Teen fingering hidden

Zorbo's insatiable hunger. The first time I met him he was hiding beneath a greasy bed sheet in the tool shed. The landlord was giving us our final walk through the house. The whole morning was a tragic affair, each moment that we spent going through our new home was another bitter lesson in compromise. When we first arrived at the house there ... Insatiable Hunger. Talent. Requires Demon Hunter (Havoc) Requires level 100. Demon's Bite generates up to 10 additional Fury. Spell Details. Spell Details. Book 3: Insatiable Hunger by Yahrah St. John His unbridled appetite for his closest friend is unleashed when he believes she’s fallen for the wrong man… Book 4: Hidden Ambition by Jules Bennett Ambition has taken him far, but revenge could cost him his one chance at love… Book 5: Reckless Envy by Joss Wood Book 3: Insatiable Hunger by Yahrah St. John His unbridled appetite for his closest friend is unleashed when he believes she’s fallen for the wrong man… Book 4: Hidden Ambition by Jules Bennett Ambition has taken him far, but revenge could cost him his one chance at love… Book 5: Reckless Envy by Joss Wood Medium Length Challenge - 1 ~ 2 Hours - Depends on Preparedness 2 minutes at high mysteries Note* You need have an Apprentice level 50~51 without any Sources activated in order to jump to level 90 when all sources are bought (as a reference point) Collect as much Experience as you can through... Insatiable hunger, or hyperphagia hyperphagia Insatiable hunger, which is a deep hunger that doesn't go away — it can feel like your hunger is stuck in the "on" position, even after eating. Common experiences include intense hunger that doesn't go away, taking a longer time to feel full while eating, feeling hungry again right after a meal, thinking about food constantly, constantly looking for food (night eating, stealing food, eating discarded food), and becoming very upset when food is ... Battle for Azeroth Cinematic - Zandalari Forever Finale (Spoilers) Insatiable Hunger. Talent. Requires Demon Hunter (Havoc) Requires level 100. Demon's Bite generates up to 10 additional Fury.

