A/N: Hello everyone. Well, isn't this quite the change of events? No, I have not given up on A:TLA. Quite the opposite, actually. I have just become intrigued with Silent Hill's Walter Sullivan. For those of you who are used to my fluffy, sweet, adorable Kataang stories, be warned. This is nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. Rated M for graphic violence and language. I appreciate reviews... Please do so.

Kataangers... The Oracle is still a work in progress. One-shots will find their way out eventually. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Silent Hill belongs to Konami, not I.

Penalty of Reconciliation

Always with the running. Always, always with the chasing. Did the agony ever stop? Did life ever end?

Henry paused. What was the use? Human existence as he knew it was coming to a stand still. Life was going to end. And God...

Eileen.

Holy hell. She was fucking gone. Everyone was gone. Everyone was going to die and it was his fault. Always his fault. When was he going to learn?

Henry whimpered in his terrible acceptance. His ankle was killing him. His skin was so dry it was cracking and his ankle was sliced open from some episode of the day. Some escapade where he was running and people were dying and he was going to die and the world was crumbling into horrible, never ending darkness...

He grunted. He needed to calm down. Think this through. Was there anything he could do now? Anything at all?

That man had a gun. A gun and... a knife... and probably a fucking chainsaw with his initials on it.

If he could just get the gun away from him... somehow...

But, wasn't this his domain? He could just make a staircase disappear and Henry'd fall down into the depths of hell, forever conflicted. Forever burning. There was no way in the world he could ever make it out of this alive. No matter how hard he tried or what he did. He just didn't know. It was all so confusing. All so fast. All so... horrible.

How could someone do this? Oh, the humanity. Or, well, lack thereof.

Henry almost laughed at the thought. Everything was pretty fuzzy.

Coming around the corner to where he knew it was, the brunet dove into the hole and began to crawl—franctically crawl—back to the room. Although it took him shorter time to get there than usual, he almost regretted not letting the man in the blue coat kill him earlier. Almost.

The bathroom's light was dim. Dimmer than before. And the air smelled different. Like death, instead of, simply, blood.

What now...? Henry thought quizzically, not anticipating the moment he'd find out. The man glanced around the bathroom, uneasy. It all looked the same, other than a spot on the door with a new message from, he assumed, Walter. In blood was written, 'Welcome back.' Henry grinded his teeth.

Shaking almost violently, he turned the nob, opened the door and entered the hallway. It was quiet. This only made Henry more nervous. No crying babies? No strange groaning noises? No creatures trying to rip his hair out? He should've been happy, but...

Suddenly... a footstep. He heard a fucking footstep!

His mind told him not to, but his mouth didn't listen—

"Hello?"

—and his breath hitched in his throat shortly after.

"Henry."

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, shit, shit!

The dark haired man was glued to his spot when Walter Sullivan turned the corner from the living room and paused on the other side of the hallway. Sure, before there were hauntings and blood all over the walls and heads flying around outside the window, but Henry thought he was safe from death here. No, no, no. Walter wasn't here. No!

He didn't deserve this! Eileen didn't deserve it! Richard and Cynthia and Jasper... They didn't fucking deserve to die!

"Henry..." Walter repeated his name. It almost sounded like a request and a warning, but the brunet was so torn, he didn't care. A tear leaked from his eye and hung from his chin, suspended in air, until it fell onto his shirt.

"Don't move," continued the killer. Walter slowly lifted his gun, pointing it in Henry's direction. He was going to die. There was nothing he could do. Death was right there in front of him. Looking him in the eyes.

And somehow, even though he was frozen in place, Henry dropped to his knees when the shot went off. He was dead, fucking dead. The fucking pain.

But, to his astonishment, there wasn't pain. He was expecting it so much, the phantom feeling was there, everywhere. His body ached, but it wasn't real.

Henry lifted his chin slightly to look at the green-eyed man. The gun was dropping back to his side.

"I said not to move, Henry," Walter said, tilting his head.

He... missed? Finding amusement in this thought, he stared at Walter, letting out a scoff. No fucking way. He wasn't aiming at him, or else he'd be so dead, he'd die.

There was a soft grunt from behind him and a churning noise, and he jumped, placing himself up against the wall beside him, keeping Walter in his peripheral vision as he watched a demonic creature of hell retract back into the wall and disappear. It was a bloody pulp, gurgling deeply, as it became one with the crimson wall.

