#(sᴛᴀᴛɪᴄ sᴋɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜᴢᴢɪɴɢ ʙᴏɴᴇs) ;;; vᴇʀsᴇ: mᴀɪɴ

[walriding]

@buriedabove asked: there's a lot I don't understand. aw2 starters || accepting

"And let me guess -- you're expecting me to fill in the blanks?"

There was a not too distant point in time where Miles would have welcomed an inquisitive ear. Would have indulged someone else in their quest for information as it intersected with his own. But a lot can change in a short amount of time. Months, weeks, days -- sometimes all it takes is a single night to turn everything you know on its head.

His distrust is palpable. He's always been one to keep his guard up, hold strangers at a distance, but there's a measure of necessity in that habit now. Nothing about the guy screams Murkoff, not at first brush. Nothing about him screams totally innocent third party, either. He knows something or he wants something or both. The nails of Miles' remaining fingers press into his palms, hidden in the confines of his jacket pockets.

Undue paranoia is also a distinct possibility, but given history the concern feels justified. Still, playing it too defensive is its own risk. Playing it dumb, though, that's something he can do convincingly.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I probably know as much as you do. Less, even." A shrug, feigned haplessness, but he's still side eyeing the other with a scrutiny that's too sharp for his words. "Wish I could help."

[walriding]

When Miles tries to laugh it comes out clipped -- little more than a single huff of air. Those are the kinds of thing he's been telling himself ever since he crawled out of Mount Massive a dead man. Before that, even. Killing you would be an act of kindness. It makes something like a nerve pinch at the back of his neck, an uncomfortable little jolt that slithers down his spine to somewhere between his shoulder blades, just out of reach. He could argue it with Preston now, and a part of him wants to. Wants to insist that he's no hero, that selflessness wasn't part of the equation when he'd been disabling those life support systems and listening to the kid scream.

Blind, animal panic. Some deep and old instinct, prey-desperate, that knew that whatever the fuck was in that lab couldn't get out of it. He'd seen it already, in the courtyard, a shadow shimmering in the rain. And after that damn movie he heard it everywhere, felt it like an ache in his back teeth. Preston's right in one regard. Miles did keep it from spreading -- by keeping it locked up in his own skin. Like that's been a choice. Like this wasn't part of its plan.

If he'd known then what it would cost, would he still have left Billy for dead, effectively trading their fates? Or would he have divined some other way out of that pit? It's the kind of question he tries not to ask himself, knowing that the answer in the present won't change the past. Or maybe he's just afraid to admit he's not so altruistic after all.

These are the points he's half tempted to make but ultimately doesn't. The other man wants to see the worst of himself right now, and propping Miles up in his own mind like some kind of possessed paragon just adds to the effect. There's no point in trying to convince him otherwise, not at the moment.

Instead he just listens. Easiest interview he's ever conducted, considering he doesn't have to prompt anything. Miles tries to keep his features neutral but can't help the way his brows hitch at first, then pinch inward the more Preston speaks. His mouth is a set line, tightness in his jaw. It eases into something more plainly sympathetic when the tv host starts to cry -- and then he has to fight off the initial urge to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder at the very least. Not knowing if the contact would be a welcome thing, he opts for words instead. Softer than usual, they lack the prickly sarcasm and manufactured bravado he typically levels at Lance.

"Surviving doesn't make you a bad person. Even if you had to do some bad shit -- some fucked up shit -- to manage it." He can't blame a desperate victim for doing the unthinkable when they likely couldn't think rationally. Not that the placation helps, if that's what the other man truly believes of himself. He manages to pull himself together after that anyway, Miles pointedly not commenting or looking too intently in Lance's direction as he regains his composure.

"I think you underestimate intent," he counters mildly. "Actions mean a lot, yeah, but in situations like this... You care about caring. That isn't meaningless. If you were a monster, you wouldn't be sitting here trying to justify it." Lance is right, in that regard. All those nasty emotions, even the ones reflected inward, are what keep you human. But, "Doesn't mean you need to keep picking at the scab to remind yourself that you still bleed, though. It's never gonna change the past."

