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blametheeditor · 4 years

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Backstories: David Harrison

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of murder, death, mentions of technically wanting someone dead.

Please take note this is not suitable for everyone.

Disclaimer: The world and characters used in the story are owned solely by Scott Cawthon. We own nothing but the writing.

Please give credit to those who deserve it. Thank you.

The classiest and yet the worse person alive.

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The desk before him never seemed more perfect for banging his head against until now.

...actually, that was a lie. Because, for some inexplicable reason, his newest assignment made by his employer has him working with not just the standard idiots of their society, but all of them.

He can barely get anything done. Who knew the dumbasses he's had the absolute pleasure of never meeting in a million years all manage to end up in the children's industry. Not only that, but the restaurant industry as well.

And, whoop-dee-fucking-doo, this is the industry his greatest client needs him knee deep inside of. Especially considering the impossibleness of what said client is asking for.

"I SAID SHUT UP!"

"Mr. Harrison!"

The business man glares daggers toward the voice, not at all surprised by the sight of Happy The Frog looking at him with wide eyes.

Now that was something interesting, possibly even an almost enjoyable part of his time working under William Afton in the mission to bring the name of Freddy Fazbear's out of the ashes.

Which, if he really thought about it, made his client both a madman and a complete idiot.

Five children were murdered. One child lost their entire frontal lobe. Disappearances of children once occurred left and right. Unsanitary conditions. Animatronics failing. Giving up and excepting his fate toward the richest man alive was seeming more and more appealing compared to gaining a five star rating, A+ in safety, and the complete erase of everything that has ever happened in any other restaurant.

And, well, just to add to the insanity, each vendor that was approved tended to have a...liability risk.

So much for A+ in safety.

"Mr. Harrison! Please don't yell!" Happy exclaims, finally earning the restaurant owner's attention once more. Forcing him to remember why the hell he zoned out on such a tangent in the first place.

“Happy, I don’t care how loud I’m being! Make everyone stop being complete morons and then we’ll talk!”

“We did give you a few options for employees, Mr. Harrison!"

Those eyes that should not be capable of lighting up as if excited glance over his desk. And before he can yell at the advanced technology touching his things, a hand or pad or whatever the fuck it has only pulls out an unfamiliar file from under the different papers.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Well," the frog begins, fucking bouncing in place like a little kid would. A human kid. Seriously this was messed up. How did it know to do all of these? And, perform a task of collecting 'unidiotic employees'. He was pretty sure they were never given that specific of programming.

"Mr. Hippo heard you firing someone and noticed you're getting a little low on staff, so Orville went through and scanned the database to see if anyone inside Freddy Fazbear's working under a different restaurant had any qualities you'd like! Of course I went through and made sure they looked nice enough to work here."

David nods slowly as he thumbs through the different resumes that had been placed inside the plain folder, photos placed with them as well, something he has to beg to usually get. Finally someone who actually listened.

He almost forgot this was just an animatronic talking to him.

"You might be given five minutes of me not screaming my goddamn head off."

Again, that smile should not be possible. What kind of bastard designs them to express so many emotions? Nice job with attracting children but fuck is that kind of shit creepy.

"Let us know if we can do anything else!" Happy cheers before bouncing out of the office once more, laughing as a few children immediately pull on her to play with them.

David shakes his head and rolls his eyes before grabbing a few of the profiles. And considering they already worked under William Afton and simply inside a different restaurant, he can more than easily twist someone's ankle to get exactly what he wants. Especially when he was shameful to admit these were, in fact, incredibly qualified and probably less idiotic than those he's hired before.

Greg Haust. Strong, determined, a total suck up, but he seems like the day guard he could use.

Dakota Brackner. Excellent waitress, not so good with kids, but a dream toward boys in the older age categories.

Alexis Mannor. Weird last name, motivated, young, great with memorizing and cooking.

Fritz Smith. Short, a literally puppy, but the greatest employee one could have, even a few coding skills.

Tanner Reeds. A little wimpy, a giant pushover, also a bit OCD, amazing in the kitchen.

Mike Sch-

David's blood freezes as his mind latches onto the strange and familiar last name. One he's practically had shoved down his throat in all the research he's had to do to open this god forsaken place. And the first name...it can't be possible.

The business man tears open his drawer holding everything he could possibly have that actually seemed to have appeared on his desk after taking William's offer for this job. The files he's been told never to share or let anyone know he does, in fact, have more information regarding Freddy Fazbear's than even those 'second in command' of helping run the business as a whole.

One turn of the page and a young, happy, and in one piece Mike Schmidt smiles up at him. Further down and he's gifted with that once joyful little ray of sunshine having his entire head wrapped in gauze.

1987. Said to have been bit by his favorite animatronic.

Twenty years later and watching over the same machine that ruined his entire life.

...and as a night guard.

And unlike the literal morons of this world, he knew the job was literally a death sentence. The animatronics needed to 'roam free' at night. And that allowed anyone smart enough to use this excuse and stop anyone from taking a paycheck home with them at the end of the week. Why not use robots capable of ending people's lives to keep from giving money away when they don't even deserve the ground they walk on? Call him a psychopath, but he called it business.

David can't help but smirk at the irony, however. This fucked up little night guard signing up to get murdered. Good riddance considering he went back to the very thing that almost killed him. Sure his reviews are pretty good when it comes to having stopped a burglary, but seriously, they can do without him. And he won't have to even wait until the end of the week considering-

"NO! HOW HAS HE SURVIVED FOR TWO MONTHS!”

