Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He stared at the paper in his hands, sitting inside his work truck. His eyes read over most of it without much fanfare, they vaguely linger on J's signature, but he glances away quickly enough. When he gets to the bottom of the work order, he frowns. Of course.

He's on his last leg, apparently at Sprocket Palm it's more important to just... enable bad behavior or whatever than it is to actually fix it. Whatever.

This job's going to suck, but the property's abandoned, so there's no person to be "short or unnecessarily temperamental towards." As Gordon puts the work order away, he looks up and catches his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, dead, green-grey eye staring back at him.

He looks like shit.

Broken, poorly healed nose, scarred all over the left side of his face... he has to fight to keep his eye off the medal hanging from the rear-view mirror. Don't look at it, don't think about it, don't you dare go back there Gordon. Instead, he lets himself stare at the uneaten sandwich that's been on his dashboard for the past week. Sprocket Palm's department manager brought in lunch, and he'd found a convenient excuse to cheese it and leave early.

After a few moments of sitting in silence in the car, he shoves the door open and gets out. As he looks up, up, up... oh that's very high up. His hand instinctively cradles his stomach, the other hand holding his toolbox in a white knuckled grip.

"Disable the antenna..." he sighs, and his frown deepens, "th'last job of the day is always the worst."

Looking around the property, he can notice a stage, an... aviary, the main building - it looks like a hotel - a public park, and an office building. However, he's pretty sure he's free to ignore them all aside from the hotel, since that's the one with the antenna on it. No need to head anywhere else and put his body through unnecessary stress. As he thinks about stress, he sets his toolbox down and begins to rummage through the pockets of his overalls for an inhaler.

No dice.

He groans and unlocks the truck, only marginally embarrassed to have forgotten something so important. He's been asthmatic almost his entire life, and yet he can't manage something as simple as actually keeping the inhaler with him at all times. ...That was a fun conversation to have with J. when it came to him needing almost a week off to get a handle on his symptoms. He'd practically burst into a wheezing, choking fit the second he walked into work.

"...Damn." He mutters to himself as he shuts the door again, perhaps with a little more force than necessary.

Really, he just wants to get this over with. He locks the truck and takes slow, measured strides across the courtyard, until he makes it to the main building. Looking up, he's got to really crane his neck to see how tall it is, and even that doesn't seem to help entirely. It's like the damn hotel stretches on into the sky. He's not exactly looking forward to having to actually climb all the way up onto the roof.

He's just going to hope that the broadcasting setup room's still functioning. The hand on his stomach cradles it just slightly more protectively as he enters the revolving door.

Well, it's nice inside, sure the A/C seems like it's a little fritzy but it's not as cold as the blustering-pre-rain winds outside were. The weather sucked, tremendously.

"There's an elevator. Maybe it still works."

Despite the fact this place was allegedly abandoned, he can't help but feel like he's being watched, and the hair on his neck stands on end. His first thought is to actually check the elevator, since it's the easiest way up to the broadcasting setup room, however there's something holding the doors shut, and even though realistically he knows what it is, it looks just enough like grape jelly to make his stomach do a flip.

"What on earth? Is this... glue?" His voice is incredulous, even to his own ears.

So, the elevator's out of commission then, he groans, and his hand moves up to rub the space between his eyes, of course.

If there was a God out there, the man clearly seemed to have an issue with Gordon O'Brian. From the failed first marriage, to the excommunication from the Army, to the fact his left knee still burns if he puts too much pressure on it... he's starting to have an issue with the man upstairs too.

He sighs and decides that his best course of action at this exact moment might actually be snooping around, since there wasn't anyone who could pitch a fit about it or report him to his boss. The first thing he does is check that old - God the thing's almost as ancient as he is - vending machine. He didn't have any spare change, so he settled on lightly kicking the side of it, but once again, no dice.

Across the foyer are some shattered glass cases, one of which is empty, the other holding half of a medallion. It's silver and he can't tell if it's silver or stainless steel, or nickel; regardless, it looks nice. Got a pound symbol on it he thinks, but he's not sure, it's been engraved at a weird angle that makes him doubt his knowledge.

Once he’s nabbed it and shoved it into the depths of his toolbox (only griping to himself about the weight a little bit) he heads to the counter. There's a bell and despite the common knowledge, he can't resist the urge to press it anyways. When he does, there's a second of silence before something actually happens.

The counter retracts, and a little hutch pops out of the now empty space. As it rises - squeaking and stuttering the entire way - he simply assumes it's nothing more than some preprogrammed little routine, and that nothing will actually pop out of there. He was, however, very wrong.

"Raise the curtain! Bring up the lights! The Neighborhood is coming to town!"

Is that... a sock puppet? A living, breathing, sentient sock puppet? Holy shit it is. He has to actually fight to get his bearings again, startled just enough to drop his toolbox on the floor with a dull thud. "Uh-hello. I'm here to disconnect the antenna."

"Television's heartbeat has returned! A spirit of cheer brightens every child's eye! The cry goes round' the kindergarten class: "The Neighborhood! The Neighborhood!""

