Chapter Text
“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, but I wanted to ask you a few questions…off the record.”
Violet looked back inside, seeing it was quiet.
“May I come inside?” He asked.
Violet stepped outside, turning the porchlight on.
“So did you happen to find this ‘Miles’ person you were after?” She asked.
“He’s dead, along with almost everything he had gathered as evidence against the company that I work for,” he said plainly.
He held up a piece of paper.
“He asked you for help, didn’t he?”
Violet’s heart quickened, and she felt her voice stuck in her throat.
“How–”
“I managed to back up the files left on the computers from the asylum’s database; Miles asked you for help to get out.”
“Deny, deny, deny.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” She replied firmly.
“‘You were the reporter that documented the Afghanistan wars’,” Marion repeated, reading from the paper.
Violet quickly snatched it out of his hand, looking over it.
“Damn it.”
“You’re lucky my partner didn’t find it before I did. On my own time, of course.”
She read through the conversation, looking at the typed responses, and how the conversation ended. It almost seemed like a lifetime ago, seeing the typed emails that started it all. She looked back at him.
“What do you want exactly?” She asked.
“I want to know your relation to Miles Upshur, and if you know what he was planning,” Marion replied firmly.
“Don’t you work for Murkoff?”
“I’m off the clock at the moment; radio silent.”
Violet swallowed.
“How can I trust you?”
“How can I?”
They both stared at each other for a moment, before Marion spoke again.
“I have this only piece of incriminating evidence against you. Something that would put you under arrest and taken to juvenile detention, and jail for your mother.”
“And I have evidence in my house right now, that would incriminate the company you work for. Putting you and your partner out of a job. Not only that, I have my own testimony from my time inside,” she retorted, staring him down.
Marion stared at her, unmoving.
“It’s my word over yours. Nobody ever wins a court case against Murkoff.”
She flexed her jaw, gritting her teeth.
“That doesn’t help me in the slightest.”
“Everything you say now will not be recorded or documented by Murkoff. Everything you say will not be held against you.”
She thought about it. Have him on her side, and everyone else's, and they would go free. On the other hand, it would be hard to get the others to trust him.
“Miles said you could help me, as well as a…Simon Peacock and Waylon Park,” she said, handing him back the piece of paper.
“Simon Peacock and Waylon Park are considered dangerous individuals, as well as Miles. How did you manage to get to Miles?”
“There’s a floor beneath the asylum, about a hundred feet underground.”
Marion looked slightly put off, even surprised.
“Can you show me?” He asked.
“And leave? I’m already under pressure for even leaving my house in the first place!” Violet whispered.
“Why’s that? You told your mother?”
“Yes! Yes, I had to tell her, I have—”
She stopped herself, sighing.
“You know what, let me grab my jacket, we can go,” She replied, opening the door and grabbing her jacket, before slipping it on.
She walked back out with her keys, locking the door behind her.
“So why the sudden change? I thought you worked with Murkoff?” Violet asked, turning to him now.
“I do, I just…have a hunch, so to speak.”
“A hunch? You’re basing this off a hypothetical guess?”
Marion sighed.
“I’m doing some digging. The man you mentioned, Simon Peacock, gave me a few leads to look into. But I just want to check this place first, before anything else.”
They made their way to Marion’s car, where Violet climbed into the passenger seat, having to adjust it to her size.
Marion chuckled.
“Comfortable?”
“Yeah, if you call this shitbox here comfortable,” Violet replied, strapping her seatbelt on.
“Kinda young to be using language like that,” Marion commented, speeding off into the night.
Towards the asylum.
The drive was quiet, Violet looking out into the window at the darkness, being illuminated for brief seconds by the headlights of the car.
“So, tell me about yourself,” Marion asked, breaking the silence.
“What’s there to tell?”
“I have a daughter, about a year older than you.”
Violet was quiet, crossing her arms.
“I think you and her would get along.”
She shifted.
“I lived here my whole life, my mom works as a nurse at the hospital here, and I go to school; I’m a freshman in high school.”
“And the bullying?”
“I don’t let it define me,” she replied curtly.
