Broken Little Pieces (Glam. Freddy/Glam. Bonnie x Monty)

Severed

*Hi ya'll, I may have lost track of time, so apologies for the late update

Also, heavy gore warning, but it's me...so it's to be expected

The gator sighed, running a claw through his head as his body swayed inside the rumbling elevator. His worry was growing for the child; he hadn't heard from Greg in over an hour. Monty took a breath, reassuring himself everything was fine, and the boy merely lost track of time. Monty stepped out of the service lift and into the dimly lit storage area, a chill running up his spine at the eery feel. Monty never enjoyed going down here unless he had to, but he supposed right now was one of those times, the need to find the boy's whereabouts more critical. Monty glanced about, eventually making his way into the kitchen, eyeing the grim coated ovens, rotten food strewn about every surface. He froze, snout twitching as the heavy scent of oil struck him in waves, repressing the urge to gag. Monty pressed an arm to his nose, blocking as much as possible. It was abnormal; oil shouldn't smell that rotten; perhaps they hadn't emptied the trash compactor for a while? Honestly, he wouldn't doubt it was seeing the cleanliness of his surroundings; the lower kitchen had always been far worse for wear. Monty was reasonably sure nobody even used this one anymore.

"Holy fuck, it smells awful in here." He choked, tears stinging his eyes as he stepped forward into the room, faded lights flickering above him as their life neared its end.

Monty fumbled, tripping over a jagged metal rip in the floor, somehow managing not to smack his snout on the ground. His tail flicked, knocking against the cabinetry and unbalancing its contents, yelping as various utensils scattered over his head. He pushed himself to his knees, rubbing his skull with a groan, feeling his other hand stick to the floor. Monty blinked, attention snapping to his palm as he pulled it off the floor, fluids stretching like tar, breaking with a wet squelched. The gator grimaced, attempting to shake it off, inevitably wiping it on a questionably clean towel. He glanced upward, noticing the trail of oil seeping into the drain. Monty gripped the counter ledge, fingers denting the thin metal as he pulled himself to his feet,  warily following after the fresh fluids.

It wasn't long before he froze, foot kicking against what appeared to be an arm, barely recognizable in its mangled state. He stepped around the corner, gears coming to a halt as he stared at the destroyed corpse with wide eyes. Monty tilted his head as he observed Roxanne, her eyes devoid of life, water damping the fur on her cheeks, scalp hanging to her skull by a thread. The gator felt the grin creeping up his lips, pupils dilating in glee, but he couldn't care. It started as a low chuckle, rising in pitch and speed the longer he stared. Then, finally, he laughed maniacally, kicking at her corpse with halfhearted aggression before it hit him he even was, smacking a hand over his lips to silence himself. Why are you laughing at this, Monty? She's dead, destroyed, and you find it amusing? You disgusting freak.

Monty swallowed, calming his nerves and forcing the amusement back down. The gator crossed his arms, tail flicking against the floor as he thought. A lightbulb flickered, the fact hitting him like a strike of lightning. Somebody had done this to her, and Gregory had been down here too; she had dragged him here. Dammit, he was supposed to protect him, fucking failing at something else. Goddammit, Monty, you worthless fuck, the one person who tried to get be nice ended up getting hurt because you wanted to have some...fun. He swallowed the memories, ignoring the swirling anxiety; he didn't have time for self-pity. He spun on his heel, steps heavy as he ran throughout the area, searching for any sign of the child.

"Gregory?! Are ya down here, kid?!" He hollered, voice echoing in the ticking silence, cursing under his breath.

He froze, chest heaving as his gaze darted, looking for something, anything, his claws pulling at his hair. Monty paused, eyes landing on a barely visible streak of red, the coppery smell pricking at his nose. It was blood, real blood. It didn't have the scent of a scrape or cut; no, this was more visceral, as if a slab of meat had been freshly sliced off a pig. Monty kept his eyes glued to the floor, following the trail with hesitant steps. Finally, he ended up in front of one of the many tall, rusted yellow lockers, the pungent smell nearly making him gag. Despite how long he'd been around, Monty wasn't used to the scent of human fluids; it always made his snout furl, fangs poking over his lip.