"For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and loathing." - Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus"

"Let me get this straight," Waylon started, replaying everything that Miles had just told him upon exiting the chapel. "That screaming I heard was Father Martin burning on a cross for some sort of ritual?"

"Yep."

"But he gave you the key to the elevator in exchange for you filming his death?"

"Yep." Miles lightly dangled the key in front of Waylon for emphasis.

He ran his hand through his sandy hair and exhaled tiredly. "I don't think I have enough money to afford a therapist. Let alone one willing to deal with this shit."

When Miles did not react at all, he looked over cautiously, "Are you, um, okay?" And immediately once he said this, he wanted to smack himself for being so stupid. Not to mention he felt like they had both asked that question way too many times in the past few hours.

No, of course he isn't okay. Neither of us are okay. We will never be okay after this.

Miles' glassy eyes were out of focus and a little bit wild, as though his wandering thoughts were drifting away. "We're getting out of this place. Of course I'm okay. Better than okay."

"Well yeah... but you...you... just saw a man die."

"As opposed to all the other men I've seen die tonight?" Miles chuckled. He had a point there. "I'm fine. I've seen it all. More than you would ever believe."

Still, he persisted. "Miles, if you need to-"

"I said I'm fine." He repeated, although he didn't raise his voice, there was some tension behind his words. "Sorry. I'm just...still processing. I guess I'm just used to it by now which is why I'm not having a breakdown."

Waylon bit his lip, trying not to acknowledge that subtle jab at his own panic attack earlier. "Don't worry about it. Like you said, we're almost out. We can finally leave this damned place."

They made their way out of the chapel and towards another hallway. According to the Twins, if they climbed through the next vent, the elevator would be right there.

All Waylon could think about was Miles even as they silently scrambled through the vent. How the man didn't even seem phased by watching Father Martin die in such a horrific way, being immolated and acting so casual about it. It was unnerving. Then he thought for a moment. When Eddie was killed, Waylon was numb shortly after the initial shock. Perhaps Miles was the same. Was he so traumatized that at this point, he didn't feel the need to dwell on what happened? Then again, Miles was impossible to read, and proudly brought up that he had laughed at the corpse belonging to the man who tortured him.

Miles had trauma too, that was clear from the way he acted, and it was beyond physical wounds. Not only had been running through the same hell as Waylon, but he seemed to be suffering far longer from past experiences that he refused to elaborate on. He seemed to be masking it with a tough exterior.

By now, they both had witnessed so many murders, dead bodies, necrophilia, cannibalism- the list goes on, that it was impossible to feel pity or sympathy for anyone anymore.

Yet, even with that in mind, Waylon knew he had people to fall back on. Most notably Lisa-though he didn't like the idea of burdening her. Miles, meanwhile, didn't seem to have anyone to talk to.

When he crawled out of the ventilation shaft, he waited patiently for Miles to come out, reaching his hand back to touch his shoulder in an attempt to steady him. The other man relaxed his tense muscles for a brief moment. "I'm here for you. We're still in this together, remember? Even after this is over. I promise, I won't leave your side."

Miles seemed startled at the sudden change in heart, but did not pull away like Waylon had expected him to. Instead, he smiled.

The next area they found after scrambling through the vents was cleaner than any other part of the asylum that they had seen. It wasn't too much of a surprise, considering it was all abandoned office spaces. Clearly Murkoff wanted their higher ups to be comfortable, while the inmates and interns had to suffer in shittier conditions.

Miles opened the door to one of the rooms and whistled lowly, clearly impressed. It was actually really nice, not just because there were no mutilated corpses to be seen, although that added to it. The walls were a simple cream color, freshly painted with matching curtains. A plush couch with beige and white cushions sat in front of a massive television. There was even a pool table.

"Oho, now this is the lap of luxury," Miles joked, picking up one of the cue sticks and tapping the sides of the billiard table. "You wanna bet your boss and Rick Trager played this during their off time?"

"I don't doubt it," Waylon quipped, watching Miles carefully brush the stick towards the nearest striped ball, knocking it forward to hit two solid balls against the cushion. "Nice one."

"Thanks." He flicked his wrist and moved to the other side. "Your turn."

"We don't have time to play." Waylon groaned. He wanted to be annoyed at him for even thinking of playing a game during a time like this. But he couldn't.

"Come on, Park," Miles scoffed. "It's a great stress relief. And, no offense, you look like you need it."

"Offense partially taken, and the answer is still no."

