious, seeing things from this angle now. Perhaps it's the pounding headache, the blurry vision, even the low vantage point while being dragged across the floor.
It could be any number of things that took him as long as he had, but none of it mattered now. Not when this is his last chance to do anything about it.
As Waylon picks him up, Jeremy's heart leaps into his throat. No. No no. The faint sounds of computers, Waylon's empty demeanor. Fuck, he was CRAZY crazy. How does he expect this to go? How does this man expect to survive the week after putting the regional fucking manager in the machine itself?
Jeremy doesn't care. He's too busy flailing, kicking his feet and arching his back to stay out of the chair, anything but the chair. He values his sanity, doesn't know what it'll do to him but he doesn't care because it's not going to happen it's not it's not it's not--
"Shit--"
Awake now. Or struggling to cling to it. Waylon was tiny, a fucking shrimp, it wouldn't be that hard to stand up and plant his shoe in his ass. The Engine has clearly done more damage to their techs than he though previous. If it doesn't kill him, he'll have to put in an order to check it out further.
"guhh-- Fughh--! Get-- off me!"
managersmanager:
don’t fight me.
Ad if Blaire could even sit up on his own. Boneless. Hell, not even his muscles will coopetate. All he can do is breathe and squirm, kicking his feet in a poor attemp to stand.
“fffffuhhhghh..”
He wants to curse. To swing, feel Waylon’s teeth cave under his fist. But Blaire can barely curl his hands, grip onto Waylon’s shirt and yelp as he’s carried along. Feet tangling beneath him, grip unable to really keep anything, it’s another painful spanse of time before he hits the floor. Or… had he been punched? No no, that’s the cold floor under his cheek, his broken nose leaking blood like a sprung waterline. Yhat’s certainly the floor he’s leaning on, sprawled dazedly. Is anything else broken? It all feels the same level of pain.
Though none of it can compare to the second tase, a strangled noise tearing itself free. He’s not even sure if he really blacks out or if it’s just him squeezing his eyes as tight as he can. Teeth clenched so hard he can hear muscles straining, every muscle taut and stiff.
“F-HNGHH–”
oh he just may murder park now.
“Sir, I’m showing you the same mercy you’ve shown me,” Waylon’s voice comes twinged with annoyance at Blaire’s attempt at a retort.
It’s hopeless to expect Blaire to keep walking. Waylon grips, twists Blaire’s coat and uses it as an anchor to drag his superior across the path. Blood trails after them, blood smears where Blaire’s body is lugged. Waylon enjoys this much more than he is supposed to - the rabbit has usurped the wolf.
“Relax. I’m not going to kill you or take out your eyes or anything. You’ll be out of here in two hours.” And even in victory, the rabbit still panders to the wolf’s better senses.
As ceremoniously as Blaire twitches across the floor, Waylon drops him down at his feet, fumbles with a keycard, unlocks the door containing the heart of Mount Massive.
Once more, the bloodied trek begins with Blaire in tow.
It occurs to Waylon that Blaire totally lacks intimacy with the Engine. No whaler’s song rings in his skull, no dreams bleed through reality. From the businessman’s point of view, it is a machine. A means to a profit. To fear the Engine is to fear a radio, a soulless machine that dies when unplugged. Like love, like humanity, Jeremy Blaire simply cannot comprehend.
Blaire is dropped to the floor again, a little gentler this time, as Waylon doesn’t allow his head to fall, but instead gently guides it with his foot.
The song shifts, asking why Waylon doesn’t kill him.
To the Engine’s question. “I like him. You wouldn’t get it.”
Everything hurts. Every single muscle feels raw and worn thin, every fibre of his being feels a thousand years old. And all that from a simple stun gun? Where did the little shit even get it?
...and where were they even going?
He manages to get his hands beneath him, forcing his tired body to react. Whatever Waylon is doing, Jeremy wants no part. They keep going deeper and deeper and he can't even remember a time this building alone made him so aprehensive.
"....Park.."
At least his voice is recovering faster than his legs. Still tangling, still fumbling for purchase. He can move, but not enough to put up a fight for Waylon as much as a nuisance when moving. Grabbing at anything as he's dragged, hoping to slow them down enough he can regain control of his useless limbs.
It's hard to see through the bruising that comes with a broken nose. He can already feel it swelling, both his eyes threatening to swell shut. He's going to kill the fucker, gonna make it slow and long and miserable. No one will ever find the body, buried so deep he'd only be sad he cant watch it rot.
