The twisted, mangled Pirate Fox was a harbinger of all destruction as it leapt from the curtains, a mechanical mountain lion pouncing upon its prey. Its eyes rolled loose in their sockets as it lunged towards the man with a grinding of stiffened gears and degraded frames. Its bottom jaw hung open in a permanent howl that could never be silenced.

Every muscle in his body stiffening, he fell back, hitting one of the chairs dotted around the dining room. It shattered as he hit it and he fell to the ground amongst the wooden debris, palms splayed flat on the filthy tiles. His heart beat faster than he had ever remembered, as life itself flashed before his eyes. He wanted to scream, but his jaw would not loosen. All he could do was scramble, as the fox approached, dragging its hook. Each movement was stiff, awkward yet oh so very deliberate; Like a child that had only just learned to walk and already understood the concept of bloodlust, of unchained beastial rage.

Feeling amongst the wreckage, he grabbed one of the chair legs in desperation, lunged up and swiped at the animatronic. The wood splintered on contact with the fox's head, and the neck jolted just a little to the left under the pressure. It wasn't much, but enough for him to get to his feet and make quick distance between himself and his pursuer.

It was true. All of it was true. As he looked into those glassy, plastic eyes, he somehow saw a burning fury that could not be satiated. It knew who he was, as much as he knew who it was. The clicking of its jaw as it continued to stagger towards him reflected the thrashes of the young boy as he had cupped his hand over his face and held it tight.

And it was not alone in its rage. More mechanical clamouring came from behind him, the cheers of a demented gladiatorial arena, and to face it, he saw the others shifting gently from their position on the stage. Freddy's head hung low as it took careful yet clumsy steps, eyes directed to the floor; Bonnie showed no such reservations with piercing eyes of Hellish purple that peered deep into his soul.

"Damn…" He muttered, shaking, as he reached for his lighter. No luck. The thing lay, extinguished once more, beneath the Pirate Fox's right foot. Clara had failed him. Now, all instincts told him to run, to make a break for the exit and to never look back.

No. That would defeat the purpose of everything, render all his efforts for nought. He came here to end this, to put the story to rest and preserve his security. Running would achieve none of that. All it would make him was a coward.

Just

Like

Michael.

His mind flashed through the halls of a thousand possibilities as he backed away from the encroaching figures, all of them dead ends. One lingering in his head, however. Images of the axe back in the generator room flashed before him. A weapon was better than nothing at all. Once they were dealt with, he could recover the lighter and deal with what he had come here for.

He began to back away slowly, gathering pace before he spun and ran. The blood was now in the water and as he sprinted, he could hear the metallic clangs and groans of the fox's pursuit. He wasn't even sure what to think, so he didn't, he focused on running back to the old generator room, darting past tables as he fought to stop the soles of his shoes from slipping on the tiles. A cursory glance over his shoulder showed the Pirate Fox to not be far behind. Amazing. They had never been built to walk, their mechanisms were as rudimentary as could be, barely innovative by even the standards of the late Seventies. And yet, it seemed so very lifelike as it gave chase, eyes rattling in their sockets and threatening to dislodge completely.

Not that any of it was worth anything as he reached his destination, taking hold of the unwieldy fire axe. It was rusted all the way through, hardly of any use to a soul, but beggars could not be choosers. As he felt the rotten iron in his hands, taking in the decidedly exclusive stain on the head, he saw the last few decades flash before him. He had killed more than he could ever hope to count. Killed in Vietnam, killed in the States, bodies followed in his wake. He had called himself an engineer, an entertainer, and yet the shores of De Nang had shown him where his true talents lay. Once it was all over, he was packed up, sent on his merry way, sent to resume his old life. And almost every single day, he had seen one of them. The very people he had been assigned to murder, were now calling him their uncle.

What the hell was Hank expecting?

His thoughts were snatched from him by the emergence of the fox in the doorway, stooping low as it glared ahead at him. For his response, he gripped the axe just a mite harder.

No chance to back out.

His heart beating in his throat, he surged forwards, raising the axe over his head and bringing it down on the abomination that blocked the door frame. The muscles in his arms screamed out from the recoil as he brought it down, the devastation on metal on metal ringing in his ears. A clean slice, so it seemed at least. The head of the axe glimmered as it lay stuck in the fox's head, separated from the now-useless hilt that it had spawned from. As he stepped back, he took note of this. His one weapon had faltered right before his eyes, and the fox showed no signs of slowing. Even with its newly-acquired wound, its eyes continued to shine with anger, hatred through the cracks of the plastic casing.

His breaths grew more ragged as he backed away. "Dammit…" He grunted. "Dammit all to Hell…" Things were rapidly deteriorating before his very eyes and it was beginning to look as if there was not a thing he could do…

Continuing to back off, his foot brushed the rotten suit that lay against the wall, and he spun, half-terrified, as if he expected to see one of those things behind him. Instead, he saw the decaying beauty of the springlock rabbit suit. The reddish-brown stains still glimmered subtly around its torso, its jaw, the eye holes. There was almost something nostalgic about it, in the most twisted possible sense. Before him, his assailants pushed on, drawing closer to him. The next few moments would be utterly decisive.

It still fit. All of these years and it was like he had never left it, squeezing his body against the retracting springs as he pulled the musky mask down over his eyes, obscuring his vision. He paid no heed to the gentle, repetitious clicking that accompanied him to which he had become so familiar over his career. It was as if he allowed a new persona to wash over him. No Afton; He was Bonnie, as he had been so many times in the past.

