Full story Summary: Waylon Park didn't intend to meet Miles Upshur. But they did. Waylon and Miles make a team of unexpected proportions. Along the way, Waylon reminisces about his time in the Murkoff corporation: he remembers how the creepy guy Andrew had a overwhelming sexual fascination for him...and his silent, sort of "secret admirer" was his boss, Jeremy Blaire. Despite even surviving Waylon now has to help Miles who is Walrider-stricken. Wernicke's group of "friends" are the closest possible people to help him. Following them around are The Twins. Who find both Waylon and Miles fun. Following Waylon's route, on a trail of both admiration and jealousy, is Eddie Gluskin. While Waylon and Miles are hopping from different states to different countries what happens when Miles feels his core is soothed by Waylon? And what happens when Project Walrider has more variants who host different types of Walriders? Daryl Stockblitz is one who is sent by Murkoff's sibling company with his Walrider, codenamed "Slicestorm", to capture them. Beginning with torturing Andrew. Will Waylon rewrite the Morphogenic equation in a direction Wernicke did not expect?
Bear with me on this fic. TOTAL WIP
WARNING: This story has VERY, VERY GRAPHIC details of rape, non-con sex, violence, strong language and also other bizarre things that is a detailed study of the Outlast characters and the story universe. If any of this may trigger or make you uncomfortable please do not read. This is a very important warning.
Mountain Air
Sometimes, he wondered about these people. They seemed dead. In a way goldfish-eyes look when they have hit the subtle edges of glass or contracted an infection.
They talked to him normally. Briefly and succinctly. En pointe. Nothing that was detailed. Nothing too abstract. Nothing excess. By the business as they said. Never more.
Waylon Park burned his tongue on the coffee. "Ouch..." partly obfuscated by the stinging extension of his tongue. Coffee felt more alive than the personnel here. That was pretty much a sign of "Waylon get your way out."
"Nice tongue." A fully suited doctor, the sort of scrubs that made you ponder on radiation fallouts, commented making Waylon spin and look at him sceptically and a bit nervous. "Healthy red." The man commented again making Waylon retract his tongue into the soft and hard shells of lips and mouth, questionably, nervously, looking, "Kinda bright with a singe." The man looked at him with a smile, eerie, "I presume you are Waylon Park. The programmer that helps MIR connection to our engine? I am Andrew."
There was no handshake. But Waylon politely replied, "Nice to meet you, I guess." Sufficiently, he added that.
The eyes looked at him. Surveyed his body in a way that felt sexual and not comfortable. "I guess we will see each other seeing you are our main patch up guy." Waylon noticed that Andrew licked his lips and he was pretty much started drinking his hot coffee again to wash that feeling of uneasiness away.
"Well, they will call me when they need me." Waylon answered with passive interest; a shrug.
Andrew smiled creepily again, "The engine is our own prized baby I find it easy to say that they will need you a lot. We will be closely, working together." The stress on the proximity made Waylon almost drop his coffee.
Waylon hadn't thought back to this conversation…until he faced the licking tongue; after Andrew showed a very mocking sense of concern for him. It seemed that Andrew was liking that his incarceration (or rather corporate betrayal and endangerment) allowed him to be so close to Waylon. Waylon groaned out of protest; he wanted to vomit then and there.
This man was so sick…
Sometimes he wondered.
But he didn't know that then. Like he didn't know much about Eddie Gluskin or Miles Upshur. Or even Jeremy Blaire.
That Jeremy Blaire was a "secret admirer" of sorts. In the two weeks he had been there, there was an incident on how all his coffee mugs (two to be exact) had been broken and his stationery strewn about but in the middle of that chaos was — inarguably the weirdest thing — a new mug, expensive actually, with the purple and red stripes on it, and brewed in it was very A grade coffee.
At first, he thought it was that sicko Andrew.
It was kinda weird when he realised it was Jeremy Blaire. Waylon had thought Jeremy had despised him; he somewhat did. But there was also a sense of liking, a bit condescendingly, but a bit sexual. And he didn't know why.