At first, there's pure horror. Etched all over Lance's face. Because the story starts out the same. And of course, it wouldn't be that far fetched. Miles having gotten his read on. Knowing more than what he's let on before. About him. About Baltimore. About the fucking kid. And all the others. In the asylum. Dead.

But then Miles keeps talking. Says a name he does not recognize. So soon enough, horror makes way for surprise. Curiosity. Followed by..empathy. He doesn't interrupt, just listens, looks at the other through it all. Wincing at the mention of a mother. Keeps looking at the other with an equally heavy expression on his face. Matching the exhaustion, the sadness and that guilt too.

"I don't think it is about that for you, no. It shouldn't be" he replies eventually, swallowing hard. "I don't know the details of course. But I doubt his life was a happy one. In that lab. I think you did end his suffering. And you did stop it from spreading, didn't you?" It's a genuine question, but also meant as some sort of comfort. "You went in there to try and stop some fucked up shit from happening to more people. You're still doing it now. So yes, there's no need for amends at all. I don't take you for a guy who'll just walk up to some kid to kill him out of malice." A pause. Swallowing thickly. All over again. "Or selfishness. "

It just lingers in the air for a moment. That statement. Chokes the air right out of him all over again. As he only just now realizes how completely different their motives have been, too.

"I did" his mouth says out loud while he's still just thinking it, though this time it is not because of his demonic tag along. No. This is his own guilt talking. Needing an out. "I just wanted to get out of there. And I killed him for it. Wrapped my hands around his throat and choked the life right out of him. Just a kid, too. Student. I don't even think he had anything to do with anything in there. Didn't know anything either. He was just...there. With the keys."

It sounds so candid. So easy, casual, whatever it is. But it's anything but. It is quite literally choking him too. The guilt and lump in his throat making it almost impossible to breathe or speak, but he knows he has to. Owes a man like Upshur a clear picture of just who he is talking to here. Doesn't even waste his breath on trying to justify it. Fuck the starvation. The desperation. The madness. The loneliness. The loss of time. That cult and all that fear, fear, fear. It was what it was. A choice. His freedom. In exchange for someone's life.

"I killed someone to get out of a place I tempted and disturbed. A place with a decade long track record of human suffering. That I wanted to exploit. For fame. And money. And now more than 10 people are dead. Because they went in there. For me. Because of me. I cannot even tell you how many there really were. And how many more might still die because of me. But I do know that one died to my own two hands. A fucking kid."

Hazel eyes. Fire-y red now. But not with rage. Not with that never ending need for revenge. Not with all that harshness. But with the very same thing. Grief. Guilt.

"I'm not alive because of cosmic reasons. Or luck. I'm alive because I was capable of doing anything for it. And I did. I did." Voice breaking on that last word as he winces, then sobs once, quick to turn his back on the other so he doesn't see, doesn't hear. He starts shaking both his hands out to try and get rid of it, those pesky fucking tears that feel so fucking uncalled for. He clears his throat once, curses, then digs the heels of his hands into his sockets to try and wipe them away, cursing all over again when it hurts, too close to the scar beneath his eye.

"I'm sorry"he apologizes after a little while, trying his best to get everything under wraps again. And isn't it funny. That's what he'd told him, too. As if it had made any fucking difference. As if it had made it any better. But that's just it now. The point. Being better. He turns back around to meet Miles with a look he himself doesn't even know what it's supposed to convey. But he knows it's important to look whatever it is in the eye. Guilt. Consequence. Or just the man before him.

"So yeah. It is about retribution and amends for me. It ought to be. There has got to be something good coming out of this. Otherwise, I'll be just like them. A fucking monster who hurts people and doesn't care. And I don't want to be like that. Not anymore. And yes, we're lucky that we're still alive to make a choice like that. That doesn't suck. Wernicke sucks. Murkoff sucks. Murder sucks. Grief sucks. Guilt fucking sucks. But it would be worse if it didn't."

