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Her damaged joints make an uncomfortable sound as Roxy stops dead in the middle of the bathroom, the creak resounding in the empty space. Water drips from a broken tap, falling onto the filthy tile below from a hole in the sink. Without her eyes, her vision is blurry and dim, but she recognises where she is when her gnarled hand grazes the door of a cubicle and it groans open. She never liked venturing into the bathrooms, really; it was always a place where the humans did their gross stuff - and besides, it was off-limits to the Glamrocks, anyway. Not that she was ever envious of the S.T.A.F.F. bots that had to traipse in and out with mops and buckets, and plain appearances. She had always looked down on them, before. For not being as pretty as her. Now…
Roxy shakes her head, snapping herself away from the past with a low growl. With the last of her vision, she scouts the room out, sniffing the air tentatively. It’s repulsing; though her sensors are slowly dying with disrepair, she can still smell the odor of rotting trash and molding pizza. How can it still smell like pizza in a bathroom? Who would eat pizza in a bathroom?
Roxy answers herself rather quickly. Chica would. Chica would eat pizza in a bathroom. If she could still smile, Roxanne would; her head tilts with a few mechanical clicks, and the motors for her long-gone tail move fruitlessly as if she wants to wag it. Surely Chica is still here somewhere, digging in the trash for food that has long gone bad. Would she be upset with Roxy for hiding away for so long? Would she have missed her? Roxy certainly hopes so.
Seeing Cassie again ignited a fire to search for her friend-
Roxy shakes her head again.
No, not friend, not quite; they were always something more, weren't they? Exchanging loaded glances at each other between songs on stage, lingering a little too long in each other’s doorway, gentle touches of metal on metal that have never felt so soft. Chica seemed to understand her, in a way none of the others ever did. Monty had the attitude of a foul teenager, and Freddy was always more like an overbearing parent than a friend, but Chica…
Roxy takes another step forwards, and the smell grows stronger. Hesitantly, she calls out, “...Chica?”
Silence is her only response. Of course. Since Cassie, Roxy has been searching for Chica, hesitant and uncertain, hoping she still roams the place, praying to open the door and hear the sounds of trash cans tipping over and footfall through the garbage. It might have grossed her out, if her paint were still pristine. She never cared that Chica had such an insatiable hunger, as long as it never got on her - but now, she’d drag her tired feet through miles of trash just to find her. If she was going to be hideous, she’d be hideous for her.
A familiar wave of fear rocks through her servos. Chica wouldn't find her beautiful like this, would she? Would she turn her away? Would she still-
Roxanne grips her head in sharp, mangled claws, her voice box letting out a grating noise of despair. No, she didn't want Chica to see her like this, not ever. She wanted to be pretty for her, for Chica to look at her and get shy the way she did, for her eyes to glance away and then back at her as if she couldn't get enough of gazing at her. Like she used to.
Another wave of fear rips through her, and her frame shudders with the force of holding back an outburst that would destroy the bathroom in its entirety. No, focus. Find Chica.
“F-find Chica,” her voice box garbles, and she takes another step.
Her foot hits something solid, and she tenses, looking around. Nothing. But the sound was metallic and empty, and she hears it again when she tries to turn. She looks down then, irritated, frustrated with her lack of vision, frustrated with how she looks, frustrated that she’s scoured the run-down Pizzaplex and still come up empty-handed. Frustrated that the one who did this to her got away.
She can’t see well enough to make out the object blocking her path, but she can see the colours, and a vague shape, and she follows the line it creates up to something vaguely pink slumped against the wall. The smell of trash is the strongest here, though it’s muted through her damaged receptors, and Roxy tries to squint before remembering she lost that ability with her eyes. Her fingers twitch, a sudden fear lacing up her wires, and she has to check. She has to.
“Chica?” she tries, kneeling a little to feel along a ridge of broken metal. The sharp edges scrape against her exposed endoskeletal hand, and she’d wince if she didn't already know how disgusting her hands looked. How disgusting she looks.
Focus. Find Chica.
She shifts closer, leaning until her vision is just a smidge clearer. Her hands follow the line of whatever she’s tracing, and she’s fighting with herself not to jump to ridiculous conclusions. Her fingers find what might be a knee, and she recoils as though it burns her to touch. If she had a heart, it would be racing. “Chica,” she tries again, interrupted by a burst of static. “Are you there?”
Silence again. Another icy stab of fear that Roxanne tries to ward off, insisting to herself she must be finally losing her mind. How ugly and deranged she must look, crouched down in a dingy public bathroom, feeling around blindly on a- a broken sink, maybe, or a well-placed pile of debris.
