"FUCK!"

Harry stormed from the door and threw the pipe to the ground. The weapon clattered and bounced away as he balled up his fists and pushed them into his forehead. "God, FUCK! No, no no, you piece of SHIT town!"

James frowned after him. Hot anger shot straight to his head. "What did I tell you, huh? I knew we'd get caught up in here when the darkness set in. It was stupid to come in here in the first pl—"

"Don't you start with me," Harry warned, whirling around and pointing a threatening finger at him. "I was right, we found something useful in here and if we hadn't given it a shot we wouldn't've found it, so don't you get into it with me about this."

"Oh yeah? Yeah, sure, we found a hell of a lot on tapes that give us absolutely nothing," James bit back, sarcastically tossing up his arm. "Harry, there's jack shit on those tapes! It's full of whispering and—"

"There's a fucking man on those tapes who knows who Heather is!" he yelled at him, the delicate strings on his patience beginning to unthread. "There is someone looking for her and I don't know who it is and that means she's in even worse danger than I thought. You know why? Those women on the tapes; I thought about it, and the fucking Order is behind all this." James furrowed his brows. He seemed confused, but Harry was too incensed. "My guess is that they're the ones who know this guy and he's being paid to bring her back and goddammit, James, they're going to fucking kill her!"

James shook his head and shrugged impatiently. "What are you talking about? What Order?"

"The Order! What do you mean you don't know what I'm talking about?"

"I've never heard of an Order. This means nothing to me, Harry. What the fuck is the Order?"

The dealer, apparently, had been outright fired. Harry stared incredulously. "Are you serious? You don't know about the Order? They run Silent Hill," he said, and James drew an odd shadow on his face. "They're a cult. They have gods and sacrificial rituals and shit like that. They're the ones that stole Cheryl from me in the first place. Those delusional and perverse assholes were going to kill my daughter to raise some hell god and bring 'paradise' to the world." The older man looked disgusted that all of this appeared to be news to James. "How the hell don't you know about them?"

James's arms lifted again, exasperated. "I don't know, I've never met anyone that claimed to be from a cult or any of that, Harry. I honestly and seriously had no idea."

Harry had a hard time wrapping his mind around that. James could be lying to him. He was a convincing actor, after all. The better part of him told him to believe the resident, so he gave it a shot - though not without some digging. "I thought you were a part of the town. You said you've been here awhile. You hear and feel it all the time, so how did this just pass by you?"

James grit his teeth. "And I also said that I'm not told everything. I'm not some omnipresent god here. I don't see or know everything, though I thought I had a pretty good idea. This town is one big fucking mystery, even to me. If you hadn't noticed, I was confined to South Vale," he reminded him spitefully. "This is my first time out of there since who knows how long. I've never heard of a cult order. I don't know what to tell you, Harry. I guess Silent Hill didn't have it out for me that way."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Harry rasped under his breath, pushing his hands through his hair again. "Great. Unbelievable. You don't know about the cult. That is not going to help us at all."

James regarded him distastefully. He was getting very tired of Harry's tone. "And that's my fault, how?"

Harry blew a sharp sigh. "It's not, it just means that we're a little more fucked than I originally thought."

He deserved a gold medal for containing himself. "Yeah, fantastic. Since you know more about this, what do we do now?"

"God dammit, I don't fucking know!" Harry bristled, losing every ounce of his patience. "Why are you up my ass about this right now? We found one solid fucking clue to a puzzle that we can't even solve right now and you know that this is how this town works. We get one, one fucking crumb," he seethed, "and then we have to run around like headless donkeys until this place takes pity on us and gives us another crummy morsel to stew on until it decides we're too pathetic to do anything else. Why do I have to explain this to you?"

