Greyscale. (An #Overnightwatch Horror Drabble.)

How He Moves (drabble)

Pairing: None

Rating: PG for angst

You caught yourself staring sometimes, as he worked. His back would tense up all funny if he got frustrated, his shoulders going all high and rigid. If he was in a really good mood, he'd be almost liquid, the way his shoulders' movements flowed smoothly across them, down his rail thin arms, into his wrists, then through his long, nimble fingers. Like a trickle of water, fast and exciting but not disconnected, however disconnected his thoughts were. If he were really excited, he was a blur, arms and hands and fingers everywhere, legs like jelly, sometimes even up on the console, helping him steer his beautiful ship. The positions he contorted himself into to fly this old girl! He was almost an acrobat.

But if he was sad...oh, if he was sad, and he too often was. His shoulders would fall. Not hunch forward comically, but fall, defeated. His movements became slow, mechanical, precise, emotionless. He'd stand without swaying, without movement that wasn't completely necessary, an unnatural stillness. He'd stroke the console, absently, forlornly, as if it were the only thing he had left in the entire universe. In some ways, you supposed, it was.

Containment Breach.

A/N: WARNING FOR BLOOD AND GORE MENTIONS. Back on the Anti hype train! I was playing with a photo editor and it sparked a story idea, so I thought I’d try writing something a little different, a little more environment based. Pulled a little bit of inspiration from RE7 as well, that game’s amazing.

It had to be one of her least favorite noises in the world, the heavy, scraping squeal of an old metal door opening for the first time in months, its hinges screaming in protest against the sudden, unexpected use after so long being forgotten.

The hallway before her was dark, extending deep into the side of the hill, entirely industrial except for the occasional tree root creeping through the cracked concrete walls and floor. She flicked on her flashlight, sweeping it cautiously across from wall to wall before stepping inside, pushing the door to behind her, but being careful not to close it. She didn’t want to be trapped in here. Her footsteps were deafeningly loud in her ears, echoing in the small space as she walked, peeking into rooms with doors thrown open and hanging from their hinges, quickly making her way past one that had its door closed, and a menacing dark stain seeping out from under it. The hall ended abruptly in an elevator. The doors to it sent chills down her spine. They looked as if they were clipping through the walls beside them, as in a poorly crafted video game map. And they were splattered red, from rust...and from something much worse.

Swallowing the lump that was forming in her throat, she moved to look inside. There wasn’t much to see. The elevator itself wasn’t there, just the gaping maw of the shaft, a black hole reaching down like an abyss, bottomless. Shining her light on the walls, she could see what looked like burn marks, or skid marks, or both, and severe dents like impact sights. Something had fought its way out of this place. She made a slight noise of annoyance, crawling into the shaft and climbing down the cables as carefully as she could. One misstep and she would be joining the rest of the staff of this place, adding a new layer of paint to the bottom of the pit, she thought bitterly. It almost seemed like she was descending forever, passing floor after floor, her arms and legs beginning to ache horribly. She had to focus on her reason for being here, ignoring how tired she was becoming, occasionally looking down to remind herself of her reason to hang on. Finally, her flashlight’s beam bounced off of the metal paneling of the floor she’d been looking for. She swung in and...thud. Her landing echoed dully on the once-pristine tile. It was more of the same, down here. But so much more intense. Here, it seemed, was the origin point of the destruction. The floor was littered with broken bits of piping from the lines rusting away from the walls, and the fluorescent lights that’d once kept this place starkly lit were dangling by their wires so that she had to duck to move safely. And the further in she went, the more there seemed to be broken parts of reality, pixelated patches of wall that seemed to have been paused mid-glitch, holes as if there were textures missing. The thought of a broken game map came to her mind again. But worse than the bizarre, mind-bending physics...blood stained the hall, in splatters on the walls, in drips and puddles long dried on the floor, and, in a few places, in sprays on the ceiling. As she reached the end of the hall, she found a sign, half hanging on the wall.

<- SHORT TERM HOLDING <- BRIEFING ROOMS     TESTING ->     LONG TERM HOLDING ->

As she turned toward the hall, she thought she caught a glimpse of something in the hall behind her. Something that looked markedly like green eyes and a scruff of...green hair? She turned back quickly to look, but it was gone. Deciding she’d rather not see it, she hurried along to the right-hand hall.

