It all happened in an instant, as did everything over in Mount Massive. Waylon had quickly figured out how to disconnect the system in the Morphogenic Engine through determination and a little luck, it had worked. Miles had been successful too. Billy Hope's life support was destroyed. His body, his organs, his blood, his immune system, along with all the machines hooked up to him---keeping him alive was weakening. He didn't struggle any longer. He was gone at last. For a moment, Waylon could breathe.
But he stayed put.
All movement was lost in his bones. Was this all some twisted fantasy that he lived in? Two tortured souls, trapped in a monstrous environment with no way out. Even with hope and freedom so close, it was all a faded dream, still in the depths of his delusions swimming about.
Lisa and the boys seemed like distant memories, as much as he didn't want them to be. A goal he had set when the riot first began and as he continued through this terrible nightmare. Now he stood, watching helplessly as the man who had joined him collapsed to the ground. Their differences made them work stronger together, even when they didn't always see eye to eye. In any other setting, they would avoid each other. But now, they were all that they had. They were each other's savior, their guide. They could accomplish almost anything if they had each other.
Then it all came crumbling down. When Miles ran towards him without a care in the world, feeling as though the worst was finished. Waylon had waved, forgetting about the Walrider's wrath for a split second.
He heard Miles before he saw him, his thundering footsteps against the flooring. The reporter was all ready to celebrate their victory with an elated grin.
"Waylon!" He hollered, grinning ear to ear. "I'm here! Waylon, we did it! We-" His voice was cut off. He didn't even have time to acknowledge that Miles had called him Waylon instead of simply 'Park'. Then he finally saw it.
A small cluster of nanites swarmed like insects buzzing in his ears. Their dark, cloudy shape flew above Miles' head and formed a humanoid shape. He saw the images flash against his distorted, spotty vision as he was strapped in a chair, eyelids forced open. He heard the chilling screams, high pitched and anguished from terrified men, their flesh and organs and bones pulled apart. Waylon had seen it happen several times.
First, was when he finally was released from his bounds, the handcuffs sliding off his wrists, freeing him from his shackles after a long moment of struggling. A man from the next cell had whispered to him in a flurry of panic. He couldn't remember what he said. It didn't matter.
It had swarmed over him, leaving him nothing more than shredded organs on the damp, bloodied floor. At least insane Variants like Chris Walker had the decency to leave the corpses with some resemblance of humanity left.
The Walrider was nothing like that. The Walrider was a burst of darkness, fueled by the hatred and malice only human beings could conjure up. Because it was made with the sole intention of causing destruction.
And it was heading right towards him, barely passing Miles. He had recalled multiple instances of the Walrider chasing him, haunting him, but those were different circumstances entirely. He had never bothered to actually take a look at the monster. Now he wished he never had.
Waylon could see its true form clearly at last. It had the shape of a human, but with no visible features. It was like a shadow, no eyes, no mouth, no heart, no soul. Just darkness.
He exhaled, eyes wide as he stared into it. A chill shivered up his spine, as he waited for it to embrace him. Rip him apart just like the other men who had suffered the exact same fate.
Like the nameless man calling out for me. Like Chris Walker. Like all the men before me. If I die, at least Miles will make it out alive. The whole reason I contacted him was so he could live. So he can spread the word. Save the world without me.
Lisa, please forgive me. Tell our sons to forgive me.
He shut his eyes.
But the pain never came. He opened his eyes to see what happened. The Walrider had not made contact with him. It made contact with something else.
He heard a new, but horrifically familiar yell. It hit him like a powder keg exploding in his eardrums. Miles.
"NO!" Waylon forced his injured leg to do something, to move forward and stop the reporter from risking his life. But even with the last of his strength left, it was too late.
Like an angel spreading his wings, Miles firmly stayed put with his arms out, shielding Waylon from the impending harm. He gritted his teeth and growled, waiting--no, beckoning it to attack.
The Walrider did not waste any time, and threw itself against him instantly.The spirit overtook him, soaring him in the air and ignoring his pained shouts. There was a loud crack of bones being broken as he was smacked into the walls like a forgotten, swinging marionette.
