Quite possibly the dumbest thing I've ever written

In a filthy alleyway, at the brink of dawn, a particularly meat-filled animatronic was fleeing from a fire at Fazbear’s Fright. Springtrap, for that was who it was, hunkered down behind a dumpster, unwilling to draw attention to himself by traveling in the daytime. Instead, his plan was to wait for nightfall.

Unfortunately for him, he was about to become an unwilling participant in a very large commotion. A noise startled him, bringing his attention to the sewer grate next to him. He watched, wary, ready to spring into action. More noise came from the grate, a steady clanging. Springtrap tensed.

A dark shape sprang forth from the grate, starling the undead serial killer into action. His large yellow hands balled themselves into fists and he rocketed up, ready to fight.

The only thing standing in front of him, however, was a rather soggy and smelly cat, which glared at him with baleful eyes before trotting off. Springtrap relaxed and squatted back down. The slight annoyance he felt was taken out by throwing some trash at the feline, which hissed at him and ran away. Springtrap settled back into the grimy brick wall behind him to contemplate his poor life choices.

At that moment, without a single sound warning of its arrival, something else popped out of the sewer grate. It was an uncoiling mass of rusty metal that heavily resembled a writhing mass of maggots. A writhing mass which soon composed itself into a form eerily similar to a human figure. Similar, but not the same. Far too many eyes glared at Springtrap. The thing spoke, with a familiar, feminine voice that didn’t match it’s appearance.

“Hello William. Or should I say, Father?”

Springtrap could only formulate one response to that. “Crickey.”



Meanwhile, several towns over, another Afton was closing in on their father. Michael Afton was currently riding a bus, calmly sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. None of the other passengers paid him any mind. It was too early in the morning to care about other people, even if they looked like an empty rubber suit. The Afton boy checked his watch. Good, he’d be arriving soon. He took a moment to adjust his tie and brush some lint off his suit. It had been thirty years, after all, and he wanted to make a good impression



Punches and kicks were getting flung at will. Sparks flew through the air. The piercing ringing of metal on metal drowned out the morning’s birdsong. The two killing machines traded blows, their conflict spilling out from the alleyway and startling nearby pedestrians.

Ennard and Springtrap disengaged and faced each other warily. While they slowly circled each other, Ennard’s wiry visage contorted into various frightening faces in an attempt to simultaneously taunt and intimidate its opponent. Springtrap, unable to emote with his Spring Bonnie head, opened its jaw wide and let loose a cackle from his skinless face.

He was quite proud of this action, having practiced for countless hours in the collapsed bunker in order to scare the first person to find him. Unluckily, he had been asleep when that asshole with the stupid accent found him, so it had gone unused.

Ennard, though, was unimpressed. It picked up a loose pipe off the ground and squared up. Springtrap, in response, casually punched through a window beside him and grabbed a baguette out of the display. The crowd forming around them cheered. It was time for round two.



Michael hopped out of the taxi and bid the driver farewell. “Thanks again, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been driving by when the buss broke down.”

The ambiguously brown man grinned back at him and replied with heavily accented English. “It was no problem, my friend! You were a joy to have as a passenger.” With that he drove off. Both men were satisfied, glad to have made a new friend that day. Michael walked over to the bus stop and waited. Hopefully, nothing else would go wrong.



Ennard discarded its bent and battered pipe disgusted. Across from it, Springtrap triumphantly held aloft his baguette before returning the loaf to its display. The crowd around them had grown larger, and money was starting to exchange hands.

Springtrap took a moment to jeer at Ennard. “I brought you into this world and took you out of it, and by Turnbull I can take you out of it again!”

Ennard rushed Springtrap, tackling him into the street where a car swerved to avoid them.



During this ruckus, Michael was in a pickle of his own. He had gone into the bank a block down from the bus stop to make a quick withdrawal, and it was just his luck that a gang of ne’er-do-wells chose that moment to rob the bank. The rapscallions had been thwarted in their attempt to abscond with the bank’s funds – it was amazing what some kind words and a willingness to listen could accomplish – but reporters had swarmed the scene the moment they knew it was safe to interview him.

Michael shook his head. Honestly, he was no hero. Any citizen would have done what he did.



Springtrap slapped Ennard with a fish. The fight had spilled into a pet store, and the animals were being used as living weapons. Ennard chucked a cat and a box of puppies. Springtrap groaned. This was just like when they fought in the kitchen of the Chinese restaurant three blocks down.

The crowd, larger than it had ever been, loved it. No one cared about the animal abuse going on. A cheer rose up when Ennard started using a snake as a whipe, and a louder one roared out when Springtrap dodged, causing the snake whip to miss but in exchange sending him into an aquarium. A large wave of crabs spilled out, an unrealistically massive number considering the size of the container. Hundreds scuttled out of the store and down the street, and Springtrap rode them away.



A dank cloud of smoke hung heavily in the air of the limousine. Michael ripped a fat one from the ridiculously over-complicated bong in his lap and leaned back. “Thanks, Scott.”

The video game developer, creator of the hit indie franchise Seven Days of Chipper, leaned back in his seat and chuckled. “It’s not a problem. This is the least I could do for you after you saved that schoolbus full of children. If something happened to them I’d have to learn how to actually make good games!” Scott winked.

Michael took another hit. “Man, I wonder what all those crabs were doing this far inland. It’s crazy what they did to that bus.”

Scott shrugged. “By the way. I hope I’m not offending you by asking this. You look like a deflated sex doll that got dropped in a tub full of grape soda. What happened to you?”

Michael laughed. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. It’s a long story. I suppose it all started when my serial-killer-turned-billionaire-entrepreneur father revolutionized the world of robotics with his genius creation of fully sentient artificial intelligence…”



The battle between the two possessed robots had devolved into a slap fight. Springtrap and Ennard leaned away from each other, heads turned, eyes closed, hands limply flailing away. Strangely, the crowd loved it, though that may have had something to do with the copious amounts of alcohol being consumed.

Indeed, the fight had turned into a citywide event. After all, it wasn’t every day that a pair of robots tried to kill each other. Liquor was flowing, hot dog vendors were peddling, commemorative t-shirts were already made and being sold. Everyone except for the two in the center of the circle were having a great time.

It was this scene that Michael stumbled upon when he stumbled out of the limo. Confused, he asked an onlooker what was going on.

“It’s crazy, dude. Two hideously deformed animatronic creatures of superhuman size and strength have been duking it out all morning! Squeeze up front and check it out!”

Michael slipped through the crowd to see what all the hubbub was about. When he reached the front he froze, horrified. Ennard, his sister, was standing over the fallen form of what could only be his father. The massive claw of Baby was protruding from its stomach.

“At last, Father,” she gloated, “you shall experience the same pain you caused me!”



Ties that bind. Teeth that grind. Familial relations that have begun to unwind. Will Billy become breakfast for a B-movie behemoth? Might Michael make it in time to protect his precious patriarch? Find out next time in Part 2: Afton Encased Inside Ennard’s Innards!