#the ash does not account for the LAYERS

[vespertin-y]

yknow i never understood the panic and horror at all those “this is how dirty your phone really is!!!” videos but i just cleaned one of my stim toys and. Ah.

[azzydoesstuff]

uhhhh lore drop much??????

when you take into account the fact that machines began being developed during WW1 in the ultrakill universe (there's evidence look it up) and, uh, whatever this is...

you start to consider that maybe the machines aren't "alive" because of their AI, but perhaps it was their flesh and blood. they weren't driven by artificial reasons, but by supernatural ones.

they're called "machines" and not "bots" or "droids" for a reason.

these aren't robots. they're essentially metal golems, risen from the blood of human beings. blood isn't fuel in the sense of going into an engine, it's fuel in the sense of flowing through veins.

this pretty much explains how so many machines managed to reach hell. sure, some just went there out of their own volition like v1 or v2, but pretty much almost all other machines we see ingame would be completely incapable of making it down there by themselves. things like drones or streetcleaners would get their asses absolutely rocked by some of the things we've had to fight on our journey into the depths, and yet we keep seeing them on the way there.

they're in hell because they were ALIVE. they had SOULS. they died and went to hell.

i think this was subtly implied by the earthmover terminal entry said that when the sun was covered by ash and soot, the earthmovers "died out" instead of just "shut down".

this also explains why the only machines we see in limbo are drones and streetcleaners. they're the only ones that weren't invented purely for destruction and chaos, and thus, the only ones capable of being morally "ambiguous".

it's also why we're only now seeing guttermen, guttertanks and earthmovers in the violence layer. they were machines invented purely for war and nothing else, of course they would've all had commited the sin of violence and therefore be damned to AT LEAST go to layer 7.

of course, this theory doesn't really hold up with more, uh, human layers, like greed or wrath. machines can't be greedy, they have no concept of money. machines can't be wrathful, they can't express anger.

the same can't be said for lust, though. mindflayers are the only new machines we see there, and uh, you can probably see what i mean just by looking at them. yeesh. their rather revealing forms are enough to offend the holy father and damn them to such a layer.

neither can it be said for gluttony. machines can very much be gluttonous, seeing how they obsess over wanting blood to fuel themselves so much, when in reality they could last a long time without having to refuel, yet they yearn for blood anyways. think about it. what is food, but fuel for humans?

just to make ends meet in this theory i've got going, i'm just gonna assume that hell does sometimes move machines around layers for the hell of it (pun absolutely intended lmao)

[emicat1159]

So I wanted to try out some creative writing with this new auuuuuu~ gave it a cool name, "Into Ashes", not too bad right? To start of I thought to write a few paragraphs about how the main three angels- Mike, Gabe, and Raph, are told that they are to travel to a different universe and see what's there. Maybe I'll have one or two others go with them, I dunno yet. Something simple like that as a little test, you could say.. I don't know what I'm doing honestly but hey! It's fun

Anyway, writing and art:

"Listen, my son. I have an important task for you and your brothers.

There exists a world which has been abandoned by its Lord.

Go to this world, Michael. See what can be salvaged"

The final words his father spoke to him echoed through Michael's mind as he descended through the highest Heavens down to where his brothers awaited him. The skies swirled with purple and blue hues, illuminated by the stars and the ophanim who held together the galaxies. A sight he wasn't privileged to often, his work within heaven rarely gave him any free time to explore their skies the way he could when he was younger. And yet, he still felt like a young child when lifted by father's hand, as if he never left his light all those millennia ago. He tries to not think too deeply about those times.

'A rare event' he thought to himself, 'father hasn't spoken to any of us in centuries' he straightened out his suit, still wearing it after returning from a mission down on earth, he hadn't had the time to change before being summoned to his father's throne.

'I might even be completely camouflaged against the colour of the heavens right now, perhaps they won't even notice my return' he thought, amused.

Passing through the golden gates that lead to the throne of his father and into the archangels' domain, the figures of the two younger angels appeared through the thick layers of cloud. Raphael, the fourth oldest of the angels welcomed his brother back with a warm smile, his halo glowing brightly behind his head. Gabriel- the third oldest- walked up to Michael, being the first to break the silence,

"I almost thought you'd never come back down to us!" He joked, absentmindedly twirling a lock of his long hair in his hand

'A nervous tic' Michael mused

"You were gone for quite a while" added Raphael

Gabriel began again, "so... what does father want from us? It must be quite important if he asked to speak to you in person"

And so the eldest began his account of the events from the past few hours.

"We are to travel to another realm, a world that has been forsaken to ruin by its God and left to its own devices. He did not tell me what to expect, and really, this is the last thing I expected...." he trailed off, his expression perplexed, just what was his father's plan this time?

"Wh- huh? And.. how are we to get to this world?" Raphael's voice chimed in, bewilderment written all over his face. His short fluffy ears swaying as he turned his head to look back at the eldest.

"I... assume he will somehow transport us there once we are suitably prepared..?" He wasn't so sure in his answer, it wasn't unusual for his father's words to be vague. Regrettably, this is the one time Michael wishes they weren't. However, he was raised to trust in his God and His abilities.

To accept the way things are and not to question anything.

Gabriel spoke once more before turning to head back down to the lower levels of Heaven

"Well then.. no time like the present to get ourselves ready, right?"

[ask-philosophical-stars]

Heeeeyaaaa!!! ~~

Hi! Hi! Hello!! My name is Umabel!!!

It’s been a looong long time since I’ve properly been on social media (I believe My Space was really popular at the time? Is that website still around?), so I thought “Fuck it!” and jump right back into it!!! I know for a fact that Ash is going to protest that I shouldn’t be on social media, but what does he know??? If you don’t want me to be online, then you should stop causing discourse on Twitter all the time! Maybe I’ll just use this page to post the collection of stupid photos I have of him to give his avid followers some lovely reaction images to spam him with.

What do I like? Well I reaaally really like EDM, Hardstyle, and Electronica music, but I will aaaalways have a soft spot for the Beetles. I love astronomy, mathematics, and physics, but I also love making kandi in my spare time! I always say, there’s no such thing as too much color! And that’s just the top layer of icing, I’m not going to reveal all of my secrets out of the gate ;)

I’ve been on this Earth for a looooong long time, and I’ve certainly been around the world. I know Tumblr has this funky ask feature, so feel free to ask me anything!!! I like to think that I have plenty of “good” advice — and if the question is too hard I’ll just shove my phone into Ash’s hands instead >:3c

If my students happen to find my account: Hi!!! Please email me some cute pictures of cats or dessert recipes and let’s never bring this up again, okay? :P

[maybeelse]

it looks at them, and they look at it

(I'm not sure if I ever posted this one publicly; back when I still had a patreon it was there, but now ... well, here it is. 2.1k words of trauma and spiders)

Kids on one side of the glass, the spider on the other. There are three of them there on that sticky summer day, Grace and Florence and Ash, set adrift in the zoo's carefully curated expanse while their three sets of parents get drunk and reminisce about old times. They're all old enough to be left alone—and more than old enough to insist that they'd rather not have an older teen disinterestedly keeping an eye on them—but not old enough to be left to downtown's tender mercies. There are kidnappers about, everyone knows that! And worse things too, lurking in the shadows and blasted across every news channel lest anyone might forget that the world is a dangerous place.

And so: the zoo.

Tickets are more expensive than they used to be, on account of the fact that this zoo plays host not only to a wide variety of creatures cruelly plucked from the world's edge but also to a handful of things stolen from places beyond it. Like the spider. But it's educational, so their parents paid with a minimum of fuss. Florence and Grace have a bit of extra money for treats and (small) souvenirs; Ash does not. Her father is forgetful and her mother is dead, and the other two don't mind that she'll inevitably have to borrow some money that she'll never be able to pay back. They're friends, after all, as they stand there looking at the spider.

"It's really big," murmurs Florence, and when the other two are done tripping over themselves to say "that's what she said!" they agree: it really is big.

There's a plaque right next to the glass.

"Michelinie's Spider," it reads, "was retrieved from its home in a parallel earth by the heroic efforts of NPWA's 25th expedition team. It is named for its first known victim in the 22nd expedition team."

The plaque continues on at length, with detailed information about the spider (and the fact that it's not actually a spider in the sense that earthly spiders are. It just looks like one), but none of them have read that far.

"How many people do you think it killed?" asks Ash.

"Must be hundreds! Look at the size of those fangs!" Grace's bedroom is plastered with posters of alien fauna instead of ambiguously gendered pop stars. Sometimes her parents worry about her.

"And all those eyes ..."

It has far too many eyes, spread all across the chitinous expanse of its face and even spreading down onto the edges of its mandibles. Most of them are pitch-black orbs: two big soulful ones the size of the kids' heads ringed by layers of smaller, carefully spaced ones. But everywhere between them—everywhere else on its face—are other eyes. Irregularly placed, asymmetric, disturbingly human. Eyes that swivel in their sockets, eyes with delicate irises ringing their blown-out pupils and big green fields around dots so small that the kids can hardly see them, eyes that definitely, definitely don't belong on the spider's face. Eyes that stare with more intelligence than any alien beast should be allowed to have.

"It's so cool! You know that they think the extra eyes develop with age, right? The smaller ones that they killed didn't have any of them!"

"I don't like it," Ash says. "It's yucky."

"Can we go sit down? I feel weird."

"But just look at it! Do you think it's going to turn around? I want to see its spinnerets."

"I, I really—"

Florence is as curled up as she can get without lying down, hunched over, arms wrapped around her stomach. Making herself small. There's something squirming inside her as her stomach clenches and her bladder screams for mercy, something that she knows shouldn't be there, and all of the spider's many eyes are fixed on her—

She makes it halfway to the restroom before she throws up, a big splash of undigested candy-colors staining the concrete walkway and pooling against the lip of one of the zoo's many sunken enclosures. The rest of her retreat is punctuated with a series of smaller puddles, full of frothy yellows and greenish-blue specks. Ash follows after her, doing her best to help; other zoo-goers look on in disgust or sympathy.

Grace can't bear to step away from the spider, not yet, as its eyes swivel to look at her and its head tilts to the side just enough for her to notice. There's something about how it looks at her, as it sits there inside its glass cage: something that she can't get enough of.

Six years later, with the three of them on the cusp of adulthood, the NPWA is shut down and the portals it dug through reality's walls are destroyed. It's a terrible scandal. No one seems clear on exactly why it's a scandal, but it definitely is one. Everyone involved is embarrassed, disgraced, deeply regretful; the scope of resignations threatens to bring down the government.

The three of them don't really pay attention to that, though. They're too wrapped up in their own lives! Bright-eyed, barely legal, looking forward to all the promises the world seems to offer—Grace's acceptance to Stanford's xenobiology program, Ash's latest boyfriend's plans to spend a year backpacking across Europe, and Florence's ...

Florence hasn't had a good time of it.

She started pulling away from the others just a few months after the spider. Stopped talking to people in school, stopped wanting to go outside, started skipping school and wearing the sorts of clothing that one wears when they don't want to be seen. Just spends all day curled up in her dark bedroom, staring at who knows what on her desktop's flickering CRT and clogging up the phone lines.

Her parents don't know what to do about her. Neither do any of their friends, though they keep on suggesting increasingly contrived reasons to push the three of them together again. They were such good friends when they were just girls, you know? And maybe, just maybe, Grace and Ash could convince Florence to open up, right? It can't hurt to try.

It does.

There's just something wrong about Florence. The others can smell it (and smell her, musky-sweet and faintly dusty, a thick smell that pools in her room and lingers in their nostrils whenever they can't find the right excuse to avoid seeing her). She's not the sort of person that any upwardly-mobile young woman wants to be friends with, and definitely not the sort of person that they want anyone to know that they're friends with. They tell themselves it's tough love, but it's just toxic.

They don't stay in contact after Ash and Grace leave town.

Nine years after the zoo, and Grace is back home for a few weeks: one semester has just ended and her summer program (an internship at one of the few labs which was allowed to keep its old NPWA xenofauna samples) hasn't quite started. Her head's buzzing; she can't stop talking about how excited she is, about how frustrating it is that Stanford keeps on talking about eliminating its xenobiology program entirely, now that the creation of new portals is banned by international treaties. It's so unfair!

And then Ash is back too, coming off another bad breakup, kicked out of her new boyfriend's place and crawling back home to lick her wounds and wait for him to come back to his senses. She can't quite decide whether she's angry or moping or excited to share stories about her time overseas—the architecture! The food! The people! Everything just feels more real there, or perhaps less; it's where she was meant to be.

It's only natural that they'd meet up again, and from there it's only natural that they'd remember Florence—poor Flor, whatever did happen to her? Why did she, well ... why did she do that with herself? Surely it would be a good idea to drop in on her. Surely.

Their parents encourage it.

Florence isn't living with her parents any more. Something happened, probably, though no one seems to know exactly what and anyone who does know isn't telling.

"Do you really think we should?" asks Grace, sipping a mocha latte.

Ash sips her own drink absentmindedly, more concerned with glancing around the cafe than the taste. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see us. It'll be just like old times, I'm sure."

"She just sort of dropped off the face of the planet after we left, though. Maybe she doesn't want to see us ...?"

"We dropped her, Grace. And, look, if she doesn't want to then no harm done, we'll have tried."

It's an apartment building in one of the worse parts of town. The sort of place where people can't afford to own their own houses and landlords don't carry enough to make repairs and politicians pontificate about how urban decay is a disease eating at the heart of their communities, and there's the ugly truth waiting beneath all of those pretty justifications, isn't there? Dogwhistles thick enough to taste the fact that they've always been bullshit.

Florence is on the third floor. Easy to get to, even with the elevators out. The hallway to her door stinks just like she used to, thick with regret and broken promises.

Three knocks and two minutes later there's an eye at the peephole and a weary voice trickling out through the door's cracks. "What do you want?"

"Uh," Grace and Ash glance at each other, "we were told a friend lives here? Florence?"

"... Ash? Grace? why are you ..."

"We want to come see you! It's been absolutely ages," Ash lays it on far too thick, "and, well. Why not catch up? Since we're all in town."

"Oh. Sure, I guess."

It takes a long time for Florence to open the door. Too many deadlocks, too many keys. When she finally does they'd almost rather that she hadn't. She doesn't look well: a frail, spindly body swathed in layers of oversized dresses and hoodies, somehow seeming so much older than them. Deep, dark circles under her eyes, a rasp in her voice like something has gone wrong in her throat. Her gaze is dull, though it sharpens once she's ushered them inside and taken a few long drags from a badly rolled joint.

The room is badly lit, and the apartment has no interior doors: there's nothing separating the little bathroom or the bedroom's unlit mystery from the tatty little couch where Ash and Grace have no choice but to sit except for a few feet, so easily crossed. Grace's eyes keep on darting to that darkness; Ash tries to fill the room with conversation instead.

It doesn't really work. Hard to keep things light and friendly when, well ... so it doesn't last. Things get heavy.

"What happened, Flor? After that day at the zoo everything just seemed to—"

"We never went to the zoo."

"What? But we did, back in the summer before high school."

"No. We didn't. You two insisted that we had every time I tried to talk to you about it, every time I thought you might be able to understand."

Something shifts in the corner of the room, something with too many legs and too many eyes, but it's gone by the time Grace's eyes flick over to stare at it.

"But ... you threw up everywhere, remember? And then you cried in the restroom and we had to go find your parents to take you home early." Ash nudges Grace. "You remember, right?"

"Yeah, of course I do. How could I forget the Michelinie's Spider?"

"See? I don't—are you okay, Flor?"

She sighs. "Of course not, but my memory is fine. That happened, just ... not at the zoo. Your family always hated the zoo, Grace, why would they have sent you there?"

"They ... huh. It was a treat, wasn't it?"

"No," Florence shakes her head, "no, it really wasn't."

"So, what? You're telling us that we both invented everything we saw there?"

"Not everything, just—", something shifts in the darkness of the other room, large enough to make the building tremble. A dry, dusty smell fills the air. "... no, you should both leave. Please. You don't need to know. Just. Go home and forget this, okay? Forget me."

"But ..." Florence stands, and Ash reflexively stands with her; Grace is fixated on the darkness, but she stands too when Ash nudges her shoulder. She's still staring as Florence pushes them out the door, craning her neck to catch a last glimpse of the darkness as the door slams shut.

The last thing she sees is a face with too many eyes, all looking at her.

[noxcorvorum]

raphs mechanism either gives her enormous back problems or theres so much more of it under her skin that we dont see just so she has the musculature to support and move big metal wings

do the vocal cords actually connect to anything in tss neck or are they just shoved in there? honestly considering ts it could be either

nastyas also one of if not the physically strongest mechanism bc mercury is so heavy and shes gotta drag around so much of it, also considering shes an engineer, shes buff as HELL

she might also have heart/circulation problems bc her heart is pumping something its absolutely not designed for (and thats not even taking into account that mercury is very poisonous) does she just have like constant heart palpitations

also does she just look. monochromatic??? shes got no blood... shes got no red... shes just grey...

oh god i just googled it and apparently a gallon of mercury is about 113 pounds (51.26 kg). according to the red cross a 180 pound adult has around 1.5 gallons of blood. that is. so much weight in JUST BLOOD god damn

do ashess lungs and jonnys heart just have one setting/rhythm?? like do they automatically breathe/beat?? i mean his heart automatically beats but does it react to his emotions/surroundings? can they speed up/slow down? if they couldnt speed up that probably wouldnt be good for fights and stuff tho

is ashes just immune to airborne poisons now?

also whats the structure of their lungs? they kindof have to be able to expand unless theres some kind of weird vacuum in vacuum out situation?? ive been envisioning a situation with layers of plates that can slide towards and away from each other while breathing, but that would need to still be fastened to each other and some way to not catch on the flesh around the lungs, especially their heart bc oh god imagine the edges of 2 plates snag the heart in between them and you have suddenly lost breathing and heartbeat privileges

how does jonnys heart beat??? similar to ashess lungs?

mariuss arm canonically has like. roots?? throughout his body but like. is that replacing existing musculature or. does he just have more now. also is his arm sentient

guys we should talk about the mechanisms having health impacts both mental and physical bc of their mechanisms more

it's so fun and funky

like ivy realistically either has a REALLY STRONG NECK or cervical instability bc of metal brain

Jonny has got to have some *weird* chest pains including the fact that his veins and arteries are somehow connected to a metal heart????? imagine how fucked up having to fix said heart would be

Brian has a very obvious mental impact but like. I imagine he's also constantly understimulated physically bc of the whole metal thing- it's very unclear if he even has nerves

god nastyas mechanism would fuck up so many different things in her body it would be so cool. shes constantly dying from mercury poisoning? or at least mercury overdose even if mercury isn't fatal to her. blood is in every single part of your body. mercury does not transport oxygen well. it's so cool but so completely unfunctional

tldr I am autistic and hyperfixated on mechs and science

would love to hear others thoughts

[starry-skies-116]

GregEvan Character Analysis (FNAF Project Samsara AU)

This is like the whole compiled post of GregEvan's character analysis: TW warnings include PTSD, trauma, flashbacks, depression, nightmares, etc.

Enjoy my compiled rant about my mentally ill android/golem brunette vessel boy lol:

***

Prologue- Introduction:

Okay- I’ll go ahead and admit, for a literal child that’s appeared in his original human life in the minigames of FNAF 4, and then again in Security Breach in his reincarnated robotic vessel form (taking into account the GregEvan/GregBot theory), I went into depth on his character development a LOT within my interpretations of his backstory and personality, as well as crafting quotes for him and actions that he (in my AU) would do to further drive home his personality and character evolution and the transformation he undergoes with every bit of emotional grief and traumatic event he has to endure.

Taking into account the sticky notes in the Post-It note room and the messages written on them (go check out MatPat’s video on them for in-depth context), the broken glass in the parts and services room, most likely the actions of Gregory in a act of panic, hysteria and desperation out of pleading for his own life unsuccessfully (read all the parts of my fanfic “Software Instability” for more information on my AU), and the terse, apprehensive way he behaves throughout the beginning of the game, I think I have a solidly crafted character arc for my AU- for the universe of FNAF: Project Samsara.

What I like the most about Gregory is that he seems standoffish, blunt and rude for absolutely no reason at first- however, if you take into account his previous personality, the nightmares he endured, and the sheer amount of trauma he went through… one might actually feel pretty happy that he’s become this self-advocating and domineering over himself, despite the overly cautious attitude and survival mode being a bit of a stretch (but, again, very understandable).

He’s a teeny bit of a bitch, sure- but what I love about him is that he’s THAT BITCH. He is the BADDEST BITCH. He’s a certified badass- a child BAMF- and he’s earned that title with his blood, sweat and tears. 

Dude has layers. And, at least to me, he has so much potential and is so interesting- this is what I like about the GregEvan theory- it adds so much complexity and character development to the character of the crying child, Evan Afton.

Like, say what y'all will about Gregory, but I love him. He may be mentally a child, but he's a badass. Even in disgrace, even in failure and unimaginable pain and tragedy and strife and tumult, he does not shame himself- he never, ever, ever gives up, never stops fighting for what he believes in, never stops fighting to bring his goals and his dreams to fruition.

He's a certified BAMF, and not just because of his character development, his past life, his losses, his goals, his tragedies, or his nature as a golem/android physical vessel brought to life via extremely dark and questionable methods (my AU). I dunno, it's just impossible for me to hate him, in case y'all couldn't tell before. I love him, I just do.

I mean, did y'all see the way he kicked Chica in the garbage compactor? Savage. Literally- judgement has been passed, they didn't stand a chance. 10/10.

I wanted to do an analysis/headcanon post on him that may be updated and reblogged several times as time goes by because, well, God has favorites, even if he treats those favorites like shit someti- er, okay, fine: most of the time.

Here I present the character arc of our Patient Zero- from past to present, despair to hope, anguish to faith- once merely a victim, now reborn.

Evan and Gregory- two halves of the whole, reincarnated, reborn.

From old trees come new seeds that take root and give birth to new life- in the ashes, a beating heart is reborn, the flame undying- the soul burns brighter than the stars, alight forevermore.

Part 1- Origins:

Evan Cristopher Afton (The Crying Child) is born as the youngest son to the Afton Family sometime around 1972-1973, after Fredbear´s Family Diner was founded. Normally, his age range differs from six to ten, varying depending on the AU, and his place in the family ranges from youngest to middle child to even being fraternal twins with Elizabeth Afton.

In the universe of Project Samsara, Evan is ten, the Bite of ‘83 taking place around his eleventh birthday, which is why Gregory, the reincarnated “perfect” vessel, is created to look around eleven to twelve years old, and he is the middle child, being three to four years older than Elizabeth, and because of his age and pace of maturity within his place in his family, causing him to take on a more caring and open-minded, “maternal” disposition with Elizabeth.

Almost immediately, we see Evan’s personality and major character flaws. We are introduced to him in the minigames as timid and harmless- a quiet, meek and easily emotionally provoked and vulnerable child who easily believes what he sees lurking in the dark, most likely the result of a corrupted spiritual core via emotional stress or tension, or just a hyperactive imagination, something that a lot of children have. 

