Feels good to get something out here.
I'm back with a meaty one.
I'm pretty satisfied with this one guys, hope you like it!
Next chapter we finally get to the setting of the story. The Pizza Plex.
WARNING, THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF ATTEMPTED SUICIDE AND SELF HARM.
Seriously, it's a pretty intense one, make sure you're in the right headspace.
For some reason, I'm just so fluent in writing sad stuff!
Songs: Darkness Within (Michael Logen), Alone (Lund), Ghost (Badflower)
Alright, enjoy, promise the next one will be less depressing...
Well, I'm still here.
You're probably wondering how and why.
Strap in. We have a lot to go over.
It's been 30 years since my "death" at the last pizzeria. I really thought that was it. I was ready to die, never more ready for anything else in my sad miserable life.
But I suppose God had a different plan.
It's a strange thing, being so ready to die.
Knowing that you are going to die.
Thinking about everything you've ever done, everything that's ever happened in life, wondering if you accomplished something worthwhile or were a valued addition to the Earth during your time that you had.
…
Most people hope to be remembered after they die. They pray desperately in their final moments that they won't be forgotten that their name will never be uttered a final time, that their memory will be cherished for generations to come.
They hope that people will come to visit their gravestone and leave them flowers. They hope that their children's children will learn to do or make something that you passed down.
Some may call it sick, but I'm not one of those people.
Taking my final breath, I dearly hoped no one would ever remember who the Afton family was.
I hoped my father's creations would be forgotten, never to be realized again.
I hoped that, despite my actions, all the spirits could move on to their next life they so rightfully deserved.
I hoped that after I died, I could move on to whatever celestial justice awaited me, that I could just go roam Hell's corridors for the rest of my miserable existence.
I hoped that no one would remember the name Michael Afton.
But that's not how it worked out.
You know what's even stranger than being ready to die at such a young age?
Being ready to die, knowing you're going to die, then…
Not dying.
By some stroke of stupid, unfair, goddamned luck, I rose again.
Skin purple, mostly charred, eyes a sickly red, hair burnt away.
It should have hurt, oh, so badly. It should have pained me beyond shock inducing amounts to rise again.
But, after a minute, I wondered if I was truly alive, or if that was some introduction to Hell, if it simply looked like the place I expired. I had heard that you exist in the afterlife in the place you died at from a church in my youth, and that was the only explanation I could fathom.
But then, a minute later, after moving the burnt planks that pinned me down in the interrogation room and exiting through the ventilation system to an alley in the night at the back of the building, I felt a pulsing in my ears.
A pulsing like when you run until you can't anymore where you can physically feel it in your ears and your hearing goes in and out with it.
That was when I realized that my heart wasn't beating when I woke up, and when I realized that I hadn't breathed either. I felt my chest and there was no slow rise and fall until about a minute later when I forced it. It's such a complex thing to describe, breathing being completely optional.
I would have feared my father I had made it out too, but except for that backroom and a small section of the kitchen, the place was reduced to ashes.
My work was done.
I found out some interesting shit about myself, though.
So, on the spot and in a desperate attempt to explain just what the hell was going on, the conclusion I came to was that my soul was exposed to so much raw remnant that I internalized a ton of it, and when the animatronics all expired in the fire, their remnant somehow infused with that of which was already afflicting me.
So, instead of the remnant afflicting me burning up outside of my body, it somehow formed into a harder, more resilient 'compound' with presumably a much hotter melting point.
…
I'm probably moving a little fast here.
…
…
Let's… backtrack a minute here. You probably don't know what remnant is, let's get over that hump first.
…
Souls are real. Turns out we're not just biological machines.
I don't know about Heaven or Hell, but souls? Yeah, they're real.
Soul remnant is created when an exceptional amount of strain is put on the human soul, and it comes in a form of invisible vapor that radiates off a corpse.
The method my father used to inflict this strain was to hold his victims on the line between life and death. A stage between unconsciousness and death could produce remnant and drain the soul.
The body… must be freshly killed. Otherwise, it can't be obtained.
Now, how my father contained this remnant, I have absolutely no idea. I never went looking for those schematics because…
I guess I was scared.
