~WARNING: This fanfiction is not intended for readers under the age of 18. This story contains content that may be potentially triggering for some, including but not limited to: graphic depictions of violence, blood, gore, broken bones, misogynistic slurs, ableist language, psychological trauma, panic attacks, cannibalism, murder, attempted murder and everything in between.
Viewer discretion is advised. Please enjoy!~
Waylon would be the first to admit that he was not athletic in the slightest- let alone any sort of runner. Lisa had been the star of the track team back when they were in Berkley, and at some point encouraged him to join too. He denied, insisting his hands were too full with work and classes to focus on running.
"You could one day be chased by a guy wielding an ax, and then you'll wish you had listened to me," She teased, nudging his elbow playfully.
Oh, how right she was. He really should have taken her up on that offer.
Still, even with his bum leg giving him a hard time- practically screaming at every agonizing opportunity, begging him to stop before all the bones shattered, he still managed to clumsily vault over desks haphazardly scattered in the hallways and run with as much power as he could. The adrenaline was the only thing keeping him going.
The haunting vocals echoed through the halls, sending a chill down Waylon's spine:
"When I was a boy my mother often said to me: Get married, son, and see how happy you will be."
Ah yes. That too. He jolted forward, praying he could avoid the murderous man long enough to make it out alive. Although knowing Eddie Gluskin (which wasn't that long to begin with, but still), he knew it was highly unlikely. The variant was beyond any other inmate he had encountered thus far. He was far worse.
He had seen the horrors in Eddie's basement, beside the usual gore, there was something that he had caught a glimpse of that completely changed the narrative. A male corpse that was crudely stitched with other grotesque body parts to his chest to mimic, or rather mock, the implication of breasts on his chest. His genitals had been ripped and removed, most likely with a saw judging from tips of the blades still visible underneath the remaining foreskin. The man's legs had been seized apart, spread wide with another man's detached head sticking out through the man-made 'birth canal'.
Waylon nearly met a similar fate to that man. After he fell from a fucking elevator shaft and inadvertedly lodged a sharp piece of metal into his thigh-hence his current hobbling situation. He was then kidnapped and stuffed into a locker, watching each second pass before being strapped to some operating table, waiting for the saw to reach his naked body. He had only managed to narrowly escape having his balls torn off by sheer luck. If he hadn't...well, he would have become the Groom's unwilling bride.
All in all, it was a pretty shitty night. And it wasn't even over yet. No, it was only the beginning.
"Darling, why are you running away from me? We could be beautiful if you would give me a chance!"
Fuck. Eddie's voice was getting close now. Too close for comfort. With his camcorder's night vision being his only source of light, it was nearly impossible to know where exactly he had to run.
He slammed the door shut behind him. That at the very least would slow the fucker down. He didn't have time to catch his breath before realizing he led himself into his own doom. Aside from mattresses and a spine coiled up in a ball beside his shoes- the room was empty. A dead end. His leg throbbed, and he collapsed to the ground.
No. No. No. No this can't be happening! What do I do? What the fuck do I do? Wait for him to barge in and kill me?
"Ungrateful slut, you're just like the rest of those filthy, vulgar whores! Whore!"
Eddie's voice was muffled, but there was no doubt he was around the corner. His sharp footsteps were growing louder and louder to the beat of his frantic, terrified heart. Waylon was trapped.
Then, with one swift look upwards, he saw his savior. A creaky vent hanging over the wall. Using the last of his energy, he hobbled towards a mattress and hoisted his entire body over, wriggling inside the vent. He hissed in pain, but pressed forward. All he had to do was ignore his leg, ignore Eddie's desperate pleas, and ignore the - he gasped lightly when his hand touched something cold.
He was definitely crawling in something liquid. He hoped it was water, though it was more likely it was a mixture of piss and blood. Maybe something else. Gross, but predictable. He could see a light at the end of the tunnel, good. He was almost there, perhaps he was being led to another room?
He slowly maneuvered his body toward the exit, careful not to bump his injured leg any further before stumbling out.
Waylon covered his mouth to prevent a whimper from escaping his throat. The pain in his leg was firing up again. He had no idea where he was now, and with the state his injuries were at, it would be better to stay hidden for a little while. His heavy breathing ceased, and he tried to look around. The only hiding space seemed to be, predictably, another wall of mattresses with a corpse wedged in between, like a fucked up sandwich. It was impossible to see in such a dimly lit space, but maybe that would help in his favor. He limped to the mattresses, hoping to squeeze beside the dead body.
Then, to his horror, the body began to move.
"No...fuck, no...please..." He swore, already backing up against the adjacent wall. The shadowy man was hunched over a bit, before standing in some sort of fighting stance.
"S- Stay back!" The mysterious figure warned him. Another variant, most likely. Just his luck too. "Stay the fuck back. M' not afraid of you variant assholes. Not anymore."
Variant ass- wait what?
Then it hit him. Whoever was hiding, thought he was a variant. Which meant, this guy wasn't one.
As he stepped closer, Waylon saw a perfectly normal looking man before him. He was tall and handsome, with messy brown curls and bright, anxious hazel eyes. He was dressed in skinny jeans and an army style jacket- certainly not a patient, let alone a mutilated variant. He didn't even look like he worked for Murkoff. He was just some normal guy. How the hell did some normal guy get into Mount Massive Asylum?
