walriding

[walriding]

" Hey there sweetheart, I see your body houses an abomination of flesh and metal . . . Is there uh -- AHEM -- any room for one more ? "

There is a possibility, both distinct and unfortunate, that Miles is too easily flattered these days. Probably a trauma thing -- he'd make a therapist rich off his never ending bills or the book they could write about him, if that was something he ever wanted to pursue. Instead he's left in the nebulous realm of self-diagnosis. Something about being a youngest child, an inferiority complex instilled in youth -- even though his childhood was fine, really, he's got bigger complaints than all that -- or just some deeply buried people-pleasing tendency mired by this prickly shell he's wrapped himself in.

That, or Murkoff fried his brain, rewired neural pathways with the same therapeutic methods that prompted others into acts of necrophilia he'd rather have not recorded. He can't remember, really, if this kind of thing would've worked on him before, too. Not that it matters in the present.

You are one sick puppy, Upshur.

He smiles easily, snort-laughs like this is an attempted bar pickup and not... whatever the fuck this is. If he had to guess, he's being propositioned by some body snatching horror for intentions less about the carnal and more about the carnage.

"Ah, y'know what, it's pretty packed up here already." He taps his temple, feels the responding frisson under his fingertips. Testy, aren't we? "But for you, well," the word is drawn out, sing-song. "Since you asked so nicely, maybe I can make a little extra space."

[walriding]

He can't concentrate, of course -- doesn't know why he thought he'd be able to get anything done. He stares at the login screen of his laptop for a solid thirty seconds, cursor blinking blandly, before he huffs and slams the lid back down. That itch just won't leave, the ever-present cocktail of paranoia and extrasensory awareness there's no relief from. Something's out there. There's always something out there, waiting for him, watching him. He's been lucky so far -- save for a few close calls just after Mount Massive, when he'd been too addled to keep his head while trying to tie up loose ends he hadn't even left untied himself -- Miles has managed to keep a step or two ahead of the people who want to rip survival out of his skin.

But staying idle is risky. He'd worried about that, when he first tracked Preston down. Worried that sticking around, staying near him, would attract the wrong kind of attention to them both. And stupidly, selfishly, he'd ignored the fear. Told himself he'd get what information he could from the other man and skip town before Murkoff had the chance to pin him like an insect.

It's never going to end, is it? That's not a question really -- he knows what the answer is. He's alive against his will and there's still a cost beyond that plain horror. They'll never stop hounding him until they get back the thing he never wanted in the first place, the salvation he never fucking asked for. The only thing keeping Miles from throwing himself in front of another Murkoff firing squad is the knowledge that the Walrider is a greater danger in their hands than it is as the arbiter of his own torment.

Their relentless pursuit isn't the price of his continued existence, no. Because that's valueless to him, a prize he's wanted to hand back since he won it. Instead his misery is the price for not fucking letting them win. For not allowing them to mine and manufacture and spread this nightmare they got their hands on. If it were up to him, if it were only his fate on the line, he'd have given up a long time ago. But for the sake of everything, everything...

He's always been more motivated for others than he's been for himself. Which is why, when he hears Preston call out -- a worryingly cut-off shout that's obviously meant for his benefit -- his first thought is that he needs to charge out there and defend the person who just painted a giant goddamn target on himself. And for what? For Miles?

"Fucking... jackass," he mutters, and the jacket's back on as he hugs the wall with his back to inch closer to the window. The drawn curtains offer little more than a slivered view of the dim parking lot. He could see out there if he really wanted to, but loosing any of the nanites risks tipping his hand. If that even matters, though -- they clearly know he's here already.

Miles weighs his options. Stay here like a fish in a barrel, hope that Preston can draw some of the heat -- but he's not a fan of dumping that kind of risk on someone else, even if that someone else has something godlike simmering in his veins. Or he could run, cross his fingers he'll survive whatever gets immediately thrown at him, haul ass and hope the crappy car he's been relying on will make a halfway decent getaway. Not ideal either way. It's easy to be reminded of the asylum in that moment, the helpless feeling of being trapped under a bed or in a locker while some juiced-up freak snuffled around in search of his delicate bits. And he hates that more than anything, doesn't want to be that trapped and terrified ever again.

And he doesn't have to be, does he? There is a third option, the nuclear one. Raise hell before they know what hit them. His spine tingles, foreign and electric.

He's had enough of being their victim.

His laptop is quickly thrown back into his duffel, which he slings over his shoulder. Miles doesn't touch Lance's things -- figuring that out is his problem. Should've thought of that before he tried to play hero, maybe. He strides out of the room with more confidence than he feels, though he sticks to the shadows as best he can. No need to be overly cocky. It's easy enough to find where Preston called out from, and there's something grim and unreadable on Miles' face as he attempts to make good on his earlier thought of grabbing the other man and shoving him up against a wall.

