WRITING INSPIRED BY THE FNAF MOVIE 2 - SPOILERSSSS!!!!!!!!
There is an uninvited guest in his father's storehouse.
Michael hears their loud, heavy, insolent footsteps. It causes him to freeze up, his breaths to come quick, until he realises that man is dead, now. No punishment will come for him, no. This person, so alike in Father's confidence, is an intruder. Michael shrinks against the shelving, thinking quickly. How dare a stranger involve themselves with family matters. He must teach them a lesson. The old box-cutter in his possession gleams with promise, though his hands shake as he releases the blade four notches—its fullest extent. The beam of the heretic's flashlight sweeps into Michael's view between the shelving. He can hear Father mocking his bony wrists and unsteady hands; barely able to cut into a tender steak, much less a mobile target. But he is hidden. He has the upper hand. He is the one taking them by surprise. The fool steps closer and closer to their fate. The thrill of the hunt sends blood pounding through his ears, heart rate climbing. His fingers wrap tightly around the box-cutter.
From his vantage, Michael finally spots fractions of the intruder's deep blue leggings and large shoes. It makes him wonder just who, exactly, might be in here with him. It couldn't be Schmidt; his sister's hopeless crush is short, somewhat lithe, but far stockier than Michael himself. His footsteps could not resound so greatly... but there is no time for guessing, the moment has arrived. Michael lunges forwards and upwards with a quiet growl, aiming for the lower abdomen, where vital organs are unprotected by bone. He expects the ripping of fabric, the hesitant give of flesh, and blood to spray onto his face. What he does not expect is a dark-skinned hand to snatch his wrist, twisting his only weapon out of its offensive direction. Michael's eyes dart up, and he's met with an expression of complete and utter dissatisfaction. Michael grunts, trying to pull himself together, trying to free himself, but the other man's grip is sturdier than stone. He regards Michael's efforts with an unamused 'tch', turning Michael around with ease and pressing a big foot to his back, forcing him to kneel until his head is smushed against cold concrete. His blade-wielding hand is kept almost straight in the air by the muscular grip encircling his wrist. Michael struggles futiley. Failure.
"Lot of good that knife did you," the other man speaks, prying the box-cutter out of his grip.
"Release. Me," Michael seethes, not even able to look his enemy in the eye with his fringe now resting over his face. His captor hums, as if considering it.
"How about no." There's a pause. Michael doesn't want to ask, but he knows he must. The unknown plagues him.
"...What are you going to do to me?"
"Well, I was thinking of waiting here until your just-as-insane sister comes to pick you up. You are Michael Afton, right?" He should've come with Charlotte. She has supernatural power behind her, where all he has is his scrawny, bony body and wits. He yearns to yell in frustration, but his father's words ring in his head once again; only the strong could afford to be loud, the weak must be silent.
"I'm Jeremiah."
"Don't insult my intelligence." Of course he knows Jeremiah, the man who humiliated him on his escape attempt, leaving him clutching his concussed head as he crawled to safety. He couldn't handle any more surprises after last time. He researched all of Schmidt's attachments thoroughly.
"Oh, isn't that handy," Jeremiah remarks, as if Michael hadn't spoken. Still bearing his weight down on the far frailer man, he grabs something from the higher shelves. Michael huffs as his other arm is brought out from under him, and his wrists are trapped together. The texture of rope rubs against his arms. Hoping for an opening, he struggles again. Jeremiah applies a bit more weight through the foot onto Michael's back, and a grunt escapes him despite his best efforts to hold it back. His face burns with embarrassment. He allows himself to give up and let Jeremiah immobilise him. "You said a lot back then, but you're really pathetic," the larger man says, a slight chuckle to the end of his words. Michael can hear Father saying something similar, with a particular emphasis on that last word.
He wishes he could be like Vanessa. She built muscle so easily, and she was always perfect in everything she did, it wasn't fair. Jealousy pricks at him with Jeremiah, too; his towering stature, and his ability to carry Michael's bound body on one shoulder, taking him to... wherever it is they're going. He's hardly in a mood to fight it, seeing as breaking free likely nets him falling head-first to the ground. Jeremiah's deep, calm voice siezes Michael's heart as he says, "Yeah, got him. He was exactly where you said he'd be."
