#Him and Snas should go get therapy together.

[susartwork]

Doodle page of the skelebros except they get individual doodles cause they barely talk to each other

[timeoutforthee]

Like It or Not (Chapter 6)

Summary: Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil are all struggling in their recovery. Their doctors, Thomas Sanders and Emile Picani think they can help each other out.

Aka Group Therapy AU

Trigger Warnings:  mentions of calorie counting (no numbers), mentions of disordered eating patterns

Read on AO3!

Taglist: @itsausernamenotafobsong, @sea-blue-child, @iaminmultiplefandoms, @princeanxious, @uwillbeefoundtonight, @zaidiashipper, @arandompasserby, @levyredfox3, @echomist13, @falsett0, @error-i-dunno-what-went-wrong, @scrapbookofsketches, @podcastsandcoffee, @helloisthisusernametaken, @amuthefunperson, @yamihatarou, @heck-im-lost, @michealawithana

Why did human beings need to eat?

It was such a simple question, one that had such an obvious answer, so much so that people usually didn’t give it a second thought. Humans needed to eat, because food served as fuel. That was a fact.

Logan lived for facts. He found comfort in knowledge, in knowing certainties. He knew, logically, that if he kept denying his body food, that it would eventually stop running. That’s what science said.

But when Logan looked at food, he didn’t see fuel. He didn’t think of taste. Instead, they were covered in numbers, which all flowed together in a never ending math problem he couldn’t solve.

“What do you mean by that?” Dr. Sanders asked.

Logan groaned. He was so good at explaining science, but when it came to feelings, he was hopeless.

“I know calorie counts, and I know how many calories I can burn by doing certain exercises,” he responded, “And every day, I strive to keep the input and output at an even zero.”

“Why?”

Logan paused. He...hadn’t really thought about it.

“I...I just have to.”

“What do you think would happen if you didn’t?”

Truthfully, probably nothing. Probably he’d gain a few pounds and stop having issues with his physical health. Probably he wouldn’t need to come to therapy anymore. Probably he could go back to being normal. And all that sounded like what he wanted. Yet, when he thought about a world where he stopped counting, it made a sudden surge of panic rip through him.

“Not an option.”

To all the world, Logan is earth. He is grounded and stable, something unshakable. Nobody sees the fire within. He made sure of that.

It burns. The passion, the rage, it all boils deep under his skin. He tries to soothe it with cold, hard facts. He doesn’t want to scare people. But sometimes he even scares himself. He crushes his feelings because he thinks, if he doesn’t, they might just take over.

Is that what they’re doing right now?

Because, really, jam should not be filled with this many emotions.

There was nostalgia, sure. He can remember making his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches after loudly announcing to his parents that they weren’t doing it <i>right</i>, it needed more <i>jelly</i>. He can remember setting the jar by his homework, rewarding himself with a spoonful after particularly challenging problems. All positive, innocent memories, if not a bit childish.

He had pulled the jar out of the cabinet unceremoniously. This was a simple task, which would add up to an overall more positive experience, and it was one he had completed as a child. Surely, <i>surely,</i> he could do it. It was normal, it was a normal snack, and he was a normal person who was going to eat it normally.

Right now.

Except half an hour had passed and his spoon was still empty.

Logan sighed angrily and rubbed his hands down his face.

The worst part was that he didn’t understand. He was the smart one, the one who knew all the facts, the one who knew all the answers. So why couldn’t his brain just <i>realize</i> this was what was best for him and <i>do it already?</i>

“Logan?”

He glanced toward the door.

“Oh. Hi, mom.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m eating.”

She glanced at the table, specifically at the still closed jar and the clean spoon.

“O...kay?” she walked over to the jar, picking it up, “Mind if I take a bite?”

“Sure.” <i>See it’s so EASY-</i>

But before he could finish his thought, his mom flipped the jar over, looking at the Nutritional Facts. She wrinkled her nose in disgust before setting it down.

“Eugh. Never mind,” she said.

