"No. Absolutely not."

"Hmm."

"James, you are out of your mind."

"Mmnnnn.."

"James."

"Let's jump down the hole, Harry."

"Yeah, let's not - find another way down - and say we did," Harry sternly corrected. His index finger then jaggedly twitched to-and-fro. "Nuh uh. I'm pullin' the plug on that one, right now."

"Tch," James scoffed, in return. "Spoilsport."

He gawked. "Excuse me?! How—"

"And here I thought you wanted to go spelunking."

Beat. "Now listen here, wiseass—"

"Nah," rejected the conduit. "That's wasting time. Let's go, Harry."

The aforementioned shot back a huff of hot air. "No! You are out of your fucking mind! Something is wrong with you."

James placidly smiled. "Yeah."

"A lot, I can only imagine."

The resident smiled a little more. "Yeah."

Harry eyed him suspiciously. "Wipe that smirk off your face," he ordered, circling the pipe's elbow hook at the offensive curl on his lip. "I don't like the looks of that one."

"Too bad for you. Now sack up, let's jump."

A second pause. "Okay, seriously, hold up for a second," stated Harry, once more putting up his hand. "You've done this before - you've done this before, haven't you."

James innocently hiked his shoulders. "Maybe a few times," he admitted, seeming to take a mite too much pleasure out of the current situation for Harry's express liking. "I guess you can call me a pro."

"I'll call you nothing but 'batshit fucking crazy'," retorted Harry, aghast. "There's another way down. There's got to be."

James flattened a stare at him. "Harry. You know there isn't."

"Let me pretend."

"Okay." They shared a blink. "Okay, pretend time's over. Let's go down in the hole."

"You're a sassy little shit today, aren't you," the conduit's ward accused. "No way. End of story."

"'End of story' my ass," the veteran's guardian mocked right back, proving Harry's accusation right. "C'mon. You might as well get used to it now."

"Like hell I'll get used to it," Harry snipped, sending him a scathing glare. "And I hate when you say shit like that."

The simple display on his face clearly explained how much he couldn't care. "You'll be fine. Just trust me."

"Just TRUST YOU?! Fuck no, James! I'd rather eat my own fucking ASS!" Harry countered, agog and aghast. "No! Shit, I don't know which one I hate hearing from you more: 'just trust you' or 'you'll get used to it, Harry'!"

James rolled his eyes. "Oh, my god," he muttered. "You're such drama."

"Don't you think I have a right to be?"

He met eyes. "No. You're too soft for this place. Just keep your knees bent when you go down and don't go in head-first."

"Oh, so I don't dive in head-first?" Harry airily breezed, staring flatly past eyes lidded half-mast. "No shit?"

"Just checking; I can never tell if you were dropped on your head as a baby."

"It may disappoint you to know that I wasn't."

The conduit's lips adopted a pout. "Yeah. It does."

"Dickhead."

"Yeah. Anyway, there might be water down there too," he kindly continued. "So you should expect the landing to be we—"

"Excuse me, water?!"

"—t. Yeah; water. It was just full of water, Harry. You'll be fine - just might get soaked. It won't kill you."

Harry stared like he couldn't believe his ears, because he just couldn't. "James. Buddy. It will," he counter-offered. "Water isn't soft. That's why people jump off bridges. Because it KILLS you."

James blew a raspberry. "News to me," he sarcastically replied, flicking his bangs from his eyes with a whip of his head. "Besides: I've done it many times before, Harry - and I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Harry squinted hard at him. "I don't know what you are," he retorted, truthfully. "And I knew it: I knew you had to have done this before," the father argued, once again jabbing his pipe at him. "You were just waiting for this, weren't you."

"Meh." Repeating the gesture from earlier, James's hand dismissed him with a flick. "Perhaps, maybe."

Harry's high-lofted limbs smacked his legs on the drop. "'Meh'. Meh, he says; god, you're insane."

The conduit peered at him. "It seems I'm either cute, or insane today," he acknowledged, with half a cheeky grin. "You gotta make up your mind, Harry."

"Like hell - you know you can be both," Harry retorted. "But on top of all that, what you are, is a card; a real joker card at that, James Sunderland."

"Ooh, pulling out the surname," James taunted, donning a smirk. "Am I in trouble with you, now?"

