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stupid-and-cute-are-enough · 1 year ago

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for the past 4 days, i've descended into madness over the anon getting turned into an animatronic. behold. 2.6k words @get-rammed i've gone insane

as always, i spew BTS lore in the tags

“Alright, that’s everything,” his Handler announces, finishing the paint on his last claw. They give his hand a satisfied pat. Monty watches as they turn away and begin packing up their things, making idle chatter as they do, offhandedly mentioning that they hope it isn’t too late by the time they actually get to head home. They told him earlier that they’ve got a meeting with the higher-ups once they’re done tonight, and it’s been weighing on him all day.

“I don’t think you should go to that meeting,” he says because he can’t take it any longer.

They pause. “What do you mean?”

“I just… I don’t think you should go.” Monty clenches his fists in his lap. It doesn’t feel right. If it was any other lame meeting announced in a staff email, sure, but this isn’t one of those. They were approached in person. No documents, nothing written; just pulled them aside this morning and told them something about enhancing the Handler experience. All of the other Handlers have gone home already, too, and there’s nothing that they could want just his for that meant anything good.

They huff fondly. “I don’t really have a choice, Monty.”

They keep getting ready, a sinking feeling forming in Monty. He tries again to explain that it’s a bad idea again but is gently shut down. His Handler hugs his head on their way out, an act he’d usually eat up and crave more of, but tonight, he feels like rejecting it. It just feels so wrong.

“Sweets, please, don’t go.” He grabs onto their sleeve. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

Their face softens. “I hear you, Monty, but I have to. I’ll probably get fired if I don’t.” They laugh a little. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Worst-case scenario, they dump a mountain of work on me. Everything’ll be okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, big guy.”

—

They announced a new animatronic the very next day.

The announcement made Monty raise a brow because even with his debut as a Glamrock, as rushed as it was, Fazzbear Entertainment still took their time to milk it for all its worth. Surely, with a brand-new animatronic, they’d pull out all of the theatrics. But, no, management had just called everyone backstage (Monty was grabbed by Chica’s Handler because his still wasn’t here, and it worried him. They always tell him if they’re going to be late) and spilled the news.

It’s another gator, which, geez, thanks, corporate. It’s dressed in actual clothes, unlike the rest of them. It’s a little smaller than Monty, with a sleeker design. Monty eyes the new thing up and down. There’s something… wrong with it. Monty feels it. So does the rest of the band. It stands across from them, eyes too wide, taking in too much yet too little information at the same time. Its hands are clutched together, held tightly to its chest. It’s a shambling mess, really. Barely finished and definitely not ready for crowds. The thing really needs a Handler, which only reminds Monty of the empty space by his side.

It’s different from them. It doesn’t fill its body like it’s supposed to. A feeling of uneasiness washes over the room. Even the other Handlers look a little disturbed.

After the incredibly lackluster introduction, dampened by the uneasiness of everyone in the room, management gives up on pleasantries and snaps at everyone to prepare for opening time. They leave without further explanation, not even telling everyone what the newcomer is supposed to be doing. Everyone takes the chance to leave as fast as possible, abandoning the barely functional animatronic where it stands.

Something in Monty tells him to linger, as disturbed as he is. The sinking feeling he had last night returns tenfold.

It looks too familiar. Cautiously, Monty approaches the thing, eyeing the uniform it wears. He dares not to peek at the nametag displayed proudly on its chest. The animatronic tilts its head up at him slightly, or at least it tries. Monty can hear the inner mechanics going, but it remains frozen. He stands uncomfortably in front of it, unsure of what to do. Everything about it feels wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.

He peeks at the nametag, and his world comes crashing down. Surely not. They couldn’t have shoved a whole person, a full consciousness, inside of an animatronic, could they? That technology doesn’t exist, right? Right?

