Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a whim—because that’s how it always starts with the ultra-rich.

Kisachi Hoshigaki had everything: skyscrapers under his name, private islands he forgot he owned, a pet tiger that hated him, and a bank account so full it had a gravitational pull. But what he didn’t have… was entertainment. Real entertainment. Something strange. Unique. Cursed, if possible.

So when he stumbled upon an online auction for a battered, decades-old animatronic found in the basement of a condemned pizzeria, he didn’t hesitate. He bought it on the spot. Not because he liked robots. Not because he even liked pizza. But because the listing said:
“DO NOT TURN ON. DO NOT RESTORE. DO NOT WAKE.”

Naturally, he restored it.

Freddy Fazbear’s eyes flickered open in a golden-lit penthouse suite, surrounded by velvet curtains and marble floors, staring directly into the face of a man drinking champagne from a golden bowl while wearing silk pajamas with his own face on them.

“Hello, robot bear!” Mr. Hoshigaki greeted cheerfully. “You’ll be the crown jewel of my entertainment collection!”

But what Kisachi didn’t realize was that Freddy wasn’t some dusty old mascot. He was alive. Sentient. And confused. Very, very confused.

Things escalated quickly after that.

Within a week, Kisachi had “rescued” three more animatronics from a nearby salvage yard—Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy—each with their own strange quirks, faded memories, and deep-rooted trauma from something they no longer talked about.

Kisachi, still thinking this was all just a grand experiment in “nostalgia-core capitalism,” had a sudden idea.

“Why hire boring people to run my five-star hotel,” he mused, “when I have animatronics who never sleep, never eat, and always smile?”

So he made them a deal.

“Run my hotel,” he said, swirling a glass of wine that cost more than most small countries. “Do it well, and I’ll let you live here. All expenses paid. You’ll get everything—suites, snacks, Wi-Fi, and... a promise.”

Freddy looked up. “What promise?”

“I’ll help you find the others,” Kisachi said. “The rest of your kind. Wherever they’re hiding. I’ll bring them back.”

The animatronics exchanged looks. For the first time in who-knew-how-long, they had a roof over their heads. A purpose. Maybe even a future. They agreed.

There was just one tiny, blood-pressure-spiking, property-damaging problem:

They had absolutely no idea how to run a hotel.

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The five-star Glamrock Grand Hotel towered into the skyline—newly renovated, suspiciously pink, and covered in gold trim. Inside, it gleamed like a dream… on the surface.

“Alright team!” Freddy barked, clipboard in hand and starry hat slightly crooked. “We’ve got twenty-three guests checking in today, two weddings tomorrow, and I think the sushi chef is on fire.”

“On fire like, metaphorically?” Bonnie asked, nose-deep in a handbook titled ‘Hospitality for Dummies (Animatronic Edition)’.

“No. Literally.” Freddy pointed to the kitchen. A small flame flickered in the background. “Chica, handle it!”

“I’M NOT A FIREFIGHTER, I’M A CHEF!” Chica yelled back, wielding a mixing bowl like a shield.

Meanwhile, Foxy lounged on a luggage cart with sunglasses and a fruity drink. “Aye, I be the bellhop now,” he said, doing nothing whatsoever.

The automatic doors opened. A guest walked in.

Freddy froze. “Oh Faz-fudge. Someone’s here!”

“Everyone, ACT NATURAL!” Bonnie shouted, flipping a table for no reason.

And so it began—the animatronics, alive and confused, managing the most luxurious hotel in the city… with no clue what they were doing, but all the enthusiasm of four once-haunted mascots trying their best.

What could possibly go wrong?
(Answer: Everything.)

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Foxy had survived many storms in his time—leaky ceilings, screaming children, the Great Breakfast Buffet Disaster of Tuesday—but this... this was worse.

He sat hunched behind the hotel’s front desk, starin’ at the flickerin’ schedule on the computer screen like it were a cursed treasure map written in ghost blood.

“Six blasted conference rooms… three weddin’s… two spawn parties fer wee screamers…” he muttered, rubbin’ his temples. “An’ only four o’ us left standin’. We’re sailin’ straight into the maelstrom, we are.”

With a groan, he slammed his head on the keyboard.

“We be understaffed…”

He peeked over the monitor toward the office, where Captain Freddy was buried in scrolls ‘n parchment, lookin’ more like a drowned librarian than a fearless leader.

Foxy's ears drooped. “I just wanna go curl up in Freddy’s arms an’ forget this madness fer a while,” he whispered. “But nooo… the captain’s too busy chartin’ paperwork seas.”

He raised a fist to the sky. “CURSE THESE ACCURSED FORMS! I should burn ‘em all an’ dance ‘round the ashes!”

DING DING DING.

The bell rang out like a cannon blast. Foxy nearly fell off his chair.

“WHO BE SUMMONIN’ ME CURSED SOUL?!”

He peered over the counter—and there she stood. A woman with a haircut sharp enough to slice a sail in half, sunglasses perched like she were scoutin’ fer mutiny, and a voice that could sink ships.

“Excuse me!” she barked. “I have been standing here for THREE seconds and no one has offered me complimentary champagne!”

Foxy blinked. “...Champagne? What in the barnacle-lickin’—who said we serve that swill?”

She scoffed. “Is this how you treat your guests? I demand to speak to your manager!”

Foxy straightened his vest, brushing off some imaginary sea dust, and flashed a sharp-toothed grin that gleamed like treasure under moonlight. “Ye be speakin’ to him, lass. Name’s Foxy. First Mate o’ Guest Experience.”

“Well, you’re fired,” she snapped, folding her arms with the confidence of a mutineer who just shoved the captain off the plank. “I want the real manager. The bear. The one in the bowtie. He looked... competent.”

Foxy blinked once. Slowly. Then let out the longest, most theatrical sigh in the history of animatronic sighs.

“Ughhh,” he groaned, grabbing the old walkie-talkie off the desk. He pressed the button dramatically, as if calling in an airstrike. “Manager to the counter, I repeat—manager to the counter—we’ve got a Code... KARENS.”

The woman gasped, hand flying to her chest like he’d just slapped her with a wet fish. “Excuse me?!” she barked.

“SOS!!” Foxy shouted into the walkie, grinning wide. “She’s armed with coupons and demands blood! I don’t think we’ll make it—tell my snacks I love ‘em!”

“My name is Kriesten!” the woman shrieked.

Foxy lowered the walkie, raised an eyebrow, and leaned on the counter casually. “Aye, sounds like a Karen name with extra letters thrown in. Ye spell that with a silent ‘entitlement’ at the end?”

The walkie crackled.

Freddy’s voice came through, calm but tired. “Foxy, what did I say about antagonizing the guests?”

“Not t’ do it unless they really deserve it,” Foxy answered proudly.

Freddy sighed on the other end. “I’m on my way…”

“Better bring snacks,” Foxy added. “This one’s a level six storm.”

The front desk was a warzone.

Potted plants had been knocked slightly askew. A decorative bowl of mints lay scattered like fallen soldiers. And Foxy—poor, dramatic Foxy—sat crouched behind the desk with his ears flattened, trying to block out the unholy screech of the banshee in wedges.

“I DEMAND AN UPGRADE!!!” the woman bellowed, her voice sharp enough to pierce drywall.

Foxy groaned theatrically and pressed his paws tighter against the sides of his head. “By the seven seas, make it stop…”

He peeked up just in time to see his saving grace arrive.

Freddy, wearing his usual bowtie and an expression that screamed ‘I’m two minutes away from faking my own deactivation,’ strolled toward the desk, clipboard in paw. His every step was calm and composed—like the kind of hotel manager that should be here. One who hadn’t chosen chaos incarnate to run guest services.

Foxy’s face lit up like a lighthouse in a storm. He leapt to his feet and dramatically blew a kiss across the lobby. “My dear ol’ captain!” he cried. “Please save yer handsome husband from this shriekin’ kraken!”

He winked with a little finger heart for flair.

Before Freddy could respond—or groan—the woman let out a screech that nearly knocked the chandelier loose.

Foxy immediately covered his ears again and dropped behind the desk like he’d been shot. “AAARGH! The harpy’s song—me auditory sensors can’t take much more!”

Freddy paused. Closed his eyes. Took a long, long breath through his nose.

Why… why did I put Foxy on check-in duty again?

Oh, right. Because Bonnie short-circuited when someone asked him for extra towels, and Chica tried to upsell every guest with cupcakes. Foxy was the least chaotic choice. Which said… a lot.

Freddy stepped forward and put on his best customer-service smile—the one that said “I’m professionally dying inside.”

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said smoothly. “I’m Freddy Fazbear, general manager of the Glamrock Grand. I understand you’re experiencing some… frustrations?”

“Frustrations?!” Kriesten shrieked. “This place is a disgrace! I was promised five-star luxury and instead I got screaming birds, pirate sass, and a view of a literal dumpster!”

Foxy popped up behind the counter with a shrug. “We put flowers on the dumpster last week, didn’t we?”

“It wilted,” she snapped.

Freddy nodded politely. “Let’s get you sorted, then. Foxy, pull up her reservation, please.”

Foxy mock-saluted, already typing away. “Aye aye, Captain! Pullin’ up the scrolls of doom... ye really owe me a bubble bath after this.”

Freddy didn’t even blink. “We’ll discuss that later.”

Kriesten crossed her arms, still seething. “And I expect at least two free nights for this inconvenience!”

Then—it happened.

