Disclaimer: Downpour belongs to Konami and Vatra, and I don't profit from writing this story.

This was originally just a quick drabble inspired by a ridiculous conversation with a friend on Plurk, but it turned into this. Most likely it'll have five chapters or so, but I really have no idea how many yet. This is really my first shot at writing anything multi-chapter for Downpour.

There was the rain, always the rain, and Murphy was so sick of it that it turned his stomach. It made every inch of him fill with absolute white hot blinding rage, and he hated it. Hated everything about it. He hated the fact that he was dead, and he was still stuck here. He'd put the gun up to his own head in those showers after he realized he'd killed both Anne Cunningham and Frank, and yet he was still in this place. It was like JP had said that time, words that echoed back like they had been years ago.

First time visitor, huh?

Finally, it made sense. JP had been stuck in this mindless, pointless vortex of hell just like he was now. Now he was here, and it was no better than if he'd stayed alive. Charlie was still gone, he was still crushed with the weight of what he'd done to Frank, and what was worse, now Anne was dead too, and she was stuck here just like he was. All because of him. He'd run across her countless times at this point, enough to know she couldn't escape either. At one point she'd even gone so far as to tellhim they were in the same boat. It had been months, and she no longer even tried to kill him. There was no more rage, not really, and her threats and those frequent times when she pointed her gun at him were halfhearted. It was as though she was starting to realize the futility of it all, just like he was.

It was just sick to Murphy how many lives he'd destroyed, and now he couldn't even die. All he could do was stay in this damn town and try to survive, but for what? So he could inevitably be killed by a monster in his sleep or when he was stopping to rest, only to wake up in the rain and curse at the sky at the futile, repetitive hell his life had become. In a moment of frustration and rage, Murphy wheeled back and threw the axe he carried as hard as he could. It hit the wall of a nearby shop, gouging a chunk out of the plaster. The sharp metallic ping it made when it hit the pavement of the sidewalk meshed with the anguished grunt that was coming from… his mouth? Murphy wasn't entirely sure how he'd allowed it to escape, but before he could even keep it in check another sound like it escaped, and it turned into a sob. After such a long and hopeless pattern of this existence, Murphy was completely and totally finished. He was done. With a pathetic wail that would have been embarrassing if anyone was around to hear it, he allowed himself to collapse onto all fours, and with a hoarse shout he slammed a fist down as hard as he could onto the pavement.

"Fuck!" he shouted, and it turned into another sob toward the end. This life was madness, and with no way to move beyond all of the pain he had caused, no way to help repair the lives he had shattered (mostly because the majority of them were over at this point), there was no way to crawl out of the stinking hole that he had fallen into so many years ago. He had broken so much, and he couldn't fix it. All he could do was kneel here on the wet cement and shudder.

This really must be hell. This really must be what hell is like.

As the rain began to fall harder, blocking out the weak white sunlight, Murphy simply let go. He sobbed at the pavement because of all the things he couldn't change, because of the despair and the frustration, and the fact that nothing would ever, ever change. He had the sense to realize that at this point. Nothing had changed since the day he pulled the trigger, and there was no reason it would now. After so long of this, everything was just coming down all at once, and as pathetic and childish as it made him feel, it was something that by now felt inevitable, this rush of choking sobs. This was the nature of the town, and it was impossible not to realize it at this point.

Murphy had no way of knowing how long it had been, and honestly he didn't even care. After so long of this repetitive madness, he was completely and totally finished. He was beyond the point of caring and beyond the point of self-preservation. All that was left was this raw, sick pain and frustration, and it was more than he could do to hold it in anymore. What finally stopped him was the sound of a crunch on the gravel in the street in front of him. No matter how many times he encountered monsters, how many times he killed them or they killed him, he was still wound like a spring about to snap and the slightest noise triggered his reflexes. Head snapping up as his free hand fumbled for a rock or a liquor bottle (anything would do as long as he could throw it and buy himself a little time), he was met with the sight of not a creature, but of a woman, standing over him with her hands at her sides and the rain falling heavily on the auburn of her hair.