In the process of designing him, I didn’t want to give him bright blue or green eyes like Michael or Elizabeth had, like he has in so many AU´s- it would be the result of genetics inherited from their father or mother, sure, but those choices didn’t… sit well with me, somehow. So there I sat, testing unique eyes on him. 

Then, the idea to give him the compound eyes of an insect came to me- a recolouring of Kocho Shinobu’s eyes but with a natural color- a deep, dark brown, so rich and nebulous- so twilight dark it almost appears next-to black, reflecting glimmering specks of light in their wake. No pupils, just pure, unblinking eyes, wide and large, gentle and kind. Reflecting the universe, the celestial bodies of the heavens in their wake, shining with brilliance and curiosity about the universe, the forces larger than man, watching intently over life and growth and change, with every blink.

(I’m rambling about his eyes again, aren’t I.)

From then on I decided to make Evan, and consequently Gregory’s, entire appearance resemble that of someone with a demure, unassuming and outwardly “weak” demeanor- large, gentle and dark eyes, different than that of the bold, bright and piercing eyes of the rest of his family, a soothing and silvery voice, almost nectarous in nature and pleasant to listen to. Light and near-graceful footsteps being made even when he walks, highlighting the more cautious side of his personality: a small, short and weak stature- not malnutritioned in any way, but rather more lithe- petite and dainty, if one will exemplify further, almost as if such a body structure is meant to convey submissiveness.

Everything screams that of a meek, “cute” child, from his pale complexion, taking on the appearance of smooth, pearly white skin tinged with apricot and peach-colored blush here and there, his soft and youthful features, being characterized physically by full cheeks, rosy petal lips, high cheekbones, a cute button nose, somehow naturally curved lashes, not to mention somehow thick and perfectly trimmed brows- hell, even his hair is somehow pretty. It’s thick and voluminous, wavy and slightly tousled in style- dark chestnut brown in color, shimmering as his bangs fall over and frame his face with a piece conveniently falling in between his eyes.

I basically made him the type of boy that would’ve grown up to be ridiculously pretty as an adult. Excuse me while I go cry now because haha foreshadowing goes brrr.

The tragedy begins with the headcanon that he- that Evan- wasn’t always like this.

At first, he starts out at four years old as someone who is easygoing, calm and cheerful- articulate, intelligent and quite intellectually/emotionally mature for his age, evidenced by the way he would sometimes have deep conversations with his Fredbear plush. He starts out as someone who craves affection and gives it in return- someone who endlessly loves, trusts, respects and appreciates those around him. 

However, as the years go by, Evan becomes more and more anxious and internally stressed, as evidenced by the Sticky Note dialogue and his behavior throughout the minigames. As his family grows busier and busier with work and life, the more his home life grows tense.

Furthermore, the older he gets- the more he has to outwardly mature, and the more he has to focus on his perception of who the world wants him to be, and the more he has to take care of his younger sister. He begins to develop a version of empty-nest syndrome- every day, he secretly craves affection and validation- he craves to be emotionally, spiritually and physically vulnerable and helpless without someone hurting or humiliating him. Just for once, even if it’s only once- he wants to be selfish, childish and pampered, and he especially desires this from his older brother Michael- more on their relationship and how it evolves later.

The concept of chasing material pursuits- external glory- comes from his father, as well as the world around him- and rather than confronting his feelings and providing the proper self-care for confronting and pacifying said feelings… wouldn´t it be so much easier to bottle them up? To be what the world expects of you? To never feel your own pain again, and instead escape by feeling the pain of others?

***

I´ll offer you a bit of short worldbuilding context within this post to give more clarification on how souls work within my AU of FNAF:

Since the beginning of creation itself, all of life is born with a soul, evidenced by the real life explanation that all things containing cells are somehow biologically alive. Varying from lifeform to lifeform, all things have something in common, as they possess a life force that continues to keep their physical and organic components somehow alive, referred to via many names.

The entity itself has three components, most visibly common in humans:

The vessel

The soul

The shadow

All held together by this inexplicable life force that goes by many names varying upon the sources referred to.

The vessel, which serves the role its name suggests, and is exactly what its name suggests as well- the physical vessel that is a part of the entitaem, instead of the body just merely being something the soul loosely inhabits with no connection to the body whatsoever. The physical vessel contains the memories, personality, consciousness, spiritual core, heart, and most of the emotion (keyword being most), and is characterized by humanity, self-awareness, the unique personality the person possesses, a basic-to-complex array of emotional spectrums, and the retention of all five senses as a way to sustain the vessel, and by extension, the soul and the shadow.

 The soul, which departs from the body upon the death or “expiration” of the physical vessel. One historian comically dubbed and described organic bodies as having a “shelf life” varying depending on the lifeform in context, but the soul, as described by many, is eternal- being able to take on many forms, possess many things, and even have, to some extent, supernatural abilities if the entity in question is particularly powerful or spiritually potent.

The shadow, represented by the person’s past regrets, desires, and lingering emotions and sensations, often fueled by strong primal instincts instead of more “human” emotions, some examples being pleasure, pain, love, trust, fear, hatred and rage. Oftentimes they take the form of wraithlike, inky black creatures without any detail or form, only with visibly glowing white eyes, hence the name of “shadow” given to it. They can vary from anything, from butterflies to animals to vaguely human-like figures, to monstrous, vengeful and hostile approximations of tormented souls that have suffered particularly tragic and violent lives or deaths, the latter often belonging to souls that linger on the physical plane of existence- tormented spirits whom cannot find peace or rest due to unresolved conflicts and lingering wishes unattended to and disrespected.

In most theologies, the soul moves on to the afterlife once it has found peace, and it can only be found peace through some sort of ritual, as prehistoric humans have found, resulting in the human culture of immense respect and veneration for the dead. However, emotional muck from when the individual was alive can tend to impact their entire self.

In Evan´s case, it´s a plethora of things- horrible, saddening, harrowing and internalized things that build up on their own and eat away at him from the inside out with no one there to notice or take care of him, to validate him- and what makes it worse is that he has to deal with such things as a child building up inside of him, and he feels guilt for feeling and thinking such things, and for being spiritually corrupted with negative emotions. He has a good life, does he not? Why does he still feel sad? He shouldn´t feel sad, he doesn´t have a right to feel sad, does he?

(He doesn´t yet know. It´s never that simple, it never has been.)

Actively confronting the darker parts of yourself and accepting them, though it is a difficult and arduous journey that many people never bother to start, let alone complete, can reduce and even eliminate corruption within yourself. Moral of the story: don´t neglect your needs, physical, emotional or spiritual. Take care of yourself, please- because that´s what Evan failed to do, and that´s exactly what comes back to bite him every day without him even knowing fully about the existence of mental health and personal needs.

Focus on yourself before you can focus on others- forge your own identity and beliefs and stick to who you think you are- embrace all parts of yourself, even the ugliest, darkest parts, and take steadfast charge of yourself and your own destiny because it´s YOUR life, and YOUR rightful future- that´s the purpose of the existence of the soul, and Gregory/Evan´s character arc through what I´m trying to signify in the AU, primarily directed from my own beliefs drilled into my head as a kid- if you can´t stand, how can you help others stand?

***

Already, the gaping stomachs of his nightmares and their undeniably sharp teeth are what set off all the alarm bells in his brain- of course, he´s a child. Being tormented by them for four-to-five years of his life, as they sometimes showed up, sometimes didn´t- who wouldn´t be scared of them? Who wouldn´t be scared of their own internal struggles and insecurities, ignoring their needs due to personal weakness and heavy diffidence, so prominent that it weighs them down, locking their true selves away? 

Evan spends the final six out of all ten years of his first life actively running away from who he is- he´s scared of exposing his heart to the world, as if they´re going to hurt or break it, whoever ¨they¨ are. The nightmares are a perversive reflection of the internal struggles he faces. It is a culmination of the sentiments, unfulfilled desires and pain that corrupt his mind and soul. He runs away from the darkest corners of his thoughts when his body actively tries to warn him that this kind of fear, this kind of emotional withdrawal and willful self-torture isn´t healthy for him. Every night is a representation of how he feels, the worst parts of his sentiments worsening even more every day.

And the saddest part? Evan’s hope for his family and his future, and his willingness to trust others that formed the original basis of his childlike, carefree naivete that all children start out with was massacred at such a young age, and now, his faith and pride in himself is slowly diminishing- rotting away as he sinks further into his own despair, neglecting his own needs more and more, caused by the views of his family, his peers, his elders and the world around him morphing and distorting the way he sees himself, as well as pre-defined a set of strict expectations that he can’t seem to reach.

The only things that seem to be keeping him going is what the world expects him to be, and his pride and sense of adoration and love for his family. That’s not enough to sustain a person, much less a child.

And don’t even get me started on his growing sense of emptiness and personal loss caused by his perpetual soul dissociation as a result of neglecting his spiritual needs- that’s a persisting problem that plagues him even when he is reborn in his new robotic vessel and takes on the identity of Gregory.

He feels like everything is spiraling out of control. He doesn´t know his place in the world- he doesn´t know who he´s meant to be. He feels like he has no say, no power, no control over how his future, and the future of his family, unfolds due to his severe lack of confidence and, by extension, decreasing self-esteem, which is harrowing to watch.

The aspect of life he struggles with the most is duty, purpose. He grapples with destiny on a spiritual level constantly, not believing that his life is within his control. He is afraid of who he is, and he does not have enough faith in himself to empower himself to truly believe in himself- to try harder, become stronger, for the sake of not only those around him, but himself.

Evan is around seven when these thoughts truly begin to surface as a reaction to his environment- he is spiritually uneducated, young and still searching for an identity and his place in the world, so he is MASSIVELY underequipped at this time to deal with such premature emotional and spiritual urges to nurture and essentially pamper himself. He doesn’t ever know why he feels this way- he has a great life, right? 

So many other people have it worse… why is he being ungrateful all of a sudden? He has a pretty rich family, a nice neighborhood, and a great Uncle Henry alongside his “cousins” Charlie and Sammy. Food is on the table every day, a roof is above his head every night when he goes to sleep, school is going great, he loves his family and friends, everything is supposed to be fine! He’s supposed to be happy!

So why is this happening…? That is the question he wonders.

He tries every once in a while to confess this to his family, his father and mother and his siblings- now, don´t get me wrong, they´re not bad people or a bad family (William wasn´t truly bad at the time). They utterly, truly, deeply and really love him. But do you really think, with how busy and caught up with life they were at the time- William buried in his work, Eleanor taking care of Elizabeth, Michael navigating teenage life- that they were going to listen to him? Evan, the apparent ¨crybaby¨ of the family, who complains about Michael and his friends tormenting him, as well as the nightmares haunting him, every day? Would they, with their lifestyles practically orbiting around hustle culture, not once stopping to think about their own wellbeing and needs, listen to the needs of the middle child, bother to pay attention to his concerns?

There´s no doubt about it- he´s being denied validation and acceptance, and the resources needed to heal and maintain his happiness that he once had- he´s being denied support to actively take control of his life, to grow, mature, find his identity and take charge of his own decisions- his own destiny.

Evan everyday is being infantilized, pitied and patronized by his own family.

His family do love him, don´t get me wrong- not once have they neglected him… they just failed to properly understand what Evan was trying to convey, and consequently, they fail to understand the actual danger that ignoring his emotional and spiritual needs, as well as his corruption and contamination was doing to him. This is a symbolic representation of how refusing to confront your past- the ugliest and neediest parts of yourself, refusing to work on yourself and your growing maturity, and how the toxic need to remain ¨strong¨, can damage you further down the road- which is exactly what Evan did. 

As a result, he grows more emotionally and spiritually poisoned, and his previous repression and withdrawal starts to have serious consequences on him- he starts crying and bursting into tears more easily, becoming more susceptible to bouts of fear and hysteria- lashing out at Michael more often in response to his pranks, possessing a terse and distant attitude towards his father and mother, being forced to take on a maternal role for Elizabeth, not having any true friends besides his neighbors and the acquaintances he makes at school, and most of all… being trapped under the illusion that he´s inadequate- that he’s not good enough for his family. That´s the eventual conclusion that his mind prematurely comes to. And what makes it even worse is that due to his dwindling faith in his ability and himself as a human being, he never bothers to be proactive and cognizant about how he can improve upon himself, despite the deep-rooted desire to work on himself.

Wouldn’t it be so much easier, so much better, to fall into the label society gives you? To effectively become what the world thinks you are, and nothing more? Nothing deeper?

After all, why even bother trying to reach your full potential? Why bother trying to be braver- to be stronger, to be better, to be more than what those around you say you are when you´re not good enough to take control of your own life, your own destiny, when you´ll never be good enough to even start trying?

As a sort of coping mechanism, one that evolves into a habit, Evan starts listening to Elizabeth’s troubles as he takes care of her. On a general scale, this evolving empathy and desire to help comes in the form of easing the workloads and burdens of others, such as helping his mother with dishes and cooking because he feels the need to- so that he doesn´t feel like a whiny burden and a disappointment to the Afton family name. I feel the need to remind everyone that the surname of “Afton” as the founders of both Fredbear’s Family Diner and Fazbear Entertainment would be incredibly famous within the town of Hurricane, Utah, and eventually across all of the United States after the founding of Fazbear’s Entertainment (given the circumstances of the outside world and Security Breach’s location, the Pizzaplex), so already being placed in such a position was putting a lot of pressure on his shoulders.

Of course, every now and then, he feels compelled to confess about the nightmares and his feelings to Elizabeth, but he knew that not only would she brush it aside or not understand it due to her young age, but that would shatter the facade he so carefully constructed just for her. What kind of older brother burdens their younger siblings, especially their younger sisters, with their problems?

On top of this, he becomes an important figure in Elizabeth’s life- for example, he encourages Elizabeth´s confidence further and pushes her to show her gold stars she got on all her assignments to her father and he actively listens to her rant about Circus Baby. But he also listens to her problems and internal strife on her worst days, and displays his love for her, empathy for her struggles, and proves and demonstrates time and time again that he will always love her no matter who she is and who she wishes to become, and will always support her. Most importantly… that he will always believe in her.

He, as an older brother and the oft patronized and infantilized child of the family, tries to prove his maturity and self-worth via providing the support and affection to Elizabeth that his family failed to provide to him as soon as he got older. Keep in mind that he is still a child, so events such as these would scar him incredibly deep- deeper than he would like to realize.

We, in both the sticky notes and in the FNAF 4 minigames, also see a lot of dialogue about running away or hiding- these messages are written as if the writer is calculating and planning a sort of ‘escape route’, further highlighting Evan’s descent into fear of both himself and the nightmares that plague him, caused by spiritual corruption. 

By the time we see him ingame, five days before the party, his life had essentially become a living hellscape- his mind was physically sick, not working properly on an actual biological basis like how a normal human brain should. The nightmares could practically be considered hallucinations at this point, and his neglect of his own spiritual and emotional desires and needs have prolonged for so long that they’ve started impacting his physical body in noticeable ways, i.e. insomnia, severe anxiety, and panic attacks. 

His spiral has reached rock bottom- to drive the nail further into the coffin, he only has his Fredbear Plushie for comfort- Michael has begun to spend more time with his friends as they frequently ganged up on him to tease and bully and ridicule him more often than not, his father is practically engrossed in his work every day now that Fredbear’s Family Diner and Fazbear Entertainment has become especially popular, and his mother had already enough on her plate looking after their family’s needs as there were. 

He wanted nothing more than to hide- for the storm inside to silence itself, for it to be clear, cloudless skies littered with the stars again. There’s no way this possibly could get any worse.

…It gets worse, doesn’t it?

Of course, of course! Of course it gets worse- when it comes to FNAF, it always does!

Because even before Evan’s death and reincarnation, his spiritual corruption began to impact his relationships, especially that with his big brother Michael on both ends. And he never gets to fully dive into the reason, until later, as to why.

And that probably is one of his biggest regrets, more than anything- that they couldn’t be there for each other, that they couldn’t explore and deeply understand each other better than what their prejudice and hubris would allow them to, to bring their hearts close together like they should’ve done all those years ago.

That they couldn’t confront whatever was thrown their way together… like they promised on that stormy night all those years ago.

Part 2- Older Brother Issues:

You’ve heard of Daddy Issues, and you’ve heard of Mommy Issues. Now I think it’s well past time you get ready for older brother issues- specifically, Michael Afton issues.

When they were young, the relationship between these two were untainted- sincere and pure. Of course, they teased each other- like, a lot- Michael would steal Evan’s plushie, but he would always return it. He would lock Evan in his room or sneak inside to jumpscare him whenever he walked in, but he didn’t have that stupid Foxy Mask on back then- one key difference. Even then, Michael didn’t give two craps about whether Evan liked him or hated him back then, not even bothering to think about such things- for all he knew, the moment he locked eyes with his younger brother as a baby, he loved him- deeply, dearly, overwhelmingly, inexplicably- something awakened within him, an instinct he didn’t know he had- to preserve, to protect. 

They made a lot of promises between each other, shared countless secrets between each other, as many as the wonderful memories they had. The bond they possessed was deep, like a healthy mixture of a bond between siblings- brothers, and between a father and a son. They swore that they would be connected together forever, never growing apart.

However, as they all have learned the hard way- life tends to be complicated, more often than not.

Michael desired nothing more than for Evan to be proud of himself- to realize that he was a gift, existing as he was, for him to realize that the world was cruel and for him to defend himself, not accepting anything from those who desired to abuse his kindness and cheery demeanor (which ironically was lost as years went by).

He feared that he couldn’t defend his younger brother forever- the nightmares and spiritual corruption was something he surmounted to childish fears, something that further confirmed his troubles. Every day, their relationship began to become tainted and crumble apart further and further- fast forward to the years of 1980, and Evan is already way too deep into his spiral, and Michael has begun to distance himself from his father, and unintentionally, Evan, by spending time with his friends. Of course, he possesses a strong bond with them, and they’re good, supportive and close friends… but he is always tinged with guilt at the end of the day. Does he really hate his younger brother…? Does his younger brother hate him for lashing out at him so frequently? Is that why they argue… because he shows his true self in front of him?

And meanwhile, Evan is angry. He’s angry because of the love he still has for his brother, deep down amidst the neglected, blackened wasteland of a spiritual environment he has within him.

He resents the secrecy- the dishonesty, the lack of proper communication and proper self-care running in his family, the Aftons- painted as this picture-perfect neighborhood family to everyone around him, and meanwhile he despises such things with a burning passion because the smiles in the photo aren’t real. They’re hiding something.

He resents the stupid teenager things that Michael now keeps doing with his friends, things that continually and consistently patronize, disrespect and infantilize him- things that continually deny him of the validation, the acceptance and support of his own emotional and spiritual needs and the acknowledgement of the nightmares that continually plague him- the acceptance that he wants, craves and oh-so desperately NEEDS.

And yet, in all that time… Evan never really hated or even disliked Michael. Reasons for such things can vary, from refusal to let go of past memories and therefore past perceptions of his older brother, to a steadily deteriorating sense of self and an already low self-esteem disguised as humility, but even then, Evan always looks at Michael with so much pride and adoration glimmering in those eyes of his, always viewing him through rose-colored glasses and always looking up to him as a role-model to follow similar to how Elizabeth views both Michael and him. He wishes to actively seek out his love, approval and affection, but at the same time… even Michael’s mere presence imposes fear onto Evan- a fear of rejection, of humiliation, of being bullied or scared or teased again.

Evan feels as though Michael won’t accept him for who he is- he won’t see him in moments where he is true to his heart, emotional and vulnerable, and take care of him and love him nevertheless like he wants those around him to do with him.

Of course, he does get annoyed when his older brother bullies or makes fun of him with his friends, and he obviously retaliates and defends himself like any sane human being would. However, in moments when he renumerates and laments his relationship with Michael, you can see how much he truly respects, loves and admires the other. 

One of the things he despises is Michael actively seeking him out, using his status to assert dominance over his younger brother in order to bully him and get away with his actions with Evan being forced to dismiss it to his peers, his other sibling, and his parents as “normal older brother behavior”. Their conflict, when taking this into account, is largely one-sided- Evan only ever reacts in a hostile way whenever provoked, and, even though it goes against his best wishes, tries to avoid Michael whenever he can.

The kind of warped mindset that drives this sort of behavior could most likely be that Michael needs an outlet to take his anger out on, so he inclines proclivitively towards Evan as his punching bag since he sees himself as a superior and domineering figure over Evan’s currently timid and submissive personality- it is a warped, twisted kind of relationship driven by corrupted love and fear, with Michael internally wishing that Evan could simply “be braver and stop crying”, being blind to Evan’s internal struggles and being completely oblivious as to what is truly going on beneath the surface.

Then again, he’s not the only one to blame for his insensitivity… within Evan’s family, the Afton family, who wouldn’t be to blame for his first undoing before his rebirth?

Part 3- The Meaning of Pain:

I’ll go ahead and confess when I say that I find the nightmare animatronics absolutely horrifying. I mean, I’m average height, and these fuckers are already, like- what, a whole three feet taller than me? Poor Evan over here is only 4’5, and these stupid demon hallucinations are already out here looking like they can swallow me whole, let alone a terrified child like him.

(Please do not make fun of me /j, it took me two days to beat the final night of FNAF 4. I still possess the burning desire to sock Nightmare Fredbear in the nose in real life to further cement my hard-earned superiority over him.)

When I decided to further study into the appearance of the nightmare animatronics, the description of their physical appearance I found on the wiki page was quite interesting, and served as proper and thorough breakdown of what otherwise would be incomprehensible nightmare fuel:

“Most of the nightmare animatronics are featured with a deteriorated appearance with a big series of rips and holes all over, sporting a total of ten fingers with spike-like claws/nails, an excessive amount of long dangerously sharp teeth (found in both the structure of the animatronics and the endoskeletons), and small metallic eyes. Their endoskeleton heads look suspiciously similar to that of a human skull, with a line of indentations down their forehead (FNAF Wiki).”

This, in and of itself, is a clear sign that these animatronics were not made for Fazbear Pizzerias- couple that with their grotesquely sardonic and bloodthirsty behavior, reminiscent of that of feral beasts starving and scavenging for food, and boom- good luck sleeping for the rest of your nights.

Within the universe of Project Samsara, the nightmares possess erratic behavior- sometimes they show up, and sometimes they don’t. However, if one notices closely, this irregularity worsens the further Evan’s paranoia and hypervigilance heightens. When it comes to these nightmares, he’s no longer able to differentiate between hallucinations and dreams- nighttime becomes especially torturous for him as a result.

The whole thing is basically boss music faintly playing in the background while he can´t tell why it´s playing. Yeah, that´s certainly a way to live out your life, isn´t it?

While these hallucinations could be metaphorical for how the FNAF 4 tormentors, Michael and his friends Dorothy, Elijah and Andrew, bully and ridicule him in the real world- these nightmares are also a sign of severe and detrimental spiritual corruption. 

It’s absolutely critical, imperative that the soul is kept safe and healthy at all times, evolving at the pace at which the physical body does, to avert emergencies such as soul loss or to prevent the self from self-destructing upon physical death.

Consequently, his family and his friends don’t yet know the sheer, actual danger that these nightmares pose to Evan’s wellbeing and himself as a whole.

