Rounding the corridor, Waylon remembered closing the door behind him.
For a moment, he tried to be positive, keep his mind from flooding with the worst of the worst possible scenarios — a fellow orderly could've found the only unlocked room in this corner of C block and ducked in to get away from the noise, or maybe it could've just been the draft — but he was working with Murkoff, where the worst possible scenario was the most likely.
He didn't sign up for this job knowing he'd watch people be tortured in ways he could barely even conceptualize two weeks ago, but this wretched organization was full of surprises. Up in the mountain, isolated from everything he once knew, he felt as if he was the only human in the walls of Mount Massive — he'd stepped into a world full of people he'd been too moral to imagine truly existing. The detachment in the eyes of every guard and orderly he passed was bone-chilling, but then again, detachment was necessary if someone was to survive working in Mount Massive.
Fourteen days, and Waylon had already excused himself to cry out the fear and stress building in his heart four times. He never considered himself especially emotional, but next to these corrupt executives and tortured criminals, he may as well have been a saint. Exposing the truth, if Murkoff even let him get that far, would make him look like some kind of hero, but in his mind, anyone with a modicum of decency and the stones to do so should've done the same thing.
Trying to steady his breathing, he carefully pushed the door to the server room open, heart thundering. Met with only dead silence, save for the low hum of various computers, Waylon tried to look past the shelves of discarded machine parts, keyboards, and radios into the darkness, but saw nothing. He began to turn the corner, catching the bright light of his laptop screen, his words there for all to see, and —
"Somebody's been telling stories outside of class."
— a suited figure, sat at Waylon's desk, hands clasped as he stared into his worker's very soul.
Waylon immediately jolted, whipping around to run in the opposite direction, but was roughly stopped by a security guard grabbing his shoulders and shoving him to the ground.
"On the floor!"
He could catch several more behind him, but had no time to think about it through the sudden pain of his temple hitting the cold concrete hard.
"Down!" The guard barked. "Hands where I can see them!"
He pushed himself up, hands and knees no doubt bruised from the ground, managing to stammer out to the man before him — he recognized him, now — Jeremy Blaire, his supervisor's supervisor, watching his employee be thrown around like a ragdoll with an empty, cold expression.
"I—it's— it's not what it looks like, I didn't— I didn't send it—"
By the guard grabbing him again, and the complete lack of change in Blaire's face, Waylon wasn't sure the words even came out. He was unable to brace himself as the security agent slammed him against the wall with a sound that no doubt echoed through the rest of the corridor. For a brief moment, he hoped someone would hear the scuffle and grow concerned, but this was Mount Massive, after all. Turning a blind eye was the only way one could survive, and Waylon failed to do even that.
He crumpled onto the floor, legs failing him as the stars in his vision began to fade. Blaire continued to watch him with the same vague interest one would have for a fly buzzing around, moments away from being crushed. The guards were now blocking the doorway, stood straight with crossed arms and stony faces. He wasn't getting any sympathy from them. Nobody would be here to help him. He was at the mercy of his supervisor, and nothing terrified him more.
"Mr. Waylon Park." Blaire began, uncaring voice tinged with the least bit of disappointment. He leaned forward in Waylon's chair, light from the computer making him appear a ghostly pale blue. No empathy in those eyes, staring the cowering Waylon down like a cat would a mouse in a trap. "Consulting contract 8208."
Waylon could barely hear the man through his own shaking breath as he stands from the chair to tower over his hapless victim further. He stepped closer, and Waylon could've sworn there was an amused twitch on his lip as he watched him cower. "Software engineer with a level three security clearance."
"It's— it's..."
Waylon's insistence falls on deaf ears as Blaire continues, and the hammering of his heart only worsened as he leaned over. "Graduated cum laude from Berkley, but still somehow not smart enough realize the last thing a fly ought to do in a spider's web..."
There was a brief pause, and Waylon jerked back as a quick flash of anger came across Blaire's face. He knew Blaire — a man he wasn't sure hated him or simply didn't care for his suffering. Regardless, the cold and unforgiving executive was no doubt glad for the opportunity to do away with him.
And Waylon had handed him that opportunity on a silver platter. He thought he was doing the right thing — wasn't he?
"...is wiggle."
"It's not what it looks like, I—"
Not waiting for Waylon to finish, deaf to his pleas for mercy as ever, the laptop drops from Blaire's hand and breaks against the white stone floor. The screen twisted and detached from the keyboard, the simple display of various note programs flickering and fading into black. Waylon could feel his previously resolute convictions die with it — he was now truly alone.
