How long had it been since he had fallen asleep? What time of day was it? Where was he again?

Oh, right.

Miles didn't crack open an eye, not wanting to open them to the world he had finally escaped in a dark abyss. Sleep had been such a sweet and blissful thing, he almost prayed to go back to sleep. Ah, no such thing.

Softly sighing, he moved to pull away from his own knees, feeling every muscle kink in his neck and back. Oh, it hurt a lot. A soft hiss echoed from his mouth as he attempted to snap his head one side and then to the next, attempting to remove the kinks as he rubbed his shoulders. Shocks of pain went up his spine and he flinched. Lovely.

Carefully, he moved after a little bit, inch by inch and soon he was allowing himself to stand in the freezing locker.

Peering out through the small slits of the locker, he couldn't see much of anything, just ominous darkness and an abyss of horror. The normal. Despite how he had recently eaten, hunger and thirst gnawed on the tip of his tongue, causing him to feel even more like shit. He wreaked of blood, felt as if he had ran through the sewers again and wondered if he had been asleep for centuries. But he was scared to go out. Fearful of it.

The Walrider was surely still around…and that was what made him absolutely sick to his stomach. Trager was now after his hide, alive and surely wielding those damn bone-shears.

He bent down to slowly pick up his camera, which beeped angrily at him about the low battery. It flashed violently on the screen, causing him to sigh and flip the camera open, pop in a new battery, and then put it back up to his face.

Upon seeing a face right in the tiny windows, as he looked up, he let out a very faint and dry-throated shriek before he leaped back, slamming his head against the locker with a bang. His heart hammered right in his throat as he heard the man in front of him snicker. "You hear him, brother? He can't even scream."

"He must've screamed all the way back here to get that camera of his." Miles went as pale as a sheet. Why in hell's name were the brother's here? To torment him? Seemed likely.

A meaty arm tore open the locker door and then immediately groped for Miles. He felt the front of his jacket become grabbed and he was dragged out. "No! Get off of me, you pieces of shit! Get off!" The male held onto Miles like a lifeline, no matter what he did.

A hand was taking up the camera he had dropped, examining it slowly and soon simply messing with the night-vision. This pissed Miles off quite a bit as he kicked backwards and up. His aim was perfect as he was able to hit the family jewels of the brother that held him. He crumbled to the ground faster than an actual cookie, allowing Miles to get free, grab his camera from the other, and run.

The male glanced behind him once just as he got out of the doorway, seeing the brother not even trying to get to his feet. Miles frowned, turned around and smacked into a new pair of foes. Stumbling back, feeling all of his original wounds yelling at him, the male turned on his heel to bolt in the other direction. He nearly slammed into another pair of arms.

Miles was caught, doing a 360 and seeing nothing but more and more vigilantes. They were everywhere, up and down the hallways, contorted faces looking at him with such curiosity that he paused right in his tracks. "…What?" he barked.

Some didn't make a sound while others chirped or groaned in response, looking to one another then back at him. Miles had no idea what was going on, feeling his heart pound as he filmed them all with the camcorder. They didn't seem to care.

"We caught word of you trying to help us," a brother mumbled, causing Miles to turn back to the room he had previously been hiding in. "Ya see, we all want outta here. We understand that, despite what you think. You already betrayed us once, hitting Trager in the back like that. You also let the Walrider loose on us all again. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Criticized. That's how he felt. Examined. Blamed. Hated. Different.

His anger bubbled up inside of him faster than he could've thought possible and it didn't take him long to start shrieking like all of the madman he had seen. Or maybe he was becoming one himself… "Oh yeah!? And!? Can you understand me then? No, you big-headed faggots! Why don't you wallow off somewhere and leave me be, huh!? I'm not insane, I'm not mad, and I'm going. HOME. Good-fucking-bye and good riddance!"

Turning sharply on his heel, Miles began shoving his way through the crowd, kicking shins, ankles and whatever else he could to get the hell out of there. A man threw himself at the reporter, clinging to his leg viciously. "You can't!" he garbled, clutching tighter. "Take us with you, take us with yooouuu!"

"Get off of me you filthy pest!" Kicking out at the man, he heard his heel slam into the man's jaw and nose. A sickening crack filled the air and made many of them cringe away incredibly fast. Miles didn't notice, much less care. All he wanted to do was get out.

He ran once more, feeling his blood rush through every vein he had, his legs already aching horribly. Why couldn't they leave him alone!? That's all he wanted from them, to be left the fuck alone!

