It's been a day, four hours, twenty-seven minutes and three seconds since Springtrap kicked you on the curb.
Yes. You have been counting. It's all you can think about, obsessively so. So much so, that you've been making a few moves in regards of proving him that you're not..
Well, proving him that you can change? You've failed at that far too many times. You've lied before, you can't go back on all those mistakes. You can't help but think you pushed your luck one too many times. Said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing.
It was bound to happen. The fallout caught up with you, and now you're recovering from the shockwave. And you've been recovering well.
After sleeping off the night in an alley, you woke up to see the sunrise from the bottom of a glass bottle. You dusted yourself off and got busy doing what you're good at, stealing.
You needed to ditch these clothes, they weren't the style in San Diego. As far as you're concerned, you're a sore thumb out here in boots and a leather jacket. You'd need to blend in better.
What better way to start than by ‘crowdsourcing’ a few funds for an outfit change? So, you did just that. You stole phones and wallets, hoarding them in your pockets and taking frequent stops to pawn shops to sell off the excess awhile keeping the cash.
After a while, you scraped together the two thousand that got soaked in blood from the scuffle of getting mugged. You figured that bloody cash would raise suspicion, and if the blood was traced to a body? That means the guy who used the bloody money would be a prime murder suspect. It was easier to do it this way.
You noticed that people here dressed odd. Coffee shops and baggy clothes. Hipster country, if this was still 2016. It was a walking time paradox, but you're good at blending in with the crowd. It helps that most people just see some generic masculine white guy when staring at you. The hunter eyes, the cold stare, the facial scars.. You'll attract eyes, but the exact right kind of eyes.
Guess it pays to be handsome. Even if you always felt like an ugly idiot.
You still needed to dress for the job you had in mind.
You wanted to be a bartender. Easy gig, you already know how to mix some drinks and have enough intuition to listen to plans. It's definitely a lesser job to a mechanic, but it'll pay the bills and prove to Springtrap that you're multifaceted and eager to fix things.
You just hoped it wouldn't come off as blind desperation to get him back, but instead an earnest attempt to change for the better. Even if you're scared of falling back into that old life, you NEED Springtrap. You can't let him go.
You stepped into a clothing store, something that screamed grunge and Nirvana clothes. You picked out some perfect clothes to blend in for the application process.
Ditch your rugged clothes. You need more style, more flair.
You started with the top. You grabbed a nice t-shirt, gray with a cheesy decal that bikers would be drawn to. The tag on the shirt said ‘Affliction’, so you can guess what it looked like. Skulls and wings.
You grabbed a gray hoodie, before grabbing a black leather jacket. Everything was stylized and full of decals. The leather jacket had ribbing across the sides, the hoodie was ‘distressed’ at the hood to seem cooler. Or edgier. Hard to tell the difference.
You put them all on, ditching the flannel and leather jacket combo. The shirt, the hoodie and then the jacket. You wanted something with a good for inconspicuousness. Not many folks pay attention to a guy with his head down in a hoodie, especially not while doing something like looking at his phone.
Okay, for pants.. You saw a nice pair of black stonewashed jeans. Perfect. Even came with a black leather belt. You were already shaping up to be the perfect eyecatcher for a bartending job.
Shoes.. You saw a pair of hiking shoes, black and gray. The brand name was ‘Salomon’, so you could ascertain the appearance. You slipped everything on, probably imagining the price being horrific when you reached the counter.
Instead, you were only out a few hundred. The shoes cost around half that alone, then the jacket.
That was.. Easy.
Okay.. You rolled up your jacket’s right sleeve up to the elbow. Time for something a bit extreme. You'd need a tattoo, something to catch eyes. There were a few parlors you walked past. You were deep into San Diego, near skyscrapers or whatever you wanted to call them. It reminded you of Hurricane, a lot actually.
You walked on the sidewalk, the gray hood to the hoodie raised over your head. After the tattoo, you'd need to visit a beautician to do something about your hair. Springtrap liked the length, it brushed around your shoulders currently. Maybe you could get it styled appropriately for its length.
