Delusion Tax

by Many A Mistake

That was it, there was nothing more to think about. Murkoff was finished and all their bullshit died with Jeremy Blaire. If only Blaire had died. Cover by nutbuttertm on Tumblr

1. Chapter 1- Decimated

Chapter 1: Decimated.

Author's Note:
I find it so funny when I read Jeremy Blaire's wiki that under his death it says, decimated by Walrider. So lo and behold the title of the first chapter.
What?...I thought it was funny. Screw you, it's funny.

Beware the flashbacks.

…
…

It was the sound.
That ungodly sound of his bones beginning to crack and strain under the pressure, and the distant echo of his skin abruptly being forced to part, with a sickening tearing sound – almost as though it was mere fabric splitting at the seams. The sheer dreadfulness of what was happening to him was unable to be completely comprehended through sight, as most of the terrors leading to his death took place internally, but in the sound there was horror. It was in the sound that Jeremy Blaire realised he was well and truly dead.

Why had he bothered with Park? Oh yes, right. Park would have gone and ruined everything had he been allowed to live. The fucking techie tried his damndest to ruin Jeremy Blaire at every given opportunity. Blaire wouldn't have his ass shipped off to jail just because a single insubordinate bastard couldn't keep his stupid trap shut. It was only logical that he tried to gut Waylon Park the moment he saw him, but if Jeremy were to be completely honest – a feat within itself – he would have to admit that, yes, he had simply wanted to stab Park.

Waylon could have been the most obedient little mouse to ever work for him and Blaire still would have coaxed him forward with pleas for assistance then proceeded to tear out his stomach with the knife. Jeremy acknowledged to some degree that this guttural desire was not entirely Park's fault. Jeremy had hated Waylon Park from the very first time they met – not the idiot techie's fault maybe but no less lethal had Jeremy had the chance to finish him off properly.

But he hadn't.
That was just the point, he hadn't been able to kill Park because Jeremy was being torn apart in his place.

How the Walrider got out and what it was doing in the lobby was beyond Blaire's frantic mind, all he could do was blindly try and struggle away from an entity that had no solid form. When he felt the first bone in his ribcage give and the first split of flesh, Jeremy was fully aware that he was dead. It didn't take a geniuses to figure it out – likely enough, even that moron Park down there had realised it as he lay bleeding and staring up at his former boss getting shredded.

For the briefest moment a ridiculous thought slipped into Blaire's head as the second bone – one in his leg – snapped under the pressure of the Walrider's hold. What would Waylon Park think when he looked up and saw the abrupt demise of the man who, arguably had caused him the most suffering – next to only that of Eddie Gluskin, the sick fuck. After all the lies, cover-ups, abuse and god only knows what else – what would the self-righteous Waylon Park think right now? Jeremy concluded with a small sense of satisfaction and amusement that Waylon Park – the gentle, ever morally sound – Waylon Park, would laugh. In that small realisation Jeremy was able to take a shred of pleasure even as he screamed his lungs out and lost consciousness in a sudden explosion of blood and parts of flesh that had once belonged to his body.

Waylon Park would be the sole survivor, something that Blaire would have scoffed, laughed and cried over had the mere suggestion be offered up only a week earlier. Park, the weedy little techie was the only one lucky enough to get out in one piece – for the most part anyway. While on his end, Blaire would be left nothing more than a floor decoration for the next poor bastard to stumble in upon.

That was it, there was nothing more to think about. Murkoff was finished and all their bullshit died with Jeremy Blaire.
If only Blaire had died.

…
…

The first thought that came into Jeremy's mind, the very first conscious thought that popped up in his most likely severely damaged brain was something along the lines of – 'ouch!'

The next sentient thought he had was a little bit more helpful though no less simple, 'I'm alive.' Logically Blaire realised this to be statistically impossible. He felt the way the Walrider had broken his body, the mere sound still chimed loudly in his ears – an onslaught of flesh being torn and blood spilling onto the floor with a sickening splat. Walrider was not known to be inefficient, it was not a creature known to leave people still breathing – but breathe Jeremy continued to.

Puzzled and a little sceptical Jeremy tried to open his eyes, to take in some of his surroundings to figure out how this had happened. Perhaps it would be as cliché as waking up from a bad dream or maybe he was dead and this was simply hell – no dug induced high was enough to make Blaire believe for a moment he'd go anywhere else if there was an afterlife. But that's what happens when you sell your soul away to Murkoff – you might as well tack on a one-way ticket to the furnace to save time and money. If Murkoff knew how to do anything, it was saving money.

