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Your pager has missed messages. Random numbers that haven't been buzzed back. Your staff was worried for your sake. A security guard doesn't just stop responding to pager messages. Next thing you know, you have a goal.
You need to keep the one you love safe. Springtrap. You'd do anything to prevent leading staff from discovering that you cleaned him and brought him to your home.
Though this method would be messy. It was perfect. But definitely required you getting your hands dirty.
The smell of gasoline wasn't anything enticing to you. You liked the smell, sure. But it wasn't something that lingered in your mind. Now it absolutely was. The sloshing of the canister, the sound of the liquid splattering on the floor and walls..
You returned with a plan. A plan that you weren't going to back out of. You might have returned here full of worry and fear, but now all you could do was furrow your brow. You had a goal.
Burn down Fazbear's Frights.
You didn't care about the job. Especially when you had someone to look after. Someone who deserves better than this. And you'd go through hell to provide that for him.
Not a machine. Not a creature. Him.
You were close to finishing everything. He was safely out of the building, and you were nearly finished with dousing the place with gasoline. The press would probably chalk this up as an electrical fire or something. Why would a nameless security guard randomly burn down an up-and-coming Fazbear Entertainment facility? Especially one without any background or ulterior motive to the company.
You stepped through the last hallway. The front doors were visible to you. This was it. You shook the remnants of the can out. That was the third and final one. You set it down next to you, kicking it towards the trail of gasoline you left.
You heard a car's engine.
Your blood ran cold. That tight feeling in your chest returned. You'd have to face whoever had arrived. You'd either have to convince them nothing was happening, or coerce them to say nothing with the end of your baton.
You stepped out of the building, shaking your gloved hands in order to see if any gas had spilled onto them. Not any that was visible. You reeked of gasoline. A dead giveaway.
The car that had pulled up was a familiar one. A sedan. It had a slightly scratched exterior, clearly well-loved by their owner. It was colored red.
The person that stepped out of the car was your employer. A fellow employee of Fazbear Entertainment.
"What are you doing? I came here to check on you, you haven't buzzed your pager in over three days!"
You didn't say anything. You weren't going to defend yourself for what you were doing. And they weren't going to get in your way.
"You look horrible, have you even slept in three days? Christ, you even smell like-"
"Turn around and leave."
Your voice had a growling haze to it. You weren't always the most threatening, but your appearance likely aided that fact. Your bloodshot eyes, your unkempt hair, your steely gaze.. Not to mention that you didn't exactly clean your security jacket, which meant remnants of dried blood, oil, and now gasoline was visible. You looked like you walked through hell.
"What the hell has gotten into you? Listen, if you want to keep this job, you absolutely have to do a better job than-"
You didn't say anything. Instead, you placed your hand inside your jacket pocket and took out your baton. Holding down the button on the hilt, you unsheathed the rest of the baton with a simple arm movement.
"Are you threatening me? You know what? Fine. I'm calling your superiors. Whatever you're planning, it ends now."
They took out a phone and started dialing a number. You couldn't risk losing the one you were willing to die for. Not that easily.
You hastily approached the person, retracting your baton in the process. They tried to back away, but you quickly grabbed their phone and slammed it into the asphalt.
Almost instinctively, they landed a punch towards your nose. The pain stabbed through your head, aching horribly. You took a few steps back, stumbling as you placed a hand over your nose. Blood coated the palm of your hand. They held their hand at the wrist, seemingly in pain from how hard they hit you.
"Hey, maybe next time, don't smash my phone? Huh?"
That line. That smug, cocky joke at your expense. You had a goal. Protecting the one you love the most. They were interfering with that goal. If they spread word that you committed arson, you'd be torn away from him.
You couldn't let that happen.
You lunged at the person. You slammed into them with your shoulder, pinning them against their car door. The left hand side, passenger. Your left forearm was on their throat, your right hand pinning down their left arm.
They managed to wriggle their left arm free, clocking you in the jaw with another punch. The shock from another blow to your face sent you stumbling backwards, nearly slamming your head against the concrete as you fell down. They clamored on top of you, trying to knock you unconscious with their blows. Even they knew they couldn't escape with you awake or alive.
You used your legs to kick them off of you, sending them to the ground as well. Stumbling back onto your feet, you were going to pounce on top of them and give them the same treatment. They unsheathed a knife and slashed at you, cutting your stomach.
Thank God for it not being a serious injury, but it hurt like hell. You groaned in agony, stepping away from them as you wrapped one of your hands around the wound. They now had the upper hand.
A knife. You could deal with a knife. You've handled worse.
You stumbled away from them, realizing you had a disadvantage. Good thing they didn't seem too experienced with a knife. They swiped frantically at you, allowing you to grab their arm and head, tossing them to the ground.
Your footing was uncertain and wobbly after taking so much damage. You also fell down with them. The knife fell out of their hand, falling in front of you. You tried to make a go for it.
Instead, they grabbed you by your hair and climbed on top of you. They were trying to push their index finger into your eye. Their palm was against your cheek, their thumb pressure against your lip. You yelled in anger, fighting just to stay alive.
You saw another opportunity and took it. You bit down on their thumb, grinding your teeth against their thumb as hard as you could. They yelled in agony too, letting go and holding onto their hand. You felt like you nearly bit through bone.
Now you have the advantage. While they were cowering from the bite, you reached for the knife and stabbed their lower thigh, climbing on top of them. You kicked the knife away as you did, slamming your hand against their throat.
