Chapter Text
Mike wished it hadn’t been so easy for him to identify the rotting monster shambling its way through the halls as his father, but there they were.
When the hapless young man who’d set the place up told him that they’d found ‘a real one’ to populate their incredibly poor taste horror attraction, Mike assumed the worst. Technically speaking, a possessed animatronic was exactly what he was looking for. He was trying to track them all down, to free them all. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed being hunted for sport by a seven foot tall robot, even if it meant he could save the soul of the murdered child inhabiting it. He’d almost wanted for nothing to turn up this time, for the location to end up fruitless; maybe he could’ve worked there as a regular job for a little while, earned some money before he found another lead. After all, he looked the part of the ‘zombie nightguard’ effortlessly. With his luck, though, it was almost inevitable that an animatronic showed up on his second day.
Mike had been on his shift for almost an hour before he actually got a good look at the thing. It took him a moment to decipher just what it was. It was damaged beyond repair and something about the air quality in this place made him a little delirious, and of course the CCTV resolution was rubbish. The moment he understood it, though, his heart sunk. It wasn’t just a Bonnie, one of the purple or blue variants wouldn’t have rotted into that greenish-yellow colour. Which meant if there was any corpses in there– which there were bound to be, those old springlock suits were absolute death traps– they would be that of an employee, not a child.
The ghosts of adults were usually more benign. Their lives had been stolen less unfairly, their rage dulled, and they were better at distinguishing between people. They wouldn’t simply exact revenge on anyone they laid eyes on. But from the way this one was stumbling its way very slowly but surely towards his office, it was obvious that A: it was, in fact, possessed and B: it was out to get him.
Nonetheless, Mike tried to give his survival chances the benefit of the doubt, at first, trying to remember how to use those audio lures to get the thing away from him. It was perfectly possible that whoever was trapped in that thing just wanted to investigate, and didn’t want to hurt him at all. He was certain that there was someone in there; he’d worked that out once he’d gotten a better angle on it through the cameras and noticed the guts hanging out of its torso, which was a really lovely, pleasant image. Hell, anyone who’d died that way would have been pissed enough to go after anyone related to the company that had killed them, right? If it got to his office he could just explain he wasn’t affiliated with them, he was trying to fix things. And, again, he still had no way of knowing that the animatronic was trying to kill him. But he already knew the conclusion he was barrelling towards. Something in the way the hair prickled on the back of his neck told him the truth. It was at the end of his third shift, when the bloody air conditioning had broken again and he’d gotten so distracted trying to repair it that he hadn’t noticed the mangled beast getting too close to his office for comfort, that he got confirmation of his suspicions.
Of course he’d have worked out eventually that the thing wasn’t some poor innocent employee, doomed to eternal suffering by the company’s lax safety regulations. He thought it the second he’d laid eyes on it. His father had always had a weird relationship with that rabbit suit. Even when he was younger, and didn’t know it was the one he wore to lure away and murder children, he’d noticed that his dad was… sort of odd about it. He was always so excited whenever he got to wear it. It was the only time Mike ever saw his dad genuinely smile. And then he would slip into this persona, and it was like he turned into the rabbit. Once, when Mike was hanging out with his friends and bitching about what a freak his dad was, explaining the whole deal, one of them made a joke about it being like a really lame version of Batman. ‘You know, like how the Joker always says Bruce Wayne is the persona, and when he puts on the batsuit, that’s who he really is?’. And of course it wasn’t a 1:1 analogy, but that description had always stuck with Mike. His father loved that fucking death trap. Ironic for it to kill him then, he thought, seeing as he used it to take the lives of so many others. So, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise for William to be in there, especially since Mike assumed he’d been dead for the past twenty years– there was no way he wouldn’t have found the bastard if he was still alive, not with how much digging he’d done. No, that part being easy to decipher was fine. What he didn’t like was that what really tipped him off to the robot being his father, beyond any reasonable doubt, was the confirmation that it was trying to kill him.
