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He let out the breath he’d been holding. It skated through his clenched jaw on some amalgamation of scoff and grumble, working as a stand-in for what would’ve been the roll of his eyes. Some foreign energy continued to jitter under his skin the more that voice grated on him, and like he’d downed multiple pots of coffee, Wally felt the energy as a faint tremor in his fingertips. He balled his fists—loose, but enough to veil the shake—while his gaze pivoted from the other man, momentarily distracted by the liquor cabinet mere paces away.

Now, isn’t that nice, Wally thought, furrowing his brow. He drinks on the job, too.(If this could even be called a “job.”)

Distantly, he absorbed his coworker’s explanation of “weeding out the weak,” bitterly humored at the idea of himself not being in that category. After all, what exactly constituted someone “weak” in a place like this? He’d . . . technically died. Not once. Not twice. Several times. Or, fuck, it sure felt like it, as verifiably insane as that sounded. Was he “strong” for being so unperturbed by it—?

Or just officially out of his mind?

You need to take a deep breath, Wallace. None of this is real. God, shut up. None of this matters.

“Thinking too hard doesn’t typically hurt me,” Wally eventually supplied, blinking out of a trance to look at Clayton . . . or Chase. Or whoever again. “But thanks for your concern.” When a hand came flying out at him for a supposedly friendly shake, he regretted that he flinched. But he stared at it for a second, back up to the wide grin on the other’s face. Despite his animosity toward that placating voice at the back of his head, Wally did take a deep breath, then. And he shook his hand.

His head tilted somewhat, cocking to the side like he was listening for something. “‘Enjoyed’ is . . . a strong word. That’s a typical day here—?” When he noticed he hadn’t yet pulled back from the handshake, he swiftly cleared his throat, tucked his fingers to himself with an averted glance. His next words came in a begrudging mumble, “This has got to be some kind of purgatory.” But he quirked a brow then, peering back. “Exactly how long have you been here?”

Calm as this newbie was keeping so far, Ken could read the lines of irritation scrunching his brow and crinkling his eyes. The sight only inflated his cocksure grin. Something about the other's expression made him think of an angry, water-logged cat about to claw the face off of whoever doused it. Awh, do you wanna stab me again, little guy?

"Sure am!" Or, he might as well be at this point. He was as close to Norm as anyone had ever managed, as far as he knew. Although, this one had performed fairly well in his interview. Under the guise of a lilting, uninterested gaze, Ken cast a critical eye over the other. May be worth keeping an eye on, if he lasted. "He likes to put all you newbies through the wringer personally; helps to weed out the weak ones early on," he explained with a shrug, casual as if the interview hadn't been just as insane as the events leading up to it. "That's business for you."

And hey—well, well, well! Color him surprised, this newbie was on a roll! Not many people figured out his "my name is definitely all of these half a dozen possibilities" trick so quickly. Ken pointed his cigarette at him like he'd just said something profound. "Now you're catching on! Clayton and Chase seem to be the ones that usually stick—" And did it say something about him that it was always the C-names, he wondered? "—but I've got more, if neither of those tickles your fancy. Just don't hurt yourself thinking too hard about it." Ken winked exaggeratedly. "Like you said: it doesn't matter, after all."

Abruptly, he thrust his free hand towards his newest coworker, poised for a shake. "Welcome to the team, newbie!" For a similar reason, Ken didn't bother asking for this short-stack's name. Odds were there'd be no point in remembering it. "Hope you enjoyed your little elevator ride, because that's about what you're in for on the day-to-day from now on. Sometimes better, sometimes worse; all depends on the day."

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I procrastinated on this for so long I don't have ideas for a proper caption so you can just take them

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"Why are y'all so mean?! What did this bro evah do to y'all?" He doesn't know this little girl, but she's coming up right now and yelling at all the meanies that keep being... MEANIES to him!

@yukikorogashi || a sweet but fiery lil lass to save the day! ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶

“Hey— H-hey, it's . . . ” He lifts a placating hand when the girl rushes in (and, sure, her assertive energy made him flinch at first: better not to dwell on that), but his fingers no later feebly curl into his palm before that arm drops back to his side.

Where she's come from? He doesn't know. Why she's doing this? Hell if he knows.

(But it's better than the alternative, at the very least.)

After a long quiet, he eventually scrounges up the whisper of a voice to say, “Don't sweat it.”

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Why are you so weird?

“I-I'm . . . sorry—?”

. . . when did his parents get a computer?

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Hows your coworkers?

Well enough to be obnoxious . . . —he wants to say. And almost does.

But instead, after softly clearing his throat, “ . . . fine—?” A stretch of the meaning of that word, but it'd have to do.

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hehehe

“ . . . hello—? Can I help you?”

