A/N: Thank you very much for the reviews and support! I hope my story continues to please you! For this chapter, I had to do a shit ton of research and I even interviewed some people, so that is why it took so long to type up. I wanted to do a chapter on Miles' past in Afghanistan, and I realize they were really vague on what exactly got him fired, so I kinda went overboard. I was really hesitant to write this chapter since war and terrorism is a touchy subject with a lot of people. However, I felt this was a necessary chapter to write since this fanfic is technically an Outlast prequel. That and I wanted to write more about Miles' reasons for becoming a journalist and why he cares about pursing the truth so much. I have to thank my sister for helping me write this and the awesome pictures she's drawn! Please check my profile for the other two pictures' she has drawn for me. This time featuring adult Young-ja and Miles! And I would like to thank lokiAU10 for their lovely suggestions and questions. I don't want to give anything away, but I must say most of the things you said are probably going to happen~.

And welcome any new readers! Enjoy!

(Miles)

Soon after Short Stack's departure, I found myself working at some Atlanta news company. It wasn't anything special, but it paid the bills and gave me some insight on the journalist business.

Besides, how could I get assignments as an investigative reporter without references and proof I can get the job done? Ah, the life of a fucking journalist.

But, at least I had a decent apartment with internet access, so Short Stack and I could talk on Skype. She seems really happy, always babbling about what she learned today or what sights Germany had to offer. It was hard the first few times, hanging up and shutting off the monitor, but we soon got used to it and just looked forward to our next meeting.

In short, my life was pretty average and was probably going to stay that way.

That is, until I got myself caught in a major shit storm.

It was two years after I was hired when my supervisor, Mr. Webber, approached my cubicle with an offer.

"We are doing a section on the American heroes in Kabul, Afghanistan, so we need someone to go and interview them." He tossed a folder onto my desk. "Congratulations, Upshur. We've chosen you for the job."

"Holy shit!" I snatched the folder up and flipped through it. "Really?!"

"Just don't do anything stupid."

I couldn't believe I was actually going on location instead of nesting in my fucking cubicle like usual.

If I was into kissing toads with facial hair, I would've kissed my boss then and there.

But I just settled for a "Thank you, sir".

"Your travel information is in that folder. Plane leaves tonight, so you better get going."

'Well, shit. Thanks for the heads up, boss.'

I scrambled around the square prison, tossing this and that into my satchel before racing down the stairs and out to the parking lot.

The trip to my dinky apartment was a blur, and I found myself zipping around my bedroom in a matter of minutes.

Once all of my necessities were packed away, I called my parents who were a mixed of ecstatic and petrified.

After reassuring them over and over that I'd be safe, I tried to call Short Stack but was welcomed by her voicemail instead. So, I settled for leaving her a text:

Off to show the world what I'm made of! Get ready to hear my name around the world!

"Alright, Miles." I said to myself, making sure the stove was off and everything was locked. "Let's go kick ass."

Then I was off.

A man in a military uniform awaited my arrival at the base airport entrance, scrutinizing me under his shades.

"You must be Miles Upshur. Kinda young to be a reporter, aren't ya?"

"Well, half of the people in your squad are kinda young to be soldiers, aren't they?"

"Watch your mouth, boy." The man got into my face. "As long as you're under my care, you do as I say, alright?"

"Yes, sir." I gave him a two-finger salute. "Do I have permission to use the can before takeoff or is that beyond my rights?"

The soldier's muscles tighten, and I could tell he was trying not to punch me in the jaw.

"Chill out, man." I chuckled, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. "Come on, get that stick out of your ass and let's go."

"Cocky little shit." I heard him huffed under his breath.

We boarded a tiny military airplane with four seats on both sides of the aisle.

I tossed my bag into a nearby seat and plopped myself down next to it.

The soldier, Walters according to his name tag, sat in the seat in front of me.

"Son, let me remind you that…..."

It was basically the same lecture my boss gave me.

The only good thing about it was it distracted me from takeoff.

I tuned him out after a while and focused on the toy I brought along: a new camcorder.

