Chapter Summary: This chapter has Eddie Gluskin and Jeremy Blaire!

Titbits

The water is cold. But not so much. Waylon can feel a rawness, unkempt flesh crying out as the external stimuli in clashing waves of water makes him feel frigid at some places, a sharp pull in others, making him sigh and moan, perpetually, through the tiled bathroom. The porcelain tub looks clean enough but it smells a bit but he is happy because this is paradise compared to the rotten flesh, boiling flesh, putrid flesh and fresh flesh with all the blood that came from almost every inch and crack of the asylum.

Waylon doesn't know what was worse. The coarse façade of sanitation in the walls before the outbreak of the Walrider. Those so-called neutral pools of grey, white and subtle soft colours that screamed hospitalisation and research. Or the change in décor (sarcastically speaking) when blood, guts, puke, slime and other unknown hazards mucked up the walls. That place is a nightmare in different shades.

The blood and grime and slime was mixing with the water. After ten minutes Waylon just got out and unplugged to let out the tub water and gave a short rinse in the shower. Then put in more water, more of some rough, non-existent bubble foam that smelled hygienic enough and just laid down again. His bones ached like a rocking chair weathered by an old life and by the winds that surrounded said life.

The angry pink felt a mixture of neon with some velvety baby blush on his right side collarbone. A kinky thought accompanied: Would Lisa like to suck it better? Fuck, I am tired, Waylon thought exhaling. The thought of sex — lovemaking to be exact — made him tremble, want, hunger. It was an initiation back to the normal way to deal with sensory overload; a clean yet nicely dynamic way of knowing strength, consolation, convictions without conscience and conscientiousness clashing as the teeth of a cannibal gone wild. At least normal for him. Calm, can be succinct, superfluous, and balanced: all the notes of the organ as the right organs move about.

Outside is a cool breeze. Mountainous, adventurous, cold, yet alluring. The gales were secretive of their intents. They were not so subtle, not so aggressive. This is one of the mystical elements of certain mountain ranges. They could be pretty much effects affected into a prism combination of sounds, winds, emotional and nature rifts. But the mountain range of this particular neighbourhood is a bit stiff, a bit reserved; under that coat of adventurous zeal Waylon deciphers something enigmatic. Something unformed or rather unsure or perhaps a bit too hungry to find things out. Waylon realises this unformed attribute served Murkoff's interests a lot. They liked to be people who had bouts of curiosity akin to spasms that could be described as hysteria. Ironically, asylums are that greyish area where the etymology and epistemology of sanity is always put in quotations.

Shadows outside had their ritualistic dances. Waylon swore he saw some shadows move too fast and fluid for the resilience of leaves and branches but he decided to mouth a "fuck it" — in the asylum his senses was so on overdrive; he preferred this porcelain lounge to be just that. The water was becoming colder. The window above the bath had half-lit curtains of lace and was slightly ajar. Outside some crickets hummed on their lives. It was a night, evening widely awake, peaceful yet windy.

His thoughts still encircled the perimeter of his sex. A bit wide eyed Waylon looked down at his cock. Intact. That word was now so steadfast in his opinions of his cock. The penis looked a bit traumatically tired. After feeling almost all of his genitalia hacked off he realised his dick could deserve a breather. But then stirrings made his penis half-awake. Groggily it seemed to be looking at him, with a question like "are we going?" and the resistance to masturbation waned down.

Waylon slowly touched his dick. Gentle and smooth, with the hands of some sort of potter. Moaning a bit he closed his eyes and imagined the silky skin and eyes of Lisa. Intimacy was necessary. There was no roundabout way to this. He needed to feel love and be loved: ironically, by himself, but doing it proper, with his free radicals made him happy. He caressed his nipples, his navel (he loved tongue to circle it and kiss his abdomen), the side of his arms — all his erogenous centres. He cried out a bit loudly as he slowly but generously pumped his cock.

The thoughts of Lisa suddenly were changed. Waylon saw Miles. Miles had a throat that was so muscular and had good vein accents that he wanted to kiss it. The thought was not dissuaded by him. Though he didn't really care for men that way this little fantasy should just go on. Waylon was too tired and so in dire need of an orgasmic ejaculation.

