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superstar-nan · 2 months

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Fight Tooth and Nail

Night 5 (At Freddy's)

Summary: This is the end.

Words: 5,826

Fun stuff: Toxic relationships, grief, description of dead bodies, violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, vague mention of child murder, and angst.

Happy 10 Years!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love FNAF!!!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoy this finale!!!!!!!

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You woke up to thunder gently rolling you to consciousness. Heavy clouds darkened Michael’s home to sleepy grays and soft shadows. There wasn’t any rain yet, but you bet there would be by the time you left for Fazbear’s Fright.

You looked at your phone and your eyes burned at its brightness, but you squinted and suffered through it anyway. You slept longer than you wanted. You turned off your phone and rested your head back with a heavy sigh. Rest begged for you, but you couldn’t go back to bed.

When you rolled over, your foot hit something soft.

“Hey.”

You peered down the couch. Michael was on the other end of the couch, awkwardly positioned in a way that clearly avoided touching you but was still attempting (and failing) rest. You couldn’t tell if he slept a wink. Why didn’t he just go sleep in his room if he didn’t want to touch you? “Morning.”

He pushed your leg off of him, “It’s evening.”

What a delightful man. You rubbed your eyes and yawned, stretching your arms behind you and arching your back. Void eyes trailed your chest and neck as you relaxed “Did you finish the drawings?” You said, with your eyes closed.

“Yes,”

“Good...” You said, half-heartedly and uncommitted to getting up to look at them.

“...I should rebandage that.”

The soft smile on your face washed away as your eyes opened. Your fingertips grazed the bite and you didn’t even have to look to know Michael was watching you very carefully. You hoped the darkness was enough to obscure your expression. “Show me how to use the cameras first.”

Michael set his corroded jaw. Your deflection couldn’t even fool yourself. Michael stood up and left behind the couch. You leaned your head back and exhaled, this time strained and shaking. Michael returned with pages in his hands.

Michael explained the cameras in his low, shredded british accent. Not only did he tell you how to use the panel, but he taught you exactly how to find Springtrap on the cameras. He circled his usual hiding places and gave you a list of Springtrap’s tells—whether they marked him staying or moving and where. Michael explained to you his strategies for keeping his dad in one place and how likely each strategy was to work. It was a lot to follow. You knew Michael engrossed himself with keeping Springtrap away from the office, but you had no idea exactly how much work it was until now. You followed him as best you could, and Michael made sure to slow down when you tried pretending you knew what he was talking about.

You offered to put together a few of your “toys”, just to make things easier on you and Michael, but he refused. There wasn’t enough time anyway, and you knew that, but you wanted to do something to help him in return. There was nothing you could do, and that thought ate at you.

You expected Michael to bring up bandaging your shoulder again. He didn’t. You didn’t know why, but you suspected he didn’t mention it on purpose.

In the last hour before midnight, you helped Michael drag large, red gasoline vessels to your car. He must have gone to the store while you were asleep. Slow raindrops fell on your nose and cheek. When you looked up, rain started to drop in a cascade. You didn’t have the energy to avoid getting soaked.

You decided not to bring your axe. You didn’t want the temptation to leave the office unless it was absolutely necessary. It was strange and uncomfortable going to Fazbear’s without your axe or toys. It felt like picking a fight with a bear unarmed.

Michael took your keys and got into the driver's seat without a word, and you sat in the passenger's seat in suit.

It was surreal. This was the end of Fazbear’s Fright: where this madness and mystery all began, and you wouldn’t even be the one to end it like you thought you would. Honestly, it shouldn’t have been you to begin with. You knew that from the moment Michael (albeit vaguely) told you the story of Freddy’s. This wasn’t your story, it was his. You were an intruder, absorbed in your own tragic narrative that just so happened to be aligned with his. You were grateful it aligned with his, because you wouldn’t have been alive if it wasn’t.

