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fallenprophets · 16 hours ago

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Quaint Qualities || Johanna

Summary: While attempting to escape the facility after everything goes to hell, a Murkoff employee finds himself face to face with someone new in the Female Ward.

Word Count: ~ 1.8k

Warnings: gore, violence, excessive tendons, sewing skin, mild psychosis, etc

A/N: this is my little outlast oc johanna <3 love her, she’s just my silly girl, might drop her lore later on (face claim, hair claim, and the outfit plus makeup i image her to wear at the bottom!)

Requests are open!

The air pressed down, pressing in on him, as he stumbled throughout the building, footsteps sounding behind him, though when he looked over his shoulder, nothing was there.

He’d just come from the Administration block, his head throbbing, blood leaking down from a gash in his head, the irony smell probably attracting god knows what nearby.

Everything had gone to shit within only a few minutes.

Patients sprang free, doctors slaughtered like pigs, hell, the ones that hadn’t gone insane and turned on everyone had gotten slaughtered.

He’d barely managed to get away from them, those things—they couldn’t even be called human anymore.

Security was dead. They hadn’t stood any chance, and he knew that neither would he.

He had to get out—get through the courtyard, probably the Female Ward, he’d be better off going through there—as they had fewer female patients. Less to try and violently murder him, at least.

Though he wasn’t sure where he was right now, the lights were dim and hardly even functioning, and on any more, the floors were soaked in blood and other fluids he didn’t even want to attempt to guess what they were.

A small sign on the wall caught his eye as he rounded a corridor, pointing to his left, reading “Fema—“, the rest covered up, not visible.

It was where he needed to go, though.

Stepping foot outside, it was near pitch black, the only sounds being that of distant screams and cicadas singing in the summer heat, grass crunching beneath his feet as he tried navigating the dark.

His boot crunched on something below the ground, right as he was near the dark outline of a building. Looking down, he saw a small camera, and reaching down, he picked it up, giving it a few small flicks and watching as it flickered to life.

Using it to navigate the darkness, he found the entrance of what he assumed to be, hoped to be, the Female Ward. He’d only been in here a sparing few times, when sent to go update the files of a few patients, nothing more, nothing less.

It was a highly restricted area, probably due to the possibility of patients being taken advantage of in manners that even Murkoff viewed as inappropriate, which was quite something, considering their skewed morals.

Splaying his hand against one of the double doors, he pushed it open, letting the camera go out before him, the night vision acting as his eyes where he couldn’t see it.

Sliding into the large area, he was mildly glad he couldn’t see anything, the scent of lead and death overtaking much else. The sound of flies buzzing was enough for him to guess what was around.

Though if he looked, he’d see the corpses of women scattered about, their stomachs clawed open, desperately, some having small nuggets of lead soaked in blood lying around.

Their wounds were mostly stitched closed with a thick, red thread, some of their limbs almost looking empty, heels looking not quite right, hands and legs limp as if some core asset was missing, not keeping the tension that should be between the joints properly there.

Whoever wasn’t lying dead on the floor due to some sick form of c-section was hung, suicide seeming a wise decision in this situation, or had been murdered, wounds splattered across their bodies carelessly.

He tried a doorknob, the door not budging against him, shelves and random boxes thrown in front of other doorways, more like a purposeful block than an accident caused by chaos.

The only way he could keep moving was through a small, open vent he could see, one with dark stains that looked like a bloody trail leading through it.

Sighing deeply, he crouched down, having to suck his breath in just a bit to be able to fit inside of the vent, the metal denting beneath his weight as he shimmied through, squinting as he glanced at the camera, trying to see through the vent.

A small vent opening was on the side, with little see-through grates in it, and he heard someone humming through it, trying not to breathe quite as loudly, listening in as he peeked through the grates.

“Oh, can ye sew cushions—and can ye sew sheets,” A woman’s voice spoke, a bit raspy, but nothing awful. A light tune, sang in time with the order of a steady piercing noise, the dim lighting through the grates allowing him to see just a hint.

A woman, sitting on a cushioned seat, coppery blonde hair combed into neat, short curls like a style straight from the 70s. Messy, smudged light blue eyeshadow lay on her upper eyelids, lashes out of place, thick with mascara, downturned.

Lipstick sitting on her mouth, a small gap between her two front teeth as she sang quietly, somebody—a person, if he wasn’t seeing things, laying on her lap, limp, dead or unconscious, as she used a sharp, clearly diy’d needle to puncture the skin, sewing lacerations closed, the ‘thread’ on her ‘needle’ being thick and red—if not pink, almost like an organ of sorts.

A foul smell came from the room, though she seemed unbothered, continuing to hum, until he shifted in the vent, content to move on, get away from this, and the metal dented loudly.

