#recovered his senses a bit as scraptrap (since he can talk) but Elizabeth might have helped with that (at least a little)

[angeygirl]

FNaF One-Shot: Broken Music Box, Broken Memories

While rusting away in a sealed room, the creature who would become Springtrap finds himself forgetting everything except for pain and darkness. Music, however, is known to have powerful effect on memory.

Inspired by a headcanon by @ponds-of-ink

(Not super graphic, but seeing as this involves the aftermath of the spring-lock incident, there is going to be some heavy injuries described in the first half)

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The pain that tore through the man’s body had dulled in the time he spent in the darkness, but how long exactly would be a mystery. Even as the body was torn to shreds, the spirit clung violently to the remains; whether they be flesh or metal didn’t matter.

The Hell that awaited him would somehow be worse.

In Hell he wouldn’t have been given the mercy of going numb.

He should have been dead multiple times over, and each death had killed some part of the human being wedged inside the robotic suit. The first death was the blood streaming freely from the gashes, then the steel that stabbed his lungs, the bars that crushed his throat, the toxins leaking out from his organs. Eventually infection would set in as well as poisoning from the rust and corrosion. Fitting that a man who had caused so much death would meet his own end in so many ways at once. His only thought was staying tethered to the living world. Somehow, he did. By an unholy combination of magic and science, his soul was still bound to a body and he became a thing both dead and alive.

But, that scrap of life could still be chipped at. Sometime after the pain of his first death had faded into a numb ache, he felt another sensation: a painful dryness in the throat and clawing emptiness in the stomach.

Thirst faded away first. Though his throat was still rough with dry blood, there was no longer the pain of dehydration. The need for water had died. Hunger became unbearable until it too, dulled. It must have been at least a month, then. There was no other way of keeping track of time.

Each time he lost another sensation, another part of his humanity was lost as well. Memories blurred together or faded away. He could feel parts of himself falling off and drying up, but nothing could be done about it. His human body was breaking down. The idea he was still aware of it should have petrified him, but there was no point. He was still bonded in a body, any body. There was no point thinking about it. No point thinking about anything. The only thing that mattered was that this fate was not an eternal one.

The darkness and silence were enough to drive a man mad, and they did. At least, they would have if there was still a man inside that machine. The memory of anything that was not blackness and pain was feint and distorted. Strange images occasionally flickered in his mind and voices whispered in his ear, but he still knew one thing for certain: Hell would have been worse. Hibernation in this purgatory was a mercy.

The monster did not know how long he had been waiting, maybe it was only a few weeks, maybe it was decades. The pain had numbed enough that he dared to twitch a few fingers. With the squealing of rusted joints, he endeavoured to move and possibly stand. There might have been a weak point in the wall. After the pain he had endured for what felt like a lifetime, tearing himself out would at least be a possibility. He had learned patience, or perhaps it was desperation.

The mechanical creature twisted his torso to brace himself on the wall but stopped when he heard click. A feint, distorted chime came from somewhere inside his body. The trembling plinking formed a sound almost like a melody. He dropped back to the floor and listened. The out of tune notes were surprisingly sweet. After all, it was the only sound he had heard in the timeless void. He nodded slightly and would have endeavoured to hum if it was possible, but the steel in his throat prevented it. The melody sounded oddly familiar, oddly comforting. Slowly but steadily, a new sensation crept into his chest. At first it was a sort of prickling warmth, strange but pleasant. Blurred pictures slowly crept into the edges of his mind.

He closed his eyes, though it wouldn’t change much, and tried to conjure the phantom shapes. The first was a feint memory of a woman, dancing gracefully alone, or was he guiding her dainty form with his clumsy paws? The image flickered away like a candle, but he grabbed at another spark, a little girl. She seemed cheerful, but vanished before he could recall her face. He tried to catch the memory again, but it was gone. He could only recall the reddish golden hair.

He realized he had forgotten what sunlight was.

A dull, heavy feeling clutched his ribcage.

The monster dug into his own mind, trying to find another image. The next was not a pleasant one. A little boy, bruised and tearful trying to clean himself up in secret. Was he looking at himself from the outside? His mind strained from the effort until he found what must have been him, but younger, more stubborn and much more bold. Then why did he feel so much resentment at the thought of this reflection? What had that reflection done? He searched again until he found himself, small and frightened and bruised. There was shelter under the bed, with a small music box clinking out a melancholy tune.

He could not remember the faces of the people that entered this dream, but he knew they had been the cause of many good feelings. That was all he remembered, feelings, perceptions. He tried to put names to the faces and faces to the feelings, but it was all lost in the void of madness and time. Nothing seemed concrete. If nothing was concrete, then what was the ache in his chest too dull and phantom to be from the injuries? Why did his throat tighten despite the metal rods in his neck? What was the tension in his eyes that threatened to bring tears that could never fall?

These were the thoughts of a human being, not of an immortal monster.

No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, emotions continued stirring up inside him. What emotions? What could a heartless creature know of loneliness, nostalgia or grief? What could this unloved and unloving machine possibly remember of a family, loving or not? What could he have ever known of a normal life? A life free of bloodshed? How could the remains of an ordinary man still be hiding inside this undead killer?

The gentle, distorted melody continued on, but for how long? Hours? Days? Only a few minuets? Time was impossible to keep track of in the sea of blackness. How much longer could he last while lost in fragmented memories? The thoughts and feelings and repeated melody were maddening. The beast had already gone mad years ago.

This was more painful than the hooks ripping into the human flesh he still housed. The ache of stiff fingers as he searched was nothing compared to the weight in the remains of his heart. The mechanical rabbit reached inside his own body and felt around his torso, looking for the source of the chimes that put him in so much pain. This was an entirely new torment. After being numb and immune to such pain for years, it was as if the softest, most secret part of himself had been torn open and exposed. After a few minuets of searching, he found the box and ripped it out without hesitation. It continued its trembling chimes while he studied it for a moment. The rabbit raised his claws and bashed it on the ground.

With a clink! the notes died.

So did the last shreds of William Afton’s humanity.