Monty reaches out a shaking hand, staring into the bot’s blank, red eyes. It can’t be. Fazzbear has done some fucked up, shady stuff, but they wouldn’t do this, would they? This has to be too far. It has to. His hand touches their forearm, feeling the all-too-familiar fabric of the Handler uniforms under his finger pads. He meets their eyes, registering the terror behind their blank stare.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, it’s... I, uh-”

“M-” Their voice fries out, and their jaw moves unnaturally. But it’s enough for Monty. That’s their voice. That’s their voice. Monty feels something vile fester inside of him. If he could get sick, he would. That’s them. That’s them in there. They’re in there. That’s his Handler, who he saw just last night, in there.

Their stare is so blank. Their hands are clutched together so tightly. That’s them.

“Oh, sweets…”

His hands slide down their arms to take their hands, snagging his thumb on the cuff of their uniform as he goes. Something there catches his eyes, though, something a human eye would miss, but something he’s been trained to notice. A tiny speckle of blood stained into the fabric. Their blood.

Monty sucks in a breath, his grip on their hands tightening. They were hurt when this was done to them. They bled.

“Let’s go to my green room,” he says. He keeps his voice gentle, but there’s also no room to argue. He doesn’t think they could, anyway. They don’t respond to him or make any kind of movement, so Monty moves for them. Slowly, painfully, he guides them up to his green room, keeping a gentle set of hands on them the entire way. They stumble and would’ve fallen without Monty to catch them. Their tail drags limply behind them. They probably don’t know how to use it for balance yet. The word yet makes Monty’s heart hurt.

He ensures the door stays open as they shuffle into his room, hovering over them until they’ve been cautiously guided to sit on the couch. They don’t need to struggle to stand anymore. Monty doesn’t think he could handle seeing it.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says. It’s a lie. It’s an awful, horrible lie, but what else is he supposed to say?

They try to speak again, but their voice fries into something that sounds like a quiet cry. Their body begins to tremble, their hands clenching around each other even harder. All tell-tale signs that they’re crying, but they don’t have tears anymore. Instead, their eyes just stare into the wall, unresponsive.

“I’m so sorry, sweets,” he says as they weep. He sits beside them on the couch, cautiously wrapping his body around theirs. He doesn’t know if the different sensations will upset them even further, but he also doesn’t know what else to do.

“H-” A billow of steam rolls out of their jaw, rattling their whole system. The sudden movement startles Monty, making him pull away.

“Hey, sweets, you-” Monty glances into their eyes, wide, sightless, terrified, with a slack jaw pouring steam, “you need to calm down. I know it seems like I’m askin’ the impossible of ya, but you’ll overheat yourself, and I dunno how to fix that.”

Their body shudders, unresponsive to their mind. Monty doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. He remembers what they did when he first came online and when he was given his new body. They surrounded him with familiar, comforting things, but his Handler doesn’t live here like he does. At least they didn’t. Their greatest comforts are probably far out of Monty’s reach. He searches around his green room, trying to find anything he knows helps them relax.

He spots a fidget they used to love playing with during his noon charging sessions. It should be simple enough; it just needs a pushing and pulling motion. Nothing complicated. But his Handler’s hands don’t react, even as he pries them apart and presses the fidget into their palm. Their fingers remain tense, not even twitching.

“Okay, something easier. I got it. I’ve got you.”

Monty reaches and grabs one of the oversized plushies lying beside the two of them on the couch. It’s big enough for him to comfortably interact with, so it should be good enough for them, too, right? He places the weighted plush in their lap, tucking its arms in so his Handler doesn’t have to do it themself. It looks like they try to wrap their arms around the plush, but the thing just ends up getting knocked to the floor. The failure to get their arms to work only serves to upset his Handler more as their hands begin trembling, the metal of the digits clinking together.

Monty looks up at them, scared for them. Scared with them. If they can’t function, they’re going to be decommissioned– not fired, not still alive, decommissioned and dead. Gone forever. Their head has turned slightly, staring intensely at something, so Monty follows their line of sight. His gaze lands on their jacket that they accidentally left last night, draped across a chair. Now a little shaky himself, Monty gets up and retrieves it for them.

