As the title suggests, this story is a little gift to my amazing friend @insane4fandoms ! Go follow them and support their art or else your jaw is gonna be shipped to Jerusalem.
(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes and Donn Carter, fanegos of CoryxKenshin and Kubz Scouts respectively, were created by the birthday-mutual. MadPat—or, Henry Emily, in the FNAF Musical-verse—was created by Random Encounters.)
(Trigger Warnings: flashbacks/slight trauma, implied stalking, slight blood/gore, physical violence, implied kidnapping/abduction, implied murder/death, food/drink. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Years ago…
This wasn’t the first time a check-up had been called in for Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzaria.
And even if this was specifically Casey’s first time setting foot in the place, he could already tell that it wasn’t going to be the last call, either.
Oh sure, it played the part of any kid’s zone. All the scribbled drawings that had been taped to the walls, the playful checkerboard layout of the floor tiles, the blinking lights on the ceiling that bathed everything below in color…it all looked like a birthday clown had thrown up everywhere, but somehow, that could still be associated with innocence.
When you took a moment to look closely, however, things started to change.
Behind the drawings, the wallpaper was musty and peeling. Stains were camouflaged on the black tiles, but a lucky bunch still managed to peek out around the borders of the white ones.
Plenty of the tinted lights flickered in a way that clearly wasn’t programmed, and if you listened hard enough, you’d pick up on the grating hum-buzz that was more or less threatening to make the bulbs shatter with a sharp, loud POP! at any given moment.
(There was no way in either Heaven or Hell that Casey would go anywhere near the ballpit. It didn’t matter if that would end up costing him his job, especially since he was still a rookie on the force. No, that was simply the one thing he would never budge on. He was just fine snooping around anywhere else in this joint, but he’d heard more than enough tales about the disgusting horrors that hid beneath mounds of pastel plastic spheres. Some things just weren’t meant to get that fuzzy or sticky, and yet…)
Then again, all those examples were just the subtle parts of the restaurant.
There was a much more obvious creepshow here for all customers and staff alike to see.
A stage stood at the center of the main area, up ahead of the rows of folding tables. It looked pretty rickety, with discolored wooden panels that still showed age and damage despite the layers of paint that had been applied in an obvious rush. Casey couldn’t be sure where it’d come from, but legally speaking, there should’ve been some kind of disclosure about the risk of something unsavory hiding inside it.
He supposed the exact same thing could be said about the… “performers” up in the spotlight. He knew the stage had to be creaking and groaning under their collective weight (they were hunks of metal covered in fabric, after all), but they were making plenty of noise themselves to drown it out.
A janky, warbling, pre-recorded song leaked from unseen speakers, somehow in perfect timing with the way each of them swayed and pivoted, their mouths jerking open and shut every few seconds.
Casey tilted his head at the display. He could see why children would be willing to look past all the flaws around here—what kind of kid didn’t like colorful, singing animals? Especially a bear, a bunny, and a chicken? Those were the poster-children for…well, childhood. They were the easiest subjects for picture books and plushies.
Besides, the kids around here would be too busy with cake, or pizza, or the arcade games to really focus on just how blank the animatronics’ eyes were.
The eyes…even with all the imagination that had been put into them, those were the things that really drove the point that the animals weren’t alive, were never intended to be alive.
Casey shook his shoulders, turning on his heel to continue past the stage. Donn was busy enough trying to interview some of the employees; he’d let Casey come on this assignment because he’d actually believed that he wouldn’t have to babysit.
And one way for Casey to prove that he didn’t need said babysitting was to not get distracted by creepy animatronics.
Get in, make your position clear, and look around in ways that the health inspectors somehow weren’t qualified for.
That’s all this job was.
It was simple. It was routine.
If Casey couldn’t stay a course like this…then really, what was he even good fo—
“Well, hang on just a second!” The voice didn’t bring silence to the room, but it still seemed to carve its way into Casey’s ears.
Casey had to bite back a groan. Yeah, he knew he was in a literal position of authority, but the word PROFESSIONAL may as well have been burned into the backs of his eyelids at this point, thanks to all the lectures and warnings he’d gotten during training.
Scratch that earlier sentiment; the Fazbear creepshow wasn’t just limited to the animatronics.
It had some help from the damn mascots.
…Or, one of the mascots, to be more specific.
There were two of them, both following the animal theme the robots had been designed with.
One dressed as a yellow rabbit with a purple bowtie; he was somewhere else in the building. Maybe he was one of the people Donn had pulled aside for a chat?
And the other—the one Casey begrudgingly turned to face—took on the role of a brown bear with a black top hat that was being worn at a very ridiculous angle.
“You must be lost,” the bear chirped, sliding over to hover in front of Casey, then pointing over his shoulder. “The party’s over there! That’s where the fun is!”
Mr. Bear (because he obviously wasn’t Freddy himself) then glanced over his own shoulder at the hallways Casey needed to check, emphatically shaking his head. “But there’s nothing fun over there. It’s all just boring stuff, and we don’t want our guests to put up with that.”
Casey rolled his eyes. “Hey—listen, you don’t have to keep up the act with me. You know that, right? I mean, I don’t know the rules around here, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He knew some theme parks were absolutely tyrannical when it came to the poor saps that had to stuff themselves into costumes just to make ends meet, but this place…well, it didn’t look like it had that much of a powerful, influential budget, but he’d been wrong before.
