Chapter Text
INITIUM NOVUM
[noun]
The rebirth of a tarnished soul; a passage from ruin to repair.
Used when one begins again, not as the innocent, but as the penitent.
Flames engulfed the walls. Rebars and concrete snapped from above, forcing him back. He turned; widened eyes, clouded by dense smoke, looked for an exit. He ran and ran, crawled through every vent not blocked by debris, and yet when he emerged, he only met more fire and more dead ends.
A labyrinth with no exit; a maze with no prize.
The panic gradually left him, replaced by resignation, dull and heavy in his chest, like a weight on the soul. He moved forward, barely conscious of the flames and hazards falling above his head. It was all he could do.
“Maybe I’ll get lucky like at Fazbear Frights.”
His thoughts brought no comfort. They weren't hope, either; just empty words from an empty man who realized there was no fighting Death this time around.
His aimless trudges took him to a familiar part of the facility: the south-most area. Debris and hot steel littered the ground, the flames still unrelenting to consume all they touched.
For a moment, he stood still. Thinking. A set of memories pushed back his acceptance of death; the day his youngest died, the day his daughter died—A voice in his mind echoed.
“It's your fault.”
He shook his head, pried the metal gate open, and crawled into the vents.
“Might as well see him one last time…If he’s alive, still.”
When he emerged, the man—if he could even call him that—on the other side faced him. He looked just as horrible as someone trapped in a broken mascot suit, but the same as he remembered him on that day. His skin had turned purple from rot and decay, his eyes sunken yet full of life. He wore a neat suit, although the ashes and flames had ruined most of it by then.
Seeing his face filled him with rage in an instant. It's your fault! He moved before he could think, his better arm grabbed the man by his throat and slammed him against the melting wall.
But he remained calm; still and silent as a dead man. Michael looked his father in the eyes without a hint of panic.
They're all going to die anyway.
He tightened his grip around Michael’s neck—no reaction—if not for the way he looked at him, he would've believed he’d abandoned his rotting meat suit and moved on.
He’d imagined himself in this situation hundreds—if not thousands of times.
Get out, kill them. Get out, kill them. Get out, kill him.
His mind replayed the same thoughts like a broken record for 30 years. It was almost hypnotic. But now, faced with reality; with the scene from his head playing out before him…
The anger felt empty. He remembered the emotions. He recalled how rage tore through his mangled body like the pain of metal crushing his bones and flesh. He felt joy when he met Michael again for the first time after decades, swearing to tear him limb from limb if he caught him.
But he couldn't do it. Never.
“...Are you getting back at me for tasing you earlier?” Michael croaked.
His hold loosened, shoulders falling slack. “...Maybe.” he replied, his voice grating low.
Michael limped over to his chair and sat down, the glow in his eyes dimming. “I’ll be going soon,” he mumbled, barely audible through the crackling flames, “If you want to say something, do it quickly.”
He narrowed his eyes, “...What makes you believe I have anything to say to you?”
“Then why are you here?” Michael retorted with a humorless chortle.
“Would anyone not want company when they’re dying?” He would roll his eyes if he could, but by then, the fire’s heat had raked across his soul, severing control over his mechanical form one limb at a time—The Remnant was melting.
Michael looked away, responding in a dry tone, “I don't.”
“Too bad.” He slid down the wall, unbothered by the restless flames around him. “What about Scrap Baby?”
Michael took a second to respond, “Liz? Haven't seen her.”
“She is not Elizabeth.” He stressed his words, although the tone held no anger; only stating facts. “She's merely a rogue program—Some…rusting metal echoing what was once my daughter.”
“Right.” Michael’s form slacked against his seat. Out of time.
They sat in silence, left for hisses and snaps of the fire around them. Soon, only one Afton remained in the room. William craned his neck up, facing his son.
“Michael?” He called.
No response.
Yet, he spoke anyway, even if he could no longer hear him. “...I hated you so much.”
Hated. Past tense. It was all he knew; all he could feel after what had happened. Everything he did felt empty. Killing kids was a spur of the moment. Discovering Remnant? An accident, like finding a new hobby; he had fun.
“You’re too much like me.”
Jealousy. Sorrow. Rage. Joy. Agony. After the decades faded into obscurity, so did his emotions; his purpose. All he had left was the ambition to return the favor of pain and suffering in kind.
At some point, he got lost. Reasons no longer existed. He wandered around like he had no control over his own thoughts.
Kill. Hurt. Revenge.
Maybe he was no different from Scrap Baby—Maybe he, too, was only metal screaming out the agony of William Afton’s soul.
“I disliked you more and more as you grew up. When you killed your brother, I wanted to strangle you for daring to use my hands.”
William’s jaw creaked, but no words came out. That's it. He couldn't lift a finger anymore. The fire slithered across his body, tearing through him and lacerating his soul like saw-blades. It was painful although not unbearable.
In fact, the feeling brought an odd sense of comfort. Everything's finally going to end. His sons, his daughter, his best friend, the poor souls he had taken before their time; all of them would find their way to the pearly gates above, while he can only watch as he descends into another fiery demise below.