Harry ran his hands repeatedly over his hair and paced. He struggled to keep control of bottled, pent-up rage. "It's insane that this entire time you know nothing about a whole fucking cult that runs the place and is a huge deal to the whole way this all works. I would've thought that you'd know this place top to bottom and in and out by now. I can't ever tell if you're lying to me or not! I can barely get a straight answer out of you. You have been stuck here, this whole time, and not once did Silent Hill clue you in to an entire religious demon god worship. That just seems like complete bullshit." He shot a glare at the conduit. "How the fuck long have you even—"

"Don't you fucking talk down to me," James cut off, taking jarred, hostile steps towards him. "This is my town. I know the ins and outs, I know how it works for me. You're not getting it through your thick fucking skull. I have been trapped in South Vale for god knows how long and for all I knew, what I was experiencing was how it worked everywhere else. You fucking idiot."

The cask of bitterness leaked. "I didn't lie to you," James continued. "You're gonna have to get over it. And I'm not lying about this either: I am this town. I know my part better than you. Don't come at me, patronizing me like I'm a child," he snarled. "You don't know half of what Silent Hill is and does, so don't you dare try to treat me like I'm some ignorant newbie here, just because it never told me about a cult."

They stood at a tightly coiled standoff, like attack dogs on flimsy leashes. Harry balled his fists, his jaw clenched and teeth bared behind his curled lip. James tipped down his chin and controlled himself enough to speak as calmly as he could.

"I'm sorry you're here and that your daughter is missing and there's a cult I didn't know about and that you have to do this whole song and dance all over again. That fucking sucks, I get it. But you are not in control of this rodeo, Harry, and you are not going to even try to lecture me about shit you don't know and berate me for things I legitimately didn't have any idea about. I'm sick and tired of your attitude," he snapped. "You are out of your league with me. I fucking live and breathe this town. I may have lived a totally different life of Silent Hill, which really fucking bothers me to be very honest, but I do know that you are hopeless without me this time. Need I remind you what I am? What this place made me? I am Silent Hill and you need to goddamn thankful I'm even helping you out in the first place!"

"Yeah, and that's fucking crazy, James!" Harry insistently shouted back. "How are you here?! That is terrifying to hear you say that you ARE the town! That fucks me up so much! All of the bullshit you've put me through so far doesn't top that that is some horrific shit!"

The pressure in the room became caustic. Harry wouldn't drop the most delicate subject he knew and every time he brought it up he struck the flint and tinder over the kindling. A spark jumped too close. "Are you ever going to get over this?" James hissed. "Deal with it, Harry. I don't owe you shit about my situation here. You're lucky I even told you as much as I did and you know, I've already regretted it, so suck it up, be grateful you know what you know, and get off my ass."

Harry drew a scowl. "Okay, alright then, so tell me, is Silent Hill telling you anything?" he countered, throwing his arms out to the sides. "Anything at all! Does it know we're on to its bullshit? How high and dry are we, James, or are you gonna keep withholding things from me until you feel like I get to know?"

James thrust his hand into his hair. Pain and strife disfigured his face and curled his shoulders as he yanked on his scalp. "Harry, I swear to fucking god," the resident growled, "if you keep bringing this up I'll either kill you, or leave you here to figure all this out yourself."

"You'll kill me," Harry repeated flatly. "Right. Great. If Silent Hill hadn't fucked you up so bad maybe I'd say you don't look the type. But then again, that's what they said about Ted Bundy."

James lifted his head. "Seriously?"

There was a long, weary sigh. "Okay, maybe Ted Bundy was a little too much—"

"You wanna talk about fucked up, Harry? You're really fucked up." He ripped the hand from his hair and closed their distance to jut his finger within inches of Harry's face. "You've got some serious control issues, you're nosy, overbearing, over-fucking-protective, coddling, arrogant, and you're unreasonably obsessed with knowing every single little detail that you don't have any right to know. You're an entitled prick and you have no reason to be." To his credit, the older man looked embarrassed - guilty, even. That wasn't enough to stop James from his tirade.