Nightmares in today´s culture are associated with deeper, more psychologically rooted fears that tend to cast a silent, barely noticeable shadow over the individual of whom they belong to- they are often a twisted reflection of darker thoughts and worries, partially inspired by day-to-day events taking place throughout daily life. If not handled properly and with care, these nightmares can escalate into hallucinations that tend to ¨bring to life¨ the deeper fears, negative sentiments of the individual- these thoughts can also evolve into a poisonous energy that can corrupt the soul, and the spiritual blood, the remnant (alternatively called ether or anima in ancient times) flowing through it. 

In the case of Evan, his nightmares have evolved into metaphysical, lucid hallucinations, and the remnant residing within his atman is corrupted and being rendered virtually useless due to the emotional muck inside, prevented from being cut off from spiritual and emotional support networks in order to properly mature.

You all may remember saying in one of my past posts that Evan posesses an extreme phobia of springlocks and the matrices of machinery in the animatronics, which appear to be heavily accentuated in the nightmares. On the other hand, the behavior of the nightmares and their laughs/taunts may be a reflection of how ruthless the FNAF 4 tormentors can be when they´re teasing him. 

They are a representation of Evan´s greatest fears- his origins, parts of his childhood that have been twisted and corrupted into a barely recognizable version of what they once were- he continually runs away, not only from his fears, but from his identity- he isn´t able to exactly grasp why this is happening to him, why he´s suffering such a crisis, why he’s so scared.

They are a culmination of his worst thoughts- not being good enough, being powerless and vulnerable, being in a position where people can easily hurt you, the fact that society will never let you grow, mature and change, that the world around you will forever infantilize and patronize you and never accept you… the fact that you will never take charge of your own destiny- never carve your own path, create your own future- the fact that you will never come to terms with your own identity… that you will figure out just who exactly you are, let alone accept it.

¨You´re never going to find inner peace. You´re never going to be more than what you are. You´re never going to be braver, stronger. You will never find yourself… be yourself. You will never be at peace with yourself- you will NEVER find peace.¨

This dilemma effectively places him into a situation where his unfulfilled and neglected spiritual and emotional needs and his desire to grow and mature and care for himself on these levels are conflicting, aggressively clashing, even, with his self-image and lack of self-worth, as well as the stereotypes and expectations the world and his family have imposed onto him by infantilizing him and patronizing him, whether it be through his parents dismissing his concerns or Michael and his friends bullying him about his ¨crybaby¨ nature. 

His kindness and desire to protect, empathize with and care for and help others are muffled as a result of this, and his carefree nature and ability to genuinely trust others are all but gone- sure, he still loves people endlessly, and he can still be charitable and generous, but none of those deeds possess any heart to them anymore. This is just how deep the scars have cut him. This is what his steadily declining life has done to him- this is how it ruined him.

Had he been emotionally damaged further, he probably would´ve developed a mental illness or two.

Not to mention the plethora of physical difficulties he’s already facing, including irregular sleeping patterns and forced insomnia as well as a fluctuating appetite and his explosive, poorly suppressed hysteria episodes and mood swings- both his mental and emotional state as well as his physical state would´ve deteriorated alongside the state of his spiritual health, the nightmares would´ve been giving him heart difficulties, seizures and panic attacks, his brain would´ve started to display symptoms of a failing body, such as frequent memory loss, excessive crying and mood swings, extreme physical weakness and fatigue, among other things- and eventually…

He would´ve self-destructed, resulting in premature death.

I feel the need to remind you that Evan is only ten years old?

And these nightmares are a metaphysical hallucination, a manifestation of his deepest, darkest fears, repeatedly telling him that he needs to STOP- that scraping the bottom of the barrel to sustain your basic physical needs isn´t enough, and that he needs to explore and confront himself and the expectations of the world around him in order to truly discover his identity. 

Compared to real life, having an identity crisis might not result in your health declining, but if it prolongs perpetually, it can result in severe mental illnesses developing.

Believing is seeing, after all. He believes these nightmares are real… so why wouldn’t they be real?

Maybe it is all in your head, maybe it isn´t, since the brain is a physical organ capable of becoming sick or breaking down like any other organ in the body- but it´s just as painful a cut or a bruise, and it can be just as dangerous if you leave the wound there, festering and waiting to be infected.

And that´s exactly what Evan does, and it bites him back so hard that he regrets everything. Yeah, I mean everything.

Part 4- The Flower Withers:

By the time we see Evan in the minigames, he has descended into a former shell of what he once was- he is tired of ignoring himself for so long, tired of being disrespected, of being ignored and infantilized and invalidated time and time again. 

His body is physically suffering, and his entire family is overlooking him and his symptoms of his spiritual and emotional negligence. His core´s metaphysical manifestation is a black, stormy wasteland of his own resurfacing fears, nightmares, self-doubt and negative thoughts- the spiritual blood, the remnant- the ether, flowing through him is utterly clogged with this emotional dirt and muck- his brain simply can’t work like it used to no matter how hard he wills himself to try, and the fog clouds his mind and judgement.

The smiles he gives to Elizabeth and to his mother are tired and lightless- the formalities he exercises with his father is just him going on autopilot and letting his body walk around the eggshells at this point- every interaction physically tires him whilst no one is there to see his mental deterioration. He can’t find the strength to actually reprimand Michael and his friends, so he just doesn’t care about the teasing anymore- why even bother when you probably deserve feeling these things, when you probably deserve being teased because of feeling such horrible feelings? 

Evan has been reduced down to his base instincts, his primal emotions by the time his birthday rolls around- he cries when sad, and smiles when happy, but even those emotions are less sincere than they were before. The happy and cheerful demeanor he puts around his family, and the calm, levelheaded one he puts around his elders, other relatives and acquaintances, are nothing more than elaborately constructed facades.

His life had devolved from this hopeful, imperfect and yet utopian paradise to, simply put, his own personal hell- all he feels is nothing but the emptiness that has been there since those years ago, when everything started to crumble, as well as the crushing sense of shame and guilt in who he is- the penetrating, overwhelming fear that had become what the world has now expected of him- what the world continually shamed him for, what he always falls into without fail, never bothering to subvert expectations or break this awful cycle.

So it is when Evan dies- when five whole years of disregard and disrespect rebound in on and crash straight into his family’s hearts- his family, who had just begun to wonder if they were loving him in the wrong ways… that his spirit refuses to bend, refuses to snuff itself out of existence- refuses to die.

And as a second chance being granted to Evan, partially because of William tampering with remnant and his remains in order to construct a new physical, cyborg-esque vessel for him- a new, reincarnated android body: and partially because of Evan’s own past regrets, as well as his own immutable willpower and love for his family, memories and past life, he has one thought on his mind: he doesn’t want to die- he can’t die.

And it is through these factors that he defies the cycle of life, death and reincarnation- the endless cycle of natural Samsara. His soul grants his wish to live- his wish so strong that it transcends lifetimes, transcends universes, is basically a desperate plea for salvation at this point… and it does this by triggering a last-ditch attempt. 

A failsafe.

Normally the consciousness and spiritual core are both wiped clean and eradicated/discarded upon a living being’s premature death, as seen with the Missing Children’s Incident victims. However, Evan’s case is different.

The consciousness and spiritual core start by detaching itself from the psyche, the soul and the heart, as well as the shadow temporarily disconnecting from each other, breaking the close-knit bonds formed between the two entities composing the self. When it comes to Evan, his new vessel also contains borrowed life force- remnant, also called ether, the part of the spiritual body that needs sustenance in the form of food and drink, like the physical body does. 

After the soul splits in two, like some sort of reverse-mitosis process, the memories, the personality, and the emotions associated with said memories are purposefully “corrupted”, or scrambled/garbled to prevent damage to the consciousness. They are then stored deep in the back of the mind, the process resembling what happens when an overworked computer resets and reboots.

Both the entities of the vessel and the spirit are finally reset and put into a sort of sleep mode to recover their power and energy. Meanwhile, the shadow continues to be tied to the physical realm, also put to sleep and wandering amidst the earth until the day when the vessel wakes up again.

When the physical vessel containing the consciousness finally possesses the energy required to reawaken, the mind must actively work in tandem with the body to recover the scrambled memories in order to remember their previous life and earthly attachments that kept them tethered to the plane of the living and mortal existence. 

New goals also begin to surface post-awakening as more and more memories begin to take hold, such as the goal of the physical reincarnated vessel to search for the spirit, as well as the shadow and any other possible remaining fragments and links to the past that may repair previously done damage.

Such a process can be extremely painful, and yet also liberating once it is done- the deep, dreamless slumber that Evan was thrown into for nearly sixty years whilst his new body still recovered, and as his soul began to possess Golden Freddy alongside Cassidy’s soul did wonders to his mental and spiritual state, slowly undoing and recovering from the corruption and emotional muck that was defiling those fragments of him.

Whilst the things tainting his soul are not fully eliminated by the time Gregory, the reincarnated vessel, awakens and sets out on his own to accomplish his determined goals, such a deep self-cleansing process was ultimately very necessary and inevitable- otherwise, all fragments of himself would’ve self-destructed, and he would’ve ceased to exist from this world altogether- he would’ve been truly dead.

So, now that that’s out of the way… now that he’s awoken from such a deep, half a century long sleep… he’s left wondering one thing, the feelings of unavoidable emptiness persisting still.

What is my purpose… my destiny? What was I created for?

…Who exactly am I?

Part 5- Starting Over:

Okay. The failsafe worked. Everything worked- everything went according to plan. The memories were encrypted and stored in the back of the mind for both safekeeping and later retrieval, and both separated segments went to sleep as a part of the reset sequence- the soul didn´t self-destruct. 

The consciousness and identity are present within the computer chip stored within Fredbear, which in turn is stored inside Gregory- the reincarnated robotic vessel meant to serve as the new body, while the formless spirit is stored within the Fredbear animatronic. Everything is okay, everything is fine.

So… what now?

Well… when Gregory awakens for the second time after the events of Software Instability, he is… confused, to say the least.

Memories have not yet begun to return to him, but questions are starting to surface to his head amidst the fuzziness and the pain: Who am I? What was I even built for in the first place?

Within this universe, Gregory is well aware of his true nature- that he´s not normal, that it would be dangerous if he met anyone and revealed his secret to them at that present moment.

Gregory at this point is lethargic, beginning to suffer the effects of exhaustion and starvation, even though he´s been asleep for nearly sixty years to recover his energy. There´s no food in the room, save for a few pieces of expired, wrapped up Sundrop candies and a disgustingly warm and overly carbonated bottle of Fizzy Faz- a serving of meager portions that he begrudgingly accepts as his meal. 

After eating, I like to think that he tries to explore, only to trip and unceremoniously fall into a wooden box filled with writing utensils, unlit candles and sticky notes. His consciousness hasn´t fully returned to him, some of his most crucial fragments still asleep in the back of his mind- he does not yet know how to read, write, or draw in normal alphabetic characters. 

And yet the first thing he does when he glances upon the myriad of strange supplies he falls into is take out a pastel-turquoise coloured sticky note, click the pen he now grasps in his hand, faintly feeling along it´s texture, and writes something, watching in fascination and awe as the ink carves itself into the paper, writing intricate characters of binary:

01110111 01101000 01111001 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101001

Translating to: ¨Why is I?”

As in the question of ¨Why am I alive? What was I created for? What, or who, am I meant to be?¨ Again, a recurring question that pops up in Gregory´s mind time and time again. He doesn´t know how to write like he used to, even though he doesn’t know how he used to be. And yet, he feels as though such things should be obvious to him, almost blatantly obvious. He´s frustrated- how bothersome! It is as though he knows, and yet he doesn´t. Why must some things be so obscure?

Either way, he is tired- thinking drains a lot more energy than he would expect or like, so he merely curls up, lies down, and goes to sleep. And for a couple of days, his daily routine remains the same as his first day trapped within the sticky note room. 

He behaves almost akin to a small, semi-docile animal holed away in its den. He hunts and scavenges for any food that may be hiding away in the safety of his sticky note room, sniffing out food, and he continues to sleep when he´s not scavenging in an effort to gather energy.

(No joke- in my AU this robot ate a decaying rat one day).

Gregory is confused, disoriented and scared- scared of why this is happening. He actively writes on other sticky notes over the days in crude, haphazard and barely legible binary strings- "Hide." "No Hide."

A depiction of a perfectly punctuated plan.

For the longest time, this is what seems like the life of Gregory- scavenge and hunt, eat, sleep, scribble occasionally on the notes in frustration after nothing comes to him, then rinse and repeat. 

That is, until he receives his first vision in the form of a lucid, psychedelic nightmare.

The smell of decay lingers on his nostrils. Every time he closes his eyes, there´s a strong sense of vertigo, as if he´s free-falling, perpetually adrift through a chasm of abyssal, infinite black steeped in the soft glow of the embers of twilight and dusk.

He recalls once more- he falls through darkness and flies through light- body aflame and alight, burning brighter the stars, the fire never going out.

An obelisk, a triad of birds encircling the top above as the clouds swirl at the tip, glistening and as sharp as the end of a sword. The black, impeccably smooth obsidian surface reflected obscure, cryptic hieroglyphs carved painstakingly into the surface, the surface prismic and iridescent with flecks of color visible on the cold metal.

A sarcophagus entombed deep within the ground, outside the reaches of the ever-changing world.

A once clear sky littered with the stars speckled across the countless celestial bodies spanning across heaven´s black, now clouded with storms and lightning. The water´s surface yet still remains serene as the thunder crackles in the distance- butterflies of pure light flutter around him as far as the eye can see, and seemingly luminescent lotus flowers tickle his toes as they float lazily atop the surface of the endless ocean, perfectly still.

The trinity of the triskelion tingles with a faint sensation of a perplexing, scalding heat, engraved on the back of his neck that he noticed just now. Beads of sweat form unto the back of his neck- not being able to tell the difference between artificial and real anymore, he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

Alone, slumbering in the space between now and forever, he drifts.

And that brings him to the question… why? What sort of cryptic imagery that made his heart ache and throb could possibly invoke such emotion, why were the past and futures he never bore witness to somehow in his mind?

He digs deeper- even though the effort tries to rip him apart, he continues to dig, shuffling around desperately in the back of his mind for an answer. He has to know, he NEEDS to know!

A few days of a bone-deep ache later, like hard coils of chains were wrapped tightly around his head trying to asphyxiate his brain, he finds something amidst the blackness of the mist enshrouding his mind.

The surroundings enshrouded in light- three figures smiling with joy and pride at the magical little thing below them, full of warmth and life, babbling its first breath into the waking world.

“Daddy?” a young boy speaks in a thick British accent- a voice some emotion was tied to. “Can we keep him?”

“He’s your brother, Michael,” an older, more smoother voice responds. “Of course we can keep him.”

The lights flash and distort- the colors invert, and Gregory is back in his room again- no longer feeling warm or full, how the memory made him feel. The loneliness and the frigid, gnawing sense of emptiness is eating him from within once more. He tilts his head. 

He feels the name roll around and off his lips, forming itself into existence from nothingness as it vibrated in his throat, echoing and cushioned in his mind by hazy fondness. “Mi…chael. Michael.”

Hm- how curious… as far as he knew, none of those mechanics were named Michael.

“Who’s… Michael?” the young, brunette robot boy stutters his thoughts aloud with what limited speaking ability he possesses at this point. Who could this strange ‘Michael’ character possibly be to him? As far as he knew, Michael was a stranger- a name he hadn’t met. Whoever could he be?

And yet… a strange sense of deja vu- a great depth of emotion was tied to the sight of him. He felt pain and love, longing and regret, fondness and admiration, and all things in between, continuing to gaze into the boy’s ocean blue eyes swirling like glimmering, sun-lit currents gazing so lovingly into him, cradling him in his arms with the promise of protection and eternal love.

A love bound and sealed by blood and soul in kind. Transcendent above lifetimes- an unfettered promise to endure forevermore.

Gregory sighs, rubbing his throbbing temples and letting a sigh seep through his clenched teeth, exhaling out his frustration… until his posture shoots ramrod straight, eyes wide, palms unfurled.

“He’s your brother, Michael.”

That figure… that figure looking down upon him- was he referring to…?

No, no- that couldn’t be.

His entire body quakes- the ground spins like gears beneath him. The word echoes in his head, cushioned by the hazy clouds and condensated pillows of disbelief.

Brother. Brother brother brother.

He’s family. An older brother.

MY older brother.

Another word flashes to his mind- a surname. Afton. Michael Afton.

Hasty and tripping over himself more times than he can count, stumbling frantically with every step, he scrambles to another sticky note- a purple and a red one, respectively, before he whips out the pen once more and begins to scribble and write every thought in his waking mind, converging and then dispersing like the dewdrops glimpsing the first morning light.

¨You are Afton Family.¨

Followed by a set of two smiling faces on another sticky note.

Hours of sleeping and laying dormant in his nest later, yet another face comes to mind- the face of a fair skinned girl tinted with a peach blush and translucent freckles underneath her cheeks, donning a ginger shade of blonde hair and glimmering green eyes glistening with gemstones of chartreuse and the purest jade.

He scrambles to the last sticky note to draw a third face.

His beloved little sister, the third face. Elizabeth Afton. The three siblings, together and happy.

Gregory´s heart swells from within with a strange ache of pain and longing, crackling and flickering like a firework from within. When was the last time he had seen them… where were they, at this present moment, if they were not by his side? 

He begins to draw more- a house on one sticky note, to provide a roof above their heads. A semi-crude map to Fredbear´s from their house to the doors- not that he knew why these places were special to him, anyways- but more and more memories were beginning to take hold, coming back to him.

Soon, nearly the entire room, even the floor he walks upon- is covered with a thin sheet of sticky notes with haphazard, childish musings of a past life scribbled onto them. He adorns them with lit candles, the melted wax sticking to the polymer paper and the gentle golden glow illuminating the otherwise dim and dilapidated room- as if this were a sacred place.

If so, then the heads of the decommissioned staff bots that fell down the chute nearby must’ve been offerings, he silently mouths to himself, chuckling at the positively silly thought.

More and more days pass, days that Gregory doesn´t bother counting- not when he had more important things to do, like remembering. Days stretch out into weeks, the time within illuminated by his frequent pastimes of drawing, programming, writing, creating countless things despite the ache in his stomach wailing for food like an infant animal. Weeks stretch out into months, which probably extended into a year or two. Over time, the stench of garbage and rusting metal becomes the stench of a new home.

Seven tally marks- seven faces, all for his friends.

Three slices of cake, one for him, two for his siblings. Three slices of pizza as well.

Words repeated three times- home home home, fun fun fun, play play play.

Gregory had almost forgotten how cake tasted in his mouth- the salt and grease of classic cheeze Pizza, takeout from Fredbear´s Family Diner. He ponders the whereabouts of his plastic blue toy telephone, the Fredbear Plushie he would always carry around.

His soul longed to be whole- to return home. To his real home- his house, his neigborhood and community and town of Hurricane, Utah- like he totally didn´t just remember that two seconds ago.

Family. Family family family.

The back of his eyes hurt, throbbing with a dull ache that pierce and penetrate his temples as if someone were poking him in the head rather brutally and insistently. His fingers run through his hair, attempting to mitigate the effects of thinking so hard.

Where could it all have gone wrong…?

Where could it have all fallen apart?

He gets his answer on the day he can hear a party going on upstairs- the party for someone obviously not him.

Not him.

Gregory blinks. A grave mistake.

A flash- the lights, the balloons, the stage. Black linoleum floors sprinkled with rainbow confetti, the posters of colorful animal mascots plastered on the walls.

¨I can´t believe you need a girl to defend you…¨

He blinks again.

Shoved against the muzzle of a bear- tears blurring the sides of his vision, heavy against his eyes. Blue, green, yellow, red- the lights above the stage as the world comes crashing down and collapses beneath his feet. His feet, dangling above the floor.

The party was all for me.

¨You heard the little man- he wants to get even closer, haha!¨

What…?

Pleas for mercy- screams that beg for a life to be spared. Miscellaneous voices in the background- the commotion trying to observe what was going on at the stage where Fredbear remained singing.

¨No! Stop, I don´t wanna go!¨

¨P-Please, Michael, I´m scared!¨

Wails, followed by laughter.

A crunch and a thud.

…

Red against matted golden fur- the laughter and squeals stop, the room is dead silent.

All for me.

He blinks again- an action he pays dearly for.

Gregory falls through darkness, he wings through light- he zips through countless pasts, presents and futures before the unceremonious thud of the floor befalls him and he loses sight of everything he´s ever known- the world crumbles into ash and blows away in a nonexistent wind, as if the hole in his heart had been scooped out that very moment. 

One moment, he´s a prokaryotic, single-celled organism floating amidst the creation of life born anew, awakening from dreams amidst a moment of stillness in the relentless chaos and fire.

Another moment, a butterfly whose wings had been clipped no longer, as he was free to fly away- his wings every shade of all the colors in the world, alight.

The next moment- a boy being screamed at by his father, disciplined over running away from home because it was too much and he was crying all the time.

No gravity, no light, no sound. Endless, vast and incomprehensible nothingness.

Gregory blinks yet another time, and the days have passed, the sticky notes already having the events from those horrific, psychedelic nightmares drawn on them. ¨God,¨ he whispers, practically croaking the words out- he doesn´t know why he´s invoking such a name, perhaps to draw on the strength of whatever creatures dwelled in the primordial lands above. His fingers trace over the triskelion-shaped mark indented into the back of his neck- the tips ghosting across every intricate detail possible. 

His eyes blur- and before he knows it, he´s screaming.

Shrieking with laughter and hysteria, with grief, with pain and lost love- of the rifts in his heart that deepened with every sob that tore itself loose from his throat and ribs, as he cried so hard that his chest began to hurt.

Every memory in his mind- the screams he didn´t realize were coming from him- his own throat, his own lungs. He curls into his knees, pressing his fingers to his sternum, his knees to his forehead, heels to his buttocks and screams into the dampening skin slick with tears.

No, no, no, no, no.

You´re just a problem with no solution- an over-emotional brat and an embarrassment to the Afton name.

His Father´s voice. He lets out a primal growl crossed with a high-pitched whine of distress, the sound animalistic, nigh bestial.

He covers his ears, skin slapping against his temples as he cries his surroundings away, the ground beneath and sky above melting, until there was nothing left but him and the sticky notes, and the starry abyss encroaching all.

Just let it out.

Let it out… and then let it go.

He screams.

Even as he boxes up a poster perfectly for Fredbear’s Family Diner, even as the silo of the perfect, spitting image of his family sits before him- arranged like a family at dinner, a recreation of all he ever had, all he ever wanted- he continues to cry.

After all, he has always been a crybaby- his heart too big for his body.

So he places it outside in a box for his family- the statues, in a place where no one can see.

The perfect plan.

Part 6- Duty-Bound:

Evan. 

Evanescent.

His name means transience- fugaciousness. His very name means the brilliance of every moment that casts a shadow of the lingering past.

When the blossoms are in season, pure and in bloom, and the spring butterflies fluttering, coming alive abound- whether they be crawling from their cocoons born anew or migrating back home, Evan is always reminded of their transient beauty. 

