you'll know me as a killer }
a heart killer
you've always been a little bit loose when it came to the code of ethics for journalism. you have no problem reporting the truth, no matter how hurtful it may have been or how much of an impact it caused, and you've been about as adventurous as most reporters wouldn't dare to be, but you've never been afraid to speak your mind openly, even when everyone else told you to keep your mouth shut, that your opinions were not appropriate or newsworthy. it never stopped you before and you still don't regret it, even if one instance in particular landed you clear out of a job. your integrity as a person came before any journalistic professionalism and you don't fancy yourself a falsifier, so you packed up and waltzed out, flipping as many mental middle fingers as you could along the way. had your hands not been full, you probably would have thrown one up anyway on the way out. it's a lot easier to say fuck you to people who fucked you first, and they must have really thought they fucked you good then, or you had fucked yourself, rather. you can't say you've never made mistakes in your life, but at least at the end of the day you could say you were being honest, however bluntly it may have come across. you don't feel a reason to hide from the more darker sides of humanity, and how liberal you are with your own speech may as well be as apparent as a black lettered sign pinned to your shirt written in all capitals.
when it really came down to it, you cared more for truth than your own public appearances. you may have been out of an official job, but that did not mean you had to quit being a reporter all together. getting let go just gave you a little bit more room to do what you wanted, report on whatever you wanted to without having to go through the hoops just to get a denial.
so, when the email came to you giving you a little piece of something that you could use for possibly the biggest story of your life, the biggest story the world could ever know, marked with an address more scrambled than your morning breakfast, you had no reason to think twice about accepting the tip. inside info like this doesn't just fall in your lap everyday; you'd be stupid to not at least check it out.
the stories about murkoff have been shady for years. you'd have to be born without eyes and a working brain to see what's really going on behind the veil of charity and supposedly well meaning gestures. having the chance to finally take them down a peg, finally bring to light all the shit you know is going on, isn't even something you could call a once in a lifetime. you don't plan on looking a gift horse in the mouth, because if you don't check this out, who will? if you ever get to meet the person who sent you the tip, you'll have to buy him a drink sometime as a thank you.
the drive out to mount massive asylum is dark, and the vibe of the entire area is so backwoods creepy and ominous you're almost surprised that the only thing that's happened so far is your cell phone losing signal. an organization as shrouded as murkoff would choose a place like this to operate, almost as if you're in a stereotypical horror film. by the time you finally reach the asylum, the whole place seems dead like nobody has touched it since it was first closed down years ago. were it on not for the more modern accommodations to the place, you think you'd almost believe the asylum really had just been left to rot. thankfully, there's no way in hell you could ever believe an idea as optimistic as that. besides, who would go out of their way to send you on a wild goose chase? you would hope that someone didn't have that much time on their hands, god forbid.
just looking at the building, an almost perfect caricature of haunted asylums featured in spooky stories, makes you want to throw up the meager lunch you had just before driving out all this way. you expect to find almost anything behind those walls with what you know about murkoff tucked under your belt. you're not going to get anywhere just sitting on your ass in your car though, so you pick up your camera, fortify your much needed backbone, and make your way inside mount massive.
the interior doesn't do much to lessen the idea about the building being abandoned. the electricity is shoddy at best, and the rooms and hallways are about as messy as you could imagine from a place left behind. too bad the sight and smell of fresh blood completely ruins that illusion before it could have too much life to make you think otherwise. you were expecting nearly anything before you came in here, but you can't really say you were hoping to see signs of struggle and bloodshed nearly everywhere you pointed your camera. suddenly, your skin is crawling a lot more than it did while you were outside. whatever happened here was obviously bad, and you're not entirely sure if it's done wrecking the place. you couldn't have picked a worse time to come out here, but you're not leaving without something to use against murkoff. you need as much evidence as you can get your hands on, whether it be through your camera lens or the documents laying around.
the blood on the walls and floors was bad enough, but it's when the bodies start showing up, both alive and dead, that you wish you had turned around before you had gotten too far. you might have been known to take on stories no one else wanted, but you at least had some sense of self-preservation. hindsight is always 20/20, after all. you really fucked yourself on this one. so far, beyond being scared shitless, obviously, and seeing way more dead bodies than you ever wanted to in your entire life, you haven't been hurt, you're still breathing. you expect that to change very quickly, if you're being entirely truthful.