Again, Mr. Bear shook his head, this time with a small chuckle. “What are you talking about? I just want to make sure your visit is happy! And you’ll be happiest if you stay over there with the games and the show and the food.”
Casey narrowed his eyes.
As the seconds ticked by, it felt more and more like this guy was just trying to mess with him. Like he could read Casey’s mind, see the thread of discomfort that was weaving its way along his thoughts, and was now deciding to screw with it because he had nothing better to do.
“Listen, I’m not here for any party. I’m just trying to do my job, alright?”
Again, Casey tried to continue down the hallway.
Again, Mr. Bear found a reason to try and stop him.
To be fair, though, this latest reason had variety, as it set Casey’s instincts on fire and made him want to haul back and deliver a punch all the way through that stupid mask-head-thing.
Because as Casey turned to keep walking, weight suddenly manifested around his chest, on his shoulders.
Close to his neck.
Mr. Bear had trapped him in a hug. And, like any red-blooded mammal on the receiving end of a trap, Casey cried out and struggled. “What the hell—get off! I never said you could touch me!”
“Aww, why?” Mr. Bear crooned, his grip tightening. “It just looked like you needed one. You know what they say: ‘A hug a day keeps the monsters away!’”
“Nobody has ever said that!” Casey protested, a chill racing down his spine with disrespectful speed. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”
His hands found themselves gripping Mr. Bear’s wrists, forcefully prying the grasp open. And just to make the point stick, his elbow slammed against Mr. Bear’s chest, eliciting a short gasp of pain.
Before he could do anything else, Casey’s nose was only a couple inches away from the mascot’s mask. It was only for a few seconds—just because he had to make sure that Mr. Bear didn’t immediately grab at him again as he backed away.
But that was more than enough for him to look through the false head’s eye-holes.
To see the eyes of whoever was really under there.
Those eyes ere dark. They were dull. They almost looked…dead, in a way.
The happy tone Mr, Bear had spoken with earlier was so obviously fake, so obviously a script that had been drilled into his sorry skull. But now that Caesy could see his eyes, see how they would never, NEVER match with any kind of act, no matter what is was…
Casey couldn’t help it. He ran.
He still went down the hallway, the job still in his head.
But he if was going to get some distance from Mr. Bear, then he had to do it FAST.
He did NOT want another close encounter.
In his haste, he didn’t see how Mr. Bear just stood at the corridor’s threshold, staring after him as he got further and further away.
He didn’t see how Mr. Bear’s gloved hands curled into fists that shook so fiercely that the palms underneath would've started bleeding from the fingernails being dug in.
But by then, Casey had almost forgotten all about Mr. Bear.
Because as he turned one corner of the hall, came upon a dingy little door that was sequestered in a darker corner…
Well, the smell hit him first.
The door was open; just a tiny crack between it and its frame. Whoever had left the room had probably meant to close it.
But it was too late for that now.
Because the smell wouldn’t stop, slowly but surely filling up the hall.
Mad rarely ever sleeps but when he does it's either in his regular bear suit at his work bench or his cyan shirt underneath his bear suit and some plaid sweats
Ness on the other hand gets ready for bed but he doesn't get to have a lot of rest, maybe only 4-5 hours on average. He owns a fluffy pink robe and a bright green robe
Something I'd like to share with the class🙏🏻
Mad made Ness a prosthetic for his hand when parts of his fingers had to be amputated due to extreme frostbite. Now Ness is unable to drink without supervision.
In Web of Lies, Glitchtrap referred to Afton!Pat as Elizabeth's uncle. This gave me the headcanon that Vanny/Vanessa is Elizabeth's cousin, and Afton!Pat's daughter. If you can write at least one fanfic about Afton!Madpat parenting Vanny/Vanessa (possibly nicknaming her "Princess" as a Princess Quest reference) I'll owe you big time.
sure! sorry it’s kinda short!
content warning: mentioned death, fighting
Mad couldn't tell you what possessed him to take in his ex-girlfriend's kid when she passed, but he had Vanessa now and he woudn't be letting her go any time soon.
He carries her to bed that night, he thinks back to what happened that day.
He’d been called in to Vanessa’s school because she’s apparently fought some guy for no reason. Mad had rushed down the school, silently cursing himself and wondering why Henry didn’t have to deal with this with Michael or Elizabeth. He’d signed in and waited patiently for the principal to call for him.
Mad hadn’t had to patience to sit down and had paced the tiny waiting area the entire time he’d waited. When the principal had finally called for him, Mad was beyond angry.
Vanessa sits in the chair, head ducked and face stony. Mad squats down next to her and puts a hand on her arm. “Vanny?”
Vanessa says nothing.
“Sir, we’ve-” the principal starts to say.
Mad cuts the principal off with the wave of his hand. “I’m not speaking to you,” he snaps, glancing at the man angrily. When the principal is silent, Mad goes back to his daughter. “Princess, what happened?” he asks.
Vanessa folds her arms and replies quietly, “Monty.”
“What did Monty do?” Mad asks softly.
“He came up behind me and pulled on my bra strap. It hurt, so I asked him to stop, but he tried to do it again. So, I punched him.” Vanessa looks her father right in the eyes. Her blue eyes are teary.
