Chapter Text
September 3rd, 2013. // Aspen, Colorado.
You lousily placed your legs on the table, kicking your feet subconsciously as your eyes flickered to the mindless ticking of the clock on the wall. Your neck cricked as you situated your laptop back on your thighs, perusing through the hundreds of press releases sent your way. As an investigative journalist, you’d long since learnt to abandon sympathy for would-be talents and stick to whatever draws in the most money. And that almost always ends up as controversy. Call it dirty, but you know the truth; people love to be entitled to rage, to sadness, to whatever gives them the right to curse what they don’t know. A knock on the door grabs your attention.
“Come in!”
A young man comes in, and for a moment you forget his name and inwardly chide yourself. On the ball, Callie. You pull off your reading glasses, carefully placing them into their case and pulling out sunglasses. You were a nerd in manner, not in appearance.
“Miles! What can I do for you, pal?” You cheerily greet him, shutting your laptop and moving it back onto the cluttered mahogany desk.
He nodded with a polite smile. “Ah, Miss Calliope–”
“Callie, Miles,”
“Right, Callie. I got an email from some I.T. guy at Murkoff’s asylum– the one in Lake County,” He began, a pensive look decorating his face.
You raised an eyebrow. Anything to do with Murkoff was juicy– dangerous, but juicy.
“He says they’re doing some fu– uhm, grossly illegal stuff to the patients there and he wanted a hand in exposing it,”
You felt a light-hearted grin pull at your lips. “You can say fuck, Miles,” He moved to speak, but you dismissed him with a hand. “Look, anything to do with Murkoff is risky and sending you in there without a care isn’t, well… I’d be a shit boss to send you in alone,”
He seemed mildly disappointed, furrowing his eyebrows.
“Don’t go sour on me yet, the story is all yours…” You hummed, inwardly laughing as you watched him perk up again. “But I’ve got the connections. If I get some form of clearance while painting our company as one susceptible to bribery, well…” You trail off, hinting at your plans.
Miles has a moment of realisation, nodding slowly. You grinned at him, effortfully heaving yourself out of your cushy office chair. Dusting off your jacket, you shoved your hands in your pockets.
“We’ll convene in a week. You show up to the asylum; I’ll find some accommodation near the shithole and I can tell you what I find out there,”
He nodded, turning to leave.
“Oh, Miles! Just one more thing,” You called out, shedding your jacket.
He turned, tilting his head.
“Shut the door on your way out,” You winked, waving goodbye.
He furrowed his brow, seemingly biting back a witty response. “Got it,”
You chuckled and turned a blind eye to the slight slam of your door.
Miles was a good kid, a bit callous, but good. Nothing like yourself. Frankly, you do genuinely see yourself in him; at least a version of yourself before the hard reality of worldly repercussions smacked you upside the head. You furrowed your brows at that, walking over to a window in your office. Leaning on your elbows, you surveyed the orange-tinted landscape; the Autumn leaves emphasised by the tonal, coral shimmer of the setting sun. Autumn often felt solemn; at times so cosy that it negated the harsh realities of the world, like a seasonal blanket to drape over yourself. Other times, it felt like the calm before the storm; the anticipation of a sneeze. Winter is coming soon. For some people, Winter is a time of joy, reflection and goal-setting. But you know what it’s perfect for. People are miserable; some can’t see their family, some don’t have a family to see. It’s cold, depression rates skyrocket. Winter makes you vulnerable. And vulnerability is exactly what you target. Was it entirely moral? No, not whatsoever. But you saw it as an equivalent exchange; you expose corporate fucks with heads lined with thoughts of profit, and in return, you turn some profit yourself.
And so, you send out an email.
Sender: [email protected]
Recipient: [email protected]
Good afternoon, Mr. Blaire!
I’m Calliope Costas, Founder and Lead Investigative Journalist of Expo Times.
