The Otherworld.
A dry gasp snapped his attention down to the conduit beneath him. James lay soaked, limp, and lifeless between his legs, the thinning streams dripping through the metal, diamond-shaped floor into the bottomless deep. Harry leaned to the side to look into his face, its blue and purple beginning to fade, and pushed his wet, sandy hair out of his slatted eyes.
"James." He shook his shoulder. James's gulps for air were labored. "Hey, okay, deep breaths, you're okay," soothed the caretaker, dismounting and rolling him onto his back. Grabbing the military jacket lapels together in one fist, he pulled James up and shoved at the backpack for him to lean against, but quickly found that it was not going to work in their favor if it was still on his shoulders. James latched frightfully onto his arms, sucking in harsh, needy breaths as he tried to dig his heels into the floor to better sit up.
"Easy, easy, I'm trying to get the backpack off, okay? Let go, one hand at a time." He had to pry James's hand off his arm, throw it down, and awkwardly grapple to remove one strap. The second wasn't much easier with the man's insistent clutching at him, but after he succeeded with the pack, Harry again hoisted him up, jammed the drenched backpack under his spine, then tenderly settled him against it.
"There. Slow it down. Slow breaths, James. C'mon, you already went through some shit, don't hyperventilate on me, okay? I don't have a paper bag for it. Slow. One.. two. One.. two.."
He coached him through it, letting him hold onto his arms while keeping him a bit more upright by the way of his jacket. Harry calmly continued to talk as James's face drained to its normal deathly white, finally working himself down to an even breathing pattern.
His strength weakened on Harry's arms. The patriarch sat back on his feet, holding James at arm's length. He gently let him go when James's arms fell away. Rubbing his black-clad thighs, Harry grimly observed the phenomena of the conduit's hair and clothes drying themselves out, then hissed sharply and shot up his hand from his slacks.
"Ouch! Fuck. Augh, that's right," he muttered, gingerly tugging at the cut fabric. "Those little.. god dammit."
James blinked his weighted eyes to him, then dropped them to his thigh. "Oh, yeah."
"Yeah. I was happy to forget about that." A patch of the transformed grate nearby caught his glance, and he chose to studiously ignore it for as long as he could. Harry wasn't ready to face whatever had become of the room. He returned immediate focus to James. "How're you feeling?"
James looked like he'd been flattened by a cement truck then tossed onto the train tracks in the path of a locomotive charging at full speed ahead to finish the job. He sounded just as such, too. "Fine."
"Yeah. You look like you had a good day at the spa."
"Yeah."
"Well worth the whole package, mud bath and steam room and full body massage and all, huh?"
"Yeah."
The smile Harry tried to give him didn't have all the heart it usually had. James's eyes were unable to stay fixed on Harry, and so fell shut. Harry let his face reflect his guilt and despair now that the other didn't have to see it. A lengthy pause followed, but Harry couldn't keep silent for long.
"You scared the hell out of me, man. That was horrible. I seriously thought I was going to lose you. I know it's not your fault," he added in response to the huff, annoyed wince. "But that was some horrible.. horrible shit."
".. yeah."
"What was that?" he ventured, trying to shift his weight on increasingly numbing legs. "That was like.. shit, like what happened back at the strip club. The, uh.. uhm.." Harry snapped his fingers as he struggled to recall the words. "Uhh, uhhh.."
"The squ—"
"The squeeze! Yeah." It instantly registered as that whole explanation came flooding back. His shoulders slumped. "Oh, shit.." Harry flopped to the side, stiffly unfolding his legs and stretching one out, the other bent, and supported himself back on his arms. He stared into his lap. "Fuck. That hasn't happened in awhile." Glancing at James, he gave him a good analyzing, then ended it with a quiet, defeated sigh. "I guess you were due for it at some point."
He grunted.
Harry reprised the study, then asked, "Were you.. how conscious were you for that? I think you had a seizure."
James tried to move his limbs, cringing hard. Nope, not yet. "All of it, I think."
"All of it? Jesus Christ!"
Discomfort curled James's lip as he tried to force his rigid body into a more tolerable position. There wasn't one. "Yeah. It was great."
"Even when you were seizing?"
Harry was shot an icy scowl. "All of it." He took him by his word and looked down.
"Damn. That's.. horrible. I'm so sorry, James."