[walriding]

@mslangermann continued from [x]

He's confused by the onset of her panic -- when she goes for tissues he assumes it's something to do with the baby, and immediately looks to the small bundle with redoubled uncertainty. The expectation is that he's about to get spit up on or baptized with some other unfortunate bodily fluid. This is where the concept of kids becomes notably less appealing. Too much of a mess.

His posture shifts like he's readying to hand the baby back to Lynn, but then she's pressing the tissue up under his nose instead. Instinct pulls him back a small measure, and when he does he sees the bloom of blood left behind. "Oh shit," he echoes. "Yeah, that's probably wise." Already he's trading child for tissue, slotting her back into her mother's arms so he can deal with his own problem.

When he blinks he sees inkblot shapes that linger on the edges of his vision. He has to tip his head forward slightly so he doesn't swallow blood.

"Alright, maybe take me off the babysitting roster for the immediate future." Not that he would have expected to be trusted with an entire tiny human on his own regardless. He hazards a sidelong glance at Jessica -- already her name in his mind. "We'll work on it. You're gonna need a fun, bad influence uncle y'know."

[walriding]

@mslangermann​ from [x]

      Miles wishes he had answers. Not because they would make any of this any easier, or because neatly presented rationale would somehow negate the pain and horror that’s brought her to this point. But answers would at least stop his head from spinning.

      The child doesn’t make sense. Everything he’d read about the psychosomatic pregnancies as a side effect of the Engine suggested that the occurrences were just that -- mind over body. The fetuses were never real. Just a byproduct of the Engine. For some reason anyone with a uterus experienced rapid cellular growth that closely mirrored gestation enough to fool the brain. Cancer, essentially, that was mistaken for a miracle.

      If he hadn’t seen the baby for himself he would have assumed Lynn was just as mistaken as the women that came before her. But he’s looking right at it -- her -- and unless they’re both lost in the same collective hallucination, what he’s seeing can only be real. Reality is confirmed by the way he feels the Swarm uncoiling itself, like a cat stretching and craning its body to keep an eye on an insect. It’s curious, which is rarely a good sign.

      And it doesn’t have any answers either, which is equally concerning.

      “I wish we knew.” He wants to sit by Lynn, wants to get a closer look at the baby, but something keeps him rooted to the spot a respectful distance away. “She shouldn’t be possible. None of the other pregnancies...They were all psychosomatic. And you’re sure there’s no possible way you were just -- pregnant before and didn’t know?” There’s at least one whole reality show about that, right? Yet even from where he’s standing, something in him knows there’s nothing of Blake in that baby. And Lynn doesn’t strike him as the type to have been sleeping around while married.

[walriding]

@mslangermann from [x]

      There’s still a slight thrill to be had at her unease. An unintentional response born of instinct and necessity. Miles can soften the creature’s edges with the constant flow of his psyche for all eternity and he will never manage to buff away every coarse aspect of the thing in his bones. Fear keeps it alive and keeps its Host alive in turn, and every moment in chills the blood in another’s veins with its mere presence is another moment Miles is allowed to keep breathing.

      But where once there had been something gleeful in garnering that kind of reaction from her, there now resides something closer to indifference. It has poked at her open wounds before, and though it can offer little in the way of healing, at least now it doesn’t seek to rub in any additional salt.

      An almost equivalent indifference is leveled at the mug set before the body. Lip twitches but doesn’t manage to curl in distaste. “No, he doesn’t.” Need the caffeine or the accompanying sugar, that is. The Swarm has little taste for such things itself, and sees no value in calories and stimulants when it already gives Miles everything he needs.

      “You don’t trust us, either.” Understandably so, and it bears her no ill will for that. “Yet you haven’t turned him away.” Not in any way that she’s really and truly meant, anyway. When there’s been distance between the reporters, it’s been of Miles’ own making by at least half. “Anyone else would have, after what you’ve seen. Why haven’t you?”

