Chapter Text
It was a quiet night, the others sleeping soundly.
Violet was wide awake, unable to sleep. The buzzing was irritating, even if it was barely noticeable.
She took to looking through the camcorder footage, the light illuminating her face as she looked at the broken screen. The encounters from Miles’s point of view, where there were instances of the events that took place before she got there. She was numb, looking at it. All the horror she had faced, looked at, and seen. Now numbing, nonchalant.
She felt disturbed at first, and then continued on looking through the footage towards the end, where Miles looked through a glass room, an old decrepit man in an automated wheelchair.
He spoke to Miles, recording every word of it.
“I know, I-I, I know, I am supposed to be dead. No, no such luck. I am older than sin, but, somehow, the only one left. Because of Billy,” the man in the wheelchair replied.
He moved to the portrait of the symbol on the wall, looking at it.
“Do you know what this symbol represents? It warns of a nanohazard. Microscopic machines, technology we have had for decades, but never mastered. Murkoff discovered, in my research, a work-a-round. Turning the cells of human bodies into nanofactories. It's the natural function of cells to produce molecules, but through psychosomatic direction, we engineered the precise molecules necessary. Mind over body. He takes care of me. He may think I'm his father. He certainly loves me, the poor idiot.”
Violet furrowed her brow. She glanced towards the folder papers on her desk, and then back at the screen.
“It was foolish and wrong to think we could control it. To use mad men to control something so strong. You have to stop him, to murder Billy. Turn off his life support, his anesthesia. You have to undo what I've done. No one can get out of this place while he lives. You must kill him.”
His command sent a shiver down her spine, thinking back to Miles, and the state she found him in. The man in the wheelchair moved back to a painting on the wall. He paused before he spoke again, Miles zooming in on his face.
“We achieved something like this in 1944. Those fascists thought it was spirits, and I let them believe it. Let them kill themselves thinking there was some kind of afterlife now empirically promised to them. Fools. Poor Alan. He would weep to see what I've built from his dreams.”
Names she had never heard of. She needed to do research, finding out the underbelly of the organization.
“Billy doesn't mean harm. He's a child with a damaged mind, granted the powers of a God. It would make any of us into a monster. You must end this. We all must die here. Murkoff knew the dangers, and they didn't care. In the corporation's mind, we are all just dollar amounts in a ledger. And the profits Project Walrider promised overshadowed whatever pitiful balance a few doctors and patients amounted to. He will spread if you don't stop him. The Morphogenic Engine is self-perpetuating. I pray to god you have the strength to end it here with your death. More than anything I want to rest. Billy will not let me die. He could never imagine how cruel this is. I only want to die.”
The old man sounded tired, looked tired, and almost on the verge of a stroke.
Violet saw from his wheelchair he was immobile, that was certain. He had a breathing device in his nostrils, a tank of oxygen fitted to the back of his wheelchair.
The recording ended, showing the next recordings. She closed the screen, turning off the camcorder, setting it aside. She looked over the papers, hesitating to see what was inside. She got up, bringing the papers to her as she sat the rest of them in front of her. She opened them up, looking through the first page.
Patient Initials: CLW, "Walker"
Violet’s eyes widened, looking at the name on the front page.
THERAPY STATUS:
Morphogenic Engine activity plateaued at roughly 2000 ppm. Unsafe to progress beyond stage 3 hormone schedule.
DIAGNOSTICS:
Spirometry revealed light-to-medium bronchial accumulation. MRI scans consistent with patient’s reported dreams.
“Dreams?” Violet thought.
She continued reading further as she looked at his patient photo, and then another photo dated two months after that. His original photo showed blonde hair, green eyes, and a blunt nose on his face. His second photo was of him without his features, his eyes glossed over, and the skin of his forehead ripped, as well as destroying his nose in the process.
INTERVIEW NOTES:
Walker was interviewed in restraints, following his self-inflicted mutilations. Restraints have had to be altered to accommodate his enormous size.
Extensive dermal eruptions as consistent with failed Morphogenic Engine cellular activity. He claims the skin ripped from his forehead allows for a truer way of seeing, seems to have some boyhood experience with Tuatara Lizards and their parietal eyes. He has expressed anxiety about his flesh, specifically around his lips and nose. Attending orderlies should be advised to watch for further self-mutilation.
“He did that to himself.”
The mental traumas he sustained while serving in Afghanistan seem to be retarding progressions of the M.E. Process. His predominant fixation, amplified by therapy, is a manic exaggeration of military security protocol. A continuation of both chemical and physical restraints is highly recommended.
Violet breathed a sigh as she continued looking over the notes left in his file, thinking of the man. He was dangerous, and he displayed that. She saw it in the camcorder, she saw it in person; he had tried to kill her, before everything else happened.
