The Silent Hill Public Library, being the old, proud architectural masterpiece it was, had beautiful sidewalk appeal, fog be damned. Its dimensions were rather immense too, boasting north and south wings, stacked two stories high. Seeing as the travelers had been here before, albeit very briefly, they knew the landmark to be as big and stately inside as well; just how big, they now had the opportunity to find out.

It acquired its official place on the map, then they ventured inside.

The stale musk of books, antique wood, and aged carpet welcomed their noses and plastered a big smile on Harry's face. He took a stance in the great open hall and, like a swimmer breaking the water's surface at the end of a race, sucked the air into his lungs with gusto.

Ah - there was nothing quite like it! Call him crazy, but for a bibliophile like Harry, he was inhaling a temple's holy incense, or prescription aromatherapy for fraying minds, or getting a hit of his favorite drug - books. The common smell of libraries was a magic band-aid on his soul. He felt rejuvenated, for the most part - or for now.

(James and his nostrils, on the other hand, couldn't relate; he found the odor vaguely nauseating, almost moldy. It wasn't a big issue; there were always worse smells.)

The mansion's main hall was a spectacle unspoiled by the daytime drear. Lit by two giant, paned portrait windows on the eastern wall, and a glass dome unseen from the street, the fog's chromatic haze poured in far and wide, soft as chiffon, upon the central area. The natural glows washed its paint over the ornate, dark wood railings of the windows' flanking, second floor mezzanines, while blotting shadows and covering the patterned hardwood floor in an illusive blanket of snow.

The fog, for once, imbued a place in Silent Hill with harmless, friendly melancholy.

Beneath the second floor overhangs at the left and right, metal bookshelves offset the sophisticated aesthetic in rows of eyesores, sprawling endlessly into the dark on stormy blue industrial carpets that were pathed in fade from years of patron tread. Finally, serving as a divide between the north and south wings in center stage location were six elongated, royal study tables. They provided a prime, inspirational place to hunker down to work or congregate and, in the unspoken interest of laziness, the men chose the nearest table to set up shop.

James put the overstuffed knapsack down at the head of the table with a tempered, non-violent 'thud' (an act for which it was grateful). He unzipped the bag, parted its maw, and began to operate, one by one extracting the contents of its belly. The organs were, in turn, handed off to Harry, who commenced arranging their exhibit.

Unpacking seemed to take forever when the bag acted like the black hole in a magician's hat, but the work was done without complaint.

Eventually deflated, its guts totally purged, Harry stood back, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the table.

A beat went by. Harry shook his head and quietly respired, "Holy shit."

James looked up. He'd been triple-checking the bag's nooks and crannies just in case anything wanted to be difficult, and hide. He studied Harry, then the table. Robotically zipping the front pouch and gently tossing the bag underneath the table, he then strolled to Harry's side. He stood there, unblinkingly scanning the fruits of their efforts.

Holy shit, was right.

Harry'd put care and diligence into assembling a neat, categorized buffet line along the length of the table so everything could be clearly seen. James appreciated the vested interest in maintaining coherence, but what was a well-meaning endeavor, unfortunately, cultivated in a monumental visual overload.. not to pin total liability on his organizational choices, though, as the sheer amount of stuff on the table was simply unbelievable.

Harry ran his hand down his face, rubbed his mouth, and punched his fist into his hip. "James.. how the fuck did all this come out of the backpack? I feel like we unloaded half the fucking town and the kitchen sink!"

Smug pride upturned the corner of his mouth. He did do a pretty amazing job. "Yeah. It's a lot."

"How did you fit all'a this? What're you, a Tetris master, too?"

James hummed a small, deceptively modest chuckle. "Eh. I used magic."

"Magic, eh? You Silent Hill's Marie Kondo?"

"I dunno who that is, Harry."

"Ah, shit, right; well—"

"But I used gyromancy."

Harry had a laugh. "Okay that, I think, would be a better use of gyromancy, than anything else."

James looked over. "Do we even know what gyromancy is?"

".. whatever the fuck it is. I still don't know. Maybe that's one of the things we can finally figure out, huh?"

"Hmm. That'd probably be nice."

He shot James some lighthearted judgment. "Only probably? Heh; try 'useful'."

"Okay. That'd probably be useful."

"Damn right; I couldn't've said it better, myself."

They looked at the lineup, falling quiet. Again, while Harry's method was greatly helpful, it, like Brutus to Caesar, also seemed to stab them in the back. The mood sobered in quicksilver. The extent of their trove was suddenly very real, and very daunting.

".. shit." Harry murmured after a rope of silence. "This is a lot; the more I look at it, the more I think I want to light it all on fire. I seriously didn't think we had this much."

The conduit next to him shrugged. "Well.."

"I don't even know where we'd begin. How did we end up with all this shit?"

"You want to take everything," James testified, with a glance. "Which doesn't help."

Harry returned the better part of a glare. "No, I don't. If I did, we'd both be carrying backpacks. It's hard enough trying to compartmentalize in the moment what to take in case we might need it in the future, and not just take useless crap, but whatever, forget that. For right now, let's just figure out where we should start." He looked at the table. "We need to get going before we burn out just by looking at this."

He was right about that; James sure felt the overwhelm. They studied the collection together for a minute. Luckily for them (although Harry might politely disagree), James had a one-track mind, and so, a solution.

"You need to read the cult bible."

"Well, I've got some great news for ya, James!" Harry chirped, flashing him a big, sarcastic grin. (Correction: he passive-aggressively disagreed.) "I think I can finally clear a nice big space in my busy schedule and make the time to do that."

"Wow. That's great."

"You want me to get started on that now?"

"Yeah," he breezily replied. "You do that."

Nodding, Harry peeled his jacket, clipped his light to his sweater's dipped neckline, and pushed its maroon sleeves to his elbows. "Excellent. Well, since I've got my assignment, how about you? What're you going to do?"

But the bossy taskmaster standing there was quiet. His lips parted, then didn't.

"James?"

"I, uh.."

His voice faded. Harry set his things down and contemplated his companion, then the array, then duplicated the sequence once more.

Ah. He saw the problem. The poor guy was stuck, and he couldn't blame him; if James's preoccupation with getting him to read the cult bible hadn't let him off easy, he'd be in his shoes too right now. Hooking his hands on his hips, Harry thought on it, then asked, "What'd you grab from Balkan, again?"

James pointed at a short stack of tomes through his jacket pocket. "Those books."

"Okay. What are they? I don't remember if you told me what you'd picked up."

James gave a blasé shrug. "I dunno."

Harry, sidelong, looked unimpressed with him. This fucking guy. ".. o-kaaay. That was helpful. Why don't you check?"

James took his advice and grabbed a book. The patriarch watched him open it, flip the pages, close it, then interchange for another. He let the ritual rinse and repeat once before he tried to prompt for an answer to his question. "So, whadda we have?"

Innocent and logical as the inquiry was, it anyhow seemed to be the wrong one to ask. Harry frowned over the negativity suddenly curdling the air. Wondering what the hell just happened, he shifted his eyes to James.

In James, he saw his demeanor had gone stiff, his locked jaw bulging his cheek; uncomfortable tells that the average person could detect. But Harry, not on par with the average, saw and felt more. Trying not to be too alarmed by the bizarre change and seeds of panic and dread taking root didn't get easier, worry setting in as the apprehensive silence dragged on.

Next to him, James struggled to read the sentences printed on the page. It was impossible; the words swarmed together like trash in a polluted creek, and he couldn't think under the painful awareness of Harry's dissecting eyes, and worse, his patience. There was no ignoring that Harry knew something was wrong; and because sometimes - and he'd never admit it - James could be a worse actor than Harry.

He tried to order himself not to fumble his speech, to rebuild his bluff, but his tongue had already lost its equilibrium. ".. I.. uh.. I don't know if.. I don't know how any of this would be, uh.. if it's useful."

His head slanted. "Huh? Whadda'you mean?"

The lifted page rustled over James's bony finger. "Uh, well.. this is, um.. alchemy."

".. okay. What's wrong with alchemy? The Order uses it. It's important."

He faltered. "I know, but I just.."

James relapsed and clammed up double-quick, effectively booting Harry back into limbo. Totally baffled, he covertly eyeballed James, reassessing their off-kilter dynamic with greater urgency.

