Yeah, so what if it made noise; it was the best goddamn noise James had heard in years .
Harry reclined on the gaudy, biker themed scoreboard and watched the cabinet lights flash while the flippers snapped the metal ball around the obstacle court. For an out-of-practice amateur, James could've earned a place in a championship as modest as he'd sold himself. The patriarch bit his lip, excited and anxious for the outcome as the minutes passed like seconds, and the numbers racked higher and higher.
Alas, the ball flew right down the middle and ended the game. He groaned. "Awww, whooomp, whaaaoomp."
The player's sigh breathed disappointment. Tension dropped James's shoulders before he drummed his fingers on the plastic sides, lightly smacked the panels, and drew back. Harry tilted his head, brows furrowed.
"What? That's it?"
"Two games is enough, Harry," said a man notably terrible, for once, at hiding his regret. "Two was already pushing it."
"Tch. We have time for one more game."
"No. We don't."
"I appreciate you being the responsible one here," Harry replied, wiggling his crossed arms and comfortably slumping on the machine. "But c'mon. One more for good luck."
Green eyes flicked over his big smile. Nostalgia and duty tried to overcome one another like an arm wrestling match between two bodybuilders. James really did want to keep playing, and who knows when he'd ever get a chance again? He sucked on his teeth a moment, then lowered his gaze to the pinball machine in all its bold colors and cheesy glory. A winner emerged, and he placed his hands on the metal trim.
Quite the shit-eating smirk crossed Harry's face as James considered the six digit numbers on the board, pulled back the spring knob, and launched the ball into a noisy battlefield of frenzy.
Harry was right about playing one more round. James felt goddamn high when they finally left the arcade. He missed the machine already. On the bright side, now he had one nice memory to daydream about. The silver tongued troublemaker himself felt the once-in-a-lifetime giddiness in the world-weary fellow at his side and thought that maybe, just maybe, if he wasn't projecting, there was a trace of jauntiness about his stride. It was cute.
So while it lasted, Harry had to bully him a little over it.
"I think you were lying to me about who you are, James."
He scoffed. "Oh, do you."
"I saw you in there. You zoned right in, blinders on; it was you and that pinball."
James watched everything else to keep from glimpsing Harry at all; his smug aura was enough. "It takes concentration."
"Just right in there," Harry recounted, overtly pantomiming the scene. "Keep your eyes on the prize. Time every hit, make every one count, it's you and the pinball against the world—"
"Okay, Harry."
"— numbers just goin' up, you got this, you're a fuckin' champ—"
"Jesus Christ."
Harry laughed, playfully swerving into James's side. James leaned away, sneering faintly at him, and pulled his arm from Harry's nudging elbow.
"Yeaaahh, I think you're lying to me," he restated, giving James his space. "But sure, okay Tommy, I'll keep your secrets."
"You're pretty hellbent on calling me Tommy."
"Am I wrong?"
James and Harry managed to catch each other's eye at the same time. "You'll never know."
"Oooooooooooooh," Harry said so histrionically that James really fought not to smile.
"Am I talkin' to Clark Kent, too?"
"Keep dreaming."
"Oh, buddy, I'm gonna have a lot to dream about at the end of this bullshit rigamarole," he chuckled. "Ohh, ohh.. James. You're a fuckin' delight. I can't imagine fucking up Silent Hill with anybody else, and I wouldn't have anyone else at all."
Those statements sounded brutally sarcastic to James, except he couldn't feel wronged by it. Harry had a way with tonal control that was sort of remarkable. He was reminded of the southern phrase 'bless your heart,' which was a deceptively kind way to say, 'you're an idiot.' As a matter of fact, James was convinced he'd been on the receiving end of an insult within a compliment more than a handful of times with Harry already; some were just sneakier than others.
Nevertheless, Harry sounded genuine enough about this one to be simply good intentions in mind, so James begrudgingly accepted it.
Harry shot a half grin at his comrade. "Surprised Silent Hill doesn't have Polybius," he offhandedly mused. "Out of everything else, I'd expect it here."
James didn't know what he was talking about, so he didn't ask. The conversation ended.
