Chapter Text
There has been approximately one time in Michael Afton’s life in which he felt safe and loved by his father. In fact, this had been a farce—like most of the things coming out of his father’s mouth were—but the ignorance of childhood had blinded him to this. When this doting nature occurred as rainbows did after a stormy day, Michael Afton immediately (naively) assumed that this would mean a complete and utter one-eighty in his relationship with his father. The bruises and barbs and degradation would cease, and there would only be riches and hugs and songs from then on.
God, what a fool he had been.
The memory flashes before Michael now like lightning through pitch black. He had been just a boy, just about ten years old. Before Charlotte. Before the five children. Before the bite. Before any and all of it, and still, life was awful. His only defense mechanism was to lash out, to instigate, to fight, but all of that could only fail in face of William Afton. If he owned that town, then he was God in the household, and every modicum of air and dirt and beaten child was to bend to his whims. Michael could never fight against that. So, in response to bruises and barbs and degradation, Michael Afton did everything he could to appease his father. He looked down on people, like Dad did; he mocked Evan, like Dad would; he adored Foxy, like Dad adored Bonnie. If Michael looked like Dad, then perhaps he could act like Dad, and then, he would finally not just be free, but safe and loved.
The memory is fleeting. It was born from trauma, and if any other child had been in his place, their defensive mind would immediately negate and block out the memory to prevent any more trauma from occurring. Michael had been in the front yard. He was playing with his Foxy plush (the only things he was ever rewarded with were from the restaurant) in the grass, and it had been a beautiful day.
His father called for him to come inside for dinner. Michael hated family dinners—Mom just sat there, staring; Elizabeth’s whiny voice drove him mad; Evan babbled on and on, crying whenever something didn’t go his way; Dad was Dad—so he had initially ignored the order. Then, Dad’s voice got louder, and fuck, his voice was so scary when it was loud, scary like when Freddy’s voice box once blew out and the animatronic started screeching under the flickering lights. So, Mike had grabbed Foxy, his best friend—really, his only friend, because he didn’t trust those boys in his grade, even the ones that he tormented Evan with—and made his way to the edge of the yard. Then, Dad had appeared in the doorway, a vein bulging out of his head.
Dad didn’t like being ignored.
It is this version of his father that will forever be burned into Mike’s memory. A tall man, clad in a suit, accented by an indigo tie, his brunet hair (so dark it was nearly black) tinged with gray, especially at his temples. His jaw was severe, emphasized by either an ever-present sneer or a condescending smile (soon, a maniacal beaming, a sight Michael would infinitely have nightmares about). It was his eyes, though, that had always startled and captivated Michael. They were gray (gray like the knives that Dad had used to slice open the throats of little, crying, begging children), a sultry silver that immediately demanded obedience and bred complacency. The most startling physical difference between Mike and his father were those eyes. Mike’s were a honey brown, inherited from his mother, and they always reflected the fear that his father insisted.
So, Mike walked backward from the yard and into the road, stumbling over his own two feet, clutching Foxy to his chest. Dad was saying something, his voice and eyes irate, as he marched over to his quivering son. Mike’s heart was beating in his chest, and he had not heard the car barreling down the residential road, had not heard neighbors begging for him to get out of the way—he could only focus on Dad’s angry, always angry, always disappointed glare…
And then, all of his father’s features softened, and the sight brought a smile to Mike’s face. He had quite literally never seen his father appear so warm before. His mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wide, his hands unclenched. The gray eyes reminded Mike more of a soft cloud instead of a sharp, glistening knife. “Dad?” Mike had whispered, because he had always belonged to William Afton, he had never been anything more, and never would be anything more.
Then, Dad had leapt into action, sprinting across the yard and into the street. He jumped forward, tackling Mike and sending the both of them spiraling several feet away. Mike winced as his elbow scraped against the road, and the car that had aimed to hit him had crashed against a light pole, the driver clutching his head as he stumbled out of the car. Mike’s vision was blurry, and the only thing that had kept him from death and from falling back onto the street was his father’s grasp, his strong arms keeping Mike steady. “Michael,” his father had muttered, “are you alright?”
William Afton had never cared if Michael was okay before. Gingerly, sluggishly, disbelieving, like the entire thing had been a dream (which Michael would debate for years and years if it had been a dream, a tiny scar sustained from the event on his left elbow the only proof that it had actually happened), Mike nodded. “I’m o-okay.”
His father pulled away, anxious neighbors yelling all around them, some insisting they call an ambulance, but Mike couldn’t focus on all of that. He could only focus on his father’s kind face, the way his father had saved his life, the way that maybe, this was his father the entire time, and Michael had never been beat or neglected—his father had always been genuine and altruistic. William Afton tilted his head and kindly smiled. “You cannot get away from me like this, Michael.”
Michael would forever repeat the sentiment that his father had spoken for the rest of his life. Initially, it had been welcoming—he could never dodge the safety his father would provide—and then, it had waned into something dark, the genuine meaning revealed: Michael Afton would never escape his father.
Michael realized, after his father killed, that he would never die. Not to anything else. Not to a force that wasn’t William Afton. The man behind the slaughter would never, ever allow it.
