#fnaf lore

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒:

Mental health struggles such as depression, deep exploration of guilt, panic attacks, self-loathing, and suicidal ideation depicted in detail, murder and mention of murder depicted in detail, heavy gore, and dark topics of the like. Please ensure you are in the right place to consume this content. Obviously, you know what FNAF is about, so please take care of yourselves!

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒:

This story is my interpretation of the FNAF timeline. Obviously, the lore is a mess, so nothing is truly finite within the canon. However, I'm trying to get this as accurate as possible. This will follow the outline of both the Game Theory lore timeline and FuhNaff's reimagined version. I think Game Theory's is as accurate as it's going to get, considering all of the book lore and games respectively. Sorry if I get some things wrong, I'm grasping at strings after all. If you're a headcanon junkie who wants to immerse yourself in this weird world, you're in the right place!

part 1

𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞?

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . . □□□□■100%

Books are a unique enigma. Every country in the world has had some form of literary document. In a way, pen and paper are the universal language. Anyone from the east to the west could see one and immediately identify it. Humans are silly like that. There are small things that every breathing person can relate to, no matter how rare they are. 

That’s why the girl loved reading so much. She found that no matter where the story originated, she felt connected to whoever authored it. Even the drab literature assigned in school was fascinating to her, although sometimes she had to dig deep for it. Really deep.

Currently, some of that deep thinking is required. Her book was proving to be an excellent canopy to shield her eyes from the sun. Her chair was leaned back as far as possible, the only thing preventing a disaster being the window behind her. Her sun conundrum could be easily solved by simply not testing the laws of gravity, but with her crossed legs and abandonment of socks and shoes, she didn’t quite care.

“But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss…” The girl's voice was clear as a bell as she read out from the page. 

Today’s poison of choice was Bram Stoker’s Dracula. She had been assigned this particular piece for 4th-period honors English. 

Her nose scrunched, “Ew, it says he looked like a lizard? No, thank you.”

She gave a pointed look to the catatonic form before her. It had become somewhat of a tradition to read her assigned book to her father. A few months ago, it had been The Outsiders, and before that, To Kill a Mockingbird. Pretty standard content. Her father had likely read it himself. Although he was a creature of habit, he taught as much to her. That’s how she knew he enjoyed it. Even if he couldn’t say it.

She made a point to flip through the pages with her thumb, “It’s pretty fat, at least compared to Frankenstein. Kinda spooky, don’t you think?”

Her father’s eyes remained peacefully shut. The only sound, save for his labored breathing, was the steady beep of his heart monitor. It hardly fluctuated, and when it did, it was only a slight change. She figured that meant he could really hear her. And she would never admit it to anyone, but she liked to believe that the rise in his heart rate meant he agreed with her.

Beep beep beep.

“I guess it will be a good read. Could be worse!” She lolled her head back into the sun, “Nothing can be worse than The Great Gatsby.”

She half expected him to burst into laughter, to bolt up like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to reveal himself. Instead, the steady rhythm of beeps was all she received in return for her quip. 

“You know what’s even worse? They are assigning probably the dumbest paper for it.” She spoke to the ceiling.

Her father was always more of a numbers guy. He was splendid help for math homework, but as soon as it came to any sort of writing, he’d choke. Which was sad, because at the time, it was 4th-grade-level content. 

“They expect us to write a four-page paper for the unit final comparing a unanimous character theme from all the books we’ve read so far,” She sighed, “Which is lame because what does The Great Gatsby and god damn Dracula have in common?”

She hesitated, flinching as she looked at his lifeless form, as if he’d wake up and scold her for cursing, “Sorry, Dad. It’s just Ms. Griswold is kind of a bitch when it comes to essays.”

“And sorry for that, too.” She added, grinning like she had gotten away with a great crime. 

Beep beep beep.

Her shoulders slumped. Aunt Celia had never been a big fan of her pessimism when it came to most things. Although her father had always found it hilarious, the gusto with which a ten-year-old could loathe a teacher. 