Miles smirked, a glimmer of arrogance flashing in his eyes. "Too scared of losing?"

"I am not-!" He relented. "Fine. One game, and then we're leaving..." His voice trailed off when he thought he heard something. He silently took the stick from Miles, who was about to hit another ball and alert whoever was nearby.

Chains rattled noisily from the next room along with loud, steady footsteps. Waylon's blood ran cold. He knew that sound well. How could he not? He wasn't as familiar with it as Miles, but he knew exactly who it was.

Chris Walker, or as Miles kindly referred to him as: 'The Big Fucking Guy' was just outside. Whether he was pursuing them or not, they were in danger.

"Must contain it...need to contain it..." the massive man growled, his voice muffled from his ripped lips and strapped jaw, but was still audible. His chains jingled with every movement he made. He was close.

Miles swore. "What do we do?"

Waylon gave him an incredulous look.

"What? I don't have a plan this time."

"Hide. That's the plan." There weren't too many hiding spots, besides behind the desk and under the billiard table. Miles scrambled under the table, while Waylon hid beside the desk.

"No more bodies...no more living..."

Footsteps, loud ones were moving closer and closer. Waylon held his breath, waiting for Walker to inevitably find them. One false movement from either of them, and they would be dead.

That didn't happen though.

The door next to them bashed open. They continued to listen to Walker's insane gibberish long enough until they both determined it was safe enough to exit and continue to look around, leaving the pool table alone.

They were silent until they found the elevator. Miles placed the keys inside the lock, twisted it, and let the doors slide open. It was one of those old fashioned elevators, the kind with a chain barrier to protect it. They stepped inside and Waylon pressed the button.

It took a few seconds for the elevator to actually move, and for a second Waylon was anxious. Since the building was so old and falling apart, it was a possibility that doors would stay firmly shut, and they would be trapped. He breathed a sigh of relief when the box finally descended. There was no cheesy elevator music to ease the tension, just the rustling, creaks and squeaks of the old machine.

"I've always hated elevators." Waylon said out of nowhere.

Miles stared at him quizzically. "Really? Why?"

"In the event that the elevator spontaneously stops, I'm always forced to do awkward small talk. And I hate small talk." He shuddered.

Miles blinked. Then without warning, he burst out laughing. The cute kind of laugh with crinkled eyes and a loud, overwhelmingly sense of joy erupted throughout his whole body.

"What's so funny?"

"I thought you were gonna say you were claustrophobic! That's it? You're afraid of small talk in an elevator?"

"I'm not afraid of small talk," He felt his cheeks burn, mortified and quick to defend himself. "Just uncomfortable with it. I don't mind it with people I trust, like my wife...and..." He paused, avoiding direct eye contact with the other man. "Some other people. But if I had the chance, I'd always take the stairs," His eyes naturally fell to his injured leg. "Although now I might have to get used to elevators."

Miles rubbed his arm. "Hey, I shouldn't have laughed at you. I...I just didn't expect that." He thought for a moment. "No, wait, that does make sense. You give off major introvert vibes."

"Alright, fair. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You give off the impression that you were once pretty extroverted." He smirked. "You know the kind. Friendly, loud, showing up to take finals with a hangovers-"

Miles snorted. "True."

"Going to all the frat parties..."

"I actually never joined a fraternity," He admitted. "Wasn't allowed to. Alas, Delta Sigma Phi never accepted me."

"Why? Too wild even for them?" He said with a wicked grin.

Miles fell silent and in that moment, Waylon realized he might have fucked up. "No I..." He shook his head. "Forget it."

He tried to backtrack, stumbling over his words. "Sorry I didn't mean to ..."

"Hey, no, its fine," Miles tried to assure him. "Funny story is, you were right. I used to be really extroverted. Went to all the big blowout parties in my early 20s, made all sorts of friends that way. Hell, being a journalist means you meet tons of people. But then ...life happens and you lose touch." Waylon nodded in understanding, relating to that feeling.

"Right now though, there's only one person I keep in contact with, which is pretty sad. I'll give him a call once I'm out. Maybe."

"Does he know you're here?"

Miles snorted. "No, he would lose his shit if he did."

"Who is-" The elevator jolted before he could finish his question. Without any warning, both men slammed into each other from the sudden movement, then crashed into the elevator's walls.

"Shit!" Waylon swore, his good leg barely keeping him upright. "Okay, okay we're good." Once he caught his breath, he said, "'S just this old thing. It's stopped at the right floor at least. The doors should open soon."

