There was a lot of silence that followed their departure. After cleaning the dried muck off his pipe using some newspapers found in a nearby trash can, Harry found his weapon miraculously unharmed. He led James to the curb, taking the backpack from his shoulders. They sat down.

They were hurt. Before he tended to himself, the sullen veteran assessed James's hand and the burns on his jacket. The latter put up a little bit of a fight to surrender himself to his care, but soon acquiesced. James watched him bandage his blistering hand; it hadn't even hurt until they were sitting there looking at it. Harry was clearly distraught and angry, yet none of it bled through to his touch. He was as gentle as ever as he wrapped it up right. James flexed his fingers when he was done. It was impressive how he knew what to do.

But when Harry reached for his arm, the resident sharply leaned away. They stared at each other; one questioning and annoyed, the other mistrustful and defensive. The stillness then broke.

"James."

The conduit eyeballed the survivor. Harry sounded miserable. That didn't lower his guard or his wariness, even though it did make him feel bad. He didn't move, and neither did Harry.

"Please."

God, that man's sympathetic plea was more on par with a beg. This time some of his caution eased, but not enough to make him agreeable. "No."

Harry's already pitiable face fell. There was not enough stamina in him to fight about it. He pulled off his leather jacket and folded it to the side, beginning to check and tend to himself. There was little he felt he could do about his arms or clothes. Inspection showed that his slacks were mostly fine, his boots still sturdy, and the only real damage coming from his jacket and sweater. Harry decided to leave the burns on his arms alone; he didn't think they warranted the waste of a critical item.

For a while they remained seated, engulfed in silence. They processed, or tried to, the fresh horrors they'd left in the town center just behind them. After a bit Harry dug out the notepad and pen and for the first time since he initially laid the ballpoint to this paper, wrote a new reminder to himself. James had a small scowl to say about it. That was a relic he'd just defaced. It wasn't his in the first place but he'd come to view it as something of his own. It was worse than seeing someone dog-ear a loaned book. He kept his opinions to himself.

Harry returned the notepad to its safety and zipped the backpack. Another lengthy moment was spent staring out into the street. When he felt it there was no reason to waste more time trying to digest the events, Harry hoisted himself up and brushed off his thighs. "We should check out Alchemilla," his monotone said as he slipped on his jacket. "We need to find some ointment or something to clean wounds and help healing."

James rose to his feet. "Good idea."

"Thanks. I wish I could say I thought of it myself, but I stole it from something I read a while ago."

"Mm. Takes a big person to admit to that."

"Well, as a writer, I have particular standards and respect for other writers," Harry explained, pushing his fist into his pocket. "Gotta give credit where credit is due. Copyright infringement comes in many forms, after all."

When he drifted away, absently jostling the keys in his pocket, James gave his back a tiny smile. No matter what happened, no matter how he felt, Harry Mason went on.

James could admire that.

Harry called it coping. In a way, it was. In another way, it wasn't - and that's when it was called avoidance. And that's what Harry was specifically doing: avoiding.

If he'd known that he'd be admired for his keep calm and carry on attitude, he would've been simultaneously chuffed to bits humbled while feeling like a sham. For all the high praise he gave therapy and mental wellness, Harry was often a pot calling the kettle black.

The tension was different between them this time, the nightmarish ending of their stay in the town center keeping them quiet and ruminative. There was a lot to think about and discuss later. Until then, the Old and Central Silent Hill veteran guided the way to Alchemilla. He checked the map once for clarity. The route would be easy, and as they strolled down the lonely roads, the clink of the keys that Harry toyed with kept them company.

James held the gun in his left hand. On his right, the blisters and bandage chafed. His palm was upset at rest and even trying to make a loose fist really pushed his luck. Shooting at enemies was definitely not going to be a happy party. He cocked his head and eyed Harry and his singed jacket.

The father didn't appear to be in pain. Well, not any physical pain. The look he wore on his face aged him perhaps another five years, and that was just from what he saw of his profile. James studied him another moment. He didn't have any doubt that Harry wasn't a very good liar, and he had the evidence to prove it. Harry was too emotional. Lowering his eyes to the asphalt, the civilian decided he didn't want to watch his ward for a while, if he could help it. James hated how he could be so visibly sensitive, and hated to see the way he mourned for that dead, unholy fetus.

