(Bugs) Request #7

Foxy the Pirate sat in the corner of the room. Though he was surrounded by three other beings in the same predicament as him, Foxy had never felt so alone.

When it comes to depression, afflicted individuals may struggle to find a source for it. Citing a lack of problems in their workplace, life, family, and so on generally denotes a severe flaw in an area.

Foxy was different. He could name several different problems.  It was pinpointing which was the worst that proved an issue. He could point to the Management’s failure to fumigate properly as a cause, as rodents proved quite bothersome as he and his peers discovered. He could point to their programmed inactivity in the daytime as a source of inner conflict. Foxy would also criticize the rodents that had taken a liking to worming inside of the suits and nibbling away at whatever remained inside. He understood that a guy’s gotta eat, but to do so during the daytime was not only rude, it was also discomforting.

The most likely source of conflict though, was their mortality. Or the lack thereof.  Freddy, ever the pessimist; had deduced that the Management’s harvesting of parts would continue should need arise. Foxy had seen Bonnie’s face be removed (with a rusty X-Acto knife, no less), and taken away for artists slaving away at concept after concept to examine. A few months later, another Bonnie joined the pizzeria, which was still in the construction stage.

None of the animatronics approached Bonnie about what had occurred, because all of them worried that  their turn was next. Everyone lost something in the coming months. Freddy lost part of his endoskeletal vertebrae, forcing him to hunch over should he choose to walk. Chica lost much of her jaw’s inner workings, resulting in it’s permanent slack-jawed suspension, as her hands were removed for further study by a team of interns. Foxy was last.

Foxy was already worse off than the others. In a strange twist of fate, he lost only some fabric which adorned his endoskeletal ears and his remaining left hand. Regardless, he felt pain. Pain was a somewhat foreign concept, as he hadn’t felt pain in years. Not since the incident which brought him into being.  The pain lingered  for days after the material extraction.  As his fabric was prodded and poked and sliced and diced by the Management

The pain perturbed him long after he was returned to his kin, sequestered in the shadows. For among the group was unspoken acknowledgement that they could hurt. But the question that lurked in the thoughts of each robot was “Can we die?”

The robots did not debate this question, for with it were carried negative thoughts. Should the Management choose to strip them of their bodies and leave only their heads, would they suffer? Would they die, like any human presumably would? Or would they be left in a bastardized parody of life. When they are crushed beneath a metal processing machine, as any robot which inevitably outlives it’s purpose  undergoes, would they die? Or would they live on as a cube of metals? Might they be able to sense the outside world? Or might they be condemned to an eternity of darkness?

The very thought of the situation shivered Foxy’s timbers. Thusly, Foxy’s discomfort when he encountered his intended placement was understandable.

Foxy’s encounter occurred the night after the Grand Opening. Children had stormed the pizzeria’s halls in the daytime, though none of the animatronics would have known. Drawings were tacked up on the walls to encourage children to purchase that Freddy Fazbear™ pack of crayons, which covered a diverse group of colors. Ranging from Mango Orange to Bonnie Blue. Foxy’s world was in the dark and dulled greys of the night and was gifted with a massive, powerful hand , so he felt no inclination to draw.

Foxy did feel an inclination to run however, when his rumination upon the situation was interrupted. A pale duplicate  of his own head peered out at him from behind  a corner before skittering forward and pushing open the door in the process of doing so.

It was a pitiful sight. The thing was a twisted parody of his own self; while it bore the familiar snout and ears it was mangled beyond all humanoid shape. Broken and battered limbs undulated to propel its movements, coated in glossy white and grey plastic that shone underneath the bright yellow lights.

Foxy looked closer at the robot. He had trouble believing, much less accepting that this thing was his replacement. At least Bonnie functioned properly. This aberration of his own form, his own body was almost enraging. It was incapable of proper dialogue, even. Greeting it with “Hello” yielded sporadic beeping.  It had more in common with an Easy-Bake Oven than it did with him.

And yet, it was somehow tragic. It’s lone eye conveyed a sense of pain and quiet suffering that on some level, Foxy could relate to. A request to ease its burden. somehow. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be like this...

Or perhaps it deserved it. To Foxy, there was a clear difference between “us” and “them” beyond just shiny plastic. However aware they are, they were built to be that way. To think they were sentient.

Buried deep within himself was enlightenment. Enlightenment which held the memories of what drives him. What keeps him and his peers thinking and feeling after all this time. He wasn’t just different from this Mangled thing. He was better.

Nay, superior. He had a core to him. An agency. Perhaps the thing would get it’s own motivation. It’s own free-thinking. But for now, he was more important.  When the rubble cleared, it is imperative that he be standing instead of this miserable thing that sat before him. It is morally right that he act on this feeling.

Foxy raised his hook and swung it forward. Like cockroaches racing away from the light, the Mangled thing retreated into the shadows.

Foxy paused, and attempted to remember when Freddy’s last had a cockroach problem, if ever.

Or how he knew what a cockroach was.

Foxy slept for the next couple nights.