Walter & Henry Log [FINISHED]

[21stsacrament]

Who: Walter Sullivan & Henry Townshend (closed to other players)
Where: The Hospital
When: Sunset
What: Henry goes looking around the City shortly after his arrival and meets up with someone he'd rather forget.



When Henry had first woken up, he'd thought for sure he was in Silent Hill again.

It didn't take long for him to shake that off, however -- the tall, looking buildings with dark, curving spires and strange, almost gothic architecture had been enough to change his mind. Wherever this was, it was somewhere else entirely -- somewhere Henry would have to inspect and acquaint himself with. After all, he needed a safe place to stay, first of all, long enough for him to figure out what had happened in that room, long enough to sort out all the sounds buzzing through his head -- laughter, and screaming, and...

Well, Henry didn't want to think about it all. He had always been good at denial, hadn't he?

This place couldn't be so bad. It wasn't his apartment, that was for sure -- and for the first time, Henry was actually relieved. That room had become a complete nightmare. Blood poured from his faucet, his windows clattered incessantly, the phone would ring and ring and ring long after the cord had been severed completely.

And there were the headaches -- or rather the lack thereof. He hadn't been in this city too long, but so far, his head seemed clear of the usual pain.

Even so, that didn't make up for the biting cold, or the eerily empty streets that stretched as far as he could see, filled with more dark buildings. Where was this? How had he gotten here? How many more times would he blackout, only to wake up somewhere completely different?

Henry could not do this for the rest of forever.

Suddenly, he wanted his warm apartment. Before all the hauntings, before the murders. He wanted his couch and his alcohol and his TV and the frozen dinners that always came with it.

So much for those luxuries here.

Even so, it wasn't going to help him to wish for things he couldn't have. Henry had always been what he considered a realist -- and all these idealistic wishes he'd been having lately, he knew, were doing nothing but hurting him.

No sense in dwelling on the past.

He glanced down the street, frowning a little. There were plenty of buildings -- but they mostly looked run-down. If he was going to find a place to stay, it needed to be safe, and preferably not falling apart. As his eyes scanned down the street, he stopped, seeing a nearby hospital. It didn't look too bad. He turned, sighed, and began to walk towards it.

The doors creaked sharply as he walked in. Henry took a deep breath as they closed behind him. He didn't like the heavy, solid feeling of the air around him. He recognized it as the same feeling from his apartment, when the infection got too bad -- when everything went to hell.

He closed his eyes for a moment, slumping against the wall, trying to pull himself together.

He should have recognized it as more than just the "feeling from his apartment," should have been able to pin it down a little further than that. Should have been able to put a name to it.

Ah well. It was never said that Henry was the quickest around.

Walter Sullivan, recently deceased in some form or another, just as all the others who inhabited this reality, just happened to be occupying that very same room that Henry had stumbled into.

How very convenient.

Walter hadn't been looking for supplies, or sewing up any wounds, however. His presence there also hadn't been as sinister as their first meeting in such a setting.

No, Walter was simply there.

He'd felt the pull and had begun walking. Wandering. He had no idea how long he'd been doing it, or where he'd been going. He had no idea if the man who had just stumbled into the once-sterile room was even related to the reason.

He knew, somewhere inside of him, that there was an answer to this. A source to destroy and a way home.

To Mother.
Back to the place he'd worked so hard to be and now wasn't.

For now, Henry would make fine passing entertainment.

He didn't hesitate to make his presence known.

Stepping out from behind the thin partition sheet that hung from the ceiling -- one of the same kind that had obstructed his form from Henry once before, he smiled what to him, was a pleasant smile, and to Henry, would be somewhat intimidating, if not outright terrifying.

"Hello, Henry."

What a pleasant surprise. Why are you here?

Not yet. More words to come later.

Henry's eyes flew open when he heard movement, and he stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet, crashing against the hard metal doors. Oh, fuck.

No, this wasn't happening. Not this. Not him, not here too.

For as long as Henry had been here, he had considered himself lucky, counting his only blessing as being that Walter wasn't there. Now, there were no blessings left to count.

"Oh, god," he managed to choke out, and instantly hated himself for it. His hand fumbled behind him for the door handle, ready to push it in and swing the door open and run if Walter got any closer. The other hand -- currently occupied with a pistol -- rose, slowly, shakingly, pointing the barrel to Walter.

He couldn't kill him. This was Walter. Henry had never been able to do anything but keep him down for a few fleeting moments. The most he could do now would be to get him to the ground, to give himself a head start to get away. Far away. As far as he could go.

But was there even use to that? Wouldn't Walter find him no matter where he went?

'I'm always watching you.'

The very thought made Henry's expression much less intimidating than he had hoped for.

Walter made no sudden movements. Really, he made no movements at all. Just stood there, watching. Watching Henry's expressions; Watching Henry's reactions.

"Oh god..."

Oh, yes.

Walter laughed at Henry's fear. He laughed with both the intimidation he always carried, but also with genuine amusement. He didn't even have to do anything to invoke Henry's terror except be, and it was an exhilarating rush.

Walter's eyes traveled from Henry's shocked and frightened face to the pistol, pointed directly at his midsection. The laughter trailed off, but the amusement never left his face.

"Do you mean to use that, Henry?"

Oh, the smile.