[walriding]

She's arguing semantics. Relationships are claims by their very nature -- or so something with a broader perspective believes. Claiming someone's time and energy and attention, their physical and emotional selves. Perhaps it isn't done so with the intent to possess, but the result is largely the same. Having and holding. What is that if not a claim?

Jealousy. A twinge of it, unrecognized. Greed. A general unwillingness to share what belongs to it. Feelings that it can't name let alone understand, because feeling at all remains an unwanted unknown.

But that doesn't make them less true.

It responds with a stiff nod. Maybe her understanding shouldn't matter. It's not as though her refusal would have changed anything. But it's close enough to a brokered peace that it should placate the Host, and that matters more than her perception of it.

It's a quiet thing, the way shoulders fall slightly and posture becomes a bit less rigid. There's still a reluctance to give up control, but then Miles is rolling out the too tense muscles of his neck and blinking away the ink-spill aura at the edges of his vision. He pulls a face at the first sip of cold coffee.

"You two have a nice chat?" He takes another sip of coffee to clear the roughness from his voice.

@walriding / continued from here

As the hum softens in her mouth, Miles’ hand is taken back and she feels only the table beneath her fingers. Instinctively, she withdraws and leans back a little in her chair, watching the other cautiously. Although, these days, this caution also breeds curiosity. Lynn is humble enough to admit she will never understand the Walrider, not fully, its mere existence and ties to this world bring about questions that go well beyond her understanding of the world. 

However, this doesn’t stop her wondering, assessments on how it can co-exist with a human body or where it really came from or how much… of Miles is truly left. The latter frightens her and is something she doesn’t like to dwell on long. But she knows what remains of him is fused with the entity inside, the two of them inseparable and dependent on one another. 

“I know I can’t,” she admits somewhat begrudgingly, though the harshness in her tone has subsided. She speaks softer now, a quiet acceptance. “I don’t claim him. He’s not a prize. He’s a person…” A sigh. “I’m not going to pretend like you’re not there. You make that impossible. But… yeah. I accept it.” 

[walriding]

@demcnsinmymind​ from [x]

      Normally he’s opposed to involving other people in his personal bullshit. It’s a matter of principle -- people who aren’t possessed tend to be at greater physical risk when they find themselves on the wrong end of Murkoff. At least Miles knows he’d capable of withstanding a little more danger. Preston, however, isn’t most people. Calling him with a request for somewhere to lay low had been an act of sheer desperation, but he’d thought that of anyone the tv host was the best equipped to handle the risk.

      Granted, he hadn’t expected to be followed. He thought he’d given the mercenaries a clean slip before they’d noticed, but of course they’d managed to track him back to the dingy motel where Preston was holed up for the time being. He feels bad now for having brought all this down on the other man, but he’s still privately hoping the mercs just give up and fuck off long enough for them to get the hell out of here.

      “What, you haven’t had any armed cult crazies up your ass hoping to bring you back into the fold? Kinda sad -- thought you would’ve been more popular.” Joking to deflect, as per usual. He’s keeping towards the back of the room, well away from the windows. Without knowing what the mercs are armed with it’s difficult to know what he should be trying to avoid. If they’ve got any kind of EMP detecting tech he’s screwed, so he’s trying to maintain as much distance between him and the outside as possible in such a cramped space.

      “No, definitely Murkoff. I don’t know how, I’ve been keeping a low profile lately. Guess I’ve been sitting on my ass too long and they finally caught up.”

[walriding]

@thomasrekowicz​ asked: ❛ how long have i been asleep? ❜

random dialogue starters || accepting

      Too long.

      At some point his attention had split between computer screen and open-faced notebook, the fingers of one hand idly hunting and pecking for keys while his other hand scrawled a pen across lined pages. Perhaps there was something intelligible buried in the typed gibberish like some kind of children’s wordsearch game, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to examine it. The notebook was equally incomprehensible, pages of heavy handed ink etchings. The pen must have run dry at some point, for the page that was currently opened to the ceiling was marred by inkless lines dug into the blank paper.