i'll have it so you don't know }
i'm nothing but a mean foe
sometimes, you really fucking hate being right on the money whenever you think of your future while you're in this place. fuck your stupid ass for being as cynical as you are.
things don't get much better the further you go in. being thrown through a window by some ugly bastard with a fucked up face is at the top of the list of shit i didn't want to happen to me today, and the list just keeps getting longer and longer. the patients you find throughout the building are varying degrees of just not there at all or entirely lost to what murkoff did to them. it's clearly seeing as has you are in an asylum, but everyone here really is off their rocker in a bad way, much more so than when they were admitted from what you can tell from the files and documents you're finding. chris walker, in particular, is being a huge pain in your ass, somehow creeping up on you while barely making a sound more often than not, something that should be impossible since his size can only be described as fucking gigantic. you can't say father martin has been giving you much of a break either, from putting the title of apostle on you without your consent to drugging you (that's two for the knockout counter) to putting you into the ward, right where all the patients in mount massive lived. part of you does want to feel sorry for them in one way or another, whether it be because of the horrific states their minds are in or how mutilated some of them are, but you don't have a whole lot of room for pity right now. you've only got sympathy since you're trying to survive just like the rest of them. some people might have called you crazy in the past, but you definitely aren't crazy enough to be here, more like a patient than a normal person at this point. a target for someone to chase after and rip apart like tissue paper, a person to be controlled by someone else for their needs.
someone should really give you the unluckiest fucker in the world award right about now because you sure did earn it fair and square. anyone who thinks otherwise can get fucked.
as much as you want to get out and put this whole thing beyond you, you're compelled to keep recording, to keep compiling as much information as you can get your hands on. the more frightened part of your brain wants you to put the camera away so you don't have to see anymore of the awful, disgusting things littering the asylum at nearly every turn, but the rational part of your mind knows that you can't see without it and you might as well get what you came for while you're stuck here, as messed up as it all is. no place feels safe, even when it doesn't seem like anyone is around, and you've long since stopped thinking that there was anywhere here for you to be safe. it's too dark pretty much all over for you to believe that you're completely alone at any time, and you've been cornered by chris walker and the other patients too many times to not expect it by now. the sad part is you're not really surprised at seeing split blood very much anymore. it's like a part of the decor, splattered around and used to write messages on the walls, smeared like a finger painting project gone wrong.
all kinds of vague details and directions are up on the walls, most of which you assume to be from father martin, seeing how he's the only one who doesn't seem like he wants to kill you, the operative word here being yet as far as you're concerned. you don't really trust anyone in here as far as you could throw them. the popular word in mount massive, and not just with the messages on the walls, is the word walrider. at first you think it's just another thing you have to note down about murkoff along with everything else, but you feel like you've stumbled upon something much more the deeper you go into the asylum. you don't have a lot to go on yet beyond what murkoff left behind and your own gut, but it seems like the heart to all of this has something to do with walrider, project walrider. it's mentioned too many times for it to just be a coincidence. you're so glad that a mystery came with all this murder. you're not much of a detective, even if you are observant, but that's not really going to stop you. the truth is always around somewhere for you to find; it's just that the situation has gotten much more murky than it already was.
after all the times you've been ambushed, you think you would be expecting anything by now, but you guess you wouldn't be able to call what you're experiencing anything other than ambushes with how they catch you off guard. being strapped into a wheelchair just makes you appreciate all the times when you could move. honestly, you'd love to have your hands free at least, if only so you could cover your ears and not have to listen to trager talk so much it leads you to believe he loves the sound of his own voice more than anything in the world. if you weren't strapped in and trapped in this hellhole, you'd have some choice words to say to him about how he acts. you really hate types like him, acting as if he's better than you just by breathing.