For once, he wished he'd start talking.

But nothing was said until they approached the medical center. "There she is," Harry announced, coming to a stop on the sidewalk. "Good ol' Alchemilla Hospital." He pursed his lips and shook his head to himself. "Have you gotten that far yet?" he asked James, leaning back his head to look at him sidelong. "Where are you in the reading, anyway?"

"At the church, actually," he said. "You were describing Dahlia."

"Ooh, neat. Looks like we're gonna be right on target with timelines."

"Mm. Except we haven't gone to Midwich yet."

The patriarch blew a raspberry. "We'll get there," he assured him, ascending the steps to the doors. "All in good time and torment."

With a sizable amount of trepidation, Harry tried the knob. It didn't budge. Visiting hours were done for the day; rather early for it, but hospitals can do as they please. There were more foreboding feelings than relief about it being closed than the veteran cared for. A soft frown marked his face, then he tracked backwards to the sidewalk, put his hand into his pocket and looked up at the sign. "Welp. There goes that idea." He swung his look to James. "Guess we're S.O.L. for that."

James shrugged.

Consulting the map again, Harry suggested they head back to the other side of town. "We might as well go face the music at Balkan," he grumbled. "Goody."

As he started off, he heard something unique behind him. Harry stopped to stare, then slowly grin back at James, who had actually giggled . Well, wasn't that a way to put a better mood in him. "What's so funny?"

James tipped his head to his shoulder. "Nothing. It's just that you said 'goody.'"

"What's wrong with 'goody'?"

"Nothing," he repeated, stepping to his side. "It's just old fashioned."

"Old fashioned." Harry chuckled and picked up their walk again. "Hey, it's a good word, but yeah, I guess it is pretty old fashioned. I don't know how much people actually use it these days."

"It's funny to hear it again."

"Well, old sport," he said through his grin. "I'm glad I can amuse you."

The lapse in their conversation expired when James piped up again. "You read The Great Gatsby , didn't you?"

"Required reading in high school," came the lighthearted reply. "Not really the best way to introduce F. Scott Fitzgerald, in my opinion. A lot of required reading really spoils the fun of picking up a book and enjoying reading in general."

James hummed. "I read Tom Sawye r."

Harry peered at him. "By your own free will, or by the firm hand of the institution?"

He hoped to get at least a chuckle out of him, and was met with the common disappointment. "No. It was in the curriculum."

"Did you like it, or?"

"It was alright. I think. I don't remember much of it."

"It's a classic - a fairly important one. It doesn't really resonate with—"

"Aren't all the classics you're supposed to read in school fairly important?" James interrupted, then sharing a glance with his companion.

"They're supposed to be. I'm not so sure that introducing Dickens and Twain and Fitzgerald and Shakespeare through forced learning is a good idea; going over the authors and explaining the history and significance of them and their work, yes. I'd think it's better to do that and go over passages from their most famous pieces to discuss and enlighten first, then suggest that one of those books be read. Maybe for extra credit, or something," Harry mused. "It'd encourage reading, rather than force it upon a bunch of kids that probably aren't going to care, or appreciate it for what it is."

There was another exchange of looks between them. After a moment, James replied, "You seem to have given this a lot of thought."

Harry snorted. "I guess. Maybe too much thought, but I'm just.." He shrugged. "I dunno. I worry that the younger generations are going to forget about them somehow. Some schools are pulling books like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer from their curriculums and even some school libraries. It's because of the rampant racism and touchy subjects, of course," he explained. "And I get it. But on the other hand, those books still shouldn't be censored or pulled. It's not conducive to learning. They're a product of their time and it's important to acknowledge them for what they are. They're like a history lesson, now. It's not a great piece of history, but that's also the point - that's why we read them. Censorship is becoming a huge problem in schools and I, for one, don't like it. It's stifling."

James was the model, attentive student during Harry's little impromptu lecture. He placed his wounded hand into his pocket and grimaced at the blisters complaining in his light fist. The talkative author kept going.

"It's a gateway to understanding," Harry continued. "You know they're even trying to ban Fahrenheit 451 ? You know how ridiculous that is? Ray Bradbury is, in my opinion - not to say all of this wasn't my opinion to begin with, and I'll be the first to admit that in some cases I am very opinionated - that Ray Bradbury is one of the few authors that absolutely should be required reading, if we're gonna choose anything. When he wrote Fahrenheit 451 .."