Walter began to walk toward him.

"S-stay the fuck away!" Henry commanded, heart pounding, head pounding, blood pumping.

And Walter... listened. He stopped. He just stood there.

"Henry, your leg is bleeding."

Henry swallowed hard. "I know, I... I fucking know!"

"Stop yelling."

The brunet's lips parted slightly and he stared, aghast, at the blond man before him.

A mass murderer just told him to shut up—politely—while his ankle was sprained and cut and his headache was killing him and the wall was capable of strangling him to death and what the fucking hell...

"Stop yelling?" Henry choked, dumbfounded. "What? You don't like the screams of the dying while you chop them to pieces? Or-or drown them, or electrocute them, or what ever the fuck you fucking do..."

"You're not dying," responded the green-eyed man. He sounded genuinely confused and his eyebrows came together in the center of his forehead.

"But I will be soon!"

Walter just stared at him. Henry, hysterical, was sobbing. Every time he responded to the other man, his voice cracked on one word or another.

"Am I allowed to move?" Walter asked after a few moments of silence.

Henry gaped at him. "What? No! Don't c-come near me."

This was so confusing. What the hell... Oh hell, what in fucking hell?

"I need to get you out of here," Walter said simply. "Mother is regaining control." The killer glanced at the ceiling for a quick second, then looked at the brunet in warning.

"Wha—" he stopped. "You want to take me out of the apartment?"

The man in the blue coat clutched his gun tightly, his knuckles turning stark white. "Not want," he whispered, "Need."

There was a long pause, then a frightening noise from the bedroom and a hiss and a crackle. Walter looked conflicted, but Henry didn't move. Out of the apartment. What? Out, out, out of here. This horrible place. Oh, what if the man was lying, what if he was going to strangle him? What if that's what he thought he had to do? Surely, if that was the case, he would've done it by now. Henry was strong, but he knew Walter had the advantage. If he wanted to kill him, he would've done it, right? He never gave anyone else a chance.

Not even a chance.

"You killed them all..." Henry said in an accusatory voice, but directly after, Walter shook his head.

"I'm so, so sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry."

The words were strange. Not only was he apologizing about ruthlessly murdering over and over again—it sounded genuine. And more than that... trustworthy.

Henry swallowed. Hard.

Even if Walter was going to kill him, it wouldn't matter. There was no fucking way out of this shit. He'd tried everything and failed over and over and over and over again.

"Let's go," Henry said haphazardly. Images flashed in his mind as he stood and slowly, cautiously, approached the other man. Images of Walter shooting at him and sending dogs to kill him and stopping him from doing anything right and, shit, even killing the people around him with horrible, violent methods. He saw Jasper walking, then running and screaming, as his flesh burned off his bones. As his eyes melted out of his God damn sockets and the smell of rotten decay and burning hair wafted through the air.

Walter did nothing when Henry made it to him other then put his gun in a holster at his side. The last step Henry took was at the same moment he stopped thinking. Refused to think. Refused to comprehend. This was a huge mistake because the horrid pain of his ankle returned as the adrenaline slipped away and he nearly fell to the ground. Walter caught him.

"Your leg," he said quietly.

Henry just grunted. "I'm fine."

The blond sighed. "You're not fine. Your ankle is broken."

There was another pause, but Henry heard several deep hissing noises from various areas in the room and a drawn out moan. "It's not broken." There's no way it was broken! He was just running, what? Twenty minutes ago? He was running...

"Yes. It is."

To Henry's dismay, Walter picked him up and held him close to his chest.

"Oh, no, no. Put me down."

"No."

Henry blinked, and hit the other man in the chest, trying to slide from his grip.

"Henry, stop." Walter seemed annoyed, but not angry, and certainly not like an emotionless axe murderer.

Suddenly, a wave of calm fell over Henry and he breathed in deeply, relaxing. This was a nightmare. A strange, horrible nightmare. He would wake up from all of this and either be knocked out in a dark forest, in his bloody bed, or somewhere else. Maybe he was dead.

He didn't fucking care anymore.

Walter repositioned him, getting a better grip as he walked. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Out.

That sounded nice.

