A/N: So, a friend, FictionalIdiot (go check his stuff out, we've collaborated on stuff in the past, no I'm not being paid) tipped me off about the… less than comprehensible format this was previously in. If it's like that again, I'll do my best to fix it, but there's not all too much I can so other than re-upload it. Again.

This is just an angsty one-shot I got away with writing in English. It's been sitting at the back of my mind for ages, and I didn't even write it out onto the computer until recently. Be warned, dark themes and all of that song and dance ahead.

If you could review, tell me if (where) I went wrong, and I'll take it into consideration and re-upload it with suggested changes. This is to help other people have a more enjoyable experience reading my little corner of the billion-sided shape we call the internet.

Thank you for reading my word vomit, much appreciated.

Footsteps

Even after joining the military, all the horrors of Basic, the less horrifying time at Blood Gulch, taking on mercenaries, hit men, winning a bloody civil war, taking down corrupt military bases left, right and centre, and finally stopping the planet from being blown up (the damn thing that got him sent home in the first place), his childhood fear of Footsteps never left him. Footsteps follow you. They tell people where you are. People that hurt-

No, not going back there.

So being a night guard at a pizzeria known for the Missing Children's incident might not have been the brightest of ideas, then. And he was supposed to be the smart one. Simmons sighed heavily, running a pale hand through frizzy, dark ginger hair that he'd long let grow out if the standard military crew cut he once held so dear, and smoothed the blue uniform in a half-hearted attempt at releasing the frustrated tension in his chest and shoulders. He turned a corner, continuing his survey of the building into the main room.

Nothing unusual (as far as he could tell, he thought, flashing the weak beam of the torch around), moving on.

The first corridor to the left lead to the pizzeria's party rooms. A quick flash through with the torch showed no one. No one to hurt him. He was, painfully yet blissfully, alone. No one was in any of the other rooms, either. Simmons breathed a sigh- whether it was of relief it anxiety, he wasn't sure. No Footsteps. No Footsteps. Good.

Back to the man room, and a quick under the table and a quick flash under the tables and across the stage to make sure no one was hiding behind the three- three… two animatronics facing the room. Simmons frowned, his jade eyes turning to the drawings that littered and lined the darkened room. Yes, three. A rabbit, a chicken, and a bear. The rabbit, purple for no apparent reason, was gone.

He quietened as much as possible, and listened. No Footsteps. Good.

A rumble of thunder, though. The ginger grinned wryly. Grif- a friend from Blood Gulch, the one truly decent time of his life- would be absolutely terrified out of his wits right now. He shook his head and listened again, before a realization like ice dawned on him, making his blood run cold and a shrieking chill run down his spine. The patter, patter, patter followed by a sudden crash would mask any sound of anyone approaching…

His breath quickened, now coming in shorter, louder, more frequent gasps. He flashed his torch around the room, now relying on his abysmal sight as the gentle tapping of the rain boomed in his ear like a symphony, bang, bang, bang of the Chorisian guns in his ear, the timpani orchestra surrounding the room and chilling the air. The stage was empty.

He ran- to where he didn't know, couldn't say. Didn't care.

A room to the left of the arcade. A corner by the door- his lookout. He ducked down, torch pressed to his chest like a pistol, and breathed.

No- no! Movement under the table, a giant figure emerging from its cave. It straightened up and glared down at Simmons from behind a faded lilac muzzle, maroon eyes smouldering with hate boring into his own green.

Simmons could hear Footsteps, two sets of them, before a bear with ripped fur, exposing animatronic circuits and pistons, and a yellow chicken (duck?!) with a single, magenta eye both moved to stand behind the bunny.

"Richard Simmons." A rumbling tone forced it's way past the drumbeats, drowning them out. He was, unwillingly, suddenly reminded of a drill sergeant who sent Grif and Simmons on a suicide mission once. Said sergeant had died because of that- but he suddenly got the feeling that this time, it would be him dying. The ensemble of humanoid animal-robots certainly didn't seem to be anything other than murderous- with him as the victim.

"Richard Simmons." The beast seemed only capable of saying those two words, although the weight and meaning behind them was all too clear. "Richard… Simmons."

Simmons ran. Though he didn't get very far.

A reddish-brown blur tackled him to the ground, pinning him by the chest. A steel-grey, mechanical jaw snapped just over his head as Simmons looked to the blackened depths of the canine robot's eyes, two faint, yellow-white pinpricks of light seeming to lust for his throat as it snapped again- again. Simmons fought to keep the thing off him, fighting against what might as well have been a wolf for his life. But without one arm, it being pinned underneath him when he fell, he could do nothing more than attempt to keep rusted-red fangs away- or could it be blood? It seemed likely from the way this was going…

The weight was lifted from him a moment, before another replaced it, pressing into his chest like it was told to kill him- slowly- a lilac velvet foot. Those smouldering eyes, burning a bright maroon, seemed to smirk down at him in triumph at his fear,the foot pressing down, down upon his chest, making his bones creak and cry out in a prolonged, suffocating, gulping pain. Down, down, spreading a burning creak through the core of his marrow, until Simmons could no longer remember what the pain was, only that he just wanted the grinding pain and ache to stop, until his ribs gave way and he remembered exactly what it was. He screamed. Sobbed. Begged.

Blue eyes replaced the maroon as the bear, Fazbear, knelt down before him, resting a knee deliberately and surely upon his chest. Simmons whimpered from the searing ache that spread throughout his chest and everywhere, blinding him with a white-hot brand as a brown paw shot out with far too much speed for the mechanisms inside the robot and tightened around the back of his head. It caught his hair and tightened painfully, dragging him up to face the very alive plastic, blue eyes.

He gulped as the Footsteps lead him away.

If you have any criticism (constructive, please, I won't have anything to do with it otherwise) then please review and let me know!