#aftonpat

A screeching, grinding cacophony is fueled with each and every footfall. How he can still hear his chattering teeth above even that, he has no idea. 

It’s all made worse by the fact that the corridors are so narrow. 

He can’t move an inch without his elbows knocking against the painted plaster. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to feel the constant aches surging through his tendons if he was walking, but he just can’t afford to be slow right now. 

The air keeps getting colder and colder—to the point that he starts to see his own breath. Small, steamy clouds pour out of his mouth, disappearing less than a second later. 

He’s been sprinting for hours now. 

Why the hell isn’t he sweating? 

Why aren’t his lungs burning if they’re already more-or-less threatening to burst any second now? 

Why does his blood seem to carry both the consistency and temperature of a fucking slushie?!

He skids to an abrupt halt, just barely keeping his balance as he pushes what’s left of his hands—the stumps wrapped up in layers of bloodied bandage—against the walls.

…A new sound has joined the cacophony both in-and-outside his head. 

A splashing, churning sound. 

And it’s echoing from somewhere above him. 

He glances up just in time to see ripples stretching out on the surface of that inky void. As though something inside is stirring in its sleep, struggling to wake. 

He throws himself down, burrowing through the metallic waste until he feels enough of it slide into place over his back. 

He is hidden. Not safe—he’ll never, NEVER be safe after all the things he’s done—but hidden.

He shifts his neck, not wanting to move any more than that. He needs to keep watching the surface, but too much movement will only ensure that they catch him sooner.

Above him, something heavy touches down on top of the wreckage. The rusty pieces are all jostled in a rhythmic pattern. 

He lays there, muscles tense, feeling the blood rush through his head, waiting for what feels like hours. 

But nothing starts digging toward him. Nothing ever pushes his cover away. 

Finally, FINALLY, the new noise starts to fade. The jagged, uneven footfalls above move past him, getting quieter and quieter every inch of the way.

Once they disappear completely, he flounders, moving in a way that’s reminiscent of both climbing and swimming. He surges up, determined to get back on his feet and keep running, keep looking for that precious fire. 

…But his head never breaks the surface. 

As his arms sweep the layers of junk away, he only finds more waiting to take its place. 

He feels icy claws drip down his spine—he’d only buried deep enough to cover himself! That was it! How the hell are there suddenly miles between him and those hallways?!

In his haste, a section of his bandages gets caught on the jagged edge of a robotic hand—the way its lifeless fingers are curled resemble the branches of a long-dead tree.

He snarls, pausing his movement to yank his arm back. But as he does, at the very last second…the bandage tears, allowing the sharp rust to scrape the already marred flesh of his wrist. 

Fear cuts through anger like a hot knife through butter.

He howls in pain, trying again and again to free his arm. But the more he moves, the more his now ruined bandage gets tangled up in the rust. The more exposed his stump becomes.

All at once, the newly bare skin starts to hiss. Wisps of discolored vapor begin drifting out of the wound—only a few at first, thin and short. But in a matter of seconds, larger clouds start flooding out, alongside a stream of dark red ooze.

He can only watch and scream as his skin keeps burning, keeps blistering, keeps bubbling. Flesh and muscle peel away in ribbons, sloughing off of him until the rough, splintered remains of his wrist-bones are revealed. 

And it doesn’t stop there.

Like shed scales being pulled away from a snake’s coils, the sizzling rot proceeds further up his forearm. His skin continues to twist and melt away. Now he can see the glistening shapes of his radius and ulna; they’re being unveiled slowly, little-by-little, inch-by-inch.

Even as he thrashes and flails and shrieks, he keeps aiming for the surface.

There has to be a surface! There has to be relatively fresh air somewhere outside all the rust! The world hasn’t just caved in on itself all because he wanted to hide—!

He feels more searing pain start to concentrate on his shoulder.

And then his neck…

…his jaw…

…his EYE-SOCKET…

___

What could only be described as an intense Charlie Horse sensation wracked the space between Mad’s eyes as they snapped open.

That sensation then slithered down to his throat, forcing him to cough and gasp as he writhed against the old mattress. 

He had to roll onto his side, had to use his elbow to prop himself up. It took a couple long, agonizing minutes before his breathing became steady enough. 

Heart still hammering painfully against his sternum, he stared down at his wrist-stumps. 

The bandage-layers were still splattered with crimson stains, but they were whole. No rips or tears to be found. 

The jagged mess of his skin in that area was still covered. The bleeding had stopped a long time ago. 

No organic steam, no hissing, no peeling…

With a heavy sigh (and much more effort than he’d care to admit), Mad manuvered himself to sit up, his legs now sliding over the edge, letting his boots thump against the old hardwood floor. 

His vision was quick to adjust to the darkness; this building had lost all electricity about a month ago, but that didn’t bother him too much. Besides, the moonlight filtering through that cracked window in the corner certainly helped. 

He eyes kept wandering back to his stumps as he glanced about the decaying room. He snarled at the thick spiderwebs that clung to the ceiling—what were the odds of one of those eight-legged creatures scuttling in-between the gauze and spinning a little egg-sac somewhere in his flesh..?

Mad shook his head feverishly, shudders pushing their way along his ribcage. Bright red glinted out of the corner of his eye: that wonderful, deadly, genius new toy he’d put together just the other night was sitting on the nightstand. Right where he’d left it. 

Mad stood, and as his shadow fell over it, the weapon's material seemed to glint even more. Almost like it was waiting for his next move. 

Taking a deep breath, he cradled the flame-chain (yes, that was what he was calling it. Patent-pending, bitches) and hefted it onto his back, the straps fitting around his shoulders perfectly.

Though this dead motel—the recently-condemned place that just so happened to be only a few blocks away from Freddy Fazbear’s—had made for good shelter earlier, he couldn’t afford to stay any longer. For all he knew, a construction crew would be en route to tear this place down and start building something else on its bones first thing tomorrow morning. 

He needed a new hideout. Somewhere else to stay before he could make a plan to get back to the pizzeria. 

Licking his lips, Mad threw the room’s door open and stormed down the rotting corridor. 

Adrenaline started to fester in his lungs as he realized that he already had somewhere else to go. 

He had someone to stay with. 

He had a favor to cash in…