Mike thinks of this as the pizzeria burns. Henry’s voice has finished reverberating throughout the establishment, and Mike would cry if he was able at the thought of his beloved uncle succumbing to the flames, surrendering to the tragedy that his closest friend in the world had wrought.
Henry had been right, of course—Michael is ready to die. He is fifty-four, but he feels much older, having been suspended in time decades ago, a corpse that survives only because of Remnant and stubborn determination, because of spite. His body cannot feel a thing other than pain. Thus, the flames that lick toward the ceiling curse him with heat and fire prickling like a million little needles. He holds onto Helpy and holds him close as the vents around him begin to cave with the heat.
He wonders if there are kinder times than this. Times where his father isn’t a psychopath, times where Henry separated himself from him, times when Michael wasn’t a little bastard himself.
Really, Michael knows he deserves this. He deserves this and so, so much more. He deserves this and he deserves Hell and he deserves to never have had a happy memory to latch onto in his pathetic vessel that barely excuses itself as a functioning body. He thinks of this—
“Michael!”
It is his father’s voice. “Just die already,” Mike mutters onto Helpy’s head. His father has been taunting him for the last week, his voice marred by fire and the Springlock suit, but it has never lost its vicious, villainous laugh. Mike has memorized everything his father has said to him, over and over and over again, to the point that Mike can replicate the bastard’s accent and inflection utterly perfectly. “Just leave me alone—”
Mike startles as his father leaps through the vent before it caves entirely. Mike grabs Helpy, knocks over his chair, and makes his way to the door. No way in hell is he letting his father get the last laugh. He will die the way he wants to, dammit, not as the final victim of one William Afton.
Frankly, his father’s new suit looks damn ridiculous. If Dad wasn’t so bloodthirsty, Mike would laugh at the sight (it’s the buck teeth that get him more than anything; Dad looks like a damn cartoon character in comparison to his last menacing springlock suit). Mike heaves, forcing his body to stay together as he lumbers down the hall. “YOU CANNOT GET AWAY FROM ME LIKE THIS, MICHAEL!” his father bellows, the rabbit form creaking, the circuits shrieking as fire begins to conquer it.
Mike can barely see through the flames and the smoke, tumbling into the main play area. The Rockstar animatronics have all melted and been reduced to metallic puddles on the stage (Rest in peace, Mr. Hippo, Michael thinks). He dodges and weaves through the tables, knowing that here, the Funtime robots are dead, Elizabeth has finally let go, Charlotte is at peace with her father, and that the only two bastards left in here are purple-ridden corpses that will forever be plagued by their sins, doomed to Hell, doomed to always fear and despise each other.
His father lumbers into the room. For a moment, his previous form flashes, and he’s there in a suit with the expression of a wolf gracing his face, but it’s just Mike’s fear. He will never quite stop being afraid of his father, no matter how many times he defeats him, how many times he kills him, how many times he stays awake at night, wishing that things had gone different.
His father has never been a human. He thinks of this as the scrap bunny lunges toward him, his bone-arm that has been sharpened to a point jutting out at him. Mike stumbles back, coughing, his body begging for release. “Why can’t you just fucking die?” Mike demands. Candy Cadet is next to him, Midnight Motorist blinking away as it dies to the flames. “Just fucking die already! There’s nothing left for you! There’s nothing left for either of us!”
“O-of c-course t-there is somet-thing l-left, Mike,” his father rasps, the inner machinations of his animatronic failing, his voice box nearly entirely destroyed. The rabbit cracks its head to the side, and yes, Michael understands what his father means:
Henry is the driver, the fire is the car, and the Aftons are still here. William Afton would simply rather have the universe implode than have anyone or anything else be the ender of Michael Afton.
Mike backs up, staggering, his lungs filling with smoke. His father lurches toward him, forcing one animatronic foot in front of the other, his limbs dangling and his machinery screaming. Both of their bodies are pleading for release, but they would never allow it, not while their enemy was still present, still having something resembling a beating heart.
Embarrassingly, Mike has rehearsed the final thing he would say to his father. “This time, you’re not coming back” has been a phrase that he has settled on. It’s badass, he had thought, before ridiculing himself and banging his head against the wall. (Honestly, it simply wasn’t fair that his father has always been suave and narcissistic, because he gets all these great one-liners, and Mike is stuck always running and hiding and denouncing the animatronics in his mind). Now, though, all Mike can do is scream as he’s backed up against the ball pit. “You were supposed to be my father!” he cries, accusingly pointing at the bunny. “You were supposed to protect me, to love me! You were always just a fucking monster!”
If the rabbit could smile, Mike knows it would. “T-takes o-one t-t-to k-know o-one, Mike.”
Michael swallows down his next retort. He gently nods, and he knows Dad is right, because Dad is always right, there has never been a time in which William Afton was wrong and Michael Afton was correct.
Michael has always been a monster. He deserves this punishment. He drops Helpy from his shaking grasp and slowly blinks. “Just fucking get it over with—”
Then, unceremoniously, hilariously, falls backward into the ball pit, the fire scorching around him, animatronics screeching, people dying, and the toy pit is suffocating him, and Mike is crying—
How can I be crying? Mike thinks. He has not physically been able to cry in years.