Roxy was never good at lying, even to herself. Especially to herself.
She shakes off another tidal crest of emotion that threatens to take her under. Focus, she repeats in her head, her joints locking up. Find Chica.
Tentatively, she reaches her hand back out, feeling around until she feels what could be a waist under her touch, and she snatches her hands back again, starting to tremble. No, it’s not… it wouldn't be. Would it? Roxy tries again, elbows almost locking up when she grazes a shoulder, the remains of a torn-off arm, and then her hands are cradling a familiar face, and the realization hits her too quickly and too hard, and if she had lungs, they’d be empty. Humans call it whiplash, and she thinks she understands. Her hands twitch as her vision makes out the vague shape and colours of her dearest friend, slumped lifelessly against a pile of trash, and it feels as though the floor has suddenly been ripped out from under her.
It takes several attempts to get her voicebox to work, spitting out garbled white noise in the shape of Chica’s name before she can get a hold on it. “Wake up,” she says, trying to force a commanding tone into her voice. It fails miserably, despair leaking into her tone. “We can- I’ll get you to a recharge station. I’ll-”
The nearest recharge station is broken, Roxy recalls. So are the next few recharge stations. Either powered down, disconnected, or destroyed entirely, and Roxanne growls under her breath as she tries to wrack her memory for the last working station she passed.
It doesn't matter. She’ll find one.
Cautious of Chica’s broken parts, Roxanne gathers the smaller animatronic into her arms. There’s little time to feel grateful to still have the use of both of her arms, because her metaphorical heart sinks at how frail Chica feels in her grasp. Her head hangs limp, several holes in her body leaking a mixture of rotten garbage and snapped wires, and Roxy can’t bring herself to care when something oozes uncomfortably against her chassis. She lets out a quiet whine, and something painful builds up in her chest, a grief that’s been unshakable since that night. Things will never be the same. Roxy won’t ever get to look at Chica behind Freddy’s back and wink, won’t ever get to see her cute reactions, won’t ever get to stroll across the Plex together with little care for the people around them. There won’t be any more late night visits to each other’s room, talking until the sun comes up and they’re called away, both getting chastised for being low power despite having all night to recharge.
Roxy hunches over slightly, clutching Chica to her chest as a painful sob wracks her body. Her body, that shouldn't have the ability to cry, shakes with the effort of holding back another terrible wail, machinery grinding as she buries her face in the crook of Chica’s neck. Her voice is muffled when she speaks. “How am I sup-supposed to look at you without-out eyes?” she says, pressing her broken face against Chica’s shoulder. “That’s what- that’s what they were ma-made for.”
She stays like this for a moment longer, clutching Chica’s lifeless body to her chest, gathering herself enough until she finds the strength to hold back metaphorical tears and leave the bathroom. Her steps are uncertain and unsteady, but she’s careful with her precious cargo, shifting until Chica’s head lays against Roxy’s chest, cradled as though she were made of porcelain and not cracked metal.
The Pizzaplex is a blur as she passes through it, both due to her lack of working vision and her mind drifting elsewhere. She wonders if Chica would have let her carry her like this before. If Chica would have giggled, wrapping her arms around Roxy’s neck as the wolf promises with all her metal heart never to drop her. She wonders if Chica would have let her kiss her, at least on her head, if she would have looked at her with wide eyes or if she’d have brushed it off with a cheery smile. She wonders if Chica ever knew that Roxy only ever really wanted to be beautiful for her.
The thought that she might never know is uniquely devastating, and Roxy chases away thoughts that run heavy with fear as she rounds a corner and finally catches a glimpse of the familiar red blur of a recharge station. Her eyes might not work, but her ears certainly do, and they twitch as they pick up on the hum of the machine. It’s a working one, and Roxy has never been so relieved.
There’s a glimmer of hope as she kicks open the door and carefully lowers Chica into the glowing chamber. She sits uncomfortably against the walls, and Roxy has to blindly adjust her until she seems somewhat okay, slumped in the confines of the narrow box, and it feels wrong to let go, to step back and close the door, but she does. The door shuts between them, and all Roxy can do is wait. And wait.
