Inducstrize
By StarWolf
11/12/2004
Title: Inducstrize
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo dot com)
Fandom: Silent Hill 4
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, I think. I don't even know where to put my stuff anymore.
Pairing: Richard Braintree/Henry Townshend
Warnings: Slash, spoilers, slight A/U
Disclaimer: Konami owns the brillance. I'm just a lowly writer.
Distribution: No archiving for you.
Summary: Last chance to rebuild.
Author's Notes: Complete sentences are for squares!
"You're a real person."
Henry thinks that this should be obvious, but his world is too mind-numbingly chaotic to be certain of anything, so he nods his head and extends a hand. One second, two, three, and the gesture is not returned; he lowers his arm and meets the skeptical gaze of his neighbour -- his only companion in Hell.
Introductions, exchanged pleasantries that bring no joy into his life. Footfalls on broken concrete, cast shadows of intimidating heights that he'll soon climb. Static, short-circuit bloodflow, his brain branching out into newfound tendrils of pain. A rough clap on his back.
"C'mon, you don't want to stay here, do you?"
Richard leads the way, the revolver sleeker and deadlier than any weapon Henry possesses. Blinking, twice, then following, broken plumbing parts brandished before his body, swinging at a shadow and
acc i dent ally--
"Watch it!" Anger, reprimand; Henry suspects that little would be required for that gun to be trained on his forehead. Mumbled apology, lowers his eyes (green like the sickly illumination on the reinforced glass), lifts his feet one at a time and keeps going.
Bright birthday candles, squelching slug guts, rusted rain dripping, Richard chagrined and smirking.
"We're gonna die here, aren't we. Goddamn...!"
Words spoken with bitter resentment, hatred of circumstances, and a sort of ironic acceptance.
"It's you and me: the last ones left. Might as well take what we can get, eh?"
Firearm set down, dropped pipe clanking on its arrival.
Saliva is only slightly better than the sludge that clings to his soles, the heat no different than blurry radiation from sullen furnaces. Eyes closed, unseeing but still a witness to his dismal surroundings. Hopeless and hostile, selfish contact. Fibres of blue-button-down, stubble, tainted sensual distraction.
Light fixtures crashing to the floor, naked wiring, puddles and copper betrayal. Electric sparking, slim chances fizzle and burn out. Clocks knell a requiem; the sky, a nocturne.
Henry wakes up.