"...Okay.... I'm here to disconnect the ante-"

"I am Ricky the sock! Your television will never be the same! We-hold on, did you say disconnect the antenna?"

He feels very stupid for having a conversation with a sentient sock, because it's so strange to him. He also feels very annoyed because out of every possible sentient sock puppet, he got stuck with this one. "Yes." It takes all of his effort to keep his voice cool and collected, and to not blow up in a fit of hormonal rage.

"Oh my, no! No, no, no! You mustn't do that! That would be a catastrophe." Ricky says, sounding dismayed at the mere thought of it.

"It's broadcasting over the news." Gordon responds flatly, gesturing with an outstretched arm before he tucks it back at his side to hide the collection of old, aged scars that have only partially faded over time, and the newer ones that still feel tender if you push on the skin too hard.

"The news? No, no, trust me, the antenna is just fine as it is. Doesn't need any disconnecting."

Gordon is pretty sure if Ricky had hands, he'd be waving them dismissively. He hates the idea of being patronized by anyone, God forbid something - someone - so small in comparison.

"Tell you what. You wait here and I'll-" Ricky gags and Gordon vaguely wonders if he can throw up, "-I'll get you some-" horrifically... he can.

Sure, it's not actually vomit, but somehow that's actually a bit weirder. It's a keycard. Ricky coughed up an entire keycard and it ranked pretty high up there on the list of disgusting things he's seen in life. Of course, it's not the top item on that list, that stupidly small, stupidly powerful little bomb going off took that spot.

A positive pregnancy test took the second one.

"Wooooo, that wasn't pleasant. Gonna' take a sec...." The sock puppet then slinks back into the... hutch it emerged from and is gone from sight.

At the very least he's glad they're gone; however, he doesn't want to stick around when they come back. Instead, he sucks it up and takes the keycard, muttering under his breath about how if he gets sick, he's gonna throttle that thing.

Or sue them if there's anyone left to actually sue, because he doubts that he can sue a puppet.

"Ummm..." he says to himself, wiping the last remnants of what might be glittery saliva on his overalls, "okay then."

He very quickly grabs his toolbox, turns around and heads to the door, before glancing over his shoulder and giving the main foyer a quick, cursory once-over before he finally leaves. The cold air practically slaps him in the face and takes his breath away. For a split second he's genuinely worried that it does, and his freehand reaches for the quick rescue-inhaler in his pocket.

But it doesn't. He can still breathe, and so he relaxes, minutely. However, the relaxation is cut short by the sight of someone else. For a split-second his heart jumps in his chest because he's not really alone, because there's someone else and maybe, just maybe they're both stuck here. Maybe they can shoot the shit and laugh at the absurdity of all of this. But whoever it is, they're heading to the warehouse labelled Stage 4.

"Hey! Who are you?" He calls after them, but they pay him no mind. And he can't move very quickly, due to his age and other factors including his damned bum knee.

A cursory glance at the keycard reveals it goes to the same location, so he'll find out eventually, one way or another.

Chapter Text

The keycard reader is still showing red, so it clearly hadn't been unlocked. He's not exactly sure how that other guy got into the warehouse then, but he's ultimately not one to question it. Even after all these years he's not going to question something he knows won't make sense. He just sucks it up and ignores the little gnawing pit in his belly.

Was it worth it?

He grits his teeth and has to resist the urge to punch the door out of sheer anger - at the situation, at himself, at J. at the world? he's not sure - but he succeeds, barely. Instead, he takes a deep breath and stands there until the rage simmers down from a rolling boil to something more manageable. However, that doesn't help much when it begins to burn up again after the fifth failed swipe.

"...Goddamnit..." He mutters under his breath as he crouches - and he is by no means a tall man - to get on eye level with the reader, trying to squint as he swipes the card again.

Sixth time is the charm apparently.

As soon as the light goes green, he shoves the door open with only slightly more force than necessary.

There's a small room with a typewriter on a stand, and some collapsible metal chairs, all set around it in circle. The walls are all brick, and it looks like it might have been the first actual writing room, which explains both the smallness and the unkempt appearance. But there's nobody in here, so he heads to the empty doorframe to progress to the next room. Hopefully that would be more interesting, he thinks.

But then his interest is captured by the board on the wall, and he glances around for a second before plopping the toolbox on a chair and walking over to give it a cursory look. The first article that he spots is an absolutely ancient City Tribune article from the late 60's. Late 60's huh? He'd have been what... twenty-four or twenty-five around then? He was already serving in the War by then. Hell, he only vaguely remembers the author, some old critic - who is most likely dead now - named Richard Lightsbury.

Apparently, the guy was richer than any old man ought to be.

As he scans the article, he picks up a few little facts, like the name of the creator, what the show used to be called, where it used to air... mostly facts he didn't really need to know. He ultimately decides to take the paper, pulling it off the board, folding it up and putting it into the toolbox with everything else. As he stepped away from the board, he cast a glance towards one of the other doors and noticed a hand.

