@061993 , cont from here.
of all the gin joints in all the world.
miles doesn't know how long it's been, or whether time is even still working, since he'd barricaded himself into a room in that godforsaken asylum and the dark fog had swallowed him up. his watch had stopped. but it isn't his first of these -- trials, the others had called them. like mice in a fucking maze. still, he's lost interest in doing these generators, since after the first few times it's become clear that any 'escape' they offer is only temporary. a brief respite of sitting around a dwindling campfire in the dark woods with a group of strangers, most of whom have such a laissez-faire attitude towards the fuckery of the whole situation that miles is half-convinced they're going to start singing campfire songs any second now. thrilling. he thinks he almost prefers running for his life.
he's never heard of any of these other jackasses -- the beefy chick with the hatchets; the horrible screeching baby and its lumbering guardian(?); the dickhead with the bell. figured they were all conjured out of the same dark mist, spirits perhaps, not even conscious. (before the asylum, miles wants to note, he didn't believe in any of this supernatural shit.)
but not now -- not now that he'd snuck away for a smoke break and seen the familiar glint of neon light off a very familiar mask. ghostface -- sorry, the ghostface, as jed olsen had insisted back in roseville, in all his creepy coverage. fuck.
the taste of nicotine is heavy on his tongue. keeps eyeing the hunting knife in the psycho's hand, even when that mask comes off to reveal -- yeah. fucking olsen. (thinking of his coworkers: i was right! who's paranoid and antisocial now, cheryl?)
"i fucking knew it," miles can't resist gloating, even here, even now. "you little pervert. i bet all that cloak and dagger shit really got you off, huh? writing articles about your own murders, interviewing the victims' families -- and then coming to work to bat your eyelashes and tell everyone who'll listen how tragic it is. here i was hoping you got hit by a truck after you left that stupid note. insides splattered across the i-95."
