"I need a gun."

James stood at the table, two elbows deep in an expertly calculated game of Backpack Tetris when what Harry said had him suddenly hit pause. He reflexively scanned the items still scattered about the table, looking for and naively expecting it to be there, but it was true: no handgun. His face promptly bore a frown, then shot Harry a disparaging look right in the eyes.

"What happened to the other one?"

Harry shrugged. "Lost it in Midwich."

"Which one?"

"The first one."

James blinked, shoulders falling with disbelief. "What? How? That was a while ago, Harry!"

Harry cupped his chin in his palm. "I know. I lost it during the moth fight. It was hectic, and I was sweaty," he explained, looking as bored as he sounded. "So I ended up butterfingering it into the hole."

James fixed him underneath an unamused stare. "Seriously?"

"Seriously! Shit happens, boss." He shrugged, oh well!. James wrinkled his mug.

"Good job, you fucking idiot."

Sarcasm flashed him a perky smile. "Aw, thanks! I try."

"You're pretty good at it, so I hardly think you need to."

"Well, you can't say I don't know my strengths."

"And you're just mentioning this now? " the resident pressed, annoyed with his dismissive attitude. "The moth fight was a whileago, Harry."

James's condescending jabs were treated to one of Harry's dull sneers. "Oh, yeah? Y'know, I kinda feel like you've mentioned that before," he airily slurred on his hand. "And yet, I sort of remember the moth fight happening just yesterday, but I dunno! I guess I could be wrong, though I don't know how.."

The heavy-lidded, wry and green glare James planted on Harry said a whole lot more than spoken word could. "I can't believe you've been without a gun this whole time," James anyway grumbled, getting back to performing his inscrutable black magic on the bag. "You're such an idiot."

"Hey, first of all, it takes one to know one," Harry lazily declared, directing his index finger off his cheek. "Second, you sure are a broken record today."

"Oh bite me, Harry."

"I'm trying! But I reckon you wouldn't taste good, probably kinda gamey with a killer high sodium count," he replied, scrunching his nose, "and I really don't need my doctor on my ass." James passed him a sidelong glare and rolled his eyes. "And thirdly, last of all— I honestly forgot all about it, until I saw those hanging out over there."

James glanced down. Harry's directional nod led his gaze to the Remington's deadly red ammo cartridges, of which three remained, chock full of buckshot. The resident curtly sighed, grabbing and depositing them where they belonged in his right pocket, and grumbled. "Yeah, whatever. I'm gonna need more of 'em, too."

"I was just about to say," Harry curiously murmured, "how many more of those do you got left? Is that all, or is there more in your pocket— or in the gun?"

"Two in the gun, but those three are the only other ones left," James mumbled without looking up. "We haven't been able to find any more yet, but it's three-to-five more than you have."

"Ouch! Hey, at least I've got a good excuse," Harry contended with a smile. "I lost my gun and used 'em up a while ago, remember."

James scoffed. "What, and I don't? And I actually use my gun, Harry."

"Ehh, tomato tomato," Harry idly waved off. "You still got less than either of us want for ya, and that's a pretty big problem."

"So's you not having a gun ," James retorted under his breath. "Look, we'll keep an eye out for shells because we always do," he said, continuing to meticulously work on fitting the last batch in. "But since you said we're going to swing by the police station anyway, we'll probably stock up there and get you a gun.I know you hate them for whatever stupid reason you have, Harry, but the last thing we need is to get in a situation, stuck fucked, and you failing to be our last option."

"Ooh! Still repetitive, but telling it like it is, now!" the patriarch egged on with a playful grin and shimmying shoulders. "I love when you start getting spicy and mixing it up a little. Keeps me on my toes - makes me feel tingly."

The conduit sighed hard. "Shuddup, Harry."

"Oh you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

A snort doubled as a huff. "Yeah, and more than you'd ever know."

The seated man hitched a soft, incredulous gasp. "Aw, c'mon.. don't be mean," Harry pouted. "You'd miss it."

"It's not mean, because you never give me a chance to experience your shutting up for longer than ten minutes," James sassed. "And when you do, I enjoy it. Go for a record-breaker sometime. Maybe then I'll decide if I'd miss it or not."

"James Sunderland! You're so mean," Harry tutted, pretending to be shocked and appalled. "Why, I never."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Now hush."

