#murkoff collections

[luvisia]

[chocolate-gore]

I am putting that illustration degree to good use on this day [-> cooking up representation for characters from my favourite fictional thing that I don’t see enough content of]

dubi dubi du ba

3/4 perspective is my passion don’t @ me

[francobarbi]

I'll Never Recover From This

[evilvvithin]

The Outlast Trials - Murkoff Prototypes

[imperial6scum]

First part of the comic is here! https://comicbook.com/gaming/news/the-outlast-trials-the-murkoff-collections-comic-chapter-1/#12

[muffy-official]

More oc shenanigans

Now featuring Tilly who I've mentioned before(the prime asset who gave Gabby away for contraband goods which were wine and whiskey, same person who enjoys using that reagent/expop as her dress up mannequin once in a while)

Not your traditional bride to be either, she fantasises a lot about ceremonies, her previous occupation as a bridal model let her play out this fantasy over and over without the to her grim consequences tied to actual marriage such as becoming a mother and housewife before being taken by Murkoff as she tried to get rid of a body of a woman she killed out of dread she'll be replaced. She's her own boss and she won't let men command her around, not shying away to get physical if needed if giving false affection that's believable enough won't cut it. Kisses men(if not repulsed by them) and women if necessary, with women she's more open with it to have some fun herself

Claims to be for womens safety yet proved to be somewhat of a hypocrite when she gave the former reagent Gabby away to Barbi for some goods and him promising to stay far away from her for a while at least so he won't keep on annoying her. Saw her own safety and comfort as more important than the others.

Will get very angry if female expop get harmed or even violated in her presence, will not react well to the lady big grunts corpse once Murkoff let's her roam the docks during prime time

Had her place left in a mess once Coyle came to collect what belonged to Phyllis, got into quite a violent argument aswell before having to switch her demeanour to diffuse it only to not succeed in keeping the young woman hidden in a wardrobe away from him in the process

Love drawing this guy getting hurt lmao

Most of these doodles are almost very tiny too I can't seem to just draw normally or in a larger scale lately

[southernspooks]

Just curious how many outlast ocs do you have?

Too many lmao

Y’all have only seen…two??

Jack Maxwell: Reagent/ WW2 Vet/ One leggy/ Best Husband award winner

Tobias Blackthorne: Murkoff Employee/ Collections Department Officer/ Sad simp/ Good boy

“Till”: Reagent/ WW2 Vet/ “Priest”/ Cannibal/ Biggest Bastard award winner

Lenore Maxwell: Murkoff Employee/ Nurse/ Jack’s wife/ Gonna burn Murkoff down to the ground to get her husband back

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Do you write platonic x readers? Cause I was wondering if we could have an expansion on Franco Barbi as a best friend to a preferably female reader but im not picky

Two gangsters in the loony bin

Franco Barbi x best friend (fem)

warning: kinda fluff, violence, no use of Y/n

summary: At any moment, a best friend is the most important thing you can have, even here in this hellhole or the loony bin or just the place without hope. But even Franco needs a best friend, because together you can hunt victims and have more fun than alone.

info: Sure you can get something like that, and thanks anyway for asking, I hope you enjoy reading it, anon ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

°How did the feared Franco Barbi, son of a gangster and his best friend meet? All he heard his father's blows and the screaming still ringing in his ears, he knew he had to get away. He had pushed it too far and now drove through the States in a half-broken-down car, stopping at a seedy bar for a drink. A run down bar where only a few people lingered, but as he entered and ordered his special milkshake, he heard a giggle next to him. He put his hand on his shotgun and looked at the person next to him, but stopped when he saw the exact same drink in the woman's hands. ,,I didn't know anyone else would drink something so exquisite,’ she said, moving a chair closer to him. Franco didn't know whether he should laugh or scream, but when he also got his drink and she tapped her glass against his and the tinkling sound was heard, he smiled slightly and they both took a sip.

°That same night, they had more than just a drink together, and it all started in the backyard with bottles and maybe a few people shooting with his shotgun and her revolver. ,,What do you say if we move on together?" he asked as they sat next to each other in his car, drunk and yet finding the situation and the weirdness funny. As it turned out, Franco was not the only one with a criminal past and she had already killed one or two men, taking the money and now on the run after the last robbery had gotten a little out of hand. ,,Let's go!" she had shouted at him as she had thrown the bag of their things into his car and sat down next to him on the passenger seat, started the engine and drove on through the States, taking whatever they wanted, from jewellery and clothing to ammunition and money.