“Well, anyway. I guess I should keep reading if I’m ever gonna figure out that comparison, right?” She smiled weakly, adjusting the paperback in her lap.

The girl continued to read, her words a touch less enthusiastic this time around. She wouldn’t get far in her narration. Soon, the gentle words were interrupted by a commotion in the hallway.

There was a thunder of footsteps accompanied by indignant voices. The girl recognized one of them instantly. Aunt Celia could make her presence known while surfing the eye of Hurricane Katrina.

All at once, Aunt Celia burst through the door. Her fury was accompanied by an entourage of nurses, who all looked exceedingly apologetic.

“(Y/N) (L/N)!” Aunt Celia’s voice nearly blasted her out the window and sent her careening towards the sidewalk.

Looking at her signature ‘you’re dead meat’ eyebrow furrow, the girl almost wished she was a skid on the pavement. 

“Uh oh,” the girl raised her hands up like the caught criminal she was, “Busted.”

She quickly regretted the retort. Aunt Celia’s angry expression soon turned murderous.

“Busted? Don’t ‘busted’ me, young lady! What in our lord's name are you doing here?” Aunt Celia made a point to cross her arms. 

“Reading to dad.” The girl responded casually, brandishing Dracula.

Perhaps the Count would scale the wall as he did in the novel and spare her. She could imagine his gangly claws tapping on the glass.

Aunt Celia glanced between her snarky charge and her bedridden brother. Her gaze softened, although tentatively. The nurses peeked around her cautiously, eyeing the girl apologetically. 

She raised a casual hand in greeting, “Hi, Finnie. Sorry.”

Aunt Celia’s fingers snapped prudently, “Oh no, this is between us.” She tapped her foot impatiently, although the bulk of her rage seemed to have subsided, “Are you aware what day it is?”

The girl kicked her feet idly, “Tuesday…”

Celia smacked her lips, “Absolutely. And what exactly is supposed to be happening on weekdays?”

The girl figured she could spare herself some grief if she complied. But if there was anything that ran in the family, it was the clocks wound up in their chest. Too much wind, and an alarm would go off. The kind that wakes you up from a warm, cozy bed on a cold winter morning— and the girl knew both she and Celia were two ticks away from implosion.

“A new episode of Golden Girls is coming out?” Even still, she couldn’t help herself.

She flinched as Celia let out a great, exasperated sigh.

“Does school ring a bell?” There was that foot tapping again.

The girl hadn’t meant to take it this far. Usually, she spent her afternoons after school at the hospital. However, with each passing day, it felt like the minutes on those pesky clocks couldn’t tick down fast enough. She’d stare at them in class, swearing they’d go by slower. And just like the clocks, it seemed her days grew to that same leisurely pace. 

“Well, a bell did ring after 3rd period. That’s why I’m here, technically it did dismiss us.” She popped her lips to match Celia’s enthusiasm.

There was a collective eyebrow raise in the room. Aunt Celia’s was the greatest of them all.

“Oh, for god’s sake, (Y/N). You have a truancy problem! How many times have we been through this?” Celia crossed her arms. 

The girl looked down, words dying in her throat. For a moment, her aunt's face faltered. 

“My last class was English!” The girl offered, “I was technically doing what I would have been doing if I were there.” 

She shook the book, although it seemed Dracula was of little consolation.

“This isn’t a study hall, this is a hospital.” Celia gave her a hard look. Her eyes could shoot laser beams that consistently made the girl wilt like the flowers on her father’s bedside table. 

One of the nurses slipped behind Celia to freshen the man up. The girl couldn’t decide if she thought it was invasive or brave to not leave her alone to face Celia’s wrath. 

Her aunt pinched her nose. “How many classes do you have left?”

The girl kicked her feet guiltily, “Five.”

There was a noise of exasperation, and she knew that in that moment, there was no winning. 

She relented to her capture, being marched out of the premises like a prisoner of war. The nurses gave her dutiful goodbyes. They were always good sports. She didn’t even need to introduce herself at the front desk anymore. They simply buzzed her in, and she’d walk down these same tiles— usually in reverse. 

