Miles Upshur had seen the Walrider in real life.

For real this time. It hadn't been a dream. It hadn't been a hallucination or a glitch in his camera. It certainly wasn't the patients being delusional for once.

He did not count the time he was forced to watch security footage of it in action, since that could have been faked. Nor did he count the incoherent ramblings of patients hollering the experiment's name or reading it drawn in blood over the walls. Had he only looked closer, he would have realized they were all warning him. Now, he knew it was real. He had video proof, even if it was only visible through night vision.

He wasn't sure how to feel once he finally saw it. At first, he was positively terrified, ready to shit himself upon seeing it up close. Something about how it resembled a human, but not quite, and how it floated like a ghost was enough to send shivers down his spine. Not to mention how strong it was. He had seen through the footage that Father Martin had shown him that it was a dangerous foe.

Having gained some new knowledge from Waylon, who had more experience with it than he did, he felt less scared and more confident. If there was a way they could stop it, destroy it maybe, then there might be hope after all. If they remained optimistic.

Optimism and confidence could only go so far though. They had trouble even evading Variants. How on Earth were they supposed to handle a weapon purposely designed to destroy and kill humans? He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. He was just a reporter, Waylon was just some tech guy. They were helpless. Dumb luck saved them from everything else. It would be the same here.

The biggest plot twist was Waylon agreeing to look for Father Martin.

He winced, the blood stumps of his fingers were starting to clot. He wanted to ignore the dull pain long enough until they met with Father Martin, but now it was starting to become unbearable. He hoped the next building would have bandages at least. He didn't want to have to Google how long it would take to die from blood loss. Amputated fingers mixed with the squelching squish of pus and dirt swimming inside was probably never a good sign.

Waylon paused, giving Miles' hand a wary look, before quickly looking away. "Those look really bad."

"Thanks, I noticed." He huffed, shooting him a glare.

"No, I didn't mean to be condescending. I- um- '' Waylon stumbled over his words, flustered as he reached in his pocket for something. After some nervous fumbling, he finally pulled out some cloth gauze. "I found them in the shed we were hiding in. I know you said you were fine, but I figured...it couldn't hurt, right? No pun intended."

Miles hadn't expected that. He honestly thought the timid man would be more concerned about escaping than Miles' health. Not that Waylon was selfish, clearly from the way he spoke of his wife and children, he cared a lot. Or rather, he cared a lot for people that were not like Miles.

He was wrong in that assumption. And he couldn't help but smile at the charming awkwardness of it all. He really was trying to be sweet, and was succeeding. "Yeah...that would be great. Thanks Park."

Waylon took his time to carefully wrap both Miles' hands with a generous amount of bandages. "Why do you call me that?"

"Call you what?" He hissed when he felt a particularly sharp pain in his ring finger as Waylon tightened the cloth. At least it would ease the throbbing.

"You always call me Park instead of my first name."

"Oh...that." He took a long pause to think about it. "I guess that's a thing I do when I don't know someone that well."

"You seem alright with me. Sort of."

"Ha, thanks." He struggled to find the words to say next. He didn't want to snark at him or unintentionally be rude but he also didn't want to scare Park off by rambling about his past experiences. It was irrelevant and the other man had already been through enough. "I told you I don't really get close with people...so this is my way of distancing myself. It's stupid." It wasn't a complete lie. He did get close to people, but he did not want to get close to Waylon. In case anything happened to him, it would be best to stay distant for the time being.

"Well, I give you full permission to use my name," Waylon said.

"I'll keep that in mind," He started to walk ahead once his bandages were on. "Do you think we're almost there?"

"Yeah. I can see the church now." Sure enough, when they turned on their night vision, he could see the silhouette of the building in plain sight.

Waylon paused, adam's apple bobbing. "What if he isn't there? Maybe this was a bad idea."

"He's a self proclaimed priest, Way- Park," he chuckled. "I can't imagine him anywhere else."

"I don't want this to be a waste of time."

"It won't be. Keep recording, okay?" He frowned, quickly glancing at the man's subtle tremors. "Your leg. Is it...?"

"It's fine."

He decided it would be best not to argue and instead keep moving. They stopped at a patch of grass in front of the church, a cobblestone pathway leading to the doors. The porch was dimly lit, and the church itself was one of the few buildings that wasn't falling apart. Miles was not a religious man in the slightest, but he had to admit it looked pretty nice even with some wood peaking off. There even seemed to be a rich stained glass peaking through the other side of the walls. Overall, it was well kept considering everything else he had seen on the asylum campus.