He realizes once he gets back that it doesn’t fit them anymore. It used to be so big on them, but it doesn’t fit now. Their favorite jacket, the one they wore every day, doesn’t fit anymore. He drapes it over their shoulders, bringing it around them tightly. Their shoulders are bigger under his hands. Wider. Their body is like his own now and so very, very different from what it used to be.

He retakes their hands, kneeling in front of them. He meets their eyes, which stare deep into whatever kind of soul he has.

“Look at me, Chere,” he says, squeezing their hands, trying to ground them. He’d tell them to breathe with him, but they can’t anymore, and he doesn’t know if that’ll help or upset them. “I’ve got you. I promise. I won’t ever, ever let anything else happen to you. I promise.”

Their hands squeeze his own, and Monty lets out his own version of a sigh of relief. The shaking in their limbs begins to die down, the steam eventually coming to an end. He smiles at them, keeping his hold on their hands solid. He praises them softly, rubbing their knuckles.

Their eyes meet his properly, and Monty can see the hurt and the fear in their eyes. They shift, jaw moving experimentally.

“I… can’t breathe,” they say.

Monty’s heart breaks for them. They try to shift, try to grab onto their jacket and pull it tighter around them, but their limbs won’t cooperate, and the metal of their fingers slips against the satin material.

“Here, you gotta… you gotta grip with the pads of your fingers. Like this,” Monty says, taking hold of their hands and guiding their fingers to do so. A shudder runs through their system, getting their hands to tighten and pull, if only slightly.

Monty steps back to take another look at the design of their new body. A gator, like him. Their hair is soft and synthetic, with a little product to keep it sleek, so at least that wasn’t taken from them. In a bitter-sweet kind of way, Monty can imagine helping them style their hair in the morning when the dust settles. But Monty still has trouble adjusting to his mohawk, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for them right now. How long it’ll take for that dust to settle. They’re smaller than him. Sleeker. A little more compact and able to fit into tighter spaces. Probably equipped with the same processing power Monty has, and he prays to whatever is out there, none of the guardrails. Overall, they’re… built to work. They were hurt, maybe even killed, their body broken, disposed of, and shoved into this body to work. To work! They never get to go home again; they never get to have a life outside of the Pizzaplex ever again, all so Fazzbear Entertainment could have another obedient little worker.

Monty shoves down his anger. They don’t need that right now. Instead, he turns his energy to muster up the best smile he can, affirming the correct motions with their hands.

“There you go, you’ve got it.” His smile wavers a little at their silence.

They stare at their hands, their new, robotic, alien hands. Hands that don’t listen when they tell them to move. A body that doesn’t listen. They grip around the fabric of their jacket, feeling, in a way, the mechanics whirr in their arms. But they don’t feel the silky fabric anywhere but their finger pads. They feel the warmth of Monty in front of them, holding onto them, but only in broad strokes. It’s not like skin. It’ll never be like skin. There’s no more blood, only coolant (they feel so cold), no nerves, no organs. No lungs. Those things are still there, in a way, in a robotic sense.

All of the essential bits keeping their body moving are still there. But it’s not their body. Flashes of blood and mutilation streak across their vision the longer they stare. They have claws now. And a snout. And a tail. They always thought it’d be kind of cool to have a tail, who doesn’t, but not like this. They don’t want this. They want to go home and lay in bed and fall asleep and hope that this is some god-awful dream. They want to fight with their ID at the stupid maintenance tunnel exit, and drive home tired, and wake up five hours later to come to work and do it all over again.

“... sweets?”

They look up to Monty, sight still a little unclear. He looks worried. He looks scared. They don’t think they’ve ever seen him scared. He tentatively takes their hands, prying the fabric away before they rip something.

They stay there, Monty kneeling, Handler sitting, staring at each other. Lost, scared, confused. Neither quite sure what to say.

“I wanna go home,” they eventually settle on. They can see the resolve in Monty crack.

“I know, sweets.” He rubs their knuckles again. They’re disturbed by how little they can feel of it. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

They want to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he has nothing to be sorry for, but the words don’t come to them. So, instead, they sit in silence. Awful, dreadful silence.

