The Bond

Ch 8

"Bold." : animatronic is talking

"Normal." : human is talking

=o^o=

This has entered the second week of Michael working on the skeleton which will be used to support his body as a replacement for organs, and Ennard.

Michael leaned back against the back of the chair after stretching his hunched over for too long to work on the tiny details of the rudimentary endoskeleton—it wasn't even half finished yet. Michael's worries about Ennard grew even more remembering the incident when Ennard intentionally or unintentionally dripped oil on the table, causing him to work twice; clearing the papers and reassembling the endoskeleton.

It doesn't take long, actually, Michael is easy to learn and memorize so he doesn't have too much trouble. It's just that Michael was frustrated all night because some parts of the paper containing an explanation of the animatronic's skeleton were covered with oil, Michael couldn't erase them and he ended up having to think for himself what the next step he could do.

"No, it seems wrong," Michael mumbled to himself as he crossed a line from a list of dozens of sentences. He was trying to determine what to do for the next stage in assembling the skeleton.

Michael looked out the window with a tired sigh, propping his chin on the back of his hand. The sound of crickets sounded faintly, enlivening the silence in the room. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, finding that it was almost midnight and he was still struggling with the endoskeleton planning. Michael wasn't sleepy, after all he was used to staying up until morning because of his work.

"Damn it," Michael said boredly, looking at the papers filled with his own scribbles.

"Damn it indeed."

Michael's brow furrowed as he glanced at Ennard who was staring at the television. He snorted, rolled his eyes and refocused on finishing the notes tonight. The oil-covered note made Michael a little frustrated, if he didn't fix it soon then he couldn't continue assembling the endoskeleton.

Exhaling tiredly, Michael rubbed his face in a huff before reaching for his coffee cup—Michael turned his head, he was pretty sure the cup was placed by him on the left side of the table. The Afton's brows knit together; since when did the coffee move to the right side of the table?

"Huh," Michael mumbled a little, deciding not to care too much about it. He took a sip of his coffee, the bitter taste on his tongue a little refreshing—at least Michael was grateful he was still able to digest the liquid.

Wanting to get back to his work, Michael once again raised his eyebrows. Now it's the pen's turn to disappear. Michael cursed inwardly, looking around the table that was cluttered with papers and tools. He put away some notes—perhaps they were covered by the papers. However, still nothing.

Glancing under the table, Michael's eye twitched to find the pen rolling down the other side of the table and he didn't notice. Michael pushed the chair back, then slipped into the table and crawled to get the pen.

Michael winced in pain when he accidentally looked up and hit his head under the table. He grumbled a little in annoyance, worried if it would spill a few drops of coffee and if it did he would have to do extra work.

He crawled out, then exhaled a few breaths, after which Michael stood up and his jaw dropped as his brow furrowed and an expression of astonishment found the notes missing. Of course it was impossible to be carried away by the wind.

Michael felt suspicious, he had made assumptions in his mind and cast a glance at the animatronic who had been silent for a long time.

His guess was right.

The paper containing the sketch of the endoskeleton as well as the notes were on Ennard, who used the cord to hold the paper. Ennard looked serious, occasionally the eyebrows on the white mask moved as if interested, or confused.

"Hey," Michael protested, stepping over to Ennard and placing his palms on his waist. "Return it."

Ennard's robotic eyes glanced at him, and much to his surprise Ennard handed the notes back to Michael. A low snort sounded as if he was tickled at Michael's smug look, Ennard glanced to his left, then snorted again.

"Ridiculous." Ennard resisted the urge to laugh, though a low chuckle escaped. "You can never surpass your father at something like this. No talent at all."

Michael's expression turned sour, he snorted and muttered incoherently. Michael doesn't care, once he finishes this project he will be released from this annoying parasite, Ennard.