Harry eyed him. "You wanna be?"

"No. I want to jump, and get a move-on."

"Alright. Well—"

"Also, it takes one to know one, Harry."

"Eat me, buddy."

"Nah - your meat's probably too tough, and you've got too high a sodium count for my needs," mockery said, waving him off for a third time. "Now stop stalling," James ordered. "Just get your shit together, and jump."

Rude little shit, the resigned and annoyed father thought; yet in the end, he had to accept he knew James was right. The longer they farted around, the harder it'd get to get going. He took in an elongated breath, deep on the exhale, and gestured tiredly into the bottomless unknown awaiting them in the cellar hole. "Alright; and because I'm a gentleman, then you know the rules!" Harry boldly declared. "Dickheads first!"

And then.. nothing. Nobody moved; nobody made a peep. They simply stood there, and.. stared. James stared expectantly at Harry; and Harry, perhaps as a matter of coincidence (or consequence - either/or), stared expectantly at James.

A few seconds scrolled by.

Fifteen stubborn seconds ticked by, and it seemed this was war; and war never changes. As their dynamics tended to do, the duo had involuntarily engaged one another in of their infamous Mexican standoffs - except here the rules had appeared to change, to being the first man to draw, was the first man to lose.

So who would win this time around?

Well, perhaps youth may have played its hand on determining the winner in today's contest: for clever, mentally-nimble (citation needed) James spotted a loophole that usually-cleverer Harry, evidently, did not; and James wouldn't be James if he wasn't happy to exploit any and all flaws he could come across. Shamelessly anticipating the fallout soon to come, the mischievous conduit proceeded to end the duel with a smile, and a so-called 'courteous' gesture down towards the cellar pit.

"Well," the pale man said, as pleasant as he could possibly be. "Aren't you going to go..?"

Harry's shoulders dropped like Colorado boulders. Oh.That. Asshole! From there Harry expedited delivery on a glare so dry, and so wasteland-flat that it made the Arizona deserts look like a private, five-star water park with a luxurious budget bigger than a politician's tax cuts. That little twerp: why didn't he think of that?! "Okay, so I walked right into that one," he regretfully had to concede to James's dastardly smug face and blindingly self-satisfied aura. "But considering the fact that you just displayed some dickhead behavior there with calling me out like that, I think I will have to insist that you go first."

James snorted at that, then shrugged acquiesce. "Heh; I guess that's fair."

"Sure is. I think I even called you a dickhead earlier, too, so—"

"Even if you are going a coward's way about it."

Harry hiked his lip. "Shut up."

Though James heard his demand, he went off the beaten trail and decidedly didn't - all because he wanted to sprinkle the salt on the wounds a little more. "Is it because you need me to give you an example, Harry, and show you how it's done?" he asked, pretending to care about Harry's shortcomings. "I understand how being a first-timer can be daunting."

"Just shut up and go, James." The conduit shrugged.

"Alright."

The author unconsciously stepped back as James consciously stepped forward with too-confident, and too-casual a swagger, watching his every move in rising fear. James toed the square hole, the scuffed and muddied motorcycle boots just barely breaching the ledge. Harry felt a little taunted, which was true - he was being teased, and quite overtly, so he wouldn't be mistaken - and if James was also trying to intimidate him by playing this little "would-he-or-wouldn't-he" game, then by god, it was working like a golden charm.

After a lick of basking in this beautiful moment so as to save and reflect on on rainy days, James finally smiled once more. "Alright then," he said. "I'll see you at the bottom, Harry!"

But that— that was what made it suddenly too real, what was about to happen. At the very last fateful second, Harry panicked, immediately flinging out his arm with the intent to grab him right out of the air and brink of death. "No, James, WAIT—!"

But it was too late; where James was, he was no more. He'd missed him by milliseconds. Harry quickly scooted to the edge and gaped down into the dark. "No way," he mumbled, grappling to get a hold of his flashlight and frantically begin scanning his light every which way into the bottomless hole for any sign of the man who was just there. "No fucking way."

Unfortunately for him, however, the endeavor - though thoughtfully kind - was useless. Harry knew that it was, but it didn't stop him from searching, anyway. During the half a minute of this, the author was dumbstruck— and, though he hated to admit it to himself (whilst noting the perk that at least James wasn't around to know about it), he was also.. impressed. "He did it," Harry murmured to no one but himself. "That crazy, stupid son of a bitch actually fucking did it."

