Chapter Text
He could feel it.
He doesn't have the faintest idea how he could feel it, he's a machine after all. No flesh nor bone, else Hangry would've had his hide long, long ago.
He’s heard enough of those situations to last an entire eternity. But, unfortunately, he can feel it. He can feel what's happening to him. And it sucks.
It started out as a small pinprick, a little blip. The type of 'pain' he would've expected whenever any Reaper Nurse mentioned giving out shots. At first, he’d thought they'd meant the type of shots from a gun, and then had felt severely disappointed when it turned out that wasn't the case. If you asked him now, he'd still think it was a misleading way to describe it. Pain from a needle 'shot' seemed like nothing compared to any other method of causing pain.
Or maybe he was wrong.
.
Scratch that, he wasn't wrong.
Since when was he ever wrong?
He knows he isn't wrong, he’s never been wrong. There’s not a moment he can recall where he was wrong. But this time he has proof other than his own insistence. And that was because, well, the pain increased.
So, logic dictates that there’s surely something worse than any type of needle 'shots'.
The pressure now began to grow worse, gripping him still and leaving no option of moving away. Expanding to more than a simple small dot of pain, instead a constant pressing force on both his sides.
A tightening pressure around his... what even was it?
He was a robot built for killing, and anything else was an add-on. Not a robot built with an anatomical diagram drawn and labelled in his database. Knowing Malak, there probably was a diagram somewhere. Gotta make sure the robots know exactly what they're trying to kill, and not lash out at anything that didn’t currently need to die. But, knowing himself, he'd either simply not come across it, or had brushed it off way back in the early days and assumed that he didn't need any sort of 'pointers' on how to kill, instead just bash bodies until they stop moving. All he needed to do, was physically batter any parts necessary for a mortal's body to function, and keep doing that until the noises fall silent and he can once again detect nothing but his partners' movements and the dull air. He'd learned more fun methods along the way. He likes to call them his achievements.
He was brought out of his self-reflection by, you guessed it, the 'pain' increasing again.
Let him repeat, he's a robot. He really, truly, should not be feeling any of this. Not even a shred. But, again, he is. He's aware of all this, somehow. Maybe he glitched. His voice clearly was, what with all the different tones he could form - admittedly by accident, more often than not - while Hangry and Penny were left with their base voice systems. Hell could freeze over irreversibly, and then become the holy lord's penthouse suite, before he admitted it was an error. It just wasn’t a needed bit of information. If anything, it made him seem more intimidating, even if it was just a glitch. On that thread of thought, maybe it had spread to his other circuits? But that's wrong. Right? It has to be. There's no way it operates like that. Again, he's a machine. A vocal malfunction shouldn't make his body become receptive to pain, right? That can't be how it works.
Well, it’s not like he has all the time in the world to figure that out.
He could tell what was happening around him. The large, robust metallic claws beginning to compress in on his body, intent on breaking down his insides into nothing more than meshed up scraps. At least, that’s his most confident guess on the situation. He'd never had a proper thought about what it ever felt like, from a mortal's perspective, to have something much stronger than yourself grasp your midsection and squeeze until nothing was left operational. To squish every last bit inside until there was nothing left to crush, no large new noises with any new squish. It was only ever more of an experimental method in the aftermath of death than an actual way to go out, but it'd be a bald-faced lie to say he never did it himself.
Okay, maybe it was enough of a lie to say he'd never done it to end a mortal's life. But it wasn't anywhere near as common as many other methods. Mainly due to how long it took. It’d be inefficient - and just a time-waster - to use that method every time a mortal had to be executed. Maybe he’d have done it to fuck around with Malak, if he ever felt like taking that much of a risk. But he can’t recall a situation like that ever happening.
Was this just a reversal of that scenario? Was Malak just fucking around with him? Is that why he can feel all this? Did he somehow mess up?
No, no that can't be it. He'd always been a great follower of Malak. Hell, the comments other monsters make about his devout obedience to Malak confirms it even more. He's always, always followed Malak's command to the best extent of his ability. He didn't gain the title of never losing out of pure pride, though that had been a grand amount of fuel keeping it going. Even he'd admit that!
