Chapter 4: Carrot Cake
Michael's Perspective (back to normalcy)
2:00 A.M. – Office
Only an hour left.
Michael's dull gaze drifted to the digital clock mounted above the door—shaped like a pair of
breasts, because of course it was.
After that headache of a speech from Fredina, he'd decided to kill time with the tools at hand: a
Fazbear-branded security logbook, a pen shaped like a mini microphone, and absolutely no will
to live.
Before turning into a purple, rotting corpse (and developing a fiery passion for arson), he used
to dabble in the fine arts. Sketching. Shading. Designing. It was one of the few things that let
him breathe in a life that never really felt like his.
William had always been obsessed with appearances—success, image, legacy. The perfect
man with a thriving franchise and three beautiful children. It was all a ruse, of course. The man
barely looked at them. Not unless they were useful.
Michael tapped his pen against the logbook, using the security monitors as a reference to
sketch out the building's layout. It helped. Knowing every nook, every blind spot. It might even
save his life—though honestly, he didn't feel in danger. Not exactly.
Fredina was unnerving, sure. But it was more the kind of discomfort that made you wish for a
long shower—not existential dread.
His eyes snapped upward.
The ceiling vent.
He hadn't noticed it before–because it hadn't made noise until now–and an animatronic hadn't
yet fallen through it ass-first.
There was a loud THUNK, followed by the soul-crushing sensation of silicon-simulated thighs
enveloping his face.
"Hey, sugar~" The voice was syrupy-smooth and painfully Southern. Like a saloon girl from one
of those spaghetti westerns he half-remembered from childhood. He couldn't respond. His entire
vision was blocked by…his vision was impaired.
This is how I die, he thought. Suffocated from a southern drawl rabbit.
Not with a bang. With a butt.
"This seat's mighty comfy…a tad bit cold, though."
His muffles fell upon deaf ears–or rabbit ears, to be exact.
You know, He thought. Not the worst way to go. Less fiery.
"I reckon you'd want some air now, huh, honey?"
There's a common belief that the dead can't feel anything anymore—which is mostly true.
Unless you're powered by agony, hatred, and experimental soul-binding robotics. Then yeah,
oxygen deprivation still sucks.
"Hellooooooo~"
He really needed to stop monologuing in his head.
Michael opened his mouth.
"...Mike Schmidt," he replied flatly. One-word. For the dub. "I'm the new hire. Don't assault me."
"No promises~" Bonife—he was pretty sure that was the name, given the whole bunny
aesthetic—placed a finger to her glossed-over lips, clearly enjoying his lack of…everything.
She was an effeminate rabbit with suggestive curves and geometrically illegal hips—like
someone handed a horny teenager a pencil and said, "Draw your dream woman," without
teaching them how human anatomy works.
Her outfit succeeded in catching his attention: a tight red suit with burgundy sleeves, a
carrot-themed choker, and no visible bra.
Michael was positive she was freeballing.
"One question honey~" Her shadow cast over him.
"Why'd you lie about your name?"
Michael felt uneasy–a recurring emotion–except, this animatronic was willing to do harm.
"A quick scan, that's all it took. sweetie." her hands cupped his chin. "Michael Afton. So vintage.
Your parents must've hated you."
Bonfie rose to her full height–approximately 163 cm (five feet four inches).
He didn't feel his feet touching the floor. Oh. She had lifted him up by the waist.
"Now…" Michael noticed the sudden lack of Southern tone. "What's your purpose for working
here?" Accusatory.
Michael opened his mouth to respond–-She cut him off.
"Nevermind, honey. You'll be a good nightguard okay,"
He nodded–more out of obligation than agreement.
"Good, just be sweet to me and my sibs, alright sugar? We'll be the bestest of friends." he was
dropped unceremoniously.
Michael took note of her rapid mood swing—from interrogator to cutesy Southern mascot; built
to please the patrons of this establishment. Scary. But duly noted—these animatronics were
more than what meets the eye.
"Buh Bye~" She gave him a quick peck on the cheeks. He noticed her recoil slightly from the
cold, dead feeling of his rotting skin. Then she was off, a prep in her step, skipping out of the
office and deeper into the hallway's many corridors.
Michael stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. The office lights flickered once—just
enough to remind him that this place, despite the bright colors and desperate seduction themes,
was still built on a foundation of misguided dreams and agony.
Animatronics with dead eyes and questionable moral codes. Hallways that smelled like burnt
plastic and expired perfume. And a night guard who was technically dead but still clocking in.
Truly, capitalism's final form.