You looked over at Michael as he drove through impossible rain and thunder. He was an unlikely friend in all this. Your heart softened seeing dull passing lights graze over his silhouette. You don’t know if you would tell him, but you had needed him. Yes, in the way that you would be dead if it weren’t for him—but more than that. He was there. He was there right when you were alone and breaking and your closest friend was gone, but he was there. He was rude, blunt, emotionally distant, and a corpse, but he was there. He wasn’t especially comforting and he tried his best to get rid of you, but that didn’t matter. He was there.

You leaned your forehead against the window, rain beating on the car’s roof. You weren’t prepared physically, mentally, or emotionally for this night. No matter how much you willed time to stop, Michael still pulled into the parking lot of Fazbear’s Fright. Your car’s headlights and the attraction’s sign barely made a dent in the darkness the rain cast on the attraction.

Michael turned off the car. “Are you ready?” He asked in the darkness.

The sound of the rain was deafening in the darkness, “No.”

Before he could say anything else, you got out of the car. You were soaked immediately. You and Michael ran for the attraction’s grimy doors. You thought of the first time you came to Fazbear’s Fright, how bad you thought the smell was. You looked at Michael. You knew he would hate to know he smelled worse than even his rotting father.

Your heart hammered against your chest when you entered the office. You didn’t know if you would be any good on the cameras. You pulled out your small stack of folded drawings and swallowed, looking at the screen.

“You’ll do fine,” He said, though whether that was to assure you or him, you didn’t know.

Michael was soaked, like you. Water dripped from his dark, artificial hair, layers of dark circles hung heavy under his void eyes, and his body—rotting and gaunt as it was—looked too heavy for his bones to carry. You were suddenly struck with the idea that you might not see him again—whether he died or you—and that feeling settled into your stomach with a sad acceptance.

You took his hand, “Be safe, Michael. And...” You swallowed, “Thank you. For everything.”

It sounded like a goodbye. Maybe it was a goodbye. If these were your last shared words, you hoped they conveyed how much he helped you.

Michael’s mask slipped, and you saw a myriad of emotions cross his face: his torn lips parted in sorrow, his brow twisted in loneliness, his hollowed eyes bearing into you with longing, his abraded cheeks warm with byzantium affection, and... there something else you couldn’t discern. Another emotion that came from him, one you wracked your mind to understand but couldn’t.

“I...” He swallowed. Something resolute washed over him and he leaned toward you. You blinked, confused by his sudden closeness. You barely had a chance to think by the time his lips were a breath away from yours.

And then, he froze, his hollow eyes went wide in their inky blackness. You tilted your head slightly. You could’ve stared into his eyes for hours and you still would’ve been mesmerized by them. As if pulled away from your lips by an unseen force, Michael leaned to the side and kissed your cheek. His lips were scratchy and spongy at the same time, leaving a strange lingering feeling behind.

Michael pulled away from you, his void eyes downcast. He readjusted his grip of the tank of gasoline in his hand and left the room without another word.

Was he... about to kiss you? No, you were imagining things. The bittersweet feeling of the night must’ve gotten to you.

You laid out your pages so you could more readily pick out Springtrap from the cameras. Midnight passed, and you knew he would already be on the move. You swapped through the cameras, your fingers shaking over the buttons. Your eyes quickly scanned over the fuzzy TV static, periodically flicking to the pages Michael drew for help, and then you changed cams. You don’t know how Michael did it with such ease, you would need at least ten nights of practice before you’d be confident enough to do this.

There. A hand barely in frame and obscured by static. Your heart thrummed with the thrill of finding him and the fear of losing him just as quickly. Static consumed the screen and, in a panic, you smacked it. Somehow that worked, and the TV-snow started to clear lightly, but the hand was gone. Your eyes went wide as you slammed down on the audio button.

You held your breath. Nothing more happened. You pressed the audio again, insistent and your nerves fried. When he didn’t show up again, you cursed under your breath. You swapped through the cameras, but static eclipsed your screen.