His mom left the room, completely unaware of the damage she had done. Logan tried to fight the urge, he really did, but he couldn’t help it. He flipped the jar over himself. He knew the number on the back, knew the calorie counts of so many foods he was surprised his mind had room for anything else.

Groaning, he tore the label off. Fine. He still had time, he still had a week to do this. He could do this.

^

“Roman! Get out of the bathroom already!”

“Just a second,” he grumbles, scratching at his hands under the water. It’s practically boiling, and his hands are stinging, but every time he pulls them out, it’s like he can see the grease covering his hands.

“You’ve been in there for twenty minutes, come on!”

Roman glances up. Had it really been that long? He glances at the clock on the wall. Oh. Oops.

Reluctantly, he flips the water off and dries his hands. They’re red by now, and the skin is sensitive.

He had told his mom, with a little too much enthusiasm, that he would be joining them for dinner, and no, he didn’t need a seperate meal, he’d just have what they were having. Looking back, he really should have asked what it was first, or paid more attention. Because it was Friday, and Friday meant his brother Alex was coming for a visit from college, and Alex always wanted pizza. Extra large, greasy, cheesy pizza.

Roman opens the door and finds Alex standing there. He frowns.

“I thought you were taking a shower? The water was running.”

“Yeah, I was washing my hands.”

“You were washing your hands...for twenty minutes…”

“Yes,” Roman says, indignantly, but he doesn’t have a defense.

“I mean, okay, weirdo,” Alex pushes past him and Roman heads to his room.

He takes a deep breath. Okay. So it was kinda a disaster. So he had to take a napkin and try to soak up the grease. So he had to cut the pizza into tiny pieces. So both of these things made him take twice as long to eat as the rest of his family. So he kept catching his parents giving each other <i>looks.</i>

He had done it. He did it, and it was over.

Suddenly it hit him. It wasn’t over. This was the first step. It would keep going. And it was just going to get worse.

His stomach lurched and he slapped a hand over his mouth. He leaned his forehead against the wall of the hallway. He tried taking a few deep breaths, like Dr. Picani had shown him.

“Roman?”

“H-Hey mom,” He said, turning his head, and taking his hand away.

His mom narrows her eyes, “Everything okay?”

He smiles, but its strained, “Yep! Peachy!”

She nods and walks past him, but stops and turns around.

“Oh! I almost forgot! How did you like dinner?”

“It was great.”

^

“I had dinner with my family,” Roman tells the rest of the group.

Dr. Picani frowns. Roman has been uncharacteristically quiet this session. He makes a small note to bring it up later, either in the next session or during their individual.

“That’s good, right?” Patton says, looking at Dr. Picani with uncertainty out of the corner of his eye. A new grey sweater is wrapped around his shoulders, offering a comforting weight. It wasn’t a onesie or a crown, but it was something.

Dr. Sanders had been right. It <i>was</i> hard for Patton to reward himself, partly because he didn’t think he deserved it because normal people could go shopping all the time, partly because Patton was, honestly, kind of the worst person when he was shopping.

He didn’t mean to be. But all the shame bubbled to the surface, and he had to constantly wrestle with it in his head to try and keep himself from breaking down in dressing rooms. Sometimes, he didn’t succeed and ended up on the floor, sniffling while his mom hovered outside.

That was also the worst. His mom didn’t deserve Patton’s anger, but she’s the one who ended up with most of it. This shopping trip had been no exception. So when she showed Patton the light grey sweater, and had him feel how soft it was, instead of trying it on he had wrapped it around his shoulders, and called it a day. It wasn’t a onesie or a crown, but it was sorta like a cape, and that was fun, so it counted, right?

“Absolutely,” Dr. Picani said, brightening, “Unless there’s something more you wanted to discuss regarding it…?”

Roman shook his head, silently.

Virgil looked from Roman over to the therapist, a hint of concern on his face. His hood was up, like always, but the bangs were a bright purple and hung in his face.