He exhaled hard. Jesus Christ, what a stunt. Well, Harry woefully sighed, once again: he really had no other choice now. He had to follow. His breath trembled. Fumbling to shove his light back in his chest pocket, Harry then grasped, and wrung the gritty, gross rod in both white-knuckled hands, strangling it in hopes of killing his fears. It didn't work.

Harry gulped.

"This sucks," the terrified father whimpered. "Maaaann, this sucks— the shit I do for you, Heather - and I mean, I love you babygirl," he rambled to the stagnant air, "but.. man! Man, this shit sucks! .. whew! Alright. Alright. We're doing it; it's fine. For Heather. I love you, babygirl." Then, Harry clenched the steel pipe, tight. "And I fucking hate you, sooo fucking much, James Sunderland." A shudder became a sigh. "Fuck you, dude."

And then with that, Harry Mason closed his eyes, swallowed his heart from his throat, and jumped down the hole.

A smile blossomed like fresh spring tulips on the conduit's face the moment he heard the first, resounding echoes of Harry's plummeting yell.

Honestly, it made James soooo glad he jumped first.

Yet while that alone gave him a good warm chuckle, what truly bloomed blossoms into bouquets in his cold black heart was getting to see, first-hand, the very instant the idiot he'd sworn to protect crash-landed not only on his stupid fat ass, but dead center of the nice, gross, shallow puddle waiting for him at the bottom. (It is to note that James himself had, of course, anticipated the puddle's presence being there, and - unlike his charge - knew maneuvers that'd save him from suffering its wet landing— but explaining those tactics are for another day.) Having been expecting it and thus, already been standing safely outside of the splash zone, James and his dry self admired how the fetid water burst all around Harry's cannonball form like a marvelous fountain.

That looked like it hurt.

Harry yelled again.

Yep, James thought, still smiling; sure did. Sweet, delicious karma was evidently a plate best served in a puddle.

It really kinda made his day.

"MotherFUCKER!"

"There a problem?"

"YOU SACK of SHIT!"

James winced. The echo in the well was not kind on his ears. "Why're you mad at me? I told you it was gonna hurt."

Harry howled, "That is NOT the POINT!"

Ouch! Again - that hurt! Eh, but then again; maybe it was deserved. "Then what is the point?" James oh-so-casually asked, undeterred, and through a small, serene smile sitting plastered to his face.

Harry was going to hate it when he saw it.

"The point is," the writer huffed, rolling to his knees and achingly climbing to his feet with a spectacle so involved that it would've inarguably earned the man a respectable place outside The Chinese Theater on The Hollywood Walk of Fame, "is that you're batshit fucking IN-SANE! A MENACE! You're a fucking MENACE to society, James Sunderland!"

Secure on two feet, Harry supported himself with the pipe and both hands braced on his thighs, head hanging and full-body trembling through the aftershocks of free-fall thrill. "THAT is the point!"

Taking a breath to regain his total lost composure, Harry then braved looking up, and, immediately, and deeply loathed the nonchalant smile and shrug the man offered his blistering stare - just as previously predicted. "Sucks for you." James placidly remarked, still smiling. "You might just have to get used to it."

"You keep saying that," the greying man growled, "and the fuck I will, is what I'LL keep saying! What the hell is wrong with you, James?!"

James elevated a shoulder and tipped his head towards its lift. "Are you really asking this time? Cuz you keep asking that, too, and I doubt you'll ever get an answer to that— or one that you'll ever like. So anyway, are ya done now?"

"NO!" Harry boomed, bristling mad. "Jesus Christ! I'm fucking soaked! There could be five thousan—"

"Wah, wah," taunted James, dismissively waving and giving him his back. "Yes you are. You're done, now get over it, n'let's go."

Behind him, Harry muttered this-and-that about needing a dire change of clothes (well as tacking on something terribly rude and incredibly immature about James's character, to boot), but the patriarch was still quick to catch up to his side. "Regardless of how shitty that was, and you are," he began in a grumble, this time loud enough and wholly intended for James's ears, "I'm baffled that I didn't break my fucking legs, or anything else for that matter."