I’ll cut to the chase; I provide a third party report of Mount Massive’s practices to silence the curious crowds. It’s become no strange news to the public that all reports on Murkoff facilities come from Murkoff funded journals, and the people are curious. I own a reputable company, and I can provide a reputable report, no strings attached. I’m sure you understand the necessity to review in-person, so shoot me a response if you’re keen.
Regards,
Callie,
Expo Times.
You sighed, closing the laptop. The beginnings of a smirk pulled at your lips and you did your best to not jump the gun. You knew who Jeremy Blaire was; hell, anyone interested in journalism knew him. One of the suits high up in Murkoff, the guy was a slimy sleazeball and with any hope you’d get access.
If not, you’d take care of the problem yourself, regardless of Murkoff’s response.
September 6th, 2013 // Lake County, Colorado.
Luckily for you, access was granted. It wasn’t hard to get this initial interview, considering how easy it was to butter up Blaire; and the promise of a fee-free Murkoff-approved interview certainly sweetened the deal. As you strolled through the fancy double doors, you maintained your confident front. Not that you weren’t oozing confidence inside as well, but you’ve learnt the hard way to never let vulnerability leak through. Murkoff would have your head before you shed a tear in front of these bastards. A slim man at the reception desk looked up at you, a practised smile slipping onto his lips. As you approached him, you flipped your sunglasses up, pushing them onto your head. Flipping over your ID lanyard, you offered him a lopsided grin.
“How’s your day going sweetheart?” You asked, shoving your hands in your pockets.
“Ah–”
“Wonderful! I’m here for a meeting with Mr. Blaire, one of your bigwigs here,” You cut him off, rolling your shoulders and taking a look around the place. When you pulled up to the place, you were pleasantly surprised about the interior, considering the exterior looked like something out of a fairytale picture book. Or maybe some mediaeval castle? You’d have to get into contact with the architecture team on this project, you were absolutely fascinated.
“Miss Calliope?” He questioned, a hesitant lilt to his voice.
“Oh, I forgot myself! My bad, kid. What were you saying?” You pulled your lips into a polite smile, dialling down the general douchiness of your attitude.
“Mr. Blaire is ready for you– your interview, that is. He’s just down the hall from the Administration block– ah, the very area we’re in now,” He seemed nervous, a distinct furrow in his brow.
“No sweat! Cheers for fixing that up for me,” You began, a genuine smile tickling your face. You leaned in forward, watching as the man’s eyes flickered between your low-cut top and narrowed eyes. “But between you and me, try and lighten up a little! There’s nothing to worry about when you aren’t involved with the suits,” You whispered, grinning.
The look he returned echoed something of pity; but what for, you hadn’t a clue.
You straightened back up, waving leisurely and sauntering down the hallway he directed you towards. The halls were equally as pristine and old-timey; it was a weird era of decor, you’d read up about Murkoff reopening the institute, so it must’ve just been a product of its era. A velveteen welcome mat signalled Blaire’s room– for Murkoff, they seem to not spare any expense on the décor. Eyeing up the shiny gold-plated name-plate on the room, you inhaled deeply. Don’t falter. Don’t flinch. Stay confident. You knocked on the door with purpose.
A tall man opened the door with a suave smile, looking down at you. Right. Look up suits on Urban Dictionary and this guy’s portrait will be right there. He wore an open suit jacket set with a white button-up, a label you recognised as something a few zeroes above your spending grounds. He wasn’t unattractive, rather, the opposite; he was above-average, dimples accentuating his practised smile.
You weren’t the only one appraising however; Blaire’s eyes lingered on your cleavage, but you embraced it. The more attracted he is to you, the better. The maxi slim-fit dress you donned wasn’t something you often wore; it was constricting and emphasised your femininity as opposed to the confident, prideful persona you exhibit. But for this occasion, the way it flattered your hips attracted the eyes of Blaire, all the more wrapping him around your finger. You hoped.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Blaire’s eyes caught your own as he cleared his throat, extending his hand to you. “Miss Costas, I take it?”