Mad nods. “Alright, Princess. I’ll take care of this.” Then he spins, standing to step in front of his daughter and glare at the principal. “Where is this boy?”
“He’s in class, Mr. Afton. If you’ll-”
“Why isn’t he in here?” Mad demands. He crosses his arms.
“We’re here to discuss your daughter, not Montgomery,” the principal protests.
Mad narrows his eyes. “My daughter was assaulted by one of your students. What more is there to discuss?” He’s aware he’s being harsher than he strickly should, but he’s within his right to be. This is his daughter and she hadn’t liked what someone was doing to her, so she’d made it clear not to so it again.
“Sir, she hit this boy. She broke his nose. Violence is not permitted in this school.” The security officer Mad hadn’t realized was also in the room steps forward.
Mad scoffs. “And what else is she supposed to do when someone assaults her?”
“We teach students to talk before anything-”
“My daughter clearly communicated that she wanted this boy to stop. By the fact that we’re having this conversation, you know he didn’t. My daughter did the next logical thing and made him stop. She’s here, he is not. Where is he?”
“You shouldn’t teach her that violence is not the answer! Sir, you have to understand-”
Mad steps forward, face to face with the principal to look him right in the eyes. “I understand perfect. My daughter was assaulted and instead of teaching her that it’s okay to defend herself, you’re telling her that she has no right to use whatever means necessary to get out of a situation she doesn’t want to be in. You’re teaching that boy that it’s okay to assault his fellow students by not punishing him.”
“Mr. Afton, this is not the stance you should take. To teach your daughter that she should harm others is not a suitable parenting method!” The principal tries to be intimadating, but Mad works with animatronics that roam the halls at night and scare people by day.
Mad smirks. “I’m not going to take parenting advice from a man with no children. If you’re not going to treat this situation the way it should be treated, I will be taking my daughter to a school that will.” He steps back and turns to Vanny. Holding out a hand, he asks, “Princess?”
Vanny stands and takes her father’s hand. Mad looks back up at the principal, who sputters, “Now, that’s not necessary!”
Mad shakes his head. “You can transfer all her papers when I give you the new school’s name. Have a nice day.” He give the principal and the security guard his best Customer Service smile. Then he turns on his heal and leaves the room with Vanny on his heals.
Once they get to the car, Mad turns on the engine and glances at his daughter. “How hard did you actually hit him?” he asks.
“I broke his nose and his cheek bone, split his lips too.”
As the title suggests, this story is a little gift to my amazing friend @insane4fandoms ! Go follow them and support their art or else your jaw is gonna be shipped to Jerusalem.
(Yes, I’m aware that their birthday is now over, but still. My motivation is slowly coming back. Keyword: slowly. So, even if I had fun writing yesterday, I just didn’t give myself enough time to get everything down in a way that would actually be satisfying to read. And since I’m the writer, I make the rules in these stories, and so it’s still March 2nd in-universe, because our dear detective now shares a birthday with his creator.)
(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by the birthday-mutual. Sam Ryder was created by my bestie @sammys-magical-au . MadPat—or, Henry Emily, in the FNAF Musical-verse—was created by Random Encounters.)
(Now as for the characters who DO belong to me: for more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on K.O., go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here. Two-Toes Johnny is kinda in the same vein, since he started out as a bit on Distractible, but I liked his character and wanted to expand on the concept, so if you want to see my headcanons on him, go here. For more information on Howie—and by proxy, Miles—go here.)
(Trigger Warnings: Pepper X, mentions of food, eating/drinking, alcohol, flashbacks/slight trauma, slight physical violence, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
A Few Hours Ago…
Azalea grew plenty of her own product; the greenhouse in her backyard with violet panels and bullet-proof windows was her pride and joy, always just about bursting at the seams with fatal flora. (Hell, she’d made just as much of a hobby out of collecting unique pots to house all of her specimens until it was their time to shine.)
Still, certain jobs require certain things. And sometimes those things just so happened to be outside of a stash even as dense and varied and thriving as Azalea’s. Hand-grown toxins could do the trick, as well as leave a somewhat less obvious trace, but only if you had enough time on your hands—which was typically just a few hours.
Well, a lot of good, profitable jobs just couldn’t give you a few hours to work with. Sure, they usually required weeks or even months of planning and traveling, but once you got to the big moment…
So, Azalea had grown adept at searching for and then purchasing (or stealing, depending on the circumstances) the toxins that simply couldn’t be grown.
Except for when those toxins could still be grown, but only technically, because again, TIMING MATTERED.
Except for when the toxins in question weren’t even actually toxic, but still came with a high risk anyway because A. the target specifically couldn’t touch it, or B. humans in general just weren’t meant to touch it, but some of them did anyway because they valued reputation over life.
Which, come to think of it, was a very similar scenario to people in Azalea’s line of work.
The peppers she’d recently bought—off the books and under the table, of course; so far, they were only legal to be sold in sauces and the like—weren’t much to look at. Most were about two inches long, with a lucky few reaching three. The shiny, wrinkled skin of each one came in a shade of chartreuse so pale that it looked even more sickly than the average bowl of pea soup.
But hey, a lot of the prettier things in Azalea’s collection didn’t look dangerous, either.
