Mount Massive Asylum and one of its insane residents, Doctor Richard Trager, is from the horror game 'Outlast' which is owned by Red Barrels. The only character that I own is Simon. Enjoy!

Simon exited the rickety old elevator, clipboard held tightly in his left hand. His other hand, which was a gnarled patchwork of burnt tissue, was clenched into a tight fist at his side. Shouts and raspy incoherent voices could be heard from somewhere in the distance, and occasionally, an agonizing scream. All of this noise faded into the background for Simon, whose mind was focused on the daunting task at hand. Trager might not take kindly to another one of his "patients" dying on his watch. Or, maybe he would. The mad "doctor" was extremely unpredictable, and was getting worse as of late. One minute, he'd be brutally butchering a screaming man alive with a meat cleaver, and the next, he'd be patting their head and cooing to them, and giving them his condolences. In the end, though, it never went well for the patients. Heaving a thoughtful sigh, Simon continued on.

Reaching a metal doorway, he took a left. Chains clinked as a man strapped to a hospital gurney lifted his head to see who had entered the hallway. He looked at Simon with wide, glazed over eyes and began whimpering. Simon did not regard the man as he made his way past and opened one of the double-doors on his right. The room he entered was black and white tiled, and was in as much disarray as the rest of the wing. Tattered and torn metal-spring beds lined the walls of the room. Most of the beds were empty; blood stains fresh and old were the only indicators of them having been recently used.

"You!" came a raspy voice from the other end of the room. Ah yes, Mr. Langen, one of the asylum's executives. Ex-executive, Simon corrected himself. He chose to ignore this man too, who was now yelling expletives at him, and made his way to a small adjoining hallway, stopping in front of a paint-chipped wooden door. His arm faltered as he reached for the doorknob with his mangled hand. Gathering up his courage, he took a deep breath, then twisted the rusted knob and walked into the room.

The room he entered looked oddly similar to the bathroom from Saw. In fact it was a bathroom, or rather, it used to be. It had been recently converted into a makeshift surgical room. A lone flickering light illuminated the room to show cracked and dirty white bricked walls and cracked white tile flooring spattered here and there with gross amounts of blood and some suspicious muddy-colored liquid. Old pipes jutted from the ceiling and walls. Water could be heard dripping from somewhere within the small room. The wall opposite the doorway had three urinals, some of which were currently being used as storage space for various surgical tools. The bathroom's lone stall and toilet had been removed to make room for a large metal cart which held even more tools: several scalpels, two bone saws, a nightstick from one of the guards, some large kitchen knives, and a rather large pair of bone shears. All were covered in a dark, rusty brown substance. A wheelchair equipped with wrist and ankle restraints sat in a dark corner.

Simon gulped as he looked around the uninhabited room. He purposely averted his gaze from the mirror hanging above the sinks to his left. Ever since he was a child, Simon had avoided anything that he could possibly see his reflection in. He hated seeing himself; despised the way he looked. How weak he was. Viewing his reflection only brought pain and anger as he was reminded of his awful childhood, and the monster who had stolen it away from him. He shook his head, as if to push the dark thoughts that were burning into his mind away, and turned to leave.

"BOO!"

Simon jerked back with a startled yelp, bringing his clipboard up over his face like a shield. Then suddenly, he heard chuckling. He lowered the clipboard to see none other than Richard Trager himself. He was leaning nonchalantly, with arms crossed, against the wooden door frame. His dark eyes were staring at Simon from behind his cracked spectacles.

Despite the friendly chuckle coming from behind the tattered surgical mask, everything else about Trager was definitely not friendly. The man in the doorway stood barefoot, wearing a bloodstained butcher's apron tied around his skeleton-thin waist by a bloody piece of rope. He wore no shirt, leaving his scarred and bony torso exposed. There was some odd contraption with tubing winding around his arm that Simon hadn't noticed before. He didn't have time to observe the strange device further as Trager stepped into the small room.

"Heh-heh. Gotcha good, buddy!" the mad doctor laughed. "Like the new threads? All the doctors are wearin' them," he joked, motioning to his apron as he strode past Simon over to the metal cart.

"Y-yes. Very, um, stylish, sir." Simon looked to his clipboard, stalling as he thought about how to continue. Well, he certainly looked like a doctor, thought Simon. A doctor straight out of a cheap horror film. But he didn't understand why Trager chose to discard his old shirt, tattered and blood-stained as it had been. At least it had covered, for the most part, his skeletal-like chest and arms. Whatever tortures the amateur doctor had been subjected to, it must have hurt like hell.

Shiiiink. Shiiiink. Simon looked up from his clipboard to see Trager sharpening two large knives together, their blades reflecting the light from overhead.

"So—" shiiiink, "—what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be down checking on the crazi—uh—I mean, patients?" he asked, still sharpening the knives. Simon looked back to his clipboard.