“Exactly the name, Mr. Blaire… although, do call me Callie,” You hummed, looking up at him through lidded eyes, a keen smile tugging at your lips as you shook his hand.
He chuckled, nodding. “It goes against my very values, I assure you; but Callie it is,” He opened the door, beckoning you in. “And for the record, call me Jeremy. It’s less formal,”
You nodded, following him into the room. He pulled out a plush chair, the patterned cushions resembling a Victorian armchair. Really, you had to ask about the interior decorators' contacts. You took a seat, crossing your legs as you watched Jeremy sit down, locking eyes with him once more.
“Alright then, Callie. Let’s talk business!” He cheerfully grinned, pulling out some notes.
“I’d be more than happy to!” Immediately, you turned off any air of a light-hearted conversation. “Look, Jeremy, you’re a businessman; a successful one,” His grin picks up at this. “And I fancy myself as someone interested in your business. Being the head of a, let’s say, infamous publisher, I make myself privy to what the world is curious about,” You began, holding eye contact to ensure he was listening to every word you said.
“And the world doesn’t trust Murkoff. Neither do my competitors in journalistic media; in fact, I’m well aware of various leaks in your very own establishment here. The people you don’t want to know, well… Jeremy,” You sigh, tilting your head as you open a bag; presenting to him various intercepted emails you gathered from mainstream media sites. He grabs them out of your hands, his brow furrowed as you watch sweat gather at his hairline.
“They know. And they’re gonna be sending people in,” He looks back up at you.
“But I’m here to offer you an opportunity… something a wonderful businessman like yourself can appreciate. I’ve slaved away building my perfect reputation, I’ve taken apart business conglomerates with my words; the common people trust what I have to say,” A vaguely disguised threat, delivered with all the sympathy of a caring mother.
Jeremy held your gaze, his desire to hold a poker face fighting with the situation you’ve described to him.
“And what exactly do you get out of this?” Jeremy narrowed his eyes, ready for whatever detrimental ultimatum you were about to offer him.
“Don’t look so sour, Jeremy! It taints your handsome face,” You grinned, chuckling to yourself while shaking your head. “I want an endorsement. That’s first; I want a partnership with Murkoff, no money involved. I scratch your back, you scratch mine; you get me?”
His eyes lightened up at the mention of no money. “I don’t mind where this is going,” You ignored the innuendo.
“I’m glad! Now… the next thing,”
He stared at you again, eyebrows furrowing. “I hope you’re not overestimating the weight of what you’re offering me here, Callie,”
You smiled, holding your head in your hands.
“Nothing big… I just wanna interview some of your patients; you know, I consider myself something of an amateur psychologist. I wanna have some… clinical practice! That’s it, testing… exactly that,” You mused, fiddling with your perched sunglasses.
He raised an eyebrow, leaning back into his chair. “And what exactly do you want to test?”
You laughed at that, an internal lightbulb sounding off in your head. You got him.
“I wanna see how quickly this research makes people break, Jeremy. It’s a business venture you know; I’m sure you can understand that sometimes we have to… how do I say it…” You hummed, intertwining your hands. “Test the means of production… What was it Marx said? Something about the people owning the means of production? Well, you and I both know how badly that would end for us,” You finished your tangent with a sigh, shaking your head in mock disapproval. You weren’t, under any circumstance, going to keep a discussion with a Murkoff executive clear cut. He takes it vaguely, or he doesn’t take it at all.
He contemplated for a few seconds, you focused on eyes that seemed all too interested in the ground. You’d make a snarky comment, but you’d already put both feet on the ice. It was too risky to do anything aside from inflating his ego. You took the moment to use your peripherals to scope out the room; flashy, well-kept and clean. Definitely not where the dirty work gets done. You were so entranced that you almost missed the sly grin that threatened to tug at his lips. He looked back up at you, and you caught his eyes.
“You have a deal, Miss Costas,”
“Great! I knew you’d listen to reason, you’re a smart man,” You cheered, a pleased smile resting on your face. “Oh, one thing~” You hummed in a singsong voice.
