the poor dead district attorney

❝ These I also toss. ❞

❝ There are so many stories . . . ❞

❝ Perhaps I'll be lucky and discover this awful dread that gnaws on me day and night is nothing more than the shock wave caused by too many crude chemicals rioting in my skull for too long. ❞

❝ Then again perhaps in finding my clearing I'll only make myself an easier prey for the real terror that tracks me, waiting beyond the perimeter, past the tall grass, the brush, that stand of trees, cloaked in shadow and rot, but with enough presence to resurrect within me a whole set of ancient reflexes. ❞

❝ But by then it will already be too late. The distance far too great to cover. As if there ever really was a place to hide. ❞

❝ At least I'll have a gun. I'll buy a gun. Then I'll crouch and I will wait. ❞

❝ Outside shots fired. Lots. ❞

❝ Somehow the date escaped me. ❞

❝ Which I realize means I forgot my own birthday. ❞

❝ I'm probably the only one alive willing to at least attempt on my behalf that tricky flying fuck maneuver. ❞

❝ The neon markers and fishing line last at most six days before they are entirely consumed by the house. ❞

❝ How we get through it, I don't have a clue. But that crying's coming from the other side. ❞

❝ [He/She/They] will live. ❞

❝ Here then the aftermath of meaning. A lifetime finished between the space of two frames. The dark line where the eye persists in seeing something that was never there to begin with. ❞

❝ Since when did you bring a gun? ❞

❝ Are you kidding me? This place is scary. ❞

❝ I can't see a fucking thing. ❞

❝ Awwwwwwwwwww shit! ❞

❝ [He's/She's/They're] alive. ❞

❝ [Name], come here. [Name's] breathing. ❞

❝ It doesn't matter [name], [He's/She's/They're] still dead. ❞

❝ Some habits die hard, huh? ❞

❝ Something about the terror of the staircase. ❞

❝ It's actually pretty sad. ❞

❝ What follows here is hopelessly incomplete. ❞

❝ The whole thing was really quite brilliant, ❞

❝ What difference does it make? They're dead anyway, right? Or not-alive, however you want to look at it. ❞

❝ I also discovered that most of the pieces were stained with blood. ❞

❝ But for whatever reason I was overcome by my own impulse to save what was left. ❞

❝ All suggesting the same theme but somehow never quite fitting back together. ❞

❝ On more than a few occasions I even considered excluding all this. ❞

❝ One thing's for sure: it did disturb me. ❞

❝ There's just something so creepy about all the violence and blood. I mean over what? This? ❞

❝ Maybe it really was too personal. ❞

❝ Who knows. But here it is. All that's left. ❞

a selection of dialogue prompts from the game who's lila? feel free to change pronouns / details as needed.

"must be really scary."

"so not existing is like being asleep?"

"you aren't making any sense right now."

"so you are your personality and your memories? is that what you're trying to say?"

"you see, there's a problem with what you just said."

"oh, i wouldn't trust the mirror, my dear. the ghosts on the other side may only look like us."

"the pupil can never see itself."

"you can analyse your memories and your personality, yet the real perceiver always stays in the shadows."

"in that sense, there isn't really a difference between you and other people."

"you have no ability to see what's inside someone's head."

"what's the definition of imaginary?"

"please, don't go closer. stay in the corner there, please."

"they are all dead, aren't they?"

"why did you tell me to stay home that day?"

"i'm sorry, i can't do this anymore. you have to leave."

"please, stop with this nonsense."

"you know, i can't leave you. but something has to change..."

"don't worry too much about it. it's important to keep a clear mind."

"no! don't touch me!"

"it's useless now. you think you've got the upper hand?"

"you are just delaying the inevitable."

"this is so wrong, isn't it?"

"do you love me?"

"i mean, i get it. if i were you, i wouldn't trust myself either."

"no, it's not about that. you just remind me of someone i knew."

"after what i did, i don't really deserve anything better, do i?"

"is that so? honestly, i feel a bit offended."

"what? if it's a joke, i don't get it."

"who's lila? some girl you like?"

"i'm alright. my face just doing its shenanigans again, i guess."

"what the hell's going on?"

"please be quiet. everything's alright. what's gotten into you?"

"this is what you get for trying to get rid of me."

"there's no need to scream. you look very cute today. don't scream."

"it's difficult for me to express emotions."

"i envy other people, they make faces naturally, but i have to make a conscious decision each time i move a muscle."

"every morning i go to the bathroom to rehearse what my face is going to show today."

"do you think we don't know what's happening between you two?"

"it's really not good to spread rumours. that's a sign of a very, very bad friend."

"so you wanted to see so badly? well. feast your eyes."

"well, are you satiated... now?"

"i do not desire to feed for now."

"your endeavours amuse me. but now it's time for us to cease."

"thanks for coming today. i rarely see you these days."

"you see, i've been studying you very intently."