Okay, maybe after a while he'd admit it. But he'd not messed something up bad enough to warrant this, right? Surely he'd know? Surely he'd have realised in the process that he'd done something wrong? He wasn't stupid! Malak hadn't even given him explicit orders that he could currently remember!
... Maybe he’d forgotten it.
No. He wouldn't have forgotten something like that. He'd have mentioned the task to someone, mainly to drag them into doing it. Hell, he’d probably even got it done on his own. He wouldn't have been able to not think about it until he got the task done. Either out of devotion, or something else in his system, or an extra part of his circuits that he wasn't aware of.
Speaking of his circuits, he can feel them starting to crumble. Maybe not direct circuit-crumbling, but definitely damage to his internal operating system. Every little dent sent brief shivers and even jolts of unease through his body, an ever-constant reminder of just what he'd gotten himself stuck in. Then there were the breaks, the substantial damage to his internal operating system, since dents were just something that could be brushed off. Dents were more of a surface level 'injury' than anything remotely serious. Incidents that were more of a marker than anything that posed a threat to operation. Breaks were more hazardous, instances that sent involuntary volts up his system in a hardwired attempt to alert the robot of the damage, regardless of whether the robot had already expected the damage or not. Such was the case here, each snap and crack followed by several loud expletives from the rabbit's mouth.
Being a rabbit wasn't just for show, or maybe it was. Maybe it was just an extra little bit of salt in the wound, having such good hearing which allowed him to hear the such ‘good’ damage going on internally. God, the nurses would have a field day if they could see what was now the cracked state of his insides. Or would they just leave him upon first sighting? Claiming there's nothing they can do?
Would that even be a lie?
He swears his endoskeleton has been bent inwards to the point that it's lost at least a quarter of its original size by now.
And yet, with one more sure movement, the claws crushed more, contracting suddenly and making the unclear damage more audible. He'd never admit to the scream that came out of his vocal processors as it happened. That scream even surprised himself, unaware he could even make such a sound. It was loud, yes, but what else is expected? The damage had gone from a quarter to a half in the blink of an eye, how else was he meant to react?
But that didn't mean he had to be okay with it. He’s Lucky the Rabbit. An animatronic hare that never loses. By proxy, he shouldn’t even be able to scream. There’d never be a need for it.
As a result, he’d still never admit to screaming like that.
Not even to Hangry or Penny.
Hangry and Penny.
God, what would they think?
Do they even know he's here? Are they looking for him now, wondering where he's vanished off to?
... Would they even bother?
He’s never exactly been the definition of ‘nice’, but who really was kind, in the likes of here? They’re all down in hell, or at least a fraction of it. Anything kind was either a joke or a ploy to lure an unsuspecting victim to their doom. There isn’t a need for anything nice. Hangry has his ravenous appetite, an attribute that brings death without anything else required to spur the hog on to murder. Penny has her obsession with mortals, a personality trait gained from a fascination with the new, a byproduct of habitat, her own method of luring flesh-sacks to their eternal doom, or… she actually liked the humans. She actually likes the beings that practically run around and steal everything they’ve earned, somehow.
Hangry would be fine with operating the theme park’s maze alongside Penny if Lucky wasn’t there, he was only kept down below to space things out and keep more walls from breaking down. That, and he hates the little Joy Joy Ditty. Lucky took great care to never forget that part. Penny would probably be glad to be allowed to hunt in research and development, having a second chance at a running chase after a mortal. She may not be able to fly, but she’d surely adapt.
They both would.
No, what's he thinking? Of course they'd look for him. He's in charge. Any team searches for its leader. They wouldn't leave him. They couldn't abandon him, they wouldn’t have a choice. Someone will notice. It’d be impossible for everyone to not notice. Even the damn Monkeys would indicate towards it in some way. Hell, Bierce would make some sort of half-assed comment directly at his expense if he didn’t pop up.
They have to look for him. They just... have to. He isn't left down here, he can’t be. He'll be found. He'll be found and then he can explain that this was just a slip-up. An accident. A one-time error. He’ll be fixed, and then it'll all go back to how it was before. They can all just forget about this, and it won’t ever need to be brought up again.
Someone will notice he's gone, then they'll have to look for him.
But they’re already looking for him, so there’s no need for him to worry about a ‘have to look’ situation.
