Chapter 1

A/N: Hey everyone! Welcome to a new story! Honestly idk, why I'm running with this idea and I know I should be working on my other stories. But, here I am, mostly because I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Anyways, I don't own FNAF or YJ, I'm just here losing my mind. Let me know what y'all think.

Gotham City, July 12, 20:25EDT

He should be dead.

He was supposed to be dead.

He had to be dead.

There was no way he could have survived…that.

And yet he felt warm.

He shouldn't have felt warm. Not unless he was in hell.

But he didn't think his version of hell would be this comfortable.

If anything, he was pretty sure he just lived it.

His stomach still hurt though.

"How is he doing?"

Was that…a voice?

"It's a miracle he's still alive…"

His head hurt. It felt like it'd been stuffed with cotton balls.

He never liked cotton balls, they felt weird and always made him want to pull away. They always smelled like disinfectant too.

"When do you think he'll wake up?"

To his surprise, he could feel the muscles of his brow twitch. He could smell disinfectant

"We can't be sure. We aren't even sure how he's still alive to begin with after…something like…that."

Distantly, he could hear a faint beeping.

The first thought to cross his mind was that it was his alarm clock. That somehow, this all had been a horrific dream. But, the rhythmic sound was too soft and too far apart to be his alarm.

"But I wouldn't get your hopes up."

His stomach still hurt. It felt like his insides had been twisted all out of whack.

"…you should go home, get some rest—"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Involuntarily, he felt the muscles in his fingers twitch, sending sensations shooting up his arm as the pads slid over a super soft fabric. It didn't hurt, but it felt like…too much. After Lord knew how long he'd experienced nothing but agony and darkness, anything other than the constant throb of pain seemed like it would overwhelm him.

A soft groan escaped him.

Though he wasn't sure how.

He wasn't supposed to have lungs anymore.

Almost immediately the soft voices flittering on the edge of his consciousness went silent. The echo of approaching footsteps practically reverberated in his head as someone walk closer. His forehead felt warm as he felt fingers trail along his hairline, brushing a few locks of hair out of his face. "Michael?" a gentle voice spoke clearly as a warm hand enveloped his own. "Can you hear me?"

Someone…someone was worried about him. Why would someone be worried about a dead man?

Unless he wasn't dead.

But he had to be.

There was no way he was alive.

The warmth surrounding his hand left, leaving his fingers cold. The loss of sensation almost made him whine. While it burned at first, the heat started to feel nice.

It almost made him feel alive again.

To his relief, the warmth enclosing his hand returned. These hands felt bigger and more calloused than the other one, but it still felt nice to feel their owner's thumb running up and down his knuckles. "Mikey? It's me. It's Uncle Henry."

Uncle Henry? He was here?

"Can you hear me, kiddo?"

Mike furrowed his brows, he thought he could start to make out light bleeding through his closed lids. His fingers spasmed as he tried to squeeze the man's hand. It must've worked because he felt his arm be lifted higher. One of the hands left his own, coming to rest on his forehead. "Mikey?"

Leaning into the touch, Mike peeled his lids apart, wincing as nothing but white assaulted his vision. The blinding light made pain shoot through his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he grimaced, feeling his dry lips crack as he slowly tried to open his eyes again.

This time, he could make out blurry blotches of color against the sea of white around him. One was closer than the others.

Blinking a few times, his vision slowly began to clear, the colorful blobs becoming more solid. Light brown eyes gazed down at him through graying locks of strawberry blonde hair, the light glinting off the glasses in front of them almost masking the relief that shone within.

"Un…" pain shot through his throat, his voice scratchy, "Uncle Henry?" At his weak words, Mike immediately felt guilty as he saw tears coming from his godfather. He hadn't meant to hurt him.

However, before he could apologize, his uncle's hand trailed from the top of his head to his cheek, the man looking at him quietly with tears as he squeezed his hand. "I'm so sorry Mikey. I should've checked on you sooner."

Why was Uncle Henry apologizing? This wasn't his fault. None of this was his fault. Uncle Henry hadn't been the one to rip his family apart.

All that blame lied on Michael.

He should be apologizing for bothering the man and making him worry. Mike had been handling himself for almost two years as it was. His uncle shouldn't be burdening himself with the likes of him.

It wasn't like he didn't deserve everything that happened anyways.

The warm thumb tracing his cheek paused, making Michael open his eyes again. He didn't recall closing them to begin with. That didn't matter though, he made Henry worry again.

"S-sorry."