"Fuck are you.. doing..."
managersmanager:
The elevator dings as Blaire hears footsteps behind him. Quick footsteps, hurried footsteps, footsteps of a man that doesn’t want to get locked in the building when the second to last person leaves.
The manager sighs, kneading the bridge of his nose at the thought of talking to Park.
“Oh good, y–”
The words don’t even get past his lips. Half turned, he manages to get a glimps of Park. heading at him, something demonic in his eyes – and a sudden searing pain at his lower rib.
Every muscle in his body contracts as electricity shoots through him. The folder in hand crumpled. Blood in his mouth from his bitten tongue. A thick, heavy, allconsuming pulsing coming from his belly, each thudding louder and louder in his ears before he realises he’s on the floor of the elevator.
Still conscious, but drowning in agony. animal thing, clawing and tearing and begging to be recognized. But all he can do is lay there, unable to catch his breath. Wheezing on the ground, unable to think worse than a night drinking on the town.
The little fucker had tased him–!
There is nothing in Waylon’s eyes.
How odd.
With Blaire at his feet, Waylon had expected something… visceral. Something like contempt or rage, maybe he’d follow in Blaire’s footsteps and feel lust. But Waylon feels nothing. Not even a kick. No, Waylon kneels down and softly murmurs a warning: “Don’t fight me.” and loops Blaire’s arms over his shoulders.
Waylon begins the trek down the halls, Blaire supported in his arms - granting him far more dignity than his manager had ever thought to give him. A flicker of a thought; maybe you’d learn something from this.
He won’t. He never will. Nobody changes. Nobody ever fucking changes and there’s the anger flaring up in his chest, burning through his heart, nobody ever changes and nobody ever cares and Waylon is totally alone in the world and here he is doing Jeremy a fucking favor and the last time Waylon had been unable to walk, Blaire had stood over him and –
Waylon isn’t going to open up that can of worms tonight.
Waylon is going to drop Jeremy down the stairs. And he is going to follow Jeremy down to the bottom. He will kneel down and take out the taser and flick it to life a second time and jam it against Jeremy’s arm.
Blood pools at his shoes. The anger is quelled, for a moment. Sated, satisfied, no longer ignored and tucked away in the deep corners of his heart.
Huh.
Guess this is why Jeremy likes to use him as a punching bag.
don't fight me.
Ad if Blaire could even sit up on his own. Boneless. Hell, not even his muscles will coopetate. All he can do is breathe and squirm, kicking his feet in a poor attemp to stand.
"fffffuhhhghh.."
He wants to curse. To swing, feel Waylon's teeth cave under his fist. But Blaire can barely curl his hands, grip onto Waylon's shirt and yelp as he's carried along. Feet tangling beneath him, grip unable to really keep anything, it's another painful spanse of time before he hits the floor. Or... had he been punched? No no, that's the cold floor under his cheek, his broken nose leaking blood like a sprung waterline. Yhat's certainly the floor he's leaning on, sprawled dazedly. Is anything else broken? It all feels the same level of pain.
Though none of it can compare to the second tase, a strangled noise tearing itself free. He's not even sure if he really blacks out or if it's just him squeezing his eyes as tight as he can. Teeth clenched so hard he can hear muscles straining, every muscle taut and stiff.
"F-HNGHH--"
oh he just may murder park now.
@managersmanager - the VIBES
managersmanager:
Well that’s not something he’s expecting. Sure, waylon was a bit fucked in the head, but he wasn’t up for murder. Hell, he couldn’t even shoot 08085, who kept fucking getting loose no matter what they did. Why was he bragging about thinking about killing his boss? Did he expect a medal? Everyone thought about at least smashing a superior’s windshield here and there.
Oblivious, Blaire scoffs. Rolls his eyes, staring up at the camera with a disinterested expression. Two more doors and he’s at the elevators.
Little fucking weirdo.
“Alright, Dr. No. Jack off in the engine room, I don’t give a shit. But if you’re late tomorrow it’s going on your record.”
Somehow, Jeremy considers the wrongness of the situation. Something tickling the back of his skull, uneasiness. But he tamps it down, ignoring it. Park is a coward. Even if he was going to tell someone, he wouldn’t announce it to the world.
On the taser clicks, off the taser clicks. A steady rhythm, following the silent beat of the engine thudding in his skull.