He managed to tear his eyes from the broken device as Blaire leaned down to him. "Yet, somehow, dumb enough to think that a borrowed laptop," his head nodded with every item on the list, as if Waylon's plan was the dumbest thing he'd heard in his life, "onion router, and firewall patch would be enough to fool the world's leading supplier of bio-metric security."
Waylon could only listen, frozen, as Blaire chewed him out. His breath continued to come in quick and shallow gasps, and to the guards watching the door, he probably looked like a scolded, sniveling child. And admittedly, he felt like one, too.
Blaire tapped his temple. "Stupid, Mr. Park." The meek 'yes' Waylon let out in hopes it would allow him to wiggle out of this didn't do anything, or at least nothing he could see in his supervisor's expressionless face or hear in his mocking voice. "More than stupid, in fact, that was... crazy."
"Yes, I'm sorr—"
Blaire stood up straight once more, a faint smile coming across his face, though there was nothing lighthearted or reassuring about it. Waylon's hands shook at his side, fearing whatever punishment his boss, more insane than the people that were admitted into this awful place, could've been considering.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to have you committed."
Speak of the devil. The complacency in Waylon vanished with a sudden rush of fear, and he could feel his voice catch in his throat as he attempted to stand up. "Wh — no! You can't do this!"
"Mr. Park, will you willingly submit to forced confinement?" It's not a question, and Waylon knows it — it's another means to toy with him further, but he can't let them do this to him, he can't.
"No!" His legs ached far too much to push him to his feet, and his own scream felt muffled. There was no point, he knew deep down there wasn't, but he continued to shake his head as his eyes futilely went from Blaire to the guards in an attempt to find the least bit of mercy. "No, you can't do this — I have rights, damn it!"
Blaire hummed, like he didn't even hear him, and turned to the nearest guard — the one who'd shoved Waylon down initially. "Did you hear that, agent?"
Waylon could feel tears begin to sting at his eyes, and he blinked hard to try and hide them. He didn't want to give the sadistic bastards before him the satisfaction of seeing him cry, but they knew by his breathing, his shaking, hell, the fact that any sane person would be driven to tears by what they were suggesting, that he was already thoroughly terrified.
"He said yes, Mr. Blaire."
"You can't do this!"
For the first time, Blaire acknowledged Waylon's words, albeit with nothing but a chuckle. He raises a hand, feigning innocence when he adds, "and did I just hear Mr. Waylon Park volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine Program?"
"That's what I heard, Mr. Blaire."
"No!" The Engine — if the people Murkoff tormented hadn't been insane when they were admitted, the Morphogenic Engine Program threw them over the edge. One of many inhumane experiments conducted on the kinds of people society didn't care about — when Waylon made his way through the winding corridors of Mount Massive's basement floors to write code for the engine, he was kept sane only by the thought that it wasn't him being beaten and manhandled into that machine — no matter how his coworkers treated him, he wasn't them. He was sane, he was safe, he wasn't the kind of person Murkoff wanted to hurt.
Until now.
Was doing the right thing worth making such an enemy?
"Please — no, Jeremy, Mr. Blaire, please, please don't do this—" Waylon shook his head, vision beginning to blur with tears as he moved on his hands back into the closest corner. He had to get away, had to, but the guards were armed, and even then, their strength assured they could probably crush his skull beneath a well-placed heel in an instant. He was to submit or die.
Blaire smiled wickedly, nodding. Skin white as a corpse's, eyes like ice — begging did nothing. There was no compassionate bone in the man's body, and certainly none for Waylon Park. "That was brave indeed, Waylon. The Murkoff Corporation and the onward march of science appreciate your donation and sacrifice." He stepped back, and made a motion towards the guard. "Perhaps you could administer Mr. Park here a light anesthetic?"
The sound of a pair of knuckles cracking made Waylon's blood run cold, and he feebly lifted his arms to block his face as he backed into a corner. "Please—! Please, I won't talk, I won't talk, I—"
There was nothing he could do against the advancing guard, who readied a fist and drove it directly into the side of Waylon's face, sending him careening to the ground once more. Clutching his bruised, watering eye with one hand and reaching out for somebody, anybody, with the other, he didn't see a second guard raise a baton to beat him over the head until it was too late.
His vision was blurring, fading, and despite the pain-induced adrenaline coursing through his veins, he was finding it harder to stay conscious, harder to lift his arms to defend himself. The contents of the server room were only dark, blurry blobs, and the final thing he saw before everything went dark was a boot going straight for his face.
Was getting justice worth this?