As a prolific empath, Harry's attunement swiftly diagnosed an aura, courtesy of James's insecurity, at play, here - a power imbalance. There was a disconcerting, infantile quality about it that invoked familiar, nostalgic origins of fear; fear of ridicule; fear of authority. Harry recognized it. He wished he didn't.

It was tragic to realize James felt stupid.

Empathy was a double edged sword and because of it, Harry's heart twisted itself dry. James felt like a little kid; a dunce, hot with shame, too brainless to articulate a simple answer to a simple question. And his deduction, should it sound too audacious for truth, could be fairly contested; Harry Mason's empathetic gift was extraordinary, and not infallible. That said, not many would ever forget the childhood impact of a teacher's humiliation. That shit sticks for life.

It hurt, but Harry didn't take it personally. He had to fix it, and act fast.

"You know, I picked up a shitload of papers off that desk back at the church." James glanced up. "A lot of 'em looked like alchemic equations and recipes, shit like that. If that's a book on alchemy, I'm gonna need that."

The younger looked unconvinced. "You could just look it up here, Harry."

"Sure, and I'm gonna - but that one's priceless, James. It's straight from the source. Everything else here?" he gestured at their surroundings, "is supplemental." He grinned. "Besides, having that? helps me be a liiiittle bit lazy, too. And, it'll set a standard - everything you, me, we picked up at the church is a good find, and it'll help cut out wasting time hunting for shit we don't actually need. You get me?"

James looked unswayed. Harry tried again. "You gotta remember something, James: knowledge is doors. Some doors are open, some you gotta knock on, and others are gonna be locked until you find the key." His lips grew a devilish smirk. ".. ooor until you pick the lock. Those books?" he pointed, "are our lockpicks, and our keys. Just some food for thought. Alright, enough of that, what's next?"

James set it down and picked up another. "This, is.. general occult, I guess."

"Cool. Definitely gonna need that," Harry said. "What else?"

The air seemed to be getting better, submitting to him the notion that his tactics might be working. Harry nevertheless knew better than to jump ahead and congratulate himself just yet, praying only that he can keep up the pace.

"This is.. um." James turned the pages at a turtle's pace. His sigh fluttered. "This is just.. insects."

The writer grinned. "Ooh, nice! Creepy crawlies. Well, and we know the cult's all about their insects and bugs - heh, might as well call 'em Beetlejuice at this point, eh? - and I didn't take notes at The Visualization of Insects, did you?" An expression of worry dimpled his forehead. "What? What's the matter?"

James sighed. "It's just.." He looked meaningfully around at the library. Harry repressed a groan. Ugh, not this again! he thought. What's it gonna take to get it through his head..?!

"James." The resident looked in askance. "Straight from the source, remember?"

"Yeah— it's just.."

"What?"

".. this is a weird book, Harry."

Harry put out his hand. "I thrive on weird. Lemme see."

James awkwardly watched while Harry leafed through the book. The dedicated scrutiny was fleeting. "Ooh, this is cool!" Harry eagerly exclaimed, skipping to another page. "Oh, shit.. I think.. this looks all handwritten! Oh man, these are actual drawings, too.. wow, this is fancy. Super cool."

James blinked. "Huh?" He leaned in to gander. "Uhh.. how can you tell? It looks like it's printed, Harry."

"Yeah, it does, because whomever wrote this has fucking incredible penmanship. But look, there're small inconsistencies in the letters and ink," he insisted, pointing out examples that, though shown to him, were extremely difficult to parse by James's untrained sight, "and back here, I saw a couple of smudges on the drawings."

So there were. (Harry's eagle eye was astounding, to say the least.) "Oh."

"Someone worked hard on this," Harry murmured. "I wonder how long it took to make.." A curious check of the front of the book for an author's name disclosed no one to credit; nor even a year, to rule its age. "Augh.. typical. No info. That's fucking annoying. Are those handwritten, too?"

James parted the previous books and bent to look. "Uhh.. maybe?"

Harry folded too, narrowing his lids. ".. yeah. Looks it." He lowered the book he held, comparing the three against each other. "The handwriting doesn't look.. quite the same.. aaand.. of course, no author. I wonder why; kinda pisses me off."

The conduit sent him a keek. "You wonder why it pisses you off?"

Harry snorted. He liked the dash of humor. "If only that was a no-brainer. No, it pisses me off that there's never any credit anywhere. We don't even get a fucking year. It was like that with the yearbooks too, remember? If you hadn't done the math, we wouldn't've known it was '92."

His hooked nose exhaled. "I don't get it. I guess the yearbook's one thing, stupid and weird as it is, but I really don't get why the Orderof all things would want to scrub that kinda info from their own materials. It doesn't make sense to me."

James didn't have much for him in the way of a reason, offering only his trademark gesture to soothe. "I dunno. Beats me."

"Yeah, beats me sideways and upside down, too. Oh well." Straightening his back, the veteran conversationally sighed over the lovingly crafted, and woefully parentless book o' bugs. "Guess it doesn't matter right now. What matters is that you picked up some really good shit. So kudos to you, James."

The conduit's gaze lingered searchingly on Harry's self. Caught still in the residuals of self-contention, he sought for signs of deceit where he already knew there wouldn't be any, then looked at the occult and alchemy books open before them. Little by little, James grew a spine against the overly-critical prattle in his head, and before he knew it, the voices fizzled out. (Maybe he did do a pretty fair job choosing what to bring, after all.)

Fwip! fwip! gasped flipping pages. Harry was deep in review. ".. mm.. hmm. Now, I'm just scanning here, trying to get a feel for what we've really got, but this looks like it's— looks like it goes pretty deep into a lot of shit."

That sounded improbable. They were just bugs - nothing deep about that. "Like what? Or.. how?"

"You'd be surprised. There's lots of symbolism in stuff like bugs, when you look at it from a cultural standpoint. Which.. seems to be the case, here. It looks like we've got some stuff on entomological significance in, uh, a whole bunch of.. of, practices, or.. or, something like..—damn, this's kinda hard to.."

He lost interest in finishing the sentence, brows furrowed low. James waited. And waited. Then said, "What were you going to say?"

"Huh? — oh. Well, it's kinda hard to say; there's a lot of.. uhh, let's call it, 'technical mumbo jumbo' in here, so thank god we're in a library to look it up." (James rolled his eyes.) "But from what I can tell right now," he said, "it looks like we're looking at a possible tie-in t— no, a definite tie-in to not just the occult, and the Order, but even medicinal practices, and, uh.."

Distraction, again, got the better of him. James shot an impatient huff. "And?"

"And even.. .. hm." Harry licked, then chewed on his lip. "You know what? Nevermind. I don't wanna get ahead of myself. I'll look at it later."

What a pleasant, relieving thing to hear. "'Kay."

Harry put it down with the others. "Anyway. I'm gonna get started on the cult bible. So. Now that we know what the books are, you're gonna need to figure out what to do."

"Yeah. I know. That's the problem we had before, Harry. But I'm not really good at this research thing."

Harry explored the table. Following a thought, he said, "Okay. I got an idea. And it's gonna help both of us."

It was time to teach an old dog new tricks - indispensable tricks. They needed the conduit to be knowledgeable and self-sufficient, and above all, in Harry's mind, confident. Though anticipating a shaky learning process, nerdiness in high school, plus an accumulated twenty years of fatherhood, had made him something of a study pundit with a few tricks of his own to spare.

So with that, Harry got his notepad, sat James down, and taught him the benchmarks of research.

Being privileged to possess insurmountable patience really shone through during this time. Harry's flexibility allowed quick adjustments in approaching James's learning style, tough as it was for both to interpret. Obstacles aside, James grasped the main concepts in no time at all.

Now educated on how to draft an efficient outline; how to cross-reference; what to look for in a resource; and how to take productive notes, it was time to tackle the hardest part: the library's Dewey decimal system.

James hated it as much as Harry claimed to; it was antiquated, confusing, and faulty, but all they had to work with. Practice makes perfect, so the story goes, and there was no time to waste. Clutching a tidy list of combined suggestions and Harry's projected needs, James flew from the nest into the wild literary yonder to go play fetch.

The errand took longer than desired. James returned frustrated and short-tempered enough to call it quits on his end for now. Harry sympathized with that. "Yeah, I can see you're beat," he sighed. "I'm kind of afraid we overdid it; or, I overdid it. Got too excited and packed too much, too soon into your brain." He smiled, apologetically. "Sorry about that, bud."

