Chapter Text
Michael knows it should end like this. That everything his father has ever built, ever done, should fade away into ashes. That the name William Afton must be struck from the public conscience, that Fazbear Entertainment needs to go up in a fiery blaze.
But as the flames cross over his scarred skin, Michael can’t help but feel a little selfish. Just a little bit. And could you blame him, really? Could you take an objective look at the life he’s lived and blame him for wanting things to go differently, even just a little bit?
“My daughter, if you can hear me…”
At least Henry is getting closure from this. Couldn’t be Michael.
“...I knew you would return as well. It’s in your nature to protect the innocent…”
Michael wishes he had this. Wishes he could say goodbye, real goodbyes, to Lizzie and Evan. He wishes he could apologize, tell them they didn’t deserve what happened.
“...I’m sorry that on that day, the day you were shut out and left to die, no one was there to lift you up, in their arms, the way you have lifted others into yours…”
None of their suffering ended. They didn’t even have the mercy of death after their murders. They were left to rot and fester in his father’s creations; they had every right to become monstrous.
“...And then, what became of you? I should have known, you wouldn’t be content to disappear. Not my daughter….”
Not his brother. Not his sister. Not the five young victims his father had cruelly targeted.
“...I couldn’t save you then, so let me save you now. It’s time to rest, for you, and for those you have carried in your arms. This ends. For all of us. End communication.”
Michael shuts his eyes and tries to be brave. Even as the flames cover his body. Even as the pain is overloading his synapses. He needs to be brave.
Someone or something catches him by the shirt and pulls him out from the flaming rubble. His first thought of is his father, because if anyone was stubborn enough to not die after being burnt alive for the third time it would be him, but when he opens his eyes, he sees no one. He is outside of the building.
Michael stumbles forward, choking from the sudden shock of cold air instead of smoke. Did someone save him from the building? Did someone put the fire out, and unravel all of Henry’s work? Did his father escape his fate yet again? Michael’s eyes strain against a harsh light.
“You okay there son?” a voice asks. An unfamiliar voice. Michael looks up but all he can see is the beams of a flashlight. He doesn’t recognize this man’s voice. Did Henry hire another security guard, additional staff?
“There was…a fire. Do you know what happened?”
“A fire, huh?” the man says. Michael can make out a little of his features now, the thick mustache on the man’s upper lip, the gray of his eyes. Michael barely registers a look of disgust the man has when he takes a closer look at him. He’s used to it by now. For some reason, everyone always leans closer before flinching at the sight of him. “Sounds like you might’ve got hit in that head of yours. Alright, tell me who was the first president?”
“George Washington.”
“Alright, good, that’s good. And what year is it?”
“2023,” Michael rasps. “Are you telling me there wasn’t just a fire?”
The man doesn’t answer that question.
“What year is it, son?” he repeats.
“2023.”
“Hmm. Yeah, that’s not right.”
“It’s…not?”
“Kid, it’s 1983.”
Michael’s head is spinning.
“It’s…1983?”
The man nods, putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder. He recoils immediately, when there’s a puff of ash.
“That’s right. And it looks like you really were in a fire of some kind. Got any ID on you? Have anyone you can call?”
“I’ll…I’ll be fine,” Micahel says. He can finally tell that the man is wearing a police uniform. His head is still spinning. It can’t be 1983, not if Michael’s body is in this state. Who’s playing a trick on him, and why? Is it a dream? Did he finally actually die?
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” he says, because it’s more believable than the real age. It’s not even a real lie; he’s just been nineteen for a few decades more than most. He hasn’t really been alive for years.
“Alright, just be safe out here tonight,” the policeman says. Geez, this man sucks at his job. Michael’s actually glad he’s got the laziest policeman in the world on his case. “There are a lot of vandals by Freddy’s these days.”
The police officer nods his head to the side, to the building that Henry should have set on fire, but when Michael looks, his blood runs cold.
Because that building is most definitely not burning to a crisp.
And it doesn’t look like it had the last time Michael saw it; not with Henry’s new branding and the vines and black mold that just wouldn’t leave the exterior of the building.
No, this building is new, it's shiny.
And Michael is most definitely in 1983.