"at the end of the day, i'd like to find out who you are."

"you amuse me. you really are nothing like those fools."

"oh, i expect an exquisite feast."

"we aren't going to talk here. meet me at a familiar place. i'll be waiting."

"well, if that's the game you want to play... let's do it."

"it is delightful to see your optimism."

"oh well, enough chit-chat. please, pick a card."

"i don't envy anybody. there's no use in comparing stupid glass shards, even if you think one of them is yours."

"hm, playful as usual, i see."

"don't worry. i won't stop until i find out."

"are you trying to be funny?"

"no need to be so hostile. after all, you are the one who came here."

"i couldn't help myself, i always come when someone calls."

"so it was you lot who stole all my food?"

"there doesn't seem to be a different way to do it. i'm so sorry."

"it's never that simple, is it?"

"you... you tricked me."

"your sorrow is exquisite."

"you are horrible."

"well, that's a harsh thing to say."

"you need to leave... i need a moment."

"not bad. you are much smarter than you look."

"no nourishment for me today, i guess."

"well, i'm sorry, but you won't trick me that easily."

"i don't believe you."

"was it your plan all along?"

"you don't have to be a genius to understand that there are multiple possible routes."

"you seem to think that some of the dreams you see are more important than others. i suggest you reconsider. all of them are equally ephemeral. all of them are nothing but dreams."

"you might not know it, but i've been watching you intently."

"so? did it help you?"

"if i'm being frank, i have almost no damn idea about what happened before or after this day."

"i appreciate your bluntness."

"to be quite honest with you, i feel a bit cheated."

"i'm not sure if the way it ended was a victory of good, or a terrible mistake."

"i... thought you'd be gone after that."

"does everyone see you the same way?"

"there are some who can see better than others."

"are you afraid of death?"

"i think death means different things to us."

"i've died many times, but all i was met with was a different dream."

"you are in a very special position right now. don't waste it."

"you have the opportunity to either jump into the wheel again, or be free of dreams forever."

"it's such a shame. i wish we could talk more like this."

"so, the trickster gets tricked, eh?"

"are we getting jealous?"

"what? i don't possess such feelings for anyone."

"what was that figure in the corner?"

"you love when it's about you, don't you?"

"i mean, i don't care, we can talk about something else if you'd like."

"you are so close to finding out the truth... do you realise that?"

"why are you saying that it's up to me?"

"come on. you are almost there."

"what a strange outcome that was."

"i wish i could do something about it."

"you do have the power to divert the way some events go."

"you won't lull me into a false sense of safety."

"i'm not sure if i can grasp the picture in its entirety yet."

@mysweetlouise sent . . .

"I don't really know how to be gentle."

from siobhan

it's a set of words his heart understands well. there was a time when guy once believed himself to be gentle. that all changed upon the eviction. when he pulled out a semi-automatic rifle and opened fire on the cops that told him he needed to get off his own property.

since then, all that's followed his path has been suffering & death. it's all he knows now. as though his previous life has vanished from memory, leaving only a weapon behind.

‎ ❝ starting to suspect it's impossible to some of us to be gentle . . . ❞ he murmurs, scrubbing blood off a machete's blade. ❝ like a lion trying to be vegetarian. it just can't work. ❞

"wasn't really good at it. people are all weak about it. squishy. like mice. well, better lemmings, those... vicious ones. the whole world tries to crush you, so you bare your teeth and burrow through as much blood as you can."

she lights the smoke, flicks the box open again and offers him one.

she looks down at her hands.

a moment of hesitation.

When she blurts out that Mark got better, one brow lifts.

"...Good."

Not because that's what mattered most.

Because she'd been carrying the need to say it.

"I wasn't worried about his leg."

A corner of his mouth quirks.

"Legs heal."

His eyes meet hers.

"Heads are stubborn."

Silence settles between them for a moment.

Then she keeps talking.

By the time she finishes, Dante's smile has vanished.

He leans back against the booth, folding his arms.

"You know..."

He scratches lightly at the stubble on his jaw.

"I've met people who lost years."

"People who forgot their names."

"People who woke up with somebody else's nightmares sitting where their memories oughta be."

He shrugs one shoulder.

"Brains are weird."

Another pause.

"But..."

His gaze stays on hers.

"You remembered Mark."

"You remembered enough to worry that you'd hurt him."

"You remembered this place is safe."

His hand taps the tabletop once.

"And just now, you cared whether you were still you."

He lets the thought hang.

"Dead people don't usually ask that question."

A small smile returns.

"The ones still fighting do."

He looks down at the blood-smudged table before rubbing one thumb across the wood grain.

"My old man used to make swords."

He glances up again.

"You replace the handle."

"The guard."

"Maybe even the blade."

He gives an easy shrug.

"At some point, it's technically a different sword."

A beat.

"If it'll still cut through a demon..."

He taps the table once more.

