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They were getting close.
They were getting fucking close and William couldn’t think about any-damn-thing else.
He heard an employee mention the smell of rot coming from the robots. Stronger than what could be passed off as mildew from the storage room spare parts were kept in.
They were going to look inside. He knew it. They were going to look inside and they were going to find the fucking brats and he was going to go back to jail and they wouldnt let him out this time. Not with the “disappearance” of his wife so recently. There were already eyes on him.
They’ll find them all.
He couldn’t have that.
He couldn’t fucking have that.
They only let him out the first time because they couldnt find the fucking bodies.
If they found them now it was over. He was screwed.
How did he not think of the smell? Of course the brats would stink they've been rotting in those suits for fucking months.
He had to get rid of them.
Had to get rid of them. Had to. Had to. Had to-
He still had his keys.
He hoped they never changed the locks.
~~
Easier than he thought! So, so much easier!
Just waltz right in and tear the fucking things apart!
He brought an axe with him, and just tore the things to shreds. Hacked off limbs. Cracked open stomachs. Threw the corpses in the trash compactor. Hopefully by the time anyone checked in there everyone would have already been dragged to the dump.
All that was left was the puppet. That stupid, stupid puppet. There was nothing he could do about that thing. Charlie was the only one they ever found.
She was looking at him.
Two little white pinpricks staring out of that fucking box, looking at him. Staring at him. Teasing him.
He could tell.
He could tell.
He could feel her stupid fucking eyes on him no matter what room he entered.
Felt so many eyes on him.
So many.
So many.
So many.
Looking at him.
Staring at him.
He couldn't take it.
Could fucking take it.
Where were they? Where the fuck were they?
Looking at him.
Judging him.
He gripped his hair, staring off into the darkness of the hallway (there are eyes there he's certain he can see the eyes they're watching they're looking they're staring they're crying)
A scream ripped itself from his throat, "You deserved it!" He backed up, eyes locked on the crying eyes of the brats- they were getting closer- closer- closer- mirroring his every step back with one forward of their own. "You all fucking deserved it!" He wasn't even looking where he was going. He just needed away.
Until his back hit a wall.
Room.
In a room.
They're blocking the door.
Oh fuck. Fuck. Shit.
Closer.
They're coming closer.
"No- no no no stay back! Stay back!" He raised the axe (what good would an axe do against the ghosts of your sins?). His arms shook- the axe clattered to the floor. He couldn't hear it over his own ragged breathing.
Four stayed in the door.
One came even closer.
He scrambled to the side, away from the- The thing. It followed. It followed. No matter what he did it followed.
There was nothing here- only broken arcade cabinets and an old suit-
Suit.
Suit. Suit. The suit. They- they would be scared of the suit- wouldn't they? He- he killed them wearing one-
He stood at the far end of the room, back to the wall as the thing came closer- reaching- tears dripping onto the carpet- he bolted, scrambled toward the suit, rushed to untwist the locks, frantically put it on.
As he twisted the head into place with a clunk he looked back at the things. They still stared at him in contempt- nothing but hatred in their dead eyes, but they didn't come any closer.
He did it.
He stopped them.
"You'll never fucking take me." He growled out, cackling at the looks of fear-hate-anguish on their faceless faces.
Something wet touched his shoulder.
He looked up.
The ceiling was leaking.
Water.
Another drip.
He felt the arm of the suit twist uncomfortably.
It's fine.
This is fine.
He just had to get out of here and then he could take it off and nothing would happen to him and he'll never get caught and he can keep living as normal.
Another drip.
He took one step forward, looking to push past the things in his way- he could see them flinch with every twitch of the suit.
He grinned.
Another drop.
His arm wrenched to the side.
No- no, no it's- it'll be fine. Just a few minutes-!
All at once, the springlocks in the arm released, shoving beams of metal and wire into his flesh, piercing muscle, displacing bone. Blood spurted through gaps in the suit. He collapsed with a scream, his remaining hand desperately scrabbling for purchase to pull the suit off.
Which only succeeded in getting wet, sticky blood on the locks in the other arm.
From there, they dominoed, each lock on the suit getting released by the blood shot off from the last. Another clik-chunkt-squelch every agonizing second after agonizing second, and he felt every single one as first his fingers shattered, splattered, set off the locks in the palm.
Wrist.
Forearm.
Elbow.
Bicep.
Each second between snaps felt like an eternity, watching the blood seep out through the gaps in the suit, forever staining the golden fur of Springbonnie with violent, sickly red.
Shoulder.
He let out a scream, finally dropping backwards, flat on his ass, as his blood burst from the suit in a wild, spraying arc. Both arms frozen, agonizingly stationary against the trembling of his muscles.
He could feel the wetness from his shoulders pouring down his torso. One single lock there and he's done.
Sure, he's survived a springlock failure before, but that was when Henry was there to pry him out of it, with Michael slapping his face to keep him conscious, with some minimum wage teenager crying on the phone to 911.
The only ones here now were just watching. Silent tears permanently streamed down their faces, though their expressions were contorted with the same twisted joy he knew had been on his own face when he took their lives.
It was all he could do to push himself backwards, back to the wall, legs feeling like jelly as the blood that sprayed from his arms slowly but surely oozed into the crevices in the knee joint.
That was when it finally registered.
He's going to die here.
He’s going to die here.
All of that work, ruined. All his advancements, all his research.
All the remnant in tanks in the basement.
Wasted.
Ruined.
The locks sprung into his chest.
Metal bones forced themselves into his flesh, his ribs shattered under the pressure. His lungs popped like balloons, blood sprayed in an arc that- had he been watching this happen to someone else- he would have described as lovely. The suit’s metal spine shoved itself into place, popping every disk in his back as his own was shoved out of the way to make room. The voice box took up it’s place inside his throat, and he and Springbonnie screamed in unison, an agonized human scream overlaid with mangled static as his blood gurgled in its speakers.
The head went off last, his scream cut short by crossbeams shooting through his skull, his jaw permanently locked open thanks to the metal jammed into the bone. The suit’s optics forced themselves into his eye sockets, the world going dark as his eyeballs popped like grapes beneath the metallic strain.