He wouldn't try to dissuade his Receiver from shooting him. He never had. Sometimes the pain wasn't so bad; sometimes it was almost pleasant. Nice to know he could still feel. And it wouldn't really do any damage, of course, so why worry? He'd freed himself from that long ago.

With the suicide.
With the ritual.

He had lost Mother, but he hadn't lost everything he'd gained. Not his power. Not the invulnerable form that had replaced his mortal shell.

And he hadn't lost Mother. He'd find her again. Of course he would.

And Henry would help him, now that he'd found him.

Of course he would...

Henry's eyes moved with Walter's to his own shaky hand, to the tip of the gun, where the bullet would come out if he could just force himself to pull the trigger.

Did he mean to use that? He sure as hell did.

Henry's thumb pulled the hammer back, fast, and then he fired one shot after another, over, and over, and over, until the chamber was empty and the gun only clicked when Henry pulled the trigger, several more times before standing there, horrified.

There was a very long, long moment where Henry did not know what to do.

After that, everything seemed to move very fast.

He turned, pushing the door open, rushing down the hall.

There was no where to go. No where he could hide. Walter would find him anywhere. Walter could see him anywhere. Walter would always be there.

'The faint hope I had is slowly turning into Despair...'

Joseph, you have no idea.

There was a moment's hesitation in the hallway, and then Henry was rushing past rooms until he randomly chose a door, pushing past it. He was surprised to find it opened, and he shut it fast behind him.

His gun was empty.

It seemed like much longer than the few seconds that it must have been between the time Walter had antagonized him and the time Henry finally acted. Walter watched with anticipation, waiting. Waiting.

And then bam. bam. bam.

One after another, the bullets hit home. Walter stumbled with the impact, half surprised that Henry had actually done it. After the first shot, he no longer simply stood, but began to move forward. No action, without reaction, and this time the antagonisms hadn't even been his to start.

Perhaps Henry got more fun with time, too. Goodie.

Walter stumbled. Bled. Stumbled. Moved forward toward Henry at a slower pace than normal. He hadn't adjusted to this particular Otherworld, and it seemed to encumber him somewhat. He felt like he might be bleeding more. The bullets certainly hurt more than they should. Perhaps he'd just gotten soft in the time he'd spent away from all of this. Away from injury and pain and Henry.

Who knew how long it had really been. Time never seemed to pass. It didn't matter anyway. He'd just been there. In perfection; in bliss; in that throbbing warmth of Mother's womb. Unbirthed and unblemished and home.

This was most certainly not home.

This hurt and bled and screamed.

Henry turned and bolted. Walter reached out as the door closed, and missed by mere inches, falling forward and coming down on his knees, hard.

This wasn't right.

Walter looked down, and thought for a moment that the floor was more red than it should be. He was still bleeding. Still hurting. He put a hand over one of the wounds and felt the warmth spill out over his hand. He was still moving, and he didn't feel faint as he remembered losing blood in a mortal shell should feel. But this wasn't right, either. He was in neither place, and wanted nothing more than to smack Henry hard in the back of the head with the first blunt object he could find. Once Henry was unconscious, he'd go from there. Maybe the bleeding would stop before that.

Hopefully.

He forced himself up to his feet, and put a blood-coated hand on the wall to steady himself. He felt his hand start to slide and he moved against it, sliding his hand back up. He leaned there for a moment, getting his bearings, as he listened to Henry's heavy footfalls retreat away from him.

Hard. Fast. Heavy.

Henry couldn't run like that forever.

Not forever, and woe be him when Walter found him.

He pushed off the wall, leaving a smeared print behind, and gripped the door handle with the same bloody hand.

It took more than one try to turn the knob, with the slippery substance between his hand and the metal, but he got it open.

He let it close behind him with a loud bang. Let Henry know he was coming. It would make everything all the sweeter if Walter could taste his fear.

Leaning against the door, Henry let out a soft breath, his eyes squeezing shut. It wasn't hard to hear the heavy sounds of the door slam somewhere down the hall, and Henry's hands tightened into fists, tightened around the gun.

Now what?

Walter would find him. It was only a matter of time. Henry's eyes went to the window and he thought wildly, for only a moment, of opening it and getting out. Getting free. But he knew better than to try. It wouldn't open. They never had before.

There were no hiding places in the room -- probably on purpose, as it was what looked like a patient room. Even if Henry crawled under the bed, there were no sheets hanging down to obscure him. It would be a useless and silly hiding spot. Even if he left the room, what would be the point? They would all be like this, and besides, Walter was in the hallway now, just beyond the thin metal door, coming for him. Even if Henry had wanted it, there were no holes to go through to get away, here.

Henry wondered what Walter would do when he found him. He instantly wished his mind wasn't so creative.

It was a long stretch, but his eyes suddenly swept the room, looking for any ammunition. Sometimes, in that Otherworld, he'd gotten lucky and found some, even in the hospital rooms of St. Jerome's. Peeling himself off the door, Henry crossed the room, checking the other side of the bed, then the drawers of the bedside table. Nothing was inside. He cursed softly under his breath, his heart starting to beat faster. Walter was coming, and Henry was trapped in this little room, reduced to waiting for his punishment.

At least he can't kill me again, Henry thought, humorlessly, but there was no solace in it.

Walter's footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hallways. One step at a time. Slowly, but surely.

The blood still hadn't stopped, but he couldn't be bothered to worry about it. His fixation was singular at the moment, an obsession with no room for outside influences.