      He blinked at the sound of a nearby voice, his eyes stinging as though he hadn’t closed them for some time. His fingers cramped as he released the spent pen, and a frown tugged at his lips when he got a look at how productive the last -- lost -- chunk of time had been.

      A housefire. Pain, unimaginable pain, so deep it felt like his soul was being wrenched from his body. A gunshot. Gossamer wings, butterflies -- or were they moths? The faint ticking of a pocket watch.

      “Not long.” A lie -- he didn’t really know the answer. His voice sounded faraway to his own ears, and he blinked again. For a moment the world looked ashen, decayed, but the illusion was brief and he thought little of it. “You snored.” Another lie, or a deflection. Miles chewed on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, a sensation that was close enough to grounding. “Must be an old man thing.”

[walriding]

@alsquiet asked: " dangerous to be out so late "

random dialogue starters || accepting 

      It’s not exactly a rarity for Miles to find himself somewhere he shouldn’t be. Warning signs, whether explicit or implied, mean little to him. There’s a damn good reason why instinct tells you to shy away from all things dark and decrepit, something he’s had more than his fair share of experience with.

      Too bad he never really learns.

      “What am I supposed to be afraid of? You?” Most people should be -- whatever the other is, isn’t human. But the reporter isn’t most people, and he’s a few steps removed from human himself. He’d like to think that gives him an edge, but mostly he’s trying to cover for the fact that he is a little bit freaked out. At least he has learned how to hide his nerves in even the worst case scenarios. “Because unless you’re about to rip my head off, I’ve seen worse.”

[walriding]

@mauscleum​ asked: ❛ was that a friend of yours? ❜ - Alessa

random dialogue starters || accepting

      She hadn’t seen him in such a state since that town. Of course she knew about the nature he tried so desperately to hide -- at times he thought that to be the only reason she’d trusted him enough to leave with him in the first place. But he’d done his best to shield her from the messier facets of his life. Maybe that wasn’t worth much, given who she was and what she herself had already been through. Alessa was a unique child -- hardly a child at all in certain respects -- but it felt wrong to burden her with his troubles even if she might have been able to empathize. 

      Her past haunted her well into the present. She didn’t need to worry about him, too.

      So he’d made little mention of Murkoff and the risks they continued to pose to him. Them. Miles would quietly take care of whatever threats crept in, would conduct his business with the corporation without breathing a word of it to Alessa. If she’d caught on at any point, she kept it to herself. Until now, when it could no longer be ignored.

      Every fiber of his being tensed at the sound of her voice, and reality slammed down all around him like a cascade of bricks. There was blood, a lot of blood, most of it still seeping from the mangled remains of the unidentifiable body at his feet. The static in his ears pitched high before it retreated, a protesting whine as Miles gathered up the pieces of himself and used them to box the Swarm back inside. 

      She wasn’t supposed to follow him. Had never followed him. But she wasn’t a little kid anymore, and a part of him had started to worry that he couldn’t keep up the charade of normalcy forever. 

      “How... how much of that did you see?”

[walriding]

@celestieu asked: ❛ why can i not come with you? ❜

random dialogue starters || accepting

       “You think they wouldn’t recognize you?”

      As far as he knows, there were only two survivors of Mount Massive -- and he only survived in the loosest sense of the term. He knows he’s playing with fire as it is, continuing to poke at Murkoff like the proverbial sleeping bear. But Miles can’t help it. Can’t just leave well enough alone.

      But that doesn’t mean he wants to drag someone else into this shit on his behalf. While she isn’t a neutral party herself, the kind of digging he’s doing now is inherently riskier than simple information gathering. The last thing he wants is for her to get caught in the crossfire.

      “Look, I appreciate all of your help -- seriously, I do. But if Murkoff gets the better of both of us, we’re kinda fucked. And everything we’ve done will have been a waste.”