Even though blame for the near-immediate burnout wasn't put on his brand, newly-learned skills, and it was James's problem that he got sapped so fast, what Harry said sorta stung. "Maybe," he shrugged. "I guess. I don't know. I just.."

He cast apprehension at the hearty collection on the table. There was no reason to finish the thought, because Harry heard it loud and clear: James needed a break. Badly.

He set down his pen, slumped comfortably in the chair, and folded his arms, peering up at him. James met his eyes.

"I think you need to take five for a while," ruled the parental authority Harry was never without. "You look deader than usual."

How diplomatic. "Thanks, asshole."

"Yeah! You're welcome." He smiled back, softer and kinder. "Take a break, James. Go do whatever it is you do when I'm not looking. I'm gonna keep working - I'm kind of on a roll."

James liked the good news, but felt conflicted. A break definitely sounded nice, and he did desperately need one. Thing is.. he didn't exactly feel like one yet. His eyes rode the magnetic recall to the collected paraphernalia. He realized that he was still in the mood to work - so long as the particular work he'd do wasn't going to be that shit. The offer was turned down.

"I'm good."

Harry chose not to argue. "Alright. So what are you going to work on, then?"

Aaand they were back at the start with the million dollar question that just wouldn't die. "I dunno."

"Just whatever isn't that, huh?" nodded his mentor, at the table.

He espied it again. Great minds think alike. "Yeah."

A substitute idea soon spawned. "Y'know..? Do me a favor."

The interest was indifferent. Harry strongly predicted that'd change in his favor, for the bait attached to his lure was mighty tasty. "The Walter Sullivan case. You wanted to know more about it, right?"

It was one of those "blink and you'll miss it" glints in his green eyes, but James perked up. Harry saw it. Knew it. "It might be a long shot, but I think we should explore all avenues, right?" He shrugged. "Who knows? Could be relevant."

Also relevant, was discretion. ".. why?"

"Heh! Well for starters, the guy had cult origins and ties to Silent Hill, if you can believe it. He came from some orphanage around here," history revealed. "I dunno where, I forget what it's called, but I'll betcha you can find that out when you look it up."

Suspension of disbelief spotted a little hole in the sales pitch. "But what's he have to do with us?"

"I dunno! But the cult's involved. Explore all avenues, right?"

Simple enough. "Okay. How do I look it up?"

"There're probably some reading machines around here, somewhere. There's gotta be. This place is too big and too snazzy not to have 'em somewhere. They'll come with an archive, with backlogs. You take them out, put 'em in the machine, boot it up, aand et voilà! - now you're readin' history."

For something he didn't definitively know would be here, he damn sure sounded presumptuous about it. Whilst irritating James for some dumb reason or another, everything else seemed to check out— except for the two problems that came up. "I don't know how to use them. And won't they need electricity?"

Harry needed only a flat stare to accuse James of being a killjoy. "Hrm. Good point. Shit."

Unaffected by the slight, James watched Harry mull, scan the room, then abruptly strike his palm on the table. (And unaffected, he remained.)

"Fuck it. Let's go check it out anyway; maybe we'll luck out. I could honestly use a quick break." He nodded once. "Yeah, let's do that. I could use a quick walkabout and stretch my legs - feels like I've been sitting around for too long."

The middle aged bibliophile rose to his feet and stretched his limbs. "Mmm-mmmMF —! —Aaahh. Alright," he declared, scooping his left, beckoning arm high. "Let's go."

Consulting a copy of the building's directory they found plastered to a nearby pillar suggested finding the machines and archive in the north wing's basement level. Harry first had to brag, "Ahaa, a basement! I knew it was way bigger than it looked!" and then, the men embarked.

While exciting to be together on this mini safari into the north wing, they were slow to advance. Signs seemed to be everywhere, which in theory, should've been helpful. Unfortunately, whomever's good intentions were responsible for posting directions had good intentions too many, accruing instead an immoral amount of signs that merely led to twists and turns, and patron discontent.

Discounting the joy of (as Harry so eloquently put it), 'being led around by their dicks', the runaround didn't much dampen their explorative mood. (On that note, further joke commentary from Harry suggesting the building itself, on its own volition, was yanking their chains for a quick giggle could be debated to have been made in poor taste.) But the right corner was turned anon, and they finally found the basement level stairs.

Descending, and relentlessly scouting the depths for the projected 'X' that marked the spot brought their journey to an end in the most elusive location: behind the stairs. Tucked away back there in a strange, recessed corner area, the survivors struck gold in the form of three microform reading machines and, mere steps away in the hard corner and built protruding from the left wall much like a shed, was their archival mine.

But the two should've known they'd see lousy victory. With their mission concluded through the machines' failure to wake, it seemed like all there was left to do was stamp the corresponding space on their mental Silent Hill bingo cards, and put their heads together to come up with yet another plan.

James, sick of it all and in no mood to think, said he wanted to bow out. Harry, merciful to his plight, excused him from the process, but requested that he stick around. Demoralized yet willing to comply, James wandered into the archive to sulk.

A foot past the open door, James guided the light via his pocket at the menagerie laid out before him, and forgot to brood.

One would never guess from looking at the exterior dimensions that the archive could be so ample in length and width, or be outfitted with this much stock. There were multiple rows of shelves built into the wall, where hundreds of palm-sized, white, waxy paper boxes were crammed from end to end, with seldom an empty space. Splitting the room like a hedge were another two rows of metal cabinets, measuring long and chest high and pressed back to back, creating un-claustrophobic aisles on either side where even a population of three could cruise the shelves in comfort and leisure.

It was enticing. James crept forward onto the right hand path, flashlight in constant motion. The beam snagged on the indentation of a doorway installed in the way back, and he immediately jerked the passing spotlight to it.

It was, to say the least, a peculiar spot for a door. Knowing the closet itself was built on that left wall, it seemed strange that there'd be an adjacent room. Drawn to it, James started to backtrack around the cabinets to the left aisle for inspection.

He wouldn't go far. Outside, a switch on a machine snapped to ON, an old motor gasped, began to whir and drone, and, in being totally blindsided by the noise, James was scared straight shitless. He whirled around, wild-eyed and frozen in place, and stared at the blazing yellow glow flooding in through the door.

The whirring mounted, accelerated, boiling age and gravel into the drone as the cold machine thrust its all into awakening from its coma. Overeager to warm and caring not for humankind's weak ears as it did so, the motor pushed itself harder again, its noise now rapidly evolving, blasting their eardrums with the same power of ten ferocious gales rushing a storm through a dense forest.

James, rooted in place, started to panic. The rally was getting fanatical, angry, and louder STILL, and he wondered if it was overheating and on the brink of death. But it was then that it peaked, lambasting the north wing basement and combined four ears with a roar, a rebel's song of glory equal to none - for the microform machine had been given a successful reintroduction to life.

And then, now that the fight was won, the machine calmly breathed out.

He heard Harry cheer over the motor de-escalating, whooshing all the way down to a happy, contented purr.

"WOOHOO! Gotcha!"

James got himself together and exited the shed to be immediately stung by bright yellow light. It forced him to slat his eyes in order to witness Harry's enthusiastic fist pump.

"Hey, James! C'mere! I— oh. Hi. You're right there." Harry blinked. "Of course you are. But hey, check it out; I fixed it!" he said, proudly basking in the flare. "Ask me. Ask me how I did it. You'll never believe it."

"How? How'd you fix it?"

He grinned like a piranha in a chum bucket. "I plugged it in."

James stared. No; he really couldn't. "You're shitting me. Are the others unplugged, too?"

"Don't know. This was the first one I checked, so I didn't take a look at the others. But I suggest we be wise and not look a gift horse in the mouth," the superstitious man smartly warned, waggling his finger by his head. "We got one working. Now let's thank God for Her kindness, and see if we can dig up some old dirt on Walter Sullivan."

James was learning a lot that day, but two important facts stood out: one, that nerds were a backbone to society he didn't expect and two, he was very fortunate to travel with one so accomplished. Harry commenced teaching another crash course, this time, a lesson in locating desired reels and slides in the archive, and operating the machine. It went well.

Knowledge was powered by curiosity. They were respectable attributes on their own that, when Harry Mason's insatiable thirst and cherry-picking tendencies were involved, were transformed into double threats. As a result, the amateur research student found himself benched on the sidelines in no time flat, reassuming the role of observer instead of doer while his mentor hogged the machine for some preliminary snooping.

