Unrest
Summery: I'm at unrest, an' don't y'dare deny yer not at unrest, too. We were ripped away from somethin' irreplaceable, an' I won't rest until I can do somethin' about it. I'm...I'm tired o' pretending.
The clicks of the shiny new heels echoed within the walls of the old establishment, reminding the willing soul that his was indeed the only one occupying the building that night, or at least, it was assumed so. The flicker of his flashlight whipped here and there, unearthly shadows pinning the walls with nightmare demons and matrixing of the most unnatural kind until his scamper led him meekly to his post: alone, pondering, and uncertain. The fall of light never quite bothered the young man so much as the lack of it surrounding him. Things hid in the dark.
Phantoms of the mind.
Secrets of the past.
Decrepit robots of his childhood.
Yes, they lingered on the stage for now, but he was well aware of their programming. Social creatures, these things were. Except, the age group they catered to was well tucked in for the night: cookies, milk, soft plush blankets, toys, and all. The gentle lullabies those creatures enjoyed performing, a devoted repertoire to their audience. What he would give to be in bed, too, without a worry in the world.
The bills piling up thought otherwise.
His soft brown eyes darted between the static run monitors, deeming the job itself an easy one, all things considering.
No one would have the sense to rob a mediocrity popular party establishment for the incredibly young. The money simply wasn't there. One look at the bots proved any argument on that subject, and those were the ones that were still open to the public. The fourth, in its own party room, had been entirely shut down for mechanical malfunctions years prior. He couldn't imagine why the owner of the establishment hadn't remodeled or trashed the location yet. Either he hadn't the heart to truly abandon the fourth of the Fazbear family, or it cost more to remodel and dispose of the props than it was worth to simply let rot.
A light yawn.
He figured the latter. At the state this building was in, everything seemed rather budgeted. Even the generator conked out on occasion if too much of the gas was utilized in a single night. The poor soul had learned that the hard way, every screen voiding into nothingness, the security doors unlatching in their jetted breeze, and nothing but startling spots before his eyes, unable to focus on the hand in front of him. His mind had truly played tricks on him that night. Static had filled his mind, thumps echoing to his left, and gears whirring to the right. The smell of stale musty musk had assaulted his senses, the dust gritting his eyes to tears. His nerves had made a fool of him that night, and only when daylight rose did he sulk over the nonsense he had put himself through.
There had been no one there except him.
It was something he had come to terms with.
Whether or not he believed it.
His eyes trailed over his watch, finding moments like these the most tiresome. The anticipation ruined him more than anything else. Simply...waiting. Waiting for something to happen. For anything to happen. Praying it never did.
Sneaking a few chilled fries into his mouth, the young man observed the stage for a moment, the snack swirling into an uncomfortable knot in his gut. The bear's half lidded gaze had shifted, peering directly into the camera.
Perhaps it responded to the camera's motion.
Yes, that made sense. He could agree with himself on that.
But it didn't explain Chica's absence.
The doors shut firmly.
It had begun.
The gears shifted and spun as the motion cameras followed the possible path of the rather large chick: down the corridor, passed the smaller party rooms, and paused, locked on the direct coordinates of Pirate Cove. The bot seemed to ignore such trivial things, as if the guard held no meaning in its personal life of sorts.
Vvwee-shoomp….Vvwee-shoomp….Vvwee-shoomp….
The mechanics within the armature of the bird's suit shuttered as delicately as it could, an often, somewhat quiet sound in comparison to the clusters of screaming children during daytime hours, but an echoed threat of predatory hunt under the night sky. The balanced steps reminded it of how heavy it truly was. The cargo it bore. The weight it carried. A snap or pop of static occasionally flustered through the speaker lodged within the bottom of her beak, incomprehensible garble to the average listener. A language beyond a kind for human ears.
Vvwee-shoomp….Vvwee-shoomp….Vvwee-shoomp….
The beady eyes clicked to the right, a single door cracked open a smidgen. The room had been abandoned by the human kind for decades, now nothing more than a storage room for extra tables, chairs, boxes, and hardware.
The bot rotated, pressing the gap open wider to squeeze through, gently gliding through the boxes much lighter than her in comparison. Static crackled through the air, though not uncommon for the location. The channels in her voice box twisted and turned, then suddenly muted, recording the audio presented from further down the aisle of boxes...further down by the edge of the stage, where the curtain barely fluttered, but contained life all the same.
"...G-...wh-...-al….-ye…-ds…"
The bot took a hefty stride closer, closing the gap of connection and strengthening the signal. A short of static popped from the bird's beak, a spurt of noise to most.