"Pendleton," she breathed rather roughly then, and Murphy felt himself steeling for the worst, his hands unconsciously clutching at the concrete beneath him. For one brief moment Murphy forgot to calm himself and then abruptly fell silent when he realized the truth in the fact that yes, there was someone else occupying this empty street. It was actually a relief, for the briefest of moments, that it was raining. His cheeks would be wet regardless.
Murphy didn't have an answer to her ragged statement of his name. He simply continued to look at her, and every part of his body felt tired, torn. There were scars inside and out, and at this point any thought of pretending to be strong, even for another person, was completely gone from his mind. There was a long, tense silence during which the two stared each other down, and Murphy found it strange that now, when he had been caught sobbing like a child by the person who arguably hated him more than anyone in the world, he had none of his usual trouble maintaining eye contact. Maybe it was becauseshe hated him. She had no reason to judge him when she already thought the worst of him.

"Are you okay?" she asked finally, and there was a note of absolute shock in her voice. Murphy was as surprised as she sounded, and he figured he really had to look pretty damn pathetic right now if Anne was actually concerned for his wellbeing.

"No," he managed to answer, still staring up at her from his position on his hands and knees. Murphy had never been one to lie, not even when it would probably be in his best interest, and it seemed that almost involuntarily, his mouth was forcing out that damnable truth even now. "No, I'm not." How could anyone be?

"Oh," she didn't seem to know what to say, and Murphy couldn't blame her. They'd had their share of encounters, decreasing in rage and brutality as time went on and dulled the passion in her conviction, dulled his will to fight. But this was the first time he could recall her being anything that could be even considered close to docile with him. She didn't seem to know what to do with him. Murphy could see her gun at her side, and her hand didn't stray to it. There wasn't that instinctive movement on her part to grab it and threaten him with it, or shoot him as she had actually done a handful of times. She just stood there and stared, and for the first time Murphy noticed that she looked just as broken as he felt.

It makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Neither of us is okay, and it's obvious why not. Why she's not. We're stuck here, trapped like rats, and the only company she has is me.

All at once, Murphy felt guilty for existing at all.

"Look, I…" he began, sitting up just a bit and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with one hand. He didn't even know where to begin. "Sorry" didn't seem to even begin to cover it, and he didn't expect she would forgive him. Why the hell would she? He didn't even forgive himself, and there was doubt that he ever would. Somehow, he felt that apologizing would be an insult to her father's memory. Her father. Frank. Fuck… he had ended that man's life in a moment of panic and desperation, and instantly hated himself for it. The regret had come the moment he had time to think. It was an action that no amount of apology could ever take back. He had taken everything from this woman, and there was nothing he could do to rectify it.

For the life of him, Murphy didn't know why she was listening to him, why she wasn't stopping him from talking and pulling that trigger on him. Instead she was just watching him silently, the expression on her face as pitiful as the one he was sure he had on his own. Two broken people standing in the street in the rain with nothing to say to each other. Murphy couldn't think of something that sounded much more like a scene from a tragic movie. It was too much to keep eye contact anymore, and Murphy looked at the ground, focused on the patterns of the raindrops on the already soaked concrete. The silence between them might have gone on for seconds, minutes, Murphy didn't even have any concept of time anymore. The silence was heavy between them, and he had the sense to realize that anything he said would most likely just make her resent him even more. So he gave up, on this just as he had given up on so many things in the past, and kept staring intently at the rainsoaked ground.

The one thing about Silent Hill was that there was always the luxury of time. Time for Murphy to sit in the street and feel like he was about to be ripped apart by the stare of the corrections officer, in this case. The only thing that made him finally look back up in her direction was the sudden feeling that something was very, very off. The sight that met his eyes when he finally chanced staring up at the redhead was that of a Screamer clacking up the street behind her. The heavy sound of the thunder had apparently blocked out the sound of those horrifying heels on the pavement.

"Look out!" he wheezed almost embarrassingly, and Anne gave him an incredulous look.

"What are you—"

"Behind you, dammit!" there was no time for Murphy to bother with being subtle, and as he swayed to his feet as best he could, glancing around for his axe. At the same moment, Anne whipped around, drawing her pistol, and raised it in the direction of the Screamer. It was an action that was too little, too late, and the clawed hand of the creature connected with her arm just as she raised it, sending the gun flying. It was one of those moments that was do or die or possibly even both, and forgetting the axe, Murphy momentarily let his mind shut down and ran, arms flailing, in the direction of the Screamer. He was barely conscious of the war cry that came out of his mouth as he ran, and he was not really sure what to make of his thoughts or even what they were at that moment, as he charged head-on like an idiot in the direction of the danger.