Judging from the deepening frown on the man's face, that hadn't been the right response.

"Mikey, you have nothing to be sorry for," Henry replied stroking his hair. "I'm just thankful you're alive."

He almost believed him. But no one had ever been truly happy to see him. His neighbors were only nice because they pitied him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Mike looked away. The first thing his gaze landed on was the woman standing with a clipboard in the back of the room. Her white coat almost blended into the walls behind her.

He must've been in a hospital. He'd been in hospitals enough for him to know. It should've been immediately obvious to being with given the beeping of the heart monitor, the smell, all the white walls, and the strange feeling of something blowing air over his nose and mouth.

A soft smile crossed the woman's face as she stepped forwards, using her free hand to adjust her glasses. "Hi Michael, I'm Dr. Thompkins," she introduced herself. "It's good to see you're awake. You've been in a coma for the past three weeks." Clicking her pen, she looked at the heart monitor, quickly jotting a few things down as if she hadn't just dropped a major bombshell on the young man. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

The doctor grimaced in sympathy, "I imagine so. Your injuries were quite horrific. You're lucky to be alive."

Damn, even when he'd been in hospitals before they'd never stated things so bluntly. Even when it had been obvious that Ev—his brother was going to die, they'd been gentle. He must've been in a bad state if she wasn't trying to sugarcoat it.

Then again, it probably was hard to sugarcoat being disemboweled and worn as a meat suit for the better part of a week.

"Does anything hurt?"

"My stomach," he answered moving the hand that wasn't clutched in Henry's iron grip.

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Maybe…about a four or five?"

Dr. Thompkins frowned slightly as she continued writing. "Ok," setting her clipboard down, she grabbed the stethoscope hanging around her neck. "I'm going to check a few things real quickly, ok?"

Mike nodded as he felt Henry squeeze his hand before letting go, stepping out of the room. Anxiety pooled in his chest as the door closed behind them man, leaving him alone with the doctor.

"Alright, I'm going to check your heart and breathing first."

Closing his eyes, Mike kept himself from flinching as the cold stethoscope touched his skin, moving around every few moments to a new spot.

To his relief, it ended after a couple minutes, and he gave a shaky exhale, looking to the woman as she wrote on the chart. "Does breathing hurt?"

His chest ached, but he wasn't sure if that was just from stress or his probably broken ribs. But it wasn't painful if that's what she was asking. "It's just uncomfortable."

Dr. Thompkins made a small sound of acknowledgement. "Ok, last thing I want to check up on is your abdominothoracic stitches. Do you want Mr. Emily in here?"

Michael paused. To be honest, he was scared. He hadn't looked in anything reflective or even down at his own arms yet. He didn't want to see how bad he undoubtedly looked, let alone how ugly his scars were going to be. But still, he was sixteen. A grown man, he didn't need someone to hold his hand like a baby.

"No."

"Are you sure?" she asked again, her brows furrowed in concern.

This time, Mike merely nodded.

He could hear the pulse on his heart monitor pick up alongside the feeling of his stomach sinking. With a shaky breath, he leaned his head back, squeezing his eyes shut doing his best to ignore what was happening. Trying to think about anything other than the pain in his stomach and the blood pooling around him.

"Mike."

He could feel the cold metal tendrils dig into his flesh and burrow into the gaping wound of his abdomen.

"Mike."

He was cold. His flesh was ripping. He could feel it starting to move inside—he couldn't do anything.

"Mike!"

He was dying. He couldn't breathe. He didn't want to die.

"Michael!" Henry's voice snapped through, making the teen look at him. He was distinctly aware that his cheeks were wet, but Mike didn't care as the man pulled him into a hug, tucking his head against Henry's chest as fingers carded through his hair. He was vaguely aware of his uncle whispering something into his ear—it was probably about how pathetic he was for losing his composure like that. But right now, Mike didn't care. Right now, he felt warm, he felt safe.

It was better than anything he'd had in years.

-.-

Dr. Thompkins stepped out of the room, closing the door softly to give the pair some privacy.

Striding down the hall, she stepped into her office, closing the door as she sat down in her chair wishing she had a drink.

She'd been a doctor for a long time, and in Gotham, there was no shortage of insane cases. Especially given a few of her regular patients. But still, she hadn't ever seen someone survive injuries as horrific as these. It was nothing short of a miracle the young man was even alive, let alone conscious.

