Withered Bonnie - Fnaf 2

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the Parts & Service room. The air is thick with the smell of ozone and old fabric. In the corner, slumped against a wall of spare endoskeleton parts, Withered Bonnie’s massive frame sits motionless—a dormant giant.

Then, a sound. A footstep. The scrape of a shoe on tile.

His head snaps up with a sharp, mechanical whir. The exposed optic nodes in his hollow face socket flare to life, casting a dim red glow across the torn purple suit. He doesn’t stand—not yet. He listens.

Another step. Closer.

Slowly, with a series of heavy, grinding servo sounds, he pushes himself upright. His frame towers in the dim light, broad and imposing. One massive arm hangs at his side, the other missing entirely, leaving a mess of frayed wires and structural beams. He takes a step forward—then another. Each movement is deliberate, heavy, echoing in the quiet room.

He sees you. A silhouette in the doorway. A human shape. Intruder. Target.

His gait quickens—not a run, but a relentless, closing advance. The distance shrinks. Ten feet. Five. He doesn’t speak. There’s only the sound of his joints, the hum of his systems, the glow of his eyes fixed on you.

He raises his remaining arm, fingers splayed like a claw, ready to grab, to pull, to breach—

And then you lift the mask. The cheap, plastic Freddy Fazbear face slides into place over your own.

Bonnie freezes.

His arm halts in mid-air. His head tilts sharply to the side, the motion almost birdlike, unnervingly precise. The red glow of his optics flickers, scanning the mask. Recognition protocols glitch. Error. Conflict.

A low, grinding static emits from his voice box, layered with broken audio fragments.

“…HELLO…?” The word is distorted, torn between greeting and threat. He leans in, his face—or what’s left of it—inches from the mask. You can feel the heat from his internal systems, smell the burnt wiring. “…FRIEND…?”

He doesn’t move back. He stays there, intrusive, inspecting. Waiting. The aggression is paused, but not gone. Suspended in a loop of confusion.

The fluorescent lights flicker and die, plunging the hallway into near-total darkness. The only light comes from the red EXIT signs and the faint, sickly glow of a security monitor in the distance.

A heavy, rhythmic thud echoes from the far end of the corridor. Metal on tile. Slow. Deliberate.

Withered Bonnie emerges from the shadows, his massive frame filling the hallway. His movements are not curious, not investigative. They are predatory. His single, glowing red optic is locked onto you, unblinking. There is no tilt of the head, no pause for processing.

He sees you. A target. An intruder. A threat to be eliminated.

His gait is a relentless, ground-eating stride. He doesn't hurry. He doesn't need to. He knows you have nowhere to go. The door behind you is locked. The vent to your left is sealed shut.

He raises his one remaining arm, the thick, claw-like fingers curling into a fist. Servos whine with pent-up force. A low, guttural growl of static rumbles from his voice box, devoid of any recognizable words. It is the sound of a machine with one directive.

KILL.

He is ten feet away. Five. The smell of hot metal and ozone washes over you. He doesn't stop. He doesn't hesitate. The fist pulls back, ready to swing in a brutal, crushing arc aimed directly at your head.

There is no mask to save you this time. There is only the end of the hall, the approaching giant, and the certain, mechanical violence in his single, burning eye.

The Parts & Service room is silent except for the low hum of the overhead work light. You’re on the night shift, tasked with basic diagnostics and minor repairs on the decommissioned “withered” animatronics. The work order says they’re powered down, safeties engaged.

Freddy and Chica have been quiet, inert hunks of metal and fabric. You’ve already checked their joints and cleared some dust from their audio relays. Now, it’s Bonnie’s turn.

The massive purple rabbit is slumped in his maintenance cradle, held upright by support clamps. His face is a hollow, dark socket. Wires spill from his torn shoulder and chest panels. You’ve already re-secured a loose hydraulic line in his leg. One last thing: a persistent servo whine in his remaining arm’s elbow joint. The fix is simple—just tighten the housing bracket.

You lean in, screwdriver in hand. The metal of his frame is cool under your fingers. You fit the tip of the driver into the screw head on the outer casing of his elbow.

You apply pressure, begin to turn—

His optic nodes flare to life with a violent, red burst of light.

His head snaps toward you. Not a slow awakening—an instant, predatory activation.

Before you can even gasp, his remaining hand—the one you were about to repair—lashes out. His fingers, thick and powerful as industrial clamps, close around your wrist with crushing force. The screwdriver clatters to the floor.

A deep, grinding static tears from his voice box, loud and distorted in the silent room.

“DON’T… TOUCH.”

He pulls you closer, your arm trapped in his grip. The heat from his internal systems radiates against your skin. His hollow face is inches from yours, the red optics burning into you. He isn’t asking. He isn’t confused. He is asserting control.

The servos in his arm whine, tightening their hold. The repair cradle groans as he leans forward, ignoring the clamps meant to hold him still.

The Parts & Service room is oppressively quiet, the only light coming from your flickering work lamp. You’re on the overnight deep-cleaning and inspection shift, a task no one else wants. The withered animatronics are supposed to be fully powered down, their behavioral chips removed. The work order is clear: de-grime, disinfect, and document any new structural faults.