"Just-- shut the fuck up for a second, alright?" he hisses. "They're not here for you. They're not gonna give a shit about you, no matter how much of a pain in the ass you are." A shaky breath while he leans into the sensation of his skin crawling. He looks at Preston, looks into him, for a moment. "You know where they are, don't you? Point me in the right direction, then we can all get the hell out of here."

The chuckling in his mind spills down his spine like thick oil. It's been going on for a good minute or so of them walking down the hallway to make their wayout into the open, doesn't let up even when they are.

It's fucking cold out here. Cold and creepy and dark and.....lonely.

That's just what you fucking wanted, isn't it he growls at it eventually, realizing just that. It had wanted Miles to fuck off. And even though he decided to make the move first, it still is what it is. They did fuck off. He's alone with it again. And that's exactly what it wants.

He can tell as much, by the way it just keeps chuckling and coiling around in his head like the fucking snake that it is.

I don't understand what your fucking problem is. The guy can't even stand me. He doesn't know shit about you or.... He trails off as he thinks it through some more. Murkoff and fucked up hospitals and reporters and history and research and..... But he could find out more. I could through him. So what, you're -scared- of the dude? You trying to scare him away? You're pathetic.

Lance stops walking and shoots a look back at the motel, considering it. Just walking back and saying fuck all, refusing to let it pull the strings like that. Just before he can though, it speaks up at last.

Don't flatter yourself and open your eyes, pet. Look around.

Pft. Why.

Just do it. Humor me.

He doesn't fucking want to. Doesn't fucking need to, because he can feel it already. Has been feeling it ever since he stepped foot out here. The distinct sensation of being watched. Of something. Maybe even many things. Sinister. Watching. Waiting in the dark. It's much louder out here than Collingwood had been in the end, whenever he'd felt something similiar. Cars driving in the streets and blinding him with their lights. People chatting, tvs running, drunk friends walking home in the distance. But he still notices it. Sees it when it doesn't look like there's anything suspicious to be seen out there.

Danger.

They're here. They followed him. They're watching.

Exactly. I'm not -scared- of this mini-you and his little friend. -You- should be scared of -them-, pet. Let them have right at it. Not your problem. Not your friend.

Where are they?

A pause. Increasing the tension, his fear that much more. He doesn't expect Azathoth to give a reply. Expects it to take over maybe, keep him walking. Instead, it humors him, too.

The van by the bar. The other side of the street. And the laundromat. And the one on the right, too.

How many?

A lot, it tells him with so much delight. Followed by yet another chuckle. Him being out here or in there...doesn't make a difference. He was gone before he set foot in your room. Now keep walking. It's not our problem.

No. We need to help him. You can kill these guys. Easily.

Keep walking, it orders, taking over already, making him do just that. He tries to fight it at first, but not for long, eyes darting back and forth between all the cars it pointed out. Sweat forming on his forehead.

You're right, he tries to soothe it, swallowing hard. There's too many. Another slew of panicked little looks at them all. So many of them. Peppered all around the motel. Waiting. Do you think they know? That he was with me?

No. They don't care about you. They don't know about you. Which is exactly why we'll keep walking.

Yes, You're right. I want to get out of here.

His own voice, shaking inside his mind, sounding so tense, so scared. It prompts it to do just that, happy with the fact that he agrees with it, eager to get him away faster. He clears his throat and tests the waters with it, surprised to find out that he still can, that it hasn't bothered taking full control, just enough to keep him walking. After all, it enjoys the struggle, the fight for control more.

Big fucking mistake.

"HEY! MURKOFF! I KNOW YOU'RE OUT TH...." he yells at the top of his lungs, loud enough to echo all over the parking lot not just to where they're parked, but the motel windows and walls as well. Exactly what he wants, praying that Upshur can hear it. Murkoff. Right outside. Right here. Right now.

[walriding]

I need to be writing more itchy twitchy just-prior-to-being-banished-to-mount-massive trials verse miles

[walriding]

[walriding]

"If you wanted me to suck your dick or something you could just say so. Would that untwist your panties?"

"Are you saying you have?"

"Pft. Well. In that case. Oh pretty please, tell me all about your monster harem. Tell me how much that would fix my attitude. Tell me how much you get laid. I admit it! I lied. I'm not vanilla. I get off on degradation. Hit me harder with my envy. Oh no, how can I ever beat someone who fucks as hard as Upshur. I am such a failure, I'm no man!"

[walriding]

"... You're saying you've never even thought about it? Huh. Explains your generally awful attitude, I guess."