You picked up the control panel and tapped the audio first. Now that you were manning both the cameras and the control panel, you realized Michael wanted to keep you in the office with him not just because it was safer, but because it was so much easier with two people working the panels. Once the audio was done, you tapped the cameras and let it reboot while you rechecked the screen.

Static cleared slowly, and you swapped through the cameras again. You swore you checked every camera and compared it to every picture, and you could not see him anywhere. Your heart started to ram against your chest when you saw Michael through the camera. He was pouring gasoline, every so often checking behind him. You had to help him, you had to keep Springtrap away from him, but you didn’t know what to do.

You started randomly playing the audio anywhere that Michael wasn’t. He had to be somewhere and he’d follow at least one of those...

RED-FLASHING-BLARING-RED-FLASHING-BLARING

Your hands fumbled with the control panel in your panic, almost dropping it. You tapped reboot all and hissed under your breath. You hadn’t meant to tap the longest option, but now that you did, you repeatedly pressed it as if that would make it reboot any faster. Red faded in and out of your vision and you wiped the sweat from your forehead. Even as the ventilation was done rebooting, it still took time before the alarms stopped.

You weren’t very good at this. You wondered if Michael heard that. You wondered if Springtrap heard that.

You quickly swapped through the cameras trying to find Springtrap, but it was too easy this time. Purposefully easy.

He was standing in the hallway with plastic stars dangling from the ceiling. His silhouette was encased in shadow, the lights of the arcades flashing colorfully behind him. You saw bunny ears heavily shift to one side as he mechanically tilted his head.

Your heart beated faster and your face warmed. You wondered if Springtrap knew you were controlling the cameras. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out your sporadic audio spamming wasn’t Michael.

Springtrap started to move, and he wasn’t hiding it. It was clear he was walking to the office. You could let him. You didn’t have to lure him away. He would be distracted, and Michael would have more than enough time and space to burn the building down.

You swallowed, and it was heavy in your throat.

You pressed the audio and Springtrap froze. You bit your lower lip. You could keep him distracted with the audio. That was better. Your hatred and desire burned at you to let him come to you, but your common sense wasn’t completely lost. You only hoped your ability to work the cameras wasn’t lost either...

Silver pinpricks stared into the camera with violent, shaking anger. His fingertips twitched mechanically as he burned his gaze into the camera. An electric thrill traveled up your spine at his rage. He wanted you to let him come, and it delighted you that you didn’t. And then, like putting on a mask, Springtrap’s fingers stilled and his silver eyes cooled to ice. He took one step back, then two, and then he was in shadow. You couldn’t see him.

You hurriedly pressed the audio, but nothing played. It needed to be rebooted again. You didn’t realize how short the window of time was between audio lures. It took way too long to reboot, and by the time you returned to the cameras, you had no idea where Springtrap was.

You stilled to silence. There was movement in the vents. You swallowed. You swapped through the ventilation cameras, but if he was in the vents, he was now gone.

How quickly your motivation shifted from trying to keep Springtrap away from Michael to trying to keep Springtrap away from you.

You rebooted the ventilation even though it didn’t need it. You couldn’t risk drawing him closer with the alarms going off. You started to play the audio anywhere away from you, and you had to stop yourself from playing the audio where Michael was.

You were panicking. This wasn’t good.

You rebooted everything once the audio needed it just in case. Then, you saw something flash past your peripheral.

You looked up, but he wasn’t there. You knew better. Your breath quickened.

You repeatedly pressed the audio button on CAM 2 despite it not finishing rebooting. Even when the camera went blank with static, you kept pressing it. It was only once the ventilation error came up in the corner of the screen that you stopped for the control panel.

You rebooted the ventilation first. You couldn’t let the alarm go off. You didn’t need to reboot the cameras, you just needed to focus on getting him away from you.

You put down your control panel, and a pair of rotten rabbit ears quickly moved from behind the door frame. Your breath hitched. You slammed your hand down on the audio button. A fake child’s laughter played.