He nodded.
“It’s Callie, Jeremy,”
Well, you never claimed to be an upstanding person.
The thought ricocheted in your head in an unending loop. Sometimes, in your most vulnerable moments, you felt a little bit guilty. Jeremy had offered you a full tour of the winding asylum tomorrow, and graciously, you had accepted. Although the sick, control-obsessed part of you was giddy to taunt the criminally insane; a part of you that lies dormant cries out against your inaction to help these poor souls. Criminals, most of them. But you had no doubt that Murkoff sent any undesirable former employees down that way. Innocent people, the type of people who are vying for your promise of a saviour.
And hey, who were you to deny the masses? You chuckled to yourself as you walked towards your car, beaten dirt path shifting underneath the weight of your heeled boots– right, you can change into some comfier clothes for the next week. You paused outside the front of your prized joy; your one-time consumerist splurge, your 1980 Cadillac Eldorado. When you explained the purchase to your financial advisor, she frowned and raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t like you to splurge.
“You’re killin’ me Mari! Look, think of it as a business venture,” Callie explained, a titillating tune accompanying nervousness; she controlled the woman’s pay check but she was nonetheless fearful of her wrath.
“A business venture? Do explain, Cal,” Her southern twang accented her nigh sarcastic question, a disbelieving lilt to her voice. She was a well-manicured woman, prim French tip nails pressing into her cheek as she leant on her hand. Short brown curls framed her face, age lines accentuating her disapproving frown. Mari was the mother figure Callie wishes she had.
“Expo Times: Telling it the way it is” Callie began her monologue with her company’s motto, splaying her arms out for dramatic effect. “Look, ma’, I’ve got an old-timey vibe going for us; I need my public appearances to support that! The oldies love doing things the good, old way, they love blunt honesty!” Callie’s dirty blonde locks darkened at the ends, a matter of a newly hermit-like lifestyle, an apparent lack of sun exposure.
Mari raised an eyebrow, shifting in the administrative chair and adjusting her glasses. “And you suppose that flaunting a decades-old car is how you get that message across? Don’t the elderly also have something for conservatism? Humbleness?” She hummed, turning her attention back to the monitor and booking in interviews for the following month. “You’ve got an interview with a ‘Richard Trager’ in a week–”
The memory trickled away from your focus at that. Fuck, didn’t Trager work here? He was a right shithead. No amount of hair gel could keep his curls down, and when you saw him for the first time you had to hold back a chuckle. He was attractive by all means, but you sensed an air of a mask. You were all too familiar with masks. If you gave him anything, he was a charmer. He had the same charisma that you knew you possessed. If he wasn’t such a dickwad, you might’ve considered the possibility of becoming a corrupt power couple. You mused about that, for once you were taken aback by someone else's unabashed behaviour; but he was slimy. Something odd about that fellow.
You were drawn from your thoughts at a soft voice calling out to you.
“Hey, uh– You’re the lady from Expo, right?” A hesitant voice called out from behind you.
Turning, you slipped on a smile and put your hands on your waist. “The founder and CEO of Expo, I’ll have you know. Interviews are scheduled things; autographs I can do! Or selfies? Or–”
The man cut you off, “Sorry, uh, I’m not particularly interested in those,” He approached you, bashfully wringing his hands together. He swallowed an audible lump in his throat, and you had to bite back a laugh at how he made the perfect picture of a nervous puppy. You eyed the ring on his finger, and felt your stomach settle; he’s married. Not that it makes him any safer, but you take the calmness in stride.
“Then how can I help ya? I’m a busy woman!” You cheerily asked, doing your best to mask your exhaustion and general ‘fuck-this-place’ attitude you were beginning to develop towards the asylum.