The printer behind the desk, ancient and temperamental as a sea beast, whirred to life and started spitting out papers from the guest logs. One sheet fluttered out and landed right at Freddy’s feet.

He picked it up and glanced at it… then raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Looks like… your reservation wasn’t for a deluxe suite.”

Kriesten blinked. “Excuse me?”

Freddy held up the paper, showing it to her calmly. “You booked the standard room. Through a third-party app. Using a promo code that says—ah, here it is—‘KrIsTeN-loveshorses88.’”

Foxy’s ears twitched, and his head whipped around like a hawk spotting prey. “Kristen loves horses?”

The woman froze. Her lips parted. Her face turned a shade of red that even Chica’s velvet cupcakes couldn’t match.

“That’s… that’s not mine,” she sputtered. “That must be… someone else’s!”

“Oh no, lass,” Foxy said, grinning wide. “Ye even uploaded a lil profile pic. You in a cowgirl hat, holdin’ a plushie pony named Sparkleboots.”

“DON’T LOOK AT THAT!” Kriesten shrieked.

“Oh, we already are,” Foxy said, spinning the monitor around with devilish glee. “You look adorable. Proper gallopin’ glamour!”

Freddy coughed into his paw to hide a smile.

Kriesten grabbed her purse like it could protect her dignity. “This is completely unprofessional!”

“And ye’re completely embarrassed,” Foxy sang, leaning on the desk smugly. “Ye marched in here like a storm, only to trip over yer own sparkly bootstraps.”

“I… I’m going to leave a review about this,” she hissed, storming off.

“Make sure to mention Sparkleboots!” Foxy called after her. “Five stars for the little filly!”

Freddy finally let out a sigh and rubbed his temples. “That could’ve gone worse.”

“Could’ve gone better if I had some rum,” Foxy said, slumping dramatically again. “Ye still owe me that bubble bath.”

“I’m considering just locking you in the supply closet.”

“Promise?”

Freddy shot him a look, but there was a twitch of a smile in the corner of his muzzle.

Chapter Text

Bonnie didn’t ask for this.

He didn’t ask to be the Easter Bunny.
He didn’t ask to wear a headband with crooked foam ears.
He especially didn’t ask for a rickety folding table in the middle of the Glamrock Grand lobby with a cardboard sign that read:
"HOP ON OVER TO BUNNY BON'S EGG-CELLENT EASTER ZONE!"

And yet… here he was.

“Why me?” he muttered, tugging at the headband again. It flopped lazily to one side. “Why not Chica? Or—oh, I don’t know—Freddy, the actual face of the place?”

But Freddy was busy.

Bonnie’s expression darkened as he remembered seeing Freddy and Foxy earlier that morning whispering to each other in the hall like a pair of high schoolers sneaking out of class. Five minutes later, they were both gone.

“We’ll be takin’ care of ‘important hotel business,’” Foxy had said with a suspicious wink. “Tell the wee ones the bunny be in charge today.”

And just like that, the burden of Easter fell squarely on Bonnie’s purple shoulders.

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10:45 AM

Bonnie sat at his table, trying to smile. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by plastic eggs, off-brand jellybeans, and slightly cursed-looking plushies Mr. Hoshigaki had bulk-ordered from “a very affordable website.”

“Hi there!” he said as cheerfully as possible to a girl with pigtails approaching the table. “Would you like to color an egg?”

She stared at him.

Then asked, “Are you the real Easter Bunny?”

Bonnie froze. “Uhh... yes. I mean—sure! Of course I am.”

“But you don’t even have a tail.”

Bonnie leaned sideways, whispering, “It fell off in the laundry. Tragic.”

She gasped. “Do bunnies do laundry?”

“...Do you want glitter or stickers?”

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11:30 AM

Bonnie was trying to lead a “Guess How Many Jellybeans” game. He’d lost track around jellybean #147 because one of the toddlers kept grabbing handfuls and eating them while making direct eye contact.

A small boy pointed up at him. “You don’t look like a real bunny. You look like... like if a bunny got hit by a truck and then someone glued arms on it.”

Bonnie blinked. “Wow.”

Another kid whispered loudly, “He looks like he eats batteries.”

Bonnie gave them both deadpan stares. “The Easter Bunny is not above throwing hands.”

Their moms gasped.

“Kidding!” Bonnie grinned, eyes twitching.

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12:00

The event was starting to unravel.

Children were now running wild through the lobby, using the egg-hunting excuse to crawl under sofas and inside luggage carts. One of them rolled a potted plant away yelling, “I BET THERE’S ONE IN HERE!”

Bonnie looked around in a panic. “Freddy? Foxy??”

Nothing. Not even a whisper on the walkie-talkie. He considered calling Chica, but last he saw, she was deep in a baking frenzy, throwing sprinkles like a mad scientist.

That left him.

He straightened up. “Okay, Bonnie. You got this. You’re adorable. You’re trustworthy. You’re fluffy. Kinda. Sorta. In a weird, metallic way.”

He clapped his hands. “Alright, kids! Who wants to learn how to paint eggs without eating the paint?”

Several children paused, paintbrushes hovering over their mouths. Bonnie sighed.

“...Good. Progress.”

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1:00 PM

One of the guests—a mom with a very expensive purse—approached with a concerned look.

“Excuse me. My son keeps asking to take a picture with the Easter Bunny. Do you have, like… the actual mascot? The full costume?”

Bonnie smiled through his inner scream. “I am the Easter Bunny.”

“Yes, but you’re more like... the budget version.”

“…Cool.”

“Maybe if you had, I don’t know, a full suit? With fur? Something less… purple and... animatronic-y.”

Bonnie excused himself, marched into the staff closet, and returned wearing a dusty, oversized bunny mascot costume. One of the eyes was missing and the ears drooped like soggy noodles.

The children loved it.

The problem? He couldn’t see. Or breathe. Or move without knocking over the entire egg-painting station.

He turned blindly and elbowed the jellybean jar. It shattered.

“WHOOPS! That’s part of the act! Jellybean rain!”

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2:00 PM

Just when Bonnie was about to abandon all hope and dramatically collapse into a pile of plush rabbits, the elevator dinged open.

Freddy stepped out, looking suspiciously disheveled. His bowtie was crooked, and his fur was… definitely not as brushed as usual.

Behind him was Foxy, humming a sea shanty and wearing a cupcake sticker on his forehead.

Bonnie narrowed his eyes. “Nice of you to join us. Did the ‘important hotel business’ involve aggressively making out in the boiler room again?”

Foxy grinned. “Nay, we took it to the linen closet this time. The boiler be too noisy.”

Freddy cleared his throat, straightening his tie. “We brought snacks.”

“…That’s not a defense.”

Bonnie gestured wildly to the chaos around them. Kids running wild. Cupcakes smashed. Paint on the floor. A child crawling inside a vending machine.

Freddy blinked. “You did great.”

Bonnie stared. “…Wait, really?”

“Better than I would’ve,” Freddy admitted. “At least no one caught on fire this time.”

Foxy draped an arm around Bonnie. “Aye, ye make a fine rabbit, Bon. Even if ye be a little lopsided.”

Bonnie looked down at the sad, saggy mascot suit. Then at the kids, now giggling and using glitter like it was currency.

He sighed.

“…Fine. But next holiday, I’m in charge of sitting quietly in a chair.”

“Deal,” said Freddy. “Unless it’s Halloween.”

“I will riot.”

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The event was over.

The kids had gone home, their baskets overflowing with candy, stickers, and slightly lopsided cupcakes. The lobby was a warzone of glitter, confetti, and frosting smears—but it was quiet now. Peaceful.

Bonnie sat on a bench near the fountain, his ears finally free from the cursed headband and itchy mascot suit, which now lay discarded beside him like a defeated opponent.

His synthetic shoulders slumped.

He groaned softly. “I was not built for this.”

From across the room, Freddy and Foxy were pretending to clean while mostly just whispering and occasionally giggling like teens in love. Chica had locked herself in the kitchen to “emotionally recover” with carrot cake.

Bonnie rested his chin in his hands and sighed.

“Never again. Next time it’s Easter, I’m unplugging myself for maintenance.”

Then, soft footsteps.

He turned his head to see the little girl with pigtails from earlier holding something behind her back.

“Hi, Mr. Bunny,” she said shyly.

Bonnie blinked. “Hey, uh… hi.”

She brought her hands forward. A paper folded unevenly in half. Purple crayon all over the front. On it, written in big, messy letters:

“Thank You, Mister Bunny!!”

Inside, it was full of little drawings—eggs, bunnies, one scribbly sketch that looked suspiciously like Bonnie in a wonky mascot suit. And below it:
"You were my favorite part of today. Even more than candy! I hope you come back next year. From: Zoey 🐰💜"

Bonnie stared at the card.

For a second, his voice box glitched, trying to find something to say.

“…Wow. I… thanks, kiddo. That’s really nice.”

She giggled. “Even if your tail fell off, you were the best bunny.”

And then she hugged him.

Just a little, awkward hug around the middle. Bonnie didn’t move for a second, caught off guard. Then he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful not to crush her with his metal frame.

“Happy Easter, Zoey,” he murmured.

She skipped off a moment later, leaving glittery footprints in her wake.

Bonnie sat there, holding the crayon card, staring at it like it was made of gold.

Across the room, Foxy poked Freddy in the side. “Aww. Look at the soft lad.”

Freddy smiled, watching the scene with his arms folded. “He’s always been good with kids.”

Bonnie called out without turning around. “I can hear both of you.”

