This is an AU. You will notice that Springtrap's background is going to sound different from the canon version, but since canon is already so vague, I've taken what I could from the game and combined it with pieces of others theories to fill in plot holes and gaps. Welcome to my world! Muhahaha!
Prologue
Springtrap peeked from around the corner into one of the many decrepit hallways. His eyes pinpointing the security camera perched on the far-right corner that moved back and forth every few seconds.
He could feel a sense of excitement coursing through the wires of his robotic body as he waited for the camera to turn away from him again. He was so close! Just a few hallways to the security room where his prey awaited him . . . probably terrified . . . probably shaking in his chair and sweating profusely. That delicate, little, human heart pounding against his chest as he searched desperately for him over the security's video system.
Two seconds passed, and the camera turned away. Springtrap bolted down the hall, pausing at the next hall to meet up with yet another camera; this one was pointing directly at him.
Springtrap growled when he heard the familiar sounds of a child's laughter echoing from the hallway out of which he had just come. His body automatically started fighting him, the limbs straining to follow the happy noise. He clenched his metal teeth as he resisted the urge. He refused to go back now! He was running out of time and, considering how long it took him to get back to where he was now, he would never make another go around.
He took a step back.
This was ridiculous! He knew there was no child there! It was Balloon Boy's stupid laughter on recording, but the damned suit didn't seem to understand the difference and it was nearly impossible to ignore its programing. He didn't want to think about what happened once the clock struck six. He hated the idea of being helpless for another day!
He had to give this new Security Guard credit, though. He had kept this night from being completely boring. He could almost consider this a challenge . . . Almost. Springtrap suppressed the urge to shout his frustration as his left foot stepped back next. His rusted joints whined and groaned as he fought the pull of the programming.
"Come on . . . Come on. Make a mistake, damn you!"
As if his little chant had been heard, yellow, emergency lights began to flash and an alarm screeched through the sound system, muffling the enticing laughter enough that Springtrap could retake control of his automated body once more. The red, blinking light atop the camera shut off and the machine slumped in its position, indicating that the new guard had stopped tracking him in order to go tend to the ventilation system. Here was his chance . . .
His mechanical body his once more, Springtrap leapt forward, stomping down the few hallways left that separated him from his prey, running past the last cameras without worry. His excitement morphed to an almost human-like joy, at least a twisted version of emotion, anyway. So little of his humanity remained after being cursed to the hell of an after-life, confined to the rusted ruin of an animatronic rabbit, no less. The emotions he did feel were limited to anger and hatred most of the time, and feeling something, anything, different lifted him out of the pit of his despair and he clung to it, desperate for more.
Even if that meant he became the murderer he was once accused of being.
Springtrap glanced through the doorway to discover Foxy leaping on the new guard. The man was young, in his early twenties, with brown, curly hair and matching brown eyes. He was wearing that familiar blue uniform and false badge, and screamed more like a woman than a man. Springtrap grimaced, ears flattening on his head at the high-pitched sound. Foxy immediately vanished just inches from the guard's face.
Taking his cue, Springtrap stepped into the room and stopped a couple of feet from the coward. Pathetic. It took a few moments before the guard finally had the courage to remove his hands from his face. When he did, the guard's eyes widened in terror; his skin, already pale to begin with, lost what was left of its color. It made him wonder if the guard would pass out before Springtrap could reach across and grab him. Screaming, the guard scrambled backward, stumbling over his chair and backpedaling into the far wall. The man's desperation to get away from him made this moment all the sweeter.
Inside of his mind, Springtrap grin was a frightening parody of the one that was designed onto the animatronic's face. He stepped forward and grabbed the spinning, desk chair, throwing it across the room. It knocked the computer console from the desk and crashed against the wall, leaving holes in the drywall. At the violence of the act, the guard appeared to shrink in upon himself. Springtrap stalked the whimpering man with laser-like focus.
Trapped, the man withdrew his flashlight from his belt and held it out in front of him threateningly . . . as if that would keep him safe.
"Y-You stay the hell away from me! You . . . You . . . whatever you are!"
Springtrap paused, rolling his glowing, red eyes. Wasn't it obvious? Why was it so difficult for some to figure out what he was? You'd think the ears . . . well, ear and a half, would give it away, not that it mattered. The man wasn't going to live long enough to retell the tale.
In a movement too quick for the guard to avoid, Springtrap grasped the man's wrist and twisted. The fragile joint snapped all too easily in the grip of his metal hand. The sickening snap was followed by a moment of shocked silence, the guard's mouth opening and closing like a fish as he choked on his horror. Finally, a pain-filled shriek filled the air as the guard yanked his ruined hand away, cradling it against his heaving chest.
Springtrap examined his newly-acquired flashlight, and then the now-sobbing human. Raising the flashlight above his head, the robotic rabbit smashed it down on the top of the man's skull. The shrieks ceased instantly as the guard collapsed, unconscious, at Springtrap's feet, blood rushing from the head wound and pooling beneath the man's body.
As if in a trance, or maybe caught up in a glitch in his programming, Springtrap raised the makeshift weapon again and again, hammering it down upon his hapless victim. Lifting the flashlight up and slamming it down over and over, again and again. He didn't stop until brain matter started sticking to the flashlight. It was flung onto the walls and onto his rabbit head. Blood was splattered across his legs, chest plate, and arms. The pool of red spreading out as the guard's body emptied itself of its life source, the blood seeping sluggishly now that the heart no longer beat.