And Harry respectfully obliged, if only for the sake of James needing to concentrate. The noise dwindled while James combed through the backpack for the final check, check, and double check of stuff he put in, versus the things purposefully left out. He was soon satisfied and, deeming the job complete, nodded to Harry. The latter returned it, and began to rise from his seat.

"Well.. I guess that about does it, huh?"

The backpack's organized, albeit now-roomy-belly was then sewn closed in three staccato, squealing zipper whips. "Yep. It's all done."

Harry donned a soft appreciative smile while watching James spin the bag and tug it close, starting to prepare its loops for the ride. "Peachy. Alright, lemme find a place to put the shit we don't need," he said, hovering across the table and gathering up the agreed-upon items soon destined to stay behind, "and then we'll get outta here."

The stragglers were tucked into a safe spot behind the librarian's front desk, then Harry returned for the garage sale jacket. He wore it before going through the routine probe into its inner lining pocket, looking for maps and whatever important documents he knew he needed handy. After all that, now feeling rather good about the time spent, the writer jovially apprehended the pipe from the edge of the grand table, where it'd patiently laid in wait for him for three whole days.

"Alright. It's time to say goodbye to the library for now."

"Yep. It is."

Harry grinned, right hand hiding in a leather pocket while the left smartly dropped the bludgeon on his shoulder to rest. "Alright, so go on! Say it: say, 'bye-bye' to the library for now, James; you don't need to be shy!"

He obeyed. "Bye-bye to the library for now, James. You don't need to be shy."

For the author, that dumb little joke never seemed to get old. Harry's cheerful guffaw boomed robust and loud across the whole library proper, lending out his infectious life to its walls, tables, and books. The sound brightened up the place, as it was known to do, even just for a moment. Harry was pretty good at that, bringing life to where it wasn't.

As for James, the only thing it inspired out of him was a flinch.

"Ha, ha! Oh, man, you keep it classic, James," Harry praised, chuckling as he turned to lead the leave. "You keep me young."

"Whatever you say, Harry."

"You're right! It is whatever I say!" the patriarch proclaimed to James, a definitive finger striking the air. "And ya know what? I do."

James chose not to compete with that. With Harry, he took part in following the wise, detailed advice graciously doled by the author the night before, and together successfully pushed (not pulled) open the door: and got out of there.

The fog was still thick; and the snow, still leisurely falling. The wayward, traveling pair took to the lonely, and hazardous streets of Silent Hill, and wandered to Balkan Church - voiceless. It wasn't as though there wasn't plenty to say, because there was, but even the banal would be too much. An unspoken pact was made, agreeing not to talk because it wasn't the time.

And they were right: it wasn't.

It was just nice to be outside.

God's two favorite unbelievers stepped into the Order's religious facade a short time later, and received the usual cold welcome they expected in all manners of stride. Harry waved hello to wall-Jesus as he strode the side corridor, and with James his faithful shadow, strode into the study.

The travelers separated; James disappearing at once behind the bookshelf mini-maze and Harry, taking pause to remove his jacket, muttering threats, complaints, and threatening complaints alike about the upcoming war on the desk. The conduit heard every bitch and moan Harry had, subjecting the books to a diplomatic eyeroll before setting down the gun, dropping the bag atop a mound of books, and opening it wide.

(It's worth a brief mention here that, during the walk over, James had come to realize how much he actually enjoyed, and thus had missed wearing the backpack while at the library. For at some point somewhere along the line since the day he became their pack mule, the weight and fit had become a subconscious comfort - but whether or not he'd be willing to identify it as specifically a comfort, was a topic to debate.)

The noise briefly summoned Harry around the bend. "Hey - since you're already diggin' around in the bag, can I get the ciphers?"

The request was obliged, and with that transactional interruption complete, they both returned to their duties. Yet it was shockingly soon after that, that James was left with nothing to do. He'd exchanged the unwanted books for the needed ones, stowed them, and.. that was that. James blinked dumbly down into the belly of the transportable beast, jumbled its valuable guts, then shrugged. Standing, he decided to cart the bag along with him, its unzipped jowls agape like a frog at his side, and pivoted the corner to ask Harry what he was currently up to.

.. and then held his tongue, because there'd be no point in asking when the sight before him more or less stated all he needed to know. (Harry was busy; he was very, very busy.) James quietly landed the pack on the floor, then slipped his hands into his pockets, and waited. Yet when it seemed no acknowledgement was going to come, the conduit chose to spend the next minute or so observing Harry at work - or rather at work deep in thought.