"You don't see what I see, and I see a guy that's probably a doormat on the outside, judging by the way you're too fucking soft for this place. Maybe you've been here before, maybe you've dealt with some horrific shit because you are pretty fucked up about it, but from my time here I've learned that you are not the kind of person that should be here and I'll say this right now— no one should be here but me, but the people who have been here have a personality for it and no! I won't elaborate on that, but my point is that you, as a person, no matter what Silent Hill has done to you in the past, you are not going to survive your second round here if you can't harden up and throw away every single amount of your caring about anyone, or anything, other than your daughter. Fuck the cult stuff. You know how they work so sack up, tell me what we're dealing with, and no matter what, you have to listen to me. I don't care whether or not you trust me. To make this work, you're going to have to work with me here so I can do my part in getting you out. I'm not your friend. I'm your last and only hope. Don't forget you are on my territory, so get your head out of your ass, get your daughter, and get the fuck out of my town. Is that clear, Mason?"

Harry was taken aback. Being addressed by his last name was surprisingly cold. Shock replaced ire and the aggression in his stance extinguished like water on a fire. Unbeknownst to James, he viewed that change as disrespectful to the point of callous. And unfortunately, it hurt all the same, and so left Harry suddenly silent.

On the other side, James's heat was also simmering. Harry had backed down on the turn of a dime and it was disorienting, to say the least. His silence was easily taken as a white flag, however the betrayed look on his face struck an unusual pang of guilt in James's chest. This round was won, and he was disappointed to find that he couldn't even feel smug about it. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yeah." He sounded weathered. "We do."

James watched Harry turn away. His shoulders had sunk and his head lowered in shame. That display brought back a bushel of anger and James fought to keep it unlit. This wasn't the first time he'd seen someone sulk like this before, and it slammed down his defenses.

He'd realized too late in his life that this behavior was a manipulation tactic. By saying his piece, or even having strong feelings, people had made him feel cruel for speaking up. It had worked and shut him up back then. Now he had a place where the floor was always open to him, and where Harry was not allowed to pull that same crap on him too.

Even so, James could read a room. There was no point in picking bones. What was said was said and damage had been done.

Harry retrieved the pipe. He swung it a little as a sorry attempt to restore his mood and felt nothing other than defeat. He'd lost his temper and crossed all boundaries he knew, and for his troubles, he was read the riot act. It was humiliating, well deserved, and overdue. In hindsight, James had been enormously patient with him this whole time, and he'd had his head too far up his ass to notice. Everyone had a breaking point and Harry got his just deserts.

All the things he didn't want to hear were laid out on a table like spoiling food. James was right to put Harry in his place. This wasn't, hadn't, and never will be, his territory. Being a survivor of Silent Hill seventeen years ago gave him no authority against a man chained here for years longer. Without James, he may not have made it this far already - or even will. Regardless, the concept of whether or not Harry could have done this alone was rooted in stubborn pride, and that was the hubris that James served as a main course.

He'd called him soft. His years had hardened him in their own way, but his sensitivity towards other people never did. James saw it as weakness. Maybe it was, but it was simply impossible for Harry to kill that side of him, not even here. Yes, he had trouble reeling it back; he could admit to that. James triggered compassion that was hated and defined as overbearing. He was likely right. Harry didn't know when to stop being a caretaker, and he was doing more harm than good.

The embarrassment didn't end there. He'd been childish to want to make a friend in James and in retrospect, it was stupid. Neither were here to make friends. Harry craved companionship to cope as he again waded in the acidic waters of Silent Hill. Not only craved, but needed. Now that was weakness. He didn't want to be left alone and James's threat sounded sincere. The man was crucial to his, and Heather's, survival, and if Harry wanted to keep their chances high, he'd have to let go of his pitiful desire. It all boiled down to the simple fact that he was scared.

So evidently, James had been right: Harry was too soft for this place.