When you looked up, he was in front of you. You almost collapsed in relief when you realized he was behind the glass. His finger circled the heart he scratched into the window nights prior.

You snatched the cameras and pressed the audio to CAM 2 again, but by the time you looked up, he was gone.

He was playing with you. Maybe it was playing with you. It didn’t matter. You felt like you were going to throw up. Your head buzzed with adrenalin and your heart was beating faster than a hummingbird. You rushed to reset the audio.

You put it down with a shaky exhale. You had to get a hold of your nerves.

Click.

You stumbled out of the office chair. Seven feet tall, looming at the door frame was Springtrap. The ghastly yellow-green light from the office painted his grotesque features in vivid detail. Rotting guts spilled from his metal skeleton, barely held by the soiled fabric of his costume. His jaw was sealed tight in that permanent, unsettling grin, and you could see your own blood from previous nights that stained his teeth. Instead of revolting you like it should’ve, your face warmed. What was wrong with you?

Your fear knew enough to grip hold of you. Your head snapped to the vent. You might be able to escape if you threw the chair at him and lunged the vent, if you were lucky. But...

Your head turned back to Springtrap, his body still at the door.

...Why wasn’t he attacking you? Mauling you to tiny pieces? Did he want to chase you?

Your hands carefully held the back of the office chair, just in case you might need to swing it at Springtrap. Silver eyes watched your hands hungrily, and you were struck with the desire to be holding him instead of the chair; fingers splayed over his chest, dipping lightly into red, swollen and rotting organs. You quickly pushed that thought away.

“You won,” You said, and Springtrap’s silver eyes lidded, his mouth unhinging from its tight grin and pressurized air being released from his metal jaw, as if the very words gave him pleasure. You didn’t like pleasing him. “So why am I not dead?”

In a motion so quick it startled you, Springtrap ripped something from his chest. It made a noise that was wet and squelching. Your body’s visceral reaction was to wretch, but you forced yourself still.

The item in Springtrap’s hand was dripping with spoiled bodily fluid as he held it out for you. You looked at silver eyes that held your gaze robotically. Your body screamed at you to throw the chair and run, your mind begged you to escape this monster, but your heart...

Your heart knew exactly what he was holding without having to take it.

You took slow small steps, tentative toward Springtrap. His patience was mechanical in nature, the type of patience an animatronic would have to show when waiting for a hug from a timid child. Your hands were shaking as you took the soiled object from his large, open palm.

It was your best friend's earpods. You bit your tongue, grasping it tightly in your hand. You couldn’t let yourself realize what this meant. You couldn’t think about this. Not now. Not now.

“Why do you have this,” You said and you were shaking, but you knew why. You knew there was only one reason why. And if you admitted it, you would burst into tears, and you couldn’t do that when he was close enough to kill you.

Springtrap leaned toward you, his body bending slightly forward and his broken rabbit ears leaning to one side. His rotting hand was still outstretched, and his silver eyes matched yours with such a driven intensity, you found yourself unable to turn away. And then, he did something that turned your stomach.

He beckoned you. He beckoned you exactly how Michael showed you; how he beckoned the children he killed. You wanted to throw up, you wanted to scream, you wanted to push him away, but—even more than all of that—you wanted to take his hand. How could you not? Even if he hadn’t given you the clue you were missing to your best friend, Springtrap dripped with an inviting, albeit twisted, charm you couldn’t deny. You could see exactly how easy it was for him to lure children—how he could entice them with promises of surprises and gifts and games and secrets. You could see exactly why they’d fall for his trap, just like you would, and that made you ill. How terrible, how absolutely vile, and the only thing that eased your nausea was that his once deceptive and charming mask was now twisted in a mockery of charisma. It was as repulsive outside as he was inside, and now it was permanently drilled into his face so that he could never lure another innocent victim to their demise again.

Except for you, who would take the hand of a monster willingly if it meant finding your friend.

