Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bright sunrays blended him.  

Waylon could swear that the last time he saw the sun smiling down to his melatonin deprived body was decades ago. Or at least it felt like that for him.   

Still, it was a nice feeling, after this nightmare to be blessed with the sunrise; it almost makes Waylon forget about the past weeks he spend hiding and running away.  

He squints his bleary eyes and stretches out a hand to put a shadow over his oversensitive retinas, which were not fully adjusted yet to the light since the most time he was encompassed in darkness.   

Slowly Waylon limped thought the broken doors of the once, to put it nicely, welcoming entrance of the asylum. His bare feet were freezing, when he steps onto the icy asphalt, but nothing could beat the mirth he felt for finally escaping. Nothing bothered him, not even the alarming pain of his broken leg or the deep stab wound on his abdomen, which he barely could hold at bay by pressing a firm hand over the gushing injury.  

The only thing that mattered to him was that he survived. He survived and he also has evidence of the unorthodox ways Murkoff Corporations was profiting from the grotesque experiments on the patients behind closed doors. Every dirty secret of Murkoff was well documented in his camera and his notes.   

Clutching the camera in his non occupied hand, he could feel the power it gave him. The sole strength to crush Murkoff; to see them suffer.   

And the world is going to know about all of this. That he promised himself, because this is the single cause that kept him going in his lowest moments, where the thought of death would seem more comforting than forcing himself to live another day in hell on earth.   

Thanks to this promise he was able to stay sane and made it out alive, preventing a sooner death by giving up and biting the dust.  

Waylon smiled for the first time again. Genuine joy evident in his eyes.  

Soon all this will end, all the pain he endured, physically and mentally.   

Waylon was also aware that his wife Lisa and the boys are most likely dead by now. More accurately Murkoff got rid of them as soon as Waylon leaked ou about the unethical test they were running on the victims. A punishment for blowing the whistle on them.   

The first time Waylon came to the realization that his family was dead, red-hot rage filled him, cursing Murkoff and cursing himself for accepting the job so easily in first place. Later the agony hit him, and he drifted into an uncontrollable crying fit. He squeezed himself into a corner, braced himself tightly and sobbed quietly into the well of his elbow.   

Only after some hours his sobs turned into sniffs, drowned out by the screams of other variants. They took everything from him, and he was going to do the same. As the saying goes, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.  

It must be around March by now, if he tracked the time correctly while he was captured inside, since test subjects were not permitted to have access to the time nor the date. Murkoff was really on and about to lure the patients into an inevitable craziness. The psychological pressure was inhuman.   

It's quiet a miracle that Waylon did not gave in to the temptation of killing himself, while he was attached to the morphogenic engine, the images drilled into his brain and sometimes even still showing up infront of him.  

With a quick scan of the area Waylon came to the conclusion that it looked nothing like the first (and last) time he entered this hellhole. In his memory the place looked a lot more refined and open. However, now there were various abandoned military vehicles scattered all over the place and it just looked like hell broke loose.  

Yes, Waylon was out of the asylum but that does not mean that Murkoff won’t track him down. Therefore, he needs to get out of this no man's land.   

Which brings his attention back to the military cars, but Walyon immediately shuts that option out. Sure, he could effortlessly bring the car back to life by playing around with some wires. Thats not the issue. The problem is that it will pull unnecessary attention and that is exactly what Waylon wants to avoid.   

The enemy he is dealing with is not just someone and Waylon has seen enough that he for sure knows Murkoff will look under every single stone until they find him. And Waylon is not going to test that out.   

Then the Jeep catches his gaze.   

Waylon hastily limps, as much as his injuries would allow him, to the carelessly parked Jeep at the front gates. He circles around the Jeep to the driver's seat and pulls on the door, hoping with crossed fingers that the former owner left his car unlocked.   

And it seems that today luck was on Waylons side, because the door opened with a soft click. Without losing any more time he climbs into the car, not caring to buckle up and putting his camera on the passenger seat. Swiftly he leans down to rip the bundle of wires beneath the steering wheel out.   

He curses underneath his breath when he realizes that he has nothing to cut through the wires with, but with a quick search he was able to find a pocketknife, along with a compact first aid kit, which he mentally notes to use later to tend his wounds once he is in safety.   

For now, he concentrates on the more important task. With skilled hands he cuts through the wires and removes some of the isolating plastic to expose the metal wires. Then he twits the power wire with the ignition wire and after a few touches of the starter wire to the former, the car roars successfully to life.   

Waylon leans back into the foamy cushion of the seat and lets loose of a breath he didn't knew he was holding in, simultaneously exhaustion kicks in, making him sink further into the softest thing he came in touch within the last few weeks.   

Although as inviting as it might be he cannot grow weak now of all times. He shakes off the crawling feeling of tiredness and firmly grips the steering wheel.   

As he was about to drive out, the sound of a helicopter nearby made him stop dead in his tracks. The blood in his veins froze and his heart was beating a mile a minute.  

The far too familiar feeling of panic and distress was rising like a high tide in him, threating to flood. Emergency bells were ringing in his brain, trying to wake up his body from its stunted state.  

The next moment everything happened in the span of just a few seconds.   

Waylon hit the gas pedal, despite the protest of his aching leg and made a rapid u-turn, nearly tipping over the car in the process and accelerated down the road, not paying attention to drive according to the law.  

With a quick peek to the rearview mirror, he could locate the helicopter, which now was perusing him. Roughly estimated, it was about 150 yards away but with every passing second it seemed to catch up on Waylon.  

The helicopter being hot on his heels, he speeds up even more. Waylon knows that he has a minor chance to escape, let alone to survive. But even if this is going to be his end, he won't go down without putting the effort to fight first. He may not be a tough and strong guy, but he still has some pride in him.  

The next time he glances back the helicopter was no longer chasing him, what took him by surprise. Once his eyes were set back on the street, he was met with a wall of special military wagons cutting of his escape route.  

Reacting by reflexes he hits the brakes and makes a sharp left turn to successfully prevent a direct crash, although launching the car sideways.  

Since Waylon gave a fuck to buckle up before (which he regrets now) he hit his head pretty hard on the dashboard, knocking him out for a good minute.  

Waylon groans when his senses come back, momentarily forgetting what is even going on and wondering why he lies on his side. With a pained hand pressing the ground he supports himself to sit more upright and touches his temple with the other hand, only to pull it back smeared with blood.  

“Fuck, I need to get out of here”, he breathed, barely audible and tried to climb out of the car from the passenger door.  

The sound of a gun being loaded pulled his attention up to the passenger seat side. His wide unfocused eyes were only able to distinguish a rough silhouette lurching over him through the broken window and pointing a gun at him.  

“No...” he weakly plead, but before another syllable could leave his mouth, he was shot with a tranquilizer; his body going limp in seconds.  

“Was about damn time to put you to sleep” Waylon heard the man above him spit out, before he is forcefully dragged into the depths of an endless dream.  

------  

“Waylon?”  

“Waylon, wake up”  

“WAYLON”  

Waylon jolted awake from his sleep, breathing heavily as if he had a terrible nightmare and calming down once he recognizes that it was just Lisa calling out to him.  