Oh, so they're... leading him towards them? Deeper into the stages? Well, he's headin' there anyways. He can also see some brown hair poking out from behind the door as well, but as he approaches, whoever's back there disappears; he sighs and straightens his cap, his other hand rubbing the space between his eyes as he groans to himself.

Something weird is afoot, isn't it?

"Always somethin'... ain't that right kiddo?" He says to nobody in particular, well... one person in particular.

As he approaches the door where the person had been, he notices another door, but right now that's not a priority. Right now, his priority is finding someone else, anyone else, because as much as he may never admit it... he's been missing having folks around lately.

Around for real, for more than just work. Sure, the other guys at Sprocket Palm were nice, but ever since Lawrence he's been... clingy. Or at least clingy in his own opinion. He's still not a big physical contact lover, but it would be nice to have a conversation with another warm body.

He's still reminiscing about it as he pushes the door open and enters, already surprised by how nice the place looks, compared to the first room he was in. However, there's also the sound of... banging. Like someone was slamming themself into a wall with the entirety of their strength.

There's also a distinctly not-quite-human voice speaking.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" He's not sure which outcome he's more afraid of, being alone with nothing but creepy recordings, or the idea of this other "warm body" being a creep.

His free hand once again, darts to his belly and cradles it. Please, God... even if you've got an issue with him don't take it out on the kid. 

Looking around the corner, it seems like God's refused to answer his prayers, because it's another felt freak. They're talking about how their name is Norman, and they're a very normal guy. They're also bashing their entire upper body into a door. There's no way he's dealing with that guy just yet. Instead, he slinks away to one of the other doors, silently hoping that Norman doesn't notice him.

Ironically, as he descends the one or two little steps leading to another door, the puppet actually launches into a long spiel about the things he notices.

"Norman notices children-!" And his lungs seem to seize up with panic and fear before he enters.

First thing that he's aware of, is the sound of yet another puppet speaking. She's saying something about crafts, and he doesn't have the energy to tune in or to care. Instead, he just remains silent and looks down, because the second thing he's aware of is that he's on a raised ledge above her. The third thing is that there's a traffic light in there, and he really, really hopes he doesn't need to play some demented game of red light, green light.

Then it dawns on him.

He's got to actually jump off the ledge to get anywhere else, because there was no catwalk above this room, and the only other way out was backwards. Gordon sighs softly and his hand once again finds its way to the space between his eyes. J.'s never been the best about overtime, but he thinks he's got a case for why he deserves it.

"You're getting slow, O'Brian."

His ears burn and he scowls so hard his nose wrinkles up. It's very unpleasant. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing," says one of his coworkers, hands raised placatingly, "just pointing it out. Th' guys upstairs won't like that you know."

"Well, maybe I don't care."

He's lying and he knows it. He does care. Even if he cares for the wrong reasons - rent is due next week and he's only got enough for half if he skips on groceries - he still cares. Maybe it'd be okay if the only one going hungry was him, but it's not.

"Okay Mr. Friendly," the other, younger kid says with a shrug.

"Garrett stop calling me that."

He frowns, lowering himself to a sitting position - with some effort - on the edge of the ledge, his legs hanging over. It still feels far too high, but he's either got to go through here or approach the puppet at the door, and he's not really looking forward to that. So, he forces himself to hop down, landing with a low grunt as a bolt of pain radiates up through his left leg.

It actually takes his breath away for a second and he has to simply remain on the floor on his knees for a moment or two, ragged, pained breaths heaving from his chest. Once he's actually capable of breathing again, and his sight isn't obscured by the white-hot bolts of pain, he looks around, and spots what must be an unconscious puppet clinging to a fence, as if dead.

"Please stay dead... please stay dead." He mutters under his breath as he forces himself to his feet, the protests of his old joints quiet in comparison to the speaking puppet.

The dead puppet seems inclined to do as he asks for the moment, and so he creeps - slowly, painfully slowly - past the puppet lady. She's hunched over and still talking to herself about crafts. He's... almost impressed she can speak at such length about nothing at all, but that's a skill that humans also seem to have, so it's nothing special.

"I like to use Norman!" She says in a voice too cheerful for the subject matter at hand.

He's pretty sure the implication might be murder, and for a split-second he wonders if the felt freaks can feel pain like he can. He shoves the thought from his mind as he passes her and slinks out of her range, and to the door on the other side of the strange room.

Entering that door - there's too many doors here, he thinks - he comes out on the other side, which is significantly nicer. The walls look more elegant, and it looks like it could have been part of that hotel. It's a semi-narrow hallway with one door at the end of it, and three doors on one side, the first of which is unfortunately locked.

He tries for what might be a solid thirty seconds to brute force it open before he's left wheezing so hard that he's got no other choice than to give up. The quick-rescue-inhaler is grabbed, and he gives it a good couple of shakes before he breathes out harshly and then puts it to his lips and takes a breath in. That's a bit better. Really, he wishes he had one of those nice long-term inhalers that would actually keep an attack from happening, instead of just stopping one when it starts... but that costs more than he's got at the moment.

Sides' he's managing fine as is.