She watched the various patients pass by. Celia was a force to be reckoned with. Her heels clicked along the tile, causing each to glance their way. 

Most looked on at the girl with pity. She smiled meekly back at them, knowing most of their faces. None seemed very chipper. After all, no one was in this wing of the hospital for good reasons. Well, perhaps there were never “good” reasons, but the girl thought this hall was especially terrible. The place where news casters and lawyers frequented to interview those with unique afflictions, or to take down the testimony. 

But as another kind nurse gave her a warm look, she figured for once, she just might have the edge over fate.

-

It only took 15 minutes to get from the hospital to Hurricane High School. They were miraculously extended to what felt like an hour as the girl nervously glanced between aunt Celia and the floor. She felt like the fabled princess in her books, locked away in a tower with a dragon guarding the exit. Except this stone prison was Celia’s black BMW. 

The car was dead silent, save for the occasional tap of Celia’s finger on the wheel whenever they stopped at a light. The girl made it a point not to glance in her direction, hoping not to garner another verbal lashing. 

Her efforts were futile, as there was a sigh from beside her.

“Look, (Y/N)…” There was another tap tap tap from the steering wheel, “I know you miss your dad. It’s very sweet that you want to visit him. But this is a time in your life where school is the most important thing.”

The girl huffed, pushing herself further back in her seat, “I’m passing all my classes.” She grumbled the next part under her breath, “With A’s, mind you…”

She watched the cars whizz by and couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside them. Maybe the people driving them were having better days than her. They probably didn’t have to go to school. That was one thing she envied about adults. The wrinkles and responsibility, she could take or leave.

“Exactly, and you need to keep it that way. Your dad wouldn’t want you to put your entire life on pause for him. What do you think he would say about how many classes you’ve missed?” Celia gave her a pointed look from under her blonde fringe.

The girl hated it when her aunt used that tone. Celia was young enough that she sported highlights instead of gray hair, and she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of that ‘mom’ voice yet. She was Hurricane’s best attorney, and in times like these, it showed. 

“So do I get to call any witnesses before the jury makes their verdict or…?” The girl gave her a sheepish glance.

Celia's face shifted through a menagerie of emotion. The expression she landed on did a poor job of hiding the laugh daring to burst from her lips. 

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not good at this, I get it.” She cracked a weak smile, but it died quickly at the hands of her courtroom face, “But I need you to try to make an effort, kid. We both need to try if this is going to work out.”

The girl felt her defiance die just as quickly as it sparked. The reality of the situation was an elephant in the room, to say the least. An unspoken understanding of what they both knew was inevitable.

“He would probably drag me to class himself…” The girl caved, “And sit in the back to make sure I stayed there.”

Celia’s smile returned, “That sounds about right. So do us both a favor and just keep your butt in that chair.”

The girl kicked her feet, feeling brave again, “Like a specific chair or any chair?”  

This garnered another of Celia’s speciality sighs of judgment.

“Don’t make me embarrass you when I drop you off, because I will do it. We’re talking heavy metal, windows down.” She playfully seethed.

The girl grinned, “Could be worse.”

“— with a loud ‘I love you’ and a mandatory kiss on the cheek goodbye.”  She added.

And it was in these moments that the girl understood why lawyers were called vultures.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

⋘ 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡... ⋙

Unfortunately for her, Celia made good on that promise. While she was spared a death by bass-boosted public embarrassment, she wasn’t cleared from a personal escort. She was ushered, feet dragging, back to the office with her shoulders hunched. 

Classmates gave her the occasional bewildered look in the hallway. She had always kept her laces straight, so to speak— current record aside. Before that year, the most she’d seen of the office was occasional quests to the printer, which teachers would entrust to her. 

Now, she stood chagrined behind Celia, hoping the shoulder pads of her blazer could shield her from the office ladies’ pointed looks. Thankfully, her aunt managed to keep it graceful. Her silver tongue expertly navigated through small talk, appeasing the prying tempers of middle-aged women. 