“And your father isn’t in the picture?”
“No; he had a one night stand with my mom, left and went to Afghanistan, I think. She doesn’t talk about him much, but she says I look like him.”
“My wife…she passed away from a genetic blood disease. My daughter has the same condition.”
“That’s awful.”
“She’s tough, a typical teenager with a rebellious streak, but hey, that’s kids for ya.”
Violet shook her head, thinking of what she was doing right now. Why was he helping her? He had so much to lose and here he was, incriminating himself like this. With a witness and possible accessory.
“Why are you doing this? Haven’t you seen what that company has done?” Violet suddenly pressed him. “Why go through this trouble just to get fired?”
“I just want to do some digging. I don’t have a high enough clearance for some things, but my partner does.”
“You mean Glick?”
“Yeah…Glick. She has higher clearance, and she knows more than I do.”
“So why?”
“I want answers. I want to know why Murkoff would go through all this trouble to cover up something…insignificant.”
“Both of us do. So tell me what you do know. Tell me…” She hesitated. “Tell me about Chris Walker.”
Marion kept his hands on the steering wheel steady, hitting a pothole head on.
“How do you know who he is?”
“I saw his file, and met him in the asylum.”
“He’s also my father who I never met before,” she thought to herself.
He glanced at Violet, and then back on the road.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Marion continued driving while he talked.
“Walker was part of security at Murkoff. Big guy, nicknamed ‘Strongfat’. You get the picture. But before that he was M.P. in the army, even toured Afghanistan a few times. While he was working at Murkoff he surveyed over therapy sessions, ones where it was treated with hypnosis. At the time, me and my partner were investigating three different murders that had happened, all at the same clinic where Walker was sent to.”
“Like getting treated for PTSD?”
“Yeah, that. But anyways, we thought it was the therapist orchestrating it. I had a hunch because he referred to the Apkallu; demigods in Arabic culture. One of the kids of the victims drew a picture, depicting the dad as said demigod. I knew it was all in their heads.”
They came upon that familiar sign that said ‘Mount Massive Asylum’, pulling into the entrance gate.
“We go back to the therapy center, and the therapist is dead. All the sessions were recorded, overlooked by Walker, which he smashed to pieces.”
“The Hatbox murders.”
“That’s right. We go to Walker’s home, open the door, and four coolers with three of the victims’ heads are inside. Walker comes home, freaks out. Took a goddamn car to take him down. Bullet to the face didn’t do shit either.”
“But if Walker did the murders, why was the murderer a different person?”
“Because we pinned the evidence on him after taking care of Walker. Murkoff wanted to cover their asses in any affiliation with insubordinate employees."
“And then you put Walker…here.”
“Murkoff requires all employees upon termination to relinquish all contact and access to all organizations to be cut off. I thought I did the right thing, getting him the help he needed.”
“You were wrong,” Violet quietly muttered.
She looked out the windshield at the building, feeling her heart pound in her ears. It was scary now, looking back at this place. All the fear and terror she experienced there.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Marion asked, opening the car door.
“Yeah.”
She got out of the car, feeling the cool air against her face. Marion walked up to the gate, opening it with ease.
“They considered this place to be neutralized, so no one should come up here now.”
Violet followed him in, put off by the lack of gore and blood on the floor.
She led the way to the elevator, Marion following inside. She turned the key, pressing the flashing button. And down they went.
“So why do you want to know about Walker? He was killed here,” Marion asked.
“No, he wasn't.”
“What?”
“He’s at my home right now, along with some other people who I helped to escape here.”
She felt her face flush, telling the truth right then and there.
“What? Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
“Because I didn’t know if I could trust you? You’re not exactly a priest, ya know.”
“Fair. But what’s the story?”
“I’ll tell you.”
She sighed, watching the wood paneling of the elevator change slowly to cement and concrete.
“To be honest, Miles sent me that email, and I went…to help. I thought I was doing the right thing, taking him to get out and to a hospital. His fingers were cut off, he had bullet holes and was still standing . I met a few people along the way, some helpful…more than others. And then I saw Walker. The bruises? He tried to kill me.”