Her song stopped abruptly, as she glanced up to the vent, a near wild look in her eyes.

His body betrayed him, stuck in a frozen position, and he watched as she came closer, and could see the various pieces of sharp metal burrowed into her open forearms, slid beneath tendons, and suddenly he could recognize what she’d been using to sew, close wounds.

It wasn't any sort of thread. It was tendons. God knows whose they were.

He could see the puncture holes in her skin, from what looked like stitches having been undone and redone, until they were neat and perfect, like the ones currently adorning her skin.

Her clothes, a white collared blouse with a black dress over, were torn apart, loosely stitched together, patterns embroidered on, red flowers, given their coloring by their unique material.

She looked through the grates after dragging herself over, legs seeming almost defective, before moving to attempt and rip it off after spying the large open gash on his forehead.

“Oh, honey. Don’t run.” Her voice was sickeningly sweet, almost deceptive enough for him not to run, though he shuffled down the vent regardless, breathing picking up as he ran for his life best he could in his situation.

He felt a hand wrap around his ankle, letting out a small yelp, he kicked out, his boot landing on something as he felt the hand give way, a small scoff of what sounded like disbelief escaping the woman.

Shoving through the vents as fast as he could, claustrophobia settling deep into his bones, he busted out of a vent, hearing the scuttling of metal clicking together, strings being pulled taut like that of a harp getting played.

Falling out, he collapsed into multiple strings, an entire woven net of what resembled a spider’s web, strings, though he knew what they were now, interwoven together, forming a tunnel.

Trying to keep himself from either hyperventilating or throwing up, he crawled onwards, ignoring the sensation of it against his hands, how some of them were dry, while others were still wet. Fresh.

The dim lighting slowly turned to near pitch black, his camera held up to his eye, the only thing keeping him able to even see just barely.

The sound of strings moving and being pulled, as if someone was letting their entire weight hang on them as they moved around, came closer, shifting ever closer to him in the darkness as he moved, shuffling around.

It drew closer and closer, until he was holding his breath, leaning down in the darkness, as if somehow, whatever was here could see.

He held his camera up, looking about, the night vision his only tool, and then he saw her.

Hanging from the ceiling of the webbed tunnel, the tendons were shaped purposefully, some taught and some tense, to make a sort of cavern for her, letting her upper body do the work as she shuffled around.

He held his breath, silencing himself as much as he could, watching as she grew closer, closer, closer—then waltzed right by him.

Slowly letting out his breath, he began moving forward again, tense joints silently popping, until his camera started beeping, a steady chirp that must’ve drawn her attention, the way he could hear the strings twanging, her long nails hooking on them.

He tried running, clawing his way out of the trap, a struggling fly in a spiders web, only for his foot to fall through a hole, twisting his ankle as he let out a yell, not even able to see, only hearing her draw closer, hot tears beginning to slip down his face as he hiccuped a bit.

He’d survived all of it before—just to die here.

A hand cradled his face, wiping the tears away with its thumb, as she cooed at him, a gentle hand prodding at the gash on his head.

“There, there, dear. We wouldn’t want an open wound, now would we?”

She murmured deceptively softly, an arm wrapping beneath his armpit, using the leverage to drag him along after easily untangling his foot from the mess of wires and string.

Within mere minutes, after being dragged over to what he could only assume was a small area, the ground shifting beneath his weight, until a small light clicked, and suddenly, he could see, just a hint, and everything didn’t seem so awful.

He was in a room now, his vision hazy from tears that clumped in his lashes, and he could only assume this was the Female Ward’s common room of sorts, a fireplace, burning with something he didn’t want to even try and mentally label as fuel, a sewing machine on an old table, and an old, cushioned chair.

She clawed her way over to it, dragging herself up, and sliding him up, resting his aching body on the arm of the chair, he hardly even moved, too busy tensed up, preparing for death, or what he thought it would be.

He said his final prayers, not expecting the gentle hand he felt against his forehead, or what felt like cloth scrubbing at his head, the sting making him yank his head back.

“Oh, no honey, we need to clean it. Don’t want an infected bride, that’s for sure.”

He didn’t know what she was on about, didn’t care to ask, not moving an inch, even as he heard the sound of something squelching out of her flesh, a needle, he realized, as he felt the skin on his forehead being punctured, little holes being made one after the other, sewing and sewing.

She began her song again, the humming, and as he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he wasn’t here, and that he was back home with his mother, back when he’d only been a little boy who’d loved watching her sew his jeans up while she’d hummed that song.

“And can ye sing bulaloo when the bairn greets,”

Extra:

Her face claim (first picture), hair style plus color claim (second picture), how i image her makeup to be (third picture), and how i image her outfit but with a white shirt (fourth picture).