James wasn't going to find a spit's worth respite, so he sighed hard and took his first look around the room. Astounded by what he saw, his lips parted at the wildly obscure atmosphere; it was like they were in two different rooms at once. Though he didn't understand why he thought so, to him it looked like a glitch of some kind - like the Otherworld couldn't decide what to do. But as he digested it, he remembered how the music room had been prior, and these rogue shards did not reflect where they had previously become acquainted.
At least it didn't reek like sewage in here anymore. Instead, the air carried the smell of flowers, cinnamon, a steel factory, and industrial grease. The mixture was enough to unsettle his stomach again, although in this instance, foreboding had also joined the party. There wasn't much to say here, except:
"What the hell?"
As he recovered more of his body and cognizance, James was able to move his sore arms, and used one to better prop himself up from the backpack. From there he did a second review of the room, picking out more details, and also looking out into the oddly lit, unrecognizable hallway. A few minutes must've passed until he realized Harry hadn't said a word. James looked over and found him spacing out, staring at his legs.
He felt intrusive. The air once again had a stifling edge, but not in the same way as it was before. This type sat more on the "awkwardly uncomfortable" side of the scale. James didn't know what to say, so nothing was said.
Harry saved him from the task and spoke. "This place is a mess." James looked over to see his ward lifting his head. "I've never seen anything like it."
A repeat look got cast around. "Is this the Otherworld?"
"Yes, and I don't know," he strained as he hefted himself to his feet. Brushing off his clothes, he glanced down at James, then brought the bench back to standing on its four legs. He situated it where it belonged at the piano, putting its position with two legs on the carpet, and two on the pockmarked iron. The rug was studied by both. Harry sighed the weight of the world.
"I'm gonna be honest with you, James: I've never been so fucking tired." His face scrunched hard as he pushed his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them deep into the wrinkled sockets. "This is going to cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars of therapy when I get home.. as if I haven't sunk that much money into it already."
Harry's hand dropped to his thigh with a dull slap. He looked blearily down at the tentatively inquisitive civilian. "Seriously. I should probably get an accountant. They would love me."
James, seemingly forever lost for words, returned a meager shrug. One more exhale came from the widower before he held out his hand to him. "How're you feeling? Can you stand?"
Testing his legs, James found his joints aching and feeling swollen, but his strength recovered enough to accept the help up. His balance wavered with a rush of dizziness, but Harry's grip on his arms kept him steady until it passed. "Take it easy," he was quietly advised. "Get yourself back together before you do anything else, alright? Leave the bag alone."
That was advice he was going to take. James stood in place to rework himself, briefly tracking Harry under his stare. The Otherworld quickly stole his interest, and he flicked his eyes around the dungeon.
Pieces of a room that held a manner of warmth was also sullied by cruel breaks of industrial chaos. Their flashlights managed to distort that peculiar congeniality as well, giving impressions of an eerie, bewitching tomb. It was as homey as it was daunting, and clearly, meant something special to Harry.
He watched him run his fingers over the blue wall behind the piano. James noticed the torn picture for the first time, having been too low to see it before. The coned beam showed what was coherent enough to know it was a woman in the broken frame, despite her visage being damaged by brown and red: the type that was typical of abandonment and exposed to the elements and time.
Harry looked lost and bereaved when he slowly pivoted around. He dug the heel of his palm into his eye again as his head drooped. There weren't any tears to shed; he simply exuded utter exhaustion from within his core. It felt different in James's empty reserves. In fact... it felt damningly, uncomfortably familiar; nearly too much to withstand.
It was hateful towards oneself; guiltier than any sin. Regret for the things he'd done; choosing to wallow in sorrow. Rejecting help; running away. Irreparable loss; mistakes that could have been remedied if he hadn't been so selfish.
Yes: James was all too familiar with that self-imposed, isolated prisoner's cell.
His reserves began to refill, courtesy of a weathered father, and a widower forever in mourning. Harry resented himself, and thus fed him the sadistic energy he needed. It was rejuvenating.
He wished it didn't have to be like this.
Dropping his hand, Harry gazed around the room, then motioned to it all.
"This.. is Jodi's room," he explained. "Everything. That isn't the Otherworld, that is. Can you fucking believe this shit. I can't." A breath was released. "I don't know what Silent Hill's obsession with fucking around in my head is about. It's been real determined to fuck with me lately, and I've had it. I'm up to here with its shit."