Where are you, Henry...?

Even mother was blocked from his mind at the moment.

Only Henry mattered. Only Henry's fear. Only Henry's pain. Only Henry's blood spilt by Walter's hands. Only the screaming, pleading sound of Henry's voice filling the deathly silence of the hospital. There were, of course, plenty of supplies here, if Henry got hurt too badly. He could be sewn up. Fixed. Just like Walter had fixed the sentries. Just like Walter had fixed the puppets. Just like Walter would fix Henry with a solid crack on the back of his head. Then he would be quiet, complacent, cooperative. He would help find Mom. He would fix what he messed up. He would find Henry. Find mom. Find home. Yes.

Henry could come back with him.

He needed nothing within that warmth, and yet, it could be interesting. It could be entertaining. He would never grow bored within that sacred place, but if he wanted to, he supposed he could do more than simply be, and that might lead to boredom.

With Henry there, there would be a reason, he supposed, wouldn't there?

Although having Henry would spoil the purpose. Spoil Mother's sanctity, spoil her. Henry would spoil her...

Decisions, decisions.

Walter decided he needed a weapon. A good solid hunk of metal would be the most effective.

Step. Step. Step.

Back to that single-minded purpose.

A weapon, then Henry.
He would move on from there. One task at a time.

He stopped on what seemed like a whim and pushed open the door one of the rooms. There ought to be something suitable in here...

Henry was quiet, after that. So quiet he could hear Walter's footsteps down the hall. He was quivering, just hearing them, and Henry turned, standing there in the middle of the room, staring at the door, waiting for it to open.

Did Walter have a weapon? Henry hadn't seen one, but that didn't mean anything. The only thing Henry was sure of was that he was defenseless, and without a hiding place, and completely doomed. He thought of locking the door, but of course there wasn't a latch. Doors never locked when he actually wanted them to.

He heard a door open. It wasn't his. Could Walter actually not know where he was?

Henry was holding his breath. He was certain the next door to open would be his. Gotta be his. His mind raced to think of any way to defend himself. Anything, anything at all. But the best he had was a gun he could only use to hit people with, and that was barely better than nothing.

Before, Henry had always been afraid that Walter was going to kill him. Now that that was no longer an option, Henry was surprised to find himself even more scared than before.

Because, he knew, there were things so much worse than death.

There.

The hospital wasn't destroyed, but it wasn't so perfect and sterile, anymore, either. It still kept a feeling of starkness; that quality that all hospitals possessed that made them uncomfortable to be in for any prolonged period of time. Still, something like the Otherworld had set in here. Things crumbled and fell and decayed, and just beyond the doorway was a hospital bed. It had collapsed partially, due to rust and its own weight, and upon further examination, Walter found a piece that broke off with a little bit of pressure.

Grab. Twist. Pull.

The simple application of brute force, and he had procured himself a weapon. He smacked it lightly into his palm, testing it's solidity. What good would it do if he smacked Henry with it and it just bent? What a waste.

The noise the pipe made, making contact with his hand was satisfying, and the sting that rippled across his skin made him smile.

Pain.
Pleasure.
Perfection.

He turned, gripping the pole tightly in his right hand and exited the room. He stood outside in the hallway, and let the door slam shut behind him.

And then Walter was still. Listening. He tried to reach out, to feel for Henry, but he found it difficult. This wasn't his Otherworld. If there were monsters here, they might not respond to his command; certainly wouldn't allow him to tap in -- to see through their eyes. Even as distorted as the view was through something as demented as one of his puppets, it helped.

Now he had only his hearing and intuition to guide him.

Henry certainly couldn't have gone far...

Walter listened and waited. Eventually, Henry would give himself away.

Walter was close. Henry could hear him, if he listened hard enough, could hear the wrenching noise of something being torn apart, a screeching sound of twisting metal. He winced, wondering what the hell was going on. Was his mind playing tricks on him?

And when the noise had stopped, everything was quiet again. Where was Walter? Where was the sound of his footsteps? Had he simply disappeared?

Henry stood, nearly paralyzed, considering his options. He could dart out into the hallway and hope he was alone. Then he could get the hell out of the hospital, find somewhere safer to be.

But would anywhere really feel safe anymore, now that Henry knew Walter was in this world, too? He knew the answer to that question before he even had to ask it.

Shifting slowly, quietly, he waited, letting out the breath he'd been holding earlier. Maybe Walter was gone. Maybe he thought Henry had gotten further away than he had. Maybe...

Slowly crossing the room, Henry pressed his ear to the cool metal of the door, waiting to hear something-- anything-- that would stop him from feeling so uncertain and afraid. He was breathing fast and heavy, warm breath making condensation on the cool metal.

He was so sick of this. Of feeling like prey. It would never, never end.

Walter could wait indefinitely. He could simply stop and stand there and listen. Listen for Henry's movements or Henry's breathing or Henry's heartbeat. He would not grow tired, or bored. He would not need to sit down and rest, or fidget. Those were normal, everyday human conditions. He had shed those with the body. The body that bled out through its weak flesh. The body that had been nailed. Sacrificed. Discarded.

The body that was Victim number 11. The body of Assumption.

The problem was, that no matter how he stood there, Walter heard none of these things.

Not the quiet thump of a resting heartbeat, or the hummingbird-quick sound of Henry's fear. He could feel him; taste him, even, in the back of his throat, but it was a general feeling, confirmed by Walter's absolute knowledge of the other's presence.