#LOUUUUD sigh #friend wrote this #had to pace around my room for a sec #what a thing to wake up to #loooord #Johanna…. sighs dreamily #she can have my tendons.#or something #anyway #this ate as always

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fallenprophets · 1 day ago

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sometimes I’ll look back at my old writing and cringe so hard at it that I’ll have the sudden urge to just erase and delete it all before I remember that all of my writing is a part of me, and if I can’t love and appreciate the cringy, old part of me that was scared as hell to post my writing, but did anyway, then I can’t love and appreciate the full version of myself that is today

#changed my outlook on this ngl

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fallenprophets · 3 days ago

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Frozen on broadway got me FUCKED UPPP

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fallenprophets · 8 days ago

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•

~ la tendre indifférence du monde ~

ALBERT CAMUS

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fallenprophets · 8 days ago

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Literally idk wtf this is, the result of not drawing in years, lost all capability, oh well

#oh my god oh my god oh my go

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fallenprophets · 8 days ago

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The Stranger by Albert Camus

#this book...#forgot my love for it #l'étranger I will always love you

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fallenprophets · 8 days ago

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Compound Seams Pt. 2 || Miles Upshur/Reader

Summary: Miles gets a bit of a reprieve during his journey, though his worldview is opened in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Word Count: ~ 3.8k

Warnings: police brutality, homelessness, violence, implied murder, bodily mutilation, etc

A/N: no reader yet I just want to flesh the story out. anyway, enjoy <3

Requests are open!

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2

His throat was dry.

Something at the pit of his stomach was clawing up at his throat, begging for something to digest.

His entire body ached like he’d never felt before.

Maybe it was just his time at Mount Massive catching up to him, falling what at least fifty feet, being thrown around by the god of an abandoned cult was, his fingers cut off, hell, he could have god-knows-what kind of infection running through his system.

With the amount of dirt he’d been exposed to, the blood, mountains of corpses, piss, rust, and god knows what else, he’d be lucky if he didn’t have sepsis at this point.

Whatever was in his system would’ve metastasized by now, shoving its way through his bloodstream, finding a new place to make its home inside his body. Maybe he’d be lucky, and he’d get to die quickly.

Or maybe he’d suffer slowly, take a long, long time to die, and end up no better than a patient at that goddamned Asylum.

His throat was dry.

Water. He needed water.

Thinking too much, too fast, that’s what he was doing. The lack of hydration must’ve been going to his brain at this point.

His feet kept stumbling forward, the momentum of the action keeping him going more than any actual energy or strength left within his body. Dust gathered up around where he kicked it up, the sand having long clung to every open wound he possessed, even clumping around his bloodstained clothes.

It had snuck into his shoes, somehow, a nasty, grainy feeling coming from any time his foot collided with the ground, socks grinding against the small grains of it like a physical embodiment of nails on a chalkboard.

Miles had always hated sand.

Got where it wasn’t supposed to be, and got past every layer of protection he put on, it was nothing like the long, silky grass back home, or even the smooth, slick silt that lay on riverbeds or near creeks.

Home.

He hadn’t thought of that in a long while, not since moving to DC, abandoning it all, leaving everything behind for the pursuit of something. To prove himself, maybe, prove he was worth the investment, worth the effort it took to deal with someone like him.

Or maybe it was just who he was.

His throat lurched forward with a cough, a dry hacking sound coming out, dried blood flaking off from his throat, raw from screaming, his body trying, attempting to scab over the open wounds that carved their way down his throat.

A brief respite from the sun came as he stumbled underneath the concrete structure of a highway overpass, tents laid on the sides, the homeless leaving their claim on the land.

His hazy eyes, dry and hardly functioning, sharpened as he heard someone yelling, the voice floating in and out of his ears, his body screaming of danger, hyperreactive to anything these days.

A man was being dragged out from a shabby little navy blue tent, a few newspapers scattered around, some empty cans of something. His beard was matted, but the bottom was combed out as if he’d attempted to brush it but had given up.

Wrinkles pressed deep into the man’s skin, white hairs interweaving with the darker grey ones, his eyes being an old blue, almost like the sky with the way clouds seemed to appear in the man’s eyes.

Cataracts.

The man wheezed, coughing as he held his hands up, waving and trying to speak, but the officer, shiny badge and blue uniform paid no mind.

The officer seemed mid-40s, with brown hair slicked back, and an unimpressed frown on his face despite a small gleam in his eye as he looked back at a younger officer behind him, a boy who looked as if he was barely old enough to even have a job.

Nervous. Young. It reminded Miles of himself.