It was something I've been saving up for the minute I spotted it at Best Buy.

Now, I finally had a use for it.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't planning on doing anything illegal, but if I found something worth telling the world about, you can beat your ass I was going to record it. Too many news networks censor their stories to appeal to a certain audience and leave out important details if it makes the U.S. or those in power look bad. Especially if it is between an 'honorable' man and a 'criminal.'

I clutched the camcorder tightly.

I've seen innocent people arrested and condemned by the 'higher' authorities for how they look and where they come from. Never mind if the facts say otherwise, if someone fits a certain stereotype or mold, they are guilty in the eyes of law enforcement and the public. The media spews out crap, and the viewers eat it up without questioning it.

That is why I wanted to become an investigative reporter.

I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty if it means that the truth will come to light.

No biases. No cover ups.

Just cold, hard facts.

I gazed out the window at the vast ocean below.

Afghanistan and the Middle East countries were always on the news, mainly regarding the wars and riots.

I pissed me off to no end when my father and I were out in public and idiots would stare at us with hushed whispers and pointed glances.

Yes, because everyone from the Middle East is a terrorist.

At least, that's the vibe I get from my 'fellow' neighbors.

Placing my camcorder back in my bag, I put my feet up on the seat next to me and tried to catch some sleep before we landed.

Let the fun begin.

Once the plane landed in the airport a million years later, I was immediately escorted to a hotel and ordered not to leave my room without an escort, a.k.a Walters.

So, naturally, the minute Captain Stick-up-Ass left to grab some chow, I slipped out of the room and went to investigate Kabul on my own.

As I waltzed down the street, I realized I should've brought a fucking translator or a dictionary, at least. People tend to believe everyone in the Middle East or around it speak the same language, but that is not true. You can find everything from Arabic to Somali, and even if you are in the same country, there are about 50 different dialects.

So I did my best, making a few educated guesses here and there about the various buildings and people.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to find exactly, but I figured people may sing a different tune without a horde of cameras or armed soldiers lurking around.

People were staring at me as I passed by, so I gave everyone a wave and a smile to show I had no ill intentions. Eventually a group of little boys approached me.

They were really cute and short, and I wondered if this was the first time they've seen an American without a camera crew or a military uniform.

I sat down with them for a while and showed off the pictures in my wallet of my family and Short Stack. In return, they showed me their toys and drawings with much enthusiasm and vigor that it warmed my heart. But it also hurt it when I noticed one of the boys was missing one of his legs.

The war between the military and the Taliban truly was brutal, and a simple look around the city could tell you how much it affected the people.

Even with the Taliban's fall from power in 2001, the group's presence is still at large and disrupts any chance of rebuilding the city.

I don't know how long this war will last, but these children don't deserve to grow up surrounded by gunfire and fear.

And the world needs to see beyond what their t.v. sets say and realize Afghanistan is more than a war zone.

This country is beautiful with wide terrains and mountains that are lush and full of life.

That is one of the things I want to show the world.

The boys were soon called away by their parents, leaving me alone in the shade.

'I hope peace will come soon.'

The sun was starting to set, so I figured it was time to head back to the hotel and deal with the, probably, pissed off soldier waiting for me.

'Yay.'

"Didn't I tell you to stay put, Upshur?!"

I wiped the spit off my face with a groan of disgust.

"Destress thy breasts, Walters. I was only a block away. Besides, your platoon is scattered around the city, so I technically had about ten escorts, at least."

Walter's face was a cheery red, and I thought he looked like one of those fireball candies you get from those tiny candy crank machines in the mall.

He took a few deep breaths and pinched his nose.

"Just…stay put, alright? I'll be back for you tomorrow, so you can interview the troops. Goodnight, Upshur." He shut the door behind him, leaving me alone in the cramped room.

"Let's just hope they have something interesting to say because I'm not going to fawn over them." I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Don't get me wrong.

I understand these people join the military to serve their country and defend it.

It is honorable, and I can respect that mindset.