You stepped into a nearby tattoo parlor, walking on busy city sidewalks. Seems like you were already catching a few eyes. Good call on the clothes, you're shaping up to be the right guy for the job.
You pushed open the door to the parlor, a loud ding from a bell emanating above your skull.
“Hey, pal. Have anything in mind?”
A woman sat near a counter at the front of the door, Asian with black hair. She looked respectable, you liked her piercings and tattoos. If there's something about modern society you liked, it was how people were allowed to express themselves in any way they wish.
“Looking for something.. Classy. Precise. Sharp.”
You described the vague image in your head as if you're window shopping for a gun. In your mind, it needed to have the same aura as a sniper. Sleek, slender and precise. One round and someone's life is over.
The woman took out a book, probably full of images of stencils for you to choose.
“Seeing as your right sleeve is exposed.. How about an arm tattoo? You look tough enough for a single session.”
She opened the book, letting you look through it. You didn't want anything with color, a completely monochrome tattoo. Something without explicit detail or imagery, yet firm and stern in what it chooses to portray. No people, preferably something that used your sleeve as a limb and not just a long canvas.
No. No, no..
Oh, that's the one. You saw a black and white stencil of a sleeve tattoo. It was a thorn vine, coiling around your right arm. The vine had flowers blossoming from it, wrapping around a few skulls. It was a bit heavy on the implications of strangled beauty, but it was perfect.
“That's the one.”
“Alright. It'll cost you a pretty penny, dude.”
The woman said with a bit of an earnest look on her face. You took out a wallet you stole, handing the woman a thousand dollars, half of what you stole today. Now you're down to just a few hundred, especially after going clothes shopping. You're cutting it close, Nolan.
“Oh, that's more than enough. Say, if you don't pass out in the chair? Full refund.”
“Fine by me.”
You didn't pass out in the chair, but getting a tattoo was unlike a pain you've ever felt.
Did it hurt? Yeah, you've felt worse. But it was constant and everlasting, for a few hours. You twitched and gnashed your teeth in the chair, feeling a thousand bullets constantly ripping through your arm every second.
You coped. You used your left hand to cope, digging your nails into your palm or obsessively rubbing and scratching your face as the pain kept going.
At the end of such a torturously long session, your arm looked blistered. But.. The tattoo looked damn good.
“Damn, you're tough. Like I said, full refund.”
“..Thanks..”
You slowly stood up and from the chair, breathing slowly as you kept the jacket sleeve rolled up as your arm would slowly heal.
Okay.. That's the hard part done. This one would be easy. Visit a beautician, not a barber. Ask about getting your hair stylized, maybe some extra makeup or a shave to make yourself look as good as possible.
Why are you going this far for a simple bartending job? Simple. Bartenders are rookie strippers. They're constantly giving young women drinks and deflecting lingerie stares or grabby hands. You wouldn't mind being a stripper one day, but you'd rather serve drinks than.. Oh, what do they say? Serve c*nt?
That line of thinking doesn't serve you well.
C’mon, that was a solid joke.
You walked back across busy city sidewalks, noticing a bus stop bench on the way to finding a good beautician. You could sit there and think about what else to do for the day, it had a roof and everything for a bus stop.
After a few minutes of walking, you did find a beautician. It looked sleek and modern, probably expensive enough to empty the rest of your coffers. Well, you needed the makeover.. You stepped inside, pushing open the door.
“Hi, welcome! What can I get for a beauty like you?”
A man greeted you, dressed like a cosmetologist. He had a certain flair to his voice. The kind that could be constituted as ‘queer’. Ah, you didn't care. You thought it was a nice accent.
“I need a cleanup. Thought you could help me.”
“Oh, of course! Here, sit down and let the barber get to work, honey!”
He certainly spoke boldly. Bold enough to you, you suppose. You approached a nice barber's chair, sitting down and staring at yourself in a sleek mirror as the man looked you over.