(And yet, this was fine; it was helpful to him to watch it in use, and plus, Harry seemed to be having fun. James knew abandoning Walter's case wasn't exactly intentional, or long-term. He'd let him indulge for a couple minutes. Harry deserved a little break, himself.)

The projection screen allowed him to read along over Harry's shoulder. The article right now was about Mrs. Morganstan's famous dahlias claiming first prize in a now-three-year-long winning streak at Brahms's summer fair. It was sort of boring.

"Small town news.. it's aaaalways about the dahlias. Though I think the less mention of dahlias around here, the better." He peeked back at him. "Is it weird that I'm kinda getting deja vu looking at this?"

James shook his head. "Nah.. I think you read it somewhere before. Or.. I remember you mentioning it."

His shoulders bounced. "Eh. Whatever. You still gotta love it." He continued the reel.

A black and white picture of an older woman donned in a sleeveless cotton dress scrolled into view. Her wrinkly arms tenderly cradled a decorative flower pot tagged by a first prize ribbon, and ripe with full-bloom dahlias. She held the nest of pom-pom heads to her shoulder like a babe, wisps of grey hair escaping from their gather beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat crowning her head. It suited her and her like the thrice-ruling, matron monarch of the fairgrounds she was.

Harry stopped the reel to stare at Mrs. Bethany Morganstan. James passively studied the sixty-or-seventy-something-year-old retiree for a moment until the patriarch, again looking back over his shoulder, caught his eye.

"You know..? This gave me an idea, in case you bomb out with Walter Sullivan. Or if you get bored with him."

Harry was bursting at the seams with ideas today. ".. yeah?"

"Yeah. You can look into Silent Hill's old newspapers as a whole, see what they say, just in general. And when I say the town news, I mean, just the town news."

James didn't get it.

"Well, our focus is centric to the town, right? If you go through all'f Silent Hill's old newspaper archives, maybe you can spot something that's fallen through the cracks; or something I forgot about."

The idea was cool, but provoked hesitation. "That's a lot of newspapers, Harry."

"Yes, I know, but like I said, you can do this if you get bored with Walter. Or you can just.. do this instead of bothering with him for now. I'd still like to come back to him, either way." Harry paused in thought. "You know—"

"You said he came from Silent Hill."

"He did, but just, hang on a second." He turned to him. "You might actually want to start with the town news instead of Walter."

James scrunched his nose, exasperated and confused. "Why? We can't keep getting sidetracked, Harry! Ugh, c'mon.."

"Look, James: the heart and soul of our problems is the town itself. Right? Walter Sullivan, while I think he's important enough to want to pursue, isn't as important as Silent Hill is, as a whole. Besides - the guy was national news. You'll probably come across him in papers along the way."

"Why was he national news?"

"Murderer. Serial killer type. And the media loves that stuff, so people went bananas over it when the cult shit came out. Doesn't matter." He waved it away, eyes drifting to the archive room. ".. hm. Bear with me for a second, Ja— just bear with me, for a few seconds longer. I wanna check something, cuz I'll bet.."

Harry suddenly all but dashed for the neighboring room. It took James's brain a moment to react, but then, was right behind him. He watched from the doorway as his ward grabbed boxes off the shelves, checked the label and contents, and put them back over and over like an indecisive burglar. "What're you looking for?

But he wasn't answered; maybe ignored? Or perhaps Harry was so in the zone that he tunneled and didn't hear him, which was likeliest. "Harry," he tried again. "What're you looking for?"

"Just— just hang on, James, one.. just give me one— ha HA! Fuck yes, I found one!" Harry whipped around, beaming. "I knew they had to have at least one! "

Looking at the trophy Harry held aloft, James asked, "What is it?"

Harry puffed his chest like a pigeon. "South Vale."

Oh ho, he hoped he'd see a look like that on James's face. Harry had his full attention hook, line, and sinker, and he felt absolutely wicked about it. "Though of course it shouldn't come as any surprise to you that South Vale has its own newspaper, knowing the library's got backlogs of it opens up a hell of a lot of potential for us."

James gazed at the box. He didn't dare yet interrupt.

"Now, I dunno how many they'd have here, and some of 'em are probably in slides," assumed Harry, "but my thought process is, that since they've got at least one from South Vale, there's gotta be others from the other neighborhoods, too. I know there are other neighborhoods around here."

He turned a grimace at the floor. "At least, I think so, right? I know Silent Hill's way bigger than it looks, and people think that it is.."

"I don't know."

"I think so. I think they surround Lake Toluca, and—"

"Toluca Lake," correction uttered.

His hands became his shield. "Oh, excuuse me; Toluca Lake. Pardon me for being a flatlander."

James took no offense. He did, however, shoot Harry a quizzical look; he hadn't heard him use that word before. Harry didn't elaborate. "Anyway, I know we saw signs for another neighborhood— or district, whatever the fuck it is. You know what I'm talking about, right? Didn't we see a name for one, somewhere..?"

James searched his brain. "Uhh.. you mean Shepherd's Glen?"

"Yeah, that one - that sounds right. So look into that, too; see if you can't pull up a map of Shepherd's Glen, or any maps of the surrounding area. Find us a full map of Silent Hill if you can - and I'll look, too. They're out there, I've seen 'em before." The writer shrugged. "I've actually got one at home."

James didn't have a relevant comment, and didn't want to ask; what he really wanted, was to get his hands on that goddamn fucking box.

As if reading his mind, Harry approached the conduit at last, and presented the treasure to James. "So if you ever wanted to be an investigative journalist, James, now's your chance. .. here. All yours, bud. I hope there's more for you to find in here."

James gingerly received the gift. "Yeah.. thanks. Got it."

"Great. Well.. I think that's a good assignment for you then, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Great. I feel a lot better about things now, heh. Don't you?"

"Yeah."

".. yeah." Harry sighed, taking a gander about the room. ".. well.. guess that's it for me, then. .. uuggh, but I'm so jealous!" he complained. "You're lucky you get to do this, you know that?"

There was a snort from James that sounded an awful lot like, 'Yeah, I know.' Smug. Lording it over him.

It made Harry smile.

"This place is huge, too - waaay bigger than I'd thought. Heh. I can't wait to get my turn with all this. At least I got to get some kicks to hold me over.." The veteran looked around, seeming a little sad to know he had to go, then sighed. "Alright. I gotta get back to bible thumping. You sure got a hang of this?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Alright, but before I get outta your hair for good, lemme just see you operate the machine once before I go; just in case. I don't want us to run into any problems, and me having to keep coming back and forth to see what's up. Sound good?"

Sounded good. Once James successfully demonstrated his aptitude with the reel already in the machine, Harry wished him good luck, and reluctantly left him to it.

Alone at last, James stood at the machine, the South Vale reel still trapped in its box, and wondered how to proceed.

He knew better than anyone that this project could be more than bargained for, and because of that, he needed to prepare. How to, escaped him - as did how to protect himself, how to keep what he saw safe from prying "eyes" - or even the impossible feat of trying to get one step ahead of the town that controlled his existence.

Because Silent Hill was more than just a town built on the shores of a devastating, hungry, and beautiful lake located in the great state of Maine; more than just a scenic resort, a weekend getaway; a perfect honeymoon. Its history was as lush, mysterious, and deadly as its nature, and so much of it was right here at his fingertips, and a short walk away. What it, and everything in it, was, was a living trap.

It's way more than just a town, he thought. Everyone knows that. It's just that James has known that for eighteen years in a way that no one else would.

He was its conduit. He was, as he knew himself to be, the very town itself on two legs; and most importantly, he was its favorite.

Not Alessa; not Cheryl; not Heather.

He.

But in knowing his importance, he understood there were things the land didn't want him to know; though if Silent Hill didn't want him to start poking around and learning things it didn't want him to know, then it should've kept him in South Vale, James thought, as his hands removed the South Vale reel from the box and fit it in the machine.

The South Vale Tribune's blurry title reflected in his eyes. Seeing it roused a deep ache that he really wanted to abhor, and the guilt seeped into his guts as he adjusted the lens to turn the fuzzy text, crisp.

