ataraxionlogs | SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

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SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

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

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Anne just keeps holding onto him, just keeps him there in her arms. Because there's the strange, idealistic notion that as long as she holds him he's safe. He's okay. Nothing can get to him and that's the way she wants it. She's never wanted to protect anyone quite so fiercely before, and it scares her. But not as much as it relieves her. Because she loves him, and the scary part is over with now. She already told him.

Shit.

She told him.

There's not much she can do about it now. Nothing but move forward. And she does. Reluctantly, she starts to pull back. But when his voice breaks, she just comes back to him without ever having really let go, moving so his head falls back to the dark spot at her collar.

"Yes. I can. You don't have to walk." She's just answering his question, but still there's a comfort, she hopes, to the words. There's certainly something tender to her tone, at the very least.

"... I just need a minute."

A minute to just be exhausted and sore and bleeding but glad. Because they're okay. At least for the moment.

He hates to say it -- he hates to even think it, but the words come out: "Not safe to stay and wait." His own voice is hoarse; it's difficult to speak. But he's trying between ragged breaths. "I'm gonna... slow you down a lot..."

The state that he's in, Murphy's as good as dead, anyway. And that's what he truly believes. He also believes that if Anne doesn't move now, he'll only wind up taking her down with him. Murphy can't stand the thought of that, even if what Anne just confessed to him was true and not just a spur-of-the-moment thing.

Whether Anne hates him for it now too, for thinking and even speaking it aloud... that's her prerogative. He'll understand either way.

Sorry in advance.

Slowly, Anne nods. She knows he's making sense, even though she's loathe to let him go right now. She does, however, slowly pulling back and straightening into a sitting position. It occurs to her that it might be a good idea not to be too affectionate as it is; she's sure she made things somewhat uncomfortable by confessing her feelings to him.

Well that was a smooth move, Cunningham.

"You won't slow me down. You're fine." Her voice is as sturdy as she can make it right now, and she glances down at him, a bit worried by that ragged breathing. "Are you going to be okay?" there's a firm, desperate tug of worry that nearly shakes her off her feet. As she moves behind the wheelchair, slowly, and takes those damned handles in her fists, she has to steel herself for the creak of the wheels. It comes, too. Rather loudly at first, but then levels out.

The weight of Anne's previous words hadn't quite sunk in yet. They will, but at the moment all Murphy can do is barely lift his head to look at her. His eyes can only blink slowly.

Against everything he wants, the words leave me don't come out. Not because he's afraid, because Murphy is beyond fear. Whether it's from the drugs or the fact that maybe, deep down, some part of him still wants to die, is anyone's guess.

"Don't know..." Murphy answers in a slurred voice, and that's all that can really come out. Will the drugs wear off anytime soon? Will they ever? He hates the thought that he'll be stuck like this, a near-dead cadaver that's just wishing for it to stop. "Please, don't..." die, but the sentence never finishes before Murphy droops his head.

He's not unconscious. He can still hear the world around him, though it's more like a dream than anything else. If something happens, at least he'll be practically catatonic when it happens. No pain, no suffering.

That almost sounds nice...

As she begins to push the wheelchair again down the long, wet corridor, it's more than she can do to ignore the smell of blood. That heavy, almost melodic creaking pulls at her mind, struggles to pull her back to a time and place that's even darker and more daunting than this hellworld.

The 'don't know' makes her blood run cold, and all of a sudden everything around her is rendered far more terrifying by that thought. She swears there's even more blood dripping down the walls after he says it, though it could just be her imagination. Somehow it feels like the wheelchair doubles in weight.

"Don't what?" she asks him, rather gently. Though it's obvious that speaking takes a great amount of effort on his part, it sounded like something important and she doesn't want to end up not hearing whatever it is, in case this is their last few moments alive. She doesn't want to think that way, but Anne has never been an optimist. She's far too realistic.

After a pause, she lets on hand stray briefly to his hair even as she's continuing this long, painful walk. "I'll do what I can to keep you safe," she says in as comforting a tone as she can.

It's like a light has shut off and no one's home. He's listening, but staring off into nothing, the same rows of corroded tiles repeating themselves. Off in the distance he can hear things, moving within the walls. Feet shuffling, or maybe it's just him.

This place does shit to mess with your head, and Murphy is slipping deeper into that empty space. Inside, there's that sinking dread, like that void is what's been chasing after him for so long, tearing him apart inside. If he doesn't run, if he doesn't keep running, it's going to destroy him.

The walls have been bleeding. They may even be tearing apart. It's hard to tell.