"Like your ass?" James lightly asked, looking askance.

"Yeah," Harry puffed. "Like my ass. And before you go and say it..? Yeah, I know - s'hard to break it when it's so cushioned by fat."

Well, at least he knew what could've been coming. "Welcome to Silent Hill," the conduit said instead, belatedly greeting him to town with satirically-friendly snark. "Congratulations: your fat ass is now sore, but at least the town has now turned your bones to Gumby."

The humorous backhanded welcome got him a chuckle, and - seemingly instantly - even put Harry in a better mood altogether. (It was amazing how easily he was amused.) "Wow! Gumby! Jeez, now there's a name I haven't heard in awhile."

"Eh," James shrugged, glad that the friction didn't last long. "I used to like the show. Or.. so I think." He glanced to the side. ".. can't remember."

"It's a classic," Harry agreed, still shivering from the cold. "Not a bad one to get into."

"I think I liked the horse best."

"Pokey," the man beside him claimed, adjusting the wet material laminated to his legs and seat of his pants as he walked. He was uncomfortable, but chose not to make the umpteenth comment on it this time. "Yeah, he was cute. What a character. Some say they're a better dynamic duo than Batman and Robin."

He received back a nod and a, "Yeah."

After that, the conversation, in appearing to have taken its natural course, ended there - and blessedly, against all odds - on friendly terms.

The pair walked the tunnel. The indoor road was clammy, claustrophobic, and heavily imbued with the smell of moist rock and stale, trapped air. The black pit of midnight seemed to yawn on forever beyond the reach of their lights, shining glints off slick stones and plump moss. Few puddles remained from the inexplicable flood, simply coloring the crunchy gravel beneath their tread black; and, so far in the start of their journey through the tunnel, nothing about this entire area had resembled a cellar at all.

It almost as if it had never been one.

For about three long, agonizing minutes, the sound of dirt and rock grinding underfoot awkwardly filled the silence between the two men. As most would expect of it by now, those three long, agonizing minutes were not taken in stride by one particular, restless soul - for, like a cuckoo clock clucking right on the hour, the elder of the two had to speak up and do something about that agonizing silence.

"Damn, this tunnel's long!" Harry exclaimed, accompanied with a feeble laugh. "Wonder how far it's gonna go?"

"Mm," committed James's reply.

"It seems like we've been walking forever!"

"Mm," came a second, bombastic reply.

"It's kinda nuts - but I guess kinda cool. Doesn't make any sense, though," Harry went on to ramble. "It was filled to the brim with water; there's no way that with a tunnel like this, it could have been even moderately feasible for that to exist."

"Silent Hill."

Harry looked over. "That's just gonna be your answer for everything, isn't it?"

Long blond bangs bounced from a nod. "Yep."

Harry shrugged, then sighed out, "Fair enough, I guess!"

"Mmn."

"Still; you ever seen anything like that before?" inquired the insatiable. "Like, having something impossibly filled up, only to have it not make sense when you went down?"

James thought. "Can't remember." He got a dull scoff.

"Jeez, you're helpful."

"Yeah," he breezily replied. "Anytime."

A silent stanza passed them by.

"So.. did I tell you that I found out that Vincent's a Father?"

James blinked. He was so blind-sighted by that, that it almost stopped him in his tracks. "What?"

"Vincent's a Father."

He looked over, and stared.

"To whom?"

"The church. Nobody interesting," responded the father (of a differing, more familial type). "Just the congregation of the church."

The pack on his back rustled with the conduit's hard drop of his shoulders. "Oh." Embarrassed and ticked by the intentional mislead, he was wont to spice what said he next with a curdled tone, "So he's a priest."

Harry laughed. "Bingo!"

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" Sunderland snipped. Mason looked over and flashed him a grin.

"S'funnier that way."

A glare replied, "To you."

"Yeah." Harry's grin downgraded to a smile. "To me. It's always about me, James."

The snort sounded derisive. "Is it ever not?"

They shot each other a look. "Maybe that's one we should ask the Magic 8 Ball, next we get up there that way."

"So it could tell us to 'ask again later'?"

"Sure! Why not?" Harry replied. "Keeps us humbled and in check, doesn't it?"

"Not sure that's what I'd call it," James responded, "but, sure."

"Then what, pray tell, would you call it?"