Waylon was the first to speak. "I didn't even know we had a church."

"Seriously?" Miles brushed his bangs out of his eyes, striding towards the porch. "I'll bet the rest of my fingers he's in there. He has to be." He automatically took Waylon's hand to help him up the stairs.

"Let's go pay your friend a visit."

Miles squawked in protest. "He's not my-!" He glared playfully when he saw Waylon smirking in amusement. "Oh shut up."

"Hey, it was your idea to follow him, I think he counts as a friend," Waylon politely knocked on the door. They waited for about a minute, and then it slowly creaked open. Miles exhaled the breath he had not realized he had been holding.

A Variant stood in front, using his foot as a doorstop. His face was scarred up to his balding scalp and his clothes were ripped and torn. Two other patients stared at them owlishly. The taller one's mouth was stitched up horizontally and although he wore no clothes, his genitals were also stitched together, leaving nothing left but a smashed red hue. The other had a gaping hole where his eye socket should be. Neither of them had any weapons, thankfully, but that didn't mean they weren't intimidating. The eyeless Variant in particular was extremely tall with broad shoulders.

"Who goes there?" The lead Variant demanded. "Walker?" He blinked, correcting himself. "No…you're…"

Waylon yelped, giving Miles a helpless look. Shaking his head, the reporter replied with a simple, "Nah, no need to worry fellas. We're looking for one Father Martin Archimbaud. Is he here?"

There was some muttering between the Variants.

The scarred Variant bowed his head. "Yes. You're just in time for the ceremony." He opened the door wider so they could step inside, but didn't elaborate on what exactly the ceremony was for.

The entrance itself was lit by candles set neatly on a table shrine. There were more written words, a nonsensical scripture perhaps scribbled on the walls. A gentle hum of an organ played from another room. Miles glanced around, giving the Variants a firm nod. "Thanks."

The Variant with the missing eye took a closer look at Miles and gasped. "Wait...you're him!" He spoke with a slight lisp. "The preacher's witness, aren't you?"

"His what?" Waylon echoed.

"Long story." Miles whispered back. To the Variants, he said, "Er yeah, I am." He was a bit apprehensive. The last time he was referred to by that term, he was kidnapped by Trager. "What's it to you?"

"Don't antagonize them!" Waylon hissed.

But instead of attacking them, for his bluntness, the variants started chatting excitedly amongst themselves like gossiping schoolgirls. Waylon looked even more puzzled, while Miles was simply irritated. They formed a circle around them.

"Praise the Lord! Father Martin's apostle has come to save us all!" they cheered in unison to Miles. The silent Variant clapped his ripped hands since he was unable to speak.

"Miles, explain." He felt Waylon nudge him slightly. "Why are they acting like this? Like they're...worshiping you."

"No more death! No more taxes!" the second Variant declared. "Our savior had heard our prayers!"

"I dunno, but they're starting to give me a headache," He grumbled. "Can somebody tell us what the hell is goin' on?"

The lead Variant stopped to say, "You saw it, didn't you? The Walrider?" He smiled when Miles nodded. "I can see it in your eyes."

"I saw it just now actually. Does that make me special or something?"

"It does," the eyeless Variant confirmed, and he raised a rusty goblet from the table shrine.

"I saw it too," Waylon said irritably, but they ignored him.

"Then Father Martin's prophecy was correct. Revelation is at hand! You are the man who will become one with the Walrider's spirit, and be his guide," the scarred Variant said matter of factly. "You will save us from misery. We have suffered for far too long."

Waylon wrinkled his nose. "Become one with the Walrider's spirit..? What does that mean?"

"Oh yeah," Miles perked up. "They think the Walrider is some kind of God. Don't ask me why, because I have no idea."

"What does that have to do with you?"

Miles didn't reply. He wanted to see how this would play out. To the lead Variant, he asked, "You mentioned Father Martin is performing some ceremony. Can we see him?"

"Indeed. Come, I will take you to him."

He started to follow, but Waylon intentionally stepped on his heel to stop him. "What?"

"Are you sure you want to follow him?" His eyes darted back and forth. "This all feels very sudden."

"It'll be alright, don't worry," Miles assured him. "If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it the second we walked in."

"If you say so. The last time we separated-it almost ended horribly."