But they serve a government that uses them for propaganda.

These soldiers, regardless of their will or not, are station wherever and do whatever the higher powers tell them.

Because it is "their duty".

They fight and come home in a casket or casts.

Then, the government who rallied them up about defending their country and being part of something wonderful, tosses them aside.

And when they come home in caskets, they tell the grieving families and the public that this soldier "died for our freedom" and to "honor our country."

Half of the wars and countries the soldiers are shipped off to have nothing to do with our freedom and are only for the behest of the state.

"Keep us safe/Fight for our freedom" says the country in the land of another*.

What about the innocent people who died solely because they were in a war zone?

So, in short, I sympathize with, maybe pity, the soldiers, but I can't say I support their employer.

The next day, I found myself sitting across from soldier after solider in the mess hall, interviewing them.

My pen snapped in my hand after the ninth soldier told me "I'm just doing my duty for my country."

I was tempted to ask "If your country asked you to jump off a bridge, would you?!"

After 'thanking' a lieutenant for his time, I rubbed my weary face and wished there was some whisky in the vicinity.

"You're the first reporter whose not said 'Thank you for your service'." A teasing voice spoke up.

A young man, no older than 19 at the most, sat across from me with a gentle smile on his face.

"Not to be anti-American for anything, but I don't exactly believe everything you guys do can be labeled as 'patriotic'."

"I understand." He smiled, holding his hand out. "Names Johnathan McCarthy, but you can call my Johnny."

"Pleasure, Johnny. I'm Miles Upshur." I shook his hand, taking note he had quite a firm grip for a string bean.

To be honest, he reminded me of myself before I got a gym membership.

"Been in the service for long?"

"About a year now. After getting out of training, I was shipped off to Kabul without a single goodbye to my family."

Well, well, now this is something I haven't heard before.

"That is pretty shitty," I responded while scribbling in my notebook. "Have you had a chance to talk to them since coming here?"

"Maybe once or twice. It's kinda hard when most of your day consists of patrols and surveillance."

"Hmm. Y'know, you're the first soldier I've heard that's actually complained about being here. I'm sure the others gripe about it, but you're the only vocal one I've meet so far." I laughed to myself. "Forgive me, I was raised in the Bible Belt where 90% of the population considers soldiers divine beings."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Johnny chuckled, tiddling his thumbs. "We're not angels, far from it actually."

There was a shift in his tone, and I raised my head to look at him.

"Now that I think about it, I'm only supposed to be interviewing the high ranking officers for my assignment." I leaned forward and continued in a whisper. "So, something tells me you have a reason for sneaking in here."

Johnny nodded, taking a quick glance around the room.

"I'm a tiny guy, not many people notice me, but I notice them." Johnny scooted closer. "I hear people talk while I do the grunt work. They talk about things that aren't brought up at the CNN interviews or troop meetings."

I wrote this all down, shocked I was actually getting something.

"What kind of things, Johnny?"

He slipped me a piece of paper with a number on it.

"This is one of the secret buildings on the base. Not a lot of soldiers know about, top secret and such. I think something is going down there tonight. Something we're not supposed to know about."

I took the note and stuffed into my pocket as casually as I could.

"Why are you telling me about this though? I don't work for a huge network or anything."

"That's exactly why. Big networks have agendas and censor crap out, and something tells me that what I gave you doesn't belong in their hands."

"Johnny," I stood up and placed my hand on his shoulder. "If I wasn't madly in love with someone else, I'd kiss you right here and now. What can I do to repay you?"

"Don't tell anyone I was your inside source."

"Roger that. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Don't get caught."

During our college days, I was often accused of being like a squirrel, climbing up trees and walls without a sound.

Now, I can proudly say that my animal-like qualities come in handy.

After avoiding guards and scaling up the wall, I was nestled in an air vent above what appeared to be a meeting room.

"I hope this isn't a waste of my time." I mumbled, turning on my camcorder as a group of people waltzed in.

I prayed to the powers that be that my breathing didn't sound like a fucking lawnmower on steroids and angled my camcorder towards the group.