James shot him a look, that slowly turned sly with a grin. "Silent Hill."

"Oh!" Harry scoffed, giving the chuckling conduit a jaunty shove sideways by way of his elbow. "Come off it, you."

"Heh, heh."

After that, the conversational deck had finished playing its hand, and next dealt a card of silence for them to observe for the remainder of the walk.

At last, Harry and James finally found themselves approaching a dim light at the end of the tunnel - which was a statement intended to be taken quite literally, because there was light up ahead. The final hike brought them to stand beneath the arched and jagged threshold of a large, cavernous room. Taken off guard by its total circumference and the trove it harbored, they idled there for a moment to gawk, and take it all in.

"Wow; well, lookie, here, James," Harry said, in awe. "We got ourselves a mining shaft-turned-study-room."

And he was right. The chamber, with much of its surrounding topography fortified by tough, historical wooden planks that could very well be centuries old, looked as though it once saw purpose as a mine. Its walls and surprisingly tall ceiling seemed almost equal parts natural and chiseled, as well; but unlike the pathway they took, the ground before them was smooth and cleared of troublesome rock, its dirt looking soft as antique carpet.

The clearing was wide in itself, and sectioned into two parts: the room with the hoard on the right, and an enormous, sturdy and thick, rotted door built into an indent on the left. It was fortified by iron bars and studs with two ring pulls to match.

There was also an ominous solid metal plank racked across the panel, almost giving it the impression of a dungeon; or to keep whatever dangerous were on the other side, out.

As far as the study-room part, Harry was on the nose with that assumption, too. Someone had stationed several desks in various sizes in here with chairs to sit, piled high with work and knick-knacks. There were some free-standing bookshelves in uneven heights (whether that be due to imbalanced ground, or poor crafts-making) packed with importants and non-importants; an antique, closed, and heavy-looking trunk was spotted; candles in all shapes, sizes, colors, lengths of charred wick, and probability of fire hazard (as many were melted to their spots and/or, not appropriately plated); three candelabras adorned and alight with melting sticks of their own (to aid the others); and more.

Not only this, but the environment looked curiously lived-in, with even a mug of unknowable contents on a desk, and a broom seen leaning against the back of a chair. But just how recent that tea (or whatever brew had once filled that mug), or how lived-in this place actually was, was an assumption knowingly taken with a grain of salt, and a tankard of caution.

All in all: it was fascinating.

".. hm."

"What a sight, eh?"

".. hm. Seems weird."

"Oh, does it? Man!" Harry moaned, snapping his fingers in disappointment. "And here I thought it was starting to look normal!"

His response started and ended with a long drawn-out sigh. "Shut up, Harry."

"Wouldn't dream of it! Heh, heh. .. now; calling it 'weird' is only the basic starter pack for what my first impressions would call this place."

James sighed again. Might as well indulge, since he knew Harry'd say whatever's on his mind, anyway. "Yeah? And what's that."

"For starters, we'll go with, 'spooky', 'secretive', and 'spine-tingling'." He looked at James. James stared blankly back. "What? I'm feeling the alliterations today."

Green irises sussed him for worth, and found none worth mentioning. "Yeah. I can tell."

"You're so observant. Anyway," he sighed, perching the pipe across his shoulders. "I got bad vibes about this place, not to say anything in Silent Hill doesn't give off bad vibes, as a whole— but I was feeling pretty okay all until we got into this back room. How about you? You feel the eyes on you?"

Hm.. eyes? James looked around. Did he? "Yeah," he lied. "We probably shouldn't linger longer than we should."

"True as moose tracks!" seconded Harry. "Business as usual then. Alright, Watson; let's get to it. I don't wanna be down here for when someone or something comes barreling down the tunnel after us."

At that, the men suddenly both looked over their shoulders in tandem, just to double-check; and then, when their eyes met upon turning back to the room, Harry had a good laugh at their expense - and the coincidence. "Heh. Made'ja look."

James's stare looked flat, but there was a half a smile jutting into his cheek. "Oh, shut up."

The tension felt notably lifted after that. (Harry was grateful.)