When he had got on top of Waylon, the stab not so deep, but like a warning, Jeremy mouthed: "So tender, fuck, like it at times. Fuck, you are so annoying." Jeremy smiled, "I will let you get out of here if only you let that mouth work a different kind of reveal." That is when Jeremy had kissed him, hard, unapologetic, malicious, tuned into him, using his weight expertly to make him feel as though he wanted to push into him and possess him. Waylon gargled and Jeremy bit his lip, tugging it slightly, as a sort of punishment, "You are not getting out of here Waylon unless you become my little boy-toy. It's kinda inevitable by this point don't you think so?"
But then that black shadow hurled him hard against the wall. Jeremy was knocked cold. Maybe, broke a few bones the right kind of way.
Waylon had got out. That's when he saw…Miles, engulfed by the swarm of nanomachines, The Walrider feeding into him, a perfect host of sorts…Waylon didn't start the car as he saw the figure approach…
Then he saw, that with eyes slightly glowing at a preternatural level Miles came close to his window side: "I 'll let you drive."
"What about the…"
"The swarm may become more settled if I get out of here." Miles talked a bit slowly, "The engine here fuels too much static in a way."
Waylon opened the door. After they got out Waylon saw the swarm shift right into Miles's body and he shrieked as the pressure of the Walrider made more force…the body convulsed…for about ten minutes a quiet pulled through and the car moved and Waylon was silent…scared and…so scared…
"Fuck…" Miles got up making Waylon almost drive off the road, "That was an epic fuck of pain…" Miles vomited blood. It got on Waylon's bare feet a bit. But Waylon breathed heavy; then sighed relieved.
" You are alive."
"I want to keep it that way." Miles said determinedly. "I don't know the odds of this fucking shit thing in me or what is the probability of me dying or wreaking havoc elsewhere. I just know this is something I have to bear. If my life is borne this way so be it; no suicidal desires here."
Waylon nodded, "I don't want to kill you…" It felt ironical, who could or would kill who…after all the death machine was not in Waylon.
A silence followed. Miles was shot but…he seemed to be become a bit more stable… a bit more coherent…"By the way I am Miles."
"Upshur." Waylon looked fast. It took a second for Miles to register then smiled.
"So, my anonymous source and I. Finally together."
"I am so sorry…." Waylon felt like crying, "I fucking didn't know as much…"
"Well, you weren't supposed to." Miles looked a bit concerned, "That was my job. Now I am too deep, up shore without a paddle huh…"
Waylon shed a tear.
"Look water works can take a hike. You need to be resolute." Miles brought out a pack of cigarettes, lit one.
Waylon, by instinct, popped the windows a bit.
The mountain air was cold but not so much. It had hints of some embers. A caress on the hair and face. The air felt natural and untampered with. After being in an asylum that did almost anything to control Waylon loved this autonomous phenomenon that required no megalomaniac interference.
Miles looked peaceful. Smoking. There was an aura surrounding him. His eyes more shades deeper than blue; a dimension of grey and black swept in.
"Wanna listen to some music?" The question was somewhat rhetorical; nonchalant in its delivery.
The word "music" made Waylon remembered Eddie Gluskin's song. It was so haunting and so disturbingly fucked up.
"Anything outrageous. Nothing too soft."
"Wow…" Miles smiled, "So specific."
Miles looked at his iPod and turned on Hotel California.
The tone was appropriate. Classic rock. The theme similar. Ironic but somewhat as inviting as the mountain breeze.
"What are we gonna do now...?"
They were ten tracks in. They had listened to "Anaconda" (Both versions), Mudshovel by Staind, BYOB by System of a Down, Stan by Eminem and the last song on was Pistachio. A soft ballad.
"You will have to give the evidence." Miles laughed, a metallic sort of inhuman ring hung on it, as though the Walrider laughed with him, "This new birthday suit ain't gonna look cleaner even if I take a bath."
Waylon nodded.
"For now, I need to call my —"
"Best not to."
"But my wife is worried."
"You need to understand that we are way in over our heads."
"We can crash in a motel."
"I got some cash…" Miles took out a plastic stash within the false cover of the glove compartment, "That good enough for your motel agenda."
They did crash.
Side by side. Double bed. Miles felt less tired. Figured it was the ever growing curiosity of the bastard Walrider. Waylon just zipped away to the land of sleep. Too tired for a complete dream. Too tired for a nightmare to wake him.
Miles felt calm.
