Out of all the possible trans headcanons to have in mp100, my favorite is Shou. There’s a few reasons, but mostly I like that there is no interpretation of his father’s reaction that isn’t hilarious.
A few off the top of my head, in descending order of comedy.
“Daughter, we must speak.”
“Dad, I’m actually… a boy.”
“I see. So you’re transgender.”
“Wait, you know what-”
“Of course. I might not be a part of your generation, but I am still ‘hip with the kids’. World domination has nothing to do with how ‘woke’ you are.”
“Never talk like that again.”
“Daughter, we must speak.”
“Dad, I’m actually… a boy.”
“Hmmm, I see. You must have used your psychic powers to change your gender.”
“…Yep.”
“Our power puts us on top of the world. It only makes sense that the circumstances of our birth hold no power over us. This control over fate is an important step for you. I am proud of you… Son.”
Shou, who expected to come out to a deranged megalomaniac, and is instead having the first positive interaction with his father in eight years, and is thus experiencing physical whiplash: “Awesome. Thanks. I’m gonna go throw up.”
“Daughter, we must speak.”
“Dad, I’m actually… a boy.”
“…”
“…”
Touichirou, internally: Shit. Dammit. I was sure my kid was a girl. Surely I didn’t misremember. It’s only been, what, how long? Four years since my last visit? Okay that is a while. Crap. Maybe, it’s a joke? Like, a joke that kids do? No, she’s not lying. Or I guess, he’s not lying? Oh hell. How could-
Shou, who is close to shaking with fear because his father has been silent for five minutes straight since he came out: “…”
“………..”
“…Uh, Da-”
“I knew that.”
short fic (~500 words) about kid!Michael Afton (FNaF 2 movie); warning for implied abuse.
Shrill laughter, excited shrieking, incoherent babbling, constant Mommy’s and Daddy’s echoing through the halls, all while catchy new songs were playing over the speakers. Amidst all of this was Michael, sitting on the floor of Kids Cove with his back against the wall. Always in the background. Invisible to the other children and parents. Always hiding in the shadows.
He was watching silently as those kids continued to tear off Foxy’s limbs and put them back somewhere else, if at all. Poor Foxy, who looked worse for wear every day since the pizzeria has opened its doors. Poor Foxy, who looked more and more how Michael has been feeling inside all this time; alienated, sickly, out of place, wrongly put together. Broken.
Somewhere among all the chaos, he could sometimes hear his sister's voice. And every single time that sound reached his ears, Michael could feel his jealousy of Vanessa tightening its grip around his heart. He wished he could be more like her, that he could at least talk to others more easily and make friends, that he could fit in even a little, that their father would look at him with a fraction of the pride he directed at Vanessa all the time. But no matter how hard he tried, it never worked.
A particular rough sounding crunch, when a kid ripped out Foxy's already wrongly put in leg, made Michael cringe and cover his ears, averting his gaze from the mess. Sometimes, his need to stay in Kids Cove and watch Foxy felt like a self-punishment. Every time he thought those kids couldn't make it any worse, they proved him wrong. And every time, his entire body seized with it, as though he was the one whose limbs were ripped out and put back.
Michael wondered if he was the only one who thought it was cruel, if only he could see and feel how much pain Foxy was in, if only he found those kids to be heartless monsters for it. He wished he could make them feel what he felt. Even for a moment. Just to see if they would care. Deep down, he knew they wouldn't.
Parents called for their kids to come eat, and suddenly Michael was alone in Kids Cove. It wouldn't be for long, he knew. But he took the little time he had to get off the floor and walk over to Foxy.
As gently as possible, Michael pulled out the wrongly put limbs from Foxy's mangled body and clicked them back into their respective places, mumbling words of comfort all the while. When he was done, he let his hand glide over the cold, hard casing of the animatronic's head, petting it.
In his heart and mind, he was convinced that Foxy could feel everything. Michael could only hope that the little comfort he could give to the animatronic would be enough; even if it was only for a minute or two. Even though he knew that Foxy would be a mess of torn and missing limbs again soon after. An endless cycle of torture. Not unlike Michael's own living Hell.
hand for scale. i used liquid sculpey for the base of the wings, made and added all the little squiggles and strings on top with regular sculpey. painting them did drive me slightly insane
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