It's why the dudes in the white coats behind frosted glass always seem so disappointed in me when I emerge, pale and shaky, at the end of each trial. (Almost) Every one of them has their own particular foible – the huge dude can't duck into the waist-high passageways the night vision dude is blind when he's dragged into the light – but do you think I'm remembering that as I crash down the corridor, detonating every mine and smacking into every sound alarm, the greedy gasps of my pursuer hot and heavy in my ears? I can't think rationally here – I can barely think at all. I spend a lot of time in The Outlast Trials stumbling about, lost and afraid, slipping about in the crimson spatter that coats every square inch of this place, screaming and running and screaming some more as abominations yanked from a Ronald McDonald fever dream scuttle in my wake, screeching for my blood. ![]()
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