You never ask for anything from your children. All you ask is that they have fun. It's all you want.
You do not know exactly how it is the adults see you. You have heard the guards say that you are 'creepy' and 'unlike the others'. The head guardian is oddly quiet about your existence. He is the only one, as far as you know, that has existed at this restaurant longer than you. And for some reason, he makes you nervous. For once not because of the potential threat towards your children, but the threat he may present against you. But for now, there is peace.
So alone you sit in your box, years passing by without further event.
Until your little Freddy comes to you with terrible news. Someone is trying to hurt your children.
You try your hardest, but you can't tell who it is. The adults are useless to you, but for the most part the ones that watch your children do not seem to be hurting them. So who? You are at a loss.
Your children hurt, too, because you hurt.
And then, one day, new children come in.
The adults consider them to also be adults, but you know better. They are children, and like all children that come into your realm, they are yours. But something is wrong with your new children. They hurt. They hurt in a new way, a way you've never felt before.
No, you have felt this hurt before. You can't find a word to put to it. But you know this feeling well, and you would wish it on no one.
It's the same hurt one of your children felt as he waited for days—weeks—months—years for little Suzy to come back. But she never did.
You wanted to grab her. To hold onto her so she wouldn't flit away like dust and debris. But in the end, that's all humans are. And so she slipped from your grasp, and for this you will never forgive yourself. You will never forgive yourself just as her blood-mother will never forgive herself for letting her child out of her sight.
She trusted you. And when you failed Suzy, you failed her, too.
Your new children are swathed in the same purple as many of the adults that work for miserable little Wilhelm Fazbear. But there is something different about them. Your children, the ones you made, feel this too. And yet where you feel fascination, they feel fear.
One of them is just as fascinated with you. He stands in the corner of the room where you reside, watching carefully as you give your children the gift of your love. You know the adults cannot see you the way the children can. And yet this one can, and so you use this as proof that he is a child, too.
But as the days pass, you feel a sense a dread. Your youngest child, your fastest child, feels it too.
It's the third show of the day in the place called Pirate's Cove. The adult-child wasn't present for the other shows. But the show is starting and he is here and your children are excited. They love to share.
You don't notice initially. You have, admittedly, been rather busy giving gifts. There are two birthdays today, and every staff member is pressed for time, even you. It's the first birthday party since the opening of this particular location and perfection is key.
But when Foxy notices something, even the band falters on stage. The children are confused. The parents are slightly upset. And for a moment even you grow still as you access the mainframe.
There's a sound you don't know how to describe at first. It is full of rage and sorrow and as you mull it over you know the word would best be known as a 'roar'. The urgency it fills you with is desperate and you tell your children to go and stop it, stop it before it is too late.
Their hulls are gray and dull and their eyes do not see.
They are strewn over the blue carpet like forsaken dolls. Victims of a child's tantrum.
You have seen this before.
Shimmering hulls made of golden fleece. Red oil drip-drops down from shuddering joints.
They are not your children. Who are they? You can't remember. And yet you were there. Or were you?
Foxy is screaming. He is upset. He is hurt. This hurts you, too, but for all you see, you don't know how to stop the pain.
The adult-child has tried calming Foxy down, placing a hand on one of Foxy's arms. And you know what is going to happen as your child turns, mouth parted far too wide.
You beg Foxy not to. You beg and you beg, but pain has stirred something in your child that is stronger than you.
Foxy slashes away at the guard. The adult-child backs up just enough to keep that hook from lodging in his chest, but he either can't move fast enough or underestimates the speed at which your child moves. Red blossoms over that purple uniform. And despite your protests, Foxy lunges again.
You're not sure, but it sounds like he's singing his song to himself.
You've never heard an adult scream before, not even a child stuck in an adult's body. The sound is strange. Yet it doesn't particularly bother you. It seems so unreal.
Foxy yanks the hook out of the guard's shoulder. You can't tell exactly where the wound is. There's just so much red and you simply don't know what to think of it.