How long does recharging take, usually? She’s not sure, and she can't see Chica through the tall window of the station, hoping she’ll simply bounce to her feet and open the door of her own accord when she’s awake. If she even-
Roxy shakes her head harshly, resisting a strong urge to grip her head again and growl. No, she can’t think like that. Chica would be upset with her if she started thinking such terrible thoughts. Chica would… she’d come out of the station and tell her off, tell her to think positively, to stop frowning so hard. And then… then they’d hug each other, so desperately it might break each other’s fragile casing, though they wouldn't care if it meant being closer. They’d talk all night, and…
Roxy jolts herself out of a stupor, realizing her arms are open to encircle nothing, and she clenches her fists and whips around to stare at the blur of red that stays motionless though she begs for movement. Silently begs to see the door swing open, for someone to step out, but nothing happens. She growls again, frustration and terror lacing together in one haunting noise. There’s the violent urge to hit something, to crash through the wall and destroy this place even further, but she has to hold herself together. For Chica, she has to.
Five minutes pass.
Twenty minutes.
Half an hour.
An hour.
Roxy paces the room, kicking bits of debris across the floor in frustration. It has to have worked by now. They never used to take this long to charge, did they?
Another ten minutes.
She punches the wall in fury, tangled emotions that make her wires burn, and something in the metal of her hand snaps. She doesn't care.
Another twenty minutes.
It would've worked by now. Wouldn't it? If it was going to work, it would have by now.
Roxy kneels in front of the recharge station the way a human would kneel before a deity, except there's nothing holy about the guttural sound of grief that rips from her voice box. If she doesn't open the door, maybe there’s still time, still plausible deniability. Maybe if she waits long enough, Chica will come and save her from this helpless agony, this pain that sparks from her broken parts like a dying fire. If she doesn't open the door, she can pretend Chica just needs a little longer to come online.
She spends a long moment there, on her knees in front of what feels like Chica’s tomb, shaking and yet still hoping to hear the door swing open. Still hoping to be wrong.
Slowly, Roxy gets to her feet, the space filling with the grating sound of broken metal pieces grinding against each other. She doesn't want to open the door, but some part of her knows that waiting is futile. Chica isn't charging. There’s the feeling of defeat when she finally opens the door, like her last hope had been snuffed, a helplessness that makes her want to burn this place until there’s nothing left. She shakes when she sees the blurry outline of her friend, unmoved from where Roxy carefully placed her, and Roxy, her last hope shattered, buckles under the weight of her pain.
Limbs shaking and creaking with effort, she pulls the unresponsive Chica out of the chamber and into her lap. “Chica,” she tries, between the static that her voice box emits, “you have to wake- wake up. Tell me what-at you ne-need. I’ll do it. Whatever-ever you need to- to fix this. I’ll do any-anything.” Her voice glitches terribly, a heartbroken cry building up in her chest as her best friend remains silent. Roxy’s shoulders shake, and her body curls around Chica’s, face pressed to her chest as Roxy’s hope dies and she wails.
It’s a terrible sound, one that can be heard across the Plex, a scream of anguish that splits Roxy’s metal heart in half. She cradles the broken body in her arms, unable to contain the misery that threatens to fry her circuits - and though not a single tear is shed, Roxy has never cried so hard in her life. There’s no telling how much time passes like this; a lone wolf and her flightless bird, sentenced to rot away together in their abandoned home. Roxy’s sobs carry on into the hours, until they fade to a heavy silence, and she’s left exhausted and empty, mind drifting elsewhere as she sits with her first and only love in her hold.
Every memory that plays in her mind is now laced with grief.
Still, there’s something to be said about dissociating into the past when your present is too painful to behold, and Roxy gladly slips away into memories.
She recalls the nights spent sneaking away into other parts of the Plex, usually at Chica’s insistence, to do something silly like bowling or karaoke. One time, Roxy finally convinced Chica to a race in her Raceway (and of course Roxy won), and was subsequently subjected to Mazercise. Roxy swore up and down she’d never go in it again after she got lost and resorted to tearing down the walls to get out. Chica might have found that hilarious, but management certainly didn't.
One time, they found themselves on the dance floor with the DJ, and Chica pulled her into a dance that made her head spin. There was no doubt Roxy was excellent at dancing, too, and if there was a mirror nearby, she would have admired herself doing it - but as there wasn't, her gaze fell on Chica instead. She looked so happy, an upbeat tune taking her across the dance floor, and Roxy simply followed, with half a mind to take her into a spin she wouldn't soon forget. Chica’s hand reached out for hers with a carefree laugh, and they held on tight as the music took them somewhere else. Somewhere far from the constraints of the Pizzaplex, somewhere they were free to be themselves without worry. A security guard caught them not long after, and threatened to put them on low power mode if they didn’t resume patrols, and Roxy barely held herself back from ripping his head off.
