Waylon liked to believe he had good initiation. Every single choice he made while traveling amongst the rot and gore of the asylum seemed to make him end up in more trouble, he had a vague understanding of what to do and where to go, even in his altered state of mind. He had not been in the Morphogenic Engine long, only the therapy portion of it, yet he still felt the effects subtly eat him alive with every step, or rather stumble.

He was changing. His migraines were getting more consistent, the hypnotic, blurry patterns kept dotting his vision, and he could still hear the screams screeching into his eardrums. He couldn't remember if someone else was screaming, or if it was him. The visions he kept seeing, like constant static, vague outlines coursing through him. Being chased by maniacs was horrifying enough, but somehow the after effects of the engine made it more exhausting.

He honestly expected to die here alone. Another forgotten corpse, lost in the haunting halls forever. If it weren't for Lisa and the boys, he would have accepted that fate. Between Frank Manera and his hunger for human flesh, and Eddie Gluskin's desire for a suitable 'bride', death seemed like the better alternative.

And then, like a beacon of hope, he met one of the journalists he had reached out to. Miles Upshur had certainly gone through enough trauma, probably even worse than Waylon considering he lost a couple fingers, but he seemed still eager to find a way out. They would make an unlikely tag team, or so he initially thought. Turns out, they were the exact opposite.

Miles was extremely wild, aloof and reckless from the little time Waylon had gotten to know him. Maybe the insanity of the asylum had finally gotten to him, since now he was accepting guidance from a man who claimed to be a priest.

But seeing as Waylon didn't have any better ideas, and going outside meant leaving this terrible place, it was worth the risk. Besides, it was technically Waylon's fault that Miles was here anyway. So here he was, following the man who arrogantly assumed he knew where he was going.

"So apparently, we can't go the way Father Martin came from, because he's a dick," Miles declared. He placed a hand to the window, frowning. It was clear that the opposite glass wall was boarded up from their side. His eyes lit up as if an idea struck him. "I got it! I could pick up a chair to ram against the glass. Ha! Then we can climb through."

Waylon grabbed Miles by the shirt before he could start searching for something to smash the glass. "Uh, no. Those walls are polycarbonate."

There was an awkward pause as Miles stared blankly at him. "Yeah, so?"

He groaned, gesturing towards the wall for added emphasis. "You can't shatter polycarbonate glass. Especially with a chair."

"Not with that attitude you can't."

He started to massage his temples. "Come on! I used to work here, I know-"

Miles scoffed. "Yeah, for two weeks! Don't go actin' all high and mighty, Mr. Tech Guy."

Waylon, despite his typically passive nature, was absolutely willing to snap back at his comment with even more sass. "I sure as hell know more than you do! Do you really think a huge company like Murkoff would use such flimsy glass? Use your brain."

Miles grumbled something under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Alright, fine, whatever. What do you suggest we do then?"

He saw the only other option was a darker hallway. "I suppose we take the long way. Come on."

They turned to the left and walked down the next corridor in complete silence. Every hallway looked the same, it was hard to tell if they were really making any progress. Occasionally Waylon stopped to rest his leg, but that was about it. He wasn't much of a talker, and was grateful that Miles didn't seem interested in small talk either.

Then Miles cleared his throat loudly. "Hey."

"What?"

"You know, since you got me into this mess..."

"Oh my God, are you gonna keep holding that over my head?"

Miles flashed him a cocky grin. "Maybe."

"You weren't the only journalist I contacted, you know that right?" Waylon said. "I tried to get in touch with several others. But you were the only one who actually came."

"Because the others were too scared, obviously."

Now it was Waylon's turn to smirk. "No, Lynn Langermann declined on account of her already doing some other dangerous news story in Arizona, I think."

Miles pretended to look offended. "Ouch. Anyway, I just figured, although I have nearly all the evidence I need to expose Murkoff and then some, I think what would make this story even better, is if I have an insider account that I can put in my notes. News outlets love first hand experiences, like quotes and shit included in the written portion."

"You collected documents and reports, didn't you?"

"Sure, but I like having a little more info from you specifically, Mr. Park."

"So...you want to, what, interview me?"