Marion didn't comment, continuing to listen.
“Being here was like watching a horror movie play out in real time. Murder, rape, desecration of bodies, you name it. Walker walked around here with a room full of decapitated heads.”
“Jesus Christ…”
“That wasn’t the worst of it. It was when Miles…died. He died in my arms, and then something…happened.”
“Happened how?”
The elevator continued down, creaking and shifting the car.
“Miles spoke…in my head. It's hard to believe, but it's what happened. He told me you’d be some help, as well as Simon Peacock, and Park. He told me…I was the next host for the Walrider. But I don’t feel any different, minus the horrible trauma from this place. But…something happened to all the patients here, one by one.”
“And that was…?”
“They all…recovered from their psychosis, somehow, someway. Miles mentioned a morphogenic engine, something that caused all their problems–well, most of their problems.”
She sighed, thinking back to Walker’s calm demeanor.
“Walker didn’t have a face before. I read in his file that he tore at the skin of his face, and he had these mouthguards around his mouth. It was…something.”
“And all this? Happened here?”
“Yes.”
The elevator lurched, stopping as it opened. No blood was spotted on the floor, clean and pristine.
“They cleaned up here,” Marion commented, walking out of the elevator.
She walked, noticing the blood stains left behind.
“They didn't do a good job.”
She saw on one of the walls, where it was scrawled in blood, stained on the white tile wall.
Savior
The word sent a chill up her spine, no doubt whoever wrote it was wanting her here in the first place.
“A little cryptic, don’t you think?” Marion asked, looking at the word next to her.
Violet continued to stare, and saw a bloody handprint below it, where the index finger was missing.
“Yeah. Let’s just keep going,” she replied, and continued forth.
“So you said something about this Walrider; you know what it is?” Marion asked.
“You don’t?”
“Glick knows. She always does.”
She paused, looking around.
“I don’t know either. Just that it’s a black cloud thing…an intelligent group of…nanites.”
In one of the rooms, was the room she saw from Miles’ camcorder. It was open, and no one was inside. That symbol overlooked part of the room, and the painting on the wall had been slashed. She looked on the desk in the room, a name plaque sitting in front.
“Dr. Rudolph Wernicke,” she thought.
Walking out of the room, they passed into the familiar giant room to Violet, one where the machine stood in front and centered. Something odd circled the ground, where it was a spiral of black soot, constantly moving. It was on the screens too, circling in one big spiral.
“What the hell…?”
Marion looked past the glass, looking over at the machine.
“What the hell is that?” He questioned, going down the stairwell to look closer.
Violet stayed where she was, hearing that buzz in her ears.
“Violet…”
She turned, seeing a shadow figure behind her, wisps of black smoke coming off his body.
It wasn’t Miles. It was someone new. Violet turned to look back at Marion, observing the spiral.
“You’re in danger,” the figure said, his voice echoing.
“Who are you?” Violet whispered, turning back to him.
But he was gone. Dissipated into smoke. She continued to hear that buzz, and Marion came back.
“Ants; black ants,” he muttered, looking at the computer screens.
“Everything was wiped from the cameras, computer bases, and everything else. There’s nothing left here.”
“So what were you looking for exactly?”
Marion was quiet for a moment, looking like a broken man.
“I thought we'd find answers.”
Violet frowned.
“What kind of answers?”
“I wanted to know what Murkoff was doing here, and how this…Walrider connected everything to it. How Miles was still alive, how Billy was alive.”
“The Walrider has the ability to heal the body from post-mortem, like what happened to Miles–he told me that. He had bullet holes in his shirt, and a lot of them.”
“In your head?” He questioned.
She nodded, looking everywhere else.
“Yeah.”
She pointed through the glass, down at the floor in front of the machine.
“That’s where he died. I don’t remember anything else before Walker tried to kill me,” she said.
“Are you…okay?”
The buzzing was apparent, the whispers back, but less powerful than what they were before.
“Yeah, I’m fine now,” she lied.
“Liar…”
Marion nodded, seemingly thinking of something.
“You still have my card?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’ll be in touch with you. I want to have a chance to speak to the people that escaped here,” he replied, taking another card and jotting something down.