"Duh. Months trapped in a haunted mental asylum. Not all of us can be into weird monster fucker shit. You do you I suppose. I like it vanilla. Sue me."

[walriding]

miles vc: so what I'm hearing is you haven't gotten laid in a while

@walriding

Lance VC : so what, artistic ambition is strictly reserved for anything but porn?? Give me a fucking break. I need my footage on point and in frame. I want to focus on the action and not spend 10 hours prerendering fucking stabilizing effects. Watch me do a fucking Hitchcock Zoom on that shit. You just watch me!

[walriding]

"Item" Flash for the Original Outlast ~

[The original three games have far less items you can pick up, so the range of objects I could choose from was remarkably more limited]

[Personally, I always wanted to get Rick’s shears tattooed myself soooo if I was allowed to get any of my own flashes…so far it would be the shears, Miles’ fingers and/or the heart key from my Trials flash ~]

[walriding]

They're having a 2 for 1 Who gives a Fuck special at the Shove It up your Ass store

[walriding]

the thing is, i think horror needs to have a little love. it needs to have an obsession. does the parasite in your body love you? it raises you from the dead, it sustains you. this is its body. this is your body. does the haunted house feel intruded upon? is it hungry? what is hatred but adoration?

[walriding]

"BIRTHDAY!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MILES!" He's getting a box shoved into his hands, inside is a new camera! Perfect for getting the best scoop on corporations that wanna hide all their dirty shit under the table! "Sooo...wuzzat now? You're like 28 right?"

His first reaction is to frown. The perpetual turning of the calendar isn't something he likes to acknowledge -- not for the fear of what each passing year brings most people closer to, because he'd made peace with his own death a while ago and is kind of pissed the reaper hasn't come to collect yet, honestly. No, he's loathe to acknowledge the date for the sake of his own vanity.

The gift helps soften the blow, at least. He won't even ask where Vale got it from, if it was purchased or stolen. It's the thought that counts. But what really turns the tide of his attitude is their follow up comment. Miles knows he's being teased, but he still snorts and elects to just take the compliment.

"And not a day over."

[walriding]

"Oh, good, that's the gut feeling I usually get before the fun stuff starts."

It's not as though his little excursion to Mount Massive was Miles' first foray into breaking and entering -- or his last -- but every repeated instance gives him slight pause, now. He can't help but wonder if a trip will be of the one way nature after the night it all went wrong. Still, he shimmies through the gap after Kennedy without argument. For as much as he jokes about ignoring his better judgement, he really doesn't know when to call it quits and back out of a potentially dangerous situation.

"What a gentleman," he retorts, finding the promise hard to believe. The better protection will be not getting caught. It takes him a moment to get through the fence as his sleeve snags on a cut wire. Not enough to tear, but enough to slow him down as he tries to free himself without ruining another jacket. It comes free after only one mumbled curse, and then he's continuing along behind the agent and scanning the murky din with a slight frown.

"So, you investigate stuff like this often?" He's dancing around his own reasons for being here in the hopes Kennedy will show his hand first -- one card, at least. Miles knows better than to expect something for nothing, though. If you want to fish, you need to give up a little bait. "The info I got was... vague. Kinda weird. Weird's my usual wheelhouse, though, so it seemed worth a look."

There is no time to worry about whether he will make it into Miles’ good books or not.  He is here for the job,  and he has been clear enough about it,  but the man thankfully did not need half those reassurances.  So far,  it looks like he is just as focused on surviving the night ahead rather than finding a glimmer of camaraderie in the dark.  Although his track record may be proving otherwise,  Leon eventually learned after a couple of bittersweet lessons served to him on a bloodied platter that getting attached to the people he stumbles upon along the way is best avoided.

Often the introductions done with his badge rather than a friendly handshake are sufficient in curbing others’ eagerness in becoming chummy with him.  Again,  from the get-go,  Miles struck him as somebody removed from that kind of approach.  Hard to admit,  and not that Kennedy has to say it aloud,  but the journalist’s quick sarcasm could almost make him likeable.  But he squanders the guffaw he wants to give in response and diverts his attention back to the building looming before them.

“  Take a guess,  ”  the agent counters with a cursory glance crossing Miles’ line of sight and then comes closer to the fence.  Sturdy gate and snapped wires.  Whoever might’ve gotten here earlier apparently did not have an extra key at hand but a bolt cutter instead.  “  If you’re really curious,  my hunch is yelling to get the fuck out of here,  ”  he adds as his hands already wrestle the hole in the fence,  pulling it apart even further,  so he can squeeze through the emergency entrance.

Leon’s eyes narrow,  studying the misty and dismal area.  A stomped track in the spotty grass.  Someone drops by this place on the regular—  For what?  His body turns to his companion and he nods,  encouraging him to trail along.