Henry ignored the odd noises from inside the apartment. He ignored the strange sound the door made as it opened by itself, somehow by Walter's will. He passively ignored everything and just stayed there, staring at Walter's blood stained coat—blue some places, dark blue others, brown others...

Not caring was nice, too. Apathy had just become Henry's best friend.

"Hey, Sullivan?"

The man carrying him frowned. "Walter."

Henry grunted at that. "Why?" was all he said, staying relaxed in his spot against the blond's chest. He thought he felt himself being held tighter, but wasn't sure.

Walter seemed to understand. "Mother is angry."

The room was angry. Great. An angry apartment room. Oh, what shall the world do? The devil is a fucking apartment room. Why doesn't the bible mention anything about this shit?

"I told Her I didn't want to kill you. I was going to, but..." he trailed off. "I did everything for Her."

Henry felt a distant sympathy for the blond man. All he ever wanted was to be appreciated for his dedication, but he was raised to kill people and bring forth the mother fucking devil. Who the hell teaches kids it's alright to murder people?

The pain in his leg was unwavering, but he was so damn comfortable, he didn't mention it. Eventually, he just stopped caring that it hurt, too. Just like he stopped caring if he was going to live or not.

After minutes ticked by, Walter spoke again, as if his train of thought was never broken. "I did everything She wanted me to, but when I asked Her just once for something, She tried to get rid of me."

A wave of sadness swept over Henry. Then, his depression grew deeper when he realized he felt bad for a fucking serial killer. Still, he didn't move. It felt as if he were being carried down stairs. Walter shifted his hold on him once more. His eye lids began to feel heavy, but he fought against the comfortable warmth of Walter's body, the echoing sadness, the tired sorrow, the empty regrets and feeling of loneliness. He wondered if Walter felt this way. If he could comprehend remorse.

As if he could read Henry's mind, Walter whispered, "I'm sorry..." but trailed off again. There was another pause. "I wouldn't have done any of this if I knew She didn't want me. She was just using me, Henry."

Henry glanced up at him for a moment, eyes only catching the bottom of his chin. When he looked back down, he felt something cold and wet hit his neck. "Walter?"

"S-sorry..." Walter stuttered, his voice an octave higher than before.

Holy mother fucking shit from hell. The killing bastard was crying. He was... crying.

Henry shut his eyes, then softly pat Walter on the shoulder, awkwardly trying to comfort him. "It's okay."

But it wasn't okay. It wasn't okay. Nothing was right. Everything was so fucked up...

A little while longer they moved, the silence seeming to reverberate off the bloody walls. Henry had no idea where he was going—if he was being decieved or if he was almost home free or if there was a giant twelve eyed monster sliding beside them to ward off 302's creepy ass dogs. He didn't want to know. He actually felt safe at the moment, and that safety was the most comforting thing he'd experienced in quite some time. He didn't want to look up and see human corpses dangling from the ceiling or walls that looked as if something was trying to escape them. Henry just wanted to pretend nothing was wrong anymore. He was going to be fine...

"I'm going to set you down, now," Walter said pointedly.

Henry felt very apprehensive about that. Not only was his leg going to ache tremendously once more, but the warmth was leaving, too. 302 was such a cold, cold place.

The brunet exhaled, but it was shaky. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to kill you," Walter responded indignantly. "We were brought back together. We were never meant to be apart." He paused, then thoughtfully: "We are one."

What the—

But as soon as this thought began, Henry noticed Walter inspecting his own, bloody hand and realized the blond wasn't talking about him. Not about Henry. About himself.

Walter's inner child. Walter's innocence. They were somehow together again, and that must be why his emotions returned. It all made sense.

The green-eyed man hoisted himself up over a ledge, slid across and relaxed on top of it. He put his hands out, notioning for Henry to take them, which he did, and pulled Henry up to the platform.

"She isn't dead," the killer said without prompt.

Somehow Henry just knew.

"She's... not?"

"No."

Walter crawled through a hole in the wall beside them and climbed around a ledge, the other man following. Henry's brown eyes were so adjusted to the dark, the bright flash that occured caused him to wince. When he opened his eyes again, the room was just bright enough to see everything below, but he wished so dearly that it wasn't. Beneath them was a man with a gag tied around his head, trying to scream. There were three legged creatures attempting to pull his limbs in every direction. One managed to remove his left arm, but the tearing sound was so agonizingly disturbing, Henry nearly vomitted. The man's muffled screams filled the room and the blood sputtered from his shoulder.

