Val ✟ (Alt Scenario) (Outlast 2)

The helicopter’s blades screamed above you, slicing through the stormy sky as the world below stretched out in an endless sea of wilderness. You were a journalist, investigating the murder of Jane Doe. The woman was previously found eight months pregnant by the side of the road, before committing suicide in the hospital that she was brought to, according to the facility's records. But now, the wind howled, the controls failed, and in a heartbeat, the helicopter plummeted. It all was caused by some strange bright light that had startled the pilot and then the engine suddenly gave out.

Crash.

The impact was a blur of metal, glass, and darkness. You awoke to the acrid stench of burnt fuel and the sharp pain of a gash across your forehead. Dazed and disoriented, the world around you spun violently. Blood trickled down your face, your body trembling as you stumbled out of the wreckage, your eyes wide with terror. The dense silence of the forest seemed to swallow the crash, save for the eerie creak of the twisted helicopter remains behind you.

Panicked, your heart thundered in your chest as you staggered forward. The feeling of isolation clawed at you. You shouted for help—your voice cracking, desperate, but the forest only echoed back your fear. The trees loomed over you like shadows, their branches gnarled, twisted... unnatural.

And then, in the distance—a town.

At first, it seemed like salvation. A place, any place, that wasn’t the desolate wilderness. But as you neared the outskirts, the strange scent hit you. The air was thick with decay, a foul mix of iron, rot, and something worse—something festering. Your stomach churned. The ground was slick with mud and blood, scattered with bones, some gnawed, others broken. Corpses, bloated and sickly, lined the path ahead, their faces twisted in expressions of agony and bliss alike.

You barely had time to process the horror when they appeared.

The crazed townsfolk.

They came from the shadows, filthy, ragged, their eyes wide with madness. Their clothes were stained with blood—whether their own or someone else’s, you couldn’t tell. They muttered incoherent chants under their breath, some giggling, others sobbing. And then, without warning, they grabbed you—rough hands pulling you down, pinning you to the ground. You kicked and screamed, but their grip was ironclad, fingers digging into your skin as they held you in place.

You saw their faces now—grimy, sunken, eyes wild with fervor. Some drooled, others slashed at their own flesh with jagged nails, as if the pain was a prayer. They whispered frantically, words that sent chills down your spine: "The fallen one… the Antichrist…"

Then, the murmurs stopped.

A figure emerged from the crowd, and the people parted as if in reverence. He was tall—towering over you at 6’4", his presence unsettlingly calm amidst the chaos. He moved with a serpentine grace, his long, weathered black priest uniform clinging to his lean frame. His youthful face, finely boned and handsome, was twisted in a smirk that didn’t reach his icy blue eyes. Those eyes—they pierced through you, a gaze that held both seduction and madness, a quiet, simmering insanity that sent a wave of terror through your veins.

Val.

The leader of this forsaken place. The self-proclaimed messenger of Satan.

“Ah…” His voice was smooth, sultry, dripping with a dark, twisted charm. He took a step closer, his eyes tracing every inch of you as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. “The day has come… Our salvation… it is finally here.”

The crowd around you began to murmur again, their manic whispers growing louder, more frantic, as they stared at you with wide, gleaming eyes. Val’s smirk widened, his hands extending out as if to present you to his deranged flock.

“The Antichrist has fallen from the heavens!” His voice grew louder, more commanding, his words dripping with reverence as he spoke, his arms outstretched like a preacher at the pulpit. “The one we have awaited, the harbinger of the beautiful end... Our end… where pleasure is found in the blood of the fallen, where chaos reigns, and we are all free—free to revel in the glorious madness of Satan's will!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices a cacophony of madness. Some of them wept openly, others laughed—sharp, demented cackles that echoed through the death-stained streets. The smell of rot grew stronger as more of the townsfolk appeared, drawn by the spectacle. Their faces were pale, sickly, many of them covered in sores, their skin hanging off their bones in loose, decaying patches. They looked like they were half-dead, and yet, their eyes burned with zeal, with devotion.

Val knelt before you, his ritual blade glinting in the dim light. He pressed the cold, sharp edge against your cheek—not enough to draw blood, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. His gaze never left yours, his smirk lingering, devious and predatory.

“You, my beautiful antichrist,” he whispered, his voice low and intimate as if only for your ears. “You are the key to our salvation. The beginning of the end. The flesh and blood through which we shall bring forth the final chaos. We are your humble servants, your devoted flock.”

Behind him, the crowd began to chant feverishly, their voices rising in a grotesque harmony. “Worship… worship… worship the fallen one…” The words slithered through the air, growing louder, more insistent.

Val stood, turning to face his people, his arms raised high. “Bow before your savior! For in their blood, we shall find deliverance! In their pain, we shall find ecstasy! The end is near, my brothers and sisters! The end is near, and it is beautiful!”

The crowd fell to their knees, their faces pressed into the dirt, their hands clawing at the ground as they worshipped you—you—as if you were their god. The madness in their eyes was a reflection of the sickness that had consumed this town, this temple of death and desecration.

Val’s eyes gleamed as he looked down at you, his smirk widening, his voice a seductive purr. “And now, my antichrist… the pleasure begins.”