Bonnie is the first of the band to get there. His hand wraps around Foxy's hook arm, just as it goes up for another blow. Despite that, Foxy jerks himself forward, gnashing his teeth together. Even from your indirect viewpoint, you can hear the gears and crossbeams in his suit protesting against the unnatural motion.
Chica takes his other arm. Her method is less of a vicegrip and more of hugging it nice and tight.
The adult-child is still alive. He crawls backward, one arm limp against his side. Freddy—your little Freddy—helps the man to his feet after some brief confusion.
The head guard is on Freddy's tail, looking confusedly from the wounded guard to the struggling animatronics before finally resting on the five motionless children.
By now children and parents alike have been drawn to Pirate's Cove, either because of Foxy's careless screaming or because the Fazbear Band has run off the stage mid-show for the first time in recorded history.
The head guard starts shouting orders to the various members of the day shift. As the guards direct parents to take their children and head to guest relations for something inane, the head guard takes your adult-child to the backroom. He pulls a first aid kit from the wall. Had that been there this whole time? The only time you've seen one of those needed, they were at guest services.
What else of your realm has been hidden from you by the adults?
You pay just enough attention to know the head guard has just finished calling both the police and an ambulance. He laughs dryly as he places the phone back on the wall receiver. "You Divelbiss kids sure find trouble wherever you go, don't you?"
The wounded child smiles. Despite the red still oozing between his fingers, it seems sincere. "We sure do, Mister Cross," he says. He tilts his head. You don't understand the purpose behind the action, so you assume it's just another weird social convention. "Aren't you supposed to call Will?"
You lose the next part of the conversation as Foxy wails, forcing you to make sure your other children are keeping him under control. A technician is standing nearby, a young woman who was only recently hired. She looks nervous. She looks afraid.
As the sirens wail in the distance, you can't help but feel it too.
You turn your attention to the hulls of the children. They flicker with colour, like the time the screens showing those animated features became broken. It takes you a minute to realize the adults don't see this.
You have to do this now. Before they can take your children away forever, you seize your chance. They are crumbling, leaving, and you act fast.
You tell your children your plan. Chica is excited, her beak clacking. Words don't come out; she's not complete enough yet. Bonnie assures you that the band has your full attention, but Freddy seems thoughtful.
Your little Freddy. He's your morality. It worries you that he thinks about this. What if he doesn't approve?
What if he does?
Before you can reach out, Freddy takes charge. Microphone to his mouth, top hot raised slightly, he addresses the crowd. He pulls them away, yet together in the tight halls of the building. Pirate's Cove has become a sanctuary, entrances blocked by your children of fleece and steel.
You owe them so much. One day, you say, one day you will make them complete.
But now, these children need you. They are drifting, like so much dust in a sunlit morning. You won't let them be lost. Not like Suzy.
No, you won't fail them. Not this time.
You know how. You don't know, but you do. You've done this before. You haven't, but you have.
They are as confused as you feel. The eldest child cannot be more than eight years of age, but in the dark light of infinity, they all feel young. You smile, as you always have, and hold out your arms.
They look to you. At first, you don't know what they feel. Facial expressions are beyond you, no matter how hard you try. A smile is what you know. All you know. You press it harder. You hold your hands out in front of you. They follow the motion with their eyes. Out of habit, so do you. Old bones wrapped in young skin. Or perhaps young bones and old skin. You don't know the difference.
"Who are you?" they ask, their tiny voices a chorus to your senses.
"It's me," you say. It's all you know. All they can know.
They are drifting away faster and faster. You don't have much time.
"Please," you say. "Let's go home."
They watch you. Even now, in this dim place, you can see they are not whole. For your plan, they are unfit. But they are your children regardless. They are loved. You love them.
"I won't let them hurt you," you say. "Not again."
They flicker. The colour is seeping away.
"Please," you say.
They look away, as if someone else is there.
No. No, no, no. Don't go. You have so much love, you can spare all they need.
Shimmering hulls. Golden fleece.
You know this feeling. You know this soul.
No, no. Please don't leave. Not again. You can't take it.