Straightening up, the flashlight slipped from his quaking fingers, clattering on impact with the floor tiles. Tiles, Springtrap noticed, was superior to carpet in that it cleaned up with less effort. The floor was riddled throughout with drains, making cleanup a breeze with the firehoses place conveniently at regular intervals in hallways and rooms. Cocking his head, he considered this some of his finest work. His mechanical eyelids slid closed as a wave of satisfaction and fulfillment crashed through him.
He had done it! He had killed the latest night guard and, he glanced at the clock on the wall, with plenty of time to spare. It was only . . . Five-thirty am.
Switching his attention to the body at his feet, Springtrap grasped the ankles and lifted it aloft, the better to drain the last of the meddlesome liquid. Blood could be so messy, leaking out from under doors and through drywall or ceiling tiles at the most inconvenient moments. The body's arms flopped down, the hands lying in the puddle of gore. When he was sure the last of the blood was gone from the body, Springtrap tossed it aside. It was still a mess but shouldn't leave a trail.
He pulled the nearby fire hose from its perch in the wall and turned the wheel, releasing the water. He sprayed the majority of the blood down the drain in the center of the room before turning the rush of water onto the body, cleaning much of the gore and washing it all away. He was satisfied with the results. He would hide the body, and if anyone looked, nothing truly damning would be left. Sure, it was obvious that something had happened here, but with no body, any inquiries would dwindle away to nothing in short order. At least, that is how it happened over the last few decades and with countless other guards.
Groping the shoulder, he rolled the guard onto his back. The body flopped much like a dead fish might. Springtrap's eyes fixated onto the name tag. The print unrecognizable thanks to the blood that still stained it. Good. He didn't want to know the name, didn't want to know anything about this kid's life or the people that would miss him. Nevertheless, curiosity got the better of him.
Before he picked the guard up and against his better judgement, Springtrap tentatively reached for the name tag, tearing it off the wet shirt. His thumb swept away what was left the crimson stain, enough so that he could make out the letters.
Cody Peterson.
What a stupid name . . . Fit for a dull, colorless, bland sort of person.
Cody. The kid should have thanked him from ending his pitiful life so soon. He tossed the nametag into the metal wastebasket with a small clang. The kid . . . The guard hardly looked as old as Springtrap had been when death had come for him.
A kid . . . He was just a kid.
An overpowering feeling of sorrow and anger drowned out his victorious, happy glow; hatred sweeping through to take its place. It boiled within him. Hatred for himself, hatred for his life, and an unbelievable amount of hatred for his father.
It was all his father's fault that he was here right now, trapped in this cursed existence, doing the things he was doing because, before, he would never have killed anyone . . . and, he would never have liked it so much. He had been a good person back then! Or, at least he liked to think so. He had never insulted anybody, never hurt anyone . . . not until his father decided to butt into his life again.
Growling, Springtrap stared down at the headless body, half of him expecting the guy to pop back up, grow a new head, and waltz right out of there. In his mind, what was left of it, he sneered, or tried to. His facial expressions were limited to few the creator's unimaginative, mechanical engineering could manage. The wool and metal mask consistently refused to bend to his desires, instead, it continued to grin that same stupid grin.
"What are you even doing here?" He muttered angrily to the body. It was no surprise that he got no response. Now, that would have made for an exciting end to his night, wouldn't it? But either of them would be so lucky.
"No amount of money could be worth coming here. Didn't you realize that no one has ever finished their shift working here? Why would you think you could? You idiot!" Springtrap yelled with his mechanized voice, kicking the body away from him.
The body rolled a couple of times before flopping onto his stomach. Springtrap's hands curled into fists and, slowly, he counted to twenty, his temper easing somewhat. He backed up a step, picked up the chair he had thrown, and sat heavily. The damaged piece of furniture groaned under the weight of several hundred pounds of metal and wires. He tapped a finger against the cheap, metal desk as he stared thoughtfully at the body.
He wasn't going to stash this one as he had done to the rest of the bodies. No, he decided, this one was going to remain out in the open for the owners to find in the morning.
"Maybe then," he growled, "people will stop coming here."
Springtrap was aware once the police got involved, there would be no saving this place. Too many missing persons, and now a murder to top it off. No one would want it. They'd tear the cursed building down or leave it to rot. One or the other, he didn't care; he just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sleep forever.
Resolved, he stood up and turned his back on Cody Peterson. Walking out of the room, Springtrap retraced his steps. The hallways were now quiet, empty of any supernatural activity as he made his way back to the safe room where he had started off the night. He shut the door behind him, preventing any light from penetrating the room.
Slumping against the wall, Springtrap allowed his body to slide down to the concrete floor, scraping the wall as he did so. His eyes drifted closed, but he remained aware until his curse took back over control of his suit. He didn't know why this worked the way it did, but he had no choice but to learn to 'live' with it.
Live . . . He snorted, an odd sound when created through his mechanized voice-box. It might have made him laugh had he actually been alive to hear the animatronic make it. Somehow, it just wasn't as funny when the noise was coming from you.
Like weights pinning him down, the curse took over. He couldn't lift a finger now, even if he wanted to.
Six o'clock had arrived.
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