He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Henry was here somewhere, but this Otherworld did not conduct.

A loud noise echoed down the hallway as Walter turned and struck the nearest wall with the pipe in his hand. Two theories were being tested, and the first had just proven itself, to Walter's delight: The pipe held. It wasn't going to break easily. He was very pleased with that discovery.

The second, he waited for.

A quickening of breath, following the echoes. A panting. A scuttling. Maybe even a door.

Come on, Henry. Come play...

The noise was loud in Henry's ear, traveling through the wall, hitting hard. He stumbled back, pushing away from the door, nearly tripping over his feet, hearing nothing but the ringing of the loud clang in his ears, thinking nothing but getting that noise out of his head. If it started a headache...

He sucked in a breath, gaining his balance, his heart beating a million beats faster than before. Walter was close, and he wasn't hiding it... and by the sounds of it, he had a weapon. Had something. How else could that noise have happened, that ringing, sickening sound of metal on metal, hard, purposeful, intent?

And a better question: why the hell had Walter done it?

Henry had no idea -- and no idea that he might have just given himself away.

There. That was it. Finally. Fainter than it should have been, but unmistakable.

He knew that sound like he knew the sound of blood dripping onto metal. Thicker than water, with more of a splat than a ping.

Henry's breathing. Fast. Afraid. And if he focused on that, and that alone, other things began to come into focus as well.

Finally, the beautiful sounds of Henry's fear made themselves heard. A curtain had lifted, with the echoes of Walter's pipe against the wall, and the silence that followed the deafening noise was no longer absolute. It was filled with the thrum of Henry's heart, beating against the cage of his ribs like a terrified bird slamming itself again and again into a pane of glass, until all that was left was a twitching pulp of feathers and bone.

Yes, yes.

Three more doors. He'd stopped only three doors too soon. At least he was armed now. The stop hadn't been a loss.

The sound of Walter's footsteps resumed, and the perfect silence of the abandoned hospital was completely shattered.

Closer.
Closer.

Henry was almost breathing too hard to hear Walter's footsteps, slow, soft on the ground. Almost.

Again, he wildly looked around for a weapon, his heart pounding, thoughts rushing, adrenaline pumping through his blood. Walter was there. There. Just beyond the door, and Henry knew it was only a matter of time before the door scraped open with that same sickening sound of twisting metal.

A very short matter of time.

He slowly backed up, away from the door, until he hit the wall, flattening himself against it. What protection he thought this would bring him, he didn't know.

He'd cornered himself. He'd ran into this room and now he was stuck there. It was a feeling not entirely unfamiliar to him.

Panic caused him to spin, to tug hopelessly at the window, but it wouldn't even rattle, wouldn't even budge. His fingers slipped fast against the metal frame, pushing, pulling, trying anything. He was nearly irrational, now.

Something had to give. Something had to set him free. Something always did.

Only this time, it looked like that something would not arrive.

Oh, something would arrive to set him free, alright, but not in the way that he so desperately sought.

Walter stopped. This was it. Henry was just beyond this door. He could hear him fumbling, moving, breathing, screaming.

Somewhere inside his head, Henry screamed and screamed. The fear, the terror, the exhilaration. Yes. This was so very perfect. God, he loved this part the most.

He pushed the door open, and it swung inward slowly, but without a hitch.

Walter held the pipe by it's very end, letting it scrape across the floor. The noise made him smile, made him laugh. He could have carried it, but why? The more intimidating the approach, the better.

And then Walter stopped. The door was open and his prize was there, laid out before him. Or rather, Henry sat there, against the furthest wall, knees drawn up to his chin, arms wrapped around them.

Pitiful. Childlike.

Walter laughed.

This wasn't quite right either, but it was so delicious.

He loved when Henry fought back. When he shot Walter and shocked him with his resolve; with that single-minded, if useless, determination.

But he relished Henry's fear with a different kind of appreciation altogether. A heady, empowering, dominant feeling rushed over him, and he almost lost his resolve to actually outright hit Henry with the pipe.

Walter moved into the room proper.
Slowly, slowly.

Hello, Henry. Did you think you could hide from me? You're going to fix what you broke, I'm going to fix you, everything's going to be fine. Mother says so. Mommy will fix everything's going to be fine....

"Henry..."

Walter's voice trailed off, replaced by laughter that seemed to fill the room and echo off the walls.

Walter's laugh was razors laced with hallucinogens. Insanity solidified in a way that only sound can convey.

Yes, Henry. Oh, yes.

Oh, no.

Henry didn't have to look up to know what had happened. The sound of the door opening, then Walter's footsteps, a sound he would know anywhere. But...

What was that extra noise? The sound of something being dragged against the tile floor...

He looked up, just as Walter said his name, and vomit rose up his throat, but he forced it back down, the sharp, unpleasant taste burning his throat. Walter had a weapon.

Looking up then, hard, defiant, trying so hard to be anything but afraid, Henry met Walter's eyes straight on. It did nothing for his fear.

He said nothing, only watched, his breathing fast and deep, his pulse quick and unsteady.

Walter's laughter cut through him, and Henry nearly squirmed against the wall. That Walter could so easily inspire terror in him... it wasn't something Henry liked to admit to.

And yet there he was, vulnerable, open, defenseless, afraid.

