Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
March, 1983
Hurricane, Utah
BRRT—BRRT—BRRT—BRRT—BRRT—
Thunk.
A hand clutched the digital alarm clock where it had struck its ‘snooze’ button into silence, bending its blocky shell with anger.
The fifteen-year-old boy in the bed groaned into his pillow, nose flat.
“Mikey!” His bedroom door was struck repeatedly by a pair of small fists.
Michael ‘Mikey’ Afton slowly pulled the pillow over his head to try, and fail, to drown out the loud pestering of his younger siblings.
“Mi-key! Get up already! Hun-gry! We’re star-ving!” It was Elizabeth yelling shrilly, while Evan, her elder, was likely a hesitant accomplice, stood taller—but more nervously—off to one side.
Unlike his alarm clock, Michael couldn’t beat his siblings into silence. “M’up, m’up…,” he grunted, releasing himself from pillow prison to blindly chuck said pillow straight at his door, striking it with a dull thump. He stuck out his tongue, mouthing Elizabeth’s calls with a whiny expression, fuckin’ kids, he thought (although a kid himself).
With a sigh, the boy tiredly swayed into sitting up, a Foxy the Pirate plushie tumbling off his bed in doing so. Crosslegged, long, tan thighs poked out the covers like hairy poles. His knees were boyishly knobbly and covered in grazes, the scabs of which he idly picked while staring dully ahead, still waking up. His wild, curly hair was abruptly flat on one side, stiff with residual product, and pink creases patterned his right cheek, right arm, right leg. Finally, with a sigh, he chucked his legs over the edge and stood, only to wobble unstably, blinded by crusty sleep in his eyes and crippled by the stiffness of achingly pubescent joints. He was at the age where limbs had become overly stretched and cumbersome for the rest of his body, a teen cub, having evidently inherited his father’s height; already sitting pretty at six-foot, constant joint pain had become the norm, but hold the painkillers, bring the grass. “Oh, man,” he yawned—
The door swung open to the unfortunate sight of Michael reaching into his boxers to scratch his bum — the only item of clothing he had on, worth mentioning — and in stumbled Elizabeth Afton (Evan stayed at the room’s threshold), already dressed and ready for school, backpack and parka and knee-high socks and all.
“Oi!” Michael covered his chest in a fruitless attempt at saving his modesty, glaring at his siblings as they giggled and pointed. “Don’t just bloody barge in!” He yanked a dirty t-shirt off the floor and held it to his torso. “I’m up, for Christ’s sake! Up! Get the fuck out! Shoo!”
“Uncle Henry says it’s very bad to use Jesus Christ’s name in vain,” said Elizabeth matter-of-factly, although utterly ignoring the hard ‘k’ f-bomb.
Michael just sneered at her — and she sneered back, of course — as he proceeded to search for apparel cleaner than the gunky grey tank he had clutched in his fist.
As usual, Michael’s bedroom looked as though a bomb had gone off, but there was something about all the Rock ‘n’ Roll references that made the chaos seem cool. Posters of album covers and bands — alternating greatly in size, many aged and dogeared — overlapped on basic white walls; decorative stickers overlapped them, loosely pinned brochures for upcoming concerts (he wasn’t going to go to) overlapped them. There were crookedly tall CD towers, LPs leaning like dominoes, bulky video game cartridges scattered across the carpet, boxers draped vulgarly over furniture, and from a randomly antique-like cabinet hung a cheap Foxy mask, empty-eyed—for now. Thick, white wires — snaking from both the computer he’d built himself and a small television — served as major trip hazards, meandering from separate points in his room to the only available power outlets, the tightness of some cords proving desperation, or laziness. There was even a dedicated floor space to the massive collection of arcade ticket cords he’d been farming for ages from Fredbear’s, and now Freddy’s, too. Overall, it was a caricature image of a teenager’s room in the eighties: unplanned multicolour, devoted to pop culture and desperately technological.
“Breakfast…,” whined Elizabeth while bounce-bounce-bouncing. Behind her, trying to become one with the doorframe, Evan was clutching his Fredbear plush, as always: a dirty, childish, little thing he was never seen without, much to Michael’s annoyance, and that seemed to gain a new stitch every time he saw it. Unexpectedly-but-conveniently heavy, too, he knew, from all the times he’d chucked it on the roof.
“When’re you gonna start making your own breakfasts…?” grunted Michael while struggling to yank on a pair of form-fitting jeans, hopping ridiculously. This growth spurt is what’s ridiculous, he thought grumpily.