Hell, Azalea had heard that sentiment being used on her plenty of times. (Funny how a lot of the people who talked like that had made sure to try and do it behind her back. Not like that had saved them in the end, but still.)
She’d blended half of them into a paste, and left the other half for another day. Probably to be dried out and then ground into a fine powder.
Or, that was the original plan. And it could still work out that way…just one pepper short.
That one pepper in question had been sacrificed, chopped up into four small pieces, in the name of hubris.
Hubris and nothing else, and now that hubris was being punished in ways that would’ve put the gods of Greek myth to shame.
All because The Boss hadn’t hired any quitters, but she’d definitely hired a fool or three. (Well, there were four fools here, but one of them was an ally who’d never been hired in the first place.)
The walk-in freezer was spacious, but all the stuff being stored in there changed that. Still, it looked roomier than it actually was. Keyword: looked.
“Get out, Cal!” Murdock snarled, hovering in the freezer’s threshold, his hip braced against the side to maintain his balance. His signature black-tinted glasses had slid halfway down the bridge of his nose, exposing his watery eyes for all the world to see. Murdock was usually quick to adjust them, whether to hide his eyes or to simply fidget with the temples. But he was sweating too much to remember his usual reservations.
One hand held the heavy door open while the other grabbed at a dark blue button down. (It would’ve been an infamous crimson-leather jacket if circumstances were different. But both that article, the black hoodie it was so often paired with, and Murdock’s own overcoat now lay abandoned on the floor.)
“You can’t make me! You can’t make me!” Caliban shot back, snapping his teeth and clawing right back from the other side. Unlike so many times in the past, his voice wasn’t tinged with any taunting or sarcastic humor. It was desperate, like a rabid animal trying to thrash a victim that was halfway wading in a pond. “YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”
“You don’t get to just hog it like that!” Murdock protested. “In case you haven’t noticed—” He paused, lowering his head as a gag scraped its way into the air, sounding like his throat was lined with acid and sandpaper. “—We’re ALL fucking suffering from this!”
“Tough luck, I got here first! And look, this STILL isn’t doing much for me! Just try something else!”
True to Caliban’s word, the frosty air really did seem like the bare minimum; his fair skin was so flushed that he almost resembled the skinned aftermath of the bodies he disposed of on the regular. Really, it almost made the reflexive tears streaming down his face look like they were tinged with blood or plasma. The cherry on top was how his chocolate-colored hair, usually well-kempt, now looked like he’d gotten into a fight with a squirrel on cocaine.
Aftertaste’s main kitchen was a maze of stainless steel countertops. They all supported various equipment, but four of them specifically came with sinks. One for each corner of the huge room.
Sam was hunched over the nearest one, and though it actually wasn’t meant for stuff like handwashing, Azalea could understand how they weren’t in the right headspace to care.
The route to the specific oven she’d been using took her right past that sink, right past Sam, so she paused to give her guest a look-over.
Their tall frame wracked with uncontrollable tremors. The tan skin of their face, as well as the scarlet tips of their otherwise golden hair, were soaked. They’d had a pull-out faucet in a death-grip for a solid five minutes now, so it was hard to tell whether that was from water or sweat. Probably both.
Sam must’ve felt her presence, because they glanced over their shoulder. Their wide eyes, now rimmed with an irritated pink that somehow managed to compliment the green of their irises, met Azalea’s calm, dark, unafflicted ones. Despite everything, a smile wormed its way across their features.
“So,” Azalea remarked, tilting her head. “How’d you like it?” Her voice made the question a simple, familliar blend: a dollop of genuine curiosity and a strand of smugness that she did nothing to hide.
Sam raised a shaking hand to offer a thumbs-up. “Could’ve…been hotter,” they replied, their voice teetering on the edge of a wheeze.
Azalea snorted. “Really? Something that was engineered to be the official spiciest food on the planet?”
“Hey, you’re talking to a Colombian,” Sam shrugged, then cleared their throat with a bit more force than should’ve been necessary. “It takes some practice, but—but you just get to a point where the capsascin actually feels…kinda nice. Like the muscle-burn after swimming, y’know?”
“Get FUCKED with that!” Murdock hollered, practically twisted his head at a perfect, owl-esque angle to gape at Sam, disgust and shock tearing through the pain. “You’re a fucking MASOCHIST?!”
“DON’T ACT LIKE YOU CAN COME AT ME!” Sam yelled.
Murdock’s retort was only halfway out of his mouth and in the air before it warped like a section of sheet metal, quickly unraveling further along with a solid thump. The argument had apparently given Caliban the perfect opportunity to snatch something heavy from the freezer’s shelves and bash it into his fellow contract-killer’s chest.
With a fond roll of her eyes, Azalea resumed her task.
She found herself hauling the oven open, releasing a wave of air that put dryer-exhaust to shame and made everyone else in the kitchen flinch.
The muffin pan she brought out honestly looked a bit sad. Only one of the cups actually held anything, but she only needed one cupcake in the batch to have a special kick to it.
The cupcake only needed a couple more touches before it was ready for tonight’s rendezvous, but it also needed some time to cool off. So, listening to the groans of pain bouncing off the walls, she decided to give out a few more check-ups.
