fanficfactory333

[fanficfactory333]

Poking the Bear (pt.3)

Gregory knew Freddy was hiding something.

And if Freddy wasn’t going to tell him what it was, then Gregory had to find out himself.

So, he went back to the archives.

He had already searched through most of the data storage before. But now that he had a new name—Evan—he was looking at everything differently. He combed through every forgotten file, every ancient security log, every outdated employee record.

And that’s when he found it.

A small stack of VHS tapes.

Tucked away on the lowest shelf, hidden behind a loose panel of the cabinet, as if someone had deliberately tried to keep them out of sight.

The only label on them was “Memories.” Each one was numbered. 1, 2, 3…

Gregory frowned.

Who still used VHS tapes?

He grabbed the first one and slipped it into the rusty old TV in the corner. The screen flickered, static buzzing for a moment—

Then, a voice.

Deep. Measured. Calm.

Gregory felt his stomach turn.

It was William Afton.

—

Gregory’s hands were shaking.

The old VHS tape spun inside the worn-out player, its mechanical hum the only sound in the room. The dim blue glow of the security monitor screen flickered over his face, but he barely noticed.

Because in his ears—through the crackling, warped audio of an ancient cassette—a murderer was speaking.

"Hello, whoever you are. You just found a cassette tape hidden in my bedroom. Isn't that strange?"

The voice was smooth. Almost casual. Like this was any other conversation.

Gregory’s stomach twisted.

Then—

"That was me."

A chill ran down his spine.

He had suspected. He knew the rumors. But hearing William Afton himself just… admit it—so easily—made his skin crawl.

He stayed completely still, listening, barely breathing.

And then—

"Michael did it."

Gregory’s pulse stuttered.

Wait.

"Not a surprise, most people know that, but it wasn't an accident. He keeps saying it was but he's a liar."

Gregory’s eyes widened.

Michael.

The name was familiar. He had seen it in the files before. Michael Afton. William’s son.

But the way Afton said it—the venom in his voice—

Gregory swallowed.

"He hates me. And he hated Evan."

Evan.

Gregory’s breath caught.

That was the name Freddy had almost said. The name he had slipped up with.

"Michael wasn't settled with being a failure, and how I loved Evan just so much more. So he tormented him. Eventually, killing him."

Gregory’s whole body tensed.

No.

No, that—that couldn’t be right.

He knew Freddy wasn’t Afton. He knew he was someone else. And now—now there was this other name.

Michael.

Freddy had freaked out when Gregory called him a murderer.

Freddy had acted like he was guilty.

Because—

Oh, God.

"Ever since he killed him, I’ve wanted to put my hands around his neck and just squeeze the life out of his lungs..."

Gregory felt sick.

He stared at the screen, at the warped text rolling across it as the tape played, and for the first time since this all started—he didn’t know what to do.

He had been so sure.

Freddy wasn’t Afton.

But now—

Now there was a different monster in the picture.

And it was Michael.

Gregory’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Freddy wasn’t William Afton.

Freddy was Michael Afton.

And Michael was a killer, too.

Right?

Right?

The tape clicked, the recording coming to an end. The last words still rang in Gregory’s head, sharp and terrifying.

"So you'd better put it back, Michael. As neatly as you can. And start running."

Gregory swallowed hard, slowly turning to look at the door.

Where Freddy was waiting.

—

Gregory’s fingers trembled as he slotted the next tape into the player.

The first one had been bad. Really bad.

But he wasn’t done yet.

He had to know more.

The screen flickered. The tape whirred. And then—

William Afton’s voice returned.

"I'm trapped..."

Gregory’s breath hitched.

"The locks went off, while I was wearing it..."

His stomach dropped.

He leaned forward, pulse pounding in his ears.

"Somehow, I thought that thing would protect me… After all, I'm not good with thinking on my feet..."

The voice was different this time. Weaker. Pained.

"Now I'm awake..."

Gregory’s breath came shallow.

"My heart stopped beating, and they put the boards back up, so there goes my only way out..."

He swallowed hard.

This wasn’t a confession. This wasn’t Afton gloating about his crimes.

This was him dying.

"Either way, it hurts too much for me to get up... I guess it works the same for me as it did for them... I died, and end up as one of these... I just wish I knew about that part earlier..."

Gregory shivered.

So that was it.

That was how it happened.

William Afton had trapped himself inside a suit, just like the stories said. The Springlocks had snapped shut.

And he had died in it.

But he was still aware.

Gregory clenched his jaw.

"I don't know how long I'm gonna be in here..."

The tape clicked. Stopped.

Silence.

Gregory exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

This changed everything.

He had spent the last few hours assuming William Afton was still out there somewhere—lurking, manipulating, maybe even inside Freddy.

But no.

William Afton wasn’t in Freddy.

William Afton was stuck in a suit.

Which meant…

Gregory’s breath slowed.

Which meant Freddy—Michael—really wasn’t lying.

Gregory swallowed hard.

He had been watching Freddy with suspicion this whole time, thinking he was some twisted serial killer in disguise.

But if that was true, then why had Afton hated him so much?

The man on the tape—the monster who had bragged about killing kids—despised Michael. Blamed him. Wanted him dead.

That didn’t sound like a murderer’s accomplice.

That sounded like someone who had already suffered.

Gregory sat there, staring at the blank screen.

The weight of what he had done earlier—accusing Freddy, fearing him, running from him—settled heavy in his chest.

He had been wrong.

—

Tape Three.

"They're still alive... I can hear them moving around outside... someone must have put them back together..."

That was when the panic had started creeping in.

Who? Who was he talking about? The kids he killed? The ones in the animatronics?

Gregory didn’t know. And worse, he didn’t want to.

—

Tape Four.

"I bet they're wondering why they're not up in Heaven right now..."

Gregory had wanted to stop listening.

But he couldn’t.

"We're not going anywhere, because He doesn't care. God doesn't care about 'justice' or what's 'right' or 'wrong'... God just likes to watch interesting things happen..."

Gregory swallowed thickly.

That was the moment he realized something else.

Afton wasn’t just evil.

He was insane.

—

Tape Five.

"The hidden room in the bathroom hallway. The boards. Break them. I'm in there."

Gregory’s chest had tightened.

This was it. This was when Afton had still been trapped.

"I'm in there. Michael. Your father. I'm your father. I want to talk to you. I only want to see my boy."

Gregory’s breath had gone shallow.

Then—

"MICHAEL!!! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!!!"

The sound had physically hurt.

The banging. The screaming. The pure, raw desperation.

Gregory had been too stunned to move.

Because that meant—

That meant Michael had been there.

That meant Michael had walked away.

That meant Michael had left him to die.

And Gregory didn’t know how to feel about that.

But he didn’t have time to process it.

Because then came Tape Six.

—

"How could you do that, to your own father?! I hate you. I've ALWAYS hated you."

The voice had changed.

It was raw. Furious. Rabid.

"I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to make it HURT."

Gregory had flinched.

Not just from the words.

From the rage.

The kind of rage that never dies.

The kind of rage that still exists today.

Because William Afton was still out there.

And he was still looking for Michael.

—

Gregory had almost stopped there.

Almost.

But then—

Tape Seven.

Afton had started breaking.

"How could you just go without me and leave me rotting in a room for God knows how long?"

Time had blurred for him. He had been stuck for years and didn’t even know how long it had been.

Gregory had stared at the screen, his chest tight.

It was awful.

But he still hadn’t felt pity.

Because this man didn’t deserve it.

Not after what he did.

Not after what he had become.

Not after—

—

Tape Eight.

"I GOT OUT—I GOT OUT, I GOT OUT!"

Gregory’s entire body had locked up.

"I don't know where they took me but somewhere new... so much more room to breathe..."

He had shivered.

Because this was recent.

He knew where Afton had ended up.

And the worst part?

"They have your mask, Michael, the fox... hehehehe—I HATE looking at it, it makes me feel so alive..."

Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael.

William had never let him go.

Not even after death.

— — —

Gregory sat in the quiet, his head spinning.

Michael had been there. Michael had listened to all of this.

He had walked away.

And now he was here.

Right outside.

In the body of an animatronic.

Gregory’s fingers twitched.

He had been so sure Michael was a killer.

But these tapes…

These tapes didn’t sound like a father mourning a lost son.

These tapes sounded like a monster screaming about a disappointment.

Like a mistake.

Like someone he hated.

And that? That didn’t sound like Michael was his accomplice.

That sounded like Michael was his victim.

Gregory exhaled sharply.

And suddenly, for the first time since this all started—

He wasn’t scared of Freddy anymore.

—

The room felt too quiet.

Gregory sat hunched over the desk, staring at the blank screen, the weight of what he had just heard pressing down on him. His brain was still reeling, trying to make sense of everything.

Michael had been here. He had listened to all of that.

He had walked away.

And now he was Freddy.

Gregory swallowed hard.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

A soft mechanical whir came from the door.

Gregory tensed.

Heavy footsteps. Slow. Steady. Close.

His breath caught in his throat.

He turned just as Freddy stepped inside.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Freddy’s optics glowed in the dim light, scanning the room. His frame wasn’t tense, but Gregory could tell something was off.

Something in the way he stood.

The way he looked at him.

Then, Freddy sighed.

A quiet, subtle sound. Too human.

“…You know, don’t you?”

Gregory’s chest tightened.

He didn’t even try to play dumb.

“…Yeah.”

Freddy’s optics flickered slightly. He stepped forward—slow, careful movements—and Gregory had to fight the instinct to back away.

Not because he was afraid of Freddy anymore.

Because he didn’t know how to face him.

Freddy stopped a few feet away, looking down at him. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then—

“Which one did you find first?”

Gregory hesitated. “The first one.”

Freddy hummed. “Of course.”

Gregory shifted, gripping the edge of the desk. “I kept going.”

Freddy let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “I figured.”

Gregory licked his lips. “You knew they were there.”

It wasn’t a question.

Freddy nodded. “Yes.”

Gregory frowned. “Then why didn’t you destroy them?”

Another pause.

Then—

“…Because I wanted to remember.”

Gregory’s breath hitched.

Freddy wasn’t looking at him anymore. His optics had dimmed slightly, as if he was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere far away.

Gregory’s chest ached.

For the first time, he saw how tired Freddy really looked.

“…I almost didn’t listen,” Freddy admitted. His voice was quieter now. Softer. “I told myself I didn’t need to. That I already knew what he thought of me.”

Gregory swallowed.

Freddy’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“But when I found them, I… I played them anyway.” A bitter laugh. “Call it morbid curiosity.”

Gregory didn’t say anything.

Freddy inhaled slowly, optics flickering. “I thought maybe—maybe there would be something there. Some final admission. Some regret. That maybe—”

His voice broke.

Gregory stiffened.

Freddy clenched his jaw, forcing himself to continue.

“…That maybe, deep down, he still saw me as his son.”

Gregory felt something heavy settle in his chest.

Freddy let out another short, hollow laugh. “But no. That would’ve been too much, wouldn’t it?”

Gregory bit his lip.

Freddy’s servos tightened.

“He never loved me,” he said flatly. “Not even at the end. Not even when he thought he was dying.”

Silence.

Gregory looked down at his hands.

He wasn’t sure what to say.

For so long, he had been watching Freddy, doubting him, testing him.

And now—

Now he realized how wrong he had been.

He had spent all this time looking for a monster.

But all he had found was a broken son.

Gregory inhaled sharply, standing up from the chair.

Freddy blinked, straightening slightly as Gregory took a step forward.

For the first time, Gregory wasn’t looking at him like an enemy.

“…I’m sorry,” Gregory murmured.

Freddy blinked again.

Gregory swallowed hard. “For what I said earlier. For… for calling you a murderer.” His hands curled into fists. “For thinking you were him.”

Freddy studied him for a moment.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

“…It’s alright, Superstar.”

Gregory frowned. “No, it’s not.”

Freddy shook his head. “You were only trying to protect yourself.”

Gregory exhaled. “Yeah. And I almost hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Freddy’s smile faded.

“…You don’t think I deserve it?”

Gregory’s brow furrowed. “No.”

Freddy’s optics dimmed slightly.

“…I do.”

Gregory’s stomach twisted. “Why?”

Freddy looked at him for a long moment.

Then—

“…Because Evan is still dead.”

Gregory’s breath hitched.

Evan.

The kid from the tapes. The kid Afton had compared him to. The one he blamed Michael for killing.

Freddy turned away slightly.

“I still see it,” he murmured. “I still hear it.” His voice wavered. “Every single night.”

Gregory couldn’t breathe.

“…You didn’t mean to,” he said weakly.

Freddy laughed. But it wasn’t happy.

“No. I didn’t.” His hands clenched. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I did it.”

Gregory opened his mouth. Then closed it.

He wanted to tell Freddy he wasn’t a murderer.

But Freddy already saw himself as one.

Gregory’s throat felt tight.

Freddy finally turned back to him, his usual warmth dimmed but still there.

“…Do you still trust me, Gregory?”

Gregory hesitated.

Then, after everything—after all the running, the accusations, the tests—

He finally gave the only answer that mattered.

“…Yeah.”

And for the first time, Freddy looked like he actually believed him.

[fanficfactory333]

Poking the Bear (pt.2)

Freddy didn’t move for a long time.

He stayed where he was, sitting on the cold tile outside the closet, head bowed, servos locked in place. His body was still, but inside—inside, it was too much.

The words echoed in his head, looping like a glitch he couldn’t fix.

You’re a murderer.

His fingers curled into fists. His chest cavity whirred unevenly, his fans struggling to compensate for the way his systems had spiked.

Gregory’s voice. A kid’s voice.

Calling him a killer.

His stomach twisted. No. No, no, no.

He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t.

But that didn’t matter, did it?

Because Evan had still died because of him.

Michael squeezed his optics shut, pressing a hand to his faceplate, forcing himself to breathe—even if he didn’t need to. Even if his lungs were long gone.

It didn’t help.

His hands were shaking.

He had been doing so well. Keeping it together. Keeping the past buried. But now—now it was clawing back up, digging itself into his circuits, all because he let his guard slip for one second.

He shouldn’t have said Evan’s name.

He shouldn’t have said anything.

Gregory was still in the closet. He hadn’t left yet.

Michael could feel his presence through the heat sensors—his tiny frame curled up against the far wall, his heart rate uneven.

He was still afraid.

And now, buried under everything else, Michael felt something worse.

Guilt.

Not just for Evan. Not just for the past.

For this.

For Gregory. For how scared he was. For how he had been trying to protect him—and somehow, despite everything, had still managed to ruin it.

It had always been like this, hadn’t it?

Everything he touched, everything he tried to fix—he only ever made it worse.

A long silence stretched between them.

Michael swallowed down the static crawling up his throat. Pull it together.

“…Gregory.” His voice was steadier now, but still too raw. Too human.

The kid didn’t answer.

Michael exhaled slowly, his servos clicking as he forced himself to loosen his grip. “I am sorry,” he said carefully. “I did not mean to… frighten you.”

Still nothing.

Michael hesitated. “I swear to you—I am not William Afton.”

A faint shuffle from inside the closet. A small, involuntary reaction.

Michael latched onto it. “I promise you, I am not your enemy.”

More silence. But this time, it was different.

Michael knew Gregory well enough by now to recognize when he was thinking.

Good. That was good. Maybe he could still fix this.

“…You said a name.”

Michael stiffened.

Gregory’s voice was quiet. “You said ‘Evan.’”

Michael didn’t move.

Gregory shifted inside the closet. He sounded… uncertain. Like he was trying to fit pieces together.

“…Who is Evan?”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

He couldn’t answer that.

So, instead, he said, “I am not William Afton.”

“…Then who are you?”

Michael swallowed. Careful.

“I…” He hesitated. His voice felt too human again. “…It is not important.”

Gregory was quiet.

But Michael could feel it. The doubt creeping into the kid’s thoughts.

And just like that—Gregory was no longer sure he was right.

Michael didn’t know whether to feel relieved… or terrified.

—

Gregory sat curled against the far wall, arms wrapped around his knees.

His heart had stopped pounding. His breathing was even again. But he still felt… wrong.

He had been so sure. So sure.

Freddy had flinched. He had acted weird. He had refused to explain anything.

And then—when Gregory had accused him—he had completely shut down.

But that reaction…

Gregory had expected denial, anger, maybe even something creepy.

Not… whatever that was.

Freddy had broken.

The way his voice cracked. The way he started talking to someone else.

The way he sounded like he was apologizing.

Gregory’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t a killer’s reaction.

That was…

That was something else.

Gregory exhaled slowly.

He replayed everything in his head. The way Freddy had hesitated. The way he had said Evan. The way he had said—

"I didn't mean to."

Gregory bit his lip. He knows something.

And if he knew something, then—

His eyes widened.

What if Freddy wasn’t William Afton?

What if he was someone else connected to all of this?

Gregory’s fingers curled against his sleeves.

He had accused him of being a murderer. But what if Freddy had lost someone, too?

What if he wasn’t hiding something evil—but something painful?

Gregory swallowed hard. His stomach felt twisted in knots.

Had he… had he messed up?

Freddy was still outside the closet, waiting. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was quieter than before.

“…I am not your enemy, Gregory.”

Gregory closed his eyes.

For the first time, he wasn’t sure if Freddy was lying.

—

They didn’t talk about it.

Freddy didn’t bring it up. Gregory didn’t bring it up.

But it was there.

The next time they saw each other, Freddy acted like nothing had happened. Like Gregory hadn’t run from him. Like he hadn’t broken down in the hallway. Like he hadn’t almost called him by someone else’s name.

He was back to normal.

Too normal.

Gregory sat on the floor of Freddy’s green room, picking at the loose thread in his hoodie sleeve. Freddy sat on the charging station, his optics dim as he recharged—but he wasn’t fully asleep.

Gregory knew that because he was watching him.

Not obviously. Not in a creepy way. But every now and then, Gregory would catch a tiny, almost imperceptible shift—the way Freddy’s optics flickered, the way his ears twitched ever so slightly when Gregory moved.

He was aware.

And Gregory hated it.

Hated how careful Freddy was being.

Hated how normal he was pretending to be.

Hated how he didn’t even sound different.

He was so used to Freddy’s voice being comforting, but now—now it just sounded fake.

Gregory exhaled sharply and leaned back on his palms. “So.”

Freddy’s optics brightened slightly. “Yes, Superstar?”

Gregory stared at him. Do it. Say it.

“…You ever gonna tell me who Evan is?”

Freddy locked up.

It was quick—just a second—but Gregory saw it. His servos tensed. His fingers curled slightly against the armrests of the charging station. His frame went unnaturally still.

Then, just as quickly, he relaxed. Smiled. Pretended.

“I do not know anyone by that name,” he said, tone light.

Liar.

Gregory squinted at him. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Gregory hummed. “Huh.” He kicked his legs idly against the floor. “Weird. You sure? ‘Cause it kinda sounded like you knew exactly who you were talking to last night.”

Freddy didn’t blink.

“I believe you are mistaken.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Gregory tilted his head, watching him closely. “You sure about that?”

Freddy gave a warm, gentle chuckle—one that sounded way too forced. “Superstar, I believe you may have misheard something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gregory’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “So I just imagined you almost having a complete breakdown?”

Freddy’s smile froze.

Gregory saw his hands tighten on the armrests again, just barely.

Gregory’s own smile faded. He sighed, crossing his arms. “Dude, come on.”

Freddy’s optics flickered. “Come on… what?”

Gregory gave him a flat look. “You’re doing it again.”

“…Doing what?”

Gregory gestured vaguely at him. “This. Acting all normal. Like I didn’t just call you a murderer last night and you totally lost it.”

Freddy went completely still.

Gregory instantly regretted saying it that way.

For a split second—just a split second—something flickered in Freddy’s optics. Some deep, awful wound that Gregory had just ripped back open.

Gregory winced. “I—”

Freddy stood up.

It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t aggressive. But something about the movement made Gregory’s chest tighten anyway.

Freddy took a slow step forward. “Superstar,” he said carefully. “Please drop this.”

Gregory swallowed.

The bear was still looking at him like he always did. Still warm. Still friendly.

But there was something behind his eyes now.

Not anger.

Not fear.

Just… exhaustion.

Like he was tired of running.

Gregory’s stomach twisted.

I did that.

He inhaled slowly. No. Stay focused.

“…I can’t.”

Freddy didn’t move. “…Why?”

“Because,” Gregory said, voice quieter now, “I think you’re lying to me.”

Freddy’s servos tensed again.

Gregory hesitated, then took a deep breath and went for it.

“You’re not William Afton.”

Freddy’s optics flickered.

Gregory swallowed. “But you are someone. You—” He bit his lip. “You knew who I was talking about. You reacted. You almost called me someone else.” His throat felt dry. “You—whoever you are—you’re not just an animatronic. And I think you’re scared I’m gonna figure out who you really are.”

Freddy’s frame locked up.

Gregory leaned forward slightly.

“…You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

Freddy’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

Gregory exhaled. “That’s what I thought.”

Another long silence.

Then, Freddy sighed.

It was quiet, subtle—but real. Human.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer than before.

“…It does not matter who I am.”

Gregory frowned. “It matters to me.”

Freddy hesitated. His optics dimmed slightly.

For a moment, Gregory thought—hoped—he was about to give in. About to tell him the truth.

But then Freddy straightened his posture, reset his stance, and smiled.

Like nothing had happened.

“Superstar,” he said warmly, “we should focus on getting you out of here.”

Gregory’s chest tightened.

Freddy wasn’t going to tell him.

Even after everything.

Gregory exhaled through his nose, looking away.

Fine.

If Freddy wasn’t going to tell him…

Then Gregory would just have to figure it out himself.

[fanficfactory333]

Poking the Bear (pt.1)

Gregory sat cross-legged on the floor of Freddy’s green room, absently flipping a screwdriver between his fingers. He had been staying here for days now, hiding between the maze of back hallways and shuttered attractions, slipping past security bots like a rat in the walls. Freddy was the only reason he hadn’t been caught yet. The only one who actually helped.

The animatronic sat on the charging station, the neon glow from his chest cavity flickering slightly as the power cycled. Gregory had seen him like this dozens of times, motionless but awake, his optics dimmed just enough to be unsettling. The bear’s gaze followed him as he fiddled with the screwdriver.

Gregory exhaled. “I don’t get it.”

Freddy blinked. “What do you not get, Superstar?”

Gregory turned the screwdriver over in his hand. “Why are you like this?”

Freddy’s head tilted slightly. “Like what?”

“Like… nice.” Gregory set the tool down and looked up at him. “I mean, no offense, but all the other animatronics are trying to kill me, and you’re just—” He gestured vaguely at him. “Not.”

Freddy was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said:

"I suppose… I was not always like this."

Gregory frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Freddy’s optics flickered for a split second, a faint purple glint barely noticeable in the dim light. He sat up a little straighter, suddenly looking more aware than before.

“I meant that I have… changed. Perhaps something in my programming. Or…” Freddy hesitated. “…something else.”

Gregory felt something crawl up his spine. “Something else?”

The bear’s eyes flickered again, but his tone returned to its usual warmth, like nothing had happened. “Do not worry, Superstar! I am simply glad I can help you.”

Gregory studied him for a moment, but Freddy only smiled.

The moment passed.

And yet… something about the way he had said it, something about that flicker in his eyes, stuck with Gregory longer than it should have.

—

Gregory liked the arcade. Not the main one—too many security bots—but the smaller, half-broken one tucked away near Bonnie Bowl.

The neon lights buzzed overhead, the smell of stale pizza and dust hanging in the air. Most of the machines were old and out-of-order, their screens flickering with static or frozen images. A few still worked, though, and Gregory had been messing around on a busted pinball machine when Freddy stepped in behind him.

“Superstar, we should not linger here too long,” Freddy said, his voice warm but cautious.

Gregory sighed, half-listening. “Yeah, yeah, just a second—this thing is rigged, I swear.”

Freddy chuckled, but it sounded absent, like he wasn’t paying full attention. Gregory glanced at him and noticed the way his optics flickered, scanning the room, lingering on the darkened corners where the neon glow didn’t quite reach.

Like he was watching for something.

Then, without warning, the overhead speakers let out a sharp burst of static—followed by a garbled, distorted noise, something almost like a voice.

It wasn’t that weird. The building was ancient, held together by outdated systems and bad wiring. But—

Freddy flinched.

Gregory barely caught it, but it was there. A stiff, involuntary jerk of his shoulders, a sudden tension in his posture. His ears twitched back like an animal hearing something it didn’t like.