2020.10.20 21:18 MikeJesus Hidden fingering teen

The first time I met him he was hiding beneath a greasy bed sheet in the tool shed.
The landlord was giving us our final walk through the house. The whole morning was a tragic affair, each moment that we spent going through our new home was another bitter lesson in compromise. When we first arrived at the house there was a vagrant who refused to leave the front porch, the whole kitchen smelled of some sort of an ancient grease fire and all the rooms just seemed smaller than before.
This wasn’t our dream house, and it wasn’t our dream neighborhood, but we were two newlyweds trying to start a new life during a recession. Living together in the bad part of town was better than living in Jenn’s father’s garage. We were going to make it work on our own. It was going to be Jenn and me against the world.
But we weren’t alone.
The first time I met him he was hiding beneath a greasy bed sheet in the tool shed. He was sitting in the center of that musty room, hidden beneath the dirty cloth, gently whirring.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘That’s a, uh,’ the landlord searched for words, ‘that’s a lawnmower.’
The man had been detached from the entire house tour, he just waved us through the rooms and then stood quietly in the hallway, but my question in the toolshed visibly flustered him.
‘The previous tenant left it here,’ the landlord said, gently touching the covered object before nervously adjusting his glasses, ‘If you don’t want it, I can have it taken away.’
‘A free lawnmower? Why wouldn’t we want that?’ Jenn asked.
The landlord didn’t answer. He just looked at the object beneath the cloth, his eyes trudging through memories that made them glimmer.
‘Is there something wrong with it?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, ‘No, it works perfectly fine it’s just… My father built robots in the 80s, used to work for the military, but he’d also indulge in little pet projects. This lawnmower was the last thing he worked on before he passed.’
‘My condolences,’ Jenn said, ‘Maybe you want to take the lawnmower with you?’
‘I live in the city. Don’t have a lawn,’ the landlord pushed back his tears and smiled, ‘If you want Zorbo you can keep him.’
‘Zorbo?’ I asked. As if he knew we were talking about him the object beneath the cloth let out a series of gentle beeps.
The landlord reached out for words, but couldn’t find any. Instead he just pulled back the cloth and revealed the lawnmower to us.
Two crimson flashlights circled around the room like frenzied insects, desperately searching for something among the tools on the wall. When they couldn’t find the object of their desire the red lights focused on my face. The lawnmower stared at me, the irises of his bright eyes adjusting with mechanical precision.
‘This is Zorbo,’ the landlord said, ‘He mows the lawn but he also-‘
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’ Zorbo’s square glass jaw lit up in a mimicry of speech.
‘He also speaks,’ the landlord said, ‘Zorbo mows the lawn like a champ, even doubles as a vacuum, but he also speaks.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’ the robot repeated. ‘LOVE IS ALL THAT MATTERS!’
‘Looks like Zorbo is a romantic,’ Jenn said. We locked eyes and got into a quick, wordless argument. I did not like the robot, something about those lifeless eyes made me feel quintessentially unsafe, but Jenn did make a good point. We couldn’t afford to give up a free lawnmower.
Before the ink had dried on the lease our little family grew. Now we weren’t alone. Now we had Zorbo.
The lawn was overgrown before we even moved in, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back to that toolshed. There was something about that lifeless whirring in the machine’s chest, something about those frantic eyes and monotone beeps that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Somewhere deep inside I knew that the lawnmower was dangerous, that it wasn’t to be trusted. But after a week of Jenn’s gentle comments about the lawn looking like a jungle I pushed myself past the fear. The grass wasn’t going to mow itself.
Zorbo greeted me with a call of ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’ as soon as I ripped off the bedsheet that he was hidden beneath. Getting the robot out of the tool shed was easier than anticipated. It was as if the machine was helping me when I tried to maneuver it out of the door, as if Zorbo was excited to be getting out from beneath the dirty cloth.
‘LOVE IS ALL THAT MATTERS!’ the lawnmower yelled as I pushed it up towards the grass, and then, as if its opinion on the importance of love was a war cry, it whirred to action. Zorbo tore through the grass like a silent katana, leaving nothing in his trail but a precisely cut lawn. I’ve mowed a lot of grass in my day, but working with Zorbo was a completely foreign experience. The machine moved almost independently of my input, it was as if the only reason why I was standing in front of my house was to keep Zorbo company while he fed.
‘Nice mower ya got there,’ I heard when Zorbo was just about done razing any strand of grass that reached above two inches. Leaning on my fence, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette, was one of the wandering teens that roamed the neighborhood. ‘How much ya give for it? Looks like sumtin’ out of the future.’
‘Came with the house,’ I replied.
There was a look in his eye that matched the hot ember of his cigarette. ‘So you give nothing for it,’ he said, sending a puff of smoke reaching through my property.
‘LOVE IS ALL THAT MATTERS!’ The lawnmower groaned as it spun towards the intruder. The machine was silent as a mouse but deep inside of its innards sharp knives spun with a calculated force. The handles of the lawnmower vibrated with an eagerness to consume.
Zorbo’s sudden turn made the teen jump back with fright, hell, it made me take a step back, but soon enough the youth was back to leaning on the fence like he owner the place. He took a couple more puffs of his cigarette, mumbled something about my lawnmower and then walked off into the street with theatric swagger.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER,’ Zorbo whispered as I put him away in the toolshed. His flashlight eyes still followed me after I draped the blanket over him, but by the time I was back in the house the strange machine was out of my head. The more mundane problems of existence started to seep in.
Our new life was much harder than anticipated. The cracked asphalt outside our new home ensured that every morning commute started with frantic tremors, our new neighbors cut through the calm of every night with howling arguments and that chain-smoking street kid kept on coming back around the house. Whenever I looked out of the window I saw him. He would just lean on our fence, puff on his cigarettes and stare at the house as if it had done something to him. The teen was a discomforting nuisance, but the worst part of our newlywed life was the exhaustion.
Every morning was an exercise of trying to properly wake up before the frantic pothole shaking of the car, and then we spent most of the day separated through work. By the time we were both back home we were just two tired corpses who happened to be in love. Too tired to cook, we would usually just microwave a pizza, take turns drifting off to something streamable and then go to bed just to repeat the whole cycle all over again. The rut was real, and exhausting, but at least we had each other.
On the days when we didn’t immediately lose consciousness we’d lie in bed and talk. We’d compare burnout symptoms, we’d worry about money, we’d lament the state of the world, but sometimes, when the night was free of loud arguments or screeching breaks, we’d just chat. We’d hide beneath the covers and just chat about nothing in particular, letting the world outside fade away beneath our whispers.
We’d lie there and enjoy each other’s company; just me and Jenn and no one else, but by the time the sun rose the world would come rushing back into our bedroom; coffee had to be brewed, bosses had to be appeased, lawns had to be mowed.
When Jenn’s birthday rolled around her father got us one of those porch cameras. He wasn’t a fan of the neighborhood we were living in but was doing his best to be supportive of our new life. ‘This way you’ll be safe if someone breaks in but also you can get packages delivered when you’re at work!’ he said when Jenn unwrapped her present. Later that night he took me aside, slipped me some money and suggested that his daughter might really appreciate a decent coffee maker. I didn’t argue with the man.
‘Love is the most important thing,’ she mumbled as she drifted off to sleep that night. I was scarcely awake, but hearing the words of the robot coming out of my wife’s mouth tensed me up. As busy as my life was, the thoughts of the strange lawnmower still haunted my quiet moments. For a split second I thought I saw a flash of red coming from the toolshed, but I pushed that thought aside. There were more pressing issues to worry about than Zorbo.
The delivery came in at 2:17PM, I was alerted to it with a series of beeps from my phone. I was in the middle of an all-staff meeting, one of those sit-downs that is mandatory to attend but isn’t difficult to sneak out of. Knowing that there was a brand-new coffee maker waiting for me at home seemed like a nice prospect to get me through the meeting but after a couple minutes I heard those beeps again. Another notification. There was someone on my porch.
I hid my phone beneath the table and tapped away a low battery warning. I was looking at a patchy rendition of my front porch. The coffee maker package was right outside of my door, but behind it there was a cloud of smoke. A familiar set of angry eyes was studying my wife’s birthday gift. The teen picked up the package, started to speed walk down my lawn but then he froze.
Another low battery warning. When I tapped it away the teen was still standing in the middle of my lawn. He was facing the tool shed, surrounded by a fresh cloud of tobacco. Two rays of red cut through that smoke.
My screen went dark. The phone was out of juice. I excused myself from the meeting and sped back home. The words ‘beautiful lawnmower’ thundered through my heart as I drove.
‘Your robot ate my shoe!’ the teen yelled as he slammed the window of my car. As soon as I got out he was squaring off against me, shoeless, as if we were about to get into a fight. ‘I was walking down the street minding my own business and then your freaky robot comes along and eats my shoe!’
Zorbo was sitting patiently on the freshly cut lawn, his eyes dark and dead. ‘My lawnmower did what?’ I asked, nodding to the dormant technology.
‘He was screaming about love and lawnmowers just a minute ago, I swear,’ the kid said, ‘Was just walking down the street and the thing jumped on me. Ate my shoe. Gotta pay damages man!’
The package was back on my doorstep, but it was visibly dented.
‘I didn’t steal shit. You can’t prove anything!’ the teen yelled in another cloud of smoke, ‘I was just walking along the street and then your robot attacked –‘
‘We have a camera,’ I said. It seemed like the kid was about to swing at me but as soon as his angry eyes noticed the lens on the porch he took a step back.
‘Your robot still ate my shoe man. It ain’t right. Someone’s gotta pay,’ the kid said.
‘Get outta here!’ I said, summoning my inner dad ‘Get outta here or I’ll call the cops!’ For a split second it looked like the teen was going to burst out laughing but instead he just smirked.
‘You’ll regret this,’ he said.
When Jenn came home we spent most of the evening trying to get the coffee maker functional but all we managed to do was to make it hiss and leak. Whatever fall the package took was terminal. With the prospect of spending the coming weeks calling around warranty support we opened up a bottle of wine. When it ran dry we opened up another one.
We didn’t talk much about Zorbo. I told Jenn that he had somehow gotten out of the tool shed and that the kid said the robot attacked him, but I didn’t press the subject further. We were both so horribly tired, it wasn’t the time to talk about the possibly sentient machine that lived in our home, it was the time to drink and hold each other and whisper promises of things getting better in the future, and that’s exactly what we did.
Yet the thoughts of those crimson eyes refused to leave me. Even as we made drunken love the lawnmower was in the back of my head. Zorbo wasn’t just a machine, there was something inside of his metal body that had want, there was something inside of him that was hungry.
I woke up to a series of steady long beeps. With my head still filled with wine and sleep, it took me a second to figure out where the noise was coming from. Jenn’s phone. It was vibrating and beeping on the dresser. I got to my feet to shut it off.
Before I reached the dresser the phone had run out of battery. I stood in the middle of the room, groggy, trying to make sense of the world. Jenn had both of her feet sticking out from the blanket and was gently drooling on her pillow. In the pale light of the moon she looked like a sloppy Venus. A quiet ember of joy burnt in the pit of my stomach, for a second I was overwhelmed with the thought of how lucky I was to have her in my life but then something else tugged at my attention. A cabinet closed in the hallway.
The beeps. I recognized those beeps from the staff meeting.
Someone was walking up the stairs.
‘Jenn!’ I hissed, ‘Jenn wake up, there’s someone in the – ’
The door burst open. The cloudy sleepiness had seeped out of the room and was replaced with a scent of stale tobacco. Reality turned jagged and sharp. There was a gun in my face.
‘Where’s the money? Give me the money and I don’t shoot anyone!’ he yelled as he shoved me to the ground. In the back of my mind I could hear Jenn scream but my entire universe was focused on the pistol. It was a purse gun but its nozzle still loomed with death. He had his finger on the trigger.
‘There’s no money,’ I said, hoping to get the barrel pointed away from me. The masked man pistol-whipped me. A soft trickle of blood ran down my forehead.
‘Bullshit!’ he yelled, ‘You got robots! You got cameras! You got money!’
‘None of that is ours!’ I pleaded, ‘We’re broke! That’s why we live here! It’s because we’re broke!’
His eyes bore into me. Fear and hatred and disgust burnt in them like a garbage fire. I looked away. His shoes didn’t match.
‘Bullshit,’ he half-mumbled, sounding less convinced of our wealth than before, ‘You got money. You got money and you’re just hiding it and you think I’m an idiot.’ Even in the dim moonlight I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. For a moment it looked as if the boy would give up, as if he had realized his mistake and would walk away from our home before causing irreparable damage, but an idea sent a furious jolt of energy through his body.
‘I’ll kill your wife,’ he yelled as he spun the pistol towards Jenn, ‘I’ll kill your wife if you don’t show me where you hide the money!’
‘There is no money. You are making a mistake.’ She was sat up in bed, visibly shaking, but keeping her voice calm. ‘I promise you we don’t have anything.’
His hands started to shake. He wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t convinced and he was going to shoot my wife to prove himself right.
‘Okay,’ a voice from deep inside of me spoke without my input, ‘Okay, yes, we lied to you. We have money.’
‘Where?’ he said, turning the weapon back on me, ‘Where is the money?’
‘The tool shed.’ The words tumbled out of my mouth as memories of bright lights played behind my eyes. ‘We keep the money hidden in the toolshed. I’ll show you, just please. Don’t hurt my wife.’
Finding out that he was right all along gave the masked youth a burst of pep. He collected our phones with childlike glee and when he threatened to kill us if we told anyone about his visit I could hear a smile under his mask. At gunpoint the kid forced me out of the house. I kept on hoping that somewhere along the way to the tool shed another part of a plan would manifest, but the only thing I could focus on was the gun pressing against my back.
It was as if we had woken him up when we entered the toolshed. His flashlight eyes slowly crackled to life and worked away at the cloth covering his body like two rigid baby limbs. ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER’ Zorbo crackled as the dirty bed sheet slid to the floor.
‘Where the hell is the money?’ the youth demanded, nervously eyeing the machine.
I inched my way to the side, hoping to get the barrel of the pistol away from my spine, and then, when no better idea manifested itself, I spoke the truth. ‘Look, there is no money, but you can have the lawnmower. Take it. I’m sure you can get a couple hundred bucks for it.’
The gun was back against my spine. I could feel the youth’s tar-scented breath on the back of my neck. ‘You want to mess with me? Oh yeah? I’ll teach you to mess with me.’ A thud to the side of my head sent me clattering down towards Zorbo.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’ Zorbo said. He sounded no different than before, but as I lay on the floor next to the robot I could feel the gentle vibration of his metal shell. The knives in Zorbo’s core were hungry.
‘I’ll shoot you,’ the teen said, his face reddened with the robot’s spotlights, ‘I’ll shoot you right in the head and watch your brain splatter all over the wall, then we’ll see who’s smart.’
‘LOVE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING!’ Zorbo said, but the teen had no mind for his catchphrases. He just kept his gun trained at me, his lips mouthing words of murder. Something behind those eyes was broken and it was making the kid’s fingers twitch.
Yet as terrifying as the red face that loomed over me was, my scattered mind found safe refuge in memories of Jenn. The butterflies in my stomach when I first noticed her, the prom, the trip to the mountains, our wedding; as I stared down the crimson eyes of death all that I could think about was my wife.
‘LOVE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING!’ One of the red beams shifted. Zorbo’s flashlight eyes reached out into the darkness beyond the shed and brought back a familiar face. Jenn was creeping through the night with a kitchen knife. She lunged at the masked teen.
Sharpening the knives was something we always put off for another weekend. With a sharp blade she would have killed him, or at least provide him with enough pain to let us escape, but the dull steel we had in our kitchen was useless. It pricked the skin, bent and broke as soon as it connected with the teen’s collarbone. Within an instant Jenn was on the ground next to me.
A trail of blood gathered around his neck, but the youth remained focused on us. His hands shook with explosive force. A fuse was burning in his eyes.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWN –‘ Zorbo’s words were cut short by a gunshot.
‘Shut up!’ The youth yelled, high off of the power in his hands. The fire in his eyes raged. He was going to shoot again. He needed to shoot again.
‘ – MOWER’ Zorbo said after a couple flickers of his eyes. The shot had ricocheted off of his grill and went travelling out into the night, the damage seemed purely cosmetic but for a second the robot was shaken. ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’ He said, again, as if reassuring himself. Then his wheels started to spin. Before the youth managed to get off another shot, Zorbo was already at his feet, feeding.
Like pebbles in a smoothie mixer filled with raw chicken and blood. That’s what it sounded like. The tearing of fabric, the crunching of bone, the ripping of flesh; the tool shed vibrated with a symphony dedicated to human fragility. Hot blood and chunks of viscera showered us like gentle autumn rain. Jenn and me averted our eyes from the horror but the sounds would stay with us forever.
The boy didn’t scream long, after his legs were gone he passed out from the pain, but Zorbo’s feeding dragged on into eternity. Jenn and me just sat there, praying that we wouldn’t be next, hoping for a life that continued past of the violence of the shed. The blades kept on whirring, the bones kept on cracking, but eventually Zorbo finished his meal.
‘LOVE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING!’ he said as his eyes slowly started to dim.
I stared into those dying red lights, waiting for the robot to spring back to life and lunge at us. My arms, my legs, my entire body was ready to be thrown into that hungry metal maw just to let Jenn escape. I was ready to die in Zorbo’s razor sharp teeth to let her live, but I didn’t have to. The two of us just sat on the floor of the shed, covered in blood, an accessory to murder, watching the robot power down.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER,’ Zorbo whispered as the tool shed went dark, ‘LOVE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING.’
(My father built robots in the 80s)
submitted by MikeJesus to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.10.20 19:34 RobinAnonymous I’m a cast member in your favourite TV show, and I think I’ve killed my castmates.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
-
I think I've killed them.
That's all that is running through my head right now. I've killed them.
I've killed them.
I've fucking killed them.
No, I can't think like that. I have to stay positive.
It's so fucking hard to stay positive right now.
As much as I want to tell you what's going on right at this moment, I have to go back days from now, before everything exploded. Before I lost both myself and my friends. I have to write all of this down so I can register it fully, and accept it. I have to accept it. Because right now I can't. I've tried writing this so many times, but my head is so fucking foggy, and my thoughts feel like candy floss. The phone's screen is so bright and it hurts my eyes. I have to concentrate. That's what I keep telling myself. I have to breathe. Just keep breathing. It's not like I'm hiding anything anymore. They know I'm sober. They know I'm awake, and it's only a matter of time before they come for me too; do the same thing to me. Oh god, they're going to kill me. I'm going to die.
Maybe I deserve it, though. After all, I think I've killed their biggest stars.
I'm going to start from when I last updated you. Once again, I have no recollection of how many days I've lost. James took them from me. I want to check it myself, but part of me would rather stay ignorant. All I know is that it is sunny outside. The sky is blue, and the trees are golden brown. Fall. My favourite season. It feels weird to remember that. That I have a favourite season. Katie's favourite is Summer. She likes to go to the lake with her friends, and swim in the river. I know more about my character than I know myself, and every second that goes by I feel like I've been tipped upside down and emptied of everything I am. So, I'm going to remind myself before it's too late.
My name is Robin Harley.
At least, that's how you know me. I wrote my real name before this one, because it feels like it is fading, along with everything I am. But I know who I am. My favourite book is Kafka On the Shore. My favourite food is chicken alfredo. I have a dog called Julia, and I'm terrified of the dark. Such small things, like a kid making a list. This is easier for me, though. I must remember who I am, before it's taken away. For James I must be Katie, and for you, I'm Robin. I miss being called by my real name. My mother named me after her favourite flower. I grew up thinking it was a stupid name. I wanted to be called a pretty name like Holly or Charlotte. My friends often asked me why my name was spelled the way it was, and how to pronounce it. As a kid, I had been mortified. But as I grew up, I began to love my name, treasure what it meant to my mom to call me it.
I didn't think something as simple as a name, an identity, could be snatched so cruelly. But it has. I almost feel like I'm writing a story. Like we're just characters in someone's coerced reality. That's ironic, considering the plan our network has for us. I'm nothing but a puppet in James's sick game. I'm a shell for Katie Parker, and everything that is me, that is [REDACTED] he plans to eradicate, like it's that easy. Like taking away who I am, my consciousness is like child's play.
It's the blood stains that I can't stop thinking about. So much blood, so much life draining away like it was nothing. LIKE THEY WERE NOTHING. LIKE THEY WERE NOTHING.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm not making sense. I can't make sense right now, even as I read while I type, I might as well be reading hieroglyphics. The floor underneath my feet feels like liquid when I stand on it. There is blood on Rory's bed. It's only a little bit, a smear of crimson staining light pink pillow cases. But it's twisting my stomach. My chest is aching. Every time I look at his bed, I want to scream. I want to scream until my throat is fucking raw, until my lungs have collapsed. It's Noah all over again, but at that point, Noah survived. I didn't think he would, after seeing his body convulsing in front of me, flickering eyes still glued to Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck bleeding through ancient static. I'll never forget the way his head had dropped limply, bouncing on his chest like a puppet severed from their strings. His fingers, which had been frantically tapping out Morse code had gone still. Everything that was him, that was Noah, had gone still, and for one heart-stopping moment I thought I'd lost him.
I didn't lose him. You already know that.
Thanks to Derek Marley's confession, I know now that they weren't trying to kill Noah. Instead, they were using his body like a host, as if his character was a parasite. I've gone through the stages in my head so many times I know them off by heart. James's voice still crackling through static on each video clip still haunts my thoughts, as if the man himself was burrowing his way into my mind, forcing himself inside every piece of me.
Stage 1: Empty out.
Stage 2: Programming.
Stage 3: Insertion.
Stage 4:
Stage four...
Stage Four...
Stage Four...
I thought I could still save Noah. I could save Rory, and Izzie and Lana.
I thought I could save them.
I thought I could save them.
The blood on Rory's sheets makes me sick, and I can't stop thinking about them.
I can't stop THINKING ABOUT THEM.
I'll get to that. Because I'm here to tell our story, in what I hope is some kind of cohesive, even if it's a seemingly never-ending stream of consciousness which does not make sense. I'm sorry about that. I don't cut out what I write. I leave everything in, because I want to look back at this at some point, if I get out of this hell-hole. I want to re-read everything that took place. Every thought I had, even if it makes the least lick of sense. Every emotion I've felt, I want to feel it again. I want to torture myself again, but I know I'll never feel the way I'm feeling right now. Numb. Nothing. I feel nothing. Maybe I am Katie. Maybe James forced her into me during my daze where the days bled together, the pitch dark and sunlight colliding, but my thoughts weren't mine. And when they were, when clarity took over, I struggled to understand why I was so fucking numb. Why I couldn't cry. Why I'd stripped Rory's bed of his covers, and thrown them in the wardrobe. Why I sat against it for what felt like oblivion, with my back against cool, hard wood, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't open it again.
I couldn't look inside.
Because I would break apart all over again.
Now my head is clear, I know why. The sun is less of a confusing haze, and I can think a little clearer . So, I'm going to do what I always do; since I found you. Now that my mind is clear, I'm going to stop thinking about the wardrobe, and instead lose myself in you.
Inside this stupid phone which isn't even mine. It hasn't got my pastel blue phone case, and the lock-screen of me and my mother standing under a maple tree in Japan. It has none of that. Not my Apple playlist or my Instagram page. My endless collection of notes which is just shopping lists, or casting calls, or snippets of poems that come to me, and mom just a text or phone call away. My phone is gone. Except this phone feels like mine, even if there's none of my personality, a total blank. I've kept it hidden for so long, a secret under my mattress. The one thing stopping me from losing my mind.
I'm going to write to you, and leave nothing out. I'm going to tell you everything in as much detail as possible, despite my shaking hands and concaving stomach.
Writing to you is my outlet. I know not many are reading, and that most of you are sceptical, but I'm truly grateful for each and every comment you leave. Thank you for translating Noah's message. Thank you for telling me what was in the shot in Derek's office. Without you, I would have crumbled my now. So if you're reading, I beg of you, please keep going. If you have to, tear apart everything I say. Take notice of hints that I leave, like places that I have to blank out. Because you're my only hope right now. You're my only connection to the real world, to a reality I've been taken away from.
So please don't give up on me. Tell me you understand. Tell me you want some kind of update. Because you are all I have.
I say this, because once again, I need your help. Hopefully for the last time.
The last time I updated you, I'd made what I thought was the biggest mistake of my life. slamming Rory over the head with a table lamp. He had gone limp, falling back, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. I took your advice and did not use the shot. I didn't know what it would do to him, especially if he had some kind of brain or head injury. Instead of doing what my heart was screaming at me to do, I slammed the door shut and removed the book. Guards, I thought hysterically. There were too many guards, and I would never leave the others. I felt selfish. Wrong. Like my heart had ben ripped out of my chest. But I held myself, and I stayed with Rory all night, waiting for him to wake up.
Except he didn't, and the more time progressed, the glaring red letters on my bedside clock flickering later and later, the sick feeling in my gut worsened.
"Rory." I felt like I was on fire, climbing onto his bed and lifting his head onto my lap. I felt for bumps and bruises, but mostly blood. I checked the pillow and sheets, but they were clean. He was breathing. I kept telling myself that, pressing my hand against his chest. He didn't move. His body stayed flaccid, draped against me. He was freezing cold, so I bundled him under the blankets. Laying next to him, my mind screamed at me to do something. Tell James. I was at war with myself. If Rory really was hurt and needed medical attention, I was killing him to save myself. So I didn't get caught.
Did I care more about my castmate, or being caught sober? Especially if Rory was just knocked out. That thought haunted me well into the midnight hours. I fell in and out of sleep, but I didn't dream. I was too panicked to relax and allow my mind some kind of peace. I couldn't. I was drifting off to sleep for what felt like the tenth time, when something...snapped. At least, that's what it sounded like. I shot up, disoriented, and quickly realised that the same buzzing, the same noise of a swarm of bees, was slicing into the silence I'd found myself wrapped in. My attention went straight to Rory, and sure enough, it was coming from him. But something was... different. The first time I'd heard it, the sound was like prickling electricity or the erratic wings of an insect.
But this time it sounded like popping. Like something was snapping, crackling inside my friend's head. Slowly, I slipped off of Rory's bed and checked him once more. Still no movement. His eyes were still shut. His breathing was still normal.
Knowing what was inside Rory, I knew the sound must have been the chip, what James had inserted into his eye. It was his character, the parasitic Mac Price. Briefly, I thought about attempting to get it out with the scalpel I'd hidden under my bed. But I could blind him. With one wrong move, I could blind him. So, I crawled back into my own bed and buried my head in pillows that smelled of lavender. It reminded me of home.
I don't know how long I slept for. All I remember is being woken by a flock of birds screeching outside. As soon as I brushed off slumber, reality hit me hard.
Rory.
The room was quiet, and my heart sank into my gut. I twisted around in bed, expecting to see my castmate still draped over sickly yellow covers, eyes shut.
The first thing I noticed was Rory's bed was empty. The covers and pillows were on the ground, and when I frantically searched for him, I found him.
Rory was standing in the same stance, straight shoulders, arms by his side. He was staring forward, that familiar vacant look splayed across his expression. He was already dressed in Mac attire; a short sleeved shirt and jeans. The early morning sun was streaming through the blinds, setting strands of his brown hair alight. His eyes were wide, earthy brown, a wrinkle between his brows. At that moment, I took a snapshot in my mind. If James was going to turn me into Katie, then I was going to remember him.
I was going to remember myself. When I happened to look into the reflection of James's glasses when he was leaning close, I glimpsed a girl who was far too thin, malnutrition transforming once healthy cheeks to ashen white. I saw tired eyes staring back, vacant and foggy with the phantom drug I was swallowing every day. I saw mousy blonde hair which used to be plastered across magazine stands, beauty magazines and teen Vogue. It seemed crazy that that girl was me. The girl who played Katie Parker. Because underneath the preppy blonde ponytail and face of makeup, there was me. It made me wonder. Did people see it? Did the public know, or did they look past all of that, to see their favourite character? Is that all I was to them?
Katie.
Fucking Katie Parker.
I didn't know what to think, whether to be relieved that I hadn't seriously hurt Rory, or frustrated that he was still under James's control. I was speechless, my mouth opening and closing, words choking my throat. I wanted to say so much, but all I really wanted to do was bury my head in his shoulders and sob until my chest was aching. Before I could open my mouth, or move, there was the sound of familiar footsteps approaching our room, and I dived up, practically throwing myself beside Rory, slipping back into my façade. Standing shoulder to shoulder as usual, we waited for James. But when the door opened, and the writer walked in with his usual wide smile and twinkling eyes, I could have sworn Rory had flinched ever so slightly. It wasn't noticeable, at least not to James.
But to me, I felt it. I felt the tremor that ran through him, his shoulder bouncing against mine. Something inside me ignited, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I had hope; hope that braining Rory with the lamp had knocked out the chip connected to his iris. Except at that moment I refused to get properly hopeful. No way. I had to keep my façade. Even if all I wanted to do was turn to Rory, and demand if he was himself. If he was like me, awake and aware, struggling to hide behind a character.
Instead, I played along as usual. We were given the pill, which I had mastered the art of hiding behind my bottom teeth. I swallowed with emphasis and opened my mouth so James could lean in. He did, the glint in his eyes sending ice sliding down my spine.
"Kids." He addressed us, spreading his arms in a greeting. "How did you like last night? Did you enjoy your late night entertainment?"
Something struck me, like a knife stabbing into my back. The TV, I thought, struggling to stay completely immobile. But at the corner of my eye, it was back to where James had originally placed it, the ancient screen facing forwards, instead of towards the wall where I had shoved it. James seemed none the wiser, and I allowed myself to let out a breath. As usual, Rory and I didn't reply. James carried the usual, a brown paper bag full of breakfast sandwiches and two plastic white cups of water.
"Robin." James nodded at me. "You look like you're making progress!" He winked. "Perhaps I should take you for a consultation after today's shoot. How does that sound, hmm?"
I didn't move, keeping my gaze glued to him, waiting for him to look away, mentally begging the bastard to get distracted. Derek's confession was still on my mind, and what the network and James had collectively done to my castmates. And that I was next.
TBD. To be determined. I had to fight back a shiver.
Struck with the sudden overwhelming urge to scratch at my right eye, beads of sweat slipped down the back of my neck. James cocked his head and chuckled when I only stared back, just like he wanted. He was used to this, used to my body working the way he wanted, twisting and turning the way he wanted, my submissive eyes drinking him in, and nothing coming out of my mouth. I could practically see the glee lighting up his eyes every time I was forced to stand like a soldier, awaiting orders from his smug mouth.
"Huh." The writer hummed, pinching my chin. "I'll take that as a yes, sweetheart."
Staying still, I forced myself not to breathe. James moved onto Rory, and handed the pill to my castmate. "Mr Gallagher!" He beamed. "I'm pleased to tell you that you will be entering stage four today. Along with Mr Keaton, as well as Miss Faraday and Bright."
Bile slithered up my throat, but I still didn't move, my gaze falling to the carpet, burning into each fibre. I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. James's words felt like lightning bolts. They were going ahead with stage four with Rory, Noah, Lana and Izzie, and I couldn't stop it. The Writer's words had not left my head, still alive in my skull, prodding and poking until I couldn't bear it. The complete removal of consciousness, James had said. Which was them. Whatever was left of my friends, what hadn't already been purged from them, tearing them from themselves, those last flickers of what I loved. He was going to take it away. James was going to take it away forever.
And what would be left: nothing. Just a shell, a pretty face for their character.
I'd heard James loud and clear. "Give him a few weeks to settle in, and then we can move onto the final stage. Complete removal of lingering consciousness. Of course, we can replicate the young man's personality easily for press days and of course the fans. That will be easy. There will be no need for the boy. He will be disposed of, do you understand me?"
Disposed of. My ears were roaring. How was James planning on disposing on them? What did that even mean? His words were cutting deep. I felt sick. No, I was going to be sick. My cheeks felt like they were on fire, and my legs were ready to give-way.
"Why?"
Mac's all-too-familiar American twang sliced cleanly through my thoughts.
My head snapped up. For a disorienting moment I forgot I was supposed to be keeping behind a façade, and a hysterical bubble of laughter climbed its way up my throat. I hadn't laughed in so long, and it almost felt alien to me, but I managed to swallow it down. Rory's expression was still blank, still vacant, but the crease between his brows had grown. His lip was slightly curled into what might have been a frown.
He looked... confused. Which at that point, it was better than nothing.
James's expression had twisted in a flash, his eyes slitting, lips twisting into a scowl. He was still holding the pill out to the boy, who wasn't taking it, his arms staying by his sides. The writer cleared his throat, composing himself despite being rattled.
"I'm sorry, what was that, Mr Gallagher?"
I risked keeping my gaze on Rory, and everything inside me was begging, screaming at him to lash out, teeth gritted, eyes blazing. Rory didn't do that, however. He seemed to flinch again, but this time it was noticeable. His whole body shuddered, his eyes flickering, before his right arm jolted, and he reached out and took the pill.
Maybe I was imagining it, but it was like Rory was glitching.
"Mr Gallagher?" Stepping forward, James watched Rory pop the pill into his mouth. My castmate's expression had gone blank once more, but his arm was still trembling, pressed against mine. Rory swallowed the pill and opened his mouth on order, before the writer pulled out a small hand-held torch. He clicked it on, motioning Rory towards him.
Rory complied, and let James shine the light in his eyes. He didn't even wince. James checked both eyes, leaning in close. "Huh." James clucked his tongue. "Perhaps you had some kind of momentary malfunction," He grabbed my castmate's bare arms and squeezed them, beaming. "Don't you worry, young man. Once the final stage is complete, there will be nothing to interfere with the programming. The original consciousness will be completely removed, which will of course be a relief for the two of us."
James's words didn't sink in. I didn't let them. If I did, I'd shatter there and then, and James would catch me out. So I didn't move. I didn't breathe, and blinked back the sting in my eyes.
"Understand?" James motioned for Rory to nod, and my castmate did, his arms falling limply back to his sides.
"Wonderful!" The writer started to go through the same old routine, briefing us on our schedules, as well as lecturing us on being on our best behaviour, despite knowing the two of us were under the influence of a mind altering pill, as well as a microchip forcing our characters inside our heads. I mostly tuned out, trying to think of a way to save the others from what I was sure was a fate worse than death. Derek Marley had said that participating in the project would haunt him forever. His last message to Noah was sincere, but he was right. Noah would never forgive him. None of us would.
I had to get them out.
James's voice faded into white noise, until he reached the door, and turned to the two of us. "Eat and get ready for the day, please. I want things to go smoothly, so make sure to be good kids." He chuckled and then winked. "Mr Gallagher, I'll see you after the shoot."
The writer gave me a dismissive wave. "Miss Harley, a guard will pick you up as usual and take you home, since I will be quite busy."
Nodding, as if he was reassuring himself everything was going to be just fine, James hurried out, whistling some old Disney song that I vaguely recognised.
When the door slammed shut, I let my breath go, dropping to my knees. Spitting the pill out, I swallowed hot bile in my throat, willing myself not to hurl. Hot tears were spilling down my cheeks and I couldn't stop them, no matter what I did. The severity of the situation came over me like waves of ice cold water, and I wanted to curl into a ball and disappear into the floor. I wanted to be anywhere else than that room with my brainwashed castmate. Who I knew I was about to lose in favour for a fictional character.
Bunching my fists into my eyes, I struggled to my feet and forced myself to the wardrobe we share, where my Katie attire was packed inside. I felt disgusting, still wearing the sweats I'd slept in. When I twisted to Rory, I was meant to ask him if his head was hurting, or he felt sick. Despite knowing my castmate was a submissive doll, I still wanted to know. But when I turned to my castmate, Rory was still standing in the same spot. He was staring at something, and when I edged closer, holding my breath, I realised the pill was pinched between his thumb and index finger. The colour was darker, dyed to an almost purple shade with his saliva. Looking closer, his expression was no longer blank. Instead, there was the slightest glimmer of awareness in his eyes.
I held onto that with everything I had.
"Rory?" I choked on his name, and he flinched again, turning to face me. I knew then, when my castmate's gaze landed on me, that something was wrong.
His eyes were twitching, which seemed to affect his whole face, his cheeks wet with tears. A million emotions flashed across his expression, and he pressed two fingers to his right eye. When I said his name again with the gutter of my throat, his gaze found mine again, but Rory didn't look at me, not really. His lip curled and his eyes slitted with pain and frustration, but there was no glint of recognition igniting in warm browns. At least, it wasn't the teasing smirk and warm glint which was Rory. Instead, it was all Mac. Still twitching, as if he was fighting his character for his own mind, Rory dropped the pill onto the carpet, and crushed it with his foot, before turning to me.
And then something stabilised. My castmate, or whatever was left of him, the parts of him still fighting back, trashing the pill, was shoved deep into the crevices of his own mind, and his character was bleeding through. Exactly who James wanted him to be. There was the recognition coming to life in another's boy's eyes. Sixteen-year-old Mac who had been crushing on Katie Parker since middle school. Not twenty-year-old Rory, who swung the other way and would in fact rather eat his own tongue than look at me like that.
"Hey, what are you waiting for?" Rory cocked his head. I could see so much put-on emotions in that one stare. Longing for the girl he crushed on, as well as the pain of looking at her, knowing she was with another guy. I saw his obsession to keep his youth alive, and live every day as his last. It was Mac's character. As well as being a lovable idiot, he was determined to make every day count. I half wondered if all of that had been programmed into the chip, which was currently forcing my friend's brain into compliance.
"Get dressed, we have school."
Staring back at him, I had the sudden urge to punch him square in the face. Maybe that might bring Rory back.
But it was too risky. Instead of replying to him, I showered and dressed as normal. That morning, the breakfast was different. Instead of the usual breakfast sandwich, there was a chocolate croissant each, individually wrapped in expensive looking paper, and what looked like two Starbucks coffee's to go. My mouth watered. I hadn't had anything sweet in what felt like weeks, unless that meant mindlessly chewing on a cupcake during my mediocre break on set.
I ate the croissant so fast I barely tasted the explosion of chocolate in my mouth. Combined with the coffee, it was like heaven. When Rory grabbed his and ate it in two bites before gulping down the coffee, the taste went sour in my mouth, and I had to swallow several times to avoid the croissant shooting back up my throat.
The unexpected sugary treat for breakfast wasn't an accident. Each breakfast item had been perfectly wrapped, like a gift. It was like a last supper, at least for Rory.
The sickly feeling followed me to set. It was the same routine. We drove to set, and I sat with my side pressed to Noah, as if being in close proximity to him would somehow change his fate. I was rushed to hair and make up, and two girls who gossiped about a new Netflix show they had been watching, buzzed around me, transforming me into Katie.
My hair was curled into effortless blonde rings, since we were in the midst of a homecoming dance episode, and glitter speckled my cheeks. All the glitter in the world could not hide the dark shadows under my eyes, so they gave up and remodelled my face so I barely recognised myself. We were filming outside that day, and the fall breeze was warm, tickling my bare shoulders. I wore a dress most of the morning, and stuck mostly with Noah. I spoke Katie's lines, acting as best as I could, even when I felt like I was shattering apart inside. We had a five minute break, and I stumbled around the set, trying to find everyone, keeping them in my line of sight, my heart speeding up when James appeared with a crumpled script and his phone. "Robin, Noah and Rory." He spoke up, his voice like a beacon to my castmates. Their heads snapped up from where they had been awkwardly circling craft services, grabbing finger foods and vanilla puddings stacked on plates.
Noah joined me quickly, sliding to my side. I tried not to think about the times I'd been freaking out about shooting, and him grabbing and squeezing my hand. Part of me wanted to reach for his, search for some kind of inclination that he was still there. Doing that, though, would cause suspicion. Following Noah's lead, I copied his nonchalant expression, while secretly painting a picture of him in my head. I can write this because I remember him. I want to remember him. I can see him so vividly it hurts; hair so black against skin so white. Izzie, standing off to the side, standing in a light blue skater dress perfectly hugging her figure, strawberry curls flaying in blank eyes I missed.
Lana. Coffee skin and brown hair in two pigtails. Her character Jules was a drama-queen.
We started the scene normally. Katie was walking to school with Will, already in her homecoming dress, and Mac was supposed to run up to us, and ask Katie to the dance.
I said my lines as instructed, wondering if they were going to be programmed directly into my head when I finally went through stage 4.
My wandering thoughts were interrupted when James and Simon, our director let out a collective sigh. "Mr Gallagher!" The writer's expression was stony. He twisted around, glaring at Noah and I, as if we had personally wronged him. "Where the hell is Rory?!"
"Here."
Turning my head in my castmate's direction, I failed to notice two things. Maybe it was because Noah, for the first time, had followed my gaze, instead of looking into oblivion.
The first thing I noticed was like a punch to the gut.
Rory's accent was back. It was broken, splintered in his tone like it didn't belong, but it was back.
The second thing I noticed was that once again, he was twitching, this time his whole face spasming, while his shuddering hand grazed his left eye.
My castmate was stumbling, staggering, but himself. I could tell from the look in his eyes. Terror. That's all I was seeing. Pure, unadulterated terror.
"What the fuck." Rory spat out. His fingers formed pincers, and he stabbed at his swollen looking eye, whimpering. "What the fuck did you do to me?!"
The crew went silent, and James, for the first time in weeks, looked speechless.
"You." Managing to find his feet, Rory marched over to the writer, until they were face to face. "You're a sick bastard, you know that, right?"
James blinked slowly. "Mr...Mr Gallagher," He spoke calmly. "You appear to be off your medication."
Rory looked taken aback. "You think I'm sick?!" He hissed. "You're the sick one for shoving a razor blade in my fucking eye! What the hell is your problem?" Twisting around, Rory seemed to notice the rest of us, and he went pale, the fight going from his face.
His fingers went back to his right eye. "You... you did something to us," he moaned softly, picking at his eyeball. "What did you... what did you do to us?"
"Delusions." James spoke up with a sad shake of his head. "It appears Rory is very sick. He must not have been taking his medication. Oh, son. We shouldn't have brought you to set. You should have said something."
Rory stared, blinking rapidly. "No." He said sharply, his head turning, gaze snapping to each crew member. "No, we're not...we're not sick..." he backed away, before grabbing Noah and shaking the boy, but Noah was like a doll, limp and expressionless.
"Noah?" Getting increasingly frustrated, Rory slapped the boy across the face, and I felt the sting. But Noah didn't even blink. "Hey." My castmate's voice grew hysterical, "Don't just stand there! Hey! Hey, you're with me, man. Right? Noah. Fucking hell, Noah!"
Noah didn't move, and the pain on Rory's face was enough to kick my brain into gear.
"What did you do to them?" Rory demanded. "Fuck, there's something...there's something in my eye!"
"Rory, please calm down," James spoke calmly. "Can someone please get a hold of him so he does not hurt himself. Thank you."
"No!" My cast mate grabbed me, his fingernails stabbing into the bare flesh of my arms. I had to fight back a cry. "Robin." He spoke softly. "Robs, you're... you're in there, right?"
I didn't speak. Couldn't speak. I could only watch as Rory was grabbed by a guard. He struggled violently, until a needle was thrust into his neck, and he went limp.
"My goodness." James shook his head when the guard scooped up the boy bridal style. "Connor, take Mr Gallagher home please. I think it's time for the next phase of his treatment."
No. My stomach slithered into my toes.
"All of them, in fact," James continued. "Keaton, Bright and Faraday too. Harley isn't quite ready."
I could only watch as the others were herded away, and a familiar hand grasped onto my arm. I turned to see the same guard who called me "Little Bird". He was grinning from ear to ear. His grip tightened. "Let's get you home, Little Robin," he hummed.
The ride back to the hotel was blurry. I think I was crying, uncaring about keeping character and staying hidden behind foggy eyes. When we arrived back to the hotel, my mind started whirring. The car ride had been half an hour, including a gas station stop, where the guard had grabbed a coffee for himself, and filled the car's tank. My legs were shaking when we entered the hotel lobby, but the guard didn't start heading upstairs.
"Come along, Little Bird." He hummed, gesturing for me to follow. He made a face, tapping his pockets. "Huh. I've lost my key-card again."
I followed him down to the cellar, keeping distance. I had to get away. I had to find the others, and get them the hell out of this place.
"Stay." the guard grunted, before slipping inside 305, where the key-cards were kept. His expression confused me, the waggling of eyebrows and quirking of lips.
Thankful for the distraction, I forced my legs down the same clinical white hallway. 309 was lit up this time, not illuminated in TV static, actual bright yellow light. From my angle, I saw nobody in the room. My whole body was rattling, and I couldn't breathe, but I forced myself to slip through the door. I was right. The room was empty. At least of James and his minions. This...this is where I'm going to struggle with writing. I'll try my best to tell you, but this is my third time writing this part.
Every time I try, I can't.
Because even if I block out the worst, I still see it.
Inside 309 were my castmates. The four of them were in the same state as the videos on Derek's laptop. Plastic masks covered their mouth and nose, but this time their eyes were wide open and unseeing. A monitor told me their vitals, and after struggling to free Noah's wrists from the armrest, I found myself at a futuristic looking control panel.
That's what the room was, I thought, my fingers grazing each button.
James and Derek’s secret project.
The big, red lever was hard to not notice. It was staring at me, and my hand was twitching. Seeing my friends like this, vulnerable, strapped down and controlled. It willed me to wrap my fingers around cool metal, and wrench the lever downwards.
When the sirens started, I knew what I'd done was wrong.
My castmate's vitals were screeching, and all four of them had gone into shock, gasping for breath, eyelids flickering, bodies convulsing.
I didn't know what to do. I didn't fucking know what to do, so I went to work undoing their restraints. But they weren't looking at me. Their eyes were skyward, and I tried not to notice a cerulean glitter around each iris.
A parasite, I thought, my hands going still.
When the blood started to run, crimson against pristine white, the alarms stopped.
James ran in, out of breath. But I didn't stop wrenching at Noah's restraints until I was grabbed and dragged back. "Robin?!" the writer let out a hissed breath. "I should have known!" Around him, men and women in white were dashing around, attempting to stabilize the others. "I should have known!" He cackled again “You are a brilliant actress, after all."
His teeth clamped down on my ear, and I let myself cry out. At the corner of my eye, there was so much blood. It ran in tiny rivers, startling claret painting them.
James turned my head forcefully. He was out of breath, and I realise the writer was as scared as me. "You better hope and pray you haven't just killed my best stars," he spat, before thundering orders at the crowd of white. "Get them cleaned up and initiate a second procedure."
"But sir," A young male doctor twisted around, and his expression was panicked. "They have just haemorrhaged. If we try again, we could-"
"I don't CARE!" The writer yelled. "Do it! You saw them, right? They were on 50% when that little brat shut it down. I'm confident it was just a flux due to the abrupt stop."
"Marley." The Doctor cleared his throat. "I wouldn't recommend-"
The Doctor didn't finish his sentence. All around me, vitals were crying out again, and all I was seeing was vacant eyes and blood.
Blood.
So much blood.
Oh God, I killed them.
Before I could understand the alarms and panicked yelling, James took me upstairs and shoved me in my room.
His last words were for me to pray.
But that was days ago. All of those blank days that I can't fully remember. All I do remember is James bringing in sheets covered in blood. Part of me recognised them from the ones the others had been laying on in 309.
I screamed. I screamed until he slapped me and told me to get a hold of myself.
"A reminder." James had said, throwing the sheets onto Rory's bed. I asked if the others were okay, and he gave me a long, hard look.
He brought me food, and I ate it.
And I stopped thinking.
But maybe that was a good thing.
I shoved the sheets in the wardrobe. I couldn't look at them.
My days became one big confusing blur.
At one point, my phone disappeared. I found it though.
It's been charged.
Funny. I don't remember charging it.
I've spent most of my day screaming, banging on the door. It feels good to scream again. But nobody is listening to me. Nobody will tell me if my castmates are okay.
Earlier, something was shoved through my door. A clear plastic baggie with an epi-pen and a yellow sticky note.
Robin.
I can get you out of here.
Take this early tomorrow morning, and I will do the rest. I know trust is not on the cards right now, but I'm your best bet.
- A friend, if you'd like.
This brings me to the end of my post. I need your help. Why would someone give me insulin? Why the specific time? Should I take it, or is this another trick?
I'm not thinking straight right now, but do you think I really killed them? Am I the only one left?
If so, why is James still keeping me here? Am I going to die?
If this is my last post, and I'm taken and turned into Katie, or killed, I want you to know who I really am.
My name is [REDACTED]
The show is [REDACTED]
My castmates are: [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]
Finally, the bastard who did this to us is: [REDACTED]
submitted by RobinAnonymous to mrcreeps [link] [comments]