Foxy grinned. “We know.”

Bonnie looked back down at the card, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

Maybe being the Easter Bunny wasn’t so bad.

Just… maybe next year, someone else could wear the itchy suit.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors creaked shut with a mechanical sigh, trapping Foxy and Bonnie inside a metal box filled with four overloaded luggage carts, two extremely stressed animatronics, and the suspicious scent of someone’s overly perfumed suitcase.

Foxy leaned against the back wall, ears drooping like sails in a dead sea, one paw lazily hanging off a cart handle. His coat was rumpled, his eye patch askew, and a faint lipstick smear lingered on his cheek from an earlier “emotional boarding attack” by yet another overdramatic guest.

“Remind me,” he growled, voice low and raspy, “why in the name o’ the seven seas I agreed t’ this madness?”

Bonnie, practically vibratin’ with nerves, was flippin’ through a crumpled piece of paper that looked more like a pirate map than a room list.

“Because Freddy told you to,” he muttered, not looking up. “And you said—and I quote—‘I’ll do anythin’ fer that dandy teddy bear, even if it means mopin’ the poop deck with me face.’”

Foxy groaned and slid down the elevator wall until he was sitting on the floor like a defeated sailor.

“Aye. That sounds like somethin’ I’d say.”

The elevator dinged softly as it passed floor 17. Bonnie was still muttering like a cursed parrot.

“Okay, two suitcases for 92A, one for 47B, the giant pink one goes to the honeymoon suite—ugh, why is everything PINK—and… where did the sticky note for 34C go?!”

“Ye mean the one stuck t’ yer peg-leg?” Foxy asked, pointing lazily with a claw.

Bonnie looked down and yanked the note off his foot with a loud, defeated sigh. “I hate holidays.”

“I hate landlubbers,” Foxy replied. “And stairs. Especially stairs.”
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DING! — Floor 34
The elevator suddenly lurched to a stop, nearly throwing Bonnie face-first into the mountain of bags.

“…That’s not normal,” he muttered.

Foxy’s ear twitched. “We stoppin’?”

Bonnie jabbed the ‘Close Door’ button. It blinked like a starvin’ firefly. The lights above flickered.

“Why are we stuck?! We’re not supposed to stop ‘til 61!”

“Maybe we’re carryin’ too much pirate booty,” Foxy said, givin’ the luggage a long, dramatic glare. “Or maybe the ghosts o’ bad Yelp reviews past be hauntin’ this box.”

Bonnie stared at him. “That’s not funny.”

“I weren’t tryin’ t’ be funny, lad. I take hauntin’ quite seriously.”
________________________________________

The Panic Sets In

Bonnie started to pace in tight circles, his ears twitchin’.

“There are 43 bags. Forty. Three. Bags. Half of them need to be delivered before 1 PM. One of them is filled with live crabs. I can hear them clickin’. Why are there crabs in luggage?!”

Foxy scratched his chin. “Maybe someone’s emotional support sea beastie?”

Bonnie groaned. “No, this is a disaster. I should’ve color-coded the tags. I knew it! But Chica stole all the markers to draw mustaches on the hallway portraits again!”

The lights flickered like the ghosts agreed.

Foxy lazily pressed the emergency intercom button, leaning in with the exhausted flair of someone two seconds away from biting a guest just for fun.

“Ahoy! This be Foxy the First Mate! We be stranded on floor 34, trapped with more baggage than me ex. Send help, or snacks. Or both!”

The intercom crackled. Then a sleepy, half-bored voice replied, “...You’re on your own.”

Probably one of the new interns. Foxy narrowed his eye and growled under his breath, “Landlubber.”

Bonnie, meanwhile, had lost all grip on reality.

He slowly slid down the luggage cart like a sad, purple waterfall and planted his face onto a sequined suitcase, sobbing dramatically into the rhinestones.

“I can’t do this anymore!!” he wailed. “I was built to shred guitars! To make children scream—in the fun way!! Not to haul oversized rolling coffins filled with tourist nonsense!”

He sniffled, pointing to one suitcase with glitter letters reading #LiveLaughLuggage. “This one asked me for room service! It's not even a person!”

Foxy looked down at him with a tired groan. “Aye… yer losin’ it, lad.”

Bonnie was now clutching a pair of pink bunny slippers someone packed—not his size, by the way—and rocking slightly. “I took a selfie with a toddler who sneezed in my mouth,” he whispered. “It’s still in my software memory.”

Foxy, already sweating oil in the sweltering metal box, slumped dramatically against the elevator wall. His coat stuck slightly to the railing. His ears drooped. His walkie talkie and phone—both left behind on the front desk. Freddy had sent him to “help Bonnie real quick.”

Freddy.

That gorgeous, brown idiot. Probably still sittin’ at the front desk right now, papers in one paw, glasses perched on his nose, flippin’ documents like he was the CEO of Charisma. His tie would be straight. His smile would be polite. Foxy growled again.

“I want my bear…” he whimpered, slamming his fist against the elevator doors. “HELP ME!! I want my bear!!!”

The elevator echoed with the sound of Foxy’s fists pounding the panel like he was trying to punch through time itself. Bonnie curled up next to a suitcase that suspiciously smelled like lavender and despair.

“Tell Chica I died glamorously,” he muttered. “And that if she ever finds my guitar, she better not sell it on FazBay.”

Foxy finally collapsed beside Bonnie with a dramatic groan, one paw over his chest like a shipwrecked sailor. “If I don’t make it, lad… tell Freddy I loved ‘im. And tell ‘im I want a plaque.”

Bonnie sniffled, barely upright. “…With a skull on it?”

“Aye. And crossed cutlasses too. Make it shiny.”

Then—like a blessing from the heavens—a voice crackled through the other side of the elevator doors.

“Please don’t.”

Foxy’s ears shot up like sails in a storm. He scrambled to the doors, nearly tripping over someone’s pink roller bag.

“Ohhh me captain! Me brown hearted grizzly of the front desk!” Foxy cried, pressing his snout to the seam of the elevator like it was a long-lost porthole. “Ye be here! Finally! It’s been a blasted hour—trapped in this steel coffin with the purple banshee!”

He pressed his face dramatically to the narrow line between the elevator doors, trying to soak in Freddy’s voice through the sliver of space like he was trying to taste it.

Meanwhile, Bonnie was still slumped by the luggage, staring blankly into space. His eyes twitched.

The screams...
The crying children...
The sound of spilled complimentary cereal being crunched beneath bare feet...

He was not okay.

“I thought ye left me to rot! Like a wet mop in the brig!”

The elevator dinged. The doors slowly creaked open.

And there stood Freddy Fazbear, clipboard in paw, sleeves rolled up, bowtie impeccable, and expression somewhere between I love you and I’m too tired for this.

Foxy, unable to contain himself, collapsed forward into Freddy’s arms with the sheer force of dramatic longing. He gripped the bear’s vest and buried his face in his chest fluff like a soap opera lead who just found their lover returned from war.

“Don’t ever leave me again, ye handsome anchor of me soul!!” he wailed. “I was losin’ me marbles in that cursed lift! I nearly named the suitcases!”

Bonnie raised a shaking paw from the pile of luggage. “We did name one of them.”

“The pink one’s name be Mildred,” Foxy sniffled.

Freddy exhaled like a parent stuck with two overly dramatic toddlers in a toy aisle. “Foxy… It’s been eight minutes since I sent you and Bonnie out.”

“…Eight… minutes?” Foxy gasped.

“Ye.”

“I lived fourteen emotional lifetimes in there.”

“Apparently.”

By now, half the guests on floor 34 were peeking out of their doors to witness the theatrical reunion. Phones out. Whispering. One old man in a bathrobe muttered, “Oh lord, it’s the dramatic gay animatronics again.”

Bonnie rolled onto his back with a vacant stare. “There were... children… and cereal… and no help…”

Freddy gently peeled Foxy off his vest. “We’re reinstating staff group therapy. Tonight.”

“Swear on the seven seas ye won’t leave me again!” Foxy cried.

“I was in the hallway.”

“I felt abandoned like driftwood!”

Freddy muttered something unkind under his breath and grabbed both animatronics by the collar, dragging them out of the elevator like a grumpy dad hauling his kids out of a theme park.

The doors closed behind them.

And from within the pile of luggage, Mildred the suitcase fell over with a soft thud.

________________________________________

The soft crunch of a blueberry muffin echoed in the silence of Freddy’s pristine office.

Chica sat with her feet kicked up on the desk, golden feathers flecked with crumbs as she nibbled like she hadn’t eaten in weeks—which, to be fair, was emotionally true. Someone (cough-Freddy-cough) had slapped a big red sticker on the fridge saying "Staff Meal Budget = OVERLIMIT", and she had been surviving on leftover kids' breakfast buffets and mints from the check-in counter.

But this? This muffin was sacred.

Riiiiiiing!

The old office phone screamed to life, cutting through her peaceful chewing.

Without missing a beat, Chica grabbed the receiver with a sticky feathered hand.

“Hello, Chica speaking~” she sang, voice sugary sweet with half a bite still in her beak.

A voice on the other end hesitated. “Uh… where’s Freddy?”

Chica grinned, kicking her legs lazily. “Oh, you know. Out bein’ Foxy’s shiny knight in a bowtie. Again. Honestly, if that bear gets any more romantic, I’m gonna start cryin’. I want a boyfriend like him... one that brings you paperwork and emotional support.” She sighed dreamily.

There was a pause.