Gregory turned to him fully. “Uh… you good?”

Freddy didn’t answer at first. He was still staring at the speaker, his optics dimmed, locked in place like something about the sound had paralyzed him.

Gregory frowned. “Freddy?”

At once, the bear straightened, his usual friendly demeanor snapping back into place like a switch had been flipped. “Ah! My apologies, Superstar. I believe there was… a small error in my auditory sensors.”

Gregory squinted at him. “You flinched.”

“I did?” Freddy let out a soft chuckle. “That is unusual, is it not? Animatronics do not flinch.”

“…Right.”

Gregory studied him for a second longer. Freddy was smiling at him, warm and reassuring, the way he always did.

But something about that moment felt wrong.

The way he had reacted—just for a second—wasn’t like a machine glitching. It was like a person hearing something they weren’t supposed to.

Like someone remembering something they didn’t want to.

The speakers crackled again, and for just a moment, Gregory could’ve sworn he saw Freddy’s hands tighten at his sides.

—

Gregory wasn’t stupid. Freddy had flinched. Animatronics don’t flinch.

And that wasn’t the first weird thing, either.

The way Freddy hesitated sometimes, like he was thinking. The way he said things that didn’t quite sound right. The way his optics flickered—just for a moment—with something that felt… off.

Gregory wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew one thing for certain: something was in there.

So, he started testing him. Little things. Things Freddy wouldn’t notice.

Like now.

They were walking through a maintenance corridor, the dim fluorescents buzzing faintly above them. Gregory trotted alongside Freddy, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, casual as ever. “Hey, Freddy?”

“Yes, Superstar?”

Gregory hummed, pretending to be lost in thought. Then, as if it was nothing, he asked, “Do you know who William Afton is?”

Freddy stopped walking.

It was less than a second. A brief, almost imperceptible pause. But Gregory caught it.

The bear recovered quickly, his voice as steady and warm as ever. “I… am afraid that name does not appear in my database.”

Gregory tilted his head. “Really? You sure?”

A flicker. So fast it might have been nothing. “Yes. Is he someone important?”

Gregory shrugged. “Dunno. Just a name I heard.”

Freddy didn’t say anything. He just kept walking.

Gregory followed, biting the inside of his cheek. That was weird.

And it wasn’t just the pause. It was the way Freddy had phrased it: That name does not appear in my database. Not I don’t know who that is, not I’ve never heard that name before—but a careful, mechanical-sounding deflection.

Like something trying too hard to sound like a machine.

Gregory narrowed his eyes.

Yeah. Something was in there.

And he was going to figure out what.

—

Gregory had gotten good at sneaking around the Pizzaplex. Too good.

The surveillance system had gaps—tiny ones, but enough to slip through if you were small, fast, and knew how to time it right. After days of running, hiding, and memorizing patrol routes, Gregory had started using those gaps for something else: digging.

Freddy didn’t know he was here.

The Pizzaplex Data Storage & Archival Room wasn’t meant for guests. It was tucked away in one of the deeper maintenance corridors, behind a door that really should have had a better lock. Inside, the air was stale and cold, the hum of servers filling the space. Rows of old hard drives, filing cabinets, and security terminals lined the walls, their screens dim and dusty, as if no one had checked them in years.

Gregory shivered. The room felt… forgotten.

Sliding into one of the chairs, he cracked his knuckles. “Alright, let’s see what you’re hiding.”

It didn’t take long to find the name.

William Afton.

Founder of Fazbear Entertainment. Business partner of Henry Emily. Disappeared decades ago.

None of that was surprising. Gregory already knew the guy had started the company. What he didn’t know was—

He scrolled down. His stomach twisted.

Linked to the disappearances of multiple children.

Suspected perpetrator of the "Missing Children Incident."

Accused of hiding the bodies inside the animatronics.

Declared legally dead.

Gregory’s breath caught in his throat.

This guy wasn’t just some random businessman. He was a serial killer.

A child serial killer.

Gregory swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the desk. His mind raced. The disappearances weren’t just rumors. This man—the founder of the company—had actually done it. And Fazbear Entertainment just… kept going? They let this place be built on top of the old one?

He forced himself to keep reading.

There wasn’t much else. Some old security reports. Fragmented testimonies. Most of it was redacted, files corrupted or missing entirely. But as he scrolled further, something caught his eye.

Michael Afton.

Gregory frowned. Another Afton? The file was smaller, but—

Wait.

Michael Afton. Deceased.

His stomach twisted again. He scrolled faster. The file was sparse, but the few details that were there made his skin crawl.

Son of William Afton.

Former Fazbear employee.

Last known involvement: Location fire, total loss.

Deceased, body never recovered.

Gregory stared at the screen.

His brain connected the dots before he even fully processed it. William Afton’s son had worked here. He had died here. In a fire. And now—

His mind flashed back to Freddy.

To the weird way he talked. To the way he had flinched at the static. To the way he had hesitated—just for a second—when Gregory asked about Afton.

Gregory’s fingers tightened around the armrest of the chair.

Why would Freddy react to a murderer’s name?

The hum of the servers suddenly felt deafening. The room felt smaller. Colder. Like the walls were closing in.

Gregory licked his lips, his heartbeat quickening.

Freddy had been acting weird this whole time. And now, the more Gregory thought about it, the more the pattern made sense.

What if—

No.

No, that was crazy.

Wasn’t it?

His stomach felt uneasy. He pushed away from the desk, suddenly needing to get out of this room.

Gregory had come here looking for answers. But all he’d found were more questions.

—

Gregory didn’t say anything at first.

He didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. But the more he thought about it, the worse it got.

William Afton. The man who started Fazbear Entertainment. The murderer behind the missing kids. The guy whose twisted legacy was buried under this very building.

And now, Freddy had reacted to his name.

Gregory wasn’t an idiot.

Freddy wasn’t like the others. He talked differently. Acted differently. Helped Gregory when the rest of them wanted him dead.

But maybe—just maybe—that was the plan.

Maybe Freddy was playing some long con. Pretending to be friendly. Pretending to be safe. Luring him in, waiting until he let his guard down. That’s what serial killers did, right? They were charming. They got you to trust them.

Gregory shuddered. He needed to be careful.

And careful meant testing him.

—

They were in a supply room now, a quiet little hideaway behind the main stage. Gregory sat on a crate, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Freddy stood across from him, looking as warm and friendly as ever. Too friendly.

Gregory didn’t trust it. Not anymore.

“Hey, Freddy?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.

“Yes, Superstar?”

Gregory studied him for a second. No weird flickering in the eyes. No strange movements. Not yet.

He exhaled. “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”

Freddy blinked. “Earlier?”

“Yeah. When I asked you about William Afton.”

A pause. Barely a second. Gregory still caught it.

“I do not recall any such conversation,” Freddy said smoothly.

Gregory clenched his jaw. Liar.

He swung his legs idly against the crate. “Well, I found out some stuff about him,” he said, watching closely. “Did you know he killed a bunch of kids?”

Freddy didn’t move.

“I mean, they never caught him or anything,” Gregory went on, voice deliberately casual, “but everyone knows he did it. They say he stuffed the bodies in the animatronics. Crazy, huh?”

Freddy’s optics dimmed slightly. “Gregory…”

Gregory ignored the warning in his tone. Keep pushing. “And then he just disappeared. But, like… what if he didn’t? What if he’s still here? What if he never really left?”

Freddy didn’t react. Not visibly.

Gregory leaned forward, voice quieter now, pressing the words like knives. “What if he’s inside an animatronic?”

Something in Freddy’s posture shifted. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Gregory’s heart pounded. Gotcha.

“That’s crazy, right?” he said, pretending to laugh. “I mean, imagine if he was, like, I don’t know… inside you or something.”

Freddy visibly stiffened.

Gregory felt his stomach twist.

That wasn’t a normal reaction. That wasn’t a nothing reaction.

“…Superstar,” Freddy said carefully, his voice just a little too even. “That is not funny.”

Gregory felt cold.

“I’m not joking.”

Freddy was silent.

Gregory slid off the crate, taking a slow step back. “You flinched when I said his name,” he accused. “And now you’re acting all weird. Why?”

“I am not acting strange.”

“Yes, you are.” Gregory’s fists clenched. “You’re hiding something.”

“I am not—”

“Then who’s inside you?”

Silence.

Freddy’s mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something—but then, just as quickly, he shut it again.

That was all Gregory needed to see.

His pulse was racing. Freddy knew something. He was hiding something. And if he was hiding it, that meant Gregory was right.

The truth hit him like ice.

Freddy was William Afton.

A serial killer. A liar. A monster wearing a friendly face.

And Gregory had been alone with him this whole time.

Freddy took a small step forward. “Superstar, I promise you—”

Gregory bolted.

He was out the door before Freddy could react, running blindly down the hall, breath ragged in his throat.

He’d been so stupid.

So, so stupid.

—

Gregory ran.

His sneakers pounded against the tiled floor, heart hammering, breath sharp in his throat. He didn’t know where he was going—just away. Away from Freddy. Away from that thing wearing his face.

He didn’t stop until his legs ached and his lungs burned.

A janitor’s closet. Small, dusty, tucked between two out-of-service storage rooms. He shoved himself inside, slamming the door behind him, forcing his breathing to slow.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Think, Gregory. Think.

Freddy was Afton. Freddy was a killer. He was pretending, waiting, hiding. And Gregory had fallen for it.

The thought made him sick.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Metal.

Gregory’s stomach dropped.

He found me.

A shadow blocked the light beneath the door.

“Superstar?”

Gregory’s entire body locked up.

Freddy's voice was gentle, careful, like he was trying not to scare him. “I know you are in there.”

Gregory didn’t answer.

A soft sigh. The door didn’t open, but Freddy lowered himself to the floor outside, sitting just on the other side. “Gregory,” he said slowly, “I do not know what has frightened you, but I promise—I am not your enemy.”

Gregory’s fingers dug into his knees.

Liar.

He stayed quiet.

Freddy hesitated. “…If this is about our conversation earlier, I understand why you are upset.”

Gregory clenched his jaw.

“You don’t understand anything.”

Freddy didn’t reply right away. When he did, his voice was too calm. “I would like to understand. But I cannot do that if you do not speak to me.”

Gregory bit his lip. He hated how reasonable Freddy sounded. How normal. How much he wanted to believe him.

But he knew better now.

His voice was low, sharp. “Who are you?”

A small pause. “I am Glamrock Freddy.”

Gregory let out a cold laugh. “No, you’re not.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“…I do not understand.”

“Yes, you do.” Gregory’s nails dug into his palms. “You know who William Afton is. You flinched when I said his name. You’ve been acting weird this whole time, and now you’re pretending like nothing’s wrong?” His voice rose. “You’re lying to me.”

Freddy’s tone didn’t change. “I am not lying.”

“Then tell me the truth!” Gregory shot back. “Tell me why you reacted like that! Tell me why you keep dodging my questions! Tell me who is inside you!”

Silence.

Gregory’s breath shook. He could hear the soft, faint hum of Freddy’s servos as he sat just outside.

Then—Freddy spoke.

“…Gregory,” he said, voice quiet. “I promise you, I am not who you think I am.”

Gregory’s chest burned. His whole body hurt.

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to.

But if Freddy wasn’t Afton—if he wasn’t lying—then why couldn’t he just say who he was?

It clicked.

“…You can’t tell me, can you?”

Freddy didn’t answer.

Gregory’s stomach twisted. That was it. That was it.

Freddy was hiding it. Because it was true.

His hands balled into fists.

“You’re a murderer.”

The second the words left his mouth, everything changed.

Freddy froze.

His optics flickered, wide and bright, like something inside him had shattered.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

Then, slowly—Freddy inhaled.

Not a robotic motion. Not a programmed reaction.

A sharp, ragged breath, like someone had been punched in the gut.

Gregory’s pulse spiked.

Freddy’s hands clenched against the floor. His whole frame shook—not with rage, but something worse.

His voice, when it came, was wrong.

“…I am not…” His tone cracked. “I didn’t—”

He cut himself off, pressing a hand to his own faceplate, like he needed to ground himself.

Gregory’s heart pounded. This wasn’t the reaction he expected.

This wasn’t the response of a killer.

This was—

This was someone breaking down.

“…I didn’t mean to,” Freddy whispered. His voice was small, distant. “I didn’t—I never wanted—”

Gregory’s breath caught.

He had never heard Freddy sound like that before. So human. So hurt.

Freddy pressed his fingers into his mask, shaking his head. “I tried to make it right,” he murmured. “I tried, I tried, I—” He sucked in a sharp breath, voice cracking. “Evan, I’m sorry—”

Gregory stiffened.

Evan?

Then, suddenly, Freddy stopped.

The room was silent.

Gregory sat frozen in place, stomach twisting.

Freddy’s hands slowly lowered from his faceplate. His servos clicked as he went unnaturally still.

“…Gregory,” he said carefully.

Gregory didn’t move.

“…Forget I said that.”

But Gregory wasn’t going to forget.

Because just for a second—just for a brief, terrible second—

Freddy hadn’t been speaking to him.

He had been speaking to someone else.

[fanficfactory333]

FNAF X Gravity Falls: Ch. 10 (finale)

Michael heard it.

A loud, solid knock.

Not frantic. Not urgent.

Just… there.

His brow furrowed.

Who the hell was knocking on the Shack’s door at this hour?

The Pines family was asleep. It was well past any sane person’s waking hours.

Michael glanced at the stairs—no movement.

No one else had heard it.

Just him.

He exhaled, setting down his empty cup of tea and pushing himself off the couch.

The knock didn’t come again.

Michael slowly made his way to the nearest window, peering out.

Nothing.

The porch was empty.

Michael’s frown deepened.

Had they left? Was it just some weird package delivery?

That didn’t make sense.

And yet…

The door was still unlocked.

Michael sighed.

Maybe someone had the wrong house. Maybe it was just some freak coincidence.

Still.

He should at least check.

He stepped toward the door, hesitated, then unlocked it and pulled it open.

And that’s when everything went wrong.

—

The knife came first.

Michael didn’t even have time to react before cold steel sank into his stomach.

A wet, guttural scream tore from his throat.

And that was the first surprise of the night.

Because last time?

Michael hadn’t been able to scream.

Last time, his throat had been too destroyed. His vocal cords had been rotted away.

But now?

Now he could.

And Springtrap?

He wasn’t expecting that.

Michael gasped, stumbling back, gripping the hilt of the blade buried deep in his gut.

His father stepped into the doorway.

Springtrap.

Towering. Rotten. Metal plates fused to blackened, stringy flesh.

And that voice.

That horrible, horrible voice.

Deep. Grating. Metallic.

"Ohhh, Michael," Springtrap rasped, voice oozing with amusement. "I’ve missed you, son."

Michael’s stomach twisted.

The pain in his gut was sharp and electric, but he forced himself to stay standing.

Springtrap’s head tilted.

"You got some upgrades," he mused. "How fun. Let’s go around them, shall we?"

And then he ripped the knife out.

Michael choked on a ragged, gurgling breath.

Blood splattered to the floor.

Springtrap wasted no time.

The blade came down again.

Michael dodged just enough to avoid another gut wound, but the knife still sliced across his side.

Another sharp burst of pain.

Michael clenched his teeth.

He needed to focus.

This was not a fight he could afford to lose.

—

Springtrap was fast.

Not graceful. Not clean.

But ruthless.

He swung the knife again, again, again, each movement meant to maim, to destroy, to end.

Michael barely dodged each strike, breathing hard, heart racing.

The pain in his stomach was deep and searing.

But he was fighting back.

For every knife swing, he countered.

For every time Springtrap went for a vital, he deflected.

But Michael knew—

He was losing.

His father was too strong.

Too relentless.

And then, in one quick, desperate motion—

Springtrap went for his throat.

Michael’s body moved on instinct.

His hand snapped up, catching the blade mid-swing.

Steel met flesh and bone.

His gloves tore instantly.

The blade sank into his palm.

But Michael didn’t let go.

His fingers tightened around the blade.

Springtrap’s glowing, empty eyes flickered.

Michael ripped the knife away.

The blade clattered to the floor.

Springtrap hissed.

And then—

His hands shot forward.

Thick, rotting fingers wrapped around Michael’s throat.

Michael gasped, choking.

Springtrap shoved him backward, slamming him against the wall.

The room spun.

Michael’s vision darkened at the edges.

Springtrap leaned in close.

"You’re a killer, just like me," he rasped. "You murdered your little brother in cold blood, Michael."*

Michael’s jaw tightened.

"You don’t regret it," Springtrap sneered. "You never did. You doomed this poor family. You were stupid to think you could escape me. You—"

CRACK.

Springtrap barely had time to react before a metal bat swung directly into the side of his skull.

His head whipped to the side, a deep, metallic groan rattling from his throat.

Michael fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

And standing there, bat in hand, brass knuckles on the other—

Was Stan.

"Get the hell away from my kid," he growled.

Springtrap straightened.

Then laughed.

Michael barely registered the fight that followed.

Stan was a brawler. Strong. Brutal.

But Springtrap was inhuman.

Metal against metal. Flesh against flesh.

The fight was loud. Violent.

And then—

The sound of footsteps.

Ford.

Michael barely had time to register the whirring hum of something high-energy charging up.

Springtrap turned—

And Ford fired.

The plasma shot hit dead center in his chest.

The rotten metal cracked and melted away.

And beneath it—

A sickening mess of bone, blackened muscle, and stringy sinew.

Springtrap staggered.

He turned, charging Ford in pure, feral rage—

And Ford shot him again.

Right in the head.

Springtrap’s skull disintegrated instantly.

His body collapsed.

Silent.

Still.

Dead.

For good.

Michael just… stared.

The room was dead quiet.

—

"WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Dipper and Mabel came barreling down the stairs, both wide-eyed and frantic.

Mabel was still in her pajamas, her sweater slightly askew from how quickly she’d thrown it on. Dipper was barefoot, clutching his journal like a lifeline.

The first thing they saw?

Michael.

Bleeding. Beaten. His hands shaking where he braced himself against the wall, trying to stay upright.

The second thing they saw?

Stan. Breathing hard. Gripping a metal bat, knuckles split and bruised.

The third?

Ford. Standing over a corpse.

A rotting, smoldering, broken mechanical husk of a man—or what was left of one.

And finally?

The gun in Ford’s hand.

The plasma pistol, still humming faintly, the scent of burned metal and flesh thick in the air.

Dipper’s breath hitched.

Mabel’s stomach turned.

"What the hell just happened?" Dipper demanded.

Ford didn’t even look at them.

His voice was cold. Steel-sharp.

"Michael. Start talking."

Michael exhaled shakily.

He didn’t even blame Ford for the demand.

He would’ve asked the same thing.

So, with all the energy he had left,

He told them.

"His name was William Afton."

Michael’s voice was rough. Hoarse.

But steady.

"That was his name before he became that."

Mabel swallowed, "Became what?"

Michael’s jaw tightened.

"A monster."

He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on his wounded side.

"My father," he muttered, "Serial killer. Scientist. Psychopath."

Dipper’s grip on his journal tightened.

Michael continued.

"He built animatronics for a pizzeria. Made them ‘special.’ Taught them to hunt. Taught them to kill."

His fingers twitched.

"Taught me to be like him."

Silence.

Dipper and Mabel just stared.

Michael took a shaky breath.

"I didn’t want to be like him," he muttered, "So I ran."

His voice dropped, quiet.

"And he followed."

Dipper exhaled, "You mean—"

"He’s been hunting me for years."

Michael’s stomach twisted.

The weight of it—saying it out loud—

It felt realer than it ever had before.

He let out a bitter huff.

"Guess he finally caught up."

Michael gestured loosely at Springtrap’s corpse.

"Too bad for him it didn’t work out."

…

Silence.

A heavy silence.

The kind that weighed the air down, pressing against their chests.

Ford’s expression was unreadable.

Stan looked more pissed than shocked.

Mabel’s face was pale.

Dipper just…

Stared.

Finally, he found his voice.

"You mean to tell me…" He gestured to Springtrap’s corpse, "That was your dad?"

Michael shrugged, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth.

"Yeah."

"And he—" Mabel’s voice was softer, hesitant, "He actually—"

"Wanted to kill me?" Michael smirked weakly, "Oh yeah. Big time."

Mabel looked sick.

Dipper was still processing.

His hands clenched into fists.

"He called you a killer," Dipper said suddenly.

Michael paused.

Dipper’s voice was careful.

"He said you killed your brother."

Michael’s stomach twisted.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t waver.

He just…

Nodded.

"I did."

Mabel’s breath hitched.

Dipper’s stomach flipped.

Michael exhaled.

"It wasn’t on purpose," he muttered. "I was a dumb kid, played a stupid prank. But it got my little brother killed. And my dad never let me forget it."

His fingers tensed.

"He said I was just like him. A murderer. A monster."

Michael’s jaw clenched.

Then, voice low, rough, bitter:

"But he’s the only one who ever thought that."

His eyes flickered to the corpse.

"And now?"

He exhaled, wiping more blood off his cheek.

"Now that bastard can’t say anything at all."

—

Michael took a slow breath.

Everything hurt.

His stomach, his ribs, his hands. His voice was raw.

But mostly?

Mostly, he just felt tired.

The others were quiet.

Processing.

The weight of everything lingered in the air, thick and heavy.

Michael exhaled sharply, pushing himself off the wall, trying to steady himself.

"So." His voice came out rough, drained.

"I guess this is the part where you guys freak out, huh?"

No one said anything.

Michael let out a weak chuckle, "Yeah. Thought so."

He braced himself.

For questions. Accusations. Doubt.

For Ford to demand more answers.

For Stan to tell him he shouldn’t have stayed.

For Dipper to look at him with a little more fear in his eyes.

For Mabel—

For Mabel to finally not see him as a person, but as something broken.

He waited.

And then—

Mabel stepped forward.

And hugged him.

Michael stiffened.

Because—

What?

He had been expecting a million things.

He had not been expecting Mabel Pines to throw her arms around him like he hadn’t just admitted to being the son of a serial killer.

Like he wasn’t dangerous.

Like he wasn’t unwanted.

She squeezed tightly, like she was trying to hold all of him together.

Her voice was small.

"I’m really glad he didn’t get you."

Michael’s throat closed up.

He swallowed, hard.

He should say something.

Make a joke. Deflect.

But for once?

He didn’t have the energy.

So he just…

Let her hug him.

And for the first time in years,

It didn’t feel bad.

—

Ford was watching.

Expression unreadable.

Michael expected suspicion. Doubt.

Instead?

"You should sit down," Ford said evenly, "You’re losing a lot of blood."

Michael blinked.

Ford wasn’t interrogating him.

He wasn’t demanding anything.

He was just…

Accepting it.

Michael huffed a weak breath, "Man, you guys are weird."

"Yes, well," Ford muttered, adjusting his glasses, "That’s what makes us interesting."

Michael snorted.

Ford turned to the corpse on the floor.

The still-smoking, disgusting remains of William Afton.

His gaze was calm, analytical.

"I take it there’s nothing left of him to salvage?"

Michael let out a hoarse, bitter chuckle. "Knock yourself out, Doc. Just don’t be surprised if the smell kills you first."

—

Stan’s jaw was tight.

Knuckles white as he grips the bat in his hand.

He wasn’t looking at Michael.

He was looking at the corpse.

Michael recognized that look.

That was a look that said he wasn’t done being angry.

But when Stan finally did look at Michael?

It wasn’t anger at him.

It was something else.

Something heavier.

"You weren’t gonna tell us, were you?" Stan asked, voice low.

Michael’s fingers twitched.

He hesitated.

Then, quietly:

"No."

Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He let out a long breath.

"…Shoulda figured."

Michael braced himself.

For yelling. For anger. For something.

Instead—

Stan just ran a hand down his face.

"Jesus, kid."

That was all he said.

But somehow?

Somehow, that meant everything.

—

Dipper was still standing there.

Still gripping his journal.

Still processing.

And Michael could see it—

The way his mind was racing, connecting dots, making sense of everything.

The way he was looking at Michael.

Not with fear.

Not with disgust.

Just realization.

Because now?

Now he understood.

Michael wasn’t just some strange, undead anomaly.

He was something else entirely.

Something familiar.

And that?

That was terrifying.

Dipper exhaled, "So… what now?"

Michael blinked, "What do you mean?"

Dipper gestured vaguely at the corpse, "I mean… that was your dad. Your whole reason for running. And now he’s dead. So…"

Michael stared at him.