Why was he even worried about that? Hangry and Penny will look for him as soon as he’s found to be missing. They’re more considerate than he ever could be. He doesn’t even need to think about how that part could fail, because it wouldn’t. It couldn’t. He can think about something else.
For example, the oil felt warm. Well, that's not a big surprise. He's being crushed on the inside, it's a no-brainer that the oil would start to leak out and stain everything. Well, probably stain everything. He can't exactly check. But, he can make what he assumes are multiple accurate guesses, based on common sense and where he feels the increase in temperature. But even then, that may be faulty too. He’s already got a glitchy voice box, so why not chuck more faults onto the pile?
Or maybe it wasn't. Does pain usually cause an increase in temperature? He can’t make educated guesses on the matter, since he’s never really been educated on it. Even adding on to the fact that he wouldn't know the exact answer anyways. Since, y'know, he's still not really alive.
Or was he alive as soon as he gained free thought?
Did it even count?
What a time to be debating the matter of free will, right?
Well, it’s not as if he got snatched out of his thoughts this time. Nothing made the effort to even attempt doing so, surprisingly. Which… was good. It stopped, at least for now. Yes, his endoskeleton was still half-destroyed, and yes, his outer felt cover was stained with the heated oil that bled out from his systems, oil that was probably dripping through tears in his ‘skin’, or through the felt itself. But Lucky didn’t believe he’d be surprised by either answer.
Now would be a fantastic time for him to try, say, pulling himself out of the massive metallic talons hold, then shambling out to another area of the building where he’d eventually be found and fixed. Or, maybe he could press a button conveniently located nearby, just within arms reach, making this yet another situation where his luck bails him out of a less than ideal situation. But as much as it metaphorically pains him to acknowledge it, that wasn’t the case here. There was no way for him to haul himself out of this (at least without potentially ripping himself in two), and there was no miraculously placed button just within arms reach that could make all of this stop.
He was stuck here.
Him, and the colossal, resounding claws that had decided, ‘this one, let's mess around with this one’.
What could he even do about it? He can yell, sure, but would anyone notice? He knows he’s still down in Mascot Mayhem, his own realm, but the actuality of where exactly he was… now that was a bit less known right now. So yelling out may just lead to a weaker power supply than anything showing up to assist him in this dire time of need. Even thinking about the fact he needed help felt... weird.
So what else was there to do? Stay here and hope for the best?
What use does hoping even have?
Fuck, he was not going down that philosophical road today. He already stopped himself at free will, he didn’t need to burrow his mind in the idea of hope when he was already buried deep in the level of shit going on right now. Maybe another time when he needed a distraction from anyone droning on about a topic.
If there ever even was another time.
“Commencing removal of scrap interior, please hold still for the duration of the extraction process.”
The fucking what?
“ H E y?! F aIR L y sU r E I ’M S TIL L F UCkIn G O Per A TI O N al H E RE !? ” The rabbit screamed out, his voice straining over his words. Great, his voicebox has gotten worse in the meantime. Just kick him in his nonexistent dick too, why not? And yes, he did just make the decision not to try screaming out words, but that was before the new information was announced. So, if anyone was going to watch on the security feed, he has new, more important priorities on his mind now.
“Please hold still for the duration of the extraction process.” the automated voice responded, just as monotone as ever. In any other situation, Lucky was sure he would’ve admired it.
“Di D’ j A H EA R M E ?! I’ M S tI ll Op ERa TI n’ He R E ! I ’M N Ot S cRA P!” he once again screeched, trying to somehow alert the automated voice to his presence. If it could just register he was here, register that he was still operable, surely it would cease. He’s not scrap, he doesn’t need anything to be extracted from inside of him. Lucky’s greatly sure inside’s already had enough damage, in fact, enough damage for the rest of his existence, “F uCK InG LIs tE n T O M E! I’ m LU CK Y T hE fUc K I NG R ABB IT! D ON ’T G OD AM N S CR AP M E! ” He didn’t think he could have ever sounded so… desperate?
Yeah, desperate! He was desperate! He’s alone, and has been crushed inwardly by metal clamps, and is now about to have an extraction, while he can feel it all!
.
Was this it?
Was this how he was going to go?