A quick glance to the digital clock on his bedside table informs him that it is two a.m. right now. He shakily groans and sits up, feeling his sweat-drenched nightwear stick uncomfortably to his burning skin.  

“God, you scared me Lisa”  

“Well, you are the one who scared me! You kept tossing and crying out in your dream so much that I was worried for a second there...” Lisa explains. She mimicked Waylon and also sat up on the bed, carefully wiping a few wet strands away from his sweaty forehead.  

Her soft hand cups his cheek and lovingly brushes her thumb over the faint freckles dusting across his cheeks, which can only be spotted if one was close enough to him. “Waylon, honey, are you alright?” I mean this is not the first time this has happened and these kind of -” she puts a deliberate pause to come up with the right wording. “‘nightmares’ recently have increased in number, reducing the amount of sleep you get each passing day. And before you deny it, I have seen you Waylon, you literally are sleepwalking everywhere. I can see your eyebags, every morning bigger than the other day.”  

She sighs and gives him an agonizing look. “Please Waylon, stop running away from whatever you are so scared of. I... just want the best for you.” she falls back to her silent gazing, her absentmindedly caressing travelled from his left check to the side of his neck, loosening the knots on his upper trapezius.  

Waylon returns her worried gaze with a similar expression, expect adding guilt into the mix of emotions.  

Of, course, he is aware that he is not making any improvements by ignoring it day in and day out. But he can't let Lisa suffer with him. She is too precious to him. Therefore, there is only one solution.  

He puts his hand over hers, enclosing her small delicate hand in his slightly bigger and bony hands, giving it a light reassuring squeeze.  

“Don't worry Lisa, I am sure I will find back to my regular sleeping habit in no time and the ‘nightmares’ will be yesterdays news.” he tries to put her ill-worried mind at ease with soothing and promising words.  

“Trust me, this is only temporary because there is so much going on at work. But once things calm down, the nightly terrors will be gone too.”  

Slowly he brings her hand to his mouth to press light kisses on each knuckle.  

“I promise.” he adds, giving her his empty words for the greater good of their family. Concluding his promise with a faint but prominent smile, finally beats down all of her concerns, when she also meets his gaze, the corner of her lips curling into a content smile.  

Exhaling, she nods “If you say so.”  

After that they retreat back to sleep, Waylon with a fresh pair of shirt and shorts, nestling his head onto Lisas chest and wrapping an arm loosely around her torso and Lisa placing her hands on his neck and the back of his head.  

Dragging her hands through his caramel blonde hair, roughly combing out the knots, she pulls him back into the dreamworld.  

“Sleep well, Waylon.”  

 ----

The first thing he is met with is the strong scent of disinfection, the chemicals burning uncomfortably in his nostril, already forecasting the incoming headache.  

Next, he takes notice of a constant beeping noise on his right side, alongside his own heavy and long breaths.  

Slowly his body shakes off the sluggishness, instantly replaced with the stinging pain all over. He groans upon the sudden pain and his eyes, that refused to lift its heavy lids just a moment ago, shot open.  

White. Everything was sickingly pristine white. Not that Waylon had a problem with the rather monotonous furnishing.  

The issue was that it reminded Waylon of the Asylum. Before the Walrider incident happened. When he was wrongfully diagnosed as mentally ill and was admitted against his will as a patient to Mount Massive Asylum.  

And now he is back at square one. Obviously, overwhelmed with everything he goes for the most rational thing to do – sorting out his thoughts, which only seem to grow in volume exponentially.  

Initially he was going to gather as many facts as possible of his current situation. But that quest turned out to be fruitless, after encountering several dead ends with his speculations. And he didn't want to break his head over trivial things. He will be needing his head a lot after all.  

Regarding his unsuccessful status check before completely giving up, he came up with the following conclusions:  

1. When he mentioned that, whoever got him is not so fond over other colours expect white, than he also meant that. From the high ceiling to the floor, the only door, which had a weird lock on it and his bed – everything was a plain white even he himself. Waylon was changed from his ratty old patient clothes to new white ones, which were a tad bit big for him. But hey, better than those stupid nightgowns you get at hospitals (the ones where your whole ass is exposed).  
2. They treated his broken leg, as well as his stab wound and any other wounds that the car accident may have caused. Which is good, yes, but still, it does irritate him. Murkoff was never on about putting top priority on the health and comfort of their patients. Infact, medical care was only essential if the patient was at risks of dying. Other than that, the test subjects were left uncured. Waylon also had an IV running on his right arm, pumping him with a drug, that's contents was unbeknown to him and playing a guess game what potentially might be inside, was as useless as searching for a needle in a haystack.  
3. And the last thing that caught his eye was that one side of the wall (the one to his left) was completely covered with an opaque glass, reflecting himself. He guesses that behind the one-way mirror is an observation room with crazy scientist tracking his every move and probably taking notes on his demeanour, now that he is awake.  

Well, that was it for observing his surroundings and like said, he couldn't do much with these informations, missing on way too many puzzle-parts to form any possible thesis.  

Moving on to the rather more important stuff that bothers him. Over a million of question marks pop up in his head, spurring him on to find an answer to every each one of them.   

Where is he right now? Why are they treating his wounds in the first place, when he obviously is a threat for Murkoff? Could he escape? Are there any other imprisoners like him? Were there even any surviving variants left?  

And most importantly where was his camera?  

Pain struck his overworked brain. It was killing him that he had so many questions but little to no answers.  

Just as he was about to go with a second approach to sort out his unorganized mind, a buzz followed by a voice interrupted his train of thoughts.  

“I see you are finally awake Mister Park.”  

Chapter Text

„I see you are finally awake Mister Park. Took you long enough." 

Waylon snaps his head to the source of the male voice, his gaze focusing on the door, that was open now for the three scientists to waltz in.  

Settling for silence as an answer, Waylon was observing each of the three individuals, trying hard to not miss anything he could latter on use for his benefits. They were two men and one woman. The man who talked before, had a tablet in his hands, probably to document Waylon's behaviour. 

Two of them were marching up to him, including the one with the tablet, coming to a stop on the right side of the bed, while the third one looked the door, which buzzed in a similar way when they first entered.   

Now with the addition of the last member standing beside the other two, completing the trio, the man that welcomed him started to speak after clearing his throat once. 

„I hope you slept yourself out to the fullest Mister Park, which you probably did since you were out for three whole days. Guess you were lacking a lot of sleep.“ The man in a casually formal attire and lap coat said. He was quite tall, a bit lanky and had brown hair, which was styled in a side slick back with not even one strand sticking out. Waylon guessed his age to be around twenty-five or even younger, since he has no facial hair and looks young, but that is just Waylon's judgement according to his appearance. His voice had a deep rich tone to itself, laced with a noticeable Russian accent. He pushed his glasses up in an elegant manner and looked at Waylon.  

Honestly, it didn’t surprise Waylon that he was unconscious for that long, when he got barley a wink of rest in Mount Massive Asylum, as sleep was a rare luxury there. And if he was once in a while lucky enough to catch a break, he would stir awake by the tiniest noise, his reflexes immediately taking over. An adaptation he formed in order to survive. 

Waylon focused his gaze on the three forms in front of him, desperately searching for a name tag or identification card but he came up empty handed. Then his eyes drifted back to the tall man. 