The realization hit slowly.

Oh.

Oh.

Springtrap was gone.

Which meant…

He didn’t have to run anymore.

Michael let out a shaky, disbelieving breath.

For the first time in years—

He was free.

Michael’s lips twitched.

He exhaled sharply.

Then, voice hoarse but light:

"Guess I should start figuring out what it’s like to stay in one place for once, huh?"

Mabel beamed, "Yes! Permanent resident of the Mystery Shack! I’m making you a welcome sweater immediately."

Michael let out a soft laugh.

Ford nodded, "You’ll need a room."

Stan sighed, "Great. Another freeloader."

Michael smirked, "You love me, old man."

Stan grumbled, "Shut up."

Dipper was still watching Michael carefully.

Michael noticed.

He met his gaze.

And without saying anything—

They both understood.

Neither of them were alone in this anymore.

And for now?

For now, that was enough.

[fanficfactory333]

FNAF x Gravity Falls: Ch. 9

(TW: $elf-h@rm mentioned)

Dipper didn’t notice at first.

Michael was always a little weird. Always observant. Always watching.

But lately?

Lately, something was different.

Michael was watching him.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a way that anyone else seemed to notice.

But Dipper noticed.

It was little things.

How Michael would casually linger nearby when Dipper was up late writing in his journal.

How he’d steer conversations away from darker topics when Dipper was around.

How, whenever Dipper rolled his sleeves down, Michael’s gaze would flicker—just for a second.

Like he was checking.

Like he knew.

And Dipper?

Dipper had no idea what to do with that.

He wasn’t used to being watched like that.

Not like he was a person, but like he was a warning sign.

Like Michael was looking for something familiar.

And that?

That made something in Dipper’s chest feel tight.

Because if Michael recognized something in him—

What did that say about Dipper?

And what did that say about Michael?

—

Stan wasn’t stupid.

He noticed things.

Michael watching Dipper too closely? Dipper noticing but not knowing how to react?

Yeah.

Stan saw all of it.

And it bugged him.

So, one afternoon—when it was just him and Michael sitting on the porch—he finally brought it up.

"Alright, kid," Stan muttered, crossing his arms, "What’s with you and the boy genius?"

Michael exhaled, leaning back on the railing, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Stan shot him a look, "you been watchin’ him like he’s got a ticking clock strapped to his back. What’s the deal?"

Michael was silent.

Stan raised an eyebrow, "Mike."

Michael sighed.

Then, quietly:

"I recognize the signs."

Stan frowned, "What signs?"

Michael flexed his fingers, "The kind no one noticed on me when I was his age."

Stan’s stomach sank.

Michael didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

Because that right there?

That told Stan everything.

Stan exhaled through his nose, "You talk to him?"

Michael let out a humorless chuckle, "Yeah, that’d go great. ‘Hey, kid, I’ve been where you are, wanna talk about it?’ No way that backfires."

Stan grumbled, "Smartass."

Michael shrugged.

Stan scratched his chin, thinking.

"I’ll keep an eye on him," he finally muttered, "Just don’t push too hard, alright?"

Michael nodded, "Wasn’t planning to."

"Good."

The two sat in comfortable silence for a while.

Then—

Stan smirked, "By the way—sweater’s done. Mabel’s been bouncin’ off the walls about it."

Michael huffed a small laugh, "Of course she has."

—

Mabel was practically vibrating with excitement.

"OKAY, OKAY, SIT DOWN, SIT DOWN, SHUT YOUR EYES—"

"Mabel, I swear—"

"TRUST THE PROCESS, MICHAEL."

Michael sighed.

But he sat down. And he shut his eyes.

There was the sound of rustling fabric.

Then—

Something warm and soft was draped over him.

Mabel gasped dramatically, "OPEN YOUR EYES, BEHOLD YOUR DESTINY."

Michael opened his eyes.

And he saw the sweater.

Deep, vibrant blue.

Purple hot-rod flames licking up from the bottom.

It was—

It was freaking awesome.

Michael blinked, "Wait, this is actually sick—"

"I KNOW, RIGHT?!" Mabel practically squealed, "I GOT THE VIBES EXACTLY RIGHT, I’M A GENIUS."

Michael turned his arms, looking at it from different angles.

It was…

It was his.

Something made for him.

Something that wasn’t tied to his past.

Something that wasn’t just functional, wasn’t just necessary, but was his.

He let out a slow breath.

Then, for the first time ever—

He put it on.

And when he looked up, Mabel was grinning.

Stan looked pleased.

Ford looked surprised.

Dipper was staring.

Michael shifted slightly, "What?"

Dipper shook his head, "Nothing. It’s just…"

He exhaled.

Then, quietly:

"You look like… you."

Michael’s stomach twisted.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a good way, either.

Just…

Different.

Michael looked down at the sweater.

Then back up.

Then, for the first time in years—

He smiled.

—

Michael didn’t want to do this in front of the others.

So, after dinner—after the sweater moment, after the conversation had settled into something easy and warm—

He caught Dipper before he could disappear upstairs.

"Hey, kid."

Dipper turned, "Yeah?"

Michael hesitated.

Then—quieter.

"Can I talk to you? Just us?"

Dipper blinked.

His first instinct was suspicion.

Michael hadn’t grilled him about anything yet, hadn’t confronted him about whatever weird vibe he’d been giving off.

But something about the way Michael asked—

Something about the tone of his voice—

Dipper hesitated.

Then, finally, he nodded.

Michael led him to the back hallway.

It wasn’t anything dramatic.

Just a quiet corner of the house, away from everyone else.

Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

Dipper stood there, arms loose at his sides.

Waiting.

Michael exhaled slowly.

"You ever have someone figure something out about you before you were ready for them to know?"

Dipper’s breath hitched.

Michael saw it.

A small tell.

A reaction that Dipper immediately tried to cover up.

Michael didn’t push.

He just let the question sit there.

Dipper shifted slightly, "I—"

Michael tilted his head, "You don’t have to say anything."

Dipper stopped.

Michael exhaled, "I’m not trying to call you out, kid. I just… I notice things."

Dipper swallowed, "What kind of things?"

Michael shrugged, "The kind no one noticed about me until it was too late."

Dipper tensed.

Michael let that sink in.

Then, softly:

"I don’t know how bad it is. I don’t need to know. But I want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to? Someone who won’t tell anyone unless you want them to?"

Michael met his gaze.

"I’m here."

Dipper looked away.

Michael didn’t expect an answer.

Not yet.

But then—

Very quietly—

Dipper muttered, "…It’s not that bad."

Michael tilted his head.

Dipper forced a weak chuckle, "I mean, not compared to you, right?"

Michael’s fingers twitched.

But his voice was steady.

"Don’t do that."

Dipper frowned, "Do what?"

Michael held his gaze.

"Don’t compare your damage to someone else’s like that makes it not count."

Dipper’s mouth opened.

But he had nothing to say.

Michael sighed, "C’mon."

Dipper blinked, "What?"

"Bathroom," Michael muttered, pushing off the wall, "I got a first aid kit to steal."

—

The bathroom was quiet.

Dipper sat on the floor, arms resting on his knees.

Michael sat beside him, an open first aid kit between them.

The atmosphere was calm. Steady.

Like this was just normal.

Like this wasn’t a big deal.

Dipper exhaled as Michael carefully wrapped his forearms.

He wasn’t bad at it.

Like he’d done this before.

Which, Dipper realized, he probably had.

Michael worked in silence.

Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t lecture.

Just did what needed to be done.

Dipper watched him for a moment.

Then, hesitantly:

"Did… anyone else notice?"

Michael paused.

Then—

"Stan."

Dipper’s stomach flipped.

"Wait—" He sat up straighter, "Stan—Stan knows?"

Michael finished tying the bandage.

"Yeah."

Dipper’s chest tightened, "What did he say?"

Michael shrugged, "Not much. Just that he’d keep an eye on you."

Dipper stared.

Michael looked at him.

Then—

"That bother you?"

Dipper hesitated.

And Michael saw it.

Saw the way Dipper’s jaw tightened.

The way he clenched his hands, like he was bracing for something.

Michael’s expression softened.

"He’s not mad at you, y’know."

Dipper let out a weak breath, "Yeah, but—"

Michael raised an eyebrow, "But what?"

Dipper struggled for an answer.

Because what was he supposed to say?

That it felt weird?

That it felt wrong?

That he’d spent so long assuming people would react badly that he didn’t know how to handle them not being mad?

That was stupid.

But it was true.

Michael sighed, leaning back against the wall, "Listen, kid. You’re allowed to not be okay sometimes."

Dipper frowned, "I know that."

Michael gave him a look.

Dipper looked away.

Michael smirked slightly, "Yeah. Sure you do."

Dipper rolled his eyes.

Michael checked the bandage one last time before closing the first aid kit.

Then, without thinking—

He lightly ruffled Dipper’s hair, "You’re good, kid."

Dipper immediately swatted his hand away, "Stop that."

Michael chuckled, "Nope."

Dipper groaned, "Oh my God, you suck."

Michael just grinned.

And for the first time that day—

Dipper actually felt okay.

—

…

……

………

The woods were quiet.

The night was still.

The only sound was the crunching of leaves beneath rotting metal feet.

A shambling figure moved through the trees.

It had been tracking him for weeks.

Michael had left traces.

Weak remnants of his energy, his presence, his existence.

And now?

Now it was close.

It could smell him.

It could sense him.

And then—

Through the trees—

It saw it.

The crooked, strange little building in the distance.

A sign creaked in the wind.

"Mystery Shack."

Springtrap’s lips pulled into a twisted, rotting grin.

Found you.

[fanficfactory333]

FNAF X Gravity Falls: Chapter 8.

(!!TW!! $elf-h@rm is discussed as a plot point in the story)

Michael was actually comfortable.

That was new.

He was sitting on the couch, tea in hand, mask off, wearing a clean shirt that—while old and faded—was soft and loose and actually comfortable.

And he didn’t feel horrible.

He had taken a shower.

He was clean.

He was drinking something without it spilling out of the gaping hole where his stomach used to be.

He felt human again.

It was nice.

And then the twins got home.

The door swung open, and the second they stepped inside—

They froze.

Dipper’s eyes went wide.

Mabel gasped.

Michael immediately tensed.

Oh.

Right.

He looked different.

He suddenly felt very, very aware of the metal jaw, the exposed artificial parts, the fact that he wasn’t wearing his mask.

His fingers twitched against his cup.

He opened his mouth—ready to deflect, ready to make a sarcastic comment, ready to do anything to break the sudden tension—

But before he could—

"DUDE. YOU LOOK AWESOME."

Michael blinked.

Mabel beamed, "Like—whoa! I mean, you were already mysterious cool, but now you’re, like, badass post-apocalypse cool!"

Dipper nodded, grinning, "Yeah, seriously, that’s actually sick!"

Michael stared.

He had been expecting…

Well.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting.

But this hadn’t been it.

He let out a slow exhale, shaking his head, "This is new."

Dipper raised an eyebrow, "New?"

"Yeah," Michael gestured vaguely to himself, "All this? Your uncle Ford’s work."

Mabel gasped dramatically, "GRUNKLE FORD, YOU’RE A WIZARD."

Ford, who was across the room at his desk, just muttered, "Scientist."

Michael snorted.

Mabel flopped onto the couch next to him, "Soooo—how does it feel?"

Michael hesitated.

Then, genuinely:

"Good."

Mabel grinned, "Like, good-good? Or just kinda-good?"

Michael shrugged, "I mean, I was able to take a shower for the first time in years, so… yeah. Good-good."*

Mabel’s face lit up, "OH MY GOSH, GOOD FOR YOU! THAT’S AMAZING!"

Michael huffed a laugh, "Yeah, I almost cried."

"Dude," Dipper said, throwing his bag onto a chair, "that’s a valid reaction."

Mabel nodded furiously, "Yeah! If I couldn’t shower for years and then finally got to? Immediate tears."

Michael smirked, "Good to know I’m not the only one."

Everything was going great.

Everything was fine.

Until.

Dipper noticed.

At first, he didn’t really register what he was looking at.

Michael was wearing a t-shirt now.

His arms were visible.

Which was new.

Dipper had never seen his arms before.

And at first, he thought—oh, maybe the scars are part of the artificial work.

But then he really looked.

And he realized—

No.

No, these weren’t new.

These were old.

Jagged, uneven, deep.

Crisscrossed lines on the inside of both wrists.

Lines that weren’t accidental.

Lines that weren’t recent.

Lines that meant something very, very bad.

And suddenly—

Dipper didn’t know what to do.

He just… stared.

Too long.

Too obviously.

Michael’s fingers twitched against his cup.

He could feel Dipper staring.

The easy, comfortable feeling from just a second ago?

Gone.

Replaced with a cold weight in his chest.

He set his cup down on the table, "What?"

Dipper didn’t answer.

Michael’s stomach twisted.

His voice flattened, "What?"

Dipper still didn’t answer.

Michael gritted his teeth, "What the hell are you staring at?"

"Uh—" Dipper’s mouth opened, then closed.

He was terrible at hiding his reaction.

Michael’s stomach twisted harder.

And then—

Stan intervened.

"Hey, kid."

A firm hand landed on Michael’s shoulder.

Michael tensed on instinct.

Stan frowned slightly, "Let me see your arm for a sec."

Michael’s entire body locked up.

"No."

"Kid—"

"No."

Stan’s grip tightened slightly. Not forceful. Not harsh.

Just steady.

"Mike."

Michael clenched his jaw.

He shouldn’t have been surprised.

Stan was too observant. Too protective.

Michael swallowed hard, "I didn’t—"

He stopped.

Because he didn’t have an excuse.

Because what was he supposed to say?

I didn’t mean for you to see that?

I forgot they were there?

I didn���t think they mattered anymore?

None of those answers were good enough.

Stan’s voice was calm. Low.

"How old?"

Michael exhaled sharply, "I was alive."

Stan was quiet.

Then, softly:

"Gotcha…"

Michael stared at the floor.

The weight in his chest was heavy.

He suddenly felt exhausted.

But then Stan clapped a hand on his back.

Not hard. Not aggressive.

Just… solid.

Michael finally looked up.

And Stan?

Stan wasn’t looking at him any differently.

Not like Dipper was.

Not like he was fragile, or broken, or some tragic case to analyze.

Just like he was Mike.

Just like normal.

And that?

That made all the difference.

—

Dipper barely realized he was moving until he was already upstairs.

The attic bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the sounds of conversation still happening downstairs.

He leaned back against it, exhaling sharply.

His chest felt tight.

Not like he was about to cry.

Not like he was panicking.

Just…

Overloaded.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, walking over to his bed and sitting down hard.

His thoughts were swirling.

Not in a normal way.

Not like how they did when he was solving a mystery, fitting pieces together, analyzing clues.

This was messy.

Liquid in zero gravity, floating and colliding and shifting in ways he couldn’t control.

Because—

Because.

Because Michael had scars.

And not just any scars.

Not accidental.

Not the kind that came from fighting, or injuries, or weird supernatural nonsense.

No.

They were the other kind.

And Dipper—

Dipper didn’t know how to process that.

Because he had spent his entire life believing he was alone.

That he was the only one who ever did that.

That he was the anomaly.

The exception.

The freak.

But now?

Now he knew he wasn’t.

And that realization was both comforting and horrifying.

He felt bad for Michael.

Guilty, too.

Because of course he had made things awkward. Of course he had ruined a good moment again.

He hadn’t meant to.

He never meant to.

But that didn’t change the fact that it happened.

And then there was Stan.

Stan—who had barely reacted.

Stan—who had seen it, accepted it, and just… moved on.

That made something in Dipper’s stomach churn.

Because what did that mean?

Was it because Michael is undead?

Because it’s not something that matters anymore? Because Michael can’t hurt himself in a way that matters now, even if he wanted to?

And did he?

Did Michael even want to?

Did it even matter?

And then—

A smaller thought.

A quieter one.

One he didn’t want to think about.

If Stan can react like that to Michael…

…would he react like that to me?

Dipper’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t know.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

And he really, really didn’t like that he was thinking about it at all.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe.

Slow. Steady.

Calm down.

He was overthinking this.

This wasn’t about him.

This was about Michael.

And Michael…

Michael deserved an apology.

Dipper exhaled, pushing himself off the bed.

He wasn’t great at this kind of thing.

But he could at least try.

—

Dipper didn’t like apologizing.

Not because he wasn’t willing to, but because he was bad at it.

So, when he finally came back downstairs, he tried to make it as casual as possible.

Michael was still sitting in the living room, tea in hand, looking as relaxed as ever.

Dipper hesitated.

Then—

"Hey."

Michael glanced up, "Hey."

Dipper shifted, "Uh—sorry. For earlier."

Michael tilted his head slightly, "For what?"

Dipper frowned, "For, y’know. Staring. Making things awkward."

Michael hummed, "Didn’t bug me that much."

"Oh." Dipper blinked, "Then—"

"But I accept the apology anyway," Michael added.

Dipper exhaled, "Right. Cool. Thanks."

Michael took a slow sip of his tea.

Dipper thought that was the end of it.

But he had no idea that Michael was watching him.

More closely than usual.

Because Michael had recognized something.

Dipper’s reaction to his scars hadn’t been normal.

It hadn’t been the reaction of someone who was just surprised.

It was the reaction of someone who understood.

And Michael knew what to look for.

He had been there before.

The way Dipper hesitated. The way he held himself. The way he shifted his sleeve down over his wrist without thinking.

Michael noticed.

And now?

Now he was testing him.

Discreetly.

So discreetly that Dipper had no idea.

And neither did anyone else.

—

By the time dinner rolled around, everyone was sitting at the table.

Even Michael.

Not eating, obviously.

But still sitting with them, tea in hand, taking part in the conversation.

The scene was normal.

Ford talking about some project he was working on.

Mabel rattling off ideas for Michael’s sweater.

Stan grumbling about work.

Dipper nodding along, chiming in here and there.

But Michael was paying attention.

Subtle things.

The way Dipper’s knee bounced under the table, like he had nervous energy to burn.

The way he kept his arms close to himself.

The way he hesitated just slightly before rolling his sleeves up to the elbows, only doing it when no one was looking.

The way his grip on his fork was too tight.

Michael took a slow sip of tea.

No one else noticed.

But Michael did.

Because he knew these habits.

He had lived these habits.

And Dipper?

Dipper had no idea that Michael was onto him.

[fanficfactory333]

FNAF X Gravity Falls: Ch.7

Michael was already regretting this.

It wasn’t too late to bail, right?

Ford was leading him downstairs, behind the vending machine, through a maze of dimly lit tunnels that felt way too much like the setting for a bad horror movie.

And Michael, being himself, was dealing with this the only way he knew how.

By running his mouth.

"So," Michael muttered as they passed another set of reinforced steel doors, "just curious—when do we reach the part where you strap me to a table and start laughing maniacally?"

Ford barely glanced at him, "Don’t be ridiculous."

"Right, right. That’s probably, what, two doors from now?"

"Three, actually," Ford deadpanned.

Michael huffed, "Oh, good. I was getting worried you weren’t committing to the aesthetic."

Ford ignored him as they continued deeper into the tunnels.

The walls were lined with strange equipment, flickering monitors, shelves filled with notes, and ominous-looking machinery that Michael was pretty sure wasn’t legal.

It was objectively the most ‘villain lair’-looking place Michael had ever seen.

"Not gonna lie," Michael muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets, "this place is kinda screaming ‘mad scientist.’"

"It’s a research facility," Ford corrected.

"Yeah?" Michael gestured around them, "Could’ve fooled me. I feel like I should be expecting a monologue and a giant death ray any second now."

Ford adjusted his glasses, "I don’t do monologues."

Michael snorted, "So you admit to the death ray?"

Ford sighed, "Must you be this way?"

"It’s how I cope."

"Charming."

They passed yet another blast door, and Michael sighed dramatically.

"Okay, seriously, how big is this place?"

"Would you like the exact square footage or just a rough estimate?"

Michael groaned, "Dude, that was rhetorical."

"Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to," Ford replied smoothly.

Michael muttered something under his breath as Ford stopped in front of a final set of doors.

"Alright," Ford said, pressing a button on the panel, "We’re here."

Michael exhaled slowly.

The doors slid open.

And suddenly, he wasn’t joking anymore.

Because now?

Now it was real.

Michael hadn’t let anyone see him like this since he died.

And now?

Now he had to rip that bandaid off.

Literally.

He stood in the dim light of Ford’s lab, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.

Ford was waiting.

Not rushing him.

Not pressuring him.

Just watching.

Michael inhaled—a habit more than anything else—and forced his fingers to move.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hands to the edges of his mask.

Paused.

His jaw tightened.

His shoulders tensed.

This was stupid.

He shouldn’t care.

It wasn’t like it mattered.

But still—

That old, gnawing voice whispered in the back of his mind:

What if he looks at you like your neighbors did?

What if he recoils? What if he panics? What if he finally sees you for what you really are—

‘A monster.’

Michael clenched his jaw and ripped the mask off anyway.

Silence.

A long, uncomfortable silence as Michael unbuttoned his shirt.

Michael didn’t look at Ford.

He wouldn’t.

Because he knew—he knew—if he did, he’d see the disgust. The pity. The horror.

Instead, he focused on the table. The floor. Anywhere but at the man standing in front of him as he peeled away the now rancid bandages around his neck, arms, and torso.

He felt exposed. Wrong. Small.

Like a freak show under a microscope.

Ford was quiet.

Too quiet.

Michael’s fingers twitched.

He hated this.

He hated this.

But then—

"How long have you been holding yourself together like this?"

Michael’s shoulders stiffened.

Ford’s voice was calm. Not disgusted. Not horrified.

Just… curious.

Michael exhaled slowly, "Since I died."

Ford hummed thoughtfully, "And the staples?"

Michael tensed as Ford carefully removed the haphazard and rusted staples from the gash in his torso.

He forced a shrug, "They were in a dumpster."

Ford raised an eyebrow, "So you… manually closed your own torso shut?"

Michael’s voice was flat, "I had a bad time."

Ford said nothing.

Michael still wouldn’t look at him.

Ford’s eyes studied the damage carefully.

The embedded wires keeping his torn cheeks together.

The rotting purple hue of his skin.

The deep, unnatural cavities where his stomach and heart should be.

The jagged, twisted ribs—some snapped, some missing.

The previously gloved hand that barely concealed rusted mechanical bones beneath the tattered remains of flesh.

And then—

Michael’s eyes.

Or rather—

The absence of them.

Ford had been expecting… something.

Rot, maybe. Or just empty sockets.

But instead, two small, unnatural pinpricks of violet light gleamed in the shadows of his skull.

Michael’s fingers twitched again.

And Ford?

Ford, for all his experience, for all his years of encountering the impossible, felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Unease.

But he didn’t show it.

Because Ford was smart.

And he knew—he knew—that if he gave Michael even a single inch of hesitation—

Michael would shut down completely.

So Ford didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

Instead, carefully, evenly, he asked:

"Do you feel pain?"

Michael exhaled sharply, "You already asked that."

"Humor me."

Michael’s fingers curled into his palms.

And then, quietly:

"Yeah."

"Even now?"

Michael let out a short, humorless laugh, "Especially now."

Ford was silent.

And for the first time, Michael risked glancing up.

Ford was still looking at him.

But not like the others had.

Not with fear.

Not with pity.

Not even with disgust.

Just… understanding.

Michael’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Ford exhaled.

"Alright," he said simply, stepping back. "Let’s begin."

Michael stared at him for a moment longer.

Then, finally—

He nodded.

—

Michael wasn’t used to looking at himself in a mirror.

Not really.

Not like this.

For the past six hours, Ford had been working on him.

It had been… weird.

Not bad. Just weird.

Michael had spent so long thinking of his body as unfixable that the idea of actually repairing anything felt wrong.

Like he was waiting for something to go horribly, catastrophically wrong.

But now?

Now, as he stood in Ford’s lab—shirt off, mask gone, bandages removed—

He actually didn’t hate what he saw.

And that?

That was shocking.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, testing how it felt.

It felt… better.

Which was still weird to process.

His torso was intact. The gaps in his skin—the ones that had never healed, never closed, just permanent wounds barely held together with staples—

They were sealed.

Not with normal flesh. But with something synthetic, something smooth and flexible and… almost natural.

The color wasn’t the same—a little too pale, a little too artificial—but it was seamless.

It actually looked… normal.

