Chapter Text
There was, in Evan’s mind, something inherently wrong with him. There must have been. He rubbed at the back of his hands, nails occasionally scratching the skin; his eyes fixed on the beam of harsh light above him. The beacon of light gave off a sweltering heat, forcing Evan to step back before he melted into a puddle. Forwards, he told himself, look forwards. He stared ahead, his gaze following the bright light. He felt like he was underwater. The noises were too much, his shirt brushed against him too much, and the bottom of his trousers tickled his ankle. No, no no, not today! His stomach lurched. Not today. Not his first week. He ran his hand through his hair, before quickly pulling his hand back. Too many strands. Too much. It was all too much-
A voice cuts through the mess of his mind, and he froze to listen. “Today, we mourn the loss of one of our own. But our commitment to the truth is as strong as ever.” Vincent Whittman. Vincent was the Weatherman, but after Jonathan’s mysterious death, a murder in a back alley, he’d taken on the role of news anchor. The murder couldn’t have been a mugging -nothing was stolen- Jonathan’s person was un-looted. Although Evan imagined Jonathan would prefer to be down a bit in cash but still alive. He spent hours last night, staring at a photo shown to him. A photo of Jonathan. Blood stained his shirt, his skin. His face was white; his eyes were glassy –like a doll’s. Evan threw up the first time he saw it. He was used to it now: it appeared every time he blinked for a second too long. He’d been the last person to see him. It took multiple hours and some crying for the police to let him go. He’d answered every question honestly, but because he didn’t stare into the officer’s eyes as he did, the officer called him a liar. Seemed unfair –who even liked eye contact? Far too uncomfy, too intimidating, too much
“Remember, trust us with your news.” Vincent wore a beige blazer, and attached to the left (well, right for Evan, left for Vincent) was a charming boat pin. He’d ask about it later. His tie was thick and a deep brown with two black stripes running horizontally across it, the top one being significantly thicker. His shirt was a white button up, or at least he assumed so. Between the blueish undercoat and tie, you couldn’t actually see any buttons.
“Remember, trust us with your news.” Evan repeated softly before quickly rushing off to make a coffee for Mr. Whittman. He liked that saying. ‘trust us’. It was fun to say.