“You know Daddy’s too busy in the mornings.” Elizabeth raised a fair eyebrow, crossing her arms. “His work is very important.”
“That don’t answer my question…,” mumbled Michael distractedly as he watched his tall reflection in the full-length mirror, carefully, scientifically sculpting his mullet with a comb and spray like one might clay, mouth hanging open amidst deep concentration. He closed one eye as he pshhh’d the bottle… and smirked, pleased, as always, by what he saw.
His hair, a daily tended hedge and practically a character in and of itself, was — call it a metaphor — as large and imposing as his presence and reputation; a presence and reputation, in truth — call it a second metaphor — as plastic and hollow as the hairspray cans piling up beside his mirror. In other words, appearance was very important when it came to him and high school and who he was at high school, because Michael Afton was, in his own twisted and unique way… popular. Well—more like infamous. A.K.A., he led a delinquent gang of four who all ran around in cheap, plastic masks from his father’s diner and had the most fun terrorising fourth-graders, but few else, regardless of age and status, were safe, either… not to mention the petty crimes that got more criminal every birthday.
Fifteen-year-old (but almost sixteen!) tenth grader Michael W. Afton could easily, and fearfully, be recognised (aside from hair) by his quick smile, crazy height and mischievous eyes: behind their deceitfully bright and sparkly blue, when a wild fringe wasn’t getting in the way… a corrupted sense of fun ever-dwelling, waiting crouched. He always held himself with nonchalant swagger, even when his actions cared, and had a resting glare — a resting threat — he’d self-imposed long, long ago. He was the kind teachers called ‘wasted potential’, much to his joy, as an anarchist. He was a bully, a beatnik, a rockstar without a guitar.
He was The Fox of Hurricane.
“Mikey.”
But for short… they just called him Mikey.
“Mikeyyy—”
“Just a second, God…” Michael reversed to take in his full appearance head-to-toe, even twisting to examine his backside. He fixed a curl of his fringe to fall better, twirling it around his finger—
“Mikey!”
“Alright, alright! Jeez!” Michael carelessly dragged his backpack from beside the dresser, then his Walkman, then, with pinching fingers, his gum, and ushered his siblings out, ensuring himself the last one. He slammed the door in their wake, no decorations on the walls to shake. “You two’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?” He continued blindly fixing his hair as they began their trio descent of the staircase, Evan hopping down slowest, last, so that Fredbear could use the banister like a slide.
“Daddy says ‘arse’,” corrected Elizabeth in that same matter-of-fact tone.
“Yeah, well, Dad’s way of speaking gets us made fun of at school.”
William Afton, their father — and co-owner of the very business Michael regularly edgily advertised on his face — had assumed his usual position at the head of the kitchen table. This space served more as another office, really: a mid-departure point between work and home. The table’s laminated cloth dwelled unseen beneath all the documents, folders, calculators, an abacus. And it was a firm rule in the Afton household that nobody peered over William Afton’s shoulder as he worked.
William was a very tall man in his late thirties from whom Michael had inherited pretty much every physical characteristic; from his lanky height to his dark hair to the knobbly nature of his large hands. Everything… except for his eyes. While Michael’s were a piercing blue, William’s were a unique grey verging on silver.
“Good morning, Daddy~!” greeted Elizabeth as she skipped into the kitchen, alerting William to the presence (and reminded existence) of his three children.
William peered over the rim of his teacup. His eyes creased genially. Setting the cup down, he lifted a page on a clipboard. “Morning, all. Sleep well?” He clicked a pen and continued writing as though he’d asked the question for the sake of asking a question, and not for the answer.
“We had to get Mikey out of bed ourselves…~,” giggled Elizabeth as she slid onto a seat at the kitchen table.
“Oh, really?” chuckled William, peering up at his teen, who was already lacing a saucepan with oil on a gradually heating stove. Despite his smack talk, Michael’s movements in the kitchen were learned and paternal: unnaturally for a boy of just fifteen.
“I was already up…,” grumbled Michael as he tilted the saucepan, spreading around the cooking oil. “How much bacon do y’all want?”