You beg. You plead. It grins back at you. It's a game to it. Your love is nothing.
You scream.
Your children. You can't lose them again.
They turn to you, dust drifting. One reaches out, a young boy. He reminds you of someone. Your children all remind you of someone.
You take his hand. Your touch is soft, gentle. It is kind. Your love is kind.
Fingers—your fingers—drift over his soft hair. There's a scent you can't describe. You can't smell it, you haven't been able to for what feels like an eternity, but you feel it. It settles into your being and you embrace it as you embrace him.
"Jack," he mumbles. "My name is Jack."
Everything drifts back into place. The dull lavender of the pizzeria walls, decorated with the drawings your children have given each other. The air is heavy, no longer with the scent of food and music, but with a feeling you now know well.
Dread. You feel dread.
A loud sound. Someone is slamming doors.
The head guard eyes the others carefully. In a way, you sympathize. He has his children, you have yours. Yet you get the impression it is not quite the same. You get that a lot.
"What the literal fuck was that?" he says. He points at a man who goes so still that you briefly think he might have become broken. "You said everything was fine. That the programs were fine."
"With all due respect, sir," the man said, "I don't think that was a program issue."
A woman next to him nodded. "The scripts are working as intended. The problem is that they only have standard events covered. We didn't have a contingency plan for… this."
You don't understand a word of this.
You crawl out of your box. You have things to do. They cannot be done here.
You catch bits and pieces. Things that indicate another move might be necessary.
You don't want to move. Not again. They moved you from that place to this place and now there will be a third place. And you don't think it'll stop there. No, this has to stop.
You're the one who needs this 'contingency' plan. You're not sure what the word means, not exactly, but you get the impression that it is desperate.
You are desperate.
You won't fail your family. You'll die first.
"There's something else." You can still hear the guards as if you were in the room. Technically, you are. You are the room. This is your realm, after all. "They're… behaving."
"No shit."
"No, I don't mean that. I mean the Band. They're acting outside the code. Someone's messing with the animatronics."
You pause, swinging slightly in hallway. No adults are there, but it doesn't matter.
"With all due respect—"
"Neumann, you say that one more time—"
"—there's not much there to mess with. They've got the best hardware Will thought he could afford, but no one is big on coding like that. Not since WarGames and Terminator."
You inch along. More things you don't understand.
You reach the backroom. Normally you couldn't enter, what with the door being closed and you having no endoskeleton. But today it cracks slightly, pink plastic eyeballs staring at you from inside something fuzzy and purple.
Its expression doesn't change, but you can feel relief. The door opens just enough for you to drift in and it closes behind you just as gently.
"S-so, u-u-u-uh, nice seeing everyone to-today," Bonnie says, repurposing a line from the show. "Now what?"
Freddy is thinking again. You glance around in the silence. Chica is adjusting the empty heads on the shelves, humming one of the show tunes to herself.
"We have been compromised," Freddy says. In times of great trial, he is your voice. It's much better than figuring out how to speak without a mouth. Or voice box. Or both. "If we don't find some way to convince the adults we are perfectly normal, they'll—"
Chica gasped and turned around. "They'll make us gray, too!" She starts sobbing, choked sounds that sound more like some mechanical thing in the kitchen dying than any sound the other children make. "I do-don't want to be-be gra-ay. I like being yel-low! Gray is u-ugly. Yellow is cu-ute!"
Bonnie flaps arms about in the air, as rabbits are wont to do. "Whoa, whoa. No one said anything about that. Th-they won't do that. Ri-right?"
Freddy nods a few times. "No," he says, "they will."
Chica screams. Bonnie throws an empty Freddy Fazbear head at her. Luckily, the silence returns.
Yep. These are your children. Your pride and joy.
You have more work to do than you thought.
You lift up a hand. All three pause to look at you. It should be four, but you'll work with what you have. It's what you have always done. This is no different.
Freddy narrows his eyes, but obeys your will. "We can no longer help Foxy," he says. "During free roam mode, we need to be vigilant."
"I don't even know what that means," Bonnie says. Chica nods in agreement, dropping the empty head she was trying to balance on top of her own.
