SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

[yardbird]

CHARACTERS: ALL OF YOU SICK-MINDED MOTHERFUCKERS.
LOCATION: THE TRANQUILITY: OTHERWORLD EDITION.
WARNINGS: SURE IS RUSTY HERE, HUH?
(Also expect violence and unhappy things because haha survival/horror. Yeah.)
SUMMARY: YOU'RE WALKING ON THE SHIP;
THERE'S NO ONE AROUND AND YOUR COMMUNICATOR IS DEAD.
OUT OF THE CORNER OF YOUR EYE YOU SPOT THEM...

OOC: Congratulations! You've made it to Hell. It's not just you, either. It's this whole ship -- it's being invaded by the Otherworld. A world of someone's nightmarish delusions come to life. Little by little, the invasion is spreading. Trying to swallow up everything in must be on drugs darkness.

Now that I got that out of my system... Also note that communicators will not work in the Otherworld. They will, however, emit a static that will warn you when monsters are nearby. You might find this to be pretty handy.

There will also be "safe rooms", or areas that are seemingly devoid of monsters, so don't worry about it being constantly infested. However, I wouldn't bet your life on staying in one place for too long, because they'll probably hunt you out sooner or later. The goal is to get out of the Otherworld and back to a safer place (i.e. the Fog world). How do you do that?

Gee, I don't know. Got any pent-up issues that need sorting out, I wonder?

Crawl through a hole, maybe?

Collect puzzle pieces? Rubix cube?

Riddle me that!

Did you stock up as well? Very good.

Again: If you plan on shifting between the worlds in the middle of a thread, you cam link when starting a new thread in the other log. But again, it's up to you how you want to doit, and totally not mandatory. Just go have fun!

For information/questions, refer to this post.

THAT LOG WITH LOTS OF FOG IN IT

Comments

VI. Flooded Area | Oct. 3rd | Locked to Murphy

[unsoldiered]

"Don't be afraid, son. Your sacrifice will save us all."

When Alex had seen the creature's arm sweeping toward him in one final act of defiance, he was sure the force alone would kill him—and wouldn't it make sense? Dr. Fitch had messed him up pretty bad, and even though his adrenaline's pumping too high to feel the wounds anymore, he knows they're there, that he's worn down and fatigued. He barely has the strength to face the creature's attack before it strikes him right off the gnarled walkway, right down toward the water whirling far down below.

It's over. I lost. I was so close.

He's not unconscious when he hits the water (shoulda killed him, shoulda, but this isn't a normal place). He's awake, eyes half lidded as he sinks deeper and deeper into the dark abyss waiting below. He's not panicking, his limbs too heavy to move, his mind too scrambled by the white hot pain he'd endured hitting the surface.

He's sinking. Soon he'll drown. Is that really what all of this was for? Some divine retribution, some absolution of fate? Did he seriously go through all of his just to die, all as planned, let's call it a day? Why bother letting him help Frodo? Why bother standing beside Murphy, fighting alongside LB? Why bother letting his brother's ghost lead him, having Kurt rescue him from that haunting room?

He refused to believe this was how it was going to end. But there was nothing he could do; his body had given up on him. The pathetic struggle of panic was short-lived, and death began to slide over him softly. It was a daydream and he was trapped there to watch it through to the end, as the water drained into his nose and mouth, filling his lungs; blood from the bandaged wounds clouded the blue murk.

It's too easy.

He's not ready to go. His life feels cheap, spent up. He never really had it right from the start. But there were people he promised living to. And he didn't mind it. Didn't mind living for that cause. Didn't mind suffering, either, because in the end he remembers the childish drawings in the hallways and the gramophone and the goddamn Rolling Stones. Holograms he had a love-hate relationship with. Lotta' bad shit, too. Regardless, he's not sure what he feels, but he knows he'd like to see those people again, at the end of it all.

i'm not ready yet, dammit




His eyes slide slowly shut.

[yardbird]

When everything went dark, he was almost certain where he had ended up. Murphy was dead, there was no other explanation. He could still remember tearing down the winding hallways. Figments and images splintered into unthinking moments. If this wasn't what he deserved, he didn't know what.

Maybe he was dying, or he had been for some time. Maybe Anne had actually killed him instead, out of mercy, and this darkness and drifting was what it was like. A cold wave, sweeping over him. Nothing else.

