Shaking Gregory At The Dash Write With Me Plot With Me

shaking gregory at the dash write with me plot with me

just graduated with my masters degree :)

one day I should just go off about the extended narrative in my head

“ let’s go smash some stuff 'til ya' ready to talk, 'kay? “ // bonnie being the cool parent, god bless, asdfghjkl

★ — Peers up at the animatronic rabbit, through a mess of tousled brown - locks that hang across his face, half - obscuring his eyes from sight. There's a tension held through his entire body ( shoulders lifted, his hands balled into fists at his side, jaw set ) that doesn't quite dissipate at the suggestion, but loosens somewhat.

"Really?"

He's surprised, and still hesitant. Surely there has to be some sort of programmed protocol that insists the animatronics try to help kids through their feelings in a healthy, productive manner ; Gregory's not so sure that breaking stuff is healthy or productive, but he can't deny that it sounds like a good outlet frustration, fear, and anger he's been keeping bottled up inside him since that night. He doesn't want to talk about it, and it's hard to believe the words for it all exist even if he did.

A moment passes — it's clear the offer is genuine, as Bonnie doesn't push further. Gregory's shoulders drop, and he lets out a huff of air through his nose.

"Yeah, okay. Let's go smash stuff."

★ — The symptoms of a dance that is met in step ; the monster ( for really, Gregory has no other way to describe the thing. a decaying, decrepit creature hardly resembling anything he has ever seen before that awoke to meet him here, in the pit of earth that sits beneath cursed ground ) moves forward, and in turn the child moves backwards, never letting his eyes stray from Springtrap for fear of what may happen if he were to lose sight for even a moment, hardly allowing himself the luxury to blink. The sight of it causes a steady pulse of fear to thrum through him, one he does his best to keep hidden beneath a brave facade. Even so, he is far more scared of what it might do if he let his guard down for a single moment.

Answer isn't what he'd hoped to hear — childish naivety had thought that things would end in the pit, finally, if he were able to face the very thing that haunts his nightmares, the ultimate unknown from that night. That somehow, finding himself back down here would make all the puzzle pieces fall into place and paint a perfect picture.

( some part of him knows it was foolish, the part that rings with disappointment now. but it's too late. Gregory has already placed himself in the maw of the beast ).

"You —— live here? Why? For how long?"

His questions no longer ring like demands, instead falling to curious intonation that sounds softly throughout the sinkhole. Child - like. A need to question, and a need to understand. Even so, his grip never loosens on the fazerblast in hand ; holds it close to his chest, like a lifeline.

A pause — his head shakes in response to Springtrap's question. He didn't look capable of much, but even so ....

"How do you know about the guard?"

He'd seen the writing, in the old office. Graffiti that read Vanny, a signature bunny mask drawn crudely next to it. But it still wasn't adding up.

"Do you .... know what happened to the other kids that went missing here? If you live here, you must've seen what happened, right?"

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕, haunting gait turns the rusted thing about with two distinct clashes of metal against flooring below. ears swinging with creaks, as finger twitches. the hissing, fluid-filled breath echoes like a never ending death rattle. turning to face the child as a tongue comes out to lap over yellowed teeth. the nerves and tendons within singing with the 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 of proximity to that which his body is kept alive with. fear. haunting, bone chilling childhood fear. something his disgusting form elicits in spades. a one and only perk of being.. [...] this. though for better or for worse, he is home.

he cannot think of himself as the child does. 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐. hard to see himself. shell of how far he has fallen.

keeping his pace with gregory, springtrap finds himself stopping as his head falls into a series of monstrous twitches. shoulder brought up towards the side of his face. even more in disrepair than last time they saw each other. albeit not this close.

he was not asked for explanation. afton always one to keep his cards held close. a man who had been recording his family since before he'd murdered a single soul in secret. a man whom had an operation built beneath his home. [...] 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝.

purple eyes bore into the child and being still allows his body to calm in twitches, though the rattling doesn't cease. as if he's attempting to haul air through the holes in his body. though tremble causes it to hiss, and crackle into a low chuckle. trying to decide what he should say, and what he should not.

"why -- i live here. [...] this is my home." he responds. [...] his head coming to tilt more-so. "not i, certainly." it's true. (to an extent). he is also his counterpart, though not the body that stands before him.

"does it look like i could have such an affect, in this state?" [...] "perhaps it was the guard. [...] i recall she was looking for you, was she not?"

thinking about a cycle of violence that was never yours to hold. failing to play the part you were given. an orchestrated tragedy without the ending. the knowledge that once you have seen the cycle you are forever part of it. you can break a link but that does not mean you have broken the chain.