“  I’ll talk us out of the trespassing charges,  let’s keep going.  ”

[walriding]

Panic chokes him -- not his own, because Miles is surprisingly calm about the whole affair. Drowning is a laughable impossibility, and getting pulled down into the lakebed nightmare dimension would be such an irony, after everything, that he has to believe it won't happen. But the fear being broadcast at him hits like a wave, makes him almost dizzy. There are to many flashes of awareness, too many voices, that by the time the other man -- men? because it sure as shit sounds like there are two people freaking the fuck out -- fights out of his grip Miles is having a hard time seeing straight.

He tries to make space, naturally. Lets the other kick away so that Miles has him by the shirt collar only, scruffed like a spitting cat. With the beginnings of a migraine needling its way into his eye sockets he has half a mind to let whoever -- whatever? -- this is drown. Or at least fight himself -- themselves? -- to exhaustion.

It would make this easier.

All at once it's like a wall being thrown up. A barrier, a filter, between the oh-so-delicate bits of his brain and the unfettered weight of knowing that threatens to pulverize those bits at any given moment. He doesn't say thank you so much as he thinks, feels, gratitude. And the sensation is shared, and that's appreciation enough.

"Yeah, I'm risking my ass out here to fucking drown you," he retorts, pausing to spit out a mouthful of water. Research is going to flay him for this, assuming he makes it back to shore. "Because the lake couldn't manage that on its own."

He tugs on the man's collar, harsh but not intentionally unkind. The longer they're out here, the more they push their already thin luck. The frustration that hisses between his teeth isn't entirely his own. "Try to cooperate. Or we'll do this with you unconscious."

He doesn't even know anymore. Which of all these things is drowning him more. The water of course. The waves, crashing into their face without pause or mercy. Flooding their lungs with water. John's panicked yelling, telling him to swim and wave and breathe and move all at once. Or the memories of....her.

God. Was this what it felt like for her? The desperate need for air? A sheer inability to find the way out? Discern up from down, left from right? With water pressing into her little l...

ARTHUR! Swim! Up! John is roaring in his head now, and he gives it one final and frantic try. Legs kicking and shoving against the cold. Both of their heads reaching for the surface until...another valley hits. Just enough space between two waves for them to breach the surface another time, howling for air, gasping and coughing and fighting, even when it's getting harder and harder.

Yes, Arthur! John is roaring, trying his best to match his frantic paddling and kicking to keep their head above water.

"Th....the person, John...J...John, where are they? I can't keep going l..." another wave hits them square in the face, but this time, they barely manage to keep upright.

I...I don't know! He's gone! I..I can't see him! Turn around! We're...

Don't freak out, comes the sound of a voice then, just behind them. Naturally, they both do. Arthur yelps, but it ends up being more of a gargle, because there's yet another wave hitting him in the face.

Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur! He's behind us! I'm....

An arm is wrapped around their chest then. Arthur doesn't fight it. Holds on to it for dear life instead, and this is when John gasps. Lets out these horrified little noises that mean only one thing. Fuck

Arthur...John gasps, kicking and paddling still, but making obvious moves now that indicate that he's trying to get them away from the man that has come to their rescue. Shoving and kicking.

"What?!" Arthur calls out, too panicked to keep any of it under wraps, let alone realize that he's saying them out loud. "John, what did you see? What did you..." Another wave. Pounding. Leaving him no choice to cling to the man even when John is still kicking and pushing at the same time.

This man is fucking dead! Swim! Get away! Now!

The current is threatening to pull them under. The shocking cold of it all but a minute or two away from freezing him into complete immobility. The water in his lungs hurts. And the memories are unbearable. Arthur kicks and shoves and holds on all at once, and he doesn't need to see the shoreline to know that they won't make it. Time is running out. Fast. So despite John's panic, despite his protest and what he saw, Arthur gives in to their desperation, gathers what little strength he's got left and shouts past the thundering waves, even if it's useless.

"Please....! Do you mean us harm?!"

[walriding]

Oscar Isaac as Poe Dameron

The Force Awakens (2015)

[walriding]

verses where miles dyes his hair:

pre/post canon

star wars

cyberpunk

spiderverse (pre having a kid)

verses where he lets himself go gray:

remedyverse

spiderverse (post having a kid)

trials

verses where it doesn’t matter because life is an endless cycle of death that doesn’t impact his appearance:

dbd

[walriding]

PINTEREST MOODBOARD

RULES : look up “YOUR NAME + CORE + AESTHETIC” on Pinterest and choose 9 images to use as a moodboard.

tagged by : @dcmcnsinmymind

tagging: steal it uwu

[walriding]

They do NOT love each other (I’m not sure)