WARNING: Torture ahead!

I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, Father Martin, or The Brothers. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon and Sebastian. Enjoy!

Simon found himself standing at the end of the chapel room. Next to him stood Sebastian, and next to Sebastian stood one of the twins. On the other side of the podium were the two men who had attacked him and Sebastian, along with the second twin. And standing behind the podium, was Father Martin.

When the Father had finally shown up, the twins relayed what had transpired. Immediately afterward, he ordered all the men in the room to restore the pews back to their proper positions and ordered him, Sebastian, the two attackers, and the twins to stand at the altar. The men now filled the pews and awaited further instruction from the priest. To Simon, it felt like he was on trial. In his entire life, he had only been on trial once, and that was one too many times in his opinion. It was the trial that sealed his fate and sent him to Mount Massive. Right now, Simon was nervously wringing his hands together and casting brief glances around the room. When he heard the priest's voice sound from next to him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"My disciples tell me of foul play going on in my absence. This behavior is undesirable and deeply displeases me and our Lord," Father Martin spoke diligently, his eyes traveling around the room. Several of the men in the pews averted their eyes in shame. "Who is to blame for this disturbance?"

Like before with the brothers, no one responded directly. Only murmurs and whispers could be heard throughout the room. Simon glanced over to the priest, who was frowning deeply. Suddenly, Father Martin raised a fist and brought it down, striking the podium hard and causing Simon and several others to flinch.

"Which one of these men started the fighting?" Father Martin demanded harshly.

"H-He did, Father. The one with the gimpy hand!" said a man, motioning at Simon. Simon bit his tongue and swallowed hard. He looked over to the priest, whose eyes were now watching him intently. His expression was unreadable, but definitely not benevolent.

"Is what he says true, child? Was it you who started the fight?" asked Martin. Simon opened his mouth to respond when he was cut off by another one of the inmates.

"Yeah, yeah! I saw everything. He—"

"Silence. The Father was not speaking to you," said the twin next to Sebastian. The man in the pews bowed his head and murmured an apology.

Simon looked from the man to Father Martin. Taking a shaky breath, he said, "I didn't start the fight. The man over there did."

Martin turned to his left and appraised the shirtless man. "Is this true, brother Jason?" he asked.

"Father, please forgive me," said the other man. "I started it, but with good reason. That man is a danger to our group and I couldn't let 'im get away! Do you not recognize him, Father? I do! He's been workin' for the doctor this whole time! He's a rotten traitor and I brought it upon myself to get rid of 'im." The man looked past the Father and stared hatefully at Simon. Throughout the man's tirade, Simon grew even more uncomfortable. All eyes in the room were on him. To his right, he could practically feel Sebastian glaring at him. When the man ended his accusation, the room erupted in shouts and finger-pointing, all aimed at Simon. Just when he felt he was about to get rushed by the angry mob, Father Martin came to his rescue.

"Enough! I have heard enough out of you all!" he shouted, pounding his fist repeatedly on the podium. The men quieted but some still put in their two cents on the issue. Father Martin raised his hands palms out and said, "Silence your tongues. Children, I understand your outrage. Please, allow me to explain his presence in our church." The chaotic room grew silent as everyone waited to hear what the priest would say next. Simon just hoped that whatever the priest's explanation would be would not end up getting him killed.

"Before further accusations are made, I am already aware of this man's past actions with the doctor. For those of you who have had the privilege of knowing me all these years, you should realize that I do not act without good reason," Martin chided. Several of the men in the pews nodded their heads in silent agreement, and the Father continued. "This man," Martin motioned to Simon, "is no longer working for that sinful tyrant. He seeks repentance for his past sins, and I believe I have the means to revoke them."

Simon's eyes widened. Revoking his sins? What on earth was this man going to make him go through? Many gruesome scenarios ran through Simon's panicked mind.

"Children, I believe that his presence here is a great blessing from our Lord. Can't you see? He carries knowledge with him that we do not possess. He knows where the doctor holds our brethren. Surely you have all heard the tales of what this madman does to his prey?" questioned the priest. The men in the pews gave nervous glances and nods in response. "He keeps them chained so he can torture them with his so-called science. He is a direct threat to our religion and to our Lord. But there is a way to beat him, and that way is by the ark."