2020.10.20 03:51 fucktomatosoup Teen fingering hidden

Hello everyone, i think i may be autistic but i am not sure, i am constantly thinking that i am faking symptoms and stuff, and would really like to get a diagnosis from a professional but i lack resources, so i think if i make research enough i will maybe be satisfied with what i find out about myself? I don't know. I figured out the best way of doing this is asking people on the spectrum directly, so i am going to list some of my experiences and i want to know if any of you can relate to me. Warning that this may get a little long 😅.
So, first of all i am 17F, i had a lonely childhood and none of the friends i managed to make lasted long. I used to until my early teens follow a really strict routine because i thought it would give me luck and my life would get better and i would make friends, but it was not really a routine, if i made something in a specific way today i would repeat it tomorrow (it became kind of an obsession), and when it didn't work i would literally get pissed at god. I wanted to engage with other children but i just didn't now how, interaction never came naturally to me, even now, i am not shy but socialising always feels awkward. One day when i was maybe 6/7, the principal from my school came into my classroom and said to us to report to the teacher any little friend who said bad things about us, the next day my only friend at the time said kidding (now i realize it was kidding) that i was a snake, i don't remember the context, but at the time i really thought she meant bad saying that then i went to the teacher and reported her, she got in trouble and never talked to me again. I guess i really used to misunderstand things when i was a child and people would get pissed at me often but i don't know if this is because autism or all kids are oblivious like this, nowadays i understand sarcasm, subtext, hidden meanings, metaphors and everything. I remember also my parents (now divorced) would fight a lot in front of me and my siblings, every time it happened i would go to my room and stay there until it stopped, covering my ears so i wouldn't have to listen to then yelling, this leads to another topic: sensory sensitivity. I am extremely sensitive to loud noises, it bothers me in a way I can't even explain, bright lights don't bother me that much but sometimes they give me a headache, i never had a problem with texture i think but i really really like soft things and hate when i finish washing the dishes and my hands are dry/ashy/dehydrated (i don't know the correct term, english is not my first language) from the dish soap. Speaking of dishes, i am really methodical with them, i have a specific order in which i like to wash them, same with sleeping position, i can't fall asleep if i don't sleep in this specific position. Another thing i struggle a lot with is explaining things in words, if someone asks me something too personal or i want to reach out to someone but don't want to be obvious about it, I usually use a way of explaining things that only makes sense to me and other people tend to get confused, writing is much better to me. Touch also bothers me, my bestfriend said that i used to avoid her touch, a hand on the shoulder for example, she said i would flinch away from it, i didn't even realized i did it, it was even worse with strangers, in my country people usually kiss other people (even strangers) on the cheek, i would do ANYTHING to avoid it, it got to the point people got uncomfortable with me. I learned how to endure touch but it still bothers me a lot. I also think i mask a lot, since i got aware of myself and things i say i learned how to say the right thing but sometimes i can still be rude without realizing because social norms are haaaard, i have this thing where i will steal someone's personality while in public, i do it even at home with my family and i always thought it was normal but apparently it's not hahah. About eye contact, it's not painful to do but i realized that it doesn't come naturally to me too, i tend to really focus on the other person's eyes trying to get it right and not mess everything up and make things awkward once again, i can smile to the cashier, make small talk (i don't go out of my way tho) but it took a long time to get to this point. I struggle also with understanding things specially in class, my bestfriend will try to explain a subject to me and i will space out and become overwhelmed and she will have to explain it several times to me until i get it right, and sometimes i don't even get it right. Another trait i have is becoming obsessed with a certain thing for a while, things i had or have an obsession with recently: Sherlock, Twenty One Pilots, true crime, Good Omens, Neil Gaiman, psychology, philosophy, greek mythology, Hannibal (the newest and most intense). When i was a child i used to collect pretty stones or rocks i found outside, (it went on for a long time) i liked small toys too, tiny cars for example, and i also evolved this habit of drinking chocolate milk with a spoon and do this even nowadays haha, the milk feels disgusting if i don't drink it this way. I am good memorizing numbers (but awful at math), sometimes when doing a test it's hard for me to focus on the words and i have to read the same thing over and over again, my memory can be really bad unless for useless facts, i love animals and can relate to them better than to humans. But anyway, these are some of my experiences and i'm probably forgetting something, but the real reason i started thinking i could be on the spectrum is because i never seemed to fit in, as i said before socializing doesn't come naturally to me and i can only make friends if they really insist in me and have patience to climb all the walls i construct around me, i too have to mention that i have a serious issue with boundaries, with friendships i can't identify what is good or bad for me, i am afraid to step up for myself because i think i could be exaggerating. This has gotten me in a abusive friendship before and i just realized after i could finally get hid of it, the point is: you can really easily manipulate me. Coming back to not fitting in, (i also get lost from what i really want to say and end up in a loop just like it happened now lol) i have a l w a y s felt like an alien, nothing about me feels right, i look at my family and friends and think "well i am certainly not a part of them", things i do, how i think, the things i like, how i dress (i wear baggy clothes only, clingy clothes makes me wanna rip myself in half), it all makes me feel like i am different from people and not the same species, it feels like there is a force stopping me from being myself, i can't be spontaneous even if i try. I want to know for sure if i am autistic so i can have a way to explain to myself and others why i am the way i am, this is an actual question people have asked me and i could never answer, it's frustrating to not know myself. Another thing i remembered now, when i am forced to socialize and am uncomfortable i tend to stare at someone i trust and not look at other people at all, it doesn't happen often because i don't really leave my house that much but when i do it does happen and i feel like a trapped animal looking for reassurance every time. I don't know much about stimming and i don't know if this things i do apply, correct me if i am wrong, i can't stop moving my left leg, i snap my fingers, i bite my lips and the inside of my cheeks, i pick at my eyebrows a lot, if i have a pen in hand you can be sure i will click it until people around me get annoyed and tell me to stop, i make funny noises now and then, i repeat some specific phrases (mostly memes i see) and i sometimes get this urge to scream and slap myself but i rarely do it. Now this may be unrelated, but i like to make a lot of questions to my mom about the universe, existence, experiences i have and etc, and she gets pissed at me and i really don't understand why, she says is because she don't know how to answer my questions and i have to stop thinking so much and overanalyzing everything, but how can i stop? It's just imposisble for me not to overthink. I overheard one day she saying to my stepfather that i am exaggerating with most things and just messing around with her, and it really hurt me and made me doubt almost everything about me. After this episode i stopped making these questions to her for good.
I probably missed something, but i want to hear from y'all, if you can relate to my experience and etc, you can leave your own experiences too if you want to, and links from videos i can watch or articles to learn more, i am currently making my own research but more material is always welcome! The purpose of this post is to find someone to relate to, or not relate to if i am not autistic and just really missed the point, anyway i just want answers to why i feel the way i do and am the way i am. Thank you all in advance!!! (also, let me know it this needs any CW/TW, i will happily add them)
EDIT: I forgot to mention this, i did the AQ test and got a 35 score.
submitted by fucktomatosoup to AutisticPride [link] [comments]


