When the Circus Comes to Town

by Nevada_Stranger (KikuchiKun)

Summary:

“His eyes were clouded with involuntary tears, watering furiously to try and stop the burning, his lungs heaving and choking against his will, every one of his limbs heavy like lead. Jake opened his mouth, but he couldn’t even scream.”

 

Chapter 1: Parlor Tricks

The taste of ash was thick in the air of the Crotus Prenn asylum. No matter how shallow Jake breathed, it still somehow stuck to the back of his throat. His cough was quiet and abortive, and still he looked around warily, as if someone had heard the noise.

It was better to be safe than sorry. Even though he wasn’t in a Trial, Jake didn’t want to let his guard down.

The fog seemed to layer off the ground, thicker than any Jake had seen here. He’d gotten turned around at the fire, when he’s stepped back from the other Survivors for a moment. Just a single moment, to get away from the noise and the talking and to just breathe. But he’d only gone three steps into the forest when the fog had rolled in, and suddenly, he was lost. Lost, despite knowing the forest like the back of his hand by this point.

The Entity wanted some fun, it seemed. And Jake shuddered at its idea of fun. But he couldn’t just stop moving, so he kept walking forward, hoping that the fog would clear, that the distinct atmosphere of the asylum would reveal itself. Maybe this was just another Trial.

Jake could hope, at least. Death was better than anything else that could happen to him wandering alone. Maybe he’d find Michael, actually, wandering the fog as well. The thought gave Jake a little smile and made his shoulders unhitch ever so slightly despite himself.

Suddenly, a light pierced the fog. A soft light, warm- beckoning, maybe. Gentle and welcoming, and that was a first, Jake realized. That he looked at it and felt a foreign relief; that he could find refuge from the fog, or the Entity. If he just followed the glowing light. He didn’t know how he knew this, but it was a sirens song in his mind, assuring him. So against all odds, Jake found himself walking towards it. Cautiously, yes, but almost desperately too. He- he needed to.

In some part of his mind, Jake felt himself panicking. Maybe the rational part. He knew, with every fiber of his being, that something was wrong. He shouldn’t be going there! Every warning instinct howled, stamping around like a caged animal, and somehow it didn’t even register to Jake. Like some force was compelling him- forcing him. Gentle whispers in the back of his mind drowned out the cacophony of protest, his limbs moving not entirely of his own volition, drunk on the idea of safety.

Get away! his mind whispered, only to be ignored, smothered and strangled into silence.

A caravan came into view. That had to be the word for it- it was painted in red and gold, and the wood was distinctly faded, well-worn in a comforting and familiar way. Like a grandparents house, or an old summer cabin, frozen in time. It was almost like it was deliberate. It seemed to ooze safety, and the front door of it was even propped ever so slightly open, more of that light flooding out. Come in, it seemed to say, come inside. Jake stepped forward. Like those people in fairy tales, reaching out to touch the spindle tip, to eat the apple, as Jake reached out to push the door open with a curious touch.

It opened without any resistance.

Run, his mind shouted.

He walked forward.

RUN, his mind screamed.

Jake didn’t notice. He was too busy smiling gratefully at the fire in the tiny stove, at the feeling of safety.

But as he crossed the threshold of the caravan, something seemed to break. Cracks appeared in the illusion. The warmth from the outside wasn’t present inside of the home, and it was little things at first glance that seemed... off. The cabinet of bottles, for one. Jake stepped towards them uncertainly, looking at each one. Worn, yellowed labels on each bottle, with black scrawled script labeling them.

“Chloroform...” Jake mouthed, furrowing his brow, “Ether...”

Jake stepped back, the hairs on his neck raised. What kind of person would need those on demand? The air suddenly seemed much colder than before, as Jake turned to the rest of the interior of the caravan. He saw books, stained with unknown substances. He saw a cigar box with rust blood on the edges. At the very back of the room was a video tape collection, and Jake picked one with a fearful expression, reading the scratched, fading label.

“Blond girl, Wisconsin,” Jake’s voice was quiet, just as quiet as he grabbed another, “Tattooed man, New York.”

Each VHS had the well-worn appearance of something homemade, and used frequently. A few were unlabeled, as if waiting, and there was a video camera sitting innocuously next to it. Save for the red light that meant it was recording.

Jake jolted back as if burned. Too late, he didn’t notice the shadow of a figure in the door. But he did notice the sound of the floor creaking. And he blinked at that, turning, freezing. Freezing, at the unfamiliar person in the doorway.

