EFrenchFries

Quiet horror, Slow harm

[subtle-poison]

A collection of short drafts focused on unnamed reagents in Outlast Trials environment and the quiet systems that shape them. May be read in any order.

Moments between trials; the routine, neglect, adaptation and observation.

Content Warning ❗️

• Institutional abuse

• Medical neglect

• Dehumanization

• Loss of autonomy

• Psychological distress

• Coercion

• Body horror

• Environment horror

Archive

FOOD — hunger, compliance, conditioning

(Posted)

STRANGER — hurt, adaptation

(Posted)

INTEGRATION — body horror

(Posted)

ENTITLEMENT — threat, harassment

(Pending)

SLEEP — isolation, fatigue

(Pending)

JEALOUSY — possession, longing, resentment

(Pending)

see more soon...

[guttedpulsars]

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ADDITIONAL TOOLS COMING!

[vampiricbisexuality]

picrew chain

make this picrew and put your name in the incorrect quote generator!

tags: @wintry-whimsy @renalyxx @renalyxx @rainandsugarcane2000 @devotedlyuniquewizard @cabbagewhites @eggedagain @fall1ngawayfromm3 @jasperr6969 @the-sonni-guy and open tags !

[transylvanianstarvation]

Lmfao

@that-vamp-starr @shame-in-you @coldmilkbeforebed @nightmare8-420 @sick-with-rot @state0flove4ndtrust @your-garden-of-stone + anyone else who wants to do this

[coldmilkbeforebed]

Thanks @transylvanianstarvation!

@xxmetallidethxx @krakencran @nightmare8-420 @just-sleep-yall @jennie-y2k @shame-in-you @gegg-is-real @enant10dr0m1an @koh6ftu @ezra-26 @mirazwi @fartsmella38 @deathcastlvr2 @clairvoyantdisease @fear0fdying @squareguitar @mercuryconfetti @reborninthemorgue @kxstrxz

And anyone else who wants to join :P

[clairvoyantdisease]

thanks for the tag !!

@nightmare8-420 @erinthreetousand @my-shlong-long-like-a-bong @mirazwi @whirringbrain @fear0fdying @beepingwillows @koh6ftu @ezra-26 @eeeurydiceee @deathcastlvr2 and anyone who'd like to join!

[beepingwillows-deactivated20260]

AHHHH I HAVENT DONE ONE OF THESE IN AGES IVE BEEN SO BUSY BUT THANKS DUDE :3333 !1!1!1!1!!1!1!1

@trinketman @gegg-is-real @koh6ftu

@g00bii @tylerbutbetter @anarchistlilith

@lolonothingelse123 @annethehorror

[sisithehyena]

Thanks beeper :3

I'm not that light skin gang wtf😂 I like quote. Very accurate :3 very fun! XD

@anarchistlilith @stargazerfaith @ezra-26 @eeeurydiceee @calvings @koh6ftu @gegg-is-real @g00bii @my-shlong-long-like-a-bong

[g00bii]

I did the picrew but for some reason I can't figure out how to do the text thing...but anyway

idk who to tag but wtv😔 @trinketman @my-shlong-long-like-a-bong @kennyissilly @eeeurydiceee @koh6ftu

[kennyissilly]

Charlie: Accidentally indulged in too much ‘free time’, turns out I’ve been reported missing for over six months and presumed dead by most local and national authorities

@torsnach @doompicklez

[doompicklez]

Kestrel, on the phone: So no head?  Kestrel: *Throws phone and breaks skateboard*

Yeahhh.. That fits.

@approved-sacrifice @aneptunicperson @squishedartist

[approved-sacrifice]

No yeah..

@arimadeforgachasblog @legallydoingwhatever-tf-iwant

[arimadeforgachasblog]

Yeah no. That makes sense

@yukiplzno @puppzpawz @puppet-string @larry-johnson1 @legallydoingwhatever-tf-iwant @salfisher-com @samreich

[salfisher-com-deactivated202608]

@tr4v1sph3lps-2270 @chickenburger99 @kitlox3rfoxer @fandxm-girlie @johnmarstonrp @lisa-johnson @kennystrator @blur-ys @im-an-eliott @ep1cmorko @ask-ashley-campbell-6 @osi-inn @/literally anyone who wants

[ink-stained-paws]

@the-great-nome-authority @just-a-lone-soul @petyabeloruski @shad-art @magpies-and-mysteries @wrangleofkaon etc

[shad-art]

Thanks for the tag!!!

Kinda funny 😂

Tag: @henryhussettrp @osi-inn @thesunguide + join!