One of the dark grey monsters approached the gorey stump. He grabbed the man by the head to steady him, but began to eat away at the exposed bone, pulling off chunks of flesh with the sharp teeth.

"Oh, God," Henry choked.

Walter paused, staring at the scene, then looked behind him at Henry's repulse.

"Don't look," the killer demanded softly. "It's not a person. It's not there, Henry." He began to crawl again. "Mother is confusing you with visions. She thinks She can take advantage of your pure heart."

Henry knew he had to get a hold of himself. He was finally letting his emotions run him, but he was aware—since the start of this whole thing—he just couldn't do that. He looked away and followed Walter.

Somehow they made it to another room. Walter steadily removed his gun from his pocket, and at seeing this, Henry's heart skipped a few beats. There was pure silence, then the gun went off, but then, with a small screech, one of those bat-like creatures fell from above. It hit the ground with a solid thunk.

The blond calmly stepped over it, and Henry around it, limping slightly. It seemed he'd taken Eileen's place in the game of Let's Get The Fuck Out Of Here.

"Are you alright?" Walter inquired when he walked through the next doorway.

Henry grunted. "Just peachy."

Now that he thought about it, he dwelled on the idea of Eileen. Walter said she wasn't dead... but...

How could she not be?

"Eileen..." Henry whispered so very quietly. Walter heard him.

"Miss Galvin is fine. I told you. I helped her, too." Walter turned a corner into a hallway and began to climb up a ladder. Henry followed, closely behind. "When I was following you, I was trying to stop you from going back. Where we were was an easier way out. But you didn't listen..."

Henry's footing was weak and his ankle gave out on him, but he latched on tightly and pulled himself up.

"You got too far away. I knew it would take some time for you to return to Mother. So I helped her and came back for you."

With those words, everything just got so much weirder.

"What's with the change of heart?" Henry questioned as they reached the top of the ladder, Walter aiding him the last few steps. Henry gasped when Walter picked him up again.

"You."

The brunet scoffed at the other man, muttering a "What?" through his teeth.

"You always put everyone else first. You are selfless—caring. Even when you're in the face of death, you make sure anyone with you is unafraid, even if in your heart, you're terrified." Walter was walking slower than before. "I told Mother it wouldn't be good to kill you. You could do things for us to help Her come back." He seemed angry now. "She told me She never should have returned me to my former self—that She didn't think it would make me betray Her. She expected me to love Her more, but I didn't. I subdued Her for the time being. She gave me much power, but She is regretting it now..."

Henry held his grip around Walter's neck a little tighter. His other arm was used to rub his eye.

"Don't worry. I won't drop you."

This was all so messed up. Henry found himself considering Walter's words. Selfless...? Pure heart...? That sounded inaccurate, but yet he was here, in the arms of a serial killer, feeling bad for him.

Walter Sullivan shouldn't have anyone feeling sorrow in his name. He killed people. And if Henry was the '21st Sacrament,' and Eileen the '20th Sacrament,' that means nineteen other people were dead. Dead by this man's hands. Walter even killed his own fucking self. Henry shuddered darkly. Killed himself for a demon creature who cared about nothing but bringing forth the apocalypse.

"You're fucking insane," Henry said abruptly. Walter didn't respond and Henry didn't move.

The brunet stared at the ceiling as Walter walked. The blood didn't bother him as much as it did in the beginning. It was just another thing now. Just one of many problems. But Henry hadn't really thought about it. Either that was a lot of blood and a lot of killing, or just a vision, like Walter called the dying man. This could all be a fucking vision? Some otherworldly hellish vision from the devil?

Well, shit. The fucking pain in his fucking ankle was not a fucking vision.

"We are approaching," commented Walter matter-of-factly. "I am going to put you down, again."

Henry slightly hopped when his foot hit the ground, but the blond supported him. The Reciever of Wisdom glanced around as he propped himself up against the wall, keeping his weight off his ankle. This was just another blood-stained, decay-filled hallway.

"Henry," Walter murmured, placing his hand on Henry's shoulder. He appeared to be out of breath. "She's regaining control. You have to get out."

