Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Micheal was…. Nervous.

That was a little bit of an understatement considering the fact he's at the door of a fucking gigantic manor (that feels like DEATH, mind you, DEATH) on the outskirts of Las Angeles waiting for his apparent employer to open the door.

Ok, maybe this needs a little bit of a preface.

About four years ago, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place burned down with Henry Emily in it.

Leaving Micheal behind.

Again.

(everybody did that. Why did they leave him?)

The next day, when Micheal arrived at the burnt ashes of the building, he couldn't breath. He couldnt even choke out a fucking sob, his throat was clogged up with grief and loss and pure and utter fucking despair. He didn’t know how long he stood there, as still as a statue and feeling as if a particularly strong wind could knock him over, but it felt like an eternity.

He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t speak. He could only walk stiffly back to his apartment. Where he’d stand in the middle of his shitty living room, looking at his scuffed shoes, until the reality of everything came crashing down on his head.
He couldn’t keep it together anymore, he let himself fall apart.

After all, there wasn’t anybody to be strong for.

Henry was supposed to WAIT FOR HIM.

They were supposed to burn together for fucks sake.

Micheal had lived (and died) through more than enough shit for a thousand more lifetimes. He was done, he was ready to die and move on and see his goddamn brother and sister. He wants to rest, to move on, to be at peace. To end his worthless excuse of a life spent chasing around old ghosts and trying not to kill himself in the process.

But Henry wouldn't grant that.

'I couldn't let you die, not when you have a chance to live for yourself.'

That was what Henry's last will and testament said, the same will and testament that had let him inherit most of his godfather's possessions, and the last of his money.

God fucking dammit.

He hated it. He hated that he took it, hated how he couldn’t kill himself right then and there.

Because Henry asked him to live.

If there was anything he could do for his beloved uncle, even in death, he supposed it was that.

Hell, there wasn’t anything else to do. Why not live?

And so, with unsteady resolve and a numb disposition, Micheal did just that.

Four years had passed in a blur, Micheal having taken to Engineering to occupy him. There was nothing else. No Father, no haunted goddamned pizza place he needs to work the night shift for. Nothing to work to redeem himself. No Henry, no Jeremy, no Parker..

So, he tried to move on. Even as a walking corpse, he tried to keep himself together and keep living. He started drawing again, repaired his little Helpy, spent too much time on the internet to be healthy, and tried to find his old friends.

The last one was.. less than successful.
And his social life was basically nonexistent, but Micheal made his own social circle! He had Helpy, and Eclipse, and his little Fredbear he turned into an animatronic! (He named him after his brother.)

Hell, he even made them A.Is, personalities n shit, the whole shabang.

So yeah, life had turned up for the corpse man.

Sure, he was still falling apart, but it's not like he couldn't handle the pain that came with it. He's even fashioned something of a mechanical exoskeleton to keep him from falling apart completely! It was honestly some of his best work. Maybe he should start making prosthetics.

Another project for another day, he supposed.

Anyways, remember me saying Mike was chronically online? Yeah.

So, Micheals last job had gone sideways after too many bigoted comments from his boss, and too little pay. So, naturally, he quit.

This was not wise, as his rent was already overdue and Henry's inheritance was something Micheal didn't wanna tap into yet.

He was fine, though. He just needed a new job. He was fine.

So, he searched online with the help of his delightful little Helpy, finding a trustworthy enough job listing. It had good pay, and it even had a room with it.

Which was good, considering his landlord just gave him an eviction notice..

Fuck.

(Seriously, what kinda asshole evicts someone because of ODOUR?)

So, after applying with his extensive resume (living this long certainly had its perks, although remembering your birthday was not one of them.) And being accepted, here he was.

Standing awkwardly with all his meagre belongings outside this gigantic fucking mansion.