It appeared to be a U.S. general, two soldiers, and an Afghan man.

Upon closer inspection, I recognized the general as one of the top officers in the service, based on all the news reports and award ceremonies about him.

The air turned a complete twenty degrees cooler, and I wondered if I was about to witness something illegal.

"We have considered your terms." The general spoke up, sitting across the Afghan man.

"And?" He said.

"And… we are prepared to negotiate."

A negotiation?! For what? And is this man…? Is he..part of the Taliban?

"What do you have to offer?" The man asked.

The general gestured to the two soldiers who placed a large rectangular crate on the table.

'Are those…?'

The lid was pried off, showing the contents off to the entire room.

Inside was wooden box was a pile of U.S. military guns.

'Oh shit.'

"I hope this will suffice." The general cleared his throat. "In return, you will release Mr. William Freeman."

'William Freeman?! 4th richest man in the world and oil tycoon?! I've heard reports about him being in the wrong place at the wrong time and ending up in the wrong hands, but the U.S. military is willing to exchange their weapons for this man?! Without informing anyone else?!'

The man nodded and picked up the crate of weapons.

"Mr. Freeman will be returned to you tomorrow. Nice doing business with you."

I slinked away as the two shook hands, heart pounding at what I just witnessed.

I returned to end of the vent that lead to the outside and slid out and down the wall.

Looking both ways, I sprinted across the field and back towards the barracks where my lodgings now were.

Slipping into my room without a sound, I kicked off my shoes and dove into bed, clutching my camcorder close.

'Shit. I never expected to find something like that! Webber, you asked me to get a story while I was here. Well, I got you a fucking story alright!'

The minute the plane landed on American soil, I sprinted towards the gate, giving Walters a salute and a "Thanks for everything" before he could say another word.

Once I passed through security, I practically launched myself into my jeep and sped down the highway, anxious to upload my footage.

What felt like seconds later, I was at my computer desk, bags dumped at the entrance, and connecting the USB drive to my computer.

Once the footage was all loaded, I uploaded it onto VIRALeaks and slammed my computer shut.

I felt so fucking alive.

This is what I was meant to do.

In the heat of the moment, I didn't consider the consequences for my actions and just celebrated my discovery.

Too bad it all came back to bite me in the ass.

I awoke the next morning to find every news station in an uproar.

My footage was playing on loop from Good Morning America to CNN.

Despite uploading the footage on a website specializing in anonymous leaked info, I knew it was only a matter of time before someone figured out it was me.

The magic of tracing computers, my friends.

But, I wasn't scared.

No, I was fucking proud of what I've done.

However, remind me to find Johnny after he finished his time and treat him to a round of drinks.

I got dressed and made my way to work, prepared to what I knew was coming.

As I walked in the doorway, Webber and I made eye contact, and I knew I was fucked.

He made the connection quicker than I thought, to be honest.

Got to give the toad credit.

I was dragged into his office and prepared myself for the upcoming spit fest.

"What the fuck did you do, Upshur?" He turned his computer screen towards me. "Look at the mess you caused! I asked you to do a report on our country's heroes, not on a terrorist negotiation!"

"Are you telling me I should've turned a blind eye to a decorated U.S. general negotiating with a terrorist organization in the dead of night for the life of one of the richest men on Earth?"

Webber just covered his face and fell back in his chair.

"I'm just saying I gave you a job- a simple job!-and you had to go and do this!"

"I wasn't going to turn my back on this! People had the right to know!"

"I'm the boss though! And you print what I want you to print! Dammit, Miles! You had to go and pull a stupid stunt like this! I ca-!" Suddenly, Webber slammed his hands flat on his desk, rattling it and tipping a stack of books over. "You know what, Upshur!? This is the final straw. If you want to wander into danger waters, then fine. You're fired."

Can't say I didn't see that coming.

After clearing my stuff out, I drove my home and waited for the police to come breaking down my door.

I wouldn't care though.

No, I finally did some real investigative reporting, and it felt fucking great.