Though electricity had survived the town's destruction, it appeared choosy about what it wanted alight, and two of the old fashioned lamp posts stationed down the middle of the eldritch, permanent night bazaar road were among them. All around, twisted neon rods falsely advertised missing wares in magenta, yellow, and blue, providing dystopian glows on hollowed out storefronts. The illuminations were so old that the weakest hummed and flickered; a couple only did so when they passed, reminiscent of merchants hailing them to change their minds and come look at what's for sale.
Another triangular information kiosk acted as a protective golem midway down the wide hall. It guarded a tall barrier constructed of tables, chairs, store displays and mannequins, and its height matched the second floor. The framed map on the post restated how large the mall was and, akin to a condescending guard, mocked their curiosity to see sections of the city they were too lowly to explore.
However forcibly dissuaded they were from going into the adjoining east wing, the wall's unorthodox brick and mortar pulled Harry's curiosity. Laying amongst the stacks were torsos bearing four legs - two where they were supposed to be, and two where they weren't supposed to be. Someone had taken the bottom halves of two wobbly, jointed mannequins and glued them together. It looked like a chromosome. There were a few of these visible in the mess, and James knew better than to pray there weren't any more; they'd done enough jinxing for the time being.
This was not Harry's first encounter with the legs. They were as common as squirrels back in South Vale. James had once mildly explained that this breed of monster had 'belonged' to him. What he'd meant by 'belonged to him' was a code Harry wanted to crack, though in seeing these particular abominations again after such a long break, he also preferred to stuff that mystery right back into the junk closet.
"Well, that's funky; it's these things again. You think this is where they're being manufactured?" he joked, swinging a look at James. "I'd believe it. Seems like a likely place for rounding up mannequins for a mix-and-match."
"Mm."
"Shitty design. Kinda lazy. Y'know, you can't really go wrong appreciating a sweet set of gams, but eehh, I think four gets too close to being on the gratuitous side."
"Mm."
"I ever mention I hate mannequins?" Harry blathered. "They're creepy as hell. Ever since that Twilight Zone episode, I've never been able to look at 'em the same way."
Harry paused. He'd initially planned to do so in case James wanted to comment, but a memory tapped his shoulder. "Y'know, this reminds me," he murmured. "I saw a dress form back in the apartments when I first got here."
James snapped his eyes to their corners. "Could barely see it, being all dark in there," Harry went on. "But it had this.. aura. So I could see it." The veteran pursed his lips. "Kinda weird, but it was pretty. .. huh. I hadn't even thought of it since I'd first seen it."
Harry got the unique, foreboding feeling that he should stop talking about the dress form right now.Its onset was so sudden and frazzling that anxiety plunged to his gut like stone soup.
The discomfort begot one reviled, uncontrollable response. "It was wearing a pink sweater," Harry continued, gesturing over his jacket for example. "Nice dress, white collar. Floral, if I remember right. Really pretty. Modest, too. No idea what it was doing in there. The whole place looked like shit, and then there's this dress form, all nice and clean right in the middle of the floor, there.."
Silent hostility from James snapped at his cheek like a slavering police dog. Harry made the hapless defense of tilting his head away from James, unconsciously trying to avoid hypothetical foamy saliva spray and sharp teeth. He knew he'd crossed a line the moment he'd mentioned the dress form; his tongue was already untethered.
"Anyway," the slave of nervous compulsion said. "I dunno why I thought about it. It's neither here nor there. Well, maybe it's still there. I have no idea. I saw it and booked it. So we're not going that way, huh? Bummer. Maybe we should find another kiosk," Harry recommended, and turned away from James.
Despite there being a kiosk right in front of him, Harry either ignored it or couldn't register it during his scramble to escape the situation.
"Hope a Macy's wasn't on the other side. Shame it's kinda gone downhill in the recent years. It's still expensive as fuck, but like.. it has no business to be doing that shit anymore. In my opinion. Heh. Now, I'm not gonna lie to my own face and say that some of my opinions aren't shitty, but this one.."
The air simmered as they began to wander away, but Harry obviously kept talking. Tuning all that blabbering right out, James began to settle his visceral reaction to the information in record time.