The man in question gave Waylon a diplomatic smile, showing off his perfectly white teeth and continued, while tapping something onto his tablet.  

„You see, when you were brought in, you had already lost a significant amount of blood due to the wound on your abdomen and we barely managed to save you. Meaning that if you were to be brought a little bit later, you wouldn’t be among us right now.“  

I wish, Waylon thought to himself. He would be far of better dead than whatever this is. 

„However, like I said you overcame the life-threatening condition, leaving you only with minor injuries, which are surprisingly healing well. Therefore, you will soon be moved to your actual room. But before you get transferred to the communal quarters, we will keep you for another two days, just to make sure your healing process continues without a relapse of any sorts." 

The tapping stopped and he looked up from his device, yet again offering Waylon his professional smile "But that is not the cause of our visit today."  

Figures. Waylon snorted.  

The scientist smoothly ignored him, showing no effect of Waylon's uncalled behaviour neither on his facial expression nor body language. 

„Let me introduce myself first, Mister Park. I am Dr. Viktor Chernikov one of the four head scientists of Muroff's main corporation.“, he introduced himself, not caring to name his two other minions.  

„You see, we saw the urgency to get you under our care to make it easier for the both of us, since you already caused us enough trouble. But don’t worry, thanks to the Pauls all suspicions regarding Mount Massive asylum are concealed and our team has spotlessly cleaned up the mess you made. “  

The Pauls? It rings a bell in Waylon's head, but he can't quite put a finger on where he heard those names. He vaguely remembers that he once overheard two of his coworkers in Mount Massive talk about the Pauls being the best in their line of work, never letting Murkoff down. He can't recall what type of job they exactly did, but he for sure knows that they are an important part of Murkoff and kind of build the backbone of the corporation. 

„Why would you save me then? I know things I shouldn’t, that is enough reason for you to get rid of me, isn’t it? “Waylon’s voice comes out raspy.  

„Well, theoretically yes and initially we planned to kill you but let’s say we changed our mind. After an eternity the Walrider project had a success, even though it ended not so well, like you witnessed. Still with a few adjustments we could be able to fully control the Walrider. We are about to hit the breaking point which will change the world completely - and to reach that we need you, Waylon. You and the other inmates of Mount Massive are the perfect guinea pigs for this experiment, since you have undergone the most horrific and stress inducing experiences in the asylum and the host of for the Walrider needs to have experienced enough trauma to possess and harness the high tech nanites.“ 

Again, that all-knowing smirk forms on his face, which Waylon wants to rip off of his smug face by now, but his tired, limp even, body won’t allow him to move.  

„Don’t be so sure that you can keep me locked up forever.“, Waylon bites back, his voice dripping with poison. Initially he wanted to keep up his calm composure but that was not possible with how unnerving und provoking this guy is. 

And of course, he has the audacity to laugh. 

Waylon swore he could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead. 

„Oh, please Waylon don’t make me laugh. I can call you by your first name, right?“  

The glare on Waylon’s face is a firm no.  

„Well guess that’s a yes. Waylon, we are nothing like the Murkoff you have seen in Mount Massive asylum. We are more refined and go by other rules. Stricter rules. That imbecile Jeremy loosened the lashes on his workers, which costed him his life. Sure, he caught you red-handed but that profit obsessed thick head oversaw a lot more than just your measly attempt to blow the whistle on Murkoff. We, however, use the latest form of technology which makes our security system unbeatable. You will soon notice that an escape is quite literally impossible.”  

He shuffles closer to Waylon, inspecting the half full IV drip.  

„Every inmate is branded with a chip somewhere on their body, which enables us to locate your current position whenever we want and when you get violent towards any of the other inmates and kill them, the chip will instantly knock you out. The chip also reacts if you try to harm yourself, since we have no intentions of our test subject to die. However, the chip is not triggered by psychological damage or if there is no life-threatening injury implied. Meaning that fights in-between the inmates are permitted and even supported to a certain degree. And before you ask why we allow violence among the inmates - well it’s simple, this system will cause to rise the traumatic and depressed state of the lot of you and make our job easier, because we need you all insane. However, if you get violent with the staff and doctors, whether by merely spitting at them or swinging your fist at them, you will get instantly knocked out. So just a friendly welcoming advice from me -”  

Dr. Chernikov leans down into Waylon's face, claiming his personal space and the strong scent of tabaco radiating from the doctor tickles Waylon's sinus uncomfortably “Keep your damn head low and don’t even try to dance out of the line, Park. We have eyes on you here everywhere every time. Don’t underestimate us.”  

Dr. Chernikov catches Waylon's blown wide hazel eyes with his cold almost black ones, ensuring him nonverbally, that if he does, he will be met with a promising death. Reluctantly he pulls back, standing straight in his full height but he never cuts the eye contact while doing so.  

„You- you are insane! This goes beyond human rights! You can’t do this!", Waylon erupts in utter disbelief and distress. Dilated pupils analyse the expression of the scientist for any indication that what he says cannot be true.  

„There are many things that are wrong, Waylon. But still, no one seems to care now do they? What an insane world indeed.“ 

Shaking his head in absolute incredulity, Waylon doesn’t even consider arguing with this guy, the ever-growing headache at the back of his head firmly protesting an argument against a wall. 

After a minute of just intense staring Dr. Chernikov pikes up the word again, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose „Anyways, we are getting nowhere with this useless chatter.“ 

He retreats to the other two again and writes down something on his tablet, his eyes glued to the display while he goes over the procedure, boredom evident in his voice „As I mentioned, you will be let out of the intensive care in two days, moving to your permanent residing room, where you can freely roam around, getting to know your fellow inmates and so on. But I take you have already met some of them in Mount Massive, so be prepared to see familiar faces, when the time comes. You will get more information from your caretakers, once you arrive there. “ 

The hair on his neck stands straight and his skin is covered with goosebumps, making him shiver. Unpleasant memories resurface from the depths of his mind. The profile of the very man that chases him in his nightmares resurfacing in his brain. A face he will never be able to forget. 

„Who are the other inmates? “Waylon asks, trying hard to sound unshaken and stifle the trembling of his hands. 

Dr. Chernikov notices anyway. An amused expression replaces the bored one.  

„You had not so fond moments with your buddies, huh? To be honest, I thought you would have been fraternized with them by now, in relation with the time you spend together in that shithole, sharing same fates and so on.“, he jokes, completely ignoring Waylon’s question. 

Waylon grits his teeth, covering fear with anger. "I asked who they are.“ 

The man stares at him for a hot minute, contemplating if he should answer Waylon or keep playing little mind games with him. 

„Let yourself surprise, I guess.“, he finally decides to say and ends the conversation by taking his leave. His two minors follow him hot on his heels as he passes halfway through the room and stops abruptly to turn around.  

“I almost forgot to tell you – a nurse will come by later to give you some proper food and to take out the catheter, probably also change your IV too. I will visit you tomorrow for a status control. So, see you tomorrow Waylon and use your solitary time wisely, you will miss it once you are among the others.” 

He gives Waylon a curt smile before he is past the door, and he finally disappears. His two assistants are quick to follow, the last one making sure to lock the door again.  

His eyes stay locked on the spot, where they were just a few seconds ago, then straying back to the ceiling, glaring at it, with his mind far away.  