[henryhussettrp]

I love these 😋 I used my real name for the quote so I blacked it out 🫣

As always idk who to tag 🫣

@glittergelpensherlock, @the-great-nome-authority, @ludopossum + anyone who would like to join

Maybe @sleekberserkeranomaly can do one for Ellis although he might be hard to make with such a cutesy character maker.

[glittergelpensherlock]

OMG TYSM 🥺🤩

(i fear they got me)

tagging if you waaant ♡: @rickgrimesdoingrickthings @stupidgaynerd @elyselovesjackmarston @lovelacings +anyone else

[boneyjonesy]

Alexandria: "What are you into?" is such a broad question, like do I reply with a TV series or choking?

LOL i love these thingies :>

i guess i’ll tag @elyselovesjackmarston and @10yearsacrifice cause this is so cute and you should do it if you wanna guys 🫶😚

[10yearsacrifice-deactivated2026]

thank u for the tag. this is my first time with one of these things !! so excited :*))

tag if u want ❤️❤️: @miumewmiau

[miumewmiau]

THANKS FOR THE TAG ♡♥︎♡

Ermmm, tag :3333 @elyselovesjackmarston @poopiefart420 @subtle-poison ☆★☆

[subtle-poison]

Mimi: I have met some of the most insufferable people. But they also met me.

Thanks for the tagg 🎀

I have no one to tag tho 😭💔💔

[il-lupa]

[subtle-poison]

INTEGRATION

MEDICAL — SINYALA FACILITY

Case ID: 59-7083

Attending Physician: ██████ ███████, M.D.

Patient: REAGENT — [REDACTED]

Reagent ID: █████

Date: ██ / ██ / 1960

Reason for Evaluation: Night Vision Goggles displacement following trial-related trauma. Suspected localized infection and inflammatory response. Rig functional.

...

Something’s wrong the moment they sit down, not because they look injured, all reagents do, but because it smells salty and dirty.

You wash your hands before you spare them a glance.

The room is small, intentionally; white walls already yellowing at the corners, a drain in the floor you pretend not to notice. The overhead light hums, like it’s struggling to stay awake. Maintenance never follows up, no matter how many notices you submit to HR.

“It wasn’t even the end of the trial,” they continue, before you’ve finished washing your hands. “That’s– I wasn’t careless. I was doing what I was supposed to do.” you gesture for them to stay put. They nod, immediately fail at it.

“One of the expops went off too close,” they explain. “Or maybe I didn’t see it coming — I swear I didn’t — I turned just in time and then there was this, uh... pressure...”

You step closer and inspect the goggle's mount. The right side sits lower than the left and the metal bar has shifted inward, pressing into swollen skin that looks shiny with heat and pus. The screws are in place, but the alignment is off enough to be almost stamped on their forehead.

"They – It grabbed me,” the reagent adds, almost offended by the memory. “Not like— not by the collar as usual. I think the lenses hit first. Or my head did, I don't know.”

It wouldn't be the first or last time that an ex-pop caused damage to Murkoff's property during a trial. Writing with some disinterest, you ask them to rate the pain,

“Oh, uh. Constant,” they murmur. “Like a six? Seven when I move my face. Eight when I blink too much.”

You press lightly near the mount as they hiss through their teeth. “Yeah. There. That’s the spot.”

Clear fluid has pooled along the edge of the metal. You wipe it away with gauze, but it all comes back slower this time, thickly, mixed faintly with blood.

“I thought it would settle on its own,” they keep going, again. “Everyone says that. ‘Give it time.’ I gave it time, then it started throbbing... oh, and itching. Today I woke up with this taste in my mouth, like pennies.”

You hum.

When you tilt their head, they comply immediately as if afraid you’ll stop if they hesitate. Which you wouldn't do; Murkoff pays enough not to be afraid of getting a little rough with patients, if required.

“I didn’t mess with it,” defensive as they claim. “I didn’t try to fix it myself. I know better than that, I just— I could feel it pulling when I blinked.”

You remove a small tool from the tray. Just a calibrated driver meant for minor adjustments. “This will hurt,” you say.

They nod. “I figured.”

You stabilize the left side first, bracing their face with a strong grip. When you adjust the right hinge, there’s resistance, not mechanical by the lenses, but biological. The skin has started to swell around the metal instead of away from it.

They talk through it.

“I don’t think the lenses are supposed to tilt like that,” they start breathing fast. “I noticed because my vision felt crooked. Like the room was lopsided... uh, sloping, yeah.”

You correct the angle slowly, trying to raise the angle of the lenses to reverse that detached perspective of the device. Faint scrape, metal against metal.