Then, he was no longer simply drifting.

Murphy woke up on his back, listening to the sound of waves beating all around him. As he tethered, he sat up, and found himself sitting in what looked like a fishing boat.

"Where...?" Rubbing the hangover feeling that rocked out in his brain, Murphy grabbed hold of the rails and stood up. The sky was pitch black. Dense mist obscured over the waters, extending even farther out. No land as far as Murphy could see.

Of course, he was still shaken, unable to maintain his sense of human perception. His vision tried adjusting after spending so much time in the dark, that it didn't take long for him to notice that something was down there in the water. It had been the bubbles rising up that clued him in.

If anyone asked Murphy what reasons he had for what he was about to do, he'd go with temporary madness. Hell, he might as well be. His wasn't in his right mind. After all, for awhile, he wasn't a person (maybe he wasn't, even now). Maybe he was still thinking along that line of logic. Thoughtless, impulsive, cringing in the face of the light and lashing out...

This time, he was driven, as he hurdled over the railing and dived into the water. Feet first, then flipping in order to swim downward. He hated the lake. He hated swimming. Didn't mean he had no idea how.

The bubbles were drifting towards the surface. There was time. He knew. No questions. In a matter of a few frantic minutes, Murphy caught sight of a blurred, sinking shadow. If not for the obvious fact that it was breathing, he might have mistook it for a corpse.

Without hesitation, Murphy reached out. His instincts told him to. Maybe even a tiny voice that told him he must. Either way, he didn't stop to question it. Only seized a handful of what felt to be their jacket, then reeled away from the ever-downward path that led deeper into the lake.

Legs kicking, lungs burning, Murphy pushed the body up to air before him. After coming up himself, he grabbed it, not yet realizing who it was, except that he was holding a soaked, nearly drowned person with one arm. With his other, he reached out for the fishing boat, grabbing the ladder in order to pull them towards it.

Murphy had them by the shoulders. When he went to take a better grip, he was almost sure that they were alive.

"Hey, stay with me! We're almost there..." Murphy muttered, partially to himself as well, out of determination. Scrambling to get back on the ladder, not just to get himself out of the water, but to haul someone else's dead weight up there with him...

Murphy was worn out. He had been shot had, slashed and stabbed. But he always picked himself back up and carried on no matter what. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. So that, when dealing with situations like this, with no rhyme or reason, he didn't need to explain why to anybody. He was just sick of watching people die. This one was no exception.

Accepting defeat was not an option here.

[unsoldiered]

"Alex...?"

Alex is dead weight for the entirety of the journey, to be certain. And honestly, he should be dead: his lungs are full, his pulse is dying down, arms are hanging, swinging limp and not even so much as flinching. It's a strange thing, not being in the throes of dying, going quietly, easily, without notice. But as the color drains from his face and the cold air hits him, he's still trapped beneath the surface of the water. Feeling nothing but the lake around him, dragging him deeper and deeper.

"What are you doing? You don't belong here."

A small hand grabs his wrist--he swears, its the only sensation he can feel now. Even as Murphy hauls him up the side of the boat, there's nothing. But here... He looks and sees the boy with the family ring. He should be horrified, right? Should panic and remember what had happened four years ago. But for some reason, there comes with it relief.

"Where have you been, huh?" the voice asks. He wants to apologize, but his mouth, throat, nose, they're all full of water. Don't bother, brother. He's got too much going on in his head--it makes him heavy, way too heavy.

"I didn't lead you around to have you go and drown, stupid."

Don't call me stupid, stupid. The thought is a reflex, familiar words. He and Joshua used to bicker a lot, didn't they? Mostly meaningless squabbling about this or that, and afterward just the same ol' same ol'. His eyes are hot, listless beneath the waves. This couldn't possibly be Josh. Josh is dead and gone... but still...

I never meant for this to happen... I would've taken your place in a heartbeat.

"I know."

Another pair of hands, smaller than Josh's, grab his other arm--a kid with a red jacket, face blurry, and a boy who looks suspiciously like himself are helping to haul him, and this time he moves upward, toward the surface. Up, up, up, and he feels a pair of soft, feminine hands help from beneath him. The higher up he goes, the more quick he goes. As the voices from down below die away, everything goes dark, and his body crumples against the inside of the boat, ear pressed to the floor.