°It was a wonderful time together, in which not only did Franco one day get his suit from her and he gave her the golden necklace with a blue gem as a pendant after she had cut a ball for him and vice versa. They had the same sense of humour, the same background and, above all, they were the first to really trust each other. A trust that ended in a loud argument with the law and Murkoff, a fight with Franco and the use of all the ammunition and grenades they had. ,,This doesn't look good," she said, throwing her last grenade before she pushed through and winced as she heard the hit men scream, ‘The fuckers won't let up… I don't think this is going to go well, darling,’ she heard Franco say and looked over at him in amazement. His hand was on hers for a moment as they both saw the grenade of the police officers and pressed themselves against each other to minimise the damage. He only ever called her darling when he was sad, overjoyed or completely desperate, and it looked like they were up to their necks in shit.

°On that dark night, the two surrendered, taking a few more policemen with them to their deaths through knife wounds, bites and blows, before Murkoff put an end to it with a stun gun and took the two of them away. From then on, they were separated from each other. The time was dark and hopeless, but again and again she found a few teeth in her cell, bloody teeth, and she collected them. She knew, no, she was one hundred percent sure that it was Franco who wanted to tell her something, to show her something. ,,I am with you," she heard his voice and tried to find him in her trials. Finding what ended with a glance at his Lupara and they both paused before a big smile crept onto his lips, ,,Franco!" she shouted happily, took his hand and pulled him into a long embrace, feeling the the pain in his life, the bullets, the injections and the pain… but now, now they were finally together. ,,Finally together again and now forever," he said, handing her the revolver he had kept.

°,,Well then, darling, let's punish a few bad guys!" he shouted, loading his gun before they roamed his territory together, slaughtering everything like back when they were still outside, and between the shrine, they found dismembered bodies and gutted . Franco and she were found sitting together on the bed again, drinking from a glass of wolf's milk and finally able to do what they both enjoyed most: being together as best friends in a place where they could do whatever they wanted, together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ramontism , @millie-milkshake , @lovesick-on-the-loose , @gummibrit , @cuddlecow , @zsatuka

[foxieflower]

What would Eddie Gluskin be like in an AU where he got the help he needed? Maybe he finally became a father like adopted a child, ( honestly can't see him with a women because of his past) so maybe a single father?

There's another anonymous message besides this one but this is a quicker message than the other but I PROMISE TO GET TO BOTH..

Anyways, I don't think Eddie would adopt a kid nor do I even think he is straight. I personally believe any and all of his comments throughout the asylum riot are entirely created by his father's comments towards him as well as the engine's doing. And I personally believe he wouldn't pursue it if he got help as he would unravel a lot of that forced thinking/nuclear family nonsense.

So I think if he got the help he needed from the beginning and never ended up in Mount Massive, the man would thoroughly understand and realize what happened to him was terrible and start to deal with his own preferences. He learns he is, in fact, gay and then is further able to unwrap the negative feelings he had towards women and never become a nasty man like his father. I think he eventually would become a tailor, but never pursues school as he thinks he aged out of his chance after having to deal with his trauma all his youth.

If he's getting help after surviving the asylum, I often look to "To Be Well" for a lot of my ideas and theories on how I like to heal up Eddie. I like the idea of there being a collective to help those hurt by Murkoff. A community built on people able to work through the trauma together and so on. Due to it being after what he had done he has a lot more to work through and takes a long while to completely wake from the damage done from the Engine. Eventually he does grow and heal from the help and all that, but after the obscene amount of trauma, he does stay to himself more.

As a Weddie lover, of course, Waylon is in there too depending on how the timeline goes.

[goldenponcho]

Dr. Roxanna Gorman

This turned out more detailed than I thought it would. Here’s a preview of my Outlast Trials Prime OC coming in the next chapter of Milkbones, taking place in 1999 when Murkoff reopens Sinyala, waking the assets from cryogenic stasis where they’ve been stored for further use, and making Roxanna their new addition.

Rox is a 33 year old animal lab tech, who after taking a new job released all of the predators in their collection upon the other scientists after learning of the cruel experiments they were performing. She went on to instead experiment on humans, targeting those who expressed noticeable apathy toward nature and the environment in general. She will often eat the remains when her experiments are complete or cannot resume further. She is also a HUGE music lover of all kinds, but especially metal and punk.

Murkoff was already keeping an eye on her by her late teens, but after the lab incident, they made attempts to admit her to a new facility. Her mother did a lot to keep her daughter safe even after her tendencies came to light, but after her death, Roxanna was hunted down and captured. Five years into her stay, she was subject to the current model of the morphogenic engine, when she experienced a long phantom pregnancy as women always end up doing. Soon after, she ended up carving her teeth and nails (which had grown think and hard after the engine) into points, making sure she had the best defense possible in this place. She was then used as a Guinea pig to test out a couple of sensory enhancing devices, which greatly enhanced her hearing and sense of smell.

Her code name given by Murkoff is “Beethoven” both after the composer and after the Saint Bernard from the movies.