Michael ran a gloved hand over his ribs.

The broken ones? Put back in place.

The missing ones? Replaced with artificial ones.

And breathing?

It felt… easier.

He didn’t need to breathe, not really. But he still felt it.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like his chest was going to collapse in on itself.

But the biggest difference?

His face.

Michael turned his head, studying the reflection.

His jaw—the mangled mess of torn flesh and exposed wiring that he’d been barely holding together—

Gone.

In its place?

A secure mechanical jaw mechanism.

Not exposed, not gory. Sleek. Functional. Solid.

And it worked.

He could open his mouth properly.

He could actually speak loudly if he wanted to.

He could breathe deep.

He could shout.

And that?

That was a lot.

His fingers twitched slightly.

He still wasn’t sure how he felt about all this.

It was incredible. It felt amazing.

But at the same time…

He felt like he’d been stuffed with metal all over again.

And that wasn’t a fun feeling.

Still—

There was one thing he needed to ask.

He turned toward Ford, who had been watching carefully.

"Hey," Michael muttered, "Is it waterproof?"

Ford blinked, "What?"

"The repairs," Michael gestured to himself, "Are they waterproof?"

Ford adjusted his glasses, "Of course they are. I wouldn’t design something that breaks on contact with water."

Michael stared.

The thought hit him all at once.

And suddenly—

He was grinning.

A real, genuine, unfiltered grin.

"Oh my God."

Ford raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"I CAN TAKE A SHOWER."

Ford looked deeply confused, "...Yes?"

Michael threw his head back and laughed.

Not a smirk. Not a huff. Not a sarcastic chuckle.

A real laugh.

The first real laugh he’d had in years.

Ford was still watching him, puzzled, "You haven’t taken a shower?"

"NOT IN YEARS!"

Ford blinked, "That’s… unpleasant."

"NO KIDDING!"

Michael turned back to the mirror.

He actually looked at himself.

And for the first time since he died—

He didn’t hate what he saw.

And that?

That was the best feeling in the world.

—

Michael had never moved so fast in his life.

One second, he was realizing he could take a shower again.

The next?

He was gone.

By the time Ford looked up from the notes he was reviewing, Michael had already bolted out of the lab.

Ford barely had time to process it before he heard his hurried footsteps echoing through the passageways, disappearing up the winding tunnels.

Ford just blinked.

Then, with an amused huff, he turned back to the lab.

Michael had left in such a hurry, he’d abandoned half his outfit.

His shirt, vest, gloves, and tie were still neatly folded on the workbench.

Ford smiled slightly to himself.

He wasn’t one to be sentimental, but—

He was proud of this.

He’d set out to help, and he actually had.

Michael was moving differently now. Breathing differently. Carrying himself with a little less weight on his shoulders.

And that was a damn good feeling.

Ford carefully folded Michael’s clothes, preparing to bring them back upstairs—

And then his gaze landed on the mask.

And the bandages.

His small smile faded.

The bandages were… disgusting.

Stiff. Dirty. Reused for who knows how long.

And the mask?

The mask was less filthy, but just as much a symbol of what Michael had been forcing himself to be.

Ford’s fingers twitched.

And then, without hesitation, he grabbed the bandages and threw them into the trash.

Michael wasn’t putting those back on.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

He hesitated for a moment before picking up the mask.

This?

This, he’d keep.

Not because Michael needed it.

But because Michael still might want it.

And Ford?

Ford didn’t blame him.

Even after everything, Michael still didn’t look particularly friendly, to say the least.

Not in the slightest.

And if he wanted to cover his face?

Ford wouldn’t stop him.

He just hoped Michael wouldn’t feel like he had to.

—

By the time Ford emerged from the vending machine passage, he had Michael’s folded clothes and mask in hand.

He figured he’d just leave them outside the washroom door.

But then—

Before he could take another step—

A firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Whoa there, Sixer. That a smart idea?"

Ford turned his head.

Stan was standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

Ford blinked, "What do you mean?"

Stan gestured to the clothes, "Kid’s takin’ a shower, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And you’re gonna hand him the same dirty clothes he was already wearin’?"

Ford paused.

Then, slowly, he glanced at the clothes in his hands.

For the first time, he actually noticed the state of them.

They weren’t as bad as the bandages, but—

Yeah.

They weren’t great.

Stan just gave him a look, "Go toss ‘em in the hamper. I’ll get ‘im somethin’ else to wear for now."

Ford sighed, "Fine."

Stan smirked, "Smart choice, genius."

Ford just shook his head as Stan walked off, heading toward the laundry room.

It wasn’t long before Stan made his way upstairs, heading straight for his own closet.

The thing about Stan was, he didn’t get rid of clothes unless they were completely unsalvageable.

So, buried in the back of his closet was, inevitably, a faded, oversized t-shirt with some ancient, unreadable company logo printed across the front.

Where did he get it?

Who the hell knew.

But it was soft, worn-in, and baggy enough that it’d probably fit Michael just fine.

He pulled it out, gave it a once-over, shrugged, and headed back downstairs.

By the time Michael stepped out of the shower, he’d have a clean shirt waiting for him.

And maybe, for the first time in years, he’d have something that was actually his.

[fanficfactory333]

FNAF X Gravity Falls: Ch. 6

Michael didn’t sleep.

He didn’t need to.

His body was past that point.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t restless.

So, once the Shack had gone quiet—once the Pines family had retreated to their rooms, the soft sounds of the old house settling filling the halls—he’d carefully made his way outside.

Now, he sat on the rickety porch steps, a cigarette balanced between two gloved fingers.

The night air was cool and still.

The sky stretched endless above him, stars scattered across the blackness like fractured glass.

It was… nice.

A rare, quiet kind of nice.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling softly. The ember glowed faintly in the dark, the smoke curling into the crisp air before fading.

He’d always liked the quiet.

Or maybe he’d just gotten used to it.

Michael took another pull, letting his thoughts drift.

He’d been here for… what? A few days now? Maybe less?

It was hard to tell.

Time didn’t feel real anymore.

Not when every day was just another temporary stop in a long, tired escape.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back slightly, letting the forest sounds wash over him. The rustling of leaves. The distant hoot of an owl. The faint hum of crickets.

This place was… different.

The weirdness didn’t bother him. Hell, weirdness was basically his whole life.

But the Pines family?

That was the real problem.

They were too much.

Too curious. Too kind. Too relentless.

Michael wasn’t used to that.

The closest he’d ever gotten to something like this was working at the Pizzeria, surrounded by people who at least pretended to tolerate him.

But this?

This wasn’t just tolerance.

Mabel treated him like a friend.

Dipper treated him like a puzzle.

Stan treated him like a potential threat.

And Ford…

Ford saw him as something fascinating.

Michael huffed softly, shaking his head.

He took another slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs—not that they needed it.

He needed to leave soon.

That had been the plan from the start.

Keep moving. Never linger. Never stay.

His father was still out there. Still hunting.

Michael didn’t know how close Springtrap was, but he couldn’t risk it.

He had to keep moving.

He had to.

…

So why did that thought make him feel so strange?

Michael exhaled, watching the smoke drift upward toward the stars.

Maybe…

Maybe he could stay just a little longer.

Just long enough to figure things out.

Just long enough to catch his breath.

Just long enough to pretend, for a moment, that he wasn’t running.

He let the cigarette burn down to the filter.

Then, without a word, he snuffed it out, flicking it off into the dirt.

He stood slowly, stretching out his shoulders, and turned back toward the Shack.

Tomorrow, he’d decide.

But for tonight?

For tonight, he’d let himself have this quiet moment.

Even if it wouldn’t last.

—

Early Risers & Hard Truths

Michael wasn’t sure why he was still here.

He should’ve left already.

But instead, he was sitting at the kitchen table, arms loosely crossed, waiting for the day to start like this was normal.

(It wasn’t.)

The sun was barely up, the Shack still quiet.

He’d spent most of the night on the porch, smoking and thinking. Now, with the first signs of morning creeping in, he was just waiting.

Waiting for what?

Hell if he knew.

The vending machine suddenly whirred to life.

Michael barely flinched when it slid open, revealing a very awake Stanford Pines stepping out from behind it.

Michael just watched as Ford adjusted his coat, dusted off his gloves, and stepped into the room like it was completely normal to appear from a hidden underground lab at six in the morning.

Ford noticed him almost immediately.

“Ah. Good morning.”

Michael gave a lazy half-salute, “Morning.”

Ford raised an eyebrow, “You’re up early.”

Michael shrugged, “Never went to sleep.”

Ford nodded like that was a completely normal response, “Mm. That makes sense.”

He walked over to the counter and started preparing a pot of coffee, rolling his shoulders like he’d been up all night.

Michael tilted his head slightly, “You work all night or something?”

“Indeed,” Ford said, stirring in some sugar, “I had… quite a bit to think about.”

Michael didn’t reply.

He could already tell this was going somewhere.

Ford took a slow sip of his coffee, then turned to Michael, studying him carefully.

“I have a question,” Ford started.

Michael exhaled through his nose, “Shocker.”

“Do you feel pain?”

Michael paused.

That was…

A very specific way to start a conversation.

He met Ford’s gaze.

Ford’s expression was unreadable.

Michael exhaled, “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, flatly:

“Very.”

Ford hummed, setting his mug down, “Interesting.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, “That’s your reaction?”

“I expected as much,” Ford said simply, “But I needed to confirm it.”

Michael gave him a look, “Cool. Glad I could confirm that I’m miserable. What’s next?”

Ford ignored the sarcasm, “Do you heal?”

Michael’s fingers twitched slightly.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because that one?

That one hurt.

Finally, he muttered:

“…No.”

Ford’s brows knitted together, “Not at all?”

Michael sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, ���I mean, small stuff fades. Scratches, bruises, whatever. But the big things? The important things?”

He let out a dry chuckle.

“No. Not at all.”

Ford was quiet.

For once, he didn’t immediately start writing.

Didn’t launch into more questions.

Michael glanced at him.

And for the first time…

Ford didn’t just look curious.

He looked… troubled.

Michael frowned, “Why are you asking?”

Ford inhaled slowly, folding his hands in front of him, “Because I was considering whether or not your condition could be…repaired.”

Michael blinked.

Ford continued, “Stanley made an interesting point the other night. I’d been so focused on the scientific aspects of your state that I hadn’t considered—” He hesitated, “—whether or not I could actually help improve your quality of life.”

Michael just… stared.

Ford adjusted his glasses, “If you don’t heal naturally, then biological regeneration is out of the question. But if I were to construct artificial replacements for certain damaged systems—”

“Wait, hold on—” Michael held up a hand, “Are you saying you wanna—what, fix me?”

Ford nodded once, “If possible, yes.”

Michael immediately tensed.

Fix him.

Fix him.

There was something about that that made his stomach twist.

He hadn’t been fixable in years.

He didn’t think it was possible.

And now this old scientist was standing in front of him, talking about repairs like Michael was just another broken machine.

Michael inhaled slowly, forcing his voice to stay even, “You ever fix something that’s too busted to be worth it?”

Ford frowned slightly, “I don’t believe anything is ‘too busted’ to be worth fixing.”

Michael huffed, “Then you’ve never seen something as busted as me.”

Ford was quiet for a long moment.

Then:

“Would you at least let me run some diagnostics?”

Michael stared.

Ford’s voice was measured. Calm.

But there was something else in it now.

Something Michael couldn’t quite place.

He exhaled, glancing at the floor. “I dunno, man.”

Ford nodded slowly, “I won’t push you. But I am willing to help, should you ever reconsider.”

Michael let out a slow breath.

He didn’t know what to say.

For the first time in a long time…

Someone was actually offering to help.

Not for answers.

Not out of fear.

Just because.

And Michael…

Michael doesn’t know what to do with that.

—

Mike was still processing the whole conversation when—

”Alright, what are you two nerds talkin’ about?”

Michael nearly jumped as Stanley Pines strolled into the kitchen, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

A stained tank top, baggy shorts, and—

A gold chain necklace.

Michael blinked.

Stan just grabbed the coffee pot, poured himself a mug, and didn’t acknowledge the fact that he was literally wearing a gold chain at six in the morning.

Michael glanced at Ford.

Ford didn’t say anything.

Michael glanced back at Stan.

No one was saying anything.

Michael decided to pretend this was normal.

Stan took a long sip of coffee, squinted at them both, and repeated, “Well?”

Ford adjusted his glasses, “We were discussing potential ways to repair Michael’s physical state.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah? That goin’ well?”

Michael shrugged, “Still not sure if I wanna do it.”

Stan snorted, “Yeah, figures.”

Ford frowned, “Stanley—”

“Lemme handle this, Sixer,” Stan set his mug down and turned to Michael, arms crossed, “Alright, kid. Tell me why you’re hesitatin’.”

Michael hesitated.

Then, flatly:

“Because it’s a lost cause.”

Stan scoffed, “Pfft—yeah, and I’m the Pope.”

Michael blinked, “What?”

“Kid, I’ve spent my whole life fixin’ lost causes,” Stan gestured vaguely at Ford, “Hell, I dragged this idiot out of an interdimensional nightmare and put him back together just fine. I think we can handle a guy with a few busted parts.”

Ford rolled his eyes, “Must you phrase it like that?”

“Yes.”

Michael exhaled sharply, shaking his head, “Look, man—”

“Lemme guess,” Stan cut in, “You think you’re too far gone, too broken, yadda yadda yadda—” He made a dramatic hand wave, “—so it ain’t worth the effort, right?”

Michael scowled, “It’s true.”

Stan just grinned, “Wanna know a secret?”

Michael gave him a flat look, “Not really.”

Stan ignored him, “Everybody thinks that about themselves.”

Michael hesitated.

Stan took another sip of coffee, shrugging, “Every dumbass I’ve ever met thought they were ‘too messed up’ to be helped. But y’know what? They weren’t.”

Michael frowned, “And you just decide that for people?”

“Yep.”

Michael huffed, “You can’t just—”

“Kid, I’ve pulled con jobs in 20 different states,” Stan said, grinning, “I can talk anyone into anything.”

Michael stared.

Stan leaned forward, smirking, “So, tell me, really. What’s the actual reason you don’t wanna do this?”

Michael clenched his jaw.

He glanced at Ford, who was watching carefully.

Then back at Stan, who wasn’t giving him an inch.

Michael exhaled sharply.

Finally, quietly:

“…I don’t want hope.”

Stan’s grin faded.

Ford’s brows furrowed.

Michael looked away, “I don’t wanna… think things can get better just to have it blow up in my face.”

Silence.

Then—

Stan took a long, slow sip of coffee.

“Hate to break it to ya, kid,” he muttered, “But that’s life.”

Michael snorted, “Wow. Inspirational.”

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is—” Stan set his mug down, “You don’t gotta assume the worst all the time. Just ‘cause things sucked before doesn’t mean they gotta suck forever.”

Michael was silent.

Stan shrugged, “And hey. Worst case scenario? If Sixer screws up, at least you get to mock him for it.”

Ford scowled, “Stanley—”

“What? I’m givin’ the kid motivation.”

Michael let out a soft, tired laugh.

Ford looked between them. Then, slowly:

“…Does this mean you’ll let me run diagnostics?”

Michael sighed.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face.

“Fine,” he muttered, “Knock yourself out, Doc Frankenstein.”

Ford beamed, “Excellent!”

Stan smirked, nudging Michael’s arm, “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Michael shook his head, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, it worked.”

Michael groaned, “I hate this family.”

Stan just grinned, “You’ll get used to us, kid.”

Michael…

Didn’t respond.

Because, for the first time…

The thought of getting used to this place?

Didn’t sound so bad.

—

Dipper and Mabel were late.

Not catastrophically late.

Just “Oh crap, we overslept and now we’re running out the door with half-brushed hair” late.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t unusual.

Michael sat at the kitchen table as Dipper stumbled into the room, yanking on his hoodie with one arm and shoving his notebook into his bag with the other.

A second later, Mabel practically twirled into the room, wearing the exact opposite of anything resembling a normal outfit.

Her sweater was hot pink with sequined stars, her skirt was rainbow-striped, and her shoes were covered in tiny, light-up charms that jingled when she moved.

And to top it off?

A bright rainbow Hello Kitty backpack.

Michael glanced at Dipper’s outfit—dark blue hoodie, gray pants, dirty black converse and one of those lumber-jack looking hats Mike doesn’t know the name of.

Then at Mabel—who looked like a Lisa Frank notebook exploded.

Then back at Dipper.

Dipper noticed his look and sighed, “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Michael just smirked a little.

Stan, who had very clearly expected this, walked in, already holding two granola bars.

“Knew you two would be late,” he muttered, tossing them at the twins.

Mabel, without missing a beat, caught hers in her mouth, still wrapped.

Dipper, meanwhile, fumbled his and almost dropped it.

“Thanks, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel said through a mouthful of wrapper.

Dipper just muttered a quick, “Thanks,” as he slung his beat-up bag over his shoulder.

“NOW, ONWARD! TO EDUCATION!” Mabel dramatically declared, granola bar still in her teeth, before bolting out the door.

Dipper sighed, shaking his head, and ran after her.

The door slammed behind them.

The house was quiet.

Stan and Michael just looked at each other.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Michael shrugged.

Stan snorted, “Yeah. Me too, kid.”

[fanficfactory333]

FNAF X Gravity Falls: Ch. 5

Michael had almost gotten out of the conversation.

Almost.

But then Ford tilted his head thoughtfully, “Wait a moment…”

Michael’s stomach (or lack thereof) sank.

“You say you’re something like a zombie,” Ford continued, “but that still doesn’t explain why you don’t eat.”

Michael froze.

Dipper’s eyes widened, “Ohhh. Yeah! That’s weird! Even zombies still eat!”

Michael inwardly cursed.

They weren’t supposed to notice that.

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “Look. I’m…not physically able to. That’s all there is to it.”

Dipper squinted, “Not able to?”

Ford’s expression sharpened, “How do you mean?”

Michael clenched his jaw.

There was no getting out of this one.

He inhaled slowly.

Then, flatly:

“I don’t have a stomach.”

Silence.

Dipper and Ford both froze.

Michael refused to look at them.

Dipper blinked hard, “…You what?”

Michael sighed, “You heard me.”

Dipper stared at him like he had just sprouted a second head, “How—”

“Nope,” Michael cut him off immediately, “Not explaining that one.”

Dipper floundered, “But—but how?! What does that even mean?!”

Michael groaned, “Exactly what it sounds like.”

Ford adjusted his glasses, suddenly even more intrigued, “Are you saying your digestive system is completely missing?”

Michael muttered something under his breath, “More like completely destroyed.”

Dipper’s jaw dropped, “DESTROYED?!”

“Not explaining that, either,” Michael said quickly.

“But—but how do you even—how are you ALIVE?!” Dipper gestured wildly, “You can’t eat, you can’t drink—”

“Welcome to my life,” Michael muttered.

Ford nodded slowly, “Fascinating…”

Dipper, meanwhile, was spiraling, “Okay, hold on. If you don’t have a stomach, then what happened to it?!”

Michael visibly tensed.

Dipper immediately noticed.

“Oh,” Dipper leaned forward, “That’s a sore subject.”

Michael didn’t answer.

Dipper grinned, “That means it’s important!”

Michael sighed sharply, “Not telling you.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No.”

“Why not?!”

Michael exhaled slowly. Then, pointedly:

“Because it’s not a story for a kid like you.”

Instant regret.

Dipper’s entire face twitched.

His grip on his notepad tightened, “Excuse me?”

Michael resisted the urge to groan, “You heard me.”

Dipper’s eye twitched harder, “I am not a kid.”

Michael tilted his head, “You’re, what, twelve?”

“I’M SIXTEEN.”

Michael blinked, “You’re short.”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

Michael shrugged, “Still not telling you.”

Dipper seethed, “Ford, tell him I’m not a kid.”

Ford barely glanced up from his notes, “You’re a minor, Dipper.”

“NOT HELPING!”

Michael leaned back against the couch, “Look, kid—”

“DON’T CALL ME KID.”

“—There are things you just don’t need to know.”

“I need to know EVERYTHING.”

“You really don’t.”

Dipper crossed his arms, “I can handle it.”

Michael let out a dry laugh, “Yeah, sure you can.”

Dipper scowled, “I can! I’ve seen so much messed-up stuff! Time-traveling dystopias, demon mindscapes, interdimensional horrors—”

“Good for you,” Michael muttered, “Still not telling you.”

Dipper let out a frustrated groan, “WHY NOT?!”

Michael’s voice dropped.

Flat. Serious.

“Because you don’t wanna hear it, kid.”

Dipper stopped.

Michael wasn’t being condescending anymore.

He was being honest.

Dipper frowned, “Try me.”

Michael stared at him for a long moment.

Then, finally:

“You ever had your guts ripped out, kid?”

Dipper’s face paled.

Michael’s voice stayed flat.

“Ever had something crawl inside you? Wear you like a puppet? Live inside your corpse for a week?”

Dipper’s mouth opened.

No words came out.

Ford’s brows furrowed.

Michael exhaled sharply, “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

Dipper closed his mouth.

Michael leaned back, rubbing his temple, “Now drop it.”

Dipper slowly sat back in his chair.

For once, he had no response.

Ford was the one who broke the silence.

“Well,” he muttered, “That certainly rules out vampires.”

Michael groaned, “Oh my God, I hate you people.”

—

Dipper practically slammed the bedroom door behind him.

His mind was racing.

Michael had just admitted he was undead.

Not just implied it. Straight-up admitted it.

And what was even weirder?

He didn’t even know why.

Dipper flopped onto his bed, flipped open his notebook, and immediately started scribbling.

New notes. New theories.

Michael Schmitt(?)

• NOT HUMAN.

• Claims to be “something like” a zombie.

• Does not eat or drink.

• No stomach. (????)

• “Destroyed”?? What does that mean?!?

• Hiding something BIG.

Dipper chewed his pencil as he thought, tapping the eraser against the page.

There was still so much that didn’t add up.

Michael hadn’t acted like a monster. If anything, he’d acted like he didn’t even want to talk about it.

And that moment—

That split second where Dipper had demanded answers—

“You don’t wanna hear it, kid.”

“You ever had your guts ripped out?”

Dipper grimaced at the memory.

Michael had looked tired when he’d said it. Not angry. Not smug.

Just… tired.

Dipper exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

His instincts told him that Michael was still hiding something.

But now, for the first time, there was a different question nagging at him.

Was Michael hiding something because he was dangerous?

…Or was he hiding something because he was scared?

Dipper shook his head. Focus.

He leaned back down to keep writing—

And then the notebook was gone.

“HEY!”

Dipper shot up just in time to see Mabel grinning mischievously from across the room, his notebook now firmly in her hands.

“MABEL!” Dipper scrambled off the bed, “Give that back!”

Mabel hopped onto her mattress, flipping through the pages, “Dipper, you’ve been scribbling in this thing all day. I gotta see what’s so important—”

Then she snorted.

“Pfft—oh my gosh. Dipper. You thought Mike was a vampire?!”

Dipper scowled, “MABEL, I SWEAR—”

“This is hilarious,” Mabel cackled, dodging as Dipper lunged for the notebook, “What were you gonna do, stab him with a wooden stake? Hang up garlic in his room?!”

“Mabel—”

“Ooh, did you try to get him to drink holy water?”

“MABEL, GIVE IT BACK—”

“Oh, oh, what about inviting him in—wait, no, you met him in town, so that wouldn’t even—”

And then—

She flipped the page.

And her grin vanished.

Dipper, still mid-lunge, immediately noticed the change.

Mabel had stopped moving.

She was staring at the page, frozen.

Dipper’s stomach dropped.

Mabel’s eyes scanned the words—her expression shifting from amusement to shock.

Then, quietly:

“Dipper… what is this?”

Dipper swallowed. “Mabel, give it back.”

Mabel’s grip on the notebook tightened, “He… admitted this?”

Dipper exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, “Yeah.”

Mabel shook her head slightly, “But—but this part—” She looked back at him, eyes wide, “He said he got his—”

She couldn’t even say it.

Dipper sighed, “Yeah.”

Mabel lowered the notebook.

She suddenly didn’t feel like teasing anymore.

She just felt bad.

“I didn’t think he was, like…” She swallowed, “Dipper, what if he’s not dangerous? What if he’s just…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

Because Dipper knew what she was asking.

“What if he’s just another lost soul?”

Dipper hesitated.

Then, quietly:

“I don’t know.”