RUN! his mind hollered.

But it was too late.

The man was tall. He was- he was dressed as a clown, with greasepaint and slicked back hair. Bright carnival coat and attire. Something was off, though. It took Jake a minute to realize it was the eyes: they were pitch black. The grin, too, was stretched far too wide for comfort. His stance radiated grim glee, and Jake caught the sight of a switchblade in his hand, and a bottle in the other.

This wasn’t a man: this was a Killer. And Jake had just walked into his trap.

Jake began to back away, his eyes searching for any avenue of escape. The door behind him, maybe? Jake backed towards it, turning the handle, finding it locked. There was a window above the stove, but it didn’t seem large enough to jump through.

That just left the other door, the one the Clown had just closed behind himself.

Jake swallowed.

“I-“ he attempted, “I’m sorry, I got- lost. I can leave.”

Bargaining did nothing- it never worked. But Jake still tried, even as the Clown simply grinned wider. The Killer let off a series of concussive laughs, explosive and wheezing, as he stomped towards Jake. Only a few steps, though. Jake flinched away still, trying to figure out any way of escape, and the Clown brought up the bottle in his hand with a slight tilt to his head.

Pop. The cork falling out. But it wasn’t a drink that spilled out from the shaken bottle, but gas. Purple gas, curling wisps of smoke, deadly tendrils drifting towards Jake. Jake jumped back as much as he could, only succeeding in rattling the shelves on the wall behind himself. He shoved his scarf over his mouth to try and stop the gas, holding his breath for as long as he could, but the Clown was patient, and there was plenty of gas to fill the small space of the caravan. In no time, it reached Jake, and his next gasping inhale was rewarded with deep and desperate coughs.

The gas was sickly sweet to the taste. It was worse than the cloying smell of ash, and it stuck even moreso. Every cough just made it stronger. This was when the Clown began to advance, a crackling chuckle filling the space. Jake felt his body involuntarily relaxing, and, some unknown heat racing through his veins. Even though Jake couldn’t register what it was, he knew that it was very, very bad. That he had to get out of here, before- before the Clown could do whatever it was he had planned. To warn the others.

“Get away,” Jake growled, though it was slurring at the edges. The Clown just laughed and laughed, almost looming now. His eyes were tracing the lines of Jake’s fingers, licking his lips, making Jake hunch in and shudder. He must have mistaken Jake’s slouched stance for weakness, because then, he lunged forward, faster than his size would have suggested. But just a moment too slow. Half a second, maybe less, but Jake was fueled by desperation. The desperate adrenaline that gave him just enough time to dodge, going right under the Clown’s arm.

The switchblade embedded in the wall. The Clown grunted in surprise, and a set of bottles went down with it, shattering to the ground. Jake couldn’t see the labels on them through the haze of gas, but a choked inhale could only say that it wasn’t good- the way it was sticking to the inside of his lungs, making his throat burn. His eyes were clouded with involuntary tears, watering furiously to try and stop the burning, his lungs heaving and choking against his will, every one of his limbs heavy like lead.

Jake opened his mouth, but he couldn’t even scream.

The door to the caravan wasn’t locked. If it had been, Jake wouldn’t have been able to open it at all. The Clown was cursing and wheezing in the thick haze of whatever bottles Jake had accidentally shattered, and that was the only chance he was going to have to escape, he knew it- or, or he’d end up as another VHS on the shelf. No one would ever know where to look for him, and no one would ever hear his screams.

The door fell open. Jake stumbled out, to the railings, half his body falling over them and the other half desperately trying to remain standing. Frantic inhales, to try and clear the gas from his lungs, but each inhale was short and clipped; scrambling, involuntarily shallow. How much gas had he inhaled? Too much, he could only think. His mouth was dry like cotton, and he barely registered the sound of the Clown slowly walking towards him.

“No,” Jake moaned, the entire thing slurred and ruined. He pushed away from the railings, towards the stairs, and he fell the two step length to the ground below with a muffled sound. The saboteur landed on his feet, somehow, and he took three wobbling steps before he collapsed down behind a tree. The previously warm light of the caravan was still spilling out across the ground, and it draped over Jake like a shroud. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. And he tried to scream for anyone to hear, but he couldn’t. His hands clawed at the dirt, as he desperately tried to find the strength to pull himself away. The fog, at least this time, was gently washing over him, as if playing at hiding him from view.