Obviously so.

Try as he might, his fear wasn't something Henry could hide from Walter. His eyes gave him away more than anything else.

Sure, his posture was telling. Cowering, vulnerable, trapped, but his eyes betrayed him more than anything.

Henry's hard-set face -- defiant, glaring. It made Walter smile. Henry really was trying so hard, wasn't he?

Still, he'd come here for a purpose. Other things could come later. For now, he had an urge to satisfy.

Walter raised his striking arm and brought it back, preparing for a blow.

Henry's eyes went wide, losing the glare he had put so much effort into summoning. He was shocked, frozen for a moment, and that was all it took. He made a split second decision to get away, actually pictured himself rolling across the floor, dodging, doing something, but he had hesitated too much, had moved too slow.

No amount of will power could have stopped Henry from screaming when he pipe came down, sharp on the back of his head, and the dodge he'd tried to start ended with him falling on his stomach, hard on the cold tile floor. Vaguely, Henry could feel blood where he'd been hit. Oh, god, how could he let himself be so vulnerable?

Henry's vision went fuzzy, and then his eyes fell shut.

Flat on his stomach, legs slightly curled in, arms wrapped almost around his head.

Henry lay motionless, and Walter stared down with smug satisfaction plastered across his face.

Minutes. Hours. Seconds passed.

Walter's smugness turned to a feeling akin to regret; the fun just didn't last when Henry stopped screamingbeggingpleading.

There was bound to be more to this than just a silent end to the chase.

Walter stooped down, and took Henry's left foot in one hand, fully intent on dragging him to...well, who knew where. Somewhere else. Somewhere so that Henry would be more disoriented when he woke up.

Perhaps somewhere where he could be restrained.

Walter soon discovered that the problem with his theory was that trailing a body behind him would make doorways become a hindrance.

He shouldered Henry's dead weight and proceeded down the hallway. He tried a few doors before deciding that this wasn't the area he wanted to be in.

He needed to find the Operating Room....

Stirring, Henry made a soft noise, feeling something warm. He was vaguely aware of floating, or maybe he was being carried?

...Who would carry him?

Henry fell silent, everything a buzz. He tried to place the pieces together to make a story that made sense, but it was hard when the dull throbbing pain in the back of his head made it impossible to have a clear thought.

Walter cast a sharp glance back at the sound that his burden made.

No. no. no.

He couldn't wake yet. Not yet. Not yet. Another hit to the head might keep him out too long. Much too long. That wouldn't do.

Walter rounded the corner, and the triumph returned to his face.

The sign there clearly read "Operating Room", with an arrow pointing down the long, dim corridor.

He turned, following the arrow toward his destination: tell-tale double doors, the kind doctors pushed gurneys through, with barely a hand to spare.

They opened with ease, and Walter dumped Henry's limp form unceremoniously onto the operating table.

He smiled, and let the pipe fall to the floor with a loud clatter.

Now if he could just get the fastenings done before his hostage awakened, everything would be perfect.

Perfect, perfect.

Being dropped, along with the loud noise, seemed to rouse Henry a little more. His eyes didn't open, but he groaned again, shifting his head against the table. Blood from his wound stained the table just under his head, but at the moment he didn't seem to notice. He tensed, but didn't move, having no idea where he was and who he was with.

For a long moment, he thought he was home, in 302, in his bed. He thought about getting up, getting a shower, getting breakfast, but decided against it. What was the point? He wouldn't go out.

He never did.

...No, that wasn't right. No, he couldn't go out, not anymore, because of those damn chains...

But no, he'd gotten those off, hadn't he? He'd gotten out into that apartment, only the Otherworld had gone there, too...

And...

Everything seemed to filter back into his memory very quickly and he began to panic, suddenly flinching hard on the operating table.

One strap, two strap, three strap...Damnit.

Walter looked down at his captive, watching Henry's eyes blink; watching his world come slowly into focus.

The first thing you see is your redemption. The first thing you see is your salvation.

The first thing you see is your terror. Your pain. Your demise.

Walter smiled down at his Receiver. It was a damn shame that only three of the six possible straps were in place. Both of Henry's feet were immobilized, along with one of his hands. That still left his left hand, head and torso. A person could do a lot of damage with even that.

"Hello, Henry," Walter offered by way of usual greeting; and right on cue, followed up with laughter.

His own personal joke. How amusing.

He hadn't had the time to do anything fun yet.

Damn, damn, damn.

Maybe Henry would be a good boy and lie still awhile longer...

"No..."

Henry could barely open his mouth, but hearing Walter greet him so casually like that was...

A little bit too much like the past he thought he'd left behind.

Walter had already got a hold of him, killed him, completed his sickening ceremony. Why did he still need to haunt him, here, now?

"No," he groaned again, but didn't fight against the restraints -- not yet. Henry wasn't sure he had the strength.

If he stopped moving, stopped caring, stopped breathing, would he fade away? Could he do that, even from the afterlife?

Henry wanted to pretend this wasn't happening, but Walter would never let him get away with that.

He suddenly swung up his free hand, tried to grasp at the bindings on his other hand, tried to fumble with them and tear it off. He couldn't do this. He couldn't lay here and let Walter do... whatever he was planning.

Walter watched Henry fumble with the strap and laughed. It was as though Henry's fingers just weren't obeying his brain at all. Walter apparently found that hilarious, because his laughter didn't stop as he reached for another strap, fully intent on immobilizing Henry's torso to limit his mobility further.