[walriding]

Maybe it was a skewed self assessment, but Miles always considered himself to be an optimist. Not in a naively hopeful way, no, but optimism that came from stubbornly refusing to abandon the belief of a better future. Everything in Miles' career had been built on that foundation, and all of the blood, sweat, and tears he'd poured into his work had been for that one lofty goal of making the world less shit. People were inherently good -- most of them, anyway. People would stand against horrible injustice, you just needed to show them that it was happening. And Miles grit his teeth and gave everything he had and more for the desperate, clawing, optimistic hope that it would all be worth something.

Not for him, though. His own wellbeing, his own future, so rarely factored into his forward facing view. What happened to him didn't matter so long as Murkoff fucking burned -- a mindset that crystalized the moment the elevator doors opened into that cold labyrinthian basement. Getting out of there alive, or whatever approximation of alive his current state could be defined as, was a surprise. From there the concept of after hadn't really occurred to him.

Mostly because he didn't think there was an after.

He couldn't let the weight of that drag him down, though. The choice to wallow or fight was one he'd made countless times already, and he wasn't about to pick the roll over and die option now, after everything. As it was, he merely responded to Preston's chagrin with a half-shouldered shrug and a thin smirk of his own. The nature of his condition and resulting connection were none of the other man's business, and he wasn't about to reveal more than what was absolutely necessary. Let the guy make his assumptions -- that was often less dangerous than the truth.

"Trying to set my expectations on the first date, huh? I'll keep your commitment issues in mind, thanks." It sounded like a long-winded way of saying I'm a grade A self serving douchebag, but not everyone who broadcast an attitude like that always meant it. Sometimes it was a way of hiding insecurities, talking a big talk when the truth would make them sound less cool. Other times they really were a grade A self serving douchebag, just as advertised.

Only time would tell what Preston turned out to be.

Miles had feeling he'd be seeing more of the guy. Maybe their respective traumas were completely unrelated, and further digging would unearth nothing of tangible value, but it couldn't hurt to have one more person on his side. Someone with just as much of a bone to pick with the people who wronged him as Miles. That wasn't a worthless thing to gain.

Scribbling something on clean page of his notebook, the reporter grinned, clearly pleased with the direction things had gone. "Well, it has certainly been a pleasure, Mr. Preston. I can forward you some of that research you're looking for, let you digest it a bit, but I'm a face to face kinda guy myself." Miles tore out the sheet and slid it across the table to the other man, a phone number scrawled across it. "I change numbers fairly often -- on the run, you know how it is -- but I'll have this one a while longer. Call me, text me, just no unsolicited dick pics until after the second date."

Lance blew out some air through his nose, soft and barely audible, with a little smile on his face. Because wasn't this ever so interesting.

They were alike. In some ways. Talking without saying anything. Keeping their cards close to their chests. Cockiness and sarcasm dialed to the max. The irony of it all wasn't lost on the former TV host at all. Being like that. Ending up in the exact same situation. Biting off more than they could chew.

The question didn't earn Upshur a laugh this time, though in a way, Lance was close to it. But still. This time, it mainly made him give the other a frown. Because he didn't quite get how any of it would make him a pessimist.

"I'm a realist" he replied, because despite everything that had happened, he supposed that this still applied. "And how is thinking about what comes after all the sucky parts pessimistic? I say it's the definition of optimism. Light at the end of the tunnel and all that."

Because there was going to be an after for him. Period. He'd already made it this far. Survived everything. Gotten out of there. Gotten better. And just like he'd said all the way back in those never ending tunnels...he was going to keep walking straight. Fuck it. If he thought about it, he really had reached the light at the end of the tunnel already. Looking up at the sky now, the sun, no matter how much it hurt his eyes. It was there. The light. With that, the little smile was back on his face. Not just because of that determination in him, or the sunlight above, but also because of the other's figure of speech.