She has a complicated outlook on the other Assets. For example, she absolutely DESPISES Leland Coyle, pissing him off any time she can, but she also really enjoys spending time around him because she can’t help finding him genuinely funny and a good time. She’s a big fan of Mother Gooseberry, and she’s honestly fascinated by Franco, both disturbed but also…CURIOUS about his proclivities.

[luvisia]

@TheRedBarrels: Inter-Organization Letters Only, Murkoff Collections.

[joz-yyh]

Love Host - Ch. 8

SUMMARY: Miles and Waylon meet up for some diagnostic testing that takes a very drastic turn. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for this chapter ONLY!!)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 4,190

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Wishing you all a belated Monster May, but also happy first day of Pride~ Excited for next chapter because there will be smut~ Comments and likes are very appreciated.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–——

Clang, Clang, Clang--!

Waylon looks up from his computer chair at the pedantic knock, knowing who his pertinent guest should be, double checking the security feed just to be sure Murkoff wasn't paying him any surprise visits.

There on the monitor, is a quiff of black hair and ugly olive jacket he'd recognize a mile away. Speaking of Miles –

Waylon opens the bean hole to the main door, the grinning blue eyes of Miles fucking Upshur waiting for him on the other side.

“Hey there, WayWay, I am here for my check up,” he greets with a smile, the wave he offers just out of sight, “Oh yeah, and Wally’s here too.” 

The words barely register before the nanomachine has its whole face pressed against the peephole, staring back at Waylon, completely eyeless.

The techie nearly jumps out of his skin, shutting the slat out of paranoid instinct, body wrecked by a wave of heebeegeebees. 

He can see it. Why can he see it when he couldn’t as much as before?

“Heeeeyy,” Miles whines, voice dampened by the steel barrier between them, ”I am still waiting out here.”

Waylon internally groans, trying to collect himself enough to unlatch the many bars securing the entrance shut.

When the final lock cracks loose, Miles is too busy sympathizing the Walrider to notice, holding its caricature of a face and daresay, petting it.

“Ah, you can c-come in now,” Waylon offers, standing in the doorway, watching on with morbid fixation.

“There, see,” Miles exclaims, a consoling note to his voice, “He wouldn't invite us in if he didn't like us.”

Waylon swears this scene must be slowly melting his brain from the inside out, along with Miles’s seemingly endless list of pet names for him.

“Hey, Way,” the brunette asks, turning his attention to his fellow asylum survivor, “could you tell Wally here that you like him, please? He thinks you're scared of him. Isn't that silly?”

He isn't scared, he's terrified.

“Yeah, s-sure. I like him,” Waylon offers weakly, shoving down his dread.

This was absurd. A machine couldn’t have feelings and even if it did, they were none more important than his own.

“Told you! Everything's fine,” Miles chippers, the Walrider finally appeased by this discovery.

The machine gazes toward Waylon again, breaking it’s body down into smaller pieces, swooping in close to swirl around Waylon knees, then higher, drifting in a cyclone of miniature storm clouds up to his shoulders.

“Uhh, hello again, I guess,” the engineer offers shakily, trying to appear fearless and brave, even lifting a finger to touch the nanite mist surrounding him. It feels like water.

“Thanks Waylon,” Miles says, patting him on the shoulder in good sportsmanship, stepping inside.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

And just like that, the nano machine leaves him to follow it’s host, the dazed software engineer reminding himself that he needs to rearm the door. 

Before the reporter can poke his nose in further, Waylon locks the paddock, turning on the electric fence to deter any unwanted trespassers.

“So, this is where you’ve been holding up,” Miles asks, taking in the abandoned barracks, a dimly-lit trailer filled with a junkyard of broken, decommissioned tech.

The Walrider is equally curious, ghosting around the layout, dousing the army green interior in supernatural mist.

“Not quite,” Waylon amends, running a hand down his face, feeling overwhelmed by the quirky demands of his company, “This is where I work. Keeps me a safe distance away from Lisa and the kids in case anything happens.”

“Safety is important. I am sure there are no OSHA recordables in here,” the snarky brunette remarks, dodging under a duct of loose wires.

“Ha ha funny,” the blonde remarks, devoid of amusement, “the device I want to show you is over here.” 

Waylon grabs him by the wrist cuff before Miles can slip away to snoop, escorting him to the testing room.

“Aren’t you going to give me a tour first,” the sleuth whines, taking in as much of the space as he can, “you can’t tell me you have a secret lair and not show me around.”

“There's really not much to see,” Waylon growls, noting his companion’s inquisitive fingers, “Also, please stop touching everything.”

“Awwww,” Miles whines, dragging his feet in disappointment, a frown setting in.

“Fine, maybe later,” the techie relents, his stride persisting, “We're kinda pressed for time.” 