The Clown’s heavy steps grew closer. Jake’s lungs still burned, but he didn’t cough, and his eyes were still watering but that might have been tears. It felt like his blood was heating from the inside, and the feeling was only getting stronger, making his skin itchy and clammy and desperate for air. All Jake could do was bite down on his hand to try and muffle any sounds that would try to escape. And the Clown drew closer. Wheezing laughter, terrible, rattling sound, bouncing through the forest and eaten up by the fog. Finally, the footsteps stopped, only a few feet away. Jake held his breath.

And the Clown slowly bent down into view, and smiled. His eyes twinkled with pure malice, and he finally spoke, voice warped and cracking, “Found you.”

Jake’s scream was choked and silent, and in the Fog, no one heard it at all.

Notes:

Oop I’m back on my bullshit

Another Michael/Jake story. Rest assured, Clown fuckin dies at the end of this one. I’ll be adding more tags as they come

Working title for this was: Vape machine versus Knife Johnson

Happy Valentine’s Day you filthy animals

Chapter 2: Fortune Teller

The crackling sound of the campfire, only loud enough to just barely be audible over the hum sound of conversation. Dwight’s voice had dropped to an awkward murmur, and he scratched at his neck, glancing around to the forest.

“Are you-” his eyes flitted to the side, “Are you sure?”

Claudette paused, opening her mouth and then closing it after a moment. She looked to Meg, who’s face twisted for a moment.

“Yeah. He’s gone,” Meg’s voice almost cracked but she covered it up with a cough, and then she abruptly stood up from the log they were sitting on, “He’s been gone- I don’t know, a few hours? I don’t know.”

“Three hours, Claduette murmured, staring at the ground. She wrung her hands, and sighed after a moment, trying to calm herself. Dwight looked torn between the two, but eventually, his attention shifted to the forest, looking at the bank of fog that rested right at the treeline. It seemed like a sheer wall of white; stronger than anything the Entity had made before. Something that could- eat someone up. And make them…

“Make them disappear,” Dwight whispered. Meg looked over sharply, and then kicked at the ground.

“He should be back by now!” Meg rounded on Dwight, the closest available target. “You’re the one that saw him last- where did he go?”

Dwight shrunk down in his seat, as Meg loomed. “I don’t know!” he tried, “He’d- he goes into the forest, sometimes, y- y’know? He says it’s quieter there,” and Dwight wrung his hands, “I just thought- he always comes back.”

Meg looked, almost, like a wounded animal. Not angry at Dwight- she knew, he didn’t deserve her anger, but… but she couldn’t stop it. Dwight made it so easy, to be angry. And she was… maybe, maybe she was scared. She clenched her hands into fists, felt her nails dig into her palm. “You should’ve stopped him! Or gone with him or told someone else, or, anything!”

“I’m sorry!” Dwight squeaked, which wasn’t much, and Meg took a step forward, only to be stopped by Claudette’s hand on her elbow. Meg snapped to face her, and then- stopped. Saw the reflection of her expression in Claudette’s eyes, and felt it melt away in almost a moment, replaced by something like grief. Claudette’s face was gentle, and she helped Meg sit back down.

“It’s okay,” Claudette tried to assure, “He’s gonna be okay.”

But what if he wasn’t?

Dwight’s eyes were downcast. He bit the skin from his lip, and then toed at the dirt with his shoe, thinking. Jake- Jake should’ve been back by now. Trials never lasted that long, and if Jake had been killed, he would’ve returned. He should’ve been back. But he wasn’t. And that could only mean that… something must have happened. Jake never got lost, that wasn’t something he did. Something had happened and- and it wasn’t like they could just go out looking for him. One person leaving, sure, maybe the Entity would allow that, but that would just lead to the same thing, and a group going… no, it wouldn’t be allowed. They’d just be seperated, and then end up back here. If they weren’t punished instead.

Where would they even look? They had no idea where Jake could’ve gone. They were friends, but not close, not like-

“Quentin,” Dwight shot up. Meg and Claudette looked at him in confusion, but he was already moving, determination filling his movements and pushing him forward. Near the center of the ‘camp’, Quentin sat next to Laurie and Feng, with Quentin dozing lightly on Laurie’s shoulder. Off to the side, Steve seemed to be keeping watch. Dwight skidded to a stop, staring at them, and it was Feng who noticed him first. She tilted her head.

