William POV
The diner's neon buzzed overhead, a green flicker that scraped at my nerves. I leaned against the truck for a second, rain spitting on my face, before shoving inside. The bell clanged, and I dropped into a booth, boots leaving wet streaks on the floor. The waitress slid a mug of black coffee my way—cheap and bitter, cutting through the lavender haze Clara'd drenched me in that morning. "Stay home," she'd said, all teary, like that fixed anything. Michael's jam-sticky hands tugging at my leg flashed in my head, and I shook it off, hard.
Henry was late—typical. My fingers tapped the table, grease still under my nails from the garage, where I'd been sketching all night. Robots. Claws. Wires. Something to pull me out of this mess—Clara's nagging, Michael's whining, the bills stacking up. I needed this to work.
The door jangled, and Henry slid in across from me, coat damp, glasses fogged. "William," he said, voice thin. "You sounded off on the phone."
"Coffee first," I grunted, shoving the mug toward him. He took it, hands shaky, spilling a drop. Weak. "I've got an idea," I said, leaning in. "Robots. Automation. We build it—your designs, my hands. A business. Real money."
Henry's mouth twitched, doubtful. "Will, we've talked about this. It's too much—costs, risks. I've got Emily—"
"You owe me," I cut in, voice low, gripping the mug till it hurt. "Fredbear's. All those years. You're in, or you're out." My chest tightened, pulse hammering.
A shadow flickered—Glitchtrap, by the jukebox, amber eyes on Henry. He's soft, his rasp slid through me, cold and sharp. Push him. I clenched my jaw, shoving the voice down, but my hands wouldn't still.
"Think about it," I said, standing, tossing a crumpled bill on the table. "I'm not waiting long." I turned, storming out, rain hitting me like needles. Glitchtrap trailed me, a glitchy shimmer in the wet air, claws clicking faint. He'll bend, he hissed, a promise sinking into my bones. Or he'll break.
I climbed into the truck, engine snarling, and peeled out. Clara'd be waiting, Michael too, but I wasn't ready for that cage. The road stretched dark ahead, and Glitchtrap's hum settled in—a plan taking shape
Chapter Two
The truck's headlights carved through the rain, tires hissing on the wet highway as I pushed the gas harder. The wipers slapped back and forth, barely keeping up, but they couldn't clear the fog in my head. Clara's voice gnawed at me—"Stay home, Will, just stay"—and Michael's sticky little hands tugged at the edges of my thoughts. I twisted the radio knob, static crackling into some loud guitar riff, but it didn't drown out Glitchtrap's hum. He sat shotgun, a glitchy shimmer against the torn vinyl, amber eyes glowing faint, claws tapping the dash.
"He'll bend," he rasped, voice slithering into my skull. "Henry's soft. Always has been."
"Quiet," I growled, knuckles white on the wheel. My hands still smelled like grease from the garage—nights spent hunched over sketches, metal scraps, half-formed ideas of gears and claws. Robots. A way out. Henry's hesitation back at the diner had lit something in me, and Glitchtrap was stoking it, his whispers curling like smoke.
The diner's neon faded in the rearview, and the road stretched black ahead. I didn't know where I was headed—just not home. The truck rattled as I gunned it, engine snarling like it felt the same itch. Glitchtrap tilted his head, jagged grin splitting his face. "You don't need him, William. You never did."
I didn't bite back. My foot eased off, tires slowing as the rain softened to a drizzle. A rusted sign flashed by—Old Mill Road—and I yanked the wheel, veering onto the narrow lane. It was a nowhere stretch, just woods and mud, but it'd do. I needed air, space to think. The truck jolted over potholes, and I pulled off into a clearing, killing the engine. Rain tapped the roof, and Glitchtrap's hum filled the quiet.
"Running won't build it," he said, claws scraping the air. "You've got the hands. The vision. Ditch the dead weight."
"Shut up," I muttered, shoving the door open. Cold water stung my face as I stepped out, boots sinking into the muck. The air smelled like pine and damp earth, sharp enough to cut through the lavender still clinging to my jacket from Clara's hug. I paced, hands flexing, the sketches burned into my brain—robots, sleek and strong, a business to pull me out of this hole. Henry's voice rang in my ears—"Costs, risks, Emily"—and my jaw tightened.