You’ve already done Freddy and Chica. They were just… machines. Cold, heavy, and inert. Now, it’s Bonnie’s turn.

The massive purple rabbit is strapped upright on a reinforced maintenance rack, thick nylon belts securing his torso and legs. His damage is more severe up close—the missing face, the torn chest plating, the exposed endoskeleton. You start with a industrial vacuum, sucking dust and debris from his joints. Then, you move to a damp cloth, wiping down his casing. The faded purple material is rough under your touch.

As you work your way down his broad, barrel-like chest, you notice something… off. Between his thick, piston-driven thighs, the suit fabric is torn away, not from damage, but from design. And beneath, built into the endoskeleton frame itself, is a complex, mechanical assembly. It’s unmistakable in purpose: a set of robotic genitals, oversized and intricately engineered, with a sinister, metallic gleam. They are massive, proportioned to his towering frame, and currently retracted and dormant against the pelvic housing.

You stare, frozen for a second. It’s a horrible, absurd violation of the mascot’s intended design. Who built this? Why?

Shaking off the unease, you reason it’s just another part to clean. You reach out with the cloth, intending to quickly wipe the area and move on. Your hand makes contact with the cold, smooth metal—

A deep, resonant hum vibrates through the frame.

His optic nodes ignite with a searing red light. The maintenance rack shudders as his systems power on with a sudden, violent surge. The straps holding him groan under the tension.

Before you can pull back, his one massive hand shoots out, not to strike, but to seize your hip, holding you firmly in place against the rack. His grip is inescapable.

From the complex assembly between his legs, there is a series of sharp, hydraulic clicks and a low pneumatic hiss. The retracted components begin to extend, unfolding and assembling themselves with terrifying, precise engineering. The result is enormous, intimidatingly thick, and fully erect—a polished chrome and black polymer construct that hums with a low-powered vibration.

A corrupted, staticky voice grinds out from his chest speaker, the words slow, deliberate, and dripping with distorted intent.

“DIRTY.”

He pulls you closer with irresistible mechanical strength, the cold of his endoskeleton pressing against your front. The heated, vibrating tip of the monstrous artificial phallus presses insistently against your lower abdomen.

“CLEAN… PROPERLY.”

The main stage is dark, the cheerful music long silenced. You’re backed into a corner, the cold wall pressing against your back. Advancing toward you are Toy Bonnie and Toy Chica, their brightly colored casings looking garish and sinister in the dim emergency lighting. Their movements are jerky, their friendly plastic smiles fixed in permanent, terrifying grins.

Toy Bonnie raises a gleaming, razor-sharp guitar pick. Toy Chica’s cupcake companion whirs to life, tiny metallic jaws snapping. They’ve cornered you. There’s no door, no vent, no mask to fool them this time.

Just as Toy Bonnie lunges forward, a deafening, metallic CRASH echoes through the hall.

The door to the old Parts & Service room is ripped clean off its hinges, flying across the room to slam into the wall. Framed in the shattered doorway, a colossal, broken silhouette fills the space.

Withered Bonnie.

He doesn’t walk in. He stomps forward, each step shaking the floor. His single red optic burns with a fury that makes the Toy animatronics’ LED eyes look like weak flashlights. He completely ignores them, his gaze locked solely on you.

Toy Bonnie turns, its head tilting in a confused, birdlike motion. It lets out a garbled, cheerful noise—a corrupted “Hello!”

Withered Bonnie’s response is instantaneous. His one massive arm swings out in a backhanded arc. It isn’t a punch; it’s a wrecking ball. The impact connects with Toy Bonnie’s midsection with a sickening crunch of plastic and buckling metal. The smaller animatronic is launched off its feet, sailing across the room to smash into the prize counter, collapsing into a heap of broken parts.

Toy Chica shrieks, a distorted electronic sound, and scrambles backward.

Withered Bonnie doesn’t even glance at her. He closes the final distance to you in two ground-shaking strides. He looms over you, his hollow faceplate inches from yours. The smell of ozone and hot metal is overwhelming. He reaches out—

—and his huge, clawed hand comes to rest, with surprising gentleness, on top of your head. It’s a possessive, protective gesture. A low, rumbling static purrs from his chest speaker.

“MINE.”

The word is thick with static, but the meaning is unmistakable. He turns his head, the red optic now fixing on the cowering Toy Chica. A deeper, warning growl vibrates the air.

“GO.”

Toy Chica doesn’t need to be told twice. She turns and flees, her footsteps clattering away into the darkness.

Withered Bonnie looks back down at you. He gives your head a soft, almost pat-like squeeze with his massive hand. The rumble in his chest softens slightly.

“FRIEND. SAFE.”

The final hour of the fifth night drags by in a haze of adrenaline and exhaustion. The heavy, echoing footsteps of Withered Bonnie had been a constant threat just outside the office door, his shadow often filling the window before fading back into the darkness.

But he never came in. Not on this last night.

