Out of the Rabbit Hole
Mark kept the gun leveled at the emaciated figure. He kept his breath controlled and focused, stiff but ready to run if necessary. The man looked about ready to collapse. Mark took a step closer. He carefully trained the flashlight on his chest. “Keep your hands up and turn around. What’s your name? Can you tell me that at least?” He stepped around the man, checking for any weapons. He kept a reasonable distance. He didn’t know what to expect from this place. But none of it was good.
“My name is Detective Hoffman. I’m not going to hurt you as long as you comply. We’ll get you out of here, alright?”
Miles saw an increase in light under his eyelids. Carefully, he opened a single eye, finding the guy stepping closer, then closed it again.
“Miles,” he nearly stuttered before turning around. “My name is Miles.”
His heart almost jumped. He did believe him – Detective Hoffman – and his declaration, he really did. Actually getting out, however, was another story. He’d believed Father Martin, but look at where he was now; in some sort of underground facility.
But what else was there that could be stopping him now?
The reporter opened his eyes again to see Hoffman walking around him. He didn’t know what for, but he remembered that his camcorder was on the floor, right by the detective’s feet.
“Careful with my camera,” he said without a split second of hesitation. He needed that camera. Every single piece of evidence needed to bring Murkoff down was on there. There was no way in Hell he would have gone through here for nothing.
Out of the Rabbit Hole
Mark normally didn’t take these calls. They weren’t in range, and far from necessary, but when the information filtered through, he realized that this place… Mount Massive. It was a cesspool of neglect, degradation, and fraud. It made his stomach curl. It didn’t help that it was still raining. Mark picked his way through the underbrush, gun steadied ahead of him. There were noises from within, but he could barely make out anything beyond the screaming. He stumbled across a large garage door, bowed in slightly from disuse and moisture. He kicked down on the latch, wrenching it open and slipping inside. His gun leveled in the dark room, eyes trying to adjust. His lips curled. The entire room smelled of rot and blood. He lifted a forearm to his nose, grimacing. Great…
He crossed through the room, gun at the ready. Always ready. He tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the minute shuffling, the dripping. He shifted through broken glass.
What happened here?
Hair bristled along the back of his neck. He wasn’t alone. He could hear their breathing. Mark lifted the gun, spinning on his heel. There was a man, or what was left of one. The man looked like he had been through hell, covered in blood and other things he dared not imagine. He kept the gun trained on the man carefully.
“Police! Stay right there and show me your hands!”
Miles stopped. He, carefully but quickly, set down his camera, and snapped his hands up. His pulse escalated. He was sure that he was quiet. Did he startle him somehow? He didn’t know, but he was damn determined not to get shot; not after all he’d been through so far, most certainly not when he was so close to leaving.
But there was a chance that the cop thought that he was one of the Variants. That could be it, why he pointed a gun at him. There was bound to be other reasons, but the reporter couldn’t think straight. He just wanted to leave.
If that was the case, he needed to explain himself.
Miles
cleared his throat, shaking out his vocal chords, before finally
speaking. “I’m not… I’m not from here, okay?” His eyes burned, vision
blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut to hold the tears back. “I just…”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. His voice wouldn’t allow it. It didn’t matter. He had a feeling the cop didn’t believe him. And frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised.
Out of the Rabbit Hole
Miles froze in his tracks. His eyes were fixed on the window beside him, the only pleasant sight all night. On the other side, a truck sat inside the room. He didn’t know who’s it was, but he didn’t care. What he eyed the most right now was the garage (presumably) door, wide open. He pulled his camera out of his bag and started recording. The camera picked it up. It had to be real. He was finally going to be free from this hellhole. And that damned priest wasn’t around to stop him this time.
He kept the camera in his hand, the stumps of what remained of his fingers stinging. Miles glanced at the now crimson toilet paper he had hastily wrapped around the stump earlier. He needed to replace it soon, for the soaked wrap was no longer able to stop infection. He mentally shook his head. That wouldn’t matter. He had extra bandages back at home, and he could properly cauterize the stumps. It would hurt like hell, probably worse than having his fingers chopped off, but anything to prevent going to a doctor.
He didn’t want to think of Trager.
The sudden sound of footsteps made him flinch. His mind processed the sound for a moment; it wasn’t bare feet. It was actual shoes. The realization put his rapid heart at slight ease. It’s not a Variant, thank God. Miles looked straight ahead, the source of the noise. A man was there. An actual, (hopefully) sane man. He seemed to be a cop. Whether it was a detective or a lieutenant, Miles couldn’t tell. But he was a cop. He might have gotten here from the delivery exit. Warm hope swelled in his body as he – calmly so as not to startle him – approached the man.
He might have found his way out.
O Death, consider my age
Please don’t take me at this stageOutlast fanart that looked a hell lot better in my head
Headcanon #3
Ever since he’d lost his fingers in the asylum, Miles developed iatrophobia (an abnormal fear of doctors). In other words, he absolutely refuses to go to any hospital for any reason; any attempts to go to hospitals will result in an extreme panic attack. Due to this, he will stick with over-the-counter medication and tend to broken bones on his own (or if the Parks are willing to help).
Who am I? I’m a hard worker - Nightcrawler (2014)
Make me choose » jeffmoreau asked
Waylon Parkor Miles Upshur
via; dyingforastory source; valrider-moved-deactivated20160
Drabble: Tradition
Miles drove to the gates. He didn’t want to lie to Waylon or the boys, especially not on their favorite holiday, but it was necessary. He needed to see her again, just like last time.
He stopped his jeep and took the keys out of the ignition. He glanced over to the passenger seat. A white honeysuckle, her favorite flower, sat on the leather. What remained of his fingers wrapped around the stem, the texture nonexistent against his glove, and lifted the plant. True, he had given the same flower to her for the past couple of years, but there was nothing else he could get her.
Miles exited his vehicle, the sun bleeding through the many tombstones behind the iron bars. He could see his breath, a small cloud passing his lips each time he exhaled, but he couldn’t feel the cold. Not yet, at least. The gates didn’t seem locked, for there was a woman standing in front of one of the stones. He couldn’t see the name on it, but that wasn’t his business. He gripped the gate and opened it. As if on cue, Miles saw a white spec flutter down, then another. So the boys got their white Christmas after all.
A thudding pain spread in his head as the normally (if he can even call it that) muffled static grew louder. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand to not only ease the pain, but to silence the Walrider within him. “Not now,” he said, his voice low enough so people wouldn’t hear him. Not ever. The static’s volume lowered, but the headache only calmed itself slightly. Miles stepped along the path he always went down, the dry crunches of pebbles and frost the only noise he could hear. He zipped up his coat a little, the cold finally getting to him.
He found it, the tombstone he had always gone to ever since he’d escaped that hellhole of an asylum. He stepped closer, close enough to read the text.
Rebecca Sterling
May 10, 1988 – December 4, 2013
Two years ago.
It happened two years ago, but Miles was certain it was far more recent. Her death, her murder, seemed so recent. He choked down the lump in his throat. She died because of him.
Miles placed the honeysuckle beside her stone. She was dead, but there was nothing he could do to fix it. He couldn’t change the past. If he could, he would have stopped himself from following on that tip.
Then again, he never would have met the man that would become his only friend.
His eyes burned. He reached up and tried to rid his eyes of his tears, a couple rolling down his cheeks before he could wipe them away. She wouldn’t want him to be sad on this kind of day – he knew how much she hated sadness to begin with. He forced a smile.
“Merry Christmas, Rebecca,” he said in a faint whisper. His smile faded as he turned and walked back to his jeep, the woman now weeping.