Waylon helplessly stood frozen in place, unable to stop the Walrider's wrath. Its speed was unmatched to any human being.
He had to do something! But what could he possibly do? A man so ordinary, so weak and--
His eyes glued to Miles' form. In those bright, curious eyes, he didn't see a terrified man waiting to die as he was being flung around. He saw a reporter who risked his life to save innocent lives he didn't know. He saw a warrior who laughed in the face of danger and death.
Neither of them were simply ordinary men. They had fought through enough horrors tonight. And they had faced all of them together. No matter what, he knew Miles was strong enough to fight it. Or so he hoped he would.
The Walrider let out one last mighty roar, before tossing Miles aside. He lay on his back, gasping for air as the mist slowly evaporated, drifting away.
Waylon was confused. He knew what the Walrider was like--he had seen it himself. It had the capability to tear someone as powerful and strong as Chris Walker into nothing but a bloody mush. But here was Miles, moving, and clearly alive and all body parts attached.
He didn't care to wonder how that was possible. He was alive. He was gonna make it. Waylon ran towards his weakened body. He didn't wait a second longer to take his hand and keep his head secure in his lap. His eyes were open and alert, that was a good sign. Checking his wrists in a flimsy motion, he could barely make out his pulse. He was alive, just barely.
"Miles!" He uttered, staring deeply into his hazel eyes. "You're so fucking stupid," Miles coughed out blood and bile and black fluids. "Why did you save me?" He pressed.
Miles grinned weakly. "Why not?"
"Because...because ..." Waylon couldn't find the words. His face fell when he saw Miles' head roll back. "You know what that thing is capable of. I can't let you..." He didn't want to say it. He couldn't.
"You would have done the same for me. You already have," He shook his head. "Listen to me. We did it, we killed Billy and the Walrider doesn't..have a host anymore. You're gonna make it out, you know the way to the exit, right?" Waylon nodded. "Just keep running and don't stop until you're out." With their hands clasped together, he squeezed it tightly. "You're gonna make it out."
"Not without you," Waylon's voice broke. "Please."
"Hey," Miles's thumb brushed a stray tear from Waylon's cheek. "It's gonna be okay, don't cry. You're gonna see your family again."
Even in such a terrible state, Miles considered Waylon's wife and children. He really was dedicated to helping people.
"I can't lose you," Waylon whispered. "I hardly knew you and...I treated you awfully." Neither of them were exactly the nicest to each other. But they were all they had.
"Don't say that." Miles interjected, before finally wheezing into another coughing fit. His hand started to tremble in Waylon's grip, and his breath hitched. "Get out, and don't look back."
"No...no..." Waylon swallowed the lump in his throat. "I can't."
Miles' eyes wandered a bit, the rise in his chest was slowing down. His eyes closed.
"Please, stay awake..." Waylon begged, hunched over his body and held him close. Frantic, heartbroken tears were rolling down his cheeks, but he didn't care. Miles' lips mended into a ghost of a smile.
Then he was completely still.
"Miles? Miles! Miles!" He screamed the man's name over and over until his voice became raw. His choked, ugly sobs heaved in his throat, no matter how hard he tried to hide them as he desperately tried to move his body--- to do anything to make him do something, to no avail. Miles' heartbeat had ceased, becoming silent and non-existent. He was too late.
He had seen it happen. He had run over as fast as possible. And he was still, too late.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."
Waylon found it strange to be weeping over a man he hardly knew. It was difficult to believe they had met just a few hours ago. Yet still, they went through so much together, it almost felt like a lifetime. And he knew Miles, even if it was a little bit.
He knew he was smart and ambitious. Brave enough to not only report on the war when he was only starting out, but to later venture alone for a news story.
Miles Upshur was-- is remarkable.
Get out, and don't look back."
"I will," Waylon vowed. "I'll get out. For both of us." He pulled his camcorder from his pocket and pressed record. "Let the world see what Murkoff has done."