Alone again with his thoughts, Waylon sighs. Yes, he had some answers now and a rough idea what is going on but there are still holes and missing pieces to his vision, leaving him puzzled again. And even though he hates to admit it, he has to agrees with the four eyes. There is no guarantee that Waylon will have his undisturbed silence in the said communal quarters like he has it here. So, he has so use his remaining time in the intensive station carefully.  

Letting his body regain its health and strength is the most reasonable thing to do now, rather than pondering pointlessly over his speculations, which seems like a waste of time.  

Even though some thoughts and especially who will await him among the inmates keeps his anxious mind awake, he forces himself to drowse into yet again a deep slumber.  

----

He hums a love song.  

Waylon recognizes the song. The song his younger self would listen on the radio, passionately singing along to the lines he could remember. Or when he would tuck in his two lovely angels to bed and they would protest for a goodnight song – this very song being their favourite, which they would always request Waylon to sing.  

A song that once used to have a deep connection with pleasant memories Waylon loved to recall.  

But now that changed. Upon hearing the deep voice hum the familiar notes, a cold shiver runs down Waylon's spine and his mouth goes dry, every and each of his senses on high alert. His muscles tense from keeping them flexed for too long in such a cramped space, always ready to fleet if he needs to.  

If he finds him.  

The crack of nearby floorboards makes his sweaty hands tremble uncontrollably, resulting in the camcorders image to shake too. He presses his lips firmly together and concentrates on his surrounding, trying to locate him by the sound of his heavy steps.  

Leisure shuffles graciously grow closer to Waylon's hideout, which was underneath a worktable and Waylon nearly forgets to breath when a pair of boots come to a halt in front of him.  

“Darling, come out now. Haven't we played enough of hide and seek? I need to prepare you for the weeding. As ladylike as you are, you still have that vulgar thing on you.”, he talks with a smoothing voice, trying to lure Waylon with sweet nothings out.  

But the gentleman act won't work for the long run, his temper immediately shifting.  

After not getting his awaited answer, he roars in displeasure, nothing left from the modesty a few seconds ago and replaced with hostility.  

“Darling, I said come out. I try so hard to treat you with the gentleness you deserve, but you... you don't accept it. You...”  

A sudden crash. He broke something in the rush of his rage.  

Waylon jolts in his hideout and taken by surprise he lets the camera fall from his already clammy hands, directly landing in front of his boots.  

And Waylon curses at himself for being such a scaredy- cat. He curses and prays at the same time to all the gods he knows. Praying for his dear life.  

The room is sucked in utter silence and Waylon's eyes are glued to the camera, going over the hundred possibilities he could die at the hands of this monster.  

Think. Think. Think, dammit!!  

His thoughts are all over the place, but at the same time not, his brain accepting defeat and not reacting to the adrenaline pumping through his whole body.  

Then after like an eternity he crouches, a calloused hand reaching for the camera and then they are face to face.  

Eddies red- rimmed eyes met Waylon's frightened ones. A fragile deer caught in the headlights.  

“Darling!”  

----

“ Darling?” 

“Darling?” 

For the second time now Waylon startles awake from a nightmare, his breath coming in form of short huffs nearly forgoing the process of filling his lungs with air. 

It was just a nightmare, he obviously is no more in Mount Massive, stuck in the vocational block with the groom.  

“Calm down, darling! Oh my, if I knew I wouldn't have tried to wake you up. I am so sorry.”  

An elderly woman, probably the said nurse, mumbles apologetically and rubs Waylon's forearm as in a manner to assure him that he is doing ok and to help him come down from his roused state.  

Once Waylon regains a somewhat normal breathing, he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.  

“No need to apologize, I just had a bad dream, that really got to me.” he explains and finally looks at the woman properly.  

She is old, around fifty maybe and a bit on the chubby side and short. Her hair is shoulder length, the bangs clipped away to the side, and she truly beams with a heart-warming smile. Overall, her likeness does definitely not belong to such a horrible place. She just gives major ‘the old lady, that is nice to everybody and gives candy and baked goods to the kids’ vibes.  

 This time she stirs in shock, “Oh my, where are my manners! I am Ellanor, but you can just call me Elli.” 

She stretches out her hand to capture his in a light handshake.  

“And I am – oh well, you probably know.” Waylon deadpans and laughs embarrassedly.  

“Oh yes, I know, but no need to feel embarrassed about it.”, she brushes it off. 

“Now what would the young man like to eat? Normally we give out every inmate the same dish with a weekly menu, prepared beforehand. However, Dr. Chernikov allowed you to have one meal as you wish. So, what will it be?”  

Taken aback by that Waylon responds undecidedly, “Well... I have nothing specific in mind right now, since you asked me out of the blue.” 

He sits up a bit on his bed, instantly regretting his action when he feels the stinging pain on his lower belly. Hissing in pain he grips the soft sheets underneath him.  

“Waylon, my dear don't move yet! Your wounds are still very fresh, they need time to heal.” Elli hurriedly blurts out, while she softly but firmly presses Waylon by his shoulder back to the lying position. Waylon lets her do and grunts, the remains of the pain still radiating through his entire body like an eclectic shock.  

Once settled Waylon huffs, “You know what? You can decide my meal for me. I don't really crave for something, but I am sure you will make a good decision for me.”  

Elli just smiles warmly at him and nods, “Allright then, I'll make sure to choose something tasty and full of vitamins for you. You really need to get some pounds on that body of yours!” 

“Anyways, now that we have cleared that too, I have to change your IV. I hope blood doesn't kill your appetite?”  

“No worries, I have grown accustomed to the smell and sight of blood. It doesn't trigger me anymore.”  

Without a comment she puts glows on and starts to take out he IV on his right arm, discharging it in the bin and puts a band aid on the puncture after she stopped the blood with some cotton.  

While she moves to the other side to his left arm, she starts to talk again.  

“While you were still asleep, I allowed myself the liberty to take out the catheter, so you have to ring one of the staff with that remote-control, whenever you need to use the bathroom.”, she points a finger to a remote-control on the bedside table. 

Without warning she inserts the needle into the thin skin on the backside of his elbow. Waylon barely feels the sting and just watches her skilled hands fix the IV and reattach it to a new IV drip. 

“What's inside?” Waylon asks, his interest piqued to the unknown liquid once again.  

“Oh, just an antibiotical solution. We don't want your wounds to catch any infections.”, she replies and props her hands on her hips.  

“Anything else you need, dear?” 

“A Painkiller would be nice.”  

“Noted. I'll bring it with your dinner, alright? See you later, dear.”  

Waylon also bids his goodbye to her and gazes after her petite form till he is left alone again. 

Though Elli is particularly still a stranger to Waylon, he can tell, that her big heart truly does not belong here. So out of place but still, her presence sparked a teeny tiny hope in Waylon, that maybe it won't be so bad here.  

Now, Waylon knows that is a big fucking lie, he gaslights himself to believe but nonetheless the imagination, that he might find a way to escape, puts his distressed heart at ease.  

For the umpteenth time today, he sighs and relaxes into his pillow.  

This is going to be a long stay here.  

Chapter Text

The meal Ellie picked out for Waylon is not that bad. Definitely not something he would have picked but beggers can’t be choosers, right?