The slight increase in anxiety doesn't help but hey, side effects. He's gotten used to being a bundle of nerves after an attack, both from the attack itself and the fact his inhaler's one of the ones that causes his heartrate to really jump in numbers. He groans and stuffs the inhaler back into his pocket. Hopefully he won't need it for a long while.

"...Well, one of these has to be unlocked, right?" He says to himself as he tries the second door in the hallway, turning the handle and automatically tensing up when it does indeed open.

He half-expected a puppet to jump out at him.

But there's no puppets in the room or in the hallway, so he considers it safe enough to poke around in there.

There's a bottle of something labeled "Health-o-Lax" which is somehow suspiciously green even through the green glass bottle, and a round of what looks like ammunition, except made of paper. Like it goes to a prop gun. He almost leaves, but as he gives the counter one last cursory glance, he spots a script, and can't help his curiosity. Reading over it more carefully, there's a mention of "Stevie" who he remembers was the only character played by an actual human. The others in the scene are Lilianna and Pearl, who he's guessing are puppets.

He's starting to get sick of puppets.

Once again, the paper is snatched and shoved to the bottom of his toolbox where it is most likely crumpled up to death.

The third room is a bathroom, and he makes sure to note it in his mind as an important spot since this damn kid loves to kick his organs, and he'll likely be coming back... multiple times. Flipping the lid of the toilet up reveals a roll of duct tape inside, and he stares at it in disgust for a solid second before ultimately deciding that he's touched worse before. Like the glittery barf on his clothes. Into the toolbox it goes.

Okay, all the rooms have been checked - save for the one, but he plans to come back eventually if he can - and so he heads out the door on the end of the hallway.

This one leads into a stairwell, and the only real way out is down. Mostly because the door at the top is guarded by yet another damn puppet, this one being purple with blonde "hair." He suppresses the urge to groan, not sure how well these things can hear, and he instead just heads downwards; his knuckles grip the stair railing so tightly he's got to be abusing the poor thing, but he really doesn't care.

This puppet is talking about nothing at all, like the others all were, something about the mail this time. As he slips into the door at the bottom of the stairs, he notices yet another room. He's - he's getting really sick of these winding corridors and the cyclical rooms.

It's what looks like might be a break room for employees, with a couch, a dinky little television sitting on a crate, and what looks like a target. Perhaps for darts or something, he thinks, before remembering the ammunition he'd found just a moment or two ago. So... there's a gun somewhere around here, at least that seems to be what's implied. As he continues to snoop, he spots a red box with a key inside, though the box is hooked up to the target by a thick wire - he bets he has to hit it to get the box open which seems like it's far more effort than needed.

But there's also a wrench. He picks it up and gauges the heft of it in his hand as he turns it over and looks at it. It's painted a vaguely cherry-red and he frowns at the color, but then a little smile creeps onto his face at the realization that he's got a weapon. 

"Oh yeah... I could get used to this." He says to himself.

It means he could probably get around that puppet at the top of the stairs.

He very quickly leaves the room, trying to make note to come back when he had a gun, or darts, or something he could throw - he didn't want to throw the wrench because in his current state he'd never be able to climb over the counter without wheezing and coughing. As he began to ascend the steps, he can hear the same puppet humming to themself, and he slinks up behind them as slowly as he can.

But the sound of his footsteps - or his breath, or something else - must have alerted them. Great. He loves that. 

"Hey!" The puppet shouts, arms raised over its head, before it says something else. Something that really makes Gordon see red. "You look like me!"

The wrench connects with the puppet's face, and they stagger back for a second or two before throwing their arms out at Gordon. He's nothing like them. Nothing at all.

As he winds up for another swing, the puppet grabs his overall straps, and he leans back, trying to get out of their range. He clobbers them again, and it prompts them to let go - and without anything holding him up, and him leaning back, it makes him tumble.

Gordon groans as he falls down the stairs, coming to a stop on the landing when his back hits the wall. For a split second he forgets what's going on, and he simply lays there while his entire body throbs with pain. Then he hears the sound of very light footsteps and remembers that there's a crazy puppet on the attack, and he forces himself to awaken from his almost unconscious state.

A few more quick strikes - some of which don't connect at all - and the puppet drops to the floor, unconscious. As he stumbles back up the steps, breathing heavily - he's not going to rely on the inhaler too much - he looks back down at the puppet on the floor and he frowns.

Why'd it make him so angry? They're right after all.

He shoves the door at the top of the stairs open and heads through it.

"Oh... not another one of those things." He mutters to himself as he spots yet another puppet. This one with ponytails - it looked like a young girl - but he could tell they were far enough away to not notice him yet. However, he makes sure to stay quiet.

He enters the first door he spots and is immensely relieved to see that it's a quiet room, almost like a safe room. The door clicks shut behind him, and he drops his toolbox on a table, sighing softly and rubbing his belly, a pained grimace working its way across his face. It wouldn't hurt to take a break here, right? Sure, there's no chairs, but he can sit on the floor.

He's not too far along, and even if he did have some issues getting up - which he doesn't, he swears - there's some crates he can use to pull himself up.

