Chapter Text
Sitting in the middle of the cold, dark field, Miles yanked strands of grass out of the dirt with jerky movements. The nails on his good forefinger and thumb were caked in dirt. He dug deeper and tugged viciously at the roots. He remembered doing this as a kid in the schoolyard, stressed about some written test, unleashing his inner tension on the defenseless lawn. But this time, it wasn't about a stupid exam. The reason for his stress was so huge he’d already destroyed public roadside property in the blink of an eye, so it wasn’t like tearing out some grass would help, but he couldn’t ignore the remaining urge to rip something apart. Grass was the safest alternative to Park’s pathetic, weak body.
“Fuck,” Miles growled through rage-tight lips.
It was fucking ridiculous. All Park needed to do was to keep himself alive in the simplest way for any given human being–eat, drink, sleep–, but he failed at accomplishing even that. Miles had known that man was insane, but he hadn’t expected Park’s mind to be the kind of mess where the primal concept of survival was overridden by his trauma. Obviously staying at Mount Massive hadn’t been a cake walk. Miles could still see the gore and corpses when he closed his eyes, but the memories didn’t intrude on his active reasoning, so he’d assumed the same went for Park. He’d been damn wrong about that.
So Park refused to eat or drink, and Miles couldn’t force him to do either because any kind of forceful physical proximity between them would send the man in a crazed, blind panic, and his state would get even worse, and then there’d be no one left to bring Murkoff’s actions before the eye of the public. Miles had thought about sending files and video, then sitting back and hoping that the information would be picked up by the best news outlets; but it wouldn’t work without a face. It would just be said and forgotten. People didn’t care about vague, horrific-sounding events that happened somewhere else; they’d read about it for some kicks, morbid curiosity briefly taking over, and then they’d forget.
No, a face was necessary. A physical, tangible fellow human being who’d suffered through that horrific-sounding event was necessary, someone whose haunted eyes would grip the viewer’s attention, who would elicit empathy even in complete strangers. Someone real, who wouldn’t so easily be forgotten. Waylon Park’s big wet crazy eyes, haggard face, and perpetually fearful hunched posture perfectly fit the bill.
Unfortunately, Park didn’t seem fit for survival. Miles rubbed his face. He was getting very, very tired of things never going his way. The situation was already dismal enough without Park having problems at every turn. At this rate, the option of showing up at the Murkoff Corp headquarters and breaking everything in one last destructive blaze of glory almost seemed like the most viable one, despite the fact that such a course of action wouldn’t fundamentally fix or change anything. The asylum’s patients would be forgotten, their sordid treatment never exposed, Murkoff Corp would grow another head, and Miles would get either killed or experimented on. Probably both, in any order.
The abilities which the Walrider had bestowed upon him, as superhuman as they were, hadn’t made Miles completely invulnerable. The cracks in that shield weren’t exactly visible, but he could feel them. His painless, hole-riddled yet still moving body was very much destructible. He wasn’t immortal. Miles would’ve been unable to explain how he knew this, but he had the certainty that the Walrider had its limits, and by extension, so did he. If he did eventually decide to go down the road of dealing a physical blow to Murkoff’s current head, his priority would be to not get caught by the rest of its body. He couldn’t let them do to him what they’d done to that poor fucker Billy Hope– what they’d done to Park. He’d find a place to die alone, far from everyone and everything, so that his body wouldn’t be seen.
Miles decided he’d look into it at their next stop.
He stood up and wiped his black pants free of dirt and wayward strands of grass, then turned back the way he’d come from. It was quiet in the field. There wasn’t a single bug to be heard. Miles knew he’d heard crickets when he’d first stepped out of the car, but then his hold on the Walrider had loosened, and that horrid screech had been the only thing ringing in his ears. Silence had followed; deep, dark, heavy silence which only happened when nature was crushed beneath the weight of an inexplicable danger. Miles knew that unleashing the Walrider on his surroundings hadn’t been the soundest decision, but in that moment, with frustration and fear and anger boiling over and burning every part of him, Miles couldn’t say that he’d had a fuck to give about repercussions.