James turned his head away to look into the fog, a ghost of a smile on his face. Harry went on and on next to him, though the conduit wasn't paying too much attention anymore; just enough to make affirming or questioning noises to keep him going. That was much better.

A little manipulation here and there was okay.

The trek back to Old Silent Hill didn't seem to take too much time with Harry talking up a storm. They met some of the members of their fan club along the way, and unfortunately, didn't feel much like stopping to take a photo op - but were glad to leave a personalized autograph instead.

After crossing the bridge into familiar territory, the two strolled down Bachman. Harry had now fallen mute. Passing the 5to9 Cafe was done at a wide berth to avoid the sigil, and had Harry throwing a sad look into the shattered window. James served it a glance. He now saw the cafe in a different light since he'd been reading through the lengthy narrative. Its importance to the middle aged Mason made more sense. Seeing it again made him wonder about Cybil Bennett.

He was curious what she looked like.

When they came to a stop in the middle of the street outside of Balkan Church, Harry made a petulant, whiny noise. "I really don't wanna go back in there," he complained, stretching out his back with the addition of a fatherly groan. "God, I hate this place. I can't wait to get out of here."

James had another acknowledging sound for him. Harry slung the pipe across his shoulders, hanging his hands over it like a scarecrow on its perch. He squinted up at the old structure, chewing on his cheek. "You said you were on Dahlia's description, right?" His nose scrunched at the wordless confirmation. "Any questions before we go in there?"

A beat or two passed while he thought. "She's dead, right?"

"Hey, spoilers." Harry shot him a cheeky smirk. "Yeah. Or she's supposed to be. Considering this is Silent Hill, I have doubts about who or what actually stays dead."

James tilted his head side to side, and added the barest of shrugs. "I guess that's a fair concern."

"Thanks. It's nice to be validated."

They judged the cultist safe house for a little bit longer, then Harry dismounted the bludgeon from his shoulders and pointed it at the ornate double doors. "Tally ho, Sunderland."

The echo in the church when they entered sounded unwelcoming. Nothing had changed since last Harry saw it; many things appeared to stay constant here in Silent Hill, even including the enormous crucified Jesus mounted on the wall. They went down the aisle to the podium - or as Harry had called it in his notes, the altar. "Here's where she said, 'I knew you would come here. It was foretold by gyromancy ,'" he mocked as accurately, and disrespectfully as possible. "Then gave me the Flauros. Do you have any idea how full my pockets were?" he asked James, turning to him. "It was a bitch running from everything trying to kill me, and then I had a whole bunch of crap that I had to keep from falling out all the time. I felt like I was in a Looney Tunes cartoon. You might as well play Yackity Sax during every chase scene."

Pursing his lips, James looked down at his own jacket. Having a military coat and deep utility pockets really had and did work in his favor. "Mm. I can only partially relate."

Harry glanced at them too. "Spoiled brat." His eyes returned to the altar. "Okay. Let's get that bible out. Those passages probably have a lot to do with what we need in here." Taking the book from James, he picked it open to the dog-eared page and plopped on the rock surface.

"'God has two hands that She used to mold the world. With Her two hands she created man and woman; father and mother; husband and wife; brother and sister; son and daughter,'" Harry read aloud. "'Her hands not only hold, but are made of Truth and Paradise. With Her two hands she will cradle the believers over the sinners and welcome her children to True Paradise in the form of which we were born. God, Her Presence Almighty And Sacred, Mother Of Us All, will Awaken by our own reverent hunt for Life and Mercy, as there is nothing but Betrayal and Hell without Her loving hands to carry us to the day of the Miraculous Descent.'"

He crinkled his nose. "That's a lot to take in. 'Life and Mercy' and 'Betrayal and Hell' are both underlined twice. Jesus Christ. No offense," Harry added, casting a look up at the fixture of the Savior himself. "You understand, right?" He looked at James, then back down at the scripture. "Any thoughts on this, bud?"

James turned it over several times in his head, but each time made no more sense than the last. "Got me."

Harry thoughtfully twitched his frown from cheek to cheek and went back a page. He skimmed the text, then its partner's beside it, then thumbed it over. "Mmm. Going back a little puts only some sense into it."

"Yeah?"

