Chapter Text
Michael hated technology. Honestly, he hated it.
He’d hated it since he was a little kid when his dad would spend hours of what could have been playing time locked away in his workshop, tinkering with springlocks and crossbeams and whatever other technical garble he could use as an excuse that would sound important enough to an 8 year old to explain his father’s absence.
He kind of wished he’d learned more about them back before it mattered.
“I hate you,” he said aloud.
“You’ll learn to love me.” Michael winced when he heard Ennard’s voice. He could feel the animatronic’s voice box vibrating in his cheek, and he had to force down a wave of repulsion.
“I think I’ll learn to hate you more than I already do,” Michael hissed through gritted teeth.
It had been a single week. A single horrible week since he’d felt how the scooper had…scooped him, and Ennard had entered his life.
He could feel each twisting wire inside him, crawling under his skin and looping around where his insides used to be, and he couldn’t imagine ever feeling anything but hatred for the creature responsible.
He wanted to stand and move to the bathroom. He thought he might have it in him to brush his teeth, even though it’d be hard to dodge the mirror. He was afraid to look in the mirror, because every time he did, everything got a little more vivid, and the reality of his situation sank in a little more.
But he knew he could do it, he’d done it earlier in the week a few times. He hadn’t been able to get himself to shower yet -he was dreading showering- but he’d managed to brush his teeth a few times. He stood from the bed, and his legs wobbled under him, still unused to the wires coiling around his bones.
“Where are we going?” Ennard buzzed, and Michael wanted to throw up. He wasn’t fully sure if he could throw up. He was still able to eat food, whatever was stored in his apartment -he also dreaded going shopping- but he could also feel a dull metallic weight where his stomach should be, so he really wasn’t sure.
“Bathroom,” is what he grunted to answer the animatronic, who whirred in irritation.
“You never go anywhere,” Ennard huffed.
“Sorry my life is so boring to you.”
“I know you have to leave at some point! People leave their houses, so you’ll have to too. You walked here from work.”
“I can’t exactly go outside. In case you haven’t noticed, I look a little messed up.”
“You look fine to me.”
“Your point of reference is Ballora.”
“My point of reference is you two weeks ago.”
Michael made it to the bathroom, his eyes glued to the floor. He would not look up, he wouldn’t do it, he was just going to brush his teeth and go back to the bed. That was it. He could do this.
“You look fine, Michael!” Ennard insisted. “Come on, I want to go somewhere! I want to see something!”
“People aren’t supposed to look purple,” Michael mumbled, trying to avoid the purple tinges that were visible even on the bits of his arms that weren’t covered. “And they don’t have wires sticking out of them.”
“I can pull the wires in for a little while.”
Michael decided against answering again and made a steady movement to place the paste on his toothbrush. Moving the brush to his teeth felt simple, and he liked the sense of accomplishment it gave. If he shut his eyes, and if Ennard was quiet for a moment, maybe he could try to forget the disaster his life had become.
Pretending nothing had gone wrong was becoming a frequent pastime for Michael. He pretended that he’d never met Ennard, pretended that his family was normal and happy. He pretended that he didn’t deserve every bit of this torture for what he’d done to his brother.
Michael spit out the toothpaste and sighed. Pretending didn’t last very long. What was the point in it, really, when he always needed to open his eyes again? After another round of brushing he spit again and, lost a bit in thought, glanced up at the mirror.
The sight of his reflection sent him immediately back down, hands gripping the sides of the sink, another wave of revulsion rising in his throat. It had only been an instant, but he’d seen the grotesque tinge of his cheeks, the purpling eyes, the horrible protrusions of wiring dotted at random across his skin. He retched slightly, but nothing came up.
“Michael? What’s wrong?” Ennard asked, and the machine had the audacity to sound genuinely concerned. Michael decided to ignore him. He didn’t want to open his mouth anyways.
Ennard didn’t seem willing to let Michael continue this plan. “Michael, what is it?”
“I hate you,” Michael spat again, though the target of the statement had shifted since the last time he said it.
“You’ll love me.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“Since I succeeded in my plan and you’re still alive, I think I can successfully argue that I did not try to kill you. I’d actually appreciate it if you stayed alive, so can you please tell me what’s wrong with you?”
Michael didn’t answer. The vibrating his cheek made his head throb. It wasn’t the actual motion so much as the horrible implications of the motion. He wanted to hide under the covers of his bed.
Now that he thought about it, what was stopping him from doing exactly that? Ennard hadn’t once tried to take over his ability to move.
Michael decided that brushing his teeth and nearly having a panic attack was certainly enough activity for one day and headed back to the bed.
“Michael, don’t ignore me,” Ennard pouted, but Michael did, in fact, entirely ignore him and crawled back under his sheets. He pulled the comforter over his head and tried to think about something other than his own grotesque appearance.
He wondered why someone would name this thing a comforter. It wasn’t exactly comforting , especially not compared with almost anything else in a bed. It was just a heavier blanket. Why was it so special? Why did they call it a comforter?
‘Do you know why they call it the Scooping Room?’
The memory hit Michael like a brick to the gut, and he curled tightly around himself. It had been Ennard talking to him the whole time. He’d thought it was Elizabeth, trapped inside an animatronic, cheering him on to finally freeing the last of their father’s victims.
But no. It was Ennard.
Michael didn’t even know if Elizabeth was there.
“Michael?” Ennard spoke again, and Michael winced horribly against the buzz in his cheek. “You’re crying.”
“Shut up,” Michael whispered, curling tighter. “I know you don’t have springlocks, so I don‘t have to care if you get wet.”
“I just want to know what’s wrong with you. You didn’t act like this when you started working.”
“Yeah, well, when I started working I had internal organs. Now shut up. Under the comforter means no talking.”
Michael was a bit surprised to find no reply. Had Ennard actually listened to him? He didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with that information if it was true. Although he wouldn’t be in this situation at all if not for Ennard’s very convincing arguments that he wanted to work with Michael, and Michael didn’t intend to fall for the same trick twice.
Though he supposed he couldn’t really sink lower than he currently was.