She came to a set of stairs, descending even deeper into the belly of the beast, until she came to another hall, this one’s floor covered in the powdered remains of the glass that’d once made up the foot-thick walls of the facility’s testing rooms. She glanced into the first room. A broken table, half of it seeming to clip through the floor, shattered microphone pieces, something that looked like it might once have held test tubes and syringes, shredded leather strapping. More blood. It was much the same in the other rooms, twisted restraining chairs, equipment that looked purposefully, furiously dismantled, shredded paper that might once have held records. Glitches in reality. Everywhere, there was more blood. In the last room, she nearly screamed. A body, the first she’d seen here. It was face down on the ground, a pool of dried blood and something that was such a dark green it was nearly black spilling from its nearly severed-in-half neck, the gore and incredible stench of which was nearly enough to make her sick right then and there. Its limbs were twisted at impossible angles, so that it looked as if the poor bastard had been slammed around before finally skidding to a stop here. Regretfully, she pulled out her phone, the flash of it snapping a picture of the scene almost blinding her. They’d want to know about this, to arrange to have his remains retrieved. She hoped they would, anyway. Heartless as they were, he’d probably rot away down here with the rest of the facility. Forgotten, just like they want this place to be. Still...better to try.

Stepping back out into the hall, she pushed open the heavy door, whose keypad lock was hanging by one wire. Maximum security, huh. Much good it did them. She smiled bitterly. This hall looked nearly untouched, deathly still. The doors to all of the cells were closed, and she still had the sense that she needed to stay back from them, that dangerous creatures were lurking just behind them even though there was no noise to be heard. Nothing would’ve survived on this level, she knew. But still she felt unsafe.

The last cell was wide open, the door on the ground, a twisted lump that was barely recognizable. She felt as if she were walking into it in slow motion. It was so...standard. A bed, minimal as taxpayer money could buy. A steel toilet adhered to the wall, with a small steel sink beside it and a rack with two pristine, cheap white towels. On the bed, though, was a file folder. She walked over slowly, picking it up and putting the flashlight awkwardly into the crook of her neck so that she could open it. A picture fluttered out, and she shone her light where it lay on the floor.

The label was hard to read, faded and peeling.

Subject #4NT1 Name: Sean William McLoughlin AKA: Jack, Jacksepticeye DOB: Feb. 7, 1990 Originates From: Ireland Duration of stay: Indefinite

On the back of the picture were a few scribbled lines of writing.

Subject complains of headaches which coincide with nosebleeds shortly before each episode. Episodes most obvious features: eye pigmentation shift, vocal shift (practically “auto-tune”), atmospheric disturbances. Shaking her head, she flipped through the papers in the file were dated just as recently, some even as recent as this past October. Occasionally a few words jumped out. “Unstable.” “Condition worsening.” “Duality.” This was it, alright. This was...him. This file was all they needed, had everything they needed to stop him. Contain him. To not make the stupid, small mistakes that’d led to...this.

Taking a deep breath, she closed the file and turned to leave...but stopped.

A high pitched giggle echoed down the halls.

“No...” her voice was a hoarse whisper. And she ran, full pelt down the hall. She screamed in frustration as the heavy door slammed itself shut, the giggling escalating into laughter, high and cold and deranged. “No!” She slammed her fists into the door, pulling and shoving alternatively. “Dammit, let me out!” “I’m gonna find you!” His voice seemed to bounce and echo, sliding between pitches, sometimes sounding like several of him were speaking at once. “Jack, please! I know you’re in there!” She was starting to panic, now, voice cracking desperately. “He’s GONE!” Another maniacal laugh. She turned to face the room. Around her, the walls seemed to be...glitching. “YOU! You’re on THEIR side! You helped them CATCH ME! CHEATERS! It’s no fun if you CHEAT!” Sudden silence. Suddenly her throat burned, and she retched, hands clawing at it as she crumpled to the floor, the laughter echoing again with a vengeance, louder and louder around her, the walls glitching in and out of existence with more frequency and intensity.

The last thought she had was of the body in the testing room. At least he wouldn’t rot alone, she thought dimly as she faded into the darkness.

Thoughts about the WAIA

Honestly I would love to do more theorizing surrounding the WAIA but there’s not a lot of theorizing to do. 

It’s pretty out in the open. I don’t think the FNAF connection is super lore-steeped; I think it’s just Mark poking fun at his King of FNAF status. What I do think is lore-steeped is the WAIA’s responses, which are super on-the-nose but not in an overbearing way. This is direct storytelling done right, and I think that Mark is extremely talented to be able to pull it off.

HUGE SPOILER WARNING FOR THE REST OF THIS POST.

In the “He said...potato salad?” video, the WAIA says:

“A man goes to a party. This man met an old friend. The two friends share some wine. The two friends played a game. The most dangerous game. I didn’t know the gun was loaded. I didn’t know. 

Was it my fault? Was it?”