Miles stumbled forward, hand reaching out, attempting to say something, anything, words spilling mentally out but nothing coming out as his mouth opened, closed, then a wheezing cough came out.

“Here, son, you handle this one. Another druggie, just put him in cuffs and we’ll take ‘em on down.”

The older officer spoke to the younger one, jerking his head towards Miles, not flinching as he manhandled the older gentleman, shoving his hands into rough handcuffs.

“Are you…sure? I don’t—“ The younger man began, taking a look at Miles, watching as he coughed, nearly bending over, hands resting on his knees. He was torn between disgust and pity, both warring on his face in an obvious expression of his features.

Miles looked rough. He knew that. But he didn’t know how bad.

“You with me, or them?”

It wasn’t a question of loyalty between the law and the people. It was a question of loyalty to him, or to the law.

And he knew which answer he had to give.

Miles’ vision began blurring just a hint, his knees buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the hard ground, the cold concrete being just a brief respite from the burning sun he’d been exposed to for god knows how long.

He watched as the younger man flinched back just a bit, the only movement he could really see being his shoes and the bare bottoms of his pants, but he could watch as his shoes shifted slightly towards the other officer, envisioning the uneasy glance he probably gave to the man, before slowly approaching Miles once more.

He was going to get arrested. For being out here, for suffering, he was getting punished for needing help, and punished by the men supposed to give him help.

He’d seen it in the big headlines before, stories like this, but never cared to investigate further, too interested in what seemed more interesting, what caught his eye more. Too interested in the horrors of the paranormal to dare investigate the horrors of reality.

And he was ashamed.

Filled with shame that he’d let this go on, sure, he couldn’t have stopped it, but he could’ve made an impact. Could’ve helped. Could’ve not been a bystander when he had the power to assist, had the camcorder to witness.

The camcorder.

His hand reached out for it, where it was in his pocket, his arm aching with the movement and chafing against the rough texture of the ground, but he reached.

Finally, he felt the hot metal of it against his fingers, and he tugged it out with little jerking motions, his hand too weak to fully grasp it, pull it out.

It tumbled against the ground, falling out of his pocket finally, the side opening of its own will, and somehow, maybe a miracle, though he didn’t believe in any god anymore, it began recording, the little light flashing telling him so.

The young officer bent down, pushing Miles’ body over just a bit as he groaned in raspy pain, and Miles watched as the man’s brows furrowed at his neck, leaning in just a bit, and moving the collar of his old, brown jacket out of the way, and making a face of shock at what he saw.

“Hey, I think—“ He began, turning to his superior, a thud against the ground sounding as the old man in handcuffs hit the floor, and another thud sounding, though this one with a crack, as the older officer was hit across the back of his head with an old golf club, already sustaining multiple dents in it.

The camcorder acted as the eyes where he couldn’t see, though later, when he reviewed the footage, he’d see a woman, with short, curly hair, and just as many wrinkles as the older man, wielding the golf club.

Though he didn’t need the camcorder to see another person, mutilated recognizably, something familiar he’d seen before, wrap their arm around the young officer’s neck, squeezing as the man kicked and let out muffled screams, eyes wide in fear.

The boy’s hands clawed at the person’s, his feet kicking and flailing, until he finally went limp, being gently set down to the floor.

As Miles’ vision slowly faded in and out, his eyelids struggling to stay open, the last thing he saw was the old black woman walking over to him, and he felt the touch of her worn hand against his forehead, and a few words he couldn’t quite understand.

—

The first thing he registered when he finally woke up was the smell of something cooking. Some sort of meat, maybe, and he could only hope it was edible.

The second thing he registered was that he was lying on something soft, and as he shifted his hands around, it felt like a sort of blanket, maybe folded-up clothes turned into a makeshift pillow.

And as he opened his eyes, the third thing that Miles Upshur registered was that the sky was full of stars. Bright, dim, dull, and shining, they all sat there, staring down at him, all in constellations he couldn’t quite piece together without someone else to explain it to them.

He was on the ground, he knew that and could see the bare edge of the overhang of the highway above, could hear the small sounds the cars above made as they sped past, the sound of tires running, what he wouldn’t give to know the comfort of the inside of a car right now.

Shifting onto his side, he could distinctly feel cloth wrapped around his waist, his jacket having been taken off, shirt a bit disgruntled. He put his hand against the floor, struggling to balance, something he’d struggled with since losing two of his fingers, though he was surprised by the patchwork cloth shoddily tied onto his severed fingers.

To keep an infection away. Keep it clean.

Though he knew he was already infected, simply not with a flesh wound, with a mental wound that refused to heal over, and once it did, it would leave a giant scar too large for anyone else to ignore.

His throat didn’t hurt as much, not as dry, his tongue feeling like something other than sandpaper for the first time in what felt like years.