"Well, uh, Mr. Trager, it seems that . . ." The sharpening of the knives stopped immediately, causing Simon to trail off and look up from his clipboard. Trager's head was now turned so that he was glaring at Simon with his penetrating, dark gaze. The doctor let out an exasperated sigh.

"Simon, how many times are we gonna go over this?" he asked quietly with a hint of anger in his voice that Simon knew all too well.

Suddenly, Trager threw one of the knives down on the cart with a loud clank and shot over to Simon in a flash. He was now pointing the second knife at Simon, dangerously close to his throat. "Doctor, Simon! It's doctor! Doc-tor!" he screamed, emphasizing the word. Simon's blood seemed to freeze as he stared wide-eyed at the knife the crazed man was holding mere centimeters from his pulsing neck.

"How hard is it to fucking . . ?" Trager had become so irate that he was sputtering his words now. "Show. Some. Respect! I mean, come on—!"

"I'm sorry! I d-didn't mean any offense," Simon stammered, cutting the mad physician's tirade short. He struggled not to look away from the madman's rage-filled eyes. Trager still held the knife to Simon's throat, and was breathing heavily from behind his mask. At least he had stopped screaming at him. Maybe that was a good sign? He looked like he was calming down . . .

SLAP!

Simon reeled to his right, clutching tightly to his clipboard as he fell against the wall next to the door. He brought his injured hand to his face gingerly. He—had he just been slapped?

Trager had gone back to fiddling with the various tools laid out on the cart, his back to Simon's hunched form. "Serves you right, you little miscreant," he muttered, still fuming. "What have you got to say for yourself, mister?" he said over his shoulder.

Simon shakily brought himself up to a standing position and looked over to Trager who . . . was not wearing any pants.

What . . ?

His mind was reeling; from the attack and from the unsavory view of his boss' backside. He snapped out of his reverie when the man he was staring at shifted to turn towards him. What? Why was he looking at—oh! Right.

"I'm so, s-so sorry," Simon stuttered out. As a painful afterthought, he added, "Doctor Trager."

Trager nodded in approval and went back to absentmindedly fiddling with the tools again. "Don't let it happen again, unless you want both of your hands to match," he hissed, emphasizing the ch in 'match'. Simon visibly twitched and felt a painful throb in his right hand. He had not forgotten what had caused its deformation. All Simon could do in response was to vigorously nod his head.

Several very silent moments passed, save for the clinking and sharpening of the tools on the cart. Simon found himself pondering on whether those meat cleavers really needed to be that sharp.

The silence was finally interrupted by Simon, who couldn't stand the awkward stillness in the room any longer.

"Ahem, sir? I came here to report something. Pat—"

"Oh yes, I already knew," interrupted Trager, turning around to face Simon. "People cannot live without both kidneys. I was on the fence about it before, but now I'm certain," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I . . . hadn't known that sir, but—"

"Well then what the devil is it?" demanded the impatient doctor, turning to face his assistant.

"Sir, Patient 109 didn't make it," Simon blurted out. He watched the mad doctor warily, wondering if he would be able to make it out the door lest the doctor come at him with the knife again. Once again, he felt a dull ache in his mangled hand at the memory of the last time he had displeased the doctor.

"What?!" Trager shouted, suddenly very livid, and clutched strands of his long grey hair on either side of his head. "That's . . . fantastic news!"

Simon flinched at his sudden outburst. ". . . Excuse me sir?"

"You seriously need to do something about those ears of yours, buddy. Patient 109 you say? He was the fella who had to get his feet, left hand, right arm, ears, tongue, and liver removed. Correct me if I'm wrong." Simon checked the clipboard, and shook his head.

"No, that's the one, sir. How is his death considered 'fantastic news'?" questioned Simon.

"Because, Simon my boy, I made a bet with that big Ivan guy. You know . . . six-foot five, looks like a retarded, hairless gorilla. Very, very dense." At this he let out a low chuckle. "He told me that 109 could hold out for a week. I told him he wouldn't last more than four days! So now, I get fifty bucks! Ha! The moron thought I wouldn't be able to tell the death-date of my own patient? What a schmuck!" cackled Trager, who grabbed Simon by the shoulders and shook him playfully.

"But sir, we're in an asylum . . ." explained Simon, backing out of the doctor's hold. Trager eyed him questioningly, placing his bony hands on his narrow hips.

"And your point?" asked Trager.

"How can he possibly give you money?"

"Pfft, well Simon, the answer is simple. He . . . hmm. Well, he can just—wait. No . . ." He paused, rubbing his chin in deep thought. Simon wondered what was going through the mad doctor's mind in that moment. It mustn't have been good, for Trager emitted a low, animalistic growl and brought his long, bony fingers in front of his face as if he were trying to strangle the air.

"That fucking trickster! Bamboozler!" He lashed out, flipping over the cart and sending its contents clattering against the floor. Simon brought the clipboard up to his face, peeking over the top. He watched on in terror and awe as his boss stomped around the room, making random angry motions with his arms as he spewed out vulgarities.

"How dare he! SONUVA—!"