Disclaimer: Outlast belongs to creator Red Barrels, therefore all characters, trademarks, names and other related indicia are property of the party afore-mentioned and any other respective owners. This disclaimer is true for the whole of the fic and shall not be repeated.

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"Awareness is the enemy of sanity, for once you hear the screaming, it never stops."

Emilie Autumn

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"You shouldn't be here."

In the cold and dark she had, at first, mistaken the ominous whisper for a threat.

Her prayer for silence broken by the strange utterance. The words, loud enough to rear her weeping eyes from the crook of her shoulder, were spoken against an ill-timed crack of lightning.

She could tell the masculine silhouette hunched against the door was either badly bruised or mildly wounded; short, sharp breaths expelling themselves from his chapped lips. Blood coated his sleeves and thighs leading her gaze to the missing fingers on both his hands. But her interests lay beyond the gore- to his foreign clothing, alighting a spark in her delirious mind.

Not Murkoff. Not a patient. Then who?

But the light, she had decided, was no ally at all.

The bold streak of white across the starless sky, forced her to look upon the thick blood-spray against the peeling walls and the rotting, headless corpse, bent inhumanly underneath.

She shook uselessly against the headboard of the cot, cleaner than the others that reeked a stench so bad her nostrils burned. Only the bottom half was covered in the fresh stain's of bodily fluids and she gagged each time she remembered. Knowing that if she moved her feet just a few inches lower, the dark, congealed mess would coat her skin as if she'd bathed in it,

"Dr. Whitcombe?… Veronica Whitcombe?"

Her eye's snapped to his, neck twisting fast enough to guarantee whiplash,

"Who are you? How do you know my name?"

The back of her throat burned and her voice was hoarse. How long had it been since she'd spoken, actually talked to another human being?

At the reaction to his words, the stranger took a staggering tread forward and further into the pitch black room, bringing some kind of object closer to his face, before pulling back suddenly,

"Jesus Christ! It fucking is you"

Reaching down and opening up his bag, the outsider lamely chucked something heavy at her, causing her to shrink back. She noticed a sloshing sound coming from inside whatever it was. Untangling her limbs from each other, she slowly picked it up,

"I'm Miles, I'm a journalist and don't worry it's just water. The mains have been shut off so the bottled stuffs all that's left."

She untwisted the cap, giving the liquid a quick sniff to be sure; relishing in the long awaited relief the water brought. Tasting nothing funny, she took another drink before handing it back to him,

"Thank you."

He smiled, though it was broken by a cry of agony from somewhere unknown; her body tensed and she noticed his did too. Lifting his head, Miles made his way back to the door, peering round the corner. After a few more moments of uninterrupted silence he retreated, deeming the corridor clear,

"It sounded like it was coming from the administration block. There's keycard only gates between here and there; no patients getting through."

All Veronica could do was shake her head,

"Unless they get a key card, that is."

He didn't speak but something darker seemed to weigh his face down,

"Most of the patients can't string a sentence together, let alone escape. And even if they could…" he shut his eyes for a flutter of a moment and suddenly she knew,

"You've seen it, haven't you?"

Another noise echoed through the building, a faint wailing and then nothing, stirring a uneasy silence between the two. Miles averted his gaze along with his answer, but Veronica saw the look on his face, the impossibility, but still he wandered further into the darkness; searching, seeking,

"You believe. I know you do."

The mattress groaned softly as her weight lifted from it, hands fumbled around in the dim light, avoiding the corpse at the end of the bed. Miles fiddled with the object in his hands, which she could now see was a camcorder, pointing it in her direction,

"I don't know for sure what I saw but it scared the shit out of me…" pressing a button on the side, a small red light appeared, "I propose we get the fuck out of this place. What do you say?"

"I… I can't"

In the dim glow, she could see the camcorder being lowered so slowly it was as if time had stopped,

"Wha… what?"

A swift step in her direction and they were face to face, eye to eye, staring each other down in the dark,

"Don't get me wrong, I want to be rid of this place as just much as you do!"

Her voice were rising now, choking out her words with a pleading anger at the look of betrayal on his face,

"I want to see Murkoff burn for what they've done. But I can't leave Billy."

Rubbing his temples harshly, the stranger slumped against the door,

"Shit… who the fuck is Billy?"

"A… friend. Someone I owe a great deal to- "

The breaking of wood, like a dead tree falling in the forest, resounded throughout the room. Two thunderous footsteps following. Veronica watched as Miles's face paled with horror, his wide-eyed gaze flashing down the corridor,

"We have to run. NOW!"

It was a whisper of a shout but the look in his eye screamed panic and Veronica wasn't going to linger to find out what awaited them beyond the room. Her body trembled at the inhuman voice,

"I smell you... little pig..."

Out from nowhere, the gurgled shriek of another patient distracted the figure in the dark and to their luck the pounding footsteps retreated away from them and towards the other corridor where the shrill scream came from. Veronica groaned out her relief,

"Christ! What the hell was that?"

Leaning against the door frame, Miles face sagged as if a great pressure had been lifted,

"Chris Walker."

"What?"

As they struggled to even their breathing, Veronica became more confused than ever,

"… But, Walker's in recovery, last I checked he was on his way out of this place. At least, that's what Trager rambled on about."

Siphoning away his sanity for a moment, Miles couldn't help but laugh tiredly at the doctors ignorance. He wondered how she'd managed to last this long in Murkoff's hell-hole,

"You see this?"

Holding up his mutilated hand, Veronica refrained from cringing at the sight. The dirt-dusted blood and tips of bone, thought not unfamiliar to her, still turned her stomach inside out,

"Trager did this."

He didn't need to say anymore, the shock and guilt was obvious in her eyes,

"I should have seen this coming."

Veronica shook her head, body becoming numb as she remembered all the times Trager got away with unexplained patient deaths and his own self mutilation. Though she wasn't medical staff, any gossip would spread faster than a wildfire at Murkoff, Veronica just assumed that it was all mere rumour, to be taken with a pinch of salt. But the man before her had proven her so very, very wrong.

Placing his hand back on the camcorder, Miles sighed,

"No one could have seen this coming. Not even you."

She smiled faintly, a sorrowful air dividing them as a cold breeze swept past, jolting Veronica from her thoughts. She noticed how quiet the building was and decided, there and then, that she no longer liked waiting around for death,

"We're stuck in a dead-end corridor, we need to move before he comes back."

Standing up straight with a nod of the head, Miles craned his neck round the corner of the door, taking a quick peek down the dimly lit corridor finding it empty.

Turning back to the doctor, he gave her another sharp nod,

"Let's go find your friend."