"God... that's better." Gordon mumbles softly as he leans against the wall and lets himself slide down it until he's resting on the floor. He breathes out a soft sigh of relief and his head tilts back, closing his eyes.

Everything still hurts, and the fresh pain serves to amplify much older pains and aches from the War. He tilts his hat downwards, so it obscures his face. No use showin' it off for the world. One puppet seeing it was far too many.

He'll just rest here for... a moment....

Chapter Text

It had been far longer than a few moments when his eyes reopened. In fact, he had no idea what time it was. He didn't wear a watch.

"Fuck." He muttered to nobody in particular as he tried to push himself up off the floor - the key word being tried - before he ultimately realized he'd need to actually pull himself up with a crate. It wasn't that difficult, but his legs felt wobbly and unsteady once he was standing, and he groaned.

As he looked around the safe room, he noticed there was a stagemap tacked onto the wall, and he quickly grabbed it to look at it. It had been printed with the labels for the spots within Stage 4, including that weird room with double doors. It even marked the circle on the doors, and that's when it hit him.

That key.

That key will unlock those doors, but before he can get that key, he's got to find a gun. Right. He'd better get started on that; he thinks as he gives the large storage box a cautious glance. It's a big old thing - kind of like him - and he realizes it'll be a major benefit to lighten the load in the toolbox. He sets the toolbox on top of it and fishes out the half of the medallion he's got, before he plops it into the storage trunk.

Much better. Now he's not lugging around almost half a pound of dead weight.

"Lighter already." He muses to himself as he plucks a few coins off a table, stuffing them in his pocket.

As he leaves the saferoom, the puppet is still there in the hallway, but he can spot a door nearby with another blue circle on it - he really needs to get that gun - and one right across from it that is probably unlocked. Heading into that door, his eyes widen on impulse as he realizes he'd just done a huge circle and was now back in the little brick room with the typewriter. Well, damn.

But it gives him a chance to get into the room with the gun, so he decides to make that his first course of action.

When he heads back in to see Norman again, the puppet is saying something else, but it all just comes across as drivel to Gordon - who is already tired and achy and who wants to go home. He straightens his cap and approaches the puppet, wrench at the ready.

Just like before, the puppet whirls around - limbs flailing - as it hears his footsteps. However, this one seems to react quickly, but Gordon's just slightly quicker. He raises the wrench to block the incoming hand, and he steps around the raised platform, forcing Norman to follow. The puppet's a bit slower taking sharp turns, so he's able to side-step them and force his way backwards into the blocked off room, slamming the door behind him.

"Please," he whispers under his breath, "please be stupid enough to forget I was here..."

The door continues to hold, and there's no immediate attempts to open it, so after a few moments, he takes a few steps backwards, peering around the room. It's pretty obviously some sort of costuming and makeup room, but the size of it, and the big framed pictures of a human man makes him believe this is Richie's makeup room.

As he descends the small number of stairs, he can spot a few posters for movies they'd done, and some advertising segments on the show, and it definitely cements the thought that he's having. Gordon approaches the vanity table and notices a pipe that is very conveniently Ricky-sized, and he finds himself bracing for a confrontation with the sock.

But all of that is forgotten as he spies a gun, and for a moment he just stares at it. A moment too long, that is.

"There you are! Now, don't toddle off again. I've got some snackeroos waiting down in the lobby."

Gordon takes an involuntary step backwards as he hears Ricky speak, his eyes darting to the pipe.

"Hey," he starts off bluntly, "what's going on here? Your puppet friends are attacking me!"

"Oh, are they? How embarrassing." Ricky says, in the tone of voice one who isn't particularly embarrassed would use. "By the way, what's your name?"

He pauses and stares at Ricky like the sock just grew another head. "What?"

"Your name. Your moniker. Your handle. Your nom de plume."

"It's..." he pauses around a lump in his throat. "It's Gordon."

Why does that feel so hard, so weird, so foreign? He's been saying that for years. His name is Gordon O'Brian don't you dare call him anything else. Don't even think about checking what it says on his papers, or so help him he'll-

"Gordon? What a beautiful name! -"

What the fuck?

"-I could say it all day! Gordon! Gordon! Gord-"

He decides to change the topic before the sock puppet gets a chance to infantilize him further, and he reaches out to take the gun, holding it. It's nice, a real beauty. "Is this a gun? Does it work?"

Ricky suddenly looks nervous, "oh, my, that's where I left that!" He says, glancing away before he suddenly lunges towards it, grabbing the grip in his mouth and trying to drag it into the pipe with him. "I've been looking for it all-over-the-place." He mumble-yells through a mouthful of gun.

However, Gordon is stronger than he is, and he yanks the gun with enough force to make Ricky let go, before he pulls it out of range of the sock puppet entirely.

"Fine." Ricky says, a little snappish. "If you're going to go gallivanting all over the place, then at least watch out for Pearl." 

"Pearl?" He says, giving Ricky a side-eye. He remembers the name.