“I guess I should thank Miles for doing what he did,” she thought to herself, pulling more papers out of the folder.
The more and more she pulled out, the more she seemed to find out more about him. She found out why he was in the asylum in the first place.
“Chris L. Walker was a mitigation issue, being responsible for four murders, “Hatbox Murders”. Former M.P. and a Murkoff employer forced us to use him like Native Americans use buffalo; every part isn’t wasted.”
-Pauline Glick
“Walker seemed to possess some sort of military protocol, further brought on by the dream therapy from Spindletop. He’s an extremely dangerous individual, to that of an angry child in a giant man’s body. He was clever enough to cover his tracks in association with his victims, as well as being unsuspected.
I almost feel bad for the guy; PTSD, nightmares, working with the therapy, come to find out about Dr. Claymore. He slept with a stuffed animal, a pig. He was just an angry toddler.
I hope he’s taken care of properly.”
-Paul Marion
“Paul Marion.”
His name stuck out, thinking of what Miles said.
Violet screwed her brow.
This Marion guy had at least some sympathy, while Glick was describing him as an object or a nuisance–he was a person, not an animal.
She had heard of the Hatbox murders, but she had initially thought that a different man had done it, being heard on the news and in papers.
She continued to read, surveying his past.
Military police, multiple trips to Afghanistan, cases of outbursts and triggers, post traumatic episodes. But he was calm, from what she saw of him. Extremely calm.
It was like he was a different person, made over. She looked back at his picture, noticing his features on his face.
“Why does he look so familiar?”
She couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but it bothered her so much.
She took the picture in her hand, looking over it by her bedside lamp. Writing was scribbled on the back, turning over to look.
“Father of the year.”
–Miles
She stopped, staring at the words.
“No fucking way,” she thought.
"You look just like your dad."
The words that Miles had said. The cryptic message of "you'll thank me later," and why he looked at her like he knew more than she did. She sucked in a breath, blinking several times. She looked back at his picture, putting the pieces together.
His round face, his skin color, blonde hair–it made so much sense now.
“Oh my god, he’s my fucking dad,” she thought again.
She straightened her back, putting the picture and the papers away. She put them in one of her desk drawers, making sure no one would find them. She laid back in bed as she tried to fall asleep, but her mind felt more awake than ever.
“He’s my dad. He’s my father. I have a dad now.”
For the past fourteen years, she had gone without a father figure. Her mother never remarried, and now here he was.
Was it fate that brought them together again? Or was it that email that Miles had sent her that triggered the events?
She slowly closed her eyes as sleep overtook her.
Dreams of the asylum plagued her, the scenes playing out vividly enough that she could feel her finger nearly getting cut off by Trager. The feel of Walker’s hand around her neck. Or even Trager’s hand touching her face, the act of cutting her finger off feeling so real.
She woke up, pulling the covers off as she saw that it was only 6 a.m. She walked downstairs, seeing eyes glow in the dark. She quickly turned the light on, seeing it was only Walker.
Her father.
“You’re up early,” he commented, his voice still groggy.
“I could say the same for you,” she replied, looking over at him now.
He had faint scars around his face and mouth, but nothing else in sight. He had faint buds of hairs growing on his head, as well as his eyebrows.
“I’ve always been an early riser.”
Violet registered his reply, walking into the kitchen area to turn on the coffee pot, and set out some cooking pans. She kept glancing at him as she got everything ready for breakfast.
“Are you scared of me?”
It caught her by surprise, momentarily stopping in front of the coffee pot, her back to him.
“Maybe,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Glances, wide-eyed stares, hesitating to even answer me,” he replied. “Things I picked up.”
She brought out a mug for him, pouring a cup.
“Does he even know?”
“I read your file,” she said in one breath.
She had expected him to grow angry, telling her off, or something like that. But he didn’t. He nodded his head, taking it in.
“So you know who I am, and what I did,” he merely replied.
She sat down opposite him, setting the mug down for him.
“I do, but it was stuff that was written about you in the asylum, and notes,” Violet replied.
He chuckled.
“I did a lot of…bad things to end up in Mount Massive,” he replied, his smirk going away in an instant.
Violet could see that it pained him, even if he probably remembered bits and pieces.
“Who’s…Pauline Glick and Paul Marion?”
He looked at her, his brow raised.
“Pauline Glick and Paul Marion?” He repeated, blinking several times as he thought for a moment.
“Litigation agents, who worked for Murkoff to cover their asses,” he replied, seemingly deep in thought. “They put me in that place.”
Violet shrunk at that, not realizing they were at fault for putting him in Mount Massive.