However, despite popular believe and hopes, Jeremy Blaire was not in hell, nor was he in bed. Jeremy found himself lying on the same cold, blood soaked floor he'd been resting on when Park came along. The only difference now was that he was in the centre of the entry hall and there was a distinct lack of pain. He had the sensation, the knowledge that he should be in writhing in anguish but his brain refused to process the ungodly amount of agony Blaire should have been in. It was a mercy but also a warning – it meant that whatever damage had been done to him was bad enough to begin shutting down his brain.

So for a few seconds Jeremy remained motionless on the ground, staring hazily up towards the far away ceiling and half hoping that Chris Walker would show up and finish what Walrider didn't. Between death and the possibility that he was a vegetable – Blaire would have chosen death twice over. As the minutes began to trickle by, Jeremy noticed something else not quite right. While he'd hoped Walker might wander in and just walk right over him, there was a distinct lack of movement, of any kind.

Straining himself Jeremy tried to listen past the constant buzzing in his ears that reminded him he was probably concussed if not suffering brain damage of all kinds. There was silence, no rats scurrying about and not variants wailing or chattering uncontrollably. There was also a lack of gunfire or the sound of heavy boots clomping around the lower levels – it was like everyone had vanished, everyone had died. If that were true, then there'd be nobody to come and off Blaire besides time itself.

Jeremy Blaire was never the patient type anyway.

It took a great deal of effort and concentration just to locate his own hand. Twitching his fingers was no easy task and while Jeremy did managed to get a response out of his pinky eventually he was still a fair ways off getting total hand function back. However the most reassuring part of this was that he actually still had that hand. It had not been torn out of its socket by the Walrider – there, one more plus to the bright side of life. Now for the left side. This took more time but Blaire was eventually greeted with a wave of nauseating pain down to his elbow, at least telling him he had the elbow – but he wasn't able to get any fingers twitching this time.

Fear began to build in Jeremy's stomach as he imagined a bloodied stump leading to where the rest of his arm should be. He could see it perfectly in his mind, torn flesh and a pool of blood – the image wasn't going to make his top ten any time soon. Slowly, anxiously, Jeremy forced himself to look, forced his eyes to swivel to the furthest most point of his eyes till his arm came into view. It was there…all of it.

Oh sure, it was mangled and there was decent chunks taken out of it – but it was there. Relief flowed through Jeremy and he was not ashamed of letting out a thankful sigh. With one arm functioning and the other still present Jeremy began to try and sit himself up – it was only then that the pain began to hit him fully. Blaire had rarely been hurt bad enough to consider sobbing but he didn't believe anyone would wrong him for letting out a few tears in that moment – only pride kept him from letting out cries of desperation and agony.

The simple act of righting himself took longer than Jeremy could have anticipated and the discomfort that came with the action was just as gruelling as he expected. His vision swam nauseatingly in front of his eyes but thankfully what was left of his lunch stayed down with a bit of a fight. Once Jeremy could see his legs, he almost lost that fight. Much like his useless left arm, his legs were in tatters.

The sight of shredded fabric and flesh caused him to gag and along with the sight came the pain that had been blissfully absent from his mind. Hissing in air through his teeth in an effort to keep from screaming out loud, Blaire produced small whines and growls of pain that he couldn't entirely stifle. The soft grunts and vocal complaints echoed eerily around the silent entry hall, reminding Jeremy of just how silent the whole place was. Despite his assumptions that the place would be empty of all life – Jeremy still tensed when his own voice echoed back to him, he was afraid that someone might hear him and come to finish him off.

Then a scary thought occurred to him. In the form of a smiling face, Jeremy remembered a nightmare.

"Where are you hiding now? Come now Mr. Blaire – we're not done with your therapy yet."

A violent shudder ran down Blaire's spine and with it the fear brought adrenaline. He had to get out. Jeremy didn't care if the whole building had been gunned down by Murkoff or torn apart by Walrider – he had to get out. The slim possibility that he might be found by that freak was more than enough to get Jeremy moving, and so with every agonised gasp for breath, Jeremy dragged himself a little further upright.

Mount Massive Asylum had been filled to breaking point with nut-jobs just waiting for an excuse to kill one another. Murder, cannibalism, rape, it all flowed freely after the riot, and Jeremy thought himself luck to have avoided the worst of the carnage. Patients like Eddie Gluskin – the delusion fuck – and Frank Manera, were top priorities when it came to staying away and staying safe. Jeremy had avoided the worst of it – with the occasional close call with Chris Walker – he'd thought himself to be safe halfway through the mess. Until he ran into that guy.

The memory of that idle smile and calm words struck Jeremy more harshly than any of the variants crazed ravings. There was something in the semblance of sanity that the patient had spoken with, that unnerved Blaire. It reminded him too closely of Rick.

