The garage smelled like oil and rust, a sharp tang that clung to my clothes as I hunched over the workbench. Rain drummed the tin roof, steady and loud, drowning out the world beyond the flickering bulb overhead. Henry stood across from me, glasses slipping down his nose, hands fumbling with a tangle of wires and springs. The skeleton of a suit sprawled between us—metal ribs, a grinning bear head half-finished, its jaw hinged with coils that could snap shut like a trap. Springlocks. My idea, my hands shaping it into something real.
"Careful with that," I grunted, not looking up as I tightened a bolt. Grease streaked my fingers, mixing with the lavender Clara'd rubbed into my shirt that morning—her latest plea to keep me home. Didn't work. "One wrong move, and it'll crush your arm."
Henry flinched, pulling his hands back. "Will, this… this feels off. These springs—they're too tight. If they fail—"
"They won't," I cut in, voice hard. I slammed a wrench down, the clang echoing. "You design, I build. That's the deal." My eyes flicked to the corner, where Glitchtrap lounged against a stack of crates—a jagged shimmer of purple and gold, claws tapping the air. His amber stare bored into Henry, and his rasp slid through me: He's weak. Push him. I shook it off, but my grip tightened.
Henry wiped his brow, smearing oil. "I'm just saying, we're rushing. Emily's been asking where I'm at all the time, and Clara—"
"Don't bring her into this," I snapped, standing straight. The suit's chest plate gleamed under the light, cold and perfect. "This is our shot. Fredbear's Family Diner—robots that sing, dance, bring in crowds. Real money." I saw it clear—kids laughing, coins clinking, something mine.
Glitchtrap's grin widened, and he glided closer, claws brushing the suit's frame. "Springlocks," he hissed, voice curling in my skull. "Clever. Dangerous. They'll wear it, won't they? You'll make them." I ignored him, but the idea stuck—performers inside, locked in metal, my metal.
"Michael's been asking about you," Henry said, softer now, like he thought it'd sway me. "Clara too. She's—"
"Pregnant," I finished, flat. "I know. Elizabeth's on the way. More reason to make this work." I turned back to the suit, shoving a spring into place. Clara'd told me last week, eyes wet, belly just starting to show. She'd begged me to stay in, stop tinkering, but the garage was where I breathed. Out there, with her tears and Michael's sticky hands, I suffocated.
Henry sighed, defeated, and went back to the wiring. Glitchtrap's hum filled the gaps, a blueprint unfolding in my head—two suits, bear and bunny, springlocks snapping shut, alive with my will. He'd help. He always did.
In the house, Michael sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, a half-built toy robot in his lap—bits of plastic and screws I'd tossed him to keep him busy. The TV blared a jingle from some cereal ad, but his eyes were on the garage door, locked tight. Dad was out there again with Uncle Henry, banging and muttering, and Mom was pacing, her hands twisting a dishrag. She looked bigger now, tired, her sweater stretched over the bump where Elizabeth was growing.
"Michael, put that away," she said, voice sharp. "Dinner's almost ready." Her eyes flicked to the garage too, lips tight.
"He's making robots," Michael said, not moving. "Big ones. I heard him tell Uncle Henry they'll sing." He'd peeked once, seen the bear head with its empty eyes, and it'd stuck with him—cool, but scary too.
Clara stopped, rag dropping to the counter. "He's making promises he can't keep," she muttered, then louder, "He's out there all night, Michael. Ignoring us. For what?" She stormed to the garage door and pounded on it, her voice cracking. "William! Get in here—your son's waiting!"
No answer. Just the clank of metal and a low buzz Michael couldn't place. He frowned, glancing at his toy. A shadow flickered by the window—tall, glitchy, gone fast. He blinked, shook it off, but his fingers tightened on a screw. Dad's robots better be worth it.
Clara's shouts faded as Glitchtrap's claws traced the suit's jaw, sparking a jolt in my hands. "They'll sing," he rasped. "They'll dance. And more, if you let me." I nodded, half-aware, and drove another bolt home. Henry didn't see him, didn't hear him—just kept wiring, oblivious. Good. This was mine.
One Year Later – April 07,1983 (in my au its the bite of 87 not 83 just to clear that up)
The garage was a workshop now, suits finished and shipped off—Fredbear and Spring Bonnie, grinning in a little diner across town. It wasn't enough. Bills piled higher with Elizabeth born, her crib squeezed into our room, her cries piercing the nights Clara barely slept through. Michael was bigger, quieter, watching me with eyes I didn't like—too sharp, too hurt. I needed more.
Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was my side hustle, a second gig I'd pitched to Henry over beers. "Bigger," I'd said. "Four of 'em—bear, bunny, fox, chicken. No springlocks this time, just animatronics." He'd grumbled but drawn the plans, and I'd built them in the garage, late nights with Glitchtrap whispering tweaks—sharper teeth, louder laughs. The place opened last month, a squat brick joint with sticky floors and flashing lights. Kids loved it. Cash trickled in.
I leaned against the truck outside Freddy's, rain spitting on my cap, watching parents herd screaming brats inside. The sign glowed—Freddy's big dumb grin next to Bonnie's banjo. My chest tightened. It wasn't Fredbear's, wasn't the dream yet, but it was a start. Glitchtrap shimmered beside me, taller now, claws clicking. "More," he hissed. "They'll want more. You'll give it to them."
"Yeah," I muttered, climbing into the truck. Clara'd be home, mad again—Elizabeth's diaper rash, Michael's sulking, my hours at the garage and Freddy's. I didn't care. The engine roared, and I peeled out, the hum in my head growing—Freddy's was a stepping stone. Fredbear's would rise. Glitchtrap's grin burned in the dark, promising it.
micheal(third person)
Back home, Michael sat in his room, a Freddy's token spinning on his desk. He'd been there once, seen the bear sing, felt the floor shake. Cool, but Dad hadn't taken him—Uncle Henry had. Dad was always gone now, and Mom yelled more, her voice hoarse over Elizabeth's wails. He flipped open a comic—Foxy the Pirate, snarling on the page—and wondered if Dad's robots could turn mean like that. The token stopped, and a shadow twitched in the corner. He didn't look. Just gripped his pencil and drew claws on the bear, bigger this time.