AN: First thing I've ever written for Silent Hill, I dunno. 422 words. Just a drabble fic. I don't plan on continuing it, but if you'd like me to, feel free to ask. If you spot any grammatical or spelling errors, please let me know.
The rain came down in thick, heavy sheets, muddying the air as it clung to the ever-present ash. Though isolated from the world in most ways, Silent Hill could not simply ignore the weather. Aside from the patter of rain, the little town was hushed, near silent. The townspeople were tucked away in the church, or waiting out the storm as they foraged through the old residences. Even the monsters dared not venture out in these conditions. Though the air was usually choking, it now suffocated, the damp ash plastering trachea and lungs. Nothing roamed the streets in the downpour, save for one.
He trudged along as always, dragging the Great Knife behind him. The usual metal-on-concrete grinding was replaced now with the hushed slushing of disturbed mud and puddles. His massive metal helmet shielded him from inhaling the sticky particles, but it did little otherwise. A few smaller droplets fell through the grating and spattered whatever lay inside. The murky water washed over him, rinsing away the evidence of his latest crimes. A faint metallic echo of drops on mask followed him as he wandered aimlessly in the streets.
He liked this weather. It was a warm rain, but he took no notice of the fact. No, he liked the rain not so much for the physical qualities, but for the calm it brought. No one in need of punishment roaming, it was as though he had the whole world to himself. As the water rinsed the blood from his pale skin, so too it rinsed off the constant, nagging compulsion to sate his bloodlust. The rain brought time to be numb, a welcome feeling. For once, he was not a slave to his instinct.
He turned a corner at random, to find it was a dead end. The executioner made a noise akin to a grunt, and turned back the way he came. No matter how many times he walked the streets, he would never learn them. Each walk he discovered the town anew.
Slowly, he became aware of a tingling in the back of his mind. Someone else had dared step into the storm. Someone he ached to destroy. He followed the feeling, and found himself outside the Happy Burger. There, in front of him, a dangerously unaware James Sunderland. His creator, his tormentor, his other half. Holding a rag to his face, rummaging in a pile of junk for some lost trinket. With a grudging but desperate need, the executioner hefted the knife up, and approached his prey.