Mabel looked back down at the page.

Her stomach twisted.

Mike had never acted scary. Never acted aggressive.

If anything, he’d looked more afraid than anything.

And now—this.

Slowly, she closed the notebook and handed it back.

Dipper took it without a word.

Mabel sat down on her bed, her hands folded in her lap.

“I think we should be nice to him,” she muttered, “Like, extra nice.”

Dipper sighed, tucking the notebook away, “Yeah. Maybe.”

Mabel frowned, “No maybe. Definitely.”

Dipper glanced at her.

Her face was serious.

He sighed again, “Alright. Definitely.”

Mabel nodded, satisfied.

But still—she didn’t feel satisfied.

Because deep down, she knew—

Whatever happened to Michael… it was bad.

And for once, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the details.

—

Stan sat at the kitchen table, sipping his usual post-dinner coffee.

It had been a long day.

Michael—or whatever his name actually was—had been a complete mess upstairs. And after that whole disaster, Stan had figured that was the end of the night’s weirdness.

But now?

Now Ford was sitting across from him, hunched over his journal, scribbling furiously with that manic scientist look in his eyes.

Stan raised an eyebrow, “You gonna tell me what’s got you all giddy, or am I supposed to guess?”

Ford didn’t even look up, “Stanley, do you have any idea what we’ve discovered tonight?”

Stan snorted, “Lemme guess. The kid glows in the dark?”

“No,” Ford said, far too eagerly, “He’s undead.”

Stan paused mid-sip.

Slowly, he lowered his mug, “Come again?”

“He admitted it himself!” Ford flipped a page, tapping a set of notes, “He doesn’t eat or drink, doesn’t have a stomach anymore, and is functionally dead but still aware! Stanley, this could be a completely new classification of undead entities—”

“Okay, hold up—” Stan waved a hand, “You’re tellin’ me this kid just casually admitted to bein’ some kinda zombie?”

“Not exactly a zombie,” Ford corrected, adjusting his glasses, “Something like a zombie. But still fully conscious! Think about the implications, Stanley—an undead being that retains its mind, that isn’t driven by hunger or mindless aggression—”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all real interesting,” Stan muttered, taking another sip, “What I wanna know is, how does a kid end up like that?”

Ford hummed thoughtfully, “He refused to give details, but he did confirm that his digestive system was ‘destroyed.’”

Stan grimaced, “Destroyed?”

“Mhm,” Ford turned the page, excitedly sketching something, “And he made an extremely interesting comment about being—”

He hesitated.

Then, as if realizing how absurd it sounded:

“—worn like a puppet.”

Stan froze.

Ford kept talking, completely unbothered, “Now, he didn’t clarify what he meant, but if I had to hypothesize, I’d guess that—”

“Hold on—” Stan cut him off, setting down his mug hard, “What the hell do you mean, ‘worn like a puppet’?”

Ford blinked, “I mean exactly what I said, Stanley.”

“Like a costume?” Stan frowned, “Or like…”

He trailed off.

Ford shrugged, “It’s unclear. But he implied that whatever happened to him, he was still aware while it occurred.”

Stan’s stomach turned.

Ford was still rambling, “If I had to guess, I’d say it was some kind of supernatural parasitic entity, possibly one that requires a human vessel—”

“Ford.”

Ford finally looked up.

Stan’s expression was serious.

Ford raised an eyebrow, “What?”

Stan exhaled sharply, “You’re talkin’ like this is just another science experiment, but have you actually stopped to think about how—” He gestured vaguely at Ford’s notes, “—messed up this actually is?”

Ford frowned, “Of course I have, Stanley. That’s why it’s fascinating.”

Stan gave him a flat look, “That’s not the part you’re supposed to focus on.”

Ford huffed, “Then what should I be focusing on, in your expert opinion?”

“The fact that it happened to a person.”

Ford opened his mouth.

Paused.

Slowly, he set his pen down.

Stan crossed his arms, “Look, I get it. You like weird stuff. But this ain’t just some thing to analyze, Ford. This is a kid.”

Ford frowned slightly, “And?”

Stan scowled, “And what kind of life do you think he’s had if this is his normal?”

Ford was quiet.

Stan leaned forward, voice lower, “He barely flinched talkin’ about it, Ford. You don’t get that kinda attitude unless you’ve been through so much crap, it just stops phasin’ you.”

Ford tapped a finger against his journal, “He didn’t seem particularly distressed.”

“No, but you know what he did seem?” Stan pointed at him, “Like someone who’s given up even tryin’ to act normal. Like someone who expects people to look at him like a freak.”

Ford hesitated, “Stanley—”

“Like someone who’s had to run from something.”

Ford stopped.

Because for the first time, he saw where Stan was going with this.

Stan exhaled, rubbing his temple, “You can study him all you want. But I’m tellin’ you now—you push him too hard, he’s just gonna shut down. Or run. And if the kid is in trouble? The last thing he needs is you makin’ him feel like a damn specimen.”

Ford stared.

Then, begrudgingly, he muttered, “I… see your point.”

Stan sighed, “Good. Took ya long enough.”

Ford frowned, “I still think the implications are scientifically fascinating.”

“Yeah, yeah, go write your thesis, professor,” Stan grumbled, “I’ll be over here makin’ sure we don’t accidentally traumatize him.”

Ford rolled his eyes, “I highly doubt we could make things worse for him.”

Stan gave him a look.

Ford blinked.

Then, slowly:

“…Alright. Fair point.”

Stan shook his head, standing up, “I’m goin’ to bed. Try not to dissect the kid in his sleep, will ya?”

“Oh, please, Stanley. I’m not that tactless.”

“Uh-huh.”

And with that, Stan left the kitchen.

Ford sighed, looking back at his notes.

For the first time, he wondered—

Had he been too eager about this?

Michael was fascinating.

But Stan was right.

He was still a person.

And Ford didn’t know what pushing too hard would do.

He sighed, closing the journal.

He’d just have to be careful.

[fanficfactory333]

Fnaf x Gravity Falls: Ch. 4

The Mystery Shack’s living room was quiet.

Not the awkward kind of quiet, or the too-tense kind of quiet.

Just… quiet.

The only real sound was the TV, playing an episode of Duck-tective, the dramatic voice-over narrating some ridiculous case about a stolen loaf of bread.

Michael sat on the couch, arms loosely crossed, mask still firmly in place. He wasn’t totally paying attention, but it was… nice.

Next to him, Mabel was completely engrossed.

She had curled up in her oversized sweater, sitting sideways on the couch, her head resting against the armrest. A bowl of popcorn sat between them, mostly untouched.

Every now and then, she’d glance at Michael—like she was making sure he was still there.

She had already apologized at least fifteen times.

Michael had told her, at least fifteen times, that it was fine.

She had no way of knowing.

She still sniffled a little and made him promise he really, really wasn’t mad.

"I don’t get mad," Michael had said flatly.

Mabel had gasped, "Ever?!"

Michael had just shrugged. "Not anymore."

Mabel had looked very concerned about that but hadn’t pushed.

So, now, they were watching Duck-tective.

And for once, Michael didn’t feel completely like he was drowning.

But elsewhere in the Shack, things weren’t nearly as peaceful.

Dipper perked up immediately when the front door swung open.

A familiar six-fingered silhouette stepped inside, dusting off his coat.

"Uncle Ford!" Dipper beamed, hurrying over.

Stanford Pines barely had time to shut the door before Dipper was already launching into rapid-fire questions, "How was the expedition? Did you find anything? Did you encounter any Class-3 entities? Any new discoveries about the Rift’s residual energy?"

Ford chuckled, "Slow down there, kid! Let me get my boots off first."

Dipper rocked on his heels impatiently as Ford set his bag down and hung up his coat.

"Alright," Ford said, stretching, "Now, what’s got you so worked up?"

Dipper’s eyes gleamed, "We have a new mystery."

Ford raised an intrigued eyebrow, "Oh?"

"Yeah. A big one." Dipper pulled out his notepad, flipping through pages. "Mabel brought home some random masked guy from an alley, and he is definitely hiding something."

Ford’s intrigue immediately doubled, "Masked?"

"Yup. Won’t take it off. Won’t eat or drink, either."

"Interesting…" Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "What else?"

Dipper tapped his notes, "He flinched super hard when Mabel touched him, then had a full-on panic attack upstairs. Stan thought he hurt Mabel at first, but he didn’t—it was just… something else. And he gave a really bad fake name."

"Fake name?"

"Yeah. He called himself Mike Schmitt, but he hesitated before saying it. Like he had to think of one on the spot."

Ford hummed in thought, "That is suspicious."

"Right?!" Dipper grinned, flipping another page, "And then—get this—he said he ‘fixes things’ and ‘builds things.’ That might not sound weird, but when I asked for more details, he tensed up."

Ford’s brows knitted together, "You think he’s lying about what he does?"

"I don’t know!" Dipper admitted, "But something about the way he reacted was just… off."

Ford nodded slowly, "And Mabel invited him to stay here?"

"Yeah," Dipper muttered, crossing his arms, "You know how she is. She sees a sad-looking guy and suddenly it’s ‘welcome to the family.’"

Ford exhaled, "That does sound like Mabel."

Dipper tapped his notepad again, "So, what do you think? Who is he? What’s he hiding?"

Ford considered this, rubbing his chin.

Then, thoughtfully, he asked, "Are you sure he’s even human?"

Dipper froze.

Ford adjusted his glasses, "Think about it, Dipper. He wears a mask constantly, avoids food and water, and reacts violently to touch. That’s not standard human behavior."

Dipper’s brain immediately latched onto the idea, "Oh my gosh. What if he’s some kind of cryptid?!"

Ford smirked, "Now you’re thinking like a scientist."

Dipper’s mind raced, "Maybe he’s a humanoid entity! Or some kind of shapeshifter hiding his true form! Or—oh, what if he’s from ANOTHER DIMENSION?"

"It’s not impossible," Ford admitted, "We’ve seen stranger."

Dipper scribbled down new theories, "Okay, okay—if he’s not human, then we need a way to prove it. Maybe something subtle—"

"Careful, Dipper," Ford cut in, his tone suddenly serious, "If he isn’t human, we don’t know what he is. Pushing him too hard could be dangerous."

Dipper hesitated, "…You think he could be a threat?"

Ford exhaled, "I think we don’t know enough yet. But if he’s hiding something as big as not being human, then yes—he could be dangerous. We need to be cautious."

Dipper nodded, taking this to heart. "Right. Cautious."

Ford adjusted his glasses, "For now, keep watching him. See if you notice any more inhuman behaviors. If he really is hiding something big, he’ll slip up eventually."

Dipper smirked, flipping his notepad shut, "Oh, he’s definitely hiding something."

Ford patted his shoulder, "Then let’s find out what."

And with that, their investigation began.

—

Michael was still sitting on the couch, staring blankly at Duck-tective, when the new guy walked in.

Michael noticed him immediately.

He was older—taller than Stan, maybe a little thinner, but still built like someone who could throw a solid punch. A long coat, glasses, a few extra fingers that Michael immediately clocked as not normal.

Great. Another weird one.

Michael had barely started sizing him up when Mabel beamed and waved. "Hey, Uncle Ford!"

Uncle?

Michael inhaled slowly. Right. Another Pines.

The man—Ford, apparently—stepped forward, looking directly at Michael with sharp, assessing eyes. Sizing him up. Studying him.

Michael stiffened just slightly but didn’t react otherwise.

"So," Ford started, adjusting his glasses. "You must be the guest I’ve been hearing so much about."*

Michael said nothing. Just nodded.

Ford extended a hand. "Stanford Pines. Welcome to the Mystery Shack."*

Michael hesitated.

Then, carefully, he shook Ford’s hand.

It was quick, impersonal.

But that single moment was enough for Ford to make a very interesting observation.

Michael’s hand was cold.

Not just cool—not just "I was outside in the winter air for a bit" cold.

No.

This was unnatural cold.

Even through the gloves, there was nothing. No warmth. No circulation.

It was wrong.

Ford’s mind raced.

There were only a handful of things that could appear human but lack body heat.

And Michael wasn’t visibly rotting, so that ruled out most traditional undead creatures.

But there was one possibility that made perfect sense.

Michael always wore a mask.

He never showed his skin.

He never ate.

And now, he had no body warmth.

Ford’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

Vampire.

Michael pulled his hand back, shifting his weight. "Nice to meet you." His voice was flat. Distant.

Ford studied him for a moment longer before nodding. "Likewise."

Michael had no idea he had just failed a test.

—

Not long after, Ford casually pulled Dipper aside into the kitchen, keeping his voice low.

"Dipper," he muttered, "I may have a working theory."

Dipper perked up immediately. "Yeah? What is it?"

Ford crossed his arms. "When I shook his hand, I noticed something… unusual. He has no body warmth. Not even through his gloves."

Dipper frowned. "No warmth?"

"None," Ford confirmed. "That, combined with his refusal to eat, his constant skin coverage, and his avoidance of personal questions… Well. I believe we may be dealing with a vampire."

Dipper’s eyes widened. "Oh my gosh. That makes so much sense."

Ford nodded. "It would explain nearly everything so far. If he’s a vampire, he wouldn’t need human food, he’d be nocturnal, and he’d have to keep his skin covered to avoid sun exposure."

Dipper flipped his notepad open, writing VAMPIRE? at the top of the page. "Okay. If that’s the case, how do we prove it?"

Ford smirked. "We run some tests."

Dipper grinned. "I like where this is going."

"But," Ford warned, "we need to be subtle. If he is a vampire, we don’t want to tip him off that we know. We’ll need to test his weaknesses without making it obvious."

Dipper nodded rapidly. "Okay. Weaknesses. Uh—sunlight!"

"He already covers up completely," Ford noted. "But if he avoids direct sunlight indoors as well, that could be a clue."

"What about garlic?"

"A classic test. We could introduce it during a meal and see how he reacts."*

"Running water?"

"Unlikely, but we can keep an eye out."

"What about—"

"Holy symbols?" Ford suggested, raising an eyebrow. "He may avoid them instinctively. Do we have any on hand?"

Dipper thought for a second. "Mabel has a Hello Kitty necklace. Does that count?"

"Probably not."

"Dang."

Dipper tapped his pencil against the page. "Okay. So… sunlight, garlic, holy symbols. Any other classic vampire signs?"

Ford hesitated. "Well… There’s one more test."

Dipper leaned in. "What is it?"

Ford’s eyes gleamed. "A mirror."

Dipper gasped. "To see if he has a reflection!**"

Ford nodded. "Exactly."

Dipper was already writing furiously. "Okay, okay—so we try to get him near a mirror, maybe casually hand him something with a reflective surface and watch his reaction—"

"Precisely."

"And if he fails all the tests—?"

Ford’s expression darkened just slightly. "Then we’ll know for certain."

Dipper grinned. "This is gonna be great."

And just like that, their vampire investigation was officially underway.

—

It had started out so stupidly.

First, it was Ford casually offering him garlic bread.

Then, Dipper tilting a mirror toward him while pretending to clean it.

Then, Ford dangling Mabel’s Hello Kitty necklace in front of him like it meant something.

Michael had ignored all of it.

Because, well. He wasn’t a vampire.

So, when nothing happened, Ford and Dipper had started looking annoyed.

"Maybe he's just an exceptionally strong vampire," Dipper had muttered, scribbling furiously in his notepad.

"Or he's suppressing his natural reactions," Ford had mused, "He could be centuries old—older vampires learn to resist their instincts."

Michael had stared at them like they were insane.

But then.

Then they asked about food.

"So," Ford had said casually, leaning against the counter, "exactly how long has it been since you’ve eaten?"

Michael had stiffened.

Just slightly.

And Dipper noticed.

"Oh," Dipper breathed, eyes lighting up, "Oh-ho-ho, we got something."

Michael immediately regretted everything.

"So?" Ford pressed, suddenly far more interested, "How long has it been?"

Michael shifted, "I—"

Dipper leaned forward, "Days?"

Michael didn’t answer.

Ford hummed thoughtfully, "Weeks?"

Michael’s hands twitched in his lap.

Dipper’s eyes widened, "Months?!"

"I— it’s not—" Michael tried to find a response, any response, but nothing sounded even remotely believable.

"A year?!" Dipper gasped.

"More?" Ford asked, tilting his head.

Michael exhaled sharply, pressing a gloved hand against his mask, "I don’t—look, it’s not—"

"How have you even survived that long without food?" Dipper asked, voice full of genuine curiosity.

Michael hesitated.

Ford and Dipper exchanged a glance.

Then—Dipper zeroed in on the mask.

"And what about that?" he asked suddenly, "Why do you never take it off?"

Michael’s stomach dropped.

Ford pushed his glasses up, "Yes, I’ve been wondering that myself. If you aren’t avoiding sunlight, then why wear a mask 24/7?”

"It’s—" Michael’s throat felt tight, "I just do."

Dipper crossed his arms, "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting," Michael muttered, voice tight.

"*That’s suspicious," Dipper pointed out.

"Very suspicious," Ford agreed.

Michael clenched his jaw.

They were pressing too hard.

Too many questions. No way out. No excuses left.

The room felt smaller.

His fingers tensed against his arms. His mind was racing.

He needed to shut this down. Now.

"Look," he said, voice low, "I never said I was a normal person."

Dipper froze.

Ford straightened.

Michael immediately regretted saying that.

"Wait, wait, wait," Dipper said quickly. "Are you saying—" His eyes widened. "You’re not a normal person?!"

Michael inhaled sharply. "I—"

"Then what are you?" Ford asked, suddenly even more intrigued.

Michael hesitated.

That moment of hesitation was all Dipper needed.

His eyes lit up with realization.

"Oh my gosh. You're a vampire, aren’t you?!"

Michael blinked.

Then he stared.

"What?!"

"You just admitted you're not normal! And you don't eat! And you're always covered up—"

"I'm not a vampire," Michael said automatically, completely baffled.

Dipper and Ford immediately exchanged a glance.

"Well," Ford said, far too smugly, "if you're not a vampire…"

Michael realized too late what he'd just done.

Dipper’s grin widened.

"That only leaves one option," he said, triumphant. "You're a zombie."

Michael winced.

Dipper pointed at him. "HA! I KNEW IT!"

"Not exactly," Michael muttered, shoulders tense.

Ford narrowed his eyes. "Then what, exactly?"

Michael clenched his jaw.

Then, finally, quietly:

"…Something like that."

Dipper and Ford both leaned in slightly, eyes full of curiosity.

Michael hated this.

He hated talking about this.

But.

They weren’t afraid.

And that was…

Weirdly reassuring.

Michael exhaled, running a gloved hand over his face, "Look, I don’t—" He sighed. "I don’t know why I’m still here. I just am."

Ford nodded thoughtfully, "And you’re… aware? Not mindless, not aggressive?"

"Obviously," Michael muttered.

Dipper tapped his chin, "So, technically, you’re dead, but you’re still… functioning?"

Michael shrugged. "More or less."

Dipper beamed. "THAT. IS. SO. COOL."

Michael blinked.

"I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS!" Dipper slammed his notepad on the table, "Can you regenerate? Do you have enhanced strength? Do you decay over time or are you, like, preserved?"

Michael groaned, "Oh, for the love of—"

"What killed you?" Dipper asked, eyes wide with excitement.

Michael immediately tensed.

Ford held up a hand, "Let’s not push too hard, Dipper."

Dipper frowned, "But—"

"Kid," Michael muttered, "I’m not telling you that."

Dipper huffed, "Fine. But I still have so many more questions."

Michael sighed heavily, "I hate this conversation."

Ford smirked, "Well, I, for one, find this fascinating."

"Of course you do," Michael grumbled.

Dipper leaned forward, "So, technically, you didn’t deny being a zombie—"

"Dipper, I swear to God."

Ford and Dipper exchanged excited glances.

Michael buried his face in his hands.

He was never getting out of this, was he?

[fanficfactory333]

Fnaf x Gravity Falls: Ch.3

The moment Mabel’s hand touched his arm, Michael’s body reacted before his mind could catch up.

He jerked back with a sharp inhale, like he’d been burned.

No—worse than burned. Branded. Sliced open. The world tilted as his survival instincts kicked in, his legs stumbling backward on their own, his boots scraping against the wooden floor.

The back of his ribs slammed into the wall at the end of the banister.

Trapped.

For a split second, he wasn’t in the Mystery Shack anymore.

He was somewhere else.

Danger. Danger. DANGER.

He could feel the cold grip on his wrist. The metallic snap of a springlock resetting. The suffocating stench of old blood and rotting metal.

He could hear a voice—his voice, but not his own anymore—garbled, broken, mocking.

"Oh, Michael, my boy… did you really think you could run from me?"

NO.

Michael gasped—his mind screaming at his body to MOVE, to FIGHT, to RUN, but there was nowhere to go—he was trapped, and that was when he realized he was hyperventilating, his breath coming short and sharp even though his lungs didn’t even work anymore, and—

"Michael?"

The voice was different.

Not his father.

But still—

Still danger.

Still a threat.

Everything was a threat.

Everything.

Because that’s how it always was.

Touch was never kind.

Touch was pain.

Touch was his father’s hands dragging him away as a child.

Touch was springlocks snapping closed.

Touch was metal fingers prying his ribs apart.

Touch was—

"Michael?!"

A sob.

Not his.

His vision swam, and suddenly, she was there again.

Mabel.

Standing a few feet away, arms curled close to her chest. Crying.

He blinked rapidly, his body still pressed flat against the wall, his hands clutching his arms like he could hold himself together.

Mabel’s face was crumpled with distress. "I—I’m sorry!" she choked out, voice cracking. "I—I didn’t mean to hurt you—I—"

Michael’s brain lagged behind reality.

Hurt?

She thought she—?

She was still talking—"I was just trying to help, I didn’t know—I didn’t know—" but then she turned and bolted down the stairs, calling frantically—

"GRUNKLE STAN!"

Her voice echoed through the Shack, and Michael still couldn’t process what had just happened.

Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Couldn’t move from where he was pinned by nothing but his own mind.

His ears were ringing. His hands were shaking. His body was frozen, and all he could hear was—

"You can’t hide from me, Michael,"

"I always come back."

Michael squeezed his eyes shut.

The banister pressed into his back. The room was spinning. The wood under his boots didn’t feel real.

He wasn’t here.

He was somewhere else.

Somewhere he never wanted to be again.

And for a long, agonizing moment, all he could do was wait for the nightmare to end.

His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the world. He was trapped—back against the banister, every muscle locked up, mind screaming danger danger DANGER—

Then footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Coming closer.

Then—

"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

A hand grabbed his shirt collar, yanking him forward.

Michael snapped back into reality all at once.

He barely processed Stan’s face inches from his own—eyes burning with fury, voice like a crack of thunder, too loud too close too much—

"I swear, if you laid a single hand on my niece—!"

Michael flinched hard, his entire body jerking in an instinctive attempt to get away. But there was nowhere to go, no escape, no—

He had him.

His father had him.

His father finally caught him—

"Michael… did you really think you could run from me?"

No. No no no nononononono—

"STOP!"

Mabel’s voice cut through everything.

Stan froze.

Michael’s chest heaved. His hands shook. His vision swam.

Mabel was right there, clutching her arms, eyes glassy with unshed tears, "Stan, let go of him!"

Stan hesitated. His grip was still tight, his face still twisted with anger, but—

Mabel was crying.

"He didn’t hurt me!" she said, voice cracking, "I—I touched him, and he—he just freaked out—"

Stan’s eyes flicked between her and Michael.

Michael was barely registering the moment—still caught somewhere between now and then.

He was breathing too fast. He couldn’t stop shaking.

And he was still expecting a fist, a knife, a blade, a scooper—

Instead, Stan’s grip on his collar loosened.

Just a little.

"What?" Stan’s voice wasn’t as sharp now, more confused than angry, "Kid, what are you talking about?"

Mabel sniffled, "I think— I think he was already freaking out before I even touched him."

More footsteps.

Dipper had appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes wide and on high alert, "What’s going on?!"

Stan still didn’t let go completely, but his grip slackened further, "You’re telling me he just—" He exhaled sharply, turning back to Michael, "Kid, look at me."

Michael couldn’t.

His head was down, his shoulders curled inward, his breath shallow and fast.

Stan frowned deeper, "Michael."

Michael forced himself to lift his head just enough to meet Stan’s gaze—only for a split second, but it was enough for Stan to see it.

The fear.

Not guilt.

Not anger.

Just pure, raw, unfiltered fear.

