I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, or Father Martin Archimbaud. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski and Michael Sanderson. Enjoy!

"Fucking shit!"

Doctor Trager slammed the door closed and kicked it with his foot.

"Useless . . . goddamn useless," he muttered angrily to himself. He looked down the long-ass hallway he had spent the better part of forty-five minutes searching through. If this one hallway took nearly an hour to scavenge, then he was in deep shit.

The doctor let out a groan as he pressed on down the hall. There were two more rooms he had not yet checked. After finishing his searching here, he planned on backtracking to the opposite hall and looking through those offices. And if that failed, he would go downstairs to the basement. Not many people ventured down there, so it seemed plausible one could safely hold up in one of the many pitch-black rooms. He just hoped that Simon wasn't running around in the sewers.

And, as a last resort, he would go back to Watcher and see what the man knew. He loathed this option, for not more than an hour ago he emerged from the Pit victorious. Coming back to ask information on his own assistant's whereabouts would be downright embarrassing! He'd be a laughing stock. Oh, he could hear the taunts now.

"Trager can't even keep his own bitch in line!"

"Trager can't even catch a cripple!"

He'd never fucking live that down. It would take months to regain even half of the respect he currently had in the asylum. That little shit was going to pay if he didn't show himself soon. Well, he was going to pay either way, but that mattered not to the doctor. The sooner Poleski owned up to his punishment, the better. Hopefully the little weasel had enough sense to stay away from others.

Scowling, Trager continued his pace to the next door. He was beginning to wish he had Father Martin's charisma so that he could garner some followers of his own. It would have made his search go more quickly, but alas, he did not possess the priest's charisma or men. And so, he opened the last door on the left and entered the darkened room. His hand fumbled against the wall, searching for some kind of switch. The electricity still worked (somewhat) in this area. His fingers found what they were looking for and the light came on with a small click.

At the same time, a desk in the far corner of the room let out a gasp.

While the mad doctor occasionally questioned the well-being of his sanity—what was left of it, anyway—he was still pretty sure that desks, or any other inanimate object for that matter, did not gasp.

Removing the large pair of bone shears from his apron, he took a step towards the oak desk. In his most pleasant and calming voice, which he had exercised a lot with years of dealing with his pompous and bigoted superiors and colleagues, he addressed the frightened piece of furniture.

"Who's over there? Please show yourself. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not like the others out there."

No response. Trager frowned, wondering if maybe whoever was behind the desk saw through his façade, until a confused sounding voice spoke up.

"Mr. Trager? Is that you?" it asked timidly.

The doctor swallowed his pride and an impulse to growl at the impudent voice and replied, "Yeah, it's me. Please, just come out from behind the desk."

"Oh thank goodness!" came the relieved reply as a man wearing a guard uniform rose from behind the desk. "I could've sworn you were another one of those—" The young guard's voice trailed off as he took in the appearance of the other man in the room. Trager sneered at the openly gaping guard.

"Hmm? One of those what?" asked Trager in a sickly-sweet voice, taking more steps closer to the guard. The guard had backed away from the desk until his back was pressed against the wall. Trager was close enough now that he could see the guard's I.D. on his uniform. M. Sanderson, it read.

"Oh my God . . . What the hell happened to you?" questioned the guard, concern lacing his words.

Still holding the shears, Trager folded his arms and took on a relaxed pose. "The same thing that happened to the rest of this place," he said simply. "Oh, but don't worry about me. I rather like the new changes to the place. It's much more liberating."

The guard stood stock-still, eyeing the doctor worriedly. Trager could see the confliction on the man's face.

"Sir, we really need to get out of here. Everything's gone to hell. Doctor's have been ripped apart, same with security. They . . ." The guard swallowed hard. ". . . they even took out the SWATs! It's not safe here/ We have—"

"Oh I am very aware of the state of the asylum, Mr. Sanderson," Trager cut in. "And I have no intention of leaving. Not that I could, even if I wanted to. As it stands now, there is only one way out of this place." He paused as he raised his shears level with his chest. The rusty blades snapped open and closed as the doctor began slowly advancing on the wide-eyed guard.

"Would you like me to show you it?"

Sanderson's hands shot out, palms forward in a pleading gesture. "Please sir, you're not well. Put—Just put that damn thing away, for Christ's sake! I don't wanna have to hurt you." His trembling hand was reaching for the nightstick attached to his belt.

What good that'll do ya, buddy, thought Trager.

The doctor had gone around the desk, and was now standing several feet from the poised guard. Both men had their weapons out, ready for the upcoming scuffle. Sanderson gripped the nightstick tighter, glancing nervously between the bloody shears and the former executive's scarred and masked face.

Trager stood there, an air of complete calm about him despite the deadlock grip he had on his weapon. He was smirking behind his surgeon's mask, a murderous gleam in his eyes behind the cracked spectacles.

Adopting his executive-voice, he said, "Mr. Sanderson, I am sorry to inform you that Mount Massive Asylum is no longer in need of your services."

Oh ho-ho. This is going to be fun.

Simon lay on his back in the stiff bed. After crossing the narrow ledge and entering through the window, he had explained his situation to the other man. The man was still rather peeved at his earlier unexplained outburst, but reluctantly allowed Simon to use the lone bed in the room, which Simon assumed was used to house Murkoff employees.

Within minutes, Simon was out cold. His "roommate" could have been a murderer for all he knew, but he could honestly care less. He was injured, with cracked and broken ribs, a sore throat and neck, and he was pretty sure he had sustained some sort of concussion. It probably wasn't the wisest idea to sleep, but if he fell into a coma then so be it.