Being the one always drawn to plundering whatever knowledge lay in the books and papers (since it was his job, after all), Harry naturally veered to see what goodies were waiting for him on the desks and shelves on the right. James (whose self-imposed job was to stay out of Harry's hair and let him do all the research heavy-lifting), departed left, meandering over to inspect the mystery of the door. Soon, he stood before it, contemplating its make and mindlessly tapping his gun on his calf; thinking.

What a strange thing, he thought, casting his scrutiny to every crevice, splinter, bolt and pane. It was very different up close. There was energy in it— or behind it. Around it? he wondered. Wherever it originated, it felt, as Harry said.. spine-tingling. It was faint. But it was there. Its feeling had a name; and it felt.. it felt, like..

Like dread.

His brows furrowed. James surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder to clock Harry's attentive whereabouts before tuning the psychic knobs on the Silent Hill Radio airwaves to see what - or who - was live. Putting the task on auto-pilot, he then turned back to the door to semi-concentrate on that, and other things brewing in his mind.

He thought nothing, at first, of the "static" he received here in the underground den while multitasking the question of the "eyes" Harry felt on him. James glanced around. Eyes.. there were no 'eyes'; no stares; no omnipresence lurking over his shoulder, nor fire nor chill breathing down his neck.

There was, in horrible fact, a lot of nothing at all, he suddenly came to realize. No titter; no whispers; not-a-fucking-thing than dead air and static. It was quiet in Silent Hill.

Too quiet— which, by James's means, was worse than any 'eyes' hovering around them in the dark. He didn't like it. Hoping to fix it, he tried again and again to wriggle the knobs and get something to happen, but did not even reap crumbs for reward.

What're we, in a dead zone? a conduit's dark humor wondered to himself. He didn't take too kindly to Silent Hill's namesake vow; and especially not while on church grounds. (He had to categorize wherever they were as 'church grounds', considering its starting point and hoard.) But the town'd hardly coughed in his ear since he'd been instructed (forced?) to burn the paper. Why the quiet? the conduit asked the town; but like a dried forlorn leaf fluttering anxiously in the brisk fall breeze, it seemed he went ignored - or the message, simply, went lost on the fritz.

It was weird; just, super weird. James frowned his brows low over his Toluca-green eyes, and hummed soft.

"So what's with the door?"

James blinked out of his disjointed haze, looked at the door, then threw a glance over his shoulder and shrugged. "Beats me, Harry; it looks like a door."

"Neat!" Harry chimed as he rifled through various cultist knick-knacks on a short, squat bookshelf. "Love those things. You never know where they lead!"

".. yeah, sure."

"Is it locked?"

"Yep; well, I mean, it's got the bar over it," he said, motioning with his gun.

"Bummer. No mine car racing for us, I guess."

James looked curiously at him again. "What, you don't want to lift it up and open it?"

"Not right now, as a matter of fact," Harry said, taking a wary keek over that way. "I'm not in the mood to go monster hunting."

A snort. "Fine by me. What's over there?"

"Books and crap quite like it," the author replied, just-so-happening to pick up a book and a gemstone, for show. "You wanna come over here and gimme a hand, an' pretend you know what you're looking for?"

"Yeah. Sure. Be right there."

So there he was. With Harry, James perused the anonymous cultist's study haven for something that could be for their use, whether it came in informational word or tchotchke; but nothing seemed to jump out at him. For that - and perhaps the additional fact that everything seemed to have the opposite effect on Harry - the search felt mindless on his end, and, once again, succeeded in making James feel so very out of place.. and so very useless.

One does have to give one point to him for acknowledging where some of that came from, however - and for knowing it was stupid. James simply had to stop comparing himself to Harry. But such work was easier said than done, and pessimism, while unfortunately becoming of him, wasn't conducive to this task. While James knew this, and did despise feeling this way about advancing with the cult work, he did have hope he'd eventually get over feeling - or, better yet, being - like a useless shit about it.

For with its relevancy becoming more prevalent by the day (or even hour, so it began to seem) he was determined to finally catch up to speed and for the feelings, to wholly abate. It'd be nice not to be in this mind frame for the remainder of their mission; hell, it'd be a first for him. An honor, even, to not feel so pathetic.

Ah, but such was the pathetic way of his life.

"Hey, James - get a load of this."

James turned around. Harry was holding up a large, thick book in both hands, the pipe holstered under his armpit. He wandered over. "What is it?"