It's all dark. Soundless. He almost misses the company.

[yardbird]

In spite of the weight, both of carrying himself (he feels so heavy) and that of someone else, there was that split second in which everything was lighter. It took almost an effortless amount of energy to haul them over the ladder, and back into the boat.

Must've been imagining things. The length of time he had spent in this madness melted together into one long, messed up dream. He wished he could wake up right about now, for how cold he was, his jumpsuit now soaked, and that didn't help.

Murphy collapsed, just as lifeless as the other. His legs numb and tingly, he dragged himself to the other side of the boat. There was enough room now to recognize the body that he'd just fished out of the water.

"Alex?" Murphy could have laughed. He just shuddered. A wet hand rested over the side of his face. "Figures... it'd be you..."

Who else would be down there? Not Anne. Nor his son, Charlie -- or Carol... He could remember Carol. Her face. How her fingernails had dug into his shoulders as she had forced him underwater, kept him down there long enough until he had convulsed. Giving up was easy. It would have been so easy.

If he had done that back then, however, who would have been here? Would someone had just taken his place, or...?

His hand dropped from his face, falling to his own shoulder where the bullet hole there bloomed into the red cloth. For a moment, he saw Alex lying there.

For a moment.

Shit, was he even breathing? Murphy couldn't tell.

Moving his hand from his bloodied shoulder, he went to grab Alex's neck, feel for a heartbeat. Weak, but fading.

There was no way of knowing how long he had been down there, or how much water he'd swallowed. On his knees now, hands folded, Murphy applied pressure to Alex's ribs, enough to start pumping out all that water he had taken in. Or try to.

Come on, they've come this far without dying yet. It'd be stupid to kick the bucket now, wouldn't it?

[unsoldiered]

Wow, that's annoying.

It's still all soundless and dark, but now there's this aggravating pressure, heavy and sharp. Maybe he'd prefer to be left alone after all, if this was how it was gonna be. But then--it's like his mind, scattered, suddenly all snaps together. He turns onto his side and curls up, cold and confused and coughing way too much water for his poor lungs to deal with. What had happened? He couldn't remember, for a moment. There was--Holloway, and LB, and then he'd been swept into the vents--his dad, and then he fell? He catches sight of the top of the boat, vision focusing in and out, before grabs Murphy's sleeve immediately. His hand feels like its barely gripping at all, like when someone just wakes up in the early mornings. He's scared for a moment, and it shows; it's all illogical fear, because Murphy clearly wasn't about to shove his face under water. Wait, what was he going to say again?

"Stopthathurts."

Wait, he wanted to say that before he vomited water. His brain is trying to play catch-up. Sitting up is a valiant effort, too. He does realize why everything hurts now, though, what with being sliced up by Dr. Fitch pretty good there; the place on his chest where Murphy pressed down was a smooth cut, clinging to Alex's black shirt, suffering as his arms and legs had.

I'm on his boat. I'm on my dad's fucking boat.

"Murphy--Jesus, what're you...?" doing here would have sufficed, but he trails off, exhausted. He suddenly realizes his voice is hoarse and overused; not really that surprising, with how long it feels like he's been here. He just slumps against the floor and gives up trying to move, squinting up.

And then, in spirit of the younger Alex--

"You look pretty fucked up."

[yardbird]

Seeing Alex suddenly spring to the land of the living, Murphy fell back to allow him space. It was all the relief he needed, though Murphy required a breather himself; fighting the dizziness that had been threatening his own consciousness.

"Well... Let's not kid ourselves here... so do you." Murphy figured he'd try and squeeze the bullet wound in his shoulder again. Hurt like hell. In a way, he kind of needed the pain.

He tried a brief laugh, like a sharp knife that scraped the inside of his throat. Murphy winced, and didn't know whether he was starting to relax or if he was just starting to shut down. Neither outcomes would've surprised him.

It's no big deal.

"No idea what happened. I was with Anne... and Heather, I think. She was out of it. Was gonna move her, or try to. And there was this... thing." No, Murphy was not in the mood to elaborate on the creature he saw stalking Heather's room. His jaw clacked as it were, just by trying to talk. His eyes shifted, unable to focus on one place at once without worrying about tapping out. He tried to keep his head up without nodding off. "Was there, now here, and..."