That is when he felt a mouth. So tired and confused he did not see the person it belonged to. The person sucked a bit amateurishly, a bit too fast, his own hands were still on…opening his eyes made him regret the action…in absolute fear he saw that Walrider clamp on his cock and suck vigorously…Should he scream? What the fuck….what should he do?

Waylon could not suppress his moans of feeling. It wasn't totally pleasurable anymore. This was more automatic now. But then the Walrider mimicked his own actions of caressing nipples, abdomen and all of that. Waylon breathed in. Then cried as he felt the Walrider suck slower now. As though knowing a routine.

As Waylon Park came he saw the Walrider look ecstatic.

Then it touched Waylon's chest a bit seductively but a lot affectionately. "Close to you now too cuteness."

The metallic voice, like foils chalk-like needles scratching, made him look meekly at thing. Too? Waylon registered sleepily. But the Walrider disappeared. Maybe, back to Miles again.

In the other room, Miles head jerked as he realised that some of the Walrider's feelings were now fusing with his — oh fuck! Blowjob of Park! — Miles could see the act and though he felt it as a voyeur would he (so away from the deed) it still felt like some scopophilic nightmare. Not really because it was Waylon — well, he hadn't really been with guys; it was more than the Walrider looked so content and felt so natural. Like it was made to borne these kind of responsibilities too. Like some extended penile arm it was meant to jerk you off. Nah, it sounded pretty like some mutation of some perverted wet dream. Preferred the basics. Fortunately, at this moment, Miles was not aware that Waylon had begun pleasuring himself when the Walrider gate-crashed.

As a faithful symbiotic it came crawling back to his skin, flesh and bones, cooing with a slightly less volatile pattern as the Morphogenic engine. The Walrider's satisfaction annoyed Miles. "Don't do that." Miles made the much need effort to reign in his phantasm.

"What, leave without permission?" The Walrider laughed softly.

"You know what I mean." Miles was gaining some authoritarian index in his voice.

"You can't stop me from tending to his little sexualities…so pretty…so pretty when he came…arghhh…so fucking hot…"

"You sure have a nice mouth for a skeletal, ghost-blot, freak of nature." Miles snapped, "Just leave him alone."

"You should sleep." The Walrider had his attention elsewhere.

Miles was too tired to argue.

Back at the bathtub, Waylon thought he saw an interested eye look at near the window, but then it disappeared as Waylon reacted by getting more upright. I need to sleep more.

Waylon wrapped a robe around him and just slipped into his boxers as he crashed once more next to Miles.

The room was so cold. It was not pleasant. Well, it felt a bit numbing.

"Fuck me, fuck…" Jeremy Blaire got up a bit vehemently and looked at his surroundings a bit clearly, then understood he was in an ICU and that all of him hurt like a bitch. He didn't care or need to know where in the hell on Earth was he because doctors in lab coats and MPs had a wiggling memory of status and satiation. Yet, he hurt like a bitch.

The room was frigid. The antiseptic plague plagued it. There was no cracks, no collections of dust or cobwebs. The word "clean" here had undergone both a Botox surgery and a cyborg augmentation. The smell of plastics and metals cascading into a well-oiled machine that twittered and creaked with the nodes of allopathic medicines and catalysed chemicals. The room was white with some spot of grey; the usual tableaux rasathat institutionalised science has incorporated into its artillery of "characteristics" — the contradictions were evident because most people came here with something already with them. White walls were the common denominator that allowed things to be collected as in spurts of blood vividly across its belly of paint. The ICU he was in was top notch: with him were other executives, only a handful of soldiers and other doctors. One exec started screaming that a Frank with eat him at a lunch conference — poor man had to be sedated.

Jeremy realised that he was the only person in the room who pretty much was superficially and anatomically correct.

The other guys lacked appendages, some were de-limbed, and others looked not really there as attendants re-bandaged lose chucks of missing flesh. Jeremy hurt but he was still a tin man with much tin in him so to speak.

"Jeremy, all the bones in your body are broken." Wernicke's German-accented English was something he recollected easily, "The good news is that Murkoff and its sibling companies do use enhanced medicines to ease the pain so to speak; you have been given a derivative of morpheme that helps you stay a bit more coherent that actual morpheme comprises too much. And you are given a serum, a bit of a wonder drug, that allows the body to heal faster. This is A grade treatment. Even if you had failed your mission you did fight admirably."

"Your boy Billy Hope almost killed me." Jeremy spat.

