[gets shot in spanish]

I can’t get enough of this duuuuuudeeee

"We really should hammer out our conflicting ideas of fun." Communication is key, right? He's known for a while that Alex is a bit of an adrenaline junkie, prone to chasing the rush of an endocrine high, but he's not sure what about himself gave the indication he's of a similar mind. Just because Miles often finds himself in life or death situations doesn't mean he enjoys them. Well, he doesn't always enjoy them. He can see the appeal of a little danger, the flood of chemicals pulsing across the brain, but he's having a hard time finding that appeal right now.

He shuffles away from the edge and all but presses himself up against Alex, and he's still not convinced this wasn't his plan all along. Needlessly elaborate, though, if so -- it's not as though Miles is opposed to clinging to him when he's not guiding him away from the abyss. Jesus, it's not even that far down, he's pretty sure he's just being a baby right now. He's reluctant to let go of Alex long enough for him to retrieve the camera, but his heart rate is slowly returning to baseline, and he's determined not to look like that much of a loser.

It's something he's had to learn the hard way.

"I do," Ethan answers, and he truly does, but he's unsure if he can show this man. He doesn't know if it will be worth the risk. "But you will need to take me with you. Out of here, I mean. It is dangerous to bring you that far. There will be no way back for me."

He is not lying. Ethan isn't even completely sure if he will be able to get them safely to the upper levels with all of this chaos, let alone getting back after he's done it.

Great, just what he needs. A plus one. Because Miles has been having such a great time covering his own ass, having another person to worry about will make it so much easier. Even if the patient doesn't slow him down, there's a good chance he'll either get in Miles' way or just make it harder to move quietly -- and that's to say nothing of the fact that he might stop being friendly after about five minutes. The last thing the reporter needs is to have someone within limb-ripping-off distance decide he wants to do just that.

Still, it's not like he has another choice. There's no good way out of this room without playing nice. The plan doesn't have to change. Get out of here, get where he needs to go -- or at least closer to it -- then ditch the guy.

"Yeah, alright, fine. But I'm not sticking my neck out for you if it comes to it." Too honest, he really should say less to someone who still might kill him, but Miles lacks a filter at the best of times. And these times have certainly not been the best. He leaves the file folder on the desk -- it hadn't contained anything interesting -- and pockets the battery he'd found rattling around in the back of a drawer. Then he steps tentatively out from behind the desk, like he's approaching a scared animal he's half expecting to bite. "Lead the way."

didn’t help that polaris was still strangely active in the back of her mind, almost restless. what’s got you so worked up? she queries. polaris only half responds, he’s hiding more. neither of them can tell what. not super surprising to jesse though. she hides plenty of things; such is the life of one with basically nobody left to trust.

His profession garners all manner of reactions. Some people get defensive, feeling -- often rightfully so -- that he's going to go sticking his nose in their business. Most people don't care, or crack some kind of joke about money and morals and the state of modern media. And others take interest, seeing him as a potential source of assistance. Someone who can help tell their story, or at least help them find answers.

Their interest is plain, and Miles already knows he's probably going to have to bank on that. Either there's something here that she's already suspicious of, something she wouldn't mind tipping him off to, or there's some other area of her life calling for a second scrutinizing set of eyes.

He just hopes that whatever it is, it aligns with his own goals. It'd make this a hell of a lot easier, not that Miles is ever so lucky.

Unfortunately, the way she hesitates before taking his hand is also plain. It's the finger thing, he's certain of it. And even if it's not, that's the assumption his mind latches to. He shoves his other hand into his jacket pocket, doesn't want the prolonged stare if they realize he's sporting a matching set of mutilation. Miles puts up with a lot, can grit his teeth through just about anything, but there's something about being reminded of just how wrong he is that makes him itch.

But Jesse doesn't comment, and that's a small relief -- even if his shoulders remain defensively tensed. "I mean, it's a hospital, they've usually all got the same layout." Somewhere there's a nurse's station, unmanned at this hour, with computers and patient records. That's the easiest way to start digging, but also the most risky. He's got help for the tech -- bypassing passwords, scrambling camera feeds -- but he's always loathe to spread himself too thin on jobs like this. Better to keep things as internal as possible. "But it'd be nice if I didn't have to wander around hoping to get lucky." He smiles a bit and raises a brow, a completely unsubtle hint that he's asking for a guide. "Wouldn't want to interrupt mop duty, though."

Outlast Whistleblower:

Well, so much for that. It was a flimsy cover story anyway -- he wasn't expecting it to last, he'd just hoped to at least get out of this conversation before it fell apart. Sleepwalking patients would've been a good lead, too good to pass up, but he probably should've realized they were only fucking with him.

Miles leans away as she leans closer, and he's halfway to saying something about the unwanted proximity when he pauses. Closer up, there's a sort of... shifting, about her. Subtle, but present. The back of his neck prickles. It could be nothing, just another showing of the latent paranoia he hasn't been able to shake since Mount Massive. But Miles has always been one to trust his hunches, and this particular one is backed up by the responding shifting he feels along his own spine.

