It's only when Pyramid Head had been walking for five miles did he realize he had forgotten his knife.

He stops, dragging a calloused hand down the front of his helmet in irritation, the hollow grating sound loud in the morning silence. He looked over his shoulder into the dense fog.

Well, it's not like he cared that much. He didn't even know why he bothered to carry the damn thing around- it was so heavy, his arm would be awfully sore after a single night shift 'round Silent Hill. Didn't help that no matter how many times he wrapped new bandages around the grip, the rough hilt chafed his hands horribly- probably why he couldn't feel anything anymore.

Pyramid Head shrugs to himself, shaking his head ruefully. Not like he could feel in the first place. He rubs his thick thumb into his right palm, trying to loosen up the bruise-colored callouses that have lived under his gloves for such a long time.

Whatever. This is a new start. He doesn't any knife- doesn't need any sort of keepsake from James. No...

He continues walking. The highway- if you could call it that, really just a strip of asphalt with a line in the middle- wasn't in the best of condition. Cracks criss-crossed the face of the road, and Pyramid Head seemed to be kicking up chunks of it with every step. He even found a speed limit sign, buried in weeds; pulling it out of those thorny green fingers, he realized he couldn't even read the sign. Rust has licked the numbers right off.

He dropped it to the side of the road, letting the weeds reclaim their prize.

Rust...

He sighs, cracking his knuckles. Seems like he can't get away from the stuff. Was all he ever saw in Silent Hill- rust, asbestos, dead mold. He was already glad he had left that infernal town- the highway, roughly carved into steep hillside, was bordered on both sides by a thick wood, so thick the trunks disappeared into misty darkness. Deciduous trees, he remembered. Books on climate zones and stuff had always been Pyramid Head's favorite to page through... all those far off places...

A sharp, lone birdcall brings Pyramid Head out of his reverie, and his head snaps left and right, air whistling across the corrugated surface of his helmet. What the hell?

So that's what a birdcall sounds like. A lot... different than he imagined. Not songlike, really. More... desperate.

Like him, really.

Probably keep things short like this. Fits his character.