Now, as he neared the place where he’d abandoned the car and Park inside of it, the sight of the wreckage he’d brought on greeted him with a pang of dread. The metallic poles had twisted and snapped, and the number of torn lines was greater than he’d expected. The circle of torn grass and dirt clumps looked like something straight out of an 80’s alien movie. So much for staying under the radar. Miles quietly cursed himself for fucking up and quickly strode to the side of the car, where the driver’s door was still open. He didn’t know what he expected to find inside, but he felt surprised anyway at the sight of Park calmly seated in the passenger’s seat, staring at him like he’d expected his return. Park’s face was covered in blood. Neither of them spoke as Miles got back behind the wheel and started the engine. They silently drifted away from the scene.
Feeling Park’s gaze still on him after a while of driving, Miles finally spoke.
“Something you want to say?”
Park gestured to the empty bottle in his lap. “I finished it.”
“You spilled most of it in the car,” said Miles, unimpressed.
Park pulled out a second empty bottle from the side of the car. “That’s the one you gave me. I took the other bottle from the back.”
Miles frowned. “You expect me to believe you after all that drama from earlier?”
“Can’t you just trust me?” insisted Park, suddenly irritated. “I have no reason to lie.”
He did sound slightly more coherent and articulate than before, but Miles wasn’t convinced. “You couldn’t drink it. Now you can, for no apparent reason. Sorry if I don’t buy that you miraculously healed from your crazy while I was gone.”
Park tensed. “I’m not–” He stopped, and then slumped in his seat. Miles would’ve felt bad for how defeated he looked if the thing Park had been trying to deny wasn’t the very obvious fact that he was completely fucking insane. Park’s voice was lower when he said: “I don’t know how to explain why it happened, but it… it became a little less disgusting. That’s all.”
Miles then realized the obvious reason why Park had suddenly managed a little better in his absence.
“The Walrider.”
Park looked at him, the movement of his head slow and tired. “...What?”
“It looks like my presence affects your mental state. Your hallucinations are worse. And it’s probably especially bad when I’m too close for too long. ”
Park didn’t say anything for a bit, and then let out a dull sound through his nose, caught halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “Unfortunate that we’re stuck on a road trip together, then.”
Miles agreed that it was unfortunate for plenty of reasons, though he didn’t say so out loud.
“You should probably try to eat a certain distance away from me the next time we stop. And wash your face.”
Park crossed his arms over his stomach and looked out the window, and quietly said: “Right.”
Miles glanced at the other man from the corner of his eye. Park’s profile was shrouded in shadows against the backdrop of the broken window and nightly scenery, but the blood on his face caught slivers of moonlight. It had trickled down his neck and into the fabric of his shirt. Miles felt a tad guilty, and mostly felt like an idiot, for causing more injury to the man he was trying to keep alive– doubly so now that Park finally seemed to possess an active will to live.
“Why did you do that?” suddenly asked Park in the same quiet voice.
Miles stared at the road. He knew what Park was talking about, but he didn’t see how he could explain himself in a way that would sound rational. He’d let his emotions run wild and had caused a level of destruction which might as well have constituted a huge neon ‘Find us here’ sign for Murkoff. None of it was rational.
When he didn’t answer, Park added: “What happened to keeping a low profile?”
“It was a mistake,” said Miles gruffly.
Park didn’t say anything else.
They traveled for five days without stopping for anything other than food and bathroom breaks, using the rations and Miles’ portable stove to have semi-decent meals. Park seemed to get some strength back from eating and hydrating himself, but he visibly didn’t find any kind of relief in it the way Miles could. The only sleep Park could get was curled up in his seat, so clearly not the best, and the pain was still wrapped around him when he slept. It was visible in his pinched features and the sweat on his brow. He’s stopped complaining, though, and Miles found it much better this way. It wasn’t like he could do anything to help.