Standing before the animatronics, he spread his arms and chuckled, a hurried, panicked burst of mirth as he stared them down. They stared back and yet advanced no further. Did they know it was him within? It hardly mattered. As far as they were concerned, he was another one of them now.

"Go on." He spat, unable to resist the urge to taunt. "Go on. Take your leave! There's not a thing for you to achieve here! There's nothing you can take from me!"

The animatronics remained perfectly still, stoic as could be. He blinked. For just a moment, he saw her standing amongst them. He blinked again and she was gone.

"Go on!" He compelled, stepping ahead. "Leave! I. Win."

Once he planted his left foot down on the flooring, he had sealed his fate. With a creak and a groan, the springs strained, loosened, and then snapped. In a shower of viscera, they shot across his leg, turning his flesh to a thin red mist. The dominoes fell, one by one by one. Grunting, he dropped down to one foot, the sudden movement enough to snap back the springs in his right. Screams and shouts fell on deaf ears as more and more of the springs crashed into place, slicing through skin and bone and muscle. His left eyeball exploded as one such spring went right through it, his whole body shaking and trembling, each movement just breaking more of the seals and sending the hordes of Hell against his body. He couldn't even calculate the pain. It was if he felt nothing at all, even as he writhed and cawed on the floor, tears mixing with the sweat and the blood to form the most morbid of cocktails.

"Bastards!" He howled. "Bastards, the lot of you! This is-"

The final domino fell, the spring shooting right through his heart. His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back in their sockets and he said no more. He thought no more. Nothing came to him.

Going…

Going…

Gone.


Thomas Afton

1975-1983

A soul taken from us, far too soon.

As the breeze rushed through Michael's hair, he stared down at the tombstone, head bowed and hands in his pockets. He didn't sleep well, he never did and hadn't in ten years, but looking down at the grave, he could feel something lift. Or maybe it was just the news.

His father had gone missing. Incidentally, at the very same time, investigators had pinned him as a person of interest in the reopened 1985 Fazbear Murders case. Then, they had found him.

Dead, inside his own springlock suit, alongside plenty of evidence pointing to what was suspected to be an arson. The only reason Michael had even returned to the broken, decrepit town was to say his last goodbyes, to find some sort of closure.

"The war changed our father." He muttered, as if talking to the soul of Tommy himself. "You never even knew him before then… Maybe he did die in Vietnam. The man who came back… He never was the same…" Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. "None of us are. Not anymore."

The winds prickled the back of his neck, stiffened his whole body, as he shook his head and turned. "Take care, Tom. Rest well." With those words, he sauntered off, through the cemetery.

For all the dead it housed, it very much felt like the one place in the town that retained its hold on life. While the living wallowed in their despair and torment, the spirits danced and laughed and sang. They knew of the peace and happiness that eluded each and every one of the living. Only one other person from the land of the still-damned was present. An older fellow, bent over one of the tombstones up on the hill, beneath the swaying birch tree.

A spot Michael recognised.

A man he recognised.

Every part of him said to keep walking, to pay no mind to the man by the grave. It was the smart thing to do, to leave the man well enough alone.

"Uncle Hank?" He called as he approached.

Hank straightened up at the sound of the voice and turned around. The years had not been kind to him, one could be forgiven for mistaking him for a corpse of his very own. Regardless, something sparkled in his eyes. "Michael?" He asked. "That you?"

"It's me." Michael confirmed as he went to shake Hank's hand. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"

"As much as I could be…" Hank lamented softly. "I didn't expect to see you of all people here. How's California?"

"It's… Good. Busy." Michael confessed. "Far more lively."

"Well, I suppose that's what we all need every now and then." His voice grew heavier. "I gather you've heard about your father?"

"Indeed I have," he nodded. "I say, good riddance."

A ghost of a smile flickered on Hank's face at that. "You know, I very nearly killed him myself that night. I had the gun right up to his head… I guess my hesitation only bought him a few more hours."

"Maybe it was better that way." Michael suggested as he looked up to the sky, feeling for the cigarettes in his breast pocket. "With a bit of luck, it hurt."

"Oh, those things certainly hurt." Hank nodded. "You need a light?"

"I-" Michael felt around his pockets. "Alright, sure. Thanks."

Leaning forwards, Hank produced a matchbook, lit a vivid orange flame that twirled and danced in the breeze. Through it, the nicotine coated Michael's lungs.

"Appreciate it." He nodded following a long drag that sent clouds of smoke twisting up to the sky.

"No problem." A pause followed, of silence save for the brushing of the winds and the dancing of the dead. "So, did you hear about the Wall? Seems like this is the end of the line for the Communists."

"Aye, I heard." Michael nodded as he looked down to the tombstone that Hank had been grieving over. "The world is changing faster every day."

Charlotte Emily

1973-1985

Huong Emily

1954-1989

May immortal rest grant the freedom we all seek.


Hello all. I want to thank you, the reader, for taking the time out of your day to sit through this little mini-series of mine. As you may imagine, the story is now concluded. It was never intended to last very long, sinde my whole desire was to depict the night that Afton was springlocked while also grounding the world of Fnaf in the history of the time. Obviously, the recurring motif here is war, with Afton's experiences in Vietnam paralleling the events of his murders, and the fall of the Berlin Wall being put in coalition with his death, the end of two separate eras.

Regardless, thank you very much for reading and I hope this profed an interesting look into my alternate take on the Fnaf series.