A/N: I've wanted to do this fanfic for so long, and finally I've done it! This jewel is my absolute favorite horror game, the scariest ever, and this is coming from someone who is used to horror and all its glorious aspects. For my followers, if you haven't heard of this game or played it, then I recommend watching a walkthrough or reading a little about it before reading-it'll help with context (this is based off of Outlast: Whistleblower by the way). Also, I should let you know that , just like the video game, I will do my best to make this story as fucked up as possible (mwahaha). Enjoy it and stick around until the end.
Netherworld
One
Explosions, screams, gunfire, thunder, boots stampeding, clinking of shells, orders barked out, boom, crash, pow, thud, screech, bells ringing, ring, ring, ring, shouts, fire, sputter, red, orders, orders, red, ring, ring, ring, screams, boom, slash, slap, pop, pop, pop, thud, thud, fire, sputter, red, red, thunder, clink, crash, orders, ring, ring, ring
and amongst all this noise her laughter is faint and Chris Walker tries his hardest to hear that soothing sound.
"Ignore it, ignore the rest, ignore the rest… ignore the rest." He chants to himself, though its impossible for his mind to block out the permanently installed symphony of war. He sits on the cold, concrete floor; his bed too small to fit his large, bulking, form. His legs are plank straight, his arms limp by his sides. Automatic fire, screams, splatter, splat, boom, snap, gurgle, orders, ring, ring, ring.
"Ignore it, ignore it, ignore the rest…ignore…ignore." Her laughter used to be clearly audible and so, so soothing to him. Her voice so tranquil, so peaceful, so stable. Simply listening to her laugh and voice was a powerful therapy in its own.
And he was so close to finding his sanity.
Screech, roar, boom, boom, crying, pow, thud, whoosh, splat.
"Ignore it…ignore." Alarms are shrieking, he hears stampeding, yelling, shouting, and screaming… His washed out pupils stare at the closed, transparent, cell door. No, not the battlefield, this is happening now.
The hospital staff is panicking, buzzing around as if the hive is on fire. Chris stands and strides towards the chaos-the only thing he understands perfectly. There must have been a breech; the fortress is being invaded. A thick, mist crowds the area outside his cell. And Chris watches silently as this mist encloses on the staff, ripping, shredding, gutting, them until all that's left is a messy pool of red and piles of flesh. He knows what the Walrider is, and instinctively programs his new mission into his conscious. He could hear his deceased commander's orders,
"Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. We have to contain it. Lives are at stake." Yes, that's what he has to do. Contain it. Contain the Walrider. The apparition needs a host and this fortress is overflowing with potential victims. With hardly any effort Chris forces the cell door open, just as the Walrider dissipates.
"Contain it, contain it, have to contain it." he steps out into the red painted corridor, his build nearly takes up the whole space around him. He stretches his fingers and flexes his arms; it'd been years since he got to play with his little pigs. But this time he'll have all their heads.
"No! You bastard child! You're doing it all wrong!" Mrs. Gluskin shouted, smacking the boy upside the head with a switch. And he was so used to the pain his reaction was a slight squirm in his seat.
"How many times must I tell you! The stiches are too loose, how do you expect to take after your father if you cannot even knit!"
"I'm sorry mother."
"Do not apologize, you stupid wench, do it again and if you fail it will be thirty lashes this time."
"Yes, mother." And little Eddie undid all of the stiches to the sweater that was near completion and started over. She didn't let him leave until the sweater was halfway done, and he had stitched it perfectly, and that took nearly seven hours.
Don't be mistaken.
There was no sanctuary for this poor soul to go to afterwards.
Perhaps the closest thing to a safe haven was his imaginative mind. A place he went to often especially at midnight, when most human beings should be resting. His father, or uncle, or men in general would stalk into his room; their shadows appeared as demons before a small candle's flame. And they would pull down his quilt, the one knitted by his grandmother who died so long ago, and they would do things.
Bad things.
Things he knew were an abomination. And it hurt sometimes, and it felt so good other times. He was most ashamed when it was so pleasurable he'd moan loudly and pant and groan, and gasp. He loathed it the most when his father, or uncle, or men would talk to him so vulgarly.
" Don't hold it in, you have a beautiful voice."