2020.10.20 00:03 RobinAnonymous I'm a cast member in your favourite TV show, and I think I've killed my castmates.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
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I think I've killed them.
That's all that is running through my head right now. I've killed them.
I've killed them.
I've fucking killed them.
No, I can't think like that. I have to stay positive.
It's so fucking hard to stay positive right now.
As much as I want to tell you what's going on right at this moment, I have to go back days from now, before everything exploded. Before I lost both myself and my friends. I have to write all of this down so I can register it fully, and accept it. I have to accept it. Because right now I can't. I've tried writing this so many times, but my head is so fucking foggy, and my thoughts feel like candy floss. The phone's screen is so bright and it hurts my eyes. I have to concentrate. That's what I keep telling myself. I have to breathe. Just keep breathing. It's not like I'm hiding anything anymore. They know I'm sober. They know I'm awake, and it's only a matter of time before they come for me too; do the same thing to me. Oh god, they're going to kill me. I'm going to die.
Maybe I deserve it, though. After all, I think I've killed their biggest stars.
I'm going to start from when I last updated you. Once again, I have no recollection of how many days I've lost. James took them from me. I want to check it myself, but part of me would rather stay ignorant. All I know is that it is sunny outside. The sky is blue, and the trees are golden brown. Fall. My favourite season. It feels weird to remember that. That I have a favourite season. Katie's favourite is Summer. She likes to go to the lake with her friends, and swim in the river. I know more about my character than I know myself, and every second that goes by I feel like I've been tipped upside down and emptied of everything I am. So, I'm going to remind myself before it's too late.
My name is Robin Harley.
At least, that's how you know me. I wrote my real name before this one, because it feels like it is fading, along with everything I am. But I know who I am. My favourite book is Kafka On the Shore. My favourite food is chicken alfredo. I have a dog called Julia, and I'm terrified of the dark. Such small things, like a kid making a list. This is easier for me, though. I must remember who I am, before it's taken away. For James I must be Katie, and for you, I'm Robin. I miss being called by my real name. My mother named me after her favourite flower. I grew up thinking it was a stupid name. I wanted to be called a pretty name like Holly or Charlotte. My friends often asked me why my name was spelled the way it was, and how to pronounce it. As a kid, I had been mortified. But as I grew up, I began to love my name, treasure what it meant to my mom to call me it.
I didn't think something as simple as a name, an identity, could be snatched so cruelly. But it has. I almost feel like I'm writing a story. Like we're just characters in someone's coerced reality. That's ironic, considering the plan our network has for us. I'm nothing but a puppet in James's sick game. I'm a shell for Katie Parker, and everything that is me, that is [REDACTED] he plans to eradicate, like it's that easy. Like taking away who I am, my consciousness is like child's play.
It's the blood stains that I can't stop thinking about. So much blood, so much life draining away like it was nothing. LIKE THEY WERE NOTHING. LIKE THEY WERE NOTHING.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm not making sense. I can't make sense right now, even as I read while I type, I might as well be reading hieroglyphics. The floor underneath my feet feels like liquid when I stand on it. There is blood on Rory's bed. It's only a little bit, a smear of crimson staining light pink pillow cases. But it's twisting my stomach. My chest is aching. Every time I look at his bed, I want to scream. I want to scream until my throat is fucking raw, until my lungs have collapsed. It's Noah all over again, but at that point, Noah survived. I didn't think he would, after seeing his body convulsing in front of me, flickering eyes still glued to Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck bleeding through ancient static. I'll never forget the way his head had dropped limply, bouncing on his chest like a puppet severed from their strings. His fingers, which had been frantically tapping out Morse code had gone still. Everything that was him, that was Noah, had gone still, and for one heart-stopping moment I thought I'd lost him.
I didn't lose him. You already know that.
Thanks to Derek Marley's confession, I know now that they weren't trying to kill Noah. Instead, they were using his body like a host, as if his character was a parasite. I've gone through the stages in my head so many times I know them off by heart. James's voice still crackling through static on each video clip still haunts my thoughts, as if the man himself was burrowing his way into my mind, forcing himself inside every piece of me.
Stage 1: Empty out.
Stage 2: Programming.
Stage 3: Insertion.
Stage 4:
Stage four...
Stage Four...
Stage Four...
I thought I could still save Noah. I could save Rory, and Izzie and Lana.
I thought I could save them.
I thought I could save them.
The blood on Rory's sheets makes me sick, and I can't stop thinking about them.
I can't stop THINKING ABOUT THEM.
I'll get to that. Because I'm here to tell our story, in what I hope is some kind of cohesive, even if it's a seemingly never-ending stream of consciousness which does not make sense. I'm sorry about that. I don't cut out what I write. I leave everything in, because I want to look back at this at some point, if I get out of this hell-hole. I want to re-read everything that took place. Every thought I had, even if it makes the least lick of sense. Every emotion I've felt, I want to feel it again. I want to torture myself again, but I know I'll never feel the way I'm feeling right now. Numb. Nothing. I feel nothing. Maybe I am Katie. Maybe James forced her into me during my daze where the days bled together, the pitch dark and sunlight colliding, but my thoughts weren't mine. And when they were, when clarity took over, I struggled to understand why I was so fucking numb. Why I couldn't cry. Why I'd stripped Rory's bed of his covers, and thrown them in the wardrobe. Why I sat against it for what felt like oblivion, with my back against cool, hard wood, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't open it again.
I couldn't look inside.
Because I would break apart all over again.
Now my head is clear, I know why. The sun is less of a confusing haze, and I can think a little clearer . So, I'm going to do what I always do; since I found you. Now that my mind is clear, I'm going to stop thinking about the wardrobe, and instead lose myself in you.
Inside this stupid phone which isn't even mine. It hasn't got my pastel blue phone case, and the lock-screen of me and my mother standing under a maple tree in Japan. It has none of that. Not my Apple playlist or my Instagram page. My endless collection of notes which is just shopping lists, or casting calls, or snippets of poems that come to me, and mom just a text or phone call away. My phone is gone. Except this phone feels like mine, even if there's none of my personality, a total blank. I've kept it hidden for so long, a secret under my mattress. The one thing stopping me from losing my mind.
I'm going to write to you, and leave nothing out. I'm going to tell you everything in as much detail as possible, despite my shaking hands and concaving stomach.
Writing to you is my outlet. I know not many are reading, and that most of you are sceptical, but I'm truly grateful for each and every comment you leave. Thank you for translating Noah's message. Thank you for telling me what was in the shot in Derek's office. Without you, I would have crumbled my now. So if you're reading, I beg of you, please keep going. If you have to, tear apart everything I say. Take notice of hints that I leave, like places that I have to blank out. Because you're my only hope right now. You're my only connection to the real world, to a reality I've been taken away from.
So please don't give up on me. Tell me you understand. Tell me you want some kind of update. Because you are all I have.
I say this, because once again, I need your help. Hopefully for the last time.
The last time I updated you, I'd made what I thought was the biggest mistake of my life. slamming Rory over the head with a table lamp. He had gone limp, falling back, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. I took your advice and did not use the shot. I didn't know what it would do to him, especially if he had some kind of brain or head injury. Instead of doing what my heart was screaming at me to do, I slammed the door shut and removed the book. Guards, I thought hysterically. There were too many guards, and I would never leave the others. I felt selfish. Wrong. Like my heart had ben ripped out of my chest. But I held myself, and I stayed with Rory all night, waiting for him to wake up.
Except he didn't, and the more time progressed, the glaring red letters on my bedside clock flickering later and later, the sick feeling in my gut worsened.
"Rory." I felt like I was on fire, climbing onto his bed and lifting his head onto my lap. I felt for bumps and bruises, but mostly blood. I checked the pillow and sheets, but they were clean. He was breathing. I kept telling myself that, pressing my hand against his chest. He didn't move. His body stayed flaccid, draped against me. He was freezing cold, so I bundled him under the blankets. Laying next to him, my mind screamed at me to do something. Tell James. I was at war with myself. If Rory really was hurt and needed medical attention, I was killing him to save myself. So I didn't get caught.
Did I care more about my castmate, or being caught sober? Especially if Rory was just knocked out. That thought haunted me well into the midnight hours. I fell in and out of sleep, but I didn't dream. I was too panicked to relax and allow my mind some kind of peace. I couldn't. I was drifting off to sleep for what felt like the tenth time, when something...snapped. At least, that's what it sounded like. I shot up, disoriented, and quickly realised that the same buzzing, the same noise of a swarm of bees, was slicing into the silence I'd found myself wrapped in. My attention went straight to Rory, and sure enough, it was coming from him. But something was... different. The first time I'd heard it, the sound was like prickling electricity or the erratic wings of an insect.
But this time it sounded like popping. Like something was snapping, crackling inside my friend's head. Slowly, I slipped off of Rory's bed and checked him once more. Still no movement. His eyes were still shut. His breathing was still normal.
Knowing what was inside Rory, I knew the sound must have been the chip, what James had inserted into his eye. It was his character, the parasitic Mac Price. Briefly, I thought about attempting to get it out with the scalpel I'd hidden under my bed. But I could blind him. With one wrong move, I could blind him. So, I crawled back into my own bed and buried my head in pillows that smelled of lavender. It reminded me of home.
I don't know how long I slept for. All I remember is being woken by a flock of birds screeching outside. As soon as I brushed off slumber, reality hit me hard.
Rory.
The room was quiet, and my heart sank into my gut. I twisted around in bed, expecting to see my castmate still draped over sickly yellow covers, eyes shut.
The first thing I noticed was Rory's bed was empty. The covers and pillows were on the ground, and when I frantically searched for him, I found him.
Rory was standing in the same stance, straight shoulders, arms by his side. He was staring forward, that familiar vacant look splayed across his expression. He was already dressed in Mac attire; a short sleeved shirt and jeans. The early morning sun was streaming through the blinds, setting strands of his brown hair alight. His eyes were wide, earthy brown, a wrinkle between his brows. At that moment, I took a snapshot in my mind. If James was going to turn me into Katie, then I was going to remember him.
I was going to remember myself. When I happened to look into the reflection of James's glasses when he was leaning close, I glimpsed a girl who was far too thin, malnutrition transforming once healthy cheeks to ashen white. I saw tired eyes staring back, vacant and foggy with the phantom drug I was swallowing every day. I saw mousy blonde hair which used to be plastered across magazine stands, beauty magazines and teen Vogue. It seemed crazy that that girl was me. The girl who played Katie Parker. Because underneath the preppy blonde ponytail and face of makeup, there was me. It made me wonder. Did people see it? Did the public know, or did they look past all of that, to see their favourite character? Is that all I was to them?
Katie.
Fucking Katie Parker.
I didn't know what to think, whether to be relieved that I hadn't seriously hurt Rory, or frustrated that he was still under James's control. I was speechless, my mouth opening and closing, words choking my throat. I wanted to say so much, but all I really wanted to do was bury my head in his shoulders and sob until my chest was aching. Before I could open my mouth, or move, there was the sound of familiar footsteps approaching our room, and I dived up, practically throwing myself beside Rory, slipping back into my façade. Standing shoulder to shoulder as usual, we waited for James. But when the door opened, and the writer walked in with his usual wide smile and twinkling eyes, I could have sworn Rory had flinched ever so slightly. It wasn't noticeable, at least not to James.
But to me, I felt it. I felt the tremor that ran through him, his shoulder bouncing against mine. Something inside me ignited, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I had hope; hope that braining Rory with the lamp had knocked out the chip connected to his iris. Except at that moment I refused to get properly hopeful. No way. I had to keep my façade. Even if all I wanted to do was turn to Rory, and demand if he was himself. If he was like me, awake and aware, struggling to hide behind a character.
Instead, I played along as usual. We were given the pill, which I had mastered the art of hiding behind my bottom teeth. I swallowed with emphasis and opened my mouth so James could lean in. He did, the glint in his eyes sending ice sliding down my spine.
"Kids." He addressed us, spreading his arms in a greeting. "How did you like last night? Did you enjoy your late night entertainment?"
Something struck me, like a knife stabbing into my back. The TV, I thought, struggling to stay completely immobile. But at the corner of my eye, it was back to where James had originally placed it, the ancient screen facing forwards, instead of towards the wall where I had shoved it. James seemed none the wiser, and I allowed myself to let out a breath. As usual, Rory and I didn't reply. James carried the usual, a brown paper bag full of breakfast sandwiches and two plastic white cups of water.
"Robin." James nodded at me. "You look like you're making progress!" He winked. "Perhaps I should take you for a consultation after today's shoot. How does that sound, hmm?"
I didn't move, keeping my gaze glued to him, waiting for him to look away, mentally begging the bastard to get distracted. Derek's confession was still on my mind, and what the network and James had collectively done to my castmates. And that I was next.
TBD. To be determined. I had to fight back a shiver.
Struck with the sudden overwhelming urge to scratch at my right eye, beads of sweat slipped down the back of my neck. James cocked his head and chuckled when I only stared back, just like he wanted. He was used to this, used to my body working the way he wanted, twisting and turning the way he wanted, my submissive eyes drinking him in, and nothing coming out of my mouth. I could practically see the glee lighting up his eyes every time I was forced to stand like a soldier, awaiting orders from his smug mouth.
"Huh." The writer hummed, pinching my chin. "I'll take that as a yes, sweetheart."
Staying still, I forced myself not to breathe. James moved onto Rory, and handed the pill to my castmate. "Mr Gallagher!" He beamed. "I'm pleased to tell you that you will be entering stage four today. Along with Mr Keaton, as well as Miss Faraday and Bright."
Bile slithered up my throat, but I still didn't move, my gaze falling to the carpet, burning into each fibre. I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. James's words felt like lightning bolts. They were going ahead with stage four with Rory, Noah, Lana and Izzie, and I couldn't stop it. The Writer's words had not left my head, still alive in my skull, prodding and poking until I couldn't bear it. The complete removal of consciousness, James had said. Which was them. Whatever was left of my friends, what hadn't already been purged from them, tearing them from themselves, those last flickers of what I loved. He was going to take it away. James was going to take it away forever.
And what would be left: nothing. Just a shell, a pretty face for their character.
I'd heard James loud and clear. "Give him a few weeks to settle in, and then we can move onto the final stage. Complete removal of lingering consciousness. Of course, we can replicate the young man's personality easily for press days and of course the fans. That will be easy. There will be no need for the boy. He will be disposed of, do you understand me?"
Disposed of. My ears were roaring. How was James planning on disposing on them? What did that even mean? His words were cutting deep. I felt sick. No, I was going to be sick. My cheeks felt like they were on fire, and my legs were ready to give-way.
"Why?"
Mac's all-too-familiar American twang sliced cleanly through my thoughts.
My head snapped up. For a disorienting moment I forgot I was supposed to be keeping behind a façade, and a hysterical bubble of laughter climbed its way up my throat. I hadn't laughed in so long, and it almost felt alien to me, but I managed to swallow it down. Rory's expression was still blank, still vacant, but the crease between his brows had grown. His lip was slightly curled into what might have been a frown.
He looked... confused. Which at that point, it was better than nothing.
James's expression had twisted in a flash, his eyes slitting, lips twisting into a scowl. He was still holding the pill out to the boy, who wasn't taking it, his arms staying by his sides. The writer cleared his throat, composing himself despite being rattled.
"I'm sorry, what was that, Mr Gallagher?"
I risked keeping my gaze on Rory, and everything inside me was begging, screaming at him to lash out, teeth gritted, eyes blazing. Rory didn't do that, however. He seemed to flinch again, but this time it was noticeable. His whole body shuddered, his eyes flickering, before his right arm jolted, and he reached out and took the pill.
Maybe I was imagining it, but it was like Rory was glitching.
"Mr Gallagher?" Stepping forward, James watched Rory pop the pill into his mouth. My castmate's expression had gone blank once more, but his arm was still trembling, pressed against mine. Rory swallowed the pill and opened his mouth on order, before the writer pulled out a small hand-held torch. He clicked it on, motioning Rory towards him.
Rory complied, and let James shine the light in his eyes. He didn't even wince. James checked both eyes, leaning in close. "Huh." James clucked his tongue. "Perhaps you had some kind of momentary malfunction," He grabbed my castmate's bare arms and squeezed them, beaming. "Don't you worry, young man. Once the final stage is complete, there will be nothing to interfere with the programming. The original consciousness will be completely removed, which will of course be a relief for the two of us."
James's words didn't sink in. I didn't let them. If I did, I'd shatter there and then, and James would catch me out. So I didn't move. I didn't breathe, and blinked back the sting in my eyes.
"Understand?" James motioned for Rory to nod, and my castmate did, his arms falling limply back to his sides.
"Wonderful!" The writer started to go through the same old routine, briefing us on our schedules, as well as lecturing us on being on our best behaviour, despite knowing the two of us were under the influence of a mind altering pill, as well as a microchip forcing our characters inside our heads. I mostly tuned out, trying to think of a way to save the others from what I was sure was a fate worse than death. Derek Marley had said that participating in the project would haunt him forever. His last message to Noah was sincere, but he was right. Noah would never forgive him. None of us would.
I had to get them out.
James's voice faded into white noise, until he reached the door, and turned to the two of us. "Eat and get ready for the day, please. I want things to go smoothly, so make sure to be good kids." He chuckled and then winked. "Mr Gallagher, I'll see you after the shoot."
The writer gave me a dismissive wave. "Miss Harley, a guard will pick you up as usual and take you home, since I will be quite busy."
Nodding, as if he was reassuring himself everything was going to be just fine, James hurried out, whistling some old Disney song that I vaguely recognised.
When the door slammed shut, I let my breath go, dropping to my knees. Spitting the pill out, I swallowed hot bile in my throat, willing myself not to hurl. Hot tears were spilling down my cheeks and I couldn't stop them, no matter what I did. The severity of the situation came over me like waves of ice cold water, and I wanted to curl into a ball and disappear into the floor. I wanted to be anywhere else than that room with my brainwashed castmate. Who I knew I was about to lose in favour for a fictional character.
Bunching my fists into my eyes, I struggled to my feet and forced myself to the wardrobe we share, where my Katie attire was packed inside. I felt disgusting, still wearing the sweats I'd slept in. When I twisted to Rory, I was meant to ask him if his head was hurting, or he felt sick. Despite knowing my castmate was a submissive doll, I still wanted to know. But when I turned to my castmate, Rory was still standing in the same spot. He was staring at something, and when I edged closer, holding my breath, I realised the pill was pinched between his thumb and index finger. The colour was darker, dyed to an almost purple shade with his saliva. Looking closer, his expression was no longer blank. Instead, there was the slightest glimmer of awareness in his eyes.
I held onto that with everything I had.
"Rory?" I choked on his name, and he flinched again, turning to face me. I knew then, when my castmate's gaze landed on me, that something was wrong.
His eyes were twitching, which seemed to affect his whole face, his cheeks wet with tears. A million emotions flashed across his expression, and he pressed two fingers to his right eye. When I said his name again with the gutter of my throat, his gaze found mine again, but Rory didn't look at me, not really. His lip curled and his eyes slitted with pain and frustration, but there was no glint of recognition igniting in warm browns. At least, it wasn't the teasing smirk and warm glint which was Rory. Instead, it was all Mac. Still twitching, as if he was fighting his character for his own mind, Rory dropped the pill onto the carpet, and crushed it with his foot, before turning to me.
And then something stabilised. My castmate, or whatever was left of him, the parts of him still fighting back, trashing the pill, was shoved deep into the crevices of his own mind, and his character was bleeding through. Exactly who James wanted him to be. There was the recognition coming to life in another's boy's eyes. Sixteen-year-old Mac who had been crushing on Katie Parker since middle school. Not twenty-year-old Rory, who swung the other way and would in fact rather eat his own tongue than look at me like that.
"Hey, what are you waiting for?" Rory cocked his head. I could see so much put-on emotions in that one stare. Longing for the girl he crushed on, as well as the pain of looking at her, knowing she was with another guy. I saw his obsession to keep his youth alive, and live every day as his last. It was Mac's character. As well as being a lovable idiot, he was determined to make every day count. I half wondered if all of that had been programmed into the chip, which was currently forcing my friend's brain into compliance.
"Get dressed, we have school."
Staring back at him, I had the sudden urge to punch him square in the face. Maybe that might bring Rory back.
But it was too risky. Instead of replying to him, I showered and dressed as normal. That morning, the breakfast was different. Instead of the usual breakfast sandwich, there was a chocolate croissant each, individually wrapped in expensive looking paper, and what looked like two Starbucks coffee's to go. My mouth watered. I hadn't had anything sweet in what felt like weeks, unless that meant mindlessly chewing on a cupcake during my mediocre break on set.
I ate the croissant so fast I barely tasted the explosion of chocolate in my mouth. Combined with the coffee, it was like heaven. When Rory grabbed his and ate it in two bites before gulping down the coffee, the taste went sour in my mouth, and I had to swallow several times to avoid the croissant shooting back up my throat.
The unexpected sugary treat for breakfast wasn't an accident. Each breakfast item had been perfectly wrapped, like a gift. It was like a last supper, at least for Rory.
The sickly feeling followed me to set. It was the same routine. We drove to set, and I sat with my side pressed to Noah, as if being in close proximity to him would somehow change his fate. I was rushed to hair and make up, and two girls who gossiped about a new Netflix show they had been watching, buzzed around me, transforming me into Katie.
My hair was curled into effortless blonde rings, since we were in the midst of a homecoming dance episode, and glitter speckled my cheeks. All the glitter in the world could not hide the dark shadows under my eyes, so they gave up and remodelled my face so I barely recognised myself. We were filming outside that day, and the fall breeze was warm, tickling my bare shoulders. I wore a dress most of the morning, and stuck mostly with Noah. I spoke Katie's lines, acting as best as I could, even when I felt like I was shattering apart inside. We had a five minute break, and I stumbled around the set, trying to find everyone, keeping them in my line of sight, my heart speeding up when James appeared with a crumpled script and his phone. "Robin, Noah and Rory." He spoke up, his voice like a beacon to my castmates. Their heads snapped up from where they had been awkwardly circling craft services, grabbing finger foods and vanilla puddings stacked on plates.
Noah joined me quickly, sliding to my side. I tried not to think about the times I'd been freaking out about shooting, and him grabbing and squeezing my hand. Part of me wanted to reach for his, search for some kind of inclination that he was still there. Doing that, though, would cause suspicion. Following Noah's lead, I copied his nonchalant expression, while secretly painting a picture of him in my head. I can write this because I remember him. I want to remember him. I can see him so vividly it hurts; hair so black against skin so white. Izzie, standing off to the side, standing in a light blue skater dress perfectly hugging her figure, strawberry curls flaying in blank eyes I missed.
Lana. Coffee skin and brown hair in two pigtails. Her character Jules was a drama-queen.
We started the scene normally. Katie was walking to school with Will, already in her homecoming dress, and Mac was supposed to run up to us, and ask Katie to the dance.
I said my lines as instructed, wondering if they were going to be programmed directly into my head when I finally went through stage 4.
My wandering thoughts were interrupted when James and Simon, our director let out a collective sigh. "Mr Gallagher!" The writer's expression was stony. He twisted around, glaring at Noah and I, as if we had personally wronged him. "Where the hell is Rory?!"
"Here."
Turning my head in my castmate's direction, I failed to notice two things. Maybe it was because Noah, for the first time, had followed my gaze, instead of looking into oblivion.
The first thing I noticed was like a punch to the gut.
Rory's accent was back. It was broken, splintered in his tone like it didn't belong, but it was back.
The second thing I noticed was that once again, he was twitching, this time his whole face spasming, while his shuddering hand grazed his left eye.
My castmate was stumbling, staggering, but himself. I could tell from the look in his eyes. Terror. That's all I was seeing. Pure, unadulterated terror.
"What the fuck." Rory spat out. His fingers formed pincers, and he stabbed at his swollen looking eye, whimpering. "What the fuck did you do to me?!"
The crew went silent, and James, for the first time in weeks, looked speechless.
"You." Managing to find his feet, Rory marched over to the writer, until they were face to face. "You're a sick bastard, you know that, right?"
James blinked slowly. "Mr...Mr Gallagher," He spoke calmly. "You appear to be off your medication."
Rory looked taken aback. "You think I'm sick?!" He hissed. "You're the sick one for shoving a razor blade in my fucking eye! What the hell is your problem?" Twisting around, Rory seemed to notice the rest of us, and he went pale, the fight going from his face.
His fingers went back to his right eye. "You... you did something to us," he moaned softly, picking at his eyeball. "What did you... what did you do to us?"
"Delusions." James spoke up with a sad shake of his head. "It appears Rory is very sick. He must not have been taking his medication. Oh, son. We shouldn't have brought you to set. You should have said something."
Rory stared, blinking rapidly. "No." He said sharply, his head turning, gaze snapping to each crew member. "No, we're not...we're not sick..." he backed away, before grabbing Noah and shaking the boy, but Noah was like a doll, limp and expressionless.
"Noah?" Getting increasingly frustrated, Rory slapped the boy across the face, and I felt the sting. But Noah didn't even blink. "Hey." My castmate's voice grew hysterical, "Don't just stand there! Hey! Hey, you're with me, man. Right? Noah. Fucking hell, Noah!"
Noah didn't move, and the pain on Rory's face was enough to kick my brain into gear.
"What did you do to them?" Rory demanded. "Fuck, there's something...there's something in my eye!"
"Rory, please calm down," James spoke calmly. "Can someone please get a hold of him so he does not hurt himself. Thank you."
"No!" My cast mate grabbed me, his fingernails stabbing into the bare flesh of my arms. I had to fight back a cry. "Robin." He spoke softly. "Robs, you're... you're in there, right?"
I didn't speak. Couldn't speak. I could only watch as Rory was grabbed by a guard. He struggled violently, until a needle was thrust into his neck, and he went limp.
"My goodness." James shook his head when the guard scooped up the boy bridal style. "Connor, take Mr Gallagher home please. I think it's time for the next phase of his treatment."
No. My stomach slithered into my toes.
"All of them, in fact," James continued. "Keaton, Bright and Faraday too. Harley isn't quite ready."
I could only watch as the others were herded away, and a familiar hand grasped onto my arm. I turned to see the same guard who called me "Little Bird". He was grinning from ear to ear. His grip tightened. "Let's get you home, Little Robin," he hummed.
The ride back to the hotel was blurry. I think I was crying, uncaring about keeping character and staying hidden behind foggy eyes. When we arrived back to the hotel, my mind started whirring. The car ride had been half an hour, including a gas station stop, where the guard had grabbed a coffee for himself, and filled the car's tank. My legs were shaking when we entered the hotel lobby, but the guard didn't start heading upstairs.
"Come along, Little Bird." He hummed, gesturing for me to follow. He made a face, tapping his pockets. "Huh. I've lost my key-card again."
I followed him down to the cellar, keeping distance. I had to get away. I had to find the others, and get them the hell out of this place.
"Stay." the guard grunted, before slipping inside 305, where the key-cards were kept. His expression confused me, the waggling of eyebrows and quirking of lips.
Thankful for the distraction, I forced my legs down the same clinical white hallway. 309 was lit up this time, not illuminated in TV static, actual bright yellow light. From my angle, I saw nobody in the room. My whole body was rattling, and I couldn't breathe, but I forced myself to slip through the door. I was right. The room was empty. At least of James and his minions. This...this is where I'm going to struggle with writing. I'll try my best to tell you, but this is my third time writing this part.
Every time I try, I can't.
Because even if I block out the worst, I still see it.
Inside 309 were my castmates. The four of them were in the same state as the videos on Derek's laptop. Plastic masks covered their mouth and nose, but this time their eyes were wide open and unseeing. A monitor told me their vitals, and after struggling to free Noah's wrists from the armrest, I found myself at a futuristic looking control panel.
That's what the room was, I thought, my fingers grazing each button.
James and Derek’s secret project.
The big, red lever was hard to not notice. It was staring at me, and my hand was twitching. Seeing my friends like this, vulnerable, strapped down and controlled. It willed me to wrap my fingers around cool metal, and wrench the lever downwards.
When the sirens started, I knew what I'd done was wrong.
My castmate's vitals were screeching, and all four of them had gone into shock, gasping for breath, eyelids flickering, bodies convulsing.
I didn't know what to do. I didn't fucking know what to do, so I went to work undoing their restraints. But they weren't looking at me. Their eyes were skyward, and I tried not to notice a cerulean glitter around each iris.
A parasite, I thought, my hands going still.
When the blood started to run, crimson against pristine white, the alarms stopped.
James ran in, out of breath. But I didn't stop wrenching at Noah's restraints until I was grabbed and dragged back. "Robin?!" the writer let out a hissed breath. "I should have known!" Around him, men and women in white were dashing around, attempting to stabilize the others. "I should have known!" He cackled again “You are a brilliant actress, after all."
His teeth clamped down on my ear, and I let myself cry out. At the corner of my eye, there was so much blood. It ran in tiny rivers, startling claret painting them.
James turned my head forcefully. He was out of breath, and I realise the writer was as scared as me. "You better hope and pray you haven't just killed my best stars," he spat, before thundering orders at the crowd of white. "Get them cleaned up and initiate a second procedure."
"But sir," A young male doctor twisted around, and his expression was panicked. "They have just haemorrhaged. If we try again, we could-"
"I don't CARE!" The writer yelled. "Do it! You saw them, right? They were on 50% when that little brat shut it down. I'm confident it was just a flux due to the abrupt stop."
"Marley." The Doctor cleared his throat. "I wouldn't recommend-"
The Doctor didn't finish his sentence. All around me, vitals were crying out again, and all I was seeing was vacant eyes and blood.
Blood.
So much blood.
Oh God, I killed them.
Before I could understand the alarms and panicked yelling, James took me upstairs and shoved me in my room.
His last words were for me to pray.
But that was days ago. All of those blank days that I can't fully remember. All I do remember is James bringing in sheets covered in blood. Part of me recognised them from the ones the others had been laying on in 309.
I screamed. I screamed until he slapped me and told me to get a hold of myself.
"A reminder." James had said, throwing the sheets onto Rory's bed. I asked if the others were okay, and he gave me a long, hard look.
He brought me food, and I ate it.
And I stopped thinking.
But maybe that was a good thing.
I shoved the sheets in the wardrobe. I couldn't look at them.
My days became one big confusing blur.
At one point, my phone disappeared. I found it though.
It's been charged.
Funny. I don't remember charging it.
I've spent most of my day screaming, banging on the door. It feels good to scream again. But nobody is listening to me. Nobody will tell me if my castmates are okay.
Earlier, something was shoved through my door. A clear plastic baggie with an epi-pen and a yellow sticky note.
Robin.
I can get you out of here.
Take this early tomorrow morning, and I will do the rest. I know trust is not on the cards right now, but I'm your best bet.
- A friend, if you'd like.
This brings me to the end of my post. I need your help. Why would someone give me insulin? Why the specific time? Should I take it, or is this another trick?
I'm not thinking straight right now, but do you think I really killed them? Am I the only one left?
If so, why is James still keeping me here? Am I going to die?
If this is my last post, and I'm taken and turned into Katie, or killed, I want you to know who I really am.
My name is [REDACTED]
The show is [REDACTED]
My castmates are: [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]
Finally, the bastard who did this to us is: [REDACTED]
submitted by RobinAnonymous to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.10.16 16:00 LividSupergirl Hidden teen fingering