Was he going to get cancer? Is Waylon going to end up in the waiting room complaining of nosebleeds and fainting spells? Will they cut him open and find a dozen tumors? He’s seen those tapes, he’s heard those recordings. Achieve serenity though the engine, come out from the engine half-dead. Though Waylon has never been a direct victim, the entropy of his morals, the entropy of who, of what Waylon Park is more than evident. And Jeremy will have to find a new employee to fuck.
He’s come down these halls a thousand times. Every turn, every crevice memorized. So sure, so steady is Waylon’s route that he has the time to fumble with his hair, to undo the ponytail, to rebraid it, to reach his superior before the elevators.
It’s so easy.
It’s easier than feeding Blaire drugs.
Because all Waylon has to do is flick the taser off, flick the taser on, reach out… step back… flick the taser off…
The elevator dings as Blaire hears footsteps behind him. Quick footsteps, hurried footsteps, footsteps of a man that doesn't want to get locked in the building when the second to last person leaves.
The manager sighs, kneading the bridge of his nose at the thought of talking to Park.
"Oh good, y--"
The words don't even get past his lips. Half turned, he manages to get a glimps of Park. heading at him, something demonic in his eyes -- and a sudden searing pain at his lower rib.
Every muscle in his body contracts as electricity shoots through him. The folder in hand crumpled. Blood in his mouth from his bitten tongue. A thick, heavy, allconsuming pulsing coming from his belly, each thudding louder and louder in his ears before he realises he's on the floor of the elevator.
Still conscious, but drowning in agony. animal thing, clawing and tearing and begging to be recognized. But all he can do is lay there, unable to catch his breath. Wheezing on the ground, unable to think worse than a night drinking on the town.
The little fucker had tased him--!
managersmanager:
It’s been a long day of email after email, meeting after meeting, phonecall after phonecall. After staying so late (because some of the idiots he oversees can’t do their own damn jobs) Blaire is excited to get the fuck home. Ready to grab his shit and bolt, not come back for another 10 hours. He’s going to go home, take a shower, maybe call the woman he’d been seeing, and sleep like the dead.
He WAS going to enjoy the drink in hand – before the intercom jostles him out of his thoughts. Startling him so badly it drops and splashes over his shoes.
Oh. Very funny. Park is going to get an ass kicking for this little stunt. He’d recognize the weaselly little voice anywhere. Even over the old as hell shitercoms.
“Yeah. Let’s have a word. Let’s have five words. Get fucked, Park. Go home.”
Kicking the disposable cup down the hallway halfheartedly, Blaire continues to the exit.
“You’re not getting paid overtime for this, quit fucking off.”
“I was going to kill you this morning.”
It hangs in the air, as still as a confessional. I was going to kill you this morning. Waylon had it all planned out. Give Blaire his coffee. Fentanyl. And… walk… away.
Chapstick. Cold coffee. Another blow of smoke. The intercom crackles back to life.
“I guess I figured death is too good for you. Or, like. That kind of death. You deserve something a little more romantic. Like gutting you or something. And you could die in my arms.”
His reflection in the window is as pallid as Waylon feels. The engine humming is a comfort, a lonesome whaler’s tune to keep him company during all those cold hours in his office. The wolf will take the bait. He always does. It’s a two-step tango, memorized and danced over and over these past five years. Waylon could do it with his eyes closed.
“Well… that’s all I wanted to say.”
A taser so softly clicks on, off, on, off…
“Good night. If you need anything, my office door is always unlocked.”
Well that's not something he's expecting. Sure, waylon was a bit fucked in the head, but he wasn't up for murder. Hell, he couldn't even shoot 08085, who kept fucking getting loose no matter what they did. Why was he bragging about thinking about killing his boss? Did he expect a medal? Everyone thought about at least smashing a superior's windshield here and there.
Oblivious, Blaire scoffs. Rolls his eyes, staring up at the camera with a disinterested expression. Two more doors and he's at the elevators.
Little fucking weirdo.
"Alright, Dr. No. Jack off in the engine room, I don't give a shit. But if you're late tomorrow it's going on your record."
Somehow, Jeremy considers the wrongness of the situation. Something tickling the back of his skull, uneasiness. But he tamps it down, ignoring it. Park is a coward. Even if he was going to tell someone, he wouldn't announce it to the world.
Random stranger: *asks if I'm okay*
Me externally: Yeah
Me internally: I will be when you choke on toilet water
@unrxlypirxte @5minutetorture