“…It’s Kisachi,” the voice said, flat and tired.

“Oh! Boss man!” Chica sat up slightly straighter. “You callin’ to give me a raise? Or are we finally getting those Jacuzzi foot tubs on floor 9 like I asked?”

“No, Chica. I have news… about the other animatronics.”

Her chewing slowed.

Kisachi’s tone shifted, low and uncertain. “I found two more.”

Chica blinked. “…Two?”

“A golden bear… and a green, bunny.”

Silence.

Chica’s half-eaten muffin dropped slowly to the desk with a soft plop.

She stared at the phone like it had just insulted her cupcake recipe.

“…You said green?” she asked slowly.

“Very. He’s… unsettling.”

Chica stood, feathers ruffling up like a puffed chicken in a storm. “Kisachi, do not—I repeat, do not bring a moldy murder-rabbit into this hotel without tellin’ Freddy first. He just finished a therapy worksheet about trusting elevators.”

“I thought animatronics didn’t need therapy,” Kisachi mumbled.

“We do now.”

Chapter Text

Bonnie gritted his teeth as he frantically zipped from room to room, cleaning at the speed of light. His arms ached, his ears drooped, and his once-sparkly blue vest now looked like it had survived a small apocalypse.

Yesterday, the hotel had been battered by a ferocious storm—lightning flashing, winds howling, and rain pounding like a furious drumline.

Being made of metal and wires, Bonnie and the others had been forbidden from working on the high floors during the chaos. Freddy's strict orders. "Safety first, employees second," he had said, half-joking.

The storm finally passed after six long, anxiety-ridden hours.

But of course, humans being humans, they didn’t understand that animatronics weren’t exactly storm-proof. Guests flooded the lobby anyway, demanding fresh rooms, extra towels, refunds, and probably a handwritten apology from Freddy himself.

Now, the real disaster wasn’t outside—it was inside.

Bonnie shoved open the door to Room 407 and immediately recoiled like he’d been punched in the snout.

"WHAT—" His voice cracked.

The room looked like it had hosted a mini tornado… or a wild preschool graduation party.

Clothes were scattered everywhere like fallen flags of defeat. A broken lamp lay shattered on the floor, sad and tragic. The walls were proudly decorated with bright, messy crayon scribbles—dragons, spaceships, something that might have been a dinosaur fighting a pizza slice. The bed?

Upside down. Mattress flopped dramatically halfway off the frame.

Bonnie just stood there, the life draining from his mechanical joints.

He staggered into the center of the room, arms limp at his sides, staring into the artistic horror like a man facing his inevitable doom.

“I TAKE BACK WHAT I SAID WHEN I WAS YOUNG!!!” he bellowed to no one.

"I DON'T WANNA WORK!!! I WANNA PERFORM!!!" His voice cracked again into a desperate wail.

Somewhere down the hall, a guest opened their door just a crack, peeking out.

They quickly closed it when they saw the large blue animatronic sobbing into a pile of crayon-destroyed pillows.

Meanwhile, back at the front desk, Foxy and Freddy were battling their own hurricane: a storm of complaints and refund demands that came from guests armed with bad Yelp reviews. Foxy was barely holding himself together, shooting off sarcastic pirate comments while Freddy tried—and failed—to soothe the masses with forced corporate smiles.

And in the kitchen, Chica was cooking like her life depended on it, whipping up food for a swarm of hangry guests, muttering to herself:
"Y’all want luxury service after treating the rooms like a Chuck E. Cheese riot…"

Poor Bonnie. Poor everyone.

________________________________________

Freddy and Foxy stood victorious at the front desk, having survived the brutal onslaught of Karens who demanded everything from free spa packages to full ownership of the hotel.

It was not a clean victory.

It was a messy, soul-crushing, energy-draining win.

Foxy, battered and dramatic, collapsed face-first onto Freddy’s chest like a sailor returning from war. His hook weakly tapped against Freddy’s jacket as he sobbed.

"Humans be monsters, Freddy!! MONSTERS!!" Foxy wailed, voice muffled against the thick fabric.

"Maybe Springtrap was right! Maybe we should burn the humans and take back the seas!" His tail drooped like a broken flag.

Freddy sighed, patting Foxy's back with tired, practiced motions.

"Not all humans are monsters, Foxy," he said gently. "Look at Kisachi. He’s trying his best. He gave us a home. A five-star home... even if it's barely held together by duct tape and my sanity."

Foxy sniffled and hiccupped into Freddy’s jacket, squeezing him tighter like a clingy barnacle.

"I still say mutiny be a fine option," he mumbled.

Just then, Freddy’s phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

Groaning, Freddy fished it out with one paw while the other kept Foxy glued to his chest.

"Hello?" Freddy answered tiredly.

"WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?!" Kisachi’s voice exploded from the speaker. "I’ve been calling your office phone all morning—it keeps going to voicemail! And what’s wrong with Bonnie?! I tried calling him and all I heard was some crying robot noises!"

Freddy pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, about that..." he muttered. "After the storm, most of the guests demanded we clean their rooms instantly, wanted full refunds, free upgrades, and one lady even asked for ‘emotional compensation’ because she couldn’t order room service during a hurricane."

Kisachi let out a long, weary groan through the line. "I figured as much... but listen. Can you please come to the back of the hotel? I finished rebuilding the two animatronics I found last week. Chica was supposed to tell you."

Freddy glanced over toward the kitchen, where Chica could be seen through the glass window—cackling wildly over a flaming stovetop, flipping pancakes into the air with a dangerous amount of enthusiasm.

Her apron had "Kiss the Chef" written on it, now partially scorched.

"No," Freddy said flatly into the phone. "She did not tell me."

Kisachi sighed.

"Figures. Just meet me out back, okay? Before someone else bursts into flames."

Freddy hung up and gently peeled Foxy off his chest.

"C'mon, First Mate," Freddy said, ruffling the fox's ears. "Adventure calls again. This time, hopefully, no screaming Karens."

Foxy groaned miserably but followed, dragging his feet behind Freddy like a shipwrecked sailor being pulled to shore.

And somewhere down the hall, Bonnie’s muffled cries still echoed faintly through the vents...

“I WANNA PERFORM AGAIN!!”
Freddy pretended not to hear it.

________________________________________

Kisachi was already waiting outside when Freddy and Foxy stepped through the back doors of the hotel.

Parked right at the loading dock was a massive container strapped to a lorry truck, the size of a small ship.

Freddy rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"So," he said, voice low and curious, "do tell me... who exactly did you find?"

Kisachi grinned, full of mystery, and walked up to the container. With a loud clunk, he unlocked the doors and swung them open.

Inside, resting carefully on padded carts, were two figures: a tall golden bear and a small green rabbit-like animatronic standing beside him.

Freddy’s breath caught.

"Golden..." he whispered, stepping closer with slow, awestruck steps. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out toward the golden bear—the first bear. His older brother in spirit, the one he only heard stories about in old Fazbear records.

"You found him," Freddy said, voice thick with emotion.

Meanwhile, Foxy leaned in beside Freddy, squinting suspiciously at the other figure.

The green rabbit.

"Who in the seven seas be that?" Foxy asked, pointing bluntly at the doll-like rabbit.

"Is he supposed to be Springtrap? 'Cause he be lookin' like Springtrap... if ye squint and imagine he took a bath."

Freddy shook his head slowly.

"No idea. But... yeah, he does look a bit like Springtrap. Only... less corpse-y."

Kisachi wiped some dust off the green rabbit’s ear.

"Well, technically," Kisachi said, "his color was supposed to be golden too. But I like the green more, so I painted him myself. Adds a bit of charm, don't you think?"

He smirked and pulled a remote from his pocket, pressing a button.

With a low hum, the padded carts started to glide forward, carrying Golden Bear and Green Rabbit out of the container and onto the pavement.

"I’ll keep searching for more animatronics," Kisachi called over his shoulder as he headed toward the lorry.

"Be ready, Freddy. You’re gonna have a lot of new employees soon."

He stopped just before climbing into the cab, turning back with a sly grin.

"Oh, by the way," he added casually, "I decided to build some shops and a café on the ground floor. You know... since all the guests keep whining about having to walk five minutes to buy a toothbrush."

Freddy and Foxy both gawked at him like he'd just said the moon was moving in next door.

"WHAT?!" they yelled in unison.

"Be ready to put these newbies to work," Kisachi said with a wink, climbing into the driver's seat. "You're the manager after all, Freddy."

With a cheerful honk, the lorry pulled away, leaving Freddy and Foxy standing there, exhausted, confused, and surrounded by two brand-new problems on wheels.

Foxy stared at the little green rabbit for a long moment.

"Bet he bites," he muttered under his breath.

Freddy just sighed heavily, already feeling the weight of a thousand new paperwork forms landing squarely on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Goldy’s head twitched, his systems groaning to life after what felt like centuries trapped in silence. His golden ears flicked as static buzzed through his sensors. He blinked once—slow, sluggish—and shook his head, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind.

“Goldy?!”

A voice. Familiar. Rough, loud, and a little too enthusiastic.

“Hey, old gold, ye there? Or are ye sleepin’ on me like a lazy sea turtle?”

Goldy’s tired eyes snapped open—and immediately narrowed at the sight in front of him. A red, tattered fox with a cocky grin leaned over him, one sharp tooth gleaming in the light.

Foxy.
Goldy glared.