The reagent stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“I kept thinking if I just made it to the sleep room, it would stop,” They bite their nails. Unconsciously, you think. Their fingers look raw and soon they'll gnaw down to the bone, like a rat. You cringe at the thought.

“Everything always feels better there. Quieter.” they add.

The mount settles back into place, it takes longer than you’d like, but, it's not perfect — it never is after trauma — but it's functional now. Aligned, you correct yourself.

They sag a little once the pressure eases.

“Oh,” they say quietly. “That’s… better. Still hurts. But different.”

You step back to peel off your gloves, throwing them away in a yellow trash can in the corner of the room. “There’s inflammation and early infection,” you say. “I’m prescribing antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medication.”

They nod, already half-standing. “Pharmacy?”

You pause, giving them a look underneath your lenses.

“Yes.”

At the front desk, the blonde nurse barely looks up from her magazine when you hand over the chart. She flips through it with practiced ease.

“Dosage twice daily,” you state with your hands deep into your pockets. “Monitor swelling. If discharge worsens, bring them back.”

The nurse hums in acknowledgment, retrieves a small paper packet, and slides it across the counter. “Doctor knows what he’s doing.”

“Don’t miss doses,” she tells the reagent, tone almost kind. A tone you know gives a false sense of compassion. You find it funny because you'd use that same tone with a dog.

The reagent clutches the packet like it might disappear.

“Thank you,” they say, a little too earnestly.

Back in the corridor, they hesitate.

“So… this doesn’t mean I failed, right?” they ask. “I mean — it was an accident.”

You don’t answer that directly.

“It means you need to heal,” the nurse answers before you.

The reagent nods, then keep nodding, like they’re convincing themselves. “Okay,” they say. “Okay. I can do that.”

They walk away touching the side of their head carefully, like they’re afraid the lenses might slip again.

You'll file the report later. Trial-related impact, successful manual realignment, pharmacological intervention initiated.

You do not note the extra dose allowed. It would be your own little secret.

[subtle-poison]

STRANGER

You don't recognize them at first.

That's the thing, everything in here is a blur if you don’t force yourself to look closely. Same ugly clothes, same perpetual tired faces, same metal at the temples.

But you notice them because they're standing too close to the mirror in their room. You see them through the massive window in the hallway, their hands hovering near their night vision goggles, fingers twitching like they already tried once and failed. The hair around the mounts is thinner than it should be and the skin at their temples looks tight and angry, darker where it's been rubbed raw.

You hesitate for a moment, you definitely should keep walking.

Instead you stop at the open doorway.

"You're stuck" you say, not a question.

They flinch visibly – just enough to tell you they don't hear you coming, or staring, actually.

When they turn, you see they're younger than you expect. Or maybe less worn in the face. Their eyes instinctively flick to your hands before your face, tracking what you might do.

"Yeah," they reply after a moment. "I think so."

Their voice is hoarse, like they haven't use it all day.

They step aside without a word, to let you in. The room is sparse, even by Murkoff standards. Bed untouched, sink damp, a towel folded neatly near the radio, and the mirror is streaked with fingerprints all over. Inside, the room smells faintly of antiseptic, metal and dust.

You don't close the door all the way, just in case.

They sit on the edge of the bed, shoulder hunched, up close you can see the slight tremor in their hands. One knee bounces, stops and the other starts again.

"Just – tell me if it hurts too much," you say.

They snort, short and breathless, "It already does. "

You brace the side of their face before brushing the mount. The skin is warmed under your palm, warmer than it should be. You see them tense once you apply pressure.

The bars are rough, pitted. Oxidation flaking where the metal touches skin. Trapped against their forehead.

They exhale sharply.

"Okay." they say too fast, but you slow down anyway.

When the hinge finally gives, there's a scrape, it's the metal protesting. Dry, rust-colored flakes into their collar and they immediately go still, as if they were afraid any movement will undo the handiwork.

You keep your hands there without second thought. To steady them, you justify.

And for a moment you're close enough to see the discoloration under their eyes. Half-healed, old bruises. A small scar under their nose that don't really match any injury you've seen in trials.

They exhale again, long and relieved.

"Thank you," They murmur quietly this time.

But you step back first.

They stand too quickly, seemingly embarrassed by the relief, wiping their palms on their pants like trying to erase what just happened.

"I've... seen you around." Eyes flickering to the floor while they say it.

"Yeah," you answer, cringing at the thought. "Me too."

Although, when you step at the door, they hesitate.