"You know, the enormous bird?" Now the damn sock sounds conspiratorial, and sneakier than he'd like. "That crushes people? Don't get on her bad side is all I'm-"

The conversation is cut short by a bang on the door, and Ricky bursting into another uncontrollable coughing fit. Either the sock was ill, or he enjoyed causing mayhem and was using that as a convenient excuse to avoid the aftermath. He's just not sure which one it is.

"What was that?" He asks, but lo and behold, Ricky's already disappearing down the pipe again.

Quickly he grabs the round of ammunition on the vanity table, and he whirls around to face the door, locking the ammunition into the gun and loading it. "Okay. Let's do this."

As soon as the ammo is slotted inside the gun, the door bursts open, and there's two puppets. Not one, but two, at the same time - sure it's probably normal but he doesn't like it and he's old, so he's allowed to complain! It's Norman and the purple one - sue him he doesn't know their name! - and they're both practically shouting greetings at him.

"Welcome! Welcome!"

He begins to shoot the second he's got line of sight, and he tries not to feel like shit about it. He's not shooting people, he tells himself. They're puppets, besides they're both laughing every time one of the letters - holy shit this thing shoots letters, real letters - connects with them. The first one to go down is the purple one, and they flop to the ground in a very uncomfortable manner, to which the other one reaches out at him.

"We're all friendly here! Friendly, friendly, friendly!" Norman says, hands so close that for a second, he can imagine the feeling of the touch, before he clocks the puppet in the head with a capital F.

Well, now he's got the gun, so all he's got to do is get that key, and then hightail it back up here to the double doors... that shouldn't be hard, especially not with the map. That's exactly what he does, in fact, even taking the longer way around, avoiding the area with the ledge, since he'd rather not have to drop there again. His knee seems to agree with him, a sharp pain running along his leg and up his entire body, the grim reminder makes him scowl.

Once he's back in the room with the target, he gives it a quick glance, and then a cheap shot towards the bullseye - if he hadn't gotten so injured or gone to war at all he could have been a professional sharpshooter, he thinks - and the electric lock buzzes as the target falls. As soon as its open, he grabs the blue key from the lockbox and stares at it for a second. He's got a few doors to open now.

Especially those big old double doors, he thinks, heading back up the stairs and brandishing the gun. For a second the purple one is cheerily singing with its back to him again. He gets the impression this specific puppet enjoys music, like how the one with the big floppy hat likes crafts. Something about how weirdly naive they are makes it feel like he's hitting kids, the hand not holding the gun slowly cradles his stomach and he sighs softly.

"...Not kids." He mumbles under his breath, trying incredibly hard to convince himself, more so than anyone else.

Deep down he's not exactly sure how much he believes it. Either way, he can't dwell on it, so instead he takes the long way back around again, until he's standing face to face with the double doors. He slides the key in and turns it, listening for the telltale click of the doors unlocking before he pushes his way inside.

A stage. A huge one.

"Wow... so this must be one of the old sets." He says to nobody in particular except for himself.

And it's teeming with puppets.

Great.

Chapter Text

So, the set was gigantic, he really wasn't sure how he felt about that. And it was also filled with puppets, that he could easily and soundly say was bad.

A cursory glance around revealed multiple little areas, a laundromat with a puppet in it, a pizzeria, some other various buildings that he's not quite sure what they are.

The puppets, yet again, are the main issue. But he grits his teeth, adjusts his cap, and sucks it up.

"Who the hell decided there needed to be this many puppets anyways?" He asks to nobody in particular, as he slowly moves towards what looks like some sort of stand.

As he approaches it, he sees it's got a wooden block or two on it, and that he's likely got to get the others. It probably does something - because of course something like this is going to be important.

That thought draws a long, uncomfortable groan out of him, and almost immediately he panics and covers his mouth to make sure none of the puppets heard him. For a split second he stays there, having crouched behind the set-up of the box, a hand clamped over his mouth, panicking, but after a few moments with no response, he just assumes they didn't.

Thats fine. He prefers it actually. 

Since he's already over here, he should probably take a look at the closest buildings first, the pizzeria, and one of the unspecified ones. He's not sure what it is, only that it says Lenard's on the awning above it. He's going to assume that means it belongs to a puppet, or that it used to, anyways. However, getting up from the crouching position proves to be fairly difficult, and requires him to grab onto the wooden structure and slowly heave himself off the floor.

He's already breathing heavy just from the effort, and the twinge between his legs makes him stop for a moment, at least until it ends. "Goddamnit."

It's not a life-ending issue, but it's still annoying. As soon as he's back on his feet and standing safely, he backtracks and enters the pizzeria, staring at the smaller area within. There's a large oven - thankfully powered off - and a large clock with one hand positioned above it. On the counter, he spies what he assumes is another script, and picking it up and reading it confirms that suspicion.

There's Ricky the sock, that guy Richie's character, and what he thinks is yet another puppet. This one's named Gobblette.

One thing happens to catch his eye however, the mention of the pizza clock. He glances at the large clock and realizes that he's probably gotta do something with it, so he decides to give the hand a cursory flip, setting it to the picture of what he assumes is pepperoni. He's still not sure exactly what that did, but he's going to leave it for now, instead electing to head through the back door of the pizzeria.