He had tried to do it himself,but he ended up frozen with all the supplies set out. He didn’t want to stain anything, so he had tried to cover everything, but then he had wasted so much aluminum foil, and what if he stained the towels, also his hands were shaking so he was destined to fuck up, and if he fucked up everyone would be able to tell oh <i>God-</i>

“Are you dying your hair?”

Virgil jumped. He hadn’t even noticed his aunt in the door.

“Uh, I was, but I won’t stain anything, I swear-”

Violet snorted. “Yeah, sure, good luck with that.” Virgil paled and she mentally smacked herself, “You know, I used to dye my own hair. I could help you. If you wanted.”

“Help…?”

“Sure. Did you get bleach?” Virgil nodded and gestured to its place on the sink.

Violet grabbed a pair of plastic gloves from under the sink and pulled out the brush.

“Alright. Let’s do this.”

Virgil still wasn’t sure what to make of his aunt, but he had to admit his hair looked a lot better than what it would have if he had done it himself.

“Alright, Roman,” Dr. Picani said, before turning to Logan, who was also silent this session, “What about you, Logan?”

Logan’s arms were crossed in front of him, and he was staring at the floor. He took a deep, shaky breath.

“I failed.”

“Thank you for sharing how you feel, Logan, however, I would challenge you to take a different approach in how you view it-”

“How I <i>view</i> it? I am <i>viewing</i> it very clearly,” Logan snaps his head up, “I had the simplest challenge, doing something I enjoy, and I couldn’t do it.”

“Did you try?”

“Of course I tried, do you know how many hours I spent staring at that stupid jar?”

“The fact that you even considered doing this shows that your dedication to recovery. Isn’t that a positive thing?”

Logan can hear the tiny child inside him whine <i>“No. It’s not enough. I wanna be better now!”</i> but he takes a deep breath, allowing him to silence it.

“I suppose.”

“But?” Dr. Picani prompts.

“But...it’s not good enough.”

“So you feel like what you’ve accomplished-and, though you may feel like it wasn’t much, you did accomplish something-wasn’t enough. Does that in turn make you feel like you’re not good enough?”

Logan blinked, caught off guard. Emile smiled.

“Those degrees on the wall aren’t just for show, Logan, I am in fact a very educated man.”

Logan pointedly looks at the desk behind Picani, where he’s set out figurines of Spongebob and Patrick.

“A very educated man who isn’t <i>boring.</i> But anyway, we’re getting off track. We were talking about your self worth.”

Logan groaned. He could have sworn they were just having debates about cartoons. What happened to that?

“I suppose my self worth could be better.”

“Care to elaborate on that?”

“I just feel like I, as a human being, have a very specific purpose, but I constantly fall short.”

“So is it possible you just have a different purpose?” Virgil asks.

“No,” Logan says, immediately. Virgil quirks an eyebrow.

“When Virgil made that suggestion, how did it make you feel, Logan?”

<i>Anger shame embarrassment panic-</i>

“It didn’t make me feel anything,” Now Roman is raising his eyebrows and Patton is looking at him in concern, “It doesn’t make me feel anything, because it isn’t true. I know my purpose, I know my place, and I fit neatly and effortlessly into that place. I just need to work a little harder.”

“Hm,” Dr. Picani says, “So, unfortunately, I think we’re running a little low on time to fully discuss this. Instead, I have a challenge for next session.”

Logan relaxes slightly until Dr. Picani speaks again.

“Guys, this world is full of infinite possibilities. Every choice you make could lead in a completely different direction. Heck, coming here has significantly changed the outcome of your future. I want you think of three ways-just three-that your life could turn out. Three different goals.”

“...you want us to write aus for ourselves,” Virgil deadpans.

“Yes!” Dr. Picani cries, pointing his pen at Virgil, “This will give you guys encouragement. It’ll show you that there are so many options for you without your eating disorder. It will also help you see what goals you want to accomplish.”

“But I <i>know</i> the single thing I want to do,” Logan says, “I don’t need to know the others.”