when trager cuts two of your fingers off with something that looks more like garden shears than a medical tool, the blades sliding through your flesh and bone with hardly any trouble at all, your stomach is filled with the worst case of nausea you've ever felt in your entire life, and you've been blackout drunk on more than one occasion. forget being thrown out a window; this is now the number one thing at the top of your shit list. the pain is practically unbearable, blood pouring from the nubs of what used to be two of your fingers, getting all over your hands in the process. you struggle with your restraints because there's no way in hell that you're going to stay long enough for trager to cut off anything else. the nausea hits your throat as soon as you stand up, your vision full of your bloodied hands and missing fingers. you can't hold it back. you throw up all over the floor in front of your feet, the sick and acidic taste of it filling your mouth.
to think, you landed in a place of human remains, or who knows what, have been tossed around and chased and your breath hasn't been under control since you entered the building, not to mention the whole asylum reeks of decay, but having your fingers cut off is what finally makes you throw up. there some kind of irony there you'd think; you're just too busy vomiting to notice it. if this wasn't a personal matter before, it sure as shit was now that you've lost something you can't have back. it figures that murkoff would take from you like this, however inadvertently it may have been.
if you ever manage to get out of here in one piece, or - well - what's left of you that used to be one piece, you're going to bust this story so wide open murkoff won't ever be able to forget who did them in. you want them to remember you like a thorn in their side they just can't get out no matter what they do. you want them to pay for all the hell you put them through, for all the hell everyone inside the asylum was put through. they'll never forget you, miles upshur, for really fucking them over good.
at least trager let you keep your middle fingers. it would have been nice to flip him the bird once or twice before he pulled out the scissors. hindsight is a real bitch that way.
take you to 'til it turns sour }
to figure out i'm all power
it's been one death after another, like a line of dominoes after they've been tipped over. first it was trager, who you were more than happy to see die right in front of you. then it was father martin, who burned himself for his beliefs, making himself out to be a martyr for something that's more a monster than a god. chris walker went next, ripped up by the walrider with hands the color of black smoke.
the walrider. the morphogenic engine. it was all connected from the very start, all leading to dr. wernicke like a sick spiderweb so thick you can't walk through it without getting some of it on you.. you've been hearing static in your head, rattling your brain within the confines of skull, vibrating through you ever since you got a real up close and personal look at the walrider. way too up close and personal, if anyone bothered to ask you about it. it's like your head has been buried by sand that just keeps on pouring even though you're already submerged, like a tv has been left on a dead channel for hours, unable to be cut off by pulling the plug. you want to pull out your hair, rip off your ears, anything for the static to stop being an itch just underneath your skin. your eyes are full of black wisps, the walrider floating in view of your camera, the images of the engine stuck behind your eyelids like tattoos. you don't feel like the same person who drove up here to get a story anymore. you feel like a man who has seen too much, lost too much, and made too many mistakes. you're unstable, jumpy, your thoughts a mess of everything you've seen. getting out isn't really much of a priority anymore; you just want it to end in someway, whether it be with murkoff going down or you dying. you've always been cynical. death just seems like the more plausible of the two at this point.
wernicke, the ringer leader, the puppet master, a man who should have died many years ago and was reported as such, is just as emaciated as you'd expect from someone who's lived for much too long. after everything that's happened to you, you can't even muster up the strength to be surprised by seeing him. murkoff already proved they could do things that were only dreamed of in the past; who said that keeping someone alive was beyond their limits? the cracked lens of your camera (it would have to get ruined while you were here; leap of faith your ass) captures enough evidence for it to be true.
the host for the walrider, billy hope, is still alive as well, if you could call being connected to machines making sure his heart continues beating any form of alive. if you were him, you would have wanted your plug pulled a long time ago. death would be preferable to living like this, unable to move or doing anything at all, the only purpose in your life being to house some fucked up act of science gone horribly wrong. pretty much everything else that was in your way was taken care of. why should the walrider be exempt from that trend. although, it would be nice if the walrider would just take out wernicke while it was at it. you were dreaming too big, you guessed. with how much you want this place to just fall into the earth and never come back, you can't really blame yourself for wishing murder upon an old man. it's his fault that you're even here right now. had none of this happened, you would have been at home, probably drinking, probably a little bored, but at least you'd still have your fingers. at least you wouldn't have trudged through a living nightmare like walking through a swamp.