Sleep came in strange intervals.
Inside his head the Walrider asked him some questions. Made some observations.
"That one is pretty."
You are talking about the man? Miles asked the thing.
Yes. Waylon Park. Cute is that the word…?
You know the word "cute" — what else you know? Miles was a bit annoyed.
"Blood and bone and flesh and heads…different heads…your head nice and good…body strong…"
At one point, Miles felt an erection.
Before he knew what was happening he saw the Walrider appear…afraid he almost jerked Waylon off the bed but then — he struggled not to scream as he felt his dick brought out and being sucked by the thing…in a half-dream state he felt the nano-creature take his member and suck it. With some viscous fluid for something akin to saliva frothing from his mouth…
"Make you feel better, Miles…."
Miles tried to suppress the grunts and moans. Waylon waking up to see him sucked off by this fuck…couldn't handle that shit. Why the fuck was this creature doing this?
As if, knowingly, it answered: "Make us on good terms."
You fuck! Nothing like that is gonna—
"Shush…pretty human…strong human…lively human…"
Miles came hard. The Walrider was pleased. "Oh, we are so much closer now."
Miles nearly puked. The feeling was odd. Pleasurable but too intense. Painfully absentminded too. Like he was here and not here.
"Not in your fucking lifecycle you parasite." Miles hoarsely cursed under his breath.
"You belong to me now…" a strain in his muscles reminded Miles of the shared body, "I belong to you. Parasites don't belong."
"You are a very flimsy lover you fucking cocky piece of shit." Miles laughed under his breath, "You forgot Billy so soon?"
"Billy, what is left of his physicality methinks, is in me. Served his purpose. Lacks your spine so to speak."
"Such eloquence in bashing your former host. Who invited a cunt like you to this party I wonder."
A quiet laughed rambled his brain. Walrider secure tight in some streams of consciousness. Bonded with his brain cells. A poltergeist in some ancient thriving hallway. A spectral Frankenstein. A frightening beacon that illuminated human madness. It rode the walls of human decadence and despair and depravity. Hence the name.
"Are you only Billy?" The question was a basis of its own. A morphogen in its own right.
"No. I am many tissues of thoughts and actual neural neuroticism and psychopathy. A pathological machine but also nuanced by different personas. But yes, I have predominantly Billy's feelings. It will change. I grow more earnestly than the standard foetus." Then almost derogatively, "I liked Billy's anger. It had been very useful…useful…so useful…but his sadness felt pretty oedipal. His momma was a bitch anyway; why care if she lived or died? I see those kind of human vessels to be pretty annoying."
"Why me?"
"Your body….so beautiful…so endurable….so a mix of rage and lights…a poached egg in a petri dish of possibilities."
Miles noticed that the Walrider shifted between child-like speech and then something more jargon like. It was a shift in a morphological linguistic engine it possessed. From low level consciousness to some form of acute awareness. It was fearful. This Frankenstein with and within him.
Waylon's soft sigh made him look.
Peacefully, yet exhaustedly, the man slept.
"See, that is a beautiful one. I heard someone call him; yeah he is the darling."
" A mathematical darling?" Miles chuckled a bit.
Then he too fell asleep.
"You know the beauty of us is that we both are alike."
"Fuck you — ARGHHHH!"
A cutting of a finger. Which hand Andrew could not understand.
"Now, Andrew, be nice."
Andrew meekly looked as a dark shadow engulfed the other man's body calmly. "Fuck…please…Daryl was it…please don't…"
"Now doctor…" the platinum blonde with red highlights in his hair spoke, "You wanna see what a successful lateral ascension looks like?"
A Walrider with livid red eyes stabbed Andrew in his right arm making him scream.
"Slicestorm, let's hear him scream." Daryl looked at the bleeding man, "So, what was the name of yours and Jerry's mutual cock-stiff attraction?"
"Way…Waylon Park…" Andrew had puked. The pain was unbearable.
"Ah, Miles's informant…" Daryl smiled, "I read your journal. You have some real hardcore sexual fantasies concerning that guy Waylon." Daryl spat on him, "You fucking ugly shit!"
Then he punched him as his Walrider cooed.