The ever-changing nature of individuals, the false constant that is names- the ever-changing identities, likes and dislikes of human beings as his people question what they are, what their purpose and their creation, their nature is on earth.

The lotuses float on the ponds in the new and unfamiliar environment, where the grass is verdant and lush, the morning dew dissipating- yet another sign of transience, he thinks to himself as he peels back the leafy wrapping of a spring roll his older brother got him from one of the nearby food stalls. He sees and embraces a world mired in impermanence- where every life lost is a crack in Mother Nature´s heart, where every second counts, where every fleeting moment matters more than anything else in the world.

If nothing else, we have the present moment.

And even the moments illuminated within those now-dreams, the faint scent and gentle, warm embrace of the glow of memories grow further closer and yet further distant. 

The butterflies come forth, nestled amidst the branches of their home where they once dwelled as caterpillars gnawing on the leaves and drinking in the early morning dew like dehydrated men. 

The white blossoms and pure lotus flowers aflush with faint, rosy specks of pink- they glimmer underneath the pale moonlight, cutting through the darkness of the midnight like the galaxies and stars, celestial bodies reflected in the twilight yawn of heaven´s black: and it is then that Evan has the same dream.

His family is with him- his mother, his father and his two siblings. His heart is happy, his stomach is full. 

Underneath the sky and upon the earth… he is at peace once more.

And now, more than ever, with even his primal, innermost desires unsatisfied, those moments are what he desires. Perhaps, deep inside his heart somewhere… those carefree, perfect days of being a happy family together had not ended for him.

Somewhere, mired in this world of impermanence- this perfect, eternal body longs for the ephemeral moments of the past. For his soul to be whole again- for his family and home to be unbroken once more.

And yet, as snow thaws and melts come the emergence of spring flowers, taking root within the soil… as those same flowers wither and shrivel upon the arrival of blizzarding winter storms… things are always subject to change. Just as things change in this world, he too, must awaken from this dream of eternity and stillness, to the world mired in transience- of both destruction and creation, of tragedy and miracles. 

He too, must change.

With every step he takes forward, every silent breath he huffs out as he clambers to his feet- something stirs within him. Perhaps the beckoning echo of fond moments spent with all he ever loved and treasured, the desiderata of bygone yesterdays carved within his mind.

The call continues to entrance him, the lust of life evident within every beat of his heart from deeper inside.

And as the butterflies too, escape from their cocoons to awaken from rebirth into a new world in a beautiful new form, to fly to a new home so soon: Evan, too, must embrace the new, ever-changing backdrop of the world- this new form, this new identity.

¨My name is Gregory.¨

Gregory. The english variant of Gregorios, anglicized.

Vigilant, watchful and awake. Aware of all. Unwavering, unshakeable and unbreakable, will forever enduring and indomitable come whatever challenges shall try to stagger him, lead him astray.

No longer shall he show shame, show fear. There the memories linger, day after day, pushing him to take charge of his own destiny, to overcome the grief and pain, to overcome all.

Pushing him to overcome.

Gregory now deems it his responsibility to seek out the same happiness and peace he lost, the life that was so tragically ripped from him alongside his dignity, his family and home, and his humanity- so long ago. He doesn´t know what changed over the passage of time, but he merely accepts it and moves on like mature adults would do, seeking to merely find peace and live out his life once more.

Time leaves wounds, and yet heals them too- the cycle of seasons persists forevermore, engaging all life in perpetual death and rebirth of perfect harmony.

All things must be born, grow up, and die, only to repeat. Nothing remains permanent, not even the blackness of death.

Evan remains within him, like the memories of the distant past. This day, too, shall be the day when he emerges from the cocoon- the day that Gregory was born.

And so he sets out to recreate his life anew, to make use of this miraculous second chance: to ensure that whatever may be the cost, no matter what comes in his way, no matter how difficult things will get…

He will crush all obstacles underneath his heel and continue to move forward to his dream- his unshakeable, unchanging dream, enduring forevermore.

To find his new family, to live out and entrust his new dream unto the future like all those before him have done, and like he should´ve done.

¨I´m so proud of you, Gregory,¨ he whispers to himself with a fond smile on his face as he slides on the blue striped shirt alongside the socks and shoes he got from Glamrock Gifts. He shudders in pleasure and delight as he rubs his arms- no touch present to comfort him other than himself. ¨You´re so mature… so grownup, now. You´ve come so far. Keep going- keep trying. You can do this.¨

It´s not about the things you can or cannot do, after all, he reminds himself. It´s about the things you must do- it´s about your duty to the world, the legacy you wish to fulfill and leave behind- the dream you will entrust to everyone who comes after- in this case, to your new life.

There are things that you have to do, no matter what.

He grits his teeth and pushes forward, the flame forever burning, brighter than the stars. And amidst it all… he continues to persist, to live. Nothing is immutable, but…

Despite it all, it´s still him. When he looks in the mirror, it has always been him.

And it shall be him, enduring forevermore.

Part 7- To The Ends Of A Dream:

I think I´ll cut to the chase and give the short version before launching into the long explanation here: Evan, or rather, Gregory, becomes a walking contradiction to himself post-awakening and post-remembrance.

Though he is artificial, he is alive and can breathe. He hungers and tires, bleeds and breathes, laughs and cries as humans do.

Though he was once kind, a boy of deep and sincere faith, that faith has since been warped and twisted beyond compare. And as he has once carried himself with a timid and sensitive posture, always trembling and whimpering, now it is as though that facet of his mind had been all but stripped away, reduced to ash in the wind.

Grief and love have changed him- he feels as though it is HIS PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY, from then on, to put his family back together.

After nearly five months of grieving, on that day, he somehow wipes his tears away and pulls himself up by the boostraps, finding the willpower to take initiative and give himself the courage and strength boost to do what, in his eyes, was absolutely imperative to be done.

By the time Gregory ¨leaves the nest¨, he primarily leaves the safety of the sticky note room in pursuit of three main goals:

To find the shadow and spirit to complete his form. He serves as the physical vessel of which the consciousness, life force (in the form of stolen remnant) and the identity are sealed within via a mixture of technology and presumably dark supernatural magic of sorts, indicated by an elaborate triskelion mark on the back of his neck as well as tiny, several and barely readable runes encircling the mark. At present, Evan Afton has been split into the shadow, the spirit and the vessel- his present goal is to reunite with these aspects of his self to be ¨whole¨ again. 

To reunite with his family: GregEvan is a very family oriented person, often forging and creating strong bonds with the people he trusts. Naturally, when he loses his family (despite his complicated relationship with his siblings and spiraling spiritual and mental state at the time of his death), he is devastated upon learning about this when he reawakens from slumber. He wants to ¨recreate¨ his family, finding a suitable ¨substitute¨ for an older brother and younger sister, as well as his father and mother, living out that ¨found family¨ trope to fulfill his own happiness, as well as theirs, to combat his crushing loneliness and torment. Arguably, this can be seen as a bit selfish, but can you really blame him? He´s a kid. He thinks he´s finally accepted loss of his family and wants to find a new one, since that´s the conclusion a ten year old would arrive at.

To find and retrieve a new home, including claiming back relics of the past. The loss has scarred Gregory so deep that he actively searches the Pizzaplex in search of territory to claim- the Afton Family silo on the nearby table is further evidence of how he wishes to recreate his family and home. He´s basically living in the past at this point, even though he´s under the strong delusion that he´s accepted the past and moved on by trying to ¨find new happiness¨, as he is under the impression that his family is dead, or has forgotten him and moved on.

Gregory is, at this point, under the influence of the strong belief that the ends always, ALWAYS justify the means, which is the driving force behind all his actions- that he will do anything, and he means ANYTHING, to squash every obstacle underneath his heel that poses a threat to his life and to his family, and that could potentially prevent him from cultivating and nurturing his dream. Someone who doesn’t share his proclivities of directly and swiftly crushing and wholly eliminating obstacles to further your own progress regardless of collateral damage caused can find it easy to critique his methods, understandably.

¨I don´t support jumping to those conclusions of yours. I won´t fall to you.¨

Gregory, as a result of his goals and how his trauma has changed him, develops a strong sense of responsibility and duty, as well as an impressive willpower and unbreakable, resilient spirit from this mindset of ¨whatever it takes¨. He acts reserved, despite being outwardly brash and overtly arrogant at times, and he takes his responsibility and his “work” immensely seriously.

This trait is a double edged sword at its simplest description- on one hand, it grants him an able and strategic mind with the newfound and exemplary computing power and intelligence he has, willing to form elaborate plans to eliminate his obstacles to whatever short term or long term goals he may have. 

It grants him an unshakeable drive and will as his goals continue to endure and remain unchanged despite the tumultuous environment around him, or even all the odds working against him. Even when each day feels like trying to escape a warzone, he endures and remains steadfast, dignified and unwavering in his pursuit- an honorable trait to have.

Most of all, as cheesy as it sounds- he never gives up hope. He never abandons the possibility, no matter how small, that there is always a way to work towards your dream and your deepest desires.

However, any virtue can turn into a vice. The willpower and sense of responsibility and duty Gregory develops turn him headstrong, obstinate and mistrusting, as seen in thee game. For the entire time Gregory carries himself in a terse, restrained and apprehensive manner, he becomes apathetic to the pain and struggles of the other animatronics, entirely unaware that they are under his father´s control- again, expressed via the darker side of his vigilant, mercilessly judgemental demeanor. 

Even despite his starkly contrasting empathetic attitude towards Freddy over losing Bonnie, he holds the other Glamrocks in extremely low regard and even occasionally relishes holding a position of power over those who hurt him or wrong him. He arbitrarily declares them as threats to his livelihood, his future, his family, and his dream and his goals, and thus eliminates them without any forethought for their wellbeing or magnanamity towards their condition and considerable suffering post-shattering them.

He couldn´t care less about them, saying that their actions are inexcusable, and goes through with destroying and scavenging their parts anyway to upgrade Freddy: Gregory even lies through his teeth to his older brother about where he got the parts from, thus indirectly hurting his feelings deeply when Glammike finds out the truth. However, he does feel guilt and anxiety regarding this a bit later. As steadfast and unwavering as his commitment is to his goals, he is also rigid- not caring about the obstacle in front of him, or the collateral damage that he´ll cause by getting rid of it to further his pursuits- all he knows is that it poses a threat to his life and his dream, and he must eliminate it. He steadily grows obsessive, ruthless and cruel in his pursuit, and such sentiments also bleed into his behavior.

He keeps and treasures signs of his true nature, his heritage and his purpose- the LED on his temple. His unique blue blood. The triskelion ‘birthmark’ on the back of his neck. The sticky note drawing of his three siblings that he keeps in his back pocket, occasionally taking it out to kiss it and cradle it close to his chest as if cuddling it obsessively, further highlighting how emotionally weak and destabilized the near-crumbling child is.

Additionally, one very disturbing thing I’ve noticed about Gregory is that his intelligence is highly of that beyond what a normal ten or twelve year old would possess. 

For one thing, he possesses a significant amount of technological knowledge to the point where it’s straight up odd, being able to hotwire a car, recharge Freddy with a car battery, and also being really savvy with computers- something of a phenom, as a certain therapist in the tapes would say. 

This might be because of the nature of his creation and rebirth as a synthetic android vessel, hence in my AU extending it to flat out slight cyberkinesis, but it is still pretty disturbing.

Gregory also has immense creative and intellectual abilities, being able to take what paltry information was given to him in the emails left by the S.T.A.F.F. and piece the clues together to reconstruct scenarios and plans. He was then able to efficiently gather materials for said plans to decommission the animatronics, ruthlessly and cruelly using underhanded tactics to enact the constructed scenarios with near-perfect accuracy and impeccable execution.

And, interestingly enough, despite all his pent-up problems, despite all the emotional turmoil and obsession, anxiety and suffering and agonizing self-hatred eating away at him thorughout the game… he’s not insane while doing such things. 

No, Gregory’s the opposite of insane when crafting and executing these plans. He’s… sentient. Tactical, intelligent, even, despite his inner rage. Ruthless and uncaring- indifferent and dismissive of the suffering of the animatronics whilst he is deliberately inflicting pain upon them. Even acting as downright cruel, saying something along the lines of:

“They get what they deserve.”

Of course, it was all in self-defense: but this, to me, shows something fundamentally non-human about Gregory, despite all his very human qualities in the masses. He has moments like those where he’s smart in areas where he shouldn’t be- truly robotic, dutiful and… terrifying. Like some force of nature.

Willing to do anything to carry out his mission. To fulfill his destiny, and to bring his dream to life, to fruition- and to eliminate and neutralize all obstacles that stand in his way.

Of course, he does retain certain aspects of his avoidant personality he once retained in the past, such as hiding from and actively expressing fear of the other animatronics and Vanny in the beginning, as well as his father, even to the point of crying out of fear as he once did. 

His willpower also does not seem to restrict his creative potential by any means, evidenced by him deducing and recreating information of past events in the Pizzaplex, as well as formulating plans to temporarily decommission the other animatronics from what paltry information was given in the emails and S.T.A.F.F. messages as seen in-game.

It also does not appear to hinder his acceptance of blame, as he fully accepts responsibility post-game for everything he´s ever done and actively tries to make amends with everyone he´s wronged. However, his rigidity does spike his fear of confrontation, as he bursts into hysterics and tears whenever Glammike yells at him or argues with him. He also becomes intensely hostile in response to these ‘betrayals’- courtesy of bad memories resurfacing as a result of probably C-PTSD.

Gregory also is also irrationally upset whenever his set criteria and expectations are not met, and often berates either himself or external circumstances, as seen when he lashes out in anger at the Mr. Hippo magnet he recieves in game and expresses dismay at the machine eating his pass. This trait is significantly exacerbated by the fact that the more sincere, close and familial Gregory´s and Freddy´s relationship becomes, the more secrets they are forced to either share or keep from one another the more they learn about each other.

Gregory’s willpower also allows him to develop a sense of confidence and reassurance in himself, a sense of grounding and duty originally fueled by self-praise until Freddy comes along and becomes the best friend, older brother and father figure he so desperately needed. This temporarily dispels the mental corruption and deterioration present inside of him. 

He also occasionally has a lighthearted demeanor on the rare occasion he cuts lose, cracking witty jokes and even laughing at some of Freddy/Michael´s bad puns. 

And towards those he cares about genuinely, Gregory also expresses a strong sense of empathy, protectiveness and camaraderie, having a father/son and older brother/younger brother relationship with him (a combination of the two). He looks up to Freddy with nothing but admiration, sincerity and warmth in his eyes, eventually evolving into expressive affection and respect and pure love that only continues to deepen more and more- similar to the feelings he had towards Michael when he was still alive. 

Because of this, he recognizes Freddy as a ¨new older brother¨. And since Vanessa (separate from her alter ego Vanny) reminds him so much of his little sister Elizabeth, he actively thinks of her as a new little sister, until he learns the truth about their identities.

He is also kinder towards Vanessa upon learning the truth about her and her circumstances, and ends up repairing his relationship and trust with Vanessa/Elizabeth, as well as Glamrock Freddy/Michael- he also seeks to respect Freddy´s wishes starting post-game as a result of the animatronic bear being the father figure to Gregory, and to follow his older brother´s example. He has the ability to recognize change and a good heart as a result of his improved sense of judgement of others, sincerely forgiving, apologizing to and approving of Michael after learning of all he did to prevent further tragedy and save the souls of everyone who fell victim to it. 

Now, let´s go to the reason as to why he wishes to achieve these goals: well, because as for locating and recreating his family, it´s obvious that the trauma and grief have affected him to such an extent that he´s deluded himself into ¨moving on¨ whilst he simultaneously tries to recreate the past life and memories that he missed in his present life.

And as for reuniting all the components of himself, Gregory is in an extremely vulnerable state when his being is split into the vessel, the shadow and the soul. The vessel expresses this via feelings of extensive fatigue, hunger and starvation that gnaw at the back of the mind even when they´re satisfied- a perpetual reminder that he needs to get up and get shit done, perhaps. 

The way that the physical and spiritual body and form work on a simpler-explained level is that the body, the shadow and the spirit is the complete entity, held together by the remnant, or the vital quintessence and life force that composes each living being- the spiritual blood is the complete manifestation of the person, hence why they cannot change forms like spirits of the deceased can. 

Although the splitting of the soul is a safety measure- a sort of failsafe- upon death for those with unique circumstances like Gregory/Evan, keep in mind that he serves as the physical vessel with the consciousness, memories, spiritual core/heart, borrowed remnant and identity implanted into him. 

One wrong move could potentially result in his destruction and thus the destruction of the entire being, resulting in him basically ceasing to exist- he has to remain hypervigilant at all costs in the face of any dangerous circumstances he may be in, in order to ensure his survival and the eventual reunification of himself. He needs to be EXTREMELY careful- calculating his every move, because one wrong misstep and he could meet his demise.

So, taking his stressful situation into account…

Can you really blame him for being a bundle of nerves? At least, in this universe?

***

When you peel back all the layers, Gregory/Evan is a good kid at heart, kind and witty, intelligent and a nice person deep down. He’s a fundamentally good, but extremely lonely individual, losing everything- having his life, his world, all he ever loved and cherished ripped away from him in the blink of an eye by some freak accident that happened on his birthday. He never gets the chance to grow up and live life like a normal kid due to his death and reincarnation, being reborn into a perfect vessel that he still feels incomplete in because of his fragmented soul, of which he has no idea where the remaining shards linger.

First off, on his birthday, his older brother, with whom he has a… complicated relationship with, to say the least, tries to shove him into the mouth of Fredbear alongside his three friends as a practical joke or some sort of funny prank that he could be the laughingstock of, only for the springlocks to fail and clamp down on his head, resulting in his body dying in the hospital. How rude.

To make matters worse, his body and soul were essentially violated and descerated to bring him back to life in some sort of robotic, heavily remnant-infused physical vessel with his consciousness, memories, spiritual core and identity magically sealed inside via some sort of dark supernatural sorcery- down to his blood, heart, bones, organs and very flesh by some upstart businessman and inventor who wishes to become immortal, and has somehow dragged his own son into the mix without any forethought or without his consent. How even more rude.

Then, he learns post-awakening and after retrieving his memories that he´s been locked into a deep slumber for nearly half a century- for nearly fifty seven years, sixty if we want to round: and that therefore, a lot of shit must´ve happened while he was asleep and M.I.A? Just how unreasonably preposterous must his circumstances get?

To summarize: Gregory is not having a good day.

He clings to what once was as a coping mechanism, delusioning himself into thinking he has moved on and accepted loss, thinking he must be strong and independent and self-willed, and that he must grow up for the sake of himself and his family. He possesses an intense dedication to family, growing overly attached to those he trusts, but is also ready and very much willing go to intense lengths to protect them, to preserve the reminders of the past, of what he once was and what little he has left.

Gregory/Evan also survived and endured months of starvation, exhaustion and crushing loneliness on top of lucid, psychedelic nightmares that left him screaming and shaking until dawn post-awakening when he got his memories back along with certified C-PTSD, and in the mindset of a kid trying to mature and find his identity, purpose, destiny, place and worth in the world he lives in, he takes it upon himself to raze every obstacle that stands between him and his goals, his dreams, to the ground. 

He deems it his sworn duty to remain unflappable in the face of danger, to dispose of any potential threat to his survival, his life, his home and his family. Every action he does justifies the end result- the ends always justify the means, in his eyes.

This makes him narrow-minded, emotionally distant and apathetic to those he doesn’t care about, obstinate, weary of his circumstances and surroundings, and most of all, favorable towards using brute force and even sometimes cruel, underhanded tactics to swiftly and promptly crush his adversaries. He doesn´t take pity in the way Chica shrieks in the garbage compactor, how Roxanne cries after losing her eyes, how he basically incapacitated Montgomery- he´s too fixated on his goal, his survival, his trauma and the life he wants back. He even lies about it, wholesale making shit up about the decomissioning of Freddy’s friends: “Well, she’s still functional.” (line directed at Freddy referring to Chica).

Are his actions morally questionable and wrong? Yes.

Is he most likely cuckoo, has he lost his mind by this point? Absolutely.

But can you really blame him for doing so?

To be honest, he just wants to be left alone with his siblings and his found family- the people he cares about the most and, as demonstrated previously, would do absolutely anything for. He practically is obsessed with finding them, worshipping them at this point out of his grief.

Gregory/Evan has developed admirable qualities by ¨forcing himself to grow up¨- he isn´t exactly in the stablest of mental states by the time the main story of Security Breach rolls around, but he doesn´t take things lying down anymore. 

Even in his past life, he was no coward. Timid and reclusive, sure, but he was and now still is faithful, devoted, commited with undying love and dedication to his family and his dream, his goals and all he loves and treasures. He´s not merely just some sad, pathetic, lonely boy who wants his siblings and parents back (excluding William).

And merely through faith in himself and flimsy self-reassurances strung together haphazardly, he constructed an indomitable will and an unbreakable spirit, enduring forevermore alongside newfound courage and strength- a new reason to fight, despite him crossing many lines in the process. Even if his future is dying, withering away, rotting to nothingness- he never gives up hope, never stops searching for even a brief flash of light in the encroaching darkness.

Those are qualities to be mentioned, honored and respected.

And, real talk- Gregory/Evan just wants to be happy. He just wants to be whole again, to be with his family again with no impending threat of danger threatening to rip him apart at any moment. He longs for a shoulder to lean and cry on, for someone to look up to and defend but also depend on- a parental figure. His entire reason for continuing to exist despite his unimaginable pain and sorrow is to find and recreate his family and his life- to protect and preserve what little he has left. And he´s willing to do anything, anything, to gain his life back- his life that was so unfairly ripped from his arms on what was supposed to be his happiest day.

He finds and begins to reconstruct his identity on his journey: his sense of worth, of purpose, of control and of destiny begin to rebuild itself along the way- he begins to partially mature, but his deeper, darker fears and his inescapable inner despair, shame and guilt influenced by his C-PTSD still are not yet put to rest.

And for the longest time… it feels like Gregory/Evan´s going to continue into this downwards spiral of unhealthy obsession and a rapidly declining mental state fueled by false hope for the future and a traumatic past…

Until he reunites with his older brother Michael in the form of Glamrock Freddy, without the two of them even being aware of each other´s identities.

***

Part 8- Forgotten Love:

A more simpler explanation is that by the time the main events of Security Breach rolls around, Gregory is deluding himself into believing he has moved on from his past while also simultaneously letting a fanatical, unrealistic desire to recreate bygone memories and his lost family get to him slowly, tearing him apart from the inside. 

Like any other human, he falls victim to his own web of haphazardly crafted lies, arrogance and hubris, as well as his festering cruelty, rage and hatred towards anyone remotely hostile towards him. He also suffers from crippling paranoia and loneliness stemming from his PTSD, manifesting itself into the form of anxiety, depression and harrowing self-hatred from his trauma.

He´s still extremely lonely, stressed and tired beyond what can be taken for a child, his life becoming a constant and growing death threat looming and stalking closer via everything that wishes to inflict harm upon him- hence his obstinate, brash, self-domineering and headstrong exterior, with the terse and apprehensive manner to his words despite his kind, youthful and demure appearance.