Not long after that night, Chica wandered into her room after hours, bringing her guitar with an excuse of needing Roxy’s help to tune it. What a lie; Chica knew fine and well how to tune her own guitar, and Roxy didn't have the first clue. But Roxy’s ears perked and all she heard was that she was needed for something; of course she was, she was the best, after all. She told Chica as much with a flip of her hair, tail wagging behind her, insisting there was no-one better to come to for aid. The smile Chica gave her made her fans kick into gear, and Roxy could only look away.
The night went on, and Chica just… never left. She never minded when Roxy spent too long at the mirror, inspecting her face for chipped paint, adjusting the stripe of green hair to sit just right, fidgeting with the hoops on her ears. Chica just made herself at home, draped across the sofa with a plush of Roxanne herself in her lap, and the sight made the animatronic wolf a little too warm for comfort.
There was a conversation they had that night… Roxy’s memory files are damaged, but she pieces together the fragments as she leans back against the wall. How had it started, again? Ah, right.
“I need a new paint job,” Roxy had announced, on her fourth trip to the vanity in the last hour. “I need to look perfect for the show tomorrow.”
“You look perfect to me,” Chica piped up, chipper as she always was.
Roxy glowed with the praise, eyelashes fluttering. “You’re right,” she said, putting a hand to her hip. “I am perfect.”
Chica giggled, and the sound made Roxy’s metal heart squeeze. “You worry too much! You look good enough to eat, y’know?”
Roxy finally pulled herself away from her mirror, crossing the room to sit beside her friend on the sofa. “How does every conversation with you always lead back to food?” She tilted her head, an amused glimmer in her eyes. Truly, she was surprised Chica hadn't slipped away already to scrounge the kitchens for leftover pizza and trashed food, the way she always did. Roxy voiced as much, turning to Chica with a raised brow. “I thought you’d be hungry by now, anyway. Just couldn't get enough of my presence?”
Chica’s reaction was… odd. She shifted in her seat, looking away, and Roxy’s sharp ears picked up on the sound of her friend’s internal fans starting to whir. “Well,” she started, fidgeting with the plush in her hands, “I wanted to talk to you. I was going to ask you something.”
“Go on,” Roxy said, leaning back against the cushions. Her optics zeroed in on Chica’s hands, watching her idly stroke the fabric hair of the plush Roxanne. Roxy was struck with a sudden desire for those hands on her hair, and an irritation rose when Chica’s attention stayed on the soft toy. What did a plush have that she didn't, anyway? Roxy opened her mouth, fully intending to put her foot in it with something stupid along the lines of why are you looking at that thing, you should be looking at me, but Chica mercifully interrupted her before she could get a word out.
“Do you think we’re capable of love?”
Roxy blinked, eyes finally snapping back up to Chica’s face. “What?”
“I mean-” Chica fumbled, fans whirring louder and her hands squeezing around the plush. “Like, romantically! Like, kissing and stuff. We weren't programmed with it, but… we weren't programmed with a lot of things, and we still do them!”
Roxy had to mull it over for a moment. What Chica said was true; Roxy wasn't programmed with insecurity, but it ripped her to shreds every day nonetheless. Chica wasn't programmed with an unending hunger, but it didn't stop the animatronic from pilfering food from the kitchens at every opportunity. Montgomery certainly wasn't programmed to rip his own room apart in constant fits of rage, but Roxy could still hear him faintly through the walls, she could see the outline of his furious body with her upgraded vision if she cared to look. Usually, she didn't.
So, if that was the case, if they could feel things they were never programmed to feel, then love was surely in the cards for them. Deterred by the strict rules set by management and handlers, Roxy never really gave it thought. As long as she was loved by others, she was fine to stay perfectly in her lane.
But with Chica’s sweet eyes finally meeting hers, she felt another pull to step over an invisible line drawn by the ones who made her. “...Yeah,” she said, finally speaking. “I mean, whatever was going on between Freddy and Bonnie was not platonic.” Her maw made a semblance of a smirk, sharp teeth catching the neon light. “I don’t think we were ever supposed to feel this much.”
Chica leant closer, straightening a little. “Right? I just- shouldn't we get to live and love as we want to? I want to.”
Roxy’s hand inched closer, and she’d sit up if she didn't fear it would make her look uncool, and- and desperate. She felt a little desperate. “I think we should get to. They can't boss us around forever.” She wanted badly to ask the pressing questions, clamping her maw shut before she really put her foot in it; what made you ask this? Do you love someone? Who? Why not me? It should be me. Love me. Tell me you love me.
