A/N: This takes place between SH1 and SH2 video games (ca. 1990.) This is episode 3.5 of my series - written to silence a few plot-bunnies.
-WE
"Childe of Dark"
Prologue
I always said you were a wimp Cooper.
…
Scared of the dark, weak. You make me ashamed that you're my son!
…
Now you gotta prove to me that you can be a man: go out into the barn and kill twenty rats – in the dark.
…
And don't come back till you're done!
—oOo—
BEEP BEEP…BEEP BEEP…BEEP BEEP…
Sgt. Cooper MacBride sat up from his bunk with a start. He turned off the alarm in his wristwatch and reset the timer for another two hours. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he wiped the sweat from his face and took a few deep breaths until the pounding in his chest subsided.
Cooper groped in the darkness between the mattress and the headboard for his pistol. He pulled back on the shaft until he heard the click of the slide-stop. Probing the breech with his fingertips, he removed the bullet from the chamber before putting the weapon back in its hiding place. He yanked off the sweat soaked pillowcase and replaced it with a fresh one that he retrieved from the closet.
Wearing nothing but a towel, he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door to his room. It was the middle of the third shift so everyone else in the men's barracks was still asleep. He preferred this time of night; it was nice and quiet. With no one to bother him, it was as if he had the entire building to himself.
He didn't bother to turn on the lights in the community shower. Having made the trip so many times, he could literally do the routine with his eyes shut. Light was a tool – nothing more. For the average person, ninety percent of sensory information comes from the eyes. For him to rely on eyesight to such an extent was a crutch: a waste of the other four senses.
As he adjusted the spigot for the showerhead, he gauged the pressure by the sound of the fast-moving water splashing against the tile. The smell and taste of the vapor in the air told him that the water was at the right temperature. He stepped into the stall and lathered his face with gel. He picked up the razor as he systematically glided his hand across his face, checking for patches of stubble. The blade followed his fingertips as he shaved against the grain. He repeated the process until his skin felt smooth to the touch.
After the shower, he returned to his room and got ready for his shift, hours before he was expected to report for duty. As such, he decided to indulge himself before going out to the gun range. He unlocked the door to the lounge and grabbed a book from the periodical section. He sat down in his favorite chair located against the wall farthest from the television. He turned on the reading lamp and adjusted the dimmer switch just bright enough to allow him to read.
Not long after he got settled in, he heard a scraping sound against the window across the room. The pane slid open and a figure dressed in black climbed in from the outside. Cooper remained perfectly still as the shadow walked in front of him. He kept his hand hovered over the backup pistol hidden in the lapel of his vest. When he recognized the entrant, he relaxed. "Out after curfew again, ShipWreck?"
ShipWreck jumped when he heard his code name. "Geez LowLight, you scared the crap outta me! You're not here to narc on me are you?"
Cooper betrayed the hint of a smirk as he turned the page, "No. I've got better things to do with my time."
The sailor let out a sigh of relief as he leaned against the pool table to catch his breath. "Thanks…I've been working up this hottie in communications. I think I'm startin' to wear her down."
"Good luck with that." Cooper's answer was more of an afterthought.
ShipWreck's eyes narrowed, intrigued as to what held Cooper's attention. "So watcha reading?"
Cooper let out an impatient sigh and he looked up over the top the book to reply, "I apologize ShipWreck, somewhere along the way I must've given you the impression that I wanted to engage in idle conversation."
ShipWreck dismissed the rebuke and walked over to read the title of the paperback. "The Lottery, by Shirley Jackson…I wouldn't mind hitting the jackpot someday myself."
"It's not that kind of lottery. It's about how the wickedness of society is ever-present but always hidden. The winner of this lottery is a scapegoat – a vessel that serves to contain the wrath for the sins of the many."
ShipWreck responded with a snort as he got up to leave the room. "…And I thought I was the one who needed to get laid."
