When Waylon awoke, he was in a small cell. The bed he was lying on was solid and uncomfortable. Sitting up, his head throbbed. He saw a familiar symbol on the door.

Murkoff. His eyes narrowed. Before he could look around, Waylon heard loud crashing outside the door. There was a second of silence before he heard men screaming and loud banging as something heavy was thrown against a wall. A minute later, there was a sickening crunch and the screams stopped. Blood seeped under the door, which began to buckle as something hit it with considerable force. Waylon flinched and covered his head as it crashed open.

Miles stepped in. He was spattered head to toe in blood and the scleras of his eyes were black, unearthly so. His face was unnervingly neutral. Despite all the blood and the crashing, his hair was barely tousled, his clothes bloodied but unruffled.

"What the hell happened out there?" Waylon demanded. Miles didn't reply; he just remained staring, silent.

"Miles, what did you do?" Waylon hissed. Quick footsteps approached them and a man with a gun rounded the corner. He stopped as he saw Miles' back, raising the gun to his shoulder.

"Put your hands in the air or I shoot!" he yelled. Miles stayed where he was but his eyes flicked away from Waylon. The soldier repeated the command. When Miles didn't comply, he moved closer.

"I'm talking to you," he snapped. He didn't get another word out. An invisible form, which Waylon now knew to be the Walrider, had grabbed onto him, dragging him across the floor. His hands left the gun behind as he was lifted legs first into the air, arms scrabbling at nothing. He was crying for help.

Waylon could do nothing but watch. Miles had turned and was watching the soldier with some interest, head cocked. A thin smile spread slowly across his face. The soldier screamed, long and loud, but he was quickly dispatched, his remains splattering to the floor in an explosion of blood and entrails.

"Jesus Christ," Waylon breathed. Miles looked back at him, his eyes almost radiating darkness. He blinked a few times and they faded back to white. Normal again. Almost.

"We need to go," he said quickly. Waylon refused to move. Instead, he repeated his earlier question, louder. Miles narrowed his eyes. Without replying, he grabbed onto Waylon's hand, and pulled him out of the cell. They were running through white corridors, white light bleaching everything. It looked like a hospital and was the opposite of Mount Massive.

"This is Murkoff's research headquarters," Miles told Waylon breathlessly as they ran. "They did most experiments at the asylum, but they did other things here."

"Why am I here?" Waylon gasped.

"They were going to get information out of you. Since you destroyed them, they've wanted revenge. They'd get your family's location and use it against you."

Miles barged through a door and they stopped instantly. Two men in white lab coats turned around, staring. Miles swore and dragged Waylon in the opposite direction. The white lights turned red and began to flash; a blaring alarm turned on, blasting from speakers in the walls. The white walls looked red in the light. Waylon glanced at Miles, both of them illuminated in a deep bloody color.

"What are you doing?" he shouted over the alarm.

"I can't remember where the way out is!" the reporter yelled in reply. Waylon stared, his initial shock turning into fury.

"Are you serious?"

Miles kicked open a door. His hand, clasped in Waylon's, went cold. Ahead of them, the air shimmered, like there was something that Waylon's naked eye couldn't see in front of them.

"Freeze!" a soldier in front of them commanded. He was thrown into the air and hit a wall with a crunch, sliding down and leaving a red smear. Miles didn't even slow down, dragging Waylon past the body without even looking.

"Miles," Waylon said. No reply. Waylon tugged at his hand. "Miles. Miles!"

"Not now," Miles snapped.

"You killed those men!" Waylon cried. Miles stopped and looked at him. His once calm face looked tight and panicked, and there were lines Waylon hadn't seen before. Miles looked tired, not from running, but of life. Waylon felt his heart go cold at the thought.

"It's either them or us, Waylon. I don't want to get shot again. I don't want that memory to come back."

Waylon bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Miles resumed moving, pulling Waylon along. They reached an emergency exit and it crashed open before they were within three meters of it. Waylon knew Miles was using the Walrider again, as his hand felt like ice, his eyes black and cold. They went outside and Waylon was surprised to see that it was night. Red light spilled out of the open doors, casting an eerie glow into the darkness. The alarms were still loud and Waylon knew they didn't have long until they were found.

"What now?" he cried. Miles looked back at the doors.

"We run," he said shortly, closing the doors and beckoning to Waylon. Waylon grabbed onto his hand again and yelped as his arm was wrenched hard. He was stumbling alongside Miles, away from the light. It was startlingly dark and cold, and Waylon noticed the crunch of snow underfoot.

"Where are we?" he asked, trying to see. It was too dark and his eyes hadn't yet adjusted. Miles didn't reply. They were now far from the red lights but Waylon knew Murkoff weren't far behind. Miles didn't slow, keeping up the same desperate pace. He was limping slightly. Waylon felt his legs beginning to shake from fatigue, shock and cold. He tried to slow down but Miles kept running.

"M-Miles," Waylon stammered, his breaths coming out in white puffs that coiled into the air. Like Miles' cigarette smoke. A distant memory, now, a haze under the fear.

"We're almost there, hurry," Miles said shortly. After another few minutes, they reached a familiar car. A rusty red 1987 Jeep Wrangler YJ. Waylon stared at Miles.

"You found it?" he asked. He had never returned it after escaping the asylum. He had left it shut away in his garage, locked so his kids couldn't find it and wonder whose it was.

"Yes," Miles said. A rare smile twisted his face. "You kept it in a pretty damn good state, too."

He fell quiet as he trailed a hand across the hood of the car before getting behind the steering wheel. He motioned with his head towards the passenger seat.

"Come on. We're busting out."

[[A/N: Thank you for being patient! I hope you enjoyed this newest TRatSE installation. I don't know when Ch. 4 will be out, it could take a week and it could take over a month. As always, tell me if there're any mistakes or things I can improve on. Thanks for reading!]]