You glanced at the cameras. It wasn’t on Michael, and yet you still felt the guilt of betraying his desperate request. He wanted you safe, but you were useless on the cameras and you’d be a much better distraction for Springtrap in person.

When you turned back to Springtrap, a shiver of delight traveled your spine. You saw deep and rabid rage shaking from him. His eyes went cold and robotic just as quickly at your attention. You wondered if he thought we were looking for Michael to save you. Springtrap’s ability to disguise his emotions eerily resembled Michael’s, and that thought was almost enough to distract you from the pleasure his jealousy brought you.

You took Springtrap’s hand, and you swore his grin widened with a sinister triumph. His hand was cold and ragged, like an overused sponge, as it engulfed yours. His grip was unbreakable—just like his grip on your throat in the hall, or his grip on your hand against the vent, or his grip on your waist when you almost kissed him—you wouldn’t be able to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t want to.

He turned from you, your hand still in his, and he began to march. You had seen his trudge many times, especially while watching Spring Bonnie chase the delusion of a child, but it was different walking with him. The way he moved was a strange mixture of organic and mechanical. His ears and fingers twitched with robotic malfunction and his legs were carried by heavy metal programming, but each step felt too purposeful and too fluid for mechanical processes. His gate was unnaturally human and was punctuated with an unusually practiced tenseness, as if every movement he made was painful but he anticipated the pain.

You hoped every step was pain. You hoped every time he stalked you through the halls, every time he was forced to march toward your toys, every time he raised his claws against you—he felt the metal rods pull against his tendons and tear into his flesh. That thought fed you.

You looked at the claw gripping your hand. Without thinking, you adjusted your grip, interlocking your fingers with his.

Springtrap stopped. His head turned toward you with an aching metal creak. You wouldn’t return his intense silver gaze; you couldn’t bring yourself to. You didn’t know why you interlocked your fingers with his. Maybe it was the thought of him in pain that gave you enough bliss, maybe it was the uncertainty of where he was taking you that frightened you, maybe you just wanted to hold his hand. Regardless of what it was, you were holding his hand and you weren’t letting go.

Even after stillness and silence, you refused to look at Springtrap, so he turned back forward and resumed his trudging. Metal and rotten claws dug sharply into your hand as he squeezed your grip, but you didn’t mind the pain. In fact, you preferred it. It was only once you felt the pain that you realized this was the same hand he interlocked with yours in the vent.

Finally, Springtrap stopped. You squinted in the darkness. You were in the room you first saw him, away from the main areas and barely monitored by the cameras. There was something in the darkness, angled away and out of view of the camera. You could make out vague shapes: a table and chairs set, party hats on every placemat, a gift box at the end of the table, and-

No. No no no. It can’t be- They can’t be-

You tried to pull away from Springtrap, but his grip on yours tightened. He threw you forward, and your palms slammed into the chair at the end of the table.

Your eyes met your best friend’s corpse at the other end of the table.

“No...” Your voice was barely a whisper.

No! They couldn’t have- They were supposed to live! You were supposed to find them! You-! You-!

You felt sick. You couldn’t look at them. There was so much dried blood. You couldn’t be here. You needed out. You needed to get out. You needed to get out.

You turned to run, but Springtrap grabbed you and turned you back around. You tried to resist him, digging your nails into his arms, but it did nothing. He forced your face forward, making you look at the corpse of your friend. Thick tears fell from your cheeks, coating his palm.

“Stop-” You cried, “Stop!”

How could he? How could you? You failed them. They called you and you failed them. If you had been there, if you had listened-

Everything was blurring. You couldn’t be there. You couldn’t stare at this mockery Springtrap made for you. You had to do anything—anything to get away.

“Please let me go!” You begged, sobbing into the claw forcing your face forward. “Please!”

Springtrap let you go, and you ran. You were dizzy. You were nauseous. You didn’t know where you were going, and it didn’t matter. You collapsed into the arcade machine—the same one you hid behind your first night there—and you sobbed.