He was fucking terrified, unapologetically. He had no idea who these people were, only that they had some piece of machinery advanced enough they needed an expert- namely him- and they needed him full time.
And it'd all been very hush hush too- the NDA alarmed him less than it should've. But considering his past career choices, he supposed that was fair. That didn't mean he wasn't also scared. Because fuck if his anxiety wasnt blaring alarms at this unnatural looking mansion.

His inner freaking out was interrupted by the dark door opening, and Micheal being met with a shorter man. He felt what was left of his eyes widening from under the shade of his cap- anyone who'd been on the internet for more than five minutes would recognize Markiplier in the fucking flesh.

Micheal,,, panicked slightly, because the man who he was supposed to be working with was named Damien, and this was the correct address, so-

Micheal shook himself out of it, and spoke up after a moment of confusion on both sides. "Uh- sorry, I'm supposed to meet with a Damien Lezure-Barnum?" He spoke softly, but as clearly as he could with his eternally damaged throat.

Mark blinked and nodded with a polite little smile. "Ah, yeah- come on in. He mentioned something about a new hire."

From then, Mark led Micheal into the manor.

—--------------

The manor felt just as big as it did from the outside, if.. warmer. If that makes sense? Mike didn't know. The mudroom (or at least, what Micheal assumed) was elegant and fancy looking- if old. Micheal let his eyes wander as Mark led him further into the manor.

The whole building seemed a cross between an apartment complex and an office building, with one floor dedicated to rooms and another dedicated to office spaces- or at least what he assumed were office spaces. As he walked, he noted the empty living room and kitchen, as well as a gigantic dining room.

"So, what's your name?" Mark asked from in front of him. Mike tried not to think about how he towered over the man so completely, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head subconsciously.

"Mike Schmidt." He said carefully, He was still playing it safe with his pseudonyms.

Mark smiled at him from over his shoulder as they passed another intersection of hallways, seemingly empty. "Nice to meet you, Mike. I'm Mark." He introduced, although considering everything, wholly unnecessarily. Maybe that was just to Mike, though.
Of course, Mike didn't wanna bring up the YouTube shit in fear of embarrassing the shit outta himself, so he just nodded and offered what could've been a smile from behind his mask. "Nice to meet you too, Mark." He said pleasantly.

They then walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, till they reached a quite… intimidating door. It seemed darker than the others they'd encountered. Like it sucked in light. A black hole of a mass of wood.

There was a presence leaking through the cracks as well, and Mike's instincts screamed at him that this was not right, uncanny valley to the most extreme.

It was only when Mark tapped his shoulder that he realised he stopped completely.

"You good?" The shorter man asked, genuine concern on his face.

Mike shook himself out, seeing a little blue eye poking out of his suitcase in concern. Helpy.

He redirected his attention back to the man in front of him.

He nodded to Mark, adjusting his cap lightly. "Uh- yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's just, the door…" he trailed off, wondering how it wasn't affecting Mark as well as him.

Mark laughed, he LAUGHED. Motherfucker. "Yeah, Dark has that effect on people. You'll get used to it."

Wait. What the fuck? Oh goddammit he knew that nothing in his life could be normal. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His boss was a fucking force of fucking unnatural energy, of course. Because he couldn't have anything NORMAL.

He straightened his back, not without copious amounts of internal cursing and more pain than there should be, and exhaled. However unnecessary that action was, it brought him comfort.

Mark pat his back gently. "You can leave your luggage out here. He's more bark than bite." He said assuringly.

Mike nodded shakily and lined two of his three meagre bags against the wall neatly, adjusting his shirt and tie and slinging the third on his back. He wouldn’t let go of his animatronics, not when he’d worked so hard on them. Mark only glanced at his bag, as if only noting it, before he nodded to Mike, about to walk off. "Good luck!"

As Mike knocked on the door, he thought to himself, 'luck has never been on my side.'

He heard a voice from inside grant him access, and he opened the door carefully.

The room was dim, comfortably so. It seemed it was a regular office, hardwood floors and dark wallpaper with several bookshelves lining the walls. In the centre of the reasonably sized room, was the source of Micheals visceral discomfort, sitting at his desk in a casual manner.