" Oh, it feels so good inside you."
" Haha, so you like it when daddy strokes your dick."
"Go on, show uncle how good a kisser you are."
" Let daddy's friend hear how sweet your voice is."
It was all so, so, so wrong.
And these unwanted memories kept flooding to the surface of his conscious. No matter how hard he tries to, they wouldn't stop playing, like being stuck in a cinema doomed to watch the same movie for eternity. Eddie screams and bangs his fists on the cell walls as an even darker demon rapes his mentality. He fails to notice the absolute horror taking place outside his cell.
People thrown against walls, heads exploding, spines ripped out, limbs bending in undesirable ways. And when the man finally came to, his icy blue eyes viewing the massacre before him, he smiles and almost begins laughing, as he basks in the murder. '
They all deserved it' he thinks, 'all these sluts deserved it.'
Frank Manera loved food, but after his first round in the 'Sphere' it began to taste oddly strange. And he strained his mind to figure out why. The meat was no longer juicy and tasted like wet socks. Vegetables were bland. Dessert wasn't sweet. Even water was a plain bore. He needed something that could please his raging appetite, something new, something he never had before.
The second time he went in the 'Sphere' his hunger for this unknown specimen was so tenacious that he wouldn't accept any regular food or liquid; even when the white coats forced nutrition into him he vomited it up. The third time in the 'Sphere' was his moment of enlightenment. At the time he felt like a wolf on the verge of starvation.
A white coat had made a mistake that day, coming into his cell without understanding the maturity of his madness. The white coat's skin was so pale; you could see all the little and big veins. And his jugular was so prominently exposed, blooding clearly rushing through it, pulsating. Frank didn't even realize he had sunk his teeth into the white coat's throat.
And as blood gushed into his mouth he began to salivate heavily. This wasn't the metallic substance, in his mind. This was chocolate fondue. Since that day he was kept restrained twenty fours hours a day seven days a week; until now. He had been asleep when the attack happened, and when he woke drool seeps from his lips as his eyes hungrily take in the corpses that litter the floor just outside his cell door.
He could move freely now, somehow the restraints were removed, and he would partake in a momentous feast.
The alarms blare incredibly loud and covering her ears didn't help. From the transparent cell door Naia could see the doctors, nurses, and security guards rushing around, yelling, some screaming, panicking, like ants having been disrupted from their line. She could see the other patients through these invisible walls. Some seem just as confused as her, some actually smile with a psychotic excitement in their expression, some are completely indifferent to the hysteria.
Naia pounds her hands against the cell door, demanding to know what is happening-and of course she is ignored. As if the situation couldn't become any stranger the power goes out. The emergency lights switch on. And she could see all the faculty being violently thrown about, some exploding in mid air, the rest smashed against the walls, floor, and ceiling. Just a foot away from her is a bloody, gory, mess of what used to be human forms.
"Oh… Oh God." She gasps. What the fuck is happening! Suddenly the cell door clicks and the sliding entrance becomes ajar. The other patients are leaving their cells.
"Hey!" one of them calls out to her. A man, with a throbbing tumor growing out his cheeks comes up to her. And she steps back, afraid of what he could do.
"Well are ya comin' or what? We get ta finally leave this shithole." Naia stares, not responding at all; still unsure of what she should do. The man's glossy eyes glance to his right, then left.
"Well if ya wanna die, fine. But I ain't waitin' around for that misty thingy ta come back." And with that said he is gone, while Naia stays immobile. She knew, first hand, that the misty thingy is bad news. A few weeks ago, during the night, it hovered over her body for an hour. She had felt it breathing on her, even felt it touch her; a soft caress on her cheek and neck, something a man would to the woman he's infatuated by.
That thing is roaming freely now and if she didn't move it would, no doubt, come for her. Naia gently slides the door open and does her best to not throw up from the scent of fresh blood and flesh. She steps into the corridor, disregarding the mess squishing along her bare feet. And all she thinks about is how she shouldn't be here; she didn't belong here.
"It'll be okay." She tells herself. This is her chance to finally escape and once she is free she would make it her mission to burn this company for what they've done to her and everyone else in this hell.
A/N: I should warn you that this story will be kind of a big enigma until the climatic part of it (teehee).