"Exactly! You would be perfect, since you used to work here and all." The twang of his East Coast accent stretched some of the sharper vowels in his reply.

"Didn't you say I was just some tech guy?" asked Waylon.

"Sure did, but you have some experience here, right?" Miles pulled out his notebook and started scribbling something down- as best as he could with a missing index finger.

"Well, yeah but-"

"Then do it! The reporter's instinct is calling me!"

Everything this guy has said always sounded sarcastic, maybe he's just pulling my leg. Why would he want to interview me?

As if Miles could read his mind, he added: "And I mean that genuinely."

Waylon narrowly avoided stopping into a blood puddle before speaking. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline."

Miles slammed his notebook shut, stunned. "What? Why?"

His eyes narrowed into slits. "How do I know you won't use this information against me?"

"I wouldn't betray you, that would be really fucking stupid. We're working together."

He swiveled around angrily. "We are not 'working together'!" Waylon snapped. "I hardly know you. The only reason we're even working as a team is to escape. The last thing I wanna do is put my family in more danger by letting some nosy reporter find out about my personal business!"

Miles flinched, and his eyes flashed with...something. Waylon couldn't pinpoint the exact emotion. Hurt? Anger? A mix of both?

At least I got him to shut up for a little bit.

"I'm assuming you told someone too much information already, so you don't wanna make that same mistake twice," Miles muttered. "Which explains why you're so defensive."

"Yeah. Did your reporter instinct tell you that?" he replied, glaring.

"No, my common sense did."

That made Waylon's lip twitch, finally cracking a smile. Then he burst out laughing. It wasn't even that funny of a comment. Maybe he was only now realizing how screwed they really were.

"You make a good point though, I hate to admit it," Miles continued after Waylon stopped laughing. "You can't trust anyone here, not even me. Even with most of Murkoff's workers being slaughtered as we speak, it's not safe. I ...shouldn't have been so pushy."

"Yet you still trust Father Martin."

Miles chuckled. "I don't trust him really, hell, he's as crazy as the rest of them. His 'way out' or so he describes seems to get me into more trouble than when I started this insane adventure," He smirked, then added. "Who knows? He could be a good interviewee though."

The thought of Miles interviewing the lunatic with a homemade priest outfit made him shiver in horror. "Okay, okay, you win!" Waylon threw his hands up, still smiling. "You can interview me. But no personal questions."

"Got it. Save the personal chit chat for our second date in the Administration Block," Miles teased. Waylon's shoulders tensed at the jab, reminding him too much of Gluskin's haunting glare. "Sorry. Poorly timed joke."

"It's…it's fine. What's the first question?"

"Sure, might as well get the hard question out of the way. Why did you decide to work here?"

A variant howled and ran past them, causing them both to recoil uncomfortably. The man started mumbling to himself, gnawing at some flesh from a dead man's limp arm that he had somehow scavenged.

Miles grunted. "It's not exactly the ideal work space."

"Obviously I didn't know it would be this horrible," He grumbled, then elaborated. "I was struggling a bit, financially, y'know...and I needed to support my wife and children somehow. We weren't making enough money with Li- my wife's salary, not after I was laid off...so when I was offered the job, well, I took it. It seemed too good to be true but," He swallowed thickly. "I'd do anything for my family."

"I can tell," Miles noted. "Listen, Waylon, I don't know how to tell you this...but I found the documents about the people committed here. That they were isolated from their families intentionally. Some even said that-"

"That my family probably thinks I'm dead, mentally unstable or both, yeah, I know," Waylon finished for him. "I'm a different case though. I found some excerpts- emails from Blaire contacting my wife. Said she put up some fight, wouldn't take any of his bullshit." A ghost of a smile appeared on his face as he recalled finding that note.

I can't even remember Lisa's voice. Does she remember mine? All I want is to see her again.

"Must be nice," Miles commented, a little gruff. "having people care for you that much."

"Oh..." Waylon shifted his weight to his good leg. "Do you...do you not have a family?"

"Marriage was never my thing." Miles replied. "and I haven't dated in years."

"What about your parents?" He pressed further when Miles shook his head. "Siblings? A dog?"