Lots of things could be said about the writer, perhaps enough to fill ten books or more; but the way he conducted his work ethic deserved a thesis. James had come to understand by now that, despite first impressions of an alleged love affair with systematic and clean research formats, Harry was a god of order in chaos. The intimidating sight before him proved it; within the very short amount of time since they started, Harry had built himself a private island beside the desk, surrounded full-circle by a shore of papers - some overlapping, others columned like solitaire, but all precisely where they were supposed to be, at his feet.

It looked totally overwhelming.. and rather impressive; James had to give him that. Actually, the more he looked and thought about it, Harry and his investigational splatter altogether looked like a scene right out of a detective movie.

He was quite surprised to make the connection; and though he couldn't name any film that portrayed this very scene, James was sure he'd seen it a hundred times before. It felt familiar; kinda homey. Kinda..

Cool. (Now that was impressive.)

But Detective McCool-Guy Mason wasn't here to look cool (though would've appreciated the compliment, despite that it'd maybe only be given if James had a gun to his head), he was here to figure shit out. Five minutes passed already and still Harry hadn't said a word his way - which James took to mean that either his concentration was just that deep, or Harry was straight up ignoring him in hopes he'd go away.

Unfortunately for him - if scenario number two was indeed the case - then the civilian was behooved to disappoint. James spoke up.

"Hey." He waited, and waited; then finally, got belated acknowledgement in a grunt. "You finding what you need?"

"Yes, and not quite," Harry murmured at the sheaf he held. "I really fucked up the order I had going for these."

James smiled faintly at the bowed crest of his brown and silver head. "Heh. Pun intended?"

Harry responded to him with a blunt and annoyed, "Sure."

James's brows tucked a slight frown. Oh; well, that's a bit awkward, if not abnormal. Yeah, Harry was obviously pretty busy, but James hadn't expected him to ever reject the opportunity for pun-play, despite. The rebuff took him a bit aback (and maybe even stung a little), but James soldiered on, undeterred.

".. right. So, anyway.. do you have any.. um.. stuff you wanna pack yet? Or, like.. just anything you wanna get out of the way, for now?"

Harry hummed a dull and guttural note; then uttered nothing else. James stood doomed to the reactionary void, quietly waiting for the patriarch's brain and ears to play catch up. Then, a quick moment later, Harry came alive and looked about the desk and floor.

"Uhh.. no. Not right now," Harry determined, slouching in the chair. "But thanks for the offer."

"Yeah, sure. Just thought I'd ask." Awkward pause: take two. "So how much–"

"James, listen," Harry interrupted without so much as a glance off the age-yellowed page. "I'm sorry to be a mean old party pooper here, but I really can't be bothered to talk right now."

James withheld a cringe. "Sorry. I just have a question. I'll make it quick."

"Alright, shoot."

"How much longer are you gonna need? I only ask cuz I've already finished what I had to do," he was swift to add, "and now I'm just kinda stuck doing nothing.. so.."

The preceding sigh to his response sounded pretty weak and tired; but, all things considered, James at least couldn't detect any common hints of anger. "I don't know, James. But, just.. please..?" Harry expended yet another hefty, deflating sigh. "Please don't start rushing me on this."

"I'm not trying to."

The answer was what spurred Harry to finally grant James a peek his way. "Okay.. so.. what do you want?"

James stopped. Good question. "I just wanted you to know I've decided I'm gonna go head out and take a look around," he said, improvising his new task on the spot. "I'm not gonna be taking the backpack, so since I'm leaving it here, you can just put down whatever stuff you wanna take with us and I'll just pack it up later."

The idea was a good one, and visibly relieved Harry at once. "Yeah, sure, cool - that sounds great."

"Cool." The veteran's young guard stood there a moment longer, awkwardly adjusting the balance of his gun he held at his side. "I'll see you in a bit then, Harry."

"Alright, see you in a bit," Harry echoed, head turning to observe his departure. "Hey - be sure not to fall or fling your gun into any big moth holes you happen to find popping up out there."

James stalled and looked back. Maybe the tip was, at heart, totally stupid and useless to him; but the humor..? Oddly appreciated. "Don't worry, I'm not like you, so I won't."