They were gone. You knew they were gone, deep down you knew, but it hurt. It hurt so much. You shouldn’t have given yourself false hope. You shouldn’t have returned. You should’ve listened to Michael. It hurt. It felt like your flesh was ripped out of you. You couldn’t get the image of their corpse out of your mind. They were gone. They were gone they were gone they were gone they were gone they were-

You were forcefully turned around, your back slamming against the arcade screen. It should’ve hurt, but you were numb to it. Springtrap lifted your chin with a single claw. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want to play anymore. You didn’t want to hate him or want him or feel him or whatever. Your best friend was dead. Your best friend was dead.

You cried as your head dropped. He would probably kill you now. Just like them. It didn’t matter. You just wanted this to be over. You didn’t want to be here anymore. It didn’t matter.

Michael was still in the building. He needed you to distract Springtrap.

You didn’t care about killing Springtrap anymore. Any fiery hatred you had for him was drowned by your grief. But for Michael... You could distract him, for Michael.

You took Springtrap’s face in your hands and kissed him.

The kiss was cold and lifeless. Without your hatred to intoxicate you, kissing him was exactly what you imagined: kissing an moldy old puppet. You hadn’t noticed in your grief-induced trance, but Springtrap’s hands were around your throat. He was going to choke the life out of you. Maybe that would’ve been a better distraction than this. Your tears painted his muzzle as you pressed your body against his, your lips pushing against his blunt teeth and tattered fabric mouth.

Something starved snapped inside of Springtrap. He grabbed your waist and re-slammed you against the arcade cabinet. Your head hit the screen with enough force to see stars. Springtrap was moving against you, grasping at your sides, pressing against your face—he was shaking, his movements were erratic and clumsy. It was as if he needed to feel you, and when you couldn’t move fast enough, he’d slam you against the arcade cabinet again.

You couldn’t keep up with him. You were in the haze of your own crushing sorrow. You could barely feel him bite you when you didn’t move fast enough. You didn’t care that when you kissed him your own blood coated your lips. You just wanted this to be over. You wanted everything to be over. But you kept moving, routinely, for Michael.

Claws dug into your hips, dragging through skin and beading thick droplets of blood. You started to feel warm. It had nothing to do with what Springtrap was doing to you. You were numb emotionally, but physically you started to feel warm.

The temperature in the room was rising.

Springtrap didn’t notice. He was too engulfed in touching you. You would’ve reveled in that if you were still filled with hate, you thought detachedly. But you didn’t revel. You couldn’t. You could only feel your chest caving in, to the point that you couldn’t move against him anymore. You had to passively take everything he did to you, because any energy you had to return it was gone.

This Springtrap did notice. He slammed you against the arcade cabinet again, as if he could force life back into you. He was furious, livid, and thrashing. Silver eyes shook with rage and he dug his claws deeper in an attempt to pull a reaction out of you. You couldn’t react. You wondered if he would grow tired of trying to burn life into you and would just kill you. At least then it would’ve been over.

The room was getting hotter.

Then something surprised you, even in your grief-ridden state. Silver eyes that burned into you with violent anger were subdued with mechanical programming. Claws that dug into you pulled away from your lacerated flesh. Rabbit ears moved up robotically.

You blinked heavy and thick tears from your eyes as you looked up. It wasn’t Springtrap, it was Spring Bonnie looking at you. You don’t know why it was here. There was no noise to lure it away or no game to entice it. But something triggered in Spring Bonnie’s distinctly inhumane eyes: a cause and effect behavior that characterized programming. You knew it, because you had seen it every time Springtrap was forced to march away from you.

There were mechanical clicks in the rabbit animatronic as you looked down. Its voicebox fizzled to broken life, impossible to understand. Instead of stopping, like Springtrap had done when he tried to use his broken voicebox, Spring Bonnie didn’t.