If it wasn't one damn thing it was another. Mary - no, Silent Hill had already seen to introducing her to Harry. How early it'd been couldn't be answered, but James nevertheless wished he'd known. He wondered how long Silent Hill assumed Harry would keep it an unwitting secret. If it'd happened when he'd arrived, then Harry truly outdid himself; James figured plenty of chances had already passed for him to say something. The town must be rather impressed with him, too.
Fuckers. (On second thought, James retracted the sentiment from Harry's character. What Silent Hill did didn't fall on any fault he'd made.)
All this complicated a heap of potential attack methods from the town, in his mind, and how he could properly elude them. On an even darker note, it unquestionably affected how long he could keep her a secret. His chances didn't look promising anymore. However calmer than he'd expected himself to be after that slip of the tongue, James would be chomping on his spite for a good while.
And then, hair rose on the back of his neck as he felt a demanding, psychic string tug him in a different direction.
"Hey." James interjected, promptly shutting Harry up. "Let's go that way."
"Uhh.. sure.. if you want. Do y'see something, boy?"
"No. I just think we should go down there."
Harry shrugged. "Sure thing."
That felt out of the blue. Although James was a stilted and blunt young man, the spontaneity seemed too odd to fully ignore. James didn't give orders - not that Harry would call that an order, but a strong suggestion - often, though when he did, it was wise to heel. Harry was nowhere close to trusting the guy (for he regularly repeated the mantra, 'you cannot trust James Sunderland' ), but he knew for sure that his connection to Silent Hill made him a reliable bloodhound. Like it or not, Harry's hands were tied.
Whatever. It was too brief to think about it this much.
The north wing was where they went. Along this way were rows of gumball machines and dispensers containing throwaway toys in small plastic balls. Harry recognized them as a blessing and a curse. Children loved to spend their parents' quarters in these instant gratification scams. He'd seen many kids trying to bargain with their family for an impulse gamble, and a good less of them win the debate. Seeing them brought nostalgia, and he smiled softly as they passed.
Cheryl liked the machines too. Because Harry was Play-Doh in her hands, she'd steadily amassed an adequate collection of those cheap toys in her dresser drawer. More than once he'd caught her actually playing with them. In that regard he considered the money well spent - and felt proud that she was always grateful for the littlest things she received.
As for the gumballs, pink were the ones she pined for, whittling away her father's pocket change until the metal flap revealed her golden egg. Harry got all the other colors; and a handful of times he bulged his cheeks like a hamster with as many as he could fit. The trick would unfailingly send the little girl into giggles, and once Harry nearly choked. But to almost drop dead playing chubby bunny for her laugh was worth it, so he let her empty his pockets to the roulette until Cheryl got her favorite.
He kept a good handful of quarters in his pockets after that.
And he kept that habit for Heather. She wasn't much for the capsule toys; she liked the temporary tattoos and sticker cards. Harry had no qualms about allowing her to mark herself up in sticky transferable stencils. Yet as soon as they started to flake off she'd usually rub them to finish the job; just please, Heather, not at the dinner, lunch, breakfast, or restaurant table. He'd find their crumbles on the throw pillows; or her sheets; or even in his bed when she wanted to hang out and watch TV with him in his room. Harry grew fond of them.
Then there came a day when she no longer wanted to be a tatted up punk, so the short-lived barbed wire, hearts, and tribal designs turned into wistfulness.
Heather liked orange gumballs.
They were wandering down a hall that seemed to largely contain kids' stores - which would explain the abundance of coin machines. He recognized a popular clothing line; a small shop that began a world of a young boy's gaming dreams; the simplistic, cute animal company from overseas that girls lived for. These shops were in various states of decay and disorder, as was pattern, and their lost youth saddened Harry's heart.
The wing was surprisingly long. They followed the smooth curves of the walk, their boot heels a drummer's count off echoing through an empty venue where crowds had strayed from its performances quite some time ago. The anchor store could be seen in the distance and while it got closer and closer, nothing seemed important here. It was getting hard for Harry to speculate why James had wanted to come down this way.
As if on cue, his window shopping came to an abrupt end.