Stan’s stomach sank.

This wasn’t just a random outburst. This wasn’t some dangerous guy losing control.

This was a kid who had been here before.

Stan recognized that look.

Slowly, carefully, he let go completely.

Michael stumbled back against the wall, hands gripping his arms tightly, head lowered again.

Nobody spoke.

Mabel wiped at her eyes, glancing anxiously at Michael, her lip trembling, "I—I didn’t mean to scare you," she whispered, "I just—"

Michael still didn’t respond.

Didn’t even move.

Stan exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face, "Well," he muttered, "Ain’t this a fine mess."

Dipper, still by the stairs, was gripping his notepad so tight his knuckles were white, "What’s wrong with him?"

Stan sighed, "Kid’s having some kinda… panic attack, I think." His eyes flicked back to Michael, "Right?"

Michael didn’t answer.

Stan grimaced, "Yeah. Thought so."

Mabel sniffled again, visibly shaken, "What do we do?"

Stan sighed, "Just— give him space."

Mabel hesitated, then slowly took a small step back.

Michael barely reacted.

Dipper, for once, was completely quiet.

Stan let out another long breath, "Alright. Here’s what’s gonna happen. Nobody’s gonna touch him, nobody’s gonna push him, and we’re gonna let him pull himself outta this. Got it?"

Mabel nodded immediately.

Dipper, after a beat, did too.

Stan’s gaze landed on Michael again. The kid looked like a wreck, his whole body locked up, every muscle tense.

Stan knew better than to press.

Instead, he just muttered, "You wanna sit down, kid?"

Michael didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Stan sighed, crossing his arms, "Alright. Suit yourself." He turned to Mabel and Dipper, "You two—go finish dinner."

Mabel frowned hard, reluctant to leave, but at Stan’s firm expression, she sniffled and slowly nodded.

Dipper hesitated, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I’m sure," Stan muttered, "Go on. I’ll stay up here for a bit."

Dipper still didn’t like it, but he grabbed Mabel’s wrist and gently tugged her back toward the stairs.

She hesitated one last time, glancing back at Michael, her face full of worry.

Then, reluctantly, she followed Dipper downstairs.

The room fell into silence.

Michael still hadn’t moved.

Stan exhaled slowly, glancing at him again.

"You good?"

No answer.

Stan sighed, rubbing his face again, "Yeah. Figured."

And so, with no better option, he just sat down on the couch and let the silence stretch on.

Because sometimes, you didn’t need to talk.

Sometimes, you just needed to be there.

—

The air at the dining table was tense.

Mabel, for once, wasn’t talking.

She sat poking at her spaghetti with her fork, her usual energy completely drained. She hadn’t touched much of her food, which was saying a lot, considering she normally inhaled dinner like a vacuum cleaner.

Dipper, on the other hand, was busy scribbling notes.

His notepad was open beside his plate, his hand moving quickly as he jotted things down, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

Mabel finally broke the silence with a sniffle, "Do you think he’s okay?"

Dipper didn’t look up, "I don’t know."

Mabel frowned, "He looked so scared, Dipper. He—he flinched so hard when I touched him—like he thought I was gonna—" She swallowed, curling her arms around herself, "I just wanted to help."

Dipper hesitated at that. His pencil slowed.

Mabel never sounded like this.

"It wasn’t your fault," he said, more focused on his notes than on comforting her, "You didn’t know."

Mabel glanced toward the stairs, gnawing her lip, "I should go check on him—"

"No." Dipper cut in quickly, looking up at her, "Stan’s handling it."

Mabel frowned deeper, "I don’t think he wants to talk to Stan."

"Yeah, well, he probably doesn’t want to talk to you either," Dipper said bluntly, flipping to a fresh page, "No offense."

Mabel deflated, "Some offense taken," she muttered.

Silence fell again, aside from the scratch of Dipper’s pencil.

Mabel sniffled again, "What are you even writing?"

"Theories," Dipper said automatically.

Mabel’s brow furrowed, "Theories about what?"

"About what caused that reaction," he said, tapping his notepad, "Think about it—he’s already super shady, avoids questions, wears a mask all the time, refuses to eat, and now, suddenly, he has some kind of panic attack out of nowhere?"

Mabel crossed her arms, "He didn’t have a panic attack out of nowhere. I told you, I touched him, and—"

"Yeah, but why did that make him react like that?" Dipper pressed, "That kind of response isn’t normal."

Mabel glared, "Neither are we."

Dipper exhaled sharply, "You know what I mean."

Mabel did know what he meant.

But she hated that she did.

Dipper flipped back a few pages, "Alright. Let’s go over what we do know about him so far."

Mabel groaned, "Dipper, really? Now?"

"Yes, now," he insisted, pencil poised, "You were there, Mabel—he’s hiding something. And I want to know what."

Mabel slumped forward, resting her chin on the table, "Dipper, I don’t care about your mystery stuff right now. He’s not some puzzle for you to solve—he’s a person."

"A very suspicious person," Dipper corrected.

Mabel just gave him a look.

Dipper sighed, "Fine. You don’t have to care. But I do."

Mabel muttered something under her breath but didn’t argue further.

Dipper went back to his notes, "So. We know his name—"

"Do we?" Mabel cut in flatly.

Dipper paused.

Mabel raised an eyebrow, "C’mon, dude. You totally noticed how bad that fake name was."

Dipper tapped his pencil against the page, "Yeah. I did."

There was a long beat of silence.

Then, quietly, Mabel asked, "Do you think I hurt him?"

Dipper looked up again, finally meeting her eyes.

She wasn’t joking.

"No," he said immediately, "I mean, maybe. But not on purpose."

Mabel looked down at her plate, "I don’t like seeing people scared."

Dipper didn’t respond.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure how he felt about this anymore.

At first, it was just a mystery. A puzzle. A weird guy in a mask with a lot of secrets.

But now?

Now there was something else creeping in.

A thought. A feeling.

A nagging voice in the back of his head whispering—

"What if this was your fault?"

What if Michael hadn’t been about to panic before Mabel touched him?

What if it had started before that?

What if it had started upstairs, right after Dipper grilled him for answers?

His pencil stopped moving.

The gears in his head turned.

Logically, there was no proof that his interrogation had caused Michael’s reaction.

Michael had seemed fine—distant, maybe, but not freaking out—when Dipper had last spoken to him.

And yet.

Dipper had been pressing him pretty hard. What’s your last name? Where were you before this? Do you build things?

What if one of those questions had hit too close?

What if that was what set him off?

Dipper’s grip on his pencil tightened.

Then, after a moment, he shook his head and forced the thought away.

No.

He didn’t know that was the cause.

There wasn’t enough evidence to support that theory.

And even if it was his fault—which it wasn’t—Michael was still hiding something.

And Dipper needed to know what.

So, he ignored the pang of guilt, turned the page in his notepad, and started writing again.

[fanficfactory333]

Fnaf x Gravity Falls: Ch. 2

Michael hadn’t expected to survive his conversation with Stan Pines.

Now, he wasn’t entirely sure surviving this was any better.

"Alrighty, Mister Mystery!" Mabel declared, throwing open a door with a dramatic flourish. "Welcome to the official Mystery Shack Tour™! Hosted by me, Mabel Pines, and my assistant-slash-future-investigative-journalist twin brother, Dipper!"

Dipper, who was already writing something in a notepad, didn’t look up. "I didn’t agree to that title."

"Too late! You’ve been promoted!"

Michael stood in the doorway, arms loosely crossed, watching the twins with mild exhaustion. He wasn’t opposed to a tour, exactly. He just… didn’t really know what to do with all this energy. Mabel had enough enthusiasm to power a small city, and Dipper’s suspicious eyes were practically burning holes into his skull.

Still. It was better than being back in that alley.

"Okay!" Mabel continued, "This is the gift shop, aka the hub of all things weird and slightly overpriced!" She gestured around them at the cluttered shelves stacked with ridiculous merchandise—shirts, keychains, snow globes, and things that probably counted as taxidermy but definitely shouldn’t.

Michael raised an eyebrow at a jar labeled Authentic Bigfoot Toenails!

He was really hoping that was a scam.

Mabel, blissfully unaware of his concern, picked up a hat from a rack. "Ooh! You should totally wear one of these!" She plopped a bright green trucker hat that read I ❤ TENTACLES onto Michael’s head.

Michael blinked. He reached up, slowly removed the hat, and handed it back to her.

"No thanks."

Mabel shrugged, "Your loss! Okay, moving on!"

As she bounded toward the next room, Michael noticed Dipper still watching him.

Dipper scribbled something down in his notepad.

Michael’s eye twitched.

They followed Mabel into what was clearly the main tourist area. A large wax figure of a lumberjack loomed over them, and various bizarre exhibits were crammed into every available space. Some were clearly fake (like the "REAL MERMAID TAIL," which was obviously a fish glued to a mannequin leg), while others were… less obviously fake.

Michael eyed a shrunken, mummified-looking thing labeled Genuine Chupacabra!

It looked real.

Which was mildly concerning.

Dipper cleared his throat, "So, Michael," he said, in what was definitely a forced casual tone. "What exactly do you do? Y’know. For a living."

Michael exhaled, "I fix things."

Dipper’s pencil scratched across the notepad, "Fix things how?"

"Mechanics. Electronics. Stuff like that."

"Hmmm." Dipper narrowed his eyes.

Michael fought the urge to sigh.

Mabel, meanwhile, had climbed onto a display labeled The World’s Most Distrustful Owl! It was a taxidermy owl with the most judgmental glassy stare Michael had ever seen.

"Fun fact!" Mabel announced, "This room? Totally haunted!"

Michael frowned, "Haunted?"

"Yup! Every time we try to clean it, stuff flies off the shelves, and sometimes the exhibits move when we’re not looking!" She grinned, "We love our poltergeist. We call him Jeff!"

Michael slowly turned toward Dipper, "Is she joking?"

Dipper sighed. "I wish."

Michael stared at them. Then at the owl. Then at the shrunken chupacabra.

This town was actually insane.

Dipper suddenly flipped a few pages in his notepad, "So. If you fix things, do you also, say… build things?"

Michael’s muscles tensed before he could stop himself.

Dipper noticed.

Michael kept his voice even, "Sometimes."

Dipper nodded slowly, jotting something down.

Michael clenched his jaw, "Are you writing about me?"

Dipper snapped the notepad shut, "No."

Michael stared.

Dipper stared back.

Mabel, still on the display, whispered, "Yes."

Michael exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple.

Mabel hopped down and looped her arm through his, dragging him forward, "Okay, enough with the detective nonsense! Time for the next stop on the tour—the living quarters!"

Michael didn’t have the energy to fight it.

Dipper, however, was still watching him.

Still scribbling notes.

Michael really needed a cigarette.

Michael followed them up the creaky staircase to the Shack’s living quarters, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The upstairs was… homey. Messy, but lived-in. The kind of place that wasn’t just a house, but an actual home. The thought made something uncomfortable twist in his chest.

Mabel practically skipped ahead, throwing her arms wide, "Ta-da! Welcome to the super exclusive Mystery Shack VIP lounge! Also known as our house!"

Michael glanced around. There was a small couch, an old TV, a cluttered kitchen space, and—oh. A lot of handmade decorations. Some with glitter. Some with googly eyes. Most of them probably Mabel’s doing.

"That’s our room," Mabel continued, pointing to a door covered in stickers and doodles, "Grunkle Stan’s room is off-limits, unless you like getting yelled at or possibly trapped in a death maze of laundry."

Michael huffed, "Noted."

Dipper, still eyeing Michael like a science experiment, leaned against the wall and tapped his pencil against his notepad.

"So," he said, too casually, "If you're just passing through, where exactly were you before this?"

Michael tensed but kept his face neutral, "A lot of places."

Dipper hummed, writing something down, "Mhm. And before that?"

Michael exhaled slowly, "Still a lot of places."

Dipper narrowed his eyes, "And before that—"

Mabel suddenly popped up between them, "Okay, Agent Mulder, ease up on the third degree!"

Dipper frowned, "Mabel, you were the one who literally asked if he was a half-bear raised by the woods ten minutes ago."

"Yeah, but that was fun!"

Michael shook his head slightly, leaning back against the wall, "I don’t mind questions," he muttered.

Dipper gave him a skeptical look.

Michael regretted the words almost instantly.

Because then Dipper tilted his head and asked, "Alright. What’s your last name?"

The world froze for half a second.

Michael’s stomach dropped. His fingers curled into fists in his pockets.

His last name.

Afton.

William Afton.

His father, the serial killer. His father, the monster. His father, who wasn’t just a ghost from the past but an actual thing still hunting him down.

Michael couldn’t say his real name.

He knew the case wasn’t widely known outside of Utah, but it wasn’t obscure enough to be safe. All it would take was Dipper remembering some random article, or Mabel looking it up online, and suddenly—

No.

He had to lie.

It had to be simple.

Something normal.

Michael inhaled through his nose and said, "Schmitt. Mike Schmitt."

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they weren’t convincing.

Dipper’s pencil stopped moving.

Michael resisted the urge to wince. He used to be better at this. Used to be able to lie like it was second nature. But after everything—after dying, after being alone for so long—he was out of practice. And Dipper knew it.

Mabel, completely oblivious, gasped, "Ooooh, fancy! Very businessman-y!"

Dipper, however, was still staring at Michael.

Michael met his gaze, keeping his face blank.

Dipper squinted.

Michael forced himself not to fidget.

Dipper slowly, slowly wrote down Mike Schmitt in his notepad.

Underlined it.

Then tapped his pencil against the page, "Huh."

Michael clenched his jaw, "What?"

Dipper just shrugged, still watching him, "Nothing. Just… You hesitated."

Michael’s stomach twisted, "No, I didn’t."

Dipper smirked, "Yeah. You did."

Michael exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm, "It’s not a crime to pause before answering a question, kid."

"Sure," Dipper said, "Unless you’re lying."

Michael rolled his shoulders, pushing off the wall, "Believe what you want."

Dipper tapped his notepad, thinking, "Okay. If that’s your last name, then what’s your middle name?"

Michael stiffened again.

Shit.

Mabel clapped a hand over Dipper’s mouth. "Dipper, NO! What if it’s embarrassing?!"

Dipper mumbled something through her palm.

Michael took the opportunity to compose himself, "Jeremy," he said, the first thing that came to mind.

Mabel gasped dramatically, "You do have an embarrassing middle name!"

Michael groaned, "It’s not embarrassing."

Mabel grinned, "It’s kinda embarrassing."

Dipper, now free from Mabel’s grip, was still watching Michael way too closely. His expression wasn’t amused.

It was calculating.

Michael knew that look.

It was the look of someone figuring things out.

Dipper had no proof. Not yet. But he knew something was off.

And Michael had a feeling he wasn’t going to let it go.

Just as the tension between Michael and Dipper was reaching a breaking point, Stan’s voice rang out from downstairs.

"Hey, knuckleheads! Dinner’s ready! Get down here before it gets cold!"

Mabel immediately perked up. "Ooh! Food time!"

Dipper, still eyeing Michael with suspicion, slowly shut his notepad. He didn’t put it away—just tucked it under his arm, like he was planning to pick up this conversation later.

Michael, however, didn’t move.

Because this—this was a problem.

Dinner meant sitting at a table. It meant eating. It meant taking off his mask.

And Michael couldn’t do any of that.

He hadn’t eaten in years. Couldn’t. The thought of food—of trying to force something into a body that no longer functioned—made his stomach churn, or at least, made the space where his stomach used to be feel wrong. He’d tried once. A long time ago. It had… not gone well.

But even if he could eat, there was still the matter of his face.

His decayed, unnatural, rotting face.

His ribs were wrapped in bandages. His arms and neck were mostly covered. His gloves hid the worst of his hands. But his face?

There was no hiding that once the mask came off.

And there was no way the Pines family wouldn’t notice.

"You coming, Michael?" Mabel asked, already halfway out the door.

Michael inhaled sharply, "I—"

Think. Think.

He couldn’t refuse outright. That would be weird. Suspicious.

He needed a reason.

Something normal. Something believable.

Something—

His mind latched onto the simplest answer, "I already ate."

Mabel blinked, "What? When?"

Michael forced a shrug, "Before I ran into you guys."

Dipper frowned, "You ate before meeting us?"

Michael nodded.

Dipper squinted, "In an alley?"

Michael clenched his jaw, "Yes."

Dipper scribbled something in his notepad, "Huh."

Michael resisted the urge to groan.

Mabel, meanwhile, just grinned, "Aw, man! You missed out! Grunkle Stan’s spaghetti is legendary!"

Dipper scoffed, "It’s literally just canned pasta with a suspicious amount of pepper in it."

"Exactly! Legendary!"

Mabel grabbed Dipper’s wrist and tugged him toward the stairs, "Well, suit yourself, Mike Schmitt! But if you change your mind, there’s always leftovers!"

Michael exhaled slowly, "I’ll keep that in mind."

Mabel and Dipper disappeared downstairs, their voices fading into the sounds of plates clattering and Stan grumbling about free-loading teenagers.

Michael stayed behind.

He leaned against the wall, staring at the floor, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.

That was close.

Too close.

And this was only the first time.

If he stayed here, this would keep happening. They would notice. Eventually, they’d realize he never ate. Never drank. Never took his mask off.

And then what?

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a gloved hand over his face.

He needed a better plan.

Because if they started asking the wrong questions…

He didn’t know what he’d do.

The voices downstairs faded into a dull hum.

Michael stood in the dimly lit hallway, unmoving, shoulders tight. His gloved hands twitched at his sides before slowly rising to his head, fingers threading into his messy, dark brown hair.

This was bad.

This was so, so bad.

He hadn’t thought about this—hadn’t considered something as simple as dinner being an issue. He’d been so focused on staying hidden, staying ahead, staying alive that he hadn’t planned for something as normal as sitting at a table with people who weren’t trying to kill him.

And now, everything felt like it was closing in.

He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t take off the mask.

He couldn’t let them find out what he was.

They wouldn’t understand.

They’d look at him with horror. Disgust.

They’d see what was underneath. The rot. The wrongness.

And then—

Then they’d throw him out. Or worse, try to help. Try to fix him, as if he weren’t already beyond fixing.

His breathing hitched, something cold pressing against his ribs. His own mind was betraying him, forcing him to remember—

A metal arm. A sharp, piercing pain. The sound of something wet and tearing. The moment he’d stopped being a person and started being—

Michael clenched his jaw, his hands tugging at his hair.

Stop. Just stop.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders curling inward, his breath coming faster despite his body’s lack of actual need for oxygen.

He wasn’t human anymore.

Hadn’t been for a long time.

And yet, for some stupid reason, for the briefest second—

He’d let himself forget.

For a moment, sitting in the Mystery Shack, watching Mabel bounce around and Dipper scowl over his notes, he’d let himself feel… normal.

That had been a mistake.

Because he wasn’t normal.

He wasn’t anything anymore.

A hollow shell, filled with something unnatural. Something wrong.

Something that should’ve stayed dead.

He gritted his teeth, gripping his hair tighter, nails digging into his scalp through his gloves.

Then, a voice.

"Michael?"

He didn’t move.

"Are you suuuure you’re not hungry? There’s plenty—"

Mabel’s voice cut off.

Michael didn’t respond.

Didn’t react at all.

Mabel took a step closer. The room was dim, but even in the low light, she could see him shaking slightly, hands tangled in his hair, his whole body hunched in on itself.

Something was wrong.

Her stomach twisted, "Michael?"

No response.

It was like he didn’t even hear her.

Mabel’s eyes widened, concern overtaking her usual cheer, "Michael?" She tried again, softer this time, "Hey, are you okay?"

Nothing.

Her heart skipped.

She’d seen Dipper panic before—boy howdy, had she seen it—but this was different. This wasn’t someone just thinking too hard. This was bad.

And she didn’t know what to do.

So, she did the only thing she could do.

She reached out, carefully, and placed a hand on his arm.

"Hey," she said gently, "Come back to us, okay?"

[fanficfactory333]

Fnaf x Gravity Falls: Chapter 1

Gravity Falls wasn’t usually the type of town that had dark alleyways. Sure, it had plenty of weird forest paths, creepy abandoned cabins, and the occasional reality-breaking rift in space-time, but dark alleyways? Those felt like something out of a city, not the tiny, bizarre town they called home.

And yet, here one was—wedged between an old hardware store and a boarded-up bakery—just dim enough for shadows to stretch a little too long in the fading light.

Dipper Pines tugged at the straps of his backpack as he and Mabel passed by. He felt it before he saw it. That weird sensation. The kind that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. A presence. Someone was standing there, watching.

Then he saw him.

A tall figure leaned against the alley wall, partially hidden in shadow. His clothes were dull, faded, and old-looking—somewhere between "homeless drifter" and "ghost of a 19th-century train conductor." A plain white mask covered his face, completely featureless except for the subtle shape of a bear’s snout. A slow trail of smoke curled from the cigarette in his gloved hand, the ember flaring softly in the evening light.

Dipper stopped in his tracks. His heart picked up speed.

Mabel, of course, had no such instinct for caution.

"Whoa! Cool mask, dude!" she exclaimed, marching right up to the stranger without hesitation. "Are you, like, a secret superhero? A professional hide-and-seek champion? OOH! Are you part of a super-secret underground masked wrestling league?"

Dipper flinched. "Mabel!" he hissed. "What are you doing? We don’t know who he is!"

The masked man tilted his head slightly at her approach, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. He exhaled through his nose, saying nothing at first.

Mabel, entirely unbothered by the silence, grinned up at him. "Sooo, what’s your name, Mystery Mask Man? Are you a tourist? A cryptid? Half-bear, half-human, raised by the woods?"

The man chuckled softly—a dry, low sound, like he hadn’t used his voice in a while.

"Something like that," he muttered. His voice was hoarse, worn, and exhausted, like someone who hadn’t slept in years.

Dipper eyed him warily. Up close, he noticed more details. The way the bandages wrapped around the visible parts of his skin. The way his fingers, covered in worn black gloves, twitched slightly—like he wasn’t used to standing still. And the way the air around him felt…off. Not like Bill Cipher off, but wrong in a different way. Like this man didn’t quite belong in the world the way normal people did.

Mabel was undeterred. "Well, my name's Mabel, and this is my twin brother Dipper! We live in the coolest, weirdest place in the universe! Have you been to the Mystery Shack yet? That’s where we live! If you like weird stuff, you’d love it—"

"Mabel," Dipper interrupted, voice tight, "maybe we shouldn’t tell the mysterious alleyway guy where we live."

Michael took another slow drag from his cigarette. He flicked the ash to the ground and exhaled, regarding Dipper with something almost amused.

"Smart kid," he murmured.

Dipper narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"Michael."

It was simple. No last name. No explanation. Just Michael.

Dipper studied him for another moment, his mind running a million miles an hour. The mask. The gloves. The weird air around him. His instinct screamed mystery. And Dipper Pines couldn’t leave a mystery unsolved.

"Well, Michael," Dipper said slowly, crossing his arms, "what exactly are you doing here in Gravity Falls?"

Michael didn’t answer right away. He exhaled another slow stream of smoke before finally murmuring:

"Hiding."

The word lingered in the air, heavier than it should have been.

Dipper tensed. Hiding? From what? Or worse—who?

Mabel, however, just gasped dramatically. "OH MY GOSH. ARE YOU A SECRET AGENT? Are bad guys after you? Is it ninjas? Evil robots? A government conspiracy?!"

Michael let out a dry chuckle again, shaking his head slightly. "Something like that," he said, the words almost too quiet to hear.

Dipper’s gut twisted. This wasn’t normal. Something about this guy felt dangerous, but not in the usual Gravity Falls way. No neon-colored demon tricks. No ancient prophecy vibes. Just… something broken. Something human, but not quite.

And suddenly, Dipper was more determined than ever to find out exactly who—or what—Michael really was.

Michael let the cigarette burn down to the filter before dropping it and grinding it out under his boot. He didn't reach for another one right away. Just stood there, quiet, watching them.

Mabel, ever the unstoppable force of chaos and kindness, clapped her hands together. "Welp! You’re cool, you’re mysterious, and you’re clearly hiding from something super intense. That means you should totally come with us to the Mystery Shack!"

Dipper whirled toward her. "What?! Mabel, no! We are not bringing some random alleyway guy home with us!"

Mabel turned on her best puppy-dog eyes. "But Diiiipp—"

"Mabel."