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i never relate to wally more than when my job makes it literally impossible to take a long weekend

we love society. we love that taking breaks is not allowed

we love it :)

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cotag masterpost with shit from twt and things i never shared before and i refuse to post them by tone of drawing

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In the past—and supposedly the not-so-distant one—Wally would’ve flinched when he saw her reaction: that flash of anger like twin bolts of lightning in her eyes, that twitch giving way to a snarl on her lips, the obvious tension a tightly coiled spring in every muscle of her body. Instincts would’ve prepared him for the yelling that would follow it. Maybe even a strike or two, something he could endeavor to duck away from and hope she missed . . .

This particular case, however—this “present” he found himself in—had him doing hardly anything beyond blinking a touch more rapidly than usual, fingers flexing harder around the handle of his mug as if, out of everything that could come from that flare of rage, his coffee was the most immediate thing in danger. He watched her carefully, but he didn’t move. He didn’t act. And when that posture of hers somewhat deflated after that fleeting episode, only then did Wally realize he’d been holding his breath.

—he let it out. Shook his head.

Strange. He almost wanted her to lash out: It’d give him something to do with that pent-up energy constantly buzzing beneath his skin.

Instead, he sipped his own drink, shrugged noncommittally at her question. “Probably how they spent their reward for a ‘job well done.’ And then decided to share because . . . there’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’ or whatever the fuck,” he proposed, rolling his eyes at the sentiment. “That’s probably in the company policy somewhere.” Which only suggested that there was one to speak of, or even one literally anyone here was willing to put the time into reading.

Wally leaned back against the counter, his head cocking as he looked at her. Some morbid part of him couldn’t help asking, “Is this your first office job?”

HOW HAD... HOW--

... ... ...

... okay, Celia, breathe... just, breathe. There wasn't any point now for any of that.

Celia Lede had been in COMPLETE CONTROL of her life-- up until that very day. When that GOOD-FOR-NOTHING of a husband, came and ruined EVERYTHING... No, even after that, even after she had him and her little pet killed-- it might have all been an unfortunate setback (Especially to lose such an expensive purchase, so early in), but... she had remained in complete control.

... Up until she had made the goddamn mistake of applying to this FORSAKEN PLACE. A seemingly unassuming company, that she could for the time being keep her head down at... or so she had thought.

This was punishment, this had to be punishment for all the things she had done. Her unbridled anger that had some so justified, once upon a time. The was she had treated those around her. The things she had done to relieve the stress that had piled upon her shoulders-- no, crushed her to the ground over the years... this was her punishment. She no longer had any control over anything, and now-- she was the one trapped like a mouse.

Celia would find herself in the break room (HAH!) on this day, unable to help but note that it wasn't all too different to the one back at her old office... or even the office that she had kept her little pet in. Still, with no desire to truly return back to the workplace she'd been assigned to, she would decide to settle down here for a spell. Taking a seat at one of the nearby tables, before resting her face tiredly in her palm. Staring off at the disgustingly warm looking walls that she was encased in... before her time alone was cut short with the arrival of... well, one of her own, she supposed.

After all, he was apparently working here, just like her. And he in no way behaved like that... thing that had 'interviewed' her on that day. She couldn't help but quietly accept the presence of another normal being then, as she slowly casted her brown gaze up towards the man and his cups of coffee... that was until he had mentioned that she could use SYRUP for hers.

The other's good intentions was then met with a rather harsh snarl from the woman. One of her livid eyes twitching, her teeth tightly clenching to the point of nearly cracking if not shattering... before she would just as abruptly deflate before his very eyes, as she sat back in that cheap little plastic chair of hers in defeat.

There were brief thoughts of simply flinging this scalding mug of coffee at the other. And it would have been absolutely therapeutic. But there was no point, was there? All her hard work when it came to staying PERFECT. To keep that flawless surface of hers from cracking... It's not like any of that mattered anymore, especially in regards to whoever was in charge of this hellhole.

And so, with a deep exhale through her nose, Celia would miraculously straighten out the warped interpretation she initially had of that actually harmless suggestion. Taking a sip of her hot coffee (Hardly caring that it was already scalding her tongue and lips), as she gazed back at him from over the rim of her mug.

"... no, not really." Whether it was because she had conditioned herself to be repulsed at idea of putting any sort of sugar into her body-- no, syrup wasn't her thing. She would very much prefer an entire bottle of brandy, about several days ago. it wouldn't help her feel anything, but she would rather not feel anything, by this point, "... and oh, really?" She found herself adding, despite the almost bored tone, "How did they manage that?"