"...I'm not gonna argue with it."

His expression softens.

"I don't think you're trying to get back to the woman who walked into that house."

"I think you're trying to figure out who walked back out."

His voice is calm.

"Those aren't the same question."

He pushes himself upright.

"And before you answer either one..."

A faint grin returns.

a glance at her bloodied hands.

"i don't know who she is anymore. she's so weak now. just a little house mouse, running and mangy and feeble little claws, just very, very shaky all the time. and she, i keep going on. and i don't like her much. she should really be better."

she sighs, puts her head in her hands.

"there you are," she says. her voice is quiet, unexpectant, with the tiniest waver at the end. patient, like she knew somebody would be there. somebody has to be, eventually. eventually.

The town does not accept the promise.

It accepts the shape of it.

That is different.

The fog does not warm around her. The street does not brighten. The buildings do not soften themselves into a welcoming place. For a brief moment, there is something almost resembling stillness, but it is not comfort.

It is attention.

Silent Hill has always been mistaken for many things.

A judge.

A monster.

A healer.

A punishment.

A second chance.

People arrive carrying their own names for it, their own explanations, their own desperate attempts to make something enormous and unknowable fit inside a human understanding.

Friend.

Enemy.

Guardian.

Enemy again.

The town allows these interpretations to exist.

It does not belong to any of them.

The figure beside her remains where it is, hand loosely around her wrist, but the town does not let the moment become what she wants it to become. The contact does not deepen. The shape does not settle into certainty. The unfinished face does not become a familiar one.

The town does not become smaller for her.

It does not become safer.

The veil remains open, but the edges of it continue to tremble. The remembered street beyond does not step closer. The door that opened remains only partially open. An invitation is not the same thing as permission.

A distinction the town has always understood.

The lights above the street flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Then several go dark.

Not as a threat.

As a reminder.

The path behind them remains fog-covered. The path ahead remains uncertain. The town does not rearrange itself into a road toward a happy ending simply because someone has reached out and offered kindness.

Kindness has been offered before.

Love has been offered before.

Promises have been offered before.

The town has watched people make vows in its streets and break them in the same breath.

It has watched people call something salvation because they needed it to be.

The figure shifts.

The town does not stop it.

But it does not grant Louise ownership over it either.

It is not a stray animal she has found.

Not a lost person waiting to be rescued.

Not proof that every frightening thing can become gentle if approached correctly.

It is a thing that exists within the boundaries of this place.

A fragment.

A reflection.

A question without a mouth to answer.

The fog curls between Louise and the figure, briefly obscuring them from one another.

Only briefly.

When it clears, the figure is still there.

But different.

The outline has changed.

Not enough to be noticed immediately.

Enough to matter.

A reminder that it was never something she had fully grasped.

Never something she had named into being.

The town permits her to walk beside it.

It permits her to speak.

It permits her to hope.

But permission is not affection.

Silence is not agreement.

Presence is not friendship.

The piano beyond the veil plays a single note again.

Then stops.

The town remains.

Ancient.

Patient.

Unmoved by the need to be loved.

"...right." figuring things out. maybe sad is better. but problem solving first, she can cry later.

"if we do try to go through," she says, "i can hold it open for you. it's nicer over there, i... i think you'll be happy. and then i can wriggle through after, ive been stuck in small spaces before so i know i can handle it. or we can go somewhere else."

when she does step forward, it's a clumsy shuffle, a half limp that casts her curls forward over her face as she rummages through a frayed beaded purse. her pale fingers produce a faded sepia photo.

the same woman, smiling wide and holding a small fluffy haired boy in a sweater. his face is frozen mid laugh, all bright eyes and freckles. the photo is tinged red around the edges.

"his name's teddy," she half babbles. "he's not even at two yet, he... he's gone, his father's gone too and i don't know where he is, he should be with my cousin and the phones don't work, i can't get an operator-"

a hiccuping sob.

his confusion doesn't last, since it's the boy in the photo that really hits him. that adorable little grin splinters asunder his heart. guy's already repeating prayers in his head, all pleading to god that the boy is safe.

regardless of the sudden spike in his heartbeat, guy's forces himself to remain calm. he has to for her & the boy's sake.

‎ ❝ where . . . where does your cousin live ? ❞ his voice comes out steadier than he feels. god, please let it be close. ❝ if we can't reach 'em through the phone. maybe . . . we can just visit 'em in person . . . ❞

eyes lift from the photograph, meeting her face instead. the deep frown tugs further down his mouth; worry carves itself into every line of his expression. Seeing her like this — shaken & desperate — twists his insides, making him feel sick. he can't even begin to imagine a mother's pain.

a shaky smile.

Zora could get how that meaning something wouldn't likely be enough given all that Louise has already been through. But, it was something that Z figured that had to be worth holding on to in some capacity.

They'd like to believe that was the case.

she looks down at her hands.