Disassembly (Request #Iforgot)

A bit more pressure, and the new, improved Chica’s right arm would be torn asunder.  For such a recent, advanced animatronic, the yellow bird was noticeably fragile. Kind of petite, too. About the size of a ten-year-old.  It was two in the morning when the animatronic chef was walking down the hallway, towards the security guard’s office. From behind, Chica felt a large blow to the back, one that sent the bot stumbling forward.  The assailant then looped long wires around Chica’s legs, and pulled the yellow thing into the shadows.

Chica knew exactly why this was happening. The older, damaged Chica whose hands had been removed weeks ago, to be specific. The new model was inferior. This Chica  wasn’t like the old group. Too friendly. Too clean.

Too soulless.

When it came down to it, by all means the older Chica should be the one on stage. The older Chica should be the one who cooks pizza, plays music, and laughs. This newer breed was missing something-heart. A mind. Freddy’s song was just lines of code to the new animatronics.   They had no brains, no passion. Chica dragged her new counterpart down the hall, and moved inside the parts room.

Thinking about the new robots infuriated Chica. Machines- that’s all they were! Shallow facsimiles of a superior product. Freddy put it best- “They’re replacing us with appliances!”. Chica was in the moral right.

These machines-no, these toasters- hadn’t gone through what Chica and her friends had suffered. They had never known the promise of a good life, snatched away with the swift strike of a silver blade. They were programmed to recognize parents, but did they know what parenting was like, firsthand? They had no human element. They had no soul. Chica was morally superior to this toy- this toy, designed to be used and thrown away. When it came down to it, a thinking human mind was more valuable and deserving of continued existence than these tools. Given their predicament, a fate worse than death is an inevitable result of continued inaction and decay. The last few years were bad; imagine how much worse it could be if these parasites took root in the public consciousness!

It would happen here, Chica decided. The first part of the revolution. The toy was on the floor now, her beak and eyes having fallen off at some point in the struggle. Cheap, low quality plastic.  Chica pinned her toy counterpart with her legs, putting her weight on the bird’s body and trapping it underneath. Wrapping a few wires on one arm around the right arm, and using the other arm to restrain an arm joint, Chica applied some pressure to snap the toy’s arm.  It screamed, and Chica relished the thing’s distress. The arm snapped, and dangled loosely.

When Chica heard some shifting, she froze. Turning behind her, she saw the source of the noise. It was a pitiful sight. A mangled imitation of Foxy, but in ghastly pink and white coloring. A broken mess. The mangled thing apparently recognized its reason for existence, and so it stayed out of sight, away from most of the performers.  This thing was on the ceiling, staring at Chica with one amber eye.

Chica saw a bit of herself in this twisted parody of her friend. The thing did not ask for existence. It did not tout itself as the new Foxy- not anymore, at least. It knew exactly what it was, and made no pretense to be anything but an aberration. The thing’s limbs flailed, pitifully. It reminded her of how  a boy once tried to get up after a man’s bleeding corpse, impaled on various points of metal, had fallen onto him. His legs were broken, and his back was arched unnaturally, and he breathed in quick, short spurts, rasping with each breath. Chica had to thank the springsuit experiments for that display, that testament to human fortitude. The boy was still trying to move away, to find help. Chica admired him for that.

That human spirit. The mind that she, Bonnie, Foxy, and Freddy all possessed.  It was what put the pep in their steps. It was also something these abominations lacked.

Given the awkward silence, Chica almost expected the thing to scream, and call the other machines to aid. But it didn’t. Instead, it blinked, and moved forward.

It wasn’t scared of her. It didn’t seem to hate her. Chica was pleasantly surprised. She turned around, and went back to work. The thing squirmed and turned it’s head, the endoskeleton eyelids dilating like camera shutters. It squawked a little. Chica wrapped her wires around the now-useless arm, and twisted it off at the shoulder like a crab claw. The thing screeched, in confusion obviously. It was being challenged. It was not used to challenge. This thing had never met an obstacle or an adversary. Everything in it’s world was still saccharine Freddy Funtimes.

Chica wondered how it thought of the murders. If it thought of the murders. Was it capable of such a thing?  She started working on the other arm, while the toy bleated and bashed it’s nub against the ground like a petulant child. The Foxy imitation was closer now; half of it’s head was watching over Chica’s shoulder. With a loud tearing noise, Chica removed the other arm, and moved off of her toy counterpart. As expected, the thing laid on the floor, and whined.

Chica watched the mangled mess of a robot work. It chewed off parts of the toy’s body, while ripping and tearing with its arms and what was left of it’s legs. It reminded her of how she was treated by a certain purple-wearing man, a long time ago. But let bygones be bygones. She has a new object of hatred now. Watching the candy-colored abomination snap at what was once her replacement, Chica felt a lot of things.  Growing respect. Some pride.  She even felt a bit of hope. But most prominent of all was that good ol’ human emotion.

Satisfaction.