Picking up papers on her way, she took a glance at each of them. What she could make apart from wet and aged print - pages of a magazine describing Suzuki GSX-R750,, and Yamaha FZ750 from 1985, a revolutionary bike with steel mesh and most notably: the 5-valve cylinder head with a radial arrangement Good taste. It was one of the models Yui had once hoped to have her hands in second-hand, just to see how far past the limits she could have pushed it. She wasn’t thinking much about it, ruined places often had a fair share of vandalism - old news papers and torn magazines weren’t uncommon. Perhaps, someone in the house was also was a fan of motorcycles - if she was lucky, there might be a vehicle and some gas in the garage.
She was more concerned of some sort of radiation poisoning or inhaling toxic gas emit from the ground. There must have been a reason everyone once evacuated, right? She wasn’t really fan about discovering why. On the other hand, the town reminded her about the sleepy suburbs of Hida, and by thinking about her home town, hands clenched into fists. More than grudge, it was homesickness now awoken by this place. But it it wasn’t directed at the physical place she could have once called home. It was her grandmother, who she owed to pay respects, thank her posthumously for being the ground stone to her success. But thought about encountering her father again for some odd coincidence, distressed her.
Locked. No one fleeing with a vehicle would take time to do that. She pocketed her hands and walked backwards while observing the garage door - pondering if it was breakable, or if she should take time to go carefully through the three bedroom family home. The first option wasn’t a problem, as she believed to be the only thing alive in the fog. But as she began to work with the lock, she slowly began to pay attention to the sound that first was just a mere background ambient… growing stronger and stronger, until she had this sudden feeling of threat, somewhere she couldn’t see.
❝ Hey asshole! ❞ She immediately got up, staring into the misty veil that blocked her view. Squeezing the rock tight in her hand, ready to throw it towards the direction any sound would come. It could be just another survivor - maybe. But the way they approached wasn’t one of her liking. Had she sworn any new creep would be the one to fear her. She took steps towards, as if showing she wasn’t going to act like a prey. ❝ I’m not going to play any games here… face to face me, then I’ll talk. Else… ❞ playing with the rock, she continued staring, waiting. || @sintinel liked!
Not a drop of rain, yet the gutters are turned to streams.
The water is murky and reflective, briefly opaline in the pale light, its odour mimicking the pollution of densely populated cities – acrid and humid like smoke from an oil fire. Gasoline. Silent Hill is leaking with it. The fog that clings to the streets and walls no longer an inexplicable turn of weather but a turn of climate, sodden with the sepia of dirt and dust dispersing from a whirling tire wheel. The town had already started morphing into something it was not, beyond Alessa’s design, barren of any of its writhing inhabitants for now.
He ambles past a motorbike with no driver, stationery but not abandoned, it boasts an owner who is fastidious in their care, polished and maintained to last for as long as any vehicle can. Many machines have names, treated as though they are alive, and this one is no exception. Its imbued soul scintillant among the husks of disowned cars and rusting trucks; their number plates bearing the names of foreign states and equally foreign countries.
Proceeding on through the neighbourhood, the gasoline thins to a trickle. Each house along the sidewalk is barely separated from the next, framed by mousey alleyways that only a child could sidle through – an ideal hiding place away from the prying paternalism of strict parents.
But she is not one to hide.
If it is a case of fight or flight, she chooses the former, stepping out from the garage and directly addressing him – accusing him. As if he is a stranger in his own home, as if her reason for being here should be known – even if she doesn’t know why herself. By all appearances, he acknowledges her threat, stopping his lead-heavy tracks to face her. A garden between them, he stands his wilting stance, his shoulders asymmetrical with an unseen, carried weight, yet her posture is resolute – defensive – the rock in her hand waiting to ward off danger.
Can she smell it? The iron and sulphur of choking exhaust pipes, or is she so attuned to the scent that it is a found home -- more so than any roof or promise of stability can provide. Despite any efforts she may have made to drive on, to carve a life into the roads and racing tracks, everywhere had its eventual destination and finish line. Today, it was Silent Hill, but no journey here was ever made by chance.