"You really think Waylon and you are in the same league; white collar doctor scum always think on shit like that." Daryl looked pretty livid but then calmed into a colder smile. "Waylon, what was his like….Can I read an observation…?"
Systematically, he brought out a journal with no lines. The handwriting Andrew recognized as his own. "Ah, the journals of Andrew Lanes, I have to admit this may not win a chance in Oprah's book club but some of these passages are pretty interesting." In a tone that mocked careful intonation Daryl read a passage:
"I met today a delicious body named Waylon Park. Now, there was a fine boy. Looks like a timid person. Beautiful eyes that look so nervous and he spilled coffee. Oh how yummy. I love to tie him up and see him cry. Fuck him so hard he forgets anything but the fuck. I have also noticed Jeremy Blaire asking about him. Blaire troubles me because I think we are similar in our interests, singular in our intentions, but not the same. I hate to lose ungracefully to higher brass. Waylon has to be mine. I love how surprised he looked when I checked him out. That innocence about him. Like he doesn't know that he is so sexually attractive. It's a fucking turn on at times. I heard he has a wife and two sons. Funny, I pegged him to be a celibate sort of person. I figure he is a vanilla fucker to his wife. I wanna masturbate him and tell him all about me and him fucking his wife so hard that she can't walk straight. I want to know how Waylon looks like when he is moaning. That fucking tongue though. So cute and pink. I want it around my cock. That cute little face. Yum. I really don't understand how he gets around without getting fucked hard by anyone and anything. I think I saw some of the guards touch their penises instinctively looking at him. What a cute man. I wonder if our resident asshole, that Gluskin fucker would want him, that day I tied Gluskin and slapped his penis. And he cried. That stupid fuck. Crying about rape and shit. Motherfucker. Or shall I say fatherfucker lolz. What a cream. What a stupid excuse of a serial killer. I just want Waylon's cock and ass right now. Fuck, I am jerking off hard right now…"
Daryl them smiled in a way that made Andrew frightened, "You aren't a patient sort of fuck are you?" Daryl laughed, "And this is the first of many entries. Seriously, hear yourself mulling quim."
Suddenly, the red eyed Walrider grabbed Andrew's cock so tight that he felt it was gonna dig its talons right into it making him scream and cry for dear life. All Daryl did was hit him, a slap to be exact: "Oh did someone hit you…" the dialogue was eerily familiar; he had once mouthed the same set of words to a semi-conscious Waylon Park while exposing him to the Morphogenic engine. Andrew had remembered the familiar screams but Waylon's breaths, sighs and screams sounded sweeter. Despite the Hope problem he had a partial erection. Instinctively, nostalgically, he in his state blinded by pain, darted his eyes to Daryl's pants. There was no erection. None visible or half done. Yet, something told him that Daryl was getting his kicks out of this.
And like Blaire this guy was on a different level.
That is when Andrew feels it. Blood. Dripping down his legs and an insurmountable amount of pain. His penis is scratched up and bleeding like a bitch. Andrew starts crying. It is dilapidated in sobs, whimpers and hard breathing. It isn't a yell. But it as bloody as his dick. Though still attached to his body.
"Don't worry." Daryl pats him on his shoulder, Andrew's breath is caught, and it is his wounded right arm, another conciliatory move, condescendingly, sadistically, delivered, "I have no reason to mimic Gluskin. I am an artist not an amateur. Gluskin is too fucked up in the wrong places, no?" Rhetorically placed he continues, " I think we have found our common ground; how exciting." He clasped his hands together in a playful manner, "The more I study you, I see similarities, however poorly, to myself." The he became blank. No smile. Andrew could feel danger whiz by as if a sniper was readying aim, "I hate that you have similar tastes to me but you execute them so fucking poorly." With lightning reflexes Daryl punched him first in the face, making Andrew's face move and hit the wall he was hanging from, suspended by his limbs, and then his gut, making him lose consciousness. "Not to mention…" Daryl punched him again, "You can't take hits even if your life depends on it. Even Hope's Walrider found you too disgusting to eat."
A call on a cell phone. The music was "No strings on me" Pinocchio's edit. Daryl, hands bloodied by Andrew, went and caught the call: "Hello?" then he smiled, "Hi Dad."
"I explicitly told me not to call me that."
