and then we'll build the world again (Outlast)

Chapter 3- Waylon

Waylon liked to believe he had good initiation. Every single choice he made while traveling amongst the rot and gore of the asylum seemed to make him end up in more trouble, he had a vague understanding of what to do and where to go, even in his altered state of mind. He had not been in the Morphogenic Engine long, only the therapy portion of it, yet he still felt the effects subtly eat him alive with every step, or rather stumble.

He was changing. His migraines were getting more consistent, the hypnotic, blurry patterns kept dotting his vision, and he could still hear the screams screeching into his eardrums. He couldn't remember if someone else was screaming, or if it was him. The visions he kept seeing, like constant static, vague outlines coursing through him. Being chased by maniacs was horrifying enough, but somehow the after effects of the engine made it more exhausting.

He honestly expected to die here alone. Another forgotten corpse, lost in the haunting halls forever. If it weren't for Lisa and the boys, he would have accepted that fate. Between Frank Manera and his hunger for human flesh, and Eddie Gluskin's desire for a suitable 'bride', death seemed like the better alternative.

And then, like a beacon of hope, he met one of the journalists he had reached out to. Miles Upshur had certainly gone through enough trauma, probably even worse than Waylon considering he lost a couple fingers, but he seemed still eager to find a way out. They would make an unlikely tag team, or so he initially thought. Turns out, they were the exact opposite.

Miles was extremely wild, aloof and reckless from the little time Waylon had gotten to know him. Maybe the insanity of the asylum had finally gotten to him, since now he was accepting guidance from a man who claimed to be a priest.

But seeing as Waylon didn't have any better ideas, and going outside meant leaving this terrible place, it was worth the risk. Besides, it was technically Waylon's fault that Miles was here anyway. So here he was, following the man who arrogantly assumed he knew where he was going.

"So apparently, we can't go the way Father Martin came from, because he's a dick," Miles declared. He placed a hand to the window, frowning. It was clear that the opposite glass wall was boarded up from their side. His eyes lit up as if an idea struck him. "I got it! I could pick up a chair to ram against the glass. Ha! Then we can climb through."

Waylon grabbed Miles by the shirt before he could start searching for something to smash the glass. "Uh, no. Those walls are polycarbonate."

There was an awkward pause as Miles stared blankly at him. "Yeah, so?"

He groaned, gesturing towards the wall for added emphasis. "You can't shatter polycarbonate glass. Especially with a chair."

"Not with that attitude you can't."

He started to massage his temples. "Come on! I used to work here, I know-"

Miles scoffed. "Yeah, for two weeks! Don't go actin' all high and mighty, Mr. Tech Guy."

Waylon, despite his typically passive nature, was absolutely willing to snap back at his comment with even more sass. "I sure as hell know more than you do! Do you really think a huge company like Murkoff would use such flimsy glass? Use your brain."

Miles grumbled something under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Alright, fine, whatever. What do you suggest we do then?"

He saw the only other option was a darker hallway. "I suppose we take the long way. Come on."

They turned to the left and walked down the next corridor in complete silence. Every hallway looked the same, it was hard to tell if they were really making any progress. Occasionally Waylon stopped to rest his leg, but that was about it. He wasn't much of a talker, and was grateful that Miles didn't seem interested in small talk either.