The bold headline gracing the front page attracted his gaze, but he didn't read it. There was a picture directly beneath that took precedence in attention. It was a beautiful photo shot by a keen photographer, and it made him feel sick to his stomach. James felt pained, and fucking sick with hatred; sick with disgust; disgust that was for himself, because he missed it .

Yes, what he felt looking at the paper was homesickness; pride; the kind synonymous with love for one's hometown; a bitter pill James swallowed dry. It was reallyfucked up, and yet.. while James felt guilty about it, he didn't - couldn't- feel shame for it - or for the fact that the most fucked up part was that he missed her, on the front page: Toluca Lake.

Home.

And with that morbid, lonesome thought to think and keep him company, James began to read old news about a place he couldn't help but love and miss as, all the while, the dark read along over his shoulder.

— —

Hours later, James took a break. He left the machine on and wandered back to the main hall.

Or, tried to wander back to the main hall.

Going upstairs quickly reminded him how disorienting the floor was to navigate. But pathing the maze didn't feel like much of a chore at the moment. He was glad to walk around. His eyes were tired after a long session at the reading machine, and with all the new knowledge in his head, his brain felt numb. But oh, he didn't care.

Being relaxed had never felt so good.

James hadn't gotten a real chance to recover since Midwich. Like a severe case of Thanksgiving indigestion, James had been feeling heavy and bloated with overstock this whole time, and the only antacid available was separation from Harry. In his unexplainable case, it irrefutably turned out that he could, indeed, have too much of a good thing. He, in short, had been feeling like processed shit.

But now with an unknown amount of hours away from the legendary, energy-sapping patriarch - and howbeit not feeling perfect or even "normal" by any regular means - James finally felt the best he had in too damn long: restored, and most importantly, balanced.

Harry must be feeling better too, he imagined. The two men were, in spite of it being needless to say, extremely different people in just about every sense. It was also almost pointless to say that James despised Harry's very human existence and emotional range, but there was another sub-point to his list of Harry-related grievances: he didn't know if he affected Harry.

On the other hand, James wasn't even sure if it mattered. Without symptoms there could be no diagnosis and quite honestly, James preferred not to know. Ignorance, after all, was truly bliss; or would be, if James could help it.

When he got back to "headquarters", he found the area enrobed in the black velvet ocean of night. The windows framed nothingness and the dome, an inverted void encasing the institution within an obsidian jewel pendant. It was lonely and beautiful. And odd, he thought, suspiciously looking around. It shouldn't be so dark.

Right now, the sole source of light brightening up the place came from his breast pocket, when there ought to be another. The secondary was missing, and Harry, with it.

James instinctively held his breath while he strained his ears to listen for signs of life, and yet, the auditory absence was as vast as the pitch of black. He exhaled. Shrugging to himself, James meandered over to their little tabletop camp. Perhaps he should've been more alarmed to find himself very alone in an area that shouldn't've been unoccupied, or even concerned for the well-being of his missing companion, he wasn't. He figured Harry must've gone book hunting, and was content with the logic.

Conducting a quick survey of their catalogue reported its organized state disturbed, pieces missing. Following the lineup drew him to the neighboring table, and the new colony of books it supported. Curiously going over to inspect the new terrain exposed him to the fact that there was much more to it than just the books.

James looked down at the artful chaos that represented Harry's hibernating workspaceand found that there were, in his novice, uneducated opinion, a stupid amount of books.

No, really; good fucking god, this was actually abominable.

Acting like a scholarly, reimagined Great Wall of China, tomes left in varying states of reading (or not) protectively bulwarked loose papers, the notepads dated and contemporary, a notebook (new to his eyes) centerpiece, other resources pulled from the shelves— and it only got worse. The school files and, somehow, even MORE sheets gone solo blanketed the book stronghold like flat paper snow, puzzling James into wondering where the hell they'd all come from. Had Harry really taken this much? Had they always had this much?

It was boggling. Unsure whether he should be again impressed with himself for his exquisite talent for packing all this crap or annoyed at the devolution into mess, James shook his head, and peered at the notebook.

The current pages presented a massacre of indented bullet point lists, paragraphs, fragments, and charts. Turning them back revealed brainstorming webs that looked like molecules. Lines short and long splintered off from circles housing solitary words and seemingly disjointed thoughts, connecting splatters with crumbs. (Trying to make sense of it was like reading a family tree primarily built on the relationships of illegitimate children.) If that weren't dizzying enough, any potential free plots of paper land were monopolized by question marks, annotations, and other scraps of drivel that, when going further into the log, seemed to be standard to afterthought.

James, having earlier completed Harry's note-taking 101 course, recognized some of the tips and tricks he'd been taught. Of course, a hefty fraction of the notes contained a mixture of the English language he knew, and a unique text created and spoken by only one man. Its purpose, meant for easy jotting things down, also served a privacy barrier against the ordinary layman's pesky intrusion. Thanks, however, to his extensive study of the sacred memoir of 1999, James had been granted the fine perk of being able to decode some of these; but not all. Many were new to his eyes, for passing years brought developments.

Which seemed to include, James realized as he flipped the pages, a change of script preference.

Cursive was rare. Print reigned king these days, small yet legible, penned with the slightest slant, as though his hand's muscle memory was haunted by cursive's leftovers. Interesting. He wondered why Harry switched. The writing looked more masculine (though not any less elegant), and it was handsome, yet James found himself partial to the loopy style he'd grown accustomed to reading.

Still, he thought he was allowed to feel justified in feeling a little smug. Knowing his shorthand sort of gave him a bit of the upper hand over Harry, didn't it? Maybe so, but humility was there to knock James down a peg when he had to come to terms with finding it difficult to judge what, exactly, he was looking at.

What he did know, is that what he read was an eye-crossing snooze. Satisfied enough with the progress, James's attention soon abandoned it in favor of one of the loose papers. Just as he reached for one at random, the sound of footsteps hitting the hardwood floor signaled his wayward sidekick's return.

"Hey, buddy!" the cheerful greeting echoed. "You comin' up for air?"

About damn time, James thought, and scoffed from his nose. "Yeah. Brain's slosh."

Harry approached from the opposite side of the table, the previously missing light sharply reflecting gleams off the table surface. James flinched from the glare, squinted harder against its ricochet off laminated covers crinkling noisily as Harry pushed a new stack of books across the middle, towards his work station. James insulted them with a mild frown.

Seriously?! he inwardly groused, aghast. How many does he need?!

"Heh, I can imagine. You've been at it for hours. I dunno if you noticed, but it's night out."

"No. I didn't. When did that happen."

"Heh, you're cute. If you don't watch out, you're gonna get addicted to that thing, and I'm not gonna blame you one bit. Once you get the hang of it, the world is your oyster, and it's goddamn fun to crack it open, huh?"

"Yeah."

Harry grinned, placing his hands on his hips. "I still can't tell you how jealous I am that you've been doing all the fun stuff down there, while I'm up here getting ass deep in all this other bullshit."

"Yeah."

"Wanna switch?"

"No."

"Psh." His hands didn't remain on his hips for long, for Harry soon folded, and snuggled his arms over his chest. "Anyway, whadja find out?"

James looked at the back of the page. "A lot."

His unwillingness to expand without encouragement was ritualistic by this point. Harry was used to it. "Like what?"

James, ever compliant with regulations, gave him the dead-end answer he expected. "A lot." The paper went down. He nodded at the notebook. "You found one. Where'd you find it?"

"Over there, somewhere." He said, gesturing in the direction of the front desk. "Wasn't brand new. Somebody'd been using it. Had to tear out a few pages, but it wasn't anything special, just looked like homework."

"Mm." James looked off into the dark. "Were there any others?"

"Others of what? Notebooks?" James nodded. Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I wasn't specifically looking for more than one. .. why, you thinking y—"

"I'm thinking I'm gonna need one." They looked at each other. "Jinx."

Harry grinned wide. What a scamp. "Aww, beat me to it. Heh. Yeah though, it probably wouldn't hurt for you to start taking notes of your own. It'd be nice to have backup.. and a different perspective. I know you don't like to share your thoughts, but I'd like to know what you have to think about all this shit."

James put his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. I know that."

He regarded his counterpart with a small, playful smile. "I also think you're nuts if you thought you were just gonna try to wing it and try to remember everything you read from the get-go," he teased. "I love the commitment, though."

His eyes up in their sockets. "Whatever, Harry. Just—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll keep my eyes peeled. Or.. no. Actually? No, fuck it: let's do that now," Harry said. "Skip the scrambling around later, for when you wanna go back to it. Time is money. Whaddya say?"