“What’s up with you?” she asked, stretching her legs out. Laurie and Steve glanced over at that, with Laurie minimizing her motions, careful not to jostle Quentin.

“I-” Dwight paused. He looked at them, then mumbled, “Jake’s, uh. He’s missing.”

Steve’s eyes went wide, then narrowed. His voice came out like a shout for a breath, but then he immediately brought it back down, looking to Quentin and continuing in a normal tone, “When?”

“Claudette said, three hours ago,” Dwight shifted, trying not to look Steve in the eyes because there was that accustional stare again, the, did you know? Why didn’t you stop him? Dwight hastened to add, “I- he does this, sometimes, so I thought, he’d be fine?” but even that sounded weak to Dwight’s ears. And to Steve- someone who was Jake’s friend- it must have sounded even weaker.

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood up and placed a hand on his hip, rubbing his neck with the other one, “Okay, I’ll go out and look for-”

“No.”

Steve blinked, then looked back to Dwight.

“Uh, what?”

“No,” Dwight repeated, “I was- I was going to ask Quentin.”

Feng snorted. Laurie elbowed her in the side.

“Quentin can’t really help you, Dwight,” Feng made a face like a laugh, but not so playful, “He’s like, three hit points of bread dough.”

Dwight just barely suppressed a frustrated noise, “I was going to ask him if he-” Dwight held the words lodged in his throat. If Quentin could ask someone else. If he could ask- the man in the white mask, the Killer with the knife. The one that was always too close to Jake and Dwight always suspected something was up because, because he wasn’t as stupid as everyone thought he was, he knew about some things, and sure, asking for a Killer was stupid, it was really really stupid, but if Jake was lost and hurt then maybe a Killer was the only chance they’d have.

Laurie looked to Dwight. Her expression held something in it, and she glanced back down to Quentin. Maybe she knew too. Or maybe she was just being nice- she was always nice to Dwight. Gently, she nudged Quentin awake.

“Quentin,” she whispered, “Dwight needs to talk to you.”

Quentin grunted something at his surrogate big sister, but opened his eyes, looking blearily to Dwight.

“Yeah?”

“In private?” Dwight half asked, half pleaded. Quentin blinked slowly, then struggled to his feet.

“Sure.”

Steve nodded to them as they went to talk under a nearby tree, and the sounds of the camp were almost distant here, a quiet mix of sounds that washed over the duo. Quentin rubbed at his eyes, but his gaze was alert, and Dwight bit his nails out of nervous habit. He stopped after a minute of it, then stood in that near silence, before finally forcing the words from his throat, unwilling leader.

“Jake’s missing. Can you-” Dwight stumbled over the words, as Quentin’s eyes went wide in something like concern or fear, “Do you- Myers. Do you know him?”

Dwight wondered if he could’ve phrased that any worse. Quentin blinked at the words, “I… do.”

“Cool!”

Oh god, Dwight thought, I am making it even worse.

“Yeah.”

Dwight tried again, “Jake and Myers. Are,” Dwight made a complex hand motion that conveyed both nothing and everything, somehow, at once. Quentin seemed amused, actually- in a very exhausted way, sure, still. The amusement fell off after a moment, as he thought about his response.

“They’re…” Quentin chewed on his lip, “They’re close.”

Time for the question Dwight didn’t want to ask. It was- it wasn’t fair to ask this of Quentin. But none of this was really fair. And Dwight’s gut instinct said, something bad had happened to Jake. That they had to get him back. So Dwight cleared his throat.

“Could you- ask him. To find Jake.”

The question hung heavy in the air. It had a physical presence, weighted, too much to ignore and couldn’t be taken back. Dwight regretted it already- what if Jake came back on his own? What if, what if it was Michael Myers’ fault to begin with? What if this only made it worse? But- but despite that… if Dwight didn’t try, didn’t act, and then it turned out that something awful really had happened to Jake? Dwight wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself.

So he waited. Waited for Quentin to decide on an unfair question.

“I-” Quentin looked to the thick bank of fog, thought about the whispers of ‘a new Killer, someone new,’ and he thought about the time he wished someone had tried for him, and then he finally stated, “I’ll try.”

Dwight’s face was pure relief, and yet, built on a foundation of grief and uncertainty. He reached a hand out and then awkwardly set it on Quentin’s arm.

“Thanks.”