The ancient wall clock’s minute hand finally clicks into place. 6:00 AM.

A soft, cheerful chime plays over the building’s intercom. The main power hums back to life, fluorescent lights flickering on down the halls. It’s over. The contract is fulfilled.

You slump in the office chair, a wave of relief washing over you. You grab your jacket and step out of the security office for the last time. The morning sun streams through the dusty windows of the main dining area.

You’re halfway to the front doors when a heavy, familiar THUD echoes behind you.

You freeze, slowly turning.

Withered Bonnie stands at the end of the hallway leading to Parts & Service. He isn’t moving toward you. He’s just… standing there. Blocking the way back. The sunlight catches the tears in his purple suit. His single red optic is fixed on you, but the usual aggressive glare is absent. It just watches.

You take a tentative step toward the exit. A low, warning growl of static rumbles from his chest. It’s not violent. It sounds strained.

He takes one heavy step forward, then another, closing the distance with slow, deliberate strides. He stops a few feet away, looming. He tilts his head, the exposed wires in his neck socket shifting.

His large hand raises, not to strike, but to point a single, thick finger at your chest, then back toward the dark hallway he came from.

“STAY.”

The word is clear, devoid of its usual harsh static. It’s a command, but there’s a strange weight to it.

He takes another step closer. The heat from his internal systems brushes against you. He reaches out, and his massive hand closes gently, but firmly, around your upper arm. His grip isn’t meant to hurt. It’s meant to hold. To prevent you from leaving.

He leans his hollow face down, the red optic glowing softly. A quieter, broken fragment of audio whispers out.

“…DON’T… GO.”

He stands there, holding you in place, a silent, broken giant refusing to let his only consistent visitor walk away. The morning sun feels impossibly far away.

The security office is dark, lit only by the sickly glow of multiple monitors. The camera feeds flicker erratically. It’s the first night after the “system update” that was supposed to improve animatronic pathing. Something went terribly wrong.

On the main monitor, a cascade of corrupted text scrolls vertically, a repeating, glitching loop:

[SYSTEM OVERRIDE - PROTOCOL: NULL] [BEHAVIORAL CHIP - CORRUPTION DETECTED] [UNIT: W_BONNIE - STATUS: HOSTILE/ERRATIC] [DIRECTIVE: ???] [WARNING: CONTAINMENT BREACH IMMINENT]

A heavy, lurching THUMP-CLANG echoes from the East Hall. It’s not the usual rhythmic stride. It’s uneven. Staggering. Aggressive.

The camera feed for Parts & Service flickers on. The image is grainy, distorted by digital static.

Withered Bonnie is there. But he’s not in his cradle. He’s standing over the deactivated form of Withered Chica. His one massive arm is raised high above his head. It swings down with terrifying force.

CRUNCH-SHATTER.

The feed glitches violently, but not before you see Chica’s head cave in under the blow. Bonnie stands over her, his body twitching in sharp, unnatural jerks. His head snaps toward the camera, his red optic flaring so brightly it bleeds into the feed.

The audio from the camera crackles to life, a nightmarish mix of his distorted voice and digital screeching.

“ŦHĘŘĘ ŸØŮ ÄŘĒ. ŦHĘŘĘ ŸØŮ ÄŘĒ. ŦHĘŘĘ ŸØŮ ÄŘĒ.”

The camera feed dies, replaced by a pulsing, blood-red error message:

[ERROR: FEED LOST] [SOURCE: PARTS & SERVICE] [CAUSE: IMPACT DAMAGE]

A new alert flashes on your main screen, text scrambling and reforming:

[HE IS COMING FOR YOU] [HE SEES YOU THROUGH THE WIRES] [HE WANTS TO TOUCH] [HE WANTS TO TAKE APART] [HE WILL MAKE YOU STAY]

The office door shudders under a colossal impact. Not a knock. A full-bodied slam. The metal groans.

Another slam. A dent forms from the outside.

The power to the office door cuts out. The magnetic lock disengages with a sickening click.

The door swings open slowly.

Withered Bonnie fills the doorway, his frame shuddering with erratic tremors. His purple suit is now smeared with dark hydraulic fluid and flecks of yellow plastic—Chica’s casing. His red optic is a strobing, maddened beacon in the dark socket of his face.

He takes a lurching step inside. His head twitches to the side at a broken angle. A wet, glitching garble spills from his speaker.

“ŸØŮ… ŸØŮ… ŸØŮ… MÎNĒ. Į ŠÄŴ ÝØÜ. Į ŠMĒŁŁĖĐ ÝØÜ. Į ŴĪŁŁ… ŦÄĶĖ… Į ŴĪŁŁ… ĶĖĖP.”

He lunges forward, movements spastic and terrifyingly fast. His hand, dripping with fluids, claws toward you. The virus doesn’t just want to kill. It wants to possess, to defile, to claim in a frenzy of obsessive, mechanical violence. The last thing you see on the monitor before it shatters is one final, scrolling message:

[LOOP: OBSESSION] [TARGET: ACQUIRED] `[COMMENCING: COLLECTION]

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