After he finished, he remembered he was still wearing Miles' jacket. It didn't feel right taking it, so he took it off and lay it over Miles' torso. "Thank you." He muttered, casting his gaze to the camcorder beside the reporter's shoes. He hadn't even noticed it before. Miles must have dropped it during the fight with the Walrider. Miraculously it was still intact, the lense had not broken, and the night vision setting seemed to still be functional. Then again, it was a better model than the one Waylon stole.
He could almost hear Miles' voice still nagging in his head.
"We can combine our footage and leak it together! The more content we show, the more likely people will believe the illegal and hypocritical practices Murkoff has committed. You gotta think practically, Park.
Waylon reached for the camera. 'It's worth a shot,' he thought as he tucked it away.
With one last reluctant look at Miles' body, he staggered to his feet, wishing he had something to lean on. He didn't have the strength to carry Miles out, but it seemed to be the only option. Still, he felt worse than helpless. He felt useless, abandoning his friend like that.
He should feel happy. In a few moments he would reunite with Lisa and the boys. Some sense of normality would be back and yet...he felt emptier, the feeling of dread forever stuck inside him. In times of despair during the trip through Mount Massive, he had Miles to fall back on. Not to depend on entirely, but as a sort of comfort.
Now Miles is gone. It hadn't sunk in, and he didn't think it would for a while.
He lifted his head, nearing the exit. He was close now.
But what he didn't expect was the set of footsteps tapping towards the front. Standing right in front of the doors to the main laboratory was a man. He was tall, not particularly handsome, with dark hair covering his large forehead. Dressed in a spotless, clean suit, he was the opposite of the filth and grime covering the asylum. Despite this, he was far worse than any variant or even the Walrider itself.
Waylon Park was face to face with his boss. Jeremy Fucking Blaire. The man behind it all, or rather, the man who had most of the power
And he couldn't have looked more smug.
Blaire's eyes flashed with recognition, alarmed, but intrigued. "I don't believe it," He uttered. "Mr. Park, how the fuck are you still alive?"
"I should be asking you the same question." It took all of Waylon's strength to not growl the response. "Last time I saw you, you were destroying the radio tower's security controls and running away from Chris Walker. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be upstairs gloating to your pals?"
Blaire's smug expression twisted into a dangerous scowl. "Is that any way to speak to your boss?" His voice was cold, calculating.
Waylon scoffed. "With no respect added, I was fired the second you committed me into the Engine. Sorry I never sent a formal resignation email." His sarcastic comment had initially sounded more powerful in his head, but by the time he said it, he had stumbled to the floor from his leg acting up.
Blaire's eyes narrowed. "I made the right call. You're clearly still mentally unstable." He crossed over to Waylon and ignored his defiant glare. "To answer your question, I came to check on the experiment. You know the riot put a damper on things. Those...maniacs had what was coming to them. Luckily the FBI have been called and will arrive shortly to dispose of anything left."
Anger bubbled inside him. "You're a monster. It's because of you and this sick cooperation that the riot even happened. You sat there and let people get murdered and mutilated. Tortured like lab rats."
Blaire hummed. "I seem to recall you doing the exact same thing for the past two weeks. You were the only directly involved in the Morphogenic Engine, were you not?"
"I...realized what I was doing was wrong."
"Did you?" Blaire's smirk grew wider when Waylon fell silent. He glanced at his wristwatch casually before continuing. "And in all honesty, Murkoff was doing them a favor."
"A favor?" He repeated in utter disbelief.
"Think about it," his boss turned and circled around him like a ravenous predator stalking its prey. "You say that Murkoff tortured innocent people. I say on the contrary, they were hardly innocent, let alone people."
"What do you mean? Of course they were people!"
"No. They were severely mentally ill and dangerous individuals. You've seen how they act. Cannibalism, sexual assault, necrophilia, the list goes on..." He paused. "There's only so much prozac and therapy can do, Mr. Park. Do you think creatures like that deserve to be treated like human beings?"
"I...I don't..."
"The answer should be obvious." Blaire turned his back to him.
