One Day I Should Just Go Off About The Extended Narrative In My Head

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

★ — 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?"

# I̶N̴S̵E̴R̶T̷ ̷ C̴O̸I̶N̵ ̷ T̵O̵ ̴P̶L̵A̴Y̵

independent &. selective - v̶̢͑a̶̲̺͋́͜n̶̜̎͜e̵̖͚̖̘͐̄̇s̴̯̟̰̃͛̓s̶̤͔͊͒̎͆a̸̡̮̝͓̾̓͗͝ ̷̟̪͈̳͛̋̈́ ̶̘̠͇͝ͅă̸̪͔̞̺b̴̡̮̬̹͑̚b̴̢̙̗͈͐̄̆o̴̩͚͍̒̍̒̿t̷̨̃̑͝,̸̜̿̈́̍̌ VANNY . of five nights at freddy's : help wanted &. security breach. based on my own headcanons &. lore interpretation. written by morgan, 26, est, she/her. 🐇

“ 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."

Style Swap!

★ — Every moment of time that this interaction stretches onwards feels more precarious than the last — Gregory's heart racing, a heavy, thrumming staccato in his ears, against his ribcage, beating so furiously ( like the wings of a scared bird ) that it's nearly painful ; trapped, trapped, trapped.

This is the edge of a cliff. One wrong move, and everything comes crashing down. Gregory will fall with the rocks and rubble, only to be buried. An afterthought, not even begetting of a footnote in the list of tragedies. Even in his own timeline, there's no one looking for him, no one that cares enough to make sure nothing happens to him. Hell, he'd been living on the streets for a week before he'd stumbled into the pizzaplex, found himself out of his mind and out of his time. Here? There is no one who will care — no one to notice.

Avoiding eye contact ; it's too much, the realization, this horrific game of cat and mouse he's found himself trapped in. All at once he feels much too small, too much of a child overwhelmed and in over his head.

Then Mr. Afton starts laughing, low and quiet but he's so close that Gregory has no choice but to hear. It's enough to snap him out of his head and back to reality ; the sound akin to ice - water being forced through his veins. His eyes go wide.

" i think you don't have any parents. "

It's a familiar taunt, one he's heard dozens of times from anyone who thought he might make an easy target — bullies in the form of other children and adults. However many times he's heard it doesn't make it sting any less, still clouding his reason and rationality as he begins to kick and shift his weight under Afton's vice - like grip, a hand reaching up to claw at the hand holding him aloft.

"Why do you care?! It's none of your business! I'm here and I leave and nothing else matters! Put me down ——! Put me down or I'll start yelling and all the people out there will come in here to see what's wrong!"

𝚆𝙰𝚂𝙽'𝚃 𝙳𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝙽𝙽𝙾𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴. . . . perhaps he didn't have to. somewhere within his charming visage is something dark -- somehow simultaneously screaming out both his innocence &. his guilt. to a degree in which if you saw him in the right light, every explanation would fall into place. henry was arrested, first. next he'll be put through the ringer, though he doesn't yet realize this. the police's lack of evidence was shocking enough as it is. confidence not allowing any sort of worry to live outside general paranoia. if nobody found out, they couldn't prove it. end of discussion.

he would not let this little shit be the end of him. pounding, pulsating compulsions pushing blood against veins . . . hearing the rush in his ears, in the twitches of curled fingers . . .

knows better. you think you're safe to put one down &. off they go crying to the police, or their parents. even if this one didn't have parents around, there were many concerned patrons outside ripe for the picking. no . . . he wouldn't go down so easily. needed to be ensured of silence.

" -- quite amusing, yes. perhaps you have." more than you know, little one. more than you know.

his brows were still lowered in scrutiny, lip curled a bit with jumps in twitching fits. the desire to mangle the child's spine is so unbearably hard to control, but he must. cameras, business. it was a horrid combination. besides, it just wasn't right . . . none of it was right, &. it stank like shit &. suspicion.

yet explanation sends his lowered brow in an arch, grey eyes flickering back &. forth over their shared eye contact. however, all of a sudden, all at once . . . features come alive with manic amusement. curling smile like a bow, with dark chuckles slipping from between the cracks in his teeth. "surely . . ." he replies.

"would you like to know what i think? i think you don't have any parents -- whether that means they've croaked, or that they just don't care about you enough to stay sober for an iota of their pathetic lives. now, would i be right about that?" he asks, hoping to use this as a bargaining chip . . . yes, with an eleven year old.