“Awww, come on, Logan,” Patton says, “It’ll be fun!” he gasps, “You could be a scientist or a librarian or a teacher-”

“Teachers don’t make any money-” Logan cuts himself off. Whoa. He sounded like his father there for a second.

“Well, in a future where money wasn’t an option, what would you do?” Dr. Picani says, “Obviously, that’s something we, as humans, need to address in the real world, but when you’re reflecting on what could be, you won’t be held to those limitations. And with that-” he shuts his notebook. “Dr. Sanders will be with you next week.”

^

It is four in the morning.

Logan is sneaking down to the kitchen. The smallest bit of light is hanging in the sky, even though the sun isn’t there yet. The world is quiet.

He only turns on one light, the one in the kitchen. He is trying to cause as little disturbance as possible.

He once told his dad that “midnight to four doesn’t count.” His dad had responded “what the hell does that mean?” He had shrugged, but what he really meant was that there was a kind of peace you could find in the early mornings, something you couldn’t quite grasp during the day time. He used to have a bad time of staying up at night, gazing at the stars and enjoying the invisible hours, but once he realized that wasn’t conducive to healthy sleep schedule, he stopped.

But now, here he was.

He pulled the Crofter’s jar out of the fridge. Half of it was gone, eaten by his parents. He popped the jar open.

He took a deep breath.

He tried to remember what Dr. Picani said. How even if he couldn’t do it, making the choice to try was important. Even if he failed-no, even if he couldn’t do this today, he was still making progress.

He grabbed a spoon and scooped some up. He hesitated for only a second before he finally took a bite.

The flavor filled his mouth. This was, easily, the most flavorful thing he had eaten in months. It was sweet, and had the perfect combination of fruit flavors.

He swallowed and realized there was a lump in his throat. Was he...He wiped his eyes and realized, yes, he was actually crying over eating a snack.

But, somehow, he was too proud of himself to care.

[gendercraft]

Outlast: Revisited [Chapter Six: Waylon]

Read on ao3

Synopsis: I’m rewriting Outlast where the first game and Whistleblower are combined, Miles and Waylon are more connected, and also they kiss

Trigger warnings: Sexual assault plus everything already in the game; eye gore; the gore actually gets kinda intense here; let me know if i missed anything

    The furnace roared to life. Waylon scrambled backwards, as far away from the flame as possible, but it was futile. It caught his pants, chasing his leg.  

    “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pressed his back against the brick wall. 

    Orange climbing up his pant sleeve, he thrashed his leg out, over and over again. The heat burned through. The pain wracked up his leg, rippling and angry. He screamed and knocked his head against the wall. 

    Something rattled. He gasped and turned around—the wall was crumbling. He could break that. He could. 

    Holding back a moan of pain, he turned onto all fours and rammed his shoulder into the wall. It jostled, but not by much. Again, again, come on, don’t let me fucking die here. The pain was climbing. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t even be able to walk. 

    He launched himself at the wall again, again, again, then finally—CRASH! He oofed as he smacked to the concrete, landing atop the loose bricks. 

    “No! NO! You were MINE!” 

    Gasping for breath, Waylon staggered to his feet. There was no telling how quickly the Cook could find his way to Waylon—he had to leave.

    He hobbled through a door and found himself in a makeshift chapel. A glowing red exit sign hung above a door. His heart stopped. He raced forward, ignoring the burning pain in his leg, and turned the handle—locked. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He pulled and yanked but nothing. 

            Looking around for any way of escape, he brought his burnt leg off the ground to relieve the pressure. His breathing was slowly steadying. 

    In the back of the chapel, he found a transcription from an employee of Mount Massive, Dr. Bruce Newhouse. 

     Father Clarke— 

        Far be it from me to lie to a man of God, so let me at least say that I will do my personal best to improve the safety of your working conditions...if you feel threatened by anybody in particular, simply let us know and we can either increase chemical restraints, or administer a lobotomy or similar calming procedure. 

     Waylon grimaced and flinched. 