She fished a couple spare cloths from one of the cupboards, gave Sam another glance, then tactfully trekked across the kitchen to the prep-sink to soak them in freezing water.
It ended up more convenient that way—K.O. was in a heap just a few feet away, leaning against the wall and fixing the floor with a thousand-yard stare.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay…” He rambled, panting worse than a dog at this point, wincing in-time with each intake of air.
Azalea leaned down, pressing one of the towels to his forehead. K.O. twitched, automatically raising one hand to hold it there…only for said hand to be shaking too hard to really do anything. “...OOH, AH—FUCK! My hands don’t work anymore! My hands don’t—I. Can’t. Move. My fiNGERS!”
Azalea pursed her lips.
On one hand, this whole scenario was kind of K.O.’s fault, since he’d been the one to tag along with Murdock and then, after the special peppers had been revealed, decided to blurt out how they might be some of the only things that could ever make Murdock back down. As if he somehow couldn’t have known that Murdock would’ve taken that as a challenge.
On the other hand, K.O.’s personal career in The Pentas Family was all about punching people, and you couldn’t exactly punch people without functioning hands. So, it made sense for him to be panicked about such a loss, no matter how temporary, because time didn’t mean very much when it came to harboring a botanical demon inside you.
Azalea left him to it. She stopped at the refrigerator, which was already stocked with a few empty glasses for the drinks that just needed a pre-chilled vibe. She took one and filled it halfway with milk.
Murdock was the type who would have to die before he gave up on his task. (In fact, there might’ve been a chance that when the time finally came, he wouldn’t even get the hint that he needed to just lay down and die until about five minutes later.) But Murdock was human—loathe as he was to admit it, he had his limits just like everyone else.
While he’d put up a valiant fight, it seemed K.O.’s prediction had come true, because Murdock was sprawled on the floor by the time Azalea reached the freezer’s corner. He ground his jaw, now clutching a big, heavy bag of frozen chuck roll, leeching off as much of the chill as he could before it completely thawed. He probably didn’t need a cool cloth, but Azalea tossed one at him anyway before turning her attention to her brother.
Caliban seemed to be celebrating his victory over temporary ownership of the freezer space, but it was bittersweet. He was pacing to and fro in a tight circle, elbowing at the shelves around him each time, an uncomfortable bounce and sway in his step.
“That beef is as good as contaminated now,” Azalea mentioned, raising an eyebrow. “You can keep it, but you’ve also gotta replace it sometime.”
Caliban nodded shakily. “Yeah, yeah. I can do that, don’t worry.” A few awkward seconds went by before he added, “Thanks.”
Azalea hummed. “You’re bouncing an awful lot. Is that helping?”
“Oh, yeah!” Caliban replied in a gasp. “Anything helps! Anything except breathing. Breathing’s literally the worst right now—DAMN IT. Stop breathing, Cal, stop breathing—”
“I really don’t need you passing out with all this,” Azalea warned. Sure, she was feeling equal parts aggravation and amusement for the situation, but this was her brother.
Even if he obviously shouldn’t have egged K.O. and Murdock’s squabble on, even if he shouldn’t have let himself be cajoled into the new challenge, he still hadn’t meant for all this chaos. He’d only come here to drop off some of the equipment that R.D. was allowing Azalea to borrow. (Peppers of this caliber, no matter how processed or filtered, could NOT just be handled with basic teaspoons.)
He’d just come over to visit and help like he had for so many other jobs….even if those other jobs hadn’t seen him making such a horrible choice.
Caliban barked a strangled laugh. “You think this pain’ll just let me pass out? No! No, it’s gonna keep me awake until it FINALLY DIES.”
Azalea drummed her nails against the glass. “These side-effects are gonna last about six hours. That’s what the official report said, at least.”
Caliban froze in place, eyes somehow bulging even wider. “How long has it been so far?”
“About ten minutes.”
Caliban fell to his knees, just barely grabbing onto one of the shelves to keep from face-planting. That didn’t stop a short, anguished scream from clawing its way out.
Azalea took a step closer, kneeling down and patting her brother’s shoulder as she offered the milk.
He took it, cupping both shaking hands around it as he raised it to his lips.
He sipped for a long moment, then paused.
Azalea watched, both concerned and curious. “...Well?”
“S’only effective for about a micro-second,” Caliban announced, already panting and squirming again. “But that’s still an amazing micro-second. It’s like a micro-second of pure heaven!”
Azalea nodded. “Yeah, I figured. Milk’s effective for regular peppers, but in this case, it doesn’t stand much of a chance. It’d probably need something else to work with, but I’m not sure what.”
Caliban shrugged, taking a another drink and clearly struggling to not just drain the glass all at once. He froze again, contemplation now slithering through the tears.
“Oh God, you’re right. It needs something else to kick-start it,” Caliban gasped. “It needs a stronger substance—BLOOD. That’s it! I need some blood!”
And just like that, he was back on his feet, just barely giving Azalea enough time to back away. “SAM!” Caliban called, now looming just at the edge of the freezer’s threshold. “Sam, get over here and put your neck in my mouth!”
Azalea followed her brother’s gaze across the kitchen. Sam hadn’t budged from the sink, their shirt now damp from all the high-pressure mouthwashing they’d been doing.