Damien- or, Dark, as Mark had called him, looked as if he could be Mark's twin brother. If his twin could be described as the uncanny valley personified, that is. He was all sharp angles and sunken in skin.

The oddity wasn't anything too obvious, in fact at first glance, this… "man" seemed perfectly normal. A tired businessman going about his life, who forgot to shave a few times.

And yet…

As Micheal continued to stare at this Damien, things began to slide violently out of place.

It was a visceral thing, watching this being with a frame of a body just not right work. His skin was pale, clammy as it seemed.

Dead.

And Yet, disgustingly, unnervingly alive. as if it was stretched over an ill fitted skeleton, the muscle writhing underneath, a separate entity with no way out of its prison. It made him want to crawl out of his skin, seeing Damien crack his neck. It was as if there were too many bones, and not enough flesh to hold them. It seemed a painful existence, agony tucked away inside a crystalline shell.

Empathy was not what Micheal expected to feel, a heavy aching empathy along his spine and his broken ribs. It settled in his stitched up throat, his shredded vocal cords and where his stomach was supposed to be.

Michel didn’t make eye contact.

His eyes were too big, too wide, too narrow, too wrong. Too much. As if Micheal could stand to make eye contact on a normal day, but the black sclera and the sunken-ness, as if he hadn’t gotten sleep in a millenia only made it intolerably worse.
Then there was the way his presence seemed to just fill up the room. Not in the way Micheals father did, no. His father filled up a room by leering, manipulating, standing higher than everyone else and making it seem as if it had to be that way.

This man's presence was HEAVY. It was tangible, it was static and uncomfortable and physical. This man had what Micheal could only describe as an aura about him, suffocating as smoke and real as Micheal’s rotting flesh.

But it was a different kind of suffocation. It was… general. Not directed. As if it was something he couldn't control, something 'natural'.

As long as the full brunt of this man’s suffocating presence was not on him, Micheal would be perfectly fine.

At least, he told himself that as he attempted to straighten his forever broken spine, a flare of pain making him hide a wince. He still wasn’t sure how THAT happens, god damn.

Just in time, as well, because Damien looked up to him at last, and Micheal was suddenly glad he wrote his will earlier this week.

Blue, unnaturally cerulean eyes speared the engineer from where the terrifying man sat. Damien cracked his neck once again, that unsettling clicking of bones, with a subtle wince and sat up straight, looking all the businessman he was. Bloody fucking terrifying, that was.

"Micheal, you are a hard man to find."

Chapter Text

"Micheal, you are a hard man to find." Damien started out strong. His voice echoed impossibly around the room. It was as if he was inhabiting an impossibly large cave, the acoustics allowing his voice to fold over itself a thousand times over, tones layering on top of eachother.

It made Micheal bristle. He couldn't have anything normal, could he?

"That was on purpose, Mr. Lezure." Micheal croaked as strong as he could.

Damien smiled, something sharp and fueled with morbid humour. There were too many teeth in that grin, too sharp and too much, all shoved into a mouth too small for them.

"Please, call me Dark." Damien- or, well, Dark now, requested. "And with a past like yours, I wouldn't blame you."

Ah, fuck.

"...a past like mine?" Mike asked, stepping closer to the desk and tugging on his bandages anxiously.

Dark's smile turned ever so smug, and Micheal almost flinched. It was too much like his father's, and yet too terribly different. It was an unknown variable, and Micheal hated those unknowns.

Especially when it’s an unknown with too many teeth to fit in his smile, too sharp to be anything but menacing.

Dark opened a manilla folder on his desk, and started to read aloud at a menial pace.

"Micheal Afton." Ah fuck. He wasn't gonna get outta this unscathed. "Born 1970, October tenth, in the middle of Soho, London to William Afton-" Micheal flinched. Dark noticed. "And Clara Afton nee Schmidt. In 1973 your younger siblings were born, Evan and Elizabeth Afton. Twins." Dark paused, and looked at Micheal as if to gauge his reaction.