Eventually, Monty stands, still holding their hands in his. “You’ve gotta be getting… tired,” he murmurs. “Here, I’ll show you how to get charged.”

His Handler know how. They’ve helped Monty settle in to get charged a million times. But it’s different now. They need to charge. Their battery isn’t running low, they don’t think anyway, but the emotional drain is enough for them to take the carefully offered out. Monty gets them set up, gently explaining things as he goes, like what it’s going to feel like at first and how entering standby will kind of feel like sleeping (at least, what he’s pretty sure sleeping feels like). When everything is said and done, and Monty is sure they’ll be out for a while, he turns to eye the big door that separates his room from the rest of the Pizzaplex.

His curtains are closed, and he’s going to make sure it stays that way. For a long time.

#fnaf #fnaf security breach #montgomery gator #monty fanart #self insert #fnaf monty gator #reader insert #security breach monty #my post #the best part abt this blog is you can see my descent into madness. try n see how many overlaps there r to my tags on the og post (its lots #i imagine the animatronics were programmed to know absolutely Nothing about the Controversies hence monty's denial #which i LOVED writing btw i love knowing that something awful is afoot and the character try to deny it heehee #the reason the pronouns used for anons bot form changes b4 monty hears their voice is bc he's already started accepting it and their voice #basically just seals the deal #ik that the steam in bots releases from back vents + nostrils but i like the imagery of it spewing out of their mouth more #maybe they dont know how to use the back vents yet or something lmao #ive spent SO LONG thinking of all the tiny things that need to change now that only specific parts of their body register touch/have good #traction on slippy surfaces. such as satin jackets #anon went from all of the liquid in their body working to keep them warm to all of the liquid in their body working to keep them cool #yeah monty aint doin ANY shows (willingly) until they can function #AUGH ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I'VE WRITTEN BODY HORROR IM RUSTY #this isnt even that heavy on the horror since most of it is montys pov but i had my fun for two whole paragraphs #I WAS GONNA ADD MORE BUT THE WC IS 2269 NICE #yeah i REALLY didnt wanna have to make up and bg characters so we have Management and Corporate thanks guys <3

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elliethefroggy · 2 years ago

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“Who sent you? The Blue Bird? The zombified husk of Zuckerberg? Yahoo? Was it Yahoo? Have they still not got over their past mistakes? Just tell me!” Rodriguez shouted, shooting up from their chair, banging their fists down hard against the table.

“Sir Rodriguez,” the King said, still seated, “It will not do to lose your temper; that is undoubtedly what they want.”

“Of course, Your Highness. My apologies.” Rodriguez straightened their tunic, and sat back down, clearing their throat as they smoothed out all non-existent wrinkles; Rodriguez’s clothes would never dare to wrinkle, especially in the middle of an interrogation.

“Now,” King Keith spoke, addressing the prisoner seated opposite them, “Let us try again. Just answer these simple questions. Who are you? Who sent you? What are your intentions?”

The beautiful woman shackled to the table—never in their lives had either interrogator seen such a resplendent woman: perfect skin, perfect nose, perfectly painted lips, and a perfectly symmetrical face, unnaturally so—fluttered its impossibly long, perfectly mascaraed eyelashes, momentarily hiding those perfect, huge soulless eyes—soulless yet still so bewitching.

“My name is opheliabusby653 but, honey, you can call me Ophelia.” The pornbot winked, batting those impossibly long eyelashes. Rodriguez gasped ever so quietly, moved by the splendour despite their disgust.

The King, equally affected though he thought he was hiding it well (he wasn’t), continued with the questions. “What of your intentions, opheliabusby653?”

“I’m just here for a little fun,” it said, pushing its voluptuous breasts forward, “Do you want to have some fun with me?” It asked Rodriguez, looking directly into their wide eyes. Rodriguez could do nothing but gape like a particularly unimpressive carp deprived of oxygen.