Miles cringed. "Yeah I-"

"Are you coming, great one?" The Variant lingered by the door. Miles only now noticed the straps of his straitjacket had been torn apart. The puckered scars on the man's face looked self-inflicted too. It was understandable that Waylon was uneasy. Everything about this was odd.

"I am, don't worry, ah-" He glanced back at Waylon. "Can he come too?"

The Variant scowled. "It would be unwise. The preacher only wants to see you."

"Where I go, he goes. I wont go without him." Miles said calmly. "Consider him like my ...er..." His mind went blank. "He's like Judas! Wait, shit that's the guy who betrayed Jesus- no, he's like Peter! Yeah, like Peter." He tried to ignore Waylon's snickering.

The men shared a look, none of them looking impressed. Then the lead Variant held his mangled hand out, unclenching his fist. "Very well. He may come, if you desire his presence."

"I do." Miles insisted. The last thing he wanted was to be separated from Waylon. From the looks of the gawking, aroused Variants and his conventionally attractive companion's anxious looks, he agreed.

"Y- Yes I'm coming too apparently." Waylon declared, taking the lead even with his limp. The Variants who stayed behind bowed their heads specifically at Miles when he was the last to leave.

He turned back and smirked as he caught up to Waylon and the Variant. "They seem nice." He said.

Waylon rolled his eyes. "You just like the attention."

"Hell yeah I do."

Walking down the long corridor made Miles dwell on his thoughts more. He wondered why Father Martin saw him as something special when he wasn't. He was just a reporter, to most people on the street, he was average at best. To others...he was a nuisance, a freak with a crazy love for adventure and danger. Now he was being treated like he had accomplished some heroic deed. Other than surviving for way longer than he should have, he didn't qualify as any here. If anything, Waylon did.

The only conclusion he could make was that Father Martin never met Waylon, so as such, he randomly picked Miles and got a small group of patients to go along with his line of bullshit.

Only it wasn't a small group of patients.

Down the hall, there were rooms occupied by dozens of patients. Some were in rooms-most likely old offices or dorm rooms but they were knelt with their hands clasped together in a synchronized prayer. They were all chanting in unison, their mutters barely audible, some were even singing gentle hymns. None that Miles recognized of course, but he knew of their significance. But beyond that, he heard them repeat the same word over and over again.

Walrider. Walrider. Walrider.

Now instead of blood on the walls and incoherent rambles, it was prayers.

"Welcome home, Walrider..." one man uttered, giving Miles a devilish grin. Is he talking to me? Does he think I'm the Walrider? Don't be ridiculous, he's crazy. They're all crazy lunatics.

He felt himself speed up. Walking down another endless corridor was nothing new. However this time was new. He felt a heavy pit in his stomach, as though he had swallowed a large chunk of ice. Rather than excitement at being worshiped, he felt dread.

The ghoulish men who stopped praying didn't help either. They were all watching him specifically. Watching him be led possibly to his own death. His own execution, from the way they eagerly licked their lips. Still, he tried to keep his head high. For Waylon's sake, if anything else.

"Hey," Miles gruffly addressed the scarred Variant. "I know you're leading us to Father Martin, but I need to know what's really going on."

"It is ...complicated." the man replied. "The preacher believes you are the key to a better future. You are the outsider with a voice strong enough to control the Walrider's spirit and set him free. That is what he has told us, and many of us believe it too."

"Set him free..? So the Walrider is a physical presence. Or perhaps a higher being?"

The Variant dipped his head "The Walrider wishes to be free. That is all I know."

Free from what? The Walrider can't really be a physical being, it's just some inhumane experiment. It wouldn't need to escape from anything. Unless, they're referring to the man in control of it. Billy Hope.

He could almost hear the low rumbling of Chris Walker's growls mentioning how he needed to contain something. Maybe there was a connection to it all?

He didn't have time to contemplate this further or even look at Waylon for help. The Variant leading them stopped at an entrance to a double door. Without another word, he had hurriedly scrambled back the other way.

What Miles didn't expect was to see who was there acting as guards in front of the doors.

The Twins. The naked Variants that had casually fantasized consuming Miles' internal organs were right in front of him. And he couldn't run away this time.

"Look who it is," said the shorter twin.

"I see him too, brother."

"Shame we had to keep him alive."

"But it was for a greater good."

"Greater good. Yes."