Gregory still hasn’t gotten over his losses and the tragedy of his first death, temporarily pushing it to the back of his mind and refusing to acknowledge it to avoid incurring strong feelings of inner wrath, shame and sorrow. He’s willing to eliminate any obstacle for the sake of serving, nurturing and cultivating his dream as if its something to take care of- something that he NEEDS, under ANY circumstance, to bring to life- a twisted parallel he shares with William Afton, his father, both of them being enslaved to their goals albeit for very different reasons.

His false hope for the future is rotting, flickering out and dying, and yet he rekindles a used match half-burnt to ash repeatedly by convincing himself that everything will be alright if he stays the course (highlighting yet another twisted parallel, this time between him and Vanessa).

Gregory loves- adores and idolizes his family, missing them to the point where trying to recreate them becomes an unhealthy obsession born from his grief tormenting him, grief that he was incapable of processing and accepting on his own. He’s ironically idealistic, in a way- believing that transient life should be treasured and protected whilst it lasts, and being devastated at the prospect of premature loss since he’s experienced it firsthand.

He also believes that love and inner strength conquers all, and absolves him of whatever crime he commits in the name of his family, since he genuinely possesses good intentions behind everything he does. His love, longing and adoration for the past life he led, for his family and his friends back when he was alive, becomes not only a nostalgic trip, but also it becomes his unhealthy obsession and hyperfixation that gnaws at him from the inside out every day and leeches away his energy, forcing him to walk the murkier, darker side of himself.

In fact, Gregory deems it his only reason for existing at all. To reclaim what he lost so he can lead the proper life he was promised when he was young, naive and still alive.

And as a result, he has no qualms resorting to extreme measures to get what he wants, using brute force and cruel, underhanded tactics to swiftly and promptly crush obstacles and potential threats that may prevent or hinder his progress. He throws himself into his “work” as deeply as possible to escape and dissociate himself from the nightmare that his life had become, while also growing “closer” to achieving his goal, something he sees as a win-win situation for himself.

There is no mercy for those who try to hurt him or those he cares about- no forgiveness whatsoever, as they are often brutally dealt with (Chica being smashed in the garbage compactor, Roxanne being run over with a Go-Kart, Monty plummeting to his own destruction off the catwalks). He is often overconfident in using these methods, believing strongly that his enemies have no shred of hope or chance against the punishment he sees fit to mete out to those ¨foolish and arrogant enough¨ to stand in his way.

Gregory has no one in the beginning to help him cope, to help him accept and move on from the death of his past life and the separation of him from his siblings, resulting in an unhealthy need for companionship, for love and a sense of unfulfilled dependency resulting in him being secretly and severely touch-starved and suffering extreme empty-nest syndrome. There was no one to anchor him, to dissuade him from driving himself back into the abyss that was his demise so long ago…

Until Freddy rolls around.

When Freddy and Gregory initially meet, their relationship starts off a bit awkward. Freddy does have most of his memories as Michael just drifting around in his head, and often keeps it as a secret from the other Glamrock members. 

We have to keep in mind that Michael is already an almost-fleshed out character by the time the events of Security Breach roll around, having already undergone most of his personal journey by the time the end of Pizzeria Simulator rolls around, which is why he so readily accepts his fate and lets his physical body die in that burning pizzeria. Freddy does miss his siblings, seeking to protect any kid from danger and show unfaltering kindness to them- it is in his programming, of course, but it´s also partially influenced by his evolving nature as Michael when he was alive.

With Gregory, though, of course, he feels… a special connection with him, as if something sparks within him upon meeting him- it must’ve caused the malfunction on stage earlier when he felt a foreign entity in his chest cavity during the performance. 

As if his physical traits upon first glimpse of the young boy remind him of his younger brother- the dearest brother that he failed so long ago. Gregory, of course, feels the same way, being slightly reminded of an older brother figure- his older brother, Michael, before everything fell apart. and everything he’s ever known and loved melted into nothingness right before his eyes along with his past name.

However, Freddy soon begins to grow suspicious of the boy’s nature. His pulse, blood pressure and heartbeat seem all too perfect, too simulated to correspond to every situation accordingly for a kid in a stressful situation with animatronics on all sides trying to rip him to pieces. Of course, his emotions were real, and his appearance was perfect- too perfect, too real, and way too similar to his younger brother.

The gentle, unique and dark eyes reflecting glistening starlight in its wake, the wavy and tousled chestnut brown hair that took on a faint shimmer in its highlights, and the pale complexion adorned intricately with an apricot and peach blush that perfectly complimented his youthful, demure features.

Everything, from the petite, lithe and short body structure down to the button nose, high cheekbones and full cheeks, and plump lips, slightly roseate in tint.

The animatronic bear shakes his head- he’s seeing too much of Evan in this random kid.

However, even in disgrace, even when all hope seems lost- Gregory does not shame himself. He remains fixated on the light at the end of the tunnel- his goal, his dream, not once wavering or faltering, never giving up fighting for his survival: a quality Freddy undeniably admires, persistence. The brunette struggles a bit to show basic manners and accept help, but he is obstinate, self-willed and domineering, not to mention undeniably intelligent and creative: not to mention his surprising knowledge of technology and computers. 

This boy is a bright young man with a bright future ahead of him! At least, Freddy once remarked of such things to him and the boy’s face fell into an expression of despondence. “Yeah,” was all he responded with following a heavy sigh.

How odd.

As per the protocol programmed in him, whenever the boy seems distressed, Freddy tries to provide him with encouraging physical stimuli such as shoulder rubs or head pats. Kids would usually giggle and laugh as a response, but Gregory merely awkwardly reciprocated such sentiments by rubbing and patting the large metal paw back. Hm- perhaps he felt it was an obligatory duty to thank him via such silent expressions?

Freddy´s facial features droop a bit- was his performance in providing an emotional outlet for kids less than exemplary at the moment? Oh, well- it might have been because he was on emergency power.

Meanwhile, Gregory, by this point, is NOT OKAY. He´s neglecting his needs again, keeping secrets to himself, suffering in silence while longing for companionship, intimacy and love with no such secrecy, and no such conflict. Ever since his epiphany, he is prone to irrational and wantonly violent and even near-homicidal thought processes- he is a walking contradiction of himself, desiring trust and yet not trusting anyone. Freddy seems to, albeit slowly, mitigate the severe, deep effects that trauma has on Gregory via his companionship. Instead of pouring further salt on the wound, he begins to treat it.

At first, Gregory seems terse and apprehensive, reluctant and mistrusting of Freddy due to his circumstances. However, as evidenced by the game, he begins to open up more- Freddy becomes less bookish, adhering to protocol and robotic, whereas the boy becomes kinder, more carefree, and more trusting and empathetic, whilst still retaining his strong, unfaltering dedication towards those he loves.

In addition, the two contrast each other well- Gregory provides hope and comfort for Freddy due to his ironically idealistic nature and his unbreakable, unshakeable spirit and willpower, whereas Freddy does possess this same belief, yet it is a bit more mellow. Freddy is much more pragmatic and straightforward, despite his sweet and entertaining nature in his programming, grounding Gregory to reality and providing him genuine, solid and true reassurance via actual hope that he can believe in.

The two serve as the ¨light at the end of the tunnel¨ for each other respectively, in a way. They give each other hope and a new reason to exist by reminding each other of someone they once loved- and as a result, their affections for each other deepen and evolve into something more intimate, familial and strong over time.

This is the last family Gregory is capable of finding, the last bond he can build- a last chance at redemption, if one will.

I’ve already pointed out how Gregory is unfalteringly loyal and dedicated to those he trusts and loves, and is also willing to do anything for them due to his nigh-unhealthy obsession with recreating his friends, family and his past life. His goals are strongly fueled by a steadily growing fear of loss motivated by the threats all around him, as well as a sense of justice and a desire to right all wrongs. Reviving the happiness, humanity and dignity that has been brutally ripped from him via accomplishing his pre-set series of goals seems to be his only objective at this point, of which he absolutely deems imperative that he gets done. The thought of destroying and hurting others to get what he wants is something he frequently entertains, and their pain and suffering is something he can’t really give less of a shit about, to be frank.

However, once Freddy opposes the idea, suddenly Gregory feels anxious and guilty when destroying and decommissioning Chica, Roxanne and Montgomery- not because he’s suddenly aware of their pain, but because he’s aware of Freddy’s pain and how much he cares for his friends.

And this is where even more of his uglier qualities come into play- he sees his older brother in Freddy, a true parental figure- his family in Freddy. And because of how much the android boy has grown to truly care for and deeply love the animatronic bear, he begins to grow jealous- protective and secretively possessive, almost. 

He’s jealous that Freddy cares more for his friends than, what he perceives as, his own younger brother, though Freddy remains unaware of Gregory’s true identity until much, MUCH later. Most of the time, he merely lets his raging fury within be dampened and restrained by the quiet rain of tears inside, longing to feel the phantom sensation of a large metal paw holding his hand whenever he’s alone, apart from Freddy. 

With his darkest, overshadowing fears not yet put to rest, Gregory begins to grow alarmingly clingy, immoral and headstrong in an attempt to seize his destiny and bring his dream to life. His most fanatical, paranoid, dishonest, ruthless and obsessive traits come out at this point, and though they are not conventionally expressed like in other obsessive characters, they’re still there.

I also feel the need to point out Gregory’s positive traits: He’s very strong, figuring out most of his identity, his purpose and who he’s meant to be in the form of fleshed out goals. He’s obstinate, self-reliant and possesses a will of steel and an unbendable, unbreakable spirit that cannot be shaken in any way, shape or form. Though he’s been eroded at by constant torment and trauma, he still retains his ability to show an impressive and heartwarming degree of comfort, empathy, compassion and kindness to those he loves and deems as family. Even in disgrace and crushing loneliness, even in humiliation, he is no coward, and through his myriad of expressiveness and emotion he remains unflappable and unfaltering- he never, ever gives up on what he believes in, never stops fighting against impossible odds to bring his goals to fruition, to protect and care for those he loves, trusts and cares about. He succeeds in bringing new meaning to the phrase “love conquers all”, and utterly brings shame to those who call idealism “hilariously outdated and mediocre”. 

Freddy acting as an emotional anchor and parental figure to Gregory is ultimately what brings out the worst of himself, but it also brings out more of the best of himself- and, despite all his immoral actions committed throughout the game in the name of his family and dream, it is all aspects of himself that triumphs post-game and helps him to find his destiny and sense of worth and self- to cope, accept and find happiness and inner peace upon being reunited with his family. 

Freddy’s presence stabilizes Gregory’s emotional turmoil, and eventually revives and reawakens something Gregory had more or less lost- genuine care and trust for individuals other than his friends and family, and a true willingness to accept and fully embrace change with everything he is. His enduring love for his older brother, reborn in a new form, broke down the armor and dulled the agonizing sting of trauma left on him by his past, and allowed him to be fully and truly reborn.

In the end, it is Freddy’s/Michael’s love that more or less saves his younger brother and fully rounds his development, healing him from his torment and his suffering, putting his fears to rest for good, helping him to accept, forgive and embrace all of himself so he can put the past behind him along with the rest of his family and start a new life.

Truly like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon to soar into the night- the transformation that all humans can undergo is beautiful. In a way, the moment Gregory can let go of his trauma and find several new reasons to live, to embrace and be his true, full self in the moment and be at peace with the rest of his family and live his best life is a touching moment.

It is the moment he’s finally set free.

[bookandcover]

For the first time, my family’s Anti-Racism Book Club decided to select a book by a non-Black author. The original intention of our book club was to help our white family discuss the Black experience in America today, to look more closely at both historical and contemporary books that would educate us and challenge us to talk about topics around race with our family. While I believe we will continue to prioritize work by Black authors at present, the Indigenous experience in America is complex, multi-layered, and deserves so much more of our time, energy, and understanding. I hope that we will get there. I recognize that we have the luxury of being in the process of learning about these experiences, rather than having had to learn too fast and too early as do the targets of institutionalized racism.

Braiding Sweetgrass is a beautiful account of “ways of knowing” as author Robin Wall Kimmerer explores her understanding of the natural world and her relationship to it as a science researcher and as a member of the Potawatomi Nation. Collectively, these stories—of cedar trees and salmon runs, of rescued and researched salamanders, of college students taking to the marsh to study and to learn (I loved when they pretended to go shopping for supplies at “Wal-marsh”)—paint the portrait of a different relationship we humans could have with the natural world than the one we’re all too familiar with. So often we think of nature as resources, natural resources limited in supply, the source of competition and scarcity in our global economy. What if, instead, we could revolutionize our thinking and our relationship and approach the natural world as plenty, as teeming with gifts of abundance, of returning the love we show it back to us in so many forms?

To arrive at this worldview, Kimmerer needs the knowledge both of science and of indigenous wisdom. She does not condemn science. She reinvents it. Or, perhaps, sees it as it always should have been: a line of questioning born out of a desire to listen and to learn, an investigation fueled by the heart as well as the mind, a space that welcomes many theories and does not prioritize power over truth. She does push back against scientific institutions that put analysis above all else. As a teacher, she tries to instill just as much wonder in her students as facts. Her students, understanding this, sing Amazing Grace in the wilderness, and Kimmerer writes, “In their caress of that old hymn I came to know that it wasn’t naming the source of wonder that mattered, it was wonder itself.” She recognizes how easily what we perceive as facts are truths born of our viewpoint on the natural world and on ourselves. Kimmerer develops a deeply personal relationship with nature. She shares indigenous stories—those of Skywoman and Nanabozho—intertwined with her own stories of trying to understand the land where she makes her contemporary life—clearing the pond of algae so her young daughters can swim, tapping maple trees and boiling sap for syrup, harvesting wild leeks, and weaving Black Ash baskets.

While at times Kimmerer seems to get narratively lost in the details of her lifestyle, it’s the details that make the powerful collective whole. While she can spend pages explaining the mutually beneficial relationship between an alga and a fungus that makes up lichen, it’s her joy in these details that wins us over and that reveals how—if we look closely—the natural world has so much to teach us. My favorite perspective of Kimmerer’s on science is that science is like listening. The natural world cannot speak our language, but it can communicate with us fully, if we can slow down and pay attention. Kimmerer writes, “Because we can’t speak the same language, our work as scientists is to piece together the story as best we can.” Science is an act of measurement and listening, of paying attention. It’s a conduit through which nature speaks to us. In this way, nature can be our best teacher, a theme Kimmerer returns to repeatedly. As she explores her own roles as teacher and as mother, she reflects her strength and success in these roles back onto nature. Nature is her teacher and nature is her mother, and “paying attention acknowledges that we have something to learn from intelligences other than our own.” The best teacher and mother that Kimmerer can be is one who redirects the eyes of her students and her daughters (and her readers) back onto the teacher-mother earth in a way that lets us see and newly understand.

I think that the aspect of this book that will have the longest lasting impact on me is the way Kimmerer talks about a gift economy and the value of reciprocity. I have found myself thinking in new terms about gratitude and how to answer the gifts I receive with gifts in return. A gift economy is one that perceives abundance and answers abundance with generosity. I can see in myself that when I live with a mindset of abundance, I’m happier. I see blessings come back to me in many ways. Reciprocity is an extension of this which I never considered before. How do I answer the gift of someone else’s time and attention? How do I gift back resources I’ve taken for granted?

While I am not surrounded by tons of natural world here in the heart of Manhattan, I find myself looking at my food with new eyes. I was inspired by Kimmerer’s humble approach: “I try to sense the trees in that stack of paper and address my thoughts to them, but the taking of their lives is so far removed from this shelf that there is just a distant echo.” Even with only the echo, I wonder: How did this apple arrive here in my hand? What was its journey? How can I show reciprocity for the food that has made it to this urban Trader Joe’s? For the hands that stacked and shelved it, and moved it here, and before that grew and harvested it. How many people’s care went into this apple? And how about the tree that grew it and the plants around it that shared nutrients and the other apples the fell or were plucked together as batch-mates? How can I be grateful for these things and answer them truly? I drew my sister a picture of a fisher cat because I listened to this book on her Audible account. It’s a reciprocity I would not have considered before.

Yet, I feel grateful to have known many of the things that appear in this book. I appreciate how much closer my relationship has been with the land than many people’s—with a mom, a dad, and a sister who are all scientists; with a family who stacked and hauled firewood, who hayed every summer, who tapped maple trees and carried sap. Throughout my childhood, my mother waylaid us with endless projects—from hacking moss from the yard and seeding grass to carrying water in winter for farm animals to taking river rocks for a fire pit. I related to the moment where Kimmerer’s daughters complain as I often did (do): “When my daughters remember our sugaring adventure now, they roll their eyes and groan, ‘That was so much work.’ They remember hauling branches to feed the fire and slopping sap on their jackets as they carried heavy buckets. They tease me for being a wretched mother who wove their connection to the land through forced labor.” Both big and small tasks—canning, making jam, tying up tomato plants, thinning carrots, shoveling manure, sheering sheep—these tasks were often things I scowled at as a kid. I was deeply ashamed when I showed up to a ninth grade choir practice with chicken droppings impressed into the treads of my old sneakers. I felt misfit for the ways my family lived in relationship with the land. I’ve never romanticized this toil like both my parents did. Yet, I know I’m also grateful for it, for the understanding it brought me.

Of course, my relationship with these things was one of doing and one of proximity. The narratives of indigenous knowing are new to me, and I appreciate how they brought me closer to gratitude. I’ve looked at the natural world through the lens of scientific knowledge, but also through the lens of wonder. As a kid, we had a children’s book called “The Caretakers of Wonder” in which mysterious figures behind the scenes rehang the stars in the sky and paint the clouds and decorate the trees with ripe apples. I thought of this connection first as Kimmerer and several students transported migrating salamanders across the road in the dark and rain. To me, Kimmerer and her family and friends seemed so often like these caretakers, giving back to the natural world which already gives so luxuriously to us.

This novel ends with an indigenous classic story reinvented, or expanded. The windigo—the terrible hungry figures that feed without satiation on human flesh—take on a metaphorical resonance with the human greed that shapes our economy and our relationship with the natural as scarce resources (to be exploited as quickly as possible and for gross profit). Kimmerer defeats the windigo, however, with a cup of poisoned tea followed by a healing draft. This second tea contains willow and strawberries, white pine and pecans, witch hazel and maple—all the natural ingredients that have featured in the stories in this book and taken on individual meanings—hope and wellness, happiness and gratitude, healing and helpfulness. “You can’t know reciprocity until you know the gift,” Kimmerer writes. With a tea of stories, Kimmerer cures the windigo, just like she perhaps hopes to cure us—by handing us stories of the best teachers that can give us the kind of gratefulness and generosity these natural persons already employ.

Reading this book, I was reminded how, in my animal ethics class in college, I was introduced to the term “non-human persons” and I’d somehow forgotten this term in the intervening time. I’m glad to re-embrace it. Who are we to exclude non-human persons from our narratives, instead of placing them at the forefront, as indigenous stories do? And as Kimmmerer does while she bridges the worlds of her personal development, the indigenous and the scientific. Both worlds are the domains of nature. Nature and science should not be at odds. Humans and non-human persons should not be at odds. We have the opportunity to become native to this place (those of us who are immigrants here). We have the opportunity to drink the tea of stories and curb our hunger, to turn our eyes to abundance and gifts.

[cyclicalaberration]

Naught But A Fool In The Body Of A God

(Gore + existentialism warning) A foolish gamers... character study? I think?

Totems were funny things. Made of gold and emerald, looking both very much and not at all like their creator. You could go your entire life never seeing one of them. It is a rare person who needs to to face a powerful and dangerous raid, or to track down a mansion, all of which are filled to the brim with Illagers, just to get lucky and catch an Evoker off guard.

Totems are particular about who they save, seeming to despise their own holders. Evokers almost always held one, but they couldn’t seem to use them.

They seem almost heretical, as though Death herself is only tolerating their presence. She does not seem the type to let a method of escape slide. Though, she is simply a collector, and totems can only be used once. Perhaps she created them, to give some sense of hope as she waited at the finish line, merely extending the bridge into the void.

That is not the case, however. The creator was a young god then, full of spite and bloodlust. He carved them in his image, gave them to those who followed him through lava and storms, across oceans and land. He was not a god of death but a god of dying, a conglomerate of souls of those slaughtered in his name. He is of much the same stock as gods of war and blood, power growing from violence and destruction.

He was older, though. Older than the concept of war. War implies thought behind destruction, implies plans. Dying is a natural aspect of life. Everyone is dying, ever so slowly. He was an intermediary, an active force on the field of Death, who, for all those who fear her, is quite passive.

You, most likely, do not fear death. You cannot, for you do not know what awaits you in her loving embrace. You fear dying. Your last breath leaving your body, laying still, moving for the very last time, thinking your very last thought. You fear the unknown and the end, the change. You do not know what comes after death and that strikes fear into your heart. You do not know what it is like to take your last breath, and that haunts you.

This young god, so new and so primordial, hunted. If he stopped moving, stopped hunting, stopped killing, he’d fade away and die. He sent his followers to hunt, to pillage, his need for souls insatiable. They hunted, and they warped, skin greying and eyes darkening. They began to shift from human to something else, something other. Infused with his power, they hunted, leading groups to hunt down more sacrifices to their god.

He grew in power, grew in strength. Death herself watched, for he was just like his creations. He was a totem, serving a greater power. He was sculpted from gold, inlaid with emerald eyes, given the wings of all her favored creatures, and he engraved himself with stories of his past, his triumphs, his losses, things he wanted to hold close to him forever.

--

Blood runs through the canals of those engravings, a trident plunging into the chest of the next breathing mortal, and the god, whose name has been long since lost, laughs. Another one came for him, not learning the lesson of its companion, and a sword is driven through their heart, buried up to the hilt, freed moments later by the golden flames eating at its nervous system, reduced to ash in seconds. He brushes them away as one would brush away eraser shavings.

Bodies lay strewn across the field when he’s finished, a one-sided war, headed by a mortal he’s already forgotten, over some sin he no longer cares to remember.

A chuckle rings out from behind him, and he whirls, sword drawn. “That’s quite the display.”

They were half-buried in a fog, extremities concealed in the mist that he knows for a fact wasn’t there. Their eyes glow with hunger, with spite, with a thousand emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle. It hurts to look them in the eyes too long.

“A lot of flair for some bodies nobody will even see. Nobody but me, of course.”

“What can I say, I’m an artist.”

“Or a zealot.”

“What’s the difference? You won’t have the breath to tell anyone.” He swings his sword, runes glowing. Whoever they are, they will soon be ash, soaked by their own fog, as fire eats them from the inside out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My father wouldn’t be happy, he’s not nearly as forgiving as me.” He whirls again, seeing white eyes and a ruffled shirt, mere feet from his face, leaning back against nothing. He gets the feeling that they’re looking at him, truly looking at him, and he chokes, breaking his gaze away from swirling, dancing white, blank but never empty.

“How-”

“Foolish, that’s what you are. A fool.” The mortal- No, they are not mortal. No mortal stares a god in the eyes and calls him a fool. “Why do you fight?”

--

His companion smirks at him. He grins right back, rows of teeth glinting in the light of the enchanted blades. Centuries of fighting together made them a well practiced dance, a machine of blood and souls. Three arrows pierce the hearts of the guards, falling wordlessly from their towers. That’s all the warning they get. Before the night is out, blood flows so thick it sits for years, soaking the wood and drowning the now-ashen grass.

