InsaneJournal

the neighborhood's littered with white gloves
Omnomm'd an entire 440-page webcomic in one sitting last night, holy wow. I was going to stick it in with the rest of the "READ THIS" webcomics when I did my big update, but it's not like any of the others so I might as well stick it here. Read Rice Boy, everyone. It's wonderfully different, occasionally humorous, and delightfully trippy, plus it's filled with awesome monsters. Thanks to Wufei for the link.

In the meantime, I really am trying to slog through a backlog of personal projects before the summer's out, so I spent the morning annotating my fics. I don't know why these would actually interest anyone else, aside from the bits and pieces of self-snark, so you don't have to feel obliged to read. As a person who occasionally rents DVDs just for the commentary, I know I'm not well enough in the head to understand what a normal person finds entertaining. On the off chance you want the glimpse inside my head, though, I've got nothin' better to do than post 'em up here.

First up is my first (real) fic, Lost Angles. Beware the Big Spoiler from Silent Hill 2. (That's one of the things I love about Silent Hill, is that one of the game has a Big Spoiler, like Jacob's Ladder or The Sixth Sense. It's all out once you know, so watch yourself.)

Apology: I never meant to write fanfiction. I never wanted to write fanfiction. Please be warned that this is WAFF, PWP, OMG, and severely WTF. I apologize profusely to my readers. This is open to anyone to MST, but please send me a copy if you do.

The disclaimer still bugs me. I've edited it a couple times, but it still comes across as awkward in my eyes. Yes, THIS is what bugs me about the fic. The rest of it? Totally vanilla.

This fanfic goes out to Pyramid Head, who never gets to tell his side of the story. I salute thee, sir.

Since my first time witnessing the Room 203 and Stairwell incidents, I've been quite sure that the version of events presented here is 100% unadulterated troofax. Even knowing the psychology, I somehow have never been able to view Pyramid Head as the hulking menace that others paint him as, but as an angular old lug just doing his job. I'm not imbued with much logic when it comes to monsters, I suppose.



Lost Angles

I was in a vaguely ReBoot-ish mood when I finished the fic, and figured "Lost Angles" was a nice, if obscure, pun alluding both to the geometrical improbabilities of the protagonist and his unsung side of the story. In retrospect, the "You misspelled 'angels'" e-mails were rather inevitable.


James Sunderland wanted to die.

He didn't think it was that unreasonable of a request, really. Wasn't it what he was here for? His Mary...his dear sweet Mary...he deserved to die. He deserved to die, deserved to go to Hell, deserved to suffer.

The sole reason it took me so long to start writing fanfiction is that I was petrified of mischaracterization. It's only recently I've started inching away from fics that rely on some trick or gimmick to cover my ass in case of OOC. In this one, I relied on the light nature of the piece, James' confusion, and his given character flashpoint. Due to the nature of the games, all Silent Hill protagonists so far have these flashpoints, aspects of character that just have to be touched on to light up a sign of "Yep, that's X" with the reader. With Harry, it's his daughter. With Heather, it's her daddy. With Henry, it's Walter. With Travis, it's being a lump of greasy plywood. And with James, it's Mary. It's a cheap trick, but it served its purpose--i.e., throwing me a towline I could drag my lazy ass along until I reached Mansex Peak.

"Excuse me? 'Scuze me! Can I get some ice in this, please?"

Then again, maybe he was in Hell.

It also provided a nice overdramatic backdrop.

"Thanks, Tina," said the executioner as the bartender dropped a few ice cubes from its chest cavity into his drink. As it staggered away, he leaned closer to James and whispered conspiratorially. "Always forgets the ice, Tina. It makes no sense, really-I mean, iced tea, ice...it's pretty obvious. But she's such a sweet girl, I can't hold it against her."

Given the chance, I would write Pyramid Head banter all...day...long. Since the events of the fic, Pyramid Head has taken up employment as a bartender at an interdimensional inn, and I've had the pleasure of introducing him into a one-on-one roleplaying campaign on occasion. He's quite personable, provided you're polite to Junior and don't break too many glasses.

James stared blankly at the mold-covered chunks of flesh that had fallen into Pyramid Head's drink and nodded.

Obligatory gross-out factor, increased when you consider the Lying Figures are basically walking vajeeners. God help me if I ever write that serious SH fic. I have ideas. About muscle. And teeth. And tendons.