When it spotted him outside of his office window, it moved quicker than Mike thought anything so decomposed could move, practically launching itself into his office without a moment’s hesitation. Seeing it in real life, right in front of him, the thing really was horrible. Those suits were horrible even when they weren’t crawling with bugs and visibly containing human remains. God, why did any parents ever take their kids to see such nightmare fuel? Mike barely managed to keep his hold on the broomstick he’d been using to poke at the AC as he used it to push the thing away, feeling it shudder with rage on the other side, and frantically set off one of the nearest audio lures. It must have been that the suit was still activated in animatronic mode, and that was why those lures worked, Mike decided as it turned and left, because nothing else could have stopped William from getting to him in that moment.
Mike made sure the thing was fully gone before letting himself feel any sort of relief. He rubbed his hands on his face. Christ. Quite the predictable family reunion, really, although the thought that his father was actually in the building with him at that moment, and had been all week, made him feel nauseous. Mike thought he wasn’t alive enough to still feel nauseous. Fucking Christ.
He was dead focused his whole next shift, making sure the thing couldn’t get anywhere near him at all costs, even though it was evidently more determined to. But on Friday, in a moment of distraction he’d spent trying to think how he would dispose of the beast for good, it got in. The creak Mike heard by his door was enough to send him into a panic. The distant, concentrated state he’d settled into when faced so closely with death for all the years he’d spent defending himself from the animatronics collapsed entirely. None of them had ever gotten this close before. Why did this one? Why did it have to be his father? Of course it had to be his father. He felt like he was lining up to do an exam he knew he hadn’t revised for. If he could still sweat he would’ve been drenched by then. He made a silent, desperate plea to God to somehow save him, against all odds, but clearly God wasn’t about to forgive him for the lifetime of atheism. The two pinprick white eyes appearing out of the corner of his vision for a moment told him that much.
And the fear escalated from exam stress into sheer, primal terror, the way a mouse must feel spotting an owl swooping down, the way Mike always felt when he had to face his father. His father was about to kill him. It was always going to happen this way. He wasn’t going to die to the man, he couldn’t, not after everything, not just another victim, please. He couldn’t stop it. His father was going to grab hold of either side of his head and crush his skull.
He couldn’t let himself be gripped by fear, he had to do something. Anything. He gripped his half-drunk Dr Pepper like a weapon, knowing it was all he had. Then the lights flickered, then they turned off completely. Great. Great fucking timing.
After a few silent moments in total darkness, the fear of sitting there doing nothing and letting himself be killed (oh God, he was about to be killed) became greater than the fear of what he might– would– see if he turned around.
He turned his head as calmly as he could to see nothing. Pitch black, a vague fuzzy suggestion of shelves. Which was what really told him he was fucked–
And then it was there, right in front of him, a huge disfigured beast leaping at him pushing him off his chair and his blind scrambling backwards wasn’t going to stop it, not when he was already against the wall and it was right there and in a moment its huge hands would be on him and he wouldn’t ever be able to do anything against it anymore and all he had left to do was shout
“Dad!”
The thing stopped. It was on the floor with him, on its knees, leering over him, inches away.
“Dad, please,” he said, stupid enough to feel a smidgeon of hope even though he was still on the verge of tears. “Don’t kill me.”
It didn’t say anything. It tilted its head, slowly. It was massive, and its oversized form took up his entire field of vision. When he was this close to it, he could see the roaches crawling through its ruined fur, the maggots feeding in horrid clumps on the corpse inside. The corpse was the worst thing. Mike always thought that the one good thing about looking the way he looked was that he couldn’t possibly resemble his father anymore, but there was his mummified head behind the thing’s eye sockets, and it was like looking into a flesh mirror. It was so quiet. His father would never have been this quiet. Maybe it couldn’t talk at all anymore.
“It’s me, father,” Mike said. “Your son.”
“…Sson,” it said after a moment, making him jump. Its voice was breathy and sibilant, so changed yet still clearly his father. It said the word like it didn’t know what it meant.
“Yes. So… you can’t kill me.” He felt stupid saying the words. He expected William to say some clever retort, something like ‘can I not? Are you sure?’ or ‘oh, so you killed your brother, but I can’t kill you? Really, Michael,’ but it didn’t respond. The corpse’s head was looking at him. Its almost hollow eye sockets looked wide with… confusion? Fear, even? Or was he just ascribing it the feelings he hoped it would have?