His companion’s footsteps wither and rot the wood on which they stand, warping it beyond recognition. They work their way to the center of the fortress, people charging to their deaths, impaled, sometimes, by naught but the thorny whips of their enchanted armor.

The stone crumbles beneath their feet, and the god would feel the effects, if he were not himself a statue, life breathed into him by the very goddess who steals it, made of pure gold, which doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t decay. Tapestries crumble to dust as his companion runs their hand along them. The god tosses a mortal to the side, its body lying crumpled, its soul buzzing as he adds it to his own. Another voice layered over his own, another voice to buzz with every angry word.

His companion grips a guard by their chin and laughs as it crumbles to dust beneath their hands.

The general of the army falls, and they dance in the blood of their enemies, spin in the blood of their victims. The hem of the smaller god’s dress sprays droplets of blood as they twirl, the god of dying laughing as his friend grabs his hands, dancing in victory, in elation, in completion. They propel themself into the air and spin him. They move as a unit, as they did in the heat of battle.

Later, the god will sit, stare at his companion, and say “You once asked me why I fight.” That day is not today. Today they will both fight, dance in the blood of their enemies, and move on, the fortress a shell of its former self, growing over with vines, breaking apart.

--

Two gods, a god of dying and a god of withering and ash, rest in a small village on the bank of a river. The withering god rests against a tree, long ago struck with lightning, telling a story to the village children, as the god of dying laughs, interrupting them with his own commentary on just how comically wrong they’re telling it.

It has been decades since they drew first blood, traveling for weeks at a time, collecting, remembering, rather than destroying. Fights found them, of course, mobs never learn, but fewer mortals have fallen to their stained hands in the past century than in their best year previous.

They still delight in the occasional bloodbath, if the chance arises, but as the world shifts towards calm, they drift away from senseless slaughter and towards traveling.

They pass by cities, or the ruins of what once were, and they ask themselves, “Was that our doing?” and they do not know, hundreds of civilizations having fallen to their blades, their arrows, and their fire.

But they sit, ancient, immortal warriors, telling stories to children, their hands still caked in more blood than these children will ever see.

Later, the god of dying will say to his companion: “I fight because destruction is control. Nothing exists that I cannot destroy, nothing exists that I cannot control,” but that day is not today. Today they laugh at incorrect accounts of tales they experienced, true histories lost, new memories formed. Today the god of withering and ash closes their eyes, and the god of dying makes the skies dance with light for the descendants of people they long-ago killed.

Later they will reflect. Today they will reminisce.

--

Two gods part ways, on a mission from Death. They will meet again, but it will not be the same. The god of dying, of storms, and of the ocean and all that that entails smiles down on his old friend, their white eyes glowing with hundreds of memories.

“I’ll see you soon, Old Pal.”

“See you soon.” They turn down different roads, one a path of explosions, of wars, of power-grabs and monarchies, and one down a path of self-reflection.

Their paths take them to the same destination: Redemption. Neither take the same road there, and neither path is straight, but it never is. And redemption is a place not easily found, but easily lost, easy to slip back into old ways for moments at a time, on a godly timescale.

The god of dying takes the name Foolish, a reminder of his past. He arrives in a strange land, full of holes and trauma and death. The place reeks of hubris. It makes him sick. It makes him hungry. The hunger curls in his stomach and the stench gives him a sickening headache, so he runs. Runs far away, and he builds.

Builds for control, builds for stability. Builds are his one constant, gigantic pyramids and sculptures and he can’t stop. His temple expands. A man, a man he has seen, a man who feels like too much and too little, too much in one body, a vacuum and a black hole, asks him for a kingdom. Simple enough. A child approaches him, telling him to build a mansion, a mansion larger than a country, for him, his husband and their son. He will be paid. He is not paid nearly enough.

--

A demon, a cat, and a not-quite-human man encroach on his summer home. They reek of vines and death, and Foolish loses his composure. They doubt his power. They threaten his home and he smiles with too many teeth and grows, grows to his full size. His eyes glow. They taunt him, threaten him.

“I’m a peaceful man, Ponk. But if I must defend myself, I can.”

“Defend yourself against this, then, Foolish.” Ponk hurls a trident at him, glancing off him, a mortal not strong enough to pierce his skin. He’s a fool, more a fool than the man who took it as his name. That is his weapon, carved of prismarine and ivory, more his domain than any other. For a moment, the god tastes blood.

“I may be a totem of undying, but in the past, I have been a totem of death.” He calls power to his fingertips, lightning in his eyes. “It’s not just one thing, Ponk. It's never just one thing. Have you ever tasted lightning? Smelt the ozone in the air, seen it dance across your skin before you black out from the pain?”

“Do you see where we are, Foolish?” In Ponk’s mind, the name is fitting. He has never seen a storm called from nothing before. Never seen a storm called at all, only harnessed. He disbelieves.

“It does not matter. A sunny day does not matter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Let me show you.” He smiles, rows of teeth bloodied with the lives of thousands, millions of mortal souls. His voice layers, thousands of voices, screaming to be heard. The crack of lighting lands mere feet from the three. “Now begone from this place, and I don’t ever want to see you here again, am I clear?”

The vines must be resolved. The egg continues to hunger, but he has hope, hope that there is a piece of mortal soul left in them, a piece of morality that wishes to be free. He does not give up hope.

--

The gods’ paths cross again in a city, the totem and the king. A city drowning in red, twisting, oozing vines, calling out for blood. They spend hours weeding, burning red vines and laughing. His friend no longer flies, his friend hides their once-beautiful eyes, but they’re the same. They do not remember him, but they are the same.

“Foolish, have I ever shown you my eyes?” Of course they have, and he says as much. “I’m going to show you again, just in case.” Their eyes dance, with confusion and worries, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

“Yeah, that’s the Eret I’m thinking of! The one with white eyes, the one with the netherite armor!” Foolish looks concerned, but this is nothing that they can’t fix. They’ve fought armies together, a few missing memories aren’t going to make him give up on them.

They attend a banquet. They dance for the first time in centuries, spinning in circles to the music played by that infernal catmaid. They attend a banquet and it goes south, hard, as all parties attended by gods do. It goes south and he makes use of his totem nature, wrapping around their heart, taking their place. They will not die to the monstrous egg before they get to dance together, and reminisce.

Soon, the god will say to his old friend, that he builds to replace. He builds to counteract the destruction he caused, and it will not replace the lives lost, but it adds something new, something beautiful to this harsh reality, but that is not the truth. The truth is, he creates for the same reason he destroyed.

--

Soon a mortal man in a cardboard mask will tell him that he let him die. Soon, he will be taunted by a mortal man, full of hubris, who says that his builds mean nothing, are nothing, bring nothing to the world, and a part of him will think the mortal man is right. A part of him whispers that he is selfish. That his ways are wrong. That he must pick up the sword once again, bleed mortals for their souls.

He will shove that part deep inside, and he will remind the man that no good comes of blood. He will tell the man that he too once believed that death was the answer, death would give control, but he will tell the man that he was wrong, and that he will be too.

You either die a monster, vengeful and wicked, or you grow. You adapt, you create, you reconcile. Some may never forgive, but many will. Mortals only get one lifetime, he must make the most of it.

He will not say that though. He will sit up against the side of his sphynx and sew hundreds of thousands of tiny dolls, breathing life into each one, giving each one a small hard hat and a job, so he will never be alone. He will build, children safe in the ender cradle, and he will give himself time to think. He will stop moving, for one moment, and he will not die. He may be the god of the seas, but he is not a shark. He keeps moving, a perpetual motion machine, purely out of fear of what his own thoughts bring, and he truly lives up to the name given to him so long ago. Foolish. For he is naught but a fool in the body of a god.

[jadelynlace]

a dead woman tells no tales / vikings fiction

series based on Lady Lazarus, a poem by Sylvia Plath. 

chapter three / catch up here

synopsis: He left you for dead and now you’re back.

author’s note: the one small detail the reader has, is that she is a red head. also! as apparent in the last chapter, Ivar’s canon dick-can’t-get-wet-problem doesn’t exist. It can go fuck off with the canon ending in my humble opinion. 

pairing: Ivar x Reader

✄

“You lie,” Ivar says suddenly, shoving your body to place a strong force of distance between you. “Freydis loves me,” Even at his small attempts to prove his own mind to work in his favor, you still catch yourself passing another laugh.

“And do you love her?” You answer, a slick smile spreading through your lips as the amber waves go over your shoulders. “Because lying with another woman as a man who has wed does not sound like love,” Ivar looms over you as you speak, twisting his torso to peak a menacing glare through how he holds on to the sorrow you’ve suddenly stuck him with. His hand grabs your throat at such a speed your flinch is caught far after he has his grip on you.

“You are lying,” Ivar spits again. “You lie because you can not deal with what is truthful,” You feel the pressure along your airways tighten, the hum of the faint dark ink creeping along your vision as Ivar watches your eyes flutter. Suddenly his hand loosens and your mouth opens to pull in as much oxygen as your lungs will take.There’s a quick spark of fear spreading to a fire through your body as you crawl away from him; you know this time Ivar will not wait to call for help because he will ensure you are left at the gates of Valhalla. Scurrying back to your garments, it’s quick work to tie your dress haphazardly as you ready yourself to flee from him. Ivar’s eyes are still stuck on you with such distaste for your words it only makes you fonder, desperate to twist the knife further and tell him more of what you know.

“When that child is born you will see it resembles nothing of you. The only lie that I have ever spoken was that I did not love you. I have loved you Ivar, and I have had to deal with that,” You can hear his roar as you leave the hall, the shatters of broken ceramics not soon after.

*

Ivar hovers over a plain of disillusioned fate, the promises of returning to a woman who claimed her love for a monster like him torn from his crippled hands. His mood sours, even far past what he was normally known to hold as the meal around them takes no interest of his. Chatter from Hvitserk in one ear, chatter from his men in the other. Ivar had yet to look up to see you standing.

“Yes?” Hvitserk says, a faint turn of his head to your figure. Ivar’s eyes peel briefly as he flinches a whisper of fear through his bones from his spot. You place the dagger on the table that belongs to Ivar. “How did you get that?” Hvitserk questions, reaching for the steel blade that you pull back.

“Your hair still curls like it did when you were young,” You voice comes, the meal halfway towards Hvitserk’s lips stopping short. “It is fine that you do not remember me, I would not blame you. Have you not told your brother the tale, Ivar?” You speak, turning your head to look back at him. He is set to sail at the sun’s rise and you will swim behind the boats if you have to. Ivar just laughs, the ring of his amusement falling short with the snap of you wrist, the blade flying to piece the wooden table next to his hand.

“Leave,” He yells. You grab the lone cup of mead on your passage out of the room, drowning the concoction past your lips before tossing the container along the floor.

The moon is high when Hvitserk finds you, silver light past your cheek bones as it dances off of his blonde waves. He studies your body from where you’ve seated yourself, the rocks catching your figure as you try to keep the tears at bay. Ivar did not deserve them then, and he does not now. You would charge him for every droplet of salted water, every scar, every broken jagged twist of your heart if it was possible. The words in his voice that take up your mind, his touch, how tightly he held you. The men you have killed so that you would not simply slaughter him.

“What did Ivar do?” His voice beckons softly, curling around your cloak and lacing with the amber on your shoulders. The lapping water takes your voice from you briefly as you arrange the words on your lips to tell him of the past faults that only you and Ivar knew of.

“When you heat a blade over flame, it pierces more smoothly. Did you know that?” There is no answer given to you as Hvitserk shifts to seat himself where you are. “It is what he did not do. Do you remember the young girl who used to pull him in the wagon? The young woman who would challenge him in the woods when you would practice alongside him?”

“Yes,” Hvitserk answers. “She went missing—left,”

“Ah, that was the tale they told,” You sigh. “You know better of that, do you not Hvitserk?” You catch the way he looks at you, puzzled brow as he absorbs the sight before him. “I never went missing, Hvitserk. I fell, dueling Ivar and he could not help me up but he spoke of getting help. He never came back,” Your words fell past your mouth like tightly coiled ropes, thunking weight on to the ground, unraveling to be picked up and climbed. “I was there until travelers found me, and I went with them,” You added as Hvitserk sighed, his disappointment taking hold of your dropped ropes and latching on.

“And you think he has changed since then?” He asks, his question hanging heavily in the air.

“People do not change, Hvitserk. The seasons may, but people do not. I longed for an answer to why he would not return, and perhaps I will never get one,” You said. You knew Ivar was still under there, under the look of madness, the look of evil. The man that held you last night, making love, was the man you knew. The shocked eyes of being told he was unfavored by his queen were of a new person, failure to read even the simplest scenarios—that was not Ivar. He was not a blind man, nor a stupid one, but you wished for one day perhaps he could be—he could be told of something and simply accept it. He was not in love with Freydis. He was not surprised you came back. But he was sorry that he left you there to die. Crawling from ash as a walking miracle of the skin he dreamt of, rotting on those rocks as he could do nothing with his useless body to save you.

“You will sail back with us,” Hvitserk suddenly states as he bends to stand.

“Hvitserk,” You speak as he halts to turn back to you, brows raised in expectancy for the next question across your lips. “I have been sailing with you since you left Kattegat,” You admit as his face churns to catch where you have slithered through a lie within your words. “I never left, that was only the tale,”

*

Birth of Freydis’ son chimes through the town, up over the valleys and down through the trees, squawking between the ravens, and croaking between the toads. The town rejoices for their new prince upon the return of Ivar and his men, his attempts to act in celebration are only caught to be faulty by your eyes. What comes next are the whispers of Ivar’s unacceptance, his torment of throwing them out because the son carried a skin tone not of Ivar’s and not of Freydis’, eyes deep and dark and the near newly reborn spitting image of the baker’s son. Ivar wanted the man hanged, spread wide and pulled between layers of flesh for all to see. He wanted to pull the blonde hair in Freydis’ braid and choke her own airways. He wanted that bastard child left to the wolves.

Your meal was adorned before you, petty pickings from your cutlery on account of your absent appetite. Even if Ivar knew the truth now, it still did not make you feel any higher. You knew you were broken, but you would never doubt you were powerful—you had destroyed yourself, and it had been glorious. The pounding on the door halts you but you leave it as minuscule in your peripheral visions of things left of importance. You add wood to your fire and put out the last candles, collecting the scraps of your nightly meal to toss to the wildlife that litter the area past the great hall. Through all of your routine the pounding did not cease. With a pull of your shaw you cross the threshold and pull the door from its home, and the guard’s eyes sparkle in the light of the full moon.

“Your king has requested you,” He says. Nodding to the man, you follow his beckoning towards the quarters that hold Ivar’s throne.

“I figured you may haunt me, tell me that you were right to spite me,” Ivar’s voice says as you enter the room. His back is turned to you, speaking his words into the yellow fire that crackles but you can not detect any movement on his body. His voice comes across as dead, so brokenly mundane that you even can tell he makes no effort to hide what he’s feeling.

“Hvitserk never did handle his mead well,” You find yourself saying, the brief smile you crack at how untimely he must have spoken of your return on the ships with them, and how closely you had stayed apparent now. “And I can say all of that if that is what you wish Ivar,” His chuckle calls through your mind as you cross in through the room, padding behind him. “What became of them?” You asked.

“Nothing, as of yet,” Ivar says back all to bluntly for your favor.

“What would you like to become of them?” You ask from behind him. “Because while you have motive to hurt them Ivar, I do not,” You sang from where you were, crossing hands over his shoulders as you level your head next to his, your arm stretching out before both of you towards the hearth. “The burn of a flame can be put out, it can be controlled,” You whisper as you move your arm to the swords on the high wall. “A lot of blood comes from very specific places, but slice precisely and they take time to perish,” Your lips curl by his ear as your breath fans across the hair that has crawled his jaw, tracing your nail along his chin. “The meat of a mortal tastes the same to a wolf,” You add as you catch his jaw to look to you. “Whatever horror you want me to gift to them, Ivar, I will do it,” You spit as his eyes watch you. “You know how simple it is to break a bone,” Ivar’s tongue passes over his lips after you go quiet, your offer taking up space in his mind of the torment he could let you run madly free with. How there was no limit to what you now knew to do because you had spent far too long dreaming up how you would hurt Ivar for leaving you under that sky. You watch his chest heave quickly, a slow smile spreading over his mouth as his mind wanders. “You can bathe in their blood and show your people that there is no one who should cross Ivar the Boneless,”

He had never been this quiet for this long in the time you have known him. Ivar’s eyes mimic the oceans he has sailed for his path to ruthlessness as he stares at you, dancing through the shadows on your cheeks as you level yourself into his lap.

“Can I watch?” Is all he asks.

“You answer my one question, and you can watch anything you desire,” You say as he nods, sinking slightly from you as you sit just inches from his heart. “Why did you not come back?” You whisper, willing your voice not to crack under the extent of getting the chance to be gifted the one answer you ever wanted, but you are of no success. You eyes line with tears and although you need to blink them away, a stray droplet trickles across your cheek. It’s caught by the pad of Ivar’s thumb against your jaw as he looks back at you.

“You were gone when I came back,” Ivar simply answers.

“Now you are the one who lies,”

“You were,” Ivar repeated. “You jumped from that ledge, do you not remember?”

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[lakemojave]

Land of Falling Sun 4

It wasn’t dust after all.

The smoke formed a thick haze that rendered the travelers blind to the horizon ahead. Flakes of ash hung in the air, carrying a thick and foul odor of fire and decay. Somewhere in this flat, lifeless wasteland, something was burning in a great and terrible mass. Chipper had a sharper nose, and guessed it was likely a brush fire, and a big one. The wanderer briefly and privately entertained the notion that if there was enough plant matter to burn out here, then there was likely a great deal of life which he simply hadn’t given thought to.

He didn’t give Chipper much thought for most of the way; they were talented at spotting desert critters to refill their rations, and their magical talent was invaluable to their water supply. In this moment though, he had never been more grateful than to have his winged companion beside him, clearing the smoke with every beat of their wings. Dog was being pleasantly quiet as well, but still hadn’t taken to speaking only when addressed.

It was midnight now. The full moon shone bright in the sky which enveloped the landscape in brilliant shades of red and orange. It was hard to see through the smoke, as was the setting sun itself. In fact, around this time the travelers noticed how hard it was to see anything at all. It was dark, almost uncharacteristically so. The smoke was thick indeed, but not enough to blot out the moon or suns. A great shadow hung over the travelers, but they hadn’t the faintest idea what cast it.

The wanderer turned his gaze up slightly, up and towards the distance. “Hey lil’ fella,” he asked, “How big does the fauna get out here?”

“Hmmm...well the sand rats can get pretty big.” They gestured their talons to suggest the size of the largest sand rat they’d seen. “But I’ve never seen anything I’d call...colossal, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is.” The wanderer eased up a bit. “I’ve seen big, nasty things in other country. Would hate to run into some of them out here.” Chipper looked to their companion with trepidation, disturbed by the image of whatever beast he could be describing.

“Might be a cloud? Really big mountain?” They spread their wings and deepened their voice. “Really big bird?” They chuckled and resumed flying, clearly amused with themself. The wanderer hid his smirk. Then a thought occurred to him.

“Wait,” he asked, “You’re not actually from this country are you?” He shot Chipper an inquisitive glance, who returned it with a bashful, withdrawn look of their own. The wanderer grew concerned. “How’d you wind up out here?”

“I got chased,” they said. They looked straight ahead. “Can we focus?”

The wanderer shrugged and looked on as well. No need to pry.

The pair traveled in silence for a while longer. Dog remained silent, its nose keen and attentive for any signs of life it might pick up through the haze. The shadow that spread over the desert completely enveloped their surroundings, shading them from the heat of the sun. Soon, the smoke gradually cleared up ahead. Past the layer of fog, the pair could see a wall of solid rock, rising far above the desert floor. They looked up, and couldn’t see an end, but it appeared to be a sheer cliff face.

Up ahead, there was a trail.

----

The trail was narrow, barely enough to fit Dog’s six hooves. Chipper would perch on Dog’s hind to rest their wings, which they wrapped around the wanderer’s stomach for safety. Dog’s hoof would sometimes trip along the trail’s edge, dislodging small rocks and sending them plummeting to the ground.

Chipper and the wanderer came to a turnaround, putting the cliff face to their left. The trail was slightly steeper now. The wanderer ducked to avoid a branch that protruded from the cliff, and leaned forward to avoid its swipe as he passed. A few paces later, he looked back curiously. Chipper looked up at him much the same. “You alright?”

“Funny,” he said. “They’re showin’ up more often now.” He kept his gaze behind him, furrowing his brow, as though attempting to decipher some mystery he desperately lacked the information needed to understand.

“Yeah, so?” Chipper asked.

“I dunno. Just more plants than I’ve gotten used to.”

“Think there’s more at the uh...top?” They seemed to question whether there even was a top. By now they were so high that the smoke had thinned significantly, and the stench had mostly passed.

“By my guess, and by our luck,” the wanderer answered, “There will either be a bounty of plants and fertile ground and paradise and whatnot--the likes of which we’ve never seen--or an even shittier desert.” He spurred Dog on a little faster, who then picked up its pace slightly. “Either way, we’ll be there, and everything behind us’ll be long gone. That’s gotta do.”

“It will do, until the desert itself becomes yet another regret.”

“Can it, Dog.”

“When do I get to talk to him?”

“It. And you don’t.”

“Give them time, sir. Give them time.”

The wanderer groaned, and then coughed after groaning a little too hard.

----

The next day, as the traveling sun rose from the northern horizon, the travelers spent time resting in a small cavity in the cliff face, wide enough for all three to sit comfortably. The wanderer rested his back against Dog’s body, and Chipper lay flat on the ground, stretching out their back. As they stretched their wings and cracked their sore back, the wanderer pulled out some clippers and a mirror, and began trimming his beard.

Dog had picked up the scent of a cliff hound the day before. Following the trail brought them to the source: this cave. Dealing with cliff hounds was straightforward, as long as you could track them to their dens and corner them properly. Chipper and Dog approached the cave entrance quietly, then blocked it while the wanderer went in with his knife. He knew to close the distance quickly, stop short of its tail stinger, then dodge right, since cliff hounds are dominant to their right legs and will attack with them first. After dodging towards the attack, it’s best to attack below the jaw, as the skin is easy to penetrate, and a proper stab will go directly into the brain.

The wanderer skinned the feathery creature, then cooked the meat over a fire circle. This relieved him significantly; his arm was beginning to ache severely, and if he didn’t perform any Work soon, the pain would be debilitating. Chipper continued to hold off questions about the state of the wanderer’s arm, or the rest of his skin he neglected to reveal. Yes, it tortured Chipper’s curious mind not to investigate, but they wished to respect their mutual privacy. The soot--or tar as it looked in the circle--was connected to his talent, and that was sufficient.

Their food, water, and shelter accounted for, the travelers enjoyed the first true respite of their journey. The smoke was still rising up the cliff in light wisps, but the smell had passed. The wanderer heard a breeze, but felt nothing when he stepped outside of the cave. “The sound of wind across the desert plain,” said Dog, “But above us. I know the sound well. We are climbing a great plateau, and will soon be at the top.”