“Oh, somewhere you gotta be,” Miles asks, perking up at that confession, raising a brow at his companion, letting himself be tugged along more easily.

“Yeah, I’d prefer to be home with my wife and kids.”

A long pause, their combined footsteps echoing off the iron grates that line the floor.

“Am I invited,” the reporter asks, smirking at the back of Waylon’s unkempt head of hair.

Another aggravated yank on his sleeve.

“Let’s just get through testing first.”

They arrive at their destination, the very back of the bunker, a T-shaped hub. One of the doors is sealed off, making Miles wonder what could be hiding in there, the rest of the room encased by steel shelves filled with gutted parts, radios, computers, phones and the like. 

In the center is a chair outfitted with restraints, a litany of auxiliary cords hooked up to various loadouts, a desk and computer terminal set up in the corner, no doubt to collect the data of whoever sits in it.

“So … this is it,” Miles says judgmentally, unimpressed, “Looks like an electric chair, but somehow more revenge of the nerds-esque.”   

Waylon smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. He won’t deny it bears a striking resemblance to Mount Massive’s brainwashing devices, ones he had the untimely pleasure of experiencing for himself.

“Yeah, everyone's a critic. Just get in.”

“Is it safe,” Miles asks, skeptical of the bad vibe he was getting just by looking at the creepy thing.

“As safe as any of this experimental tech is gonna be.”

Miles supposes he can’t complain, given the circumstances. He doesn’t get any of these gadgets, but there was no one else he could turn to (aside from maybe Wernickle) who could give him the answers he seeks. Still, the reporter can’t help feeling a bit uneasy about entrusting himself to any diagnostic tool created on a non-existent scrap heap budget.

The Walrider manifests itself as a disembodied head, whistling through it’s cheeks, seeking to reassure it’s host with a trill of sound. Miles smiles, close-lipped, stroking the odd contours of its face with a gentle hand.   “Alright. I mean we’ve come this far. What other choice do we have?”

With that, the anxious human hybrid takes a seat, the next test subject for this experimental apparatus going on torture device. Waylon straps him in, tying the buckles too tight to be comfortable, but Miles suspects it's punishment for trying to pry into the engineer's private life. His head too is bridled in place, another belt across the forehead to keep him securely in an upright position.

“This will monitor your heart rate,” Waylon says, electrode pads stuck to Miles’ temple, and then after a moment, adds a disclaimer, “I am not a doctor, though.”

“You’ll be able to tell me more about the Walrider, right,” the brunette asks, nervously clenching his hands on the arm rest.

Waylon hesitates, less than confidently offering a, “Yeah,” in response.

The programmer returns to his computer chair, swishing around his mouse, loading up a program with a few swift clicks. 

A gray and white window pops up, waves on a grid, a number of statistics waiting for action.

“OK, I am going to turn it on now,” Waylon warns, looking over at the subdued reporter, about to flick the switch, "you might feel some … discomfort.”

“I am ready,” Miles braces himself, waiting for his electrotherapy to begin, the stiff shock he expects not so much more than a mild tingle. A part of him relaxes at this, the vibrations reminiscent of a massager, one of those fancy La-Z-boy recliners. Nothing he can’t handle.

Miles can’t turn his head to see the screen, can only speculate what his friend is doing over there, but the rapid clicking and typing does make him feel a little less relaxed.

“So, how you're feeling now, this will be our constant, what your readings look like normally. Which we’ll then compare to your reactions when introduced to stimuli.”

Waylon sounds like an exemplary salesman, confident, in the zone. Miles supposes all he needed was to have a computer in front of him to accomplish the feat.

“Sounds harmless enough,” Miles laughs raggedly, trying to calm his breathing.

“I am turning up the gain,” Waylon says, dialing up the voltage, the green-yellow-red LED indicator flashing, whining with excess energy.

The Walrider whimpers, a swell of crackling electricity causing the prescribed discomfort. It hurts Miles to see the creature suffering, tries to calm his symbiotic partner through their subconscious, saying it'll be over soon, but he can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong.

“More,” Waylon advises, cranking the voltage up to maximum.

With this, the Walrider blips and flashes in and out of its corporeal form, unable to maintain it’s physical body. The nanites are raging like storm clouds, booming like thunder as it roars in pain, but this was Miles' idea -- he brought it here, subjected it to this. How could he call it off? 

Perhaps the Walrider had acted as a shield, protecting him from the worst of it, but now Miles can feel it too, an electric surge consuming him, making him wrestle against his restraints, so wired every vein in his body is popping. 

Then, it finally clicks in the struggling journalist's head.  This was bordering on lethal. 

"You're trying to kill us," the reporter barks in realization, and he doesn't want to admit that there's tears of betrayal gathering in his eyes, “What is it? Some kind of virus?!”