He could have done the arm, but since Henry was having such a difficult time undoing his right hand, Walter didn't see any use in bothering with it. Trying to undo the strap gave Henry something to do. It would keep him distracted and out of Walter's way while he worked the other two straps into place.

It wasn't as if Henry wasn't going to notice he was being tied down even futher. He squirmed almost frantically now, panic and fear flooding him. These were two emotions that were easy to recall -- and they had never been as strong as they were when Walter was involved. Even among monsters, or dead bodies, or miles of dark forest with no one for company, Henry had never felt this was before. Not until Walter.

After that, nothing had been the same.

The man's laughter echoed in Henry's head. It was something one never forgot the sound of, and hearing it now was so jarring that Henry's fingers slipped at the leather of the strap he'd been working at. Walter was getting him down even further, and Henry was so powerless to stop him.

"Leave me alone," he gasped weakly, sounding almost ridiculously pathetic.

Walter cinched the torso strap into place, and moved up toward Henry's head. He'd stopped laughing, but Henry's thin protest brought a smile to his lips. Of course he wouldn't leave Henry alone. How could he do such a thing?

You'll never be alone again, Henry. Not when I make you mine.

Walter wasted no time positioning the strap around Henry's head, and moving to secure it. He was very methodical -- fun and games hadn't begun yet.

Oh, Henry, you will be mine. In both body and broken spirit, I will mark you as mine...

Walter snickered as he slid the strap into the metal, preparing to render Henry's head immobile. A private joke.

Whatever Walter found funny, Henry was certain he didn't agree.

He reached up with his free arm, grasping for Walter's shoulder, trying to push him away. Henry's fingertips connected against the coat, and he felt his stomach jump. He'd never touched Walter like this, never been so close to smell him. He was having a hard time getting air into his lungs, his breathing rushed and sharp, shallow, over and over again.

No. No. Not this. Not now. Get off of me. Get off of me!

But the words wouldn't leave Henry's lips, and he screamed them in his head instead.

Sometimes, Henry wondered if Walter could hear his thoughts, too. Somehow, he wouldn't be surprised.

Contact.

Walter felt the brush of Henry's fingers against his coat and a door opened inside of him. A rush of Henry's emotions flowed through him. Fear, rage, loathing, disgust and underneath it all, a hint of desire. Walter knew it all. From the thrill of the kill to the base rush of pure lust that he felt every time he smelled blood. Sex and death all wrapped up in a pretty little bow of carnage.

Henry was just too perfect sometimes. The perfect victim. So perfect for receiving all Walter would ever feel inclined to give.

Walter pulled the strap tight and let it slip from his hands. Henry's feeble attempt and pushing Walter off had failed at that first hint of contact, and Walter thrilled at the way Henry's breath caught, and the way he struggled for every breath after that.

Henry was, in effect, drowning, and Walter was loving every second of it.

Henry's arm was the only thing left free, but he didn't know what he could do with it. His range was pretty limited, and there was nothing in reach that he could use to strike out at Walter. Walter still had that pipe, somewhere, and Henry wasn't sure he wanted to provoke him -- but then again, it really didn't matter. Henry was sure he would be hurt anyway. Walter already had something planned, didn't he? He wasn't tying Henry down for nothing.

He suddenly realized he was gasping for breath, and he tried to stop, not wanting to show such obvious signs of fear. Of course Walter already knew -- and Henry hated showing how powerless he was -- but he had to keep up appearances. He didn't have anything left.

One strap to go.

Walter grabbed Henry's wrist hard, and held it in his hand for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. He thought about breaking it -- snap, snap. It would be so easy. Bones made such interesting noises when they broke. And then Henry would scream and scream and scream.

Henry didn't like the way Walter was touching him at all. It was such a crazy thought. He was nearly holding his hand, like kids in high school did when they "went out" with each other, a sign of silly playground romances that meant nothing and were usually broken within a week.

It was something Henry had never been involved with, himself. High school was mostly a blurred memory of linoleum floors and long-winded teachers. He hadn't had what one would have called a glimmering social life.

Even so, he knew what holding someone's hand was supposed to be like -- and it wasn't like this. Not at all.

The pressure on his wrist tightened and Henry squinted, his vision of Walter above him fading away. He sucked in a breath, trying hard to tug his wrist away, out from under Walter's hold. He needed to get away. He needed to... run. Find somewhere, and find someone who would help him hide for good.

This was much, much too close for comfort.

Walter watched Henry's eyes glaze over and realized he'd been gripping the other man's wrist much tighter than he'd intended to. Snap, snap or release?

Decisions, decisions.

Walter slammed Henry's arm down on the table and fastened the strap.

Secure.

He turned away, and began opening drawers, looking for surgical instruments. If he was going to do any sort of procedure at all, he needed to be prepared, which meant a full table.

Standard procedure.

He snickered silently to himself.

Perhaps he should sterilize first.

Henry's eyes went wide as he heard Walter, rooting around in drawers around them. He could hear metal instruments clinking together as the drawers opened, sliding around inside. Henry suddenly felt nauseous -- this wasn't good. Hospital operating rooms were all about cracking people open, cutting them apart, spilling blood, taking organs.

For the first time, Henry was starting to wonder if they could die again.