"I'm a reporter," he says, closer to the truth than the bullshit hospital worker bit, but still not all of it. "There's something... here, I think. Could just be a couple patients, or it could be the whole thing." The latter seems less likely than the former, but it's not always easy to see Murkoff's fingerprints even when they're everywhere.

"Miles, by the way." He sticks out a four-fingered hand. He could've given a fake name, probably should have, but weird supernatural tingling aside, he knows that look she's giving him. That glimmer of piqued interest. They're not going to rat him out, at least not yet.

                    Alex is trying to get his newest camcorder working that he'd purchased. The last one had an unfortunate accident while he and Miles had decided to use it in a test run while recording. Honestly, it was for the best since it justified him buying a newer model. He's currently turning it over in his hands, eyeing the display as he powers it on.

Across from him, Miles is eyeing the drop below them considering the height at which they are standing.

Just as Alex hits record to see how the footage will look on playback, Miles says;

"𝙸’𝚖 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝."

He grins, chin tucked in against his chest as he centers Miles in frame and captures the dismayed but wry twist to his lips.

"Yeah, y'know, when most people say 'quality time' they usually mean dinner or a movie. Or sex. Not this." He makes a dismayed little noise at Alex's assertion that their chances of death are low but not zero.

Historically, Miles hasn't done well where those stats are concerned.

To the good, this whole situation is forcing him to look at Alex and Alex only. Maybe that's the fucked up point of this version of quality time, he's not really sure. All he knows is that if he looks down again he might throw up. Or cry. Or both. Which wouldn't exactly be good for his image.

"I'm afraid of heights. Have I ever told you that I'm afraid of heights? Like, really really afraid of heights?" Must've slipped his mind, because he doesn't think Alex is the sort of person who'd intentionally torture him. Or maybe he is, and this whole exercise was designed to show Miles what kind of sadist he's been hanging out with. He narrows his eyes at Alex, moderately suspicious all of a sudden. "Or maybe this is all part of your plan."

Then again, the bombs falling was also something he didn't expect; to be torn away from a world he knew and cast into the dark with the one man that he'd been trying to stop from continuously killing a bunch of innocent people. It'd been a long seven years, the first few essentially torture. The affirmations that it was all his fault that the world as he knew it was destroyed, his fault that the people he was closest to were all dead, his fault his fault HIS FAULT-

The Judge shakes his head; ridding the thoughts from his mind as he refocuses on the tracks on the ground. A gloved hand lowers, fingers carefully touching the corners of the imprint in the soft earth, studying the shape with knowing and clever eyes.

A voice from behind him pulls him from his study, ragged from years of silence, much like he. Miles, an old friend from Hope Country, from before. One man he thought died.

"Not prey..." The Judge rasps. It hurts to talk these days, but anyone would find the action hard when your throat had been slit. "Won't be gored...I'm here." Finally, he pushes himself to his feet, adjusting his bow over his shoulder as he finally turns his masked face to the other.

It was something of a rhetorical comment -- it's not like actually getting gored would be more than a temporary setback -- but the response is... comforting, in a strange way. Familiar. He'd been just as impervious to death back then, too, not that the Deputy had known it. And maybe Miles had liked letting the other man cover his ass. Protect him, whether he needed it or not. Just because he needs it even less now doesn't mean the sentiment is lacking.

The thought makes his lips twitch, though he isn't sure whether to smile or frown so mostly ends up looking additionally disgruntled. It's been too long without socialization, even of this bizarrely stunted variety, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. How to let himself feel about it.

He looks North instead, away from the Judge's impassive mask, and frowns for real this time.

"And why is this our problem?" The Judge didn't ask Miles to tag along, and yet here he is tacking himself on and making this a collective outing -- only to regret it as the task unfolds. His voice flattens slightly, along with his expression. "Everything is irradiated. One cougar won't make a difference."

He is just as startled as the stranger is when they cross paths, slowly raising his hands in surrender as the man starts speaking to him.

At first he isn't sure he's hearing him right, but then he slowly lowers his hands back down when he's sure the man said that he is not there to do harm.

"Everyone here hurts me," Ethan answers, rubbing at his arm, sore and blistered from strange injections for maladies he didn't believe he had.

He looks at him wide-eyed and paranoid for a moment, seems to make up his mind about something, then tilts his head in confusion at the mention of Martin.

"Father Martin? You shouldn't -- I wouldn't trust him if I were you."

Miles laughs at the patient's words in spite of himself. A short, humorless noise, bitter around the edges. "Yeah, I know the feeling." Some of the Variants have tried talking to him, others avoid him, but the vast majority have seemed hell bent on gutting him like a fish. The last time Miles trusted someone in here -- trust being a generous term, it wasn't like he'd had anywhere else to run -- he'd lost two fingers.

He doesn't expect this to go any better, but again, he's trapped between a rock and a hard place. Playing along might at least get him out of this room, and then he can bolt. All that jogging's really been paying off tonight.

"I don't trust him. But the bald bastard dragged me in here, and I'd like to imagine that means he knows the way out." Which might be something between optimism and delusion at this point. "He said something about getting to the upper levels -- you know how to get up there?"