Foxy grinned wider. “Ah, there he be. Good as new—temper and all!” He sighed in relief, slapping a paw over his chest like a sailor who just survived a kraken attack. “Aye, yer in good condition, even if ye still look like someone dipped ya in old treasure dust.”

Goldy’s gaze flicked away, confused. This wasn’t the pizzeria. There were no familiar posters on the wall, no flickering stage lights, no scent of old grease and spilled soda.

Where was he?
Then he turned his head—just in time to see a brown blur rushing at him.

“Goldy!”

Freddy nearly tackled him, wrapping both arms around his big brother in a crushing hug that made Goldy’s stiff joints creak.
“I-I thought I’d never see you again,” Freddy choked out, his voice thick with emotion. His grip only tightened, as if letting go would make Goldy vanish again like a bad dream.

Goldy froze, his systems stuttering at the unfamiliar warmth. For a second, he didn’t move. But then—slowly—he sighed, a soft, tired sound that rattled through his speakers, and hugged Freddy back.
“I’m… so sorry, Freddy,” Goldy whispered, voice heavy with old guilt. “I should’ve come back sooner.”

Across the room, Foxy let out a long, dramatic sigh, wiping at his eye with the back of his paw like he was watching the finale of a soap opera.
“Aye, the family be reunited at last!” he declared, arms spread wide. “Warms me pirate heart, it does!”

But his gaze shifted—and landed on the small figure in the corner.
The little green rabbit.

Still slumped in sleep mode, wires neatly coiled at his feet like sleeping snakes. The kid hadn’t stirred once, even through all the noise. His faceplate was still and smooth, but the faint flicker of damaged circuits flashed behind his eyelids.

Foxy’s ears twitched. Freddy had already told him earlier—this one would take more time. The little guy’s memory chip was badly corrupted, worse than anything Kisachi’s team had fixed before. Too much damage. Too much lost.

Foxy stepped closer, giving the green bunny a long, considering look.
“Poor wee lad,” he muttered. “Looks like he’s been through Davy Jones’ locker and back.”

Then—
BZZZZZT!

His walkie-talkie crackled to life with all the subtlety of a cannon blast.
“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS?! THERE’S TOO MANY CUSTOMERS! I CAN’T HANDLE THIS AND THE KITCHEN AT THE SAME TIME!!”

Chica’s voice exploded through the speaker, raw and frantic. Something crashed loudly in the background—probably a tray of cupcakes meeting their tragic end.

Foxy winced, nearly dropping the device. “Blimey, woman! Warn a fox before ye scream through the seas!”

He glanced at Freddy—who still hadn’t moved, still clinging to Goldy like he couldn’t bear to step away. Freddy’s eyes flickered, torn between duty and family.

Foxy clicked his tongue and holstered the walkie. He stepped closer, reaching out to ruffle Freddy’s fur with a clawed paw.
“I got this, me baby bear,” Foxy said softly, flashing a fang-filled grin. “Ye stay right here with yer brother. Take yer time. I’ll handle the storm inside.”

Freddy’s gaze lifted, hesitant. “Foxy—”

But Foxy winked, tapping his chest with pride.
“Let yer husband take care o’ this chaos, aye? I be Foxy the First Mate—not just in name, but in duty. Now sit tight with yer family while I go tame the angry sea of Karens and hungry landlubbers.”

Without waiting for a reply, Foxy spun on his heel, tail flicking behind him like a captain ready for battle. He stomped out of the charging room, cracking his knuckles.

"Aye, back t’ the frontlines I go… someone fetch me rum after this!" he grumbled.
And in the quiet left behind, Freddy finally let out a slow, shaky breath, hugging Goldy a little tighter.

________________________________________

Goldy leaned back against the cold wall, his golden frame creaking softly as his systems adjusted to being active again. His yellow eyes flicked toward Freddy, watching him with a look that was equal parts curious and sad.

“So… you’re the manager of a hotel now, huh?” Goldy asked, his voice low and rough, like it hadn’t been used in years.

Freddy, his brown fur a few shades darker from stress and exhaustion, gave a small nod. He scratched at the edge of his black bowtie, letting out a long sigh that rattled in his chest cavity.
“Yeah…” Freddy muttered. “It’s pretty ridiculous, honestly. Us. Managing a place like this.”

His eyes dropped to the floor. “Handling this many people... It’s not like the pizzeria. Back then, it was kids and birthday parties. Now it’s guests who scream if their pillows aren't fluffed.”

Goldy’s lips twitched in a humorless smirk. He could only imagine.

But then his gaze sharpened.
“…Did the humans find him yet?” Goldy asked quietly, his voice laced with old wounds. “Our little brother?”

Freddy froze. His shoulders tensed, and he slowly shook his head.
“No… Not yet,” Freddy whispered. His voice cracked slightly. “But I still hope… even if it’s just a memory chip. A piece. Anything.”

His chest ached as the name echoed in his mind.
Fred.
The toy animatronic. The little brother they lost.

Freddy’s fists clenched at his sides.

Goldy’s hand reached out and gripped Freddy’s tightly, his golden fingers curling around brown fur. The old bear’s grip was firm but trembling.

“We can only hope, Freddy,” Goldy murmured. “Hope that Fred is still out there. And that we’ll bring him back.”

Freddy swallowed thickly, blinking away the static flickering at the edge of his vision. He squeezed Goldy’s hand in return.

But before either of them could say another word—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

A shrill, urgent alarm blared from across the room. The sound was sharp enough to make both bears flinch.

Goldy’s head snapped toward the source, eyes wide.
“W-What’s happening?!” he barked, already pushing himself up on unsteady legs.

Freddy’s heart jolted as he spun around. His gaze locked on the capsule—the small containment unit holding the little green rabbit.

The rabbit’s body was starting to twitch violently, jerking against its restraints as warning lights flared bright red around the pod.

Freddy bolted to the computer station, fingers flying across the keys with panic surging through his circuits. His breathing hitched as lines of corrupted code filled the screen.
“Some kind of virus—!” Freddy’s voice cracked with fear. “Something inside this rabbit’s chip is trying to destroy itself! It’s forcing a self-wipe!”

Behind him, the little rabbit let out a soft, garbled sound—like static mixed with a whimper—and began wiggling harder, limbs twitching as if trying to escape an invisible threat.

Freddy’s hands shook as he tried to override the virus.
“Nonono—stay with me—!” he muttered desperately.

Goldy staggered closer, his eyes flickering in alarm.
“Freddy! Stop it! Don’t let him shut down—!”

The room was a storm of alarms, sparks, and panic—and in the middle of it all, Freddy's heart clenched as he fought to save the broken little rabbit from vanishing forever.

________________________________________

Darkness.

Soft, suffocating, and endless.

And then—arms. Small, trembling arms, wrapped tight around him. A child’s desperate grip, squeezing like he was the only thing keeping the boy from falling apart.

Plushtrap’s glassy eyes stared ahead, unblinking. All he could do was feel the wetness of tears soaking into his worn green fabric.

The boy’s voice was shaky, cracking like splintered glass.
“This nightmare… it’s not stopping…”

The child’s face pressed against Plushtrap’s stitched ear, muffling his sobs. His body shook with every broken breath.
“I told my family,” the boy whispered. "I told them, and they still kicked me out… said I was a big boy now… told me to grow up…”

The boy’s hug tightened, painful and desperate, like he was trying to crush the fear out of himself.
"But it’s always the same dream… the same thing every night... only—"

His voice hitched.
"Different deaths. Every time..."

Plushtrap’s heart—if he even had one—felt like it cracked wide open.

The boy’s tears fell faster now.
“Will I… will I die too, Plushtrap?” he whispered, so soft it was barely audible. “Will I end up like it…?”

Plushtrap wanted—needed—to hug him back.

To tell him no. To tell him he’d be okay. That he, Plushtrap, would protect him. Fight off the nightmares. Chase away the monsters that clawed at the edges of Evan’s sleep.

That he’d always be by his side.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink. He was just a doll. Just a stuffed thing. Trapped inside his own body, helpless as the boy’s pain spilled out and vanished into the dark.

He could only watch. And listen. And feel Evan’s tiny fists clenching tighter and tighter as the sobs grew louder.

Somewhere in the dark corners of Plushtrap’s corrupted mind, something screamed—rage, helplessness, sorrow all tangled together.

But no one heard it.

Because to the world… he was just a toy.

Chapter Text

The lobby was unusually quiet.

No screaming children. No Karens foaming at the mouth. No Chica chasing guests with burning cupcakes.
Just peace. Sweet, golden silence.

Foxy stood behind the front desk, arms crossed, tail swishing lazily behind him. He was almost relaxed.

Almost.

That’s when the elevator dinged.

Out stepped an older woman—her posture sharp, her purse massive, and her energy screaming “I want to speak to your manager and your manager’s grandmother.”

She marched straight to the desk like she was storming a royal court.

Foxy took one look at her and plastered on his best fake smile.
“Evenin’, ma’am. Cash or card?” he asked smoothly, tipping his pirate hat with flair.

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her abyss of a purse and pulled out…

An iPad.

Or, at least, something vaguely iPad-shaped. It was dinged, scratched, and looked like it had lost a duel with a blender.

“I want to return this,” she said firmly, plopping it on the counter like it was a cursed artifact.

Foxy blinked.

He stared at the tablet.
Then at her.
Then back at the tablet.

He inhaled deeply through his nose.
“Patience, Foxy,” he muttered to himself. “Freddy be with his brother an’ the wee green rabbit. Ye promised—aye, ye swore—no trouble today.”