Already, as soon as he steps through, he can hear puppets babbling, and he grumbles under his breath. He readies his gun, and peers around the backstage area, spotting one standing beside a large pile of crates and a little cart. Either the same purple one from before - or they could clone themselves and he hated that idea. Made it way harder to deal with them.

But he slinks up, trying to stay as low to the ground as he can physically manage with his bad knee and extra cargo, until he thinks he's close enough. Then he fires, a couple letters pelting the puppet until they stagger backwards and fall over. Then he simply rises to his feet once more and side-steps the puppet on the floor. Okay, cool, that's one of the ones backstage taken care of. However, he can hear another - the one talking about crafts, except this time she is not talking about crafts.

"An assortment of the best bugs the world has to offer?" She asks to nobody in particular. "Well, that one just appears in my house!"

He's... not going to think about how the apartment complex has roaches and it's only served to help put him off eating more than usual, or how bad that is for his little tyke. Nope, not going to think about it, not going to let the guilt eat him alive.

Instead, he simply sighs at the realization he's actually got to go upstairs and face the other puppet. Whatever. That's fine, he can survive that. Hell, he's doing pretty good for himself, all things considered.

So, he ascends the stairs, keeping himself as crouched as possible despite the protests of that knee, and he grits his teeth. With how tightly, how confidently he's holding this thing, a distant part of him feels... slimy. Like he's not in some abandoned film studio but instead like he's - 

- "O' Brian!" Someone shouts so loudly his ears ring. But they might be ringing because of the recent gunfire. When he closes his eyes he can see a smattering of white spots, arranged in the same way that the shots had been in Jameson's abdomen. "Get your ass over here!"

He obliges. Meekly, even.

"Yeah?" His voice cracks a little, and he has to fight the urge to cover his mouth. "I mean... yeah?" He repeats it again, this time forcibly enunciating each syllable in a deeper, more resonant boom.

"Go check on th' kid." His commander says, clapping him hard on the back as he leads him back into their little makeshift base. Gordon's legs feel like they're made of jelly, and he almost trips over his own feet. But he does as he's told, and heads into the infirmary - their sorry excuse for one - and braces himself.

It's worse than he thought. There's so much blood, and Jameson's been stripped out of his shirt to assess the damage. It doesn't look good, surely, they've punched a hole right through a vital organ, and the kid's a goner. The thin little mattress is completely saturated with red that it's beginning to drip off onto the floor and -

- He pauses, standing at the top of the stairs with the gun held in a limp hand, his expression almost blank, almost empty. He shakes his head and sighs, just trying to push that all to the back of his mind and pretend he didn't see it. Pretend he never saw it. Instead, he focuses on the wooden catwalks in front of him. There's one leading towards a puppet, but there's also one leading away, over the area he'd just been in, and realistically, he'd prefer to go that way first.

Less puppet interactions the better, honestly.

It leads to a door with some sort of hazard symbol on it. A big exclamation mark, and he's never been good at decoding meanings from these sorts of things. Obviously, that means it's totally okay to go through there, and he reaches out for a... there's no handle. "Oh... oh come on."

He's never wanted to kick down a door more than in this moment, but he's in no physical condition to do that. However, punching the door is probably fine. At which point, he weighs his options, and then he smacks it with his free hand. That'll teach it, or whatever.

Okay, fine. Maybe he has to fight that puppet.

With some mild embarrassment, he realizes he doesn't know their name, or the name of the purple one. He'll... probably figure it out later. But he does vaguely remember some of the names mentioned in scripts. Lilianna, who probably could be the one with the hat. It makes sense. No idea who Gobblette is though, and he doesn't think he's seem them yet, since he thinks they'd stand out a bit.

He sighs softly and then peers around the corner and spots Lilianna - he's choosing to refer to the puppet with the hat as Lilianna anyways, until he can confirm who she is. She's leaning forward and hunched over. Still... going on a tangent, babbling to herself, which is almost endearing, he thinks.

Then he realizes he thinks that it's almost endearing, and he scowls a little. It's not... that endearing; it's only because he's got some sort of nesting-stir-crazy fever. None of this is endearing, it's just creepy, and he only found it somewhat weirdly endearing because of some sort of stupid hormonal jargon.

So, in order to coax it away, chase it off, he fires, a capital letter thwacking her shoulder - he expects to hear the sound of something squishy, something that isn't fabric. But there's nothing, just a little "oof!" sound as she startles, and lifts herself upright, clutching her hat. Promptly, he takes fire again, but she has a surprisingly large stride. Either a large stride, or she's trying to close the distance between them.

He didn't like the fact that she could do that, take large steps with the intent to close a gap. And no number of bullets seem to stop her yet. She reaches out to hug him, and her arms are just long enough to make contact, at which point, she grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him inward towards her. He tries to resist, but the puppets are either stupidly strong, or he's stupidly weak. Regardless, it's practically impossible to escape the overly friendly hug.

It's tight and uncomfortable, and for a second, he's afraid she might break a rib with her grip. Ow.

OW.