"Nope. Never knew my parents, nor do I plan on meeting them. One could say I'm a lone wolf, devoted to my work. Personal relationships never worked out for me." He perked up. "Although getting a dog might be a distinct possibility."

Waylon frowned. He couldn't imagine being all alone without any family to fall back to. Jesus, is that why he seems so cold?

"Don't look at me like that," Miles scoffed. "I turned out perfectly fine. Look at me now! I'm exploring an asylum with violent inmates. Livin' the dream. And...I get to help people at the end of it all. That's what being a reporter is all about."

He couldn't deny that it was honorable and even sweet of Miles to be so determined to help people, even putting himself at risk to do so. Just like him. Perhaps they weren't all that different after all.

"Hey man," said Waylon, patting his shoulder. "Whether you like it or not, Miles, though...you aren't alone. You've got me now."

"Ugh. Gross."

Waylon laughed. "There's also the variants trying to kill you. We're like one big happy family, really."

"Enough with the mush and my tragic Bruce Wayne-esque backstory," Miles quipped. "I'm interviewing you, not the other way around. You ready for the next question?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Good." Miles ushered Waylon inside a spare closet and slammed the door behind them. "So we have privacy." He nonchalantly kicked a stringy stretched out intestine and what looked like part of someone's spinal cord with his shoe. Despite that, it was a good place to talk and think, even for a little while. There was only a desk with some documents, nothing else.

Although slamming the door behind them didn't seem like a wise decision, Waylon decided not to bring it up.

Miles leaned against the wall and, without any prompting, asked "Sooo...how did you found out this whole place was, to put it eloquently 'fucked up'?"

Waylon thought for a moment. "I had a feeling something was going on, even though I wasn't there long. I heard rumors, whispers around the underground lab where I worked. Bad things happening. People vanishing, and patients not being treated well. Then my boss Michelle Haas mysteriously disappeared. I knew she wasn't the only one. All cis women staff, and of course inmates were transferred to another facility. Because they had some strange side effects to the engine, mostly phantom pregnancies and sometimes miscarriages."

Waylon tapped his hand on the side of the wall, making sure he was still standing. Still alive. He felt sick.

"That might explain the lack of women, although I haven't checked the Female Ward yet." commented Miles. "I found a document about an orderly disappearing too. He was a guy though. He complained a lot about the treatments of patients and I guess...must have gotten captured."

"Murkoff didn't exactly want anyone finding out about how shitty they are, so anyone they deemed a threat was taken care of." Waylon rubbed his arm. "That orderly was probably hooked up to the..." he gulped. "The engine. I saw it with my very eyes, not with that specific person, but I saw other patients being forced into the engine. I couldn't do anything to stop it, I was just the tech guy."

"You keep saying the engine, you must mean the Morphogenic Engine, right?"

Waylon froze.

"That seems the root of all the problems here, it has a connection to the Walrid..."

Miles continued to talk, but Waylon wasn't listening anymore. He couldn't hear anything except the same rhythmic banging noise throbbing inside his head. Hearing the words Morphogenic Engine suddenly made his entire body freeze in place, unable to move. It was like swimming through murky water. Impossible to hear anything, let alone see clearly. The visions were getting worse, a kaleidoscopic blur after rubbing your eyes for too long. A consistent fuzziness that he couldn't run away from. Miles' muffled voice was distant now, and instead other voices were chiming in.

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Waylon gritted his teeth and slowly opened his eyes, the images still spotting his vision. His surroundings, though still foggy, could see he wasn't in the supply closet with Miles anymore. In fact, he didn't see Miles at all. His head rolled to the side, trying to figure out where he was.

He was being dragged...somewhere by two guys in blue hazmat suits. He tried to struggle but one of the men- Andrew, his former coworker shoved him forward and strapped Waylon into the chair. His wrists and ankles were bound, sitting forcefully in front of the projections resembling security cameras. He had seen patients hooked up to it before, he even helped make it happen, before he knew what it truly was. He never imagined he would suffer the same fate.

"No...no..." he mumbled, his words slurred. He could hardly keep his eyes open. The shapes formed on the screen seemed to be getting bigger. They were forming together.