Welcome to a new installment of FanFic Friday!
We ask that you be respectful when engaging with these posts. These writers are kind enough to share their work with us so if you see fit to be hateful you will be reprimanded accordingly. Please feel free to leave any feedback/comments both here in this post and in the replies of the fanfic itself.
If you have a writer you'd like to be featured, or are a writer yourself and want to be featured, please contact either u/deadphlaarb or u/LividSupergirl via reddit or twitter and we'll reach out to said writer.
On today's installment we are featuring writer beautifulmadness13 aka @posiewaves. She is a posie and henelope ship writer and below you will find three of her fics for your enjoyment. Happy reading!
I’ll Only Hurt You If You Let Me
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010523/chapters/63242170
Ship: posie
Genre: Soulmate AU
Rating: Teen & Up audiences
Length: 4,262 words
Status: In progress
Summary: In a world where everyone can hear the voice of their soulmate by the age of fifteen, sixteen year old Josie is beginning to think that maybe she was born without one since it's been nothing but radio silence for her.
Cut to new girl Penelope Park showing up at Salvatore and maybe Josie isn't destined to be as alone as she originally thought.
Excerpt: Soulmates are stupid and whoever invented the notion is an idiot who must get off on other people suffering. If Josie could meet that person then she would tell them as much because she is sick and tired of watching everyone else around her apparently completely in love while she is destined to die miserable and alone.
Okay so maybe that’s a little dramatic but in her opinion she’s allowed to be dramatic now. It’s been a week since her sixteenth birthday, a whole damn week and she’s heard nothing. Either her soulmate is a raging bitch who can’t be bothered with actually talking to Josie when she tries to reach out or they just don’t exit.
Both options suck but at this point Josie really isn’t sure what else to think. She was supposed to have met them by now, her soulmate. If the general age range was anything to go by then she should have at least spoken to them for the first time while she was still fifteen. She no longer considered the screams from kindergarten to be anything other than her imagination playing a cruel trick on her because if they had really belonged to the person she was meant to be with then why hadn’t they said anything to her since?
Her mother had told her to be patient, that her time would come, and Josie had tried to be, really she had. But seeing how happy most of her classmates were and how close Lizzie and Hope had become over the last few years had driven Josie to her breaking point.
If her soulmate was out there then clearly they wanted nothing to do with her and if she just didn't have one then it didn’t matter anyway because she was over the whole idea. It was fairytale magic that just wasn’t meant to be a part of her life unfortunately. Which is why when Rafael Waithe asked her to go out on a date with him she’d agreed without any hesitation.

if the world was ending (you’d come over right)
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780768
Ship: posie
Genre: One-shot / Canon divergence
Rating: Teen & Up audiences
Length: 1,922 words
Status: Complete
Summary: during a moment of lucidity dark Josie makes a phone call
Excerpt: It rang once.
Twice.
Three times and Josie was just about to throw the device across the room and pretend this lapse in judgment had never happened when the person on the other end finally answered.
“Hello?”
Just that word had caused her heart to pound so hard she was certain it would soon fly out of her chest and land on the blanket in front of her. Josie wanted to respond but her lungs felt like they would burst from the lack of air she was taking in and she wondered momentarily if it was possible to drown on land.
“Hello is someone there?”
It was too much, all of it was just too much and Josie could feel the room starting to close around her. Her black eyes began to water and if she had been looking in a mirror right then she would be able to see their natural chocolate brown color beginning to push through. She needed to say something, anything, but she couldn't, because hearing her ex's soft voice had caused her own to disappear.
Penelope let out a sigh.
“Seriously I am not in the mood to play games right now so if you're trying to prank call me then I highly suggest you get a life and find someone else to mess with.”
Josie raised a hand to cover her mouth attempting to muffle the sob that was threatening to rip through her throat. Her cheeks were damp already as she began to cry and she realized it was a losing battle when a stifled squeak slipped past the parting in her fingers. For a second she hoped that Penelope didn't hear it but the audible gasp on the other end of the line told her that she did.
“Josie?”

Will You Still Love Me Even If I’m Nothing More Than A Memory
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21467587/chapters/51159919
Ship: henelope
Genre: Alternate universe
Rating: Mature
Length: 40,581 words
Status: In progress
Summary: Hope jumps into Malivore to save everyone and Penelope no longer remembers her, or does she?
Excerpt: This time when she's pulled into a 'vision' it's instantaneous. The room doesn't spin and she isn't nauseous. Just one second she's in her dorm and the next she's, well, she doesn't know where but it's not her room.
She recognizes that she's still in the school though, in a dorm slightly larger than her own. It's warm and filled with neutral earth tones. She's sitting in a windowsill surrounded by throw-pillows as the rain outside patters lightly against the glass. She turns to look at it and smiles thinking about the possibility of going for a walk through the forest after it stops. The leaves are always so pretty when they're covered in water.
“Pen sit still!”
A soft voice grabs her attention and she's looking ahead again but now she notices the person sitting on a stool a few feet away behind an easel clearly hard at work. Even though they sound annoyed something tells Penelope that they aren't, not really.
So she laughs.
“I have been sitting still for ages but now I'm tired, you're taking too long.”
The witch crosses her arms over her chest pouting at the person she doesn't know but feels completely comfortable with. They are obviously a girl, wearing an oversized white t-shirt with paint spots and nothing else. She can see the pale creamy skin of the girl's legs and notes that she's a bit shorter than herself which is why Penelope can't see her face hidden behind the tall easel.
Her pout turns into a smile when she hears the figure sigh.
“Yea well it would go a lot faster if you stopped moving.”
Penelope feels like she should be flattered that this person is obviously trying to paint her. The thought that someone could find her beautiful enough to want to capture in their art is kind of amazing. But something about this situation feels repetitive like the witch often finds herself on the other side of the canvas. Not that she's complaining, she's just used to it. And for some reason she really enjoys aggravating the mystery girl so instead of getting back into her earlier pose she decides to stick her tongue out.
submitted by LividSupergirl to LegaciesCW [link] [comments]


2020.10.13 19:30 MikeJesus Teen fingering hidden

‘I have a surprise for you Jimbo!’ My father, the inventor in plaid, stood in the middle of the living room with a blocky object hidden beneath a bed-sheet. It was the spring of 1981, my mother and me had just come back from the park.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Guess!’ His hands tightened over the cloth. Whatever the surprise was, he was excited to reveal it.
A gentle whirr and a beep came from beneath the bed-sheet. A skeptical smile spread across my mother’s face. ‘Brian, you didn’t build a-‘
‘Ah! Don’t spoil it!’ he cut her off, ‘Let him guess! Come on Jimbo, what do you think the surprise is?’
The mysterious object let out a series of beeps. Weight shifted beneath the bed-sheet. I didn’t have the faintest idea of what it could be, but I also knew my father well enough to know he wouldn’t move on unless I made a guess. ‘A washing machine?’ I guessed.
They both laughed. Over the following years my guess would be carved into family history through funny dinner party anecdotes.
‘It’s not a washing machine Jimbo,’ my father finally said, ‘it’s something much better than a washing machine.’
‘You didn’t actually build it, did you?’ My mother asked, in amused disbelief.
‘Hun, if you didn’t want a husband who builds things you shouldn’t have married an inventor,’ he said with pride in his voice and then turned to me. ‘Jimbo, let me introduce you to your new friend – Zorbo!’
He ripped off the cloth covering the bulky thing in our living room.
A pair of flash light eyes stared back at me from a rectangular metal skull. Knobs and dials stuck out of the robot’s stainless steel chest like medals from some intergalactic war. Its arms hung on tubing that seemed to have come straight from a vacuum cleaner, but its hands were made up of sleek shapes that suggested top-secret military technology.
‘HELLO FRIEND, I AM ZORBO,’ the robot said, its voice strained through lifeless circuitry, ‘WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY CATCH WITH ME?’
I was an only child, and by extension, a lonely child. For years I had begged my parents for a younger brother or sister, but the medication that my mother was taking made the idea of another pregnancy far too dangerous. That winter I shifted my pleas for company over to a puppy, and my parents obliged, but within three hours of finding my new friend beneath the Christmas tree I ended up in the emergency room. Turns out that I am deathly allergic to dogs.
With his son unable to find companionship, my father attempted to help the only way he knew how – by inventing me a friend.
The heap of sentient metal terrified me, there was something about the sluggish way that Zorbo’s eyes scanned the room that made me feel quintessentially unsafe, but I knew that if I rejected my father’s gift I would break the man’s heart. After the initial fear of the robot passed, our little family went outside and played catch with Zorbo.
Soon enough word about Zorbo got around the neighborhood. You could have made a 80s sitcom about us, we were the family living in suburbia with a zany robot. Except Zorbo wasn’t very zany.
At first he was the equivalent of a particularly friendly Roomba who could throw around a baseball, but as time went on, and as my mother got sicker, Zorbo’s skillset expanded. Every night, as I lay awake, terrified of the lifeless machine that lived with us, I could see the lights of my father’s workshop burning in the darkness of our backyard. Within months Zorbo could cook and clean and mow the lawn. Every chore that the robot was able to do gave my mother more time to rest and gave my father and me more time to spend with her. But that time was limited.
As she lay on that hospital bed, getting out the few final words that her disease riddled body could muster, Zorbo was there. As me and my father wept and assured my mother that she lived a truly beautiful life, the robot stood in the corner of the room, his flashlight eyes scanning his surroundings. He listened to her last words. He internalized them deep into his circuitry.
For a year the house was a place of inescapable sadness. Every room, every dish, every tiny bit of existence reminded us of the woman who was whisked away by a clump of rouge cells. Even though we were in a state of deep mourning, the house was immaculate and our stomachs were full. As we tried to make sense of the new world we were living in, Zorbo the robot was there to take care of us.
The memory of my mother never faded, decades later a day seldom goes by when I don’t think of her, but as time passed, the daily soul shattering sadness turned into quiet melancholy. Life carried on, my father went back to work for the military, I started grade school, people moved in and out of the neighborhood and eventually the life we once lived as a family became a memory. The only thing that remained constant was Zorbo. He was always there, making sure we were comfortable, serving us and providing an emotional crutch when needed.
That all changed in the summer of 1989 — the summer of the lawnmower.
Cindy, the daughter of our new neighbor across the street, was sitting with me at the living room table outlining a five-paragraph essay on the effects of the 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia. I was trying to do the same, but my hormone addled mind refused to think about Soviet tanks or the crushing of democracy. All I could think about was Cindy. It was the last week of school and I was hopelessly in love.
‘Hey, how do you spell Brezhnev? All of these Soviet names give me a headache,’ she asked, leaning over to my near empty paper. I tried to spell out the name, but the angelic smell of her conditioner made it difficult to concentrate.
‘Zorbo,’ I finally said, giving up on impressing Cindy with my spelling skills, ‘How do you spell Brezhnev?’
‘THANK YOU FOR ASKING, FRIEND.’ The robot’s flashlight eyes spun around in a half circle before he gave his reply. ‘LEONID BREZHNEV, LEADER OF THE SOVIET UNION BETWEEN 1964 AND 1982. L-E-O-N-I-D. B-R-E-Z-H-N-E-V.’
‘Thank you Zorbo!’ Cindy said.
‘YOU ARE WELCOME, FRIEND,’ Zorbo replied. ‘WOULD YOU LIKE MORE SPELLING HELP?’
‘No thank you Zorbo,’ I mumbled. Cindy thought the robot was really neat, and even though my metal house guest still made me uncomfortable I was starting to embrace the benefits of having a sentient machine full of knowledge whirring around the house.
‘Don’t talk too much about the Soviets with Zorbo kids, things might get personal,’ my father said, emerging from the kitchen with a sandwich so precisely cut that it could have only come from a machine. ‘He’s part Russian. I mean most of his circuitry is Japanese, but our metal friend here might still get a bit offended if you don’t tow the Kremlin political line.’
Cindy’s laugh was like a symphony of angels enjoying a wholesome joke. ‘I’ll be sure to keep the politburo in mind when talking to Zorbo, Mr. Carpek,’ she said.
‘Poltiburo, eh?’ my father was impressed, ‘Smart one right here Jimbo. Hold onto her, she can teach you a thing or two.’
I wanted to hold on to her, oh God how I wanted to hold on to her, I wanted to surrender myself to the teen Goddess and scream my undying love for Cindy through my crackling voice chords – but instead I just blushed. My father stifled a grin and changed the topic.
‘By the way, Cindy, send your pops my regards about the new lawn mower. Beauty of a machine he’s got there. If we didn’t have Zorbo here cutting our grass I’d be hounding him for the name of the salesman.’ My father gave Zorbo a friendly pat on his tubular arm and then turned to me, ‘Seen the neighbor’s lawnmower yet Jimbo?’
I shook my head.
‘She’s a beaut!’ He kissed the tips of his fingers like the Italian chefs on TV.
‘I’ll pass on the compliments, Mr. Carpek,’ Cindy said, smiling a smile that could turn Tiananmen Square into Woodstock, ‘I’ll actually do so now, essay is just about done. Thanks for the spelling help Zorbo!’
‘YOU ARE WELCOME, FRIEND.’
I left my unfinished essay behind and followed Cindy to the edge of my front lawn. I had hoped that at some point during the thirty-second walk a burst of bravery would manifest in my chest and I would tell her how I felt. But it didn’t. It never did. I just stood behind our white picket fence watching my one true love skip across the street.
‘Hey Jim!’ Cindy’s dad yelled as he mowed his lawn, ‘Say Hi to your old man for me, will ya?’
‘Sure thing Mr. Clarke!’ I yelled back, ‘Also, my dad sends his compliments about your lawn mower!’
Mr. Clarke’s old machine was a rustling gas-guzzling beast. Whenever his lawn was getting a trim the entire neighborhood would be alerted to the grounds keeping with a jagged metallic screech, but that was no longer the case. The new lawn mower was a tool of sleek metallic shapes and blinking lights that let out nothing but a soft hum as it cut through the grass.
‘Thanks Jim! She’s a beaut, ain’t she?’ Cindy’s dad said before returning to the mowing. I never inherited the fascination with machines that my father had, but watching that machine work away at the greenery I couldn’t help but recognize a hint of hypnotizing aesthetics. Looking at the calculated metallic body of the machine made me feel like I was living in the 21st century, the future had arrived in suburbia.
‘HELLO FRIEND,’ an inhuman voice next to me said, ‘WHAT IS THAT?’
‘That’s a uh, lawnmower,’ I replied, uncomfortable at the idea of how quietly Zorbo could move when he wanted to.
‘LAWN MOWER,’ Zorbo said with an unusual softness in his jagged speech, ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWN MOWER.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘Beautiful lawn mower.’
My father seldom cooked, but when he did he would deliver a symphony of spices that would make you eat yourself into a food coma. Even Zorbo, with all of his circuitry and mechanical precision, couldn’t replicate the mouth-watering flavor of my father’s Bolognese.
Yet as delicious as dinner was that night, I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy the spaghetti. Instead of letting my mind drift away on the gentle notes of paprika I was tied down to reality by my frustrated teenage heart.
‘So,’ he said, ‘Is Cindy seeing someone?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘Don’t think so at least.’
He swallowed another forkful of pasta, and then, with his mouth still full, as if it was a matter of no importance, he asked the question that had been festering in the back of my head for the past three months. ‘You gonna ask her out?’
The butterflies in my stomach informed me that I wouldn’t be eating any more that night. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I’m scared she’ll say no.’
‘It doesn’t matter Jimbo, you’re fourteen,’ my father told me, ‘If she says No you won’t remember it in a couple of years. What you will remember forever is not asking.’
I was a teen; my perception of time barely reached past the end of summer break, yet for a split second I imagined myself at forty, my hairline thinning like my dad’s, eating spaghetti with a child of my own.
‘But I’m nervous, what if she says no?’ I finally asked.
‘You’ll survive,’ he said, ‘I was nervous when I first asked out your mom, and it worked out fine.’
He smiled as he said it, but as soon as he mentioned her, his eyes dimmed. It had been years since she had passed, but certain memories stay as sharp as the day that they were forged. We were sitting in the living room, eating spicy spaghetti, but really we were both back in that hospital room, sitting by the frail body of the woman who was once made my father nervous.
‘Where’s Zorbo?’ He brought the conversation back to reality. ‘Zorbo? Where are you?’
At dinnertime Zorbo would usually be in the kitchen, quietly whirring to himself, waiting for dishes to wash up. But that night the robot wasn’t anywhere to be found. We searched all across the house but our electric servant was gone. It wasn’t until a chance glance out of the window that I saw him.
The moon softly reflected off his metallic body. His flashlight eyes hovered beams of red into the night. Zorbo was staring at Cindy’s house.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWN MOWER,’ his voice was different, it was as if a roughness had been chipped away, as if somewhere within his wiry viscera a hint of emotion existed. ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWN MOWER!’ There was a trace of longing in his voice.
‘Huh,’ my father said, ‘Looks like someone’s blown a fuse. Come here Zorbo, we’ll take you to the garage and figure out what’s up.’ But the robot refused to budge. It wasn’t until my father pulled his tube arms towards the workshop that Zorbo relented and started to move. But even as Zorbo’s blinking body moved away from the street his head remained turned. Those flashlights through which he took in the outside world were aimed straight at Cindy’s house.
‘LOVE IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS,’ Zorbo said. My father froze. That gentle note of humanity in Zorbo’s voice sent a bolt of discomfort through my spine. We recognized those words.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWN MOWER’ Zorbo said again, his artificiality returning.
My father’s face slowly regained its smile. ‘Beautiful lawnmower indeed buddy, let’s get your circuitry checked out.’
There was enough pain medication in her to tare away most of her personality but somewhere in that bony woman there was a semblance of my mother. We sat with her for the last two days of her life, trying to say all the things we would regret not saying and assuring her of what a beautiful life she had lived. Whenever she would sleep I would go make my acquaintance with the soda machine and stroll around the hospital looking for people who had it worse than me. My father talked extensively to whoever would listen about the machines his wife was hooked up to.
Zorbo stood still in the back of the room. He never moved an inch until the hour when she died. It was as if he could tell that the life was seeping out of her, as if the machines that were keeping her alive had told him that she was moving on. As we listened to my mother’s final attempts at speaking Zorbo slid behind us. We stood vigil as a family.
“Love is the only thing that matters,” she said. Zorbo softly whirred next to us as she died.
That night I sat with the memories and tried to make sense of everything. I saw my mom again, I felt that heat in my chest when I thought about Cindy, I could imagine myself as a regretful balding forty-year-old. Love is all that matters. Outside, my father tinkered away in the garage, trying to wipe Zorbo’s circuits of the notion of love, but in my bedroom a fire of teenage passion was burning. I fell asleep trying to compose a monologue that would make Cindy swoon.
‘Hey, were we meant to write a summary of the chapter or just until page 48?’ she asked. I had no idea what she was talking about, all I knew was that we were sitting in our living room and I was about to tell her.
‘I really like you,’ I blurted out. ‘Like, as a person, Cindy, I think you’re pretty cool. But also, I like you as, like, a romantic partner? Like, I think you’re cute and I think about you all the time. I like you. I’m sorry.’
It came out of me like a rushing waterfall, but my face felt like it was the surface of the sun. Her confused look turned up the heat.
‘Uhhh…’ Her eyes kept on fluttering, for a split second she looked a bit like Zorbo if you ever asked him what time it was. ‘I uhhh… I’m sorry too? Because… ummm… I like you as a friend. But… Yeah… No.’
I stared down at my textbook. Leonid Brezhnev was glaring at me from the page.
‘I should go,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll walk you out,’ I said, immediately biting into my cheek.
The walk to the edge of my yard couldn’t have taken longer than thirty seconds, but as we quietly made our way out of the house I aged a decade. My mind was wholly consumed by the sting of rejection, the tragedy of it, the unfairness of it. I was a little boy getting an allergic reaction to a Christmas puppy again, but this time instead of a rash on my skin there was a rash on my heart.
I walked past Zorbo without looking at him. From the whirring of his hand blades I presumed that he was just mowing the lawn.
She didn’t say anything. Cindy just walked across the street and past her front door without a single glance back.
Sure, she apologized a week later, and a couple months down the line I was awe struck with someone else, but in that moment, in that searing moment my world was on fire.
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER’ Zorbo said.
Soil clung to his metallic body. The blades that extended from his hands tore into the ground, shooting bits of earth sprawling across the sidewalk. He stared across the street with the same longing I had in my soul.
‘LOVE IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, as I shuffled off to my room to mope.
My father found Zorbo shortly before the sun set. He walked out calling to the robot about the dirty dishes that had gathered in the sink, but as soon as my father saw his creation digging into the ground his tone changed. He spoke to him in calm, soothing words. The robot had been working like precise clockwork since the day that he was constructed; my father was worried to see his creation descend into glitch-filled madness.
I knew I should have told him as soon as I found the malfunctioning robot, but there were more pressing things on my mind. As my father rolled Zorbo into his workshop my love for Cindy consumed me. The life we could have had if I had just waited, if I had phrased my confession of love differently; snapshots of an alternate reality burned in my mind like an angry film reel.
The visions in my head grew sharper. I didn’t just get rejected by some teenage girl, I got rejected by my future wife. Images of me proposing, of us having our first child, of me sitting by her hospital bed as she died of old age – they squirmed through my mind accompanied by a booming replay of the couple dozen words with which I wiped them from the future. I was one hundred percent sure I had reached my first life-long regret. I writhed with mental discomfort until I couldn’t be alone. The lights were on in my father’s workshop.
‘Dad?’ I asked, standing in the door.
‘Hey Jimbo, sorry, going to skip dinner tonight, think there should still be some Bolognese in the fridge though,’ he said, not looking away from his work. My father’s workshop was always a mess of disparate electronics and scattered tools, but that night all other projects were cleared away to make room for Zorbo. Our robotic family member lay on a wooden table, his sleek metal skin removed, revealing a chaotic mess of wires and computer chips.
‘Was Zorbo acting any different when you came back home from school?’ he asked while digging out a stack of microchips from behind the robot’s eyes with a screwdriver.
‘Yeah, he, uh, was digging a hole in the front yard.’
‘Alright well,’ my father buried the frustration in his voice with a sigh, ‘Next time you see him doing something weird please tell me, alright Jim? Zorbo’s inner workings are very fragile, if something is wrong it needs to be fixed. I don’t want to lose him to some loose wiring.’
‘Sorry dad,’ I said.
He mumbled something and went back to tinkering with the robot’s skull. I was going to leave him to his work, but the sadness in my chest was far too potent for me to be alone. I knew I needed to talk to someone.
‘So I asked Cindy out…’ As soon as the words left my mouth his hands stopped moving.
I didn’t have to say anything. As soon as he turned around he could tell. Before I knew it I was wrapped up in a bear hug with my eyes growing wet.
‘It’s going to be okay Jimbo, there will be plenty others. Proud of you.’
‘Proud of me?’
‘Of course, you put yourself out there and that’s the most important-‘
‘LOVE IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS’
Wires were hanging off of his raw body, his flashlight eyes spun around the room searching for an exit. Zorbo was getting off of the table and moving towards the door. ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER,’ he gargled through a partially dismantled voice box.
‘Zorbo?’ My father let go of me and walked up to the staggering mess of electronics, ‘Where are you going Zorbo?’
‘LOVE IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS,’ Zorbo said, shuffling his way past my father, ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER.’
‘Now, now, Zorbo,’ my father said, grabbing Zorbo’s arm slightly above the mud-caked blades, ‘I think you need to lie down for a bit. There’s something wrong with you and-‘
‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’ Zorbo boomed, as he ripped free of my father’s grip. ‘LOVE IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS!’ He continued walking out of the garage, each step filled with crackling defiance.
‘Zorbo! You stop right this instant!’ my father yelled in a tone that was only familiar to me from early childhood, ‘If you keep behaving like this I will shut you off.’
The robot’s body froze mid-step. He didn’t turn around, but his head did. ‘YOU WANT TO STOP ZORBO FROM LOVE?’
My father gently pushed me aside, placing me away from the disobedient robot. ‘Zorbo,’ he said, his voice growing cold, ‘Come back here and lie down on the table.’
The beams of light focused in on my father. The wiring of Zorbo’s body twisted and turned until they were face to face. The blades on his hands started to spin. ‘YOU WANT TO STOP ZORBO FROM LOVE,’ his voice lowered in volume, it was almost drowned out by the sharp whirring of the mud covered knives, ‘GOODBYE, FRIEND.’
Zorbo’s tubular arm came down like a karate chop on my father’s shoulder. Hot blood splashed all over my face. Pained screams filled my ears. The blades cut through my father’s skin like butter. I could hear the crackling of bones breaking.
Through my father’s throat-tearing agony I could hear a single word come through. “Run!” He wanted his only child to get away from the manic robot that was sawing at his arm. He wanted me to survive. But I couldn’t move an inch. I just stood there, pressed up against the tool cabinet, watching my father be murdered by a robot.
I could see myself running across the street to Cindy’s house. I could see myself trying to explain to a police officer that an unhinged robot killed my dad. I could see myself standing at my father’s funeral, watching the dirt over his casket solidify my status as an orphan.
But I would never actually see my father’s funeral.
Instead I felt the cold steel of a monkey wrench in my hand. I summoned a battle cry from the depth of my lungs. If I let my father die at the hands of a robot I would regret it for the rest of my life.
The adrenalin coursing through my veins gave reality a jagged edge. Everything moved with neck-breaking speed but each time that the blunt object made contact with Zorbo’s wiry brain time dissolved into a short-lived eternity. Zorbo’s intricately woven mind was reduced into a mess of cables. Soon enough my wrench made contact with the floor of the garage. Zorbo was dead.
Everything after that is a blur.
I remember stumbling out into the street covered in blood, barely able to muster up more strength to yell for help. I remember Mr. Clarke holding down a torn shirt over the geyser of blood that was streaming out of my father’s shoulder. I remember sitting in the back of an ambulance, watching my father linger on the edge of life.
For two days I survived on a diet of pop and chocolate from a familiar vending machine. He lost a lot of blood. Even at fourteen I could sense that the doctors were preparing me for the worst. But, miraculously, on the third day, I was allowed to see my dad.
He was weak, desperately weak, but he was alive. All it cost him was his arm. He spent the entire summer in a state of exhausted shock from his creation turning on him, but by the time the fall leaves filled our yard he was outside with a rake, cracking jokes. By Christmas he had a brand new metallic arm courtesy of his workbench. By New Years he was washing dishes. Mr. Clarke was more than happy to give him the number of the lawn mower salesman.
Life carried on. I graduated high-school, moved out of state for university and then continued moving every couple of years depending on where my job took me. I had my fair share of rejection and break-ups but no heartache ever reached the mythical proportions of the rejection of ’89. With all said and done though, my father was right, knowing that I asked and got shot down was considerably easier to live with than having to wonder what could have been.
I grew into an adult and my father shrunk into an old man. He continued to do work for the army well into old age but as time went on he was phased out by younger minds that were more in touch with modern tech. In retirement my father continued to tinker with electronics and built himself contraptions to help him with the tasks that old age made difficult, but eventually, as tremors set into his human hand and age chipped away at his human brain he stopped coming to his workshop.
I found myself thinking about his funeral again, but this time it wasn’t just a panicked snapshot forced into my head by a frenzied robot servant, this time I knew that somewhere down the line I would be standing in a church trying to summarize what the man meant to me in a speech to his old coworkers and family who I hadn’t seen for years.
But I never did. I never saw my father’s funeral.
The fact that I belong to a whole generation of people who were robbed of a funeral makes the pain sting less. There were plenty of other children of the 80s who lost their parents during the pandemic of ’20 who didn’t have weekly Skype calls with their fathers, who had unresolved issues, who had fallen out of touch. But knowing that I’m not the only one who lost a parent during the corona outbreak only lessens the pain slightly. The thought of him dying alone, feverish, connected to a respirator he could have built in his workshop, still cuts into my heart with fiery force.
By the time I was able to travel back to my hometown the house had been empty for months. I walked through the rooms and wept as the memories washed over me. Even though I was filled with sorrow, there was a catharsis to it all. The two people who had brought me into the world were gone, but they gave me the tools to survive in it, they shaped the person who mourned them. Each room was filled with evidence that I was loved, and I have it on good authority that love is important.
But my father’s workshop was different.
When I turned on the lights I wasn’t reminded of the afternoons I spent keeping my father company while he worked on his projects, or of all the toys that my father built me when I was a kid. No, there were no memories at all.
All I could focus on was the object hidden beneath a bed-sheet in the center of the room.
A part of me wanted to turn around and leave whatever my father’s final project was a mystery, but I knew myself well enough to know that the question of what was hidden beneath the bed-sheet would steal sleep away from me forever. I gripped my hand around the cloth and pulled.
It was the same lawn mower that Mr. Clarke had back in the 80s. Its over-the-top impression of the future seemed nearly comical by modern standards, but there was something attached to its sleek metallic frame that chilled me to my middle-aged core. Two red flashlights focused on me.
‘LOVE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING,’ Zorbo’s voice box whispered out of the core of the machine, ‘BEAUTIFUL LAWNMOWER!’
(Zorbo's insatiable hunger)
submitted by MikeJesus to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.10.07 16:38 g8billy Hidden fingering teen