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hap val day 👍‼️

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fr tho wally's behavior really just took a precise 180 in the Workplace bc this man went from being quiet and timid and generally doing everything possible to remain unnoticeable and avoid conflict

to being loud about his opinions—honestly p damn rude in most cases—and overly expressive, susceptible to lashing out at the tiniest things. . . . he went from repressing his feelings to feeling them way too much

really, it's just . . . he snapped, y'know? ヽ(ヅ)ノ

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He made a mental note just then: The best way to get Kenneth to shut up for longer than 5 seconds was to surprise him. And, granted, it took a lot to surprise the guy—both of them, frankly; might as well come with the job description—but if Wally could throw him off his game for even a moment, it worked in his favor.

—he told himself, at least. (The narrator might mention something about denial here, but screw them and everything they stand for.)

So, maybe about 6 whole seconds of silence passed while Ken processed what would typically be a normal thing to bring to someone bleeding out, and by the time he opened his mouth again, Wally would’ve rolled his eyes if they weren’t busy taking stock of the situation. “I told you to sit,” he commanded a second time, ignoring every question. His gaze flicked to the jacket already draped over Ken’s chair, back to the dress shirt and the sticky red splotch now clinging to his bicep. “And take that off. Are you deaf?”

Maybe some part of him recognized the hypocrisy of that last statement, and maybe that part decided to address it before his coworker had the chance to whine about it. “I’m not an idiot,” he remarked as he perched himself atop Ken’s desk, twisting his torso sideways to rifle through the kit’s contents. “Just because we can heal from everything doesn’t mean we have to let ourselves bleed out everywhere in the meantime.”

Wally abruptly kicked his foot out, making contact with that impressive(ly over-the-top) desk chair to swivel it invitingly toward Ken. Third time's the charm: he didn’t say it again, but he certainly gave him a withering look. “Are you going to let me help you or not?”

"Who would've thought, right?" Ken lamented. But he'd barely finished his sentence before Wally spun on his heel and stalked out of the office like a man on a mission. Ken blinked at the doorway before shouting belatedly, "So you finally admit it! Take some notes for your cubicle, then!"

There was no answer, of course. An odd feeling swelled in the pit of his stomach once he was alone—disappointment, maybe? But that didn't make any sense, now did it?—but he forced it down with a huff of air. Whatever it was, he didn't have time for it. No rest for the wicked, as they say.

Shrugging off his suit jacket, he draped it over the back of his desk chair to spare it from further damage. Each movement sent a dull throb down his arm, and he could feel the fabric surrounding what looked to be claw marks sticking to the wound, yet Ken only spared it a brief glance. Not so bad, all things considered. He'd worked through worse.

Crossing to his liquor cabinet, he selected a bottle of brandy and poured a generous glass (a feat made more difficult with one arm). Just as he took his first sip, Wally returned as suddenly as he'd departed, announcing his presence with an excessively violent (like most things Wally did) thunk of...something atop his desk.

Ken perked up again. Too distracted to notice the mysterious 'odd feeling' was now gone. "What've you got there, newbie? Something fun, I hope?" Curiosity drew him over, only to raise a brow at the... Well, it looked like a first-aid kit, but it couldn't be. The blood loss must be playing tricks on his eyes.

—at least, that's what he thought until Wally started bossing him around like a nurse who loathed his job. Ken was too busy gaping to oblige. "Wait—is that actually a first-aid kit? Where the hell did you get that?"

Except there was only one possible answer to that question. Ken's brow creased further. "Or, rephrase: why do you even have that? Don't tell me you somehow haven't pieced together yet that we'll heal from anything so long as we're here."

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LMAO OH SHIT I FORGOT TO POST THIS ON HERE UHHH HEY TUMBLR NATION come have some drunk cotag except they still at work and drinking from mugs

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@idyllicserendipity || for Celia! ♡( ◡‿◡ )

“How do you usually take it . . . ? Your coffee.”

Frankly, Wally hadn't expected to see her in here. In his experience, the newbies tended to tuck themselves away like cornered mice—terrified and shivering—and didn't often even realize this breakroom existed for a good many . . . days? Weeks? Months? (Hilarious on two accounts: Time hardly mattered in this shithole. And “breakroom” was a disgustingly sardonic title for a place where “breaks” hardly existed.) But there she was. Just sitting quietly. Staring.

He had the passing curiosity if he looked like that at first . . . or if maybe he still did.

Hovering near the coffee pot (someone had brewed it recently, if the smell and temperature were any indication), he'd begun pulling a mug out of the cabinets, hesitating on the thought of whether he should acquire two. Without her reply, he did. And without her reply, Wally poured them both a generous amount. “I heard someone restocked a ridiculous variety of flavored syrups . . . i-if, ah . . . that's your thing.”

More like: —if the sugar might help you feel something again.