He hadn’t even noticed its arm moving until he felt its hand on the side of his face, just as strong and damp as he’d feared. He shut his eyes and whimpered. But it wasn’t grabbing him, really, and a moment passed with no violence. It was just laying its hand there.
Mike couldn’t work out what was going on. This wasn’t like his father. Maybe it wasn’t his father at all.
“...Miichaael,” the thing said. Okay, definitely his father. Was it some kind of trick, then? He waited another moment for his inevitable death. Nothing.
“Yes, your son, Michael,” he said eventually. “What is this? What are you doing?” He hadn’t meant to sound angry then, not wanting to agitate it, but the creature said nothing, nor did it move its giant hand from where it was resting on his face. “I get that you’re surprised to see me, seeing as our last conversation was you sending me on a suicide mission and leaving me for dead, but since you’re still fucking alive you can’t be that shocked, surely?”
Again, it didn’t respond.
“Michael…” it said again.
“I think we’ve established my name is Michael,” he said, frustrated. What was his game? This man had tortured him his whole life, wanted him dead the last time they’d spoke, why wasn’t he killing him? Had twenty or so years rotting away in some back room finally given him a conscience? Or made him stupid, which seemed more likely with how he was still cupping his cheek like some senile pensioner. “I am Michael. You are William. Yes? Do you understand me? And will you take your mouldy hand off of me?!”
It remained blank and unresponsive, but it did eventually drop its hand.
Mike had gotten pissed at his father– or, the decomposed corpse of his father trapped inside an oversized mechanical rabbit costume– and the man hadn’t gotten angry back. He’d even listened to him, done as he asked. The man was either enacting a very elaborate plan to murder him while also inflicting the most suffering, some sort of betrayal kill, or he had genuinely lost his mind. The latter almost seemed more likely. Mike couldn’t believe William would ever put up with the disrespect he’d done him unless he was barely lucid.
Mike stood up, slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, but the beast didn’t stop him. It just looked at him. It was as if it had been lobotimised, and now it was just this dumb, useless, thing. He checked his watch. 5:40 a.m.
“Are you– have you gone senile? Is this some game you’re playing, or have you actually lost it?” he said.
It didn’t say anything back. It didn’t even move its head.
It wasn’t fair.
He knew he shouldn’t have been angry. He didn’t have the right to. If his father’s mind was still working in any proper condition, he would’ve died 10 minutes ago, if he was lucky, or he would’ve still been alive, being slowly and methodically torn apart, or picked up and locked in some room and psychologically tormented for twelve hours before being beat up and let out with the promise of more violence to come, just like the good old days, if he was less lucky. But this was what he’d become? Acting like some sort of animal? Probably not even aware enough to feel any guilt– no, William was never guilty– not aware enough to feel any sort of suffering, to even understand how degraded he’d become? It wasn’t fair! He was pacing across the room. Why, when Michael had spent so many years tracking the bastard down to get vengeance, to get some fucking justice, did he have to find him not in a condition to even understand what he would be being punished for? What sort of fucking justice was that?!
“Michael..?” it said.
“What?!” he said back, yelling. And it flinched. It actually flinched.
Mike stopped.
He sighed, hanging his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said. Then he pulled out his mobile phone and called the young man in charge of the place.
He picked up after a few rings.
“Who is this?” he said blearily, the audio quality fuzzy. “Dude, do you have any idea how early it is?”
“I’m sorry, Duane, it’s Mike-”
“Ohhhh, Mikeyboy! Hey! How are you, man? What’s up? You alright?”
“Yes, I… listen, I’m going to sound a little bit mental, so bear with me.” Mike noticed the animatronic was sat cross-legged now, looking like a kid sat on the floor in a nursery. He grimaced.
“I’m down for mental, dude. Hit me.”
“Okay. I’m- I think I need to bring the animatronic home. With me.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Mike wasn’t surprised. He felt like an idiot.
“...You mean the gross one I found on Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“The seven foot tall one that smells like shit?”
“That’s the one,”
“Um. Why?”
“It is a… long fucking story. It might be easier to explain in person.”
Silence again.
“Mikeyboy, you are a total weirdo. But I respect it. I’m coming over with the van now! Gimme five, okay, dude?”
“Alright,” he said, and the young man had hung up.