     Not all of our poor unfortunates have families to call upon, and so the burden, (and calling,) is yours. We are all of us relying on your faith and hard work. 

     DBNR

    Dr. Newhouse, MD

    May 20th, 1961 

     Surely they weren’t still administering lobotomies. And ‘poor unfortunates…’ it was so distant, so condescending. These weren’t ‘poor unfortunates.’ They were people, people that Murkoff decided to torture. 

    Everywhere else was a dead end, and there was a creeping feeling in his gut that the Cook was getting closer, so Waylon headed back to the furnace. There was a ladder to the top of the ovens, which opened up to a huge chimney full of half-put-together scaffolding and skinny ledges. It went up pretty high. He doubted the Cook would follow him, if he even knew that’s where he went. 

    On the ladder, he dragged his useless leg behind him, relying on upper body strength to get himself to flop atop the ovens. His arms burned, laying like jelly next to him. A scream rained down. 

    Waylon leapt to his feet, gritting his teeth and holding back a hiss. THWAP! Waylon covered his face as the Variant smacked to the brick and cracked their head open. Hesitating, Waylon stared. Blood seeped through the cracks, viscous and crimson. 

    Glancing down at his leg, he sighed. Don’t fail me. 

    He scaled the chimney slowly and carefully. As he inched across a ledge, his vision blurred as Morphogenic rorschach images swam and splattered. He groaned… and his foot slipped. 

    Gasping, his entire body jolted to the ground—then he caught himself, planting his foot firmly on the ledge. 

    “Motherfucker,” he snapped under his breath. He grit his teeth. “Come on, come on… just fucking do it.” 

    He made it halfway up the chimney, where a vent opened into one of the upper floors. Crawling inside and hopping down, he brought up his night vision and looked around carefully. He explored the Administrative section of the hospital block, all dark and empty. 

    Across a boarded up door and through the glass, a group of people ran past. 

    “There!” One of them cried. “I told you it would be open. I told you.” 

    Were they… escaping? Waylon would pry those boards off with his bare hands. 

    “Keep moving, Graham, we’re almost out!” 

    Waylon picked up the pace, limping towards the door and grabbing hold of the board. He pulled, planting his bad leg against the wall, and yanked, yanked, pulled, pulled, pulled until his hands were raw and scraped. He dug at the screws until his nails cracked and his fingers bled. 

    Growling, he slammed his elbow into the glass, over and over until tears came to his eyes. It ached horribly, and the glass didn’t so much as crack. 

    “Fuck!” His voice cracked. Sobs rose in his throat, and he swallowed them back. Don’t you dare fucking cry. 

    If he had to cry—which he didn’t—he could do it while he was moving. He had to get home. He had to expose Murkoff. 

    The only way further was through a small library, so he pressed on, only to freeze as a buzzsaw sounded. 

    “Dinner bells!” The cook cackled as he rounded the corner. 

    Waylon gasped and ducked behind a shelf just as the man entered the room. Shit. Could he still run? He’d been able to block out the pain in his leg, but if he so much as moved wrong, it was overwhelming. Black spots appeared on his vision and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from crying. It was the worst pain he’d ever experienced. 

    He’d have to be quiet, and quick. 

    The Cook buzzed his saw a few times as he entered the room. Waylon gripped onto the shelf to keep himself upright. In the quiet tension, he couldn’t ignore the pain anymore. It ripped through his skin, pulsing and wet. God, was it blistering? He couldn’t bear to look at it. 

    “I can smell you,” the Cook sung through closed lips. He chuckled. “I know you’re around here…”

    He blocked the light from the hall as he passed the missing spaces in the bookshelf. Waylon held his breath. The pressure on his leg was becoming too much, too much, too fucking much. A few tears trickled down his face. 

    He couldn’t hold it anymore. 

    Falling against the shelf, books scattered onto the ground with a clatter. “Fuck,” he groaned. The Cook had already heard him, so fuck it. 