This got me so hard the first time I played through, and I picked “No.” I picked “No” because in my mind, Wil is not at fault for Actor Mark’s crimes. Wil is the victim of cruel manipulation and the entity in the House; he didn’t make a decision to kill Actor Mark. He wanted so badly to reconcile that he was willing to play “the most dangerous game” to get him back. And when it all went wrong, he couldn’t bear it.

What got me more than anything was the dialogue in “No.” : 

“You can’t change the past. You can tell all the stories you want to tell; it won’t change what happened. You can’t rewrite the past; if you live in fantasy forever, you’ll lose yourself in the story.”

This just about made me cry, and when Wilf’s voiceover mentions that “he’s a perfect scan of my noggin,” it made it worse. 

This is Wil’s thoughts untethered from the influence of the House and the breaks in time and space he continues to experience. This is Wil, as close to sane as he can get, and he’s just...accepting. 

He knows he can’t change anything, and that becoming Wilford Warfstache, telling Wilford Warfstache’s story instead of his own, can’t fix it and instead means he’s slowly losing William Barnum. 

Or maybe that he’s already lost him.

At times I actually forgot that the colonel, Damien and dark were different people he played them so well and so clearly

Right? Mark did such a good job separating the characters and their little quirks and mannerisms that you forget they’re all the same person, even though they all have the same face.

Current theory: 

A tulpa, which is a thought form. It’s something created by thoughts, stories, and ideas. As we all know, an idea is hard to kill, and it’s ever changing, never solid, hence the glitching. It also explains why Anti only seems to be physical on recordings, or when he’s possessing Jack. 

(Today’s video I’m counting as happening inside coma!Jack’s head.)

Okay but for real???? I wanna know what the actual fuck Anti is

More on Anti and Flowey.

Okay the recent appearances are making me lean more and more toward the idea of Anti being similar to Flowey in some way, what with all the determination references (especially the look given today during DDLC), and with the recent game (Heartbound or something like that?) that bore a lot of similarities to Undertale. I would love for us to get sympathetic Anti that’s still done horrible things, that kind of character is hard to pull off and I love it.

Oh hello haha. You have a lovely blog. Hahahaha

What up demon? I’m curious about you all, but at the same time...concerned...

Chained together, running through an underground (most likely) tunnel

...prison break?

OH MY GO D

OH MY GOD

OH MY FUCKING GOD

So I just created an AO3 page (Kittenbedtimestories) and it’s only been up for a day with my old fic on it, and people are being so nice?? Like I’m 100% about to cry with how sweet people are being about these random old stories I don’t think much about. I wrote them for fun, just because, and I’m so happy that people like them. :)

An Eternity In Hell (In Space With Markiplier Drabble)

The darkness had stopped eating at him ages ago. He didn’t have a time. There wasn’t really time anymore. Days didn’t start and they didn’t end. There was no morning, no coffee, no evening, no sleep.

He was getting close to being finished. He knew they would be here soon, and that the moment would finally arrive. All the times - the only time, again and again - that he’d seen them arrive. Called out to them only to see their shocked expression melt into nothingness and blue light. Every time - the only time - they were gone in an instant.

He’d been desperate to leave at first. Clawing at the door and banging away at the controls, pulling at panels and, every single time they arrived, he’d jolt toward them, desperate to pull them close and have some kind of comfort again. But still, every time, they slipped out of his reach, and he’d be alone again.

After a while, he ended up curled up in one of the corners. He was utterly alone, and he couldn’t make himself see why he should bother getting up. Moving. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t feel like he was aging. He didn’t feel anything at all but the endless exhaustion and terror, the cold floors.

He ran through every endless life then. Every death - jettisoned, suffocated, shot, frozen, burned alive, detonated, stretched beyond physical limitations, eaten, smashed - all of them played out over and over and over again. Sometimes he could feel his bones, old and brittle, and the slowing of his movements. He could see a cafe at the end of everything, getting darker and emptier as the stars around it winked into blackness. 

Every single time, they were there. They led the charge. They send him into danger. They met him at the table. 

They decided. Time after time after time after time, for all time, they decided. 

And it all ended in misery. 

No more. 

He moved, finally. He stood, and pulled panels from the walls. Pulled circuits. Found the emergency tool stash and started building. Rewired the controls to feed into the central hub. Crafted the designs from memory, painstakingly, with aching hands that never got any rest. 

Still they showed up. Again and again, and every time, he had to stop and look. Had to call out. He couldn’t help himself. He built three soaring spires and connected them, used them as a focus and a kind of closed circuit to create a layer of shielding and containment. 

Finally it was done. It had power. It ran and its diagnostics, programmed from scratch, came through at 100% capacity. It was ready.

And there they were, right on schedule. He felt nothing and everything at once as he calmly pulled the extinguisher from the wall and took aim. 

“Hi, Captain.”