The Itch (10/16)

[Alternative link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1IZcDypit9h39ogmruHMmrPF0no_Ny-MsmvGnNclHEWE/edit?usp=sharing ]

“Let’s check on Ballora first,” Springtrap said. Steven flicked the light switch to activate Ballora’s gallery, and bathed the group and the stage in a variety of colors. Purple was the most dominating of the colors, and blended perfectly with the assistants’ violet uniforms. This flood of light was Ballora’s cue to run through her exercises, who began spinning in place in stage.

Everything seemed to be running smooth. Springtrap was pleased.

“Alright, this is good. Let’s go over to Fo-”

Springtrap felt it again. In the winter, things weren’t so bad. The suit felt more like a comfy sweater, that had become encrusted and rigid with some unsavory substances. In the spring and summer however, his outer shell became a painful prison. In August it was downright awful. His flesh had hardened and steeled itself to the elements over the decades, but it was still sensitive. When the itch came back, he was standing in front of the Ballora exhibit. He slammed a fist on the bullet-proof glass which separated him from the busty ballerina, as he groaned. His aids backed away from him, wary of the havoc that was inevitable when the Boss became pissed off. Steven and Juan were well-versed in his “episodes”.

“Guuuuuuhhhhh”, the Boss moaned. He attempted to distract himself by staring at the technicolor display of lights that enveloped Ballora’s stage. Springtrap’s eyes were mesmerized by the beams of pink, blue, green, with brought life to the dim stage, but Ballora’s infernal spinning brought back the sharp sting that was the itch. His pained flesh stirred and shifted in reaction to the spinning shapely blur.

“Buff...room..”, Springtrap groaned.


“Buffroom?” asked Steven.

“Baffroom!” shrieked Springtrap.

The bare naked flesh touched metal and a piercing beam of pain shot through his stomach.

“Purr...pole,” Springtrap said in a strained, pained voice.

Steven turned and ran down the hallway.

“Liesss…” the Boss said.

“Huh”, asked Juan.

“Lights!” he yelled.

Juan’s arm flew out from his side and hit the switch to turn the lights off. Ballora was bathed in darkness, though it didn’t seem to affect her much. As Springtrap stumbled toward the janitorial closet outside the station, Steven returned with a purple cylinder, shaking with a substance inside.  “AFTON’S”, the canister read. “Circus Baby’s Baby Powder! Now grape-flavored!” was plastered beneath the logo. Springtrap seized it with surprising speed, and looked down at his feet.

There wasn’t any time for secrecy. The pain was intensifying. Like a cancer, it grew worse the longer it stayed. And like cancer, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Springtrap’s free hand slipped down towards his codpiece. It probed for a gap between the codpiece and his chest plate. The nimble, articulated fingers found one, and anchored themselves on a ledge.

Springtrap ripped off the codpiece, and exposed his old self to fresh air for the first time in months.  His other hand clenched the canister of talcum powder with strength, and swung it down to  face his springsuit endoskeleton, and the tattered remains of human flesh. Steven couldn’t see it clearly from this angle, but he saw something flutter in the breeze created by the ventilation system. It was thin, purple , and possibly prehensile.

The talcum powder floated towards Springtrap’s face on an invisible gust of air like a heavenly cloud, and coated his face white. The Boss made no reaction of this, for what was more dire was the cessation of this chafing. The powder dissolved upon contact with the target zone.

The pain ceased. Springtrap’s ails were soothed. He glared expectantly at Juan, who nonchalantly bent down and handed him his codpiece.