He reached behind him for his camcorder, where it should’ve been, in his pocket, but it wasn’t there. Missing. Gone.

That realization caused him to jolt up, looking around him, the tent a few feet away, the warm light of what must’ve been a fire, the shadows of people, but beside him was the younger officer, lying down on the concrete, purple bruises blooming on his neck but otherwise unharmed.

The older officer was nowhere to be seen.

Slowly getting to his feet, he began walking over to the tent, where the warm light was coming from, night had long fallen meaning the chill of the moon had settled into his bones, a harsh but welcome contrast to the scalding heat he’d put up with.

His jacket was hung on a string that ran from the top of the tent to a small hook-like divet in the side of the concrete wall of the overpass, other clothes, seemingly having just been washed, hung there.

He hadn’t seen his jacket so clean since entering Mount Massive.

Limping over to it, he gently grasped the edge of the fabric, pulling it down into his arms, tenderly sliding his arm into one sleeve, before his silence was interrupted.

“Careful with that, sugar, it ain’t dry yet.” A warm voice, and as he turned, he saw it was the woman from earlier. He must’ve looked like a deer in headlights, because she offered a soft smile, the corners of her mouth crinkling in a welcoming manner.

“Surprised you’re up so early, hon, with all you had. More bruised than a peach outta season,”

She spoke on, not seeming to mind that he didn’t answer, couldn’t seem to get a word out of his mouth despite his mind wanting to, walking over and placing a hand on his back, leading him over to where, as he suspected, there was a small fire burning.

It seemed to be lit by nothing other than some small twigs, lots of thatch gathered by the roadside, and newspapers. A pot sat over it, held up by old appliances, with what looked to be a stew of sorts bubbling in it.

The old man sat by the fire, glancing up, raising his brows, and offering a small smile, his wrists rubbed raw by the handcuffs Miles had seen placed on him earlier as his hands gently rubbed at the red rings.

The fire burned warmly as he sat down, not minding the ramblings of the older woman, something comforting about being around another human being, hearing someone speak who wasn’t trying to murder or mutilate him.

“Anywho, I’m Su-Ann, this here is my husband Garrett, but we call him Garry. Married twenty years and—oh! I’ll go fetch Tommy while you two get to know each other, make sure the soup doesn’t—“

Her voice was cut off as she walked into the tent, leaving an air of silence interrupted only by the crackling of the small fire and the bubbling of the soup, Garry occasionally leaning forward to stir it with a large metal spoon that had been hanging by the stew before he’d picked it up.

Finally, he spoke, “She can be a lot, I know. That’s why I love her, though.”

His voice was gentle, not as soft and satin as Su-Ann’s, but gentle with the weariness of his age, the knowledge of his time. His eyes remained on the stew, though the flame reflected off of his eyes.

Miles wanted to speak. Tell him. Scream to him about what had happened, show him, tell him, anything he could.

But he couldn’t.

His mouth refused to open, his tongue refused to obey, the words got stuck in his throat and he choked on them until all he could do was choke them back down.

“Not much of a talker, hm? I can respect that.”

The old man’s raspy voice murmured, his movements slow, as if not wanting to spook him. Miles’ eyes shifted down to the flame, examining it, getting lost in it.

“My son, Tommy, he’s like that. You, uh, you might’ve seen him earlier, before you blacked out.”

The man who’d choked out the young officer. He’d caught the barest glimpse, but his memory was fuzzy, covered in a cloud of dust he couldn’t quite brush off.

The notepad slid open, and it scrawled down.

“Patient.”

It wrote in that rusty red ink, and he didn’t reply, not knowing how, as he stared into the fire, the flames licking up into the air, consuming and consuming, and yet the atmosphere always gave more.

“—as long as you need,” He’d missed something Garrett had said, too distracted. Consuming.

Yet he gave more. Why he did, Miles couldn’t understand.

“I know what it’s like. Being lost. But sometimes, home isn’t a place, it’s a person. Or, maybe, an object. You’ll find it, though.”

The old man muttered, lifting his head, looking down into the soup, stirring it slowly, watching it, waiting for it to be done.

Then, he glanced over at Miles. Paused for a moment, and as he spoke the last bit of his sentence, he pulled out Miles’ camcorder from an inner pocket in his jacket, handing it over to the man with a knowing gleam.

As if on time, Su-Ann emerged from the tent, hand in hand with the person who’d choked out the youngest officer, and you suddenly understood what the note had meant by patient.

The sewing marks from where the skin had been forcefully re-arranged, the teeth being shoved into uncomfortable positions, not where they were supposed to be, the obvious scars in his skin.

He was from Mount Massive Asylum. There was no other explanation for it.