“I’m sorry I asked,” she said.
“It’s alright, it’s just–”
He said, running a hand over his bald head.
“They were doing their jobs, even if that meant they knew what they were doing. I don’t have a doubt that they’re investigating what happened at that place right now. And they’ll come by here, if they dare, to ask around.”
Violet nodded.
“Is there any chance they’ll pass by here? Like, they won’t look here?”
Walker didn’t answer, drawing another sigh through his nose.
“I don’t know, kid. Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, drumming his fingers across the table.
She noticed his now trimmed fingernails, cut from their long appearance. He had bruises on his wrists, from the chains that had wrapped themselves around them. Muscle atrophied over them, making his wrists look small in comparison to the rest of his huge body.
The doorbell rang, and a knock sounded.
“Hide,” Violet said, walking up to the door.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Chris replied, getting up from the table and heading upstairs.
Violet took the mug of coffee, pouring it down the drain and setting it in the sink.
She looked through the peephole, seeing a man and woman dressed in suits. She opened the door, stepping outside as she tried to act confused.
“Can I help you two?” She asked.
Both the man and the woman looked at her, surprised she’d answered the door.
“Sure kid. Where’re parents?” The woman asked.
“My mom should be on her way home right now,” Violet answered, crossing her arms as she shifted her feet.
“What about your dad?” The man asked.
Violet shook her head.
“Not in the picture.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know,” the man quickly apologized.
He walked up to her, holding out his hand. Violet shook it.
“I’m Paul Marion,” he replied.
“Paul Marion. Is he undercover?” She thought to herself.
“Violet Gonzalez.”
“Pauline Glick,” The woman replied, handing her a card.
Violet took it, looking it over.
“Murkoff litigation,” she thought as she held the card in one hand.
“Did you happen to notice anything…strange last night? See anything?” Glick asked.
Violet lied through her teeth.
“Last night?” She said, thinking for a moment. “I didn’t see anything. Why?”
“Just, uh, keeping a look out for a dangerous individual,” Marion answered.
Glick pulled out a picture, holding it up to her.
“Miles Upshur. Recognize him passing through here?”
Violet looked at the photo, pretending to study it. She shook her head.
“Never heard or seen him before,” she answered.
Glick gave a nod as she put the photo away.
“How’d you get those bruises?” Marion asked.
“Shit.”
Violet put her hand up to her neck.
“I…uh…got into a fight after school yesterday; got hit and choked out on the ground after,” she said, trying to act pained about the incident.
It didn’t necessarily not happen, just not at school. And it wasn’t a fight.
“You don’t seem too distraught about it,” Glick said.
Violet shook her head, waving it off.
“I get into fights all the time, kids pick on me,” she answered. “Nothing’s ever new to me.”
“Really? You don’t ever stick up for yourself?” Glick continued asking.
“I don’t believe in violence, my mom taught me that,” she answered.
It wasn’t a lie. It was true. She got picked on, beat on, even ganged up on to get beat on some more. Just her stroke of bad luck.
“Seems like you’d be the bully,” Marion joked and gave a chuckle.
Violet perked, looking at him with a raised brow.
“Why’s that?”
He quickly recoiled, trying to cover his mistake.
“Well, you’re very tall and big for…”
“Fourteen,” Violet answered coldly.
“Right,” Marion said.
A phone rang, Glick answering his phone as she walked away for a moment.
“You seem like you’d be good at violence,” Marion commented.
“I try not to. It gets me in trouble a lot of times.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I just keep my head low for the most part, go about my day–that sort of thing,” Violet replied with a shrug.
Glick came back, putting away her cell phone.
“We need to leave,” she replied. “Sorry for bothering you, ma’am.”
“It’s fine,” Violet said with another shrug.
Glick nodded her head towards the car pulled into the driveway, signaling their leave.
“Give us a call, if you do see anything. Take care of yourself, kid,” Marion said, walking away.
He gave her his own card, trailing behind her.
Violet waved them off, entering inside the house again. Once she shut the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. She watched them drive off from the kitchen window, watching them back out and drive away.
~
“We got a hit in Washington; whereabouts of Upshur,” Glick replied as they got into the car. “Poor kid’s been dealt a bad hand.”
“I’d hate to be a teenager again,” Marion commented.
Glick thought nothing of it. Marion, however, could see his own daughter in her, except a whole lot worse than what she was going through. Something was odd about her. Her movements, her split reactions, even her slight anger towards her appearance.
It seemed familiar, like he had the same interaction with someone else before.
“We at least know Upshur isn’t here, no body at the asylum,” Glick said, pulling out into the road.
Marion kept quiet.
Something was off about that girl. You don't get bruises like that, not unless someone had intent to kill.