AN: Hi guys in case you missed it while reading the summary, this is a sequel to a fic called Undone I wrote a while ago and there are major spoilers for that other story in here so if you haven't, go read that one first. Also, just like in the last story, I use the bold and italic fonts to differentiate between Miles and the Walrider. Also, also here's the standard disclaimer of I don't own the main characters or the setting.

Now, here's the story:

It was nearly a year later and they were still running the same story. Every news program, every entertainment outlet, from ABC, to Fox, to BBC, to CNN, to MSNBC, to NBC, sixty minutes, Saturday Night Live. It didn't matter, they all sang the same song. Murkoff was doomed.

Right now even, as I'm sitting in a dingy Chicago motel, a 20/20 special is flickering across the TV.

The footage was of a crowded street, outside of the city court house. One very important man moved frantically through a gaggle of reporters. The special went on explaining who he was, what was happening, and what was so special about it. But I already knew.

That man was Murkoffs CEO and founder. That man was going to trial for the absolute litany of shit he'd caused. The charges ranged from money laundering, to conspiracy to commit murder, to actual murder, to forgery, and at least half a dozen othering things. That man was going to walk, free of all the fallout that he deserved.

My skin started to crawl from the thought. I stood up from the bed I had been sitting on.

That footage was shot less than a week ago; the proceedings were still going on, which was why I was in town. For his army of lawyers, for his millions of dollars, for all of his friends in high places, I wasn't about to let this bastard get off free.

Not after everything he'd caused.

The memory Waylon lying dead at the feet of his own children stood like a beacon in my thoughts. The car ride away from that man's profit-obsessed hell hole whirled through my mind.

I had sat behind the wheel of some schmucks electric car. In the back seat were Waylon's sons, Connor and Garret. The quiet was unbearable, nearly suffocating, but I couldn't even begin to think of what to say. What could I have said? How much had they understood? What had happened to them? I stole a glance at them through the rearview. For a second I made eye contact with the younger one, Connor. Not wanting to even think about starting a conversation I looked away.

Unfortunately, I was a bit too slow.

"You're Miles" I glanced back into the rearview. Connor was looking down at his feet, Garret, sitting to his left, stared wild-eyed at him, as if it was the first time he'd heard Connor speak in a month, "you're dad's friend" He finished mumbling.

Was I? I'd treated Waylon like crap, the last time I'd talked to him I'd wanted to rip his head off, and for what? Sending me an email begging for help? We had both needed a friend, but I hadn't been one. Despite hating myself for the lie I replied "ya, I am"

"oh, ok" Connor nearly whispered back.

The drive through the desert was long and filled with a quiet desperation. I had to right things. I had to do good by all those people who'd been forgotten and left to die, I had to make sure someone paid.

Fantasizing about revenge again, are we?

"Not now, ghost" I told the Walrider. I wasn't in the mood for a verbal sparring match with my mental house guest.

Please, that's all you ever think about anymore. If you're not plotting the takedown of some Murkoff official, then you're picking who the next target is.

"Don't pretend you have a problem with that" I said while shrugging into a coat.

I don't. But thinking about revenge is boring compared to actually ripping people to shreds.

"That's awfully impatient, even by your standards"

I began lacing up my boots as the Walrider went on.

We could just go in, paint the room with Roberts -and anyone who happens to be standing next to him- then call it a day.

Hearing the CEO's last name from inside my own mind made me twitch in annoyance.

"Give it time. I don't just want him dead, I want him to suffer."

Someone's in a good mood today.

I struggled and failed not to sound annoyed "I'm absolutely elated."

The Walrider didn't make a comment back at me as I walked out of the hotel room. There was enough snow on the ground to pile up to my knee, what with it bein early november, and if the pale gray sky was anything to go by there was more on the way. Leaving the hotel I went northward, towards the lake. The sidewalks were a bit more empty than your average ghost town and I was really missing having my own car.

Not that it mattered. I didn't have a driver's license anymore, or any credit cards, or even my bank account. Last time I checked my apartment was back up for rent too. Murkoff had been very thorough when they decided to wipe my name from every record book they could get their hands on.

Although that backfired hilariously

True.

The first person I'd set my sights on was the regional supervisor for Murkoff Research and Development in the Mid-west. As soon as he saw me coming he decided to report me to the police for stalking and making threats. When my name didn't come up in the cops system- or anywhere else- they started going after him for making false reports. After a while he drove himself crazy with paranoia and was admitted to an insane asylum.

I caught myself snickering at the irony.

Stifling my laughter I walked on through the snow.

Really though, we should stop dancing around and just go after Roberts.

I have a plan, just go with it. Besides, death is too good for that peice of shit.

That's what you say about all of the murkoff workers

It's not any less true, memories of my night in hell were still fresh on my mind. It was nearly a year ago and it was as vivid as the day after. Everytime I look down at my hands I'm slapped with the reminder that nothing is too bad for them.

I was flooded with a million reasons not to forgive or forget: Waylon's desperate letter, the death of him and Lisa in front of their children, the mutilation and slaughter of a thousand sick men, the kidnapping of children.

Besides, they don't show so much as a trace of a conscience. Why should I?

You shouldn't. It's good to know that we see eye to eye on at least that topic.

As much as I wished it would, that comment didn't send my skin crawling.

Now. If we could agree on a method…

Oh no you don't. We're doing this my way.

That is, the most brutal and severe way plausible.

Says the demon who wants to make it literally rain men.

Yes, exactly. That way we terrify the remaining targets and it's very, very fun.

I rounded the corner of yet another empty frozen street.

You're missing the point. Besides, you get to have your fun in the end.

Ah yes, the point. What was that again? Get revenge?

No, it's about justice. It's what these people deserve. You should know that, you were there, at Mount Massive from the very beginning.

Yes, and I had some fun at first. Then it got boring.

Then you know that these monsters shouldn't get off so easy.

You can drop the moral crusade act. We both know that this is all about petty revenge. Before they trapped us and made it personal you were still touting about saying that they need to be brought down with your idiotic laws.

Petty! It's not petty, and this is still justice, but some of them are too big for the law. They'll never get what's coming unless I give it to them.

Right. It's not personal at all. This is all about serving society and dispensing justice. I took a turn without paying attention, please, we both know that thats a lie.

It is n-

"Please, yo-you can have my wallet"

I'd taken a wrong turn down an alley and straight into a mugging. Great. Out of the thousands of empty back streets I just had to walk into this one. Not wanting to get involved, I started to back out of the place. During my oh-so stealthy retreat I might have tripped over a half snow-covered trash can lid. The clattering of metal on concrete and my own colorful swearing caught both the mugger and the victim's attention.

The battered looking mugger peered over his shoulder at me, the hyperventilating mugee seemed to be silently begging for help. Stumbling, the mugger tilted himself until he halfway faced me, he held what was obviously a pocket knife in his hand.

"Get out!" he snarled at me as he pinned the other man against the wall.

I'd been outside for a grand total of twenty minuets and it was already a bad day, as I looked back at the wild man with the knife I knew it could only get worse.