It's not normal to push through fog like this, but it's come to the point where Daniel finds it more numbing than anything else, taxing only the metaphysical sense. The fog is background noise to him now, cold and unwelcoming in its embrace and seeping through everything, even the buildings that he's managed to enter.
He's left the Blue Creek Apartments, flashlight on in his breast pocket and radio tucked into his jeans, thankful he's hearing nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. It's lonely trudging through and trying to figure out what to do but Daniel would take the pitter patter of his own shoes over the static that tells him those things have reared their ugly heads. Daniel isn't by any means a survival guy--he's a fucking journalist, cruising San Fransicsco for his next interview or his next score--but he's smart enough to skirt past the mannequins and strange melted figures by turning his radio and flashlight off and moving a little quieter. So far, he's been good.
That's not to say he also hasn't fought. Badly, but he's managed to fend a few off--he's got an iron pipe he's torn from a rusted portion of a dirty restaurant kitchen that seems to serve him well. He's halfway down Munson street and trying to make his way to Rosewater Park when he hears it. It's hard for anyone not to, the blasting of a jukebox, the too-loud, grooving tones T Rex. Daniel jumps out of his skin and swears loudly before he immediately starts heading towards it.
The town's fucked with him for a while--he never knows the time of day, doesn't even know how long he's been here, wandering and solving puzzles and going out of his mind. When he rounds the corner he sees a figure in the little bar with the music playing, sound echoing off of the empty town walls. The sight is murky thanks to the fog, but there's definitely someone there. His heart leaps.
Daniel immediately crosses the street and tries to open the door, but it's locked. He settles for pounding on the wide glass window, hoping that either the figure will shut the music off or he can smack the door loud enough to get his attention above Marc Bolan's crooning lyrics. Had the figure turned the jukebox on? Was it just the town messing with them? Was it this place pulling Daniel to the stranger with one of his favourite songs?
There's the undercurrent of fear rising in him, too. Noises mean monsters.
empathicfault; silent hill au
He's left the Blue Creek Apartments, flashlight on in his breast pocket and radio tucked into his jeans, thankful he's hearing nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. It's lonely trudging through and trying to figure out what to do but Daniel would take the pitter patter of his own shoes over the static that tells him those things have reared their ugly heads. Daniel isn't by any means a survival guy--he's a fucking journalist, cruising San Fransicsco for his next interview or his next score--but he's smart enough to skirt past the mannequins and strange melted figures by turning his radio and flashlight off and moving a little quieter. So far, he's been good.
That's not to say he also hasn't fought. Badly, but he's managed to fend a few off--he's got an iron pipe he's torn from a rusted portion of a dirty restaurant kitchen that seems to serve him well. He's halfway down Munson street and trying to make his way to Rosewater Park when he hears it. It's hard for anyone not to, the blasting of a jukebox, the too-loud, grooving tones T Rex. Daniel jumps out of his skin and swears loudly before he immediately starts heading towards it.
The town's fucked with him for a while--he never knows the time of day, doesn't even know how long he's been here, wandering and solving puzzles and going out of his mind. When he rounds the corner he sees a figure in the little bar with the music playing, sound echoing off of the empty town walls. The sight is murky thanks to the fog, but there's definitely someone there. His heart leaps.
Daniel immediately crosses the street and tries to open the door, but it's locked. He settles for pounding on the wide glass window, hoping that either the figure will shut the music off or he can smack the door loud enough to get his attention above Marc Bolan's crooning lyrics. Had the figure turned the jukebox on? Was it just the town messing with them? Was it this place pulling Daniel to the stranger with one of his favourite songs?
There's the undercurrent of fear rising in him, too. Noises mean monsters.