"If it happens again," they say louder this time, but not quite meeting your gaze when you look over. " can I — ?"

You nod before they finish.

You leave. They're left staring at the door.

...

Later, you realize you never asked for their name.

Somehow, it feels safer.

————————————————————————

Author's note

I spend an unreasonable amount of time staring at the sleep room just for these drafts. Night vision goggles are a nightmare and I stand by it. That's it. That's the note.

[subtle-poison]

I'm in the middle of finals week, my grandfather passed away, and my keyboard broke. The author's curse has finally struck, but I'll try to post something today I promiseeee

Thanks for your support guys, I really appreciate it!! 🫶

[subtle-poison]

FOOD

You don't ask where the food comes from,

At least not at this point, nobody does when their questions are met with silence so often.

You sit where there is space, next to no one, not so far away that you will be noticed by others.

The tray awaits you even before you enter the room. It always does. Beige in color, it bears marks from cutlery that show it's been used with the lack of care, typical of these parts.

Light enough to look at, heavy with implications, and yet, you receive it with devotion; the disgusting paste that sits in its compartment like it has weight beyond calories. Salmon-colored, smooth, untouched. Beside it is the turkey packet, sealed tight, and the small white paper bag folded once, then again, as if someone cared how it was presented, but only to protect a plastic fork.

Metal ones are no longer allowed, after all.

The first spoonful is harder than you expect as it resists, thick and gelatinous, like it doesn’t want to be divided. When it hits your mouth, you taste metal, not strong, just enough to notice. You swallow thickly before you think too hard about it.

At the table in front, two reagents carry their spoons with almost mechanical synchronization, but they don't speak to each other, not even a glance. Except for certain murmurs that you can't quite hear, but he doesn't seem to be chatting with the taller reagent, no. Rather as if his mind betrays him and his tongue lets the words slip out.

You stare longer than you should. Your paste cools quickly in this room. Everything does. And you only know it because your hands start to hurt as the cold settles first, then in the jaw. You press your teeth together without meaning to, then realize you’re clenching.

Someone on your left is talking to themselves, at least that's what it seems, very quietly. Not enough to draw attention from the others but you notice; the words aren’t important as you catch fragments. Texture. Color. What food used to taste like, swirling the paste with their spoon without eating any of it.

And you don't judge it; the salmon color of the paste doesn't do its name justice.

One of the synchronized eaters glances up.

And briefly catches your rude stare, that's met with a stare back, and you can only lower your gaze, trying to lose sight of his, while your hands shake with effort more than fear, to eat.

The meat inside the turkey packet is pale and uniform, folded into itself like it wants to disappear.

Taking a bite in hopes it'll taste like something, you're met with nothing. It tastes like nothing you can hold onto. No salt. No warmth. No seasoning. No flavor. Even the word turkey feels like a cruel joke now that you understand it’s only a label and not a promise.

Across the room, a reagent nudges their tray away untouched, spilling some of the paste on the table. They sit with their hands folded, eyes fixed on the wall-mounted screen that loops silent phrases you can’t read fast enough to internalize.

Hunger here isn’t urgent. It’s mundane.

No one intervenes. Maybe out of understanding...

But not you, no.

You eat faster, embarrassed by the impulse. Every swallow feels like compliance, and you tell yourself you need the strength. You tell yourself this is how you survive.

You can't be selfish.

Out on the streets, nobody gave you a sour paste and a tasteless piece!

Yet when you finish, there’s paste along the edge of the container you didn’t lick clean.

That feels important... You don’t know why.

...

Later — you don’t know how much later — you lie down in your empty bedroom, with your night vision goggles raised and your jaw aching from the effort of eating something that didn’t want to anchor you. Your stomach feels full but angry, a dull pressure that will last into sleep.

And with that rare silence in the background, you realize no one corrected you today.

That’s how you know you did well. That's how you know you're getting better.

You close your eyes.

Tomorrow, I won't be hungry.

[subtle-poison]

Would anyone be interested in reading my short drafts about the reagents in Outlast Trials? I've been thinking about it for a while now, I'm not a writer of any kind, but this game has been constantly on my mind, even in my dreams LOL

It's Outlast, so it'd have some sensitive content, though very mild. Some of the topics I'd like to cover are:

• Institutional Abuse

• Body Horror

• Medical Neglect

• Dehumanization

• Hunger and Food

• Chronic Pain

• Sleep Room Dynamics

• Unnamed Reagents (For the most part) I don't do OCs for these guys 🙂‍↔️

Let me know

Yes

No

Voting ended onDec 12, 2025

[mercworm]

Coffee break!