"Heh," snorted Harry, turning back around. "You're cute."

Yet James stared down at the life-saving (and ending) Remington firearm, starting to have second thoughts about taking it along. ".. but I guess to be on the safe side, I'll probably just leave it here for now."

"Heeey, thattaboy," Harry chuckled. " Now you're thinking ahead."

James went and set the gun down beside the backpack. "Be back in a bit, Harry."

"Mmhmm," the younger heard him hum as he passed him by. "Bye-bye for now."

James stepped out into the middle of the hall; and then he stood there, looking and feeling like a lost idiot. Because oh, sure: the idea was an impulsive but good one.. in theory. What James suddenly realized he lacked about it was the important component of a starting concept of what to do, or where to look first. He was out of his damn element on this side out of town; and to tell the truth, the Old and Central side of town still intimidated poor James Sunderland. It was Harry who always led the charge, and now that the author was a bit too busy (and apparently feeling a little bit pissy, too) to join him, James sort of wished he'd pressed him for an opinion. But with that null, all he could do was left, then right, then left again like an indecisive pedestrian on an unfamiliar street corner; before finally going right.

The candlelit path, on the other hand, was more familiar. The direction he chose led to the front of the church and pew-filled nave. James wasted his time entertaining himself with jiggled locked (or jammed) door knobs providing outcomes he already knew; near bored himself to death staring at dust-coated religious paintings depicting subjects he didn't care about (one of which was stained with.. well.. whatever that's supposed to be); and counted the cobwebs hammocked high and low.

But James's curiosity eventually fell upon the Order's infamous medieval light stations, one of which awaited him a few feet ahead. It drew him in, quite literally alike a moth to a flame, and there he came to a stop to give it a look.

Harry had a low opinion of the candelabras, James recalled, thinking them very tacky. As for what he thought about them, he simply didn't - because he didn't care. But he watched the choir of individual flames ignite on tiers of wax and iron, flickering and wriggling on glistening charred stumps and glimmering light in the reflective bowls of candle melt they made.

He leaned in close. The fire was hot on his cheeks and their bright seared his eyes, and he inhaled the candle fumes while watching the thin smoke ascend from the almond flames with ribbon dances inconsistent. James sleepily blinked at the candle before his nose.

He wondered about the candles. He wondered quite a lot about the candles, actually - and even recalled wondering about them before. There was more time for him to spare now, should he want to take his wondering about them deeper, and deeper yet; and so, he did.

What funny little things, these candles.

James sure did wonder quite a bit, about the candles.

And after a long, long while of staring - staring, staring and fucking wondering about the fucking candles - James decided to turn heel and go back the way he came. Where he was headed next, however, was not the study. The room and its sole occupant were passed on by, as James's sights were set on the infamous kitchen and event room at the church rear.

The doors groaned and wheezed shut behind him. Thin colorless fingers absently jumbled the shotgun shells loose in the pocket while James surveyed the large and conjoined, empty space. So far, the same: place was still desolate, still dismal, and still.. ew. A grimace framed his face with disgust when he laid eyes on the gruesome smear paved on the room's white linoleum floor.

Ugh, gross. And yet, despite the yuck, James casually stepped forth and directly tread over it anyway. His boots had seen and trudged through worse, after all (though he presently forgot that the two he wore were not, in fact, the original vintage pair of late-2001) and, moreover - why should he show it respect when he had none for what made it? Really, all James would've liked to see is that the janitor - or anyone around with access to a clean mop and bucket - had been in to wipe the floor.

But such wishes were luxuries he'd never afford. James traced the lane to the main room doors. He pushed, then pulled on the handles. Locked. ( Or jammed - whichever works.) Crisply spinning around 180 degrees, James crossed to the door far opposite, supposedly leading to the outside; except for today, when it would keep him inside.

Damn. Annoyance sighed his breath as James turned around to the vast, disappointing emptiness the church prominently employed. With only the kitchen left as the last frontier, the town cowboy took the diagonal shortcut across the room to get there, his fingers still twiddling and toying the ammo to amuse himself along the way.

A confident left swung the conduit around the corner wall, entering the kitchen with sights set on the dingy old cabinets above the counter. But what a fool James was to saunter so boldly and over-confidently forth in this humble, small space with a strong belief no danger lurked nor lay ahead.

Because it did.