A tiny chuckle to others.
"...a-...-ale…ta-...-wo…-out the…-appin' fis-...and the gi-...s I lo-..."
Vvwee-shoomp. Shoomp. Shoomp.
A pause. The bot settled, gears exhausting their sigh. Just right.
"-n nights like this with'a moon above, a whale o'a tale an' it's all true, I swear by my tattoo…"
A light crackle filled the air, youthful and soft, as if trying to keep a tender secret in the dark of night, "Sometimes I wonder if you really think you are a pirate."
Chink!
The links along the top of the curtain slapped together in a swift blow, oddly nimble for the state the owner was in. It was no secret the pirate fox had hardly been tended to over the years, left to whither and woe until someone decided to do something about it; but, until that day, the maroon buccaneer was there to stay, to swash buckle and bide time, and offer a body to one who had lost theirs long ago.
"Y'ain't wonder if I'm a fox none, do ye'?" the bot's head tilted jaggedly, taking advantage of the silence to chuckle slyly, jousting the right handed hook in triumph before easing into a placid squat to continue his work. Foxy's build had been designed for more athletic, sporadic displays as he reenacted his adventurous tales at sea on stage and on the floor…
At least, that's what the hope had been.
The design had been discovered to be too unpredictable. Untrustworthy. A liability, of sorts.
The Pirate Cove had been a fully interactive room, once upon a time. Spinning pizza dials lined the walls, multicolored traction lights stapled across the ceiling, both manually programmed for those who chanted the "Pirate Password", a secret code bestowed upon the children by Cap'n Foxy at the beginning of every show that often intertwined into his adventures in some sort or another, or awaited "Cheesy Breezy Cove, Ahoy!", the sure signal for the Chica bot to make her entrance as "Cook" to deliver the meal for the day.
It was the older set of children who had adored this room, an often sold out attraction for private parties, customized to the patron of the room that day. Old enough for a taste of adventure, and young enough to still be fascinated by the bot's swarthy charm, the children had adored the time they spent in that room, a world away from Fazbear's Pizzeria.
The chick's eyes clicked to the walls, still adorned with depictions of the King of the Seas, all in child's hand. Slightly faded, but still fairly safe from the sun's dangerous rays.
"Who dare be brave 'nuff t'weather a shot as me first mate?"
The cheers of the children lingered in her mind, much unlike the kind of today, far too fascinated with other things that simply had not existed to the youngest of souls back then. The wonder that had captivated them. Dedicated faces fill with love. New faces eager with anticipation.
"-I-Is it over? D-Did we make it?"
The children would laugh, having waved back and forth on their seats from the storm they had endured. The deep blues the room had been drenched in, lifting to a bright, bright warmth, the bot uncovering his face from a slight crouch, head jolting to one side.
"What? I wasn't scared one bit, none! Pirates don't get scared! 'Tis part o'a pirate code! But if ye' were scared, 'tis alright. Facin' yer fears head on is what makes ye' brave sea dogs! Thank Neptune me first mate steered us clear o'the mighty waters...but don't go tattlin' t'ol' Fazbear now. Otherwise he'll never let me take ye' out again! We'll keep it our lit'tle secret. Make me a pirate promise! Close one eye an' yell 'ARRRR', an' if ye' can't close one eye, shut 'em both!"
The children would promise with all their hearts, for it was Cap'n Foxy who preached that 'ar' truly was the heart of the word itself, and that made it special. They would wave their plastic hooks and adorn their cloth patches, ram the tables with their fists because that's how pirates asked for things, and sing along the shanty songs that Foxy would ponder as he steered their ship to pass the time.
"Oy! Crew! Methinks a storm's a brewin'! D'ye' hear that thunder!"
The children would scream and giggle as his left ear would twitch, then his right, until his head slightly bowed, tapping his gut with the side of his hook, "Sink me ship, it be me belly! Y'know what that means! Cook!"
A moment of silence.
"...Hmm...I don't think she heard. The Silver Hook be a vast ship. Oh, wait."
The curtain would pull back a bit more, revealing an old funnel lodged into the wall.
"Leads right to the kitchen. On'a count'a three. One. Two. Th-irteen! Hahar! Three! COOOOOOOOK!"
The little pizzas would spin with the zip of a kazoo, lights flickered in a rainbow array as the audio would mimic pots and pans scattering about, heavy footsteps and quick breathing until finally, the door would pop open, and the children would scream in glee at a friend they knew all too well.
