Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Because Gareth was so creepy in 5x01-5x02, writing him seemed inevitable.
Warnings: The basis of story is meant to fit in sometime before the outbreak – but since this is more about Gareth reflecting on the past, it can also be considered as post outbreak as well. This story will draw on his relationship with his mother, Mary, who was shown, along with his brother Alex, in Terminus in the season four finale and the season five opener *Contains: super massive creepiness, serial killer references, psychological issues, references, text, and my own reworking of the Grimm Brother's "Hansel and Gretel" along with very vague season five spoilers.
Breadcrumbs (concerning psychological bureaucracy)
"Nibble, nibble, little mouse. Who is nibbling at my house?" a gentle voice called out from inside as Hansel and Gretel broke off a piece of the candy roof to see how it tasted.
"The wind. The wind. The heavenly child," the children answered, eating ravenously, without getting distracted, eating and eating and eating as Hansel tore off a chunk of the roof and Gretel poked out an entire window pane - crunch-crunch-crunching as they filled their empty bellies to bursting.
Suddenly the door opened, and a woman, as old as the hills and leaning on a crutch, came creeping out. Hansel and Gretel were so frightened that they dropped what they were holding in their hands, dirty faces and hands smeared with chocolate and nougat.
His mother had always empathized with the villains. Pointing out key scenes in his book of fairy tales - moments where the protagonists had done wrong, explaining what they could have done better despite the colorful pictures of the hero and heroine running in fear from cruel expressions and severe faces in frightening disguises. The gross divide between the two versions had been jarring to his five year old self, but eventually he'd come to grips with it. Learning to see what his mother saw as he re-watched the same parts of his favourite movies over and over.
The irony was that in the stories, no one's hands were really clean.
The villains were just more honest about it.
His mother had smiled when he'd told her, proud and bright as she snuck him a piece of cookie dough as Alex banged up the front steps, whining about getting left behind at the bus stop as he collapsed in a heap on the living room floor, pant-legs streaked with mud from the impromptu race.
He and his mother had just shared a look over the mixing bowl. Mirror images of arched brows and dark eyes that seemed to swallow the light filtering in through the blinds.
What was that old saying?
The apple never falls far from the tree?
As he'd grown up he'd traded his interest in fairy tales for the study of human nature. From the highest act of morality to the lowest perversion imaginable, he was fascinated by it all. Quickly finding an interest in serial killers and their victims, he quickly burned through everything the library had to offer on men like the Green River Killer, the Bayou Strangler, the Freeway Killer and Karl Denke.
The question of why burned bright in the back of his mind. Eventually evolving into a passion for criminal psychology that only grew during his first few years of college. Practically salivating as every book, every research paper and rare edition was instantly at his disposal.
It only got worse when he was accepted into a university a couple hundred miles from home. He signed up for every class they offered. Putting his name down for prison tours and job shadowing. Making sure he was on a first name basis with the criminology department and friendly with the professors that taught criminal law.
Weird as it sounded, it wasn't one of those warning signs people always talked about, things like emotional disassociation or wondering what the neighbor's poodle looked like on the inside. It was more of a genuine interest - a fascination - a need to know why people did the things they did.
But even then, he had to admit that when his results from the PCL-R had flashed across the screen - reading like textbook warning list of symptoms and traits he already knew by heart, he couldn't help but wonder.
The woman's eyes had been understanding and kind when she'd glanced over at him, warm green eyes apologetic and embarrassed. "You can always re-take the test in six months," she said brightly, shabby blonde roots highlighted under the crappy neon lights. "Sometimes it takes a few rounds to really get an accurate reading. Recent stress can sometimes skew the results."
"They like determination and resilience in this program, and I am going to be honest, you have everything we're looking for. You are the best candidate we've had so far. But you need a score less than thirty to apply for the internship."
He'd slapped on his best PR smile, and thanked her for her time, making sure to shake her hand – firm but not too firm – as he gathered his bag and swept out of the room, mind already hashing it out, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong.
"Thank you, that means a lot! See you in six months!"