Several 'oohs' and 'ahs' sounded from the congregation.

"Yes . . . yes, I do believe that with the help of our new guest, we can free our fallen brothers! This man," Martin held out his hand to Simon, "shall act as my Noah, and shall save our brethren from the flood! He shall ferry them to us, and our sect will grow stronger, as will our faith!" By this point in the priest's speech, several of the men were standing and cheering. Simon remained still, his mind racing, trying to process exactly what the Father was saying. He was to act as a sort of Noah, and bring Trager's patients back to the chapel? No. No, no no no . . . He would not do that! He refused! There was no way in—

"What if he refuses to follow your will, Father?" came the wispy voice of one of the twins.

"Yes. What if he runs away?" said the other.

"Ah, do not fret, for I have a plan for that," replied the priest. He then directed his attention to the whole group. "My disciples bring up an important point. What shall happen if our Noah does not fulfill his duties?" Father Martin let the question linger in the air for several seconds.

"We . . . kill 'im?" spoke a man from the pews. The other men grunted and nodded at his proposal. Simon blanched.

"No, no! Good heavens, children! We will not let this unholy place corrupt us! I have a much fairer solution—we shall let our Lord decide." At this, every man in the group, including the two men next to the second twin, let out a gasp. Simon noticed that even both of the twins had a look of awe on their brute features. "Yes, our gracious and fearsome Lord, The Walrider, has spoken to me! He is satisfied with our worship and praise, but wishes for our religion to grow. I have conversed with Him about my plan to free our brothers. He and I both agreed that this holy mission is of utmost importance. That is why if our shepherd fails . . ." the Father turned his head to Simon's trembling form, "he shall be the sole bearer of our Lord's wrath!" All of the men stood and cheered, and some clapped their hands and prayed vehemently.

Simon couldn't help but shrink back against the priest's hard gaze. He took another step backwards, only to be stopped by a large hand painfully gripping his shoulder. His head jerked to the side and realized that he was being held by a grinning twin. Immediately he tried to escape the man's hold, but only succeeded in causing the iron grip to tighten further.

"P-Please! You can't just send me back there! You don't know what he'd do to me if he found me! This is insane!" Simon found himself crying out desperately. The Father only looked at him with a scowl.

"Are you denying this most gracious opportunity to rid yourself of your sins, child?" he asked flatly. Simon picked up the underlying menace in the priest's words and realized that whatever he said next would most likely determine whether he'd live or die. In order to get out of this alive, he had no choice but to play the priest's game.

"Of c-course not . . . Father. I would never deny such a . . . generous and fair opportunity." Simon inwardly winced at his words. "What I had meant w-was," he took a shaky breath as the Father's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "that I'm not in the best position—physically, I mean—to efficiently carry out your task."

One look at Father Martin told him that no matter what, he was going to be forced into doing the zealot's bidding. His shoulders slumped in defeat, before he felt the twin's grip on his shoulder tighten.

"Father," spoke the twin. "What is to become of the other ne'er-do-wells? Surely, they should be punished accordingly, yes?" Simon could hear the eagerness in his voice, as if he had spent the whole assembly just waiting to hear about the punishments. Somehow, Simon did not doubt that was the case.

"Brother Vincent, always so quick to judgment," the priest said condescendingly as he shook his finger. "But, I suppose in this instance, I will hear you out. What do you suggest we do? I shall trust yours and your brother's instincts." Out of Simon's peripheral, he could make out the twin's arm motioning to his brother. Upon seeing the gesture, the brother calmly walked over, gripping the two men by their arms.

"Yes, brother?" he asked.

"Our Father has given us permission to decide punishments. What do you think is fitting for these hooligans?" The two men were visibly shaken by the brother's words, and even more so by their captor's.

"I vote we kill them," his brother said simply.

"I second that motion. Father, may we?" asked the other brother.

"No, you mustn't!" protested the Father. "Punish them for their wrongdoings, but do not execute them." Father Martin looked between the two men in the brother's grasp, and then to Sebastian. "I will allow for some roughness," he said finally. "But make sure they remain alive. Remember that only our Lord chooses who lives and who perishes," the priest said solemnly. The brothers, while looking disappointed, nodded their heads.