—oOo—
Daybreak wasn't for another hour, so it was still dark when Cooper walked across the grounds outside. He set his rifle and field kit on the ground. After setting up his gear, he laid in position, lowered the tripod and flicked the cap off the scope. He reached blindly into his ammo box. His nose was to the grass as he placed a round into the breach.
He pulled the bolt back.
Cooper loved the smell of the morning dew on the field—before the air became polluted by the stink of gunpowder. The aroma, coupled with the cool earth beneath him, gave it a Zen appeal. He learned early on that to understand the gun, a shooter must understand nature. Temperature, the thickness of the air, the breeze against ones cheek: all of these things affect the path of the bullet. He exhaled slowly as he squeezed the trigger, emptying his mind as he meditated on the harmony of the kill:
PAMF!
A voice interrupted the euphony of the bullet's discharge. "I had a feeling that was you lurking about so early, LowLight."
Cooper didn't bother looking behind him; it was too dark to see who the speaker was. Moreover, it was unnecessary: Stalker had a very distinctive voice.
"That sounded like a tracer round, but I didn't see a trail," Stalker said.
"I'm using an experimental catalyst," Cooper replied calmly as he chambered another round. "It's only visible in the ultra-violet range."
Stalker put away his night vision binoculars. He knelt down over the field kit, noticing the exotic pair of goggles placed next to the ammo box. He picked them up and examined them as best he could with what little light there was. "May I?"
Cooper nodded. After Stalker put the goggles on, he squeezed the trigger again.
PAMF!
"I still don't see it," Stalker said, scanning the darkness for the bullets wake.
"Those are set for infra-red. Switch the band indicator to the other end of the spectrum."
Cooper waited for Stalker to make the necessary adjustments before squeezing off another round.
PAMF!
"Ah, there it is…This is an impressive piece of optics. How did you make it so small without compromising the field of vision?"
"That's a trade secret."
PAMF!
"I always thought your skills were better served in R&D. Why do you insist on staying with the infantry?"
"The day I can't shoot is the day I'll agree to take a desk job."
PAMF!
"I only offer it as a suggestion. There is... resistance to renewing your contract with the unit."
"And who, pray tell, would take my place?"
"Snow-Job, for one."
Cooper snorted. "He's a marksman, not a sniper…There's a difference."
PAMF!
"Sci-Fi and I can take up the slack."
"Is this why you came out here Stalker? To tell me that I'm not gonna make the cut?"
"I'm afraid so."
"So who's blocking it? Is it Beach-Head or Slaughter?"
Stalker hesitated before answering, "Actually, it's me."
For the first time, Cooper looked up from his scope. He took his finger off the trigger and rose to face Stalker. "Why? You, of all people, should know there isn't anyone who can do this job better than I can." Although he could only make out a faint outline of Stalker's head, he insisted on staring him down as they continued their conversation in the darkness.
"I'm not denying your talent, but you're a train wreck waiting to happen. You've gotten by in the past because none of your previous CO's were snipers. But I've read your green-sheet and I know a burn-out when I see one."
"Is that right? And what exactly do you see?"
"Call me a traditionalist, but I like my night spotters to be well rested. You're anti-social because you're plagued by chronic nightmares that don't allow you to sleep for more than an hour at a time—"
"Thomas Edison and Nikola Tesla."
"I beg your Pardon?"
"Edison often took cat-naps in his lab. Tesla never slept for more that two hours at a stretch; Sleep is overrated."
"Do you wanna tell me how you know that particular fact?"
"They were my role models growing up."
"I see. But, with all due respect, I wouldn't put Edison nor Tesla behind the scope of a high-powered rifle either."
"I do my job, and the team shrink clears me for duty every year. This time won't be any different, Stalker."
"We have a new staff counselor that I want you to see. If he passes you, then I'll sign off on your contract renewal."
"Who is it?"
"Sergeant Iron-Knife."
"You mean Spirit? You want me to have a session with the Indian?"
"I believe the term is Native American."
"He's a tracker, not a shrink."