Rick…

Momentarily Blaire paused the name of his former friend and co-worker coming to mind. He knew instinctively that he was dead. Richard Trager was dead from the moment he set foot in the lower levels, the second that Blaire saw the former executive's papers of transfer to the Morphogenic Engine program – Jeremy knew he was gone. With a slight shake of his head Jeremy forced away such pointless thoughts. Rick wasn't going to come back no matter how much Jeremy thought of him and if he wasn't out of here fast enough, Jeremy might just join Rick in death.

It was only when Jeremy had dragged himself to his flimsy legs that he noticed something that brought about mixed feelings in him. Someone had patched him up. It was shoty work, done on someone who needed much more skilled medical care, but it was one of the only things keeping Jeremy upright. Somewhat clumsy stitches held patches of his flesh together, threatening to tear open again if Jeremy was too hasty. There was even a few makeshift bandages around his arm and legs, they appeared to be made from the same material as he ruined clothes and what Jeremy guessed was a patients uniform – he could even see some digits on the fabric from the patients identification number.

Confused but by no means disappointed by this discovery, Jeremy once again set his eyes on escape. Who had done this wasn't important, not right now, he had to think of escape before stopping to consider all the oddities that went on in his time at the asylum. From where he stood the doors were still wide open and he could distantly make out the shape of the asylum's front gates. They appeared to have been smashed open. When he'd been laying in the hallway before Walrider made a chew-toy of him, Jeremy had spotted a car by the asylum gates, he guessed that the car had been taken and used to break open the gates. That meant at least someone had made it out of this place alive.

With that knowledge Jeremy felt a familiar spike of rage flood through him. After all his hard work someone had gone and survived, if they got out and didn't have the good sense to keep their traps shut then it wouldn't matter if Jeremy got out of here alive. Murkoff would see him dead just as soon as they would the person who blew the damn whistle. Deciding to be optimistic and hope whoever had escaped had crashed and died, Jeremy continued with his original plan of escape.

Every step he took was another white hot flash of agony, another reminder that he would need a fucking miracle to make it anywhere that he could get proper medical attention. Even if he was to find a hospital, Jeremy was hesitant to actually go there for help. If he was found by Murkoff or the police, it made no difference, he'd be caught and ultimately end up in a cell – as a best-case scenario.

He'd have to figure out a way to avoid the public eye for a while. That was fine, just fine. He could do it. He was many things, many dreadful, monstrous things, but a quitter was not one of them.
Jeremy Blaire was no fucking quitter.

Despite himself Jeremy scoffed out a bitter chuckle. He knew that Rick would have praised him. Given him a pat on the back with that annoying, bloody smirk of his.
"That's the spirit, buddy!"

Yeah…something dumb like that.

Jeremy still managed to hold onto a bitter smile as he edged his way to the front doors of the asylum and out into the light of day. It was foolish to make friends in Murkoff, they'd both known that and Rick had paid dearly for his mistakes when it came to Murkoff – Jeremy was just now realising how stupid it was to befriend the former executive.

Now he was going to be hearing his shitty ass voice talking encouragement for the rest of his life.
Silver lining, he might not have that much left to the rest of his life anyway.

In an effort to both distract himself from the pain in his legs and back, Jeremy kept his mind on useless things. To dull the sting of each step he took, Jeremy thought back on the times he and Rick had knocked off to play golf rather than deal with incompetent employees. The number of times he'd showed off to Rick, demonstrating why his clubs were the best money could buy. Most of all Jeremy could remember how pointlessly fun it had been. Enjoyment held no weight in the Murkoff world, but still they'd indulged in it.

Jeremy decided now that he was glad they had. It was the only thing that could occupy his mind as he slowly dragged himself away from the ruined asylum.

…
…

"I don't know buddy. That's one hell of a shot." Rick mused, peering out across the pond that stood between them and the final hole of the golf course. Jeremy was pretty damn sure he could make the shot even from this incontinent position, or rather he wasn't going to let Rick one up him when it came to golf.

"It'll be a cold day in hell come the day I let you beat me at golf Trager." Jeremy scoffed as he took a tentative swing with his club. Rick had always been fairly laid back when it came to golf. He never gave anything away without an honest to god effort but Jeremy never noticed the older executive throwing his back into it either.

"Well how about a little friendly competition?" Rick suggested with an eager smile. "There's nothing wrong with a little bit of rivalry."

With his club slung over his shoulder, Jeremy turned to look back at his colleague, sizing up the confident smirk on Trager's face. In all the times they'd gone out golfing, Jeremy struggled to think of an instance where Rick had been able to best him – let alone be foolish enough to try betting with him. Still, it was not a terrible idea and if victory was assured then who was Jeremy to say no?

"Hmpf." Smirking Jeremy rolled the club off his shoulders. "Name your stakes."