For starters she picked out a chicken soup, nothing to hard to digest for Waylon. Alongside the soup there is baked potatoes with salad and for dessert a pudding. And as promised his meal arrived with the painkiller he requested for.

Even though Waylon was not that of a fan of his meal, his churning stomach said otherwise. Plus Elli put extra effort to consider his state and coming up with a digest-friendly menu for him, which was really thoughtful of her.

So, Walyon dug in like a starved man, forgetting the meaning of manners and hardly focusing on anything except his food. He was so far out of his mind that he didn’t even realize Dr. Chernikov slipping inside through the door, paying him a visit and observing his lovely and mindful way of eating. Dr. Chernikov was skipping dinner for sure after that.

He coughs to get Waylon’s attention.

“Quite hungry aren’t we? Well, you should thank me for allowing you one desired meal, Waylon. You should at least have some etiquette left even though you lack quite a bit of mannerism regarding your eating habits.”

Waylon finally looks up, stopping to chew and mouth full with what seem so be potatoes. He eyes Dr. Chernikov and after a hot minute of starring, he starts to chew again, gulping the now smashed potatoes with an audible gulp.

“Well, thanks I guess but how do you expect a half staved man to eat exactly? I mean, sorry that I can’t live up to your expectations to be your perfect little patient and all but believe me you would be none better than me if you were also starved to the bones.”, Waylon snaps back and even licks the food of off his finger to further provoke him.

“But don’t worry my appetite died down now that I saw that face of yours.”

“Now you have clearly no idea with who you are messing with, Waylon. If I were you I would be watchful of that sassy mouth of yours, or you will regret ever having the audacity to talk back to me!”, Dr. Chernikov hisses through gritted teeth, his anger easy to spark into a great fire.

“Oh you really think you can scare me with that shit? Worst case scenario, I die and I am fully prepared for that. Your threats are nothing.”

Dr. Chernikov only glares at him but bites back whatever comment he wanted to say, which actually does surprise Waylon. Because Waylon would bet his life that this four eye guy is a loudmouth who can’t stand the fact to lose an argument, whether he is right or not.

“You are wasting my time.” He says dryly, the pissed undertone still lingering in his voice but no more that intense like before.

“I need you to go over some tests today. Don’t worry, it will be just a general check up to make sure the process of your recovery still goes well. So come on now, I don’t have the whole day.”

The doctor then goes to the door expecting Waylon to leave his food and to follow him like a dog. But the latter one didn’t even move an inch with a confused expression.

Once he notices that Waylon isn’t following him, he turns sharply to Waylon, glaring at him and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well? Cmon move, don’t just stare like an idiot and come here.”

“Won’t you.. i don’t know like put handcuffs or something like that on me?”

Dr. Chernikovs irritated look grows even further by ever passing second.

“What for??”

“Well.. for safety reasons? I mean I could do everything with my hands free.” He puts up his hands in the air to emphasize his point better.

“For an IT expert you are truly stupid and slow to catch on.”

“Hey I was just wondering, that has nothing to do with my intelligence!” Waylon barks back, clearly offended by that insult.

Dr. Chernikov sighs, hating the fact to repeat himself.

“The Chip remember? We don’t need any other safety precautions as long as the patient is chipped, which provides enough security. And before you even keep asking - the chip doesn’t break. Now that all questions are cleared, let’s move on.”

“Um actually I do have one question… or more like problem…?”

“Godammit what is it now?”

“I may need a cane?”

—————

After Dr.Chernikov had multiple fits of rage, which Waylon had the balls for to track the number of, but could no longer keep count of them after six.

However the important thing was, that Waylon now had his cane, limping after the infuriated young Doctor through the long white corridors.

To be honest it was worth it to make this guy angry to the point of making him rip his hair out. Because it genuinely makes Waylon crackle to see him throw a tantrum over such trivial matters, which makes it even more hilarious.

And it also helps Waylon to get his mind off of overthinking all the time, even though he has to endure the aftermath of his ‘misbehavior’, which includes a thirty minute long lecture. Waylon couldn’t care less of the lecture, but his voice is really a torture - loud and obnoxious, just like himself.

“How long will the tests take?”, Waylon asks, partly heaving because he has a really hard time to caught up to the doctor, who strikes forward in fast and long steps, not even minding if Waylon can keep up with his bad leg. Such a dick.

“No, probably only around fourty minutes.”

After passing the laberinth of several corridors, which were indentical to each other, they finally step inside a room, that, to Waylons surprise, was also painfully white with even brighter lights.

A typical examination room, with a bed for the patient to lay, a desk and a chair. What made it inordinately though were the medical devices, that Waylon sees for the first time ever in his life.

“Those are new tech, right?”, Waylon asks while stepping inside and allowing himself to have a better look of them.

“Indeed. They provide a better report of the body with an accuracy of 100%. It’s impossible to oversee anything.”, he answers while sorting out various documents and preparing something.

“Take a seat on the bed, I will be there in minute.”

Waylon does as he is told, taking a seat on the bed but his eyes are fixated on the doctor, curious about what he is doing.

After several minutes of starring onto the back of the scientist as if that would help him to catch a glance at what he is doing, the doctor stands up, seemingly finished with whatever that kept him busy and makes his way to Waylon with some utensils in a paper cup.

First, he drew some blood from Waylon and checked his visual and hearing sense. Then he went on examining his ears, throat and nose.

After that Waylon had to strip his shirt and lay down on his back, so that Dr. Chernikov could check his rapidly healing injury, which by now was almost fully recovered. He touched around it, asking if it hurt when he pressed. Waylon answered all his questions with a no.

Then Waylon was asked to fully remove his clothing, which he first protested but eventually gave in because his unwillingness to cooperate led him nowhere.

So now he was laying completely naked on the bed, a hint of discomfort clearly visible on his expression.

However, that didn’t got in the way of the Doctors doing. He did his examination with a straight face, not bothered even a tiny bit like Waylon.

He scans Waylons body for any abnormalities like rashes or hematomas. But turns out Waylon’s body is perfectly healthy, which he quickly documents on his tablet.

Allowed to be dressed again, a relief hits Waylon again and he doesn’t hesitate to put his clothes back on.

Lastly Dr. Chernikov checks his blood pressure and also tests him with the weird machinery, that piqued Waylon’s attention when he first stepped inside the examination room.

“Alright, that was the last one.” Dr. Chernikov declares and once again takes up his tablet to hand to write down his protocol on his patient.

“So I am clear to go back?” Waylon asks, already reaching for his cane, that was leaned against the bed.

“Yes.” The doctor doesn’t look up from his tablet and just goes straight to the door leading out.

Waylon quickly figures to just follow him.

—————

Once guided back to his room through the labyrinth-like halls, that makes Waylon wonder how the Doctor manages to find the right way. No for real though, there is not even any way advisor or anything, how does the staff remember where which room is? An enigma that Waylon will never find out.

„I’ll come by later today once I have all the reports back. When they turn out to be good, we could already move you today to your new accommodation. Don’t want to keep you away for to long from your friends.“, the doctor says, intentionally adding the last part and already reaching for the lock to leave.