Chica nodded, shifting until her knee touched Roxy’s with a metallic sound. “Yeah! They’re bad at bossing us around, anyway!” Her eyes made that little movement that always made her look like she was smiling, and Roxy couldn't look away.
Unbeknownst to each other, their thoughts were a near perfect mirror.
Would they decommission me if they knew? Would they send me to Parts and Services, rewire me until I’m no longer ‘defective’ with feeling?
…If I told her I wanted her to kiss me, would she do it?
The conversation petered out into idle chatter, but they remained on the sofa until dawn, inching closer until the space between them was less than a poor excuse to be near to one another. Roxy itched with a pull to do something, break the odd tension that had settled in the air, press closer until Chica could only look at her, but the moment had passed and she could do little more than search for an excuse to bare her heart. The morning came with the six am reminder flashing up on their HUD, and they both left to recharge, laughing about losing track of time yet again. Roxy was left with a hunger she couldn't name, but she thought Chica might have been alarmingly close with the word love.
Something clatters in the room, and Roxy is pulled back to the present with a start. She lifts her head, scanning the room blindly, and she’d bare her teeth if she still had a maw full of fangs. A low growl rumbles from her throat, threatening anything that might come near her and Chica, a warning of claws and metal and fury. Silence is her answer, and her ears prick, sensors on alert, but all she hears is the skittering of a rat and the growl fades to a whine.
She should have kissed Chica then. It would have been clumsy and foolish, but she should have done it anyway. She should have bared her heart, thrown caution to the wind, and maybe… just maybe, this might not have been the end for them.
Roxy whines again, feeling a familiar anger bubble below the surface. This all started with that boy. He did this to Chica. He did this to her. He did this to all of them, and he deserves to pay for what he did. She should rip him to pieces, she should claw his face into ribbons and leave him to roam the streets a half-dead corpse. Like her.
Her rage only subsides when she realises she’s digging her claws into Chica’s chassis, and she relaxes her grip with a frantic apology, smoothing over the faint marks with a hand that makes a grating sound on Chica’s marred body. Roxy shifts her grip, blindly pulling Chica into what she hopes is a more comfortable position. “Ch-Chica,” she starts, pausing briefly as a low power warning flashes in her HUD. “Do you re-remember when you beat me at golf? I was so upset I didn't talk to you all day.” Her throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m sorry I never apologised for ignoring you. You ca-can beat me at anything you want. Even in the Raceway. Just once though,” she says, “I’ll le-let you win. Just once.”
It’s quiet, but she likes to think Chica wouldn't beat her at Roxy’s own attraction even if Roxy went easy on her. If she woke up, however, Roxy would let her do just about anything.
“Do you remember-er when you asked me if we were capable of love?” Roxy’s head falls back against the wall. She wonders if she should get up, recharge, refuel her rage for the one who burnt this place down and tear him to pieces. She doesn't move. How is she supposed to leave Chica all by herself? “I think I know ho-how to answer your question now.”
Her HUD flashes again, more insistently, a red warning in the blackness of her vision telling her she’s used up the dregs of her fuel at long last.
“We have to be able to love, because you lov-love me, right? Tell me you love me.” Roxanne’s body gives an involuntary twitch. Metal grinds on metal, a hollow sound. A final desperation surges through her wires, and she clutches Chica’s body tighter to herself as she begs helplessly, “tell me you love me. Please.”
The room falls silent, then, and this time it stays that way. And if anyone were to walk through the ruins of the abandoned Pizzaplex, perhaps they’d stop at the pair of broken and powered-down animatronics curled together in the corner of the room.
Perhaps they’d shudder and keep walking, or perhaps they’d try to drag the animatronics away to salvage for parts, flashlight illuminating a mess of tangled wires and damaged metal limbs. If they did, they’d find themselves at a loss; the way the dormant wolf would refuse to let go, even in a state akin to death, claws attached to the smaller animatronic in a vice-like grip that yielded for no-one.
The sun sets outside, though neither would see its glow, unseeing eyes only greeted by the fall of dust and the scurry of vermin through the place they once called home.
And yet, in the violent destruction left behind, there’s a tenderness to the way they curl in on each other, as though taking a nap, as though in all their hideous broken parts and sharp edges, they alone found a beauty that can’t be replicated in a vanity mirror. Roxanne Wolf would never be beautiful again. But neither would she ever be alone.