Glitchtrap slunk out after me, his form flickering in the wet dark, taller now, edges jagged. "He's a chain," he hissed, circling me. "You're the one with the fire. The diner—your diner—starts with you."
"It's not just a diner," I snapped, turning on him, breath fogging in the chill. "It's bigger. Machines. Money. Something real." I saw it clear as day—metal frames stomping to life, kids laughing, cash rolling in. A family place, sure, but mine. Ours, if Henry'd grow a spine.
"Then make it," Glitchtrap said, stepping closer, claws glinting. "I can show you. The designs, the guts of it. No whining wife, no weak partner. Just you."
The words hit hard, sinking into the cracks Clara's tears and Michael's tantrums had left. My pulse steadied, and I met his glowing stare, rain dripping off my cap. "Show me," I said, voice low, firm. The air crackled, electric, and his grin stretched wide—a deal struck in the mud and shadows.
He raised a claw, and the dark shimmered, faint lines of a machine sketching themselves in the air—gears, joints, a hulking shape with a bear's grin. My hands itched to build it, to bend steel into something alive. The rain faded to a hum as I stared, Glitchtrap's rasp coiling around me like a blueprint. Clara and Michael felt miles away, and the road back home blurred. This was it—the first piece clicking into place, rough and relentless.
~~~
Micheal's pov
I sat on the living room floor, crayons all over like someone dumped a candy jar. The TV was on, some dumb cartoon bear bouncing around, singing about honey or something. I didn't care. My eyes kept going to the window, where rain ran down the glass in wiggly lines. Dad's truck wasn't there. It hadn't been since morning, when he yelled at Mom about robots and money and stormed out, leaving me with jam on my hands and her crying into the sink.
"Michael, honey, pick those up," Mom called from the kitchen. Her voice sounded shaky, like when I wobble on my bike. She was washing dishes again, clinking loud, like she could scrub Dad back through the door. I didn't look at her. Just shoved the crayons into a messy pile with my foot. My sneakers were still sticky from breakfast, jam smearing on the rug, and I rubbed harder, mad at Dad for going, mad at Mom for not stopping him.
The clock on the wall ticked too slow, like it was stuck. I grabbed a blue crayon and started drawing on the back of an old grocery list—Mom wouldn't care. A robot, big and blocky, like the ones Dad scribbled in the garage. I gave it claws, sharp ones, and mean eyes that glowed, because Dad's eyes were mean lately, all hard and far away. He used to draw with me, show me how to make the lines straight, but now he just locked himself out there with his tools and papers, muttering about Uncle Henry and some big plan.
"Is he coming back?" I said, loud so Mom'd hear. The crayon pressed hard, tearing the paper a little.
She didn't say anything at first. The sink stopped running, and her footsteps came soft, socks on the wood floor. "He always does," she said, kneeling next to me. Her hair was messy, falling in her face, and her eyes were red like she'd rubbed them too much. She smelled like flowers and dish soap, and I leaned into her even though I didn't want to. "He's just… working on something big."
I scowled at the robot, adding more claws. "With Uncle Henry?" I'd heard Dad on the phone last night, growling about Henry owing him, about some diner thing they were gonna build. I pictured it—robots dancing, like in the cartoons, but real. Maybe Dad'd take me there. Maybe he'd smile again.
"Yeah," Mom said, her voice tight like a knot. "Something for us. For you." She hugged me, but it felt wobbly, like she was lying to herself. I hugged back anyway, my sticky fingers catching in her sweater. Outside, the rain kept dripping, and the driveway stayed empty. I pulled away and grabbed a red crayon, coloring the robot's eyes bright and angry.
"He didn't say bye," I muttered, pressing so hard the crayon snapped. Mom's hand froze on my back. I didn't look at her, just kept drawing, making the robot bigger, scarier. Dad was out there with his machines, and I was here, waiting, like always. I wondered if his robots would be loud, if they'd have voices, if they'd care about me more than he did lately.
The cartoon bear on TV laughed, and I threw the broken crayon at it, missing. Mom sighed, soft and tired, and stood up. "Let's make dinner," she said, like that fixed anything. I stayed on the floor, staring at my robot, its claws reaching off the paper. Dad's big thing better be worth it, I thought, 'cause I was sick of waiting for him to come home and mean it.