"Hello there sweetpea!" She coos, drawing out the 'o' in hello to an unbearably annoying degree.

The wrench is in his toolbox, and he can't quite grab that with how aggressively she's hugging him, but he grips the revolver tightly. She reminds him of his overly affectionate grandmama Louise, and he really doesn't like that. Especially since it's been literal decades since mama Louise ever did anything other than scowl in his general direction any time they crossed paths.

"It's so good to see you again!" She says excitedly, definitely mistaking him for someone else. "I've missed you so much!"

He totally does not miss the time when he was younger, and when mama Louise actually liked him, when she cared about the little girl he used to be. Totally not.

Never.

And to prove it to himself, he actually smacks the puppet over the head with the revolver, stepping back as she goes limp and drops to the floor, seemingly unconscious and unmoving; he's in no rush to prove that she's actually still awake though, and instead, he hightails it away from her down the catwalk until he reaches wooden steps. He grips the railing and descends, every so often pausing to look over his shoulder so he can make sure she doesn't get up again.

"...Holy shit." He mutters under his breath as he shakes his head, turning the corner at the bottom of the stairs, only to come face to face with an absolutely gigantic bird. "Oh... holy shit."

That had to be Pearl.

Ricky's words about how she crushes people comes to mind, and he curls in on himself a little bit. He'd be ashamed, especially since he's face-to-face with her, there's no way she doesn't know what he's doing. But he's significantly less afraid of being embarrassed and effeminate since there's the actual threat of her possibly stomping him to death if the fence wasn't there.

"That is some bird." He mumbles under his breath.

He's terrified that if he got under her she could... he finds himself curling further, cradling his belly protectively. Well, he'll just make sure to be extra cautious and never get in her way. So, in order to avoid that, he presses his back flat to the wall, reaching out and grabbing the doorknob nearby, slowly eking it open and slipping inside as quicky as he can.

As soon as he's inside the little store, he lets out a huge sigh of relief, leaning on the counter, eyes dropping shut for a moment or two as he tries to calm down from the sight of Pearl. No offence, but she was scary as hell. But he never really liked birds, at least not completely. Something about birds is just... creepy to him, he thinks as he looks up, glancing at the register and squinting to try and figure out what the weird little picture on it is.

It takes him a depressingly long moment to realize it's a square, but he blames it on his old man vision.

At that point, he realizes there's got to be a key somewhere around here. Like there had been with the blue circle key he'd used to get in here, there's got to be multiple shaped keys, like... like the diamond one. Because of the room where he'd gotten the first key from. He's... going to have to backtrack so much, and he hates the thought. Maybe he should just go home.

...Nah, he can't.

He'd like to, but he'd get the pay withheld off his check, and he's not even halfway to making rent this month. Another wonderful, amazing reason he couldn't take m - paternity, even if he wanted to. So, he's got to play their games and participate.

A distant part of him wonders if they’d ever talked about homelessness, on their show. He wonders as he pokes his head out of the doorway into the main set, watching warily as Pearl stumbles by. He wonders as he finds his hand absentmindedly rubbing his belly, and his face stiffens up with some little twinge of guilt.

Is he being selfish? Is he selfish for wanting them?

He shakes his head to clear it, and slinks across the set, as fast as he can manage. He gets lucky that the other puppets seem a bit preoccupied, one of them is playing some sort of ball game with another, which is code for "she keeps hitting him over the head with it while he kicks her shins." Now, hidden behind a little half-wall, partially up the rickety metal staircase on the opposite side of the set from all those shops, there’s a… decent vantage point, but not decent enough.

So, he goes up higher, to the platform, his achy joints protesting the entirety of the climb, to the point something's got to be wrecked. Once he's fully ascended the staircase, he glances to both sides, and spots a silver, metal box. There's an onion on it, and he realizes the clock had one on it too.

There's some sort of connection.

But he's already set the clock to something else, and he'd prefer to go find that box first, make one round trip and avoid all the excess walking he's got to do.

"Alright, there's one..." he mutters to nobody in particular, as he heads the other direction, a hand on the wall to keep him upright, towards yet another staircase leading upward, "just gotta find the others."

Turning down a little area on the platform where there’s a sign saying “detour” he actually spots another of the boxes, with a mushroom on it. Still not what he’s looking for, but it’s good to know where it is, he guesses. So... up yet another flight of stairs, and even before taking the first step he can feel his entire body protesting it, but he's gotten pretty good at ignoring those aches and pains, so he climbs, and by the time he's at the top...

...his legs, with a loud creaky pop, buckle under him and he tumbles forward, landing on his hands and knees. Holy shit that burns, he can feel something that's not dull any longer running along the length of his left leg. Deep breaths are barely helping, but when he tries to reach into his pockets for his inhaler, it's not there. With mounting dread he realizes he's dropped it somewhere, and he's got no idea where.

For a second, he thinks he can hear someone with a very scratchy voice exclaim some sort of shock, then footsteps, and for a second, he wonders if he's not alone, but when he looks up...

"Oh, great." He mutters to nobody in particular.

"Well, hey there!"

A puppet.