The girl thought it best to, for once, keep her mouth shut. She took to looking around the small room. There was a startling amount of boisterous, student-made posters advertising various school activities. In her opinion, they were all gaudily made. She was never one to jump at extracurriculars, unless counted for some type of incentive. Although she gave a considerable try to the book club. That was until she realized that she didn’t much care for other people’s opinions. Especially when they were so dreadfully wrong.

As she was passing judgment on a particularly offensive drawing of a sombrero for the Spanish department, there was a disturbance from down the hallway. She leaned back on her heels in an attempt to locate the commotion from behind Celia. The sudden slam of the counselor's office door caused her to nearly lose her balance. 

“We aren’t finished yet, young man!” The voice of the school counselor, Mr Collins, yelled out.

A boy emerged from the hallway, in a hurry to make it to the door before getting wrung-out again. At first, it was difficult to make out his face through his hair, which modestly feathered around his shoulders. His scowl was evident, hands bunched up at his sides.

“I think we are. As I said, I don’t have anything.” He apparently knew better than to entirely abandon the conversation. He stood across from the petulant counselor like he was challenging him to a duel.

“Michael,” Mr Collins pinched his nose from under his glasses, “You know very well the rules about contraband.” 

Her brain sparked in recognition. She’d seen the boy in passing, after all, he was in her grade. Although she struggled to recall his last name, despite his notoriety as a frequent seat across from the principal. School social politics evaded her more than ever, considering recent events. 

If Michael was embarrassed by the sudden audience he’d gained, he didn’t show it. 

“A lighter isn’t contraband.” He shot back.

The counselor looked less than impressed, although the eyes of the office ladies and students alike dared him not to back down.

“It’s a fire hazard. Dangerous objects have no place in the classroom, you know that.” He did his best to remain civil.

Michael huffed, rolling his head back in frustration. His bangs parted around his eyes. For a moment, she was trapped in his biting gaze. 

She stood there gawking, guilty to be a bystander to the ordeal. Although her playing hooky now looked marginally better in comparison.

He narrowed his eyes before turning back to the battle before him, “Oh, my mistake. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it, considering all the smoke breaks you people take.”

Silence encompassed the room swiftly. Sticky tension seeped into the atmosphere like sap. The girl felt like the only thing that might slice through it was her increasing heart rate. The look exchanged between Michael and Mr. Collins appeared to be a close second.

Mr. Collins gave a forlorn sigh.

“So? Are you going to suspend me for it, or can I go now?” Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“No, Michael, not this time.” Mr. Collins gave him a hard look, “But one more strike, and I won’t hesitate to call your father.”

There was a certain hesitation in the counselor's voice. Michael’s expression remained hard, although his eyes wandered, as if he were searching for something in Mr. Collin’s face.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Michael only nodded curtly.

“Good. Now get back to class… please.” Collins returned to his task of massaging his eyebrows, exasperated. 

Michael produced another small huff before continuing to march across the office.

A voice cleared across from her, and the girl finally noticed the yellow paper being dangled in her direction. A late slip, courtesy of a very overwhelmed Celia. She took it slowly, eyes still focused on the rabidly approaching figure.

The boy stormed past her, shoulder inches from toppling her into a flurry of tacky, sombrero-clad fliers. His eyes flashed from under his hair before he disappeared out the door. 

The girl did her best not to take it personally, as she gripped the neon slip of paper. She felt sorry for him. Now, the gossip of the office would no longer surround her truancy, but instead, the glorious defeat of Mr. Collins. In a way, she should probably thank him.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

⋘ 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡... ⋙

The sun was a welcome reward after her grueling journey through her last few periods. 

Usually, her lunch breaks were spent sneaking off campus. Evidently, that was not an option. So she had settled for as close as she could get, which was a sunny little nook around the back of the building. It was a perfect alcove between walls that was just guarded enough from the view of snooping faculty, but also allowed just enough light to not be drab. Typically, the burnouts were frequent in the area, but her little hiding spot allowed her privacy from the tomfoolery of marijuana.

