I don't hate him. I have no reason to. I don't have a child's corpse hidden within my costume, veins and arteries intertwining with wires. The others hate him, say that he ruined their lives. I don't blame them. But he used to fix me up after the children tore my body apart. At least, he did until he was fired.
It's been so many years. I've sat here, on this shelf, since the old restaurant was closed down and us 'toy' animatronics scrapped. I don't even know where the bulk of my costume, or even my endoskeleton, are anymore.
I heard quite a ruckus the other night, during a storm. There was screaming and the screech of metal on metal. It's been silent since. I haven't even heard the footsteps of the other animatronics outside the closet door.
The door is open. When did that happen? My systems have been glitching for the past few months, but I'm sure I would remember something like that. There's footsteps. I try speaking, but my speakers are nearly dead. "Wh-wh... ooo?"
The footsteps pause outside the door, a silhouette barely visible in the darkness. A click pierces the silence and silver eyes are illuminated, peering into the room. There's something odd about these eyes. They're dull and lifeless, yet there's a certain human quality to them.
My voice fails, leaving only a short screech of radio static. The figure enters the room, scraping something against the wall before the lights click on, the fluorescent lamps humming loudly. Who knew this place still had power?
It's Golden Bonnie. A torn, bloodied, distorted Bonnie. It's hard to tell, but I think there's something inside him. His once yellow fur is stained a dark brown. His mouth opens, revealing something rather leathery looking inside it, pierced through by shining metal rods. "M-m- Mangle?"
Only the staff ever called me that. It was always 'Toy Foxy' to everyone else. This is my own name, one not based on that of my predecessor, even if it is rather morbid. It's so nice.
I can't respond. My voice is gone and my vision fading. The Bonnie comes closer, lifting what remains of my head from off the shelf. He inspects my face and I his, and I see that there is something inside his suit. It looks like a human, although older than any of the other animatronics' children.
His voice screeches, attempting to regulate its own pitch, as he says, "I-it's me. Vince-cent-t."
My remaining eye widens. No. This can't be. The man who murdered all of those children so many years ago and stuffed their bodies into suits was trapped inside of one himself. The man who checked on me between shifts to perform minor repairs in this hopes that I would make it long enough for him to properly repair me that night.
I want to ask him how, when, why. But I can't. With shuddering fingers and grinding servos, his arm reaches forward, fingers ghosting haphazardly over my face. Hooking his finger tips under my jaw, he lifts me from the shelf and places me on the rusted steel maintenance table. With shuffling, lurching steps, he walks around the room, gathering parts from off the shelves and floor and dumping them on the table by me.
It takes weeks, but eventually, Vincent manages to repair me. I relish in my ability to move, to see, to hear. But I've hardly spoken. I don't know where to start. In the meantime, I've worked at repairing his own malfunctioning audio systems.
"T-there something you wanna ask, is-isn't there?" The animatronic's tattered lips attempt to curl into a smile as I try as gently as possible to move aside what appears to be a rotting trachea in order to reach a box under it.
I hesitate. Will he be angry with me for asking how he died? There must be some story behind how this homicidal maniac ended up crushed and pierced by all manner of electronics.
Sitting back on the table, he says, "Well, I-I'll tell ya how I died. I b-bet you're dying to know, are-aren't you?" He laughs, a shrill and grating sound. That's another thing to fix. "You know those k-kids? The ones those old Fazfucks were all u-upset about?"
"Yeah," I respond.
Sighing, he continues, "Well, I c-came back to the restaurant after it closed. Took an axe and chopped all those b-bastards to bits. Then the little g-ghosty fuckers came out. Real scary. Got me c-cornered, so I jumped into this suit. They couldn't get me there. Then the d-damn thing malfunctioned or some s-shit, and killed me dead!" Another burst of raucous laughter. "Betcha those Fazfucks w-were pretty damn pleased with themselves. But the joke's on them, 'c-cause I killed them twice!"
Why is it that I find myself feeling attracted to this man? He's sick. He's cruel. But there's something about him that I just can't name, something oh, so irresistible. Is this a result of being alone for so long? I don't know.
"Hey. W-what's the matter, Mangie?" Vincent chirps.
I roll my eyes at that new nickname. Not at all original. "It's just that the children got to pass on and you're stuck here for who knows how long. It's just… really sad."
His fingers curl around my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his. "Oh c-come on, Mangle. Don't be feeling sorry f-for me. I don't mind sitting here forever so long as y-you're with me."
My fingers fall still and my processors scramble for something to say. But before I can respond, Vincent moves his hand to the top of my head, petting it fondly before laying back on the table.
"I'm gonna take a nap. C-care to join me?" He smirked.
Crawling up onto the table to lie next to him, I say, "You can't take a nap, idiot. You're dead."
He wrapped his arms around me and I felt the tips of his suit's ears brush my own as he muttered, "Shh… T-that's not important."