Once it finished its incomprehensible sentence, it placed a hand over yours. You furrowed your brow. This wasn’t the faux, mocking comfort that you were used to with Springtrap. This wasn’t even genuine emotion. This was the systematic code of a program that went unused for too long. You realized it must’ve been written software for comforting a crying child; a statement of assurance and a gentle physical gesture. How strange, that Spring Bonnie was capable of executing that code after so many decades of disrepair.

If you had been any more present, the whiplash going from Springtrap’s violent kissing to being comforted by Spring Bonnie would’ve been enough to make you vomit.

You had hated Spring Bonnie with William in the past, but was that fair? If anything, Spring Bonnie had tempered William; making him go toward the sounds of children and playing games with you that kept you alive. Spring Bonnie had never been your enemy, just the face of him. It almost felt as though Spring Bonnie, while only a machine and casing, was yet another one of William’s victims. Its cheery features and bright visage were forced to commit terrible acts on the children it was supposed to delight. Though, of all of William’s victims, you supposed Spring Bonnie got the best revenge, even better than yours.

The room was no longer just hot, it was bright. Fire creeped into the room as a whisper at first, but now demanded your attention. Sweat dripped from your face, a strangely real sensation in your dissociated state.

Spring Bonnie still continued not to move, robotic eyes staring intently through you. You wondered if it asked you a question when trying to use its broken voicebox, and wouldn’t move until you answered it. Its hand was on yours, but it was gentle enough that you could shake it off. You didn’t shake it off.

Fire started to rage around you in a furious surge. The heat licked your skin like a broiling oven. You looked down. This was the end. This was your end. Your tears turned to steam when they hit the floor. There was a small relief that it was over, and some broken part of you was glad you were able to help, but... you were so sad. Your closest friend was gone, and now you would be too. It was fitting, but it hurt.

It hurt so much.

Spring Bonnie’s fingers twitched. He was coming back. A large pipe collapsed next to you both, the embers dancing like red fireflies between you two. The heat choked you, smothered you, and filled your lungs, blood, and bones. And soon, it would consume you. Both of you.

“I thought it would end this way,” You said to Spring Bonnie, and your voice was hoarse. You didn’t know if it could hear you over the raging fire. You didn’t know if it could even comprehend the depth of your words. But it felt nice to have someone there at your end. Someone that wasn’t the monster who killed your best friend.

In the haze of the flame and the pain, you heard your name being called. You slowly turned your head. Your vision was obscured by heat forging ripples in the hot air. Then, something slid across the floor and bumped your foot. It was your axe. You thought you left it at home. You looked up.

Through the fumes, there was Michael. He looked... so sad. His sullen eyes, deep as the void, were shaking with desperation. He needed you to live, you remembered. He needed you to live.

You hated seeing him sad.

You pulled away from Spring Bonnie—or Springtrap, you weren’t sure with the metal malfunctioning and twitching in the broil—and picked up the axe. It burned the skin of your palms holding it, but the pain was numb to you. You knew it was Springtrap when he grabbed your arm, violent and jerking.

You had been willing to die. You were ready to die. This deep into your despair, you wanted to die. But... for Michael, you’d be willing to live.

You swung the axe down with every last bit of strength you had.

CRACK!

Springtrap’s arm severed from his twitching body and collapsed to the floor. You didn’t waste a moment. You sprinted through the flames, leaping over the burning pipe and ducking under the embers.

Relief washed over Michael’s face and it was the only thing you could focus on. If you focused on anything else, you would fall and burn.

You grabbed his hand as you ran, dragging him into a sprint. Fazbear’s Fright crashed around you in brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. The fire burned away the past five nights and you were outrunning it with Michael. Tears dripped down your face, but you hadn’t felt so free.

You two stumbled out of the building and into the parking lot and pouring rain. You collapsed into a coughing fit, not realizing how much the smoke suffocated you. The rain cooled your skin in a way that burned. Michael took a few steps back, and you saw the firelight reflected in his void eyes. You turned around.

Fazbear’s Fright was in flames. With Springtrap still inside. It was done. It was beautiful.

You looked at your wristwatch and you wailed.

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