"We've all had to pull double-duty from the budget cuts. Like it or not, he is qualified and you will report to his office after morning chow."
Cooper clenched his jaw as he grunted in acknowledgement. The first beams of sunlight were starting to jut over the ridge of the firing range. He shouldered his rifle from a standing position and fired:
PAMF! PAMF! PAMF!
Stalker snorted. From observing the tracers, he knew that all the bullets must have hit the target. However, it wasn't until he zoomed in that he noticed that the practice target only had one entry hole. He took off the goggles and handed them back before walking away. "Show off."
—oOo—
Cooper decided to skip breakfast. He got the sudden urge to swage his ammo—anything to keep his mind occupied. He turned on the pressure gauge installed in the bullet press and pulled down the lever to crimp the metal jacket around the bullet head. Upon the familiar click of the mechanism, he removed the newly minted round out of the swage and placed it on the table with the others. He promptly started the next bullet, measuring the grains of gunpowder on the scale, when Spirit walked in. Cooper pretended not to notice his entrance, but he was sufficiently distracted as to cause him to start the count over.
Cooper glanced at his watch, "Am I late?"
"No. I am early," Spirit replied, giving the room a quick scan.
"Where's your bird," Cooper said flippantly, as he resumed operating the machine.
Spirit smirked. "Out doing what birds do. I do not keep him imprisoned."
"Well, I'm almost done here. We can go to your office after I cap this last shell."
"There is no rush. Among my people, a healer often spends time with the patient in their natural surroundings."
Cooper always admired Spirit. Like him, he was a minimalist when it came to the art of conversation. He was content to let Spirit look around while he resumed operating the bullet press, although he kept tabs on him out of the corner of his eye.
Spirit casually placed his clipboard on top of the coffee machine. On the wall above, he noticed a picture of an attractive blonde-haired woman. The autograph read, with love form Una. He continued on, pausing at an equipment shelf. There was a plaque on display that seemed out of place. He picked it up and read the inscription "A patent award? This is an odd location for an accolade."
Cooper ignored him, as if the comment was rhetorical, so Spirit replaced the plaque. His attention was then drawn to a cabinet that showcased Cooper's gun collection. He carefully pulled off the rifle that was placed in a position of prominence. Cooper looked like he was about to object, but reversed himself when he saw that Spirit handled the firearm respectfully.
Spirit's fingertips glided across the stock as he examined the relic, "Soviet made Mosin-Nagant…Is this the 1944 model?"
"1938."
Spirit aimed the rifle, gauging the weight as he squeezed the trigger. The click of the firing pin echoed in the office. "The balance is off."
"No it's not," Cooper replied sharply with a glare, although his voice maintained a low even tone. He was not accustomed to anyone telling him his business when it came to his guns.
Spirit replaced the rifle on the rack with care before walking over to Cooper's workstation. He picked up one of the newly pressed rounds arranged neatly in a row on the table. He rattled it briefly, feeling the weight of it in his palm. "Depleted uranium: kinetic energy penetrators. These are toxic, do you handle them often?"
"I take iodine pills as a precaution. But, considering that the half life on one those is a few billion years, I'm not too worried either way."
He replaced the bullet carefully before replying, "Don't worry. I didn't mean to suggest that the cause of your malady is environmental."
"My malady? I thought you were just here to clear me for duty?"
"I am a counselor, not a recruiter."
"I hate to burst your bubble Spirit. But the source of my nightmares is pretty obvious. There's nothing to counsel, unless you intend to travel back in time. I've come to accept it and I make do."
"Yes, I've read your psyche profile. But, I believe the source of your dysomnia is intrinsic: within you."
"Fascinating," he replied, dryly.
"We have served together for many years. Your aura has always been imbued with a darkness. Normally I would associated that with a man who would do evil. However, you are unique in that you are able to harness that darkness and use it as a tool. The problem with that is such control is not meant to last. We all have a capacity for good and evil, but most of us find a balance by gravitating toward one of these extremes. You must learn to respect the darkness within because, if left unchecked, it can control you."