"Open those eyes," Andrew demanded. "You don't have to wake up, but open your eyes." He kept a firm hold on Waylon's thigh.

He shook his head. "No more. Please. I've had enough, I don't want-"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Andrew slapped him across the face. It was more abrupt than painful, and made him feel dazed and disoriented.

"Son of a..." Waylon mumbled.

"What's the matter? Someone hit you?" Andrew taunted, leaning forward and whispering. "Here, let me help you." Waylon could only shiver in horror at the violating touch. He reached closer, up his leg and hovering just above his crotch. Andrew seemed to be delighted at Waylon's current predicament. Paralyzed. Confused. Terrified. Trapped.

Meanwhile the other security guard started to inject some serum into his arm, ignoring his protests. Whatever was inside the syringe pinched him, hard, and dripped into his veins.

"Let's hope the engine doesn't fuck you up too badly, Mr. Park..." He brushed Waylon's bangs away with a sly expression, exiting the room after his "Turn it up, stronger this time," he called to his colleague, muttering about hormones and sleep therapy.

Swirls of black shadows clouded his sight throughout the projection. It had a human shape, but clearly wasn't. His own screams were drowned out by the other patients' wails.

"Park? Park...? Waylon!"

Something- someone was shaking him furiously by the shoulders. "God dammit, Waylon, wake up! I said wake up!" Concerned hazel eyes met his own dark brown ones.

"Ugh… stop shaking me,"" he groaned, rubbing his head. "I can feel my brain movin' around..." He dusted off some flecks of dried blood that Miles had spilled on his shoulder from shaking him like a ragdoll.

"You piece of shit, you scared the hell outta me!" Miles snapped, louder than necessary and looking both angry and terrified. After a moment, he released Waylon from his tight grip when he realized what he was doing. His expression softened and he took a deep breath. "Are you okay? Christ, I thought you were about to have a seizure."

"I'm...okay. What happened?" He licked his cracked lips. What he wouldn't give for some water right now. Or a chance to properly catch his breath. He felt like he had just finished running a marathon.

"You tell me," replied Miles. "You were just standing there, freaking out and shaking. It was right after I brought up the..." His eyes went wide, mortified. "Oh shit."

The memories came flooding back, but Waylon didn't hesitate to say: "The Morphogenic Engine. Yeah. Sorry, I didn't think I would...panic like that. It doesn't happen often."

"Like, panic attacks?"

He nodded. "I guess I was remembering everything about it. I worked specifically on the engine, even before I was captured. Kinda ironic..."

"Oh god...I shouldn't have brought it up, I am so sorry."

"You didn't know the full extent of what I went through, it's understandable."

He paused and shook his head. "I read bits and pieces about it through documents. I didn't understand everything, but enough to know how horrible it must have been. And yet...every time I passed a non hostile variant, I felt so disgusted by what they were, what they mutated into. It was wrong of me to think that. You were all put there, for some sick experiment that I still can't grasp."

"I was one of the lucky ones. I didn't even go through the engine in full, just the therapy parts."

Miles clenched his fist, watching the blood from his amputated fingers seeping through his hand. "Murkoff didn't create monsters. Murkoff's the monster," he growled. "And I'm gonna make them pay. I swear Waylon, they will never harm you again. Mark my words."

Waylon decided he would believe him. He didn't really have a choice.

They decided to keep moving after that, the interview long forgotten. All that mattered was escaping. The riot was still in motion, with variants still roaming the halls, they both stuck together like glue to avoid getting attacked. Not that Waylon wasn't used to runaway patients ambushing him, he had been right there when the riot first started after all.

To be expected, there were more dead bodies. Waylon was so used to seeing it, smelling the sour odor of vomit, blood, and piss that he hardly reacted anymore.

The next corridor, identical to all the rest, had no doors on either side. Just a desk and a few mattresses stacked upon one another, leading to a glowing window.

"Guess the only way out is up," Miles said, already starting to climb up on the mattresses. "Dunno why the window is all glowy though."