"What y'mean this be Chica?" The bot's eye would cap halfway in thought, hook scratching along his chin. The bird's attire composed of a red bandana atop her head, her bib swapped for a scarf, but the children would never be fooled, and in her role, it was a secret Chica shared with her audience, the joke always on Foxy.
"Hmm...I don't see it. Chica sings with Freddy's lot, and they can't swim. Cook be a pirate, through and through! Look at that scarf! Fer the winds! And that bandana! Fer the sun beatin' down!"
"Arrr!" she would cheep, and the Cap'n would joust his hook proudly, "Y'see! Only a real pirate would know ta say 'Arr'! Pizza an' root beer fer all! Yo-ho!"
The lights would flicker for the pirate password, the children would chant hastily, their fists would pound, louder and louder until the food was delivered with assistance from additional Fazbear faculty, they, too, dressed in rags and stripes.
"Ah, me loyal crew. If Freddy Fazbear asks what we did today...tell 'im we…-er...went swimmin' with dolphins! Don't that sound nice? He'll never know the difference!"
Light murmurs of agreement.
"It's not nice to fib to your friends, Cap'n!" Chica would scold lightly, and the bot would slightly bend his arms in a light cross, head tilting up in a huff, "Not a fib so much as stretchin' the truth, lass! We were in the open seas! I'm sure there were dolphins in there...somewhere. Aye, crew?"
Laughter and giggles. The creatures had been so real to them. So apart of a shared world.
"A real pirate stays true to their word, and makes sure their words stay true."
The fox would sigh in agony at his own rule, head tilting to the side as he portrayed a genuine sense of worry, lid along his eye swooped to the side. His hook would scratch along his head in a jittery manner, reaching out toward the audience, "But they're me crew! What if Freddy scares 'em away wif tales o'the kraken an' all it's icky, rotten, slimy tentacles, or tells 'em about Mojo the Massive! That whale'll swallow 'em whole!"
The bot would pause, eye popping wider before tapping his snout, "Sink me ship, I've said too much! Fazbear might be right. It's too scary t'be a pirate. Ain't none like t'be scared. Not even me. An' I don't get scared. Not one bit."
"But it's okay to be scared, Fox-...Cap'n!" she would wink playfully at the audience before continuing, "Facing your fears is what makes you brave!"
The lights would soften a bit as the fox contemplated, eyes shutting for a moment before the gears whirred and he sparked to life once more, "Aye...What Cook be sayin' is true. An' me crew is true as they come. Why, they even made me a pirate promise, an' none can ever go back on a pirate promise! So...what do we tell ol' Fazbear?"
A moment of silence as the audience thought over the question. Her eyes would light up after a bit, head tilting in a nod.
"It's okay, Cap'n! I'll put in a good word for you. We can tell him Pirate Cove is filled with adventure, treasure, and most of all, loyal friendship. As long as we're with Cap'n Foxy, we're in good hands! Er...hand. And hook?"
The bot would wave his hooked wrist, earning solid giggles from the crowd before thrusting it toward the painted sky, "Let it ne'er be said you weren't safe with Foxy the Pirate at the helm!"
The children had believed him.
They had all believed him.
Once upon a time.
"I tease ye', chickadee. What brings ye' back t'this dump?"
The eyes of the yellow bird seemed to suddenly spark back to life, reminded that the past was and would always be, in the past. A favorite attraction of the Fazbear establishment, left in ruins. Even her beloved memory of the old show seemed tarnished by what she currently witnessed...the old bot that had warmed the hearts of hundreds, now a miserable, decrepit nightmare of what he once was. She mourned for the loss of an old friend, the stories and adventures she used to be taken on, and the true Foxy he had once been. This before her, whittling his hook along the edge of a wax crayon as he carved a little log to match the rest for his makeshift ship model, was a different Foxy entirely.
He was merely a husk to someone who's ship had sunk much too early.
"...I hadn't heard that song in so long...I'd almost forgotten it."
His head swiveled loosely in a quick glance, ear twitching before aiming his focus on the crayon once more. "Dum-dum-dum-dumdum..." he continued lightly, shaving off the paper that lined the wax. In all the years they had lingered in Pirate's Cove, and not once did anyone fathom the danger of Foxy's hook. Truly a marvel, it was.
"It brought back memories."
The scrape paused halfway, the golden lit eyes peering up tensely.
"...What kind o' memories?"
The tension of his daring question left a sour note, but she settled in, her own eyes lifting up, "Good ones. When...Foxy was Foxy."
A scoff.
"Are ye' blind?"
He went back to the crayon, and a static filled sigh echoed throughout the room.
"Phillip..."