The problem was that these lackluster conditions didn’t aid Park in his recovery, and consequently, he still looked very unhealthy. If Miles sent him on another grocery shopping stint, Waylon would get noticed not for the crutches and the dirty plaster, but because he looked like a damn zombie. He didn’t move around much even during breaks, just looked miserable and stayed pretty quiet overall– yet, somehow, still managed to have daily arguments with Miles. They didn’t have legitimate fights, no voices were raised and nothing got thrown or slammed, but there was always some point where the latent tension and anxiety inside of them seeped through the cracks and instigated reproach or resentment.
Worse, while on the surface Miles could seamlessly harness the Walrider, the truth of the matter was that it was a constant struggle between him and the entity. It was especially the case ever since his uncontrolled rage had allowed it to shriek in the fields. Sometimes it felt like the Walrider had… enjoyed that, and wanted more. On a handful of occasions, Miles’s focus lessened during his driving, and he didn’t notice the Walrider seeping out of him before Park began to display the unstable glint in his eye, the wide darting gaze, the little twitches and flinches in reaction to that diffuse threat.
The first time, Miles had felt a grating burst of dread upon realizing what was happening and he’d quickly pulled the Walrider back without showing any sign that something was wrong. Park had immediately calmed down. Miles had read confusion in the man’s body language, and he’d caught the furtive, interrogative glance thrown in his direction. He’d pretended not to see, making the choice to not let on that he didn’t have the situation under control as well as he’d thought. Park had quickly looked away, probably not wanting to let on for his part that he’d had another little crazy episode.
The times after that, Miles felt increasingly frustrated at himself for not managing to keep an iron grasp on the Walrider, and somehow increasingly tired of seeing the way Park never failed to react to its presence. It was a strange fatigue, not embroiled with the irritation Miles tended to constantly feel towards the man, but rather tinged with a kind of pity. The sight grew more pathetic by the day; Park couldn’t help reacting the way he did, and he had no control over any of the signs he showed. He was completely at the Walrider’s mercy, and if it hadn’t been for Miles’ ability to spare him the bulk of the entity’s influence, the poor bastard would’ve been incapable of entertaining a single coherent thought in that mangled mind of his.
Park caught on eventually. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked. It sparked another argument, same as always, Park nagging him with reproachful complaints about how he wasn’t being considerate enough towards him in holding the Walrider down, and Miles shooting him down with snarky comments about how much of a lunatic he was. There was no way in hell Miles would admit that some things he didn’t have total control over either. It was easier to let Park be the only unreliable one. Easier to keep Park in the dark about how difficult it really was to host the Walrider.
Miles knew that this road trip couldn’t last. It wasn’t good for them to be cooped up for hours on end in the car with ever-dwindling reserves of patience for each other. Miles had always been a solitary person, and Park was a family man, and it didn’t help that neither of them had what they needed most. They were also running low on supplies. It seemed inevitable to return to civilization for however brief a respite. Miles’ only recourse was to pray that Park’s ragged appearance wouldn’t raise any flags.
The car opened on the passenger’s side and he looked over at Park, who’d returned from his five-minute lunch break. Miles’ nose wrinkled in distaste.
“You stink.”
Park’s red-rimmed, exhausted gaze swung up to his face. Miles irritated him enough that he could still look fed up.
“You’re rude,” Park testily retorted.
“It’s about time we found a shower,” stated Miles. “We’re going to hit a motel tonight.”
Park’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“I thought…” He closed his mouth and shook his head, his expression eager now. It was a change from his usual dull complexion, one which Miles hadn’t expected. “Nothing. Let’s go, then.”
Miles nodded. They took off.
The motel was as dingy and foreboding as any self-respecting shady backwater establishment should’ve been, and the clerk didn’t bat an eye at Park’s appearance when he asked for a room– that was what Park told Miles, at any rate. He hadn’t gone with him, instead remaining hidden in the car and watching Park from across the parking lot as the man limped to the correct door. Only when Park opened it and stepped inside did Miles get out of the car to follow him. As much as Miles wished they could’ve taken a separate room for each, it would’ve been too suspicious for Park to ask for that alone.
