Work Text:
Driving like an absolute maniac, Arnold swerved his work van across the lonely country highway, trying desperately to knock off the swarm of mechanical...things that had launched themselves onto the vehicle moments after he had dived into the refuge of the cab, punching down the door lock in a panic behind him. In his rearview mirror, plumes of smoke and flames arose from Murray’s Costume Manor, but he paid the building little heed, focusing far more on keeping the gas pedal pressed firmly to the van’s floorboards with his steel-toed work boot.
He had fled that doomed place like a bat out of hell, and now his chances of dying in a highway crash were looking rather good. The Fazbear Entertainment technician was forced to crane his neck to even see ahead of his truck, as one robot was stubbornly clinging to his windshield like a daddy long-legs might poise itself on a window pane. Its spindly limbs ineffectively punched at the glass, and Arnold fixed it with a resentful glower. The damned thing looked like a kid’s attempt to build a homemade robot in his parents’ basement to impress all his friends, only this one was very much animated, not to mention as homicidal as the M2 model that had relentlessly pursued him throughout the Manor. All of the robots covering his van like out-of-control lampreys were haphazardly built, with odd numbers of eyes in strange places, as though they had been designed by a child just learning to draw and who was unclear on basic anatomy. His own toddler son had just learned to clasp a crayon in his chubby little hand and had certainly sketched out some Lovecraftian horrors that were supposed to represent animals and people, all of which Arnold proudly stuck to his refrigerator with a magnet.
Oh no...my son! The full reality of his impending doom struck Arnold like a ton of bricks; he was about to die and he would never again get to visit his former wife’s home to admire his son’s latest artwork, stay for a slightly awkward dinner and then watch The Dukes of Hazzard on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn between himself and his child, cheering on their mutual heroes.
...Wait. Arnold’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel with a new determination and his steely eyes glinted with a spark of life, despite his extreme sleep deprivation.
Yee-haw, suckers. Swerving the van violently, he was rewarded with the sight of at least one of the freakish creations becoming dislodged and promptly falling victim underneath the front bumper as it rightfully deserved, but as a technician, he could also tell when a vehicle had become unbalanced. That piece of junk sliced out a tire! he agonized, realizing he was down to three retreads of dubious quality and one rim of exceedingly bad quality.
Trying to keep the truck remotely within the guardrails of the highway, Arnold’s mind flashed back to his late father’s advice. Keep it slow and steady, son. Anything above 65 and you’re just aiming the car, not driving it. Sadly, those instructions hardly applied to his current situation.
Perfect end to a perfect day, the technician thought as his greatest horrors were realized. M2 itself inexplicably leaned over his windshield and promptly smashed it out with a metallic fist. Had the Mimic been along for the ride all along, only to wait until its minions did their worst? The endoskeleton effortlessly seized and twisted the steering wheel from Arnold’s grip...
----
...Everything was on fire around him. Fading in and out of consciousness, Arnold was only vaguely aware when M2 lifted the van with one metallic arm, reached inside and savagely ripped the Data Diver from the belt loop of his coveralls, and left him to his fate. Flames licked around the truck he had worked so hard to pay off.
...No. I did not escape that nuthouse like a bat out of hell only to die in a fire anyway. Arnold’s hands curled into claws, and he inched himself, crablike...backwards into the vehicle. Finding what he was looking for among the spilled contents of the wooden storage cabinets lining the cargo area of the van amidst the intense heat, he lost no time in reversing his course and pitching himself out the front windshield, feeling the jagged glass slice through his work-issued coveralls. Hopefully they were superficial cuts, but he had bigger battles to fight. Oh yeah, they were somehow still on the van, or at least picking themselves off the road.
“Take that, you rummage sale trash!” the technician growled, sending a prototype Mimic flying the moment he pulled the four-way lug wrench from behind himself and promptly clocked the creation with it. Watching the robot’s mismatched parts scatter across both lanes of the highway, he heaved in a deep breath. The thing was only made of an old metal cooler, the type his parents had lugged to every church picnic and family reunion, and it hadn’t stood a chance.
Spinning around painfully when he heard the sound of steps behind him and realizing he had definitely broken some ribs in the crash, Arnold dispatched the other prototype that advanced on him, hopefully to robot hell.
----
“You knew M2 and his pals were gonna come after me; hell, you probably sicced ‘em on me yourself,” the technician growled, leaning over Edwin Murray in the parking lot of the Costume Manor after he had cornered the man. While smoke still rose from the building behind them, he couldn’t help but notice the fire had been extinguished. Maybe its proprietor had installed some type of sprinkler system, although considering the damage to the facility, it had been inefficient at best. He slammed the entrepreneur against the side of the remaining Fazbear Entertainment van in the lot; the same one that the doomed team of technicians sent ahead of him had left in the parking lot, fully expecting to return to it quickly enough. They never had made it back.
“I saw and heard everything,” Arnold said, choking back a sob as the other man’s eyes widened with fear. “You lost everything you ever had, and seeing that playground out back just killed me. You’re not even supposed to be alive; I heard that tape.”
Still pinned against the van, Edwin couldn’t quite meet the impassioned man’s eyes. “I-I somehow managed to reach Nurse Dollie, and she can do first aid.”
“Nice to know, but during my foray into your business, I read the other mailbox memos and listened to the other recordings. You let my friend Ralph suffer a springlock failure and you did nothing to help him. You might’ve even let a guy die in the basement all alone.”
“Ralph?” Despite himself, Edwin snarled in distaste. “You mean the little fink who stole my workers’ names and numbers, as if Henry and William hadn't done enough?” Seconds after he had uttered the insult, he found himself sprawled on the pavement, clutching his jaw where Arnold had decked him.
“Here.” When the man shakily returned to his feet, Arnold shoved a Data Diver into his hands. “You really need this. I wasn’t dumb enough to carry the one with all the blueprints on my hip; it was in the back of the van, charging up. The one he tore off me was one I took off a technician -- a very dead technician -- as a backup and I’m not sure there’s much of anything on it. When M2 returns, and I’m sure he will, this has all the stuff you’ll need to fix him.” He gazed imploringly into Edwin’s eyes for a moment, his anger dissipating. “And I’m sure you’re going to skip town, but please check in with F10-N4 first. She’s still there." I'd skip town too if it was discovered I was living in a facility with at least the dozen corpses I came across, all of them slain at the hands of my creation. That's some twisted serial killer stuff there. At least he could tell his coworkers' families what had happened to them, although that wasn't a task he was looking forward to. He certainly didn't trust management at his workplace to share the news.
"But then...just go. Scram.” Willing himself to calm, the technician turned on his heel and began the long hike back to Fazbear Entertainment. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were watering up over his own situation or Edwin’s, but he was determined to call up his former wife and son as soon as he got home.