They scrambled through the window, dropping down and discovering the source of the glowing red window. A blast of heat hit them all at once, a cacophony of unbearable warmth beating down on them. The cafeteria was on fire. Orange gold flames scattered, surrounding them and making it impossible to move throughout the area. Burned bodies, so many burned bodies and charred tables blocked their path. The flames only seemed to be growing stronger by the second, swirling around and causing the two men to cover their eyes to prevent flakes of smoke hitting their eyes.

"I had to burn it. All of it," an unknown voice whispered. Miles and Waylon turned to find a lone variant, sitting and watching the flames dance around him, looking utterly defeated. His arms were bandaged, but otherwise he didn't look too physically altered by the engine.

"Murkoff took so much from us...turned us into these things." The man stared at his burnt palms and grimaced. "Because nobody cares about a few forgotten lunatics. So let it burn. Burn the whole god damn place down. I need the pain to stop." He lifted his head to look at Miles and Waylon, pointing behind him. "If you wanna get out, you can exit through the kitchen."

The man did not move though. He stayed put, watching. Waiting.

Burning to death seemed like an unimaginable, long lasting pain, no doubt one of the worst ways to die. How could anyone want to do that to themself? I would have asked that myself a year ago. Now I see why this man wants death.

"Sir?" Waylon vaulted over a gap, moving closer to the man. "Sir, we want to stop the fire from spreading. It's dangerous."
"Why does that matter?" the man asked.

"Because you could die!"

"Didn't you hear what I said?" The man clenched his jaw. "That's exactly what I want. My life isn't worth living. My family was the one who locked me up in this shithole. I'm better off dead, then the pain will stop." Staring into the man's eyes, Waylon saw how broken the man was. He was shattered emotionally, ready to let the fire claim his own life in a matter of seconds.

He took a deep breath. "I know how you feel. Every time I walked around here, I kept thinking to myself how much I wanted to end it all. It seemed like the easy way out. But the pain doesn't stop, not really. You can get the help you deserve."

The man did not reply.

"We're going to shut the sprinklers off," Waylon continued, careful not to raise his voice. "And we're all gonna escape and expose Murkoff for who they really are. It won't stop the hurt they've caused you, but it might heal some parts."

The man hesitated before nodding.

He tried to move closer and hold out his hand. "I'm Waylon Park, and this is my…friend Miles Upshur."

"We aren't exactly frien- oof!" Miles grunted as Waylon elbowed him.

The man studied them for a moment. "James."

"What?"

"That…that's my name."

"Oh." Waylon said lamely. James looked away, hunched over.

"We aren't the only victims here," Miles murmured, holding his camcorder to record the fire. "Not by a long shot. Let's go find those sprinklers. Stay safe, James."

"If my calculations are correct, the sprinkler system should be in..." Waylon turned directly to the right and gently opened the door labeled as 'sprinkler room'. "Here! All we need to do is turn on two valves to switch the water."

"All we need to do is turn on two valves to switch the water!" Miles echoed, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Sure, no problem! This should be so easy. I'm really excited to be here. Remind me why we need to save this guy?"

"Do you want to be responsible for this man's demise? He's clearly hurting. Besides, like he said, the only way we can leave is through the doors are blocked by the fire, so either way we need to do this." Waylon poked his head out the door, motioning Miles to follow. "We'll split up. I'll look in the bathrooms, you search the laundry room."

"Split up? Are you insane?" Miles snarled. "Have you seen any horror movie ever? Every time the characters split up, someone dies. Usually the funny one, and I'm not risking shit."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we aren't in a horror movie." Waylon glared back. "It'll be fine. Nothing bad is gonna happen. I'll just-"

His voice died in his throat upon hearing the rattling of chains and heavy footsteps.

"Need to contain it...must contain it..." growled a low, rumbling voice.

Chris Walker was heading towards them. Immediately Waylon grabbed Miles by the jacket and pulled him back to hide in the shadows. Thankfully, the giant man had not seen them yet and was continuing to mutter about containing something. Waylon had a feeling he knew what it was.

Miles whipped his head back."You had to say something!" he whispered. "Park, if Walker doesn't kill you- I will. I swear, that asshole has been such a persistent thorn in my side."

Waylon shuddered. He only had the 'pleasure' of running into Chris Walker twice, unlike Miles, who couldn't seem to get away from the Variant. "We'll just have to avoid him."