Today, her knees were cuddled to her chest, thoughts of Celia and her father put behind her. Only the wild tales of Count Dracula mattered now. She stretched her legs, doing her best not to let her skin catch the light of dying summer.

It felt cruel to her to be trapped in the Midwest, and without a lick of experience to show for it. She longed for rain and snow like their neighbors in Colorado and Wyoming. All that talk of macabre storms in her book was starting to make her feel left out. 

The desert had its vices. Namely, the sunlight’s taunting gaze. Now, usually she could say she loved a cozy afternoon, but with all things considered, it felt cheap. Entirely unfair that she would get to enjoy a time like this when her father's eyes were closed to the cloudless blue skies. Maybe if the weather hadn’t made up its mind to be so cheerful, she wouldn’t feel like such a wicked betrayer.

It could be worse. She could be like the protagonist, Jonathan, from her book. Trapped in the spires of a beautifully gothic Transylvanian castle. 

She imagined herself in a glorious ball gown, staring wistfully down at the fog gnarled forest. Perhaps she could be anyone else. A tragic victim doomed to a life of immortal blood craving. An unlikely hero defeating an eldritch evil. A lost lover writing a letter with a kiss mark on the corner. Anyone but the girl hiding from the Hurricane sun. 

The thought was blissful. She sighed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Unfortunately, nice things never last. 

The girl begrudgingly yanked her eyes from her book to the figure that appeared before her. Hunched shoulders, crossed arms, and brown hair that covered his eyes. It was the boy from the office, Michael. Just her luck.

“Um, reading?” She waved her book around awkwardly.

His scowl deepened. She could see his eyes narrow into little slits from underneath his curtain of hair.

“Yeah, no shit.” He leaned on the wall, as if that would scare her off, “I meant more like why?”

She kicked her legs awkwardly, making a display of the sun. The shadow of the alcove made him look like what he thought was ominous. However, she just couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Catching up on some Dracula. I thought it was a nice, quiet spot.” She snuggled against the bricks for extra snark.

All he did was stare at her, sizing her up. His lips imperceptibly turned down. He rolled his neck to the side, and for the first time, she got a good look at his face. 

He reminded her of the night creatures she’d just been reading about. Straight, narrow features, with an ample amount of purple below his eyes to the point she almost mistook them for bruises. On the subject of eyes, they were bright blue, nearly silver. The kind that were piercing and made her feel electrocuted, like a moth in a bug zapper.

“Let me spell it out for you, alright? This is my spot.” He shook his head, gesturing in the opposite direction, “Beat it.”

She puffed air from her nose, gingerly closing Dracula. Usually, the tenets of high school stoner boulevard were not nearly this chatty. Not to mention persistent. In fact, most of the time, they weren’t aware enough to register others. 

“I got here first.” She crossed her arms like a toddler. “Finders keepers. First-come, first-served. Playground rules, and all.”

He looked bewildered. His lips parted ever so slightly, his brows furrowing like she had said the most insane thing.

“What the fuck are you even saying?” Despite his harsh words, his tone wasn’t necessarily accusatory. He looked more puzzled than anything. 

“I’m simple words, no.” She finished with a deadpan.

All at once, his face fell. He ran his nimble fingers through his hair, giving a frustrated sigh. He looked encumbered by the way he rubbed those bruises under his eyes. She almost felt bad about her standoffishness. Almost. He was the one who had confronted her with nonsense, after all. 

He huffed, “Look, I came out here to smoke. So, unless you want to have cigarettes puffed in your face, I suggest that you fuck off.” His words were matter-of-fact. He looked at her in defeat, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She took time to consider her response. That look in his wide, glassy eyes reminded her of a wounded puppy. In all fairness, he’d had an admittedly shitty day. She had faced public school embarrassment only once or twice. Dealing with that almost monthly? She couldn’t bear to imagine. 

“How are you going to smoke?” She pursed her lips suspiciously.

He gave her an addled look.