"Lets start with something simple, hm?" Rick turned to look up towards the shot Jeremy had been lining up earlier. The one across the pond. Following his gaze Jeremy's smirk widened – he could make it. He was positive.

"When I make this." Jeremy looked directly at Trager, self-assured glint in his eyes. "You will be filling out paperwork for a month."

…
…

"Gah-!" Jeremy almost lost his footing, being brought down to his knees as a sudden surge of pain struck him. The memory of that day with Trager slipped away into the back of his mind as the painful haze clouded his thoughts. He was almost seeing red as his legs buckled under him and brought the former executive to the ground.

He'd made it out of the asylum and even past the front gates but the unforgiving dirty road was giving his shredded body some grief. No matter how Jeremy tried he could not recall the memory that had given him some mind numbing relief, no matter how desperately he clung to that frivolous, sunbathed golf course – it continued to slip away as the pain grew more unbearable.

With the aching of his body and the burning of wounds that had yet to fully close up, Jeremy was instead slipped into a different sort of memory, and no matter how much he willed it back, he was unable to keep the tormenting memories at bay. Those hours he'd spent in the asylum, running down filthy halls and trying pathetically to stay alive were still burned into his mind. The fear and anger still fresh as though he were still fleeing for his life.

Park, David, that fucking reporter – all of them would bitch and moan about the horrors at Mount Massive Asylum, both before and after the outbreak, but they'd never even consider the effects it would have on the bastards running the joint. Not one of them would consider sparing a thought for the hell he'd gone through. Well…Blaire wouldn't fault them for that. Self-preservation and interest always came first after all. Those that survived – if there were any others besides himself – would no doubt always remember their own individual hell. Jeremy Blaire was already experiencing nightmares, and he was yet to even close his eyes.

In his unseeing gaze there reflected a pair of scissors. Small and sharp – with the intend of cutting out his 'lying tongue'.
"The sharper the scissors, the better the cut."

It was not the pain numbing anaesthetic that Trager's memory had been, but the remembrance of a nightmare kept Jeremy moving. Moving towards hope, moving away from hell – escaping the asylum.

…
…

Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Jeremy stumbled, frantically scrambling down the halls of the asylum in an effort to escape before he ended up as nothing more than another bloodstain on the wall. Chris had given him a rough time at first but it seemed as though the brute was easily distracted with easier prey – Park actually managed to be of some use. In-fucking-credible.

The walking mountain of flesh that was Walker had been left behind somewhere behind him and for a while Jeremy had felt safe, for a while he felt that he'd be able to ward off the lesser variants with a simple knife and superior intelligence. He had not counted on running into a certain former worker. Since their incidental run in some ten hours ago…Jeremy had been running without pause. No matter which door he blocked or which corridor he slipped down – his stalker was able to find him each and every time.

"My, my." The calm words followed Blaire as he raced down the ruined asylum halls, dodging abandoned wheelchairs and upturned tables as he went. "Mr. Blaire, all this running – it can't be good for your health."

Another sharp corner taken too hastily and Jeremy almost found himself skidding on a pool of what he hoped was blood. If it wasn't then he didn't even known what to begin thinking. Thankfully he was able to cling onto some semblance of dignity and did not come crashing down onto the filthy floor. With a few frantic, unbalanced steps, Jeremy was running again. But that slip up had cost him. As he struggled to regain his balance, Jeremy collided with one of the tables that was still left standing in the asylum, knocking off all kinds of rubbish on it. Metal and paper went flying in a terrifying clatter of sound – that noise alone brought the attention of his stalker back to his location.

"Mr. Blaire!" The joyful tone shot a cold chill up Jeremy's spine. The voice was not too far behind him, barely around the corner even. In a panic Jeremy looked for somewhere to go. He knew this hall, he knew every room would ultimately lead to a dead-end cell, the only way to escape was to keep running and if he did that he ran the risk of being seen. Once he'd been visually compromised, Jeremy doubted he'd have a chance.

There was always the option of hiding, lowering himself under one of the beds or tables around and hoping he'd pass by without noticing. That seemed too degrading to even consider, Jeremy Blaire was not going to fucking lower himself to cowering in dark corners with his tail between his legs. Then again…cowards survived.

"Now, I know you're scared." The freak continued to talk in that pleasant tone, as if he could somehow reason with Blaire on the matter. "I know, I know…but you really must try to be more honest with yourself. Mr. Blaire, you've been under a lot of stress recently haven't you? It's perfectly understandable that you'd be a little...on edge."

