Request: Chica escape

“COOOOOOOOOME OOOOOON!!!!” William yelled. “ Come out already! You’re not helping yourself, you know that right?”
He slammed a fist on the table.
“All you’re doing is making me angry,” he said.

“Do you know what happens to bad little girls?” William asked.
She said nothing. She held her hand to her mouth, hoping to stifle any breathing.
“They get punished,” William said.
He stomped around, lifting his feet up and down, dropping them loudly with each step.
“Come on out.  Don’t make this take any longer than it has to be.”
He stopped just outside of where she was hiding, her breath still suppressed.
“Oh,” William said.

“There you are.”




“Why the fuck did I hide in the kitchen?” Travis  wondered.
Well, there were two moments that made him decide the kitchen was a good place to hide.

One; Freddy. He would pop up on the west hall’s window when the power went out (two nights running) Bonnie also stuck to the west hall, that chubby bastard was resolute to come in from that side. Foxy too, always ran down the west hall. Not the East hall, even though his Cove had a door to that side of the restaurant too. At least, during the daytime it did. Travis wasn’t one to test how freaky exactly the restaurant was at night.

Chica, though? Chica was the only person he’s seen to come in from the east side.

So when a blackout occurred, he figured, well, that’d be the safest place.

Granted, it was only Night 2. But, he didn’t think the robots would change patterns that fast.
Plus, Chica wasn’t as aggressive as the others were.

That was the second reason. Travis wasn’t as threatened by Chica as he was by the other robots. Foxy had always unnerved him, while Bonnie was almost bloodthirsty, given how often he’d pop back up at the doorway. Freddy was, well, Freddy. When you ran out of power, you’re fucked. Unless you’re almost at 5 am, in which case you would spend upwards of forty-five minutes staring at the window and hoping he doesn’t emerge. Chica, though?

Chica was content to pop by your window, and then go back to her kitchen and bang metal pots around. She was honestly the least threatening of the characters. Travis thought so even from an early age. He remembers when Chica was in the cartoon, and how dopey she was in the official comic book. She was always boring. That’s it. Even when Travis got older, she was the fat, stupid one. Sure, you should close the door when she’s nearby. But she wasn’t as loathsome as the enraged Bonnie, or the pitiful Foxy.  She was never as funny as Freddy, or as cool as Foxy.

Really, she was the Aquaman of the bunch. Nobody really cared about her, but nobody really hated her either. She was just kinda… There.

Chica struck Travis as a surprise when the power went out spontaneously on his second night. Winter storm. Bad circumstances. Seriously shitty luck.

His doors flew open, and his lights stopped working, His finger pressed on the buttons, but they did nothing. He could hear pots rattling down by the kitchen. So, Travis resorted to his emergency plan.

Go to Chica’s home.

He dropped to his knees, and crawled out the door. The tile’s edges dragged uncomfortably on his elbows, but it was worth it.
He was snaking his way around the corner to the bathroom when he heard that damn jingle. It always freaked him out as a kid, and still does now. It was too depressing. Too damn melancholic to be the “iconic song” of a pizzeria.

Still, Travis pressed on. He inched forward, clinging to the walls. He reached the kitchen, and peering out from the doorframe he saw Chica at the corner of the room, batting at the pots hanging from the ceiling. He lunged forward on his stomach like a penguin, sliding across the floor to to an opened cupboard, under the kitchen table. It was completely empty, and provided just enough room for him to hide from the agitated bird.

He crawled inside, tucked his legs in, and closed the sliding “door”.  This would be shelter for him. The safest place in the building, where only one animatronic roamed occasionally.

But Chica heard something. Travis wasn’t sure what. But she heard something.
And so right now she was stomping around the room, stopping occasionally and standing completely still.  That’s when he tried to recount what led him here.

Then she went back to banging her pots. Travis’s muscles relaxed, and he felt a stress inside him tense.

“Just two more hours,”  he thought. “Two more hours till freedom.”

It was at this moment Chica threw open the door and picked Travis up with her arms. He was thrown onto the table above where he once sat. She swung a cleaver at Travis’s hand, which had been thrown to the side and splayed open when he landed on the table. It stuck, and Travis screamed. Chica grabbed the hand with her own yellow grip, while she pulled the rest of Travis from the silver blade, with a loud, excruciating scream.

She grabbed Travis’s bleeding stump and squeezed it, forcing more blood to stream from  the stringy tendons that had been broken in two by the cleaver. She pulled him towards the sausage maker, and forced the stump inside. A stream of soggy red meat came from the maker, as her hand awkwardly churned the handle. Travis was still screaming, until she put a hand to his throat, and dug in. She pulled away, and Travis stopped screaming.

He did keep writhing, though. As Freddy, Bonnie, and Foxy entered the room with their parts, Chica put the meat into the fridge, dumping it in with the pepperoni. A few minutes later, as Freddy, Bonnie, and Foxy exited with different parts of Travis, Chica stared at his cupboard.