"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.
"You need to keep awake... Talk to me. Your name, my well dressed associate?" Wilford hummed, burying his nose in the other man's shoulder.
"I am Wilford Warfstache... Reporter, army veteran, former acquaintance of the actor Markiplier Fischbach. Yourself?" The slur was worse than normal. The man with the purple eyes hummed, his pace quick and even. He was carrying Wilford like one would be toting a backpack full of prized possessions- carefully, but without much work. He probably wouldn't even be winded.
"Michael John Afton. Pleasure to meet you, even in these troubled circumstances." Wilford nodded slowly in understanding. This man, as well as his family, had a reputation that preceded them all. "I take it you ticked off the higher chain. Did they send someone after you?"
Wilford replied with a slow, "No... I was just caught poking around after hours. Some Marionette thing was not very pleased to see me, let me tell you now..." Michael shifted Wilford, who was unceremoniously backwards-straddling him. "Oh dear, it appears I'm slipping..." Hence the backwards-straddling.
His voice was tight, but not uncomfortable. "Not a problem." Another shift. Wilford was now leaned forward, a bit easier on both of them. "... Yes, we're nearly there. You're going to be alright."
"I certainly didn't mean to cause all of this fuss..."
"That seems to happen quite a bit around me- don't worry about it. I know better than most what pain that business brings."
Wilford slumped, humming. "Ooh, tell me about that. How long have you been working there?" The pain had crept into his words now, and he started to pinch himself.
Michael was silent for a moment, evidently considering his words. "Long time. More than a decade, now."
"Long enough to see at least three different iterations of the chain, yes? Four? Five, if you count Fredbear's Family Diner?"
He actually chuckled, rounding a corner. The street lamps twinkled overhead. "Wilford, no one counts Fredbear's Family Diner. Not anymore. It's all about the fresh new things that catch people's interests these days..." The reporter hummed, his mustache twitching with amusement.
"I suppose so."
Michael did not answer, now reaching a large apartment building. Pulling out a key- "I live on the bottom floor, thank God-" he unlocked his door, kicking it open the rest of the way unceremoniously. He set Wilford down on his couch, not seeming to care about the droplets of blood scattered around his carpeted floor. "Let me go get my kit... Don't pass out, please. That'd be a bit unpleasant."
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As Michael worked on stopping the bleeding, the two of them continued to hold conversation, both genuinely curious about each other. Both men had heard their names thrown around in passing conversations before, or in a piece of relatively important (or unimportant) news.
In an hour, Wilford learned that Michael was a night owl that preferred to keep to himself. Although polite, there were certain subjects he would tend to turn around if it came up, or avoid entirely, if possible. His true age was a mystery, but he spoke about things of the past in a fond tone, like he actually knew what he was talking about. He baked and drew to relax, and for some reason did not care for the taste of tea- "Something about the texture just always feels... off, you know?"
Michael also had occurring nightmares quite often, but looked uncomfortable when asked to elaborate. All he would say was that he didn't particularly enjoy his job very much.
In the same amount of time, Michael had learned that Wilford had used to go by another name (although the reporter couldn't seem to recall it), and had once loved a woman by the name of Celine. She and her brother, Damien, had been missing- or perhaps dead- for years now, and Wilford had convinced himself that no matter how long it had been, they'd still come back to him one day.
He sympathized with that, knowing full well that Wilford was operating off of a mad hope. However, he wisely said nothing, as people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones- or chairs. Or baskets of butter, for that matter.
Wilford also seemed to have a strong love for "the pretty things"... The things that normally captured the eye of a child. He enjoyed bubbles immensely, and babbled about space and the ocean for a full three minutes without drawing a single breath. For reasons unknown, the reporter also had a deep obsession for the color pink, but the reason had again been forgotten. Wilford also mentioned a man named Dark several times in the conversation, and from the looks of things Dark appeared to either be a person of great affections, or Wilford caretaker. Perhaps both. He asked Michael if he could call Dark, and Michael got up to get his phone.
He tapped away at the numbers quickly, not quite looking at the screen. A deep and stressed-sounding voice answered, and Wilford spoke for only about a minute, the man on the other side silent. Then he was quiet for a while, looking rather guilty, before chattering out a goodbye, hanging up.
"Thank you. He should be picking me up... now." Wilford held onto the phone for a moment, typing his number into it. Michael must have looked confused, because Wilford said, "I wanna talk to you again sometime."
"No, I was wondering what you meant about-"
Michael was interrupted by a knock on the front door, and he sighed, going in to get it. On the other side was an angry-looking man with a neutral expression, dressed in a worn black suit. "Terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour." His voice wasn't all that loud, but was amplified with a piercing, ringing sound in Michael's ear. "I'm just here to pick up Will." He nodded, letting who Michael assumed was Dark inside.
Dark stared at Wilford for a moment, now sitting up on the couch with a sheepish expression, knowing he was going to get scolded. Dark sighed, resting a hand on Wilford's head for a brief moment.
"... What am I going to do with you...?" The reporter looked relieved, standing and hugging Dark with all of his strength. He grumbled, but Michael could not miss the twitch of a smile playing on his lips. "I told you so..."
"Can we go home now? Please?" Dark nodded, and Wilford pulled away, already waddling out the door.
Dark regarded Michael with a curious expression, recognition flooding in his sharp ebony eyes. "Michael Afton, correct?" Michael nodded. "... I knew your father, a long time ago. You look very much like him."
"I'm afraid the resemblance stops there," Michael answerd.
Dark smiled again, somewhat thoughtfully. "Thank you. I'm sure Will is going to keep in touch."
The two men disappeared into the night, Michael watching them with bemusement from the doorway.