James fixed his ward with a vaguely sorry look when his eyes fell upon him. "Has it been talking to you?" Harry asked. "Has it been saying anything to you at all?"
The shake of his head told him what he said before his tongue did, looking away. "No. It's been quiet."
"Great. And it needed a boost. I'm just.." Harry made a strained noise, more than just upset as he slowly spun in place again. "I'm fucked up! Between this and that absolutely terrifying way it put you through the wringer, I have absolutely fucking had itwith this shitty fucking town! You win! You win, you fucking assholes! Are you fucking happy, Silent Hill?!"
The depleted conduit uncomfortably watched Harry drag his hands hard over his hair and tensely link his fingers at the back of his head. He did look like he was on the brink of mental collapse.
In the meantime, while Harry agonized over things he couldn't control, James meandered across the floor to inspect their new world. Just as it had been back at the hotel when it overtook his special place like a depraved cancer, the Otherworld mesmerized him. His footfalls clanked on the iron grate that was acting as the only saving grace from the endless dark, approaching a wall.
The metal slab before him advertised pus yellow blotches beneath dried, blackened blood, fresh crimson on autumn rust, steel oxidized by streaks of water that had been dripping for ages and had, at one point long ago, ceased their flow - all of it, everything that caked and tarnished and staled - were things James found sickening, demented, and beautiful.
Lifting his hand, he tentatively passed his fingers over the stains. Albeit still muddled and weak (and he figured he would be for a good while), he sensed a life within it; a connection to him. Perhaps 'life' was the wrong word for it, but he couldn't think of anything else to call it. It buzzed with vitality; with warning; with suspicion. 'I can bite you,' it said. 'Keep your distance. I'm watching you.'
Whereas someone else would have taken that to heart and backed right off, James didn't fear it. He languidly brushed his fingers over the solid wall, then traced the rotting fencing beside it like one would pet a wary, aggressive dog. And like one, it emitted a tremble of energy as a secondary warning: but it was all bark and no bite.
James withdrew his touch, and wondered what it meant.
During this, Harry soaked in the pieces of a life that had ended so long ago; one that he had to leave far behind when their Cheryl had died, too. He'd intended to raise their little girl in the same house the Masons had begun their family in, but that was before the tragedy of Silent Hill. The pain of severing Jodi from his life like that had felt crass, but he couldn't exist in that house anymore. It made him sick: literally and figuratively. Saying goodbye to her beloved room had tortured him ever since the day he stood in the empty space that seemed to cry and plead for him to change his mind.
For years, he couldn't look at this shade of blue without bursting into tears. Seeing it now, he felt removed from it, and a little bit soothed. Its significance somehow dulled the pain and turned it into a fond, faraway memory. Perhaps Harry had finally learned to let go of Jodi's room. Or, perhaps, seeing it here did the job for him. It didn't matter, in the end. He'd let go.
It was as relieving as it was sad.
He looked down at the rug, automatically searching it for the red wine and gravy stains they couldn't get out, a dinner interrupted by play: and there it was, to the right of the bench. Harry stretched his neck side to side and rolled his shoulders. Silent Hill's attention to detail was extraordinary. It must've taken a good effort to recreate all this - which made him wonder if that was the reason it'd sucked James dry for it. If so, what was the point of that? A performance like that couldn't've been its only goal here. There was something else it was gearing up for; there had to be. It wouldn't be Silent Hill if there wasn't.
With that in mind, he drew his eyes up to James. The conduit was at an Otherworld wall, studying it like a museum piece. He got a bad feeling about it. Harry would like to blame his delicate mental state on it; after all, that episode had truly frightened him half to death. Harry's head and heart were too shattered to try to piece together whatever the hell had happened. It didn't matter right then; there was no way he could process it now. He knew it'd hit him later.
That aside, James seemed to be treating the Otherworld with veneration. The bad feeling he had turned bitter and resentful. Albeit, like everything else, he'd just have to wait it out. His patience was a virtue that tended to pay off, after all.
On the other hand, it'd be nice to be able to plow through and get right to the point every now and then.
But even if you forget everything else, you must remember this, Harry Mason: James Sunderland cannot everbe trusted.
He always loathed that reminder.
Looking down at the piano, he pressed featherlight on a white key high on the scale. It gave under his finger, proving it was still functional. Harry stared down at the depressed key, and recalled Jodi Mason, formerly Escobar, making a dream out of hammered strings.