"I'm trying to figure that out, but I tell ya, this thing is fancy," Harry murmured, setting the open book onto the table to show. "Another handwritten and bound, but I'm hard pressed to find something that isn't down here— not that it matters. Anyway, check it out: it looks like an index."

James inclined his head, and leaned in. "An index."

"Yeah, an index.. for a lack of better phrasing. It doesn't have a title or an author, as per usual," griped a grunt. "I don't know what else to call it right now. But what gets me is the penmanship is familiar here," he added, wrinkling his nose and pointing out a random line. "So I was wondering if you c— ha." Harry grinned sidelong, watching James already in the midst of dismounting the backpack from his shoulders. "Read my mind, eh?"

"You're predictable." He set it on the table, unzipped its jaw, and gestured. "Have at it."

"Thanks." Fetching the papers, Harry shuffled through them until he located the specific clues he sought. "Bingo. Knew I recognized it. It looks like we have a match!" he declared, laying the page of cultist back-and-forth alongside the parted tome. "It's F.D.'s handwriting."

James looked at him. "Who's 'F.D.'?"

"Not a clue. But she—"

"Is he another Father?"

Harry glanced at him. "Not quite. Or rather, I'd doubt it; the handwriting's too feminine to be male," clarified his addendum. "I've already deduced F.D.'s a woman, so no, she can't be a Father. Only a priestess, since I guess 'Mothers' are also out - being a God, and God-adjacent-title-only, and all. Heh."

James frowned a little, and leaned farther in to take a better look at the side-by-side for himself. "How can you even tell, Harry?" he began to debate, not entirely sold. "You could be right, but - you could also be wrong."

Harry's interest seemed piqued. "You're all too right about that, but do go on; I like to hear your opinions."

He softly huffed. He often hated to have to explain his side. "I mean— it's cursive handwriting," James fumbled. "And.. all cursive handwriting looks kinda feminine, to start— in my opinion, at least. I mean, like; it, it just always sort of looks like it was written by a woman, because, like.. it's.."

Harry, being forever quick to catch on, slowly grinned; but said nothing. His silence caused James's babbling and blundering to only increase, and Harry, sort of enjoying the acrobatic feats James had to perform to keep his foot from reaching his mouth, remained unhelpfully silent for a moment to watch him suffer. Finally satisfied with the entertainment value, he put the poor conduit out of his misery and asked, "Are you saying my handwriting looks feminine, James?"

At that, the resident's cheeks flushed a weird, grey blush - if "flushed" and "blush" were even appropriate words that could be used to describe the somewhat inhuman phenomenon, here - but Harry was too distracted by the present topic to bring that one to question. "N-no, not— not quite," James bumbled again, immediately tripping over himself to backtrack. "I mean, not really; but, yes— but it also looks masculine, in a way, because I know it's yours, s-so—"

"Easy there, buddy, easy there!" the patriarch laughed, pumping his hand in the air to help him put, but not slam, on the brakes. "It's okay! I get it. But you just sort of contradicted your own theory there, eh? You said my handwriting - while being cursive and, in your words, feminine at the basics - looks masculine, despite."

This is ridiculous. He shouldn't've said anything. "Yeah, because I know you wrote it, like I said," James spat, still flustered. "It makes a difference when you can see the person who wrote it, Harry."

"That's true!" Harry thoughtfully allowed. "To some, at least; like you, I imagine." He grinned when James huffed. "Aw, come off it; I'm just messin' with ya. True, I'm no CIA handwriting specialist," he lamented, with a sigh; "but I've been around the bend long enough to tell - or, get a damn good idea - of the core differences to look for between male and female handwriting."

James scoffed, but Harry waved it off. "Don't worry about it. When F.D. turns out to be a woman, I'll just say I told you so'. Anywhoo, the bottom line is that F.D. wrote this, and.. it looks like they wrote a lot of the other shit that's around here, too, by the looks of it," he said, vaguely indicating the clusters of paraphernalia all around. "Could be that we'd stumbled upon their private workplace here, which is kinda neat, if I do say so myself." He paused, glanced at James, then added: "Or, by myself."

"Hmph."

Harry chuckled and handed the correspondence to James to pack back up. "You're fun."

"Whatever," he muttered, doing just that. "So what's with the book?"

