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The mess of wiring, eyeballs and strange metal cords that seem to writhe under his gaze stops as soon as the clock strikes six.
It’s kind of sad to look at, Michael thinks, because he’s been watching the damn thing all night; watching it slither and slide between the camera’s eyes, still moving as it left a trail of metal. He spends a night trying to keep it out of his room (and maybe cut off its head via heavy metal door slams), and the grand finale isn’t a dramatic stand, where he’s a second from death and it collapses to the floor. It’s more like one of those soap opera deaths, where the actor clearly isn’t in it and will probably be seen in a pantomime by christmas, or on the local news one day, pissed out of their head.
Ennard is face down on the floor, and leaking. With the sweat dripping down his face, bile creeping up his throat, and a burning desire for shitty takeout, it’s the cherry on top of a college memory. Michael’s head pounds .
And pounds, and pounds, and shouts, “hey! You’re not supposed to be in there!”
Michael pinches his brow and throws himself as far away from the monitor as possible. Two dead men, a bunch of broken robots, and a single employee still on site. Oh yeah. That’s gonna look great.
Fucking Fazbear.
There’s not many good things about being huge, really, but the initial impression of a man tripling in height by sliding out of a chair and uncoiling is usually enough to send even the most determined cleaner running. Michael smirks, just for a second, before sprinting in the other direction of the footsteps. It’s a straight shot, just rush the vents, hop over Ennard, hit the lift and go.
Yep, basic plan. No way it could go wrong. No way he’ll get distracted by the bag of bolts on the floor, with some liquid dripping out of its eyehole, no way in hell that Michael will think anything of it except good riddance.
Carrying it would just make the migraine worse, anyway. And he doesn’t have anywhere to keep it. And it could probably still murder him.
So he’s obviously carrying it outside in case it would rat him to the guards. Just going to dump it somewhere, not find a half-busted wheelbarrow and put it in, then panic because Ennard is fucking enormous , bigger than Michael, and it’s going to rain. He wouldn’t ever put a tarp over it. He’s just going to put it behind an out of the way shop, grab a shitty kebab, and go home.
“Hi, can I have a large kebab with salad and hot sauce? Wrapped up please- oh, and a quad-cheesey pizza. With pineapple.”
That makes the wheelbarrow spit and rattle. The cashier raises an eyebrow. Michael flashes him a smile.
“Faulty equipment from my dad’s place. He likes to tinker.”
A metal cord whips out, slapping against one of the tables uselessly. There’s more muttering, with some definite rude words, and a death-screech.
The cashier’s other eyebrow slowly rises.
“He’s. He’s not very good at it yet.”
Carting Ennard around in a half-smashed wheelbarrow is hard enough, it’s much harder when Ennard remembers that, hey, they’re several sentient robots that may or may not be haunted, and they’ve got some fucking strong opinions about pizza toppings. Michael’s got to hand it to them, he can’t think of any conviction strong enough that he’d find a way to physically fight himself with. Then again, he’s never been a robot. Ennard thrashes around, shrapnel flying out, and a whole cacophony of voices seem to have forgotten that Michael is there.
“You’re dummies, it’s good .”
“It is sticky and gets in our joints. It is not good.”
“The kids don’t like it much!”
“It’s probably because the pineapple is too tart for them!”
“Schree?”
“It’s in my programming, Foxy! Don’t you have that sub-routine?”
“Schree.”
“Sub-routine or not, the pineapple stays .”
“Why is this the hill you choose to die on, Circus Baby.”
Though if they’re arguing with each other, at least they aren’t paying attention to him. His neighbourhood is known for weird things, after all, but mostly it turns out to be a rabbit or his whole family being too large for any human household. He feels obliged to donate his body to science at this point.
Not anytime soon though.
Alright, fine, it was a bit overkill to spin a sad story about how William Afton had been tragically bitten by a rabbit and his final, whispered demand was to save his life’s work in any way possible. It’s just, Ms. Lotte is so nosy , most of the time, and she doesn’t trust Michael anyway because he’s not one of those sweet young men, he’s a horrible brat, because Ms Lotte doesn’t seem to realise that Michael has aged. She would absolutely call the police on him, probably either accusing him of kidnapping, drug trafficking, or kidnapping drugs. And, while Michael isn’t a shitty fourteen year old anymore, he’s still like an anti-cop. It’s not his fault he stinks after working at a pizzeria, or that his hair doesn’t want to follow the laws of gravity, never mind polite society. But Ms Lotte is a sucker for sad stories, and William was so well spoken and he had such a nice daughter and wasn’t it just tragic-
He hopes that his dad doesn’t show up any time soon. Many words could be assigned to Mr Afton, but subtle isn’t one of them. It’d be very hard to convince Ms Lotte his father was dead and that there happened to be another eight-foot purple monstrosity in his life.
This better keep karma off his back for the rest of his life. Michael heaves Ennard inside, and drops them as soon as he can get the door shut. Right. Good deed of the day. Possibly of the life.
He sighs, shrugs off his coat, and flops into his chair. God, he deserves this; pure greasy goodness slipping down his throat like nectar of the gods. Michael fumbles with the remote until his TV flicks on, and there is is. Just in time. The opening credits.
Ennard is still twitching. Michael closes the door. That is a problem for another day.
The TV flickers on, all bad prosthetics and overdone acting on screen. The perfect remedy to a hard day of odd-jobs.
“Which season is this?”
“A terrible one.”
“They’re all t-t-terrible, but they’re funny! It’s season two!”
“Freddy, you’re good at paying attention!”
“Thanks, Bon-Bon!”
“For shame we can’t pay enough attention to-”
“SCHREE!”
Michael waves his hand at the animatronic spread out on the floor, tightening up a loose screw between a wayward limb and joint, “will you all shut up? I love this episode.”
“Of course you do. You have no taste.”
“Ballora! That’s mean!”
“We are not the in establishment, Bon-Bon. I can be as mean as I like. For example, I can say that Michael is a-”
“Ssssshhh! It’s starting!”
“ Vlad, if you don’t pay child support soon, I am going to marry a lawyer!”
“You can’t marry a lawyer! Lawyers are the devil, Clara!”
So that’s his life now. Trying to make a somewhat less homicidal machine and keep them all up to par. And sure, it’s hard to date or go out or bring anyone over, but it’s his life. He’s glad to have it.
The doorbell rings. Michael keeps working on the bots.
“Michael! You told me your father was dead!”
“Michael.”
Silence. Dripping sweat. In the background, Dracula declares war on Clara’s new lawyer boyfriend.
“I would like to request that Michael allows us to meet with his father so that I may punch him in the face.”
“Why?”
“There are many hills to die on, and he chose putting pineapple on the menu.”
“My dad wasn’t in charge of the menu.”
“This is a minor detail.”
“It’s a classic topping!”
“Circus Baby I will crush you.”