Each word came out as calm and collected, at least until it hit the last two and then the perusing male's words dripped into a low snarl, full of mockery. He knew. He fucking knew what he was doing. Blaire realised that this was scarier than the simple mad ravings of the other patients.
They were brainless, foolish, unorganised and uncoordinated. They may as well have been rabid dogs that vaguely remembered having a grasp on the English language. They were vicious but easily evaded, men like this, men still conscious and clever enough to see what they were doing for what it was – well, they were the true dangers.

Spitting furious curses, Jeremy looked for a weapon. Anything that he might be able to use to somehow finish the bastard before he was able to get a good look at his former employer. When Jeremy finally found something he could use, it was already too late. Just as Blaire dove for a nearby table, where it appeared a small knife had been left, the male rounded the corner that Jeremy had passed only moments before.

Jeremy watched in horror and disgust as the man's face lit up in a smile when spotting him. The effects of the Morphogenic Engine were obvious. Most patients suffered permanent scarring only a few weeks into the exposure to the videos and immediate deformities when placed within the machine itself. The former therapist was no exception to this rule.

"There you are…" The male breathed out a sigh of relief and began to approach Jeremy with open arms, as though they were good, old friends. "Where were you off to Mr. Blaire? We weren't finished with our little chat just yet…" The glint of scissors in his pursuers hand caught Jeremy's eye and he backed up further.

As the male followed Jeremy, he came into the light and revealed the extent of the damage that exposure to the Morphogenic Engine had caused. Jeremy had seen the sunken faces of patients and even heard of a few that had open festering wounds on their bodies from the testing, so he was not surprised by what he saw but cringed in disgust all the same. The man looked as though he'd been burnt, badly burnt. The majority of his face was covered in ugly scarring and inflamed marks from where the flames had most harshly burned him. These marks followed down his body, from what Jeremy could see at least the entire left side of the man's body had fallen victim to the red scars. Still he smiled, stretching his burnt skin tight, and approached Jeremy as though he could not feel the pain he must have been in.

"You see Mr. Blaire? All you had to do was open up a little." He spoke pleasantly, approaching Jeremy with an easy going smile. Jeremy remembered a time when that smile had been even less focused. A good-natured airhead with only thoughts of his patients in mind – an idiot in Jeremy's mind. However in days past that smile brought more annoyance about in Jeremy than it encouraged fear, he would have much preferred mild irritation to the panic he felt now.

"Stay the fuck away from me, Sinclair!" Jeremy barked, making a made dash for the knife he'd seen. The former therapist saw the action and at the same time lunged for Jeremy. Thankfully Jeremy did not stop to threaten or make further demands, the moment his fingers closed around the knife he turned and slashed blindly at his attacker.

There was a cry of agony and Jeremy saw a sudden splash of blood hit the wall – he'd got Sinclair. Screaming his displeasure and pain, Sinclair backed up with his hands grappling uselessly at his split face. Jeremy stood panting, staring at his handiwork. Diagonally across the variant's face Jeremy had left a large cut, it bled profusely and by the screams Sinclair was releasing it was a deep wound.

When Jeremy looked at this pathetic, pitiful version of the variant he'd been fleeing from – he could see a bit of the man that had been in there before he'd been committed to the asylum. He could still remember the young therapist with a dazed smile and only the best intentions. He could still see the reckless man that bent rules for patients, the foolish man who thought befriending other workers in the asylum to be a good idea – the idiot that landed himself a permanent place in Mount Massive Asylum.

"You…!" Sinclair snarled through clenched teeth, his naturally friendly faced twisting into a hateful snarl. His teeth were bared and when Jeremy caught sigh of the younger male's wide, crazed eyes, he was positive he felt his heart stop. Just for a second when he and the variant locked gazes – Jeremy knew that Sinclair wasn't going to stop. Not for this, not until he was completely dead.

"You loathsome, egotistical little man!" The calm control was gone and every word Sinclair spat was overflowing with unbridled hatred. "I try my best to mend you, to mend them – I try, and I try! I gave you a chance didn't I? I tried to redeem you but-!" Slowly Sinclair staggered upright, one hand still pressed to his heavily bleeding face. "But you've ruined everything. You, Mr. Blaire, you took everything from me, from us. You took broken men and made monsters!"

Jeremy had more than enough of this, he turned to run. Sinclair let out a screech, it barely sounded human, and despite his considerable injuries, and lunged again for Jeremy. The sound of Sinclair's sudden mad scuffle was enough to alert Jeremy and he turned back slightly, not willing to let Sinclair blindside him. However as he shifted back to face the crazed former therapist, Jeremy was met only with pain.

Sudden searing white pain shot up through his body from his side. Blaire barely understood what happened until he saw the sick smirk crawling up onto Sinclair's blood stained face. "Ah, looks like I got you this time sir." Slowly Jeremy's gaze slipped down to the place that the pain was most intense and there he saw Sinclair's scissors protruding from his side. Already blood was beginning to overflow from the puncture wound and stain Blaire's clothes.