Quentin and Dwight stood there for a moment. Awkwardly. Then, Dwight stepped away, going back to his place at the campfire, as Quentin remained, staring out into the forest. He could feel the cold of the fogbank, as if beckoning, or maybe taunting, and it felt too much like fingers on his skin for his comfort. He walked away. As he sat back down next to Laurie and Feng, this time, he settled in and watched the foggy forest with Steve. Waiting for a break in the mist. Dreading it, feeling something like nausea in his stomach. Jake was out there right now. Jake was gone, and Quentin was just sitting here. Waiting. And Jake was gone, and Quentin was going to go ask a Killer to bring him back.

What was that one saying? To catch a horse, you have to think like a horse? But this wasn’t even thinking like another horse, this was just… sending another horse. The metaphor broke down quickly. Quentin, though, just tried to hold on to any bit of levity that he could, as he waited for a moment to go. Both dreading it, and at the same time, praying it would come fast.

Notes:

Thanks for all the comments! I really really enjoy reading them all, but I never reply because I have the big gay

Dwight gets bullied by his friends more at 11

Chapter 3: Test of Strength

Notes:

Warning for Clown being (canonically) creepy

Needles in his brain. Jake felt like he was swimming, or maybe he was drowning, his mind submerged in fog and suffocating. Jake could feel his head pounding, and he tried to inhale, before the motion devolved into weak, smothered coughs. His lungs were stinging- he could barely breathe, everything felt like it was closing in around him. And his skin, it felt like it was crawling, or some awful cold sweat that was digging into his skin and tearing him apart. Jake resisted the urge to cry out, and instead, focused on trying to get a deep breath. Try to understand what was happening.

His hands were bound. Jake could feel the rope- tied tight, enough to bruise, enough that he couldn’t wiggle out. His ankles, too. Still, he gave a tentative tug, trying to test their strength, feeling his skin seem to coo in relief at the touch. It almost blindsided him for a moment- and then, the instant the pressure was gone, the feeling of pins and needles returned, doubled. A small hiss escaped his mouth, and Jake opened his eyes wide.

The first thing he noticed was the camera, recording in the corner. Red light, blinking in the darkness. Jake’s eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the sight of the caravan- what had looked so welcoming before, now sinister and dark. Shards of glass from the shattered bottles were still on the ground, and all the windows were locked tight, the only light coming from a little lamp in the corner. Where the Clown stood. The Killer touched the camera lightly, maybe doing something or just brushing off dust, before he turned back to Jake.

The smell hit Jake, as the Clown slowly began to walk towards him. Cheap alcohol. Cigarette smoke. Blood. The sharp sting of anaesthetic. His smile was stretched wide across his face, teeth yellowed and rotted out. The greasepaint was smeared on, and it couldn’t hide the pure malice in the Killer’s expression. His eyes were absolutely black. Not hidden by shadows like Michael’s, but pure black, some glint to the like an animal. Jake jerked his gaze away, but it landed on the Clown again, on-

Oh god, were those fingers?

They were. They were. Fingers on a, a key ring. At the Clown’s side. Fingers. Jake wanted to be sick. He couldn’t breathe, he could barely think, his skin was trying to rip apart and this Killer was just laughing. Jake closed his eyes, trying to calm down, feeling his control slipping. He had to stay calm. He’d- he’d been through worse (had he?), he could get through whatever would happen. Just-

“Breathe. There you go, in and out…” the Clown smiled. Jake’s eyes snapped open, and there the Killer was, crouched down in front of him. Smiling. It looked like a paradox of gentleness, just like the sound of his voice, warm and teetering with an edge of cruelty. Someone who’d had so much practice at this. “Easy… easy… there you go…” Jake wanted to choke, and he wanted to spit in the Killer’s face, but he steadied his breathing, trying to do it in spite of the words, trying not to scream. The Clown pulled back after, standing up to his full height. Still smiling.

Jake felt himself trembling.

The Clown stepped back, going for some table. Jake could catch the glint of light, reflecting metal, tools. More bottles of the purple gas. Rags. Jake tried to hunch in on himself, but every movement of the ropes on his skin was almost torture- or worse, his clothes shifting, every inch of fabric brushing against him, making him want to cry.

“What did you do?” Jake’s voice only cracked a little. Begging never worked with the Killers, or reasoning. But Jake always tried. It could buy him time, maybe- time for someone to find him. Even if he knew that no one ever would. The Clown’s shoulders shook for a moment, and Jake registered it as laughter.