Harry looked down at it. "Oh, yeah. Well, it's a book; see, it's got pages, and—"

"Harry."

"It looks like an index of something or a catalog of sorts," Harry said, deciding to be mature about something. "Looks like it lists a bunch of titles - like book titles. I haven't gone through enough of what's down here yet see if any match up to what's around," he said, looking at the surrounding disarray. "But I imagine—"

"Hold on." Harry looked back. James was leaning over the tome again, frowning at what he read. "I recognize some of these titles."

He was surprised. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I saw some of these upstairs." He peered up at Harry. "In the cult library."

"Oh, yeah?" Harry repeated, wondrously. "That so, eh. Hm. Well; too bad we can't just mosey on back up there and cross-check any of these for posterity, but I imagine we'll be making the rounds up that way again. Welp! Guess this might be something we may need to ta.." He cut himself off, chuckling at the soft, whiny groan emitting from the younger man beside him. "Yeaahh, sorry bud."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll load it up."

"You're a trooper."

"So you say."

"And I, once again, will say: I do. Heh. Alright. Let's pilfer this place for what it's worth and get a move on, shall we? This cave's giving me the heebies."

Although James couldn't agree on that particularity and thus, did not account for the leftover "jeebies" portion of Harry's feelings, he did want to leave, and so the snooping excursion turned serious. With both forces combined, the wonder twins here concentrated their efforts on picking through the salvage yard of religious mementos and never-ending paper-and-book bazaar for any and all that looked important. (James wasn't too sure Harry could relate, but after the stint at the library, he sure was getting real tired of seeing books everywhere.)

But before long - and under the watchful eye of his judgmental pack mule - Harry'd chosen a couple curated picks of reading material to take along for the ride, and was hoping for one piece more to call for good luck when he moved some stuff (read: books and papers) to the side and uncovered the exact luck he dreamed and desired of.

And oh, did it feel so GOOD to have such wicked luck.

"James!" the writer gasped, mildly startling his companion to jump. "I found the moth wing!"

The conduit blinked, turning his way. "What? Seriously?"

"Seriously! Wow," Harry breathed, holding aloft a small shadow box, perfectly sized to house the insect's delicate fan in captivity. "Get a load of that."

"Yeah.." James peered into the mini window. "Huh. Well, there's our luck for the day."

"Wow, spoilsport," chided a raspberry, back. "Ye of little faith. We're still on church grounds, James—"

"So you think."

"—so I think; so I assume; so at least try to go with the charade, eh?"

"Nah. I'll try another day."

Harry chuckled, "Well, you got more than enough time to get your practice in," and flipped it to check the back. "Leonard Wolf. Yep: we got our key guy, again. Huh. Wonder what the deal is with this one."

"We'll be sure to find out," the conduit sighed.

"Yeaaahh, yeah. We sure will. Hm. Especially when he's attached to Claudia," Harry murmured, eyeing the script penned on the wooden back, then inspecting the moth wing itself again. "And Vincent, for that matter."

"Sounds like a scandal." James looked over. Harry beamed bright at him.

"And oh, how I love scandals. Y'know, for a while there I dallied with the idea of becoming a script writer for soaps? Something about the allure of writing up outrageous plot lines for the most ridiculous turns of events and scandalous affairs for the viewership enjoyment of middle-aged housewives and PTA moms to get wrapped up over their toes in always sort of got me."

James stared back at him. ".. that was a lot of words about it. You think about that a lot, Harry?"

The author had a good laugh. "Maybe a little more than I should. Here; stow this away in your Mary Poppins bag of magic, will ya? We're gonna need that sucker if we're gonna get a-nything done around here."

"Yeah sure, whatever."

Wrapping up, James located a utility ladder tucked into a nook behind the desk wall, and motioned for Harry to mount the rungs first. Harry sighed, grabbed the rails, looked up into the tall dark canal above, then took one more look back around the room.

"This better not flood down here again," he told James, once catching his eye. "I reckon we're gonna need this place again soon."

"Knock on wood."

Harry smiled, and rapped his fisted knuckles on his own forehead, thrice. "Knock on wood."

James watched him start to ascend the ladder. He looked back out at the barred portal across the room one more time; then, wondering if Harry knew it wasn't yet time to see what lurked beyond that door, crawled up the hollow after him, for the streets of town.