"She's putting herself through college, you know. Plenty of people laughed at her, said she couldn't be a surgeon without hands, but did that stop her? No, sir! She just picked up that scalpel with her autopsy incision and started saving lives! People complain, sure, but like I said to her, a little cocoa butter and a positive attitude should clear those multiple lacerations right up..."

All. Day. Long.

He had expected more burning, like the nightmare he had watched Angela ascend into. Burning he could handle. It would at least dry out his socks.

My first boyfriend, an atheist, and I, a liberal Catholic, used to debate religion. At one point he argued that since Hell was nothing but burning for eternity, the soul would eventually get used to the sensation. I wasn't into it at the time, but if I had been, I gladly would have pointed him towards Silent Hill. The series really does a bang-up job of representing the myriad forms we might shape Hell into, given the chance. I wonder sometimes if there are any denizens who do have Judeo-Christianic beliefs, and how it affects their experience. Angela believed her guilt to the utmost. Perhaps her father told her Bible stories as a child...?

"...and you'd think the doctors over there would be more supportive, what with all those staff members getting clubbed to death with a steel pipe-say, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? No? Well, anyway, you'd think they'd need the help--"

Haha, poor Tina. So inept even Darkside Brookhaven won't take her. Well, I guess they can respawn nurses whenever they need 'em, so it's hard to get a position...

"Pyramid Head," James interrupted, a note of desperation in his voice. "Stop talking."

"Huh? Why?"

"This...isn't right. You're here to punish me...for my...sins..." James trailed off, staring at the long, black tongue that had dropped into his drink. Pyramid Head withdrew it apologetically.

God, I love PH's proboscis. Depending on how you look at it, it can be absolutely horrifying or absolutely hilarious. The ideal PH cosplayer, to me, would not be judged on his bloodstains or on his greatknife, but on whether he had a black party favor merrily FWEE-ing from a tongueslot.

"Just wanted a taste. Sorry, what were you saying? Sins?" He rolled his tongue into his own glass.

FWEE. sorry sorry done now

"My wife. Mary. I...I killed her." The truth was horrible enough to tear James' eyes from the creature's proboscis. "I was weak, and selfish....and tired..." He lowered his head in shame. "I didn't want her there anymore. I killed her."

See how easy it is? Flashpoint. Look for it in a SH fic today!

"Ohhhh, that." The executioner thought for a moment, sucking an ice cube up the length of his tongue into a slot in his helmet. "Well, you seem sorry."

FWEE no no sorry no I fell into the foible of avoiding proper nouns here, apparently, but I think it was more that I was tired of typing Pyramid Head than style. It's a long name people

James waited. Pyramid Head crunched on his ice.

"...that's all?"

"That's all. You learned your lesson. I mean, you're not going to try that one again...are you?" He teasingly shook an accusatory finger at James. Teasingly! Despite his earlier musings on suicide, James was starting to fear for his life.

"B-but, you tried to kill me before! You threw me off a roof!"

"You didn't read anything into that, did you?"

IN SAMA META GYRO THEY THROW ALL THEIR PLEDGES OFF THE ROOF, IT'S TRADITION

He clapped James companionably on the back. "That was just a bit of fun! Er, are you all right? Have a drink, you'll feel better..."

Taken Pyramid Head's dim understanding of the stress thresholds of the human body, it's a good thing he's a willing uke here. Otherwise, things might go pop.

A drink wasn't about to restore feeling to James' shoulder, but he didn't have the heart to say so. Instead, he sipped at his glass and asked the question he'd been carefully wording for the past half-hour.

"Why did you swim to the bottom of Toluca Lake, wrench me out of the wreckage of my car, and drag me all the way back to the Lucky Jade?"

Looking back, I should have added CPR in there for added mental image lulz. Dang.

"I haven't paid my tab at Neely's lately and Spencer said last time I was there that if I don't have money NEXT time I'm there he'll get Liz to follow me around kicking me in the head."

"Are you joking?

I can totally hear this line in Overwrought Silent Hill Voice Actor Speak(tm). C'mon, tell me you can't.

No, of course you aren't. My God, that's even scarier."

James was standing now, ready to run and wishing for his beloved wooden plank. And Pyramid Head...he couldn't actually look hurt, he didn't have a face. But no, the tone was there in his voice when he spoke.