Miles stiffened, and in response, Su-Ann smiled, understanding, knowing, and not blaming him for his response.

“This here’s Tommy, he’s been with us for a good couple months now, sugar.”

She spoke, moving towards the soup, taking the spoon from Garrett’s hand, and beginning to serve it in small bowls that she must’ve gotten from inside the tent. She sat down beside her husband, seeming content to let the silence settle in this moment.

Tommy sat down beside Miles, not seeming to mind his tenseness, and gratefully accepted his bowl, devouring it.

He was handed a warm bowl of stew, and poked at it with the spoon he was given at first, before feeling his stomach growl, and realizing that he needed to eat this. Didn’t matter what was in it. It was more a matter of survival rather than whether he’d enjoy it or not.

Getting a spoonful of broth and what looked to be some sort of meat and long vegetable, probably wild, he set it in his mouth, surprised to find that it was quite good, melting in his mouth.

Before long, Su-Ann had refilled his bowl, and he was chowing down on it, apparently not having known how hungry he was beforehand. He knew he was being greedy, consuming, taking more than he should.

But maybe it was more a matter of how much was willing to be given, than how much he was taking.

Su-Ann and Garrett were laughing about some joke they’d both made, probably an inside joke, considering how long they’d known each other.

Tommy was smiling, or at least what looked like a smile from him, enjoying the crackling of the warm fire, leaning into it.

For just a moment, surrounded by warmth, the happiness of those around him, welcomed with open arms despite himself, he felt good.

Happy.

Even as the fire slowly died out over time, Miles found himself with the tiniest hint of a smile on his face, the corners of his lips pulled up just a hint.

The embers slowly turned from a deep, orangey red to a deep grey as the fire smothered out, and eventually, Tommy retired back to the tent, content with his family here, his home, in a way that Miles wondered if he’d ever find.

How strange, to consider him envious of the very group of people he’d pitied only a few hours ago.

He helped gather the dirty utensils, silently placing them in a pile as he gathered his things, his camcorder being flipped open just a bit, hitting the record button, capturing just a moment of happiness. For him to think back on later.

Maybe just to show that there was more to give these people than the idle pity of a middle-class citizen, there was much more to appreciate in them, more to see in them than just viewing them as abused animals and moving on.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Su-Ann asked from behind him, making him jump, as he hadn’t previously noticed her there.

In her arms, she held a plastic water bottle, refilled with water, and what looked like a few small granola bars she must’ve found somewhere all the way out here.

“Picked these up from the store with Tommy, before we came back and found you and Garry. Glad we did.”

She spoke, her usual cheery attitude not fading, but seeming a bit more melancholy, looking him up and down, as if committing him to memory, before placing the bars and the bottle in the pockets of his jacket.

“You’re always welcome here, honey. There’s a hotel not far from here where you might hitch a ride. Be safe out there.”

Su-Ann finally spoke, leaning in, standing on the tips of her toes, and Miles leaned down just a bit to help her as she placed a kiss on his forehead, bringing him in for a hug.

And as he hugged her back, his face being shoved into her shoulder, a few tears pricked up at his eyes, though not just his. Some form of sadness welled up, from both him, and whatever—whoever was left after leaving that damned place.

Wiping them away as he finally managed to pull away, he glanced back, seeing Garrett give a final nod, one of approval, and seeing a hand poke out from the tent, waving goodbye.

With that, he turned, looking at the rising sun, the haze it set over the dusty horizon, and he mentally opened that notepad, scrawling in it with that old blue pen.

“Note; Don’t let anyone tell you how to judge a cover. And don’t question whatever the hell the meat in that stew was.”

Extra:

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 5:23

The camcorder’s camera whipped around wildly as if held by someone who’d never handled one before. It showed random angles of what appeared to be grey slabs, before finally turning around, and showing Su-Ann and Garrett standing beneath the overpass.

Su-Ann laughed, holding the camcorder, spinning it around happily, before turning it on Garrett, watching as his cheeks turned a light pink while he grinned, chuckling while shaking his head in fond exasperation.

“Oh, don’t be a grumpy Gary! It’s fun—!”

Her voice spoke, clearly overjoyed as she walked around their small makeshift home of a campsite, showing around, until finally poking into the tent, where Tommy sat, a sharp piece of metal made into a makeshift needle in one hand, Miles’ jacket in his other as he patched up small holes.

“Say hi, Tommy!” The voice behind the camera spoke, and the man smiled, cheeks upturned as he offered a small wave, his hands looking brutish but gentle in their mannerisms.

The camera cut out a few times, speeding up in odd places, some data being corrupted, before it showed the young officer lying on the ground beside Miles, both still out cold. Garrett’s voice spoke, this time, the sounds of pots and pans in the far background, as well as Tommy making gleeful noises, and Su-Ann laughing.

