Cartman had sort of fallen into the whole journalism gig, and given that he was a freelancer meant that he fell into his cheap car and cheap apartment as well. Most of his extra cash went straight to new supplies: better camera, more batteries, detachable boom mic. The only thing that kept him from starving or sleeping in his car was his willingness to chase down risky - well, absurdly dangerous - stories.

Which was how he ended up driving along the Rocky Mountain slopes to Bechdel-Holtz Center: a well-established asylum for the certifiably fucked up. Oh, and it was in the dead of night. 11:08 PM, to be exact.

Cartman couldn't say he felt particularly happy about the lead. He was following a scattered trail of strange press statements from the facility's head scientists, some haunting but unreliable posts on an online complaint forum, and one unusual report from a local hunter. He wouldn't have ever even considered coming if it weren't for the email that had landed in his inbox four days ago.

The whole situation was either going to be dull and pointless and unsuccessful or horrifying and revealing and profitable. He hadn't yet figured out which alternative he preferred.

He parked at the front of the gate, stood on top of his car, and hoisted himself over the metal gate. His landing sucked, objectively. It wasn't like he had ever researching parkour, but now he almost considered it. "How to land a high jump" was pretty much parkour 101. As he slugged his way to the front door, Cartman tried to ignore the dull ache in his legs from his bad landing and the tight warning in his chest as he approached. Instead, he flipped open his handheld camera to check the battery. Nearly 100%. Good. His large camera, safe in its case, thumped against his back as he hopped up the stairs - not eager, just trying to finish and get home and either write up the story or pout with a bag of cheesy poofs and some COD.

Unsurprisingly, the front door was locked. Crazy people did live here, and other crazies might try to get in.

So Cartman huffed, knit his brows, and started circling the perimeter. All he needed was an open window, and hell if he didn't take the time to start filming.

"Seeing so many broken windows is suspicious enough, people of America, but," Cartman zoomed his camera to a broken window on the third story, "There's blood on that window pane - on the glass, too. Working for so long in this field, I have a trained eye for spotting just such things." It wasn't much, but Cartman was sure of what he saw. Below and to the right of that window, one window had been left open. The only entrance that wasn't a broken glass hazard, unlike most other windows around the institute.

"Okay you guys, I'm going to sign out for a bit while I try to get in through that window. I'll be back on once I'm in." And Cartman cut the video. The small handheld had a durable strap that hung loosely around his neck. Cartman threw it under his arm and around his back while he searched for a way to climb up the window.

The most straightforward approach would be to slowly climb the brick outside wall up to the second story window. There might be some small pinch holds that Cartman could grip. Except that it would hurt. And be tiring.

He started to walk around. He needed something that could get him to that second-story window. As he paced the grounds, Cartman took note of the scaffolding - issue being that the would-be helpful structure was around the corner of the building, and the windows there were likely locked tight or riddled with broken glass. There was one tree near the window Cartman wanted, but the branches were far too thin and would likely break under his (admittedly) heavier weight.

Eric Cartman was by no means fit. Somehow his line of work never led to him losing weight - he ate cheap and unhealthy food just so that he could survive, and spent more time sitting in libraries or on his couch researching potential leads than actually running after a story. He was, as some other freelancers like to point out, fat. It made his job harder, yet Cartman never did anything to change the fact. He liked how he looked. And he didn't much care to look like some skinny white boy twink, either.

There were some scattered broken boards lying about, and even a metal chair on the side of the building. Tall metal fencing connected the main building to the brick walls that lined the grounds. It was that diamond-shaped wire fencing. Cartman knew how to climb that - every kid climbed metal fences. But this fence had barbed wire looped over the top.

Cartman stood a minute to weigh his two options: risk the thin-branched tree and climb to his perfect second-story window, or attempt to safely climb over the barbed wire. Except that even getting past the fence might not help him - for all he knew, all those doors were locked, just like the front door. Then he'd be stuck on the other side of the barbed wire, and have to risk getting cut up again just to get back to his car.

Cartman started for the tree.

The first few branches were easy. Get a good grip, then heft himself up. He ascended slowly, taking each step with care. Find a good hold, test his weight by pulling slowly, then commit. First put his foot on a slightly higher branch, then shift his weight to that foot, then reach one branch higher. He was soon just below the window, but the branches were thinner here. Too thin. They bent, and the tree trunk leaned ever so slightly. It already bobbed in the wind, and Cartman's weight wasn't helping. So he committed to the window. Pushed off and jumped. The branches beneath his feet snapped as he launched. Cartman flailed for a grip on the sill. He surprised himself as he caught it and found himself laughing in his own shock. He slung his other arm up to grip the window sill and, with some determination and a heave, he pulled himself inside.

Cartman sat on the carpet and panted for a moment before he collected himself, righting first his cameras and second his clothes. He gripped his handheld and flipped open the viewscreen. He had to adjust for the lighting a bit (it was still dark inside, just now indoors-dark rather than moonlight-dark, as it was outside), and pressed record.

"I'm in. Sorry that it's so dark. Let me switch to night-vision." Cartman fiddled with his camera for a moment.