Overlooking all that, he should be as grateful as James said for his help, divided as it was. The man walked the tightrope between charity and begrudging duty. For him, James was building a rickety bridge, and he resented Harry and the job. He'd said himself that he was doing him a favor. Harry had no choice but to step precariously over its holes and decaying wood. Heather was waiting for him on the other side, just as Cheryl had.

Their reasons were different yet the goal was the same: get out of Silent Hill.

Harry sucked in and released a sigh. "Well, since we're gonna be holed up in here for a while, might as well take a look at the rest of the place."

James rolled his shoulder. The backpack felt heavy again. Though he guessed it was mutual that they'd've liked to separate and cool off, it was implausible. Harry had made a daring and stupid decision before and that would be the last time he would do it.

Not to mention, he had not fully recovered from the hotel's attack on the third floor. There was little doubt that would be its only instance; rather, it was an appetizer - at least for James.

He shot a glance at his ward. Harry had no clue what was coming to him. Call him deplorable, but James was curious to see what Harry thought he'd hidden from Silent Hill. This was an opportunity to intimately get to know its return visitor. This also meant that his own demons were likely to be revealed before a man eager to learn about him, and of course, he had to plan his tactics against his questioning. It had all night to play with them. Time will surely tell.

And so they silently agreed to forget the whole debacle in favor of making it through the night.

"Fine."

The door on the left flank of the staircase was chosen. It let them into a hall that was once inviting and cozy. A standing sign to their right advertised "Cafe Toluca" and its fresh brewed coffee and specialty bakery. Directly in front of them, a plaque was mounted on the wall. It read "Restaurant Lake Shore" and had clearly been a pride of the establishment. The dining room was far more interesting to Harry, and he was relieved to find the doors were open.

However expected, Harry still felt bummed when a nice place saw degradation. Nearly all the tables and chairs were pushed into corners. There were a few sets that were lonely and waiting for the lunch rush, their surfaces tinted by dust. A sliding glass door would have bathed the room in dull light and made it seem like a real restaurant, but the pitch blackness outside made it more like a mausoleum. The planters dividing the room held forever-green ivy, though they appeared to have aged brown. The room was filled with ghosts of memories made, remembered, and forgotten. As was with so many locations here in Silent Hill, it gave Harry a sense of disquieted loneliness.

There was something important here. In the right corner behind the door was a black grand piano. Harry visibly brightened. "No way," he whispered in awe, and gingerly placed the pipe on the ashy surface. The space between the piano and the wall was a little tight, and when he sat down, the bench creaked and drew James's attention. It wasn't as uncomfortable as it looked. He wore a big, warm smile on a face that had been blemished by turmoil, and James felt a fleck of relief to see it return.

On the same token, his stomach twisted all the more remembering who had been behind that piano before.

Harry ran his hands over the ivory keys. "This poor thing," he murmured. "You don't deserve to be left here all alone with no one to play you, huh." He stroked the raised black eharmonics and softened his smile. "I wonder if it's still in tune."

James sighed and looked away. The clash of Laura's unnatural chord was duller in his head now. He moved towards the glass doors, not to look out at the abyss beyond, but to wonder if the picture she'd painted in the dirt was still there. In this poor light, and the reflection of his flashlight glaring on the glass, he wasn't so sure he'd be able to see if it was actually intact. For the sake of his regret surrounding the missing brat, James bent to try to find the outline of her poorly drawn cat— then shot straight up on the first fumbling notes and chord from the piano.

He spun around to stare at the man in the corner chuckling to himself. "Ah, let's try that again," Harry said softly, rolling his head and shoulders. He replaced his hands on the keyboard while James stood dumbfounded. Harry had some gall by getting behind that piano. For one, noise meant attraction. As demonstrated before, Harry liked to make noise, and this was a bigger noise that James was not eager to hear. Two, it acted like a museum piece: look but don't touch.

Annoyance had a few things to say to Harry, and they disappeared from James's tongue. What emerged from the piano was not noise. Somber music - music! - resonated from old strings. An aged pedal thudded hollowly under the use of a sole guided by muscle memory, but did not take away from the leisurely, dreamlike song that filled the room. James stood stone still, lips parted. Musical tranquility floated through the restaurant, banishing the shadows in the corners and bringing peace to James's head.