#FNAF bois #David Harrison #FNAF #backstories #BTE headcannon #writing #BTE writing

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davidastbury · 4 years

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There had once been a time when he believed he would have a hit record. He sounded good in that interval just before the Beatles. He strummed the basic chords and tried to sing with an American accent. Sadly nothing happened for him and although he never gave up the guitar he always sounded a bit dated and uncool.

Family photograph. He’s with all his family - twenty two including babies. Next to him stands his wife, holding (don’t know why) his big cello style guitar. Four generations together- none of whom would be there if a gum chewing, sooty eyed girl, all legs and elbows, hadn’t pushed her way to the stage and begged autographs.

Beginnings

She has her head down, concentrating on her drawing. Everyone else has gone - rushed out into freedom - the heavy classroom doors slammed, shoes squeaking on parquet flooring, distant shouts down the corridor, all over for another day.

She has cupped her free hand around the drawing - which must be tiny - her sleeve tugged down and covering her fingers. Her elbow rests on the desktop and she leans forward on the stool - face hidden by her hair.

The room is Victorian municipal - built to last, a triumph of functionalism. The heavy furniture and fittings bruised by decades of knocks and misuse; the windows have ancient pull-cords for opening but have been jammed shut throughout living memory. The plasterwork at the architraves once ornate and hinting of baroque imaginings, is now disfigured by less inspired remedial attentions.

But she will be okay - she will get to art school - perhaps remember with fondness this art-room where she nurtured her tiny drawings and how sometimes, if certain that no one was around, she’d sing at the top of her voice.

University 1964

Loving parents at a safe distance of two hundred miles - a growing satisfaction that she could handle the next exams - nicely settled into very suitable accommodation - she had every reason to be pleased with the way it was all working out for her - everything was settled - everything was as it should be.

She might have been bored but for the unsettling personality of her new boyfriend. He had exploded into her life like a demon - mad as a hatter - sharp as a pencil - a marvellous rogue who floated like a cork in the foam. The only certainty was the effect she had on him - he adored her - no one could fake that focus - that tornado of kisses!

Calouste Gulbenkian, billionaire oil merchant, philanthropist, art-collector, loved showing guests his dozens of degree certificates. He had them on display, covering two walls of his study - awarded to him by nearly every leading university in the world.

‘These are my degrees and doctorates - all of them, except one, is honorary - anyone can study for a degree, but mine are honorary; they were awarded to me “honoris causa” - for my achievements!”

When Pat was teaching four-year-olds she found that children often arrived at school without their PE/dance pumps. Ideally the pumps should have been kept in the classroom but that would have resulted in them being lost, mismatched etc. So she introduced a system in which all the children were given a cloth bag in which to keep their pumps - each with an embroidered number (Mrs Williams did the needlework) and the bags were kept on numbered wall pegs.

Mrs Astbury had one herself.

Names ... 1964

Her name - her full name - the name of her street - the name of her village school (now a restaurant) - the name of the lake where she nearly drowned - the name of the factory where her dad was a boss - the names she gave him - the name of her college - the name of her best friend - the names of her cats - the names of her favourite writers - the name of the woman who became her friend - the name on the door where he waited.

To him all these names became poems.

In 1913 the Lancashire cotton mills produced 7,075,000,000 (7 billion) square yards of cloth.

A few years later we began the process of giving this industry to the East, mostly India, we exported the looms and provided the training.

An Early Conversation

They were at the ‘getting to know all about you stage’ - that mostly enjoyable period of quizzing each other, of sharing likes and dislikes, of exposing inner secrets - or perhaps I should say, some of them. Anyway, that’s what they were doing - he had been droning on about his difficult relationship with his father when she cut in and said - ‘I hate the countryside’.

He looked at her and said - ‘Do you?’

‘Yes, absolutely hate it. Always have; always will. I want you to know this, just in case you ever decide to surprise me with - “Hi, for your birthday this year I’ve rented a cottage in Grasmere for the weekend!” - and you jangle the keys and expect me to be pleased.’

‘Grasmere is beautiful’ - he said.

‘Grasmere is everything I hate. Depressing hills, horrid silent water, farm smells, dark woodland ... it makes me shudder. The country lanes, particularly at night are a horror movie to me - it’s where people go to bury bodies.

‘I’d look after you.’ - he said.

‘I am a city girl. I’m never frightened in town - there are always people around who would help. No one would help you in the countryside - I’d be just another creature screaming.

Ian Fleming said that being proposed as the new captain of his beloved Royal St George’s Golf Club gave him more satisfaction than anything he had known. Unfortunately he suffered a second, and lethal, heart attack before taking up the post.

He became ill following a meal with friends at a hotel in Canterbury and an ambulance was ordered. Ever the gentleman, his last recorded words were an apology to the ambulance men for having inconvenienced them, saying - "I am sorry to trouble you chaps. I don't know how you get along so fast with the traffic on the roads these days."

... Fleming’s book sales total over 100 million. His wife Ann (ex-wife of Viscount Rothermere) and her literary friends mocked them.

Blackfriars Bridge

There used to be a Cypriot fry-up cafe here, with steamed up windows and filled with tough looking men in leather jackets - and next door was a snooty art-gallery where you could pick up an L S Lowry for a few pounds. On the corner was the entrance, now bricked up, of a weird little bookshop where the owner was stabbed to death - they never found out who did it. And then the cathedral, stern and pious, facing the river.

He used to wait for her, leaning against the balustrades of Blackfriars Bridge, smoking Sweet Afton cigarettes, knowing that very soon the traffic would stop, the infernal Cathedral bells would be silenced, the gulls would freeze mid-flight and all the clouds would dance and spin and nothing in the world would exist but the kiss of Lucy Parkinson.

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