Barry was floored too. He glanced at himself in the room's mirror, especially that familiar hockey mask plastered on his face, and damn if it didn't spark a rush of that harvest-festival glee, like scoring the winning touchdown at the big homecoming game.
What the heck was this?
It looked so familiar!
That white mask? It was a dead ringer for Jason's getup—y'know, the Crystal Lake slasher's signature gear from those Friday the 13th flicks that had everyone double-locking their cabin doors back in the day. Like, ten out of ten, maybe nine, spot-on.
Only thing was, it wasn't all there.
Sizing it up, it matched exactly the chunk he'd jammed into Jason's eye sockets right before clawing the whole thing off that grudge-holding bastard's mug on his way back topside.
No more, no less.
But how the hell did this busted-up mask hitch a ride with him? And end up glued to his own face?
Made sense?
Hell yeah, it did.
Auto-loot must've been stuck on "on."
Barry's racing heart settled as he tuned into his new weirdness, feeling it hum under his skin.
Dark Alessa shot him this funky look, her tone dripping with what—admiration? Sarcasm? Hard to tell. "You're one freaky son of a gun. Your greed? It even shocks the hell outta me!"
How do you snag everything that ain't nailed down?
One dip into hell, and you don't come back empty-handed? That kinda avarice, that bottomless pit of a stomach—it's rare as hen's teeth. Born to be a demon, plain and simple!
Slander! Straight-up character assassination!
He was pure as the driven snow, the type who'd spot a nickel on the sidewalk and march it straight back to the corner cop like a good Boy Scout.
Barry had no comeback, so he just zipped it.
Couldn't exactly blurt out, "Hey, I didn't ask for it—Jason practically gift-wrapped the damn thing, and I figured, why not?"
"Alessa wants to talk to you."
Dark Alessa nodded toward the girl on the bed, stepping in as the mouthpiece since their minds were linked up like some psychic Bluetooth.
Barry leaned in. "I'm all ears."
"Alessa says she likes you. You're a good guy."
"Thanks for the shout-out—folks used to say that all the time. But good guys? We tend to check out early, especially when we're outgunned facing down a pack of lowlifes. Still, everybody's gotta go sometime..."
"Back then, that witch Christabella threw on her robes, smirking like the devil himself..."
"Ugh, that searing fire roasting my flesh... All I could choke out at the end was, 'Justice can't be killed!'"
Alessa soaked it all in quietly. She pegged him as a solid, kind-hearted dude—one with real heart, natural empathy, the guts to stand up for what's right, and the stones to spit in evil's face.
All that? Straight from poring over his journal entries, with maybe a dash of her own starry-eyed spin thrown in for good measure.
Everybody knows it: what's in a diary? That's the raw, unfiltered truth—no cap.
Tying in his pre-death charm, that easy smile and vibe, plus his post-mortem fire-and-brimstone rally cry? Boom—full picture snapped into place.
He just... yapped a bit much sometimes.
Alessa remembered spying on him back in the living days—he wasn't this chatty then. Death had loosened him up, apparently.
But hey, a journal junkie getting wordy now and then? Totally normal. And for her, cooped up in solitude forever? It'd been ages since anyone shot the breeze just for her. That's what she figured, anyway.
She craved payback, sure—but also kin. Someone on her wavelength.
"Alessa says you bought it in the flames too. She's been through the fire-and-brimstone routine herself—knows it's a nightmare of agony, feeling your life slip away in that white-hot hell."
Barry's hands shook. "It hurt. God, it hurt so bad!"
On the bed, Alessa cut him a sidelong glance, her breaths coming quicker, but her voice? Steadier than ever.
"I've felt your rage. I get the fire in your gut for revenge."
"We both want it—payback on those blind, arrogant cult drones. Silent Hill's got no room left for their poison."
"Even if we've lost our human shells, no matter how many years drag by, we take back what's ours. Justice."
"I want you to stick around. Join us. That's... my ask."
At this point, could Barry say no?
Not an option. And truth be told, he wouldn't dream of it.
Dark Alessa's relay gig carried this undercurrent of hope laced with vulnerability—a kid's fear of being left high and dry peeking through.
All those years flat on her back? What kept Alessa from cracking wide open was pure vendetta fuel. But that same drive amped up her hunger for a little TLC.
She'd outlasted decades, sure, but life's mileage? Zilch. Her headspace wasn't grown-folks standard—she was frozen at nine, that wide-eyed kid from before the world went to hell.
Thirty years back, that monster blaze had flattened her. After? Nonstop torment from pain and shadows.
In the depths of that misery, Alessa went dark-side.
Raw hate unlocked her gifts, burning inside till it scorched everything around her—even the flowers wilted at her feet. Eventually, it pinged the devil's radar.
She took the dark powers on offer, splitting off her shadow self as a holding tank.
For revenge, her pure half had morphed into a baby nine years ago, shipped off to an orphanage out in the world—that's Sharon, the good piece on her way back to make it official.
"You got it—I'm in. Said it before: through fire and flood!"
In the life he ran with, loyalty was king—like backing your crew in a bar brawl over some spilled Bud Light.
Barry wasn't exactly promise-sealed-in-blood material, but once he gave his word? Ironclad.
Plus, who turns down Team Victory, gunning to smoke out the cult scum?
Just like Alessa nailed it—his own grudge was revving the engine, demanding he settle the score.
Barry tipped his head back, face set like granite, locking eyes with Dark Alessa as she crouched down. They clocked each other's resolve, no words needed.
The little straw man stuck out his hand, fingers balled into a fist—that rough-knuckled jab meeting the girl's ash-smeared one in a gentle bump.
Outsider from the weird realms and the town's entrenched queen? Pact sealed.
...
After the longest night, the world's bound to crack open a new day.
Morning, Silent Hill.
Sunlight sliced through the window, jazzing up the room like a fresh pot of diner coffee.
Barry? Back in the classroom, parked in that second-to-last row by the window—the same spot he'd journaled in before. Alessa's old desk from her schoolkid days sat right next door.
So why circle back?
To journal, duh!
The drama from yesterday? On pause. Alessa was gearing up to nudge the outside world's Sharon, reeling her in ASAP to kick off the real revenge tour.
Barry, meanwhile, needed a quiet corner to get cozy with his powers—shake 'em out like breaking in a new pair of Timberlands.
Plenty of spots he'd be useful down the line.
Before dipping, Alessa had clued him in: he'd dropped a journal here by accident way back. Being the sweetheart she was, she'd spotted it on a stroll, scooped it up, and slotted it right back on her neighbor's seat.
She'd peeked a couple pages—couldn't help it—and damn, it was gold. Real feels, the kind you'd recite in class for extra credit back in high school English.
Last but not least, she begged him not to ditch the habit. Keep the pen moving.
Barry? Hell yeah, he was down.
A fan who dug his stuff? Rare as a quiet night in the Big Easy. Time to crank out more.