Daryl then turned blank but sour, "Wernicke, I shouldn't have rescued your ass. You can take Billy being a puss but not someone closer…?" Then screaming, "I mastered this Walrider first and you know it Dad!" Then breathing hard, "Billy couldn't even get his Walrider out of the close proximity of the engine. The fucker was confined to Mount Massive. The nanomachines also felt a paranoia coupled with claustrophobia…" he stressed it, "That also made them go berserk!"
"Billy wanted to see his own mother. You are not even my own son. Billy made me a puppet-father. The boy came from poverty. Never knew his own father. I treated him as a person. I talked to him. That made me inevitably special to him. Of course, it was not truly my aim to be special to Billy Hope. After all, can't be so close to the subject." Wernicke factuality made Daryl happier than ever. "You know Daryl, you are more than a subject. But I do not always like the means of normal reproduction. To me it's too primordial."
"Well, I love calling you Dad because you look like a dad, Dad." Daryl smiled, even though the smile was not to be seen or felt up-close, Wernicke gave a sigh, a peaceful one, that issued that he felt the warmth of it, the meaning of it. "I know you like it; to an extent."
Wernicke approvingly grunted, "Well, true to that I suppose dear boy." Then a bit seriously, "I hope you haven't tortured Mr. Andrew Lanes too much."
"I am keeping him alive." Daryl stated looking at his nails. There was a sign of a manicure done previously and so Daryl looked annoyingly at the blood which prompted him to kick the unconscious body of said Andrew Lanes. Then he grabbed his Walrider's hands to check out his talons and the Walrider, like a dutiful child, presented them henceforth. "You never said I couldn't torture him Dad."
"Mr. Lanes is a vital part of our research team. I am disappointed that he was too, let us shall, fond of some of our patients. After all, I did not say he could administer any other stimulation as such. The patients we picked were already hyper-stimulated. That being said don't make Andrew Lanes look like he has made collective trips around the Morphogenic engine room, okay?"
"Sure, sure Dad." Daryl pushed away Slicestorm's talon-hands a bit roughly, but then caressed his skeletal face allowing the Walrider to coo.
"Miles Upshur is now the host of Walrider XY6." Wernicke informed making both Daryl and his Walrider look attentive. Daryl was a bit surprised.
"Isn't he just a freelance journalist?"
"I am afraid I underestimated the man myself. My calculations were all incorrect. A little newsy couldn't have possibly done all that he did. He had potential. XY6 saw that. It is always such an annoyance when your machine reads people better is it not? I think the Walrider did panic for a while when Billy Hope died or was close to it…But Miles Upshur had made it this far and I think the Walrider knew that he was a better candidate than Billy. More stable. Less angry. XY6 may have gotten tired of sharing Billy's wailing cerebral impulses. After all no one can help him when he made the institution go to rot. If he wanted to visit his mother that badly all he needed was asked me to put her on the phone after a while…oh yeah she died…well, he should have moved on." Wernicke talked as though it was all a classical study, a report, the casualties and injuries just plain static-statistics. Interfering with the channel's actual receptions.
Daryl laughed, "So XY6 has a good host." Then as Daryl stroked his Walrider's face, "XY6 is still pretty rudimentary right? Hasn't had any special qualities? What about Miles? Was it consensual…?" Laughs at the innuendo inappropriately placed.
"No." Wernicke stated, "I sent Miles to destroy Billy hoping such a basic Walrider would soon dissolve and die without a host but it inherited the fear of Billy's mind and it latched itself on to Miles. I have to say XY6 really did impress me. It is the first Walrider to actually transfer itself into another so easily. Without much aggression. I am even surprised that for Miles staying amongst the Mount Massive Asylum's engine was actually problematic rather than an increase in Walrider activity. This is where Miles and Billy, possibly due to age, intelligence and circumstances, are different. Miles has motivation to live whilst Billy had not much except rage."
"Too much rage is not good for Walrider and host." Daryl commented as he stroked the head of Slicestorm, who apparently slightly stabbed one of Andrew's toes, as though it was some leftover food on the plate of a child.
"You must know a lot about Miles Upshur and Waylon Park. Address Andrew as appropriate to the task. I have a place for him in Murkoff, do not torture him too badly."