Miles tried to remain eye contact with both of them, and not look down. It had been a while since he had seen so much dick all at once out in the open. Meanwhile Waylon paled and tried to look the other way.

"Fancy seeing you two here," Miles said coolly. "Ran out of livers to snack on?"

The tall twin flashed a toothless smile. "Not yet."

"We were never intending to eat you," said the shorter twin, scoffing.

"I was."

"Yes, you were, brother. However Father Martin made us vow not to harm his witness."

"Really? Those knives you were holding seemed to indicate otherwise," Miles replied dryly. He gestured towards the doors. "He's in here then." The Twins replied by pulling the doors open together, and Miles found himself looking back at Waylon.

He shook his head tiredly. "I think I'll stay here. You go ahead and see what he has to say."

"I'll let you in on all the details regarding his 'ceremony'," Miles teased.

The Twins yanked Miles forward into the chapel and slammed the door behind him. Lanterns hung above the ceiling like stars, highlighting the stained glass windows depicting themes from the Bible. The pews were filled with variants, in the same praying positions as before. Some looked cheerful, the others looked at him somberly. And when he looked up, he saw why that was.

There was a small aisle leading towards a mighty wooden cross in the center. Being held up and pressed against the cross was none other than Father Martin himself. The middle aged man had his palms brutally stuck inside with nails, blood leaking through bumps, crevices in his hands. He smiled softly.

"What the...?" Miles felt bile rise in his throat.

"Do not worry, my son," Father Martin assured him, wincing from the pain. "I did this to myself. Together we will join the Walrider, in just a moment."

There was a ripple of applause coming from the pews. Miles could only stand there in disbelief. "Why would you..."

Father Martin's smile grew wider. "This is my destiny, my calling. My Job. You alone shall escape to tell them. This is your penultimate act of promise of the prophets was always freedom from death. And here it is."

"What..." He shook his head furiously. "No...no! No, I won't let you do this to yourself!" He didn't particularly like the man, but he had somewhat guided him throughout the asylum. Miles desperately started to run towards the cross, hoping somehow he could pull the man off it. He couldn't watch another person die. Not again. But someone dragged him back-one of the twins. "Fuck off! No! Goddammit!"

"Silence." The shorter twin growled, silencing him. "Listen to what the preacher has to say."

"Crucifixion? That's what everything has been leading up to?" Miles demanded. "You crazy motherfuckers; he isn't gonna get resurrected! He's gonna die!"

Father Martin chuckled, ignoring his pleas. "You will watch and record my death, my resurrection. And together we will be free."

"Record it?" Miles gasped. "With...with my..." He swallowed and opened his camcorder. He doesn't know what he's getting into. If this is what he actually wants then…

"Show the world, please. That is my last wish before I am to be reborn."

He continued to shake his head.

The man softened. "You are no longer in any danger. I've even fixed the elevator. It will take you to freedom. We both will be free."

Wait...he fixed the elevator? That means Waylon and I can take a shortcut to the exit. We'll be home free! If he's telling the truth.

Jesus Christ was in the same position. He was told this was his calling, his destiny, and God let it happen. He chose to let his supposed son die in the most brutal way possible. And now, here I am, playing God. I'm making that decision for him, aren't I? They all think I'm connected to the Walrider, somehow. Well, if that's what he wants. I'll show the whole fucking world. Let them see what Murkoff has done to people.

Miles fiddled with the buttons on his camcorder before finally pressing record. He started to film Father Martin's bleeding body.

Father Martin looked at ease once he saw the camera recording at last. "Now, my son," He said to a variant holding a match. "We ascend."

Miles could only watch in horror as the cross was lit on fire from the match, and immediately burst with flames and burned the man alive. The man's blood curdling screams made his stomach plummet and air escaped from his lungs. It was as if the priest was regretting his decision to let this happen to himself. And he probably was, now knowing the pain behind it, yet Miles could still see a small sense of acceptance behind the burning man's eyes. He couldn't stop watching it. It was like watching a car accident. Sure it was horrifying and he wanted to look away, but did not. The agonized, tortured screams from the broken man faded into silence.

Miles couldn't believe it. Father Martin had really one upped Jesus Christ himself on shitty ways to die. And he didn't think he was going to miss him that much.

A way out. He-they had a way out now. That was all that mattered.

I have to get back to Waylon. He thought, as static rang in his ear, and the warm glow of heat drew close to him.