She added, “You don’t have a lighter.” 

His back straightened, almost instinctively. Those crystal eyes once again bit into her. All traces of vulnerability had been fleeting, like a flash of lightning.

“Oh, it’s you. From the office.” He said with great disdain. It looked as if he was about to flinch, the next words sharp and urgent, “Are you going to tell Collins, get me suspended again? Go ahead. It won’t be the last time anyway.” 

She simply stared at him, face holding a gentle neutrality. He desperately searched her face for any wickedness. His hands began to ball into fists. The sun behind him made him look as if he was blazing, a furious comet about to explode across the sky. 

The stand-off was agonizingly paced. His nose scrunched as her face remained placid. Finally, he broke eye contact, allowing that shield of brunette to encompass his features again, “Fine. You can have your damn reading spot.” 

He was so caught up in his surrender, he didn’t notice the gentle rustling of fabric. There was a flash of movement, and through the quiet stalemate, he managed to notice she’d produced something from her bag. He hesitantly looked up, being met with a subtle peace offering.

A lighter. She was holding a lighter.

“Here.” She said simply, “I don’t mind.”

Silence encompassed the pair again. He studied her, all semblance of emotion being washed away into the gentle void of crystal blue. 

Finally, he uttered a small, “What?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I thought you needed to borrow one then, since yours got taken, right?” She drummed her fingers on her book awkwardly, “Although I don’t have any cigarettes… I know you got searched, and all.” 

He blinked at her slowly. He just looked tired. Nothing more, nothing less. Hesitantly, he leaned down to her level. Instead of taking the lighter like she was expecting, his hand found the side of his pant leg. He was wearing some sort of elaborate cargo jeans. They were a cool toned black and dotted with deep-set pockets, tied together with a chain around his waist. His fingers gracefully looped under the fabric near his calf. There seemed to be some kind of hidden zipper. He reached in, producing a pack of cigarettes.

She widened her eyes, “Smart. I would have never thought of that.”

She thought she made out the inkling of a smile on his lips. From this close, she noticed his nose crinkled with a few freckles.

“Well, when the principal is this far up your ass, you get crafty.” He made a show of deftly tossing the pack in the air and catching it with a flick of his wrist.

He gave one more glance at the lighter, biting his lip indecisively. “Seriously, if you say anything, you’re dead.”

She looked unimpressed, “Do you want it or not? Seems like you need it more than I do.”

He relented, letting out a nervous laugh. “Damn, you should really be in the fucking debate club or something. Power trip on another sorry soul.”

He snatched the lighter from her hands. The flimsy piece of metal flashed in the sun. It was decorated with tiny, faded stickers. As he looked at it, his expression morphed from confused to tentatively endeared. 

“Well, my aunt is an attorney.” She seemed proud of herself. She knew Celia would be. Never let a man sucker you, that was the advice she was fed.

He flicked open the box with his thumb lazily, “Oh, thats right. You’re the one who gets picked up in the BMW. Explains the attitude.” 

She was slightly taken aback. She never cared to think anyone noticed her existence. Sure, she understood the whole car thing. It was relatively rare to see such a vehicle in this town, but she figured wealth was more recognizable than faces. Her theory was proven right, in a way. She was reduced to the ‘nice car girl.’ 

“Let’s not bring it to stereotyping. Smokes, has a record, and has a chain on his pants?” Her eyes flicked down, scrutinizingly. 

He shrugged, returning to his stance of leaning on the wall. He placed the stick between his teeth, his lips fiddling with it absentmindedly.

“Well, gosh, I wouldn’t want to betray people’s expectations or anything.” He looked entirely disenchanted with the ordeal. 

“Fair enough.” She nodded, allowing him this win.

He took his time igniting the end, taking a well-earned drag. This was the closest she’d seen him to peaceful. His normally furrowed brows were at rest, and his arms were crossed lazily.

She, naturally, couldn’t let that tranquility go unchecked. Not after what he did to her.

“Actually, I do have one thing to ask in return.” She said, rather loudly.