Azalea expected Sam to fly into a panicked rage at such a statement, but instead, they merely shook their head with a garbled scoff. “Nuh-uh! If you want anything from me, then you’re gonna have to come over HERE!”
“Oh, you think I WON’T?!” Caliban challenged, his voice a mix of mania and defeat.
“That’s EXACTLY what think!” Sam snapped.
And just like that, Caliban found himself in another fight—Murdock would’ve liked to join in on either side, but Azalea was fairly sure he was just dipping in and out of consciousness by now.
Azalea stayed quiet as she strolled back around the kitchen, mixing up some buttercream frosting with a generous dash of cinnamon. She took a moment to mull over an array of glinting tips for the piping bag.
The noise didn’t do her nerves any favors, but she knew, deep down, that Caliban wouldn’t actually attack Sam. He was serious about The Pentas Family’s policy on allies; he was just trying to funnel his pain into an energy that he could actually use instead of just suffering.
The only time he’d ever consider betraying those who had genuine trust in him was if he’d literally lost his mind—in a bigger sense than he already had. If his skull was cracked open, if a tumor pressed down on the wrong part of his brain, if he caught a bad case of rabies.
…Still, a lot could happen in the span of one errand, and the restaurant’s kitchen had already seen so much chaos by now…
With that in mind, she placed her very first Aztec Chocolate cupcake into a paper to-go box, tucked it under one arm, then slithered out of the kitchen.
The bar counter was right outside, the last barrier before Aftertaste’s actual dining room.
Azalea had worked in this space plenty of times, and when cooking or baking required more of her focus, she had a couple different mixologists on her payroll for when the restaurant was actually open.
The figure that stood before her, a rotund man who was the only person in The Pentas Family to have an inch over Sam—or the cupcake’s recipient, for that matter—was not technically one of them. He had his own business to take care of in a liquor store down by the beach…but he still had quite a way (less-than-legitimate and otherwise) with all things alcohol, so of course he sometimes stepped in when nights were slow for him.
Two-Toes Johnny’s hands were a blur around all the containers and vials he’d arranged on the counter. Rum 44, Creme de Violette, Orange Curacao, as well as a few different syrups and a mutilated lime. He swept it all into a shaker, which he held in almost a cradle as he thrashed it up and down.
After a moment or two, he set it down, grabbing a small, silvery ice pick from under the counter and settling on a glass bowl of frosty cubes.
Johnny glanced down at Azalea as she leaned against the counter beside him. “Things back there gone to shit yet?” He asked, his gruff tone and regular tone one-in-the-same.
“Pretty much,” Azalea answered. She then nodded to the instruments of intoxication. “Thanks for taking the time to whip this up.”
Johnny shrugged. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Never been much of a cocktail guy myself, but they’re still fun to make. It’s been years since I’ve even thought about Purple Skies at all, and that’s one of the better ones.”
The ice had been reduced to a mound of glistening pebbles, so Johnny took the shaker back into his hands. He lightly tossed it up, letting it spin through the air before deftly catching it again. (For a guy who only had one mangled toe on each foot, he was awfully coordinated.)
He opened it up, then poured the concoction into a small, glass bottle, tinted a light green and freshly scrubbed.
Fishing out a long, thin stirring stick, Johnny finished his project with a couple droppers of B'lure Flower Extract.
Johnny took a moment and hovered over it, one of the tattoos on his face—the branch of a cherry blossom tree, which stretched along his jawline and up to his left eyebrow—seeming to twitch as he smirked at the rich, sweet scent.
With that, he rummaged through the bar compartments until he found a cork that would fit, pushing it into the bottle’s opening with a loud, sharp squeak. He then carefully slid it over to Azalea.
She nodded with a smile, setting the box down to pick up the bottle, carefully shifting it in her hands, watching as the liquid inside swirled. She had to squish down the part of her mind that wanted to take a sip.
Nothing special had been mixed into this drink—it just looked really well-made.
“And you’re sure he’ll like it?” Azalea wondered aloud. “No offense. It’s just—you haven’t even had a run-in with him yet. You’ve only seen what we’ve shown you about him.”
“Look, I don’t know how I know, but I just know,” Johnny snorted, wiping his damp hands dry on button-down he wore, its pencil-stripe pattern alternating between black, gray, and a soft shade of gold. “As if readings on booze-preferences would be stable at all. Plus, anyone who doesn’t like purple stuff is a loser.”
“Good point,” Azalea admitted, setting the bottle back down.
A few moments came and went.
Johnny had been preoccupied with pacing around the bar station, returning all the ingredients he’d used to their proper places. But he still picked up on the awkwardness rather quickly. After all, Azalea wasn’t gathering the two gifts up, wasn’t heading back into the kitchen in order to leave the restaurant through the back door like she and the others had planned….
“What’s up?” Johnny asked, propping an elbow against the counter.
Azalea chewed her lip, titling her head toward the kitchen door as she fidgeted with her cherry-red headband. “Well…you’ve heard everything that’s been going on back there.”
“It’d be pretty hard not to,” Johnny agreed with a nod. Muffled arguments and cries of anguish alike had been leaking, and as if on cue, someone back there suddenly decided to get a bit louder. It was hard to tell who.