Can't see anymore. Can't hear anything, only the shadows. His head tips forward; he can say nothing to bring Anne any peace of mind, or return the favor.

Or to warn her that he can feel as though something is coming for him.

He's listening, but not responding. Slumped limply in that wheelchair like he's off in some silent internal world. Like he's... a fucking vegetable. And that thought, that sickly accurate thought, makes her heart wrench. What if, if somehow they're able to avoid death, he's always like this? What if this is permanent?

Jesus Christ.

Choking momentarily, she doesn't want to let go of the handles of the wheelchair even long enough to wipe away the tears that are starting to slide silently downward, because letting go means risking losing grip, means risking losing him more than she already has and she doesn't want that.

Around them, the heavy dripping of the blood, like the sound of rain, echoes off of the empty corridor from the walls that ooze the fluid like it's normal. The acrid scent of medical waste and blood fills her nostrils more with every step as the twisted metal around them bends, lifts, peels, she swears. And in the center of this horror show she stares hard ahead, tries to ignore the sounds of things moving and dragging, shifting and shuffling. Bloody feet and hands. Cracked teeth.

Rotten flesh.

Whatever it is that's coming, she can feel it. She can sense it as easily as she can sense the cold of the handles clenched in a death grip in her fists. Trying to focus on Murphy and not the unspeakable horrors around them, she swallows hard.

"Murphy..." she mutters, not because she has anything to say, but because saying it makes her feel a bit more grounded.

He tries to speak. All that comes out is a slack-jawed sound that utters from the back of his throat. Not comforting by any means. Disturbing if nothing else. Can't move at all now, either -- not even speak. Too much effort. So tired. Sleep sounds nice. If something happens, he'll never have to know...

Will it always be like this? Murphy can't even muster the strength to hope or be afraid anymore. He is down there, in a place where whatever happens, happens, and there's not a damn care in the world that can save him from that. Not even Anne and her words.

Something begins to tear away at the walls behind them, as if the corrosion is following. It's catching up to them now, in a hushed whisper.

The whisper almost becomes like a familiar voice, saying "Run!"

i'll slow you down

There's a thickness to the tension around them, the kind of thickness that is almost palpable. Anne swears if she tried she could actually touch it. In the foul dimness of those twisted corridors that mirror the darkest parts of her psyche, the most horrific moments of her life, all she can do is keep pushing. Helplessly pushing the wheelchair like she has so many times before.

The longer she pushes, the less everything around them makes sense. The less she's able to feel and the more she's able to just get caught up in the terror of it all. The tears stop eventually and so does everything else. She's just blood and flesh and bones when it comes down to it, she thinks. She's nothing that this horrible world can't erase in a single moment.

And it wants to. It's hungry to. Behind them that whispering horror... she can feel it creeping up on them, fast and slow all at once. Automatically her legs move faster, pushing the heavy wheelchair at a faster pace with some effort, but she doesn't let up. Not when her muscles and bones scream with the exertion or when she nearly loses her footing because the floor is slick with shower water and blood. All she is now is monotonous pushing along with the numbing terror that is starting to bore its way into her skull.

It's not a light that approaches from behind now. Not the same light that Murphy knows so well. This is something else. A darker vacuum that's a mean to self-destruction.

Murphy can't turn to warn her, but he can move slightly with a twitch of his own muscles. He's much heavier than Anne, and she's hauling both of them along in the panic. He might as well be dead weight to her now. Useless to her, even if it's true when she said that she loves him.

If he felt even an ounce of that same feeling in return, and Murphy is sure that he does, he wouldn't want her to die this way. Torn up and turn to nothing by the same nothing that's coming to finally claim him.

You don't belong here, Murphy.

Of all things that could pose a threat in their current predicament, it's a maze in a hospital. Anne would have that to look forward to -- twists and turns and obstacles obstructing their path. And the hush and groan of something else coming in closer, a hair's breadth behind them.

Body screaming in protest, Anne just keeps going. She pushes onward mechanically, unwilling to give up and even more unwilling to just leave him behind. The weight of Murphy and the chair combined make it a grueling trek, traversing hospital corridors. Blood and rust everywhere. Rage and pain in the form of a world that's twisted and unfathomable. That breaks apart all around them and yet stands still and does nothing at all.

As they move it's increasingly obvious it is coming, though it's less obvious what it is. And whatever it is, she wonders if it's unavoidable. This run is prolonging their lives, pushing back stubbornly against the inevitable and painful end.