They waited. And waited. And waited. After almost two minutes of standing there, neither of them knew what to do.

"I think your worst fear might have come true," Miles grumbled. "We appear to be stuck. Just our luck. First Walker, now this."

"There's gotta be a latch above the ceiling, maybe we could-" The elevator jostled, cutting Waylon off for a second time. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, it started to move. The trouble was it wasn't the doors that were moving, but the entire elevator . It was descending into the building's next levels.

It was going down. Down and down and down and down. There was a shrill squeak, and then the doors opened, revealing that they made it to the lowest floor. Waylon recognized it clearly, for he had been there before. It was an antithesis to the dimly lit, blood splattered asylum. The basement was covered in white plastic wrap-like walls.

They were back in the Underground Lab.

"You have got to be shitting me," Miles was the first to speak. "We were so close! We almost made it out! Oh, if Father Martin wasn't already dead, I'd have killed him myself!"

Waylon ignored Miles' rambles. "We're back where I started..."

"What?"

"This-this is where I was working in my office space," his legs wobbled, taking in the space carefully. The elevator's doors closed behind him automatically. "Where the riots first broke out. Where I was caught, where I was captured and taken to be part of the Morphogenic Engine Program. It's down here. It's all down here." He blinked back tears. The visions were coming back, dancing around him like a swarm of flies. He wanted to vomit. "Oh God..."

"Why were we brought here then?" Miles wondered. "How...?"

"This was all part of his plan, wasn't it?" Waylon muttered. "Father Martin, he brought us down here on purpose!"

He shook his head dismissively. "No, no...no he wouldn't. That doesn't make any sense."

"It absolutely does make sense. He's crazy, he's been forcing you-and by proxy me, into following him around on a wild goose chase only for him to kill himself!"

"He said I was connected to the Walrider."

Something in Waylon snapped. "Open your eyes, Miles! He deceived you into thinking you were something special." His temper flared, frustration growing as he saw the other man's expression stay neutral. So he continued to rant. "But in actuality, you were nothing more than a pawn for his delusional games. He purposely went out of his way to torment us." He let out a choked, strained laugh. "And we fell for it. We're gonna die down here."

He stopped for a moment, clenched his jaw and started to fiddle with the hem of his-[Miles'] jacket. He swallowed. If Lisa was here, she would be chastising him for even thinking of blaming Miles. His own sorrow and pain was clouding his judgment. He instantly regretted it as he met Miles' hazel eyes.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I don't mean that."

Miles dipped his head. "Got that outta your system?"

"Ye...yes?"

"Great! Now we can get some work done."

"Wait, you aren't mad at me?" Waylon attempted to jog after him.

"Nah." Miles started rummaging through old documents in his pockets. "I mean, sure, it wasted time but I don't blame you. It was my idea to trust Father Martin, and whether or not he intended this to happen, it still happened."

Waylon relaxed a bit, hobbling forward to walk at the same pace as Miles. Luckily the man was patient enough to slow down for him.

"So, you said the Morphogenic Engine is down here?" When Waylon nodded, Miles added; "I'll have to take a close look at. Might as well, right?"

"Right." Something felt off, other than the obvious. They were trapped down here, and while Waylon knew all the exits, he still felt worried. Maybe it was paranoia and anxiety and frustration. But most importantly, it was fear. Fear that they weren't alone after all down here.

"Actually we don't need to see the Morphogenic Engine," He said, quiet, but firm. "We should leave. I know the way out. I think."

Miles opened his mouth, looking ready to retort, but he stopped himself. "Okay, yeah, you're probably right." He shivered. "It's...so cold down here."

Waylon found himself shaking from the cold as well. Not that the Underground Lab was typically a warm place to work, but it was never terribly freezing. Now however, it felt chilly enough for his fingers to feel numb. His body quivered. Then, without warning, Miles grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.

"What the-"

In a moment of fleeting panic, the reporter yelled at the top of his lungs, "Run!"

Even with his injured leg, Waylon was running as fast as he possibly could. He didn't dare look back to see who was chasing them. He didn't have time to. He only ran, bolting around obstacles and vaulting over desks like an Olympian. But it wasn't for long. His stamina was slowing down with an uncomfortable stitch in his side. His leg burned, screaming at him to stop.

"Miles, I can't-" He wheezed. "I need to stop!"