Cooper paused and raised an eyebrow. "Is that your clinical diagnosis for my malady?"
Spirit responded with a scowl. "I never understood why your people always feel the need to put a label on everything."
"And I never understood what this has to do with how I do my job. Making nice with my teammates isn't in the job description."
"I'm not so worried about how this is affecting your job. I am more worried about how it affects you personally."
Cooper let out a snort as he came to a realization. "You're the one that put this bug in Stalker's ear about me begin a burn-out."
He nodded. "The spiritual well-being of everyone in this unit is my responsibility."
Cooper cursed under his breath, having inadvertently pulled the handle on the bullet press harder than he intended, causing the machine to rattle. "With all due respect, I don't believe in your mumbo-jumbo," he said behind clenched teeth.
"Fair enough. Tell me that the nightmares have not worsened, and I will stand-down."
Cooper considered lying in order to get Spirit to back off. However, even he had to admit that the team's tracker had an uncanny perception, regardless of whether it was used to track down people or the truth. He was beginning to see why Spirit was assigned as the base counselor. "It's nothing I can't handle."
"What do you think prompted this?"
Cooper curled his lip. "Alright." It was obvious that Spirit was going to keep prying until he told him something personal—the kind of thing that shrinks usually like to hear. "I got a letter from my sister Una last month. Apparently, my father is dying of liver cancer. He's not expected to live much longer."
Spirit paused to regard Cooper's reticence. "I take it that this does not sadden you?"
"It's no big shock; the man drank like a fish. We all gotta go sometime."
"Are you going to at least visit him?"
"Not much point at this stage. We really don't have anything to say to each other."
"I see." Spirit broke from the conversation. In his reverie, he looked around the rest of the work area and walked back over to the coffee table by the entrance.
Cooper removed the next shell from the press. He inspected it briefly before placing it on the table with the others, "Not that I don't enjoy catching up with you, but can we start the session already? I have to teach a class this morning."
Spirit picked up his clipboard and took a pen out of his pocket. "We are done. I have heard enough."
Cooper stopped what he was doing and came out from behind his workstation. "I don't appreciate being flanked," he said, as he took off his safety goggles and work gloves. His calm demeanor belied the anger that he felt; however, he also recognized that he only had himself to blame. He stood next to Spirit, trying to catch a glimpse of what he was writing, "So what's the verdict?"
"Post-traumatic Hyposomnia brought about by unresolved anxiety." He glanced up at Cooper while he paused to flip his notebook over to a fresh sheet of paper before resuming his writing. He grinned in response to Cooper's confused expression, and added, "That is my clinical diagnosis."
"I think I liked it better when you were talking about Auras and all that other mumbo-jumbo."
"Not to worry. As your western doctors say, I will write you a prescription. If you take this as prescribed, you will have my recommendation."
Cooper nodded in approval. "Now that's more like it. What is it, a dream suppressant?"
"Truth be told, the conventional treatment is anti-depressants." Spirit ripped the page off and handed it to him. "However, I feel that you need something stronger."
Cooper's expression turned to ice as he read on. "This is for one months leave. What the hell is this?"
"I am ordering you to go visit your father and say goodbye," Spirit replied, matter-of-factly.
"You can't order me to do that," Cooper said, struggling to keep that even timbre in his voice. "This won't fix anything. You obviously don't know the first thing about me—"
"That is something we have in common... And maybe if you were better rested, you would have caught such an obvious tactic." The finality in his tone of voice effectively ended the conversation. Spirit left without saying another word.
Cooper wadded up the paper and chucked it into the wastebasket. He walked over to his desk and pulled an envelope out of the top drawer. He re-read the enclosed letter penned in his sister's familiar handwriting. Lost in his thoughts, his eyes remained focused on the letterhead:
Alchemilla Hospital
Silent Hill
End Prologue