“Oh, your skin is marvelous! A little coarse and rugged, but it really brings out your scars and hunter eyes! You look vicious, like a dominant alpha male!”
“You’re a little too thin, but you're very physically adept! Strong arms, a firm chest.. Even your waist is in superb condition! Bold and firm, it even perfectly accents your facial structure, you radiate an aura like barbed wire!”
“For the hair.. A long look suits you! Your solid jawline absolutely accents your hair, alongside the facial scruff.. Maybe a wolf cut, alongside some squaring for the stubble?”
“Those eyebags are normally not allowed, but.. Would you mind wearing a bit of ‘guyliner’? It would absolutely accent your emerald green eyes and jet black hair!”
The man looked you over obsessively, as if you're the perfect canvas for work to be done on. It was a tad.. Jarring, to experience. You heard a lot of complicated terminology that bordered on fashion obsession, you could only decipher a few of those sentences.
“So..? What's the plan?”
“Hmm.. I'll trim your hair appropriately for a ‘wolf cut', specifically the more feminine kind. You'll love it! Then I’ll square up your stubble and shave it with a razor guard to make sure you have that perfect five o’clock shadow! Then some eyeliner for your eyes!”
Sounded good enough. You certainly didn't understand a word that he said, but he sounded very sure of himself. Might as well go ahead with whatever he has in mind for you.
So you kept still and relaxed your shoulders as the beautician got to work. Y'know, it feels like a stereotype. The average ‘flamboyant’ man, obsessively turning some macho straight guy into a beautiful man.
Not like you see that as a negative. You need some beauty help, especially for the game you're trying to cheat at. Having a guy do your work helps a lot with your confidence, especially when you're still reeling from the pain of that tattoo gun.
Better get comfortable. With what this guy said, you might as well dig some roots into his barger chair.. Sorry, beautician chair.
An hour or so passed. Turns out cutting, styling and applying took time. You weren't the best at counting time unless it was obsessing over your everlasting flame ditching you, naturally.
But, well.. You looked perfect. The beautician sharped and squared your stubble perfectly, apparently cleaned you up facially and accented your rough eyebags with eyeliner, and the hair.. Wow, the hair. Sure, some length was trimmed for proportioning, but Jesus. You looked fantastic.
“How much do I owe you?”
“You were a perfect subject to work on! I bid you adieu, mystery man. A hundred will suffice, a bargain just because you're a once in a lifetime person to work on.”
"Say, mystery man.. Has anyone said you look remarkably like Jake Gyllenhaal?"
Eccentric, huh? Why are all folk who're good at their craft somewhat insane?
Though, you ignored the man's comment about your likeness. He could be right, you didn't know. You look a lot like generic male actors. You just have that generic attractiveness about you.
You handed the man a crumpled Benjamin, before neatly folding out the banknote and then handing it to him out of respect. You left the clinic with a new sense of stride.
But, well.. Now you're self-fellating beauty routine was finished. A new face, a new tattoo, new clothes.. Not to mention a jail broken phone in your pocket that you stole, alongside a wallet and a bit of extra cash leftover.
Time to see if there's any good bartender jobs around. With how you're dressed? Might as well explain your line of thought..
You figured that you're not going to be working in your average dive bar, the kind of establishment you'd prefer. You'd rather work in a swinger bar, trying to maintain drunken women who're trying to rip apart the hot guy behind the counter making sure they're all liquored up.
This whole routine? It was designed so you could absolutely guarantee folks would want you. You like keeping your ear to the ground about fashion anyways, but now you're the eyecatcher in San Diego.
Too bad for the women that you simply don't swing that way, but with a little teasing.. There could be some big tips. You'd attract customers, and you're generally a solid bartender in general. You could easily work the job for weeks and get yourself an apartment.
Hey, actually.. You did see some apartments for rent as you walked around. That did give you an idea on your homeless predicament. For now? You walked across the sidewalk to a bus stop, sitting down at the bench and looking down at your feet.
You, uh.. Needed a moment to think.
Until that familiar voice crept up from the abyss again.
“Oh, hello..”
“Love.”
