#charlie... i feel bird energy. i do not know why. maybe something like a raven. death symbology yknow.

[spaghettiandart]

WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. A FNAF DAEMON AU WOULD GO INSANELY HARD.

(Rambling in tags)

[wh0re-in-the0ry]

Types of animals I think the Chuckle/Sorry Boys would be

Note: I don't want to be too obvious, so Schlatt isn't a ram and Phil isn't a crow.

Schlatt-

Schlatt is a bear not the San Fransico kind specifically a grizzly bear. I mean it is pretty obvious when you think about it. Grizzlys are fucking huge, they avoid human interaction whenever possible, they mate maybe once every four years, and they enjoy taking long naps (hibernation). If that isn't Schlatt, I don't know what is.

Ted Nivison-

Ted is a pitbull/labrador mix. These types of dogs are kinda smart, energetic, very playful according to google. Also speaking from experience, these types of dogs are a tad bit silly, a wee bit funny, maybe even goofy if I do say so myself. Just looking at these two and my brain just think they are one in the same.

Slimecicle-

Slimecicle is an octopus. It's mainly because if I didn't know what either of them were and someone was to describe them to me, I would not believe them. I would also like to mention their ability to change appearances in a whim. Octopi have the ability to camouflage as many know, and Charlie's face becomes near unrecognizable without his glasses, also this might just be a me thing, but I feel like his face slightly changes in every photo he's in and it kinda scares me.

Tommy and Wilbur-

Tommy and Wilbur are ferrets. They are long creatures with a lot of energy and are very social animals. Those traits just fit really nicely with them, especially Tommy. The reason I made them both the same animal is 1) I am a sucker for the crime boys and 2) when getting a pet ferret, its highly recommended to get a second one for companionship so having only one ferret on the list wouldn't be right.

Also mildly hot take: I don't think Tommy is a racoon, idk why the fandom collectively agreed he was one. To be fair idk why I think he isn't one besides "the vibes don't fit" but I have a personal theory that the internet had a hyper fixation on racoons and Tommy at the same time, mashed them together, and it just stuck.

Ranboo-

I had the hardest time with Ranboo. A part of me wants to say a cat but specifically the cat in the All My Fellas meme because they are both so silly, but that kind of feels like cheating. After some thinking I settled for something. This one is a little shallow because its purely based on aesthetics but the jellyfish from Finding Nemo (which according to Reddit are the Sanderia malayensis). There's something about it's vibrant shade of pink and floaty-ness that suit R800 in my opinion. They are just neat to look at and pretty cool.

Philza-

Remember how I said Ranboo was the hardest to figure out? Well I lied. Crows are such a key part of Phil's brand, I would even argue that crows are more integral to Phil's brand then Rammie is to Schlatt's brand. I know that's a big claim, but Rammie is its own thing, is it iconic, yes but it can easily be separated from Schlatt. But with Phil it becomes much harder, C!Phil is always depicted as a bird/crow hybrid, in the majority of fanworks he's given crow features, his chat are crows. No matter how hard we try we can't escape the crows.

So, the next best thing was to replace the crow with an animal similar to it. And no, it won't be a raven or another bird because that feels like cheating.

I think rats can replace Phil's crows. Both are very smart animals that are very playful and are also quite social. Rats can symbolize death and plague similar to crows which is in line for the angel of death. They can also be stylized/drawn all cute for marketable plushies. Then there's the fact that rat features are easy to spot and draw, fanartist can easily slap on a couple ears, a tail, and those buck teeth rats have and there we have it: Ratza. Also for the Dadza/found family fans: rats are known to have big families and live in packs. Honestly in another tine line, I can see Ratza working just as well, if not better than Crowza.

. If y'all have any hypotheticals/ideas you guys want me to explore I am open to suggestions :]

-S

.

[pollylynn]

Title: Devisal WC: 2000 Episode: Knockout (3 x 24)

What will she give to this? The thing she walked away from. The thing that gave chase. The thing she has since turned on and bared her teeth, her claws, but what will she give to this?

Time.

This has been the answer for weeks. It has been the answer for months.

She fetches down her mother’s ring from its nail behind the shutters, from the place where it stands watch among the photos, the ragged-edged news clippings, the tight scrawl of her own writing. She begins a new thicket of hash marks—sixteen weeks today. Sixteen times she has fetched down her mother’s ring.