While fuzzy at first, it seemed to cut into the middle of Garrett's speech.

“[unintelligible]—now, you might be wonderin’ why. Well, some people are just on the wrong path. And the way I see it, all you can do is offer them yours, and let them decide for themself, you see,”

Following this, it cut out once more, leading to a clip of someone else holding the camcorder, the voice behind it sounding like Tommy’s, though he could only make vague sounds, and not pronounce things quite clearly.

His message, however, seemed clear, as he spoke something like “p-uh-ret-eyyy”, zooming the camera in on the moon, making vague cooing noises, as if mesmerized by it.

#biiiig sigh #miles upshur...#too much peak for little old me i fear #had to pace around my room for a sec after this one

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fallenprophets · 9 days ago

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this diva

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fallenprophets · 10 days ago

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Compound Seams || Miles Upshur/Reader

Summary: A man obsessed with understanding given a temporary glance at the non-understandable.

Word Count: ~ 1.6k

Warning: extreme gore and violence, murder, gun violence, torture, possession, sort of eldritch themes in certain aspects, not understandable things, brainwashing, murder, you get it

A/N: yes this will be a series. I just needed to get this out and see if I like it after like 3am. I’m actually miles Upshur guys he’s actually me slash jay. uhhh enjoy?

Requests are open!

The ricochet of the bullets in his ear, casing hitting the ground with a sharp, clear clanging sound, faded as his ears rang.

Pain ripped throughout his body, unlike anything he’d experienced, like hot bolts being shoved through his body, pulled back out, and then pushed all the way back in.

His mouth opened in pure shock, and the noise that came out wasn’t human, or at least the suffering required for that noise must’ve meant that he’d lost a part of his humanity. Of himself.

And as if to mock him, it tripled, numbers higher than he knew how to count, longer than infinity, and smaller than zero, as he felt the horrifying sense of a sudden awareness of everything within his body.

He could feel every tendon, ligament, slab of flesh, and where it intermingled with his bones and marrow. He could feel the space it took up, and the space that he didn’t take up, something else did.

It wasn’t describable, is what he would tell you if you ever asked him. No amount of paper and pen or camcorder and battery could help him journal this. He’d made it beyond the finish line of journalism.

A howling filled his ears, though it felt more in the back of his head, as his body writhed on the ground, spasming in a warm pool of blood, his back arching and thrashing around. His fists clenched, teeth grinding against each other as his eyes felt like they were bulging out of his skull.

He could hear screaming, the slam of a body against a wall, metal crunching, and coughing, squelching of flesh.

He was aware of every empty space in his body and then aware of the fact that there was none.

It wasn’t like air, or wind, or even a slimy sort of thing. It felt heavy, not physically, but thick with something, dense but only mentally, as if it was light as a feather if he were to touch or hold it. It was liquid as it spread, though hard as concrete, not even needing to spread as it shoved its way inside.

It settled, though it didn’t. Contradicting, but not. In a way that only made sense to him, would—could only make sense to him. There was a certain point of the world that one could not document, could only experience.

He wanted to be able to describe, to know, the endless want for knowledge was what had brought him here.

Miles up shore without a paddle.

Couldn’t this be enough? Couldn’t he at least die happy knowing that he figured it out? That he recorded evidence, something for someone to find, began the knot that might one day help somebody finish off the loose end?

His flesh felt like it was about to separate like a yarn unwinding, splitting into fragments before returning to dust as it came, his body screaming in protest, the pressure in his eyeballs being well over anything ever established, his vision was a fiery white as his suffering was compacted—shoved into one singular object before being turned liquid and shoved—the needle into his neck as a rotten man whispered in his ear——

And then it was gone.

Flicked off like a switch.

He screamed. Screamed without an end, screaming into the abyss until his throat was raw, his vocal cords processing the pain his brain couldn’t, the aftershock leaving his mind trying to understand.

Like an ant who’d suddenly gained understanding, knew the inner workings of the motherboard, not everything, but beyond the borders of what it had thought was everything, then suddenly was placed back in its own mind.

His mind tried reaching back out, brushing against the borders of what had been, what might be if he had the eyes to see it, as he lay on the floor, vision not properly computing until he stopped.

He wanted to know—needed to understand again—would do anything for it—

‘Stop.’

A voice whispered. A man-to-be, a child never allowed to grow beyond what he could’ve been.

He didn’t know who it was.

Like a butcher swinging the knife down, he did stop. It didn’t feel like his hand swinging the knife, but nonetheless, it swung.

His fingers moved. Joints itched, singing like cicadas in the summertime, until they cracked, breaking open, and for some reason, he was shocked to find that they still moved.