"Keep moving, we're almost out!" Miles stubbornly pressed on, dragging Waylon with him. They had to survive. They were so close, so close.

They burst through a set of double doors, exhausted and drained. Panting, Miles slammed the doors behind them.

"That was...way too close."

Waylon crouched down, resting his leg on the linoleum floors. "I didn't get a close look at what was chasing us. Was that the...?"

Miles nodded grimly.

Waylon felt the room close on him. He could almost hear the damaged screams being ripped apart by the misty creature. The monster. "Where is it now?"

"Before I closed the door," Miles swallowed. "I saw it disappear and go into one of the decontamination chambers. It's gone. We're safe now."

Waylon had a funny feeling they would not be safe until they escaped. And by the time they turned the next corner, his suspicions were revealed to be correct.

"Don't be so sure about that, little pig."

Waylon let out a small shriek as he saw the massive man, Chris Walker looming over them. He was even uglier than he remembered.

His enormous statue made him look more beast than man. His skin, pale and milky and bloated, was clearly destroyed from long periods of time spent in the engine judging by the blisters and scars. Peels of flesh from his nose and lips were ripped away. There was no color in his eyes, only white, unblinking dots. His jaw was forced into a permanent sneer from the straps connected to his contorted mouth.

Chris Walker towered over them remarkably, but his focus was on Miles- charging towards the reporter, and grabbing him by the collar with ease. There was a loud crack of bones smacking against the wall as the man was forcefully pinned. Waylon, too weak from his injuries, could only yell out in protest.

"Finally, I have you right where I want you," Walker growled, squeezing Miles' neck. "I need to savor the moment." Licking his lips, he clenched his windpipe harder.

"Fuck you." Miles snarled.

"Shhh...I'm trying to help you."

"Why? Why are you doing this?" Waylon's demands to the murderous man went unanswered. Miles looked ready to accept his demise, a ghost of a smile appearing across his sickly face. The man choked and gagged, losing air quickly. Chris Walker sadistically tightened his crushing grip, like he was squeezing a lemon instead of a human skull. In one motion, he could rip off Miles' head from his body. But he didn't. True to his word, he seemed to find pleasure in watching the man squirm.

"I'll make the pain stop, once and for all," Walker said, switching his glaring gaze to Waylon. "For both of you. The Walrider does not need another host."

"Wh- wha...?" Miles sputtered. "Just make it quick, okay?"

"No!" Waylon felt the room closing in on him as he slammed his eyes shut, horrified. He couldn't watch. He had enough. He couldn't take it anymore.

Using the last of his strength, he took a trembling step forward, ignoring the aches in his leg. Waylon had done everything he could to make sure Miles didn't die, just as the other man had done the same for him. Whether it was against demented men like Eddie Gluskin or dangerous Variants, they worked together. They hadn't known each other long and yet, the hours spent together felt like a lifetime. Miles made him stronger, braver.

"Whether you like it or not, Miles, though, you aren't alone. You've got me now. We're a team.

If he died, he would rather it be him, than Miles.

He snapped his eyes open, ready to distract Chris Walker when he suddenly heard screaming. However it wasn't Miles' screams, but a low, rumbling that twisted into a horrifying howl like a wounded animal. Chris Walker was soaring through the air, carried by the same black misty cloud. Miles had dropped to the ground, too stunned to move and probably couldn't even if he wanted to. The massive man continued to flail around thanks to the Walrider's tremendous strength, before it finally cut away his entire body, disemboweling him from the inside.

Blood sprayed everywhere, drenching the floors in a mixture of organs and flesh. Nothing was left of the ex-military man, and Waylon, though frozen in fear, wouldn't lie and say he wasn't pleased at the turn of events.

In a matter of seconds, Chris Walker was gone. To an extent that there was nothing left, only a bunch of red mush and bones. Waylon had seen men murdered, as had Miles. He had even seen what the Walrider was capable of. Yet it hadn't occurred to him how fast it could destroy a human being as powerful as Chris Walker. And it made his anxiety grow stronger. They had a bigger threat to worry about, even more so than before.

Miles stood up, dusting himself off. He glared at the remains of the fallen man and grinned with a slightly croaked voice. "See you in hell, Chris Walker."

Waylon started to laugh. They were so fucked.

"Oh come on, that was a badass line."

"To you, maybe." He scoffed.

Miles squatted down to look closer at whatever remained of Walker's body. "God...this is how you die down here. Torn to pieces."

"The Walrider saved us from him though." Waylon pointed out.