An hour turned into two, then three.

By this time, I was starting to get anxious.

'Just hurry up already!'

Suddenly, there was a knock on my door, and I nearly shat my pants.

Preparing myself to be tackled upon sight, I whipped the door open.

And there stood a tall man in a suit.

"Are you Miles Upshur?" He asked in an Australian accent.

"Yeah, and you must be from the CIA."

"No, actually I'm the creator of VIRALinks, the website you uploaded the negotiation footage on."

'No, this was worse. I'm so fucked.'

I invited him in and closed the door behind him.

"I see it didn't take long for you to find me."

"We traced the source back to your computer."

'Cue game show music, please.'

"Well, if you're not here to arrest me, then why the hell are you here? If it is to advertise your business, then I'm afraid to inform you I'm too busy being unemployed."

The stone faced man cracked a smile.

"Actually, I'm here to put your mind at ease."

"What?"

"A 24-year old man just showed the entire U.S. that one of the finest generals of our time was negotiating with terrorists. If I were him, I'd probably be scared shitless of what would happen next." He turned toward me, arms clasped behind his back. "Well, I'm here to inform you that the FBI or the CIA won't be taking you into custody."

"What?!"

"In the past hour alone, your footage had gained a million hits and quite a following too. People are labeling you "The Whistleblower." Not many people would sneak into a private government building for the sake of exposing the truth. You got guts, Mr. Upshur."

"Wait a minute. This doesn't make sense. Regardless of the popularity, that doesn't seem like the government to turn a blind eye to someone who just exposed one of their own as a traitor."

"Well," The man adjusted his cuff links. "I may've had something to do with that. You see, a swarm of cops were ready to raid your apartment this morning, but I told them you performed a great deed for your country by exposing the truth. Besides, arresting you would only being mass media attention to it, and it would cause quite a stir with your 'fans'. Contrary to popular belief, it's not people who should fear their governments, but governments who should fear their people. So, I informed them that you lost your job, and that should be punishment enough. You're not the first person to do something like this anyways. Besides, they have bigger fish to fry, like General Rosse for instance." He gave me a smirk. "Not to say you're completely off the hook since they intend to keep a close eye on you, but I thought I should let you know you're not going to federal prison."

I tried to wrap all this around my head.

"So, you're telling me I'm…alright? Why did you do this for me anyways?"

"Mr. Upshur. It was because of people like you that I created VIRALinks. People that aren't afraid to get their hands dirty to bring the truth to light." He picked up my camcorder and computer. "That being said, I'll be taking these with me."

"H-Hey! What are yo-?!"

"There are still people trying to tracing the video back to you. So, consider this the start of a blank sheet."

'Can't I just delete that data, you dickwad?'

The man waltzed towards the front door with my gear in hand.

Before steeping out the door, he glanced back at me.

"Never lose that spark, Mr. Upshur. It is a rare thing to find such stupidity."

"Wh-?!"

"And such bravery. I hope to see more from you in the future."

And with that, the door shut.

I scratched my head, wondering how things could go so topsy turvy in the matter of fifteen minutes.

"Well, if I'm not going to prison, I should go buy another camcorder and laptop if I'm going to do this right." I grabbed my keys and headed out, feeling like I was entering a new chapter of my life.

In the matter of three days, I've gone from boring desk journalist to former boring desk journalist that brought a shady dealing to public attention.

Not a bad way to kick of my career, I must say.

Not bad at all.

A/N:

*I got this from a chat about the war:

post/119860111088/what-to-remember-on-memorial-day

I went through five drafts before settling on this one. I just figured if Miles got fired for what he posted on Afghanistan, it must've been pretty bad. By the way, the man from the leak website is the same man Waylon was talking to at the end of Whistleblower. I think his name is Julian. So, there is Miles' Afghanistan backstory. And I used part of the Whistleblower beta note since Waylon mentions being a fan of what Miles' did. Anyways, next chapter is about Young-ja! And for those who wanted to know more about her parents' reluctant approval of Miles, it will be in there.