With the thought of death, her mind turns to Frank. Of Sunday mornings watching the rain and reading comics together from the newspaper, making hot cocoa in the winter, catching raindrops in their hair while they went fishing together in the later years. Of him teaching her to fix her ex-husband's car for his birthday. More things. Endless things. Things that mean life. Then she thinks of what Murphy told her, about his little boy at the bottom of that lake. Of the deadness in Murphy's eyes. A different kind of death, in those eyes.

There's no way in hell she's going to let him die thinking it's his own fault.

That gives her the motivation she needs and she pushes forward on shrieking, flaming joints, sweat beading hard on her brow. Her breathing is hard and shallow but she can choke out a few words between them, though it's a labor at this point.

"Don't give up."

He can't think. Not for himself, or of anything. Inside is an empty shell, with no thoughts and no feelings to dwell on. And who knows, maybe he's better off like this -- that's what he would be thinking, if he could.

Instead, he's just falling. Deeper and deeper into the mess of himself, far enough that he'll have no choice but to scurry back out again. Just not now, where he is nothing but a player on a stage... on Anne's stage.

--And you have to run.

Sharp fingers claw and scrap across the walls, the smoky wisps lashing out from the void that's crawling to greet them -- on the walls, on the ceiling, but never touching the ground. Closer and closer, through the twists and turns, until it's there and reaching out for them... reaching for Anne, for Murphy's husk in the wheelchair.

Surprisingly, there is an eventual end to this seemingly endless hallway, only it's more of a bitter defeat, as far as Anne would probably be concerned. Because at the end of the corridor, between themselves and a roaring tide that's made up of shadows and limbs grabbing for them, is a flight of stairs descending far into an even deeper darkness.

As Anne's aching and exhausted body forces itself forward on pure will, further and further until she swears she can't do it anymore, she does. She always does. Anne never gives up, never just crumbles and loses it. Not when it counts. It's something she's always striven for, but now she wonders, if it's all even been worth it.

Funny, how in these moments, every other moment is irrelevant. All the struggles of life, the endless push forward and upward, all of it unravels into something meaningless. Because this thing behind them doesn't care. She spent years doing what she could to become the best CO she possibly could, spent years doing what she could to be just like Frank. And then spent years unwittingly becoming less and less like him after he was attacked. But that thing doesn't care. All it wants is to destroy the both of them, and it strives for this with all the singlemindedness Anne strove for her revenge.

And that's what it is, maybe, she thinks. All of that coming back to haunt her. Those years of pain and bitterness and hate, the horrible and disgusting and dirty things she did to get Murphy where she wanted him. And then, what she did to Sewell. Standing over him watching his eyes grow dull and stare up at her, open and glassy. The work of years. Anne knows what the thing looks like without even looking over her shoulder. Black tendrils fingers reaching hands anger and hate and death.

The sight of the end of the horrible, twisting maze ahead of them is no relief. Anne's heart sinks even as it's beating so hard she swears it's going to explode out of her chest. Stairs. It occurs to her that Murphy can't go down the stairs properly in the wheelchair. That this isn't going to work.

She doesn't care.

All she can do is keep pushing, keep pushing the vegetable, the cripple in the wheelchair and try not to think of the inevitable death, of one or both of them. That this is the rest of eternity and there's no way to get back what once was. Murphy's smooth skin and dark hair flicker, change. For a moment she's looking at the ghostly image of hair that's fallen out, twisted and pale skin that's marked with scars from IVs and needles to test his blood, and there's urine on the hospital gown and the sick smell of medicine and human waste is in the air.

Back to reality with a hard blink and a shake of the head, and Anne sees Murphy again, knows he's been Murphy this whole time. Lungs and muscles and bones aching and grinding she keeps going, pushing onward, that last stretch making her feel like her lungs will split. She doesn't know what will happen when they reach the end, but she can't stop.

That thing behind them, the horrible tendrils that reach for them, try to tear at them, gets closer with each step, until Anne doesn't know if she can avoid it anymore. And finally, it touches her, just as her foot hits the top step. It tears at her, and she feels blood spring out of her back under where it tears her tshirt before the wheelchair loses balance on the steps, and its weight pulls her with it.

As she and Murphy topple down the stairs she reaches blindly for something, anything, falling arm over arm and smashing into the chair, into Murphy, rolling helplessly over the two of them with no way to force herself to a stop. She tries to keep an eye on Murphy, but the gravity of the fall makes it impossible to look in any one place for long. She feels her shoulder split, her knee, and then finally her head.

It's the last thing she's aware of before she blacks out.

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SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

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