    The Cook whirled around with his saw in the air. Waylon shoved himself against the shelf as hard as he could and it tipped over. Letting out a choked yell, the Cook stumbled backwards, only for the shelf to take him to the ground. Waylon screamed as he scrambled over the shelf to the door, black spots coating his vision. He sprinted down the hall as the Cook struggled to get the bookshelf off. 

    He sprinted through the halls until he couldn’t anymore. Smacking to the ground, he dragged himself forward. The buzzsaw was getting closer. He gasped and choked for breath, pulling himself towards a barricade of filing cabinets and hospital beds, trying to squeeze through the gap. 

    “You are mine!” The Cook yelled. 

    He was gaining. Waylon’s leg was dead at this point, he was in too much pain to even feel it anymore. He got through the gap just as a slash came down on his leg. He pulled himself through and the Cook tried to squeeze through himself, only to get stuck with a growl. 

    “Get back here!” He screamed. 

    Waylon staggered to his feet and hobbled, practically hopping on one foot, down the hall. He struggled his way through and found himself in a bathroom. Collapsing to the tile, he pressed his back to a closed stall door and pulled the fabric from around his leg. He bit back a scream as the fabric dragged across the burns. It was blistering bad, and the Cook had opened one with his saw, the pus dripping and running down his red skin. The burns covered from his ankle to his knee. 

    “Come on, Waylon,” he whispered. “Keep going. Get out.” 

    It took all of his strength to get to his feet.

    “See me now,” someone growled, their voice raspy. “Just try!”

    Waylon straightened up. It came from right behind him. He hesitated, then took out his camera and swung open the stall door. A Variant stood, holding a doctor on their knees, slamming their head into the toilet over and over again. 

    “What do you see?” He snapped through the blubbering and gurgling. “Who am I? Idiot.” 

    Waylon stumbled over to the sinks and set the camera up to face him. The Variant was barely in frame. 

    “Lisa,” he said cautiously, glancing at the Variant through the viewfinder, “or whoever finds this, know that Murkoff is creating monsters. I’d never seen the patients after they’d gone through that German’s so-called therapy. The Engine. So much worse than I could have imagined. They may still be human, but something’s been ripped out of them. And too many… other things pushed back in.” He repressed a shudder. “They were not all murderers. They were sick, but they weren’t killers. Murkoff made them monsters.” He reached out to grab the camera, then hesitated. “Dr. Roset said the engine had ‘varying effects,’” he made air quotes, “the variant outcomes too erratic for any sort of prediction.” He huffed a laugh. “I took it as idle cafeteria small talk, Raul’s endless chatter.” He swallowed and pursed his lips. “I should have listened.” 

    With that admission, he picked up his camera and hobbled out of the bathrooms. 

He found himself back in the fucking labs again. He made his way to a decontamination chamber full of gas. A man pressed himself to the glass. 

    “Shut it off!” He begged. “Shut down the gas, please, I can’t…!” 

    He had to get through that airlock to make his way to the prison. He’d have to find the valve to shut off the gas. And quickly, if he wanted this man to live. Through the green, he couldn’t tell if he was a patient or doctor, but he couldn’t waste any time. 

    He found a sheet of paper on a desk and snatched it, but didn’t bother reading it yet. While exploring for the gas room, he came across a Variant smacking his head into the door until it bled on the wood. Waylon grabbed his shoulder. 

    “Hey, man, come on, stop,” he said firmly. He looked into the Variant’s eyes and tried not to flinch away. His voice came out a little weaker. “Just… Don’t do that to yourself, okay?” 

    He hesitantly took his hand back. The Variant stared. Then continued. 

    Waylon sighed. These people are broken. 

    The buzzsaw picked up again as he hobbled down the hall. He grit his teeth so hard something cracked. 

    They met eyes through the darkness. Waylon whipped around and hobbled down the hall. The footsteps raced after him. Slamming the door behind him, he pressed himself to the wall next to the door and panted. BAM! BAM! The door nearly came off its hinges. BAM! BAM! 