His eyes peeled open, looking greatly annoyed.

“Let me bum one off you.” She looked at him expectantly.

He gave her that analytical scan again, as if searching for her devious grin to return and ridicule him for believing her. There was no such luck. Her gaze remained steadfast. 

“You serious?” He almost looked amused.

She bit the inside of her cheek, “What? Don’t think I can handle it?”

The cigarette rested between his fingers, smoke drifting from his lips.

“You just don’t look like the type, that’s all.” He practically snickered.

While it wasn’t the greatest habit, it was one she had picked up under recent circumstances. Meaning, she wasn’t keen on his ambitions to belittle her. The girl allowed that little smirk to play on her lips in retaliation

“Why did you think I had the lighter in the first place?” She shook her head.

He took another drag, “I dunno. Fire starter, maybe?” 

This caused her to stir.

“… Like the Stephen King book?” It was her turn to look bewildered.

The silly look on her face got the beginnings of a genuine smile. 

“The very same.” He said with halfhearted enthusiasm.

Most children were gifted toys, the dreaded clothes and socks combo, or, most loathsome of all, horribly embarrassing hand-knit sweaters. The girl was given Stephen King’s Firestarter by her father for her 13th birthday. She’d read it all in the course of a week, and instantly went sniffing around for more. That’s how she discovered horror was her utmost favorite genre. 

To say the comparison caused a little flutter was an understatement. Whether or not she should be flattered to be compared to a pyrokinetic child was debatable, but elating to hear all the same  

Instead of torturing him with a rant regarding her obsession, she settled for a subtle, “You read?” 

He frowned, “Most people do. But hey, at least you have read something more interesting than Dracula.” 

It was her turn to look offended, “Okay, it’s not that bad.”

“You’re telling me you actually enjoy reading for class?” A little grin peeked out through whisps of his hair. The freckles on his nose wrinkled in tandem. 

Her chest burned, although she couldn’t quite put a finger on why. Usually, she wasn’t shy to declare her love for literature. In fact, she’d actively debate people on the subject. That smarmy look in his eye was all the more insulting when she considered that only honors students were assigned the infamous vampire tale.

“Wait, wait, you’re in honors English? Really, you?” She shook her finger in his direction. From her spot on the ground, it made it look like she was drawing little circles around his head.

“Pointing is rude, you know.” With that, he let a precise trail of smoke waft in her direction. He took great joy in how it burned her eyes. “Not to mention presumptuous of you to assume I couldn’t cut it.”

She waved away the cloud, “And it was presumptuous of you to assume I don’t take smoke breaks.”

This got a laugh— a genuine laugh out of him, “You’re not getting one, by the way.”

She sized him up for a moment. She took her time, considering how she’d tear down that little speck of ego.

“Well, you do owe me.” She pointed out.

“Ha, that’s bold.” Took an extra-long, taunting puff.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, “Some manners you have. You know you’re supposed to pay people back for kind, selfless acts.”

He didn’t seem impressed.

“Don’t make me come take my lighter from you.” 

He gave her a chuckle to be a good sport. His shoulders, which had been bound all day in a rigid stance, released tentatively.

“Fine.” He cautiously made his way over to her once more.

To her surprise, he took a seat beside her. His back hit the wall with a gentle crunch, legs stretching out and showing off his impressive array of pockets. 

The action almost caused her to tense up. It had been quite some time since she’d been in these close quarters with a classmate. Her registry of friends had dwindled over the years. She nearly wretched at how hot and scratchy it made her feel.

He offered her the box slowly, as if she might bite him.

“Geez, I’m not gonna steal it from you.” She did her best to swallow the awkwardness as she plucked a stick from its sheath.

“Just worried you might set me on fire with your mind.” He offered her a small grin.

“Oh, you’re funny. You’re a funny guy.” She found herself shaking her hair in front of her eyes, this time.

She only peeked out enough to see him offering her the lighter in kind. She snatched it from him with gusto, doing her best not to catch his hand.