For the first time, Waylon spoke directly at the man. "I- please don't hurt me. I thought- I thought you were a dead body and I needed a place to hide and-"
The man held one hand up, and to Waylon's shock saw he was missing a couple fingers on both of his hands. They were horribly mangled and bloody. "Hold up. Did you seriously just say you thought I was a dead body?"
Waylon's eyes went wide in fright. "I, well, you were sitting so still and-"
"Because I was trying to stay hidden too, asswhipe!" He snarled back. "Jesus, it's hard not to be offended by that. I'm way too handsome to be a dead body."
He flinched at his harsh tone. "I'm...sorry?"
"Save it. So, you must be one of the few inmates that isn't out to rip my head off. That's really sweet of you." He glanced Waylon up and down, unimpressed, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Now it was Waylon's turn to look affronted, although he couldn't exactly blame the man for assuming such, considering his outfit. "Oh, I'm not a patient. I'm a software consultant for Murkoff- er, at least I was before this shitshow happened. I've been trying to get out of here."
"Lemme guess, you messed with the wrong people." The stranger rolled his eyes.
"Yes, actually and wait...I'm telling the truth!" Waylon exclaimed angrily.
He looked at him warily, before perking up. "Wait. You've got a camera." He pointed directly at Waylon's camcorder. "Shit man, you really aren't one of them."
He nodded, passing the man a spare battery to show his thanks- which he accepted gratefully.
"I've got one too. Been recording ever since I got here."
"I'm Waylon Park." He added, to ease any tension.
"Miles Upshur. I'd shake your hand, but mine's fucked up at the moment." His cynical joke almost made Waylon laugh from the absurdity of it all. It almost felt as if things were...normal.
"What...happened?"
"Got kidnapped by a crazy doctor and he cut my fingers off with some bone shears. You?" He gestured vaguely to Waylon's leg. "Unless you were born that way and if so I might be a massive idiot."
"Fell down an elevator shaft while being chased by a man who wanted to make me his bride."
"Ah. Well, aren't we a lucky pair?"
Waylon chuckled bitterly. He said everything so nonchalantly, it was surprisingly chilling.
Miles Upshur...why did that name sound so familiar? He would have to learn more about him before making any assumptions first.
"Miles," He began. "Why are you here?"
"'Cause I wanted to check out the scenery of course," He scoffed, shaking his head. "No, uh, I was sent up here to investigate. I'm a journalist- freelance, if you couldn't tell. This might just be the story of a lifetime, if I can expose everything I've recorded." He grinned, oblivious to the sudden feeling of dread lurking in the pit of Waylon's stomach.
He paled, hands starting to shake as Miles revealed everything so nonchalantly. If only he knew- knew that Waylon was the reason he was sent to this hellhole. It was Waylon's fault that Miles had traveled here, risked his life running around and avoiding crazy men. It was Waylon's fault that Miles had no fingers and was probably gonna be psychologically traumatized for life.
"Oh fuck...fuck," Waylon uttered, feeling sick to his stomach. "I am so sorry I didn't realize this would be so- this is all my fault. It's my fault you're stuck in this mess." He was babbling now, and sure wasn't helping his case in proving to Miles he wasn't a crazy variant.
"Uh...what are you talking about?"
"Miles I-" He gulped.
"Spit it out!"
"I'm the Whistle-blower."
"You- what?"
Once he caught his breath, he started to explain. "I sent the message to a bunch of different journalists, hoping someone would listen to what I had to say. I'm the reason you came here."
Miles stayed silent for a moment, raising an eyebrow before speaking. "Huh. Small world. But don't feel guilty. Hell, I would have gone here anyway. The thing about being a reporter is we have good instincts, and like I said, this is beyond anything I've written about-even before I switched to freelance. This is the story that could change everything." He smirked. "Besides, what's the point in being a reporter if you don't risk your life several times now and again?"
"You must be either really brave, or really stupid," replied Waylon.
"Hey, like you're one to talk. Risking your job to get the word out about these atrocities? I'd say that's pretty brave."
Waylon blushed at the comment, then stated grimly, "All I want is to get out of here and see my family." His heart ached for Lisa and the boys. Oh, how he missed them.
"Hey, you will, man," Miles rested a hand to Waylon's shoulder. "We'll get through this together. And then, you can pay for my therapy bills. Deal?"
Waylon laughed. It was endearing to see the man act so nonchalant and cool about the whole situation, even with his gruff demeanor. Miles was certainly a strange one.
"Deal," He confirmed, wincing as a sudden sharp pain hit his leg and caused him to stumble. Thankfully Miles caught him by the elbows before he fell.
"Woah, I gotcha," Miles narrowed his eyes. "Can you walk?"
Waylon gritted his teeth, nodding weakly.
"Good. Since I've got the messed up hands, you got the messed up leg, we practically match. We can't stay here for long though," He stated. "I bet that fucker Chris Walker is close by. Keep close to me, and we'll get out of here."
As they were about to leave the cramped room, there was a pounding on the door.