"I am trying to disable it,” the blonde corrects, his shout cutting through the charged shocks in the air, over Miles screaming, “Put yourself in my shoes. Murkoff is going to come at us with much more than this. I had to test it’s limits." 

"This isn't what we agreed," the reporter bellows, grasping onto consciousness.

"If I had told you, you wouldn't have agreed,” Waylon grimaces, trying to get the reporter to look past his personal bias and understand common sense, “For godssake it's a machine Miles. It's not human. It's killed people. Use your head!" 

"The same machine that saved your ass from getting sliced up," the reporter grits out, trying to reroute the pain, blocking his mind of it.

That makes Waylon falter, rethink his ethics, but he finds his courage again.   "I am trying to fix this, fix you. After Murkoff, what then, huh? You think society is just going to let you go running around loose, a living bioweapon? They’ll call you a terrorist! A threat to national security." 

"You don't know that!" 

“Do you hear yourself?! Just listen to me –" 

"–Turn it off!" 

"Miles–" 

"– No! If he dies, I die!”

Waylon stares at him numbly, shaken to his core, never considering that possibility.

“Turn it the fuck off, Waylon,” Miles reminds him, swiftly approaching his breaking point, “How will your kids feel, knowing that their father is a murderer?!”

That line ultimately causes the engineer to relent, doing as he's told. The chair powers down, the Walrider dissipating along with it, fading into thin air, too weak to exist.

The heat generated by such a powerful current leaves behind a steam, a faint smoke wafting up from around Miles’ person.

Waylon stands, intent on helping him out of the restraints, getting shocked in the process when he strays too close to the magnetic field. 

How could he forget? Miles was a living powerhouse now, polarizing everything around him.

He grabs a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves from off the shelf, better equipped to thwart any more incoming sparks, starting from bottom, unbinding the reporter’s feet first, then the buckle on his waist, his wrists, and then finally the band around his head. 

The electrical hazard of a man collapses by the time he’s done, a harsh rattle echoing throughout the space as his knees hit the mental grate under him, causing another shock to rumble across the bunker, the lights flickering. Good thing Waylon is wearing insulated shoes.

Miles is shaking, eyes blank and crazed, gaping in silent horror. He can feel the faint presence of the Walrider still inside him, barely a wrinkle, a wisp of life, his relief drowned by sinking fear.

"I am sorry," Miles mumbles through ragged panting, hugging himself, hoping the nanomachine can hear him, though he doesn’t know how much merit his words will hold after this, “Just wait. Everything's going to be OK now.”

Waylon is aghast. He's never seen Miles break before, that snarky exterior he donned like a suit of armor brought low, stripped to such a sad and sorry state of despair.

The whistleblower bites his lip, clenching his fists. He reminds himself that what he did was a necessary evil, to not regret his decision. 

His stomach is in knots, kneeling down to comfort Miles, a hand resting upon his pious back in a gesture of peace.

"H-hey, are you … OK?"

In a fit of anger, Miles pushes the blonde away, knocking Waylon into the nearby wall, shocking him with some of his excess energy. Miles only regrets not being at full strength, because, if he was, he would have hurt the backstabbing liar much more. 

"Drop the good boy act,” Miles growls, ruthless, seething hate in his eyes, “We both know it's a crock of shit. And fuck you!” 

Waylon admits he probably deserved the insult, his mind still reeling, his chest tight, electrocuted.

“When are you going to get it,” Miles shouts, stumbling to his feet, reaching for a nearby shelf to compensate for his weak knees, knocking over some of the equipment in the process, “I am not the same man anymore and neither are you, no matter how hard you try to deny it. What happened to me in Mount Massive … it happened to you too, Waylon."

Minutes ago, when his head was still getting fried inside a microwave, when he and the Walrider were both on the brink, he'd seen memories, not his, but the machines. It showed him Waylon dressed in a patient’s uniform, hiding from a cannibal with a circular saw, falling down an elevator shaft as a runaway bride, a piece of lumber stabbed through his ankle.

Waylon stares at him, speechless, still in a discombobulated heap on the floor, where the product of Miles’ attack had landed him, held up by the weak limbs of his forearms.

"Unlock the fucking door," Miles spits, shuffling along in disgust, clinging to anything substantial that will crutch his weight, “I need a smoke."

More parts crash onto the floor, thunder shocks raining over everything Miles touches, the emotionally charged brunette punching the wall, a spark igniting into a starburst of charred black, the power shock rippling through the bunker.

“The door, Waylon,” orders a very pissed off reporter.

The man in question scrambles to his feet, pushing past his living battery of a companion to input the deactivation code for the fence, unlocking the door for him as well. 