His eyes snapped shut. He shook his head. Fingers tightened until blood poured down his hand and staining the already bloody jumpsuit.

"Shit, I don't feel so hot." No shit.

[unsoldiered]

Nngh, of course. Of course life would be this fucked. He forces himself to his haunches, putting his hand over the wound and stopping as much as he can, looking around the boat—behind the stoicism he's managed, his eyes betray some panic.

"No shit, Murphy. I'm gone for a little while and you get yourself shot??"

That's supposed to be humored, but it's kinda not.

"Stay awake, or I'm gonna jab you really hard in the shoulder, asshole."

This was his dad's boat, right? He remembers a lot about it still. Remembers where he'd kept the emergency medical supplies, tucked in the corner underneath the steering wheel. He leaves just long enough, limping himself tiredly over to Murphy's side again. Jesus. If Murphy looks like he's about to konk out, Alex'll just reach over and pat him on the cheek sharply. If there's some sting to it, it's on purpose. Just so we're clear.

"Let me see."

[yardbird]

Actually, Murphy's pretty sure he died a few times. But much like his first rodeo through Silent Hill, it doesn't seem that he's "allowed" to kick it, to an extent. It's not a limit that he's ever willing to test, in any case -- and it sure as hell isn't a little factoid that he's about to share with Alex.

"Trust me, I needed the bullet." Or a whole firing squad, if that's what it took. Murphy wouldn't have had it any other way. Far as he's concerned, better to be the monster getting killed than to do any more killing. He already did enough damage within that time (although time in itself springs irrelevant).

He can feel other parts of him bleeding, like the pangs from the holes in his chest. Honestly, he isn't thrilled when Alex returns and says the one thing he's been dreading.

"I can do it myself. Wouldn't be the first time I've had to... patch myself up." Of course, he also wasn't as on the verge of passing out during those times, either. His pale face and shallow breath doesn't inspire much confidence in his abilities.

Christ, he's dizzy... Contrary to his statement, Murphy flashes in and out of consciousness enough to drop his hand from the bullet wound. Someone might be in need of that jab right about now.

1/2

[unsoldiered]

It's bad, he knows.

It's real bad.

"You fucking idiot—" There's going to be a sharp, unwanted sting from Alex's hand slapping the other's face. Sorry, Murphy. He's not about to let you konk out on him after all this mess.

Immediately after he starts peeling back the cloth, determined to get to work and stop it from oozing anymore blood than it wants to. He can't really stop his hands from shaking entirely, but they're steady enough.

"Like you'd just sit back and let someone else handle a goddamn bullet wound while they're about to go unconscious, you hypocritical—" He bites it off with a grunt, trying to keep his emotions in check. Lately, it's been hard to do. He remembers Heather looking at him and asking him if they could be like that. People forming a family. Being there like a family would. Alex was scared to accept such a thing, but after all of this? He realizes they've already been doing that shit.

... He just desperately wants to cling to the idea now.

"We're all here, aren't we? We're supposed to keep going together. I need you and the others around, you got that?" He starts unpacking the supplies, exposing the wound to air, air that feels colder and colder by the second. He talks, because he has to. Not just to keep Murphy listening, but because this is all fucking important. He has a hard time voicing how he feels sometimes. This is not one of those times. "I wasn't lying when I said you guys made me give a damn about living, so don't you go breaking any rules."

[unsoldiered]

His voice shakes against his will, from panic and cold. But he can do this. He'll stop him from dying. He has to.

I can't do it, he's gonna die, just like Wheeler and mom I can't do it-

"You're the only goddamn person that ever stood up for me like that to him, and you bothered with me when no one else did, and you might think you're a failure or a bad person or whatever the fuck you wanna call it, but I'd be dead fifty times over if you hadn't dragged me out of my room back then—" He presses the gauze to the wound. It'll hurt, but it's gotta be done. "You guys are the closest thing to family I've found, and I'm not strong enough to keep going if you all fucking die on me, not all over again. I can't keep doing this."

He drops his head, his eyes downcast as he applies more material to the wound.

"So don't you fucking die on me."