It most certainly did lie ahead. Thing is, he would have known this—

"OH! Ouch, shit, SHIT!"

—if only he had looked where he was going.

James was suddenly whisked right off his feet and found himself falling, falling hard into the loving embrace of disgusting linoleum arms, and gravity's sweet kiss below. But, fearing intimacy (Toluca was of the jealous sort, anyhow), he stumbled and careened as elegantly as a greyhound on ice straight for the support and security of the counter. It was there that he found what he sought, slamming hard into the ledge, the panicked wind punched right out of his fluttering gut.

OW! Ow, ow OW!"Son of a faah—!" struggling to contain it from anything louder than a wheeze. "What in the fucking—?!"

Seething mad, James whipped a look back over his shoulder, and, seeing the problem, glared hard down at the seemingly smug presence of the hatch that nearly befell him, because oh, right— some fucking geniushad built a fucking cellar DOORin the middle of the room! Who and why, in the fucking..?! "Tssscchh—! Oh, man!" James winced, slowly turning to the counter, doubling over it while he endured the throbbing pain. "Ow, ow ow.."

While he knew he hadn't been the first to (almost) fall victim to that death trap, James was too damn mad about it to feel camaraderie with previous victims. but soon collected his wits and tested his weight on his ankles for sprains (tender, but fine), then pushed off the counter edge, and slowly turned to face his adversary.

In hindsight, maybe he deserved that, for not looking where he was going; a bit of karma paid for the near twenty decades backlog he'd been ringing up during his time in town.. but, jeez! Still! James shoved his hands into his jacket, finally shuffling over and looming reproachfully over the cellar.

Karmic debts and resentment aside, James was curious about it. He recalled how, in their first instance here, Harry had lifted it and found it full of not food, jars or junk, but with water. Black water, that'd made its storage more of an unhygienic well, rather than a proper cellar.

He wondered if it was still here.

"Only one way to find out," a mutter informed the room. James extracted his hands, gingerly lowering himself to his haunches. He reached out, grasped the cold, and heavy iron ring, and began to pull.

Failure arrived in short order, but not because it was locked; because it was fucking heavy! James tried and tried but efforts were vain. He stopped, blinking confusion down at the antique, rotten panel.

James expelled a conflicted huff. He could go back and ask Harry to get it up, except he was probably still busy, and James wasn't that desperate (yet - and too, nor was he looking for judgment in an outside source to rub salt in his wounded pride). He could do this just fine by himself.

So now that he was better prepared, James resolved to try again. He revved himself up for the challenge, cascading his fingers on the ring and adjusting their grip, then squeezed the cold metal tight. Alright, here we go, James mentally coached, taking a big, anticipatory breath; and now, HEAVE—

"Hhhgh—! — hhhGHH, RRRGGGH!"

He heard her haughtily scoff behind him. "Umm.. yooouuu doing okay over there, James?"

"RrrR-rrRGH—! Yeah, I'm just—!" A gulp for breath. "J-just, trying, to—!"

"Don't tell me YOU CAN'T OPEN IT."

"—urgh! Arrgh! I can! I can, it just feels a little stuck!"

"Seems a little more than stuck. Well, if YOU CAN'T GET IT OPEN, then I'm not sure what—"

"Well, Maria, (—Maria.. Maria— ) I was just thinking you could, maybe, actually MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL FOR ONCE , and come over, and gimme a hand here in HELPing ME open it."

"Who.. ME? Oh, but James! How's A LITTLE GIRL like me - who has such POOR, WEAAAAK LADY muscles on her POOOOR, WEAK LADY bones - supposed to help do a MAN'S JOB in LIFTing such A BIG, HEAVY DOOR?"

"Come on, Maria," James exasperated, HELPLESSly looking at her. "Please don't be so difficult right now; it'll only take a minute. Just help me get it unstuck."

"Mmmnnn, but what if I break a naaail?"

"I think your nails will be alright. You can't always just STAND AROUND DOING NOTHING while I DO EVERYTHING, you know."

"Hmph! And here I thought YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE 'BIG MAN' around here," she taunted. "But, fine; I guess I'll show you how it's done.. since YOU're (always) DOing IT WRONG, anyway."

"Yeah, okay, fine: I guess if you're so smart.."

"Obviously. Now take it like this - no, not the handle, on the side of the door, here - and lift it with your knees, James. .. no, I said to lift with your KNEES - not your back. Lift it like this; YOU'RE GOING TO HURT your back if you do it the other way."