"Fine, with some pleasure, I will not fully indulge." Daryl sighed as Slicestorm swallowed one of Andrew's toes consequently biting it off and eating it, with Daryl chuckling, then more seriously continuing, "What about Eddie Gluskin and The Twins?"
"Gluskin will be the appropriate little hound to sniff out Park. The Twins' motives are not known. If they interfere; you have my permission to eradicate them."
Daryl grinned, "I thought they were part of the successful batch Dad."
"Too successful. I need good drones, not happy-go-lucky machete wielding individuals who mix hedonistic flare with a sort of religious earnestness. Unless they bend to you, open up to a possibility, don't need them." Wernicke sounded bored but then with interests piqued, "But Waylon Park showed some different readings in the Morphogenic engine. I would very much like him alive."
"Why not use Park's family?"
"I rather keep that as a trump card. Besides, Lisa Park has moved away with the boys. I want to know if Waylon feels the same about her anymore. He is a changed man. Maybe his nobility will not allow him to be close to contact with his own family in person. He would want to shield them from all that he has endured."
Daryl laughed, "Aww, so cute and sweet. I wonder if I slightly prick Waylon's fingertips is he going to bleed red or liquid cotton candy."
Waylon silver-grey eyes looked at the full-length mirror in the motel room. It was a simple frame of wood with some cheap metal; had the colour of light brown and the metal was coloured the same. Surveying his cuts, bruises, trails of pinkish-bluish-greenish daubs. The hair was a mess of greasy darkened chestnut. Lisa had said he the eyes of a wolf but he was like the Australian platypus or a chimera with a sphinx's side because he was a wolf amalgamated with the characteristics of other animals. Fondly, he remembers, this observation was one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with her and married her. Lisa had also said that he pondered math like one pondered poetry. She was also a mathematician by trade and education and passion, like him, though her execution was different. She took math with a bit of a surgeon's zeal. More logically than he.
Waylon looked at his cock. Still intact. He gulped. He could still remember Eddie's treatment of him. It was horrendous. He had started crying when he realised that Eddie was hell-bent in castrating him, his darling. It was one of the most horrible moments of his life. God, bless the guy who attacked him…Waylon recollects the man who came and punched Eddie and basically saved his cock. Eddie screaming after the other inmate, "Get back here! Not done dying yet you slut!"
Waylon did not understand Eddie. His need to feminize men he thought were "pretty enough" or covetable enough to suit as "woman." But I am not at all an effeminate man…Waylon was annoyed as he looked as his cock and his appearance, But then again he did say I was special and… Waylon remembered the last order of code he took was to strap in Gluskin and he saw what happened to the guy's face. That time Gluskin did say I can help him. For some reason, he seemed trustful or rather at ease with me. Makes me nervous. Waylon shudders.
Eddie Gluskin's psychosis was augmented by the engine; his need to kill women so bad that he made makeshift ones to just kill them. But, why? Why did he hate them so much? Waylon wondered what kind of disgusting "pearl" was the girl that "married dear old Dad." Was it Gluskin's mom? If so, why was his vision of the perfect woman so oedipal and twisted? And…then Waylon remembered the file thrown out the window about Eddie Gluskin…pictures taken by his dad and uncle…so he was molested and maybe even raped…and his mom just watched…Yuck, God, if he was a pedo fuck his dad he would keep a passive woman like his mom around or maybe Eddie Gluskin thought he did. "Only girl daddy every had" my ass. That monster did stuff to his own son…yuck…Waylon shuddered more.
Waylon looked at Miles asleep. The preternatural energy was there but its confluence was slightly altered, at rest. Waylon looked at Miles, his skin was tanner than his. Hair a darker shade of brown, a deeper brunette. Face more chiselled. Annoyed, he thought, Would Gluskin consider Miles "woman" material too? But then the answer came either way. Miles was a bit like Eddie, as in, more explicitly baritone and meaner in appearance. But at the same time Miles too had good bone structure. And had fine skin if not a bit coarser than his. It could pan out either way. Would Gluskin see Miles as a…rival? The thought oddly entered his head because Miles had easily interacted with Waylon. Would that provide jealousy in relation to Miles?
Waylon was too tired. Thinking was getting him exhausted. He decided a quick shower or bath with more sleep was the only programming he should be doing at the moment.