    BAM! 

    The Cook barged into the room a few steps in and Waylon ducked back into the hall. Before the Cook noticed where he was, he hurried into another room with two beds and an open vent. Could he get up there with his leg? He hopped onto the bed and leapt. Fuck, that fucking hurt. Groaning, he pulled himself up into the shaft, barely biting back a scream as his leg dragged against the metal. 

    He dragged himself through the shaft, only to fall through a grate and land hard on the floor. One of the two doors slammed against its lock. Waylon leapt to his feet and rushed to the other door, swinging it open into the bathroom and slipping through a crack in the wall. He explored the halls a bit, staying low to the ground and in the shadows, until he passed by double doors into a lab room. 

    There was a patient file on the counter. 

     MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS 

    PROJECT WALRIDER 

    Patient: Frank Antonio Manera 

    Page age: 36

    Gender: Male 

        THERAPY STATUS: 

    Minimal Morphogenic Engine activity, and only at extreme (stages 5 and 6) levels of hormone therapy. Dream states return repeatedly to images of isolation and betrayal. Zero lucid state. 

     INTERVIEW NOTES: 

    He was lethargic and largely non-responsive, exhibiting interest only in the hypnotherapy script pattern 9 (Wernicke), concerning drinking blood from the chest of sleeping men. He continues to refuse baths or the attention of a barber outside of general anaesthesia, stating, “if I cannot partake, I cannot share.” 

     Recommended forced nutrition for Manera if we cannot find something he likes to eat. 

     MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT WALRIDER

    MOUNT MASSIVE CO 

     The Cook. Frank Manera. 

    He continued through the room, jumping as he found a bloodied security guard curled in the corner. “Get out of here. This is my place.” 

    Waylon stared. 

    “You’re going to get me killed! Fuck off!” 

    Waylon crumpled the file in his hands. He hoped Manera came through here. He continued on, in the wallway finding the signs for the gas room. Following the signs, he continued through the labs, blood and corpses spilled over the slabs of metal. 

    “There you are!” Manera cackled, growing closer from behind. 

    Waylon hobbled forward, his leg burning under the pressure. “Leave me alone, you fucking creep!” 

    He cornered himself against a closed, gas-filled decontamination chamber. Manera stalked the halls. 

    “I won’t be hungry for much longer.” Manera grinned. 

    Waylon looked around for any sign of exit. I have to get home to Lisa. He looked up. A wooden panel hung over the top of the decontamination chamber. 

    Manera lunged. Waylon barely got out of the way in time, lurching to the left, then stomped on Manera’s foot. As Manera howled and doubled over, Waylon nearly lost his balance, vision blacking out for just a second. He regained his footing and shoved Manera as hard as he could. Grabbing the edge of the wood, he hauled himself to the top of the chamber. 

    The gas room was on the other side. He turned the valve and the chamber cleared. He sighed. 

    Now that he had a moment, he pulled out the file from earlier. 

     EXCERPT FROM 1957 AND COMMENT ON IG REPORT “OPERATIONS OF TSD” 

  Influencing Human Behavior 

  The potential use of psychochemicals in political action operations is well recognized...Chemical Division includes it as an objective of its programs to be prepared to support or make such operations possible. Non-chemical methods of accomplishing political action operations are also included in the program. 

     Note: (J.Lawyer/April 15, 1958) Present the above MKULTRA excerpt to Technical Services Division for budgeting and authorization of continued research of Dr. Rudolf Wernicke...and project WALRIDER. Autopsy of recovered test subjects show chemical content of bodies (metallic tumours, evidence of sub-dermal combustion) that indicate heavy psychochemical dosage. 

     MKULTRA? Waylon pocketed the note with shaky hands. That’s why they were experimenting on the patients? As much as he worked on it, he had no idea what Project WALRIDER really was. 

    He placed his hand on the door. He just had to get back to the decontamination chamber, see if that guy was still alive, and get into the outside recreational area. Then he could get to the prison and use the radio.