I couldn't make myself party to the knowledge of how to do such a despicable thing.
Now, you may be wondering how my father survived the Fazbear Frights fire. That was because by some miracle, he survived all that time.
But, even though, he was alive all that time, remember I mentioned that remnant was created when the body was put through unimaginable strain?
Well, father's suffering sure as shit produced a lot of remnant.
That's why I'm alive now, I think.
I believe it infused with mine because it was attracted to my soul, as we were related by blood. Like some kind of magnetic attraction.
He burnt before me, so that's why my soul was still inside of my body while his infused with mine. It must have happened while I was on the brink of death, otherwise it wouldn't have merged with mine.
So, now you're all caught up with that, I think.
…
I discovered that remnant acts as some sort of supercharger for the human body.
I had fully healed from this incident in about a week. My skin was no longer purple, my hair had begun to grow back at a normal pace. There was no evidence I had just endured a fire a week prior.
I didn't need to sleep, I couldn't become tired because my body was never actually exerting anything. Any action my body takes, it uses my soul as a catalyst. I didn't need to eat, but if I were to go too long without eating, my stomach would start eating itself and I'd begin to deteriorate. But my soul always began reparations before it became anything extreme.
I don't feel pain unless my soul is hurt or healing something major, like vital organs or regenerating appendages.
…
Yes, I recognize that that is a wild ass statement.
…
My muscular structure was also regenerated to a surprisingly substantial size. Not ripped by any means, but lean and conditioned.
Of course, as you could probably expect, I was eager to test the limits of my body.
I was also eager to… well…
You know what, I can't sugarcoat it.
I wanted to kill myself so badly.
I tried, like, everything in the goddamned book to die.
I cut myself, lashed till I couldn't see skin anymore. I always woke up with blood coated skin and minor scarring on my arms.
I drowned myself. Every time I started sinking, I'd float and my lungs would be clear of water.
I shot myself, tried plenty of different calibers and ammo types, but it wouldn't work. I'd always wake up fully healed, reformed.
Everything.
I.
Did.
It.
All.
But my efforts were fruitless.
After about 5 years of attempting end my life, I stopped attempting.
…
I still cut my wrists most days.
I guess it helps, feeling like I'm punishing myself each day. It makes me feel like I have some control over my plight.
It's probably unhealthy, but that's only if I can die.
…Right?
…
I had a dog at one point. I named him Vandal.
He was a beautiful white-in-color Husky with those blue eyes that would cut through the soul.
He provided me with some comfort in my days. He was a troublemaker, too, much like me.
He attacked his previous owner, who was a horrible excuse for a human being, I might add. It was only out of self-defense.
When I found him at the shelter, he was so scared, cowering in the corner, fearing any human within his sights. I couldn't blame him, If I ever saw another animatronic, I think I'd feel the same way.
I came by every day with a treat in my hand for two weeks, waiting for him to warm up to me.
On the 14th day, It was going to be my last day coming by. That was the day he finally came up to my side of the cage and took the treat from my hand, sitting down and wagging his tail after viciously attacking the peanut butter biscuit before my eyes.
He was mine after that day, bought a collar and nametag on the way back to my house with him.
My time with Vandal was the best time in my life, I think. I could care, I could feel, I could love in a way I'd forgotten what it was like to feel.
He always knew when I felt especially bad. Dogs have a sense for that kind of thing, I learned.
Sometimes when I'd sit on the couch and ponder, sometimes cry, his eyes perked up. He'd waltz over in such a mindlessly happy fashion to make me happy. He'd rest his head on my lap and then roll around on the floor like an idiot. An adorable, loyal idiot.
Vandal was my family. He taught me what it meant to have family, after I'd forgotten.
He lived a good, long life, with me for about 12 years. It was the least I could do for him.
He died at a shocking age of 15 years old, shocking considering the abuse he faced as a pup.
I remember the first day he couldn't stand from my bed.
His knees buckled when he tried, and he wouldn't eat or drink when I brought him food. That's… when I knew.
I carried him to the truck, drove him up to the vet. I carried him inside and the lady at the front desk looked at me with these eyes that just made me want to crumble to my knees to give Vandal my very soul.