Pulverised from the inside out?
“LiSTeN TO ME!” another scream, more chittery than the last, and maybe even more raw. Please, please, please, he can’t be decommissioned here. He was meant to be found. He was meant to be found and then he could leave and crack a few jokes about this after he’s all repaired. He could go back and once again call out how stupid it was for the Reaper Nurses to label their injections as shots, yelling all sorts of impulsive remarks until he felt satisfied. He could go and check if there actually was a labelled diagram of anatomy in his files and code, maybe even have a gang meeting where they all just toss around fun new ideas on how to kill mortals.
Hell, just have a fun conversation with Hangry and Penny.
Actually, forget that part, it didn’t have to be fun, they could just talk. Hangry could occasionally interject with a ramble about food, Penny doing the same for whatever new topic she saw fit to discuss. He would normally steer the conversation back towards the topic at hand, but he didn’t care for a topic this time. He just wanted to talk to them. Maybe not even talk, just listen to them speak and whatever weird-ass things they had to say. He’s been horrible at that part, hasn’t he? Care wasn’t ever his strong suit, he’s aware, he just - funnily enough - never cared to change it. It wasn’t as if there was anything he could do about that part now, though. So, the thought would have to count for something.
Hangry and Penny would manage without him, right? Sure, they could try getting another clone active with his personality, but it wouldn’t be him. It’d have to learn everything he’s had to learn, since he doesn’t believe it’d be likely anyone would find enough of his code to save. The replacement would be just that: a replacement for what was now gone. It’d be a blank slate. A placeholder. A reminder. Hangry and Penny wouldn’t have a crude, speed-boosting rabbit running around like before. But they aren’t stupid. They’re weird as shit, and yes, he may say that to their faces, but they aren’t completely bumbling idiots. Hangry can be involved in the theme park maze, and Penny can get involved in research and development.
They’d be fine. They can keep the mortal slaughtering going without him, he’s sure of it. They’ll manage.
They’ll do just fine.
“Extraction prepared. Please standby, and hold still, for the procedure.”
No, please- please no. He’s going to be fully aware for this, isn’t he? Not turning offline, not even a new sleep mode? Nothing?
Oh, this was going to hurt like a bitch.
But, just because he acknowledged something, it never meant that he immediately liked it.
“nO PLEASE-” was the instinctual response the rabbit gave, screaming with all he had left to give as the horror fully enveloped his fractured circuits.
The machine moved swiftly, embedding the hook of it’s new, yet slightly smaller claw deep into the animatronics lower midsection, announcing it’s presence by a swift, yet nauseating crunch sound. The oil that was once leaking out now flowed, drenching the penetrated area of the endoskeleton and felt, whilst soaking parts of the lifeless hook that was left exposed out of Lucky’s body. If his innards had already felt crushed, then this was just a blow to confirm it. Every part of his chest felt like it was molten, with any other limb feeling immobile at its worst, and just currently immoveable from shock at the least. Then, like every other instance of this predicament, it proceeded to get worse.
The hook moved up, dragging his interior parts with it.
Lucky howled, instinctively moving his arms the best he could to try doing something, anything about the impending scythe drawing further up his chest. Ending up in a weak and rather pathetic attempt at pushing the hooked metal extractor with his own weakened strength.
Strength that just didn’t quite make the cut.
With one final snag, the hook lurched up again, finding a resting spot right in the center of Lucky’s upper chest.
It was at this precise moment that Lucky’s operating systems began to fail, red glitches and text boxes appearing in his vision displaying facts and figures he was already well aware of. Just how much energy he had left, his current location - huh, he was somewhere down in the production facility - and the dwindling time he has left. Raw, heated oil spewed out of his torn open frame, drenching and staining anything it managed to get into contact with. From more of his insides, to the felt, to the hook, and most likely the floor, too. Wherever that just so happened to be.
As the hooked mechanism began to recede, Lucky heard all the snaps and tears that accompanied it, most of his meshed up endoskeleton beginning to be drawn outside of his frame as part of the extraction process.
Alive or not, he could feel it.
He could feel it all.
Right up until his operators fell offline, the luckiest being in hell falling limp as the hook continued to recede out of the broken clump formally known as the endoskeleton.