“Right, right.” Azalea folded her arms across her chest. “I know I should’ve put up more of a fight against Murdock wanting to try that out—”
“It’ll keep him from bitching at you in the future, at least,” Johnny smirked, absentmindedly adjusting the belt of Tawny Port-dyed leather around his waist.
Azalea smirked in spite of herself. She lightly shook her head, and the invisible clouds wove their way around her face. “—but I didn’t, and even though they’re all too out of it to do anything really serious…”
She trailed off, listening to more verbal attacks murmuring from the kitchen.
Johnny furrowed his brow, which caused his other tattoo—a little star just on his right temple—to dip forward. “Someone’s gotta babysit 'em until they’re back to normal, huh?”
“Yeah,” Azalea admitted begrudgingly. “I know you hate picking up other people’s errands, and I’m really sorry to ask that of you now, but I promise I’ll pay you back for it as soon as I can.”
Johnny blinked at her, then perked up. Not smiling, but a smidge less tense than before. “Oh, you mean I’ve gotta handle the delivery? Sure thing.”
Azalea paused, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah. It’s just a simple drop-off. Done that a thousand times before.” Johnny raised one hand to scratch at the short, curly brown hair atop his head. “At first I thought you were gonna have me look after the clusterfuck back there.”
Relief flooded through Azalea’s system, and she didn’t bother hiding it. “Oh, no. I figured leaving you with them in this state would end with you guilty of several war crimes and each of them in a coma for the rest of the month.”
“Damn straight.” Johnny let out a gruff chuckle.
After going over that yes, he did remember the more discreet route to a certain detective’s office, he took both treats and headed into the night.
Sure, it would take a bit longer than he’d like to pick the locks on said office’s main door.
Sure, he would sneak in and be welcomed by the very unexpected sound of chaos emanating from the office’s upper floor.
Sure, he would end up giving in to impulse and creeping up the staircase for a peek, only for a bear-suited nutjob to tackle him back down said staircase, forcing him to rush all the way through the office and out to the car that he’d had to park in a very inconvenient way to stay hidden.
Sure, he would inevitably make the crackhead choice to go right back into that office…but only after he’d grabbed the heirloom baseball bat he never left the house without.
Sure, he would get way more bumps and bruises than he’d care to admit, but he’d still take great satisfaction in whacking his new adversary upside the head until he was an unconscious heap on the floor.
Sure, he would then have to drag Mr. Bear out, take a few too-long minutes to find where he’d parked his own car (which, as it turned out, was badly wedged into another nearby alleyway), then do some more lock-picking and trap the fucker in his own backseat.
Sure, he would have to call Howie to come and drive the whacko out of the city, then toss him into a ditch in the middle of nowhere before driving all the way back, and then follow up with a hefty bribe because even though Howie would have a new car to experiment with, he still did not appreciate being dragged out of the chop-shop and into this plan, especially since he’d never been on the roster for it for the first place…
But hey, Johnny would see the job through.
The rest of the family had done favors for him in the past, so it just made sense for him to do favors himself. He’d make sure the cupcake and cocktail would be left in a good spot for Casey to find.
(Whenever Casey woke up, that is…Fine, knocking him out kinda did defeat the purpose of The Pentas Family giving him a birthday gift at all, but it really would’ve been easier for Johnny to handle things on his own.)
As the title suggests, this story is a little gift to my amazing friend @insane4fandoms ! Go follow them and support their art or else your jaw is gonna be shipped to Jerusalem.
(Yes, I'm aware that their birthday is now over, but still. My motivation is slowly coming back. Keyword: slowly. So, even if I had fun writing yesterday, I just didn't give myself enough time to get everything down in a way that would actually be satisfying to read. And since I'm the writer, I make the rules in these stories, and so it's still March 2nd in-universe, because our dear detective now shares a birthday with his creator.)
(Disclaimer: the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by the birthday-mutual. MadPat—or, Henry Emily, in the FNAF Musical-verse—was created by Random Encounters.)
(Trigger Warnings: flashbacks/slight trauma, implied stalking, slight blood/gore, physical violence, implied murder/death, slight implications of animal abuse. Please let me know if I missed anything.)
Present Day...
“Honestly, where did the years go?”
The voice was shockingly calm. It was still agitated around the edges, still weighed down by something rotten, still familiar in the worst kind of way, but it was still somehow collected.
Not like that really mattered to Casey right now. Among other things, it was simply hard to focus outside of the constant, merciless, organic drumbeat that pounded against his skull.
Casey had always been a dark-skinned guy, so of course it’d always been a bit difficult for others to see when he was bruised. Well, that applied to smaller injuries. Black eyes and busted lips were always pretty damn obvious.
Right here, right now, as he struggled against the zip-ties biting into his wrists, as sharp, splintery sparks of pain flared up and down from his phalanges all the way to his humerus…his instincts told him that the aftermath would be visible.
There was no doubt that his tormentor saw that pain; his bloodshot, twitching eyes had barely left Casey for a few seconds ever since the initial struggle.
(Casey never thought he'd actually be grateful to not have Scout by his side. Under different circumstances, it might've been funny, considering how guilty he felt putting Scout in a kennel when certain vet-appointments required a night-long stay. But he'd seen how Mad acted with most animals back in the day. He'd seen Mad fix dogs and cats alike with such a potent sneer, burn ants with a magnifying glass, aim for birds with slingshots. No matter how many bright, warm memories he may have had...moments like that kept them thoroughly slathered in grime.)