Finally a strangled sound of horror ripped from Jeremy's throat and as if to reward his cry of pain, Sinclair twisted.

"My, my, Mr. Blaire." Sinclair whispered, his tone dropping into a low purr now that the two of them were in such close proximity. The overwhelming smell of Sinclair's blood clouded Jeremy's senses, and he could see nothing but red. The red of Sinclair's bleeding face and the dull crimson of the burn marks – all of it blinded him. "Do you perhaps not like the monsters you've created?"

That sick grin remained on Sinclair's face as he watched Jeremy try to pry the scissors out of his side. He wasn't done with Jeremy just yet.
"That's fine, you'll be my perfect patient."

…
…

Gritting his teeth, Jeremy forced himself to keep on moving and try to leave those memories behind. That freak was dead, along with the rest of those fuckers – he just had to remember that and maybe the fear would eventually subside. Now as he dragged himself away from the ruins of all his hard work – Jeremy Blaire was able to wholeheartedly admit that, yes, they'd created monsters.
And it just so happened one of those monsters had stabbed its creator.

The memory brought back the painful sting of an injury not caused by the Walrider. With his hand clutching the side that Sinclair had torn a hole in with those annoying little fucking scissors, Blaire found himself stumbling off to the side of the dirt road. A moment later with the world still spinning in and out of view, Blaire finally gave up the battle of holding down his lunch and rejected all the substance left in his stomach. When there was nothing left to dispel his body continued to demand Jeremy cough and choke, going so far as to have him vomit up what he could only guess was stomach acid. A few more minutes of gagging and dry-heaving, and Jeremy collapsed onto his knees. He was covered in literally every type of liquid on could imagine by this point, he even had tears beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes from the burn of the stomach acid crawling its way up through his throat.

He was a mess.

Blaire knew that and despised every inch of himself for allowing his existence to fall into such a decrepit state. A mountain of 'should haves' flooded his mind as he sat on the cold, filthy ground. He should have killed Park outright the moment he suspected even the tiniest sense of rebellion. He should have kept the reigns tighter in Billy Hope's progress. He could have kept Rick out of the Walrider program. Should have committed the fucking therapist earlier than he did, should have just shot him between the eyes before he could be crazy enough to dare stab him. He should have just done better.

He was going to do better.

Jeremy refused to sit here on the disgusting ground and let his own body rot away into nothing more than a heap of ragged old bones. Slowly, on shaky legs, Jeremy forced himself back up. He needed to cling to a nearby tree to stop from falling again. Jeremy knew the closest civilised settlement was at least fifteen miles away. Fifteen miles…? That amount of distance and time with his shattered body? Even with his considerably damaged mind and body, Jeremy knew that the walk would have taken him roughly five to six hours in good health – he wasn't one to rush usually so maybe he could have made it in four hours if he'd tried?

Five hours was bad enough with the rapid pace of which he was losing strength but with the slow shamble he was able to manage, it was entirely possible he'd be looking at double that time. He couldn't make that. Jeremy knew he couldn't make that, but he continued to hobble along all the same. The alternative was lying down to die…he couldn't. No, he just wouldn't let himself become road kill.

So Jeremy continued to drag himself through the thick forest surrounding the asylum. It was a whim that kept him away from the road, the sense of danger that came with being out in the open keeping him a fair distance from any firm track. It never occurred to him that he might get lost and turn that possible twelve hours into two days. But it was this thoughtless choice that kept Jeremy Blaire out of the sight of a single black car that drove up towards the asylum. Its lights were off and it moved more quietly than one would expect given the roughness of the track leading up to the asylum gates.

Blaire barely even noticed it when they passed, just as those in the car did not see his crippled form limping in the other direction. What Jeremy did notice was the asylum – going up in flames.

It wasn't the light or the distant crackling of fire that caught Jeremy's attention, his mind too numb and hazy to pick up on those things, it was the smell. The smell of burning wood, paper, bodies. The scent of everything going up in flames. When Jeremy dared to look back he saw a beacon of light. The entire asylum had been lit up and even though Jeremy had put a fair distance between himself and the asylum by now – a considerable amount of distance with his injuries – the former executive swore he could feel the heat on his skin.

And as he watched the hellhole burn, Jeremy felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The evidence, the freaks inside, they'd all burn. The things he and Murkoff had wanted to hide away for the sake of profit and self-protection were now rotting and burning – there was going to be nothing left to tie them to the fire. Jeremy knew it would be Murkoff destroying evidence, when things got too rough there was always a last resort like this. It was entirely possible that Murkoff would never get found out for this, how could they be caught? With all that money, influence and no hard evidence to prove they'd been involved in anything shady – Murkoff was untouchable.