"Please, Father! We beg your forgiveness! I swear, I didn't know 'bout your plan, I didn't!" cried the man who had attacked Simon. The man's friend had his hands clasped together and his head bowed as he muttered something incoherent. If Simon was being honest with himself, he would say that he did not feel any sort of empathy for the two men. Maybe the cruelty of the asylum was finally rubbing off on him.

"Your punishment has been decided," jeered the brother holding Simon.

"It will be slow. And deliberate," hissed the other into the distraught men's ears, both of which cowered away from him.

"And what of the other one, Father? Will he receive our punishment?"

Simon suddenly recalled that Sebastian had been involved in the fight, meaning that he too would be subject to whatever horrible punishment the two brothers were going to dish out. "Father Martin, I know what you can do with this man. He—" Simon started before he was cut off by the jerk of his shoulder.

"Quiet your tongue," groaned the brother that was holding him. Simon winced as the man's fingers dug deeper into his sore shoulder. "I believe the Father gave us permission to decide on the proper punishment."

Simon looked pleadingly at Father Martin, silently hoping that the man would hear him out. As luck would have it, he did.

"Wait. Let us hear what he has to say," said the priest, much to the dismay of the brothers. "Go on, child, I am listening."

Simon nodded and continued. "As I was saying . . . Sebastian did not start the fight. In fact, he was trying to prevent it, but got pulled into it. So instead of punishing him, like those two, I think it would be most helpful to your cause if he were to, uh . . . accompany me on my quest," Simon finished quickly. He hoped that he had been convincing enough to get Sebastian off the hook.

"He's lying," said one twin.

"He just wants help to escape," said the other.

Father Martin's eyes looked from Simon, to the twins, and then to Sebastian, contemplating the best course of action. Simon was not sure what the priest's final ruling would be, but he had one more point to make that might persuade him to let Sebastian go with him.

"Father, you know how injured I am. I can hardly stand up straight from the pain. And then to trek all the way across the asylum to rescue your followers? It would be near impossible, and I wouldn't want to invoke the wrath of the . . . Walrider. I'm sure if I had some help, the job could get done, and you could avoid displeasing yo—our—Lord."

A silence followed. Simon never broke eye contact with the priest. He could see the gears turning inside the old man's mind, and he knew that he had gotten through to him. But still, the tension built as the silence lingered, until finally . . .

"Very well," said the Father, a bit hesitantly. "This man may accompany you on your righteous journey. However, this means I expect the job to get done faster, and with more reward," he said sternly. Simon only nodded. The Father then turned to Sebastian, who had remained completely silent throughout the whole ordeal. Simon hoped that it was not a bad sign.

"Do you accept this course of action, my son?" asked the priest. Sebastian glanced to Simon, a look of neutrality on his face. After a quick second, he gave the Father a nod.

"Excellent! Our Lord will be most pleased at these events. May your journey be fruitful, my children. It is a great honor doing the Lord's work," Father Martin said excitedly. With a gentle smile that seemed to cause Simon more distress than comfort, he turned to the two men still being held by the bald twin. "You and your brother may deal out their punishment. Remember: alive. Do not displease me," warned the Father.

"Of course not, Father."

"We would never do such a thing. Right brother?"

"Right."

Simon felt the hold on his shoulder vanish, and the twin with hair walked past him and retrieved one of the men in his brother's grasp. The shirtless man was sputtering and pulling against his grip. "No! I'm sorry! I'm—I had no choice! Oh God, please!" he sobbed as he was being dragged towards the exit. Father Martin watched dispassionately, and the men in the pews looked on in shock and amusement as the brother's and their victims made their way down the aisle.

"Come," commanded the Father to Simon and Sebastian. "I have much to discuss with you both about this endeavor." Father Martin then stepped away from the podium and strode over to a door at the back wall. Simon let out a breath he had been holding in. He was both relieved and a bit anxious. Just as he was about to move to follow the priest, Sebastian brushed past him, jarring his sore shoulder. He didn't even look back or apologize, and instead stepped through the door Father Martin had just entered.

Regaining his bearings, Simon slowly walked to the door, and entered.