He looked up with a tight smile.

“Ma’am, I be truly sorry—but this here be a hotel, not an electronics shop or an Apple port o’ call,” he said politely, gently pushing the iPad back toward her.

The woman huffed, offended. “But I bought it here!”

Foxy paused. “...Bought it here?”

“Yes.” She pointed a bony finger dramatically toward the parking lot visible through the glass doors.
“Yesterday. Right over there.”

Foxy turned, stared out the window… and saw nothing. Just a half-eaten churro on the pavement and a trash can that had lost a fight with the wind.

He turned back, blinking slowly.
“I’m gonna need ye t’ be more specific, ma’am,” he said with the patience of a saint and the soul of a man slowly dying inside.
“Where exactly did ye make this fine transaction?”

“RIGHT THERE.” She stabbed her finger at the pavement again. “Near the fountain.”

Foxy squinted.
“There ain’t even a fountain out there…”

“WELL THERE WAS,” she snapped.

“Ma’am,” Foxy said, taking a slow, dramatic inhale. “Breathe, Foxy. Breathe,” he whispered to himself, rubbing his temples.

He eyed the iPad suspiciously, poking it with one claw.

“And why, if I may be askin’, are ye returnin’ this fine… treasure?”

“I already told you!” she barked. “I charged it, I learned how to turn it on and off all by myself, okay?!”

Foxy raised a brow. “Impressive, ma’am.”

“But then it started flashing at me!” she said, horrified. “Like it was possessed or somethin’!”

Foxy picked it up. “Let’s have a gander then…”

He pressed the power button. The screen lit up for half a second… flickered… then went completely black. A soft sizzling sound came from the back.

Foxy winced.

He slowly, carefully, lowered the device back to the desk like it was a live grenade.

“Aye, ma’am,” he said solemnly, voice low and grim, “I hate to be the one t’ tell ye this…”

He met her eyes with a pirate’s pity.
“But I believe ye’ve been scammed.”

The woman gasped.
“Scammed?! That’s impossible! He had a name tag and a vest and everything!”

“Ma’am,” Foxy said seriously, “ye met a man in a parking lot wearin’ a vest. That be the very definition of ‘askin’ for trouble.’”

Her eyes narrowed. “He said his name was Steve Jobs Junior.”

Foxy stared at her for a long, soul-searching moment.

“Ma’am,” he whispered. “I don’t think that man even knows what a job is.”

“Well,” the old woman huffed, smoothing her floral scarf with a passive-aggressive flick, “can’t ye just take it and give me my money back?”

Foxy stared at her. Unblinking. Emotionless.

“…No.”

He pushed the janky, blinking iPad back across the desk, his paw slow and deliberate like he was returning a cursed artifact to a forgotten tomb.

The woman scowled. “Hmph!”
With a scoff sharp enough to break glass, she snatched the iPad off the counter and stormed off, her orthopedic shoes slapping violently against the floor. Her eyes locked on Foxy the whole way out, full of spite and betrayal.

Foxy waited until she was out of sight, then slowly… dramatically… slumped forward until his face hit the desk with a solid thunk.

“Why… does the sea of life keep drownin’ me in madness…” he groaned.

He didn’t even lift his head when he heard footsteps approaching.

“Foxy! Help me!”

He cracked one eye open.

Bonnie stood beside him, looking like he was two seconds from combusting. In his trembling hands: another iPad. Possibly even the same iPad. His ears drooped. His voice cracked.

“What should I do if—if some old lady wants to return somethin’ we don’t even sell?!”

Foxy slowly peeled himself off the desk and looked at Bonnie, whose lip was doing that telltale quiver again. His fur was fluffed from stress. His nose wiggled anxiously. He looked like he was about to break into an operatic breakdown right there in the lobby.

Foxy didn’t say a word.

He just walked.

One step. Then another.

He took the iPad from Bonnie’s shaking hands and kept walking, straight through the lobby, past the velvet ropes, right out the hotel doors.

Bonnie blinked. “F-Foxy?! Where are ye goin’?!”

No answer.

Bonnie panicked. He scrambled after him.

The two animatronics marched through the park side by side—one silent and furious, the other nervous and confused.

And there it was. The culprit.

A big white van, parked under the shade of a palm tree, with “Totally Legal Electronics™” spray-painted across the side in Comic Sans. Tables of dusty iPads, flip phones, knock-off AirPods, and one suspicious-looking blender lined the sidewalk.

Standing in front of it, all charm and smarm, was a man in a bright red vest with a name tag that said “Steve (Not a Scam)”.

“Ah! Hello, my animatronic friends!” Steve called out, grinning with the confidence of a man who’d scammed seventeen old ladies and still had time for lunch. “I have special offers, just for you!”

Before he could reach under the table, Foxy threw the iPad straight into his face.

CLONK!

“OW—what the—?!”

“Ye barnacle-ridden bilge rat!” Foxy roared, stompin’ forward. His voice cracked through the park like a cannon. “Ye dare dump yer cursed gadgets on me lobby and swindle sweet old landlubbers outside me hotel?!”

Bonnie flinched behind him. This was not the usual dramatic, silly Foxy. This was something older. Rougher. Pirate mode: fully activated.

“Foxy—!” Bonnie squeaked. “W-We’re in public—!”

Steve staggered back, holding his bruised forehead. “It’s just business, man! I ain’t doin’ nothin’ illegal!”

Foxy’s mechanical eye glinted.

His hook shifted, whirring with gears and metal, until it snapped into place—transformed into a mini flamethrower.

Bonnie gasped. “Foxy?!”

Foxy pointed it right at the van. “Take yer scammin’ hide and sail far, far from this hotel, or I’ll turn that van into a smokin’ pile o’ regret and barbecue parts!”

Steve’s face drained of color.

“I—I was leavin’ anyway!” he stammered, tripping over a stack of fake iPhones as he bolted toward the driver’s seat. “D-Don’t burn my merch, man!”

He peeled away from the park so fast the tires screeched. A box of unlabeled earbuds flew out the back and hit a bench.

Bonnie just stood there, blinking in awe.

Foxy lowered his flamethrower with a satisfied grunt. “And stay gone, ye keyboard-sellin’ sea goblin…”

Bonnie finally found his voice. “I—I didn’t even know yer hook could turn into that.”

Foxy blew a puff of smoke from the barrel like a cowboy in a western. “Aye. Only fer special occasions.”

He turned, brushed off his coat, and began strollin’ back toward the hotel with a swagger.

Inside the dim glow of the fix-and-charging room, wires hissed softly and screens flickered like weak pulses of light. The air buzzed with tension and static.

Freddy’s paws flew over the console, his brow furrowed in frustration. The virus inside the little green rabbit’s core was fighting him at every turn.

“Everything I do does nothing!” Freddy cried, turning to his brother with eyes wide—frantic. “It’s too deep, too tangled. Every time I override one string, three more take its place!”

Goldy stood beside him, golden arms crossed, his own face a mask of pain as he stared at the violently twitching capsule. Sparks blinked in and out of its seals. The rabbit inside thrashed—silent, wordless, trapped in something deeper than any of them could reach.

“The virus has been inside him too long,” Goldy muttered. “Dormant, maybe… until now.”

He looked toward Freddy, voice low, almost haunted.

"It only activated because he tried to reboot himself... like something inside didn’t want him to wake up. Like someone wanted to keep him asleep.”

Freddy’s voice was barely a whisper. “What were they trying to hide?”

They both stared as the little rabbit convulsed again. A low whine slipped through the capsule’s walls—a static-cracked sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry.

He sat still, soft and small, ears drooping slightly.

He was always waiting. Watching. Listening.

A little green rabbit with stitched seams and gentle eyes. Just a toy. Just Plushtrap.

Evan’s hands had once held him close. Evan’s arms had wrapped around him during those long, cold nights of fear.

But he couldn’t return the hug. He never could.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.

He could only be there.

"I’m scared,” Evan had once whispered, tears running down his cheeks. “They keep saying I’m too old to cry. That I’m just having nightmares. But they don’t know…”

Plushtrap had listened. He’d always listened. But Evan never knew.

And then… Evan was gone.

Not all at once.

It was like time had stopped mattering. Minutes, hours, days, months… They blended together in an endless loop of silence.

Where is Evan?

That question echoed through Plushtrap’s mind, again and again.

Where is he? Why hasn’t he come back?

He didn’t know how long he waited.

He just knew he kept waiting. Hoping.

Then one day, the door creaked open.

His vision—fogged with dust and forgotten time—sharpened. Hope sparked in his core.

Evan?

He sat still, perched atop the rumpled bedsheets like always, staring at the door.

Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.

But it wasn’t Evan.

It was a man.

Tall. Pale. Hair ruffled. Eyes sunken and wild.

William Afton.

Evan’s father.

Plushtrap watched him, frozen in place. William’s expression was twisted—stressed, angry, and… something else. Something broken.

He looked around the room like it was a crime scene.

Then his eyes landed on Plushtrap.

He crossed the room in silence.

Plushtrap screamed inside. No. No! Not you! Where is Evan?!

But William said nothing. His hands reached out—trembling—and lifted the little green rabbit off the bed.

Where are we going? Where is Evan? Why are you taking me? Why now?

He couldn’t ask. Couldn’t move. Couldn't fight.

Because he was just a toy.

Just a passenger.

Just something to be carried away.

He opened his eyes.

For the first time… he blinked. Light pierced through his vision like knives—blinding and sharp. He squinted, confused.

Wait.