James startled and partially turned when the note cut through the silence like a freshly sharpened sword. The ping naturally petered to quiet. Harry stared at the indented key, picked up his finger with a flourish, and regarded James.
"We have a map. I suggest we get out of here and take a look at it somewhere else."
"Sure."
"And I can give you a proper Otherworld tour. You'll love it. There's twists and turns and fun for the whole family." Harry's smile was cheerful, and fruitless. He was fooling no one. Crossing the floor, he took up the backpack by its strap - by its damp shoulder strap.
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, falling to his knees. "The backpack is wet, everything could be fucked up! Shit, shit, shit ," Harry grit, taking out some of his obvious aggression in unzipping it.
James locked his jaw. They did not consider the deluge of his panic attack. He oversaw their most valuable assets frantically dug out and unceremoniously dropped at Harry's side, soaked through. The memo pads (which he cared about the most) and sketchbook were distorted by water damage, gun coated in a wet sheen, and the survivors at a total loss.
Harry sat back on his calves, and braced his weight on his knees. He let out a deep, haggard sigh. Everything that could be ruined, was ruined. James hung his shoulders, devastated and guilty over something he had no control over, but liable for all the same. Harry ran his hand hard over his hair, where it then held the back of his head.
In their tense silence, the distant clang and hum of engines spinning fans went on.
What could be said? What could be done? Nothing, they both knew: absolutely nothing.
They were fucked.
Slowly rubbing the nape of his neck, Harry fought to keep himself at bay. He was ready to cry, emotionally collapse, give Silent Hill the satisfaction it so clearly wanted; but he was profoundly stubborn to not let it win. It'd already had its fun a couple days ago with giving his psyche a good what-for. Today, it decided he'd had his rest and relaxation and upped the ante, defaming the memory of a woman he loved and rewrote their beloved song into a funeral procession.
As if that wasn't enough, why not top it all off with a good ol' wring-the-battery-pack-on-two-legs as a grand finale? Because sure; why not. Silent Hill must've been starving. Harry didn't know what to think of it, though it wasn't like he could think about anything right now.
What he did know was that having a breakdown wouldn't solve anything. What's done was done; that was that. Harry clenched his jaw so tight that his teeth felt like they could retract into his gums. He relegated his breaths, pasted the cracked pieces of himself back together with metaphorical stick glue, and began to refill the backpack.
James wondered if he should say something, like 'sorry,' or.. he didn't know what else. Talking, especially sympathy, was not his speciality. The veteran soon stood and handed it off to James. He accepted it without a word and pulled it on.
Harry procured his weapon from the top of the piano and passed James by, who then strolled after him. Pausing with Harry beyond the threshold, he reviewed the room along with the author, who had stopped to behold it one more time. There was a peculiar look on his face, and when he cast his eyes to the floor, his guardian did too.
"You see that?"
He didn't know what he was looking for. "See what?"
"Footsteps," Harry indicated by pointing the pipe at them. From his jacket, he steered the flashlight back and forth across the floor. Footsteps made of glossy hardwood caught the light where they'd tread - yet another anomaly in the presence of pockmarked rust. They marked a path taken about the area and led to the boundary where Jodi's disrespectful simulation met the real Otherworld. One footfall had abruptly broken at that border, dividing it into two; a boot heel of hardwood within the room, and no sight of it where they stood now.
Harry reflected upon it for a moment. They appeared to have been tracked by only one person. He inquisitively stomped one foot the empty space above the halved impression. An instant imprint of flooring revealed itself. Frowning more, Harry tapped his foot in the middle of the border between the room and hall, the reverse of the one beside it. And just like it, it only affected the inside perimeter.
They stared at the paradox in silence. James, in the pursuit of knowledge, brought his boot down in a clear area beside the partial Harry had left.
There was no change.
"Hm."
"That's fun." He saw James shrug in his peripheral vision. "Well, anyway. Let's forget any of that happened and take a look at the map we got."
Turning his back to the debauched parody of his wife's special place, Harry unsuccessfully rifled in his overstuffed pocket - then simply took out the whole mess to sift through. "Fuck me. I feel like a kangaroo." Such an off-the-wall comment prompted a sidelong frown from James. It went unseen. "My work desk is neater than this, and that's really saying something."