"You don't have to be scared of me. I didn't do anything. I saved you, remember?"

why you gotta be hatin' baby

"I didn't want to be saved," James muttered blankly, staring at the man. Was he a man? He supposed he was, if only from the neck down. He was certainly male, at any rate.

bomp chicka bomp wow

One thought triggered another, a gruesome memory James had tried in vain to block out, and he took another step backwards. "You have done something! You...did those awful things to...dear God, you're a monster!"

There was a moment's silence from the demon, and James, belatedly and in horror, remembered Eddie. What was it he'd said to himself? 'James, you are never, ever going to provoke an insane murderer again'?

God, that's a rough line. Why the hell didn't I do something with that >( Bad me!

Something like that. He staggered back and groped for a weapon.

"...rls?"

Half a syllable cut through the ringing in James' ears. "What?"

"Are you talking about the girls?" Pyramid Head asked patiently.

"Or the boys? Or the giant walking vajeeners? We have those here, you know."

James raised his hand, ready to stab, unsure of what he was hearing. "...what?"

"The girls...you DID see us, didn't you? Oh, this is embarrassing..."

James' arm, still running on autopilot, brought the object in his hand down on the executioner's helmet.

Once you start mashing X, you don't stop mashing X until the music stops. Yes, music, the radio is for pussies. PUSSIES I SAY. Or possibly people who play above Easy.

Embarrassing? How could this abomination possibly be embarrassed?

WELL HIS FACE IS RED ISN'T IT LOLOLOLOL

"They were pestering me, and I know they get lonely, and I hated to just...er." Pyramid Head blinked. "Why did you just hit me in the face with a saltshaker, Mr. Sunderland?"

Query: Will the Greedy Worm shrivel if salt is liberally applied, or does it have to be saltpeter?

By a stroke of luck, the words 'Mr. Sunderland' landed in a puddle of alcohol upon entering James' brain, so he didn't completely break down.

Having never gotten drunk but having watched many education filmreels in Driver's Ed, I understand this is how beer works. Man, I should've given Pyramid Head a girlier drink. Something with a slice of pineapple. And a plastic monkey. And TWO umbrellas.

The wheels, however, began grinding. "That...the mannequins, and the other...thing...that was...consensual?"

"They don't have hands," Pyramid Head muttered, and smoke started rising from James' inner machinery as he realized the creature was blushing. "They need...help."

IT'S TRUE, YOU HAVE TO ADMIT IT'S TRUE. POOR DEARS, JUST TRYING TO HELP.

"Help." The ringing in his ears had turned to an industrial whine.

The executioner glanced to make sure the bartender wasn't nearby, then whispered guiltily. "I don't like it very much. They get excited, and, well, things get a little too rough for my tastes."

Two mannequins x four legs apiece = eight chances to get kicked in the face at any given moment. I'd wear a helmet too.

"Your tastes." He was absolutely motionless for a moment. Then, slowly, the gears began turning again. James had an awful feeling that they were going in reverse.

grunka grunka grunka. Yes I make sound effects when I write, what of it. Just wait until I get to Joy Within Forcible Servitude.

My writing is influenced by Terry Pratchett the way a windshield is influenced by a brick. I like to think it shows here in some small way.

Blushing harder (How? How was he doing it? He was doing it, James was sure of it),

Shoop de doop, coverung my ass re. physical impossibility

Pyramid Head leaned even closer. "What I really like is..."

James nodded serenely to the furtive whispers. "Uh-huh. Like with a feather?"

"Not so loud!" hissed Pyramid Head, covering his lack of a face with his hands.

As far as fetishists go, I really think there are none more benign that tickling enthusiasts. In a world where people get off on drawing other people eating maggot-ridden shit from their own intestines (yes, I've seen it, no, I won't give you sauce), it's nice to know that there's a kink that involves something as harmless as a lot of giggling. And, with the reverse taboos of Silent Hill, what could be more naughty?

James continued to nod. He felt perfectly calm. This situation was one he could handle.

"Mr. Sunderland! Wait!"

James tugged fiercely at the door. He might deserve death, but this was too much. He had suffered his way through limitless misery and light puzzles, and now he was getting out of this town, and he was getting out there and then, and back to Hell with the inhabitants, and he turned to tell the man so...

...and stopped.

