In Medias Res- (Eyes of Purple Book Two)

Diet-Fic: Not As We Planned

        "Ah, homo-necrosis. The most dangerous game."

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        What many people won't tell you is that when you're in the reporting business, you tend to attract a reputation, for good or ill. Clients ticked off that they had a bad light, businesses shut down because of snoops digging for facts the public deserved to be aware of. Indeed, that sort of thing.

        Wilford Warfstache, senior reporter for Warfstache Tonight! had gained a lot of enemies over the years, which wasn't a suprise to him. God knows he's a tough man to work with.

        Then again... he wasn't expecting to be thrown in the gutter over a dying children's restaurant chain, regardless of the rumors that followed it.

        He was just doing his job. Was that so hard to grasp in their feeble, sane little minds?

        Clearly Fazbear's employees are ridiculously touchy, he scoffed, tracing small little designs in his own pool of blood, facedown in the grass. Touchy, touchy people... Wilford laughed somewhat, but it turned into a gargle of sorts- his lungs were filling up with water, and his head was getting fuzzy.

        He smelled a lot of lead- of was it bubblegum? He couldn't be sure anymore. Wilford couldn't be sure of anything.

        Wheezing and giggling, the man pressed his face into the dirt, clutching his gut. It felt like his heart was crawling up his esophagus, and his intestines were slowly unraveling and spilling out of his stomach. Ehhhhhh. Probably should've listened to Dark this time. I'll tell him that he was... he was right, when I get back...

        Wilford had always liked to ignore the painfully obvious.

        There were heavy footsteps behind him, a man's. Groaning, Wilford turned his head to look at him- That's new. I've never seen anyone with purple eyes before...

        The man crouched down, scanning Wilford with off-colored eyes, the 'whites' a dark obsidian and cold. He put his hand in the blood and reeled back somewhat, taking the bigger picture in. Wilf peered curiously up at him.

        He seemed to decide something, because his eyebrows were knit tightly even though the expression itself softened somewhat. In a quiet English voice, the man said, "Look. I don't care who you are, but no one deserves to be driven to that condition. I promise that you will not be dying from this. Not today."

        As he spoke, the man took off his jacket, using the sleeves to tie pressure over Wilford's gaping hole in his side. Wilford was hoisted up, and he groaned as he was lifted off of the stained grass...

        ...Regardless of what that puddle was made out of, it was still his bloody puddle. Wilford laughed once again at the thought, waves of nausea crashing into him at a disturbing rate. Sticky crimson liquid was dribbling from his lips, pooling onto his neck, suspenders, the other man's shirt. He kept a hand clamped over the makeshift coverings, cringing at how difficult it was going to be to get the stains out. Bleach so did not do well with his shirt.

        Gracious, was he a mess. "Right. You're fine, you're going to be fine. Nothing to worry about."

        Was he trying to comfort Wilford, or just himself? The reporter smiled at both implications. Even he could tell that he was in a critical condition, a British stranger hoisting him on his back and walking off with him. How scandalous. What next, we're going to serenade how miserable our lives are and eat tapioca pudding? Perhaps I should have brought a spare bottle of bubbles.