He handed it to her, a different number on it.
“My personal number, in case you have something for me.”
He motioned out of the doors, and that buzzing was ringing in Violet’s ears. As they got in the car to leave, the buzzing grew faint, and was barrel audible when they arrived back at her home.
“I’m sorry for all the trouble, dragging you out there. I hope your mother doesn’t plan on making me a target,” he said, the last part a dry joke.
“She wanted to call the cops once she realized what the others had done–in the past, I mean. I talked her out of it, for her protection.”
“That’s good. I’ll be in touch, I just don’t know when. But keep an eye on things here,” he said.
Violet nodded, waving back to him before getting her keys and opening the door. She closed it quietly, noticing the buzz again. It was dead quiet, minus the buzzing.
She took her jacket off, setting it on the couch for Eddie to work on in the morning. Her mother wasn’t home, she was at work. So why did she have the feeling she was being watched?
The TV turned on, the faint noise of TV static on it. She picked up the remote to turn it off, but it didn’t switch off. She continued to press the button, but to no avail.
“Violet,” she heard that familiar voice behind her.
Illuminated by the light from the TV, was the figure from the asylum. He looked ragged, bone thin, only wearing a pair of shorts covering his frame.
“Who are you?” She whispered.
“My name is Billy. You’re in danger.”
“Yeah, you already said that before. How?”
She quickly looked around, seeing no one in sight to help her, and he was blocking the way to the stairs from behind the couch.
“Murkoff will stop at nothing to make sure everything is covered up, that includes you.”
“Why?”
“You’re the host. The one to truly achieve lateral ascension.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you went through the perfect conditions.”
Violet’s breath hitched, and Billy disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
“Wake up.”
“Hey, kid, wake up.”
Violet blinked, finding herself standing in front of the TV, the static still playing. Walker stood by her side, shaking her shoulder. The lights were still off.
“How–”
“You were sleepwalking.”
“Sleepwalking?”
“Yeah. You feeling okay?”
He was so much taller than her, even standing at 5’8”.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, I’ll just…go to bed.”
She quickly turned off the TV, making her way up the stairs.
“Hey.”
Violet was at the top of the stairwell, looking back down at him.
“If you ever need to say anything, or talk about what you saw in that place, it’s fine,” he whispered, trying to sound sympathetic.
She had her brow furrowed, looking down at him.
To see him so different now, his demeanor, his behavior, even his concern. It was...so...strange. And he looked at her with eyes that glowed from the dark, faint, but still there.
“I’ll be fine,” she muttered before she went to her room, shutting the door softly.
That night, she decided to do more digging, looking over the patient files she had grabbed. One for Eddie, one for Trager, and one for Billy; Billy Hope. He was the perfect test subject, and there wasn’t even anything wrong with him. She almost felt bad for him. He was only twenty-three. He was only nine years older than her, but still. She read his file.
THERAPY STATUS:
Patient claims to have progressed to self-directed lucid dream states. MORPHOGENIC ENGINE activity observed at unprecedented scale. Continuing stage 4 hormone schedule.
DIAGNOSTICS:
Spirometry revealed no bronchial accumulation.
Hematocrit centrifuge again failed to separate erythrocytes. Highly worrisome.
MRI revealed arhythmic REM/NREM cycle. Laughter in NREM state.
INTERVIEW NOTES:
Billy asked about the status of his mother's lawsuit against Murkoff and the asylum. This represents a catastrophic breach in security, despite Billy's claims that he discovered the truth 'in the blood dreams of Doctor Trager.' (Note: the only Trager on company records, one Richard Trager, is an executive from M.R.D.) All orderlies and security personnel must be questioned and video security improved to include analytical biometrics.
She needed to know what happened to him.
Why did he come to her in the state he did? What connection did he have with her? Unless what he said earlier made perfect sense. Endless thoughts ran through her head, once she set the folder of papers back in their place, in the drawer.
She couldn’t sleep. It was already five a.m. once she realized she had stayed awake the whole night, sitting in her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
It was going to be a long while before she could do or say anything.