"Fine."

"Attaboy."

The search was on. In a few subsequent minutes, and not far away from the front desk starting point, the search was off.

In an area of the south wing's bookshelf forest, was a clearing. Surrounding chairs, tables, and bookcases isolated a small, standalone listening room in a vague impression of a faerie circle, senselessly isolating it from the rest of the floor. Its door was closed.

James couldn't recall noticing it before, when he was on his errand. Harry quipped, "That's strange."

Yeah. A little.

On the outside, it looked pretty small, but entering found the interior to be the exact polar opposite of the microfilm archives: tiny at best, and claustrophobic, at worst. The room itself was just a glorified box to the degree that even using 'glorified' to describe it is being excessively generous.

Taking up most of the space were the island of five metal cabinets planted dead center, four back to back, and one to cap. Two of the drawers kindly opened to the men, but previewed only their empty depths, instead of actual storage. Atop one was a clipboard biting check-out form for cassettes and VHS tapes, clueing them in to what were allegedly stored here, and that they'd found the listening room.

Going on, three out of the four walls of the room were white, as the one on their left upon entering was made of glass. All of them, though, were snaked by a bar-style counter, with tall cafe chairs intermittently placed and tucked under its rim. Though it was clear the design was supposed to be a space-saving feature with a hip and modern edge, it just looked and felt squeezing, like multiple layers of rubber bands.

But it was here on this counter, that an orphaned spiral-bound notebook awaited James's ownership; but it wasn't alone. It had a friend sitting beside it - a contraption - to keep it company (although in the condition this thing was in, it might've been the other way around). Being what it was (or had been, for injury beyond repair made its better days those of yore), it certainly wasn't inappropriate for it to be there in the room; however, it had been forcibly rendered defunct, and reduced to merely a prop for the listening room set.

They stared at it. Its disfigured state didn't make it beyond recognition. Harry took a breath, knowing just the perfect thing to say.

"Toldja it was a good idea to listen to the tape in the car."

He looked at James. James took one look at the biggest, most jackass grins he'd seen on his stupid face yet, rolled the hardest goddamn eyeroll Harry had ever seen in his life (which really put James's feelings into perspective), and scowled.

"Shut up, Harry."

For sitting before them on the counter, making itself and the notebook an enigmatic pair, was a dual tape recorder and player; or the remains of one, rather, because the thing was busted. Like, reallybusted. Having obviously met its demise at the business end of someone's (or thing's) rage, the device was disfigured beyond repair (though obviously not recognition), caved in like a battered skull. Harry, under the reasoning that the retaliation sure looked personal, inferred the damage to be less 'smashed to pieces' and more in the vein of, 'murdered in a fit of passion'. James had to agree: the crime scene looked "intimate".

Factoring that thought, then, just made it all the more "off". As stated, the carnage was aplenty, but it was also neat; the carpet was clean, and the plastic flesh and mechanical gore, whether in pieces small as crumbs or big as their palms, wreathed the assassinated player like sadistic offerings on a grave; or perhaps, rather, as though its own guts were intended to be substitute wood kindling for a funeral pyre.

But with context obviously moot, it nonetheless painted quite an interpretive picture next to the blank notebook.

Very curious, indeed.

Harry bobbed his shoulders. "Oh, well!"

"Hm."

"Wonder what it did. Hmm.. maybe it ate a mixtape?"

".. mm."

"Or maybe not. Mm. That sucks." Harry tilted his neck. "Sucks to think we coulda listened to some music with that. I mean, we'd have to find some way to pop open the drawers back there," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "But you gotta assume from that sign-out sheet on the clipboard that there're cassettes in them. And now with the tape player totally busted, there's no way to listen," he lamented. "All I'm saying is that it's just not fair."

James stabbed him with his stare before he even got the chance to look at it. He smiled when he did. "Aw. Still touchy, huh?"

"You're so fucking annoying."

"Mmm, yeah. Too soon." Harry shook his head at the poor carcass. "Ah, well. Rest in pieces, you sad ol' recorder - though it seems you're ahead of the game, since you got that part figured out."

Although it was dumb and the object was inanimate, and thus didn't care about the blatant (albeit funny) posthumous slander, the resident felt inordinately offended on its behalf. James had been about to turn his head away, yet it abruptly swiveled on his neck so he could fixate on Harry again. Harry's grin expanded. "What; was that also too soon?"

James stared at him. It was stupid to engage with stupid. He took the notebook under his arm, looked at the recorder, and then at Harry one more time. "Are we done?"

"Eh! Sure. Why not. We got what we were looking for. I guess we can wonder about who or what went all Jack Torrence on the tape player, later." Harry nodded at the notebook. "So what, you gonna get back to it now that you got that? — actually, I gotta get outta here. This place is too fucking cramped," he muttered, leaving. "Feels like I'm getting squeezed in a fist."

Meeting Harry outside the weird little room, James closed the door behind him and stepped up to his side. "No, I'm not."

Puzzlement idled Harry mid-arm scratch. He looked over. "Huh? No, you're not, what?"

"Getting back to work." The conduit expelled a sigh. "I'm tired, Harry."

In the moment afterwards, Harry said nothing. That sigh sounded unlike the others in James's repertoire of sighs, and for being the man he was, the confession was rum, too. Hearing it bordered on spooky, just enough to raise the hair on his arms; and he didn't like it.

"Yeah. You mentioned your brain feeling like slosh." He brushed his forearm off. "I'm not really feeling up to getting back to it either," Harry then amended, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I think we both feel pretty beat to shit."

".. yeah."

The wayward father compassionately smiled. "I think it's time we take a break. We both need it, and we need it bad; we've been running around like cats on fire for weeks now, or however long it's been. I think we've had enough for now."

James nodded his head.

"Great!" He clapped once. "That settles it." Uniting his hands in false preparation for prayer, Harry then pointed his fingertips at James's chest. "Now begs the question: do we remember how to relax?"

A wry chuckle trailed his voice. "Yeeeaahh.. good question." His eyes razed the area around before they found Harry. "What're you gonna do?"

"I'unno! Probably read. When in Rome, an' all. Or is that too cliché?"

"Um.. probably not..?"

"Mm." Harry nodded. "Then I might do that."

"Mm."

Suddenly, the concept of taking a real, honest-to-god break sank in, and stranded James in loss for what to do. What was he supposed to do now? because it seemed like the only thing to do in a library, was read. While a fine arrangement for a guy like Harry, who thought reading was a riveting pastime, James didn't relate.

Still, he felt Harry had a point about Rome. James didn't know what he'd be in for when he tentatively decided to pick Harry's brain for inspiration, but risks had to be taken in order to try to do as the Romans do. "Like.. what?"

"Hm?"

"What're you going to read?"

"Ooohh, uummm, maybe something liiike.. hm." Harry screwed his pensive face to the ceiling. In a way, he reminded James of a bird. "Hmm. Maybe I'll give Dean Koontz another shot. Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll do that; I think I'm feeling it."

"Dean Koontz?"

"Yeah, small time author. Hasn't written much, kinda indie. You ever heard of him?"

The joke brought up a smirk. Harry was glad to see James was cultured.

"Here and there. You don't like Dean Koontz?" was a comment that quickly made James the (prank) target of suspicion.

"Hmm.. why do you ask?"

"Well, you just said you'd 'give him another shot'.. which sounds to me like you don't like him." A shrug. "I don't care, either way. Just asking."

Koontz's lesser-known, yet still moderately popular colleague chuckled. "He's alright. I respect him. He's got a lot of good work out there - he's famous for a reason. But, uhhh.. I mean, I'm not not a fan. I've tried to read him before, but he's not really my cup of tea. I guess you could say I'm mostly neutral on Dean Koontz."

James saw the explanation too sloppy to stick to sense. "Then.. why would you read him?"

"Hey, don't get me wrong - I'm not saying he's a bad writer," he proactively defended. "He's not an author I avoid like the Plague, or anything.."

"I didn't say that you did. It just doesn't make any sense that you'd keep trying to read his books if you didn't like them."

Harry tilted his chin up and thoughtfully scratched at his throat. "Eehh.. I dunno if I can explain it to you right now. It has to do with his writing style, personal preferences.."

"Really." James dryly heckled.