The wanderer looked back to Dog, saying nothing, but nodding once. Dog still upset him in a way he couldn’t quite describe, but he understood and respected the beast’s intelligence.

Chipper was feeling good enough to fly again, and sat down to untangle their hair. The wanderer kneeled behind them and brushed their hair in his hands.

----

That night, as the traveling sun set, the setting sun gingerly hung low in the sky, and the moon shone bright, the travelers approached the apex of their climb. Their spirits were rejuvenated, pleased to be out of the valley; yet, they were anxious and on guard, undetermined whether this would be the end of their journey or its beginning.

The trail curved inwards, towards the top of the plateau and easing significantly. There was room for the wanderer to spur Dog to a gallop, and it happily picked up speed, kicking a cloud of dust in its wake. Chipper flapped their wings and tucked in their legs, flying at full speed alongside their mounted friend. Their hearts raced.

They came to the top of the plateau. It was vast, dry, painted in a vivid red and orange soil. The landscape stood dotted with cacti and desert trees, and in the distance they could hear the sounds of birds. The travelers could finally see the setting sun again, and felt the kiss of its warm rays from all the way across this new world. It was another desert, but full of life--and unlike the valley below, it was life they could see.

Up ahead, close on the horizon, Chipper saw what looked like buildings. Rising up among them was a tower of smoke.

[soramel]

Curiosity didn’t kill the cat | jjk ff

Part 3

jjkxreader 

Prompt: “You’re early,” said the grim reaper with a hint of amusement.

Fantasy au, grimreaper!jungkook, reader, romance, slow-burn

Words: 3.4k approx. Part 3/5

Check this out on my wattpad account! I post one part ahead there.

--

Hollowing emptiness filled up your chest as a barren land came into view. An empty riverbed covered with ashes. You squinted against the ray of the sun.

You see nothing but the sky's horizon, another glare of light sent you looking down. Your hand served as the only shade against the glaring sun.

Blink.

Everything went dark.

A yearning love.

Your fist was clenched against your heart as it ached from within. You feel butterflies in your stomach. The unsettling yet warm feeling grew and grew until it became too much it made you curl down.

Everything feels soft against your skin. Silk satin draped around your body. You looked up, finding yourself in a bedchamber. Lamps were laid out on the wooden floor and on the tables, lighting up the darkness with dimmed warmth. You saw a man. His back against yours. His shoulder spanned wide as he slipped in a red robe.

Your fingers ached to reach him, to hold.

You lifted your hand.

Then suddenly, you're running on an empty hallway. Things passing in a blur.

Your eyes feel strained, your face drenched wet with sweat and your mouth could taste the salty tears running down your cheeks. Lifting your layered petticoat, the silk of its outer skirt crumpled against your palm.

Despite the confusion, you continued running. You just know you have to.

You have to escape.

They're coming.

Then a sudden realization stopped you in your tracks. As if air was pushed out of your lungs.

A high-pitched cry ripped through the air, like a wounded animal's, but it was from you. You found the helpless sound coming from your throat. You stared down at your arms grasping your body for something you could hold.

You realized you lost everything you fought for.

You're empty, yet you're filled full to the brim. Your cup overflowing with gut-wrenching pain, loss, and grief. Those emotions were deep-rooted from the love you have for him.

It dawned you.

It's all his fault.

The man you thought you love.

It's his fault.

He brought you nothing but suffering. You laid your heart out and sought for the little love he could give.

Yet there's been no one to yearn for but him, the future you could have together, the family you could have built. If things were just different.

A nightmare

That's what it is.

You jolted awake in a cold sweat.

Breathing in and out, you calmed yourself. Everything was just a dream. You're not dead. You're here in...

Whose place is this?

You turned to the creak of a door. Jungkook's all dressed in black. A fedora hat on his hand.

"Y/n," he greeted. "How was your sleep?"

"Jungkook?" you asked. Confused at how you knew his name.

His eyes went wide before nodding. "Yeah, I'm Jungkook, your assigned grim reaper."

You exhaled as you realized last night was not a dream. You died by mistake. In your sweater and pajamas.

"By the way, I have clothes for you. I figured you should come with me. For your safety,"

He then opened his bedroom door wider for you to come in.

--

The black trench coat felt heavy on your shoulder. Your outfit is similar to his, except the sordid hat on his head. He figured you could look like a grim reaper to ward off any wandering souls. Scaring them might help, save for the starving ones like the woman you encountered last night.

It's been five minutes of standing by on a bus stop. He just stood there and stared off in a distance. On an ordinary day, you thought you'd be stared down by the odd combo of your outfits, but at that moment, your presence was not visible to their eyes.

Jungkook pulled out his tablet as you watch the pedestrians crossing the street, envying how they go on with their mundane routine. Jungkook's brows furrowed as he navigated through the gadget, as if re-reading something.

You saw a ball rolled off the street, its owner chasing after the object. The boy sped off at the last few seconds, oblivious to the truck speeding above the limit.

Pointing your finger to the child, you tried to notify the people around you, "The-the..." you stuttered.

There's no time.

You ran to the boy without much thought, failing to notice you went to your desired position in a blink.

The grim reaper whipped his head up at the air's whoosh. His eyes widened as he saw you pitting yourself against the truck to protect the boy. Jungkook yelled after you, anger and worry bubbling from his chest at your stupidity.

Before he could yank you out of the way, a lapse in time occurred. No one felt it, except the grim reaper who's baby-sitting you.

Then the truck swerved to a different direction, screeching tires marked the road as the driver desperately tried to stop. But it was too late.

Shocked gasps rippled through the watching crowd. You turned back at the boy's sudden cry. He was attended to by his mother whose face was etched with burdening worry. You stared back to the man laying on the pavement. His body being crowded by the bystanders as they called for an ambulance.

A strong grip yanked you to the other side. Jungkook was raging. He was lost for words for a second before ending up shouting, "Who the fuck do you think you are?!"

You flinched from the pain of his gripping hold and from fear.

You took a step back.

"I... he's a child. The truck..."

"Why would you interfere?! Is that child's life different from the man's?! Who are you to weigh lives on your hands?! Have you lost your mind?!"

Lips trembling at his outburst, you looked back at the site of the incident. "I didn't know, I didn't mean to..."

I didn't mean to kill him.

You yanked back your arm, covering your ears upon hearing a voice. You stared at Jungkook in horror.

I think I am... I'm going crazy, you thought to yourself.

"He's alive!" Someone from the crowd shouted. The sound of ambulance echoed, approaching in a distance.

Jungkook dragged you to the scene, never letting go of you as he crouched down to hold the man's wrist.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips.

"He'll be fine," he muttered, more like to himself.

"I'm sorry," you told him, guilt laced in your tone.

--

The rest of the day were all spent in silence. Jungkook fetched two more souls and all the while you were just there beside him as he does his work, basically acting like his shadow.

You were walking down the sidewalk of a business district after sending off his last soul for today. He was supposed to send off three if not for your interference. He should've 6 souls left after this day, but you being in his roster and the child's suddenly shifted fate this morning, he's still 8 souls away from finishing his duty.

He tapped off on his tablet with a resigned hum as he found his schedule empty.

Tucking in the device back to his coat, he stared off across the buildings like an old man.

His gaze then fell to yours. Your eyes filled with innocence as you watch him.

He tutted before continuing walking. You sauntered after, head down.

"Ngghhhh..." you looked up at the noise and almost yelped at the gory looking ghost. His clothes were tattered, but he looks way more decent than the one you encountered last night. His eyes were dazed, staring at you.

Jungkook calmly diverted you to the other side, placing himself between you and the ghost, and you both kept on walking. He patiently said, "Don't stop. He wouldn't dare."

You followed his instruction, but your eyes were somehow glued on the man, seeing one of his shoes is missing. Jungkook hissed, "Eyes ahead."

You flinched and diverted your head forward. Only to face a busy lady engrossed on her phone. Jungkook halted pulling you in front of him to get you out of the way.

It's your first time seeing his face up-close in daylight. It was only then when you noticed that he's not wearing his fedora, his hair is clean-cut short, showing his eyes and ears. His hair is still down but gone were the unruly curls you remembered he was sporting.

"Your hair changed," you muttered, gaze grazing the outline of his face.

Jungkook blinked. Once. Twice.

Flick!

"Aw!" you yelped as you rub your forehead. The area he hit felt pulsing.

You glared him down, "What was that for?!"

He leaned back a bit, cocking his head to the side, "Thought of rebooting your brain. Guess my power's limited."

Your jaw went slack at the insult.

He stepped to the side and continued on walking. He then decided to brief you, "As an ordinary ghost, bumping through a human would mess up both of your energy. It's best to avoid them when you can."

Nodding in understanding, you strolled to his side, carefully avoiding any living humans on the sidewalk.

"Where are we heading?" you asked him.

"Nowhere," he replied.

The both of you kept walking for what felt like an hour. When he took a turn at the end of a curb, you couldn't help but complain, "For how long are we walking, can't you just teleport us to that place? I'm tired."

He turned to you, realization dawning on him. He then looked around and found an empty café. Without saying anything, he walked again.

"Aish, that arrogant jerk. @2^;*&! $%#4," you grumbled under your breath.

Jungkook held the door open for you. It's a wonder that he stays chivalrous when he's like the arrogant narcissistic bastards you've met before. One second he's looking after you, the next he acts as if you're a lint he's living with. A dirt he wants to dust off but will continue to live on his life.

He looked at you indifferently as you passed by with a glare.

You took the seat near a window, then the grim reaper followed, taking the seat in front of you.

The café was relatively empty. Its interiors adorned with fake plants and orchids. The walls were painted with wood and brick-like patterns. The table has a centerpiece of tissue holder, plastered with italics, "A true heart remembers".

Your gaze then turned back to Jungkook. You opened your mouth to say something, but his expression cut you off.

There he goes again.

Looking at you as if you're a parasite he's yet to figure out. His condescending stare ticks off your nerves.

You raised a brow, "What?"

He inhaled with a hiss, then tapped his fingers incessantly on the table as he exhaled.

"I haven't met someone as unfortunate as you," he started.

Lifting a hand closed to a fist, he unfolded his pinky finger, "You're below an average college student,"

followed by the next, "You barely have friends,"

and another, "You died on the way to your solitude, by mistake at that,"

Cocking his head to the side, he spoke to himself this time, his gaze averting yours, "Maybe if you're not a sore loser and attended that party, you could have lived, and I wouldn't be in this dire situation."

"I mean..." he trailed off.

"Nothing's so special about you,"

"Why?" he pouted, wondering as he held his hands up. You scowled. "Aside from brave stupidity, there's nothing much."

You shouted at his relentless insults, startling him.

"Will you really keep this up?" you asked, voice laced with sheer annoyance.

With his eyes wide, he reiterated, "I'm helping you here!"

He waggled his hand beside his forehead, saying, "I've been racking up my brain,"

Then he gestured towards you, "While you create trouble one after the other,"

"Maybe you don't have one. Don't try so hard," you retaliated.

Crossing your arms on your chest, you added, "Maybe if you're not a sore loser and did your life differently, you wouldn't be a grim reaper and you wouldn't have to put up with me."

He closed his mouth at that for a moment, before muttering, "I've been at this job ever since. I'm finishing my duty so I could live as a human."

The rush of triumph turned to guilt in a flicker.

"You were not reincarnated?" you curiously asked.

"I..." he trailed off, "I haven't asked. I don't know. Really."

You frowned, "Why would you want to be a human, anyway? You're powerful. You don't get tired, you don't get to work and fit a measly salary in a month, you don't have to study," the list on your mind could actually go on as to why he's better off than you.

"It's lonely to be alone," he simply replied.

"And that's my dream, as a grim reaper. We all want to be human after delivering 700 souls. I haven't questioned that career path ever since."

Your right cheek twitched. He's weird, they're weird. It's weird talking about supernaturals as if it's a corporate world. Jungkook sounded like a corporate slave.

At that, you sighed in realization. Even in the Afterlife, or whatever dimension you're in, it's all the same.

He called your name, reaching for your hands across the table. "That's why we should figure out how to fix your fate line. The spirit guide's helping us, but what if we discover something important to your case? The faster we figure things out together, the better."

Your gaze shifted from his hands to his face.

The surrounding brightened. Birds were chirping and you're hearing the still water's splashing against the bank.

You found Jungkook beaming at you. The first genuine smile you saw from him. The corners of his lips lifted into a curve, a bit of his gums showing, his pearly whites sparkling, his eyes twinkling in joy.

He's wearing a cylindrical hat, its wide brim filtering out the rays of the sun. His hair is in a top-knot as you can see through the partly transparent headpiece.

His dimple accentuated as he spoke, "Marry me,"

When you didn't answer, he mistook the confused look on your face. "The King gave us his blessing. The General, I mean, your father knows. He also agreed," he further explained.

"Jungkook," you breathed out.

Then the brightness faded, bringing you back to the café.

Jungkook was in much astonishment as you. You snatched your hands away, leaving his palms open.

It's of no-use but you truly felt your heart beating fast. You stared back to his eyes and again your heart skipped a beat.

"What was that?" he asked. "Did you see what I saw?"

You nodded. "I, we," you tried to compose a coherent sentence, but failed.

He nodded eagerly, "I need to make a call," he stood up, not waiting for a reply.

Jungkook went outside the café as he dialed on the phone. You met his eyes, and he didn't back down, giving you a steady intent look.

You could only see his mouth moving as he spoke.

Then waited, as he stared at you.

You steered away from his gaze as he snapped out of a trance. After a while, he brought his phone down.

You watch him go back to you, averting your eyes.

He wet his lips before saying, "The spirit guide is on an important matter right now. His secretary insisted on meeting him as planned."

"Have you told her what happened?" you asked.

Jungkook nodded, "I did, but he's with..." he trailed off and pointed his finger up.

Well, you can do nothing for now. You need to wait.

You nodded in acknowledgment.

--

It's nighttime and you were now in his apartment. You were sitting down on the couch as he paced back and forth in his living room, dizzying you in the process.

"Jungkook," you warned for the second time, begging him to stop.

"You asked to marry me, we were husband and wife, in our past life, so grim reapers do have a past," he chanted for the nth time.

"Hah! How dare them lie to us. They just wanted us to do their work without us making a fuss? 700 souls! Do you know how many criminals, psychopaths, nagging wives, and alcoholic husbands I've dealt with? It felt like a thousand! In exchange of what? This apartment and these boring clothes, that's it!"

He ranted.

"I should tell Taehyung and Yoongi about this," he resolved.

You let out an exasperated sigh. "And what? Form a union?" you asked with sarcasm.

He looked at you in horror, "Marriage is only for two people."

"Are you stupid?" he added before fumbling on his phone.

You rolled your eyes. You should've felt offended, but you couldn't even bother to correct him. That's how hopeless you think he is.

And stupid

And narcissistic at that.

"I didn't ask to marry you. You asked to marry me," you nonchalantly repeated for the second time again. However, you didn't even bother if he heard you or not. Jungkook also didn't care. His brows in a furrow as he waited for the other line to be picked up.

It seemed no one answered, but he tried again.

"Taehyung!" he exclaimed.

"Are you done?" he asked, taking a seat beside you.

"Meet me at my place and bring Yoongi hyung. I have big news for you, you wouldn't believe it."

"This is more important! Absolutely! It's a secret and you'll know it first from me."

"Ah, I can't go there. Too many roaming souls. I have..." he paused, looking at you, before continuing, "I have a baggage here."

You gaped at the use of his words.

Jungkook stood up, heading to the window. "No, I can't carry it. Just bring home soju and pears. Ah and if there's some porridge and rice cakes. Okay? Bye!"

He turned around and grinned at you, "I have a treat coming for you!"

Then you thought, he reminded you of Jimin's pet. That white ball of fur who did nothing but eat carrots and cabbage all day long.

"Cats, and dogs, and rabbits are lucky, they have a working pet to buy them food," you mockingly teased Jimin one time who's beaming at his bunny as he watched the cute monster chew.

--

"What?!" Taehyung yelled.

Jungkook smugly nodded. Taehyung stared at you then back to Jungkook. "So, she's your wife?" he asked to confirm.

You winced and cringed and you craved to fold your fingers. Taehyung is worse than Jungkook.

The bunny nodded once and proclaimed to emphasize a point, "She asked me to marry her."

You bit your lower lip in annoyance and threw the rice cake back to the paper plate. The three grim reapers were startled by your action.

Donning a fake smile, you tried your best to be patient and slowly explained, "Jungkook asked to marry me."

"We were in a lake," you started.

Taehyung looked at you attentively as he's sitting across the coffee table, ready to hear the version of your story. You pulled his hands to yours, "Then he held my hands,"

"He smiled at me, like this," you demonstrated. Trying to copy the face you remember with all the twinkling eyes.

"Then said, 'Marry me,'"

Jungkook, who's sat beside you, abruptly slapped your hands away from his friend. "Ouch!" you fussed, glaring at him.

"Why did you have to hold his hands? Saying that! Doing that!" he protested.

In which you argued, "So you'd remember! Your ass is too up high on your head! Why?!"

A giggle escaped Taehyung's lips as he nuzzled near Yoongi. "Look at them, they're so cute together!" he squeaked as he hugged the man. You winced at his remark.

Yoongi hissed in irritation. He pushed Taehyung's head away while the younger tried to brush his head off against him. Yoongi still won.

Out of the three, Yoongi seemed the most normal to you.

"Maybe you have to relive your life together to remember what happened," he muttered.

"But grim reapers are not supposed to remember their past, Jungkook. You have to be prepared."

Then he went on, "I knew grim reapers who crossed the 7 Trials without knowing their past. I also knew some who learned about who they were, but still chose to vanish. I don't know why."

He stared up, looking both of you in the eyes, as he said his final piece, "Remember who you were, but don't get too attached to your past. There's only one way forward."

[justalittletomato]

Maul and Stargazing (maul x reader hc ramble)

inspired by the spectacular planetary conjunction: just fluff ahead

@apocalypticwafflekitten @always-on-tatooine @savagesbonergarage @theknightsofwren @hannagoldworthy @tupdidtherightthing @brilliantbutbatty @literatureandqueen @dvthomir​ @mother-0f-monsters​

Now Maul was likely expected to memorize planetary systems for his missions.

He needed to go where he was headed and where to hide, if in the case he was stranded where to move towards.

He does not account for how the sky looks away from the volcanic planet of Mustafar, no ash, no blackened sky. There are the twinkling lights of far off stars and planets, nestled and constant in the sky. He only get enjoy the sight for a brief moment before he has to send the ship into hyperspace.

He makes note of the systems that have more activity in the sky, mostly he just rather remain looking at the sky, its open and no walls of stone or lack of windows. He likes seeing the stars.

Even then there is more than the stars to see, there are lights on some planets of different colors, only found on the snowy plains. He dislikes the cold but that sight, well he will remain outside to look at them. Now he must retreat inside there’s another comm, another mission and no more time for the sky.

On this planet where there is nothing but the domes habitats  there is still the sky. You had once mentioned an observatory hidden up in the palace, he goes to find it. Here there is a domed window and a telescope pointed to the sky. Layered in fine dust that he removes. The lens is broken, he requests a replacement. You of course take the task in stride and bring him a star chart of the system. He does not need it but takes it for notes. The next time you wander in Maul is writing something down and motioning for you to look.

A meteor  shower clear even without the telescope, without the surface cities the world outside is dark. You look out with him and ask if he knows the stories of the constellations for this section of space.

He does not.

You share one tale, it's one ingrained in your mind. He listens intently and  then points to another, “Is there one for that?”

You nods and share another, and a few more.

As you two grow closer these wanderings become frequent and soon you two often sit watching the sky. He likes it here. There’s darkness but with the sky open like this and the stars shining in there is no way he is ever in the shadows. More than once has he fallen asleep here, under the stars.

There is a upcoming event, again you are with him and this time there is no story to tell just watching.However this alignment will take some time and late into the winter night.  There are blankets wrapped about you both and the telescope is adjusted and focused. Maul has never seen anything like this, he makes sure to double check the telescope he does not want to miss a moment.  In the dark he can’t see how you smile at how he goes on for a bit on how such an event took place in the republic of old and now you two were here to see it together.

Both of you in awe as the planets above align to form the “brightest” star. Maul adjusts the telescope just right, and gives an excited laugh. Genuine and joyous and one that you will try hard to remember. 

 “You have to see this!”

So you do and also can’t help but whisper wow. It's the only word that comes to mind at that moment.  but there are so many others you could have used, incredible, wondrous, spectacular but a wow would suffice. You return it to Maul whose waiting patiently, you would like to add, to see the star once more.

You pass it back and watch as he looks up once more to the sky, “ Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he asks smiling at the sight once more.

You watch him, so entranced by the stars and smiling. You could look at this forever, you would wait forever for this sight.

“Yes.”

[soraavalon]

DM: Nathaniel, the last thing you see before you're pulled into the bag and whispered 'Don't follow me' are your friends holding onto the rope trying to reach you desperate, you know of course that they will, but you beg them anyways. For a moment there is darkness, as the leather falls across your eyes and then you are being pulled into the infinite emptiness between the planes of existence; an extradimensional void. The hands around your mouth and throat are like an ice-cold vice, dragging you deeper and deeper into the place where the raw arcana of the universe is woven. You can, in fact, see the threads of pure magical energies stretching out in all directions, no end in sight as they intertwine and interlock. The ones nearest to you; a sapphire blue so bright that they burn the cones of your eyes and make them ache to try and comprehend it. You know the feeling of these threads, something in them speaking of Moriarty, as you are dragged past them towards white threads of pure light. You watch the distant ones begin to smolder and crumble and in a burst of what looks like flame, they fall away, leaving you floating through this endless void as the Bag Man is dragging you deeper into it. You are unsure of how escape for a moment until a thread comes past you as it's changing direction, crimson this one, and you recognize this thread or rather the feeling of it that deafening hum of energy matching a song that you never knew that you knew; this is your magic which you imbued into the bag that you gave to Hunt. You are passing by it and then into it as the Bag Man is just dragging you through its paths, drowning in your own creation, your own arcane workings smothering you as you are dragged into a space, that by all accounts, you should never have been allowed to slip.

DM: You realize too late that it will consume you and has already begun to do so. Nothing mortal should be alive here, in this place of pure, raw power and the impossibility of it threatens your very being. Panic and dread start to fill your throat and chest, centered around a cold, heavy realization; this is how you're going to die. Your friends will never know what exactly happened after you were stolen from them, they'll pique (?) wondering how they can get to you, possibly even following you into this space of magic in spite of your warnings where they'll unravel in turn, one by one until they're gone too. Or they'll let you go and carry on without you as other have before, maybe someone else will be hired in your stead. Maybe Moriarty will write to one of his many friends and family and have one of them take your place. He'll craft his arcane armor and you won't see it finished, maybe he'll finish the doll without you too now that there's a plan for it. Maybe Tark will dig up Amelia without you, asking the questions of a sleuthing stranger and not of a grieving son. Hunt will make her fortunes without you. Eudora will finish her new prototype without you, maybe she'll find her husband and you won't know if he ever met your father or if they were simply tangled in the same web of coincidence. Maybe Nicholas will come home and you won't be there to confront him. Maybe Charlotte and Alexander will be writing a letter to a dead man, maybe someone will tell them. Maybe someone will tell Calliope too. Maybe Rosaline will ask where you are and they'll tell her too.