For the first time, instead of seeing a monster, James saw a man. A man who wanted nothing more than a friend. A man who seemed somehow piteous with pepper spilling down the sides of his helmet. A man with a pyramid for a head, sure, but a man.

I think I was going for a ref here or something, but I haven't the foggiest what it was. Also, Gawd, James, easy on the merchandise >O

A man who was also paying the bar tab.

Priorities STRAIGHT

James slowly put down the remains of the pepper shaker down and walked back over to the table. "Sorry. Cockroach."

Pyramid Head nodded. "They get big around here."

enh? enhhhhh? ...oh, never mind.

----

James Sunderland wanted to die.

I'm quite fond of this kind of repetition--it can be seen in I Just Can't Live Without Her, Clockwork, and Rocky, just off the top of my head, and there are probably other occurrences. I don't know whether I feel like it ties a fic together, whether it's a good start to an ending, whether it's just my style, or whether I'm a raging obsessive-compulsive. YOU BE THE JUDGE. Anyway, I'm pretty sure this was the first incidence of it. Is that a word? It is now.

Forcing bilious eyes open, he stared bleakly out the window. A bird sat on the neighboring roof, regarding James and his massive hangover with equal interest. He thought it was a bird, anyway. Never mind that it was seven feet tall, it was chirping and flapping its massive arms, it was a bird.

This was meant as a throwaway joke, and I probably should have left it there. Instead, I felt inclined to stretch it into a twofer for the next scene, causing great confusion for at least one reviewer. I should've known better, but darn it, I knew what I meant [/David Lynch moment]. Besides, Mortimer, the Closer Who Would Be Bird, grew on me quite quickly. He's now a recurring member of the small posse of underaged characters in my head, under the logic that he makes a fine bodyguard, and is also the right height for fetching cookies from high shelves, rescuing kites from trees, and giving piggyback rides to die for. Closers: Let one babysit your kids today!

Too early in the morning for anything else. Even it was late afternoon.

James closed his eyes and sunk back into the pillows with a groan. What had he done last night? It had involved a lot of alcohol, whatever it was. And karaoke. He had no idea where the song "Raining on Samhain" could have come from, but he certainly had found it amusing.

After hearing a punk cover of Raining on Prom Night, I had an inclination to filk it to the tune of Silent Hill. In practice, I could only work out a handful of decent lines ("I don't even have a corsage, oh gee/It fell down the sewer with the hospital key"), so I dropped the project and gave it a nod in-fic instead.

What else? Being kicked out of places, yes, many places, and making crank calls on a phone that, now that he was sober, he imagined didn't work.

The mental image of PH and James going NO U into a phone that does nothing but spew static and laughing wildly about it amuses me a bit too much, I'm afraid.

Phones never worked in this place. Wherever this place was. Had he pissed on a cop car? He thought he had. Fell on his face, too. Only way to explain those cuts.

He shrugged mentally and settled back. Maybe last night had been wild, but at least he could sleep off his headache. If the bird would shut up, that was. Fuck,

Oh, yes, this was before I had started swearing casually, I'd forgotten. Made me nervous as hell doing it in-fic, because one of my OCD notions as a kid was that if you put a swear word in print, then CLEARLY it was an ETERNAL sin because anyone could read it anytime, so that CLEARLY meant you could never repent of it because it was ALWAYS being committed, so CLEARLY you would go to Hell.

...that actually never sounded silly to me before I wrote it down. Funny how many of my old obsessions do that.

it sounded like someone had clapped a metal bucket on his head and was beating on the-

Oogh, bit forced. I hate it when my work smacks of doing-what-I-have-to-do-itis. Do it differently if I did it again. Ah, well.

Metal. Bucket. Head.

James Sunderland sat bolt upright and began to scream.

One person apparently took this to mean that he had somehow been converted into a Pyramid Head while he slept. Neat idea, come to think of it. This is why I tend to overclarify things, I'm always afraid I'm too subtle and I always end up being right at least once per fic. It's a nasty balancing act :/

----

There had been arguing, of course. Samael had gone into a terrible fit, ranting about irresponsibility and tradition and duty and physical impossibility, but had to give up in the end.

Heh, I was still using "Samael" at this point. My confusion at Dahlia's ramblings took several years and excessive Silent Hill Heaven exposure to work out.