"Okay, yeah, alright, alright, I see your point; so, okay.. like this..?"

"— though I DON'T IMAGINE IT COULD ACTUALLY HURT YOU THAT MUCH, WHEN you've already shown that YOU DON'T HAVE A SPINE."

James stared down at the wooden cellar door.

It looked nothing like a fridge. The handle he held in two hands wasn't grimy vertical plastic, and the ring he held fit was of iron, not lead, and fit all ten of his fingers at once.

He wasn't there, and she wasn't here.

He shook his head. Enough.

James blew a hefty gust.

Grab it under the door. Right. The heavy circle clanked gently on the metal strip beneath. Fingers curled beneath the edge. Lift with your knees, James. Thighs taut. Get ready; third time's the charm. And, li—

You do not want to lift with your spineless–

"Oh my god, shut the fuck up,Maria."

And, LIFT!ed with legs instead of his stupid fucking spine, (you dumb bitch, you happy?!) all the way up - mind the hole! - stood the cellar door on its hinges, then gently eased the panel to the floor with a soft thud. James stood straight, shook himself out, and sighed.

See, Maria? I did it. Fuck you.

Now with that (literally and figuratively) out of the way, James sidled along the basement's wide, open ledge, and took a gander into its watery, murky black depths.

.. or, perhaps not. See, James would've been staring down into said watery, murky black depths - but only if they had been there to stare down at in the first place. The civilian frowned into the pit.

Well - to be fair, it definitely was black in there, and it definitely did look deep. Plucking his handy-dandy handheld searchlight from his patch-ridden pocket, James proceeded to slowly maneuver the beam to and fro to see all he could possibly see. He knelt after a moment and hung precariously over the edge, scanning the searchlight around afresh.

Hm, he thought.

"Interesting."

There was a lot more to that thought, though its details were currently irrelevant. James had to inform Harry of this development post-haste. Getting up, the resident re-clipped his light, frowned into the crater, then sighed, shook his head, and left.

Whatever, then.

His homecoming was one promptly, and cheerfully hailed. "Heey, there ya are!" welcomed Harry's lively smile. "I was starting to wonder when you'd follow the breadcrumbs back."

The conduit paused in the threshold. Harry still sat in the chair, but - in friendly anticipation of his return - was repositioned to greet James with his front, rather than his back. That was nice. It seemed like he was feeling better, or at least back to normal. Also normal was the customary furrow James knit on his brow, and how Harry smiled on, despite. "You have a nice walkabout?"

James didn't answer right away, instead whisking a look over the floor. The paper seas formerly encircling Harry's chair had dried up, some reduced to a tidy stack waiting to be loaded into the backpack. As for the rest of them, he wasn't sure, so the next thing he glanced at was the desk.

Wow.. talk about a makeover. For the first time in as many probable decades, the desk actually had a surface. Neat piles of leftover evidence were organized in one visually appealing row, with writing utensils in a cup holder (all of which James assumed had been buried treasure under the wreck), and a ruler nicely laid out in the middle. It looked like an actual, professional working space. Extremely impressive. James switched his scrutiny to Harry, and Harry, in return, split his smile into a wide, excitable grin.

He sure looked damn proud of himself. Knowing what it'd looked like before, James wagered he deserved to be; and that Harry must've enjoyed himself a lot doing it, too. "Yeah," James answered at last. "Wasn't bad."

"Neat, where'd'ja go?"

Nonchalance shrugged his shoulders. "Here and there. I was just looking around."

"Spiffy." Harry rotated himself half-turn on the seat to watch James head the backpack, and settled his side into the chair's back. He propped his arm across the smooth, low border, and gave his head a casual place to rest on the forearm he bent back. The master packer knelt under Harry's watchful eye, and started to file things in order.

A strange and awkward pause ensued. It had the air of heavy consideration, perhaps trying to find words that were wanting, or needing to be said. Worse, it was emanating off Harry - and the discomfort it gave James was awful. He tried to pretend it wasn't there, though it was sort of hard when he felt Harry staring at his back the way he did.

"I'm sorry about earlier," the father quietly spoke up after too long a minute. "I was kinda short with you before."

"It's alright," forgave James. "I get it."

"Thanks, but I just—"

"Harry." James threw a look over his shoulder. "It's alright. I get it."