„Wait, what?“

Waylon springs up from his bed, regretting his action immediately, when pain strikes his broken leg.

„Wait! B-but you said tomorrow!! Why the sudden change!!?“, he exclaims, panic dancing along the lines, impossible to overhear.

The scientist stopped in his tracks still facing the door. His lips curl into a satisfied grin now that he got his wanted reaction out of Waylon. Making him distressed and planting once again a deep fear in him of the unknown. Because the doctor figured Waylon out long ago. That he handles everything with a certain strategy, that head of his always thinking and analyzing, never failing to connect one point with the other. Sharp like a razor.

But still too dull compared to the doctors. Because a sharp mind has its downsides. One being to be met with unexpected situations. Forced into a problem spontaneously, his mind will stop working, going crazy with no solution at hand, that he normally would think through beforehand.

And now given only a restricted timeframe till he will be thrown in a new surrounding, Waylon will be to busy to calm his nerves down to even think straight.

The doctor has him exactly where he wanted him.

„I forgot to tell.”, he answers casually, keeping his act up perfectly.

„Don’t make such a wuss about it and just sleep, you’ll need it.”, Dr. Chernikov adds and leaves Waylon alone. The familiar click of the lock follows along with steps, that grow fainter each time.

Waylon was still where he was, not having moved since the shock of his restricted time hit him. He slowly shuffles back till his ass hits the side of the bed and sits with a short grunt.

„Fuck, calm down… you got this, I can do this… I still have some time left.“

Waylon takes a big breath and slowly exhales, trying his best to still the chaos in his mind.

“Fucking hell I should have know that he was up to something.. that damn bastard!”

He sucks in his lower lip, biting furiously on it. A bad habit he does when he is deep in thoughts.

Maybe that four eyes is tricking him? Maybe it’s just a lie to make Waylon feel pressured, since Waylon saw enough to label the doctor as a sadist.

But then again the Doctor did a lot of tests, there is no way the reports will be delivered in only a few hours right?

When Waylon let go of lower lip it was bleeding.

Shit.

Chapter Text

So, turns out that mad scientist wasn't playing with Waylon. He meant what he said.  

Waylon was again following the Doc in the corridors, glaring at his pin-straight back while limping after him. Not even two hours passed, how could he already have the results of the test??  

Waylon lets out a sigh and curses underneath his breath, loud enough though so that the asshole could also hear it. 

However, as always, he preserves his arrogant behaviour and simply ignores Waylon's little tantrums, further infuriating the latter one. In response, Waylon grinds his teeth, vowing to himself that the doctor will be the first one he will kill, once he has escaped this shithole.  

While Waylon was lost in his mind going through all the ways he could ensure the doctor a painful death, he hit the back of the said person, blinking in confusion at the tall white back in front of him.  

“Not paying attention, huh?”, teases the doc, a small barely noticeable grin flashing across his face as he is looking down at Waylon, countering his usual stern gaze. Damn it, why must he be so fricking tall?! 

Waylon instantly collects himself and maintains his distance once again. Only now he takes in their surroundings, realizing that they stopped in front of a big gate. His curious gaze wanders back to the doc, waiting for an answer.  

“Where are we?”, Waylon asks, his voice faintly revibrating in the empty corridor.  

“Your new home, where else.”, the doc answers, delighted by the sight of Waylon gripping the hem of his shirt, his nervous behaviour not escaping his sharp eyes.  

Dr. Chernikov leisurely slenders towards the right side of the gate and holds his card, that dangles around his neck, on a scanner, which opens the big gate with a soft sizzling.  

With each passing second Waylon's palms grow sweatier and his breathing picks up by a notch. What will await Waylon behind that gate? Who will he encounter there? Familiar foes back from Mount Massive or new allies, that will support and go along with crafting an escape plan? Well, he would naturally favour the latter option but realistically he has to expect at least some of them will make his life harder inside those four walls of the facility.  

His brain was literally on fire from worrying and mentally going through every possible outcome and roughly only 20% had a good ending for him. Meaning: He was so going to die here. But not without putting a fight first. 

Another shiver ran down the length of his spin, leaving his skin with goose bumps. Recalling the time, he survived the incident at the asylum calms him down, poorly encouraging himself that he will also escape from here but still his worries keep nagging the back of his brain.  

Chernikov’s voice interrupted Waylon's negative train of thoughts, again. His eyes snap to the tall frame a few feet ahead of him past the gate and stare blankly back at the Doc. 

“What are you starring at? Stop putting down roots there and get going!”, the Doc scolded.  

Waylon obeyed, this time without countering back with a mean comment, his head too overworked to deal with the Doc.  

Once he was through the gate it closed behind him instantly, locking with a sizzling.  

Goodbye world. Goodbye my short-lived freedom.  

They were again walking down painfully similar paths and corridors till they stopped in front of another door.  

Waylon expected that the Doc would open the door with his card again like before, but instead he was waiting like Waylon was. They waited for a few minutes, when the door suddenly opened, revealing another man.  

He clearly belonged to the staff, which was obvious from his white lab coat and the little name tag attached to the pocket over his chest. His hair was a fair shade of dusty blond, and his eyes were glowing blue. He was also tall, not as much as Doctor Chernikov but surly above average. He was tan, as if he just came back from a beach vacation and he had a pretty buff build. So, he was the complete opposite of Doctor Chernikov, regarding their appearance.  

While Doctor Chernikov carries a dark aura with his slicked back black hair, sickening pale skin and tall lean figure, the other man gave Waylon major golden retriever vibes with his blue eyes and soft golden curls.  

This could come in handy for Waylon, because he could easily use the sympathy of that man.  

“Well, isn’t that our newbie, we have been waiting for. You are already famous among the imprisoners you know. And some of them were dying to see you again.”, he flashes Waylon with a bright grin, zeroing his blue eyes on his slightly shacking form.  

Waylon takes everything back what he just said. He knew that looks could always deceive but never in his life would he thought that such an appearance belonged to the devil himself.  

“Jace, please refrain from scaring him further, it took me an entirety till I could bring him here...”, Dr. Chernikov says with a frustrated voice, gripping the bridge of his nose and massaging the pain away of dealing with an overly disobeying patient.  

“Sorry Boss, but you know force is always an option to make them obedient!”, the blond guy chirps in with a smile, showing all his whites.  

“Yes, correct but then I had to go through the trouble to get someone to carry him and I don’t have the time for that...”, the doc answers matter of factly. 

They talk about him as if Waylon isn’t right beside them shaking in fear.  

“Whatever,” finally the doc turns to face Waylon, acknowledging his presence. “This is Jace Davis” he gestures to the blonde, who smiles warmly and waves at him, as if he didn’t just suggest the doc to be more violent with Waylon.  

“From now on, he will take over. Jace will show you around in the facility, the rooms the canteen and such. He will tell you about the rules. So, if you have anything bothering you, you can always go to him. When we need you for some tests Jace will be the one to pick you up. Any questions?” 

Apart from him calling this guy an orderly, who has murderous intents and actually will break Waylon with is muscular build in half like the thin stick he is, no, none at all.  

The doc stops his flow of speech, giving Waylon a chance to ask questions. However, Waylon remains silent. 

“Good, then I’ll leave him to you to handle, Jace. See you around, Waylon.” 

