ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Lost Souls

Vignette - Lost Souls
Dramatis Personae Emma	2014-01-18 Whistleblowers need a little nudge. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location Pennsylvania
The janitor was sweating bullets, sitting in the bar, trying to bathe away the smell of gutless coward with the booze pouring from his pores. He was still mopping his brow with thin and useless bar napkins when Emma finds him, eyes riveted to another news broadcast that discussed one of the recent videos released on the web with the warning message, "Viewers at home, the contents of this video are disturbing; we recommend young children do not watch." Emma takes a seat in the back, her lovely blonde hair covered by an auburn wig, two braided pony tails behind her ears. She's dressed in clothes she picked out at a thrift store in New Jersey, on her way to Pennsylvania. She makes sure not to wear makeup either and a pair of plastic framed glasses that detract from her face - in an amber shade that obscures the color of her eyes. She inhales deeply as she looks up at the waitress trying to take her drink order. She'll have tonic water with a slice of lime - that's it for now. Then she focuses on the janitor's inner monologue, never looking in his direction. The promethean staff member had bragged to his family once, to try to make himself feel better, that he worked for one of those secret government agencies and the place wouldn't run without them. It was true. He went through and cleaned up blood, urine, and other bits of people while the test subjects were out being experimented on. He always wondered why they came back so bloody and broken, but at least the cell would be clean and infection kept to a minimum. He had been to the blood-borne pathogens classes. He knew how to do his job. He also kept mold to a minimum and sterilized the floors in the operating rooms when they were done with them. At first it had been minimal. Inmate scuffle here, an attempt at escape there. It was nothing out of the ordinary for prisons and these people were killers, after all, right? They wouldn't be locked up unless they did crazy shit with those powers of theirs on the outside. At least that's what he and the other janitorial and sanitation staff had rationalized with each other, especially with the number of armed guards around. They weren't really kept around around the prisoners much to start, as they weren't trained in security, it wasn't their problem. Then, the years went by and the guards got comfortable with them. They started chatting and laughing about some of the scuffles, saying they had money on the big one, or the small one was actually faster than she looked and fast meant more quick hits. They weren't allowed to see, at first, what was going on, but somewhere between neglect to notice and the all benevolent privilege to observe, a fight was glimpsed while mopping, an intervention on behalf of the guards when two inmates refused to fight - or worse yet, protected each other from his abusive coworkers. When he was noticed again, he was cajoled - you only saw because we let you. You're special. We trust you. You wouldn't let us down, would you? He wouldn't have dreamed of it - not until he saw the boy. Kid couldn't have been more than twelve years old. He was being pushed out of a cell where vomit reeked to the high heavens of terror and discomfort - isolation from the basic affection children his age needed. The look he gave the janitor as he was dragged off by weak arms - it was so lonely so scared - like a rabbit in a trap that couldn't keep from pissing itself. And - when he went into the cell, it smelled like the kid did. '-Animals-' one guard snarled under his breath. 'I feel sorry for you, man. I mean, all I have to do is strip off my uniform at the end of my shift and stuff it in the laundry. You guys have to clean up after these things all day. But hey - it's all for the greater good, right? Keeping these freaks off the streets. They pay you well, though, right?' That's right. He got paid - and he got paid well. He got his mom put into some great facilities to manage her Alzheimer's. She was doing so well too. Her bad days were few and far between and she always recognized him and didn't need to be put into a nursing home yet. No - just senior living. But thoughts of his mother reminded him of his last phone conversation with her. 'Honey - that place on the news - all those terrible things they say were done - that wasn't your work, now was it, honey?' 'No, ma,' He lied, feeling his insides churn sick at the sound of his words. 'No, ma, you know me. I'm too much of a softy to get caught up in any of that shit.' 'Yeah, that's my good boy, always a good boy. Always standing up for the little guy. I can't imagine you in that place. You would have thrown yourself in front of anyone hurting children, wouldn't you. I'd be sad, though, because you'd be out of a job, but it's better for the soul.' The image of the child he saw, staring at him in fear, resurfaces, the child's eyes imploring. He can feel his soul disappear just at that moment, everything inside him lost and drifting further and further away. << She's going to find out, >> Emma whispers quietly in a periphery thought. << The news - if I lose my job now, she'll put it all together. That'll be terrible for her - bad for her health. >> The janitor stared at his drink as the thought hit him. He could just see the lost soul expression in her eyes, the way her recognition of him would fade, the way her loneliness would leave her spiraling downward, with no support left in her life. She'd done it before - in flashes. She'd forget him as an adult and ask where her young son was - the kid he was when he was twelve. There was no consoling her. No recognition in her eyes. Just fear as she stared at the man that kid grew up to be with all of her mind rejecting the progression of time. No. No, he couldn't do that to her. It just wasn't right. << But, if I were the hero she wanted me to be… >> Emma offers with a quick thought, sipping at her drink quietly. A hero? The janitor's mind spins. He knows where the paperwork is. No one really ever pays attention to him and his trash bags and his cleaning supplies when he comes in and goes out. He could grab things in deep storage, the prisoner files of the deceased, put them in cleaning supply boxes and walk out. No one would notice that they were missing - hell, half the staff didn't know where he put them when he was asked to put them away. He'd been there so many years, no one would be the wiser. He could take those files and take them to the government and then he could call his mother and tell that yeah, he got wrapped up in something shitty, but he did his best to put an end to it. << Because it's wrong. >> Emma adds, bolstering his resolution, turning his gray mire into a black and white world. Because it's wrong. He tosses back the last of his drink and lays down twenties on the bar to cover his tab and tip. He grabs his coat off the rack by the door and heads off into the night. Emma settles in for a while, keeping tabs on her janitor from afar. She then heads back to her hotel, sticking around the area for a little while to make sure that he doesn't lose his nerve -- and most importantly that no one catches on to what he is doing. She drives her rental car to the road near the facility and grips the wheel as she monitors the Janitor's progress. Inside, she can sense… so much, but knows this is the better way to go. She keeps her janitor's jitters calm and his demeanor quiet. She nudges people to look away from him as he does his work, giving him every opportunity to do what needs to be done. In the end, he appears to all of them to just be one more lost soul, trudging their way through their existence, clocking in, clocking out… and heading home.