He groaned.
Groaned?

Why did I… groan?

He moved.

Not in his head. Not in dreams. Not in broken memory echoes.

He was moving. His joints creaked. His hands trembled. His fingers curled—tight, mechanical, real. He could feel the servos shifting beneath his skin.

His mind was reeling. Something was wrong. Something was different.

A voice rang beside him.

“Finally!”

A man’s voice. Loud. Sharp. Giddy in a way that didn’t feel right.

“It works! My own creation actually works!” the voice shouted, echoing off the cold, sterile walls. “Look, Henry! You thought I couldn’t build like you! Well guess what? I don’t need you anymore!”

A laugh followed. Twisted. Cracking at the edges. Maniacal.

Plushtrap turned his head slowly.

And there he was.

William Afton.

Grinning wide. Standing too close. His eyes full of madness and pride.

Plushtrap’s body went rigid. His instincts screamed to run—but he couldn’t. His feet stayed rooted, legs stiff.

William loomed over him, hands jittering with excitement.

“Animatronic Skeleton 2.7,” he said breathlessly, like unveiling a masterpiece. “Prototype complete… and functional.”

Plushtrap stared at him, still silent, still struggling to understand.

William’s smile widened unnaturally. “Speak.”

Speak?

Plushtrap blinked again.
He had never spoken before. Never needed to.
But now…

He wanted to.

Not to William. Not for this monster.

But for Evan.

He thought of the boy’s trembling arms, the tears, the soft voice whispering through the dark. His best friend. His only light.

He had to speak. Had to ask.

He opened his mouth, his voice box crackling to life for the first time, broken and raw.

“W-Where… is E-Evan…?”

The words hung in the air like thunder.

William froze.

The smile dropped from his face like a shattered mask.

His eyes widened.

The silence was suffocating.

Then, in one sudden movement, William reached down and grabbed him—his fingers digging into Plushtrap’s arms with an iron grip, lifting him roughly off the table.

His eyes weren’t excited anymore. They were furious. Terrified.

“H-How do you know that name?!” he barked. “How do you know my son?!”

Plushtrap stared at him, limbs twitching in confusion, terror rising in his core.

He didn’t understand.
He didn’t know what was happening.

All he knew was—

He shouldn’t be here.

Not with him.

Rain.

Endless, cold, and heavy.

It fell in thick sheets from the sky, each drop striking like a whisper from a world Plushtrap had never known. The sound echoed off the metal scraps and empty walls around him. He was no longer inside Evan’s warm room, or nestled beneath soft blankets.

Now, he was broken.
Discarded.

Alone.

He lay at the edge of some distant building—forgotten, rusted, a shattered puppet slumped where William had thrown him. The place was unfamiliar. No stars above. Just storm clouds and darkness, like the world itself had turned away from him.

He couldn’t move.

His arms and legs—numb. Gone. Detached or too damaged to respond. His body felt hollow, wires snapped, servos whining like dying breath. He stared forward with cracked, flickering eyes, watching the rain pool around him.

Outside.

He had never been outside.

Only from Evan’s window could he see the world. Sunny skies. Green trees. That warm golden light that made the dust sparkle in the air.

He had dreamed of what it might feel like.

And now?

Now it was nothing but grey and wet and cold.
Like something sacred had been stolen before he ever touched it.

His voice—if he could call it that—shivered through static.

“C-Can I… see you again, Evan?” he whispered, the words barely forming. His lips twitched with effort, forcing out one last breath.

“…After I close my eyes?”

He smiled. Weak. Fractured. Almost like a goodbye.

His eyelids began to droop, flickering like low battery lights, and—

Warmth.

A sudden warmth wrapped around him like a blanket from nowhere. Gentle. Protective. Human? No... not human. Not exactly.

Arms.

Strong. Steady.

Hugging him.

A voice, soft and kind, whispered at his side.

“Fight it, little bunny.”

He wanted to look up. Wanted to see who was speaking, but his vision was too blurred. All he could see was color. Brown and gold. Faint and glowing.

“I never saw you before,” the voice continued, gentle and sure. “And I don’t know who you are yet. But I want to help you. Because you’re like us. You’re an animatronic. You’re family.”

Family? Plushtrap’s thoughts spun.

Another voice now. Deeper. Older. Calmer.

“Yes,” the second voice said, soft and steady like golden sunlight piercing through storm clouds.
“We’re family.”

He felt another weight join the embrace. A second presence—warm and solid. Two bears. Holding him. Saving him.

Freddy… and Goldy.

Who are these voices? he asked himself again.
Family? Did… did I ever have something like that?

He tried to close his eyes again—to give in to the softness—but the warmth wouldn’t let him go. It pulled him back, not forcefully… but gently. As if whispering, It’s not time yet.

And then—

Through the mist of his mind, through the static and the storm—

He saw him.

Evan.

Standing in front of him, small and smiling, like nothing had ever gone wrong.

His eyes weren’t sad anymore. No more tears. No fear. Just… peace.

“E-Evan…” Plushtrap tried to speak. The words glitched, caught in static. But his soul screamed the name.

Evan stepped forward and knelt in front of him.

Then—without a word—he wrapped his arms around Plushtrap and held him tightly.

Real.

Warm.

Not a dream. Not a glitch.

A goodbye.

Then, with that same gentle strength, Evan lifted him up… and threw him high.

Into the sky.

And as Plushtrap rose, carried by the light, Evan’s voice whispered one last time.

“Thank you, Plushtrap…
For hearing my cry.”

A blink.

Static cleared.

Plushtrap opened his eyes.

His body buzzed, fully powered. No longer broken. No longer alone.

He looked up…

…and saw two figures staring down at him.

One brown.

One gold.

Both smiling.

Chapter Text

“My bear…?” Foxy’s voice drifted into the dimly lit maintenance room, a whisper of concern laced in his usual theatrical rasp. He stepped through the threshold with cautious paws, the creak of the metal door echoing behind him like a groan from the shipwrecked past. His eyes squinted through the haze of scattered tools and dangling wires—a chaotic scene of aftermath and emotion.

The room smelled of burnt circuits and fresh oil. In the center of it all, Freddy sat slumped on the floor, cradling the tiny green rabbit like it was something fragile, something sacred. His brown fur was dusted with ash and static, his bowtie lopsided, his smile tired and soft as he looked up. Goldy crouched beside them, golden fingers dancing over a tangled mess of wires, his expression sharp with focus.

Foxy tilted his head, stepping over a wrench and something that may have once been a coffee mug, his brows furrowing beneath his patched eye. “Blimey, what in the seven soggy seas happened here? Did the wee rabbit go feral or shit on the generator?” he asked, his voice half-concerned, half-accusing, as if expecting the rabbit to leap up and bite someone.

 Freddy let out a soft chuckle, weary but real. “Evening, Foxy,” he murmured, his voice like worn velvet. “Hello,” Goldy added without looking, twisting a wire and connecting it to the small port on the rabbit’s back.

Foxy crouched beside Freddy, studying the broken little creature in his arms—how small it looked, even more so now that it was still. “It be lookin’ like he lost a duel with a toaster,” Foxy muttered. Freddy glanced at him. “It’s… a long story,” he said, eyes flickering. “Then short it, love,” Foxy replied bluntly, arms crossed.

Goldy didn’t even pause his work as he spoke, his voice even and steady. “His memory chip started destroying itself the moment he tried to activate. Like someone programmed him to forget before he ever remembered. It was bad.” He adjusted the monitor, watching lines of code flicker. “But... thanks to a miracle—or somethin’ poetic like the power of friendship and emotional trauma—he’s alive. With everything still in his head.”

Foxy blinked. “He what now?” “He lived,” Goldy said. “Barely. He just needs a new chip before this one fries completely. Something stable.” He stood, glancing around the wrecked room. “Do we even have a spare memory chip in here?”

Foxy glanced at the shelves and scattered bins of metal and scrap. “Aye, if we be lucky, there might be one buried beneath that pile o’ disappointment near the toolbox. Or maybe Chica turned it into a coaster again. No promises.” His voice dropped lower as he eyed the little rabbit once more—this time with less sarcasm, more wonder.

“Poor lad... Survived some kind o’ hell just to end up in our mess.” Freddy looked down at the rabbit again, his thumb brushing gently over the tiny animatronic’s cheek. “Yeah… but he’s here now.” And somehow, despite all the sparks and broken pieces… that meant everything.

After hours of tense repair, quiet panic, and digging through corrupted files like they were old memories trapped in rust, Plushtrap’s data had finally been stabilized—just enough to let him breathe again, to let him exist again.

With gentle care and quiet pride, Freddy stepped out from the charging room, carrying the small green rabbit in his arms like a fragile relic, while Foxy strutted beside him, arm swinging and eye gleaming with that signature pirate swagger.  Goldy followed close behind, walking with a noble stillness, his golden form polished and calm despite the emotional storm still simmering beneath his surface.

As they stepped into the main hallway, the rest of the hotel crew froze, eyes locking onto the returned legends in disbelief. Then—like a bolt of lightning—Bonnie sprinted across the floor, his voice cracking as he shouted, “G-Goldy!!” He crashed into the golden bear with a full-body tackle, clinging to him like a kid who'd just found his favorite toy again.

Goldy, anticipating it, caught him easily, bracing for impact. Bonnie didn’t even try to hide the tears—his ears drooped, his chest heaved, and he sobbed into Goldy’s shoulder, babbling without breath about how awful this job was, how many times he almost quit—or worse—and how the last guest called him "Budget Bugs Bunny." Goldy simply held him, one paw stroking his back in slow, soothing circles.