“Cute.” He sneered, “The stickers. Do you like space or something?”

She blinked down at the blue, flame-holding capsule. A faded constellation dotted its body, the edges becoming frayed with time.

“It’s Andromeda.” Her finger traced the arch, “It’s um, my dad’s favorite constellation.”

He watched as she flicked the ignition, the spark reflecting off her eyes. The aura made her look like the character he’d so mockingly nicknamed her after.

After a moment, he nodded, considering the idea. In his mind, it fell into place with the mold of a book nerd he’d modeled for her. Then again, those nicotine-soaked lips posed a different theory.

“Ah,” she let out a dramatic sigh as she exhaled smoke, “Thank you, Michael.” She proclaimed his name tauntingly, as she had procured it from her unplanned eavesdropping.

He had to choke back a retort. She knew he couldn’t blame her. His performance in the office had been so theatrical that he deserved to be the next star of the drama club, name pasted all over those ridiculous fliers.

He gave a forlorn huff, “Well, since we’ve smoked together, you better tell me your name too. It’s only fair, considering I didn’t consent to you knowing mine.” 

She tried to hold back her laugh to little effect. Her teeth worked overtime, biting her bottom lip to hold back a smile.

“Okay, I guess you’re right.” She made hesitant eye contact, “It’s (Y/N).”

I was watching a video yesterday talking about when in the process the story of Five Nights at Freddy's kinda hit that point of no return. Where it was getting just a bit too confusing and not quite as satisfying anymore. It seems to have started with the Fourth installment.

I remember back when FNAF 4 came out. Matpat did that live stream where Mr Cawthon himself was pointing shit out mid-stream, like toy chica's beak or the finger trap toy, trying to point everybody in the right direction. And it all pointed to the infamous Dream Theory. I remember how disappointed and upset everybody got back then. To have the then-newest installment of the franchise be a fabrication in the broken mind of a scared, dying child would've been one thing. To imply that the entire story, one we got invested in from the very first game, was all getting boiled down to be the same though? Not many were a fan of the idea back then. I can't say I blame anyone for feeling that way either. I was no better.

However I also remember trying to be okay with it too. I don't remember if I'd seen somebody else say it on yt first, 'cause it was a long ahh time ago now, but I do remember trying to tell myself that the story went in that direction. It's not the end of the world. It might feel like it at the moment and the figurative wound is still fresh but as time moves on so will I and everyone else. Once it's been awhile and everything and everyone calms down we'll all be able to look back on this and laugh.

I still think that, if that's how the story was left to end, it would have been fine. People would've gotten over it eventually and it could have been fine. It might not have been the story we all wanted since it wasn't made out to be that kind of story from the beginning like games like Among the Sleep or whatever, but the world at large could've moved on.

But that's not what happened, is it?

Scott backtracked. Hard. He started adding new concepts like Remnant and Illusion Discs and Fear Gas to explain the first 4 games. I'm not gonna dunk on those too hard because I actually do enjoy some of those concepts. On paper. Having all of them in one story to explain away problems that only arose from one installment of the franchise? Now you're just overcomplicating things and being a goofy goober about it. I'm sorry but, for once, it really is Not That Deep.

You know how you explain the first 3 games? Ghosts. It's just ghosts. Everyone and their great aunt Betty can wrap their head around the idea of ghosts. Fourth one? That one can stay Dream Theory. It's fine. Everyone can get over themselves to let one game not actually happen in real life. Ironically, that one being all just a nightmare would lend it to be the most realistic.

My point is that the fandom got way too butthurt over a storytelling decision they didn't like and Scott caved too easily to a gaggle of proto-ipad toddlers... And Matpat.

-- End Communication --

I don't know how many people are actually going to read this but, if you made it this far, I'm sorry you wasted the last 5 minutes watching me say nothing with way too many words. I inherited this gift from my grandfather. And if this somehow breaches containment and makes it to Scott of all people... Please proceed to ignore this humble unemployed no-life typing this from her dad's phone. I don't touch grass enough to have opinions that actually matter.