You were going to choke this bastard to death.
They used their legs to pry themselves free from your grasp, sending you to the ground with a harsh kick. They held their throat with a hand, making raspy coughs before stumbling onto their feet. They were going to try to escape in their car. They were losing this fight.
You had to hunt and kill.
You were aching with pain, but you stood onto your feet hastily and slammed into them with your shoulder again. Now you were both against the side of the person's car. The left hand side, passenger.
They pressed one of their hands against your face, the other at your shoulder. They were trying to push you off of them. They were succeeding. You only had your two hands against their shoulders, desperately pushing to win this struggle.
With a roar of frustration, you slammed your head against theirs. That tactic worked, stunning them for just a second. You took your free hand and slammed it against their neck. You were going to strangle them.
You pushed them against the car, providing support for your strangulation. You pressed against their throat, gritting your teeth. Their face remained in that callous state, trying to push you off of themselves.
Their expression turned from a callous one to sheer fear. Their eyes widened as you began choking the life out of them, their hands now weakly brushing against your body.
All they could hear was your angry grunts, pounding their head against the door as you crushed their esophagus. You could hear them gasping for air, struggling to breathe. You kept doing it. Harder, harder..
They took their last breath.
You heard it leave their lungs, their face falling into a neutral one. You killed them.
What did you just do?
You stepped away from their lifeless body, your eyes wide. The rush of a situation like this washed over you. You had killed someone. Someone who had a life. Dreams. A job, a family. You should feel horrible.
But you felt nothing. You were worried, but only if they spread word about what you did. You felt fulfilled that you managed to deal with this person. That you kept yourself and your loved one safe.
You looked at your hands. Smeared blood from your nose and gut wound was lathered across your palms and fingertips. You looked horrible.
You needed to deal with this corpse. It was slumped into a sitting position, having fallen limp after you choked the life out of it.
It. Not he or she. It. Them.
How would you deal with a body? This wasn't like a bullet wound, this was you strangling someone to death. You wore gloves, but all that meant was you were safe if they found the body. They'd probably mistake your blood coating their neck to be your blood on your own body. Even then.. You need an alibi.
Throw them into the building.
You picked up the corpse, lifting its two legs and dragging it to the front entrance. Perfect. Pushing the door open with your body, you dragged the corpse inside and laid it next to a wall. You weren't envious of whoever finds the charred remains of.. It.
You took out a box of matches you brought for this moment. Your plan wasn't flawless, now you'd have to visit a doctor to have your broken nose properly healed and stitches for the slash, but everything worked out anyway. They shouldn't be able to blame you for this.
You flicked the match alight with the end of your shoe, gazing at the crackling flame. You tossed it onto the gasoline trail, backing away before it lit ablaze.
It was just like one of those movies.
Stepping outside, the blackened windows started showing a haze of orange. Finally..
You were safe. And so was he.
The wave of euphoria washed over you. All you could do was laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Laugh as you tried to ignore strangling someone to death. Watching the life drain from their eyes. Their fearful expression turned into an empty one. And now witnessing your previous job of employment now becoming a hazy inferno.
You stood back up, stumbling to your car. You weren't seriously hurt, but these bruises and your broken nose were starting to hurt again. The adrenaline was wearing off. The gut wound hurt like hell. Blood soaked your forearm. You felt lightheaded.
You fumbled with the keys in your pocket, sniffling blood as you pulled them out. Looking up at the door to see the keyhole, you saw your reflection. You had parked the car sideways to the building, allowing you to witness your reflection illuminated by the inferno behind you.
You looked horrible. Beaten and battered, covered with blood and bruises.
But you didn't care. You unlocked the door, climbing into the driver's seat with a cough. You couldn't bear to return home in your state. He might be worried as to your delay, but he'd be even more worried if you showed up the way you are. You should go to a doctor first.
Before that.. You felt a sinking feeling inside your chest. Your held your hands around the wheel, but slowly raised them to look at them.
It didn't matter that you did it for the sake of a loved one. You killed someone.
Ah, screw it.
You didn't care anymore. You could try to justify it to yourself, but all it would do was prolong the inevitable. You had killed someone. And so what? They threatened your new life, your new loved one. You couldn't let that happen, could you? There was no other way.
You took off your coat and placed it inside the passenger seat, setting the car into first gear. You drove away from the scene of destruction you left in your wake. Your head ached with pain. It was a throbbing sensation. You couldn't breathe through your nose. Your gut wound felt like someone was pouring gasoline into the wound. It pained badly.
You heard your baton clatter inside of your coat. God, that's right. You had a weapon. You had completely forgotten about it during the fight. You probably would've ended things much easier. You wouldn't have had to choke them out, or sustain so much damage.
God, would a clinic even be open at this hour? You'd have to try the hospital. The emergency room. They would have to treat you quickly. You were probably going to bleed out soon.
You kept one hand on the wheel, the other against the wound. Maybe you weren't going to bleed out. The cut wasn't deep enough to unravel your intestines, but it looked serious either way. You felt sick, seeing just how much blood was on your body.
You couldn't shake that feeling of sickness inside you. It wasn't from all the blood. You had killed someone and burnt their corpse. You had burned down an entire building and got into the hardest fight for your life in your life.
But you felt better. It wasn't just some senseless act of murder, you had a reason. You needed to give the rabbit a new start. A fresh start. Everything back there? It would've led a paper trail straight to your doorstep.
It had to be done.