"Those children were broken," Freddy says. "And they can't be fixed. The adults aren't going to help us anymore. We need to protect our family. From them. From everyone."
No one says anything for a moment. A technician pauses outside the door, but seems to remember something that needs doing elsewhere.
"Only us, then," Bonnie says.
"Only us."
"The adults—"
"Mother will find a way to take care of them," Freddy says. "Like she always has."
Bonnie looks to you, as if asking for confirmation from the source. It's the first time in years one of them has acknowledged, directly, that you exist. It's exciting. Exhilarating. Probably some other words you can't think of at the moment.
You nod. Mother is always watching, you say. Her love reaches through you, to them. You are a conduit. Love is first most. Your gifts are second most.
Your gifts…
You have so much to give, yet you are at a stalemate. You want your children, the ones borne of steel, to be just as capable as those of flesh. The ones that can leave your realm. But you don't understand how. There's something you're missing. Those souls. But how to make souls?
You remember Jack. Jack is here now. He can't leave either. Not now. Not anymore.
You have ideas. You have desires. You have ways.
"Holy Jesus Christ on a goddamn pogo stick."
You didn't notice the door open. Your children did, as now they are as still as when the curtains are drawn. But you? No, you're slipping.
You don't turn to face them. There's no point. You can see them just as well from your position in the mainframe.
It's the woman and an adult-child. He doesn't have his wound anymore. He must be the other one.
"Well, uh, this-this is unexpected," the child says.
"We turn our back on the Prize Corner for one moment," the woman says. "One!" She mutters aimlessly to herself as she fiddles with your children, running those 'codes' that make them enter their standard free roam. She points the end of a wire at you, wearing an expression you don't have a word for. It usually means the children are upset.
"Scott, make yourself useful," she says. "Roll the Puppet back to the box, wouldja?"
The adult-child glances at the woman, then to you, then back to the woman. Without a further sound, he takes you by the arms and gently rolls you down the track.
It's awkward. The adults don't like handling you. You don't like being handled. Usually they leave you be when you're outside your box. And this one has never seen you outside, as far as you remember.
He's muttering. You hear him say something about a brother. That explains a lot. He continues, saying something about tetanus. You're not sure what that means, but you've definitely heard the word before. Usually it involved the head guardian talking to parents about leaving their kids in Pirate's Cove.
It makes you slightly uneasy. And it adds a new feeling to your growing list. Guilt. You feel guilty. You don't know why or how, just that the children feel it and so do you.
Well, that's a lie. You know why.
You're just above your box, legs dangling over the front. The child looks at you blankly. You return the favour. It's not like you have any other choice.
"Well, uh, I have to. I have to handle a few things," he says. He shuffles in place.
He sees you.
And yet, now that it is you and this wayward child, alone, you don't know what to do. You get the feeling that even though he sees you, he doesn't quite see all of you.
He sees you thinking. He can't see your love.
You smile, as you always do. The shuffling intensifies before he excuses himself and leaves.
That one is a freak. Yet you can't stop smiling, metaphorically speaking. He's a freak, yes, but now he's one of your freaks. One of your many, many, many freaks.
Yes. You definitely have more work to do than you thought.
A/N: We now bring you back to the crazy you came for instead of the crazy I threw at you last chapter (and the crazy I'm gonna throw at you next chapter whoops). A side note: the first four chapters were pre-written, essentially. Kinda. I have decided to rewrite the majority of the fourth chapter, and after that I have to begin chapters from scratch. So updates won't be quite as ridiculously fast, as now I have to do more in the same time period. Assuming I use said period to write. Which I have a terrible habit of not doing.
I do plan on finishing this story, of course, but be mindful that there is no (rigidly set) schedule. I'm terrible at those. Worse than my ability to juggle. And schedules are like juggling time. What I'm trying to convey is, you do not want to see me juggle physical objects. Or any object. But definitely not the physical variety. Don't invite me to parties.
Again, any advice is welcome. Thanks for your time, and have a good one!