Tantamount to a diva on a stage for her rousing standing ovation stood a child's mannequin behind protective glass. He knew it was a little girl plainly by the costume she advertised. The statue itself was - well, had been - white, its smooth face wiped featureless, with molded plaster hair scooped short behind her neck. She was posed playful and inviting; parents could see their daughters in her, and children would recognize their friends.
This single parent saw her as his own, too, because she was supposed to be.
Harry slowly faced the window and stared down at the fake seven-year-old wearing Cheryl's final outfit. How vindictive it felt to see it; Silent Hill would always be so sore about his success long ago. He couldn't catch a fucking break, not that he expected one. His sweet daughter was the star of the town's shitty Broadway show, the hardest card that could be played against him, and he was getting sick of it.
But that wasn't the only mannequin in the window. James stared at a figure clothed in a denim dress and pink striped shirt. She was poised in the middle of a dance. Her molded ponytail flew suspended behind her head, pointlessly gathered by a hot pink scrunchie, and her face identically smoothed blank.
He sneered down at the petty vision of Laura. For ages, James had been so sure that he'd gotten over Laura; but apparently the town didn't think he was done with her. That pesky little urchin popped up wherever he went, just like the good ol' days. Similar to Harry's sentiments on Cheryl, howbeit Laura was infrequently used, the obsession with primarily exploiting her as bait was beginning to get on his nerves.
They ruminated on little girls they'd known: a precious daughter deeply loved by her fiercely loyal father, and an orphan who knew too much about a couple who used to be in love. The blasphemous figures behind the glass felt equivalent to grave markers awaiting approval from the men that commissioned them, and were the last to see them alive.
Then Harry and James recoiled from the window, blindsided hearts racing, when Cheryl's statue moved.
The white plaster girl in gingham and pink waved at them through the grimy window. She then clasped her hands behind her back, adorably swishing her torso to and fro as though she were about to ask for a cookie before dinner. The men could only watch in cold terror when the living mannequin turned to her stationary friend, patted the other girl's head, pivoted again, and headed for the shop doors.
She stood behind the handles and locked edges, deliberating them, then shoved on the glass. It didn't budge, but she pushed. And she pushed.
And she began to glitter from head to toe, cycling through to be every woman and girl they knew, everyone that was important: Heather, Angela, Dahlia, Maria, Cybil.
The woman he snuffed; the woman he revered.
Her form changed to reflect the heights and bodies of each woman and child she channelled, despite how she'd started as a seven-year-old.
Out of everything that stalked Mason and Sunderland through Old Silent Hill, they never expected that they'd see the kaleidoscope girl alive from the fiery gauntlet within the Lakeview Hotel.
But something was wrong with her. Her rapid transformations at the lodge had rotated seamlessly; here, they glitched and stuttered. Facades lagged a second behind the next; the face didn't fit the body worn; Angela wasn't that tall. The irregularities were more frightening than the act itself, and the exertion shared on each woman's face could be mistaken for pain.
The doors yielded to her at last. She stumbled into the mall in the wake of the flung doors, shuffling across the cracked tiles, and looked over at the two she tortured.
It's impossible how her many faces that somehow sat on a face so smooth and lifeless eyeballed them. But the three stared each other down, and she darted her - their - eyes between the men. Her appearance slowed. The women were gone. She was Laura and Cheryl; Laura and Cheryl.
Cheryl, then Laura, beckoned them to follow, and took off. The weary two didn't obey her. Once she realized, she half turned to frown at them. Cheryl cautiously looked around, impatiently stomped her foot, and glared until they heeled.
"Let's go!" Laura hissed demandingly, gesturing harder.
"Why are you doing this?" asked Harry, melancholy. The girl he didn't know scrunched her face.
"I'll tell you when we get there. Okay?"
Harry bleakly spread his arms, to which she nodded once, and ran off. He looked at the equally rankled man at his side. "Fuck this, am I right?"
"Mm."
"Yeah. Y'know, I wouldn't mind it much if you wanted to shoot me in the back or blow my head open right about now. I kinda encourage it. "
"Mm. What about Heather?"
Harry chuckled a sad sound. "Heh; yeah. C'mon. Let's go see what fucked up shit she wants to tell us now."
James tightened his hands around the shotgun and watched Harry's broad back move ahead, and thought, If only you should be so lucky to stay dead.