He moved. Sat up, and put his elbows down against the ground.

His physical form ached, his chest feeling like a freshly pulled pork tenderloin if it was sentient, his entire body bruised and battered.

He was shaking.

It wasn’t him who looked around, whose scales fell off of their eyes, looking at the carnage before him. Soldiers lay dead. Wernicke lay on the ground, wheelchair ripped to shreds, the metal pieces distributed throughout the soldiers, coated in the blood of pawns in Wernicke’s game of chess.

He felt weightless as he rolled forward, to his knees, gasping for air as if he hadn’t breathed fresh air in too long. He didn’t feel like himself as he stepped to his feet, knees barely supporting him, a few of his ribs definitely broken, and limped over to the old man lying on the ground.

Blood leaked from his nose. Miles glanced down, looking at his shirt, his jacket, for hell’s sake, and holes were riddled everywhere.

He shouldn’t be breathing.

Red coated his shirt and jacket, dripping down onto the fabric of his pants.

He should not be breathing.

“You—“ Dr. Wernicke gasped for air, his fragile, wrinkled hands curling in on his chest, underneath his shirt, his face smashed against the ground, and shoulders angled towards the tiled flooring as well.

He watched. Silently. His anger wasn’t boiling, it wasn’t hot or cold, it had already boiled over. The pot was empty.

He was empty.

He stepped towards the senile man, listening to him wheeze, a small whistling noise, like the wind blowing by, coming from who he assumed was the scientist.

“Wait, you just understand, I—“

He spoke dramatically, not getting a chance to continue as Miles stepped closer, taking a bloodstained shoe, the blood of Wernicke, not Billy Hope’s victims, and slamming it down on the man’s neck.

A gasping cough, something bloody coming up his throat. Miles lifted his foot again, watching Wernicke’s face shift from an attempt at mercy, to whatever emotion could be compared to that of a flailing fish, like a child clawing and throwing, that final burst of energy before what you know is death, not as death, comes for you.

Wernicke’s hand emerged from beneath his shirt, a small black object beneath it, something Miles was quickly able to recognize as it fired.

His vision blurred, and movement occurred that he wasn’t aware of. He heard a scream, something happening in the foreground, but he felt as if in the background of his mind.

Calm.

It was almost nice.

Painless.

With a simple blurring and snap, however, he was back. Exposed to the scene in front of him, something he wouldn’t want to describe, though if you could see through his eyes. You wouldn’t want to.

A culmination of all the violence and torture Wernicke caused was his death. The simplest way to put it. It wasn’t easy to even understand how a body could be turned into what was in front of him.

But he did.

He turned, looking forward, toward the dim, yellow light that he knew was of a half-opened industrial exit door. He took one step. Two steps.

Almost made three, before like a blinding clarity, it came to him.

His camcorder.

The breath emptied out of his lungs as he realized he’d almost forgotten it, the source of all of this, the desire to capture. He could upload this somewhere, show everyone what happened, help everyone else see what truly went on here.

The source of his suffering and the cause of his freedom.

And it was right there. Only a few feet behind him.

He stumbled over to it with a pathetic urgency, codependent on this small device, and wrapped his broken hands around it, cradling it as if it were his firstborn.

Miles opened the side of it, giving it a few small flicks, trying to see if it would still even work after the hell it had been through.

There were more cracks than one, sure, but the camera functioned. Night vision and all.

He turned the camera to the old man. What remained of him, at least. What nobody else could ever recognize as him. A mixture of soul-crushing sadness, sadness for someone he didn’t know, and a sense of relief overtook him.

Freedom.

That’s what he felt.

He then turned his camera back towards the lab, zooming in on the life pod, a circle of glass filled with bloody water, and the remains of Billy Hope’s tortured corpse.

It felt nostalgic.

Mentally, he opened his notepad, something he’d lost, it wasn’t in his pockets anymore, for whatever reason, and he tapped his blue pen against the side of the worn, dirty paper.

It always took a few circles for the ink to start flowing.

When it finally did begin to work, he took that pen, mentally burning the image of the tortured teenage boy trapped in his own mind into his memory, and wrote two simple words.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispered.

Another pen, this one in old ink, a rusty red, like that of dried blood which he’d seen much too often these past few weeks, wrote below that in sloppy handwriting, as if not used to writing.

“I’m sorry.”

It whispered back.

He closed the notepad.

Looked towards freedom.

And they stepped forward.

#insane #showstopping #shakespearean #maybe I should watch that outlast playthrough...#this is so fire #even MORE fire that I know the person who wrote this #she's a freak btw #edit #no but genuinely #this is so peak #putting it up on my wall #sighing dreamily

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