"That's better. Well, not better, but at least we can see what's going on in here. No obvious signs of disturbance, but it is strangely quiet." Cartman searched the walls for a light switch but found nothing. A lamp stood in one corner, but when Cartman tried the string, nothing happened. "So... looks like the lights are out," he said to his camera. "I'm going to continue searching, but I might not talk to you guys much more."

The door squeaked like a mouse as Cartman pulled it open. He winced at the noise and walked through the doorway into a hall. The lights were out here, as well, and Cartman wasn't going to waste time searching for a light switch. So he proceeded to walk down the hall. The floorboards creaked as badly as the door, and Cartman hated that the creaks and groans of the wood were the only noises in the dark. The silence put him on edge, though he supposed it was better than hearing even creepier noises - noises that he didn't cause. Cartman knocked gently on a wood door frame at the thought. He really didn't want to start hearing other sounds right now.

A light was on in the hall just a few more doors down. The light came from a door left slightly open, and the light from within cast a sliver of yellow onto the green and pink flowery wallpaper. Cartman took his time pushing open the door and entering the room, afraid that someone might be waiting within. The door opened all the way and hit against the wall behind, slowly swinging back toward Cartman. No one came to check the door, no one made a noise, so Cartman took that as his go-ahead to enter.

There was indeed a lamp on; it stood in the corner of the room. A couple of couches sat around a couple of coffee tables and a flatscreen TV. The TV was on, but it was just solid blue, bathing the room in its light. The lamp lit up the room in a soft, warm yellow, and together the two lights cast the whole place a sickly green-yellow-blue combination. Cartman didn't really think about the TV or the lamp or the light, though. His eyes and his camera were completely trained on the only person in the room, and man, half dressed and sitting on the couch directly in front of the screen. He wore a light-blue t-shirt and sat hunched over, staring at the blue screen. He did not move. He hardly even blinked.

Behind the couches was a puddle of blood and the floor was smeared all over with trails of blood. Bare footprints were left all over the floor, also red from blood. Cartman couldn't convince himself it was simply red paint or something stupid. It had to be blood - what else made any logical sense? And on the wall opposite the TV, written in blood, read a message:

Walls

Halls

Say

Away

In order, repeating, over and over, covering the entire wall.

Cartman walked away, backed out into the hall, and kept walking, much faster than he had before, toward the end of the hall.

The hallway led into a larger area - a huge room with an extra high ceiling. The second-floor landing ringed the perimeter of the room, overlooking the reception desk in the center of the room. Across the large room, Cartman saw the entrance to the building. Or better yet - the exit. He had footage now of a room covered in blood, an unmoving man, plenty of broken windows, and now... this shit.

The second-floor landing was covered in strewn about chairs, boxes, and broken shelving. The first floor looked much worse. Blood covered the front of the reception desk. A security guard slumped in his seat, his shirt stained with blood. His hat was pulled over his face but seemed a bit too close to his back. It even covered his neck. Cartman got a sick feeling in his stomach as he considered a twisted possibility: that hat was only covering up a severed neck.

The floor had smears of blood across the carpet, and plenty of stains from footprints tracking the blood around as well. But hey, at least the lights were on. Cartman fumbled with his camera to turn the night vision off once he realized he didn't need it anymore.

He took a shuddering breath and spoke to his audience, voice echoing slightly in the silence of the grand room. "Well, shit," he started. "I can see the exit, so I'm going to go ahead and try to get the fuck out of here. I just need to find the stairs to get down there." Cartman began exploring the walkway, glancing at signs on doors to see if any were helpfully labeled "Stairs."

None were. There were offices and storage rooms, sure, but no stairs. Cartman reached the other side of the room and groaned. He really did not want to go poking into the next wing of the building - God only knew what crazy shit was over there. Cartman leaned a bit on the railing and stared longingly at the ground below him. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion of just jumping down. It was only a one-story jump, so technically someone only ran a small chance of severe injury. Except Cartman had no idea how to stick a landing - he couldn't even jump from the gate without hurting his knees, never mind a second-story interior balcony. He'd break his leg or ankle or some shit. Fuck up his wrist. Cartman sighed and leaned back from the railing and turned back to his own floor.

He had looked back at the landing just in time, too, because a man stood just thirty or so feet away. Cartman zoomed his camera in on the man. He wore loose beige pants and a v-neck shirt, both dirty with mysterious brown grime (dirt?) and deep red, clearly dried, blood. Cartman swallowed a lump in his throat, which only seemed to make the lump larger.

"I want to see if fat men fly."

Cartman blinked. "Excuse me?"

The man shuddered and opened his mouth again, slowly, then shrieked, "I want to see if fat men fly!" And he ran forward, right at Cartman.

Cartman yelled in fear and turned to the door closest to him, jostling the handle. Locked. Shit. Shit, shit, shi-

The man was strong. For all of his weight, Cartman was wrestled away from the door by the man. He yelled and clawed at the attacker, but to no avail. The man didn't care that Cartman clawed open his arms, he didn't care if Cartman hit him. He hefted and pushed Cartman, who kicked and kicked and kicked, right up until he tipped over the rail. Nothing below him but air, Cartman fell toward the first-floor carpet below.

He could hear the crazed man whooping with delight, and yelling with joy, "He flies! He flies! He-"

Cartman hit the ground.