Micheal was frozen in place, but he nodded slowly. Dark continued, his unnaturally sharp nails tapping against the smooth wood of the desk.

"Your family emigrated to the states when you were just six, the twins three." Dark started again. " After only two years in the states, your mother left and changed her name. William spiralled visibly, if the neighbors testimonies should be believed, and after four years this only got worse with the death of your brother in 1983."

Micheal stayed silent. What was left of his eyes were trained on slender, sharp hands rung in red and blue, folded neatly on the desk. The joints were too exposed, Micheal noted as he tried to mimic a breath. If only to soothe his steadily growing panic.
Dark watched him from his desk.

"You're well informed." Micheal finally said, softly. It was all he could manage, physically. "No doubt you know the rest?" He asked into the static silence.

Dark nodded solemnly. "Your change in personality was quite alarming, you kept a much closer eye on your sister. This was for good reason, I'd like to think, since she went missing two years later in the very place her father had built."

Micheal sighed and collapsed in his seat across from the unnatural being. "Yeah, yeah, Dad disappeared for years, leaving me to fend for myself, yada yada yada, what's your point? Why did you hire me?" Micheal was tired, but he fired back with as much steel as he could muster.

Dark hummed at his reaction. He never blinked. "We need an engineer, one who is.. specialised. You meet the qualifications."

Micheal was afraid to ask.

….he did anyways, but still.

"Qualifications?..." He raised, sitting up slightly.

Dark flashed him a smile that could've cut leather. "Living machines." He said, as if it wasn't the most convoluted sentence ever, but instead something utterly mundane and pleasant.

Micheal sat up as straight as he could. Dark stood fluidly, with the help of a conveniently placed cane. It was aged, but beautifully so, a slight hand shaped dent in the worn varnish where the owner would grip it. Said varnish was once an ebony black, but it had faded and dark oak was revealed in artful splinters and knots in the wood grain. The top of the cane was silver, ornate designs flourishing, swirling and shining in the relatively low light. Little embedded jewels, red and blue in colour, seemed to dot it. There was a pattern to it, Micheal was sure, but he wouldn't chance asking said terrifying owner for a closer look.

It looked lovingly made, and lovingly cared for, and it looked right in Dark’s hands.

Micheals eyes snapped up to Dark, rising from his seat to follow his apparent employer.

GOD, Dark was tall.

This, ironically, coming from someone about the same height as the uncanny man.

The man's aura flickered as he led Micheal through a side door, connecting various rooms in a convenient hallway perpendicular to the bigger, more widely used one. Or, at least that's what Micheal gathered as he follows Dark.

(Micheal could almost see two eyes in the red as it deviated from Dark's shape, turning its head unnaturally to stare at Micheal for a half a second before it flickered back into place.)

(Micheal shivered.)

Eventually, after about six minutes of walking (Micheal hated that he counted) they arrived at a door on the right labelled with four G's of various colours, and a little Bing logo.

If Micheal had an eyebrow to raise, he would've raised it by now. Google and Bing? A little on the nose, but okay.

Dark opened and stepped through the door. Mike followed after, ducking under the frame easily.

The room was… sterile. If Micheal could smell, he'd bet it smelled like oil and metal. That was, if the oil stains on the floor had anything to say. There were five desks inside, colour coded. Blue, green, red, yellow, and Orange. The orange desk was by far the messiest, with scraps of paper and stickers dotting the surface area.

Other than that, the desks were relatively tidy. Although they weren't without their own touches of character. The yellow desk had a vase of sunflowers on it, and paint marks. The green desk had various skill toys on it, a Rubik's cube and several different puzzle cubes for one. The red one had little recipes taped to the side, and what looked to be a notebook filled with scraps of paper.

The blue desk was interesting, in the way that it was the most barren. Only a few sticky notes, and a cup full of writing utensils.

He raised a metaphorical eyebrow and examined the rest of the room.