Meanwhile, Chica stood nearby with a bowl of something suspiciously crunchy, watching the scene unfold with raised brows and a mouth full of cereal. Her eyes landed on the small green rabbit in Freddy’s arms.

“Freddy?” she said, crunching. “I thought you and Foxy were a thing. Never knew you’d go and get yourself a Bonnie of Spring.” She jabbed a thumb at Plushtrap with a cheeky smirk. Freddy let out the longest sigh known to animatronic kind, shaking his head slowly, voice deadpan.

“No.” He said it with the weariness of a thousand burned cupcakes and unpaid overtime shifts. Plushtrap, still clinging lightly to Freddy’s chest.

 “Ye be sayin’ it like it’s a soap opera, Chica,” Foxy chimed in, flicking his tail and leaning dramatically against the reception desk. “But if our Freddy be cheatin’ on me, I’ll be takin’ the high seas with a broken heart and a flamethrower. No rabbit—green or otherwise—can compare t’ this ol’ sea dog!” He grinned, though his gaze softened as he looked at Plushtrap, nodding once with a hint of silent respect.

“But aye, the lad’s been through the storm. Let him rest.” The moment settled, quiet and surreal, as the team gathered around their strange little family—one golden, one green, one brown, and a whole crew of misfits who somehow made a five-star hotel feel like home, even if it ran on chaos, oil, and just a little bit of love.

Freddy bent low beside the small bed nestled in the corner of the room—a clumsy yet heartfelt creation cobbled together from pillows, spare linens, and love, courtesy of Foxy and Bonnie’s attempt at “interior design.”

With practiced care, he tried to ease Plushtrap down into the bed, but the moment his paw shifted, the little rabbit let out a low, stubborn groan and clung tighter to Freddy’s arm, his tiny limbs wrapped around it like a child refusing to be left behind.

“Oh no,” Freddy sighed softly, smiling with a weary tenderness. “The little one doesn’t want to let go.” He gave another gentle tug, but Plushtrap only squeezed tighter, pressing his face into Freddy’s chest with a quiet whimper of protest.

“Looks like I be losin’ my snuggle privileges tonight,” Foxy chuckled as he entered the room, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and a teasing glint in his eye. “I reckon we be settin’ sail right here in this room, at least for tonight, me bear.”

He walked over and guided Freddy down into a chair beside the bed, his voice low and comforting. “Come now, sit yerself, let the wee lad have his comfort.” Freddy let out a tired exhale and sank into the chair, still cradling Plushtrap gently against him. Foxy pulled up another chair and dropped into it with a dramatic flop, leaning into Freddy’s side and resting his head on his shoulder.

“Me body's runnin’ hot—gotta cool meself down,” he muttered, letting his eyes flutter closed while his tail lazily swayed. Freddy looked down at him, lips twitching with amusement.

“But… who’s working the customer service desk tonight?” he asked, half-dreading the answer. Foxy didn’t even look up. He simply lifted a finger and pressed it against Freddy’s lips.

“If they can’t find the towels or order extra mints, they can sleep on the lobby floor fer all I care,” he muttered like a man who had truly seen too much. Freddy chuckled softly and kissed the top of Foxy’s head, letting his arm curl around his pirate.

“Goodnight, my fox.” Foxy grinned against his chest, nuzzling in. “G’night, me bear.” And between the quiet hum of machinery and the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain outside, the three of them—one tired bear, one overheated pirate, and one recovering little rabbit—rested at last, tucked away in a corner of the hotel where, for once, everything felt safe.

The next morning arrived far too soon, dragging with it the sour smell of burnt toast from the guest breakfast lounge and the emotional weight of sleep-deprived animatronics still pretending they ran a luxury hotel.

Goldy found himself standing at the front of the lobby—not by choice, of course—but because he’d gotten up early to search for a map or some kind of directory for this ginormous, maze-like building.

Instead, thanks to his cursed luck, he had somehow wandered directly into the customer service desk and been mistaken for staff. And now, fate’s cruel joke had manifested into the form of a woman as she so loudly corrected—standing at the counter like an angry peacock in pearls and demanding her room key with the force of a thousand Yelp reviews.

“Give me my key already, and I’ll walk myself out,” she snapped, tapping her nails on the counter with the kind of rhythm that spelled entitlement in Morse code.

Goldy stared at her, blinking slowly, face blank, but his soul was whispering every curse word he had learned since the 1980s. He could practically hear Springtrap’s voice echoing in the back of his mind, dry and chaotic: "Just rip out her vocal box. She’d be quieter, I swear." Goldy exhaled through his nose and clenched his jaw. “

Urm… Miss—” he started, trying to be civil, only for her to cut across him like a slap to the ego. “I am a MADAM,” she snapped, as though she were royalty and this lobby was Versailles.

Goldy’s eyelid twitched. He reminded himself he was not allowed to scream. Nor set things on fire. Instead, he calmly pointed to the large, laminated sign directly behind him—complete with glittering letters and a cartoon Chica holding a clock.

“Madam,” he said with every ounce of patience his synthetic soul could gather, “this hotel gives out room keys at two in the afternoon. The sun has barely even risen.” He then dramatically motioned to the lobby windows, where the sunlight was still crawling timidly over the horizon like it, too, wanted to go back to bed.

The woman looked at the sun, then at him, huffed, muttered something about “unprofessionalism,” and stormed off toward the buffet line.

Goldy slumped forward against the counter, dragging both paws down his face. “I miss bein’ deactivated,” he muttered to himself, already plotting how to disappear before the next guest showed up.

Meanwhile, in the dimly lit staff sleeping quarters—though calling it a “sleeping mode room” was generous, considering it looked more like a glorified maintenance bunker—chaos was breaking out in the form of one panicked little green rabbit.

Plushtrap was in full meltdown, banging his palms furiously against the closed door, his voice hoarse and cracking as he shouted through the static, “LET ME GO! LET ME OUT!”

Every slam of his hands echoed off the metal walls like alarm bells, sending Foxy’s ears twitching and his fuse dangerously short. “Oi! Stop that, lad!” Foxy barked, arms flailing as he stormed closer, his hook clanging against the railing.

“That door ain’t cheap, ye little stormin’ gremlin! Ye wanna break somethin’? Try me patience instead!” But just as the fox’s tone sharpened and his boot clanged against the floor, Freddy caught him gently by the arm.

“Foxy,” he said, voice low, calm, tired, “let me take care of it.” Foxy growled under his breath, but backed away with a heavy sigh. “Aye, fine… but how long, Freddy? Ye already tried twice, and the wee gremlin still acts like he’s bein’ tossed into the pit! I don’t fancy another morning o’ bein’ screamed at before oilin’ me joints.”

Freddy nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving the trembling figure on the other side of the room. “I know,” he said softly, stepping toward Plushtrap with slow, measured steps.

“But we don’t know who he really is. Not yet. Maybe… maybe he was one of the ones hurt by that man in the purple uniform. Maybe that’s why he reacts this way.” Foxy grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “I knew it,” but didn’t interrupt.

Freddy kept walking, voice softer now, careful not to spook the rabbit further. “He never spoke to us before. He never even moved until Kisachi brought him here. If this… if this really is the first time he’s seen the world outside that storage container—then it’s not panic. It’s fear. It’s being born all over again and finding everything’s still broken.”

He stepped a little closer, raising his paws slowly. “Hey… it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you,” he whispered to Plushtrap, whose eyes were wide and wild, filled with static and confusion. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Behind him, Foxy leaned on the wall with crossed arms, muttering, “If this ends with the door gettin’ dented, ye owe me a replacement hook.”

Freddy knelt slowly, careful not to startle the trembling little rabbit before him, his tone calm and gentle, like someone talking to a scared child rather than a prototype animatronic with a history wrapped in pain and static.

“My name is Freddy Fazbear,” he said softly, his paw resting open and unthreatening in front of him. Then, with the faintest twitch of his eye, he motioned over his shoulder with a resigned sigh.

“And that loud red fox in the corner—despite all common sense—is Foxy.” “Foxy Fazbear now,” Foxy corrected with a dramatic flourish, placing a hand on his hip and winking like he was on stage. “We be wed in glorious matrimony, bound by oil and spark, in the name o’ chaos and shared debt.”

Freddy rolled his eyes with the weariness of someone who had heard this speech a thousand times. But then his expression softened again as he turned back to the little green rabbit, who was staring at him with cautious, blinking eyes—like a child who wasn’t sure if the world had finally stopped hurting.

Freddy extended his paw once more, the corners of his mouth lifting into a warm smile. “May I know your name?” he asked gently, voice barely more than a whisper.

For a moment, Plushtrap didn’t move. His body was stiff, his mind fogged with fragments, terror, and doubt. But something deeper—older—something buried in the seams of his metal shell and the echoes of his past, stirred.

Like muscle memory. Like a quiet hand on his back guiding him forward. And before he could stop himself, his small, worn fingers reached out—slow, trembling—and took Freddy’s paw in his own.

“Plushtrap,” he murmured, the word heavy, unfamiliar on his tongue. “My name is… Plushtrap.” Freddy’s smile didn’t falter. His fingers curled gently around the rabbit’s, anchoring him with the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with code.

“Welcome to Glamrock Grand,” he said. And for the first time since he could remember, Plushtrap didn’t feel like a mistake or an experiment. He just felt… real.