I cannot fathom how much this idea has been rotting in my head for.

It first started as a meer thought a few years ago, me sitting on my desk in my lone bedroom, trying to throw myself back into the FNaF world. The newer games (Pizzaria Simulator and Ultimate Custom night at the time) gave me more questions and more lore then I could ask for. But it wasn't enough.

Until I wondered, "Y'know, what would've happened if the Crying Child (Michael's younger brother/C.C./Evan- whatever you want to call him) lived. Like... What if he LIVED the bite of '83?"

And that's how we got here! So, short chapter, nothing special other than to pull words out from my brain into a page.

Enjoy!

The consistent beeping of the small heart monitor filled the air.

Mike sat parallel to the lone hospital bed, squat on an equally lone chair. His hair hung over his eyes with his early teenager emo phase, obscuring the blue of his eyes. A dark brown... He thought of dying it something even darker. Maybe the same color as his father's.

But thoughts of going against his mother's wishes weren't exactly the thoughts that preoccupied his mind currently. Mike's gaze swept over to the bed. A tiny form was kept underneath those white sheets. Skinny arms laid close to both sides, an IV pumping liquids into the dormant body. A bloody bandage wrapped around the child's face, brown hair clumped with blood sticking out occasionally. Mike had the same blood dried staining the front of his shirt. He hadn't bothered changing.

About a week ago, his little brother's fifth birthday had been planned and set in stone to take place at Fredbear's Family Diner. It was a sister location of Freddy's Fazbear Pizza, featuring less animatronics and aimed more for little kids. Or the people who just wanted a cheap bite to eat or to laugh at the two rustic animatronics that were still forced up on the stage. About a week ago, Mike was what all other brothers were; teasing the younger siblings, being a bit of a jerk and always being forced as the example against his will. When that week rolled around, he became starved for attention. He was an only child for six years until Elizabeth was born. Fine, he would share his undivided attention. Reluctantly, that is. But he crossed the line when his little brother came. He already was sharing attention. Why would he share more?

His little brother always loved to play with the plushies and the figurines that closely resembled the Fazbear franchise characters. Mike's little brother had every one of them, the benefit of being a child of one of the people who made the company. But Mike's sick idea of a before-birthday joke had destroyed all those fun moments. Fear ran amuck in the child's mind. No sleep. No fun. Just tears for every day for the rest of the week and a new profound phobia of the animatronics.

It didn't help that their sister had accidentally been killed by one of the robots at a sister location prior. It didn't help that their father was becoming increasingly distant. Mike's meddling had been the last attack to an already fragile family photo.

And then it shattered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Evan move. But the body stayed right where it was, deep in a coma between life and death. The heart monitor was the only thing indicating the child was still alive.

Mike let out a low breath, slouching down in his chair. He ran his hands through his hair briefly before tilting his head to the ceiling. Large panels hiding impressive LED lights behind them looked down at him from above.

Look at you, they seemed to say, almost mockingly, you're a murder now.

"I know," Mike whispered. He was too drained to snap back with the classic bout of teenage attitude. He didn't think he could ever again even if he tried. He felt older than he was, given how unusually mature he was taking all of this. Even if he did turn thirteen two months ago.

The wide smile on Evan's face when his big brother turned the cool age ending in "teen" was something bled into his mind. Just like the blood on his shirt. It stayed and could never be removed. Surprising how many happy memories stung when looking at them in the midst of horrible situations.

A turn of the knob connected to the room's door caused Mike to sit up immediately. In the crack of the door stood a nurse wearing a flowing white coat and light blue scrubs. Glasses he once called "grandmother specs" sat on the bridge of her nose. Said nose wrinkled slightly at the bloodied teen sitting next to the possibly dying child.

But the lady didn't dare look at him for too long. Her gaze instead drifted to the victim. Mike couldn't blame her sympathetic gaze.

Then she cleared her throat, looking down at the clipboard in her soon-to-be pruny hands.

"Michael Afton?"

He didn't even repeat back his name with that preferred nickname. "Yes?"

The nurse only looked at Mike again long enough to say "You have a visitor."

Mike sucked in a breath. The nurse left, not looking back. He suspected it was his Mom again, back to silently sob for the both of them. For all the members of the family. Ones that were alive or dead or dying or too busy to really exist. The sight of his Mom crying shoved so much guilt into his heart that he wished he were the one whose head was crushed by Fredbear. Not Evan.

But instead of a small face tired and full of sorrow from the events of the past few days, one covered in gentle wrinkles and a soft smile made Mike release that breath. Henry, the other man behind Freddy's, still looked tired and sorrowful. He'd lost his daughter, Charlie, four years ago. The wounds of his own family breaking apart still looked horribly fresh on his face. Except it was layered now with the fear of what was going to happen to the company and what was going to happen to Mike's family.

Henry closed the door behind him gently. He was dressed in a black button-up that looked too similar to the attire one would wear at a funeral. And unlike the nurse, he actually looked at Mike.

"Your mother is having a difficult time," Henry said. He stayed by the door, blocking it as if Mike would try and run out. Like he had done before when frustrated.

"I know," Mike said plainly.

"She um... She won't say it, but I'm certain she thinks you're handling this chain of events very maturely."

Mike's eyes narrowed. He couldn't help it. "What I did was nowhere near mature."

A silence dawned out before them. The heart monitor beeped in a steady, slow rhythm. Sounds of machines buzzed naturally. Footsteps pounded faintly on the floor outside the room as the world beyond continued. All while time seemed to drag on endlessly and painfully.

"They're going to close down the diner," said the older man.

Normally, Mike would smile. He would laugh and draw out a remark that he was glad those creepy robots were going to the scrapyard or whatever. He would say something like "The pizza was always gross anyways" or "Those games were always rigged". Funny considering he'd say them right in the presence of the man who was supposed to keep those things in check. What was even more hilarious was that said man didn't even seem to care. Sometimes said man wasn't even nearby, so Mike just ended up saying it to himself. Maybe hoping the shitlord himself could hear.

This time he didn't say that. "Are they going to scrap the animatronics?"

Henry sighed. "After they investigate for the evidence they need, most likely. Although William's been trying to argue back that the robots themself are fine." He laughed- short, quick, and very contentious. "He knows those robots contain unfinished programming. It's like he's wanting another death on his hands."

"You mean my hands," Mike said.

"Michael. This isn't the first time this happened."

Mike looked at Evan's form for a rather long time. Henry sighed again.

"This incident was new, but children dying isn't."

"If you knew the robots were janky, why put them on stage in the first place?"

Henry shook his head, understanding where the misunderstanding was. "It's not always because of the animatronics, Michael."

For the first time since he entered the room, Mike looked at Henry deep into those tired eyes. They didn't need words to communicate for that one moment. And all in that one moment, Mike curled up his fists against the fabric of his bloodied jeens. Chips of red scraped away on his already filthy fingernails.

There was an unconditional source of hatred towards being related to the man named William Afton.