Yes, it had been one of those days.

He had been asleep for what seemed, to him, about twenty minutes before something external stirred him from his slumber. It was some sort of shallow noise, accompanied by little wisps of air that licked at his placid face. Simon did not dare open his eyes. He had not escaped one monster just to come face-to-face with another one.

Oh God, what is it now?

"Hey."

Simon ignored the voice, willing himself to go back to into the sublime state of unconsciousness.

"Hey, wake up," it said again. Simon's body was jostled as a rough hand gripped his arm and shook it. Against his better judgment his eyes snapped open, and he nearly squealed. A man wearing a grisly stitched up Halloween mask was leaning over him. The man was close enough that Simon could feel his hot breath on his face, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. The "mask" spoke to him again.

"I am here to bring you to the others. Please follow."

Simon continued to stare up at the man confusedly. What others? Who is this man? Where am I, again? His muddled mind was unable to process any of these questions. Before he could do anything, he was yanked up off of the bed by the masked man. How many times in one day was he going to get pulled around by strange men? The man led Simon by his arm, out the doorway and into the hall. Simon winced at the pain in his ribs, but allowed the masked man to lead him further into the darkness.

"Where are we going?" Simon asked groggily to his escort. The man didn't reply, or even seem to acknowledge Simon having spoken.

Oh goody . . . He thought. It's one of those aloof types.

The masked man in front turned a corner. Past the dark silhouette of his companion, Simon could make out a light source at the end of the hall; several candles on top of a table. Smeared above the flames was a dark arrow pointing to the right.

"Hurry up," came a raspy voice from in front of him.

"S-Sorry. I'm not well," Simon said timidly. The man said nothing and continued to tug Simon forward. They neared the table and took a right, following the arrow's direction. The injured man felt a cold chill go down his spine when he realized what had been used to create the ghastly marking.

Blood.

Simon tore his eyes from the bloody arrow when he felt the man in front of him stop at a wrought-iron door. The masked man let go of his hold on Simon's forearm and removed some kind of lanyard from around his neck. From the light of the candles, Simon saw that there was a small key attached to it, which the man shoved into the old lock and twisted. The door opened with a creak, and Simon was once again being led forward by the other man.

"We go up," said the masked man. To further emphasize his point, he pointed up the wooden flight of stairs with his free hand and looked to Simon expectantly. Simon looked doubtfully from the steps to the man next to him.

Simon shook his head and pulled his arm out of the man's grasp. "You have got to be kidding. I can hardly walk, let alone climb a flight of stairs. I'm sorry, but I just can't do it," he apologized, raising his hands in a defensive manner. The man gave Simon a hard look, making him feel very uncomfortable. In an instant, the man moved forward, and with surprising strength, picked up Simon and slung his body over his right shoulder. The action elicited an indignant hiss from the injured man.

"What are you doing? This isn't helping!" Simon protested as the man began ascending the stairs. "Unhand me!" he shouted, now pounding on the man's back. To his disappointment, the man did not relent. All Simon could do now was allow himself to be carried like an invalid—which technically he was—up the stairs. He hissed in pain as each movement his kidnapper made caused his pained torso to grind against the man's bony shoulder. Simon glared at the ground and watched as more and more steps appeared behind his captor. After a few more painful steps, the two of them reached the landing. The man turned to go up the next flight of stairs, and Simon got a view of a rain-splattered window.

This day sucked. Badly. Had it even been a whole day? In here, it was hard to tell when a day had ended and a new one had started. It seemed that nearly every time Simon looked out a window, it was either dark, cloudy, or raining. Or a combination of all three. The thought of time made him think of all the things that had happened within the past few hours, and then the past few weeks. So many things had changed in his life, and none for the better. Before coming here, he didn't think his life could get any worse, but of course he had been proven wrong.

The man beneath him halted, and Simon felt the grip around his legs slacken and he was being put down. The pain in his ribs intensified once the pressure they had gotten used to vanished, and Simon hunched over and gripped his sides in an attempt to soothe their ache.

"Was that really necessary?" he hissed to the other man.

The man was not facing him, and was instead unlocking the door in front of them. Once the door was open, he replaced the key around his neck and turned to face Simon. His arm reached towards Simon's, and Simon jerked it away.

"I'll walk on my own accord, thank you," he growled.

The masked man stared blankly at him, but turned back towards the door and walked through. Simon's eyes trailed after his retreating form, and he let out a defeated sigh and followed.

His escort had taken a right after opening the wrought-iron door. Simon peered out the doorway to his left and found that the hallway was blocked off by a reinforced glass door, most likely locked. Looks like he was going right.

Had it not been for the candles lining the walls and the candelabrum in the corner of the hallway, Simon would not have been able to see a thing. When his eyes caught sight of the dark writing on the walls further down, he almost wish he hadn't been able to.

GoD hates SIckness was smeared crudely on the wall in blood. A sign next to the macabre display read Chapel.

Yep. He was in the priest's territory now. He continued slowly forward, coming up to a left turn. Once he had rounded the corner, Simon saw yet more blood-writing. A thick red cross adorned the wall in front of him, and further to the left were the words GoD hates Money.

Simon turned away from the bloody scribbles and saw more candles on the floor, along with more seemingly random nonsense written on the walls, not in blood. There was another candelabrum to his left, illuminating even more crimson lettering.

GoD AlWaYs ProVides a waY.

Kind of a shorter chapter this time, compared to the last two. I promise, the next one will be longer! Also, I sort of have an idea on where I'm going with this story; I'm just having trouble on how to go about getting there. If anyone has any ideas or input, let me know in a review or just PM me. Thanks for reading!