“It’s more fun when you’re awake,” Clown wheezed. The sound devolved into a cough, and he grabbed some things from the table, turning them over and over. Another bottle. Another terrible grin, turned on Jake, “What’s wrong?”

Jake bit his cheek. Even that action was too much- the pain, for only a moment, then pure relief, his body begging to be torn apart if it meant this relief. The Clown must have seen that. Or maybe he already knew, because he tilted his head slightly, shaking a bottle of liquid around and around. Then, he set the bottle down, stepping towards Jake. One gloved hand, reaching towards Jake, and before he could even flinch the hand was set down on the side of his face. Jake’s eyes went wide before he could help himself, and he realized he was leaning in to the touch. No- Jake yanked himself back, and his body screamed in protest, heat ripping across his skin in retaliation. Jake couldn’t fight the whimper this time. The Clown hadn’t moved.

“The last person I used this on begged me to touch them,” his smile morphed back into a grin, “They cried in ecstasy when I broke their arm. Begged for it. Would’ve let me do anything to them,” he drawled, stretching out the anything in a way that let Jake know what the leer couldn’t say. The Clown’s laugh was raucous, at Jake’s face. “They fought it so much,” then the laugh cut off, an inhale like a car stalling, “Can’t fight when you’re dead.”

Jake was hyperventilating, trying to calm his breathing- failing, trying so hard but failing. He couldn’t get away, he wouldn’t be able to fight back- oh god. Jake bowed his head again, just so he wouldn’t have to see the Clown’s face, so the Killer couldn’t see Jake’s terrified expression, or hear the faint, whispered cry, “Michael.”

Of course the Clown heard it. He reeled back, not like a punch but something along the lines. Too intrigued for that. Still that same rictus grin. Like he was turning the name over, over and over.

“Don’t worry,” he eventually settled on, voice low and rough, “I’ll wait for you to beg. Beg for me to cut off your fingers,” and he licked his lips, “If you behave… maybe I’ll help you too. There is a cure, after all.” There was the smile, back again, not a grin but a horrible smile stretching across skin, deep heaving breaths, eyes of malice and glee, and the Clown inhaled heavily, “Be a good boy, and I’ll give it to you.”

A single, choked sob escaped Jake’s throat. Mercifully, the Clown ignored it. Instead, he set a hand down on Jake’s shoulder and squeezed, perverse comfort, “I can wait.”

The Clown stepped away. Back to his table, with his tools and bottles and rags. The fingers on his key ring, jangling against his side. Jake’s lungs still burned, but the taste of the gas was fading, a dull throb at the edge of his attention. Instead, he focused on taking deep, calming breaths. Focused on ignoring the crawling, burning sensation of his skin, the way each brush of fabric was agony. Ignore it. Jake wouldn’t- he wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t break. Even if the feeling of heat was growing by the minute, he- he wouldn’t. Instead, he desperately grasped onto the idea of Michael, and told himself that it would be okay.

The Clown could wait. But Jake could too.

Notes:

I tried to work in Jake’s Iron Will here because a lot of the time, authors (me included lmao) forget that one of his perks is literally about how he has a super strong will and won’t scream or cry out unless under extreme duress. So hopefully this pans out

Unrelated but I’ve been playing against Deathslinger (what a sTUPID NAME) and my friends and I decided he’s Grandpa Caleb.
-Grandpa to cowboy Jake
-“I have a lovely grandson. I also have a gun, a shovel, and an alibi” shirt
-his chain gun but it’s just a toddler leash gun

Chapter 4: Face Paint

The Fog broke. It felt like it had been hours. Maybe it had been, or maybe not- it had been two Trials of time, at least, other Survivors coming and going. None that had seen Jake. Quentin had never been good at keeping track of time, and certainly not here, but any amount of time was too long. Not when Jake was still gone. That curdled under Quentin’s skin, and as soon as he caught that break in the fog, he stood up. Beside him, he saw Nea stiffen, then relax.

“I’ll be right back.”

Nea waved him off, “I’ll tell Steve.”

David’s shift to watch was coming up, and Quentin was glad he wasn’t here, at least. Because he’d realize what a stupid plan this was and try to stop it. Maybe he should’ve. Quentin stepped towards the treeline and waved behind himself, then walked forward.