"Happily committed relationship" he repeated with a soft chuckle, then looked away from the sun and back at Upshur. "That what it makes you believe you two are? Or do you actually believe that?" he asked, regarding the other a little closer, trying to figure out if he did. "Everyone's got their kink I guess" Lance muttered in the end, killing the cigarette in the ashtray. He leaned back with a more content sigh, folded his arms back over his chest.

"'Committed relationship' certainly isn't one of mine. Never has been. Never will be. I say there's always something better. Waiting next in line. So why not skip ahead the second you can. Fast paced world these days. Better keep up with the times. Ditch the cart altogether. It's the horses that win the races, right. Extra weight's just gonna slow them down."

[walriding]

@demcnsinmymind​ asked: 'You were nothing more than a corpse when I found you'

moon knight starters || accepting 

      “When you found me, huh?”

      It should unsettle him more, the notion that he isn’t speaking to the man that body belongs to. Because he’s certain that he isn’t. The stages of possession aren’t quite as obvious was what Miles has experienced for himself. There’s no unnatural blood, no drastic change in tone, no shadow crawling across his skin. Nothing about that change is subtle for Miles. But although it’s less overt for Preston, Miles feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up when he realizes he’s no longer talking to the former tv show host.

      Yet even then he keeps his cool, easily tamping down the very human instinct to put as much distance between himself and this thing as he can. What could it do to him that hasn’t already been done? Miles is, as this thing has professed, little more than a corpse animated by something unknowable. How could something like a demon scare him?

      “Last I checked, I was the one who tracked down that host of yours.” Perhaps the meeting had been ordained, but Miles isn’t about to let the other have that satisfaction. “And you weren’t the one scraping me off the floor of Mount Massive.” Although he’s wondered, more than once, if Preston’s pal had been there in some capacity, given the ties that bound the two asylums. At the suggestion though the Walrider has always bristled. Their connection has always been their own -- but he can’t help the curiosity about what else might have been working behind the scenes.

[walriding]

@literalminded​ liked for a starter

      “If we want this to work, we need to... talk.” One corner of his lip curls lightly with distaste. For a man who prides himself on his honesty and staunch refusal to pull punches, Miles has never been good with frank emotional conversations. They make him feel too exposed, too raw. 

      And this particular wound is like a scab he just keeps picking off.

      “Set some ground rules. Expectations.” He snorts a sharp sigh through his nose. “That, or we just pretend like none of this shit ever happened.” Easier said than done. It always is.

[walriding]

@mauscleum​ asked: ‘ this idiot wants to die! ' - alessa, except it's her and the walrider playing some board game and guess who's winning

outlast starters || accepting 

      Of all the mind-bending, soul-crushing, life-ruining horrors the Swarm was capable of enacting on mankind, Miles hadn’t assumed that make a gradeschooler cry over Connect 4 ranked high on its list of priorities. He was fairly certain they were on round thirtysomething -- truthfully he’d slipped from the passenger’s seat to the backseat of his brain after the seventeenth game -- and by his count, Alessa hadn’t won yet. A tally that was corroborated by the way the curtains framing a nearby window started smoking.

      The sudden drop into awareness sent a clear message as the Walrider sunk back into his bones -- your problem now.

      “No one likes a sore loser, ‘Les,” he frowned, moving to throw the remnants of his drink glass over the smoldering fabric. “And no threatening grievous bodily harm to my nanite co-parent over board games -- unless it’s Monopoly. All’s fair in love and Monopoly.”

      Sitting back down Miles glanced at the game still set up between them, and quickly surmised she was cruising for loss number thirtysomething. “Y’know what, let’s play something else.” Candyland, from his memory, never sparked World War 3 on game night.

[walriding]

He works his jaw in silent, clenched-teeth disapproval. Miles, at his core, isn't a trusting person. Oh, sure, he can fake it -- can buddy up to someone so long as he doesn't deem them morally reprehensible, will allow them to think they're getting the authentic camaraderie experience. Meanwhile he's only showing them exactly what he wants them to see and not a measure more. Vulnerability is kept safely at arm's length, tucked away so it can't be used against him.