"Well, it talked about Paradise and God awakening, and looking over this talks about the door to— Oh, shit! That reminds me," he suddenly said, grabbing the backpack and dragging it to himself. "While I was cleaning this out I found a picture I'd never seen before." Procuring the photo from the within, he unfolded and offered it to James. "It was on the bottom, under everything. Which makes no sense, right?" Harry studied the conduit carefully as he looked at it. "There's no way it got in there without us knowing. We've had that thing with us the whole time. Yeah, I hadn't seen what the inside of the bag looked like lately, but I really feel like it would've pinged suspicion on the radar if things seemed out of place." His eyes briefly went to the side. "If that makes sense."

James flipped it over. "There's Latin on here."

"Yeah. You happen to speak it?"

"As well as I know Chinese."

"Great, so what's it say?"

He ignored Harry to scrutinize the picture again. "I don't know what this is." Passing it back to Harry, he placed his hand in his pocket and continued to peer at it alongside his ward. "It's Old Silent Hill, Harry. If it's not South Vale, I don't know it."

A tired sigh preceded his words. "Yeah, I know, but.. a little part of me was hoping." He closed it in his fingers, wagging it contemplatively, then referred to the envoy. "Hey. Has Silent Hill been talking to you lately?"

James's head barely shook. "Nope. It's been quiet."

"Well, that's good. Or bad. Hard to tell, huh?"

The expected shrug disappointed Harry, as it normally did. He put the photo away. "We'll look for it since we're here. And let me just jinx it now and get it over with, but I really hope we don't run into any new trouble while we're fucking around in here. That monster back there was.. eugh." He set folded arms down upon the altar and leaned into them, absently rocking his weight. "Speaking of which, it's been bugging me. Did she seem intelligent to you?"

Harry slanted his head back to look at him, waiting for his response, though his fidgeting didn't stop. James's shotgun idly seesawed in his hand. "Yeah. She did. She was using actual strategy."

"She sure put up a fight. I'd also like to know how she knew we were upstairs. She got up there pretty fast, and sniffed us out. I seriously have no idea how. She couldn't've seen me," he remarked. "She only reacted to the light because as soon as I snuffed it, she lost interest. If she'd seen me, I think we would've been in trouble a lot sooner."

James shook his head. "I dunno what to say, Harry, other than I didn't like it." He glanced at him. "She also didn't seem to care about getting shot. I mean, it pissed her off, but it didn't look like she was taking any real damage."

"Hm.. yeah. You're right. Were you shooting her in the stomach?"

"Stomach, chest, head," he rattled off. "It was like.. I don't know. I filled her with buckshot and it didn't do anything. So what did you do to kill her?"

Harry made a helpless noise. "Honestly? Don't know. I just thought I'd Indiana Jones it and throw the pipe at her. I was hoping to spear her through or something, so I aimed at the stomach, and all I'd managed to do was graze her. Or so I thought. After that she just.."

The pantomime of the huge stomach bursting was accompanied by a comedic explosion sound. James observed blandly, then looked up at Harry. "I'm sure we'll see another one."

Harry quietly scoffed. "I know." He closed the bible and flopped it to and fro. "I was considering carrying this with us but eh, we're gonna probably need all our hands free." After putting it away, the veteran stretched out and faced the empty congregation. "Well, folks, services are over and thank you for coming. If you'd like to stick around and join us for—"

Fuzzy static from the radio made both of them jump and ready their weapons, hastily searching for the threat. Nothing was immediately present, so Harry carefully approached the side entry into the back of the church and cautiously eased the door open. The flashlight found emptiness in the dank corridor. Harry propped the door open and took a step in to get any better view, then the radio cut itself off. He took one more quick look around, then let the door gently close until it was only ajar by the will of his fingers still pressed on the panel.

"False alarm. Again." He fixed James with an irritated grimace. "Did it even go off back in the town center?"

James was holding and inspecting the broken device with a scowl of his own. "Don't think so."

"Man. That thing's getting progressively worse. How many times has it done that? Five, ten? Feels like more than that, though."

It dropped into James's pocket. "Dunno."

A long sigh left Harry's arched nose. "Well, whatever. Can't waste time on it now. C'mon, let's go see what sorta festivities are waiting for us back here."

"Goody."

"Couldn't've said it better myself."