".. aaand it can get kinda messy. I think you'd just end up killing me, James." His brown eyes glimpsed him over his cheekbones, hand pausing and poised grasping his neck. "So how invested are you?"

"Not very," he said, thankful for the easy out.

"In killing me, or in hearing about my opinions on Dean Koontz?"

"Dean Koontz."

"Okay. Later, then. For both." He unhanded himself, returning his fist to his slacks pocket. "So are you a Koontz fan?"

"No."

"Right." He smiled a little. "Well, so much for getting recommendations from you, then. Now.. I know what I'm gonna do, and you know what I'm gonna do, so what're you gonna do?" Harry followed that with a snort. "Jeez. Can't get rid of that question today, eh?"

"Heh yeah, I know, right? .. uhh.." Awkwardly flopping the notebook on his thigh, James shrugged and looked around at the tall, stocked shelves surrounding them. "I don't know. .. read, I guess."

Idly rocking on his heels, Harry scanned him head to toe and asked, "Read what?" James shrugged again. "Ah." The author sagely nodded. "Yes. One of my favorites."

The conduit's eyes were physically unmoved, but internally, were doing what they did best. He mulled over whether or not he really wanted to take the risks in rolling the dice after all, but in the end, "What d'you recommend?"

The to-and-fro sway abruptly stopped, and a terrible smirk slithered across Harry's mouth, infused with mischief. "Ooh. Feel like playing with fire, James?"

He threw him a half-glare. The threat was palpable, yet he double-downed and owned it. "Work with me. Don't make me regret asking you."

Harry soared his hand from his pocket to his chest, laughing. "Oh James, buddy, that was music to my ears! I'm gonna do my best, but you gotta promise to work with me here, too."

"So what do you recommend?"

"Hmm! What, indeed.." Seeming to actually take the matter seriously, Harry turned to the multicolored spines filling the shelves, keenly studying their printed titles and library-issued markings like a clairvoyant listening to their whispers. "Well.. I'm gonna need something to go off of, so let's try to narrow it down."

"Okay."

"First off: fiction or nonfiction?"

He chose the former.

Harry nodded. "Alright. What don't you want to read?"

James liked that question a lot better than its common version, but the curveball, coming too unexpected, got him drawing as many blanks as he would've by being asked what he did want to read. "Uhh.." He stalled, grappling with coming up with a subject he normally leapt to declare hatred for, until looking at Harry dislodged one from his memory. It was unoriginal, but a start. "Uh.. no Shakespeare."

Harry shot him a look. "Thank god. I was hoping you weren't the type to read Shakespeare for fun."

Unable to tell if that was a sly affront of any sort, James asked, "Why?"

"Heh, why? Because only freaks read Shakespeare for fun."

The instant the words left his mouth, a simper enchanted by Puck himself popped up on James's pale face. Harry, fully aware he walked right into what was coming, braced himself accordingly.

"So how often do you read Shakespeare for fun?"

"Three times a year - I read Macbeth, King Lear, and As You Like It, just for kicks."

James scoffed. "No, you don't."

The professional wordsmith grinned. "No, I don't." He winked. "I'm glad you saw through that one."

"Whatever. You s-–"

"I read The Tempest, The Comedy of Errors, and Othellojust for kicks. Those others? Are junk. Taste is key, James! —but it's never always the key to refinement."

James shook his head. "Yeah Harry, I can tell," he replied, while disciplining the urge to grant a smile access to his lips. "Because you demonstrate it all the time."

"Ouch! You're not wrong, but hey, you don't have to say some of the quiet parts out loud, alright?" scolded no ill will. "I'm kidding, though. I hate Shakespeare. Those were decoys. I never actually finished any of 'em."

"Why?"

He spread open his arms. "Because Shakespeare is boring. And I hate him." He smiled. "So! We can agree on no Shakespeare. That it?"

James would've liked to have at least tacked one additional topic to the blacklist, but his mental energy was taking a swan dive plunge straight into the toilet. He shook his head. "I don't know, Harry, just— what's—" Sighing, James allowed his impatience to take charge, and made the second most horrible mistake in as many minutes. "What's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

Goggling brown eyes bugged their whites at him. "Whoa, whoa, pump the brakes there, big guy," Harry said, patting the invisible pedal in front of his chest. "That's throwing gasoline too close to a wildfire during hurricane season, isn't it? Wow, jeez, I thought you'd know better than to go that far and ask something like that.. how desperate are you?"

He blew terse. "Not desperate. I'm feeling adventurous."

"Jesus, you sure are taking the wheels for a spin; but I didn't know your sense of adventure was so sick! You wanna take it down a couple notches? Maybe head back down to the strip club, knock back a few dozen shots at the bar, and go climb Mount Everest instead?" he teased. "Hell, playing with toasters in the bathtub would be tamer."

"Harry."

"Alright, okay— but remember that you poked the bear, so no take-backs!" Humming, Harry rubbed his palms together with the calculated, diabolical glee of a man tying a damsel in distress to the railroad tracks as he mentally frisked his forefront options. "Alright.. then, since you asked.. might I recommend some Lovecraft..? or Edgar Allan Poe? since they're the first thing that comes to mind."

James hiked his nostril. "What— Edgar Allan Poe? Are you kidding me? Why?"

"Whaddya mean, 'why'? The setting we're in's perfect for it! Poe's more than just The Raven, you know."

For some reason, probably because he was getting antsy, the tone Harry used right then sounded haughty. "'The setting's perfect'? And who's Lovecraft?"

"Yeah! Of course the setting's perfect: the library's come upon a midnight dreary, hasn't it? Heh, heh."

Again he asked, "Who's Lovecraft?"

"H.P. Lovecraft. He wrote Call of Cthulhu." James looked unchanged. "Right. Not totally surprised. You ever heard the stories, or see the pictures of the huge octopus strangling ships in the ocean during a storm?"

".. I.. think I might've..?"

"Same guy. Same guy wrote the stories, not drew the pictures."

"So, what is he.. sci-fi?"

"Eh.. sorta-almost. Fantasy horror, old gods, that sort of deal. You might like it."

James, not knowing how else to take it, took it personally. "Harry.. what? What makes you think I would want to read horror about old gods when I've been stuck in Silent Hill for eighteen fucking years?"

Harry winced a bit. "I dunno, James; and hey, remember, you rolled the dice. You asked for something off the top of my head, so I'm just telling. I'm not sure why you're so surprised it's the first thing I think of," he shot back, also jumping in taking the retort personally. "Your oversight is your own, bud. No take-backs. You knew what was comin'."

True, but, "I still have no idea how or why you're thinking about horror while you're already in Silent Hill, Harry. This town is the fucking epitome of horror. Why are you so obsessed with horror?!"

"Yeah, I know it is - and I don't think I need to tell you again about how being in Silent Hill fucked me up for life, right? Whaddya wanna hear? That I was into it before, but I got obsessed with it after? That it's why I think about it all the time? That's what was on my mind, James, you asked, so sue me." A frown curled on his lip. "Can we save time and not fight about it?"

In spite of the tension, James drove the mature road away from getting deeper into an inane squabble, as asked. "Fine. Whatever. I'll look them up."

Harry seemed relieved. "Great! Good start."

"I'm surprised you didn't recommend any Stephen King."

"Well if he strikes your fancy, no one says you can't pick him up. You know how to use the Dewey."

"I guess." He frowned, in retrospection of a thought. "Hey.. wait."

"Hm."

"Your notes." Harry tilted his head. "In your notes," James said, "you described something as 'Kafkaesque', once — or like, I think you described the town, or Alchemilla, as 'Kafkaesque'."

He looked surprised. "Did I? Wow. Past me was right on the nose." He peered at James inquisitively. "So..? What about it? Did you get what I meant, or.. what?"

James shrugged. "Sorta, I guess.. through context clues." His head slanted left. "So what is it?"

"It comes from a name: Franz Kafka. 'Kafkaesque' is a term that was coined to relate to the themes found in the works of Franz Kafka, a German Bohemian novelist from the 1940s." recited Harry, the living dictionary.

"Oh."

"He wrote some bizarre shit."

"How bad?"

"Heh." He smiled with wry humor. "Bad enough to be widely considered a mindfuck. Heh. Say what you will about Poe and Lovecraft and the weird shit they wrote, but they can't even get near the guy on the weird meter. He's just a whole 'nother story." Scruple influenced the emotional change in the smile. "I don't know how far I should get into it, James. It's really complicated, and–"

"Complicated, how?"