The Afton kitchen had a lower-middle-class, once-trendy theme of 60s browns, yellows and creams. The window was propped open to channel the heat, the breeze outside blowing wispy peaks off foam mountains in the sink and diluting the greasy smell of bacon. Brass cooking pots and utensils soaked in the basin — a lazy, overnight solution — and herbs had long-died on the windowsill, soil bone-dry and green turned black and brown despite the small, metal watering can directly adjacent. Sunlight saturated yellower the already warm colouring of the room: the bubbling, orange pupils of their fried eggs were fireballs; William’s Earl Grey tea was a striking, glistening bronze, like melted sugar; the kitchen’s tiling, cabinets and cost-effective linoleum almost cosy as opposed to its usual piss-yellows and shit-browns. The house hadn’t been upgraded in decades and embarrassed trendy, popular Mikey to no end, if you couldn’t already tell by the sharp teeth of his inner-dialogue…
The humming radio, crackling occasionally, started playing a song that Michael, despite grumbling ‘overrated’ and ‘mainstream’… ended up subconsciously shaking his hips to, anyway. Elizabeth openly teased him, earning attempted attack from the eggy, oily spatula; he reached, she ducked, and her shrieking giggle made William call for order as he sipped his tea, though he’d failed to notice, with his otherworldly gaze trained down most of the time, Evan’s genuine spasm of fear at Michael’s sudden flinch for physical aggression: always an easy progression. Michael, who did notice, pointed fingers up against his temples like makeshift ears, smiling scarily as he leaned shadow over him, but—
— the door to the kitchen swung open and in strolled a stout, jovial man with all the air of owning the home he’d just entered: Henry Emily, William Afton’s business partner and close friend from college. His daughter, Charlie, was by his side, too, grinning at Elizabeth first, who grinned right back.
“Howdy, kids~!” Henry greeted warmly, waving a plump hand that resembled an inflated glove, only hairier. The big man was ruddy, bearish, bespectacled and friend-shaped at every angle, with a hard gut that pressed his ugly shirts when he laughed and blonde curls almost ginger. Like their kitchen, his vibe was stuck in the 60s, too, but proudly, intentionally and successfully cowboy-charmingly.
“Howdy, Uncle Henry~!” chimed the three Afton children. It was impossible not to smile (even too-cool Michael’s mouth twitched) at the sight of Henry’s fluffy beard and sparkling, childlike eyes. Every visit from him felt like a visit from Santa Clause — and regular deliveries of his wife’s cooking and toy projects made this not so far from the truth. Yep, real Christmas was a riot.
“Henry.” William nodded in acknowledgement, smiling quaintly. Everyone showed indifference to the fact that the Afton house was Henry’s second home and office. With his usual bouncy, heavy steps, Henry joined William at the table and started talking business. The contents of these breakfast discussions were a muted memory of Michael’s, something he hadn’t been able to understand at the time, nor particularly care for, therefore couldn’t recall in any detail… no matter how desperately he tried.
Soon enough, the kitchen was way livelier than it had been when only William occupied it. Henry tucked into bacon and maple syrup while nodding along to his partner’s words, sending needlessly involving smiles to the children and getting buttery fingerprints all over their papers with clumsiness that, as always, made William’s brow twitch. The Afton kids fought over condiments, something Michael concluded by squeezing the ketchup mid tug-of-war, prompting a cough from the bottle that specked Evan’s face and laughing really hard at his ‘bloody’ state in turn. The morning radio rambled went on and on, intermissions gossiping hot topic celebrities: up-and-coming Tom Cruise, the angelic Brooke Shields, beloved Princess Diana, and culture fads: crazy youth fashion trends, the anarchy of hippies, feminists and rock ‘n’ roll, the fear-mongered rise of technology, and, of course, front-page news: Reagan’s Christian-surged politics, Nuclear War, Soviet spies, ‘the end of times’, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Michael made a mental note to see the new Outsiders film at the pictures, though doubted any of his friends would be much interested in joining him.
In hindsight… Michael wished he’d treasured moments like these more while they’d lasted.
“What’re you doin’ for your birthday, Ev?” asked Henry conversationally while William had paused to refill his tea, beaming at the youngest boy so pointedly, it threw him off guard.
Moments when they’d felt like… just a normal family.
“Oh, he’ll be spending it at our diner, of course,” answered William as Evan was opening his mouth to respond. “It’s your favourite place to be, isn’t it, son?” William smiled with only his mouth, like he always did.
Moments that seemed… almost impossible to have existed.
Evan hesitated, then smiled. He nodded once.
“Yeah. Just five days until the party now.”
Moments when he could’ve thrust that cooking knife into his father’s chest and prevented everything.