Coming here, seeking Preston out, had been an act born of desperation and trust. He didn't know where else to turn, and in a rare moment of weakness he thought that having some kind of backup was safer. Or on a less pragmatic level, maybe he just wanted reassurance. Companionship in a difficult moment. Sometimes just the idea of having someone on your side was enough of a bolster.

That was his mistake -- thinking Preston was someone he could rely on in an emergency, forgetting the other factors and beings in play. The impassioned speech and insistence that he wants to help means little. Miles' pride is already wounded, and a cut that deep isn't easily patched over.

Maybe it's stupid, petty on a level that borders on unhealthily self absorbed, but he would rather walk head-on into a firing squad than stand here and lower his hackles and swallow his pride. He's embarrassed, both for letting himself come here in the first place and for falling for such an obvious prank. On both counts he should have known better, and all he wants to do is get out of here so he can curl up and die in private then pretend like this never happened.

"Look, you don't have to pretend to give a shit, alright? You were ready to toss me out to the wolves -- I can deal with this myself. Coming here was a mistake, you made that crystal fucking clear." There's a definitive meanness to the words, a hurt edge galvanized into something sharp and cutting. For as closed off as he is, Miles has never been adept at hiding anger or upset, and they turn his words to weapons.

"God forbid anyone else be the main character on the Lance Preston Show for five fucking minutes," he mutters, turning his back to the other man again and stalking the rest of the way to the door.

He knows it's true. Of course it is. He's seen this thing kill. Has seen it watch others kill. His team. His friends. Without intervening. If it truly did care about what he wants....it wouldn't have let anyone or anything do all those things to the people he cared about. Wouldn't have let them take Sasha at least. But of course. They're all dead and he's still alive - Upshur is on point. It'll keep him from harm. But it doesn't give a shit about anyone he cares about. Quite the opposite. He's beginning to think that maybe, this is exactly what it wants. Everyone around him, anyone he cares about, or is interested in, family, friend, or just acquaintance - gone. It only just used his mouth to say it. Get out. It's obvious that Miles wants to get the hell out of dodge. He has every right to want that. Should do it. And Lance's first and natural instinct is to tell himself that he wants it to be this way anyway. That he doesn't need anyone, that he doesn't care, that he's managed everything all by himself and that he always will. Knowing it to be true while at the same time....not wanting it to be true. Because he's been alone. Entirely fucking isolated for months on end and it's been absolutely fucking horrible. He wants an ally now. Needs one. And so much of all of this pisses him off. Makes him truly furious. Shockingly so. Enough to suppress that thing within him entirely. At least for a little while. "No, but I do, okay. Believe it or not, I do give a shit. And I've just about had it with all the cowering before some fucking bullies." Truth be told, he honestly doesn't quite know who he's even talking about. The very real threat of Murkoff turning up, ready to spell trouble for Upshur. Or his hitchhiker and the constant not knowing what it'll do. "I don't know what you've read about me. And I'm not even going to bother trying to deny at least half of the shit. It's probably right. Self absorbed prick, fake TV show, fake personality, got what he had coming for him, yada yada. I've heard it all before. And I know that pretty much every last cop that's after me thinks that I got my team killed for fame and money, but I did not okay. When shit hit the fan in there? Collingwood? I tried everything in my power to keep my friends safe. And freakshow or not, I'm still that same person." Lance shoots another quick look at the windows with the curtains drawn, approaches them in the end just so he can check once more if the coast is clear. Still - nothing to be seen. "Can't see anything out there, still. Can't feel anything either" he says, then looks back at Miles. Still too proud to outright say it, I want you to stay, but getting it across with his reaction anyway.

"Let's just take a minute and talk things through. Who's after you, where you're gonna go. You came to me for a reason, right? Because you figured that maybe, this right here was the place to go."