Miles looked back and forth, unsure of what floor he was on. What corridor he was in, the wing he stood in… He removed his journal from his pocket and moved to write on it. Ah… No pen, and his bandaged fingers, surely fat and raw, were unable to even dare hold any other utensil aside from his own camera. Miles sighed, catching his breath as he stood there and soon peered through the item. He started walking soon enough, feet echoing on the floorboards softly.

Everything was suddenly much more subtle than before, his camcorder catching everything within the shadows and his battery slowly ticking away every minute. Miles felt all of his adrenaline crash on him and his walking pace felt so much slower.

With a hand on the wall, he continued to his descent towards the ground floor, limping faintly now. After a bit longer, he tried windows and every other unlocked door. It became more and more quiet aside from the faint whispers of insanity. Or was it the Walrider? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he wanted to go home. Just opened a door soon enough, poking his head in and immediately jumping back about ten feet from fright, to examine the other male in front of him. "H-Huh?"

Miles's eyes searched the face of a rather unruly young man, coffee hair extremely messy and his bright brown eyes wide and red in the whites. His clothes were tattered and blood-dyed from head to toe, his hands as pale as grey snow and his face contorted in pain and fright. "…Is that…?" The male moved forward to examined the cracked mirror, putting his fingertips on the breaking glass. "…That's me?"

Softly, those dirty, bandaged hands grazed the crumbling mirror, tiny fragments of crystal tumbling to the floor with a majestic noise. Dirty orbs glanced to the same pair before they closed. Everything, in seconds, washed away in a whisper in his head as he remembered first becoming a reporter, washing his face in the white-wash basin of the men's restroom. He was sweating, nervous, quivering...

"Upsher." He jumped lightly, soon glancing over his shoulder towards the door leading out into the office halls. A finely dressed man quirked an eyebrow at him and nodded once, this faint smile on his lips. Ah, he must've known how nervous he was.

Miles waved him off. "I know, I know. I'll be out soon." This seemed to please the other and he left the other to his cleaning-up.

Miles looked back at the rough-looking man in the mirror, feeling along his jawline and feeling a single spot of faint stubble he had missed this morning after his shower. He grunted, looking displeased before glancing to his attire.

It was simple enough. He had thrown on a fine jacket this morning, slipped on a pair of jeans and new shoes he had bought yesterday afternoon. Too bad he overlooked the price and the comfort. His feet were already killing his toes. Rolling his heels with a terrible wince, he soon shook his head and used a paper towel to wipe at his face.

Trashing it, he walked out with a faint sigh, popping a mint in his mouth. "Well, here you go, Miles. Don't screw up..."

Eyes opened slowly, the hired reporter looked over the mirror once more before he began to turn around. Something caught his eye and he glanced around slowly, raising an eyebrow. A file of papers happened to be sitting nearby, practically glowing.

"Huh," he murmured, picking it up from the split desk. "I always seem to find these. They practically glow." He opened the files, beginning to flip through the many pages comfortably. Paperwork, experiments, lack of doctors, unknown diseases...

Plunk.

Miles jumped a bit and soon glanced down, realizing something must've fell from the files and to his feet. Curious, he bent down and picked it up slowly between his aching fingers. Too thick they were from the gauze and he couldn't grab it properly. After a little game of cat-and-mouse, his anger got the better of him and he slammed his fingers into the floor to get it.

Hearing his fingers crack, either broken, sprained or merely popped, he howled in pain, clutching his right hand close to him with a series of hisses, multiple curses and mumbles. This time, slowly, he reached with his left hand to pick up the object, his camera moving into the crook of his right arm.

"Fucking finally," he cursed, moving to stand and hold it up to his face. "...A lighter? A lighter..." He glanced around him, examining the crumbled walls and the dry wood. A wicked grin spread over his lips and he looked back at it, the fluid half-way full. Oh this was perfect. ...For a moment it was.

Shifting his fingers faintly resulted in something as bad as feeling his camera fall from his fingers. The lighter did too and right through a way-too-perfect-to-be-normal crack in the floor. A desperate, animalistic whine left his lips as he tried to grope for it but it was already going down into the lower floors, disappearing. He peered through the crack, mentally throwing a fit.

"Oh~, there you are~." Miles felt his fingers suddenly go cold as he looked down through the crack as someone looked up. Richard Trager was holding the lighter, tossing it up and down in his hands with a gleam of insanity in his eyes. The doctor was suddenly sprinting upward towards the nearest flight of stairs.

"...Fuck," Miles began, standing and beginning to run out of the room, "my LIFE!"