—--

It feels good to be outside, feet planted on solid ground, Miles finding the nearest thing that he can use as a seat (which just so happens to be a concrete jersey barrier) and flops his blue jeans onto it, fumbling with his lighter. 

"C'mon, light goddamn you," he curses, trying to ignite the end of his cigarette, but his fingers are shaking far too much, the flame stalling every time he flicks his thumb over the wheel.

The fits are getting worse, even his lips are too damn chaotic, Miles abandoning his task in favor of clutching at his head, elbows on his knees, sobbing. 

As much as it's killing him not to feel the Walrider’s touch right now, he's trying to find some way to fill the hole, but if this is what life felt like without it, he’a pretty sure he'd rather die.

What would it take to bring it back? A few more fingers? An eye? An arm? His legs? How many parts was he willing to give up?

“What the hell am I supposed to do!? You can't leave me here!”

He's shouting, his voice a booming threat, as if his fury alone could convince the universe to give him what he wants.

God, when did he start depending on his triquetra boyfriend so much? 

Something faint whispers in the back of his mind, but it's too distant, a ghost ship sunk to the bottom of the ocean, too deep for him to make sense of what it is. 

Next comes a prickle at his skin, like an itch, persuading Miles’ to blink, eyes still puffy with the salt burn of his tears.

The setting sun is almost too bright, but a veil surrounds it, an umbra of miasma so glaring it feels like a rippling mirage on the horizon.

"Tell me, I am not hallucinating right now."

The cigarette falls from Miles' mouth as he leaps towards it, grasping at what looks like the ulna and radius of a forearm, metacarpals made not of bone, but of glass.

The creature grunts painfully, as if Miles opened up a barely staunched wound, the crudely disassembled parts catching him, fragile pieces splintering, but not letting go.

"Don't ever do that to me again." 

It's spoken like an order, the beginnings of a spine taking shape under his touch, connecting vertebrae to skull and Miles sobs, squeezing the fragmented skeleton of his beloved monster even tighter.

 "I thought I lost you."

There's a whirring almost like a hiss that's permeating the air, comforting, acknowledging.

They stay locked together like that for a while, until the Walrider is a full body once more, Miles finally calmed down enough to think rationally.

"So, what now," Miles asks, gazing upon its beautifully disfigured face, twilight burning all around them.

The Walrider adverts it's mangled gaze, knowing Miles isn't going to like it, making a gesture towards the bunker.

"Oh, no! No, no, no, nooo! You're not telling me you want to go back in there," the man shouts, staring at his partner with a new wave of vehement, tear-streaked baby blue eyes.

He pulls away from the mechanized menace to stomp his Timberland boots around in the dirt, arguing with himself why it was a bad idea.

The Walrider allows its host this moment to cool off, expel his frustrations before it goes to the human's side, steering Miles away from his thoughts and back into its arms.

Miles is having none of it, holding the nanobot off, trying to resist its pull, but the machine squeezes him into a suffocating embrace anyway.

"No, don't try to–" 

‘– sweet talk me,’ he finishes the thought inside his head, but he's not sure his thoughts are all that private anymore. 

He sighs, playing captive for a few precious seconds before he wriggles out of the hug, pushing the other away, pinching his sinuses, aggravation plain on his face.

"Let's just think about this for a second," the sleuth tries to reason, his other hand on the entity’s chest to keep a healthy distance, "What am I supposed to do if something goes wrong?” 

(As if things haven’t gone horribly wrong already.)

“How can we trust Waylon after this?"

The Walrider hovers there, compiling a solution. Bony phalanges take hold of Miles' hand, upturning it. 

An onyx box is placed inside its host's bandaged palm, circuits spreading all throughout each corner, making it shimmer and glow.

“It's pretty,” Miles says, watching the ebb and flow of energy, “but what am I supposed to do with this?"

The Walrider taps it's claw on one of those art-deco type microprocessors that adorns each side, the compartment opening to reveal a strand of DNA, the miniature double helix spinning inside like a gothic ballerina.

"Yeah, alright," Miles says, recalling his high school genetics classes, "I think I get it. It's a spare copy of you, right?"

The synthetic skeleton's eyes are black voids, a flash of pupils pulsing with energy, but Miles knows what it means.

With a delicate touch, the reporter stores the replica of DNA back inside it's jewelry box, depositing it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping.

"Going to finish my cigarette before we go in," Miles scoffs, retracing his steps, looking around for the tube he haplessly discarded. 

He's tempted to take a fresh one from the pack (cigarettes being one of few luxuries he bought alongside the road map at the gas station), but he’s not exactly in a position to waste perfectly good tobacco and these things were expensive as hell.