However all of that, still did not make Jeremy any readier to go and find his employers. It was likely he'd end up being tossed into that fire as well if he was to show his face now. No, he had to keep moving and look out for his own skin until everything had settled and he was able to gauge the situation.

All that was on Jeremy's mind now was surviving the night, surviving at all. The awkward, agonising walk through the forest gradually became a constant pain, a constant shuffle he wasn't even consciously forcing anymore. If there was such a thing as autopilot, Jeremy had found it.

The world moved fluidly around him, shifting in and out of focus as Jeremy struggled to stay in a straight line. The trees he reached out to for balance seemed to slip away from his fingers, vanishing and reappearing as his world tilted to one side and twisted into itself. A few times Jeremy felt as though he'd be sick again but he had nothing left to throw up and so at random intervals he would let out a choking sound as his stomach stubbornly tried to make him reject things from his stomach that just weren't there.

Between the delirious mumbling and dry-heaving breaks, Jeremy was becoming gradually aware of the futility of his efforts. Fifteen miles? He would be lucky to make three, he'd be lucky to take three more steps. A glance down at his ruined legs told Blaire that he had reopened one of the haphazard stitches he'd been given and now he was leaving a particularly heavy trail of blood behind him. Dully in the back of his mind Jeremy recognised this development as the thing that would probably kill him. He was already dizzy from pain, a most probable, devastating concussion and now massive amount of blood loss. Jeremy missed the days when he blood stayed in his body and he was able to watch others bleed out instead – better days.

His body was falling into disrepair and his brain knew it. So what did his mind do to motivate a man on his last legs? Motivation.

"You can't die yet." Jeremy was sure he was going insane himself, hearing voices like a memory in the back of his head. "Not yet…we're not finished just yet Mr. Blaire." He remembered that voice, that eerily pleasant tone chasing him down the asylum halls. Sinclair. "Run."

His legs would not physically allow Blaire the sweet bliss of running but they kept moving and that was about the next best thing. Logically he concluded that Sinclair had burnt with the rest of those fuckers back in the asylum, but his mind was pushing that motivation idea and Jeremy wasn't about to stop and reason it out. He would be lodging a formal complaint about its choice of motivation when he was once again conscious enough to formulate one. Why couldn't it have picked something like Trager or money to motivate him? Why did it have to pick some nutter from the asylum and rely on fear tactics?

Well…it was Jeremy Blaire's mind. Fear tactics is what it did best.

So they continued the agonised struggle down the mountain, towards the slim hope that there would be salvation at the bottom. Seconds turned to minutes and gradually into hours. He lost track of time somewhere around the second or third hour of walking. He knew his destination, a small town at the base of the mountain, someplace just discreet enough to avoid immediate suspicion, hopefully a place with a ready supply of medical equipment. Jeremy did not make it to the town he had in mind, the one that by all rights was still another two or three hours away.

Instead Blaire found himself almost walking headfirst into a wall. The realisation that there was something solid blocking his path momentarily went by unregistered in his mind and Jeremy's autopilot began to move him around the wooden door he'd almost smacked into. It took a few seconds but finally….wooden door.

Shaking his head to clear it Jeremy refocused his eyes, finally able to bring what had been a murky outline of a building into focus. His first reaction was to let out a low groan of annoyance, he'd found himself the most haunted house one could have stumbled across in the forest. It was in a worse state than the bleeding, broken man standing at its door. Parts of the wooden structure had broken away, bits of mould and vegetation were growing out of the crevices, and Jeremy swore that he could actually see attempts to repair the house with old sticks and gum. It was a pathetic, cliché looking cabin in the woods, but it was shelter and just going by the appearance it would be abandoned.
That or he'd be bunking with a homeless serial killer. Well at this point the only difference between Blaire and such a person was a bath and with all the blood on him, Blaire was cutting it pretty close.

"If there's a house…" Jeremy rasped, unaware of just how cracked and dry his own voice was until he used it. "Then that means that the town isn't far off either."

Vaguely he tried to remember how long he'd been walking but all Jeremy could remember was a blurred image of his own two feet being put in front of him, one agonising step at a time. It wasn't really his ideal image of a five star hotel but his legs were aching and he was sure that he was one drop of blood away from being drained dry – so this would have to do.

Blaire quietly thanked Christ when the door was unlocked and slid open with a simple push of his hand, the one not torn all to bugger. Inside the house wasn't much more appealing than the outside. The cobwebs were sinful and Blaire could definitely smell something rotting under the floorboards. All the same he stepped inside, ignoring the wail of complaint from the wooden floor as he stepped on its disused surface. It was dark inside the house but it was also dry and considerably warmer than Blaire had expected, a welcome relief.