"There weren't all like that," Waylon snarled. "Not all of them were crazy, just because they struggled with mental health. And...and people were wrongfully committed too!"
"Like you?" Blaire raised an eyebrow. "No, we never made a single mistake, Waylon Park. The second you tried, and failed to 'expose' us, you lost all sense of credibility. It's a shame too. I honestly assumed with your impressive background graduating cum laude, that you would have embraced this once in a lifetime opportunity.
"You were nothing before Murkoff. Poor, worthless, could barely afford to take care of your little family until we came along and saved your ass from financial debt. Admit it." He grabbed Waylon by the collar roughly. "Fucking admit it."
Waylon shook his head defiantly. He would never in his life grovel at Jeremy Blaire's shoes. He would rather spit in them.
"Fine." Blaire dropped him and ignored his groans of pain. "Be that way. The advancements that Murkoff has accomplished are beyond your understanding anyway."
"I understand plenty." Waylon snapped. "That you're all sick bastards."
He smiled condescendingly and tutted. "It's a shame. You actually had potential to be something beyond than some lowly tech guy. But no, you had to go and blow that whistle." His eyes narrowed into slits. "You may have thought you were doing something heroic, something special. Oh, look at Waylon Park, the knight in shining armor ready to take on an evil corporation." He rolled his eyes as he mocked him. "You made the worst mistake of your life. I mean really!"
Blaire actually had the audacity to laugh. "As if anyone would actually believe you! Not one single reporter came to your rescue! And they never will."
Waylon wanted to snark back. To say that a reporter [had] come, but was no longer here was not the diss he wanted to have. He really had nothing. No one. "You won't get away with this."
"Haven't you been listening?" Blaire lifted Waylon's chin by his finger. "I already have."
"You're wrong. A reporter has already come here," He blurted out. "We have enough footage to destroy Murkoff and more."
"Really? And where is this mysterious reporter friend of yours?"
Waylon's stomach plummeted. "He ...he didn't..."
"He didn't make it?" Blaire supplied for him, pretending to show sympathy. "Pity."
"Go fuck yourself." Waylon spat.
"Ah ah ah, before we go saying things we might regret...I have an offer for you," Blaire took his hand away and crouched down. Their eyes met, and there was some ounce of humanity left in Blaire's icy blue eyes.
"Yeah, right." Waylon snapped. "Like I'd take your word for anything. All you've done is ruin my life-"
"Listen to me, Waylon," Blaire interrupted. "We're both reasonable men. I'm so kind that I'll let you run home free and clear your name." Waylon looked ready to refuse, but he interjected once more. "You'll be able to find plenty more jobs after this. You won't be blacklisted, and you won't have Murkoff coming after you. All you need to do, is delete all the footage from both those cameras."
"Never. If you think I'm gonna sweep your shit under the rug, you're out of luck. I don't care about my reputation unlike you."
Blaire exhaled. "I expected that. I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. How about if you don't delete that footage, I'll have Murkoff come after your loved ones. Say...for example, your fiery wife. What was her name? Lisa?"
Waylon's eyes widened. In retrospect, Lisa could probably kick Jeremy's ass without breaking a sweat but he really didn't want to take that risk. "No..."
He paused, lifting his finger and grinning. "Or maybe your sons..."
"Don't you fucking touch any of them," he hissed. Rage filled Waylon to the core at the mention of his children. Blaire was bluffing. He had to be bluffing. He wouldn't hurt Lisa or the boys. Would he? With that evil glint in his eye, it was entirely possible.
He saw Lisa's disapproving look, begging him not to give in. He saw Nicky's bright, curious hazel eyes encouraging baby Ollie to toddle towards him.
"Do we have a deal?"
"Please." He fell to his knees. "Don't hurt them. I'll do anything. I promise."
"Excellent. I knew you would see it my way. Now," Jeremy Blaire reached for something sharp in his pocket. Waylon didn't have a second to react before he was shoved against the wall. "Let's make sure you keep to that promise."
The knife entered his stomach, not giving him a chance to scream.