He's mesmerized. It's been eons since he heard music. Laura's prank on him long ago didn't count, of course. She meant to scare him and it worked, and he still heard the clang in his head. (It was softer these days. He's not startled by it anymore.) This gently haunting song would undoubtedly replace that memory of her, that snotty little brat. (Good riddance.)

He watched Harry play. The tune was familiar, though he couldn't place the name. It was slow and sweeping; idyllic. It pulled the imagination to picture oneself at a rainy window, the glow of the fire warming the room and being its only light. It induced calm and peace. For once, these forgotten things seeped into James, and his distant consciousness wouldn't allow him to fully experience it.

She liked to play the piano. She wasn't ever good at it, but it made her happy. James supported her hobby and found her a spinet piano at a local estate sale. It was received with hugs and kisses and squeals of joy. Watching her fawn over this luxury purchase soaked James's heart with the pure, undying love for his wife. Mary sat down that instant and ran her fingers along the keyboard, pet the borders, and tested the pedals. That night she set up sheet music to Elvis Presley's classic "Love Me Tender" and blundered through it so many times that he lost count.

He heard her play in the morning, in the waning light of the evening, and by the lamp late at night. New music was purchased and she tried to learn to read it and bring it alive under her hands. Her vigilance was admirable; however, she hardly improved. James never told her that. Instead, he encouraged her and said that she was doing great. Most days, she believed him, and smiled so happily that James found himself mirroring her perfectly.

Other days, Mary was too focused to reply. Sometimes in those moments, she'd snap at him to stop distracting her. James backed off and took a seat nearby to observe and appreciate instead, and now and then, she'd bang the keys in frustration and order him to leave.

"I can't concentrate with you leering at me like that. Do you want me to make mistakes so you can make fun of me in your head to your friends?" (James didn't have friends. The one that could be tentatively called a friend became too busy after their marriage. He missed him.) "Go away, James. I need to figure this out and I can't do it with you here."

James loved to hear her play.

The widower drew his lips inward, then relaxed them to part. It was definitely not Mary behind the keyboard now, and he couldn't distort the scene to visualize her. In the dark corner of a room that he didn't have any intention of seeing again held a lost, deeply compassionate-to-a-fault father that was trying to find a flake of solace and normalcy in this decomposing hell. Harry sought the world beyond Silent Hill, where the sun hung in the sky, there were friends to meet at a sports bar, where he could spend bonding time with his daughter and write his books. There was a place far away from the fog and monsters, and it was no place for James.

His feet brought him tentatively closer. ("I can't concentrate with you leering at me like that!") James stopped. Harry was too engrossed in the music, his head down and observing his hands flowing over the keys. They were in separate worlds. The sight of his charge resting a blissful smile on his face and breathing life into the old instrument brought forward the guilt of his side of their earlier argument. It gave him pause.

Harry was so human. His complexion was redder and darker than James's from enjoying the outdoors. Life and zest for it exuded from him at all times, no matter the mood. Harry was determined to live. He did not want to identify as just a survivor of Silent Hill. The past, James gathered over their week together, only beat harder on the drum of his war with his psyche and pushed him to win his right to enjoy existing. Harry Mason was the light and excitement that lit up this wretched town. Standing there, the music wrapping itself around James and trying to coax him to remember how good it could be to breathe happiness, he could only feel the heavy drain that Harry's life force stole from him.

They were already toxic, and Harry was a fool to think that it wouldn't stay that way. James forced the record straight. As much as he'd hate it, Harry had to face the facts: the plausibility of a connection beyond his role was off the table. James had one purpose and he was going to fulfill it, and do so without the complications of an idiot that wanted to find a friend in his unwilling, only chance to survive Silent Hill a final time.