Since his guardian lacked any motive for engaging in chitchat, Harry was left to organize with the Otherworld noise as accompaniment. A few wrong papers later, he'd found what he wanted and stuffed everything else back in his jacket. He held up the school map.
The map had transmuted. Preluding the traumatic event in the music room, it'd been as plain as a map should be, whereas smatters of brownish, rusty colors, untidily circled areas, drawn arrows, and some of its text was crossed out and rewritten in clunky penmanship had replaced the entire page. Its opposite side was much the same, although an arrow pointed lengthwise on the top brim above the science room, which was directed at '3B.'
Harry made that side his priority, examining it closely. "There's our 3B," he muttered to James, tapping the place with his thumb. "Now to figure out how to get there."
Wedging the map back into the tight fit in his jacket, he eyed James staring around at the Otherworld in what seemed to be awe and reverence. Harry wasn't so sure if he liked the way he was taking it all in. But, he tried to reason, this was the first time he really got to experience it. The sneak peek at the hotel would've likely enthralled him, too, if he hadn't any aforesaid history with it.
"So? Whaddya think?"
James looked over. "About what?"
Harry gestured to their new landscape. "The Otherworld."
He set his gaze ahead. It was breathtaking . "It's not what I expected. Not that I couldn't really expect anything."
"That's for sure."
"I didn't know it'd completely change everything ," he went on, surveying their surroundings. "It doesn't even look like the school anymore."
Harry idly swung, then shouldered the steel rod. "Technically, it isn't. I guess. It's kind of like the Upside Down, but worse."
He glanced over. "The Upside Down?"
Harry shook his head, and the question, off. "Nevermind. Point is, is that things are gonna get a little confusing. Luckily, the school map seemed to reflect the change."
"How's that?"
"It was normal when I found it. I just looked at it again, and it'd changed to resemble the Otherworld. Still, it's probably not as accurate as we'd want it to be; it's kinda vague, which I'm sure was the point. But it's enough to give us an idea of what's around here."
".. mm."
"Speaking of, how're you feeling?" Harry asked, tilting his head.
James half-heartedly sneered. "Okay. Sorta drained."
"Guess that's expected." The conduit shrugged. "Guess it's good too that you can heal up pretty fast."
"Yeah. I'm still kinda sore."
Harry snorted. "Yeah, I imagine you're gonna be feeling that for awhile." Down came the pipe to be planted on the grate between his feet. The veteran then folded his hands over the hook and casually leaned into the would-be cane. "Okay. So we should find 3B, and if we've figured out anything about this place so far, we're gonna need to go on a wild goose chase before we get there." He idly rocked his weight on the rod as he mulled it over. "Sssooooo.. we're looking for whatever will give us eleven-thirty on the clock, that four's company but also a crowd riddle, and.. whatever else we need to pull back out to go over." A partial snarl lifted his upper lip. "Whatever's not too fucked up, that is."
"Should we do that now?"
He pouted thoughtfully for a moment's skip, then scoffed. "Tch, naaaah," Harry decided, pushing off his gory baton and jumping it in his hand for a more useful grip. "Let's fuck around for a bit and see what we can find, eh? It'll get you accustomed to the Otherworld, and I'll get to re-traumatize myself for the umpteenth time. Just for funsies."
James shrugged his shoulder. "You're the boss."
"Heh." Harry shot him a sideways grin. "Yeah, sure. And I'm ready to retire and hand it off to some spry young thing that'll turn the company into something I'd always dreamed it'd become."
He got a wary glance from James. "Oh?"
The patriarch stuck his hand in his pocket and slanted his head from side to side. "Oh, you'll do just fine filling the role, James. I have full confidence in you."
His voice went flat. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Harry's small smile faded, and in his profile, James briefly saw the deterioratiated, wounded old man that hid behind his brave countenance; the same one that had recently had its demoralizing spotlight. He didn't like it - it was uncomfortable, to say the least. But Harry was Harry, and he predictably fought through the short bout of deep depression to pull a shaky, jovial facade back together.
"I think we should see if we can hit up the boiler room first. Maybe run into a ghost or two. Say hi. I think that would be dandy."
"Sure. Whatever you say."
"Oh, James.. one day you'll regret those words."
He stepped into place at Harry's side. Unbeknownst to the father - the widower - that led their mission, James had long regretted his words, and his involvement, since day one.
But, then again: James had never been given a choice in the matter, nor would he ever, so as long as Harry Mason walked the streets of Silent Hill.