[yardbird]

Sleep had started to seem like a better idea, up until Alex sent his hand across his face. Murphy's head turns, his eyes snapping open this time. His double-vision makes it difficult to focus on just Alex, though Murphy is left with a certainty that closing his eyes would only ensure another backhand.

Who knows. Maybe he could use it. Murphy's chin lowers to his chest and while he isn't looking directly at Alex anymore, he doesn't need to in order to find the humor in how he's started listing off insults. Stupid... In spite of his previous statement, Murphy's arm drops lifelessly at his side while Alex breaks out the gauze.

One good thing about these damned inmate uniforms. It cuts low enough, so it's no roundabout task to tend to a shoulder wound. Seeing that he can feel the way it bleeds out his back as well, he's sure that Anne had a clean shot all the way through. He's glad that she did; no need to dig anything out right here and now, even if poor Alex is left here to pick up the pieces.

He bites down on all this talk of family, dreading the idea of what happened the last time Murphy's ever tried to grasp the concept. How badly it all had ended for them. The more he thinks about it, though, the more sense it makes. He can't even look Alex in the eye and tell him that he's wrong about any of that. Or the fact that anyone who's ever had any little bit of faith in him also ended badly.

"I'm not gonna die, dammit--" Murphy's cut off when he feels the tightening pain in his shoulder when Alex applies the bandages. He composes himself enough to hiss between his teeth: "It's not as bad as it looks."

His chest hurts, but not because of any bullets or claws that tore through his chest and heart. Nothing like that. It's a mixed blessing, realizing that he now has some things worth living for again. He can't just say he's got nothing to lose anymore.

He blinks hard, shaking himself from the blackness that threatens to rise up and swallow him into unconsciousness. Listening to Alex, he can't help but what that monster had said. Real or not, there was truth in the words that came from it. Things that Alex must have drowned himself in to the point where he actually believed all of that shit.

Murphy tries clearing his throat. Out comes a cough. His voice is hoarse as Alex goes to retrieve more supplies. All the while, Murphy tips his head back, resting it against the wall of the boat, and he remembers something else. "It's too bad, y'know.. I actually think he would've liked you. My son, I mean..." Murphy swallows, the image of Alex as a child still very clear and fresh in his mind, despite it feeling like such a long time ago. "Christ, I think right about now he'd be... fifteen? Seventeen?"

In a way, Murphy knew he needed to just talk. It helped him focus on something other than how goddamned tired he was. How much he wanted to sleep and let the rest of it simply roll over him.

But not yet.

"I never did plan for it to happen. Always told myself I just wasn't cut out to be a parent. I was so scared I was gonna fuck it all up--" Murphy pauses, pain gripping his chest. After a moment, he exhales. "Then I looked at him for the first time, and it all seems so simple, and I just knew how much I loved him. I would never treat him like a mistake. My life is my family, and I'd die and fight for them."

Would kill for them as well.

Finally, his eyes shift back to Alex, his expression firm despite of the pain he's in. "I'd do the same for you. Alright?"

[unsoldiered]

You talk like you're not gonna die, you talk like it, but if you pass out who would've treated all this shit? He's doubtful the moment the words fumble out of Murphy's mouth. People die all the time when they say they won't; don't start here, because you'll fuck yourself over-

He's quiet at the admission, and it makes his chest and his head hurt as he dresses the wound; keeps the wrap nice and tight, and at least stops it from pouring out. Most of his blood's washed away, save for the sting of slash marks newly torn, but Murphy's already re-stained his jacket and jeans. By the time he's done his hands are a sticky dark mess. He collapses next to the other for a moment, breathing in deep, holding his hands up at the elbows.

He's so tired that passing out like Murphy would have seemed like a great theory.

But just a theory. When he talks, his voice is hoarse, damaged from breathing dirt and water and blood. He's done plenty of yelling. "Charlie... I saw your son. He was there, too, with Josh. It was all... white, and he and my brother dragged me back." He drops his head backward, leaning against the boat.

Josh and himself—a part of himself? He's not even sure anymore—and then there's the soft hands behind him, and he knew exactly who they belonged to. And then—the kid in the red jacket.

"They dragged me back up."