"It's fresh," he argued, leaning back in his chair in his thesis advisor's office three months later, hips canted, confident but not posturing as the reedy-looking man pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Isn't that what you told me?" he reminded, quoting right from the man's opening lecture as he drove his point home with barely a thought of the consequences.
He was right. He knew it. He just had to make them see, make them understand-
"Give me something that hasn't been done, that hasn't dared to be done."
"It is bold," the man said wryly, abandoning all pretense of marking in favor of letting the tip of his pen drool across the corner of some first year's sloppily structured opening sentence. "Maybe too bold," his professor admitted.
"Bold is good," he interjected, barely swayed, driving his point home with the single minded determination that had made his mother proud and his elementary school teachers concerned for his welfare during arts and crafts. "Bold gets noticed. The thesis review board eats first timers for breakfast, you were the one that told me that. If I want my doctorate I have to-
"Bold as in I don't know if I want my name attached to this," Professor Wentworth clarified, looking up at him through slim prescription glasses, perched high on an elegant nose.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he gave the silence its head, working a bit of gut wrenching disappointment into his expression, just like he'd practiced, until-
"Give me time to think on it, alright?" the man finally uttered, exasperated but clearly intrigued as he thumbed the corner of the flash drive with the sort of inflection that just screamed morbid curiously.
That was when he knew he had him.
Hook, line and sinker.
He stuttered the full blown grin that wanted to take flight in favor of a far more subdued version, rising to his feet and tossing his book bag over his shoulder. "You will. You can't resist," he added, already planning out the next edition in the back of his head. He'd have to introduce the core of his research strategy slowly, bit by bit. Wouldn't do to frighten off his biggest fan just yet. He still needed him to sign off on funding, after all.
"You won't be able to resist seeing how it all pans out, the pitfall of human curiosity, remember?" he continued, still smiling, not above interjecting a bit of well-placed ego-stroking as his phone vibrated his side pocket – he only had to pay attention to the first few vibrations to know who it was, dash-dash break dash-dash-dash, break, dash-dash.
"And here you thought no one paid attention to your introductory lectures."
He got the reaction he was looking for when the man rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head in spite of himself as the man's next appointment cleared his throat, feet shuffling awkwardly on the other side of the door.
"That cocky attitude is going to get you in trouble someday, Gareth," Professor Wentworth snorted, dismissing him with a sigh that was both long suffering and depressingly uncaffeinated as he shooed him out of his office and into the busy hallway.
Five days later the FAA grounded all air-traffic across the continental US.
Two days after that, the riots the media had been reporting spread down the coastline.
And suddenly, they weren't just riots anymore.
In a lot of ways, the end of the world had basically written his thesis for him.
Shame Professor Wentworth had never gotten the chance to skim his rough draft – hearing later that the downtrodden little man had died trying to evacuate a group of undergrads from one of the lecture halls when the barricades were overrun - he would have liked to get his opinion, one way or another.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.
References:
*The series of dashes and breaks that Gareth recognized on his phone was Morse code which translated into: "Mom" – referencing his mother Mary was trying to get a hold of him during his meeting.
*Out of respect for their victims and families, I referred to all the serial killers mentioned in this story by their local references via: media – rather than their names. They don't deserve the attention. (The only exception made was for Karl Denke, who killed 30 confirmed, (40+ possible) in the German Empire/Weimar Empire (1900-1924) who was a murdering cannibal that targeted travelers on the road and believed to have preferred an ax as his weapon of choice.
* PCL-R is a psychological assessment used to determine whether someone is a psychopath. It was developed by criminal psychologist Professor Robert Hare. (via wiki: At heart, Hare's test is simple: a list of 20 criteria, each given a score of 0 (if it doesn't apply to the person), 1 (if it partially applies) or 2 (if it fully applies). The list includes: glibness and superficial charm, grandiose sense of self-worth, cunning/manipulative, pathological lying, emotional shallowness, callousness and lack of empathy, a tendency to boredom, impulsivity, criminal versatility, behavioral problems in early life, juvenile delinquency, and promiscuous sexual behavior. A pure, prototypical psychopath – the Fred Wests and Jeffrey Dahmers of this world – would score 40. A score of 30 or more qualifies for a diagnosis of psychopathy.)