"Wait, what? How are you going to—"

"Henry." This time it sounded like a warning. "Mother is very angry with me. She tried to kill me because I told Her I was not going to kill you. I'm not going to hurt anyone else." Walter dropped his hand back to his side and looked down the hall, regret on his face. "I would've done anything for Her love. She just can't take it that I love someone more than Her." The Son closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. After a moment of silence, he turned back to Henry.

Oddly, though feeling so many different things at once, Henry was still afraid of the man in front of him. Confusion became prominent.

"You're not going to—"

"Down this hallway"—Walter pointed, interrupting him—"there are stairs. Take the ones that lead down until you cannot go down any more. At the bottom, there will be a door on your right. It's blue with—"

Suddenly, as if it was an attempt to keep Henry in the building, spiked tendrils shot out from the wall and through Walter's torso. He was pulled forcefully against the blood-stained wall, tightly constricted by the cursed objects pierced through his stomach and he rested uncertainly, accepting the fate. Walter's eyes opened wide and he made a strange noise before a trail of blood leaked from his mouth.

"H-hen... g-guh... go." His dying eyes weakly looked left to where he pointed earlier. "I-I'm sorr... sorry..."

Another tendril shot out, to where Henry imagined the man's heart was. Walter's body convulsed before lying limp, slightly off the ground and against the wall.

Henry looked at the man sadly, but another impromptu flash of light engulfed the room. It became brighter in the hall and Walter's body remained still, but what appeared to be a spirit pulled away from him. Little Walter walked out of the man in the blue coat, appearing as a trick of the light. The little boy shifted and flickered like static. He glanced up at Henry and smiled sadly. Little Walter stepped toward his older form and mimicked reaching his hand into the coat. He then took three steps toward Henry before jumping at him and wrapping his arms around the brunet's leg.

Henry tried to pat him on the head, but his hand just went through the boy's hair and he instantly retracted it.

"I'll never leave you, Henry. But I'll miss you, Henry. Miss you, miss you, miss you!" Walter's smaller self was shaking his head as he slowly disappeared and the light dispersed. Henry could still hear the words miss you miss you miss you until the darkness returned. He let out a noise of disbelief. Still, the man reached his hand into Walter's blue coat pocket and removed a square metal block with strange, familiar symbols on it.

Henry heard an odd noise and jumped back, glad he did. Another spiked thing shot out through Walter's body, but missed Henry by an inch or so. Henry inhaled sharply and took off down the hallway, limping only slightly. He made his way down the stairs, and found the blue door Walter was speaking of.

Written in blood, which appeared like Walter's handwriting, was the word "wrong" next to all three of the square divets in the door. They were in a triangle and in the middle of the design was an "H." Henry stared at it for a few moments. He saw that the two lines that made the sides of the "H" gradually got closer toward the top before they stopped. It looked like an arrow to him! Henry took the metal object in his hand and forced it into the matching square in the door.

The blood on that square's "wrong" changed to "wheng," the "hen" turning bright red. The writing on the left square's "r" turned bright red as well, and the last "wrong" changed to "wrony" the "y" becoming bright. It spelled his name and as the excess letters disappeared, the door clicked and opened by itself.

Henry was consummed by darkness as he fell through the door. He wondered where he'd end up now. After everything, what was going to happen...?

But the next thing he knew, he was in a hospital room, his foot in a sling above him and his blood pumping viciously with a terrible headache.

"Doctor! Doctor, he's stirring!"

"Eilee—"

Oh, God, don't do that. Talking. Pain.

There was a long pause, but he shut his eyes and heard Eileen next to him. She seemed so happy, but she was fine. Walter saved her, too.

He heard footsteps rush into the room and hands on his body and his face and talking and madness and Eileen and oh, his body hurt...

"Where am—"

Yep. Still hurts.

"Henry, I'm going to have to ask you not to talk. You're under serious stress and your body is not cooperating."

His eyes had been shut so tightly, but hearing these words made him hold his breath. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up as his heart beat faster than ever before.

That was the voice of—it couldn't be—he was dead—he—

Henry opened his eyes slowly. The doctor hovering over him had long, clean, blond hair and piercing green eyes.

"Henry?" called the doctor, genuinely worried.

But it was too late. Henry had already passed out again.