But sadly, that wasn't possible. Trust me, I tried.
They administered the shot in the patient room and left to leave me with him.
I lay with him for a few minutes, staring at his eyes, bawling tears out of my own. My hand caressed his fur up and down, my way of providing what little comfort I could to him by making him feel loved in the way he provided for me.
I saw his eyes get tired and begin to shut… and shut… and then…
They closed.
And it was like every reason I had to live left with Vandal.
…
I'm sorry… just… give me a minute… I can't for a second.
…
…
Okay, I'm good.
Let's see…
…
Oh, I joined the military. That was cool.
They called me a superhero because I never got tired, never needed to catch my breath, and since I'm not limited by muscular inadequacy, such as, you know, normal people, I didn't really have limits.
Now, if I pushed my body beyond it's biologically curated limit, then yes, muscles would tear or joints may pop out of place and it would need to heal. But I never experienced muscle failure where I just couldn't lift something.
That's not to say there are no limits to what I can carry. I'm still limited by my body. Here, think of it like I can push myself to the limits of what my physical form can take, I don't rely on muscles contracting and flexing.
It felt… nice, to belong in a group.
But my time was short, as they began a project researching the susceptibility of prisoners of war to brainwash them to fight for our side. I considered it to be unethical. I also just ran out of reasons to keep fighting.
I didn't really have a good reason to begin with, though.
See, I think I was trying to find a good thing to do with my time here, thinking, 'I'm going to die at some point, I should try and do something good with what time I have since I can't kill myself.'
How naïve I was.
I literally cannot die.
It was about 10 years ago I realized I stopped aging. I think that's how long it's been… I don't really know, it's tough to keep track after so long.
I looked in the mirror one day and I found it quite odd that I hadn't started growing gray hairs yet, or gotten bags beneath my eyes, or gotten crow's feet.
I cannot even die of old age.
…
I've never been much of a religious man, but at some point, I did attempt to be. I bought a bible and read excerpts of it from time to time. I familiarized myself with biblical tales to fill the time, I have quite a lot of it to give, after all.
Anyway, one tale really stuck out to me. Solidified the fact that God hates me.
You may have heard of the tale of Cain and Abel.
If not, then here you go.
Cain and Abel were brothers, Cain being the firstborn. Cain was a farmer, while his brother Abel became a shepherd.
Both sought after Adam's daughter (yes, that Adam), Aclima, which caused discourse among the brothers.
Seeking to end the fight, the boys decided to provide fruits of their labor in sacrifice to God, and whichever one's offerings were accepted by God would marry Aclima.
The miserly Cain provided a handful of wheat, while the righteous and generous Abel offered the firstlings of his flock of lambs. God smiled upon Abel's gift but had no regard for Cain's gift.
In a fit of jealousy, Cain smashed Abel's head with a rock.
Some interpretations say Cain died in Noah's flood, but the more accepted story I believe is that God cursed Cain with immortality, permanently marking him with the Mark of Cain.
Some parts of that sound kinda familiar, don't they?
They say that everything happens for a reason.
Maybe this is my Hell. My eternal torment. Maybe my lack of death is supposed to be what people fear after death.
I'd believe it, I suppose.
So here I am, stuck in this 20-year old's body. I forget exactly how old I was when I died.
Wow. That is a statement.
…
I've been living a miserable life up to this point.
If there's anything I can do that's somewhat worthwhile in my existence, it is to ensure that the secrets of Freddy's and the Afton family are never uncovered.
My family will never be remembered. Animatronics will no longer exist, at least not with my family's corruption.
No one will know me, I'll ensure it. No one will find out.
No one will find out.
It ends with me.
No one else knows anything about any of it, and I will keep it that way.
Freddy's is a thing of the past.
At least, I thought it was.
That was until I decided for some reason to read the damn newspaper.
…
"NEW FAZBEAR PIZZA PLEX GRAND OPENING NEXT WEEK!"
…
Well, I was looking for a reason.
Now, I have a mission.
I call and ask for an interview and dust off my old uniform.
Michael's back.