#behindslaughter

He's... alive.

He's alive.

Steven lets out a desperate laugh, eyes wide as he stares blankly forward. He's never had such a close call before, especially not this early in the week. It's not even the robots' fault this time, not really--he had gotten distracted, cocky, and by the time he had noticed Chica at the door it had been too late to shut her out. Chica, of all the animatronics! She's usually the least of his concerns, since she's so hard to miss when she gets near. He must really be out of it.

Saved by the bell, he thinks with another breathless laugh, his gaze darting toward the clock. It's already 6:12 (where had the time gone?), and he blinks, pushing himself stiffly to his feet.

Mr. Miller will be here soon for the next shift. Steven scrubs at his eyes, doing his best to wipe away his shell-shocked expression and look presentable for his boss. Should he tell Dave what happened? He's not sure. On the one hand, it sure would be nice if someone could have a word with the technicians about adding in some programming to help the 'bots recognize night guards as human... on the other hand, this was probably a one-time thing; Steve's usually got things under control.

"Mr. Miller!" he says with a start, only just noticing the other figure in the doorway. That's the second time tonight that something (someone) has managed to sneak up on him. Oof.

"I was just getting ready to head out." Except... as blank-faced as Bell appears on the outside, he is still pretty shaken up. It might be nice to have some human interaction before he braves the trek home to his dark, cramped apartment.

"I'm so flattered."

Respect? How comical, how crude. Murder is an art unparalleled, but there's nothing at all 'respectful' in the act itself. You the thief, your victim the safe, the greatest 'boundary' ignored as you pillage a hapless soul of their life and very future. Beautiful ugliness.

But he's correct, there are so many choices. So many ways to 'skin a cat' as it were; yet not all of them were equal.

"Your prey. Children, right?" River smiles sweetly but she might as well have spat that word right at his feet, "I imagine the occasional 'someone else', too. But there's just one. Glaring. Similarity between them all... They're always weak and defenseless. Do you know why, darling?"

★ — Gregory's found himself at a standstill ; refusal to come any closer, but refusal to leave. Expression hardened, flashlight pulled close to his chest like a lifeline. He won't let himself be stopped here — not when Cassie's still on her own, still in danger.

@behindslaughter: "How in the name of all the seas did you get here of all places?" He is not mad -- more hiding just how impressed he is -- just hiding it all with concern and a hint of annoyance ( okay but Pirate au >:3c )

jokes on him she runs on chaos and spite in every universe

William sleeps rarely. His body doesn't seem to need it provided he recharges often enough, and the complete loss of awareness of his surroundings is something he'd prefer to avoid. That, and the issue of just where he'll wake up. If someone's going to end his life, he wants to see it coming.

But on occasion, the urge becomes too overwhelming to resist. William is so very tired, and no one's tried to kill him recently. He could manage a few hours, surely...

The first thing he recognizes is the floor. He can't forget the floor. He was right. His paranoia was right. He's back and he has-

His body is wrong. The familiar nightmare of flesh and steel (mostly steel) is still his. He is not frail. He is not weak. Then there must be something else going on.

Find the office. That's the center of things, and that's where the answers must lie. As William approaches the door, he spots someone already inside. And the fellow looks just a tiny bit like...him. When he was alive. Not identical, and he'd be hard-pressed to point out what exactly they have in common, but something about that stranger is more familiar than he should be.

For months he'd been taking part in the Entity's games, putting his mechanical skills to good use, familiarising himself with the other victims competitors. They were an eclectic bunch, but he'd finally started to settle in with them. Kate in particular had become a close friend. He had, in fact, expected to drop into the caravan with her and raise Hell.

When he instead comes to to tiled floors and striped walls, he knows something is wrong. And then the smell hits: cheese, and rot. He moves through the building like a dream, completely ignoring the other survivors ( and the off-putting organic hooks extending from the broken claw machine and lockers ), heading to the back. To the room he knows best. He enters the office through the left door as Springtrap enters through the right, and, though it's muted, he can't help but smile for the briefest of seconds.