His first action was to wander through the halls, peeking into each room he passed. He found the kitchen and dining room at the end of the hall, what he guessed had been a living room at some point and a small storage closet. Nothing exhilarating but he wasn't looking for comfort, he was looking for any signs that the house had other occupants that would need to be given the boot. And if they didn't want to leave…what was one more body to the Murkoff tally?

There were a set of stairs that Jeremy did not entirely trust to walk up. Tentatively he took the first step, cringing when it let out a low groan of complaint under his weight – but the staircase held. Upstairs was considerably smaller than the rest of the house, it consisted of two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was the bathroom that set a wave of relief through Blaire, if there was medical equipment in the house it would be in the bathroom – or at the very least some painkillers.

What he found was fairly promising. Some bandages still tightly wrapped and clean, besides the dust that had gathered on them, and various pills. Some for pain, others for colds – they even had some antibodies in here. The small box he'd been able to pull from the bathroom cupboard also had disinfectant and a few small objects like tweezers and scissors. At first Jeremy was relieved but when he saw the glint of the scissors a familiar dread coiled in his stomach. He wouldn't be touching those for a while.

The first thing Jeremy did was swallow a mouthful of painkillers. He probably took too many too fast but if Jeremy was going to overdose on anything – it wouldn't be painkillers. Once he forced the pills down his throat dry, the feeling akin to swallowing dust and razors, he turned his attention on what he could do for his ruined body. The arm that dangled uselessly at his side was his first concern. He did not want to have to function with only one arm in the future but when he took a look at the mangled limb he knew that it wouldn't be helping him any time soon.

Again Blaire noticed the patch-up job someone had done on him. The stitches he'd managed not to pull were still angry and inflamed – no doubt having been done with a dirty needle from the asylum. Chunks of his flesh were still missing and Blaire swore a few of the bones in his hand had been crushed. All he could do for the time being was to wash away what blood and grime he could, and disinfect the area. Every little action he took, every touch he laid on his own arm sent another sharp shock of pain up his neck but Blaire, with low guttural snarls of pain, pushed on forward.

His legs were in a similar state, but still functioning though he was sure that his ankle had to be broken, or at the very least sprained…and here he was walking on it. There wasn't really an option but Jeremy cringed just thinking about the extra damage he'd probably done to himself.

The best Jeremy could manage before the doziness of the painkillers hit him, was to splash disinfectant over his poorly done stitches- an action that sent him spitting curses at the top of his lungs. The painkillers did little to dull the burn of the antiseptic liquid. As well as replace a few of the bandages on his legs. Pulling away the shreds of patient uniform that had been used to bind him up was a gruelling task. Some of his wounds were deep enough and fresh enough that they fused to their coverings, forcing Jeremy to reopen some areas of his body and watch as his freshly healing skin was pulled away with the cloth. Whoever had been kind enough the patch him up was going to die for it – Jeremy was going to fucking kill them when this was over.

In the empty house Jeremy could hear his own pain filled grunts and moans echoing back to him, but still he worked away. He'd seen this done before, seen patients in worse shape get fixed up by well trained doctors. But Jeremy wasn't a doctor, he was simply mimicking the actions he'd observed and hoping it would be enough. He did what he had to do, because there was nothing else he could do.

With the bandages changed to fresher coverings for the most part and a majority of his body still burning from the liquid fire that was disinfectant, Jeremy finally stopped. He was out of fuel, he couldn't do any more…this was the best he could do for now. Stumbling out of the grimly little bathroom, Jeremy made for the bathroom closest to him. He barely looked around the room, didn't bother looking for danger or insects as he locked his eyes on the bed pushed up by the far wall. It could have been half a mattress with cockroaches for stuffing and Blaire still would have taken it gladly.

His body finally seemed to decide it'd had enough just as he reached the bed and seemingly out of nowhere, it dropped him. The painful fog that had settled into Blaire's mind had faded to a dull roar in the back of his mind, but he was still able to deduce that his body was beginning to shut down now. Blood loss and the shock he was in finally catching up with him. But he'd made it. He'd found a house to collapse in, even a bed to fall on. Oh sure it was full of dust and spiders but it was a considerable upgrade from the forest floor.

As Jeremy's eyes slipped shut he was distinctly aware of the possibility he'd never wake up. He might die the moment consciousness left him…but he'd done everything he possibly could have. He hadn't given up and just waited to die.
Jeremy Blaire was no fucking quitter.

And should he wake up again, he'd have to once again force himself to try and survive. Some part of him knew death would be easier than this hell but the rest refused to give up so easily. So as the darkness came to take him, Blaire decided that no matter the outcome, if he lived to see the next day or died in the coming seconds – he wouldn't care.

If only Blaire had died.