And he was gone, leaving him and Jace alone.  

“Alright newbie, get going because we have a lot to go over.”, he singsongs and pushes Waylon forward. 

----------- 

After (again) walking through corridors they stop in front of another door. Jace rummages in the pocket of his pants, revealing a similar card that Dr. Chernikov also had and reads it on the scanner. Not one second later the door opens to a large hall. There are no windows and like everywhere else the white colour scheme is also present here. In the middle there are rows of long desks and banks, with little paths in between of every table. The lights are bright, even brighter than in the corridors, stinging painfully in Waylon's eyes, that were only used to the dark halls of the asylum.  

“This is the canteen. We serve two times a day at 10 to 12 am and 16 to 18 am. If you don’t come at these hours, you won’t get anything to eat, so make sure to get your meal on time.”  

Jace digs his hands into the pockets of his pants and shuffles casually a few steps forward.  

“The inmates here have built some kind of groups or gangs, so watch out where you sit or you might trigger a fight that I doubt you would win.”, he snickered, gazing at Waylon with those devil eyes.  

Right now, Waylon had the urge to punch that damn smug look off of his face, but he holds himself back, not wanting to get on his bad side right of the batch. He could still be some use to Waylon so better keep things friendly for now.  

“Right, I’ll remember that. What else should I keep watch of? Anybody in particular I should stay away from?”, Waylon digs further, trying to press out every possible information out of him. Of course, keeping in the back of his mind that he might lie to Waylon.  

“Woah, slow down newbie. Information comes along with a great price. I just gave you that one info, as in a welcoming gift.”, Jace explains, while he heads to the door at the other end of the hall, seemingly finished with showing around the canteen.  

Waylon is quick to limp after him, bracing himself for the following room.  

“So, if you want to get your hands on solid information”, he pushes the door open, letting Waylon in first. “You gotta offer something worthy for me.”, he whispers the last part, lowering his lustful gaze over Waylon's body as he passes by him, like a predator would stare at his prey.  

Waylon instantly gets his inuendo and a shiver runs down the length of his spine, his gaze burning on his skin.  

“Of course, only if you want to, newbie.” he adds, taking the lead again and bringing Waylon to the next room: the communal bathroom.  

“The showers are on your left side and the toilets and sinks are on the right side. Toiletries, towels and all that stuff will be in your room. If you want a fresh towel, there will be 3 times the week some caretakers that will collect the dirty towel from the inmates and give you a clean one in exchange.” 

“At what time are they here and where can I find them?”  

“They are stationed in front of the bathroom, and they are here from 10 to 11 am on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.” 

After they finish their tour in the bathrooms, they finally head to the dormitories. At the thought of walking in there, Waylon legs start to wobble, the panic and fear slowly surfacing that he maintained to keep low the whole time. He picks on the skin of his nails, a bad habit he does whenever he is stressed or is about to panic.  

Will he see someone he knows? Will he see him? The groom?  

The flashbacks of him brutally cutting open another variant on that damn table he would perform the mutilations to craft his “perfect wife” hits Waylon like a slap across the face. His voice that would echo in the vocational block, when he sang that one song on repeat, never getting tired of humming and chanting the same lines over and over again. His silent presence. His ever so light footsteps. That smile. Those glowing red rimed eyes.  

Waylon will never get over the events in the vocational block. No matter how hard he tried to forget them, they are engraved in his brain. 

“Newbie? Listen because I won’t repeat the rules to you.” 

Jace’s voice pulls Waylon out of his troubled mind, his eyes regaining focus on the orderly.  

“Sorry.”, Waylon mutterers, giving his attention fully to Petter. 

“You're bleeding.”, Jace points out. 

“What?”, Waylon looks down at himself, his eyes catching on the skin he picked earlier, now bleeding a little.  

“Oh.”  

He licks the blood away, covering the small cut with salvia. Lisa always told him that the salvia would heal it faster. A good habit he picked up.  

“Well, as I was saying, you don’t get your own room. One room is always shared by two inmates. You have everything in the room that you will need, regarding the toiletries, bed sheets pillows, extra clothing and so on and on. The lights go out at 10pm. You will be woken up at 8am and have free time till breakfast. Afterwards you will either get picked up for some test or you have again free time. The rooms do have doors, but they don’t get locked, meaning everyone can go in including the inmates. At all times.” 

“What?! What do you mean everyone can wander inside?? And at any time?” 

Waylon might as well get a heart attack.  

Jace does not even give a crap about Waylon's breakout, continuing his laid-back walk 

“You can't do that, what if someone tries to kill me??”, Waylon cries out from behind him.  

“That is basically suicide if I even dare to sleep. How will I ever survive-” 

One sharp turn and Jace is towering before him, starring down at Waylon with that predatory gaze, eyebrows pulled together. 

“Listen, newbie. You either die or survive. Eat or get eaten. Choose whatever you like but no one will help you if you have nothing to offer, nothing the other party could profit from, do you understand? This is not just ever other asylum or prison. This is a special facility just for the lot of you.” 

He pauses, lingering on the thought of telling Waylon more. But he doesn’t.  

“You will see how the things work here once you get settled.” 

With that he turns around, continuing the walk to Waylon’s cell. 

Waylon, however, doesn’t move an inch. Jace's words sinking in and his synapses overworking in absorbing and passing on the same information again and again.  

 Slowly he breaks out of his frozen state, autopilot taking over Waylon's burned-out brain to follow Jace.  

“So, this would be the end of our guided tour. This is your room.”  

He opens the door and gestures Waylon to walk in. Waylon walks in wordlessly.  

The first thing he is met with is his roommate, curled underneath his bedsheets and facing the wall, seemingly still sleeping. It must be very early in the morning then.  

“Well, good luck then newbie. I’m off for now, if you need anything you will surely find me in the afternoon. Get some sleep now while you can. Have fun.”  

With that he closed the door, leaving Waylon alone in his new room. He quickly scans the sparely furnished room, locating all his belongings on his bedside table. 

Softly, not wanting to wake his cellmate, he pats over to his bed, cornered on the opposite wall of his roommates and sits on the bed, leaning against the cold wall, which cools of his heated head.  

A sigh escapes him. The stress he was thrown in today starts to show its aftereffects on his body. He has no intention of sleeping right now, with the knowledge that the doors are unlocked, so he just makes the best of the situation and adjusts his sitting pose by pulling his legs to his chest and clutching onto his knees.  

Waylon relaxes and just stops to think about anything. He needs time. Time to process everything and to create a clear view over all the events and information so far.  

But before that he needs to shut that tinkering mind of his down for a fat minute. Just a little bit.  

He revisits pleasant memories, that took place way before all his shit. A time where Lisa and the boys were still alive. He remembers the sweet smell of Lisa. The laughter of the boys when he would play hide and seek with them. The late Sunday breakfasts.  

The nights when the boys would sneak out of their beds just to watch some TV. And Waylon not being able to be mad at them and just joining them. Every time they would get caught red handed by Lisa, who wasn’t that soft on the boys regarding their bedtime. In the end all three of them would get in trouble.  

Waylon chuckles silently, which eventually dies down and mentally he is back in the facility.  

He knows these memories are priceless and therefore he has to live. Survive this shit one last time.  