He spots the white cylinder amidst the dirt patches in the grass, plucks the filter off the ground (not too dirty) and sticks it between his lips.   It lights on the first try, that sweet inhale of nicotine (and god knows what else) feels like a hit of ecstasy. He's the epitome of James Dean in that moment, slick, cool, and aloof.

The Walrider floats over, snuggling it's jaw against it's host's ear, a clack of teeth in its best impression of a laugh.

"Yeah, Yeah," Miles dismisses, a stubborn pout clinging to his lips as he jerks away, annoyed by the fact that he gave in too easily.

The entity dissolves, bio smoke curling around its host, patiently waiting. Halfway through his second cigarette, Miles speaks again.

"If we’re doing this, then, I want you to possess me, like you did before.”

Now it's the Walrider's turn to act surprised, manifesting its jaws to growl an objection.

“If we're going back in there, we go together or not at all," the brunette declares, forthright with resolution, pointing accusingly with his cigarette.

Miles would rather die on this hill, then budge from it, but the Walrider has its own methods of persuasion.

Obsidian claws drag him up by his weather-beaten jacket, all 6’1” of him teetering on tip-toes, the half-spent drug falling to the ground, still burning away.

“Hey, not again,” the human whines, but there's no real anger behind it, no matter how hard Miles tries, “That's a forest fire waiting to happen, you know. Haven't you heard of Smokey the bear?” 

As the man twists to retrieve his lost cigarette, the Walrider distracts him with a kiss, one Miles resists just briefly before surrendering to it.

"Hnnn… Mmm…" 

A billow of smoke writhes between them, ebony and ivory, Miles opening his mouth to the Walrider’s wandering cable of a tongue, and OK, fuck it, time to make out.

—--- 

Miles struts back into the bunker, slamming the door shut behind him with a flick of the wrist, the nanites taking care of the rest, latching all the barrel bolts tight.

Waylon jumps from his desk, anxiously awaiting the outcome of Miles' smoke break, standing up to meet him halfway.

Judging by the cacophony that marked his return, Waylon assumes Miles must still be a prickly flume of outrage.

Not that appearances matter, but Waylon folds his hands over his hair, still inflated from the static, patting it down, reluctantly approaching the other male, trying to do the right thing by apologizing first, "Miles I thought about what you said and I am sorry–"

Waylon chokes on his own fear, recalling the same palpating collision of dark energy when he escaped Mount Massive, the same shape that faces him now, a man-made demon that watched him burn out in a stolen jeep.

"Miles … is that … you," he asks quietly, backing up, hands reaching for something solid to steady his nerves.

"Chill out, Waybaby, I ain't gunna hurt you.”

His brain can't seem to connect the vaporware voice to the bastardization of the man that's saying them, almost wants to laugh, having no other logical response.

“Just thought you needed a visual demonstration of the point I made earlier so, here we are," he ends his intro by holding his hands out like a showman, a little pièce de résistance.

For as smart as Waylon is, the words just don't come. He swallows, nods even if he doesn't comprehend what's happening.

"Anyway, Wally's convinced me,” the man turned machine explains, looking sheepishly smug, “We're following through with your plan so hook us up, operator, we're going back in."

"What?"

Just what kind of masochistic freak has Waylon gotten himself mixed up with if Miles wanted to be zapped to high heaven willingly?

"You said you wanted to test our limits. So, I say: Let's. Get. Dangerous."

Waylon remembers those ridiculous work related survival videos he had to watch as part of his onboard training. Suddenly, those scenarios don’t seem so far-fetched anymore, playing hostage to Miles’ special brand of crazy

[francobarbi]

ENOUGH negativity in the Franco tag!!!

It is time for some positivity and love again. I AM GOING TO GUSH, AND FRANCO FANS, YOU SHOULD GUSH HERE TOO!

Franco Barbi is a very well-crafted character and a perfect addition to the fucked up family dynamic found among the prime assets in the Sinyala Facility so far.

Everything about the way he was delivered to us is perfect to me. I was so excited for Franco's arrival in the days leading up to Project Lupara that I struggled to sleep or focus on anything else! Red Barrels gave us an absolute gift.

His map is stunning, his design is top tier and packed with character and perfectly conveys who he is just with one look! His voice is insanely good, another perfectly casted and directed addition to the list of talents that bring life to our favs in Outlast. I re-read his Murkoff Collections entry more than anything else on the RB site, because it's so visually stunning and the writing is so fun.

Franco is a fun, charismatic, intriguing character. Since his release I have had so much fun in this fandom. I love seeing the new life he brought to us. When I see other Franco fans sharing this ENERGY, this creativity, spending time and effort crafting pieces of fanart and writing or even just silly little shitposts and sharing them for others to see, I am just so happy. I love our devoted little community.