The forest wasn’t much of a comfort for Quentin. Not as much as it was for Jake, at least. It was even more unsettling in this Entity realm, with the way the trees seemed twisted and warped, just… just off enough to be unsettling. And you wouldn’t find deer or racoons here; just bloodthirsty Killers.

One of which Quentin was going to find right now. Right.

The forest was nearly silent, this far away from the campfire. Quentin kept a mental map of his footsteps, but he knew that if the Entity really, truly wanted him gone, it wouldn’t even matter. If Jake had gotten lost, then Quentin wouldn’t stand a chance. But still, he kept walking. He needed to reach the Shape, somehow. And Quentin knew how- knew where to find the man, even as he tried not to think about it.

After all, the Killer’s had homes. A place they returned to, after the Trial. And for Myers, Jake had said, that was Haddonfield.

Trees gave way to… less trees. The ground slowly became littered with shards of pavement, like they’d pushed their way up from the Earth. The occasional, singular fence, and then more, slowly and slowly building upon each other. Ruins of houses were built up. Tires became cars, lampposts jutted out from the ground, and then, without even realizing it, Quentin found himself fully in Haddonfield. But… Haddonfield, maybe, as it was originally. Not some realm for a Trial, but a neat row of houses in a neighborhood, with a street that turned the corner and disappeared from view. The once home of Michael Myers.

Quentin cautiously strode forward. Now or never. He was in over his head, but he was doing this for Jake. For his friend. And even if Myers killed Quentin after this, at least Jake would have- something like a chance. Because even if the Shape didn’t save Jake out of kindness, he would do it out of obsession; Quentin had seen how the Killer worked, strange, feral protectiveness over Jake, even in messed up ways. Whether he liked it or not, this was Jake’s best chance.

Quentin didn’t clear his throat, but he did give a shaky inhale, crossing his arms over his torso to combat the cold and calling out into the silence, “Michael!”

The wind was his only response.

“Michael!” Quentin tried again, looking around the area, trying to find a flash of a white mask or- anything. Maybe, if he was lucky, Jake would just have been hiding here. Of course, considering everything that had happened, Quentin never had much luck to begin with; there was no reply to his call, and Jake didn’t appear from a house.

But Quentin was suddenly and horribly aware that someone was standing right behind him.

“Shit!” Quentin spun around and jolted back, as the Shape loomed. Eyes as black as shadows, knife clenched in hand. But he hadn’t moved to attack Quentin yet. Not yet. Quentin exhaled shakily, trying to resist the urge to just bolt. Michael took a step forward, then another, and he was so close to Quentin that the younger could hear the sound of sharp breathing under the mask.

“It’s Jake,” Quentin croaked. Myers froze. His knife had been raised in the air, and it was frightening, in a weirdly detached way. Terrifying, but Quentin had gone here ready to accept his death (and return) if it meant helping Jake. The Killer was absolutely frozen, and it gave Quentin enough time to explain, as much as he could, “He’s missing-”

Michael snapped forward. He grabbed Quentin’s arm, and Quentin’s face contorted in fear again, waiting for the knife to swing down. It didn’t. Instead, the Killer yanked Quentin backwards, and leaned down to stare him in the eyes. Even with the darkness of his mask casting shadows over his eyes, Quentin could see, almost clearly, what his eyes said: Where?

“He disappeared into the forest. I-” how long ago? He didn’t know. Claudette always knew, but Quentin could only guess, “a few hours ago.” Hours didn’t matter here, but sometimes they did, like how seconds didn’t matter until they meant the world. Quentin hated the desperation in his voice now, but he was desperate, Jake had been gone for too long and he hadn’t come back and something was wrong. “You have to find him.”

Quentin’s arm was abruptly released. The Killer stepped backwards. His head was turned to the forest now, the treeline, the way the fog had thinned too much to be natural, beckoning him closer. Come closer. Quentin shivered; the Entity was- was going to be cruel, like when it might laugh and put Freddy alone in a Trial with Quentin, just for a fucked up game. And now, Michael would be the next part of whatever game it was playing. Quentin had done his part, it seemed.

The Shape didn’t even spare a backwards glance as he stalked off into the woods. Quentin didn’t know if he felt grateful, but he did know that, even here- even with how messed up this was, he could only lower his head and whisper, “Please find him.”

And with that, Quentin began the lonely walk back towards the campfire. It was all in Michael’s hands now.

Notes:

Hmmm next chapter is probably the nsfw. Might add another one after that? I don’t know, depends on the pacing