For his family. 

For himself.  

For the truth.  

Chapter Text

Something was nudging his arm. No, someone. Yes, someone was definitely poking him. Now that someone was downright shaking him, but his lids refused to open and his brain was still out of use, succumbed to the sweet sleeping hormone.  

Wait? Who is poking him? 

Waylon rips his eyes open starring right back at the guy, who was the culprit, that disturbed his nap. Fear clutched him when he was eye to eye with that unknown person and Waylon stumbled out of the bed pressing his body to the farthest corner of the tiny cell. How could he have done the mistake of sleeping in a cell with a potential killer?  

Panic rose in him and he begged to all kinds of gods to make his death as short and painless as possible.  

However, the guy didn’t react as Waylon has feared. Instead, upon Waylon's sudden movement, the guy basically mirrored him and instantly backed down a few feet covering his head as if he was expecting hits to follow. That gave enough away that Waylon recognised that he belonged to these few patients that were harmless back in the asylum. Clearly a traumatic response his body developed while he was in the asylum. Poor guy.  

Not like Waylon was any different from the variant, though. They both were stuck in the same boat after all. Still, it is really a miracle that he happened to be his cellmate rather than the other half of the patients, who tended to be more on the violent side. The vague memories of being chased by those delirious inmates makes his hair stand up to no end.  

Once Waylon was sure that the man meant no harm, he relaxes as much as his tense body would allow him, and he clears his throat. An attempt to assure him that Waylon was not going to hurt him.  

“I... I uhm..I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you...” 

Waylon deliberately pauses, waiting patiently for a response from his cellmate, but he remains silent, eyes strictly trained down on the white tiles of their shared cell, that the majority of his face was casted in a shadow.  

After a few seconds of no answer Waylon goes for another try, hoping that his rambling will calm down his nerves.  

“Look, I am in the same boat as you, you don’t need to be scared of me. I have been also in the asylum, just like you. And... I know what they did there... how it was... the experiments and all that stuff...” 

That seemed to have smoothed down some of his worries and the man slowly lifts his gaze to finally meet Waylon’s. Waylon was almost convinced that the poor guy couldn’t understand him or had an issue with his hearing organ.  

Now that Waylon could see his face from a better angle, he couldn’t oversee the scars lingering all over it either. His left cheek was severely scared, only leaving the skin with the reddish tissue of the muscle. He has a cleft lip, and the skin of his right eyebrow was strongly sunken in that it even hindered his peripheral vison.  

Overall, his features gave him a disturbing appearance, however his behaviour didn’t match at all with it. He was still standing a few feet away from Waylon, his torso covering in a self-protective manner and every now and then his hand came up to itch at a spot on the back of his bald head. He was dressed in the same way as Waylon was with the plain white shirt and pants.  

Alright, it is good that he isn’t scared anymore. More or less. Still the bigger problem will need more effort than this: communication. Yes, all the variants surely can speak and possess over basic understanding skill, but after going through such traumatic events physically and psychologically, many patients lose their ability to talk, or heck even go insane. Therefore, it is no surprise that it will need some work till they will be on the same page.   

“Why did you wake me up? Is it already time for breakfast?” Although Waylon couldn’t have slept till the time for breakfast with all the adrenaline pumping in his roused body. There is just no way.  

Again a few minutes pass for his cellmate to give him a reluctant headshake, his eyes trailing the wall behind Waylon, avoiding looking directly at him at all costs.  

Waylon nods understandingly and proceeds, “Ok, why did you wake me up then? Are we in danger?”  

A headshake, this time more vigorously than before. It almost seems like something is pressing him by the way his body flinches uncontrollably and the way he scratches his neck more frequently than before.  

“Sorry I... I really don’t understand what you are trying to say. Could you show me instead? I think that way would be better than this guess game.” 

The guy stills, his body freezing in place and he starts to bite his lower lip, apparently thinking over how to implement that. Then he suddenly lunges forward, grabs Waylon by the arm, pulls him upright and drags him to the door of their cell.  

“Do you want me to follow you?”, Waylon asks. The guy, whose name he still does not know, nods hectically and leads Waylon out of their cell to the corridor. Guessing by the empty hallway it must be still the crack of the dawn, or everyone already filtered out into the cafeteria or hit the showers.  

Speaking of the showers, that was the goal of his cellmate all along. Initially Waylon thought he would bring Waylon to the canteen, but he was puzzled when they turned to the bathroom, now standing in front of the empty communal showers. Crack of the dawn it is then.  

“But I left my towel and toiletries in the-”  

Before Waylon could even finish his sentence, his cellmate passed him his belongings. He didn’t even notice that he had them with himself all that time. Obviously, the lack of sleep is getting to him and his adrenaline levels slowly but surely go down. 

Waylon thanks him and his opponent only motions him to the shower cabins. He himself makes his way to a free cabin and starts to undress.  

When Jace showed Waylon the washing rooms he never had the time to really inspect the bathroom in detail, only quickly gazing around before Jace nudged him to their next destination.  

Having the opportunity to look around now, Waylon wanders further inside the washing area. Even though he expected the facility to be as ratty as Mount Massive, he was wronged. It is spotless. And white. Of course. Whoever is behind the design must have loved the nerve-racking white tiles and florescent lights to have it carried out in every fucking room. Really, they do everything to make the patients lose their mind huh?  

And privacy seems to be too much to ask for with all the showers aligned next to each other and only a small wall divides one shower from the other. So basically, it's a public bathroom. Which also makes this place one of the most dangerous ones out of all. Stripped naked, nowhere to hide or lock yourself up and a bunch of crazy folks.  

Great. Just great.  

That must be why his cellmate was all on about to leave their cell to catch a time when no one uses the showers.  

Waylon huffs out in relief, thanking God that the toilettes had actual doors with locks to keep a little bit of decency. Expect the sinks there was nothing to see in the bathroom so he makes his way to the shower stalls.  

His cellmate was already showering, his back facing Waylon and he couldn’t believe his eyes. From head to toe, every inch of his body was covered in scares. Some still fresh, red marks standing out from his ghostly pale skin and some old, already faded to a silvery tissue. But all in all, he looked terrible. He was slightly hunched, his head always hanging low as if he ever looks up and locks eyes with someone a fist will fly his way. The lankly arms dangle from his sides like they are dead weight and there isn’t enough body fat to cover his ribs and spin, making them countable by only the bare look.  

After several seconds pass Waylon tears his gaze from his body and continues to undress to finally take a shower.  

Instant relief hits him when fresh water pours down on his tense muscles and he notably relaxes under the spray of water. With all the gunk, sweat and build up on his skin the water also washes down all the stress his body and mind were literally thrown in, almost having a therapeutic effect on him. Waylon cranes his neck letting the cold water hit his face, cooling off that overworked brain of his that never gets a pause and just focusing on the right here and now.  

He needs this and he can’t let his mind get fogged up with neither the past nor the future. There is enough time for that later. For now, it’s just him, the feeling of cold water and the sweet sound of it splashing on the tiles beneath him.  

Well, it was only him, the feeling of cold water and the sound of it splashing on the tiles beneath him, until the door leading outside to the hallway was roughly opened.  

Suddenly the cold water wasn’t that relaxing anymore.