Dropping the clipboard on her desk, she ran a hand down her face. She knew she should've insisted to let Mr. Emily in. Having a familiar face might've helped keep him calm. Or she should have at least given him a mild sedative. It would've hampered her examination results, but at least she could still have ascertained something from half-conscious responses.

Still, what she currently had was better than nothing. He still had some time before he was completely healed, but so far, everything was going much better than expected. Though she was going to need to increase his pain meds. And now that he was waking up, they needed to start weaning him off the IV and respirator.

Of course, there was also that one other thing she needed to do. Sighing, she opened a drawer, pulling out a phone and clicking the only contact on it.

-.-

Batcave, 22:25EDT

Fingers rapped against the desk as dark blue eyes looked at the screen before them, flicking between different articles and pieces of evidence. Something was going on in the criminal underworld and Cadmus was connected to it.

Naturally, Lex Luthor was involved. Cadmus was a subdivision of LexCorp. Luthor was also the only villain who could obtain Superman's DNA without him realizing what happened and had enough money to fund the experiments needed to create this clone army.

But, some of the files he'd recovered found that a shipment of product from Cadmus's Project Blockbuster had been shipped off to Santa Prisca. The island nation known for its Venom factory. The same island that had also been recently taken over by the Cult of the Kobra just a few weeks ago.

Luthor was a man of science. There wouldn't be a reason for him to ally himself with religious fanatics.

Of course, as deep as the man's pockets ran, Luthor was never one to turn away a potential payday. Even if it was with blood-money.

He'd have to check the man's financials to be sure. But it was doubtful they'd be easy to track. If Luthor went so far as to hire the League of Shadows to eliminate anyone who even had a single tie to Cadmus, there was little chance he'd be paid directly. Money laundering or a similar practice would be more likely.

However, if he wanted to be certain, he'd need access to the Cult's files. Ones that rarely were kept on a standard system. And, given that Santa Prisca wasn't on the League's UN charter, the League would need probable cause to enter the country—because for some reason the presence of drug cartels alone wasn't enough.

But, it wasn't like they recently developed a way to bypass this barrier. A recon mission to Santa Prisca would be a good first mission for the newly formed Team. They could find out why the factory was still running at full capacity. If they were lucky, they'd find the connection linking Luthor to their activity. Maybe even who the buyer was too. But, any info they could obtain would be useful nonetheless.

Either way, he wasn't going to be making much progress until he got access to the financials.

Closing the files on the Cadmus Conspiracy, he stood up, pulling his cowl over his head. Hopefully an early patrol would keep the low lives from crawling out of their holes for the night. At least then he could spend more time on his other, more important, cases.

Particularly the Afton case. Some of the things he'd found had been quite concerning. Actually, the deeper he dug, the more he didn't like the picture that was forming. If this case was going to be as serious as he expected it was, he'd have to do another sweep of the house to make sure he didn't miss anything.

"You have a call, Master Bruce."

Given that Alfred didn't sound urgent, Batman continued to head towards the car. "I'll check it later."

"It's from Dr. Thompkins."

That got his attention. Turning on his heel, Bruce removed his cowl, looking at the monitor to confirm the ID. Sitting back down in his chair with a deep exhale, the vigilante ran a hand down his face. He'd been dreading this call for a while. Commissioner Gordon had called him for this case personally, stating that it had made several of his best detectives sick.

Not that the Dark Knight blamed them.

Certain cases were always harder than others for various reasons. Personally, Batman had always found crimes against children to be difficult, especially after taking Robin under his wing. Of course, he also knew many found crimes as gruesome as this had been to be hard, regardless of the victim's age. So, a case like Michael Afton's was, as Robin would say, a double whammy.

Even he had been certain the teen had been dead when he saw the body lying just inside the entrance of his home. Despite his grievous wounds, there hadn't been much blood around him, but investigators had found various dried pools around the house alongside furniture that had appeared to be knocked over. It was clear the kid put up one hell of a fight before he'd been killed.

Or had been assumed to be killed, as when the Dark Knight knelt down to inspect the body for evidence he heard a painfully weak wheeze. One that anyone less trained would have missed. But, cases where a victim survived something impossible wasn't unheard of—they were just extremely, astronomically rare.

No doubt his sudden order for an ambulance had made at least one of the nearby officers almost pass out.

But still, given the child's prognosis, Leslie could have only been calling for one reason: after being in a coma for over three weeks and despite the doctor's best efforts, the boy had passed away.

"Dr. Thompkins," he answered. "I take it this is about the Afton case?"

"Yes," she answered curtly. "You should get over here. He just woke up."