"No, it was Miles Upshur. Let's say the 'lateral ascension' of the Walrider went to 'contralateral ascension': though this has never really happened in a short amount of time. Billy Hope is pretty much dead. The Walrider, XY6, has expertly, I might add, decided to choose a more robust and pliable body-type and individual, so to speak."

"'Pretty much dead' is yo-yoing right?" Jeremy groaned. In his sort of drowsy state he remembered who Miles Upshur was. The security guards with him did indicate that a freelance investigative journalist was hounding the place. And he had researched on him after Waylon had sent the tip. The resume was impressive. Impressive enough for Jeremy to prolong his stay at Mount Massive that day because he thought his wits and smarts were needed to sucker punch the lights out of this expected yet buoyant nemesis of his corporate allegiance.

Wernicke pointed at the end of this white capsule cell of a room and Jeremy saw a bloodied bed, the body was broken and subject to lacerations. The eyes open but not really open. His name was a sham for Billy Hope was not at all a beacon to his namesake. "He is in a vegetative state. I am impressed he survived multiple shut downs of life support systems. I wonder if he just wants to see his mother. I guess he might die very soon. Children and their simple desires. It was that simplicity and the extension of it that made Billy a perfect host for a basic Walrider. At my calculations at that time was right: 'lateral ascension' happened faster than expected due to ancillary circumstances. Frank Manera was obviously a lost cause. You don't need a food disorder like some skinny model attempted to control a Walrider, I don't think it's possible for such a specimen of limited interests to patch up to the nanomachines. The Walrider understands a simple hunger expressed eloquently, complexly, loves the adrenaline torches of willpower. Cannibalism is hardly any of those things. Not surely Frank's with his babying 'Feed me' reprisals. Good thing I had the MP shoot him down and soon he was lovingly eaten by a group of totally hacked off inmates. You know how I am. Completing cycles and all." Wernicke's charm was as smooth and dripping, like the dexterity of IV lines, clearer and had that empowering sense of calm. Like his voice had mixed with some odd designs of scented candles. Jeremy appreciated thinly for his body was numbed and his own faculties were aching.

"You are lucky you are on my good side Jeremy." Wernicke's softness did not conceal his frustrations of the failures at Mount Massive and an annoyance geared at almost all personnel. The patience he wore now was a bit slimmer and in its narrow-eyed cul de sac wasn't about to let anyone get away so easily. Jeremy thought this both as a compliment and a disaster. "Let's say the ones who are too irritating had to be in a less grade housing arrangement. But Jeremy, for your information, Waylon Park has escaped with Miles Upshur."

Hearing Waylon's name made Jeremy sit up fast. The contraction of muscles hit him hard as though the Walrider did; muscle memory and all getting him to spit out blood and yelp a bit. Wernicke gave a small smile. Jeremy rasped, "Waylon made it out?"

"Most adequately yes." Wernicke's face and smile brightened, "That boy is amazing. Truly, a creature of endurance and also something so whollydifferent. I am so happy he played truant. I wouldn't then have not been able to strap him so successfully into the Morphogenic engine."

Jeremy almost said something, opened his mouth, then closed it, reassessed his words, got the feel of the intonation and polity of them in his tongue, whilst he launched the loaded: "Something tells me you are a bit unhappy that I partially postponed his exposure to the engine."

That is when Wernicke smiled.

— And slapped him hard against the face.

For an old bat he did know how to hit. And given the incapacitated state of Jeremy Blaire he could only sarcastically think one thing: Well, that slap imitated the Morphogenic engine's ethos to a T — exacerbate an already uniform pattern of insanity or in this case, make a pre-existing bruise have a smarting sort of approach.

"Now, that we got that out of the way…" Wernicke breathed heavily, his emaciated form did not hide the inflation and constrictions of his lungs, lungs ferociously breathing. A good set of lungs is a good thing to have after a certain age: helps if you are passionate. "You shouldn't let attractions stop the good work. Not in that fashion. You know trigonometry?"

"Yeah." Jeremy nodded in conformation.

"The beauty of trigonometry is that it allows spatial depth to what we see as the two dimensional geometry; it allows a malleability of angles and degrees from many directions. Think with the trigonometry of lust not with the populist trope of the geometry of marginal returns. Get that through your Ivy League Business School skull." Wernicke talked about math as though she was to know the rites of seduction but ending with the rasping tones of an assault when he was indicated. This way of speaking was analogous to domestic violence. Jeremy realised the Wernicke manifested the Patriarch card pretty efficiently.