She pouted. "Come on! He’s clearly down on his luck! Look at him—he’s wearing, like, ten-year-old clothes and hanging out in a creepy alley like some kind of haunted cowboy! Doesn’t that scream ‘needs a friend’ to you?"

Dipper glanced at Michael. He didn’t look like he needed a friend. He looked like he needed a hospital. Or maybe a priest. But most of all, he looked like he needed to be left alone.

Michael exhaled slowly, shifting his weight. "I don’t think that’s a good idea," he muttered.

"Why not?" Mabel asked.

Michael hesitated. He could have said a lot of things. He could have said I don’t trust people, or It’s not safe, or You don’t want me around. But instead, he just said, "I don’t exactly… fit in with normal people."

Mabel gasped. "Neither do we!" She grabbed Dipper’s arm and shook him. "Dipper, he’s one of us!"

Dipper frowned. "One of us usually means wacky paranormal entity or town cryptid. He’s just… I don’t know what he is, but I still don’t think—"

Michael cut in, his voice low and flat. "You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t plan on sticking around long."

And that was the part he almost kept hidden. The words just slipped out, but he knew Dipper caught it. Don’t plan on sticking around long.

Because he didn’t have anywhere to go.

Because staying in one place for too long was dangerous.

Because if his father caught up to him…

Dipper narrowed his eyes. "Wait… you don’t actually have a place to stay, do you?"

Michael didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch. He just stared at Dipper through that blank white mask, silent.

Dipper’s stomach twisted.

Mabel, oblivious to the weight of the silence, gasped dramatically. "OH MY GOSH. YOU’RE TOTALLY A WANDERING LONER WITH A TRAGIC PAST, AREN’T YOU?" She threw an arm around his shoulder (well, as far as she could reach). "Dude. You have to come with us. We literally live in a tourist trap full of weirdos, scammers, and people on the run from the government. You’ll fit right in!"

Michael exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Weirdos, scammers, and people on the run?" He let out a dry chuckle. "Sounds about right."

Dipper ran a hand down his face. "Mabel. Seriously. We don’t even know him!"

Mabel spun around dramatically, pointing both fingers at Michael. "Michael! Do you promise you’re not, like, a murderer or anything?"

Michael went completely still.

Dipper froze.

Mabel blinked.

The silence stretched.

Michael finally let out a slow, almost tired sigh. "No," he murmured. "I’m not."

Mabel gave Dipper a thumbs-up. "See? He’s fine."

Dipper’s eye twitched. "Mabel, that was not reassuring—"

Michael shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Look, kid. I don’t need charity. I’ll be fine."

"You say that," Mabel countered, crossing her arms, "but you also look like you haven’t eaten a good meal in ten years and might literally be held together by duct tape."

Michael huffed softly. It might have been a laugh.

Mabel grinned. "C’mon, man! Free food! Free bed! Free endless opportunities to have wacky hijinks with me and my nerdy brother!"

Michael tilted his head toward Dipper. "Nerdy brother?"

"Hey!" Dipper snapped. "Not helping!"

Mabel gasped. "That wasn’t a no!" She turned back to Michael with a triumphant grin. "See? You do wanna come with us!"

Michael exhaled again. Stared at her for a long moment.

Finally, he muttered, "If I come with you, will you drop this conversation?"

"YES!" Mabel beamed. "Pack your bags, Dipper, we got a new roommate!"

Dipper groaned, running both hands down his face. "Fine. But if he murders us in our sleep, I’m blaming you."

Mabel patted Michael’s arm. "Ignore him, he warms up to people eventually. Mostly. Kinda. Anyway, let’s go!"

Michael shook his head slightly but didn’t argue. He just rolled his shoulders again, took a slow breath, and followed them out of the alleyway.

He still wasn’t sure if this was a mistake.

But for now…

He had somewhere to go.

And that was enough.

The moment they stepped inside the Mystery Shack, Michael felt it.

The atmosphere in the place was weird—not in a supernatural way (though there was definitely something off about it), but in a lived-in way. It was cluttered, dusty, full of knickknacks and scam merchandise. The smell of old wood, faint cigar smoke, and something fried lingered in the air.

But most importantly, there was a man.

Michael knew the type immediately.

Older. Rough around the edges. Ex-con, probably. The kind of guy who’d been in enough fights to know how to win them. A scar over one eye. Thick hands built for either throwing a punch or running a scam. The kind of man who, in another life, might have reminded him of his father.

Michael had to fight the instinct to shrink away.

Mabel, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, practically skipped forward, throwing her arms wide, "Grunkle Staaaan! We brought home a stray!"

Stan Pines was seated behind the counter, counting a stack of cash. He looked up over his glasses, blinking at Michael. His expression didn’t shift, but his posture did—just slightly. His shoulders straightened.

Dipper, still eyeing Michael warily, muttered, "We didn’t bring him home. Mabel invited him. I just… didn’t win the argument."

Stan snorted, setting the cash aside. He gave Michael a slow, assessing look, "That right?"

Michael met his gaze and immediately regretted it.

There was something sharp in Stan’s expression—something calculating. The kind of look that could take a person apart in seconds, find every weak spot, and pick them clean. Michael had seen con men before. Hell, he'd learned from the best of them.

Stan wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. Just watching. Waiting.

Michael stayed perfectly still.

Mabel, completely missing the tension, grinned and gestured to Michael like he was a prize on a game show. "Stan, meet Michael! Michael, meet Stan! He’s basically the king of this place! He’s kind of grumpy, but he’s super cool and sometimes gives us money for helping around the shop!"

Stan made a vague grunt of acknowledgement but didn’t take his eyes off Michael, "Michael, huh?"

Michael didn’t respond right away. His gut was telling him something very, very clear:

This guy doesn’t trust me.

And, honestly?

Michael didn’t blame him.

He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight, "Yeah."

Stan leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin, "And what exactly brings ya to Gravity Falls?"

Michael hesitated. The truth was not an option.

"Passing through," he muttered. It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

Stan gave a slow nod, like he was considering something. Then he turned to Mabel and Dipper. "Alright, kids. How ‘bout you go grab some Pitt Sodas for everyone? My treat."

Mabel gasped, "Wait—are you bribing us with soda so you can have a ‘Grunkle Stan Secret Adult Conversation’ with Michael?"

Stan gave her an exaggeratedly innocent look, "Would I do that?"

Mabel narrowed her eyes, "Yes."

"…Yeah, okay, I would. But the soda’s still free."

Mabel considered. Then she gasped, "Ooh! Dibs on the strawberry flavor!"

Dipper looked between Stan and Michael, clearly torn, but ultimately sighed, "Fine. But don’t kill him while we’re gone."

Stan smirked, "No promises."

Dipper frowned harder, but Mabel had already grabbed his arm and started dragging him away, "Come on, nerd! Free soda!"

Michael didn’t move until the door shut behind them.

Then it was just him and Stan.

Stan sighed, pushing himself up from his seat with a groan, "Alright, listen, pal," he started, cracking his knuckles as he approached the counter, "I don’t know you. Don’t know what your deal is. But I do know that my niece has a bad habit of dragging in every sad-eyed stray that crosses her path. Most of ‘em? Good people. Some of ‘em? Not so much."

Michael swallowed. His shoulders stiffened.

Stan placed both hands on the counter and leaned in slightly. His voice dropped, lower and far more serious, "Now, I ain't sayin' you’re one of the bad ones. But just in case you are, let me make somethin’ real clear."

Michael went completely still.

Stan didn’t blink. Didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t smile.

"You hurt my family, even a little bit, and they will never find where I buried the body."

Michael's fingers twitched.

He knew it wasn’t a bluff. Stan Pines wasn’t some small-time thug. He wasn’t a brute, either. No, Michael knew exactly what kind of man Stan was.

Stan was the kind of man who’d survived things.

The kind of man who’d done things he didn’t talk about.

The kind of man who had lost people before—and refused to let it happen again.

Michael could handle threats. He’d been threatened before. Hell, his own father had done worse than threaten him. But something about Stan’s words, his tone, the sheer certainty behind them—

Michael flinched.

It was small. Barely anything. Just a tiny, involuntary movement. But it was there.

And Stan noticed.

Michael gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay still. He hated that reaction. Hated that his body still did it even after everything.

Stan didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looked at him. And suddenly, something shifted in his expression.

The suspicion didn’t disappear, but something else flickered through his eyes. A realization.

Michael wasn’t just some sketchy drifter.

Michael was scared.

Stan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. His posture relaxed slightly, but his tone was still firm, "You got problems, kid?"

Michael hesitated, "I don’t want any trouble," he muttered.

Stan snorted, "Yeah, well, trouble’s kinda the brand around here."

Silence.

Then, softer:

"You ain’t dangerous, are ya?"

Michael hesitated again. Then he shook his head, "Not to them."

Stan studied him for another long moment before exhaling sharply, "Good."

The door creaked open.

Mabel and Dipper burst back in, Mabel holding three bottles of Pitt Soda like trophies, "We're back! No murders happened, right?"

Stan leaned back and smirked, "Nah. Just some friendly chitchat."

Michael straightened, exhaling slowly. His hands were still clenched in his pockets. He didn’t fully relax. Didn’t smile.

But he had survived the conversation.

And, for now, that would have to be enough.

[fanficfactory333]

Broken Mask (Pyro TF2 AU) (3k Words)

The fluorescent lights in the briefing room hummed as Miss Pauling’s stern voice filled the space. The room, sparse and utilitarian, buzzed with the tension of a high-stakes mission. Seated around a scarred metal table, the RED team mercenaries shifted in their seats. Each carried the weight of countless battles and a personal code of honor in their eyes—even if that honor was buried beneath layers of sarcasm and grit.

Miss Pauling stood at the head of the table, her posture unyielding as she began, “Listen up, everyone. Today’s mission is unlike any other. We’ve received intel that William Graham, a man deeply enmeshed in the underground criminal network, is holed up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Graham isn’t just any target—he’s heavily guarded and has his fingers in many illicit pies. His influence spans everything from high-stakes gambling rings to violent street brawls. Your objective is simple: infiltrate the warehouse, locate Graham, and eliminate him.”

She paused, letting her words settle over the room. “I want small teams to work independently. Stay covert. Use the chaos of that den of vice to your advantage. We don’t need a firefight until we’ve secured our target. And remember: this isn’t just a hit. It’s a decisive blow against the criminal underworld that’s been allowed to fester for far too long.”

As the mercs exchanged wary glances and murmured agreements, one figure was notably absent. Pyro, who typically preferred to let actions speak over words, had not yet arrived.

 Miss Pauling’s eyes briefly softened with a mixture of annoyance and resigned understanding, “Pyro,” she added with a slight exasperation, “I trust you’ll catch up soon. Don’t lose track on your way.”

By the time Pyro finally ambled through the door—late, as usual—the debrief was nearly over. Despite the tardiness, Pyro’s reputation for unwavering performance meant that Miss Pauling quickly dismissed any concern, “Fine,” she said with clipped finality, “Just remember, you’re on the same mission. Don’t stray too far off course.” With that, the briefing ended, and the team prepared to mobilize.

—

Under the twilight sky, a battered company van rumbled down a deserted highway. The city’s neon glow faded into the distance as the van approached the mission site—a notorious warehouse known to be a melting pot of criminals, outcasts, and opportunists. 

Inside the van, the atmosphere was a mix of silent focus and casual banter. Soldier’s booming laughter contrasted sharply with the measured glances of Engineer, Heavy’s quiet musings, and the almost absent-minded doodling of Demoman on a scrap of paper.

Miss Pauling drove with precision, her eyes fixed on the road while issuing terse instructions over the intercom, “Keep your comms clear and your eyes open. The warehouse is a hotbed for all kinds of miscreants. Our intel says that the target uses the chaos to hide in plain sight. I want every detail logged, and I expect swift extraction once the target is down.”

The mercenaries exchanged remarks about the unpredictability of the underground scene. Pyro, sitting quietly in the back, rarely participated in such discussions—preferring to focus on the mission with a singular, almost robotic determination. Yet beneath that stoic exterior, an inexplicable knot of anxiety began to form in Pyro’s chest, one they could not yet explain.

The journey felt never-ending. The team passed through sprawling suburbs, industrial wastelands, and eventually a cluster of derelict buildings that framed the horizon. 

Finally, the van pulled up outside a looming structure—a once-grand warehouse now reduced to crumbling walls, shattered windows, and layers of urban graffiti that whispered secrets of forgotten glories. This was the den of vice that housed the criminal elite.

—

Miss Pauling stepped out of the van and surveyed the area with the cool detachment of a seasoned commander. 

“Listen up,” she instructed over the radio, her voice slicing through the ambient noise of the city’s underbelly, “We’re here. I’m dropping you off at the west entrance. Get in, move discreetly, and remember: no unnecessary attention.”

The RED team dispersed into small, coordinated groups. Their uniforms and hardened expressions allowed them to blend in with the motley crowd that frequented the warehouse.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of sweat, stale alcohol, and a pervasive, grimy decay. Neon lights flickered sporadically, illuminating a scene that looked like a cross between a high-stakes casino and a derelict carnival.

The warehouse was a world unto itself—a sprawling labyrinth of makeshift stalls, gambling tables laden with chipped poker chips, and corners where desperate deals were struck in hushed, urgent whispers. The richest criminals sat at ornate tables, their opulent attire clashing with the rough, unkempt attire of the poor who mingled among them. It was a surreal mix of wealth and destitution, order and chaos.

Soldier barked orders as he led his group through the crowd, his authoritative tone cutting through the ambient clamor, “Spread out, keep your eyes peeled for anyone matching Graham’s description. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.” 

Engineer adjusted his portable turret as Demoman scanned the periphery, ensuring there were no ambushes waiting in the shadows.

—

Within the maze-like corridors of the warehouse, every step carried a sense of cautious urgency. The mercs moved with practiced precision, communicating in terse whispers and subtle gestures. They were hunters in a den of vipers, each one aware that the slightest misstep could spell disaster.

Groups split off into smaller teams. One team navigated the gambling floor, their eyes darting between faces and faces contorted by greed or desperation. Another team patrolled the fringes near the makeshift bars, where illicit deals were made over clinking glasses. Amidst the organized chaos, Pyro’s group was conspicuously absent—having slipped away from the designated rendezvous point.

For reasons Pyro could barely comprehend, an overwhelming sense of dread tugged at their subconscious. Despite missing the full debrief—only receiving a brief physical description during the ride—Pyro felt an instinctual warning that something was amiss. The vague description of the target did little to quell the rising tide of anxiety, and before long, Pyro found themselves drawn away from the group.

—

As Pyro moved through the dimly lit corridors of the warehouse, the cacophony of gambling and brawling faded into a muted background hum. Every shadow seemed to whisper secrets, every flickering light hinting at hidden dangers. The smell of stale sweat and spilled alcohol was replaced by the acrid tang of fear and foreboding.

Pyro’s mind raced with disjointed memories and feelings they had long tried to bury. There was an intangible pull—a haunting echo from a past shrouded in pain. The details were blurry, but the raw emotion was unmistakable. Their steps grew slower, each footfall measured and hesitant, until they reached a narrow passageway that led to a back room of the warehouse.

This room was different. It was less crowded, the din of voices replaced by an oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides. The air here was heavy, saturated with the scent of decay and something far more sinister. Pyro’s heart pounded in their chest.

Without warning, as Pyro rounded a corner, a solitary figure stepped from the shadows. 

It was William Graham. 

The man exuded an aura of cold menace, his eyes scanning the room with a calculated precision that sent chills down Pyro’s spine. 

Graham’s presence was commanding, his posture relaxed yet undeniably dangerous—a predator in his element.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Pyro’s instincts screamed a warning, and their heart pounded so loudly it felt as if it might burst from their chest. 

They tried to take a step back, to blend into the darkness, but their body betrayed them. Graham’s eyes locked onto Pyro, and in that charged instant, recognition passed between them—a recognition laden with years of unspoken torment and deep-seated fear.

—

William Graham’s lips curled into a sinister smile as he took a deliberate step closer, “Well, well,” he said softly, his voice dripping with a mixture of amusement and malice, “It seems fate has a peculiar way of reuniting old acquaintances.”

Pyro froze, unable to tear their eyes away from the man who had haunted their nightmares. The memories surged forth, unbidden and overwhelming—images of a small and terrified figure in a dark room, the relentless cruelty, the endless torment. 

Graham had been the architect of those horrors, a man whose twisted amusement was built on the suffering of an innocent soul.

Before Pyro could process the flood of emotions, Graham lunged forward with a speed that belied his age. 

In one swift, brutal motion, he grabbed Pyro by the shoulder. The impact sent a jolt of pain through Pyro’s body, and they instinctively clutched at the fabric of their jacket. 

In an act that seemed both deliberate and callous, Graham tore off Pyro’s gas mask with a force that rendered any escape impossible.

The removal of the mask was a moment that shattered years of anonymity and enforced secrecy. 

The mercenaries—so used to the ever-present barrier of Pyro’s mask—had never witnessed what lay beneath. And now, in the dim light of the warehouse’s back room, the truth was laid bare.

Underneath the familiar façade was a face that appeared almost spectral in its pallor. Pyro’s short, messy hair had turned an eerie shade of snow-white—a stark contrast to the dark, tumultuous memories that caused it. Their skin, pale and unblemished by sun, yet marred by deep, jagged scars, told a story of agony and survival. Gray eyes, wide with terror and sorrow, stared back from behind the remnants of the mask. It was a visage born not of age, but of relentless stress and the horrors inflicted by one man’s cruelty.

Graham’s eyes gleamed with a twisted satisfaction as he took in the sight, “So, you thought you could outrun your past?” he sneered, his voice a low murmur of venom, “I see that time has not softened the terror in your eyes.” With his other hand, he casually produced a gun, aiming it directly at the exposed face of Pyro.

The seconds stretched into an eternity. The chaos of the warehouse—the laughter, the brawls, the clatter of gambling chips—faded into a distant murmur. All that existed in that moment was the raw, unfiltered confrontation between a tormented soul and the embodiment of their nightmares.

—

In the tense standoff that followed, Pyro’s mind reeled with conflicting emotions. The man before them was not merely a target for the mission; he was a living reminder of a childhood spent in terror. Graham’s presence was a cruel mirror, reflecting back every moment of pain and abuse that had once defined Pyro’s existence.

Memories flooded back—years of captivity, the sadistic games, and the endless torment designed purely for Graham’s amusement. Those dark days had forged Pyro into the mercenary they were now, scarred both physically and emotionally, yet determined to survive. But as Graham’s cold, unyielding gaze bore into them, that hard-won resolve wavered.

Pyro’s voice, usually muffled behind the silence of the mask, cracked under the weight of their fear. They struggled to find words, to muster the courage to speak, but the sound that emerged was little more than a strangled whisper, “W-why…?” was all that managed to escape before Graham’s grip tightened further, his fingers digging into Pyro’s flesh.

“You never forgot,” Graham hissed, his tone laced with bitter irony, “I see that the scars run deeper than your feeble attempts to hide behind that mask,” His eyes danced with malicious glee as he slowly circled Pyro, each step deliberate, savoring the moment of their reunion.

In that confined space, the world outside seemed to cease its existence. The echo of distant shouts and the clamor of the warehouse had no bearing on the grim tableau unfolding in the shadows.

 Pyro’s mind, however, raced with plans of escape and retaliation. Every instinct screamed at them to fight back, to never allow the past to reclaim its hold. Yet, the paralyzing grip of fear—a fear reserved for the one person they had vowed never to show weakness before—rendered them momentarily immobile.

Graham’s pistol raised, trained on Pyro, the cold metal a stark reminder of the danger that now loomed over them, “I’ve come for more than just answers, haven’t I?” he murmured, “I’ve come for retribution. For you owe me a debt that can never be repaid.”

As Pyro’s thoughts churned in a storm of terror and defiance, somewhere deep inside, a spark of resistance began to flicker. 

The memories of endless battles with the RED team, of overcoming insurmountable odds, mingled with the raw pain of their past. The realization dawned that they were not merely a victim in this twisted narrative—they were a warrior, scarred but unbroken, who had fought against overwhelming odds to carve out a place in a world that had once deemed them disposable.

The internal struggle was palpable, a battle waged within the confines of a single, vulnerable heart. Pyro’s eyes, now unshielded and raw with emotion, locked with Graham’s in a silent exchange that spoke volumes. There was fear, yes, but also a determination that had been honed through years of survival. In that moment, the mercenary’s soul wavered on the knife’s edge between surrender and resistance.

“Not today,” Pyro managed to whisper, the words heavy with the weight of defiance. Their hand trembled, inching toward the concealed weapon at their side—a move born of instinct and sheer will. The slightest shift in posture, the smallest sign of resistance, was all it would take to ignite the spark of rebellion against the man who had haunted their past.

Graham’s smirk deepened as he sensed the internal turmoil, “You always did have a fighting spirit,” he taunted, “But remember, little one, some debts are eternal. I will always be here to remind you of who you truly are.”

—

At that precise moment, the distant sounds of the warehouse’s chaotic life began to surge back into focus. 

Unbeknownst to Pyro and Graham, the rest of the RED team had been meticulously combing through the sprawling criminal den in search of their target. 

Their radios crackled with updates—Soldier’s booming commands, Engineer’s measured reports, and the occasional remark from Demoman—until one urgent voice broke through the static.

“Pyro, report!” Soldier barked into the comm, his tone laced with both authority and concern.

For an agonizing second, the only sound was the relentless beating of Pyro’s heart. 

The memories of a past drenched in pain warred with the urgency of the present. In that suspended moment, Pyro’s internal battle reached its crescendo. 

With a newfound resolve that belied the terror in their eyes, they knew that this confrontation was not just about survival—it was about reclaiming their identity, their dignity, and the future they had fought so hard to build.

“Soldier,” Pyro managed, their voice steadier now despite the quaver of lingering fear, “I’m… I’m in position,” The words, though halting, carried the weight of a promise—an unspoken vow to no longer be defined by the horrors of the past.

Graham’s eyes flickered with disdain as he realized that the standoff was no longer a private vendetta. 

“So, the game has changed,” he murmured, “Some friends of yours are coming, aren’t they?”

Before Graham could react further, the distant sound of heavy footsteps and tactical chatter grew louder. 

The RED team was converging on the location, their presence a beacon of hope and solidarity. In that moment, as the sound of approaching reinforcements echoed through the warehouse, the balance of power teetered on a knife’s edge.

With a surge of adrenaline, Pyro made their move. 

Summoning every ounce of strength and defiance, they lunged for their concealed weapon. In the ensuing chaos—a flurry of shouts, gunfire, rapid footsteps, and the metallic click of weapons being drawn—the confrontation erupted into a chaotic dance of violence and redemption.

Graham, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden unity of the RED team, fumbled with his gun. 

Soldier’s booming voice cut through the tension as he commanded, “Take him down, now!” 

Engineer’s turrets whirred to life in the background, providing cover fire as Heavy and Demoman moved in with practiced precision.

Caught between the onslaught of his former victim and the coordinated assault of the mercenaries, Graham’s facade of invincibility began to crumble. 

For Pyro, every second was a battle against the haunting memories of a past that had once defined them. Every scar on their face, every tremor in their hand, was a testament to the cruelty they had endured—and a reminder that they were now more than the sum of those wounds.

—

As the confrontation reached its climax, the warehouse’s chaotic symphony of violence faded into a surreal silence. Graham lay subdued, his threats and taunts reduced to whispers in the dark. The RED team quickly secured the area, their eyes scanning the periphery to ensure that no further danger lurked in the shadows.

Miss Pauling’s voice crackled over the comm as she arrived on the scene. 

“Report,” she demanded, her tone measured and unwavering. Soldier stepped forward, his gaze hard as he detailed the events that had just transpired. “We’ve neutralized the target, ma’am. Pyro engaged him directly—and there was a personal element involved. But we’ve contained the situation.”

In the midst of the controlled chaos, Pyro stood apart, their breathing ragged as they tried to steady themselves. The raw vulnerability of that moment—having their secret past exposed to their comrades—was both terrifying and liberating. They had faced the ghost of their youth, and in doing so, had begun to reclaim a part of themselves long thought lost.

As the team gathered to debrief and secure the scene, whispers of concern and curiosity passed between the mercs. Never before had anyone seen Pyro without the familiar, impassive mask. The revelation was startling—a glimpse into a soul marred by years of suffering and hard-fought survival. Yet, beneath the scars and the haunted eyes was a determination that had carried them through every battle, every hardship.