the consequences of disconnecting billy from the machines happens before you can even blink. god, you hate being thrown to the floor so fucking much. people, things, who can do that shouldn't be allowed in this world. how you haven't cracked a rib or something like that by now is some kind of fucked up miracle. you could outrun chris walker and the patients, you could escape from trager while getting your revenge in the process, but you have no defense against the walrider, its very existence a concept that drove people mad. never mind the walrider being strong enough to hold you almost completely still, the pressure of its gripping hands reaching deep into your bones all the way down to the marrow. you just can't compete with this. no amount of running or jumping was going to keep the walrider from getting to you forever, and you feel like you knew that all along. you don't just look at something like the walrider and live to tell about it.
and then, just as quickly as it had begun, it's over. the walrider disappears, smoke blown upwind in lessening wisps until it's all gone, as if it was never there at all. you can only hope it's because you pulled billy's plug and not something else. you're so tired of surprises, of the unexpected. stumbling back to the door you came in from, blood loss and aching bones making your vision blurry, you can only think about leaving. you want to leave. you've been wanting to leave since the beginning. you don't feel like going through hell part two just to get back out, but damn do you want to leave already, whether it be going home or just dying right here. you're so tired, unsure if you want to live with all this shit in your head. maybe one day, if you were really goddamn lucky, you could get out and look back on all this and laugh at how much of a fuck up you were. whether or not you'll feel like laughing at yourself in the foreseeable future is up for debate for way too many reasons, but it would be nice to just brush off mount massive asylum like a bad dream. like it happened to someone else. nice things don't happen to boys like you, apparently.
the door opens before you can reach it, the sound of guns cocking a sound so loud in your ears it may as well have been played over car speakers with the volume at max.
you should have seen this coming, and honestly, you figured you probably were not going to be making it out of here alive, despite your previous thoughts. you've never been one to shy away from the truth, and the truth is you were already weak from blood loss and being tossed around like a ball by the walrider, from feeling the swarm pass through you like it passes through everything else. even if you weren't being pointed down by guns right now, the likelihood of you going all the way back the way you came and driving away might as well have been nonexistent. you can't deny that you had a little hope for it, however misplaced it was. stories like yours never end well. you've seen them too many times to think otherwise.
you can't even tell who shot you first or if anyone even said fire. the bullets come so fast there's no point in trying to figure out the exact origin or time. and to think you were sort of hoping there was nothing else that could cause you more pain than you were already feeling. shit, had you been in a better state of mind and in a much stronger state, you probably would have said the job was already done and they were just wasting bullets trying to gun down an already dying man. each bullet feels like a pain that stretches out over your entire body, and you fall to the floor, your vision getting blurrier and blurrier as the seconds tick by, as you see you blood pool on the smooth floor. at least you can die knowing you fucked murkoff over, at least a little bit. serves them right for all the hell they put you through.
your eyes open to the sight of mangled bodies all over, black tactical clothes and guns thrown about as if the men who shot you just blew up out of nowhere. standing up, you don't feel like a man who shot so full of holes that swiss cheese would be jealous at the sight of you. you don't really feel very human at the moment, actually.
you feel like a black haze, like a body that could be blown away by a simple breeze. the sound of static surrounds you, like it's inside you much deeper than your ears. but, at the same time, it feels familiar, and not just because you've been hearing it for so long, but as if you've been hearing it your whole life since birth, like it's a part of you, a piece of your body you didn't know you had, an extra limb. it almost doesn't seem like a bad sound anymore, strangely enough seeing as how it tortured you so before now.
it doesn't really matter right now. you just want to leave. you want to get out. you don't even care that you're somehow standing again after being shot with bodies laying around you. you can think about it later. the fact that you're even alive right now? like hell you're going to waste time questioning it when you could be walking out through the front door right now. you can think about all of this later when mount massive is just a memory you can look back on with an obligatory fuck you to murkoff every time. you don't even think about picking up your camera.
it feels like it's been years since you last saw the sun or felt the heat of it against your face. you look towards your car. thank god it's still here. you can hardly contain yourself from rushing towards it. you got out. you got out, despite all that murkoff threw at you. you really can't think of a bigger fuck you than that.
a man you've never seen before in your life drives off with your car before you can get to it, the wheels kicking up dirt as it speeds away without you inside it.
so much for leaving the way you came.