On the furthest left side of the room, stood five equally sized cubes, each the approximate dimensions so a person could fit in them.

Curiously, these were also colour coded.

Dark strolled almost casually up to the coloured boxes, knocking respectfully on each one of them before stepping back and giving Micheal a saccharine smile.

(Dark had a limp, Micheal finally noted.)

"As I said; Living machines." He said, perfectly succinct and simple.

And as five figures stepped out of the pods, one by one, Micheal stood rigid in the realisation that these were, indeed, living machines.
Blue, red, green, yellow, and orange.

Really, Micheal didn't know why he expected anything else.
—--

Google was not pleased to be disturbed from his stasis. Although, seeing as it was Dark who probably knocked, it must’ve been for good reason. His boss knew more than anybody how much his faulty battery was bothering him, and how pertinent it was that he get a full charge.

As he stepped out of his charging station, his battery cache was a decent 74%. Nothing to celebrate over, but google had been waking up with it into his sixties, or on bad days, fifties. So, a 74 wasn’t horrible.

He opened his eyes, adjusting to the light and taking into account the four footsteps emerging from the charging stations beside him. Interesting, usually all of the androids aren’t summoned during their allotted charging time. It must be important, Google resolved his earlier thought. He examined the room, electric iris’ spinning brightly in analysis.

There was one more person in the room than there should’ve been.

Oh, the engineer Dark had hired.

The man, Mike Schmidt, was tall and gangly. As tall as Dark, even, and the being LOOMED. He was wearing dress clothes, freshly pressed as if he was going to a job interview. Which, Google supposed, he was in a way.

Bandages covered what skin should’ve been visible on his forearms and neck, but it didn’t conceal slender, clever fingers. His neck was covered the same way, and his face was obscured by his hat, and a facemask. And yet, Google could still see the man’s eyes, if only a little, and how they widened when they flickered across Google’s, Red’s, Green’s, Oliver’s, and Bing’s faces.

What a peculiar man, Google thought as if the rest of the occupants in the Manor weren’t equally as odd. Although, he could almost hear the echo of such a thought appear from each of his brother’s, in various wordings of course.

Google once again settled his attention onto his boss, Dark having a little smile on his uncanney face. “Dark?”

Darks smile stayed in place, chilling and firm. “Google’s and Bing. I would like you to meet the newest addition to our household and our staff, Micheal Schmidt.” He introduced, Schmidt jumping slightly at the use of his name.
The man held a hand out to Google. The Android noticed him shaking. “It- It’s good to meet you.” Micheal said quietly, trying to put up a facade of control.

Google took his hand and shook it, nodding. “And you as well.”

Oliver struck just as the interaction had finished, offering his own hand and a dazzling smile. “Hi! I’m Oliver, or Ollie if you like. I like your hat.” Mike almost seemed dazed as he shook Oliver’s hand. “Uh- thank you? I- I assume the desk with the sunflowers on it? They look lovely.” There again with that soft tone of voice.

Now that Google thought about it, he heard an undertone of an accent. Perhaps british? No, definitely British, Google concluded with narrowed eyes.

Oliver’s smile never lessened, he even seemed a bit more comfortable around Schmidt. “Thanks! I picked them myself!” Mike gave the impression that he was smiling right back, although his mouth was covered.

Green was next, with a perfectly nuetral smile and eyes that revealed nothing. “Google Green, Good to meet you.” He said smoothly as he shook Mike’s hand. Mike returned it with a greeting more subdued. “Good to meet you as well. Er- you have an impressive collection of rubiks cubes.”

Green seemed quietly pleased at this admission, and nodded his thanks.

The orange android made himself known next.
“Sup new guy! Name’s Bing! D*** man, you sure as s*** are tall.” Bing observed enthusiastically. Mike blinked. “Do you need that censor taken care of…?” He offered, and Bing grinned. “Oh that’d be groovy dude- you have no id-”

Red shoved Bing out of the way, practically shaking Mike’s hand off with his enthusiasm. Bing huffed but backed off without much complaint.