King Keith sighed; Rodriguez was his best interrogator.

~two hours later (in a French accent)...~

“Please. Why are you here? What is your purpose? Money? Is it money? Prestige? Glory? Some form of intricate revenge plot that only you are aware of? What wrongs have we committed to deserve such things?” Rodriguez cried.

“I’m so bored. Are you busy? I want to play an adult game with you.” The pornbot winked again. Ever since the start of the interrogation, the temptress had winked at least once every ten minutes.

The slightest wrinkle adorned Rodriguez’s sleeve.

~three more hours later (in the same French accent)...~

King Keith was hunched over in his chair, hands clutching at his curls (Amir, the royal groomer, was going to be so disappointed in him).

Rodriguez—whose left eye hadn’t stopped twitching for the last half hour—was reduced to screaming hysterically at the prisoner in a rather unprofessional manner. But, in these trying times, the King was willing to excuse such behaviour. Rodriguez’s clothes were going to need an iron.

“Hey cutie. Don’t you want to have a great time? Heads up, I can get a little loud once I get going,” opheliabusby653 said, leaning over the table, its generous curves straining against the flimsy fabric of its rather risqué outfit.

“What do you want from us?” Rodriguez demanded, ignoring the prisoner’s question.

“You look like the type of silver fox with a very delicious aubergine I could salivate over.”

“What does that even mean!”

There was a knock at the door, almost drowned out by Sir Rodriguez’s intense interrogation methods (aka wailing in frustration; not their most effective tactic).

“Enter,” the King spoke immediately, at a speed only employed by those desperate for a distraction.

Sir Highberry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, ready to report.

The King stood up and beckoned him to the back of the room where their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

“How goes the interrogation, my lord?” Sir Highberry quietly asked.

“Not great; these beings must have been trained to withstand our interrogation techniques because we can’t get the slightest bit of useful information out of our one.”

*cut to opheliabusby653 in the background. “You’re so sexy. I love hanging out with new people,” it said while Rodriguez shouted obscenities at it.*

“How’s Brian doing with his pornbot? Anything?” King Keith asked over the noise.

“I’m afraid not, Sire,” Sir Highberry replied as he glanced to the other occupants of the room. He had a far more difficult time ignoring the interrogation, having never seen Sir Rodriguez so out-of-sorts before; there were two whole creases on Sir Rodriguez’s right sleeve. “Brian has tried even the most outlandish torture methods he knows, and all andrearobinette998 does is moan for more.” Sir Highberry soldiered on. “He has moved on to some of the most fiendish methods involving a feather duster and a goldfish, so fiendish that I can’t bear to mention more, Your Highness.”

King Keith placed a noble hand on Sir Highberry’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “I understand, Sir Highberry,” he said, for Brian the Torturer’s techniques—though exceptionally creative—were best not to be spoken of in polite conversation, “And what of The Wizard Sarah? Has she had any luck? Has her mystifying and intricate spells revealed anything to her?”

*cut to The Wizard Sarah in the next room over, hitting a pornbot over and over again with a most precise and arcane implement (a hammer), screaming in rage as norahamburg807 keeps begging for more, asking The Wizard Sarah if she wants to play with some of its favourite adult toys*

“The Wizard Sarah has figured out that, though these bots have the appearance of hot single women in our area, they are in fact something much more sinister,” Sir Highberry said, “Their agreeable appearance is nothing more than illusion and trickery. It is a method of camouflage to bait and ambush their prey.”

“How sinister.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. In addition, they do not appear sentient, just mindless but comely bits of code, designed to seduce and corrupt with the objective of leading us astray into a life of sin and malware. The Wizard Sarah has theorised that they feed off of attention and credit card information.”

“What of our defences?”

“They’re not looking good, my lord. We’re holding as best we can but we’re running low on arrows and rocks to hurl at them. Their numbers are too great. I fear we will be overrun before long.”

“How many?”

“It’s hard to say, Your Grace, they all look so alike; all handsome, flawless, sparsely dressed women. Hundreds, maybe thousands, but more waves keep materialising from over the horizon.”

