Prologue: Alice Down the Rabbit-Hole
he's not a perfect man, but it's all he's ever been. he's whole. he's 'happy', or whatever that word means anymore. he loves- his family and his friends and his lovely loving little life. he pretends like he's not a man standing on the edge of something all too high up, waiting for the moment he can try to fly. waiting to fall. he has to turn his neck to see the many beautiful things in his life. he'll have to snap it to understand the ugly.
Joseph Oda is the most sane man he knows. He curses infrequently, works a well-paying job at the KCPD, married happily six years ago and has a picture-perfect family. He's a 'pretty thing', looking years under his actual age of thirty-three, and the lack of drink and smoke in his life has lead him to content and good health. His co-workers describe him as 'pleasant' and 'amiable', his wife thinks him flawless, and his daughter believes he's a superhero.
Joseph Oda, of all people, should not be entering Mount Massive Asylum. He should not be shoved forward, crass and roughly, once the formidable gates are closed and the media's judging eye falls away to distance. He should not be sneered at by garishly crude faces, human but grotesquely so, to 'hurry the fuck up'. Because, A), he has and knows his damn rights, and B), Joseph Oda is not insane.
He almost cannot bring himself to believe what's happening. The place looks like it has been ripped right out of goddamn Hogwarts, though there is no laughter or childhood fondness lingering in the grey wasteland. Imposing and colourless, a new unease troubles his chest; rough and concerned. The ground is uneven and stone, and soon they veer into the grass, passing the main entrance with careless purpose. The guards don't walk him through the lobby, but rather continue to force him through the courtyard toward a subtle door peaking out behind fern and foliage. He supposes the lobby is just for show- a pretty little doorway to a homely asylum that, in reality, is likely a direct 'copy and paste' of his worst nightmares. Joseph doesn't struggle against the guards though. KCPD higher-up, Brown, had warned him what they do to scufflers here, and he isn't going to risk it for the sake of his measly dignity.
He's pushed through the dark opening and into the main building, which is no more pleasant looking than its exterior. It's an entirely new world, plashed in greys and browns and shadowed corners, without the mask of the warm open sky. It seems to be nothing more than many winding hallways, yet the sound of his tired feet dragging against the smooth stone floor is always rhythmic, relaxing him slightly through the tension that originates in the armed men surrounding him. One, in contrast, has no weapons- but Joseph doubts that the guns rumbling on the man's arms would do any less damage, and flinches away. He should be ashamed of his fear, but now it just seems natural.
Ignoring his gaze, the guards wordlessly escort him further through the maze of halls. They seem to be at the very back of the asylum, continually going sideways through each twist and turn. He's ushered forward onto some wooden steps, and pushed until his feet recall the complicated workings of 'stairs'. As they head higher and further into the asylum, Joseph feels an irksome regret tingle in his mind. He never wanted this, but, damn, if Arnold Brown wasn't a convincing speaker than Joseph didn't know one. The older authority had been quick to caution him on the mechanics of such a place- saying, almost too cheerfully, that it's a 'cesspool of the fucked up- well, that and the poor damn vegetables they call 'patients''. He had reminded him that it would be dangerous- Joseph likely wouldn't leave the same man. Hell, he'd be lucky if he could leave by the end of it, and that his happy ending didn't come in the form of Mount Massive Asylum being the madhouse he really needed.
This isn't like when he was twelve, and found entertainment in theatre and exploration. This isn't like when he was fifteen, and hid his true self behind the guise of video games. And this sure as hell shouldn't be like what he is, as an ageing man with a family of his own, treating the warping of his (very intact) sanity as an escapade he'll remember fondly in years to come.
Adjusting his glasses, Joseph wishes he hadn't always enjoyed an adventure.
They pass so many cells. People, who don't particularly resemble 'people' but rather the hollow skin left over, watch him as he's lead toward door 499. He can't quite recall how long the journey to his new 'home' took, but the Male Ward is inconveniently separated from just about every other area. It's a sprawling unit, dotted with small rooms for the more stable patients, along with long expanses dubbed the 'male hospital wards' for those deemed a little too lively. Joseph is deposited into a slight cell, with little more than a simple rickety bed and dusty table (and a rather grimy looking toilet, but Joseph is already horrified as it is). He sits, then, mourning the loss of blood-flow to his feet after the extensive walking. The guards lock the door, which has no handle from the inside but instead, in reparation, an intrusive window in the whitewash door.