"Did it really?" Miles frowned. "Walker was chasing me all around the asylum. And, well you heard the shit he was spewing. That's all he would say while he was stalking me. Containing something- the Walrider."

"You can't contain the Walrider, remember it isn't a physical presence," His eyes widened. "Unless, he was trying to stop it from getting a suitable host!"

"Exactly. That's why he said the Walrider doesn't need another host. He wasn't the problem. He was never the real problem. In his own, sick demented mind he thought he was helping."

"And now he's dead." Waylon stated.

"Yes. Now we've got bigger problems at hand. Let's just say, I don't think the Walrider was trying to protect us."

Footsteps echoed along the floor, keeping the two young men on edge. Not for any Variants this time, they had to be long dead. Nor were they concerned about any soldiers roaming the area. They were useless and probably dead too. No, they were fearing for their lives because of the Walrider. Now that they knew it was close, and obviously what it could do, it made them all the more eager to escape.

Waylon thought he was done seeing corpses, but he was wrong. Bodies were everywhere, drenched in bile, vomit and other bodily fluids. Except these weren't caused by the Variants roaming the halls with hand saws and bone shears. This was clearly the work of the Walrider, and they both knew it.

Occasionally Waylon had to stop. Whether it was his leg, the constant ringing in his ears, or the feeling of a smoky wisp impacting his vision, every step he took felt uncomfortable. The laboratories and hospital area only made the feeling of dread increase.

"Hello...? Is somebody there? Please..." Someone's voice was trying to get into his head. Waylon tried to ignore it. It couldn't be real. Then again, he had trouble deciphering what was real and what wasn't.

"Who said that?" He whispered under his breath.

They finally stopped at another room, a safe space with a strong barrier to protect them. The room itself wasn't any different from anything else in the Underground Labs. There was even a dead body and the floors were coated in blood. Typical. But through the translucent walls, there was a strange painting hanging above, like it was intended to be an office. And sitting inside the room, was a person.

They were not alone.

There was a frail man sitting in an electric wheelchair, staring back at them with wide eyes. Waylon nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight.

How could there be another person here? The Walrider surely would have killed him too, wouldn't it?

"Who-" Miles was cut off.

"Two survivors." The man murmured. "Incredible. Come closer."

Waylon bravely moved towards the man, while Miles lingered by the exit. At first, the software engineer didn't recognize the old man. He certainly looked ancient and wrinkly, and close to his death bed. But there was something off about him, something familiar. He recalled Mr. Blaire bringing a man up in passing, about how Murkoff owed their debts to a man who had single-handedly saved the cooperation. Even showed him an old photograph of him in black and white.

But that man in question had died many years ago.

"Rudolf Wernicke..." Miles uttered. "It can't be."

"It is. But how?"

Wernicke grimly confirmed the suspicions to be true. "I know, I-I, I know, I am supposed to be dead. No, no such luck. I am older than sin, but, somehow, the only one left. Because of Billy. Billy Hope. He takes care of me. He may think I'm his father. He certainly loves me, the poor idiot." He swallowed, deep in thought. "Or rather, the Walrider thinks I am his father. Now Billy and the Walrider are one in the same."

"Because he's the Walrider's host?"

Wernicke dipped his head and wheeled the other way. "Our plan at Murkoff was to turn the cells of human bodies into nanofactories. It's the natural function of cells to produce molecules, but through psychosomatic direction, we engineered the precise molecules necessary. Mind over body."

"It was foolish and wrong to think we could control it. To use mad men to control something so strong."

Waylon almost heard Miles snort.

"I didn't expect anyone to survive the Walrider's influence, let alone two," Wernicke said. "I understand you know its capabilities. It's kept me alive because I created him. But you...you two are different. You have to stop him, to murder Billy. Turn off his life support, his anesthesia. You have to undo what I've done."

"Murder him?" Miles echoed, shifting his weight. It was a surprise to Waylon to see the cocky man look apprehensive, especially after what he said earlier. "Are you sure?"

Well yeah... but you...you... just saw a man die."

"As opposed to all the other men I've seen die tonight? I'm fine. I've seen it all. More than you would ever believe."

"You did the right thing. Even if it doesn't feel right. He won't be able to harm anyone anymore."

"Without the host...the Walrider can't survive anymore," Waylon mumbled. "It's a parasite. And if we have to kill one more person, then we better get to it. We don't have much time left."

It was time to put an end to Victor Frankenstein's monster.