One month after coming home from Mount Massive Asylum.

One month of screaming nightmares, insomnia and depression. Then the unexpected happened. An oddly familiar face had turned up. Waylon had told Lisa to take herself and both their sons away for a while so he could deal with it. She had understood, being the amazing woman she was, and had decided to go to her parents' residence until Waylon told her it was safe to return.

Now he had to deal with this. The man was still waiting for him out on the front porch. It had only taken a five minute conversation with Lisa and half an hour of packing to get them going. Their sons were told that daddy needed some time alone, so they would stay with mommy for a bit. They hadn't minded.

Waylon stepped out onto the porch. He studied the newcomer warily. Waylon had only glimpsed his face once, so long ago, when the horrors of his ordeal were still fresh in his mind. He had figured out that it was this man's car he had taken, it was this man that had killed Blaire.

The man was smoking. Waylon's eyes followed the gentle trail of smoke up into the sky until it dissipated. The man was wearing what he remembered - brown jacket, white shirt, blue jeans. His dark hair was tousled and his face was streaked with dirt and blood. The man was missing two fingers, his right index finger and his left ring finger. His eyes were the stormy gray color of the cigarette smoke.

"What's your name?" Waylon asked. The man exhaled slowly and spoke, his voice gravelly and quiet.

"Miles Upshur. And I know who you are. You're Waylon Park, the man who brought me to that godforsaken place."

It was a simple statement but it sounded to Waylon like an accusation. He winced, his ankle throbbing. It had never been the same since he was fallen down the lift shaft, trying to escape from-

No. Don't think about him. Recalling memories only makes it worse.

Waylon held his head in his hands, temporarily forgetting about Miles.

Eddie Gluskin. Almost every nightmare he had was about this man and the ones that did contain the groom made him scream. His screams always shocked Lisa awake, who had to desperately shake him and urge him that it wasn't real, that he was intact, that Gluskin was long gone. Every time, Waylon woke, curled in a ball, his throat aching, Lisa's wide eyes full of worry and fear. Waylon would sit on the edge of the bed, rocking slightly, while Lisa checked on their sons. Then she'd ask him about it.

The nightmare was recurring and almost always exactly the same: he was hunted down and taken to the operating room. He was tied to a table and had to endure the groom's falsely tender words leading up to the worst part. The screaming happened when the buzzsaw tore into his living skin and flesh, mutilating him and causing his vocal cords to strain until he couldn't possibly scream any louder. Then he'd wake up in a cold sweat. The next night would be exactly the same. More pain. No escape.

When Waylon returned to the present and took his hands from his face, Miles was stood in front him. Miles had stubbed his cigarette. Now that he was closer, Waylon could see there was a shadow of stubble on Miles' jaw. There were lines on his face that a twenty-odd year old man shouldn't have yet, but Waylon knew the ordeal had aged them both, mentally and physically. It had more than aged him … it had scarred him. Ruined him. Broken him …

"You're broken," Miles said suddenly, as if he had read Waylon's mind. Maybe he had. Nothing was clear anymore, not now. Waylon tensed up as Miles reached towards him. The hand, rougher than he'd expected, brushed his face. The stub of his finger was smooth, strange against Waylon's cheek.

"So long," Miles whispered, almost to himself. "So long since I've been near another person. One that was sane."

He was touching Waylon's face in an action that was not affectionate nor caring; it was simply to remember what another human felt like.

Waylon knew what he meant. He had spent so long trapped with Murkoff, unable to even talk to Lisa through the phone. Then came the hell of being committed into the asylum, even worse because he constantly was under peril of dying, of never returning to his family. Contact with Blaire, with Andrew, with Manera, with Gluskin, with other insane variants didn't count. He had needed to be near someone … real, someone who could refrain from trying to kill him. When he had returned to Lisa, Waylon had collapsed into her, drawing her into a tight embrace that had lasted a long time. She had just hugged him back, crying with relief.

Miles dropped his hand away and murmured a soft 'thank you' that Waylon barely heard. He sat back down silently and Waylon glanced at him.

"Do you want a drink? Coffee? Martini-" Waylon stopped himself, swearing silently. The word 'martini' had brought back all his Jeremy Blaire memories. He had to be really careful to not trigger anything else. Miles fortunately accepted the offer of a coffee and Waylon entered the house to make his request. He began to boil the kettle and put some coffee granules into two mugs. He was always in need of coffee or he'd get dragged down by his permanent weariness.

As he waited for the boiling to stop, Waylon couldn't stop his mind from wandering. He remembered Miles, stood by the entrance of Mount Massive … with a strange entity about him, swirling and changing shape. It was this force that had pushed the car through the gate, allowing Waylon to freedom. It was this entity that had reduced Blaire to mincemeat. He wondered how Miles had control of the thing.

He carried out the fresh coffee and Miles gratefully accepted his mug. The man was always staring off at nothing, watching something that wasn't there. Waylon sat beside him on the porch bench, about a foot away to give Miles space. He sipped his coffee.

"What I saw back at the asylum …" he began. Miles interrupted.

"The swarm? You saw it. Tore that man, the guy who stabbed you, into pieces. Trying to stop their dirty secrets getting free."

Miles gave a harsh laugh. "Secrets I died for, I guess."

Waylon was stunned to silence. Miles wasn't dead, he was sat here in front of Waylon, drinking coffee and talking. He was solid, not a ghost. Wasn't he?

"I'm sorry … dead?" he asked blankly. Miles gave a sad smile.

"You see, Waylon, I was so close. So close to reaching the exit. It was in sight. Despite my condition, I made my towards it. This was after the Walrider fused with me."

Waylon had always heard hushed conversations about this Walrider. He was listening to Miles closely.

"Anyway," Miles continued quietly, "I reached the doors, which opened in front of me. Before me was Wernicke and a SWAT team. We stood facing each other for a few seconds before the first bullet hit. It was all in slow motion … but then the rest of the bullets hit me and I fell to the floor, dying from bullet wounds, mere steps away from my escape."

A wry smile twisted Miles' face as he shook his head before imitating an accented voice.

"Gott im Himmel. You have become the host."

Waylon stared. He knew enough German to know what that meant. The host of the Walrider though? He watched as Miles pulled the collar of his shirt open slightly. Waylon's sharp intake of breath was audible. Old bullet wounds peppered the man's chest. Miles rearranged his shirt collar and finished his coffee in silence. Waylon pondered what he had been told. He eventually spoke.

"So … you control the Walrider."

Miles nodded.

"And you're technically dead?"

Nod.

"And you're only here because your body is being sustained by the Walrider?"

Shrug.

Waylon took Miles' empty mug, leaving his own half-full mug on the floor by the bench, and went back into the house. He put the drained mug into the sink and exhaled slowly.

"I'm sorry," came a voice from behind him. Waylon turned but before he could answer, a mug hit him solidly in the temple and his legs gave way. The last thing he remembered was not hitting the floor; he felt arms catching his limp form. Then his vision faded to black.