Miss Pauling, ever the professional, quickly assessed the situation. “We’re getting you medical attention and debriefed, Pyro,” she assured, her tone softer now, tinged with empathy that only those who truly understood loss could muster. “Your past is your own. But remember, here you’re one of us. We protect our own.”

The words resonated with Pyro as they felt a small measure of relief—a promise that, for the first time, their vulnerabilities were met with understanding rather than judgment. The warehouse, with its lingering stench of vice and decay, had borne witness to a personal reckoning that transcended the usual chaos of the mercenary life.

In the days that followed, as the RED team debriefed and regrouped, Pyro found themselves reflecting on the confrontation. The scars on their face, both physical and emotional, were now part of a larger story—a narrative of survival, resistance, and the painful, yet necessary, journey toward healing. The mission to eliminate William Graham was a success in tactical terms, but it also opened a deeper wound—a chasm of memories that Pyro would have to face head-on.

Yet, within that pain lay the seeds of transformation. Pyro began to share fragments of their past in quiet moments with trusted teammates, piecing together the puzzle of a life marred by cruelty and the resilience it took to overcome it. The RED team, bound by loyalty and the unspoken understanding of battle, rallied around Pyro. In their camaraderie, there was the promise that no secret, however dark, would remain unacknowledged or unhealed.

[fanficfactory333]

Masterpost! <3

Stanley and the Narrator in the Backrooms

Warnings: Backrooms typical gore/violence, Stanarrator shipfic

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

TF2

Broken Mask

My personal original Pyro headcannon/AU (3k words, oneshot)

FNAF X Gravity Falls

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 !!TW!! $elf-h@rm (non-explicit)

Chapter 9 (Same TW as Prev.)

Chapter 10

Poking the Bear

FNAF VHS X Security Breach (Glammike) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

[fanficfactory333]

Stanley and the Narrator in the Backrooms

Chapter 10: Finale

The square was lively.

Bustling.

A strange, impossible blend of past, future, and things that never should have coexisted.

Stanley sat on the bench, silent, watching it all with a vague sense of disconnection.

The tall woman with skin like rich earth and thick dreadlocks tied back strode through the square with purpose, a weathered scythe in one hand, using it like a walking stick.

The massive pack of wheat and barley slung across her shoulders should have been too heavy to carry alone, but she moved effortlessly, like it was just another part of her.

She vanished into a back entrance of a nearby building, disappearing from sight.

Stanley barely had time to process that before something else caught his eye.

Nearby, a blonde man sat in a wheelchair, hammering away at a piece of metal, sparks flying in controlled bursts.

Not struggling.

Not limited.

Just working.

And then, in stark contrast, there were the two exhausted women trying to wrangle their three hyperactive children.

The kids darted around, laughing, weaving through the crowd, absolutely unconcerned by their mothers’ obvious frustration.

It was a lot.

Too much, almost.

Stanley wasn’t used to this.

He had grown accustomed to one voice. One presence.

The constant, familiar push and pull of his dynamic with the Narrator.

Now there were so many people.

So many voices, so many lives intersecting in a place that should have been impossible.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just watched.

And thought.

He didn’t even realize how long he had been sitting there, lost in his own head, until—

A gentle nudge against his shoulder.

“Stanley?”

His head snapped up, blinking like he had just been shaken from a deep sleep.

The Narrator was watching him, unreadable but not unkind.

Stanley inhaled sharply, grounding himself back in reality.

“…Yeah?”

The Narrator studied him for a moment before tilting his head toward the buildings.

“We should probably get something to eat.”

Stanley blinked.

Right.

Food.

That was a normal thing people did here.

His gaze flickered toward the building the woman with the grain had entered.

“You think that place is a bakery?”

“Only one way to find out.”

—

The inside wasn’t what they expected.

It was a bakery, sure, but instead of a cozy, traditional setup, it looked like a repurposed bank.

The old teller counters had been stripped of their plexiglass, and the room was filled with a mismatched mix of chairs, sofas, and stools, clustered around assorted tables.

But it wasn’t the layout that stood out the most—

It was the machinery.

Whirring gears, scrappy, hand-built contraptions, all working in perfect harmony despite their cobbled-together nature.

And in the center of it all, the woman from before—

Loading grain into a large processing machine, cranking the handle to give it momentum before letting it turn on its own.

Stanley watched in fascination, almost forgetting why they had come in the first place.

Then the woman turned, saw them standing there, and smiled.

“Well, look at you two.”

She stepped away from the machine, dusting off her hands.

Now that they saw her up close, she was even more impressive—

Broad-shouldered, strong, carrying herself with the effortless ease of someone who could take down a threat without hesitation but had no desire to start a fight.

She set her hands on her hips. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Stanley huffed a tired chuckle. “That obvious, huh?”

“Sug, it’s written all over you.”

She gave them a once-over, eyes sharp but not unkind.

Then, she reached behind the counter and grabbed a loaf of bread, tearing it in half and offering one piece to each of them.

“On the house. You look like you could use it.”

Stanley stared at it for a second, almost suspicious of the kindness.

Then, slowly—he took it.

“…Thanks.”

The Narrator accepted his half with a nod, but no words.

The woman just grinned.

“Name’s Sheila. Welcome to the city.”

—

The two of them sat by the window, the warm scent of freshly baked bread filling the air.

Outside, the city square was as lively as ever, but in here, it was quiet—or at least, as quiet as it was going to get.

Stanley hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until he started eating.

His stomach ached from how empty it had been, and each bite of bread felt like a luxury.

They had been through so much.

But somehow, they were here.

Alive. Safe. Resting in a bakery like normal people.

And that was exactly why he finally decided to say it.

“What are we even looking for?”

The words hung in the air.

The Narrator didn’t react immediately.

Didn’t even look up from where he was breaking off another piece of bread.

But Stanley saw the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.

He saw the way his fingers hesitated before continuing with their usual calculated movements.

Stanley leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

“I mean it.” His voice was steady. Serious. “What do we actually want?”

A beat.

Then, finally—the Narrator exhaled slowly.

His cold gray eyes flicked toward the window, watching the people pass by.

His voice was quieter than usual when he finally spoke.

“We were looking for an exit.”

Stanley scoffed, shaking his head.

“Yeah. That’s what we said. But do you still think there even is one?”

The Narrator didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Stanley huffed a small, humorless laugh.

“I don’t think there is.”

The Narrator’s gaze finally landed back on him.

Stanley met his stare head-on, unwavering.

“And honestly?” He gestured vaguely at the city around them. “I think this is better.”

The Narrator’s jaw tightened.

Stanley leaned forward.

“Better than looping the same building over and over. Better than walking the same halls a million different ways.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“Better than the Parable.”

The Narrator exhaled sharply. “You say that so easily.”

“Because it is.”

“To you, maybe.”

There was something icy in the Narrator’s voice.

Something tightly controlled, but just barely.

Stanley narrowed his eyes slightly.

“You really think I’m wrong?”

A long pause.

Then—finally, reluctantly—

“…No.”

Stanley’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Because he knew the Narrator didn’t like the Parable either.

It had been endless. Empty. A world of choices that never mattered, of paths that always reset.

But the Narrator had been in control.

And that was the problem.

Stanley leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Is it really worth it?”

The Narrator blinked.

Stanley pressed on.

“Being powerful. Having control. Is it worth it if it makes your life worse?”

The Narrator tensed.

Stanley’s voice softened.

“Is it worth it if it made you miserable?”

The Narrator’s fingers tightened slightly around the crust of his bread, but otherwise, he didn’t move.

Stanley watched him carefully.

Because deep down, he knew—

The Narrator was afraid.

Afraid of admitting he had no control anymore.

Afraid of what that meant.

And more than anything—afraid of letting go.

So Stanley sighed, running a hand through his hair before offering him an out.

“…You don’t have to answer that now.”

The Narrator’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Stanley glanced back out the window, watching the world move around them.

“Just think about it.”

For once, the Narrator didn’t argue.

—

The Narrator was silent for a long time.

Not just a few seconds. Minutes.

Long enough for Stanley to shift slightly in his seat, side-eyeing him, but not pushing for a response.

Because something was happening.

Something inside him was cracking.

The Narrator’s mind was a battleground.

A war between everything he had known, everything he had been, and the simple, undeniable truth sitting across from him.

He cared about Stanley.

Not just as a concept. Not as a character.

As a person.

A real, tangible person.

Someone who had fought beside him, argued with him, suffered through this nightmare of a world with him.

Someone who had saved him.

Again. And again.

And if he really, truly admitted it—

Stanley wasn’t the only one who had changed.

The Narrator had, too.

That should have been impossible.

He was meant to be static. A voice. A guide. A force beyond it all.

He had spent so long believing that.

Believing that his place was above it all, observing, pulling the strings.

And yet, here he was.

Sitting in a bakery. Eating bread. Debating the future not as an omnipotent force, but as a man.

A man who was realizing—perhaps too late—that his goal of returning to the Parable had never really been about what was best for him.

It was about control.

About clinging to something familiar because the unknown terrified him.

But if he went back…

If he forced them to return to that empty, looping existence…

He would be forcing Stanley back into it, too.

And that was what finally settled it.

Because at some point—without meaning to, without realizing it—

Stanley had become more important than the Parable.

And nothing he could say would change that.

The Narrator exhaled slowly, finally lifting his gaze to meet Stanley’s.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, measured, and painfully honest.

“…I don’t know if I want to go back.”

Stanley blinked.

A flicker of surprise, a slight widening of the eyes.

Because for all his pushing, for all his arguments, he hadn’t actually expected the Narrator to say it.

Not this soon.

Not out loud.

But the Narrator wasn’t done.

His fingers twitched slightly on the table, but his face remained composed.

“I thought I did. I thought…” He trailed off for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line before continuing.

“…I thought I had to.”

Stanley swallowed. “Because that’s all you’ve ever known.”

A long pause.

Then—a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Stanley exhaled through his nose, studying him carefully.

Then, voice quieter—“And now?”

The Narrator hesitated.

And that alone was an answer.

For once, he didn’t have some clever retort.

Didn’t have a defense.

Because any argument he could make would be a lie.

Finally, he sighed.

“…Now, I don’t know anymore.”

Stanley smiled.

Just a little.

Because that?

That was progress.

—

The apartment was quiet.

Not the eerie, uncertain silence of an empty world, nor the tense quiet of two people waiting for the next disaster to strike.

This was something else.

Something soft.

Something safe.

The dim glow from the window cast long shadows across the floor, stretching toward the couch where they sat.

Stanley was leaning into him.

Not much—just enough to feel the weight of him there.

Just enough to make the Narrator painfully aware of the warmth between them, the solid presence of another person who had been there beside him through everything.

He wasn’t sure how long they had been sitting like this.

Minutes? Hours?

It didn’t matter.

Stanley had started out sitting normally, but at some point, he had slumped slightly, exhaustion dragging him down inch by inch until he was pressing against the Narrator’s side.

And the Narrator—

Well.

He hadn’t moved away.

He should have.

Or at least, that’s what his mind kept telling him.

But instead, he was still here, thinking.

Reconsidering everything.

The Parable. The Backrooms. The path forward.

And, above all—Stanley.

Stanley, who had once been just a wandering figure in a meaningless loop.

Stanley, who had challenged him, frustrated him, defied his expectations again and again.

Stanley, who was so much more than the simple pawn he had once been.

Stanley, who was right here.

And the Narrator was so damn tired of hesitating.

So, for the first time, he took a risk.

Slowly—hesitantly, carefully—he lifted a hand.

He could feel his own pulse in his fingertips.

And then, in a single movement—he reached over and wrapped his arms around Stanley.

Stanley tensed for a moment.

A slight, surprised inhale.

The Narrator could feel it—the shift, the moment where Stanley registered what was happening.

But then, just as quickly, he relaxed.

His body settled into the touch, as if he had already decided it wasn’t worth fighting it.

“…You good?” he mumbled, voice heavy with drowsiness.

The Narrator let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“I don’t know.”

Stanley made a small, content noise, shifting slightly before leaning into him more fully.

And the Narrator—who had spent so long keeping distance, keeping walls up, keeping himself detached—let himself hold him closer.

Let himself be human.

Sleep came easily after that.

For once, neither of them had to face the night alone.

[fanficfactory333]

Stanley and the Narrator in the Backrooms Chapter 9: Level 11.

The shift between levels was instant.

One moment, they were walking through the vast, open fields of Level 10—sky gray and unchanging, wheat stretching endlessly in every direction.

The next—

Concrete beneath their feet.

The golden horizon was gone, replaced by towering skyscrapers, endless streets, and the unmistakable hum of a city that wasn’t real.

Stanley stopped in his tracks, blinking up at the skyline above them.

“…What the hell?”

It was a city.

A massive, sprawling city.

More real than it should be.

The roads stretched in every direction, sidewalks lined with street lamps, bus stops, and empty storefronts.

The buildings were familiar, yet wrong—

Some stacked on top of each other, some floating just slightly above the ground, some clipping into themselves like a broken simulation.

There were no people.

No moving cars.

No sounds except for the distant, unplaceable hum of something just out of reach.

The Narrator stepped forward, scanning the area with cold, assessing eyes.

“Level 11.”

Stanley dragged a hand down his face. “I hate when you say it like that.”

The Narrator hummed. “Would you prefer I not name our current location?”

“I’d prefer if our current location wasn’t a cursed version of New York.”

The Narrator tilted his head, glancing at one of the taller buildings in the distance.

“…It is unsettling.”

Stanley shot him a look. “That’s putting it mildly.”

He turned in a slow circle, trying to take in the sheer scale of it.

After so long in tight, confined spaces, after so much time in endless hallways and unnatural corridors, this was almost too much.

Not because it was claustrophobic—

But because it felt too normal.

Too much like home.

And that was the worst part.

Because it wasn’t.

It never would be.

Stanley swallowed hard, gripping his crowbar a little tighter.

“…So. What’s the plan?”

The Narrator adjusted his coat.

“We move.”

Stanley sighed. “Yeah, figured.”

—

For the first time in what felt like forever, food and water were not a problem.

After scouring the city’s abandoned storefronts, vending machines, and eerily well-stocked convenience stores, they had managed to gather more supplies than they had ever been able to before.

Almond Water was everywhere—bottled, chilled in commercial freezers, even pouring from water fountains in the scattered parks.

And food?

Well, it wasn’t fresh, but it was plentiful.

Canned goods, dry snacks, energy bars—things that shouldn’t have been so readily available in a place with no signs of active life.

Stanley sat on the curb of an empty street, rolling a can of soup between his hands as he stared at the quiet city around them.

“…I don’t get it,” he muttered, half to himself.

The Narrator, who had been reading the label of a suspiciously generic granola bar, barely glanced at him.

“What don’t you get?”

Stanley gestured around them.

“This place. It’s… fine.”

The Narrator hummed. “Define ‘fine.’”

Stanley exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s safe. It has food, water, shelter. No immediate threats. No monsters hiding in the walls.”

He looked at the rows of clean, intact buildings, the eerily normal cityscape.

“…Why haven’t we seen any other people?”

The Narrator adjusted his coat, gaze flicking toward the empty roads, the lifeless windows of the surrounding skyscrapers.

His expression was unreadable.

“…Maybe we just haven’t reached them yet.”

Stanley frowned but didn’t argue.

Because, as unsettling as it was, that was a real possibility.

And he was about to find out just how real when they turned the corner.

Because that was when they found them.

Not monsters.

Not entities.

But people.

The first sign of life came in the form of voices.

Distant at first, but undeniable.

Not just one or two.

Dozens.

Then came the movement—the first glimpses of figures walking between buildings, carrying bags, sitting on benches, talking like this was just… normal.

And then—a marketplace.

Right there in the middle of the city.

Tables and makeshift stands had been set up along the street, displaying supplies, handmade goods, even warm food.

Stanley stopped in his tracks.

His brain struggled to process what he was looking at.

People.

Real, actual people.

Not faceless, not mutated, not wandering like ghosts.

These people were living here.

Not just surviving.

Living.

Stanley’s breath caught in his throat.

The Narrator, standing beside him, didn’t speak.

But his silence was tense.

Because this?

This changed everything.

They had spent so long moving, so long searching for an exit that may or may not exist.

But these people… had stopped.

They had built a home here.

And now, the real question was—

Why shouldn’t they do the same?

—

Stanley had seen a lot of weird things in the Backrooms.

But this?

This was new.

The city square was alive.

Not just occupied—alive.

People bustled through the streets, chatting, haggling over goods at market stalls, lounging at café tables like this was just another day in an ordinary city.

And yet, none of them were ordinary.

There were people who looked like they had stepped out of an old black-and-white film, their skin gray, their clothing monochrome, moving with an almost unnatural smoothness.

Others looked like storybook characters, their garments stitched from times long past—flowing cloaks, medieval tunics, even a few in elaborate Victorian-era dress.

And then—the opposite.

People who looked like they had walked straight out of the far future.

Some wore sleek, reflective bodysuits; others had holographic devices floating in front of them, beaming unreadable alien text into the air.

Stanley stared.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

Two young children ran by, giggling as they chased each other, weaving effortlessly between the wandering crowds.

Laughter.

It had been so long since he had heard actual laughter.

The sight of it was almost too much to process.

The Narrator stood beside him, arms crossed, gaze sweeping over the city square with quiet intensity.

Not hostile.

Not suspicious.

But calculating.

Because this wasn’t just some settlement.

This was a society.

A full, functioning community, thriving in a world that wasn’t real.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Stanley felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.

Something that was not fear.

Not exhaustion.

Not desperation.

But something almost like hope.

—

Stanley had just begun to process the sheer impossibility of everything in front of him when a voice cut through the city noise.

“Howdy there, fellas. Y’all look lost—everything alright?”

Stanley turned toward the sound and—

Okay. That was not what he was expecting.

The man who approached them looked like he had walked straight out of a Western.

Tall and lean, with dark red hair and pale skin, he moved with the easy confidence of someone who had seen his fair share of trouble and knew how to handle it.

His worn black cowboy boots clicked softly against the pavement, and his brown eyes were sharp, observant, but not unfriendly.

He kept a respectful distance, hands relaxed at his sides, making it clear he wasn’t looking for a fight.

Stanley blinked.

Now that was a change of pace.

Not only were there people here, but apparently, some of them were helpful.

Stanley glanced at the Narrator, half-expecting him to be his usual dismissive, distrusting self.

But the man in the trench coat didn’t immediately scoff or brush the stranger off.

He was watching the cowboy carefully, as if still trying to decipher whether or not he was a threat.

Stanley cleared his throat, shifting his crowbar from one hand to the other.

“…Uh. Yeah, we, uh—just got here,” he admitted, feeling strangely off balance.

It had been so long since someone had approached them with actual friendliness.

The cowboy nodded, like he had figured as much.

“I see. Well, welcome to Level 11.”

He tipped his hat slightly, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Y’all look like you’ve been through hell. Lucky for you, this place ain’t so bad.”

Stanley exhaled a short, breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah. We’ve had a long couple of days.”

The cowboy chuckled. “I can tell.”

Then his gaze flicked to the Narrator, who had yet to say a single word.

The cowboy raised an eyebrow. “And you? What do you make of all this?”

Stanley turned his head slightly, half-expecting the Narrator to offer some sarcastic remark.

But instead, the man in the trench coat simply adjusted his glasses and said,

“It’s… different.”

Which, coming from him, might as well have been an outright confession of shock.

The cowboy’s smile widened.

“Well, partner, that’s one way to put it.”

—

The cowboy—Morgan, as he soon introduced himself—was surprisingly casual about the whole thing.

Like this was just another day for him.

Like finding lost wanderers in an impossible city wasn’t out of the ordinary.

Stanley wasn’t sure if that was comforting or deeply unsettling.

Regardless, Morgan led them through the bustling streets, chatting as they passed people from all different times, places, and realities.

Until they reached a towering apartment building.

It wasn’t fancy—nothing like a modern high-rise—but it was solid, well-kept, and looked lived-in.

People moved through the halls with familiar ease, chatting, carrying bags, unlocking doors.

A real community.

Stanley swallowed hard, exchanging a glance with the Narrator, but the man in the trench coat gave no reaction, just followed quietly as Morgan led them up a few flights of stairs.

Finally, they reached a door near the end of the hall.

Morgan stopped and turned to them, nodding at the entrance.

“This one’s empty. Should do you just fine.”

Stanley blinked. “That’s… it? We just get a place?”

Morgan chuckled. “Ain’t like we’re hurting for space. City’s infinite. Plenty of rooms to go around.”

He stepped aside, gesturing to the small plaque on the door.

“All you gotta do is write a name on it. That way, people know it’s taken.”

Stanley hesitated.

It was such a simple thing—just writing a name.

But it felt… strange.

Like claiming something permanent in a place where nothing had ever been permanent before.

Morgan must have noticed the hesitation because he smiled easily and tipped his hat.

“Y’all don’t have to decide right away. Get settled first. Take your time.”

He took a step back, tilting his head slightly.

“I’ll be around if you need anything.”

With that, he left, boots clicking softly against the floor as he walked away, leaving them alone in front of their supposed new home.

—

Stanley didn’t open the door right away.

He just stood there, staring at it, arms crossed, processing everything.

“…This is weird.”

The Narrator exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

Stanley shot him a look. “That’s the second time you’ve agreed with me today.”

The Narrator adjusted his glasses. “Don’t get used to it.”

Stanley chuckled weakly before running a hand through his hair, his fingers twitching slightly from built-up nerves.

Then, after a long pause—

“Do we stay?”

The question lingered in the air, heavier than either of them expected.

They had been wandering endlessly, surviving by moving forward, never staying anywhere too long.

But here?

Here, there was no immediate danger.

No monsters hunting them.

No flickering emergency lights or death traps around every corner.

They could actually stop.

At least for a little while.

The Narrator leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable.

“You want to.”

Stanley hesitated. “I don’t know. I just… I’m tired.”

The Narrator didn’t respond right away.

Because, as much as he hated to admit it, so was he.

After a long moment, he sighed.

“We stay for now.”

Stanley looked at him, surprised. “Really? Just like that?”

The Narrator’s jaw tensed slightly, as if he didn’t quite like his own answer.

“…We’ll reassess later.”

Stanley gave him a lopsided smirk.

“So, basically, we stay but pretend it’s temporary?”

The Narrator rolled his eyes. “If it makes you feel better, yes.”

Stanley chuckled before reaching for the door handle.

“Alright, then. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

And with that, they stepped inside.

For the first time, into a place that might actually be theirs.

—

The apartment was simple.

Not fancy. Not extravagant. But functional.

A kitchen connected to a small living room, with an old but sturdy couch, a coffee table, and a window overlooking the quiet streets below.

A separate bedroom and a bathroom, both modestly furnished—just a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a shower that, hopefully, still worked.

It was… normal.

Unremarkable.

And yet, somehow, it still felt surreal.

Stanley wandered further inside, taking in the space with an odd sense of hesitation.

Because it kind of felt like he was finally moving in with—

—No.

Not like that.

Absolutely not like that.

Stanley shoved the thought away immediately, clearing his throat as if that would somehow erase it from existence.

Across the room, the Narrator had already claimed a section of the kitchen, quietly sorting through the contents of his pockets and stashing them away in drawers.

A pen. A few loose batteries. The remaining spool of makeshift cordage. The sewing kit from Level 9.

Things that suggested, on some level, he was actually considering staying.

Stanley barely noticed himself watching, his mind wandering as he absentmindedly leaned against the counter.

Because now that he had a moment to actually think, some things were becoming unavoidable.

He had never expected to rely on someone else this much.

Had never expected to survive this long with a man who, at first, had seemed so self-serving and detached.

But over time, things had shifted.

The Narrator wasn’t just some distant, untouchable force anymore.

He was real.

He got tired. He got hurt. He stitched fabric with precise, steady hands, and he had learned how to sew not because he wanted to, but because at some point, it had been necessary.

He was more human than he liked to admit.

And that was dangerous.

Because Stanley could feel it now—

That little shift in his own chest whenever the Narrator was near, whenever he let small moments of care slip through the cracks.

And for once, Stanley actually let himself accept it.

He liked him.

More than he probably should.

And the realization?

Didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

Not that he’d ever say anything.

No, absolutely not.

That would be disastrous.

Instead, he just exhaled slowly and glanced toward the window, letting his eyes follow the endless city streets below.

This place felt different.

Maybe, for once, they could actually stop running.

At least for a little while.