Mad damn well knew what he was doing, what Casey was feeling…and yet, he still had that stupid, smarmy smile plastered on his face. His eyes, even with all the moral decay writhing behind them, were still glazed over with fond recollection.
“No offense, but you really just didn’t know much back then,” Mad chuckled, which made the burn-scars on his face look they they were trying to squirm their way off. “You could barely keep up with those Cop and Robber games…but look at you now! Look at everything you’ve done!”
He spread his arms to gesture around the room, implying all sketches Casey had been working on littered about a nice glass desk, the overflowing bookcase in one corner, the collection of computers and cameras that each had a different purpose depending on the job.
“How’d you get here?” Mad asked, using that same playful tone he’d used while still hiding out in that pizzeria.
Just like back then, it prompted a chill to shake down through Casey’s ribs. He tried to cover that reaction with a snarl, but he didn’t get very far.
Casey knew he was good at his job. His skills had made him highly-prized back at the police department, although that didn’t change how much the department actually deserved to have those skills under it.
He also knew something that many other people in many specific positions did but tried desperately to hide that fact when they had to act like people:
Following rules never actually guaranteed very much in return for you.
Oh sure, there was right and wrong, but that was just basic common sense. There were laws too, and for the most part, they were fine. (For the most part…) Those were different from rules.
It wasn’t that Casey was the type to expect a reward for every little thing. He didn’t have a dependence on validation—that could be nice, but it was it strictly necessary for private investigation? No. It was necessary for things like art, and Casey simply didn’t have time to starve.
Casey just cared about observing and uncovering and then getting paid more than minimum wage. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get an adrenaline rush out of most cases. Not only that, but it also just felt great to help people figure things out on his own terms, without too many authority figures breathing down his neck.
(And on top of that, his greasy landlord did NOT need to get any ideas about the half-apartment-half-office Casey had been renting for years now.)
He’d been pretty successful so far, and rules rarely had a place in most of the situations he’d been hired into. You really just had to make it up as best as you could.
That said, Casey was human.
So, if there was one rule that even he wouldn’t dare question, it was staying hydrated.
He’d had to learn the hard way, of course. Stake-outs tended to be a huge hit-or-miss when it came to work actually being interesting, but nothing ruined the profitable ones quite like an unexpected sore throat. Plenty of jobs required just as much walking as driving, which was usually just a warm-up for running around like a decapitated chicken, and that led to dry-mouth way faster than anyone in any shape would care to admit.
There were definitely bigger risks, bigger issues for a detective deal with. But the fact that was such a small issue made it so much more annoying. (It was on-par with how the pinkie-toe was the absolute worst one to stub, even though any sort of logic should’ve made it the most expendable!)
So it really wasn’t much of a surprise that being gagged with a twisted-up, partially-dry bandana was just the crap de la crap of this current situation.
“Oh, come on, Casey. Stop looking at me like that,” Mad snipped, his smirk falling as he rolled his eyes. “ I don’t want to use any gags—I mean, not on you—but I can never trust you to be quiet at the right times.”
A barrage of venom mixed with molten lava came flooding out of Casey’s brain, with more than a little support from his lungs, only to crash against the scratchy fabric.
Casey knew that would’ve happened, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he was technically proving Mad’s point. He had every damn right to shout and scream right now.
How had Mad even tracked him down in the first place? They had a few close-encounters in recent years, but thankfully, none of them had seen Mad following him all the way to the Cove Port Inlets.
Did he have some kind of contact? Had he bought certain bits of information from another sleazeball—or, rather, forced those bits out?
Even with all the years of separation, Casey knew how Mad worked. And in summary, expecting him to work well with anyone else was like expecting a rusty knife to magically not give you tetanus.
Casey had met quite a few people in his line of work. He’d made plenty of enemies, way more than enough to outnumber his friends, but…
Casey blinked, and Mad’s face was just a couple inches away from his. One hand landed his shoulder, gripping it tight enough to leave little marks through the fabric.
“I don’t like this, Casey. I don’t like how you’re acting,” Mad spat, blunt and selectively aware as ever. “It’s your birthday. That’s when you can do whatever you want. And yet, you haven’t even been celebrating. I came all the way here just to see you…and you still can’t throw me a bone for ONCE.”
Casey jerked his head away, leaning as far back in the chair as he could. He couldn’t afford to close his eyes, but the smell of gasoline clinging to Mad’s old bear-suit was already making him feel sick.
Mad’s face twisted, brows arching and eyes widening, as if he had a genuine reason to be offended right now.
A low, aggravated scoff wormed its way through clenched teeth as he raised his free hand. Then, he clutched at Casey’s black hair, forcefully guiding his head up in order to face him. “You’re really just going to IGNORE me, Casey?! You don’t just get to—!”
Whatever else Mad wanted to spew died a violent death on his tongue.
Because in one swift, fluid movement, Casey swung one of his legs right up, slamming the sole of his shoe directly into Mad’s chest, putting as much strength behind it as possible.
Mad went sprawling across the room, his side colliding with Casey’s desk before he crumpled to the floor, hacking up lungs that were already pretty damaged from other escapades.