"Yes, Dad…" Jeremy intonated which earned him another smack — to a smaller degree.

"No one can call me that except Stockblitz. My pure son." Wernicke said.

"I did not procrastinate in executing Waylon's punishment." Jeremy offered his truths, his mentality, "In fact, I was so annoyed by Waylon, that in the heat of the moment I did dispense to him a worse punishment than execution. I made him a subject for the engine. I did so because I was disappointed. I thought Waylon would be timid. Yes, I knew he was a sympathetic fuck but I was hoping that any bravado he tried would be done later. Waylon acted on his moral impulses too immediately. Getting sloppy while doing it. But, I hated that he was apt in his convictions. Maybe, in my eye before, I saw a more passive man and I could not easily connect these two oppositional forces perpendicular to each other. The need to be calm but also so furiously assertive. But after I got hold of my own senses, my anger waning, I realised that I put Waylon in a shit position. So, I told doctors to sedate him. Hoping that when he does come through the Morphogenic engine's initial non-lethal influences would scare him enough to keep quiet. But, Billy Hope being the brat he is ruined that plan. I wanted Waylon to come to me. I wanted him to want me. But Waylon didn't care…." Jeremy looked annoyed, "Why I don't understand. I am a successful guy…" Wernicke looked at a rare moment, Jeremy Blair explicitly showing a fear, an anger on lust or admiration not requited, "I thought a person like Park would want me…"

"Yes." Wernicke responded bittersweet, "I thought that once too."

Jeremy looked confusedly and Wernicke just smiled, "You know I had my affections rejected by a man with a more reserved nature than Park. Turing did not like me as much and I was jealous because he could love a woman or other men with more tenderness. I wondered. Did my beauty think of me only as a former Nazi? But before I could confess more my love, my "crush" as you young ones say, died. Died with a lot of happiness and acceptance. Maybe, you can show Waylon any of your winning qualities or redeeming ones?" Wernicke chuckled with no ill-feelings, "You see Waylon is a man who deserves whatever you have left of an idyllic humanity."

"I bought him coffee once." Jeremy smiled, with a bright smirk, purely admirable, "You should have seen it. The cute way he drank the coffee." Jeremy reminisced, his heart, or an organ figuratively close, pumped nice loose but comfortable excerpts of affection, "That tongue, that face, those cheeks. So aquiline, so masculine, yet so soft and so palpably aesthetical. Seeing him made me think of statues but also Galatea. I was amazed. I rarely had the feeling. I was smitten. It annoyed me because he was just a small-fry programmer. But it was so delicious. I felt I could hold his hand and squeeze it. Feel the density of his knuckles. I hardly get that feeling with anyone."

"Waylon Park…" Wernicke looked contemplative, "Has wonderful hands; the kind that make people of trees and rainforests. That man has exquisite bone structure."

Jeremy smiled. Such a rapport on male aesthetics with his boss. Kind of too casual — but fuck it. Waylon was the sort of hard on that needed to be appreciated. His boss understood that pretty much Waylon's body scale was poetry in motion. Jeremy knew all the other guys who have had erections over Waylon Park (including the sexual sadomasochistic sleezeball Andrew Lanes) would think of him as a quickie or a freak-fuck. Jeremy did not think like that. Jeremy saw Waylon as someone who had something; it was partly definable as a moral compass and empathy but it was also this subtle will to try to do things. Various things.

Waylon was not a cog: but he could shift in and out of a cog-like mettle. This made Jeremy fascinated. Most people were boring. At least to him. Waylon had this thing that could only be surmised as dynamic and understanding of complex notions. Jeremy had not figured a math nerd to be like that. He had associated with many different types of programmer nerds. They were dextrous but pretty logocentric. They had statistics but they had pretty much limited desires and drives. As he saw them. Waylon's freelance status made him appear, somewhat rightly so, sloppy and clumsy, a bit rough around the edges. But decoding him did not require the jargons of a mathematician. Waylon was rough probability: a man who played with many variables. This nature was something he liked. It showed. Jeremy observed that Waylon loved coffee mugs, coffee, tea but his tongue burned differently, even if the mistake was a repetition, and that he sometimes scribbled notes in a poetic hand (yes, he secretly read some, yup, he invaded the privacy of Waylon Park).