Harry wanted to, and struggled not to - but, quite wonderfully, did not argue. He nodded once. "Alright."

James scrutinized him again for certainty then looked down, on the brink of finishing up. "Apology accepted, though."

A soft sigh exhaled the author's relief behind him. "Thanks," he warmly replied. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah." Zip, zip. "No problem."

The men rose in tandem. Chill-resistant leather slipped onto Harry's arms, and the two limp straps hooked their storage to James's back. With weapons then fetched and all seeming good to go, James turned to Harry to tell him of the change in their itinerary.

"Hey. I gotta show you something."

Harry blinked, looking interested. "Oh yeah?"

James immediately left for the kitchen without another word, with Harry as his shadow. He walked calmly to the uncovered square pit in the floor, planted himself on its far side, and silently presented it to Harry with the simplicity of an outstretched hand. He watched the author skitter off of, and away from the plague streaking the floor, patiently waiting for him to notice.

After a compulsory shudder and tug at his jacket, Harry finally took in the scene ahead, and frowned. "What?"

The bony alabaster hand flicked another gesture at the deep: Go on, look. Though James's statuesque silence and manner understandably induced some paranoia, the man apprehensively played ball, and approached the cellar. He slowed to halt at a distance he dared to call safe, then leaned to peek inside.

James watched his eyes bug, and jaw, drop. He slipped his free hand into his jacket and observed Harry do as he did before, grabbing his flashlight and panning it around. Harry dumbly blinked.

"It's empty."

"Yep."

"What the hell..?"

"Beats me."

Again Harry whisked the light around in the inexplicably waterless hold, clearly trying to process the shock. "When the fuck did this happen?"

James unsurprisingly shrugged. "Dunno, Harry. Sometime between the last time we were here, I guess."

"And you found it like this?"

"Yeah. Well— I mean, I found it with the door closed," James amended. "I just opened it to see if anything'd changed."

"And it suuure fucking did."

"Yep."

Harry pinned him with a curious glance. "That thing's heavy."

"Yep."

"And you got that open by yourself?" A deep little chuckle bubbled from out of him when James responded the best and most simple way he knew how. "Hey! Good for you."

"Thanks." A mutual pause. "So. What do we do."

"Well, I dunno!" Harry loudly sighed, snuggling his light back into its pocket home. "Sure is interesting, though."

"Funny," young monotone replied. "Cuz that's exactly what I said."

"Then I guess you can say great minds think alike," the veteran chuckled, though thoughtfully distracted as he, too, stowed a weaponless hand into his jacket's corresponding, inner-lining cave. ".. hm. Well, shit - ya got me, bud."

"You sure?" the conduit asked, in a way airy and drawled. "Because it looks kind of obvious to me."

"Yeah? Does it, now?" Harry mockingly countered, eyeing him careful.

"Mmhmm."

"And what's the obvious thing that I'm missing, here?"

"Well, Harry; I can only think of one reason why the cellar's been drained," the author's companion began, leveling on Harry a gaze he wasn't sure how to read, yet off the bat, knew he didn't like.

".. oooo-kaaay..? Then what is that reason?" the impatience in Harry asked, also drawing his mouth a frown. "You really don't have to play coy right now, James."

To be kind, James obliged and revealed the riddle's solve, plainly. "It drained for us, Harry," the town's ambassador told him, rather too calmly. "The cellar drained, because it wants us, to go in."

Then in a flash did all the blood color hues drain from Harry's lively face, to be replaced with a sickly wash. The man felt so sick, too. "Whoa. Whoa, there," Harry balked, whipping his hand out to protest him at once. "Now you just— just hold on for a minute, here."

"No. I won't. There's no 'holding on any minute here' now, Harry," the conduit brazenly informed. "It's obvious, and sorry you missed the memo - but the message is clear. Cry all you want, but there's no way around that."

The situation was too terrifyingly daunting to start petty squabbles. Harry pumped his hand again and again in the air before him, all in symbolic, and totally useless attempts to convince James to stop. "No: no, no, James," the father weakly begged. "Come on, we can talk abou—"

"No, Harry."

"James, we can't—"

"We can," the conduit told him, "and we are."

"But that's insane! We can't just—!"

"We can; and we are. So you better get ready, Harry."

"James!"

"—because we're going to be jumping down the hole."