She fetches her mother’s ring from its tucked away place inside her jacket, from where it nestles as close to her body as she can bear these days. She fetches it out and stares as it catches the sallow fluorescent light, as she waits for the buzzer to make the cage sting out. The tiny stone flickers with all its might, urgent as an SOS. The chain hisses against itself as the ring spins. It winds. It unwinds.

She mechanically thanks one guard—a different one each week. A different one much of the time? She’s not sure. There’s only the wait for the buzzer, the cage singing out. There is only the ring with its frantic shower of minute sparks.

And then there is the dance with the man beyond the cage. The man inside is a constant. Ryker. She knows his name. She doesn’t know his name. Now slides past then. This time swaps places with last time—with the last fifteen times. Time is what she gives. This is what she gets, a street punk’s game of Three-Card Monte. Find the Lady. Find the Lady.

She knows the man inside, but he does not know her. What will she give to this? Nothing of herself. Nothing of who she is. This is the bargain she has struck.

She grits her teeth. Officer Ryker, she says, and maybe it’s pleasant. Maybe it’s not. Either way, He has a smile at the ready and a lame joke teed up—today it’s a serial arsonist, an armed robber. For her part, there is the polite laugh. When did that start, she wonders? How much time trickled to the bottom of the hourglass before this became their version of Hi, honey, how was your day?

He—Officer Ryker—puts the kettle on, as it were. He dials up the next man inside, some other faceless inconstant, she thinks. A different one each week. A different one much of the time? Ryker rattles off Hal Lockwood’s prisoner ID from memory.

He does not know her. He has never asked why she comes, who Lockwood is to her, what it is she comes in search of, week after week. He simply does everything she does, backwards in uniform-issue shoes.

This is before, though. This is the fifteen times before, and time is suddenly not enough.

*******************

What will she give to this? The thing that has come for her at last. The thing that has the audacity to tell her that she is not predator, but prey. What is it now that she will she give?

A fucking show.

She blocks Castle’s apologies, his empathy, his pity, like so many blows raining down in the chaos of a bar brawl. She knocks him off balance. She makes a point of how off-kilter they are—how out of the loop he is. It’s all part of the show. He’s sorry about McCallister’s execution? He must not have the faintest idea what she’s been doing for all these weeks, all these months. McCallister’s murder goes in the win column. It’s the paper trail of her dreams. It’s Christmas in May.

Stricken by this, wounded and terrified, by her and for her, he still musters up the courage to point out that Lockwood’s cage is unlikely to rattle? She shows him her back. She struts away at speed, tossing revelations over her shoulder: Lockwood is the B-plot. He is nothing but a drop-kick lapdog. She’s going after the king of the beasts, armed with a chair and a whip.

And that’s all just Act I.

Act II. Interior: Bullpen. She is in constant motion. She she raps out unnecessary orders. The boys are on the case of who ordered Lockwood’s transfer. They are on the tail-chasing mission of trying to find something—anything—on the courtroom impostors. They are on the chopper and recordings of Lockwood’s calls. They are on the job of stating the obvious—say hello to Charlie and Mike: She is Lockwood’s next target, and that suits her just fine.

But it’s a plot twist. It’s an uproar. It’s a red herring? Maybe it’s a red herring.

Everyone’s blood runs cold when the Captain points out that she’d have already been dead on the courtroom floor if it were her back with a target painted on it. There’s no pause for a dramatic musical cue. Castle is on his feet. He is on exposition duty, desperate to change the narrative. his hands fly across the murder board, swapping file photos from slot to slot to slot until the letters that sprawl across each one to spell out deceased become nothing but a blur. Find the lady. Find the lady.

Her eyes are locked on her mother’s picture, the one fixed point she can find amid the frenetic show-time energy. Her ring is missing. The shutters and the nail that tips its head toward the ceiling are nowhere to be found. There is no shower of tiny sparks and no hiss of the chain against itself as it winds, unwinds, winds again.

.

And still, she’s putting on a show. They are putting on a show, and this is how it happens.

What will she give to this? Every poor player among them, piece by piece. Now. This is what she will give.

*******************

What will she give to this? The ravenous, undying thing that winds itself around her and drops its venom in her ear. There is no question of predator and prey now, there is only who she has been and this undying thing, entwined. The words of Gary McCallister, of Hal Lockwood bubble up—So much bigger than you realize. You can’t hide from him. These, whispers the ravenous, undying thing, are the only true words ever spoken. And for this truth, to this truth, what will she give?