“This situation is most bizarre. Do they not know that porn is now a sin in these lands ever since the great purge of 2018? As the Almighty Staff had (wrongfully) decreed.”

“But Sire, they don’t have any porn.”

“What? Pornbots without porn?” King Keith scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous; you’re talking absolute nonsense.”

“It’s true, Your Excellency. The Wizard Sarah has confirmed it. These pornbots are completely empty on the inside. They carry no imagery of a salacious nature, no naked flesh for the eyes to feast upon. Nothing that could lead to the slightest impure thought or self-stimulation.”

“Nothing? Not even one singular tit?” The King asked, scandalised.

“Not the one, Your Grace,” Sir Highberry replied, “They seem to be making up for their emptiness, their lack of the essential porn with sheer numbers, Sire. We have never before witnessed such a formidable army.”

“How strange. What of my followers? How are they fairing?”

“The peasants have amassed in front of the True Blue #001935 shrines, and are all ceaselessly reporting the bot army to the Almighty Staff. But we do not know if They hear our prayers or if They even have the power to help us. I fear we would need a miracle (preferably from some other higher form than the Almighty Staff, one with a bit more know-how and digital proficiency).”

The door burst open, interrupting both the whispered conversation in the back and the turbulent one-sided interrogation. Sir Amy rushed in the room, hair artistically dishevelled, uniform rumpled to an extent that made Sir Rodriguez shudder.

“Sire,” she said, out of breath. Though before she could continue, opheliabusby653 lunged towards her as far as its chains would allow it, the table growing with the bot’s force.

Sir Amy jumped away, escaping out of reach of the pornbot’s perfectly-aligned and blindingly-white snapping teeth.

“Hey there,” opheliabusby653 said, “Do you want to hook up? I could show you a good time,” it promised Sir Amy, making eyes at her in a most indecent fashion.

“What is it, Sir Amy?” The King asked as the pornbot strained towards her.

Sir Amy tore her wide-eyed gaze from the bot and looked to the King, “It’s the pornbots, Your Majesty. They’re attempting to breach the outer wall. We’re blocking them as fast as we can, but fresh, new pornbots just climb on top the empty husks of their fallen comrades, stacks of bots trying to reach the top of the ramparts. There are just too many of them. It’s only a matter of time before they breach the castle walls.”

“Have we received word from our mutuals?” The King asked Sir Highberry.

“Yes, but all our neighbouring mutuals are facing the same problem,” Sir Highberry said, “It seems the pornbot army’s reach stretches far and wide. Reinforcements can’t be sent to our aid for at least another two days.”

“We’ll need to hold strong until then.” King Keith looked to Sir Amy, “Have the inner wall reinforced and move all provisions into the keep.”

“Yes, my liege,” Sir Amy said before taking her leave, the pornbot’s body swaying towards her as she moved away as would a sunflower following the golden bright rays, as would a cockroach attracted to the slightest crumb of nourishment.

“Let us hope the Almighty Staff hears our prayers,” the King stated gravely, looking off dramatically into the middle distance.

After a pause of respectable length, Sir Highberry said, “I’ve never seen a pornbot react so powerfully before.” The pornbot was looking forlornly at Sir Amy’s retreating back.

“Oh, yes,” The King said, refocusing his gaze back onto the present company, “The pornbots seem obsessed with Sir Amy; the last pornbots—sophiehald159 if I remember correctly—nearly broke our favourite interrogation table trying to get to her.”

“We believe it’s because of Sir Amy’s popularity,” Sir Rodriguez added, “Everyone loves her due to a combination of her charming personality and her perfectly-coiffed hair”.

They all watched along with the pornbot as Sir Amy marched down the hall, her short locks both fluffy and bouncy defying gravity with every step.

#pornbots #pornbot #writing #short story #creative writing #bot #original story #hellsite #tumblr #my writing #i couldn't help myself #this bot situation is just too ludicrous #either you make fun of it or you start despairing at the world

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