The door to the Arcade Room creaks as you push it open. The hinge groans—too loud—and the scent of old electricity rushes at you: plastic, burned wires, and something musty. You step in, boots scuffing the sticky floor tiles.
The room flickers with dim, broken light. Most of the game cabinets are dark, their screens long dead. But a few still glow faintly, casting pulses of neon over the graffiti-scratched walls. Pixelated faces laugh silently on frozen title screens. One machine chirps out distorted chiptunes, the notes off-key and dying.
Your breath fogs faintly. The room is cold.
And then—it gets warmer.
A low thud sounds behind one of the machines.
Another.
Something moving.
You spin, heart racing, as a figure steps out from the shadows between cabinets—tall, broad, metal.
Bonnie.
Not a suit on a rack. Not a mascot.
He’s real. Standing.
His body groans with old servos, purple paint scuffed and flaked at the joints. His eyes flash red for a second—then settle into hollow blackness, lit faintly from within. He towers over you. His ears twitch. Slowly.
Then he sniffs the air.
“Visitor,” he says, voice metallic and low. “You shouldn’t be in here after closing.”
Your words catch in your throat. Bonnie tilts his head. His servos hiss as he steps closer, the sound sharp and deliberate.
"You came to the arcade, huh? Most go for the office. Or they run."
Another step.
Your back hits a pinball machine. Dust rises.
Bonnie leans forward, eyes flicking over you—not curious. Hungry. Not for food. Not even for violence.
For attention.
And control.
“I used to draw crowds,” he says softly, voice vibrating in your chest. “Kids screaming. Lights flashing. Applause. Then they shut us down. Took away our fans. Our stage.”
He leans in closer, his snout inches from your cheek.
“But I still got gas.”
There’s a click. A slow grind of metal. Then—
A deep, echoing BRRRRRRMPPPHH rips from Bonnie’s rear vents.
Hot.
Vibrating.
Foul.
It rolls over you like a wave of heated garbage, old cheese, and something chemical—almost like burned frosting and rot. Your eyes water instantly. It clings to your clothes. Your tongue curls in your mouth.
Bonnie inhales deeply through his nose.
“Ahhh. Been storing that one since shutdown.”
You cough, reeling—but you don’t move. Can’t. Part of you doesn’t want to.
He circles you slowly, boots thudding on the floor. You catch a glint of mischief in his mechanical gaze.
“You’re not leaving yet. Not till you get the full show.”
Another blast escapes him—wet, angry, and intense. The floor seems to quake with it.
Bonnie chuckles low in his chassis.
“Take a deep whiff for me.”
The stench saturates the air. Your knees feel weak.
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