These little titbits showed character and characteristics that were somewhere between high culture and mass culture. Or at times at extremes. Jeremy loved the roles and regulations of a white collar participant. As an elite he enjoyed making laws and breaking them. Loved golfing and one night stands in high-end parties. He had come from privilege and was bred in privilege. And at times he did use his elitism in the bar rooms downtown and the so-called ghettos. There, mixing up stranglers and ruffians — as he positioned them — and getting cheap trashy dates (as he saw them) was kinda entertaining. Waylon was a bit of a rogue. But not really an intruder. Just someone who made sense in a totally different tandem. Personally, he could see Waylon as his meticulous person assistant/programmer helping him do things. Something about total white collar thing would not suit Waylon as he was too — uh, the words would be: atypically flexible, typically ethical — meaning he had none of the qualities to uphold that kind of tradition. Waylon had drive but he was not so aggressive and ruthless to know power as his bitch. While Jeremy know ambitiousness with industriousness Waylon knew how to have passion with a sense of amorphous innocence in places and the attachment of metaphysical threads.

Surprisingly, Jeremy was attracted to a person who should be the antitheses to all that he did and carried.

"It is okay to want him." Wernicke and he had been thinking about these things; in their own heads, that was made clear by the sync of the matter, "We may be attracted to the bad boy but truthfully there is also a raw, and base something irresistible about 'good' as we encounter it." Wernicke then added, "I think it has endurable, indefatigable qualities on it. They have this classical appeal but also at times have a rakish exuberance on them." Then he added more, "Ironically, despite superficial tougher skin, Miles Upshur also possesses these qualities."

Jeremy got annoyed at the mentioning of the guy's name. "That bastard."

"Well, get better Jeremy Blaire. We need to hunt down Waylon Park and Miles Upshur."

Jeremy looked at his damages: "Can I fucking punch Upshur a bit? Because I know torture and death is out of the question."

"Surely." Wernicke chuckled.

The car was comfortable enough to sleep in. Stole it from outside; the keys were inside so he wasn't complaining.

There was no complaints. But he shivered. His eyes were hurting. The engine screamed in his head.

Without the right antibiotics he scourged up from the labs he would be dead. But he was upset that the person he thought it okay not to kill him once and for all was a man he had wanted to kill. Eddie Gluskin knew that Waylon Park was annoyed by him. Hated him a bit too. Well, you were taking out his dick so…

Eddie had saw that Waylon had left with the dark thing, now in a man, with a red jeep.

And he had made his mission to follow him. Eddie wasn't sure if he wanted to kill him or punish him. Because Waylon helping him get impaled was helping him out of this lucid sort of hangover that was influenced by the machine. Whilst in that hangover state Eddie was able to reorganize his passions and remember so many things he wanted. Now, Waylon fucking ruined it. He was reminded that Waylon and all them sluts were men and that made him mad. 'Cause that time ignorance was bliss. Waylon ruined his dream or rather…ruined him for him.

In anger he punched the car's underbelly of carpet and plastic. All he wanted was a family. All he wanted was to fuck and breed and be a dad. Waylon made him feel as though he couldn't do those things. Eddie didn't know exactly know why but unlike the other people Waylon had mouthed: "You just wanna make women to kill them…you sick fuck…you ain't a dad you are just a poser…"

No one has ever really said that. Then Waylon had also mouthed: "You look for stupid things; you are the ugly one who has given up…you haven't even kissed anyone properly have you!?"

It was while he was hoisting him up that filthy, bloodied, grime filled bizarre gymnasium (that now seriously looked like some perverted hangman game) that Waylon, before he felt the tightening of the ropes, screamed out those words.

"Darling behave!" Eddie remembers screaming in absolute frustration as Waylon kicked and flung his body, to and fro, in the air, gnawing on his frustrations. Waylon was not passive, nor was he like him, filled with animosity. Waylon was determined. Unlike the scared patients and cocky administration Waylon was the odd one out.

But then of course, he had been impaled, coughed out his coppery fluids and touched Waylon's hand. "We could have been beautiful." A part of him meant it. But in that moment a sort of previously existing coherence pounding on his head. That Waylon, his darling, whose name he had seen in a file somewhere, was a man. But for some reason he didn't mind as much. But he was a bit disgusted.