"Easier said than done..." Miles grumbled, moving into a crouch. As instructed, they went their separate ways, with Waylon darting towards a gap in the wall to sneak inside the bathrooms. Chris Walker seemed to be lurking around, but he had yet to spot either of them.

The bathrooms were as filthy as the rest of the asylum, Waylon wasn't sure why he assumed it would be any different. He sighed and ignored the inmates bathing in the bloody tubs all lines in a row.

One man with dead eyes glanced at him up and down, with an aroused smile. "Don't worry sweetheart, you'll have your turn..." and continued rubbing another man in the soiled tub with his bare hands. Waylon grimaced and finally found the lever, turned the switch, and automatically water started to spray from the ceiling's sprinklers.

"He must have switched the other valve. Nice going Miles," Waylon said under his breath. He couldn't deny that he was impressed that Miles managed to do it so quickly. With the water drenching him, some of the blood washed off his jumpsuit. He squeezed through the gap he had entered from and started to look around. All he had to was find his reluctant companion and they would be good to-

"PARK!" hollered Miles, out of breath and terrified. "We have to move now!"

"What's going on?" He demanded.

"Little pig!" Chris Walker roared. His footsteps were getting louder. He was close.

"Ah shit, I had to ask," Waylon swore, clambering towards the cafeteria with Miles close behind. Even with his busted leg slowing him down, it was impossible to navigate with the slippery floors. Through the twists and turns, he had to ignore the pain and focus on running as fast as he could.

"Found it!" Miles shoved open the cafeteria door and pushed Waylon inside. The doors locked automatically behind them. "We're safe. For now." His eyes fell. "Are you gonna be...?"

"Fine." He lied, clutching his knee. "I'll be fine."

Miles did not hesitate to help Waylon to his feet, using his own body as a crutch towards the next room. "That variant said we can exit through the kitchen. We're almost out."

The man- James who was sitting by the flames was gone, with no trace of him left behind, no charred remains.

I hope he made it.

He took one last look at the burnt cafeteria before following Miles through to the kitchen. Thankfully, it was empty, and surprisingly clean.

Most of the food stocked in the fridges were gone, stolen during the riot or destroyed. Not that either of them were particularly hungry, with all the guts they had seen. Waylon was worried if he tried to eat, he would just vomit it up anyway.

He opened a fridge, pleased to see some water bottles left untouched. Without thinking, he then snatched one and took several greedy gulps. When he finished, he took another, tossing a bottle to Miles, who nodded in appreciation but seemed to be struggling to open it. He tilted his head sympathetically.

"We could try looking for bandages."

"Dunno what good that'll do," Miles replied, finally ripping the cap off with his teeth. "My fingers aren't gonna grow back just because you put a bandage around it." He clenched his fist, glaring at the stumps in disgust.

"No, but it'll maybe stop the bleeding?"

"Let's keep moving, we've already wasted enough time. When we get out, we can get patched up by actual doctors," Miles muttered, sipping the water and stepping towards the next door.

They were in a wide hallway, not unlike the one where they encountered Father Martin. Although this time, instead of a glass barrier, there was a set of double doors. Above the doors hung a neon red sign. The exit was right there.

Waylon almost laughed in relief, his good leg already making progress to move towards it. He couldn't believe it was really there. After all this time, traveling through this nightmare, it would all be over. They would step through and run away. He would see Lisa again. He would see Nicky and Ollie again, their sweet boys. He was so close.

Yet, it almost seemed too easy. He looked over at Miles, who seemed to be thinking the same thing.

"We made it." He uttered. "I can't believe we did that."

"Yeah. Funny thing is," Miles declared with a huff. "Before my fingers were chopped off, I was taken right here. Trager offered me the option to leave through those doors. Obviously I was tied down, so I couldn't. He was just adding salt on the wound. Bastard."

Waylon limped towards the opening, watching the rain fall. He hadn't even realized it had been raining, there weren't any windows nearby to check. "This is it then. We can go."

"Are you ready?" Miles asked.

He nodded firmly. "Ready."

Together they left the asylum, side by side, hoping they would never have to look back. At least, for now.