“Look, I-I know it’s risky telling you this, but don’t let them fool you– this place has some fucked up experiments going on a-and what they’re doing to the patients borders on–”
“Crimes against humanity? Medical malpractice? Negligence? Trust me buddy, I know the whole works. What I’m doing with that information is very confidential… much like what you were about to tell me,” He seemed to visibly relax at this, realising you weren’t about to turn heel and report him to the higher ups and have him sent down to that… machine.
“But two things. Firstly, a word of warning; no good deed goes unpunished, ah, what I’m trying to say is mind who you tell this to. They’ll throw your ass under the bus. Secondly, don’t worry your pretty little head, kiddo,” The man was evidently older than you.
He swallowed again, fixing you with an uncertain glare. You stared back, a neutral expression plastering your face.
“We never had this conversation, got it?”
He nodded rapidly, discomfort beginning to show in his stance and generally terrible awkwardness. The man was slightly taller than you, dark hair and average looking. He seemed like a good person at heart; which, in retrospect, makes you wonder why the fuck he has that deep of clearance at Murkoff. You looked him up and down, he fidgeted under your appreciative gaze.
“Well, I’ll be–”
“W-What’s your name?” He asked, the words streaming out of his mouth like an open dam. At that, you couldn’t hold your scoff.
“I really should take offence at this point: ‘Lady from Expo’, ‘What’s your name?’…” You cut yourself off, shaking your head and reaffirming your lackadaisical grin. “My bad, the stuffy looney air is getting to me. I’m Calliope Costas, but for the love of fuck all, call me Callie,” You introduced yourself, shaking hands with the nervous sweat-fest of a man.
“And you are?”
“Waylon, Waylon Park. I’m a–”
“Waylon, what did I say about confidential information? My position is public, I can give that away. You can’t. Jesus kid, do they not do confidentiality training at Murkoff?” You began, before stopping yourself. “Never mind, that’d be too costly for those gr– the company,” Alright, you really were beginning to slip up. Time to abort conversation and begin mission complimentary dinner.
You shook your head, raising a non-committal hand as a goodbye. “Stay safe, Waylon,” You grabbed your keys and unlocked your car, hopping into the driver’s seat. He mumbled a goodbye before returning to the building. Tsk, thank fuck you didn’t work at that hell hole. Wonder how long it’s been since he’s seen his family.
As you reversed and got the fuck out of this musky ass place, you hummed along to a CD you’d burnt yourself a good decade ago– especially considering CDs were the only thing you ever had available for your beautiful vehicle. You focused as you drove on off-beat and dirty roads, only letting yourself move on memory as you made it to a highway. The asylum was roughly a 10 minute drive from the hotel, so you had time to decompress before you got your $30 dinner voucher. Your stomach grumbled at that, to distract yourself from your tantalising thought patterns, you turned your thoughts to tomorrow. On one hand, a metaphorical weight was lifted from your shoulders knowing that the bulk of getting into Murkoff’s walls is settled; on the other hand, you felt the nerves of uncertainty sparking, you couldn’t be sure of the extent of what you were getting into. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know the extent. And on a secret, third hand; your stomach tickled at your upcoming interviews, it was really a two for one program: you do the world a favour by virtually bullying criminals and the general undesirable population. And you also get to satisfy your desperate need for control. A great deal!
You hummed along to the radio as you pulled into the bed and breakfast, a giddy pep in your step as you parked and locked your baby, leaving a silent prayer no hillbilly bastard from fuck-knows County keys your car or something. You’ve got some nasty insurance though, so any anxieties are pretty quickly quelled.
With a dismissive greeting to the front desk, you made a bee-line for the elevator, feet stomping impatiently as the elevator dinged by every single floor. You headed straight to your room, the homely décor of the hotel silently reminding you that you did actually pay for this, so you may as well enjoy it. You should check out that spa later, calm your nerves or whatever. Moving into your room, you shrugged off your jacket, delicately placing your sunglasses into their case and placing them on a desktop. Looking out at the setting sun, amber hues caressing the forest ceiling, you felt a twang of fear. You inwardly questioned yourself, shaking your head. You had dinner waiting for you.