Men were not, well, comfortable. They were rivals. Right?

Eddie recollected his last therapist, a man coughing and looking condescendingly at him. The dirty blonde man had whispered to an older looking colleague: "That one is full of shit. Says he can listen to the Walrider. Fuck me, I bet he is lying. We can take him to the engine. He's psycho enough for it. Bloody fuck also is a misandrist with the misogynistic tendencies."

"Wouldn't that make him misanthropic?" The colleague questioned dryly.

"Nah, misanthropy is more philosophical. This guy is a dumb backwater piece of shit. Won't understand that"

What was front-water anyway? Eddie had, miserably, thought. To an extent he felt ashamed. Unlike these professionals he had neither education nor status. Eddie came from a small town. Average working class family. Eddie knew all the trades that required physical effort. And sewing things. Eddie knew that he had no financial talent for universities or colleges. Didn't know if she should enrol in community college. Oh yes, that and well, his mother had told him to get married. Have a family. She had introduced him to a friend's daughter. Eddie had fucked her. Not make love, fucked. The girl went home crying and his mother's friend and his mother were in an awful fight. Eddie did not understand what had happened. Didn't understand what he did wrong.

Because that is the same way his father and uncle had done him.

After he reached seventeen his father had stopped. His uncle hadn't. His uncle was pretty much into him. When Eddie refused to want to have sex his uncle well, he couldn't say "no" and when he moaned out of pleasure his uncle called him a slut, a whore, and got harder on him. Making him bleed, bruise and silently have tears down his face.

Then Eddie left one day and never returned. Sent money to his mother. Got work in all the menial places. Eddie had no aspirations. Except marrying. Eddie didn't know what else to want. As a child he played with a group. As a teenager he did pranks and vandalism with a gang but no real friends ever. When boys and young men his age made sexual jokes he laughed a bit even to inappropriate ones a bit nervously. The gay ones too though all these things made him feel like an outsider.

Eddie started to hate women. Because it was women who were usually "sluts and whores" right? And because of them…well, they gave birth and did that mean they were horrible? Wonderful? Amazing? — He was terrified of their biological power. Terrified that they fucked and gave birth. Eddie sobbed as he was confused: he was fucked but why didn't he get pregnant. What was he? Surely, wasn't he a man?

Eddie had never really kissed anyone.

It was him who was forcefully kissed, by his father and uncle.

Kissing was also done by his mother.

Kissing was well, he didn't understand it.

He didn't also understand sex. The violence in it.

That is when he thought sex needed a meaning.

Sex was for his children — yes, that was meaningful.

All this time Eddie never enjoyed sex. He also didn't know what lovemaking really was. All he knew was charmer's tricks and empty promises and words. When he did kiss it was not really something he knew. And it was seldom done.

Waylon screaming at him. Telling him he didn't understand. What did he mean by kissing proper? What was that trick?

Waylon made him mad.

Waylon knew things he didn't know.

But Waylon looked like a darling. Not really a slut. What was he?

Eddie touched his lips.

Should he ask him to teach him how to kiss proper?

"They are following us?"

It was warning. Blood felt warm in him and Miles got up to see Waylon deeply asleep; but fresh? Oh yes, the bath…

Who is following?

"Those two. The ones that look alike."

Fuck, Miles realised it.

"They had noticed Waylon taking a bath. They are just outside."

Miles snarled and his Walrider made a hissing noise.

The air outside was cool and still. Rustling was being heard. Miles understood. "We can't leave Waylon alone…"

"You want me to attack them?"

"Better surprise them…with —"

Miles was unable to finish as he heard a soft knock on his door.

Miles's Walrider aura grew bright. He approached the door and saw them look at him. The Walrider's energy surprised them. They understood that Miles would attack and could harm them.

"We don't mean to intrude but it is quite awful outside. A bit too cold. We only wish to stay for a while. Miles Upshur, you have done incredible things. Let us join you. We can come to some use."

"Yes, uses."

"So many."

The Twins, first spoke the one with hair then the other, looked pretty happy seeing Miles.

"Should we trust them?"

I don't want to fight so much, Miles let them in but pointed to a corner.

The Twins looked at Waylon but did not show any vitriolic feelings towards the sleeping man and sat in their appointed place.