“Hi! You can call me Red! By any chance, are you a shortbread kinda guy, or a lemon meringue person? Just tryna prove a point.” Red glanced at Oliver and Bing, who were collectively looking off somewhere else innocently.

Mike was a little overwhelmed by this introduction, but blinked and answered nonetheless. “Uh- I prefer the merengue?” he spoke timidly.

Red’s grin got fiercer. “That was the correct choice, my friend!”

Oliver groaned in the background. “Miiiikeee how could you do this to meeeee-”
Green piped up from his place next to Google. “He made the right choice.” Red got consistently more smug at this.

Bing pouted. “Duuuuude, not cool.”

Google shrugged. “I don’t see the appeal of either.”

“You ALSO refuse to taste any of my new recipes.” Red sniffed in faux-hurt.

Google lifted one solitary eyebrow. “You made Lilac peanut butter brittle last week.”

The Android’s all collectively winced, excluding Google. Google observed Mike cringing in the background.

“Are lilacs edible?” Mike murmured from the sideline.

Google nodded. “Lilac’s are indeed edible, however they do not taste as good as they smell. And they taste even worse when paired with peanut butter and put into a brittle.” Google stated matter- of- factly.

Red sighed. “Okay, not one of my best endeavours- but you didn’t even try the dandelion chiffon cake!” The android whined good-naturedly.

Bing sighed wistfully. “Bro, that s*** was better than actually getting physical affection.”

Google rolled his eyes and stepped closer to his shorter counterpart. “I’d hope not. I find the physical affection quite lovely.” Bing flushed a bright orange and started stammering, before Dark interrupted.

“I hate to stop the banter, but we do have to continue with business.” The Monochrome ego piped up, shifting on his cane. “Google, you’ve been having issues with your battery?”

Google nodded, sobering from the frankly delightful conversation.

Time to see if Mike Schmidt was as good as his resume.

Chapter Text

Mike felt like he was gonna pass out from nerves alone.

And this being AFTER he fixed Google’s battery. Jesus Christ, and Mike thought his nights at Freddy’s were nerve wracking.

It seemed his several anxiety disorders picked back up when he was wrist-deep inside of Google, a fucking eldritch monstrosity hovering over his shoulder and a rediculously complicated blueprint to his right. It’d been horrible for the first five minutes, Mike’s hands were all shakey as he was memorizing the battery blueprint, as if he was a fucking newbie and hadn’t been doing this for fifty-sum years.

But when he was actually going through the motions, he’d stopped shaking and started letting his mind work out this new puzzle.

It’s honestly what Google’s insides felt like. Mike was used to big, flashy animatronic animals with insides you could see from the outside if you looked the right way. But an android? One with synthetic skin, organs, and the closest fuckin thing to a human brain that man could create?

Now that was a challenge.

And hell, maybe Mike could use a challenge after years of the same thing.

And it was! Even if Mike had only just worked on Google’s battery, it’d been new. Everything was small, the technology compressed to an insane degree. He’d had to hook Google up to one of the computers they had in their room- it was a constant back and forth between Google’s blueprints, Google himself, and the data being displayed on the computer screen. And the best thing? There wasn’t a fucking time limit!

He didn’t have to flip between mutlitudes of screens, he didn’t have to look down dilapidated hallways, and there wasn’t any of the usual furry nightmare fuel! So of course, he was a bit more relaxed.

He still worked speedily, of course, dilly dallying wouldn’t be very good for keeping his job, but he didn’t quite rush as fast as he would’ve in his.. Regular work settings.

But it was the most mentally stimulating experience Mike’s had in a long long while.

The sheer influx of new information had been hell on Mike’s brain, something of a headache being drawn from it. But it was fun, for a new job.

Although, Red kept hovering over his shoulder every ten minutes, watching Michael work andAlthough, Red kept hovering over his shoulder every ten minutes, watching Michael work and nudging his hand with a soft murmur of correction whenever he made a small error.