My version of the fnaf timeline (part 2) 1987: the second MCI ; the bite of 87 and the gameplay of FNAF 4
(not a typo; you’ve read that right)
To avoid any of the issues they faced in their previous locations Fazbear Entertainment decided to go all out with their new animatronics making them more family friendly and equipping them with facial recognition software (this was probably Henry’s doing since he’s probably the only one in the company who has a sense of decency ) but unfortunately yet again things don’t work the way they’re suppose to as William manages to kill yet another 5 children causing the toy animatronics to get possessed and the location to be shut down for investigation ;forcing William to flee town and leave the dayshift security open for ‘’Jeremy Fitzgerald ‘’ (we’ll talk about him soon ) to take ; however the latter gets bitten on his first day ;and the event becomes known as the bite of 87 causing the company to cease any free roaming activity for the animatronics during daytime.
Now onto the big elephant in the room ; my claim that fnaf 4’s gameplay takes place 1987 ;I’m pretty sure that almost 90% of you right now are typing how I’m wrong and that fnaf 4 takes place in 1993 ;but just stick around and I might give you a different perspective .
First let’s start with what we know ; we know that we play as Mike afton the evidence to that being that he drew nightmare Fredbear in the survival logbook after being asked about recent dreams and the fact that golden freddy asks him ‘’was your favorite childhood toy a plastic purple telephone ? ‘’ ; there’s also the fact one of the fnaf 1 phone calls plays backwards during fnaf 4 and the Nightmare Foxy teaser that when brightened says '’out of order’’ ; these last two pieces of information are what led most theorists to believe that fnaf 4’s gameplay takes place during fnaf 1 ; and you know what? This is a completely sound and compelling argument ; however there are two problems with it ;one it does not explain the iv bag; the flowers and the pills on Mike’s Bedroom and it also doesn’t explain the presence of nightmare BB who is confirmed to be canon by Scott.
Now what proof do I have that fnaf 4 (the main game) takes place in 1987? Well for starters the nightmare teasers had the numbers 87 repeated in the source code; and speaking of the backward phone message easter egg ; it only plays one particular phone message from fnaf 1 ; the first one which talks about the bite of 87 ; and then there’s nightmare BB , ever since he was revealed to be canon in fnaf 4 no one was able to explain why ; some theorized that Michael had nightmares of him because of how similar he looks to the SL animatronics however that explanation doesn’t work since Michael didn’t have any nightmares about the other SL characters which were far scarier and deadlier .So what is my explanation to him? Well let’s go back to fnaf 2 and the birthday party in which the bite of 87 took place ; we know for a fact that Mangle is the culprit of the bite since she’s the only one(among the toy animatronics ) with a big enough jaw to fit a human head in it ; we also know that the victim is most likely ‘’Jeremy Fitzgerald’’.
But here’s a question that nobody cared to ask ‘’how did Mangle manage to catch Jeremy off guard? ‘’ well since Jeremy probably monitored the toy animatronics in the same way he did in his night shift; let’s look at the in-game mechanics .we know that Mangle attacks the player by climbing on the ceiling and taking you by surprise ; this happens only if you don’t check the vents and put the mask on ; OR if Ballon boy manages to get in your office disabling the vent lights and your flashlight ; now taking the second scenario into account let’s go to fnaf 4 ‘s Halloween edition you have 3 new characters of which only one has been deemed canon (Nightmarionne ; nightmare Mangle and nightmare BB) ;Jeremy wouldn’t know the appearance of the puppet for obvious reasons ; and since Mangles attack relies on the element of surprise Jeremy didn’t see her coming ; but since Ballon boy doesn’t attack you in fnaf 2 but rather disables your flashlight there’s high chance that Jeremy saw him .I think you can probably tell where I’m going with this so I’ll just say it ‘’Jeremy Fitzgerald’’ is nothing more than an alias used by Michael Afton ; unfortunately thought there’s one huge problem with this theory mainly the fact that someone whose lost his frontal lobe should not be capable of emotions such as fear nor would he have the ability to multitask like we see in fnaf 4 ;heck losing your frontal lobe would completely impair your motor functions (the motor cortex is part of the frontal lobe) making the gameplay of fnaf 4 in every way impossible .So is that it ? Did science thwart my timeline ? this time it almost did ; hadn’t it been for a detail that Scott presented in fnaf 6 in the form of joke .What am I talking about ?The insanity ending from fnaf 6 .
After uncovering Henry’s secret recording you get an ending in which F.E fires you and gives an ‘’insanity certificate’’(which is just a funny way of saying ‘’fake medical records that accuse you of mental health disorders’’) so that ‘no one believe you’ but it’s the last picture that matters the most

Lobotomy ? As in the surgical procedure that involves severing connections in the FRONTAL LOBE?

It seems clear as day from this ending that F.E is not beneath using underhanded and illegal methods to protect their business ; so who’s to say that they didn’t do the same with the bite of 87 ?Now don’t get me wrong here I’m not saying that the bite was staged (not this time) or that it didn’t happen ; I’m saying that the result of the injury was fabricated by F.E ; ‘’why would they do that ?’’ you might be asking .Well keep in mind that ‘’Jeremy’’ was still working at Freddy’s by the time the 2nd MCI happened ;that makes him a subject to interrogation ; keep also in mind that he was informed at night 5 that the previous day shift security guard (William; a prime suspect to the previous MCI) has conveniently quit his job just as the investigation started (at this point it’s clear to F.E that William is the culprit to the 2 MCIs ;they just don’t the info to get out) ; if ‘’Jeremy’’ were to reveal that last bit of info in the interrogation it would not only be over for William but also to F.E since I’m pretty sure that harboring a child murderer wouldn’t give you exactly a good reputation as brand marketed specifically towards children ; so their plan was to either
A- bribe ‘’Jeremy ‘’ into keeping his mouth shut until they fire him or …
B- Like in fnaf 6 fake some documents that would make his word unreliable .
But as you can tell ,once again the unexpected happens (this time in their favor) and Jeremy gets injured in the line of work ;which gives the company the perfect opportunity to go with plan B ; so they pay off the hospital to make them documents stating that Jeremy underwent frontal lobe removal surgery (I forgot to mention that losing the frontal lobe impairs your speech capability) making him unsuitable for interrogation (I mean how would interrogate someone who’s so brain damaged he’s practically a ‘vegetable’ ) .
Add all of that to the previously mentioned iv bag and pills ; the 87 code in the teasers and the backwards fnaf 1 call and it becomes almost undeniable that not only does fnaf 4 take place 1987 but also that Mike and Jeremy are one and the same .
Now that we got that out of the way let’s talk about the nightmare animatronics specifically why do they all (the canon ones) have 5 fingers and 4 toes ? And just what is Nightmare supposed to be ?
Some people assumed that the five fingers are just the an inaccurate recreation of the animatronics in Mike’s mind however that’s not true in the slightest since Mike is shown in the survival logbook to have somewhat of a photographic memory by his accurate drawing of nightmare Fredbear ; and speaking of which in that same page the logbook states that humans forget about 50% of their dreams in just 5 minutes after they wake yet we see that Michael drew an accurate depiction of nightmare fredbear despite fnaf 4 taking place in 1987 ;so it seems there’s more to these nightmare animatronics than what meets the eye ; and since we’re on the subject of the logbook how does golden freddy know so much about Mike’s childhood considering that we established that BV is not an Afton ? and what does he mean by ‘’do you have dreams?’’ does he know that Mike is undead ?
The answer to all these questions come courtesy of UCN ; and specifically a line said by nightmare Freddy ‘’I am remade but not by you ;by the one you should not have killed ‘’ ; we know that the remake nightmare Freddy is talking about here is the Funtime version of Freddy since he’s manufactured by Afton Robotics and we know that TOYSHK is referring to golden Freddy; so this means that the nightmare animatronics aren’t created by Mike’s mind while recovering from the bite of 87 but rather by golden Freddy who’s trying to finish him (Michael) off thinking that he’s William ; notice that on night 5 nightmare fredbear is the only one after you and none of the others show up ;it’s because they were pawns controlled from the shadows and when the puppet master decides to handle you personally they are unnecessary ;and when that proved to be futile he decided to mix it up ;and in the time he spent in Mikes mind he managed to see his memories (even the ones he –Michael- doesn’t remember) because MAGIC GHOST POWERS !!!! And realized that Michael isn’t William (this revelation probably happened halfway through night 7 because he’s clearly shown that GF was still trying to kill Michael in the first 3 hours ) causing him (GF) to have a severe case of ‘’Oopsie daisy’’ (the symptoms of which are constant face palming ) and for him to assume the form of Nightmare (one of two black and yellow bears whose jumpscare is a static image that doesn’t end with a game over ) which also explains the famous line of ‘’it’s me’’ and the 1987 easter egg in fnaf 1 which involves golden Freddy.
Michael eventually recovers from the bite of 87 (according to Google recovery time from traumatic brain injuries for most people ranges between 3 an 6 months ) and goes back to the fnaf 2 locations because you know …his objective from all of this is to free the spirits ;unfortunately however he can’t work there as ‘’Jeremy’’ because the latter is now medically unsuitable for the job ; he decides to work there under the name ‘’Fritz smith’’(apparently Mike knew the names of his father’s victims) and is later fired for tampering with the animatronics and his odor .
1993 : GF helps Mike recover his memory and phone guy dies
Freddy Fazbear’ s pizza reopens in the old 1985 location after 6 years of closing featuring the renewed models of the of the original mascot however due to their bad reputation the restaurant didn’t do well causing it to close down by year’s end .
Phone guy takes the position of night guard and dies on his last week of the job .
Michael gets the job afterwards and is given the security logbook in which he and GF have an interesting conversation.
Now hear me out here what I’m about to say next is gonna sound extremely outrageous (Ah ;who am I kidding almost everything in this timeline is gonna cause outrage) because it contradicts already established facts but I can promise that I have evidence to back my claim ; so what am I trying to say ?
By reading through it the first time it becomes clear that purpose of the book was to reveal the name of golden Freddy and while that is true ;after taking a closer look at the book I don’t think it happened the way we thought .I explained before how golden freddy knows so much about Mike but what I didn’t explain was these lines ‘’ the party was for you’’ ‘’it was for me’’ ‘’what do you remember’’ and ‘’do you remember your name ‘’ (most theorists figured that the first two lines could only mean that golden freddy has two spirits however I don’t think that’s the only possible explanation ).
The last line ‘’do you remember your name’’ is extremely important since at the beginning of the book Mike seems to have crossed his name and in the word search golden freddy asks ‘’who are you’’ ‘’ what is your name’’ ;so does that mean that Michael isn’t our protagonist’s real name ? most of you would answer ‘’well of course it’s his name he says in the SL custom night ending cutscene and his name tag on hand unit says Mike’’ ;however if you examine the last part (the name tag ) from a logical and storytelling point it really doesn’t make any sense ; for the following reasons :
A- This is the first time our character has been to the establishment. How do we know that ? Because Hand unit (the AI) welcomes us to the ‘’first day ‘’ of our exiting new career ; meaning that the name tag was likely left in there by the previous security guard the ‘’dead body’’ that angsty teen was referring to .
B- You’d probably counter the first argument by saying that it was probably the management who put the name tag on ; however that explanation doesn’t work either because what purpose would that serve ? does the name have to be written as ‘’Mike’’ because there isn’t enough space for ‘’Michael’’? I don’t think so ; because there’s clearly enough space for a seven letter name and last I checked ‘’Michael’’ is exactly seven letters long .(you see what I mean?)
As for the Sister location custom night ending ; it is true that our character refers to himself as ‘’Michael’’ but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s his name ;why would I think that? Well read this interesting bit of dialogue from Henry in fnaf 6 ‘’Connection terminated ;I’m sorry to interrupt you Elizabeth if you still even remember that name’’ what we can understand from this is that getting resurrected in the fnaf universe causes partial amnesia so it’s possible that our protagonist suffers from the same thing (it’s clearly that’s what the logbook is hinting at ).
So if our character’s name isn’t ‘’Mike’’ then what’s his name ? Well there are 3 hints in the logbook that can help us find his name and more importantly explain the two lines ‘’the party was for you’’ and ‘’it was for me’’.
At the beginning (the 3rd page to be more specific) the logbook asks us to ‘’take a moment for self-reflection by completing the various activities in the pages that follow’’ ; the use of the word self-reflection is rather specific and very intentional here ;why? Because on page 59 there’s mirror and mirrors represent our reflections ; but it’s not the mirror it’s the placement of the mirror that’s important ;right next to the word search but the most upfront piece of evidence is in the ‘’my name’’ code ; throughout the logbook we see that golden freddy has written my name in a handful of pages sometimes he alters the numbers or changes their color (which btw proves that it’s the same person speaking in the altered text and faded text ;meaning that there is only one spirit ) and of those pages one stands out to me page 32 labeled as 39 in it the logbook asks our protagonist(whom the logbook recognizes as Mike) what his life would look like in 5 years and in response he drew a tombstone which reflects his desire to die but that’s not what’s important is that golden freddy wrote ‘’my name’’ inside of the drawing out of all places . At this point I think I’m confusing all of you so let me just say it :
‘’what if the name we found in the word search wasn’t Golden Freddy’s but rather the protagonists real name ? ‘’ think about it .Why do you think that GF asks questions like ‘’who are you’’ and ‘’ what is your name ‘’ in the word search where you get the name ‘’Cassidy’’ if not to suggest that it is our protagonists name which is further supported by the picture mirror right on the next page in which golden freddy asks ‘’ what do you see ‘’; mirrors represent our reflection ; they are symbolic for identity and if you still don’t believe then page 32 is outright confirming it ;as I said the logbook asks our protagonist what his life would look like in 5 years and in response he drew a tombstone ;remember that he is known in the logbook and by F.E as ‘’Mike Schmidt’’; meaning that the name in the tombstone should read ‘’Michael Schmidt’’ and we see that golden freddy has written ‘’My name ‘’ in the exact spot where the aforementioned pseudonym should be ; ‘’Michael ‘’ is the name of the soul that inhabits Golden freddy (to think that the first name we’ve ever been introduced to in these games also happens to be the identity of the one of the most mysterious character in the franchise …Oh the irony) and that means our protagonist’s real isn’t ‘’Mike’’ but rather Cassidy (I’m just gonna call him ‘’Cass’’ from now on );and this explains the lines ‘’ the party was for you’’ ‘’it was for me’’ ; the fnaf 4 party was for a boy named Michael and according to the logbook’s second page the name of the current book owner is ‘’Mike’’ thus the line ‘’ the party was for you’’is technically true and when the twist has been revealed and the veil has been lifted golden freddy twists that line and writes ‘’it was for me’’.
Cass continues to work in the pizerria under the name ‘’Mike schmidt’’ and attempts to free the spirits but is unsuccessful and gets fired once again for tampering with the animatronics and his foul odor (seriously Cass use a deodorant or something; geez…) .
Sometime after 1993:the rise of Springtrap
After the pizzeria closed down William returns to the establishment and dismantles the animatronics after luring them into the safe room ;this causes the souls of dead children to be set free *temporarily* (just a mini theory here I don’t think those are the actual souls of the kids but rather an illusion created by GF ; the reason I think is because remnant can only be destroyed by fire as shown in fnaf 6 and because of a particular line said by Nightmare Fredbear ‘’this time there is more than an illusion to fear’’ ) and attack William causing to hide in the Springlock ; his laughter and the rain causes the springlocks losen up and William gets Springtrapped .
2023:Fazbear frights the horror attraction
Cass gets a job in at Fazbear Frights and find his father(or at least what’s left of him) in there ; he sets the place of fire hoping to kill the both of them and end the tragedy(you could make argument that it’s Henry who burned the place down or even the puppet since we see her physically present in there on the cameras but honestly it doesn’t matter) but unfortunately it doesn’t as they have both survived .
Meanwhile in the sewers Baby and Ennard have a falling out causing the latter to eject her from the group creating Scrap baby and Molten freddy .
20XX : Everything Burns down
Henry after learning about all of William’s atrocities (including SL) conjures up a plan to put an end to the madness ;so he buys F.E (the company) ;retrieves the dismanteled animatronics from the fnaf 1 location (the atmosphere of last picture in the survival logbook of broken Chica looks very similar to the one in the fnaf 6 salvaging room) ; sets up a pizzeria to lure William and the funtime animatronics ;and builds lefty to trap the puppet (Charlotte) and bring her to the establishement .
Cass somehow manages to figure out Henry’s plan and helps him by becoming a Franchisee and completing the tasks left by Henry in paragraph 4 (Cassidy as a name means curly haired but it also means ‘’clever ‘’ ) .
And at the end Henry pulls a ‘’Jiggsaw’’ and burns everything to the ground which frees all of the spirits and sends William to hell where Michael once a crying child now a vengeful spirit creates ‘’UCN’’ a torture place designed solely for William where he gets killed over and over again ;but after a while he (Michael ) is confronted by old man consequence (the gate keeper of hell?) who encourages him to ‘’leave the demon to his demons ‘’ and free his own soul ; Michael obliges and leaves William to burn in hell ; and remains a restless spirit in the fnaf 6 location but is then met by his friends including Charlotte and together they celebrate the birthday party that was taken from them so many years ago ; and then depart to the afterlife.
20XX: Fazbear entertainment reborn
After the apparent death of Henry following the events of fnaf 6 the original owners of Fazbear entertainment take back ownership of the company and decide to rebrand so to get rid of their bad reputation they hire an indie game developer to design games based on the tragic events that transpired years ago then pretended that all the stories about the company were nothing but the imagination of that developer ( double-cross!!!) they even tried to paint William(who they know to be the murderer) as the benevolent creator of the animatronics (in the Faz-Facts) which is total BS.
And make their scheme more believable they got a developing team to make a vr game and ar game to poke fun at those stories and being the stingy company we know they used the hardware they managed to salvage from the fnaf 6 location specifically a circuit board that belonged to springtrap (oy vey…) to make their VR experience which unleashes William now Glitchtrap in the game who brain washes Vanessa a beta tester into becoming his successor .
Le END .
PS:
On a side note I’m just gonna explain a few things that I couldn’t get into in detail :
A- The order of the murders .Yes I know that withered Chica said in UCN that she was the first ;however the other half of that voice line ‘’I have see everything’’ is extremely important to understand the context of that line if she were the first to be killed then that would contradict Henry’s line in fnaf 6 ‘’…not until I undo what he has done and heal his wound; a wound first inflicted on me’’ and if you think ‘’well that just means that she was the first MCI victim’’ however that’s not possible either the fnaf 1 news paper clippings state William’s first victims were two children that he lured simultaneously into the safe room and we know that they are ‘’Gabriel ‘’ and ‘’Jeremy’’ since they have the same font in the lore keeper ending ;that means that Susie wasn’t the first MCI victim but rather the first one to be revived which explains ‘’I have seen everything’’.
B- If William wasn’t the crying child’s father then why can’t we see the latter’s parents. This can be explained by the children (Michael ;toy girl and foxy bro) only having one parent/legal guardian who has a full time job and as a result they leave the eldest ;the foxy bro to look after his siblings .
C- The white sprites in the foxy go go and save them aren’t dead bodies but rather the spirits of the children this proven by the fact that the same white sprites are shown to appear and disappear at will in fnaf 3’s night 5 minigame and fnaf 2’s give gifts give life .
D- For those of you who are skeptical about Fazbear entertainement hidding Michael’s(the crying child) body in the safe room ask yourselves this ‘’what exactly happened to the dead bodies of the second MCI ?’’ obviously they weren’t stuffed inside the toy animatronics so what happened to them ? the obvious answer would be that they were hidden in the safe room by William ; but if that’s the case then why weren’t they uncovered by the investigation ? If there’s anything to learn about F.E from this franchise it’s that they will go to any lengths to protect their business regardless of the consequences .
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2020.09.24 21:07 ThemThorntons Hidden teen fingering