After a while, they snored softly and Miles and his Walrider grew a bit more stable.

Miles also had another realisation.

His Walrider pretty much listened to him and discussed things with him.

That was a very good sign.

"If they cause trouble I will rid them of their tongues and liver." Walrider laughed quietly and Miles had to smile.

"Look, Waylon may not be comfortable with this, rightly so." Miles told his shadowy ally, "I invited them in…" Then he continued in thought …because I want to keep a close eye on them…

"Good call…strong body…smart body…clever body…" Miles's Walrider gave him a tight hug. Miles felt a jolt. In his head, heart and spine. It was kinda painful but pretty electric.

Ok, easy boy…Miles coughed because the intensity of this was not expected.

"Oh…I am your boy now…mhmmm….so nice…"

The sultry way that was said made Miles feel slightly uncomfortable. But now was a good time to see what he could manage, I am gonna lie down and take a nap again, you monitor them

"As you wish…." Walrider stood in front of The Twins, "I am your regular Princess Bride huh…"

Miles laughed quietly too.

Seeing Waylon asleep was soothing.

Closing his eyes he hoped Waylon did not wake up before him.

The Twins would be kind of scary to wake up to.

Eddie did not go in. Nor did he do havoc. Inside the car he saw the red jeep and just decided to wait.

He was nervous. But to be honest he wanted a good enough plan.

Parts of him were also jealous.

Who was that man that Waylon was with?

Eddie did not know what he wanted.

Should he just go in and take Waylon and flee?

This was a pretty fucked up situation…

And something had to be done about it!

NOTES: I must say something truthfully. Though I was inspired by Relina-Ru's drawings I myself am a POC. I don't live in States and so I was not aware that Park is a common Korean name. Also even before seeing Relina-Ru drawings of them I pictured Miles as a back brushed darker haired brunette. Some people saw him raven haired I did not. And I always saw Waylon as lighter brunette guy with silver eyes. People interpreted Lisa Park Asian too and I was thinking Waylon married an Asian person cool. I seriously did not know that Park is such a common Korean name. Yes I listen to K-pop and heard of Park Shin Hye but I do not know much about Korean names. This is my lack of knowledge. Yes, I was stupid. I liked Relina-Ru's interpretation of Waylon because he is slender, muscular has a cool face. And Outlast had many White characters. Most people drew Waylon as a white person and at times even his hands looked to me Caucasian but yes I saw anime type versions of him too but lesser. So, I am sorry for my ignorance. I hope I did not offend anyone. I have decided to make Waylon in this fiction a half Korean, half Welsh ancestry. Infact, I already thought of Lisa as half-Irish and half-Taiwanese or Japanese. I hope people will understand that I was just not knowledgeable enough before. I though Park was a normal American-European name as Parks.

I must say that I was really inspired by Relina-Ru's drawings of Outlast. And before she did the Waylon/Blaire thing I really didn't see potential in it. Well, Relina-Ru's way of representing the characters is partly how I am looking at them. Yeah, I also made Jeremy a bit more likeable. Eddie has our sympathy and all 'cause he is fiction: real life serial killers are not forgivable or stuff =/ Me and my pal talked a bit on Eddie's psychology so that was in this fic. As this fic has multiple pairings you can say I pretty much am giving both Miles and Eddie equal chances to be well with Waylon. Kinda nice to see who Waylon will pick :D maybe Miles, I really love Eddie/Waylon but I also love Miles/Waylon someone should write more Miles/Waylon. But yeah let's see how Waylon chooses :) Both Eddie and Miles have some downers. Well Miles is still a stranger and Eddie making a bad impression will be an understatement O_O so it will be fun to see how they interact with Waylon and how Waylon interacts with them. Oh yeah don't worry some stuff will happen with Jeremy and Waylon too. And there will be OCs. Maybe some Daryl/Miles/Waylon sort of things XD Speaking of Daryl and Slicestorm coming back in chapter 3 and you will meet XY9 and XY3 :) And of course next chapter will have some story developments too. Waylon is gonna be a bit unhappy with anonymity as he is pretty much normal exposure guy. Miles will be a bit more okay as loner type. But his Walrider is still not stable? A berserk Walrider anyone? Or, a Walrider that also unknowingly hurts Miles? Ideas, ideas, ideas :)