His father is laughing and taunting him, and a mangled hand grabs Mike’s uniform shirt, and the instinct to live kicks in, and Mike thrashes, and he does what he does best: He lives despite not deserving to or practically being able to.
Mike breathes, and he fights, and he cries, and as he falls deeper into the pit, he realizes that there is no fire: There is darkness.
There is a startling whooshing sound, and Mike snaps his head upward. He thought the darkness was death, but really, it’s just because the lighting isn’t excellent. The streetlight flickers above him, and there’s the stench of garbage emanating from behind him. He pushes himself up by his palms—“Holy fucking shit,” Mike says, examining his hands.
They are no longer marred by fire or tinged purple. They are real hands, human hands, living, breathing hands, strong and tan and, holy crap, he has hair! He has real hair, not a wig, and his nose it there! He lets out a giddy laugh and jumps to hit feet. He feels brand new, like he has been given a second lease of life. After a moment of jubilation, he furrows his brow and shakes his head. He must be hallucinating. There is no practical way in which Michael Afton is gifted something or is returned to his original body.
He stumbles a bit, not yet used to his old legs, and falls against the wall. He’s in an alley somewhere. He squints through the dim light and staggers down the alley. When he makes it to the street, there are a few things that immediately stick out to him that make him forget that he was just in a burning down pizzeria with his father trying to kill him:
- The skyline. He is no longer in Hurricane, a town in the middle of nowhere. Lights blink in and out, conquering nature, a grand bridge etching across the landscape. There’s honking and people running and gossiping and the sounds could never belong to Utah. Michael Afton is in a city.
- A Union Jack is flying outside of a bar across the way. Great, not only is he not in America, but in the UK. After a bit of eavesdropping, he realizes that he’s in London, and Christ, what a place to have a hallucination!
- A crying child.
The child reminds Michael of Evan. This boy though is rounder, pudgier, his hair darker, and he is not wearing Evan’s customarily striped shirt. He’s wearing a little suit, and Mike thinks it’s a bit adorable. People are passing by him, not a single denizen of London offering the little boy a hand.
Perhaps this is why he is here.
Maybe, for once in his life, Mike can stop a little kid from crying instead of being the cause of it. He ensures that no cars are coming, and he dashes across the street. He puts his hands in his pockets and attempts to bring out an air of cordiality and not appear like an insane stranger attempting to kidnap a child. “Hello, there,” he gently greets, but the child does not stop crying, like he hardly recognizes that someone is in front of him. Mike furrows his brow (despite owning a kids-themed restaurant, he doesn’t think he’s quite good with children). He squats down before the child and waits for him to calm down before greeting him again.
“H…Hello,” the child says, wiping his face. His suit and face are stained with tears. “Who are you?”
Michael extends his hand to shake. His hand dwarfs the little boy’s fingers, but the boy nods and shakes Mike’s index and middle fingers. “Name’s Mike.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.” Despite not looking more than ten years old, now that the tears have stalled, the boy is quite articulate. “I’m lost.”
Michael just vaguely remembers London from the scarce visits from his youth. He’s not sure if he can help this kid out, but he might as well try (and, like his father, his stature is tall and strong, and his face has inherited some severeness, so he can at least scare away people who’d like to do away with an innocent boy). “Want some help? We can find your home.”
The boy shakes his head, and Mike is sure he is about to rebuke help from a stranger, but then he says, “I don’t want to go home. I get nightmares at home.”
Mike looks up, and after a few moments, he realizes some strangeness about London. In the near distance, more than a couple of buildings have been decimated, as if demolished. The people are wearing long overcoats (typical for London), but are wearing bowler hats, too, and in this area, most of the people are white. The accents are a bit dissimilar, and finally, a car speeds by, and it is rounder and shorter than what cars typically are, and Mike withdraws a gasp. “Hey, kid, what year is it?”
The boy is now fully curious as opposed to crestfallen. “1948, sir.” Mike’s head spins. How could he be in London, let alone almost eight decades earlier? This hallucination is utterly complex and deceiving, and he is sure his father is having a right laugh witnessing his son’s pathetic figure believe he is in just post-War London as opposed to the 2020s in Utah. “Are you okay, sir?”
“I…yeah, I’m alright.”
The boy hesitantly chuckles a bit. “You speak peculiarly, sir.”
Mike chuckles in return. “I guess I do. So, you don’t want to go home? What about your nice bed? It’s late, you know.”
“I know.” The boy looks around, as if being watched. Then, he lowers his voice and leans in toward Mike. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“M-monsters.”
Mike doesn’t know if this place is still around, but there was one spot that his father had taken him to in his youth that he had adored. There, Dad had seemed human. Almost. “Hey, do you wanna go to a spot that I like? We’ll find a telephone booth along the way, and we’ll make sure your parents know you’re okay.”
“Oh…okay.” Mike stands up straight, and the boy takes his hand, and they walk down the street, the Thames glistening under the moonlight, and there are but two boys, forever scared, forever crying, but Mike cannot feel sad.
He is away from his father.
Even if this is all fake, at least there is that.