BlueyCapsules | VOLUME TWO

The Fox and the Hound

This was the first time Michael had left the house in months.

The new location wasn't helping, he thought, staring up at the stage. It didn't matter where they were, it had still happened. All Michael could look at was Fredbear, and his pink-stained maw. He couldn't tell if his mouth was really still bloody, or if it was just

the crunch

his imagination. It didn't matter either way.

"Hey! You're that stupid brit's kid, right?"

Michael ignored the voice, keeping his eyes ahead.

"Hey, kid! I'm talkin' to ya!"

Michael huffed, turning around sharply in his seat. It was a girl, red-haired, maybe around Liz's age, with a nasty look on her face - he was Irish, he guessed, going off her accent. This must've been one of the 'Boseman brats' father talked about. Michael just stared at her.

"What, don't you speak?" the girl snapped, despite the fact that she hadn't actually asked him anyway. "Eh, can't blame ya, I guess. Based on what that jackass is like 'round here, I can't imagine what kinda hellhole ya live in."

She had no idea.

"Yeeeah," a little boy crawled up onto the bench in front of him, redirecting Michael's attention. "Do ya have to eat, like, spiders for breakfast? Or sleep out in the yard like a dog?" The kid seemed absolutely gleeful, speculating what type of abuse Michael might've been enduring. "Or walk around on your hands all day?"

Michael's brow twitched. The little boy grinned.

"For real?!"

"Just fuck off," Michael said finally, pushing the kid away. He squealed with excitement at hearing a curse word.

"Hey, by any chance do you play the keyboard?" Michael was getting fed up with these questions. He turned toward the oldest one there, who looked...less cruel than the others. He was still a little younger than him, Michael figured, but they were closer in age. "My band's got one, but we don't got anybody who knows how to play...we've also got some bongos, if that's your sort of thing."

Michael was about to say that sounded nice, when the younger girl shoved her brother.

"Aw, shut up, Gabe," she hissed. "He doesn't want to join your stupid weirdo band."

Michael winced.

"Oh, whaddeva," Gabe, he guessed, rolled his eyes. "You're just jealous you couldn't be a backup singer cuz you sound like a dying cat when you wail." He burst into laughter at his own quip, and the girl grabbed him by the shirt, shaking him angrily.

"Shut up! I do not!"

Michael watched the two tussle wordlessly, feeling distinctly reminded of how he and Liz used to fight; the girl won, sitting on top of Gabe and forcing a wheeze out of him.

"The only way he wouldn't want to join my kickass band is if he was anything like his deadbeat old man -"

im so proud of you michael you really are just like your father

"I'M NOT LIKE HIM!!" Michael burst out, standing quickly, rage blinding his senses for a moment. All three of the Boseman kids were just staring at him, stunned.

Great.

Michael turned and ran down the hallway, ignoring the youngest calling after him in confusion. He was so stupid - couldn't he ever just be normal? That kid wanted him to join his band. He could've had a friend. He marched all the way to the back exit, dropping to the concrete and resting his back against the metal door. This was where he belonged, he supposed; Alone, in a back alley.