The darkest pit of hell has opened to swallow you whole.
Soon, his eyelids fell shut.
“...I really caused all of this, huh?”
So don't keep the devil waiting…old friend.
•
William Afton had learned a lot.
When the Pizzeria disguised as an incinerator freed them all from their iron prison, he found himself encased in total darkness—Until a screen blinked into existence before him.
50 cells. Numbers on their bottom right corners flicked randomly as he stared in confusion. He recognized most of the creatures displayed there: the original Freddy and the gang, the Withereds, the Toys, the animatronics he designed at Circus Baby Rentals.
Even himself: Springtrap and Scraptrap.
“I have been waiting, Mr. Afton.”
William had recognized her voice almost immediately. He never forgot; not the way he killed them, not the way they screamed in terror as he did either. Every single one of their names and faces had been burned into his mind, fresh like it was yesterday.
Cassidy Brooks.
“The others agreed to play this game with me before they leave for good.”
It didn't take long for William to realize those 50 entities before him would become instruments of torture; a reminder for each and every single one of the wrongs he had committed. Every failure. Every sin. Every suffering he had endured.
Once the game began, he found himself in an office. One fan sat to his right next to a Freddy plushie, whirling through the absolute silence around him. Two large doors flanked his sides, with one vent in front of him near the top, and the other situated on the ground by his right.
He picked up the monitor. Buttons scattered throughout the screen; too confusing to make it all out at a single glance. He flipped through them, accidentally discovered a Fazcoin, and checked out the other buttons.
Power Generator. Silent Ventilation. Heater. Power A/C. Global Music Box. Off.
His first death came as soon as he put down the tablet. Fredbear sat in front of him, and he could only stare in wide-eyed terror as pain coursed through every single inch of his body.
He couldn't even let out a scream as he blinked and found himself back in the darkness, staring at the screen of characters before him.
“That's one~!” Cassidy’s voice echoed in a sing-song tone.
William learned fast. He had always been a quick learner. Each animatronic has their own habits; their personal rules that he could exploit and outsmart.
Lefty cannot move as long as he sets the monitor to camera two. He can force certain entities to appear and gain a bunch of Fazcoins. The Death Coin can get rid of tricky animatronics like Foxy, Funtime Foxy, and Toy Freddy. He eventually understood he shouldn't linger around in the cameras for too long.
But William had to learn everything from pain. He had to die over and over and over and over again for the knowledge he had now.
If nothing else, William Afton is one stubborn man. He tried to fight back; to prove that none of the torture bothered him. He had died once—twice. Nothing else could faze him anymore, especially not from the hands of mere children; children he had bested before. He refused to take it sitting down.
“Give me your best shot, brats!”
Each torment is never the same—different in both the method and the mask. Ennard would rip his insides out and leave him to die a slow and painful death on the ground. The Nightmares would shred him like paper. His two doubles have the habit of tearing his limbs out first before biting him to death.
He shouldn't have taunted them. He never should've tested Cassidy of all people. She made sure he never blacks out, so he would feel every ounce of agony they inflicted upon him. She made him aware of every bone that cracked, every muscle that tore, every detail of the torture carved into his mind and body.
“I get it! Fuck, I get it! I was wrong! I was wrong, okay!? I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—PLEASE STOP IT!”
William had tried to end it himself a couple of times.
Cassidy never lets him.
He gave up at a certain point. Closed his eyes fully knowing she would never let him rest. He let them do as they pleased: turn his ribcage into wings, drown him in his own blood, gouge out his eyes, rip him apart.
William Afton had learned a lot. He learned that his suffering would never end, no matter how hard he struggled.
They mocked him at every opportunity and every death. They laugh at how powerless he was before their mercy. They scoffed as he cried and begged for them to stop; they never did.
How long has it been? Months? Years? When will it end?
“I will never let you rest, I will never let you leave. Never!”
At some point, he started begging for something else.
“Please let me die.”
And at some point, the deaths became much cleaner; swift, almost painless. Freddy bit his head off in one, clean bite. Foxy cleaved his throat with precision. Chica ripped out his heart. Bonnie bashed him with his guitar as hard as he could.
As exhausted as William was, he could tell something was going on behind the scenes. While he sat in the darkness, missing his life before Hell, missing his family; he realized his break time became shorter with each passing death.
Cassidy is angry.
At first, he thought he had angered her. He started trying more; sat up and played her game; closed the doors and vents when he heard even the faintest of screeching metal and laughter.
But it did nothing. He died anyway; gruesome as ever, as torturous and painful as ever. The original animatronics, ones that granted him mercy, rarely appeared anymore.
“Did she send them away? Why? Because they killed me too quickly?”
From then on, everything returned to how it used to be: Painful, agonizing deaths. Endless, pointless cries for mercy. Laughter and mockery.
He had been too distraught to realize he had only been hearing Cassidy’s voice for a long time.
“I don't need anyone else to make you suffer.”