I've seen this woman die so many times already. I've killed her once. I don't want to see it again…

Murphy connected with the Screamer with a thud, elbowing Anne slightly in the process, but that seemed to be alright considering the alternative. Murphy wasn't sure what his logic was; that maybe this was some way of atoning for everything he'd put her through, maybe he just was responding to his natural instinct to protect others when he could. But whatever the case, his body hit that of the beast with a sort of football tackle, and both of them clattered unceremoniously to the pavement.

The next few seconds were a blur. Murphy hit the concrete hard and rolled onto his side, dazed, and watched the Screamer lash out at him, still on the ground, with its claws. A grunt escaped his lips as he felt the needlepoints slice into the flesh of his side, over his ribs. One hand instinctively went to cover the wound as he struggled to his feet, watching the Screamer do the same, come at him again…

A gunshot rang out over the thunder, and in a crash of lightning the gun in Anne's hand flashed a bright white, the shiny metal catching the light and throwing it around the street. As the Screamer collapsed, Murphy straightened up fully, clutching his side, and breathed heavily, just staring at his unlikely savior.

"Thanks…" he said finally, genuinely too surprised to say much else. He was very conscious of the hot blood dripping between his fingers, contrasting sharply with the cold rainwater that pelted his body, ran down his arm, mixed with the blood and dripped to the ground clouded red. Anne gave a small, dismissive shake of the head and holstered her weapon, giving him a curious sort of look.

"Forget it," she responded, eyes straying to his side where the hand was clamped. He could almostfeelthe intensity in that stare. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad," he lied through his teeth, and before he could react Anne was striding toward him with that purposeful gait of hers, taking his hand and prying it from the wound. When she lifted his shirt, the material rubbed the wound and created a sharp sting. "Fuck!"

"Not bad?" she asked him in an accusatory sort of tone, giving him a look that reminded him oddly of a bird of prey before she turned away from him, heading in the direction of the nearest building. "Come with me. I've got a first aid kit. You're gonna bleed to death without it."

"But…" he didn't waste words on telling her it didn't matter; he'd just come back if he died, anyway. Instead, he clamped his hand back over the wound and hobbled after her, very aware of the drips of blood he was leaving behind.

"Don't you need it? What if—"

"Don't argue with me," Anne instructed him sharply, and it was enough to make him hold his tongue. She wrenched open the door to a shop, one of the only buildings on this street that wasn't boarded up, and gave him an impatient look. "Come on."

Murphy followed obediently, coming after her wordlessly and taking the door from her as he reached it, holding it for her (which prompted a raised eyebrow from Anne) and then closing it behind them. The shop was cluttered and slightly musty, but at least it was dry, and Murphy could feel his shoulders relax just slightly at the simple fact that they were out of the rain. Anne didn't waste any time taking in the shop herself, however, and she pointed at a wooden chair propped up against the wall near the front counter.

"Sit down," she had a way of sounding demanding even when she was trying to help, and Murphy did as he was told. He was intimidated by her, that much he was sure of. But it was more than intimidation that made him obey. He was also somewhat intrigued. The chair creaked menacingly as he lowered himself into it.
Fussing through her coat pocket, Anne pulled out a familiar sight; a bright red first aid kit complete with the sharp white cross emblazoned on the front. She opened it and began to rummage through its contents as she knelt beside him. Murphy was beginning to feel increasingly nervous as she pried his hand away once more and lifted his shirt.

"Dammit," she hissed, lifting the sleeve of her jacket and pressing it against the wound for a few seconds. "There's too much blood to be able to see anything…" Murphy was about ready to tell her not to bother, but she seemed so determined that he kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to look when she prepared the surgically sealed needle that was inside, and the first prick of it was shocking, but it was nothing to the agony of the actual wound. "I'm no seamstress. This isn't gonna look good."

"S'fine with me," Murphy muttered through clenched teeth. He'd never been a fan of needles. "Thanks for this. You don't have to…" he let the words trail off.