Please don't ever tone it down. FLOOD the Outlast tag with your beautiful pieces of art, your screenshots, your edits, your shitposts, your thoughtpieces. Bambino is here to stay <3

[inky-snowdrop]

Love Is Love

A 2023 L.G.B.T+ Aesthetic Collection

Day 25 • Val is Transgender!

Day 24 • Day 26

👇🏽 Pride Headcanons Below! 👇🏽

🩵•🩷•🤍

Like what the Red Barrels team said in regards to Val's gender identity... "Val is Val." I headcanon that Val uses both they/them and she/her pronouns, but definitely connects that her feminine side quite a bit

Growing up in Temple Gate left very little room for gender identity exploration. Val was born male and was expected to behave as such by Father Knoth. The brainwashing from Murkoff and the cultists led Val down a very dark and lonely path for many years. It wasn't until after they'd killed dozens of newborns and raised many children that she decided enough was enough

From that dark path came the light of their God. Through her sexuality, they were able learn what felt right about themselves and what needed to change immediately. Several others in Temple Gate followed her example an experimented, a renaissance of love and sex allowing the repressed members of Knoth's cult to finally be set free. Through physical touch, Val found themselves and their purpose

Val was used to sitting on top of the clouds, gazing down at Knoth's sheep with the tender adoration of a butcher. Now, with her heretics running free in the Mines and unearthing all sorts of forbidden earthly pleasures, Val was living in the mud... And they absolutely adored it. The connected to the Earth, the mother of all things living and dead, made Val feel more at ease with herself; It helped her love with her entire being and not just the flesh.

God couldn't reach them down below in the womb of Mother Nature. Val would leave him to Papa, allow their Father to do as he pleased the paper thin copy of true euphoria. God could get fucked all he pleased, but he would never know the true bliss of a woman's embrace... Not like Val did, not like how her followers did. Isn't that the truest blessing of them all? To know that they could feel something that God could not?

If Val had to pick a song to describe her gender, they'd pick: Lay All Your Love On Me by ABBA

🩵•🩷•🤍

[meice4]

More Camera Trio Headcanons (because I'm bored lol)

Part1

- The three of them are dog persons, but they ended up adopting a stray kitten, and fell in love with cats, now they love both.

- The cat favours Miles, even though he almost never feeds it or clean it's litter box, and it angers Waylon because he and Blake are the ones who do everything for this cat.

- Miles and Waylon are always actively working to expose murkoff, while Blake is.. just there. It's like the two adopted him and kept him around.

- Blake tries to be useful by doing house chores and cooking, sadly he's not very good at it, his efforts are appreciated though. Waylon is the best at cooking but he's not always free to cook, Miles isn't good at cooking and knows how to cook basic easy meals only.

- Miles suffers from insomnia, he takes sleeping pills most nights.

- The sight of white dresses gives Waylon PTSD.

- If one of them gets sick, the other two never leave the ill person's side.

- Miles has a fear of clowns.

- Waylon used to love watching horror movies, not anymore.

- Blake used to collect lego sets.

- Waylon was PISSED when he discovered that Miles and Blake doesn't wash their rice.

- (I love permanent damage on fiction so..) Waylon limps and sometimes needs a stick to walk, Blake can't girp anything tightly or make a fist, Miles can't write as fast and had to relearn most of basic things he used to do easily.

[mslangermann-a]

HEADCANON. the trials.

lynn is only 28 when she's caught by murkoff and nearly meets her end as the snitch

blake was taken six months prior and lynn searched for him all that time, gathering information on murkoff in an effort to expose them as well

blake only lasted two months as a reagent, but instead of being left to die in the trials, murkoff scientists warped his mind to the point he became a pusher for them. when released to hunt reagents, his ramblings sound like a scared child's, claiming that i have to do this for him - for father loutermilch and that i'm sorry jessica.

the SNITCH wound is not complete on lynn's chest. part way through coyle's torture, he's distracted by a reagent somewhere in the trial and that's when lynn makes her escape. the burn mark reads "S" and the beginning of the "N".

after escaping the snitch trial and brought back as a reagent, lynn is in debt to miles (@walriding). he's the reason she's alive. they become fast friends, having known of each other's work prior to the trials.

in the trial, lynn plays the aggro role. her preferred rig is the stun rig, allowing her to keep ex-pops off her follow reagents.

lynn makes friends relatively easily in the sleep room, striking up conversations and helping where she can.

her interest is drawn to the man in the wheelchair who watches from above. each day, she makes discreet notes on his behavior and collects documents where she can to piece together murkoff's past and their goals for the future.

in the sleep room, lynn has become well known as the arm wrestling champion (see an example of a win against miles below the cut). her losses are few. her wins have prompted ace (@smugliar) to start a gambling ring around the sport, where any available contraband, murkoff currency, or even tickets can be used to bet.