The evidence was, after all, right in front of him. And so it was that Pyramid Head sat on a couch in an apartment in Woodside, surrounded by his friends, most of whom were being uncomfortable.

I'm sorry, I just don't like babies. They're boring and loud and constantly stare at me like they want to eat my soul. As such, I HATE baby showers. I went to an especially traumatic one once that would...not...end. We ended up excusing ourselves after several hours. SEVERAL HOURS.

Anyway, the funny thing is that I didn't realize I was projecting at the time. It was just another scene for me. Dang' fun one, too.

"Oh, it's absolutely lovely!" he gushed, holding up a small blanket with bloodstains in the shape of rabbits on the front.

Silent Hill chic for the discerning newborn. I have it on good authority that while Junior has outgrown the blanket, Pyramid Head still treasures it as a momento.
"Did you make it yourself, Liz?"

SEE LIZ FROM EARLIER IN THE STORY IT'S CHEKOV'S MANNEQUIN

The mannequin bobbed an upper leg in the general direction of another creature. "Rob helped."

I'm mystified as to how they talk, but if they can see without eyes, they can talk without mouths, yes? Try not to think of vocal vajayjays. Okay, do. It's fun, isn't it?

"I got the blood, that's all," he muttered, trying to disappear beneath his bedframe.

I'm pretty sure "bedframe" was "door" in the first draft. While I understood the symbolism of the Abstract Daddies, I didn't understand their exact form until reading Chibi Silent Hill 2, at which time I could actually inspect the monster without going "LKASHKLH'GDAJ KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT" and spot the smaller body underneath. Of course, as Rob is just another working Joe, the sinister implications do not apply here--he simply has a rather unfortunate and non-sentient growth. He would have it removed, but Brookhaven is still in terrible disarray, what with all the staff members being clubbed to death with a steel pipe. SEE SEE INNOCENT ANSWERS FOR EVERYTHING IF YOU LOOK HARD ENOUGH

"It's beautiful! Thank you so much, you two."

"We wanted to help out any way we could, big guy,"

I have a tendency to call Pyramid Head "big guy", yeah. Lovable lug.

Liz shifted closer to look at the tangle of metal and flesh nestled in the carriage next to Pyramid Head. "He's...uh...cute."

"CHIRP."

Ah, there's Mortimer again. Is it that obtuse? idk you tell me

"He's a helmet with tentacles and eyes."

My mental image for Junior was inspired both by a description from a Twilight Zone story about a human baby and baby from another dimension being swapped and by the Delta Beetles from Final Fantasy VI. I initially thought he might grow past this "larval" stage, but five or six years later, he's still the same bouncing bundle of tetanus-inducing joy, albeit larger and with hella more tentacles.

"Shut up, Rob."

"He really is, isn't he?" Pyramid Head wrapped the blanket around the larva, beaming.

See? Larva. Right there. Dang, I forgot about that.

"A helmet with tentacles and eyes?"

"Shut UP, Rob."

Again, see baby showers: dislike of. I used to be a sulky sulky houseguest on occasion. DS has made this bettaz.

"He's adorable," agreed the nurse, noting the blissful oblivion in the father's eyes. Mother's? She let her mind go blank; some things didn't bear thinking about.

ARE YOU PITCHING OR CATCHING IS THE QUESTION HERE

"Er, have you thought of a name?"

"CHIRP."

"I sure have!"

BY GUMPTION AND GILLYFLOWERS God I love him. I need to write more fun characters.

"That's wonderful! What is it?"

Almost too proud to speak, Pyramid Head spoke. "James Junior!"

"I'm dying of originality over here."

Weak line, should've been better. I always slip up on the downward slope.

"SHUT UP, Rob."

"CHIRP."

"By the way," Pyramid Head looked over at an underhanger, who flapped his arms passively. "Is something wrong with Mortimer?"

Oh, yeah, I forgot Underhanger is technically correct for SH2. I changed it from Mandarin in the original draft to hopefully reduce some small amount of confusion, since the official names aren't well-known among casual fans.

"CHIRP."

----

Several blocks away, Cybil Bennet brandished a hose, scowling. "Stupid kids," she grumbled and began to wash her car.

God, I love zingers.



~fin


~which is fancy talk for "you can go now"


Aaaand that's the stamp. I really should standardize how I end fics at some point.