Her mind. Her heart. The twanging snip of threads that have bound her to life—to everything other than this. She will give in. That is what she will give.

It begins in the hangar. It begins with the chopper, scrubbed down, reeking of bleach, looming. It begins with one pathetic bullet hole. Details swirl in the air—stolen, hedge fund, the Caribbean. Wherever her feet land, wherever her shoulders try to straighten themselves, the shadow of the hulking bird presses down on her. This is the metaphor.

Why now?

The question is hers. It is not hers. It is the slither and hiss of threads untangling in her mind, though her voice—out in the world—sounds normal. It sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to ask, and he shrugs. He calculates exactly the gesture, his tone, the glance delivered on an oblique angle. He is wary. He is managing her.

Time, planning, resources, he says, and every molecule of air in that hangar thrums with black suspicion.

What if it was something else?

There is is again, the slither and hiss. What if it was him? That’s what the ravenous, undying thing wants to know.

I will do anything that you need, including nothing, if that's what you want.

What kind of fool believes that, when he’s standing there, perfectly at home next to a two-million-dollar toy,? He gives a makes sense, yeah, that’ll happen nod as Esposito explains the owner might never have even realized the fucking bird was gone without her one pathetic shot dimpling its tail.

Makes sense, he nods, and what kind idiot would never think to wonder what strings he has been pulling since Dick Coonan, since John Raglan, since she was pathetic enough, needy enough to name him someone she trusts? She lives with his ego, day in and day out. She lives with his savior complex, and what if it was him who set all this in motion?

That’s it. That’s it. The frantic blur of bent plastic cards comes to an end. Find the Lady.

She gives in. She lets the black suspicion rear up and bare its fangs, and when he comes to her—when he dares come to her as though he knows her—she strikes.

What about you, Rick?

Is that what we are?

We are over.

And just like that, she is free. She is swallowed whole. She floats, weightless, in the black.

She gives in.

*********************

What will she give to this? What has she given to this?

Her family. The one she has built. The one that has built itself around her. The one that lies in ruins at her feet, because she let this thing blot out everything else in existence.

What has she given to this that she can never reclaim?

A decade and more of her life, spent in hiding—spent behind the cheap plastic mask of a heroine, an avenging angel, a dutiful daughter, a warrior. There is the twanging snip of a frayed elastic band, the almost silent fall of an unconvincing disguise falling, falling.

What is left to her—of her—after all she has given to this?

Nothing.

That is the slither and hiss again. That is cowardice that will not see the shower of tiny sparks, that will not heed the urgent SOS sent out by what little of her mother she can carry with her.

And she does carry her mother with her on this day of days. She wears the delicate links of chain next to her skin, beneath the suffocating weight of her dress uniform. She feels her heart beating, beating, beating, against the solid circle of it. She feels unworthy of it. She knows she is unworthy of it. But she carries her mother with her on this day of days. She heeds that urgent message at last.

What is left of her—to her—after all she has thrown on the pyre? Not nothing.

There is a sea of stalwart shoulders around her, bowed by grief that is hers, that is theirs, that is a terrible weight shared among them. There is a sea of tear-streaked faces brave enough to seek the sun, even now. There is a sea of warriors and dutiful daughters, of shining examples, giving and receiving grace. There is a wordless chorus that knocks around the hollow remains of her mind, her heart, as if to say This is how it’s done. This is how we mourn. Together. This is how.

This is what bravery is—to hear them. This is what is righteous and healing—to be a shoulder, a face, a spark of grace, given and received.

What is left?

He is left. She is left. They are left, despite her craven pronouncements, despite his lies of omission and barbed-wire truths. They are left.

She speaks this into being. A tremulous, unfamiliar voice that seems to be hers speaks this unassailable fact into being.

You find someone to stand with you.

It is a beginning. Not a harvest, but a tentative vision for what might grow here. It is not a question. Not yet. She is still in pieces. He is still in ruins. They are still dragon’s teeth, scattered on still-smoking ground, waiting to be human. Waiting to see if they can be human, alone and together.

But still, it is a beginning—a nascent question: What can she take from this?

A/N: So. After taking on a spur-of-the-moment, enormous editing project with a tight deadline, There was total lack of morphousness until 3 AM. Sprawling, writhing lack of morphousness that was only half of this. So I had to add a second half of absolute absence of morphousness this morning, obviously. OBVIOUSLY.

images via homeofthenutty