"Don't thank me," Anne said in a way that made it clear she was still all business. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing I'd let you wander off to bleed to death. Got it?"

"Got it." It was all perfectly clear to Murphy now; she was doing this for one simple reason. It was what Frank would have done. It somehow made the air in the room heavier as he kept his eyes fixed on a promotional poster advertising Hemmingway cigarettes on the far wall while Anne cleared away the blood with her jacket and disinfected the wound, covering it with a pad of gauze. When she was done, she stood up, and her hands were stained with his blood. There was something oddly personal about it. Murphy pulled his shirt back down, still feeling slightly queasy from the needles. There was a long, very uncomfortable silence. He watched Anne rummage through the front desk, probably for bullets, and she didn't look at him. "Hey…" he said after a time.

"What?" Anne shot back, and Murphy could sense the vulnerability in her when she shot him a look full of coldness. As enigmatic as she was, Murphy could read between the lines enough to understand her at this point.

She was just as lonely as he was.

"I just wanted to… I don't know. I wanted to tell you I'm sorry."

"Don't," she told him venomously, turning away then when whirling back around to face him. "Don't patronize me, Pendleton. You're not sorry. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No!" he responded quickly, standing up and holding up his hands in defense, taking one small step in her direction. They were already only a few feet apart, and the closeness felt almost dangerous. "No, of course not. I… I just…"

"Don't even bother," Anne growled, shaking her head hard. Murphy could feel a sting in his chest at the wetness he could see spilling over in her eyes. "I saved you because you saved me. Eye for an eye and all that bullshit. But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you, so stay the fuck away from me!"

"Okay, okay," Murphy responded as fast as he could, taking a step back. "Take it easy. I'm not gonna do anything, alright? I just… fuck, don't you think we could try getting along? I'm going crazy being alone here. I'm sure you are too," he wasn't sure why he was trying to reason with her like this. Maybe because there was something undeniably nice to having some company for a change, and he'd gone and fucked it up and wanted to rectify it if he could. With this soul-shattering loneliness he'd gotten so used to, any human contact at all, even as negative as theirs usually was, was like a breath of air to a drowning man. In some ways, maybe that's what Murphy was.

"You pretty much fucked the whole getting along thing when you killed me and my father," Anne snapped, and she wiped viciously at the tears that were beginning to fall with the back of one hand. For a moment her hand went to the gun at her hip, but then it fell back to her side. "I'd sure as hell rather be alone than with you. Why the fuck would you think otherwise?"

"I just…" Murphy had no words. He stood still and quiet and watched as Anne lowered her face into one hand and slumped against the wall behind the counter, her body shaking with misery and her face hidden behind her fingers. Against his better judgment, Murphy moved around behind the counter, every step bringing him closer to her. The worst she could do was kill him and honestly, he deserved it anyway. So he just kept coming, until he was close enough to place a hand on her shoulder. The wetness of her jacket was cold under his fingers. "Hey…" he said softly, and Anne froze momentarily, hand still shielding her face. Then she slowly raised her eyes to look at him, and behind all the rage and hatred he could see in her expression there was an absolute emptiness behind it. It shook him in ways he didn't think he could be shaken anymore. For a moment she didn't speak, didn't move, didn't blink. Time seemed to stand still.

"Get away from me," she snapped, but the conviction was gone from her voice and she just sounded tired. Murphy kept his hand where it was, and Anne just stood still and trembled and glared at him, but the glare was fading fast and she slowly faded back to the same broken state he'd seen her in that time in the mine, back when they were both still alive. Murphy didn't know what to do, didn't know how to make this better and didn't even know if she would let him if he tried. What he settled for was to move close enough to press his palm and forearm to the wall near her head, his other hand still on her shoulder. One of Anne's hands closed around a fistful of his shirt as she cursed at him again, and the two of them just stood in that broken silence for longer than Murphy could even count. When Anne started to sob, Murphy couldn't say he was surprised. He didn't move, not to pull her into a proper embrace, because she probably wouldn't allow it, and not to leave.

He just stood there, crushed by her pain, pain he had caused. He wanted to fix it, wanted to make it better. But all he could do was let his mind wander in circles.