Miles was pleased to see that the door was the kind to lock for anyone on the outside who didn’t have the key. He pocketed the latter and made a small tour of the room. Park remained sprawled on the bed. It didn’t take long for him to start nodding off.
“Hey,” said Miles. “Take a shower.”
Park frowned, his eyes still closed, and mumbled: “Just a minute.”
“No. Go wash up now. You’re going to stink up the bed and then we’ll both regret it.”
Park sighed. He still didn’t move.
“I’m going to buy something to eat from the vending machine. That’s the only privacy you’ll get, so you better make use of it.”
Park opened his eyes and looked at him, a frown still faintly weighing on his brow. “Are you sure you want to do that? If it’s about food, I can go get it.”
“It’s nighttime and I’ve got my face covered,” said Miles, gesturing to his set of hat, sunglasses, and mask. “At worst I’ll look suspicious. Anyone who chooses to stay in this kind of place is suspicious. I’m not worried about sticking out.”
“Okay,” said Park.
“I’m taking the key. Don’t open the door for anyone that isn’t me.”
“Not going to. I’ll be in the shower.”
“Good,” said Miles with a nod.
Park groaned as he pushed himself up on his elbows and got off the bed. He grabbed his crutches and started making his way to the bathroom. Miles checked for his wallet in his pocket before heading out. His hand was on the handle when he heard Park curse. Miles spun around.
“Not this too,” groaned Park.
Miles went to the bathroom and saw Park kneeling next to the tub with the water pouring down the drain. His face was buried in the crook of his crossed arms in clear defeat.
“What is it now?” said Miles, more dryly than he’d intended. He was tired of Park finding issues everywhere.
The latter raised his head and wordlessly shook it, staring at the tub with a tired look on his face.
Miles forcefully repeated: “What?”
“The water,” said Park.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s dirty. Dirty water. But you’re… probably going to tell me it’s perfectly fine.”
Miles crossed his arms on his chest. “It is.”
Park wearily looked up at him. “Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
Park looked back at the clear waterfall.
“It’s just… so real.”
“At least it looks like water to you, even if it’s dirty. Could be worse, considering the stuff you told me before.”
Park wasn’t listening. He kept staring at the tub.
“Looks brown. And it smells… dirty. Like chemicals. And sewers.”
“It’s none of those things,” said Miles impatiently. “And now that you know it’s normal water, get over yourself and wash up.”
Park shot him a look. “Get over myself?”
“You heard me.”
“How about you do the same, Miles?” came Park’s sudden retort, hard-edged and lashing.
Miles frowned. That was a new sort of reproach for Park to resort to, and it was also confusing.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Park’s accusing stare bore a hole into Miles’ face.
“You think you’re better than me at handling what happened in the asylum because you can tell what’s real from what’s not, but let me tell you, that’s… far removed from the truth.”
“I’m not a loony. So yes, I’m doing better than you,” stated Miles.
“You act like a huge dick to me all the time!”
“And what has that got to do with the asylum?”
“Oh, so you’re saying you were already a jerk before the asylum,” said Park. “Man, am I lucky to be paired up with you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Miles ground out, annoyed.
“Then you admit that your shitty behavior has got something to do with it,” Park challenged, the shortness of his breath doing nothing to diminish his provocative tone. “Which means I’m also justified in telling you to pull your shit together. I’m not the only one with problems here, Miles. That messed-up place got to you just as badly as it got to me.”
Park’s words struck a raw, tightly strung chord inside of Miles. Something inside him recoiled from the statement like a hand snatching away from a burning stove, and in its stead, a dark, poisonous anger swelled. Park must have sensed it too, because his jaw went slack and he leaned away from Miles, his eyes wide and searching. Miles breathed in deeply and forced himself to calm down before the Walrider used the wave of emotion to come back up to the surface. He uncrossed his arms.
“I’m not that weak, Park.”
Park frowned, but Miles spun around and left before he could answer. It was better not to risk spending another second with the guy who kept pushing all his buttons.