The music faded away on the clouds of light, dreamy chords. The pedal released with a thunk and Harry took his hands to his thighs. Reverent silence settled in the room.

"Well, that was nice," Harry said, waking James from his distant thoughts. He smiled down at the keyboard. "I'm surprised at myself, heh. I haven't played in about a year." He struck a few short, jaunty notes and laughed. "That was fun."

He took his smile to James. James crept closer and rested his hand on the piano. Though the bouncy little tune starkly contrasted the masterpiece just played, it didn't shake his unfamiliar peace. "What was that?" he asked, finding his voice. "I've heard it before. It's nice. Kind of sad."

"It's Gymnopêdie Number One, by Satie." Harry shrugged his brows, then his shoulders. "I'm not pronouncing it correctly, I'm sure. I'd bet any Frenchman would hang me for butchering their nice language."

"I didn't know you played piano."

"You never asked."

Fair enough. "You're good."

Harry seemed delighted. "Thanks. This one's my favorite piece. Yeah, it's kinda sad, but it's airy and flowy, and.. I dunno." His posture slumped comfortably. "Like you're staring out the window at the moors on a gloomy day, but the house is warm and comfortable, and you're far away in your daydreams."

To tell the truth, it was a little spooky that they were so close in thought. "You really are a writer."

Harry's lips twisted for a goofy spin on his smile. "Thanks. I suppose I do sound the part now and then."

James placed his elbow on the piano and leaned into it. They were at ease. "Got any other hidden talents?"

"Hmm.. nope. Not that I can think of off the top of my head." The older man looked back at the keyboard. "This is probably my most impressive one."

"What about unimpressive?"

"Depends on what you consider unimpressive. Uhh.. lemme think. Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "Funnily enough, I like puzzles. Jigsaw. Fuck pretty much other puzzle," Harry laughed. "This place kind of ruined them for me. But I can solve a five thousand piece jigsaw puzzle in three hours, if I really focus."

James scoffed. He didn't know the record time for solving a five thousand-piece puzzle, of course, but three hours sounded fast. "How is that unimpressive?"

Harry hummed contemplatively. "I don't know. I figure it's a neat little talent in its own way. I can de-stress for three hours and rebuild a picture of rainbow cats eating cake." He paused and sat up straight, turning an agreeable look to James. "Honestly? You're right. It is impressive. I'm just not the kind of guy to go around bragging about it."

"You're a pretty humble guy as it is," James observed. "I don't see you doing much bragging." Harry looked pleasantly surprised by the compliment.

"I don't even humblebrag," Harry laughed, "if I'm gonna be humble about it."

He frowned. "Humblebrag?"

"Yeah. It's when insecure people say something self-deprecating about something they're actually proud of to draw attention to them so people can flood them with compliments," he explained. "It's not a good practice. Makes a person look bad."

"That sounds insufferable."

"It is. So how about you, huh?" Harry asked, absently rubbing his thighs. He was starved for a lighthearted chat after their argument. If James would open up any more in the comfort of this conversation, he'd be over the moon. "Any hidden talents in your arsenal?"

James dropped his eyes away. His strangely returning memories struggled to provide him with an answer. There was a strong likelihood that the answer was simply 'no, nothing at all' and at that moment, didn't feel like enduring any more questions. He pushed off the piano and stepped away, drifting towards the open doors leading out of the empty restaurant.

Harry's spirited mood faded to tepid and he sighed wearily through his nose. Their friendly exchange was already missed as he got up from the bench and sidled out from behind the classic, grand instrument. Collecting the pipe, he looked down at a thing of memories and brief unspoiled happiness, and fondly patted the surface. He hoped they'd have time for one more song. Maybe they could again forget their fight and heavy troubles. They - Harry - could pretend that they were a team that could trust each other and enjoy their company; perhaps even act like they were friends.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Harry didn't look back as he closed the door to the Lake View Restaurant behind him. He took a definitive breath and the two stood in the dense silence of the hotel, once again.