It wasn’t.. Bad. It definitely wasn’t bad. The interaction was just.. Odd.

And if Micheal’s body still worked as it was supposed to, his face would’ve been beet red.

But anyways, back to the present tense.

Dark was currently a few paces ahead of him, leading Micheal silently to the room he’d be occupying indefinitely.

“It’s easy to get lost in the Manor.” Dark speaks softly, his echo providing enough volume to be heard. “We’ve tried to map it out, but the building itself seems to move and twist, so that’s become impossible.”

Micheal just blinked.

A house.. That moved on its own.

Wasn’t there a weird kids film with that premise? A haunted house that swallowed people?

(he remembered that this was a KIDS FILM. Not some indie horror movie, a fucking kids film???)

Although Dark hadn’t mentioned it being haunted, or.. Eating people alive, the comparison was still there. Shut up.

Oh. Shit, he was supposed to respond.

“Uh,” Micheal returned eloquently, “How would I go about navigating it?..”

Dark glanced back at him with a small, teethless smile and a blue eye glimmering with an inhuman mirth. “The Manor takes favorites. Mostly in the.. Less human occupants.” He says, the aura surrounding him flaring for a moment, as if accentuating the entity’s point.

“We once had a God and their brother stay here for a few months, and they had probably the easiest time out of all of the short-term guests who’ve stayed here.”

“Oh.” Was all Micheal could get out, staring at his own moving shoes, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to win over the favor of a fucking house.

“Be good to her, she’ll be good to you. Don’t worry.” Dark soothed as best he could, his shoulders shaking in hidden laughter.
Oh, the house was a she, Micheal would have to remember that-

And for a few moments, Micheal mulled over the now revealed information in silence.

Now, this was what Micheal was planning on doing all the way to his new room, but there was a hitch in that plan.

Namely, the other occupants of the sentient manor.
One of these such occupants was sprinting down the hall full speed, a blur of bright bubblegum pink and lemonade yellow.

Just as the man was about to run into Dark, Micheal stiffening and getting ready to run full speed the other way behind him, he skidded to a halt and threw his arms around Dark with a delighted yell. The full brunt of his momentum was directed into the Monochrome man, who barely even moved a centimeter.

“Darling!” The bright man with an equally bright moustache yelled to Dark.

Micheal was half expecting Dark to just shrug off the arms and scoff at the man. He hadn’t proved himself to be overly cruel, yet he just seemed the type. but yet again he was proven wrong when Dark reciprocated the embrace, a small laugh bubbling up from the quiet businessman. “Wil.” He said simply, the word short and laced with an inconcievable fondness.

If Micheal was someone with lyrical prowess, he may have commented on the dichotomy of two such beings. Polar opposites in most ways, united and twined together. Mirror images that weren’t confined to different sides of a reflective surface.

But Micheal was not one for many words, not like a certain author, so the poetry will stay confined to unseen words on an unseen document on the internet.

In any case, Micheal was stuck standing in place, stiff as a board and eye sockets hidden under the brim of his hat, watching the interaction.

“Oh, Wilford, I think you should meet the newest addition to the manor.” Dark said, pulling away from Wilford and holding a healthy, tanned hand in two pale, slim and clever ones.

Wilford turned his attention to Micheal, who was debating the pros and cons of hopping out of that very nice window with a shrub under it. Yes. Delightful plan. It was just two stories, he could make it if he didn’t need his fucking limbs any more-

His escape plan was run through by a hand being thrust into his vicinity, that same healthy glow that the other two in the hallway didn’t possess. “Wilford Motherlovin’ Warfstache, how does ya?” The now dubbed Wilford introduced, his words running into eachother with an accentsqueezed in between for good measure.

Micheal took the hand hesitantly, almost shouting in agony when Wilford started shaking it vigorously.

Shit shit shit shit this is not what my joints were prepared for today- he thought as the shaking died off, Micheal pulling his hand out of the bubblegum man’s as quickly as he could. The man didn’t seem to notice, grinning happily either way.