He struggled suddenly against the bindings, trying hard to get away. The straps wouldn't give way at all, though, and Henry was starting to realize that there was nothing he could do.

As usual, there was nothing Henry could do to stop Walter. There never had been. Why would this be any different?

Walter arranged his found tools on a metal surgical tray. All he'd really wanted was the scalpel, but it was about the image -- the look and feel was important to any procedure, wasn't it?

The squeaking of the wheels as Walter wheeled the tray over toward Henry filled the room with a horrible, protesting scream as though Walter's "operation" had already begun.

Henry couldn't see what Walter was doing -- all he could do was stare up at the ceiling at the molding tiles, where the one light in the room was flickering madly. There was a loud squeaking noise, and Henry could hear Walter's heavy footsteps coming closer. He had a tray -- a wheeling tray that he was pulling closer.

The bindings just weren't giving, no matter how hard Henry tried to get away from them, and the bands were chaffing, leaving very painful red marks on his skin.

Amused by Henry's struggles, Walter stood near the bed a moment just watching him fight the bindings. After the loud squealing of the tray wheels, the silence in the room seemed thick. Henry's breathing was heavy as he struggled against the bindings, and Walter smiled.

Just a moment longer. I want to watch for just a moment longer...

Walter reached over and picked up the scalpel. He held it in front of Henry's face so that he could see exactly what was in store for him. Or at the very least, see the instrument in store, and fantasize.

"Oh fuck," Henry hissed, just under his breath, but did that matter? Walter would hear him anyway.

He struggled even harder against the bindings, the chaffing getting worse and worse. It was painful, but Henry knew anything would be better than that blade, especially when it was being held by him.

Walter had killed him, that was for sure -- it wasn't something Henry really had any proof of... more like something he just knew. The very last thing he remembered was passing out, but...

Well, he knew. Even if he was still breathing, even if he still had a heartbeat, there was no question in his mind that he was dead.

So what the hell did Walter want out of him now? Didn't that complete his crazy ritual, seal everything up like Joseph said it would?

But if that was true, why was Walter here, and not with his 'Mother'?

Henry's head was spinning, and nothing was adding up, and that blade was still there, taunting him, gleaming in the dim light of the operating room.

Walter lowered the blade just past Henry's field of vision, below his chin and hovered above his shirt for a moment. Henry could not raise his head, only shift his eyes and strain to see his fate. Walter almost wished he hadn't bound Henry's head, but Henry couldn't be trusted. He might struggle, fight, slam his head into the hard table and knock himself unconscious. Then what fun would this all be?

There was a small noise as Walter slid the blade of the scalpel underneath the first button of Henry's shirt and severed the thread.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Each button in turn, severed from its assigned place.

Snip, snip.

Like an umbillical cord severed from an infant.

Would Henry scream? Scream and cry and hate the cold, empty world he was cast into? Beg and plead to be returned to the warmth and saftey of a perfect womb?

No, Henry didn't seem to like being confined. Perhaps he had a touch of claustrophobia, Walter thought. Not exactly conductive to rebirthing.

When the blade came down, that was when Henry knew to be still. Walter had precision -- that much Henry knew. How many times had he read about the expert work Walter had done, cutting the hearts out of his first ten victims, sewing the wound back up with skill a surgeon would envy?

Was that what Walter wanted? Henry's heart? Would it really do him any good?

He laid very, very still, not wanting to move the wrong way and feel the blade against his skin. Not on his own. He could hear the buttons falling on the floor, revealing the t-shirt underneath. Henry wished Walter would let him go. He'd rather face whatever fate it was with intact clothes to wear afterwards. If he survived, that was.

Of course he would survive. It wasn't as though he could die.

Walter pulled Henry's shirt open, laying each side out neatly like a butterfly's wings. Perfect. Just perfect. Walter turned and laid the scalpel neatly down on the medical tray, and selected the scissors next. Turning back toward his captive, he leaned over, and ran a finger along the neckline of Henry's shirt in a carefully measured manner.

Henry's breath caught in a delightful manner, and Walter smiled for just a moment before his expression turned more serious. He pulled the material of Henry's shirt back away from his chest, and slowly began to cut away at the material.

Neckline to shoulder seam, shoulder seam to bottom hem. And then the other side.

So much for his clothes.

Henry's eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't watch any more of this -- not that he was really seeing a lot of it anyway. He could feel, every once in a while, the cool metal of the scissors brushing his chest, his skin hot, flushed. But all he could really do was lay there and wait to see what Walter would do. It wasn't something Henry was very excited about at all.

He really was nothing more than a victim. He barely had the guts to fight back.

Walter peeled away the cloth of Henry's shirt slowly. A calculated motion that looked more like actually skinning someone than discarding unwanted material. Once he'd removed the front of Henry's shirt, Walter folded it carefully and set it on the tray before picking up the scalpel again.

An artist observes life, watches the world, and then envisions it on his canvas in a way that best portrays his observation both in factual vision and perception.

Emotion.

Walter looked down at his canvas a moment, watching as his masterpiece appeared, watched the blood well up in the freshly cut wounds.

Yes. There. Right there. Perfect.

Walter pressed the scalpel to the side of Henry's face for a moment.

Henry...

Henry winced.

Walter pressed a little harder. Cold metal on heated flesh.

Don't make me turn this blade, Henry. I'd rather not risk scarring your face.

Hissing slightly, Henry tried to pull his face away. It wasn't working. He couldn't move anywhere...