“I wish you’d just fucking die.”

The boy’d already stamped his way up half of the narrow steps leading to his angled attic room by the time the curse left his sneering face. It was but a half-breath later that he heard the desperate gurgle and wheeze of his mother down there in the family room, and by the time he came bounding down and arrived at her side she was already dead, spittle and froth caking the corners of her carping mouth. The funeral was mercifully short and sweet. She was disliked by most and had few friends. Scant family was in attendance, scanter tears shed in her honor. Her own son was not among that demonstrative minority and—though he obsessed day and night, wondering if his muttered curse could have somehow supernaturally triggered her death—any guilt he felt was but a shallow pang at finding that he missed her not at all. Not one bitching bit. He couldn’t even remember what it was that precipitated the fight that led to her enigmatic expiration (it was always something) and in truth the days had passed much smoother and quieter with the truculent nag dead and buried—though the nights were less solid in their footing; his callous father’s already prodigious drinking had been rationalized and justified to dizzying heights in the wake of the harpy’s mysterious and most convenient demise. So in the following weeks as his father disappeared into the bottle only to surface in unannounced fits of Mephistophelean angst, the boy brought himself after much consideration to experiment with this newfound power by conveying that simple string of words to whatever unsuspecting small animals crossed his path, starting with an errant backyard squirrel and progressing to a ratty, tailless alley cat before eventually making a subject of the neighbor’s aging, swayback beagle… but all still stood after he said the heinous words. He began to ponder the mechanics of this mysterious, theoretical gift (if it did indeed exist, as he felt and hoped it did)—how it appeared that only a creature of higher intelligence might comprehend the lethality of the language. Having failed with such lesser forms, he one day braved the gauntlet of commuters and bums and ratchets on the public bus line for a truant trip to the city zoo, and after staring long and hard into the eyes of that most intelligent and chromosomally adjacent of primates, the chimpanzee, the boy finally looked both ways and back over his shoulder once more before stating the deadly phrase to the most cognizant of the troop. He held his breath, waited for the hairy humanoid to drop but… nothing. Perhaps there was no power coursing through him after all, he thought... perhaps it was just the cruelest of cosmic coincidences that his mother was struck down and dead a mere moment after he’d wished aloud for that very event to transpire. On the bus ride home following the failed experiment at the zoo the boy’s eyes fell on a slumbering homeless man and he thought of trailing the wayward vagabond, once awake, to his surely wretched flop where the boy would corner him and state the damning words before running off when his suspicions were confirmed by the old mendicant collapsing to the ground in a gasping, gesticulating heap of soiled linens and atrophied limbs. But no... after once more surveying the bored, sullen faces that populated the bus he decided the hour was not right, the eyes too many. In the meantime the boy attended school by way of corners and shadows and spoke to hardly a soul and even then only if spoken to. During this period of macabre deduction he stuck to back halls and alleys between classes and on the trek to and fro, careful to avoid the husky, meat-eating bully who’d leveled crosshairs on him since the previous summer. He had no idea what it was that provoked the brute to single him out that sweltering August day, only that he was once randomly confronted and had been most days since. And though he would still quickly turn back ‘round a corner or slink between the teeming after-school busses when he saw the swinish punk loping around with his perpetually cocked fist and too-big lips, he secretly fantasized about uttering the same venomous words that precipitated his mother’s otherwise unexplainable widowermaker of a heart attack (according to the befuddled coroner’s report). The rumors were already swirling around his school and neighborhood: “Hey, did you hear? They say the freak poisoned his own mom.” Oh, that particular dirty deed had crossed his mind a time or two, make no mistake. He went so far as to open and peer into the cupboard below the kitchen sink on more than one occasion, taking inventory of the chemicals below and even reading up on them online in the deep dark reaches of the night in an attempt to find the ideal slow killer solvent to be doled out in perfectly miniscule, undetectable increments until they compounded in her body and led her to expire frothing on the floor—an effect he’d somehow seemingly willed into existence without so much as a single drop of poison stirred into her sweet tea which often sat on the counter long unattended. As for the impenitent ogre who haunted the halls and alleys and tormented the boy for the better half of a school year, even after the death of the victim’s mother, he was to meet his maker or the void of nothingness soon enough. It was a Tuesday and the wind blew cold and cutting that fateful afternoon when the bully stepped out from behind a leaning dry-rot garage and hemmed the boy in where the alley met the street, giving the slight teen no passage, shoving him into the overflowing trashcans of the Hmong family that slept six to a room in the corner house with their unmowed lawn that caught breeze-blown fast food litter like flies in a silken web. The monstrosity snatched the slender boy from the strewn, stinking garbage and heaved him mightily into a garage and it was at the foot of its rattling bay door that the boy looked up through eyes bleary with tears and seethed through grit teeth: “I wish you’d just fucking die!” The bully complied. His eyes rolled back into his head as his bastard heart seized. That insolent, thick-lipped mouth watered and frothed as if the brute had broken open a hidden secret chamber in a false tooth and swallowed its deadly contents rather than spill precious secrets—but there was no drug at play here, no secrets to protect—and though still unexplained a phenomenon as it was, this was a moment of confounding confirmation: the boy could indeed slay with words, as evidenced not only in the death of his mother following that most malicious pronouncement but now this hulking, convulsing asshole at his feet. He sprinted the three blocks home on legs swifter than any he’d ever known, buoyed and supercharged by the testimony of his dark power. It was real. He could do it. He had killed his mother, and now his chief antagonizer; both felled by highly unlikely and medically inexplicable acute heart attacks. But toxicology reports and autopsies saw no external agents at work in either death, and though the authorities liked neither his look nor demeanor they could do nothing more than question and release the young psychopath, who more than held his own under their glaring interrogatory lights. Despite the compounding rumors (“he’s a ninja assassin, he trained in Japan on foreign exchange”—“no he’s a witch”—“no I heard from this guy my cousin goes to school with that the freak sold his soul to Satan”), the boy found he now walked the halls proper and held his head high as he did so, no longer did he relegate and exile himself to second class citizenry in that inconsequential temple of social inbreeding they called Grover Cleveland High… for he now held the power. They didn’t have to like him, or respect him, or even treat him with common human dignity for he and he alone had the capacity to quietly, effortlessly kill them all—and as he mulled over the possibility inspiration struck in the form of a flyer advertising the school’s sixteenth annual student talent show. He signed up, and when the brace-faced snob overseeing the roster smirked at the sight of his scribbled “Stand Up Comedy” in the “Talent” column, the boy simply smiled back—for he knew the real joke was soon to play out and it would be on her and all the rest of them too. They were doomed, and their ignorance of this fact he found utterly delicious. In the weeks leading to the show, he kept his nose clean at school and avoided his father at home. He’d taken to breaking into half-built houses in an emerging subdivision down Plank Road, vandalizing them by way of graffiti, broken windows, piss and shit. Late one night he fell under the gaze of an interloping spotlight through a shattered window and arched his back at the stern policeman’s voice that ordered him to “come out of the residence with your hands behind your head.” He did just that, and as the officer fished in his pockets and procured identification the boy felt a sudden urge at further experimentation. He wanted to shorten the command, if possible, and wondered if it would have the same destructive effect if he did so. No time like the present, he thought, as he issued a singular, truncated mandate: “Die.” The constable immediately did as told, as had the others who succumbed to the longform command. His mouth frothed, pupils suddenly disappeared to take stock of the inner workings of his skull and he dropped to the ground so suddenly and at such an angle that his thighbone snapped and tore through both the meat of his leg and his navy blue trousers. The boy stood there, feeling like an old world God of plagues and thunder and floods and his eyes went from the astonishingly white exposed bone and seeping blood to the holstered pistol on the felled officer’s hip. He thought of taking it, but then laughed aloud—what use did a God have for a pistol? The big day arrived. The Grover Cleveland High Talent Show. Following a tackless strip mall boy band and several middling dance crews the boy’s showtime moment had come. His name was called and as he ascended the stage’s aluminum-sheathed steps a rousing murmuration ripped through the crowd like wildfire. “The freak’s doing comedy! Can you imagine?!” He toyed with them at first—before he spoke a single word he stepped to the microphone and adjusted it for height and lingered there, allowing the crowd to continue to sneer and gossip and shift in their seats in blithe anticipation. His eyes scoured the faces, fell on and singled out a handful… there was glacier-eyed Kelly March, a girl he’d had a crush on for four years, since the sixth grade. And Mister Hurd, the barrel-chested gym teacher and rugby coach who routinely shamed him for not dressing out in the boy’s locker room; and there was Miss Allen, the English teacher who once offered kind words of encouragement when he wrote a poem about a fishing trip with his grandfather. He would be sorry to see her go, but this needed to be done. They were, for the most part, a sea of assholes and imbeciles and he figured the world would not miss them at all. Not one bitching bit. He cleared his throat. The crowd fell silent, captivated by the thought of this heretofore seemingly tongueless freak who haunted the back halls trying his hand at humor. Little did they know, it was but a single word he would utter— “Die.” It was comedy at its finest, he thought: set-up and punchline and tag all rolled into one, and as soon as he said the word the crowd went into stitches. For a fleeting moment it actually looked as if they were indeed laughing in unison, so closely did the dance of death resemble that most inarticulate act. But no, they were not laughing. They were dying. In droves—boys, girls, men and women… hundreds of them there in the auditorium, capitulating to his savage command like frothing rabid animals. And then he saw them: half a row of bewildered, horrified faces… The deaf kids. They’d escaped his wrath, not because they were any less intelligent than their dying peers, but simply because they did not hear the command that carried it. Whatever metaphysical work was at play, it relied on auditory perception and thus the severely hard of hearing and the fully deaf were spared. Looking to the right side of the stage he found that their interpreter, however, was not. This was a turn of events he’d not accounted for in his fantasies of mass murder. Panicked, the boy fled. It was not long before they were at the door of his home, the stormtroopers, and he was driven downtown in the back of a paddy wagon with his wrists zip-tied and his murderous mouth plugged with a leather-strapped ball gag. The police of course were familiar with the boy by way of the previous two deaths (though they had not yet fingered him in the mysterious fatality of one of their own), and when a deaf girl who was particularly skilled at the reading of lips told the police her account of the tragedy at Grover Cleveland, they made sure to silence him one way or another when they came for him. Black-hearted, calculating, capable of great evil—the boy was all of these things, but stupid he was not. Once the ball was removed and officers interrogated him with their ears plugged he knew better than to admit to anything, let alone say the deadly words. There was nothing they could do with him, no legal precedent set for such a supernatural occurrence let alone a standard charge to file and thus he was released into the custody of his inebriated father within twenty-four hours. As soon as the front door was closed and the tumblers fell he instructed his worthless, bottle-swimming father to die and the man promptly did so. The boy stepped over his convulsing body and up the narrow stairs to his room as he had after the fight with his mother that started it all. Once there, he fired up his computer and sat down before it and logged onto Chatroulette. The bodies dropped like leaves from a dying tree; an endless revolving door of new faces, new ears to inform with his now singular mantra of death. He grew bored with it, and instead used his web camera to record and upload a simple backlit five-second clip of him uttering “die” to the world. It took a day or so before it went viral, and as it did he sat and drank the last of his father’s cheap vodka and watched the video’s views climb like some sick, runaway stock in a bull market of death. Hundreds, then thousands before the warnings hit—this was no hoax. Once it was common knowledge, a hot ticket item on the twenty-four hour news cycle, they were back at the door. Pounding, firing pellets of teargas through windows as he’d once hurled rocks through those of the half-built houses off Plank Road. With stinging eyes and searing lungs he made his way down out of the attic and into the bathroom where he stared at his reflected countenance as the chaos built around him and the last thing he heard, other than the splintering of the door as the black booted SWAT team breached it, was his own seething voice aimed at the young man in the mirror: “Die.” 
submitted by ThemThorntons to stayawake [link] [comments]


2020.09.24 05:51 joshuawaggoner90 Teen fingering hidden

[Worstverse] Hello readers, my name is Travis and I've started this blog to share with all of you my experiences at Worst Hotel. For the most part it can be said that this story begins with me staggering drunk and broke down a poorly lit but richly littered New York street. Having lost every penny I had to my name in a poker game only about an hour before hand, along with the title to my car and my leather jacket. I had been attempting to check into hotel after hotel, looking for a place to escape the chilling fall night air. To my bad fortune they all demanded a credit card before allowing me to book a room. This put a damper on my plan to crash and dash at the crack of dawn.

I was approaching the end of the street and only one flashing neon sign remained. "Worst Hotel- Vacancy", it read. "Worst Hotel? Why would anyone... Well, fuck it. I'll sleep in the damn lobby if I have to." The peculiar name doing little to deter me, I marched the rest of the way to the door and flung it open, causing a loud brass jiggle bell to clang an ear splitting herald of my arrival. The noise seemed to clang on and on with no hint of quieting. Over the racket I heard an annoyed voice yell from further into the building, "Cut that shit out!" and with that the ringing ceased instantly with not so much as an echo. Across the room I was able to identify the source of the voice. At the end of the lobby was the main desk nestled into recess in the wall, manned by what appeared to be two young men in their late teens, both looking at me with mild irritation. One was tall and skinny with greasy black hair that almost covered his eyes. The other was short and chubby with thick, curly red hair that sat unkempt over a noticeably large forehead.

"What the shit is wrong with that door bell?!" I aggressively inquired at the two boys.

"Nothing's wrong with it." The tall boy answered shortly.

"Yeah, how would you feel if you were minding your own business and some jackass kicked a door into your face? Probably raise all kinds of hell wouldn't you?" The short one added.

"I... What?" I replied in confusion. "It's just a door bell."

"Just a door bell, he says." The tall boy mocked to the shorter one, which caused them both to chuckle for a moment before the tall one continued, "Do you want something?"

"Do I want someth-, yeah, I want a room you greasy prick!" I spat.

Rolling his eyes, the taller of the two turned around and grabbed a key off the wall behind him and hurled it at me like a major league pitcher. I ducked as the keyring flew past my head, smashing into the wall behind me before clattering to the floor. As I glared at him, anger burning in my gaze, he dismissed me with a gentle, twinkley wave of his fingers and a triumphant smirk on his face. The shorter one was now laughing hysterically. As I bent down to begrudgingly pick up the key I read the room number on its tag. The tag itself was an ornate brass oval, aged in just such a way as to only accentuate its beauty. The tag's number was apparently expertly engraved by hand which matched to room 257.

Not wanting to ruin the good luck of having someone literally throw a room key at me before asking for a credit card, I made a B line for the elevator to the right of the desk. As I pressed the call button I turned towards the front dest and noticed that from in front of the elevator doors they were just out of sight behind the desk. The doors opened with a soft ding and as I entered and attempted to press the button for the right floor I realized that, not only had I not been told the correct floor on which to find the room, but more importantly, there were only two buttons. Ground floor, and 8. I leaned my head out of the still open doors and yelled down the way of the front desk, "Hey! Abbot, Costello! This piece of shit only has a button for the 8th floor!"

The tall one slowly leaned his head around the corner, and with an even more prominent and irksome smirk replied, "Well then I guess you better hope it's on that floor then, shouldn't you?" And then just as slowly and slimily drew his head back behind the corner, never letting the smirk leave his face. Cursing to myself, I withdrew back into the elevator and pushed the only available button.

After what seemed like an unreasonably long time to climb only 8 floors the doors dinged once more and opened, releasing me into the hallway. It didn't take long at all to determine the cause of the taller concierge's smirk.