[yardbird]

Everybody dies. Murphy would be lying if he promised Alex that he wouldn't kick the bucket before him, but just not here. Not now, and not anytime soon. Maybe many years from now, when it would be fair because he'll old and worn out and just know it would be time. It's not the way he has always imagined he'd go. At the moment, it's a nicer dream than most he's had.

It hurts so bad and so constant that he's almost numb to it now. He lets himself splay there on the floor of the boat, back propped against the wall. It's hardly comfortable. Then again, he doubted he was going to be comfortable for a long time, after being slashed and stabbed and impaled and shot. He remembers the noose around his neck, the poison coursing through his veins, being tied down and helpless.

When Alex mentions Charlie, Murphy doesn't say anything right away. He doesn't even doubt it. Weirder things have happened to him before.

"Yeah, he's a good kid." Was. As Murphy's voice breaks, he can't bring himself to bother with tenses, because he's seen him. He's seen his son.

It's not your fault.

...Even if he couldn't change anything. If he laughed or cried, it would've just made the pain worse. He's already bled out enough; he doesn't even want to think about moving anytime soon.

Murphy brings his good hand, the one that didn't belong to a shoulder that'd been shot through with a bullet, over his face. Blood-smeared and soaked in lake water, he's a mess. He sure feels like a sick mess.

His hand moves over his eyes when it becomes hard to see, anyway. "God, I miss him... I just..."

There was no way he would ever be able to bring him back. No matter how hard Murphy tried, he knew better than that. The truth hurt worse; like staring at the sun, burning his eyes.

[unsoldiered]

"I know... He's a good kid. Josh and him, they're really good kids."

He understands the sentiment. Missing a kid is pretty easy around here, isn't it? But with that pain in his chest comes the pain of knowing how he'd lost his brother; would Murphy have ever bothered with him--would he still--knowing he'd let someone die (a kid) because he was reckless? Cruel? If he hadn't been so angry and bitter back then... If he'd controlled himself, been good to him--

It was easy to turn into a little mini-monster, wasn't it?

(He takes the tape out of the recorder, throws it across the room, holds his face in his hands and scrubs. 'The military? You? You're not cut out for the army--just look at how cut-out you are for being a decent son.' He could be something; he could be just what he wanted; he could be a soldier, he could protect people. 'Do you want to end up like Alex? Playing all this make-believe?' Why didn't he give him a chance? Just one chance. 'You're not leaving until you've paid back what you owe us. Your mother took care of you for 18 years, and you're just going to abandon her and your brother for what? To run away crying like a little baby?'

He steals the car keys, goes into his room to find his cellphone. Looks at Joshua, sleeping soundly in his bottom bunk; the celebrations earlier must've tired him out. Everyone must've been dead asleep. 'Alright, from now on, just let Alex play with his own friends, okay? And if you need a friend, you come talk to me.'

He squeezes the cellphone in his hand. He's taking everything. He'll take everything, he'll take Elle next. He's already taken freedom, taken his goals, taken his brother, long-since taken his mother. He's taken his childhood and his happiness and for what?

He wakes Joshua up.

"...What's the matter?"

"Get dressed.")

In the distance, he can hear himself; it's not a hallucination. It's Silent Hill, reminding him what he's done wrong. It's just sounds, but it's enough.

"Oh my god--Josh?! Josh!!"

Splash

Silence.

Splash

"Where are you?! Josh--no--What've I--Josh!!"

He drops his face in his hands, sitting next to Murphy, a man who deserved to mourn. He didn't deserve anything. He didn't know...

"Why did he save me?"

[yardbird]

There was something to be said here, and Murphy was missing it. He listens to it, processed it all. Alex's voice, both distant and right next to him--

They're good kids.

He's screaming his brother's name--

You killed him! You killed the Bogeyman.

Murphy parts his fingers, looking up at the sky. There's something out there and he knows it, even in this shit state he's in. So why doesn't he do anything about it?

He struggles to want to ask, or keeping his silence. It's something that's dirty and beaten and more fragile than any glass a person has ever known. In some way, he feels he already knows the answer Alex could have given him, and it makes him sick, more with himself than anything else.

"I'm sorry."

I just can't answer that.

[unsoldiered]

"... Yeah... I'm sorry, too."

How miserable, he thinks. Just... miserable.

