He Who Laughs Last

Ch 1: John Doe

Hi, there!

A man wakes up. He is on the taller side of average, slender, with hair in between dark blond and brown. He has green eyes, slightly tan skin, and a happy look about him. He is groggy, though, tired, and wanders into the bathroom to wake himself up.

This is my story. My life.

He brushes his teeth, showers, shaves. Now fully awake, he smiles at himself in the mirror, cheerfully. Today will be a good day. He has a good feeling about it. He gets dressed, getting ready for work. His shirt, a long sleeve grey, has ACE Chemical printed on the front, on the right breast.

It's pretty good, I can't really complain.

He pours himself a heaping bowl of cereal, the sugary kind, his favorite. Always has been, ever since he was a child. He's never been a coffee guy, so he just has a glass of water before heading out. The tap water here tastes metallic, he's never liked it.

I wake up, get ready for work.

He leaves the apartment, walks down the street. He greets a large, dirty man, a baker, getting ready for the day, sweeping the garbage off the sidewalk in front of his shop. There's always so much garbage in the city. He already has the breads and cakes made, now it's just the last things before opening. The baker, Bob, glances up from his work, and his face twists into a glare. The man always grated on his nerves. Always happy, always cheerful. That always pissed him off. He was always happy, never seemed to have a bad day. As usual, he tells him off, harshly. More than he deserves, he thinks with a twinge of guilt. He smothers it, angrily. The same choice words, the same ritual, every day. The same smile, uncaring, undiminished, as he sauntered on, ready for another great day.

I say hi to my friends on the way to work.

He continues walking, plugs some earbuds into his phone and presses play on his music. This was such a good song.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're
thinking, "Who is this guy? And for that
matter, why should I care? You're wasting my
time."

He inhales happily, breathing in the smog of the city, and turns up the volume. Such a good song.

My name... eh, I'll tell you that later. As for
why you should care, I'm pretty sure you'll
figure that out. You should, anyways.

He reaches his destination. A dirty, vile smelling factory, that looks like an accident waiting to happen. The health inspector hasn't been by in years, thanks to a large "donation" given to him by the owner of the fume-spewing deathtrap. The man enters, through the front gate. The security guard, underpaid, doesn't even glance up from his magazine as he buzzes him through. As he enters the main building, however, he meets with the director of the plant, who is far better paid, and far more vigilant. He greets his boss with a familiarity not returned. The director, a portly, bald man, who in truth is more muscle than fat, with a thick mustache and equally thick eyebrows, all of which fit well with the scar running down the side of his face. No one working there knows how he got it, and though theories abound, no one really cares. The eyebrows don't do much to hide the perpetually confused look in his eyes, though, a look that noticably contrasts with the rest of his appearance. The director looks up from his clipboard and scowls. The man is getting a little tired of that look. It's time for another ritual.

Next, you're going to say, "Look, buddy, I don't
think that guy is your friend. Seems more like
a bitter shopkeeper whose wife left him for
his brother and burned his immigration papers
as she left."

The director stares the man down. "Do I f---ing know you?" The man is completely unfamiliar to him. He knew he would have to be ready for this at any point, that some idiot would just try to waltz in, but he never really thought someone would try it.

And yes, I know that. I'm not a complete idiot.
Most of the time. Okay, sometimes.

The man forces a smile. It looks pained, almost more a grimace than any genuine smile. "Yes, sir, I work here." He forces the words out through clenched teeth. The same ritual, every day.

Bob's actually a pretty nice guy, though, once
you get through the layer of grime, foul
language, and shoddy culinary skills.

The director's glare hardens further. "I know everyone who comes through those doors. I don't know you." The man sighs. He had hoped today would be a little different.

Alright, so maybe things aren't so great.

The man pulls out a badge. It shows his name, picture, age, and security clearance. The director snatches it, and begins to inspect it. Just like every day. The director is puzzled. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, but all the same. The badge is genuine. Is his memory failing him? How could he not remember a person who, according to this badge, had been working at his plant for seven years? Who had been there almost as long as he had? He hands the badge back, apologetic, but refusing to show weakness in front of an employee. "Fine. Get to work. I'm watching you, though."

Okay, counterpoint. I do have James. And
James is awesome.

Triumphant, the man walks into the main room of the plant. Everything is dull, gritty grey. The metal has lost its luster, the walls' paint, if they had any, has long since chipped off to reveal the cinder blocks underneath. The floor is concrete, and vats and silos fill the far end. The near end is mainly populated by various machinery: mixing tanks, tower reactors, kilns, pressurizers and large refrigerators and freezers. Pipes and conveyor belts connect everything, with workers milling about, ensuring that everything automated works, doing by hand what isn't automated, cleaning, and just keeping everything running as well as possible. James and the man are primarily janitors, though they have picked up enough technical knowledge to do most of the upkeep and repair jobs. James stands next to a supply closet, getting some cleaning materials together for the day. The two men spot each other, and enthusiastically greet. James is slightly less enthusiastic than the man.

James is cool. A little quiet, but cool.

James Gordon Jr is, in fact a quiet man. Pale and diminutive in stature, he has flat and straight red hair, and a sparse mustache of the same color. He got his hair color from his mother, though the texture he received from his father. He wears an identical grey shirt and blue jeans, but with a face mask hanging loosely around his neck. He's not entirely sure how he became friends with the man, but he is glad he did. He never really had many friends, up until now. People always said he was weird. He didn't really mind, but he was glad he had a friend now. "How are the wife and kids?" The man was speaking to him, asking the same question as usual. A running joke. "Still don't exist." "Ha ha! James!" The response is always the same. James doesn't mind. The man's sense of humor is different from his, but then, everyone's sense of humor was different from his. The man was speaking again. James silently berated himself for drifting off again. He did that, sometimes. "Say that again?" "I was asking how the date went." Oh. James swallowed. "Not too good. I don't think I'll see her again." "Ah, well. Maybe next time. How many is that, now? Jeez, man. I don't know how you can get so many first dates, but never a second." James swallowed again. "I don't know." "Anyways. Let's get to work, yeah?"

YOU MUST KILL HIM.
James flinched. He looked over at the man, partly to see if he'd heard it, hoping both that he had and that he hadn't, and partly to see if he noticed James' flinch. He hadn't, on either account. He was still talking. I told you, he's my friend. AND I TOLD YOU, HE'LL FIND OUT. The Voice wasn't wrong. He had let the man get too close, he had let him know about the dates. Now, every time he brought them up, James would panic a little. He wanted to believe the man wouldn't figure out the rest, but it wouldn't take much. The man was smart. He didn't know their names, didn't know what they looked like, but he knew when the dates were. All it would take would be the wrong news story at the wrong time, and he would know. The Voice knew that. He knew that. He didn't want to admit it, though. DO IT. He sees the man, sees his smile. This is his friend. I can't. YOU MUST. He sees the man. Sees his smile. His smile. What was behind it? It almost looked cruel, accusing. I... I won't. YOU WILL. He knew. The man knew, and he was toying with him. This wasn't his friend, he was more of a monster than James was. James couldn't let him keep mocking him, laughing at his pain, his torment. He had to stop him. Had to. I... will.