"Calm down, buddy, I know you're excited," chided the doctor. The man being spoken to was, in fact, very excited. He was screaming and thrashing against the restraints around his wrists and ankles as the wheelchair was being guided down the hallway. "Noisy little fucker, aren't you?" said Trager through gritted teeth. He mentally noted that the first thing he would work on was somehow silencing the patient's obnoxious crying. Honestly, the man was being a tad bit melodramatic about this.

The doctor and his patient finally reached their destination—a small, white-tiled room with a sink and three urinals attached to the far wall. Trager wheeled the whimpering man to the middle of the room and began the pre-operation ritual of washing his hands. Once he was finished, he turned back to the patient and offered him what he thought was a comforting smile. Of course, the man in the wheelchair wouldn't have been able to see it, for the doctor was wearing a surgical mask; but that did not matter. In Trager's frame of mind this was all just a game of pretend, taken to the extreme. He went through the motions of what he considered that of a doctor, and whoever he deemed worthy would act as his patient. Unfortunately, his playmates were always reluctant to take part in his game and he had to work around it, i.e. physical restraints and, often times, the use of brutal force. It was the patients' fault that he had to resort to such hostilities, but he truthfully couldn't say that he didn't like it. It was rewarding, having so much power over his patients. Call him a sadist, but he took great pleasure in others' discomfort and weaknesses.

"How are you doing today, Mr. Thompson?" he asked the squirming man in the wheelchair. Another thing he liked to do was to give names to his patients; it added to the aestheticism of being a doctor. He watched on as the man continued to shriek and struggle against the restraints. "Mmm, that bad, huh? Well I assure you, you've come to the right place. I have a sneaky suspicion that you might be suffering from tonsillitis," he said drolly as the patient let out another choked sob. "Now now, it's just a theory," continued Trager, holding out his arms in a calming gesture. "It's nothing a little check-up can't solve . . ."

The patient's eyes widened and he began shaking his head side to side rapidly as he cried out. Trager rolled his eyes and walked over to the metal cart. As the man continued his tirade, the doctor studied the tools before him, deciding on which one would be best suited for removing tonsils. He pinched the handle of a rusty scalpel between his grotesque fingers and watched as the overhead light gleamed off of its metal surface. This would do nicely. With a small spring in his step that only the promise of operating could create, he walked over so that he was standing in front of the patient.

"Now, Mr. Thompson, I understand that you may have . . . hesitations about this. I assure you, it's quite normal." The man still continued to whimper as Trager talked. "I'm going to explain to you what this check-up entails. First, I'm just going to have a looksy into your gullet and poke a prod a bit. If my suspicions of tonsillitis are confirmed, then I will have to begin the procedure. Do you understand what is being told to you, Mr. Thompson?" asked Trager. The man, as expected, began to cry even more. Trager sighed and approached the distraught man. "Okay, let's get started shall we?" he said as reached towards the man's mouth with the pointed end of the scalpel. The man's head jerked back and to the side, barring entrance.

The doctor narrowed his eyes and hissed in irritation. "Come on now, don't be fussy. This is a necessary precaution. Wouldn't want to have to operate without reason, would we?" he scolded. His patient was going to be difficult, and Trager thought back on his decision of not knocking the man out. Immediately he dismissed the idea, for it was not nearly as fun with an unconscious participant. And without the added hands of his assistant—no! He didn't need that good-for-nothing twat! He could do this on his own!

Trager jerked back angrily from the struggling man and turned to the sink, where he retrieved a wet rag. Wrapping the rag around his left hand and forming a fist, he returned to the patient. He set the scalpel down in the man's lap. "If you won't submit to the checkup, then I'm going to have to keep your yapper open by force," Trager snarled as he gripped the man's jaw and forced him to face forward. With his right hand, he forced the patient's mouth open and roughly slipped his thumb in between the other man's teeth. Now this way, the man had no way to close his mouth, and there was just enough space that Trager could slip the scalpel in.

"See what you made me do? This could have been easy," said the doctor he simultaneously fought to keep the man's head still and the scalpel inside the man's mouth. Trager leaned in closer so that he could view the back of the man's throat. Almost immediately, he saw the tonsils, along with the uvula. "Hmm. Yep, just as I thought," he said as he leaned back to look into the wild eyes of his patient. "It's gotta go," he said cheerfully. More screams ripped from the man's throat as Trager resumed his position and stuck the scalpel further into the man's mouth. The tip of the scalpel was now scratching against the side of the man's throat.