He drags himself up to his feet, tiredly moving toward the back of the small boat; dragging up a door and digging around, he finds just what he's looking for, and eventually Murphy'll have a blue blanket dropped on top of him. "I don't know what we're supposed to do now, but I'm not about to sit around and wait. Gonna get my old man's keys so we can get outta' here... if they're where they should be..."

In the ignition, ready to go. If this boat's out in the middle of the lake, they have to be there, right? He scrubs at his eyes with his palm, grimacing; he'd rather not get them killed getting out of here, so passing out or falling asleep standing up? Not a good idea.

[yardbird]

What a couple of miserable, sorry dumbasses.

Murphy starts to move, but stops when a blanket falls on him. He takes it, if only to straighten it out over his legs. Half of the jumpsuit he's been stuck in is already stained a darker red from all the blood loss. There's blood all over the place, including the floor and on his hands. What's one more thing to dirty up?

He lifts his head lazily at the sound of Alex's voice, closing his eyes for a few seconds before willing himself back awake. He is already in so much pain. He's not keen on having Alex hit him awake again.

"This is that lake, isn't it? Uh, what was it...?" Murphy pauses to think about it. He practically had most of that map memorized. "Toluca...?"

It seems crazy, but for all the insane things that's happened to him, it makes a stupid kind of sense. Why not Toluca Lake, right?

If it was, then there had to be another side to it. Right?

[unsoldiered]

"That's right... This is Toluca." he replies, relieved for just a moment to see the key ready in the ignition. He turns and looks to Murphy, frowning. "Spent way too many days and nights here... I guess this might be the last time I ever see it in person." Scoff. "Not that I planned to ever see it again before this."

He sees lights peeking through the fog ahead. It looks like the lights of home. Which... wouldn't make sense, would it? That those are there? But they're not in a place that makes any sense.

Guess he'll head for that.

"Keep talking, Murphy. Tell me about anything to keep us both focused, huh?"

[yardbird]

Figured as much. If it's one thing that Murphy knows about this place, it's that coincidences don't just happen. Anne had been right about that much.

Once the boat fires up, Murphy reaches up to his shoulder again. His fingers clasp around the dressed up bullet wound there, as if making sure that it hasn't gone anywhere since he last checked.

But no, it still hurt like hell...

He nods, acknowledging Alex's words. His eyes focus on the sky overhead, trying to make some kind of sense out of it. It feels like it's been years since he ever saw a sky like that. If they made it through this, God only knew how long it would be before he ever saw a sky again, or listened to the sounds of waters beating against the boat all around. He missed open spaces, even if it still carries an air of imprisonment in this place.

"Y'know, the last time I was at this lake, I was on a boat like this one, tryin' to get out. Then Anne put a gun to my head. I dunno why... it just seems kinda funny to me now. Things are so different..." He laughed weakly, despite himself, and the humorless nature of that scenario. Not to mention, he was pretty sure she had pulled the trigger of that gun and killed him. But in spite of that -- "Shit... I hope she's alright..."

Murphy laughed tiredly again, his head dropping.

"Sorry, kinda suck at this talkin' thing..."

[unsoldiered]

The closer they move toward the shore, the more nervous he feels. This is home, but it's not. It still sends this strange fear down his spine. Like when it feels like the breath catches all wrong and your heart sputters? It's just a place now, he thinks. It's nothing real, and even if it were, everything's over.

It's over.

"Last time I was here, Elle got kidnapped right off the boat by those asshole cultist, and I ended up falling into the water. So I guess that's jut the appeal of this place." Alex leaves out Wheeler, if only because... well, it's depressing enough. Everything is depressing enough.

He pauses. "... She'll be alright, Murphy. She's tough as hell, right?"

[yardbird]

"Some appeal."

He sees that shore. Tries to focus on it, on Alex's words. As seconds pass, Murphy's vision starts to blur and all he can think about is not like this, you asshole. Keep going.

"Yeah, she is." He exhales. A heavy, misty puff escapes him. "One of the toughest people that I know..."

Not just because she survived Silent Hill, because Murphy himself endured the same trials. But it took a very special kind of person to find it in themselves to forgive the man responsible for your father's death. Murphy couldn't say he would be as quick to forgive, had he been in Anne's shoes.