“Erm- my name's Micheal. Micheal Schmidt.” He croaked hesitantly.

Wilford narrowed his eyes. “No it isn’t.” He responded suspiciously.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Mike was about to have an aneurysm and die on the spot, eyes flicking from a vaguely amused looking Dark and the comically squinting madman in front of him.

“...Yes it is.” Legally, anyways.

He prayed the man would believe him.

Wilford blinked, his cheery disposition returning at the flip of a switch. “If you say so, Sport!” He laughed heartily, idly fiddling with a- is that a knife? A fucking butterfly knife? Out of literally nowhere?

Micheal was ready to keel over right fucking now.

He just laughed along nervously with that soft voice he’d been forced to adopt. “I uh- I do.”

Wilford hummed with a still raised eyebrow. The staring contest lasted until a fourth pair of footsteps meandered from where Wilford had come from.

"Wilford…." The source of the footsteps called, voice tangibly irritated and leaking with unseen threats.

That was what shocked the pink man out of his staring contest, Wilford starting to sprint again.

"Tha'd be my que! Bye Dames, Fritz!" Wilford had called down the hallway as he made his escape.

It wasn't even thirty seconds before another man was walking through the hallway, a metal baseball bat with something scrawled on it in his grip. The man was shorter than both Dark and Micheal, and his hunched posture didn’t do anything for it. He was wearing a tan trench coat that hung off of his frame, down to his shins, cinched around his waist and unbuttoned at the top. The shirt he was wearing underneath had… pink flamingos embroidered on it? Little, tiny pink flamingos against white.

The man’s black hair was slicked back, a strand bleached bone white down to his roots.

The strangest thing about this man, however, were the bloodied bandages tied around his eyes. Dark, brownish-coppery-red stains formed circles where the man’s eyes should’ve been. The blood dripped gorish paths down the man’s cheeks and onto his neck, the collar of his coat and his shirt stained with dark, old stains and new crimson ones.

But with this hunched over man, with his eyeless face and his bloody coat and his little pink flamingos on his pristine shirt, came the whispers.

Whispers, constant and loud for their perceived softness, followed this bloodied bastard each step he took. Micheal can’t help how he holds his breath as the voices wash over him, making his joints stiff in warning. It was uncomfortable and almost familiar how physical the whispers felt, wrapping around what meagre flesh and bones Micheal possessed.

The Whispers murmured to him.

“Micheal? Such a nice name.”

“He’s too skinny, much too lithe to be alive.”

“His clothes hang off of what little body he has left; how long has this man been stuck like this?”

“The last remaining Afton stood on wavering feet, looming with shoulders perpetually hunched and wide eyes: They were barely pinpricks, lost in the shadow of his cap.”

“There was no doubt Micheal was skilled, with nimble fingers and a brain much too fast for his mouth.”

“Such an intriguing specimen.”

“He’s shaking.”

“What happened to you?”

The question, the observations, the VOICES caught him so pitifully off guard.

His headache was getting worse.

Once again, Micheal stood stock still as he watched the man stall in his tracks. The blind man straightens, and nods in the direction of both Dark and Micheal.

“The Host greets both Dark and Micheal warmly. He also suggests that Micheal find the library, at the nearest possible convenience. He wishes the duo a good day.” The Host, as he was apparently named, said succinctly. He then hoisted his metal bat over his shoulders, cutting quite the intimidating figure, and went back to making his way down the hallway once again. He walked surprisingly fast, surprisingly sure of his movements to an uncanny degree.

Before Micheal knew it, The Host was out of sight, and with him went his whispers.

A few moments pass, with only Dark and Micheal alone in the hallway.

Micheal turned his wide eyes to his boss. “Does everybody in this fucking place come out of a fucking sci-fi horror novel?” He whispered shakily.

Dark just grinned his toothy grin, eyes sharp and squinted with mirth. “You’ll get used to it.”

Micheal did not, in fact, get used to it.