"Before we continue," said the doctor, his eyes still trained on the organ. "This will not be pleasant for you. But I'm sure, with time, you'll come to thank me. All right, let's begin." And with that, Trager pushed the scalpel's tip into the tonsil, eliciting a scream from his patient. Trager couldn't help but smile as he continued to cut jagged lines into the soft tissue. The man beneath him squirmed and let out choked gasps as the scalpel cut deeper and deeper. His teeth sunk into the cloth around Trager's thumb, causing the doctor to grimace.

"Hang in there, buddy. We're almost done," Trager said over the whales of his patient. Only a thread was keeping the tonsil attached, and the doctor removed the scalpel. He placed the scalpel back down on the patient's lap and reached his hand back in and gripped the loose tissue. The patient was now choking and coughing up blood, his throat refusing to let him scream any more. With a quick tug, the thread gave way and Trager's hand emerged with the bloodied tonsil. He rose to a standing position in front of the crying man and surveyed his prize.

"You see? That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked. His patient's head lulled to the side, blood dribbling down his chin. His breaths were coming out ragged and his eyes were darting all around the room. Trager dropped the squishy pink tissue onto the cart and retrieved the scalpel from the man's lap. "Now, time for the second one," said Trager as he approached the wheelchair.

Upon hearing that the torture was not yet over, the man's struggling began anew, nearly causing the whole chair to tip over. Trager steadied it with his knee as he bent over the whimpering man, readying the scalpel. Once again, he shoved his clothed thumb in between the man's teeth to keep his mouth from closing fully. As he brought the scalpel closer to the man's mouth, the man thrust his body upward unexpectedly and knocked the instrument from Trager's hand and sent it clattering to the floor. The doctor let out a hiss of disdain.

"God damn it! Simon! Scalpel! Now!" he demanded. As soon as the words left his mouth, Trager realized that no one was there to retrieve the scalpel for him. In that moment, a dark cloud seemed to come over the insane doctor. From behind his spectacles, his eyes were locked on the man breathing heavily beneath him. Then, slowly, he removed his hand from the man's mouth and stood. He looked to the floor and bent down to pick up the small scalpel. After studying it for several seconds, he looked back to his patient and sighed.

"That . . . was extremely rude of you," he said in a tense, quiet voice. The room was silent, save for the audible breathing of the patient. The doctor's eyes were still trained on him, but from what was visible of his face, he appeared rather neutral. He was neither manically gleeful nor maliciously predatory; he was simply just there. And that was truly frightening.

Finally, after a minute or two, Trager slowly lifted the scalpel. "Mr. Thompson, I believe a change in tactics is in order. I realize now that I foolishly miscalculated what was causing your ailment. Rest assured, I am taking full responsibility for my actions . . . But really, could you blame me? This place . . . I think it's finally starting to rub off on me." Trager paused, awaiting a reply that would never come. "Tell you what. I'll fix the problem for free."

He leaned over the patient and once again forced his mouth open. This time, the man put up more of a fight, but Trager remained undaunted. "Okay buddy. Let's see about that tongue of yours . . ." Clutching the small scalpel between his fingers, he went to work. The man's struggling and shrieks of pain and terror went unnoticed by the mad doctor as he cut. A grim smirk crossed his face as the scalpel crudely cut away at the tough muscle of the man's tongue, for in Trager's mind, he was not operating on a patient. No—in his mind, all he could see, screaming and struggling beneath him, was Simon.

My deepest apologies. There were several reasons why this chapter took so long to be posted. First, I had a difficult time writing it. Not really sure why, but I did. As I was writing it, I kept getting ideas for future chapters and kind of shoved this one to the side. And when I finally finished it, the internet decides to be a total butt and not work. But hey! It's here now, and I made it super long. That's gotta count for something, right?

Also, thank you guys for the reviews, most notably a review from RandomReader. I'm thrilled that you have taken a bit of a liking to Simon despite your dislike of OCs. Although I am sorry I didn't quite follow through on the 'update soon' part, heh heh . . . :/ But in other news, I've finally made a plot map for this story and have estimated that this will consist of 12 story chapters, and then a 13th chapter will be posted as kind of a bonus. Just giving you guys an idea of how long this story will be. Thanks for reading!