DM: A scream tears from you, not a sound of fear or even agony, but a sudden fierce determination. This is your arcana, this magic is woven by you, yours to control and shape and you will not surrender to it. You reach out, refusing to succumb, grasping for any way to drag yourself out of here and back to the people you've come to care for. Back to every unfinished work and unanswered question and your gauntleted hand closes around one of the red threads. The sensation is indescribable, it burns searing hotter than any fire yet there is no pain. The gauntlet made to store and channel the same energy that surrounds you sparks blindlingly, you flinch and so does the Bag Man, his grip slipping long enough for you to grit your teeth and pull yourself away. And your exposed hand closing around the thread which crumbles like sand under your fingers, bursting into sparks that sear your throat and eyes are you breath them in. You grab the next thread with your protected hand and there's enough leverage to pull yourself further along, your arm feels like it's twisting and pinched and contorting around the bone, but you keep going and pull yourself forward. Your magic falls away and your bare touch filling your lungs and mouth fill with the white hot essence of arcana while your gauntlet, even as it burns around your skin allows you to climb back to the exit; A dark tear in what can only be described as the sky. You blink the spots and sparks out of your eyes, hand closing around the edge of the opening, your fingers touching leather jaw clenched , you haul yourself out of the bag and into darkness.

Hunt, sitting there in your room, you hear a thud inside your chest.

Hunt: I go to open it.

DM: You open it to see Nathaniel. Nathaniel, the chest tips over as she opens it and you immediately fight the darkness, you roll onto the floor and as you hit the ground that's when the pain seeps in. Your bones all ache, the familiar and unpleasant sensation of growing pains, it feels like your tongue is coated in a thin layer of ash and grit and your throat is sore and raw. Your left arm feels numb, like it's balance is wrong, you begin to wonder if it's somehow broken when you look down and see that the flesh itself is fused with the gauntlet. The clockwork and structures of the metallic glove have seemed to shrink to fit you skin-tight, bone deep. You flex your mechanical fingers and as you press your right hand into the left, you can feel cold metal under your finger and soft fingertips against your new palm. Your head is reeling as you're trying to make sense of where you are and what's happening, the blood rushing against your temples and the back of your eyes matches the pattern that is unmistakable to you. Your pulse, even in a rush, is in time as always to the watch in your breast pocket, you look up and you see Hunt standing over you.

Hunt: Speechless.

Nathaniel: I think Nathaniel tries to talk, but he's not quite all here. He just kind of mumbles incoherently. It sounds almost like a question.

Hunt: "Oh my god!" For a moment, it looks like Hunt has no idea what the fuck to do, she's like wants to go and check him out to see if he's actually there and...

DM: You can see too that his left sleeve has kind of been burned away, his arm is exposed and the one that he's looking at and it's like I described, the gauntlet has fused with his physical form and where the metal would normally end, it's not like a gauntlet on top of his hand that now he can't take off, it is his hand and where it fades into the skin it's like the soft edges of an old tattoo, like it is a natural part of him.

Nathaniel: What happened after... What happened?

Hunt: You've were gone for four days.

Nathaniel: It's been four days?!

Hunt: "Yes. How..." I get Nathaniel to scoot away from the bag, I put the Bag of Holding back in the chest and close it.

DM: Yeah.

[thewatermelloncat]

Breaking Rules for Brothers

Summary: Polly insists on confining Tommy to his room after he had picked up some kind of flu. Though it isn’t Tommy’s desire to leave his room that her instructions ignored, but his youngest brother’s desire to see him.

Author’s Note: Set before Season 1 and mostly written from Finn’s perspective.

Warnings: None

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Observance is something you learn fast in the ghetto. A slight change in a man’s pace, the limp in his step, a hand reaching behind the folds of his coat, mere examples of behaviour noticed daily. Sometimes your life will depend on it, sometimes it won’t. But it pays to be aware.

It is unfortunate yet fortunate all the same that the walls of the betting shop consist of mostly bars and windows. Unfortunate because there is little in the way of privacy. Fortunate because you can observe what is happening around you. 

This morning instead of focusing on her paperwork, Polly finds herself observing Tommy. Glancing through the layers of windows into his office seeing him slumped in his chair resting his head in his hand over the desk. If anything, they are both lucky that it is a quiet day in the betting shop. The last race had been three days ago and all the bettors had already collected their winnings, and the next race wouldn’t be for another couple of weeks.

Polly can see how boredom would influence him to slouch over his paperwork, but she knows that he still has plenty to do and plenty on his mind. Maybe it’s stress that is causing him to act this way? Then again it is unusual for Tommy to wear his emotions so heavily on his sleeve or to wear them at all for that matter.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It had been a bit of a fight for Polly to regain focus on her work, but she had done it. Checking over a few of the accounting books before piling them off to the side of the desk. Arthur had messed up on some of the adding as usual, but they had been easy fixes.

“You should have gone to class more often” Polly barely looks up at Arthur as he enters her office.

“Say I did. Doesn’t mean I would have paid any more attention” Arthur tells her eyeing the stack of books timidly, knowing what his Aunt is alluding to. Drawing in a breath and pulling down at the bottom of his blazer, he moves on before the conversation can go any further, “Tommy wants to see ya.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Stepping into Thomas’ office Polly immediately picks up on details she couldn’t notice through the windows. The glistening of the glass had hidden the pallor of his skin and from a distance she couldn’t see the lines that lie beneath his eyes. With his shoulders slumped and posture looking heavy, he truly looks dreadful.

“How are the books looking?” he cuts straight to business. At times he could make his voice sound gentle when needed but now with his tone muted, Polly can tell that this is something different.

“All expenses have been paid out” she tells him, choosing to ignore his vocal quality for now.

“What about the bets coming in?”

While Polly informs him about the slow intake of bets which is to be expected at this time, she observes Tommy’s tired gaze flicking to her before falling down to his desk then raising back up again. In amidst detailing the ratio of bets over the horses – Monaghan Boy falling behind after his recent loss as planned – she watches Tommy shift in his chair with a deep sigh.

“Are you listening?” she checks, her voice not holding any annoyance, before adding, “you don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m sorry. To be honest I’m not feeling well” he sighs dropping his pen and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve noticed as much” Polly says. “Serves you right for wondering around in the rain doing deals in the dark.”

“The deals had to be done, Pol.”

“You could have picked a better time” she points out.

Tommy offers her no rebuttal.

“It’s a slow day” – Polly nods her head towards the door but her attempt of getting her nephew back to bed is interrupted.

“Huh’ihCHSSHHhh!” Tommy turns to the side raising a loose fist to cover a sneeze which bends him almost in half.

While he sniffles and turns back, Polly reaches into her pocket to pull out a handkerchief, knowing that he doesn’t often carry one. He fixes her with a sceptical look when she holds it out to him.

“Oh, come on” she scolds. “Who cares if it’s a woman’s handkerchief.”

Reluctantly he takes it from her and deals to his nose, politely turning away from her as she steps back from the desk.

“You need rest” Polly tells him when he lowers the square of fabric.

“I have meetings at the factories” he dismisses.

“No, you won’t go there” she shakes her head. “The ash will go straight to your chest.”

“Pol, there’s still money to count and rounds to do” Tommy tries.

“All of which your brothers and I can handle.”

He seems to be caving in to his exhaustion as he lets out a long exhale.

“This hasn’t settled in yet; you best get into bed before it does” Polly holds a hand out towards him and he stands sluggishly from his chair.

Together they set off to the staircase, Tommy rambling about all the people they need to see about what, despite Polly already having a pretty good idea about it.

“I can write it down” Tommy suggests when they reach the base of the stairs.

“I’m sure I can remember” Polly smiles at him reassuringly, turning him around to face the top of the stairs. “Up you go.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The sky threatens to spill with rain again as Finn hurries inside to the kitchen of the betting shop. Throwing his school books down on the table he looks around not finding the person he is searching for.

“Where’s Tommy?” he asks Polly who stands at the bench fixing a cup of tea over by the sink. “He was gonna take me to see the horse.”

“Your brother’s not well” she says gently as she turns around from the bench to see Finn’s expression drop in disappointment. “Can you take this up to him?” Polly ignores the fall in expression, handing him the cup of tea.

Still processing his disappointment, Finn doesn’t question it and takes the cup from her before heading up the stairs.

As his footsteps begin to fade from the kitchen Polly calls out to him, “don’t spill it!”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Finn never really went into Tommy’s room. His brother was normally up before him and went to bed long after him, so with him never really being in his room there was no reason for Finn to visit. Still the room looked about the same as the rest of theirs, same striped walls and small space. A few things were different between his and Finn’s own room, being the gun on the bedside table and the extra rounds of ammunition.

Cautiously Finn weaves his way around the door which stands ajar, moving further into the dim room darkened by the drawn curtains.

“Tommy” he says as he carefully lowers the cup of tea onto the bedside table in the small amount of clear space left on its surface.

“Tommy?” he repeats when his brother doesn’t move as expected.

He doesn’t move again and worry grows within Finn as he sees a sheen of sweat beading across his forehead. Curiously, he reaches forward touching his fingers to Tommy’s skin like he had seen his brothers and Polly do before. In an instant he draws them back with a gasp, holding them to his chest and cooling them off with his other hand like they had been burned.

“You’re burning” Finn says after seeing Tommy’s eyes flutter open for a brief second when their skin had touched.

“’s fine” Tommy mumbles weakly with his eyes already closed again. His voice is barely comprehensible with him not even half awake.

All through his life Finn has been told to listen to what Tommy says, but now he doesn’t trust his words. He knows that there can’t be any way that he’s fine – and that he needs help.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Polly was about to scold her youngest nephew for thundering down the stairs when his brother is ill in bed, but all words of admonishment fall away when she sees the young boy’s expression.

In amongst the panicked rambling, she is able to discern the most important facts: that Tommy wasn’t waking up and that he is burning with fever.

When she’d heard enough, she gently shushes the boy and senses John, who had been standing with her, move over to the sink to run a dish towel under the water. When the youngest member at last quietens down, she turns to John who hands her the cloth, before striding up the stairs with Finn trailing closely behind her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When she’d listened to Finn telling her about Tommy’s fevered state, part of her had assumed it was fuelled by a child’s exaggeration. Though stepping into the darkened room, she was dismayed to find that it hadn’t been.

In an instant she is over at the head of the bed placing the cool towel on Tommy’s burning skin. Hearing heavy footsteps, she turns around to see John maneuverer his way around his youngest brother, carrying a bucket of water over to place down next to her. After nodding to him gratefully she looks back over to Finn who stands still in the centre of the room.

“Go! Out!” she instructs forcefully, sounding angry although she doesn’t mean to. Not wanting the youngest Shelby to see his brother this way. He’s still a child for goodness sake.

Finn shuffles on his feet. He knows that this is no place for him and that he’d only get in the way, but he also knows what is happening is important and he doesn’t want to leave.

“John will take you to see the horse” Polly commands hoping it will be a welcome distraction.

John doesn’t question their Aunt’s words and grabs Finn by the collar, hauling him out of the room before any protest can be made.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was dusk by the time they got back to the betting shop and they’d almost missed dinner. When they got inside Ada made quick work of fixing Finn a plate while John sorted out his own before joining Polly and Arthur talking business.

As the dishes are being cleared away Finn works away on his homework at the table. He finds it hard to concentrate with the adults talking about far more exciting things than the maths equations in front of him. And it’s especially made harder when he overhears Polly mention that Tommy had woken up enough to hold a conversation before.

More than anything he wants to go up and see him. Be able to rid his mind of the last image he saw of him. Though he knows he can’t abandon his homework under the watchful eye of Ada. He sighs frustratedly and contemplates lying and saying he finished it already but he knows someone will see through him. All of them being able to lie easily themselves can pick up on who lies to them. That was something Finn had learned the hard way.

“Got stuck?” Ada draws his attention back to his work.

“No” Finn mumbles unhappily. “It’s boring.”

“I know, but you have to learn it for when you grow up enough to manage the books” she reminds him.

“Arthur can’t do math” Finn points out.

“But he wishes he could” Arthur calls out from the centre of the betting shop, having overheard him. He flicks Finn a wink as he stands from his chair. “Shall we do it together, eh Finny?” he suggests as he comes over to him. “Maybe we both might learn something.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Having worked through his maths work with Arthur, Finn not only found that Arthur was much better at maths than he gave him credit for but that time went by a lot faster. Still by the time he’d finished there was already talk of him turning in for bed.

“Can I see Tommy first?” he asks Polly sheepishly as she prepares to shepherd him up the stairs.

“Perhaps we’ll leave that till tomorrow, yeah?” Polly suggests gently. “Leave him to rest a bit longer.”

Finn nods dejectedly before climbing the stairs. He sees the point in that but it doesn’t stop him from sparing a longing look at Tommy’s door as he walks past.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Finn didn’t want to go to school. He thought that Polly might have let him off but with Tommy’s work needing to be covered and no one to watch over him, he knew it was pointless to ask. It’s not like he was going to get up to any trouble but if he told them that no one would believe him.

The kitchen is a bustling mess with John trying to get his kids ready for school while Polly prepares their lunches. Finn stands quietly in the corner holding the lunch Polly had given him, brooding to himself about the day ahead.

In amongst the chatter of the younger children, Finn doesn’t notice Tommy’s footsteps until he stops at the bottom of the staircase. Wearing a coat thrown over a shirt but missing his usual vest and pocket watch, Finn doesn’t think he’s seen him so underdressed.

“Get away from the kids!” Polly warns him, more panic in her words than discipline. Havok would be wreaked if any of them got sick in amongst the family.

Immediately Tommy steps further backward in the alcove, raising his hands in surrender.

“You should be in bed” she scolds. Knowing he’s not fit to be up after seeing him lean a forearm against the wall in order to remain upright.

Tommy looks at her like he doesn’t understand what she said before diverting the topic. “Remembered I’ve got to sign papers to go out.”

“For God sake, Tom. You’re not working today” she objects, helping John shepherd the kids out the door, nodding for Finn to follow them.

“There is only three and they’ve got to be done today. I’ve already read over them” Tommy justifies as Finn pushes himself out of the corner and steps out the door, becoming deaf to the remainder of the conversation.

Walking away from the house he kicks his boots at the gravel road, John’s children running off ahead. He knows Polly would scold him for scuffing his feet along the ground – it would only serve to wear out his shoes quicker. Though he doesn’t care as he lets his mind wander elsewhere. Even through the day of school all he can wonder is whether Polly did ever let Tommy sign those papers.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Yelling isn’t an uncommon thing to hear within the Shelby household, but Finn’s voice is scarcely involved. It’s too muffled to be understandable from where Tommy lies in his bed, newly disturbed from sleep. And he can also make out the sharp tone of Polly but can’t make out what she is saying either. Still, it’s out of the ordinary for them to argue with one another and that’s concerning enough to have Tommy rising from his bed.

Making his way across the room he covers a couple of coughs behind a fist before turning the doorhandle. As he swings the door open, Finn comes into view, stomping up the stairs with a scowl on his face.

“What was that all about?” Tommy asks, his voice painfully muted.

Finn startles, freezing on the staircase, not having expected his older brother to be there. After a second or two of staring blankly at him, he looks down at his shoes. “Aunt Polly won’t let me see you” he mumbles hesitantly. “She says you should be kept resting.”

“Well, I’m awake now, aren’t I?” Tommy steps back from the door and nods his head to the centre of his room, welcoming Finn inside.

Though Finn heard him, he’s hesitant to move and stays with his feet rooted to the staircase.

“You’re already seeing me now, aren’t you?” Tommy justifies before leaving the doorway.

Against his better judgement Finn follows him inside and positions himself down in the chair Polly had left by the bed. For awhile he sits in silence not looking at Tommy and not knowing what to say.

“I know what this is about” Tommy breaks the long silence eventually. “Polly told me” – he stops to clear his throat, more to interrupt the sentence than to fix his voice. Wanting to avoid directly repeating what Polly had told him about how Finn had found him. “She never meant for you to see me like that.”

“I know” Finn says quietly, still not looking at Tommy.

“I didn’t mean for that either.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”

“It’s just life, ain’t it?” Finn finally looks at him.

Tommy pauses. “Yeah… it’s just life.”

Another silence falls over them and this time Finn is the one to break it.

“John took me to see the horse.”

“Did you like him?” Tommy asks, sounding a bit brighter at the new topic.

Finn hums happily before saying, “John didn’t know shit about him.”

Tommy cracks a smile at his use of language. “John doesn’t know shit about anything.”

“When will you be better?” Finn suddenly changes subject.

“Hopefully soon, eh?” Tommy tells him before promising, “when I’m better I’ll take you out on the horse.”

And for the first time that day Finn smiles. To him nothing sounded better.

[ladyhindsight]

I have no love lost for Clary. In the two previous books she has been rather annoying, waltzing into situations just because, and has contributed very little to the main events in the books aside from blowing up Valentine’s ship/boat in the end of City of Ashes. She’s always just there but does fuck all.

In City of Glass, she’s finally taking an active role in her life instead of being swayed and lead here and there on other people’s account and decisions and Destiny. And yet. This time Clary is the most heinous, vile, obnoxious, self-centered, awful person she’s ever been on the series so far. In City of Bones, Clare interpreted Isabelle’s confidence as arrogance, yet here she’s mistaking Clary’s arrogance for confidence. I’m at loss for words as to describing how on the brink of bursting my aneurysm is.

We start the chapter with a nonsense sentence. → “Afternoon light woke Clary. A beam of pale brightness laid itself directly over her face, lighting the insides of her eyelids hot pink.”

Independent body parts. Funny mental image, though.

Why? It’s not as if Clary isn’t allowed to rise from the bed and look around. Why does she have to pretend to be on the bed instead of looking out of the window? Whyeee

Amatis has just brought Clary food. First thing Clary does is demand to know where Luke is. The verb indicates a brusque tone which is not nice, Clary. Aside that she has already broken some law and having been impetuous brat by creating a portal and coming to Idris, she’s really not winning any points here by being rude to someone she doesn’t even know.

Comma abuse continues.

My actions... have consequences? Unbelievable.

Clary is a teen, a frustrated and whiny one at that. But she’s also a heroine and supposed to be a likable one. Her 100-page-or-so tantrum does do wonders to give an opposite image of that.

The use of punctuation marks are abysmal, as always, in Clare’s writing. Hence I am filled to the brim by these em dashes she keeps throwing around and interrupting sentences.

→”There was a white dress in layers of tissue papers. A wedding dress, Clary thought and laid it aside carefully.” (Notice no comma before ‘laid’)

What greatly amuses me is that Clary did not only act like a thankless, surly teenager towards Amatis after she offered her food and clothes, Clary also takes her gear and runs off with it.

It’s great that Jocelyn has done all these amazing and badass things but not matter how you dice it, her character is the blandest to ever bland. She is nondescript and undistinguished and continues to be so even later. Her absence (previous and the following) doesn’t do her any favors in that regard.

And I beg you to stop with those dashes.

No pre-comma before ‘like’ when it means ‘as’.

CcCcLeArLy. Thanks for spelling it out for my dumb brain. The context wasn’t enough to show that so it must be told. Give readers some credit. On another note, Aldertree is a hoot. He’s character is well-defined in just couple pages though his personality is somewhat exaggerated, which also could be why.

*Slow motion noooo!*

Commas are great for pacing the way a character speaks, but there is absolutely no reason to use it here. And that em dash has become my mortal enemy.

Tell me why “and never more than in politics” sounds like an independent clause to you?

This is how it could look to everyone else in the Clave. Of course we know it isn’t true at all, but the Lightwoods and co. have no substantial evidence to defend themselves from Aldertree’s “story” because all of what has happened relies on narratives and beliefs that no one can substantiate concretely in any direction. This is actually a great take and a point because it depends on what anyone chooses to believe.

Which is why I’d like to hear what those holes are. Justify!

Writes the author who blamed flaws in Clary’s character on the Lightwoods in City of Bones and never made Clary own up to her faults.

Light can’t be sweaty. 

→ “His sweaty face shone with a light.” (???)

Hell yeah he is! At least Simon knows what’s up.

“Not even false kindness” is ineffectual to add. If the point is that there wasn’t any kind of kindness to be heard in Aldertree’s voice: → “There was not even false kindness in his voice.”

The final paragraph works without sounding pretentious because of Aldertree’s previous exaggerated and feigned kindness and worry. The moment he drops the act, his tone is rather surly. He is then blunt and pitiless yet devoid of any pretentious suaveness and villainy, for which these lines don’t sound the same coming from him, especially when compared to Valentine’s or Sebastian’s Evil Monologues.

It’s not necessarily a clause to go after, but this is also telling something when it could be shown. For example: → “After approaching the woman, without a trace of hesitation she gave Clary her hurried series of directions.”

Indigo is blue, you pompous artsy asshole. In regards to the ostentatious declaration about lemon yellow and saffron, I don’t think people generally really confuse them a lot:

This is truly the peak of Clary being the most obnoxious person. She just does what she wants with no regard to anyone else and doesn’t even reason with the readers why. She just doesn’t know where the stubbornness is coming from! Earlier Clary’s insistence on going to Idris was about wanting to be the one to help her mother, to be there when what needs to be done is done, yet here she has absolutely no reason for her behavior. She doesn’t bring up Jocelyn at all to Isabelle.

Of course Clary should get to be there. She was supposed to be there from the start. But that was in legal means...

Oh, sorry. This was the peak of obnoxious behavior. It’s strange that the writing is fully aware of Clary’s tactics but at the same time, I believe, Clary is supposed to be liked??

So, Clary just barges in, filtering her point of view. The first two clauses should just be taken out as they really provide nothing. → “The house was built like Amatis’s, tall and thin...”

If it appears to Clary that he’s reading a book, that should be fine on its own.

This is just a clusterfuck of a sentence. WORK IT IN! → “with an unusual amount of anger even for her.”

Here’s another slap of truth to Clary’s face, yet she just brushes it off and it amounts to nothing. Nothing Luke or Isabelle has told Clary will change her or make her more considerate. In fact, she’ll just continue on like this. Why make such good points but then not develop the character?

No comma before ‘Sebastian’. When the information provided by the clause beginning with ‘who’ is required to define a person or a thing, there should be no commas.

Also, I have yet to see any serious evidence of this. Clary once again narrates another character who has yet to be more defined to the readers.

Also, everyone brushing Max off? Sad. Even Jace, his favorite big brother.

ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING.

I am baffled, truly. Like, what am I supposed to think and feel about this? The tone here is dramatic. The paragraph closes the chapter with a shocking reveal of Jace embracing another girl while, last time we checked in, being deeply infatuated with Clary, his supposed sister. But why would I feel for her?

The narrative has done a poor job of portraying Clary and Jace’s relationship as anything to hope for after the sibling reveal, yet here I am supposed to be SHOCKED and sympathizing with Clary because the boy, her supposed brother she likes is in the arms of another girl. Right.