"What do you want from me?" he finally gasped. Probably a bad idea. Henry wasn't sure, but he got the feeling he shouldn't speak unless spoken to.

And since Walter never did, well...

It wasn't that Henry was trying to provoke him. Not entirely. But this guessing game was frustrating him, and every nerve in his body was on fire, waiting for the pain that would inevitably follow.

When Henry spoke, his eyes opened, which was really all Walter had been going for. He answered Henry's question with a laugh.

"Not from, Henry."

For. What do I want for you, Henry?

Walter trailed the dull side of the scalpel down Henry's face, and neck. He traced the bound man's collar bone, and continued down to his canvas.

Here.

For a very long moment, Henry was certain Walter was going to take his heart out afterall. It didn't make much sense -- Henry wasn't one of the ten -- but then again, neither did Walter, right?

Or then again, maybe Walter made too much sense.

A slow look of realization dawned on Henry's face. No. There was something more. Something Walter did to his victims that Henry had been spared from. Something that should have been obvious from the start.

"They were killed in a variety of ways, but the one thing they had in common was that each corpse had the following numbers, in order of their deaths, carved into them..."

Oh no. This was not happening. This could not be happening.

But it was.

The horror dawned on Henry's face before Walter even made the first cut. The look in the Receiver's eyes made Walter laugh again.

And then the mirth was gone, replaced by a look of devout faith and concentration. His Receiver would be marked. The Sacraments had been completed, but something had gone wrong. Whatever that something was was Henry's fault, and this was his chance to correct it.

To make the Receiver his.

Forever and ever.

You'll be mine. Marked. Branded. And I'll take you Home.

Walter began the first cut.

21121

The numbers would bleed so beautifully onto his human canvas. Henry's lack of mortality didn't matter. Hadn't he, Walter, bled when Henry shot him? When Henry had fired round after round into Walter's laughing form? Laughing because it was amusing to think that Henry could really stop him. He was so far beyond that now.

The pain made him remember the life that coursed through him even after death.

Pain. Feeling. Sensation.

Had even one step of the ritual gone wrong, Walter could have been reborn with Nothing and he knew it. Blessed sensation. Blessed cognition. He could have made the slightest error and condemned himself to the lingering spectre form of some of the other victims. The same could have happened to Henry.

Really, Walter thought, Henry should be counting his blessings with each incision.

That was the last thing he was doing.

Henry screamed the moment the sharp edge of the blade pushed into his skin. He could feel it sinking in, piercing him, making his blood rise up, rushing through the marks Walter was making in his skin. They were going to be there in his chest, scars forever, scars for everyone to see. They would all look at him and know he was twenty-one, twenty-one out of twenty-one, the "Receiver of Wisdom".

At the moment, Henry didn't feel too wise. Henry didn't feel anything but pain, pain so intense nothing mattered anymore.

He wondered if Eileen had felt the same way.

Mine, mine, mine. Receive, Henry. Receive and Know.

First the two, carved out so perfectly with none of the jagged edges that he'd left on other victims. Henry had tried to jump and move away, but the bindings held fast. He'd been right to put the torso strap on, limiting Henry's movement even further. A perfect, breathing canvas.

He supposed the lines could be straighter, but there was a limit to what he could do when Henry jerked or took in enough air into his lungs to really let loose a scream worth hearing.

The second number one carved in and bled out from Henry's flesh. Walter reached over to where he'd laid the folded up section of Henry's shirt and used it to dab at the blood. No sense in having a mess in the way before he was finished.

Another one, followed by again, a more difficult digit. The final two. Which of course had nothing on some of the more curved digits, but was still more complex than the simple cut and drag motion of the 1, and more complicated than the first 'two'. Henry struggled more after the initial shock had worn off, and the sobs that racked him caused his chest to shake.

Henry sucked in a sharp breath. His whole body was shaking, and he wanted nothing more than to get away. Only one more. Just one more. Just one more line and Walter could leave him here to bleed out and die, maybe this time permanently. Maybe this was what Henry needed. Maybe that's why he'd been sent here -- because he hadn't been complete.

Why had this happened to him? Why had he been in this string of victims? He'd led a normal life, he'd never done anything drastically wrong. He was a decent guy, he thought. There were certainly many more people he could name more deserving to be laying here, having numbers carved into their chest.

But this wasn't a game of who deserved what, and Henry knew that from the start. Some of the ones he'd met, they'd been rough around the edges, but...

Walter didn't care about things like karma and who'd earned what.

Henry was certain this would never end. Couldn't shock kill someone? What about fear? If that was true, why wasn't Henry dead yet?

The screaming had long since stopped and turned to whimpers that struggled hard against becoming pleas.

Stopstopstopohgodwhypleasestop

The words, over and over again in Henry's head, as they drowned out the man's more detached thought process of who he was and what he'd done to deserve this. It was layer upon layer of conscious and unconscious thought and Walter sifted through it all.

The words didn't matter, only the base feelings beneath it.

Only the blood beneath the skin and the fear and pain beneath the sounds.

Walter surveyed his work as he wiped the scalpel clean and set it carefully down on the tray.

21121

The numbers stood out, even in the blood that was smeared around on Henry's chest. They continued to bleed heavily as Walter stared down at his handiwork.

How do you like it, Henry? You'll grow to appreciate them, won't you? I already do.