One man, who had been following the guards dutifully as they left, stands out more than most. He doesn't don the typical blue security uniform, but rather wears a professional black suit and spotless white shirt. Joseph wonders how he didn't notice the man before, or if he had only appeared recently- approaching them from a patient's room, leaving the shell alone. He doesn't quite like the thought, shaking it out of his head as the guards footsteps grow silent with distance. Relief washes over him, and he feels the taut agitation in his fists loosen into repose. But somehow, as though hearing his calmed thoughts beneath the frenzy of others', the man stops, turning around to gaze at Joseph through the box-like window. He's handsome, he supposes, but in an oddly repulsive way that Joseph can't quite understand.
"A detective," he notes suddenly, not breaking eye-contact. "How interesting, Mr Oda! Your files..." he glances down, scanning through what Joseph assumes are his papers. "... yes, very interesting," he repeats slowly, expression revealing nothing. Joseph contemplates whether he's just another pawn to the man, but something cold in his chest knows he's always been. There's just a casual cruelty to this character's eyes, one that makes him want to spit in spite while resisting an urge to to hide himself and all his thoughts. But he should respond. He wants to.
Joseph hasn't spoken a word in hours, and wastes them in his theatrics. Some part of him knows the man doesn't care whether he appears lucid or not, but something crawls beneath his skin, reminding him that his sanity is a secret advantage, best hidden for now. He doesn't ask who the man is, because Brown had mentioned a high-ranking official and this stranger fits the 'asshole with privilege' description quite well. He doesn't ask why 'Jeremy Blaire' is acting so very volatile himself, because Joseph isn't stupid or suicidal, and Brown had insisted that the officials here were the ones who truly belonged behind bars. Instead, he mutters- "investigations take their tolls on tired men."
Blaire's eyes almost sparkle with something- something bright, ugly, and crude. He laughs. "Imagine," he calls the guards waiting impatiently for him. "If we could fix a man of the law!"
Maybe it's because Joseph is intensely disturbed by the amused display, or maybe it's because the scene is reminding him of the horror stories of his youth, but he speaks again, smiling now. Fake. "All work and no play-"
Blaire finishes the phrase for him, though his grin is all sharp teeth and malice, "- makes Joseph a dull boy." He smirks, then, but it's the sort that burns with time and Joseph looks away. "A little warning, detective," laughter. "You might not like what you discover here..."
He pulls the key to cell 499 from its hole and, still sporting a shit-eating grin, knocks it sharply against the glass window with pending emphasis. The sound is serrated and wretched, regardless of how very ordinary it sounds. As the piercing force fades to echo, new noises thicken the air in Joseph's cell. Inhuman and coarse, shrieks and desperate cries leak into the room like black liquid, and Joseph finds it hard to drown out. It's not natural, but rather bestial and worn with time, more like a howl than a shout. It reflects from wall to wall, louder with each metallic resonance.
"Meat! Wants meat! Wants meat! MEAT!"
"I am my father's hand! I am my father's fist!"
"This is the experiment! THIS IS THE EXPERIMENT!"
He covers his ears, groaning slightly. Fuck, he thinks wearily, Brown had most definitely been right. It truly was a madhouse. He curls up on the bare mattress, so bony a material he can feel the aged boards below it. It's harsh and cold, but he still has his clothes (for now) and his novel suit vest is the closest thing he has to a blanket. The duvet offered by the asylum is ratty and rough. He shivers. A door clangs open, far away, and the thump of desperate restrained limbs against the glossy floor makes Joseph shudder achingly.
"Kill me! Go ahead, fucker! Go ahead and murder me, and see what happens. You think I'm scared of anything? I've been fucked in the brain by Nazis, you goddamn pansy. What could you do to me? Huh?!"
The conversation is soon muffled by others' screams. "Not alone! No more! Please!"
"Kill me... kill me..."
"What's happening?" someone yells. "Is this real? God no!"
A cackle. "What's the experiment the dead would perform on the living? I'll give you a hint. It's still happening! The experiment is still happening!"
Joseph closes his eyes. He won't sleep tonight- not to the lullabies of broken men.
(he won't fall to sleep, but he'll certainly fall)