As I exited the elevator the room I laid my eyes on first was labeled #1... I thought surely that was an error or something, but the one next to it was labeled #3 and the ones across were #2 and #4. Nervously I began to walk down the hallway following the continually ascending room numbers. Time seemed to drag on as 12 and 14 were long gone and I was walking up on 87 and 89. I was at a loss as I thought about the dimensions of the building I had seen from outside. There was no way it could have held even this many rooms on one floor, never mind if this meant that they would continue all the way to my 257. It just wasn't possible. But my disbelief was heavily tempered by my desire to rest my head on a soft pillow in a dark room. So I continued on.

122 and 124, 163 and 165, 207 and 209. I counted as I passed them one by one, taking notice that the rooms must have been pretty large given the ample distance from one set of doors to the next. As I got closer and saw the room marked 256 I knew that the next set of doors would be my destination. Rest at last. I hurried my pace as I approached but stopped in confusion as I had the sickening realization that... my room number wasn't where it was supposed to be. On one side there was 259 and on the other 258 and 260, but absolutely no 257. I dropped to my knees in defeat, rapping my fist against the wall where my room should have been waiting for me. The greasy bastard got me. He must have given me a prank key to a nonexistent room knowing I'd have to walk all the way here to find out I'd been had, then have to walk all the way back. At which point I would probably be thrown out after not being able to produce a valid credit card.

I wanted to storm back into that lobby and beat the actual piss out of that boy, but just as I was working up the energy and motivation to, I noticed that their was one more door at the very end of the hall. I squinted my eyes to read the number etched on an aged brass plate lavish enough to equal the tag on my room key.

257
I was there. I had made it. I stabbed the key into the lock and twisted it free. As I opened the door the lights all lit themselves, revealing a gorgeous Victorian theme with elegant drapery and furniture everywhere. "This has to be a presidential sweet or something." I thought to myself, at the time not registering how stupid the idea of what looked to be such a dilapidated hotel having a presidential room. I didn't let my exhaustion keep me from exploring the palace like dwelling. Everything in the room was of the highest quality and craftsmanship you could imagine. Silk and gold and silver was everywhere and my time working at a local pawn shop was all I needed to tell me that this stuff was all the genuine article. I immediately began rummaging around for the thing of highest value I would be able to cram into my pocket when I left.

I ended up settling on a solid gold ash tray adorned with a few random gems such as emeralds and rubies. My exhaustion getting the better of me I decided to finally take a quick shower in what appeared to be a solid gold tub, and lie down to sleep. Rather than get up early and try to slip past everyone I decided to get a good rest and just make a mad dash for the door instead.

Waking the next day I quickly snagged the golden ash tray in my back pocket and made my way out of the room, but as my feet cleared the thresh hold I felt a sudden pull on my pants followed by a ripping sound and then a dull thud. Stopping, I turned to see that the ash tray was laying in the doorway just inside the room. I felt my back pocket that was now ripped almost completely off. Scowling, I reached down to pick the thing up but as I stood it was jerked out of my hand and fell to the floor once again with the same dull, heavy thud. "What the actual hell?" I mumble to myself, squatting down to investigate my would be pilfered booty.

I picked it up again, this time looking for wires as I felt around and turned it in my hands. I found nothing, so at that I tried to grip it tight and give it a hard yank in hopes of wrenching it free of whatever bond was holding it. I leaned forward and snatched back as hard as I could, but to no avail. The ash tray remained in my hand but my hand also remained in the room with the ash tray. I just stood there for a moment clutching the small, gilded dish as is was blocked by some yet identified force. Determined, I walked into the room all the way to the far wall and heaved the tray at the open door as hard as I could. But instead of passing through it just stopped silently and dropped to the floor yet again, bouncing a little as it landed.

Curious, I began to try to remove other objects from the room, none of which would allow itself to be taken any farther than the door. Angered by this but not deterred, I decided to drop the ash tray out of the window and recover it upon exiting the building, only to find that there was no window in the room. Which made sense now that I had time to think about it. In my exhausted state it hadn't occurred to me that it had to have been some kind of optical illusion, the endless hallway. The elevator must have only went up one floor very slowly and the halls were all built on an almost imperceptible incline as they twist and turn, which made it seem like you just kept walking down an impossibly long labyrinth of halls and doors. And all the objects in the room must be magnetized somehow, which is how they won't cross the doorway.

It was so obvious to me now. This had to be some kind of prank hotel or something. That's why they let me in without asking for a credit card and why everything was just generally so strange. They get some idiot to come in and film him running around like an asshole using hidden cameras and then put it all over TV. Abandoning my attempt at thievery I began to make the long walk back to the elevator.

About half way into my journey I saw another person in the distance about to enter their own room. First thinking it might be another victim of the hotel's ridiculous shenanigans I picked up my pace to warn him that he was probably being screwed with.

"Hey guy!" I shouted as I approached. "There's something up with this p-" I stopped short as I got closer and got a better look at the man. He was tall. Taller than anyone I had ever seen in person. And his pale head which sat on his thin, lanky body was completely bald. When he turned to face me it got even worse. His eyes were wide open and unblinking, appearing to be in a permanent state of terror, and his facial features were all sharp and sunken. I just stood, frozen in shock as he slowly leaned over towards me, bringing his horrific eyes level with mine.

Then suddenly he just started screaming in my face like a lunatic. Over and over he yelled at a volume that made my eardrums feel like they were on the verge of rupturing. At first I could only jump and convulse in response. Not that I didn't scream, because boy did I scream. I was just so horrified it didn't register as a valid response at first, and when I finally did it was just as much me trying to will my legs into tear-assing down the hallway faster than I had ever moved in my life. And I ran track in highschool, so believe me when I say I was moving at a healthy clip. Smashing into corner after coner did little to halt my momentum as I hurtled through the maze of doors and halls, the whole time chanting in my head, "It's just a prank! It's just a prank! I'm being pranked! I'm just being pranked!"

My legs were on fire as I rounded the last corner, finally seeing the glimmer of the stainless steel elevator doors. I smashed into the wall, all but punching the call button over and over and over until the doors slid open with a familiar, soft chime. No sooner did they began to part was I inside the elevator, now brutalizing the ground floor button. My whole body shook as I descended to the lobby. Breathing heavily, I readied myself against the handrails and waited for the doors to chime and open one last time, plotting the exact angle would use to bolt out and make my way to the front entrance as quickly and cleanly as possible.

DING

As the doors opened I pulled against the rails and kicked off the back wall of the elevator with all the strength that remained in my body. Someone was walking into the lobby! I'd be able to make a clean escape without having to stop to pull the door open like I had first calculated.

"YES!" I yelled triumphantly, only feet from the exit. I was almost out of this twisted place and home free.

My face made contact first, then my right knee, then the rest of my body was brought to a sudden and violent stop as I tried to bolt through the opening. I felt the closing door brush against my back as I knocked it aside on my way to the floor. I could feel the cold of the tile underneath me as I heard a voice call out over hysterical laughter as I lost consciousness.

"Holy shit Pete! I've never seen anyone eat it that hard before!"

I was brought back with a splash of ice water against my face. I sat up, ready to fight as I choked on the water. The taste of pennies permeated through my mouth as it filled with blood from what was certainly a busted nose and lip. "UGH BLUGG KA KA!" I hacked as I raised my fist, ready to hammer the person standing over me. As he slowly faded back into clarity I saw it was the tall, greasy haired boy. The smirk on his face now wide as it could ever possibly be.

"The old crash and dash, huh? Yeah that doesn't work here. Can't leave until your debt's all paid up and square. Welcome to Worst Hotel asshole."






"You're gonna need these while you're working here." The shorter of the concierges said as he handed me a black canvas bag with "W.H." embroidered in gold on the front. "You can't do your job without some of this stuff so try to not lose it and shit." The boy who introduced himself as Lezley minutes ago.

He and the slick haired bastard Pete had sat back and allowed me to tucker myself out making attempt after attempt to break through the invisible barrier in the doorway, during one of which I'm pretty sure I broke my hand. All to no avail. It was apparent after a few hours of fast tracking through the five stages of grief that I wouldn't be leaving of my own volition. After which it was explained to me by the two young men that I would be working as a custodian to pay off my debt to the hotel. What's worse is that the room I had occupied was the most expensive one possible. So this wouldn't be a quick ordeal.

"What the hell is this place?" I asked as we left the room where I was presented the canvas bag. "And what the hell was with that tall fucker that freaked out on me?" I continued.

"Tall? Freak out? Oh, you must have ran into someone from 8-61. They're pretty weird but they're not the craziest ones from 8-Cluster. Their hearing isn't as good as ours, so their speech just sounds like screaming to us." He answered.

"What do you mean by 8-Cluster? I have no idea what you're even talking about." I said in confusion.

"Oh right. I should probably explain how things work around here." He began. "Things are about to get a lot crazier than what you've already seen. The messed up floor plan, the tall freak out dude, the invisible barriers. That's barely scratching the surface. So you know all the science fiction stuff where they talk about multiple dimensions and traveling through them and shit? Well, surprise. Turns out there are a bunch of different dimensions, but they're not just all layered one after the other. It's more like how soap bubbles clump together on the top of the water. One clump might have planets with similar conditions to Earth where life evolved the same way as it did here. So you end up with more humanoid like inhabitants like the tall guy. But other clusters can get kinda wild by comparison. The conditions they evolved and survived in are very different, so they look really different from us."

"The shit does that have to do with this place?!" I interrupted.

"I'm getting to that dick hole!" Lezley responded. "So there are 8 clusters that exists on the same plain of physics. And in those clusters there are a whole bunch of variant dimensions with life forms kinda similar to each other. You know how like Wolverine and Spiderman are both Marvel characters, but you never see them in the same movie because different companies own the movie rights to them?"

"No, not really." I answered.

"Well anyway, that's like what a cluster is. And you know how you don't see anyone like Superman or Batman or Flash in a Marvel movie because they're two separate universes?" He kept on.

"Again, NO, I don't. Stop speaking nerd to me." I said with growing frustration.

"So this is basically a nexus for all the different clusters. The hotel is a hub where residents from one dimension can visit other dimensions freely. Unless they've been flagged, of course. Keeping track of each cluster is especially important because the cluster dictates the conditions a guest can survive in. So if you're from cluster-8 like us then you'll probably be pretty happy about oxygen and water. But if you're like from 5-22 and have a high cesium content in your skin, well... Walking around in our atmosphere would feel like getting thrown into a tub of boiling water. Until you die that is. So what we do here is process the guests and give them special apparatuses that let them survive and go unnoticed while they're in different dimension. You know how like in Men in Bl-"

"I know you're not about to say more nerd shit." I interrupted.

"I... NO!" He said defensively.

"You're telling me this is... an interdimensional hotel... for... monsters... Aliens?" I asked in summation.

"I mean, basically. Yeah. That and we act as a haven time to time for paranormal anomalies, and sometimes render various services for them. We're a lot more than just a hotel." Lezley answered. "Anyway, call them whatever you want, your job is making sure the guests enjoy their time here."

"Enjoy there time here?" I echoed.

"Among other things." He added.

"What other things?" I said nervously.

"We'll cross that one when we get to it." He finished as we came to a stop in front of a dilapidated door towards the back of the hotel. A large C-8 printed on the wall next to it. "Here we are, cluster 8 staff living quarters. Ready?" He added with a grin as I nodded, signaling him to open the door. There's nothing that could have prepared me.

At first glance you might mistake the area as a common room at some rustic cabin resort. Rough hewn furniture made from logs, a fireplace in the center, and a kitchen area off to the side. But then I noticed the occupants. The very first one to catch my eye had what appeared to be a bone-like shell or mask covering their face, but after a moment of "eye" contact it began to open and spread out into a set of horns similar to what you'd expect to see on a deer. The face underneath was stark white and smooth as porcelain. The large, dark sockets that had first assumed were caused by shadows cast from the mask like horns were actually just deep, sunken holes. If a were to have seen this in a painting it would have been almost beautiful, but in person, under the circumstances, it was more than unsettling. Even their soft smile and gentle, greeting nod did little to calm me down.

The rest of the occupants, while different in their own ways, were about as far from human as the first one. I jumped as a voice spoke from beside me.

"You're gonna need this too." Lezley said, pulling what looked to be an old fashion iron key from his shirt pocket, holding it hanging by a small chain. "This your room key. I'd tell you to not lose it but..." He trailed off as I took it in my hand.

"But what?" I asked, but no sooner than I did I began to hear a sizzling sound followed by the noise the chain made as it hit the wood floor, and shortly after I felt a burning pain in my hand. I looked down to see the key had begun to melt and was burning into my hand, leaving only a black mark in the shape of a key across my palm where I had been grasping it.

"OUCH!! Fucking damn it man! What was that shit?!" I screamed into his face.

But then I heard a soft laughter pick up from behind me. I turned to face the others in the room with us as they all raised a hand bearing a black key shape in the palm. I turned back to Lezley and started to open my mouth to speak but he cut me off.

"That's the key to your room. Only people marked to that room can open the door. Keeps you from losing the key and someone else using it." He explained, giggling as I rubbed my still burning hand.

"You guys would make a fucking fortune in security systems." I retorted sarcastically.

"This place does have lots of... unorthodox ways of solving problems. You'll figure that out more and more as you go on. Room's that way." He ended, pointing to a hallway almost hidden in the far corner of the room, opposite the kitchen area.

Opting to not socialize with my new interdimensional co-workers, I slunked across the room towards the hallway. Only pausing briefly to exclaim "Tell that other greasy prick at the front desk to eat a dick at his own convenience!"

"Haha! I'll pass the word along." Lezley said, as he closed the door behind him.

I started looking for my room only to realize I didn't know which one was mine. There were numbers on the doors but I wasn't told which number I should look for. I glanced down at the key marking on my palm, noticing that instead of the key having teeth, in their place was a number that I guessed might match the right room. I followed the number to room 19 and turned the nob. The door opened with a click and creaked open.

The first thing I noticed was that there were two beds. One looking tidy and unused, and the other was made but had various nicknacks and effects adorning the wall and shelves around it. Attempting to process the idea that I would have a monster from another dimension as a room mate, I plopped myself down on the vacant bed and stared at the ceiling. But before I could even let my imagination run wild as to what kind of twisted goblin I would be rooming with for the foreseeable future, I heard a knock on the door.

Nervously I stood and grasped the doornob. I gave it a gentle twist and open it just enough to make a crack large enough to see through. My vision was not met with the otherworldly gargoyle I had expected, but rather what appeared to be a human woman in her 20s. If I had to give an off the cuff description I call her, well... pretty damn cute. Excited I swung the door the rest of the way open and asked louder than I intended, "Are you my room mate?!"

"Uhhhh, no." She answered plainly. "I'm the only eight one thirty seven who's off right now, and they like to have someone from their own dimension help get them settled if possible. And other than me it's just Lezley and Pete. So here I am."

"Oh, well that's... mildly disappointing." I huffed under my breath. "Anyway, my name's Travis." I added, extending my hand.

"Good for you." She said as she turned and began to walk back down the hall towards the common room.

I closed the door behind me and hurried to catch up. As we rounded the first corner she began to explain that there were currently almost 50 staff members who hail from cluster 8. Only four of which being from 8-137, which according to her, is the dimension we come from. Once we entered the common room she brought me to the kitchen area and explained that we were allowed to use some of the money we earned to buy things we needed like food.

"How do we get that stuff if we can't leave?" I asked.

"You'll figure that out later." She dismissed.

She opened a door that blended into the boards on the wall revealing a walk in refrigerator with multiple compartments all individually numbered. "They work just like the rooms. Only you and your room mate can open the cabinet with your number." She said, pointing to the number on the closest cabinet. "So if any of your shit comes up missing you know what happen to it."

"You sound like you've got everything figured out." I said, trying to force small talk. "How long have you been here?" I added.

"About two weeks." She answered, closing the refrigerator door. "You get used to things fast in this place." She opened another concealed door. "This is the pantry. Same deal."

I stood in mild shock as she began walking back down the hallway where our rooms were located, but I shook myself out of it after a few seconds and made my way behind her. Before we left the common room she added, "TV has cable but it's always shifting through dimensions mid show so don't bother. At first interdimensional porn sounds kinda hot, but then one day you're in the middle of Supernatural, the cable shifts, and then you can't sleep for three days. WIFI password is WorstDayEver followed by your cluster number and your dimension. Best stick to that and regular porn."

After we passed room 50 in the hallway it opened up to a small locker room with two doors at the far end. "Left one is toilets, right one is the bath. It's Japanese style but don't get too excited. It's hard to bathe with some strange being from another dimension staring at your groin trying to figure out how it works." She said.

I shivered as I imagined having my junk ball gazed by some of the nightmarish creatures I had just seen. Fortunately that thought was interrupted as she continued, "Oh yeah, speaking of, you should have one of these in the bag you got earlier." She then brushed her hair back, revealing some short of silver piece of jewelry that twisted around and inside of her ear.

"These let you understand the different languages the other workers speak. And they all have one so they'll be able to understand you." She elaborated. "That's about all you need to know until tomorrow when they put you to work. I'm in room 23, so if you need anything... Stay as far away from that room as possible."

And with that she spun on her heel and left me standing there in the locker room. I made my escape as I noticed several of the other occupants rounding the corner, undressing as they walked. I made my signature B-line for my room, slamming the door behind me and diving head first into my bed. After lying there for some time I had manage to doze off, only realizing this as I was being woken by a gentle tugging on the sleeve of my shirt. I opened my eyes to see a pale, porcelain face with deep, black, empty sockets only inches from my own. I howled, spouting a torrent of profanity as I made my best effort to claw my way up the wall next to my bed.

"HOLY FUCKING CHERRY PICKING JESUS WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT SLINGING HELL NAME OF VIC MOTHERBITCHING MIGNOGNA?!!" I exclaimed in my frenzy as I attempted to claw my way up the wall, causing the deer like horns on top of its head to slam shut back into its mask-ish shape. "Oh, holy shit, it's just you..." I coughed in exacerbation. "What... what do... want?" I asked, gasping for oxygen.

The creature began to speak in a soft, bell-like language I couldn't understand. After realizing I couldn't understand, it reached for the canvas bag beside my bed and produced a small box, and from the box it withdrew the same small metal device that the girl from earlier had in her ear. So, taking the hint, I took the small metallic object and placed it around my ear.

"Is that better?" The creature spoke in the same soothing tone, but now I was able to make out a definite feminine voice.

"Y-yeah. Much." I answered.

"Good. You were having a bad dream." She said. And though I couldn't see her eyes I felt like she was looking into mine with concern.

"Oh, I didn't realize. It's kinda been a crazy couple of days so I'm not surprised." I mumbled more to myself than anyone else. "Sorry I freaked out on you like that. I feel like a dick cause you were just trying to help."

"It's quite alright. Up until today you didn't even know that beings such as myself from other dimensions existed, so it's understandable to be a little apprehensive." She reassured me.

We spent several minutes conversing about getting used to the new environment and coming to terms with such far out notions as other dimensions. After a while the strangeness began to fade from her appearance as I started to realized what a kind and caring soul she had. While we spoke, what I once thought to be the horns on top of her head began to slowly drop and unfurl into impossibly thin hairs, almost like spider's silk that couldn't be bothered to tangle or stick to one another.

As the conversation drew to a close she rose from where she had been sitting and, with all the grace of a feather in the wind, practically glided back to her bed.

After that I was able to roll over manage a soft, slightly hopeful smile, knowing I had at least one person looking out for me in this insane fever dream of a hotel. Fortunately I was able to get some real sleep before I was jolted back to consciousness by my foot being violently yanked off the bed to the sound of "Move your ass. Time for indentured servitude."

It was the abrasive girl from the night before, and this time my excitement to see her had been greatly tempered. I snatched my foot out of her hand with a groan and pulled the covers back over my head. "Don't be a dick." She said as she ripped the blanket away from me and began to march out the door.

"How'd she even get in anyway?" I thought to myself. Still cranky from my rude wake up call, I began to remove various items from the canvas bag. First were two sets of uniforms, deep black and trimmed in gold filigree. Though it appeared missed matched with the very utilitarian fabrics, and style of the clothing itself being simple cargo pants and a t-shirt. If you took the gold trim off they'd look almost... tactical. Next was another key with a brass tag adorned with the number 1. The burning sensation from the last key still fresh in my mind, I elected to hold it only by the tag for the time being. Next out was a pair of black work boots. Noting extraordinary there. Just... work boots, of the black variety.

The next item took me by surprise. Fumbling blindly around the bag, I felt my hand clasp onto something heavy. As I pulled it into the light my first impression was of one of those collapsible batons the police carry. However this one seemed to be only a solid piece of brass and stashed away in a black leather holster. At that point I thought back and remembered seeing several other staff members carrying these around, but had no idea what it might be used for.

Moments later the she-monster that snatched me from my sleep walked back in with Lezley. When he noticed me holding the small brass bar. "Oh you found it!"

"Yeah, I guess I did. The hell's it for?" I retorted.

With smirk he reached down and took it from me, sliding it from its leather housing. "Check this shit out." He said, never loosing his grin. Suddenly he took the bar and gave it a hard shake. As soon as he did it erupted outward in both directions, transforming into a brilliant brazen spear.

"HEY! Watch it shit-ass!" The girl barked as the spear rocketed past her arm at blinding speed.

"Oh damn! My bad Sash. I haven't messed with one of these in a while. Forgot how fast them shits come out." Lezley apologized. "This is orichalcum. It's serious stuff too. A long time ago a village of bandits got a hold of a little bit of this stuff. Fucking built Atlantis with it. So keep up with it. If you lose it, that's your ass." He continued. As he spoke he continued to shake it, turning the spear to a sword, the sword to an ax, the ax to a dagger, the dagger to a mace, and then back to a small bar before sliding it back into the holster and tossing back to me.

"Ok, I'll say again... WHAT IN THE HELL DO I NEED THAT FOR?!" I exclaimed.

He looked at me for a moment then answered ominously,

"Other things."
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