The author looked at him sidelong. "Really complicated. Honestly? I wouldn't recommend you read him."

That was cryptic. "Why not?"

Reluctance and perhaps, even a little regret at mentioning Kafka at all, pressed Harry's lips tight together. "Because it's intense stuff, James. It gets dark. Listen, if you wan—"

"Wait, wait– why are you all of a sudden worried about something being DARK? " James scathed at Harry out of the blue, flinging his arms out to his sides. "What is this?! Harry, you just spent all this time trying to convince me to read horror about monsters and shit because I've spent eighteen fucking years of my life living in Silent Hill, and then all of a sudden, Kafka is too dark?! " the conduit accused, his patience thinning finer than paper over his ward's ridiculous chop and change. "What makes Kafka so different?"

Harry's cadence going off the beaten trails and hardening wasn't the reaction James expected to see. Nor did he expect to hear stone in his voice say, "A lot." and no other explanatory effort made.

The uncharacteristic, mercurial shift in Harry's nature threw James off, yet pride stood his ground. "And 'a lot' means..?"

"It means, 'a lot'." Harry's guard was blatantly up, but what James didn't like about it, was its cold face. "I don't know you, James, so maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you can take it better than I think you can because of Silent Hill, but–"

"Excuse me, what?" spat the resident selfishly wrapped up in himself. "'Maybe I can take it better than you think'? What's that supposed—"

"James, I—" Aggression shocked the Sunderland's forename and he, voiceless. Harry's hand bolted from his pocket, snatching the rest of his speech in his fist like a fly out of mid-air, then brought his knuckles to his forehead as he closed his eyes for calm. Self-control, meanwhile, physically strangled the unspoken, almost mis spoken words dead in his grasp while he knocked his whitened knuckles above his brow. Sighing once, Harry then buried his impulses in his pocket, with his airtight mitt as their tomb.

They stared at each other. That little show there was unbecoming of Harry, James thought. It was also chilling, the way his name was said, and he should've taken it as a great big hint to back off - but his egotism lacked decorum. He bumped his eyebrows high underneath his blond bangs.

Yeah? they snippily challenged.

"Ja—"

"What, Harry?"

His open mouth, prepped for speech, gasped the words back in and jailed them behind his teeth. Harry tore his eyes from the man three years-younger-yet-not than he, regathered and forgave him the interruption, and again, looked at James. Sternly.

"James. I'm only going to say this once, because I am not getting into it with you right now: I do not recommend Kafka for you and do not — interrupt me. Do not.." Harry started to laugh; James actually seemed to have the gall to interrupt for a third time, and the titter he softly laughed was an abject, manic, tinkling glass warble in his words.

"I swear to god, James— we are so close. We are so, so close to taking our first big break, the one we really need," weak chuckling tried to negotiate through the big grin of clamped teeth that wouldn't part to assist his lips in speech, and flavored the way the patriarch withdrew his hands to become a pauper begging for peace and mercy in disturbance.

"We are at. Our wit's end. Okay? I get it. We are tired, James, we are very, very tired," Harry's grin reminded him. "We have spent a looong, long time together, and I want to rest - and I know you do, too, and I also do not want to fight right now. Especially," he breathily giggled, "over Kafka. Not like this. Okay? So let me apologize."

James slowly nodded, shut the fuck up, and let him talk.

Taking a deep, self-soothing breath, the writer began with, "I'm sorry about the comment." And then, suddenly relaxed out of anxiety's giggles and that awful grin. Back to normal. "I do, however, stand by what I said, that I don't recommend Kafka for you. But I can't stop you from looking him up, James. You know how to use the Dewey, and I know that I'm not a fucking idiot, because when you tell someone not to do something? that just makes them want to do that thing even more."

Such is the human condition, James's silence agreed.

"So a word of advice, for when you do go to look him up: Kafka is intense . He is very lachrymose, very.." His eyes darted for a word. ".. relatable, to— for, people like you and me. It might be a bad call to recommend starting with his diaries, but bad calls are apparently all I got right now, so start with those. Okay? Then maybe after, if you actually read it, come back and.. we can talk about reading something else. Alright? Sound good?"

The conduit replied affirmative mum. Quite spent, Harry encored a sigh to drop his shoulders from taut, and swallowed. "Okay. Now, if you want, I can give normal recommendations for fiction off the top of my head, too, to fall back on, if you don't want to start reading any Poe or Lovecraft."

James happily took the diversion. "I guess I'll start with Poe."

Harry summoned an aged smile. "Good choice. Go for The Fall of the House of Usher."

"Okay."

"You want a normal recommendation, too?"

"Um.." Why not; it wasn't like those dice could be leaded too, and get them into another petty cat fight. "Sure."

"The Far Side Collection, by Gary Larson."

The guy was incorrigible, but James was real glad to have a laugh. "The Far Si ..? Oh my god, Harry.."

Harry snickered. "I was thiiiiis close to recommending one of mine," he said, pinching the air, "but I seriously doubt they'd be here; Silent Hill probably put me on its blacklist, so consider yourself lucky. Anyway, so.. you got some stuff to look up, so I guess I'll see you when I see you?"

"I guess, yeah."

Harry released one of his patent, loud, dramatic expires. "Well.. I guess that's it."

"Yeah, I guess."

Harry looked over at him, kicking the acting up a notch. "I can't believe we're parting ways."

James frowned at him. The joke was too young to compute. ".. huh? We're not going anywhere, Harry," he told him flatly. "We're just taking a break."

"Yes, that's what I'm saying! We're taking a break! Away from each other! And for who knows how long?! Oh, James, you're so cold," bemoaned the man who was supposedly an adult in possession of an adult's maturity, hand pressed over his heart. "You're making this feel like a Casablanca goodbye. Does our parting mean nothing to you?" he tried to appeal. "Are you breaking up with me for good, James?"

James looked less impressed with his mercurial behavior than the all the times he'd ever been unimpressed with him before, combined. There was absurd, and then there was whatever the dictionary had that it could call this . "What are you talking about? We just spent several hours apart, Harry. Already ."

"Yeaaah, we did.." Harry stretched his Cheshire grin (wonderfully free of perturb). "And didja miss me?"

James stared him down. Harry got the distinct impression that James thought he was immature; not like he cared, or that it'd make his cheese go away any faster. It probably actually strengthened it.

"Well.. didja?"

"Have fun with your reading," the conduit said, pivoting to go. Harry wiggled his shoulders, watching his back as their distance increased by the stride.

"Thanks! You too. .. hey!" he called after him. James stopped and looked behind. Harry made eye contact and jutted his chin. "Don't miss me too much! And don't lie to me. I know you're gonna."

He returned a lopsided, dry frown. "Trust me. I won't."

Harry smirked back. "Oh, you liar. You can't quit me."

"Wish I could; figured that one out already," James muttered under his breath, once more trying to leave.

"You're contractually obliged to miss me at least a little," Harry refuted, with tweak of the air.

"Don't get clingy."

"Naaah– don't get big headed! I'll miss you, but just enough; I'm not the smothering type. Enjoy the Kafka!" Harry said, tossing his arm up above his head in a wave as he spun about-face. "Can't wait to hear your thoughts."

His ears picked up that some words were spoken behind him as he sauntered away, but they, at a hush so soft and he, not necessarily in the mood to care, didn't hear them. Hitching a turn down an aisle lazily tread the path to another. The saunter slowed to an amble, then walked to a shuffle, then came to a full stop near the end of one of the book-walled rows.

He listened for noise, for rustling; for James; and heard nothing. Harry shifted his weight a quarter-turn, looked back the way he came; and saw no one.

He was alone.

So that settles it, he guessed, with a sigh of relief; it was just him, himself, and Harry, now. All in his own.

He'd escaped.

At last.

Well, that meant it was time for his next trick, right— wasn't it? Time to do the thing he's been at his wits end, to do? to chillax, take a load off, unwind, take a breather, and read some Dean Koontz?

Harry frowned.

On second thought: no. After all that Kafka talk, no it wasn't - because thanks to all that shit, Harry's appetite for extracurricular, fun-time reading was cooked to coal. No.. he really didn't want to read Dean Koontz anymore; he wanted to read something else, and knew just what it was.

He wanted to read his ownwork.