The carving grew more vigorous, ignoring the bot at the foot of his stage, even when it seemed to go into stasis mode. Chica's head rolled a bit towards her chest and locked in place, eyes lazily suspended mid blink as the rest of the gears hummed to a dull purr. The essence that kept it truly alive lifted up and out from its cage, perching along the shoulder of the robotic body that kept it linked to a solid world. The animatronics' faces were stationary in comparison to true emotion...emotion that could no longer hide from the young spirit's eyes: soft, worrisome, and tender.
She worried for the soul before her, stowed away in a cell of darkness.
She worried still, all these years after, when times had changed, but they quite hadn't.
And though her situation was no better, she appreciated the limited socialization she was blessed with day to day. No, she was not Chica...but, to them, she always would be. And she felt a sense of guardianship over them, the young and innocent souls who would know no better than she did all those years ago. She had a duty to protect them from the monsters of this world...monsters much more vicious than than the kraken...monsters much more vile than Mojo the Massive.
Monsters of unspeakable evils.
Monsters that had no place in her world.
"Please?"
Her voice was soft and hushed, fragile to the point of breaking, and the bot sighed, finishing up the crayon he had worked on before glancing up, offering her a sour look. The disapproval carried over well as the bot shut down for the moment, nearly slumped as its master slouched along the furry back. His arms crossed dourly, refusing to share in her gaze, the stress haunting him much more mature than the youthful curve of his face.
"Well? What?" he muttered, expecting anything but the slight chuckle that escaped her.
He stared at her in confusion before pressing his brows, leaning off the shoulder of the broken down bot.
"Oy, what's funny?" he demanded, and she leaned along Chica's head, clutching her cheek in her palm.
"Why are you still talking like that?" she giggled, "You really do think you're a pirate."
The masculine gruffness was void from him without the voice box, true, but the pattern was still there. The singsong way the pirate spoke. Even the way his tongue held his vowels. An easy tease to ease the tension.
"Pfff. Grew on me is all. Nearly thirty years o' hearin' an' speakin'...hard t'imagine me sayin' any different. Y'slip a southern twang once in a blue when y'ain't payin' attention. Ain't just me, now."
His words were possibly true. But they spoke in such limited fashion, she wondered how often he listened in from his lonely nook in the dead of night.
"The others?"
She played lightly with the feathers atop the bird's head.
"They...think this one might listen."
"Ugh…"
She winced as his eyes rolled darkly, clambering up to perch himself along the fox's shoulders, "So that's why yer here. Run down the halls like a madman on'y t'getta door slammed in me face, is that what yer wantin'? We've tried that before. It never works."
"He's been watching. It's not like the others. If we could just get to the offi-"
"An' then what?"
The anticipation of her voice dwindled to silence, almond shaped eyes widened.
"What then? Grab 'im by the shoulders? Shake 'im 'till he snaps? The last time we tried t'communicate, the voice boxes went haywire an' the robots just screamed. I'm thinkin' it left a mighty mark on the last night shift, hence, the new guy. We can't be wastin' our chances. We're runnin' out o' time, Whitney."
Time was something they had more than enough of.
A hauntingly amount of.
He sighed, blending into the bot he claimed, head lifting as the eyes blinked back to life. The metal hand tapped along the wooden stage in search for another crayon.
"Ye learn more about growin' up by witnessin' it than experiencin' it. Studyin' it...learnin' there's more to the world than y'could ever imagine. We don't look a day older than the day it happened...but I can't claim I'm the kid I once was."
A gruff sigh.
"Ol' Foxy ain't the same, neither. At the state he be in...it's only a matter o' time. The day they take 'im away...I think they'll be takin' me sanity along wif 'im."
The hook lifted a moment to tap his head, lowering it to carve away the wax cover from another crayon.
Her bangs capped her eyes as she gazed down at the decrepit robot, brows firmly tilting, "He's falling apart...the suit's all ripped…"
"Aye...part o' that be my fault, though. Used to be a nail biter. I s'pose it transferred over to scratchin'. Cleaned off the legs from the knees down. Hand, too." he murmured, lifting the silver hand in thought, and nearly jumped when she snapped rather bitterly, "Well, stop it! I don't think there are any spare suits for Foxy, so he's all you have left! And you're ruining my memory of him!"
"Well, goodness me, we can't have none o' that, now can we?" the bot spat out bitterly, flicking the crayon between his fingers so firmly it shot across the room, cracking against the wall. "Yer precious, precious memories might be tainted wif every little rip, until one day, they're completely gone, an' then where would ye be? Poor ol' Foxy'd be finally laid t'rest, which is more than I can say fer any of us." he hissed, hook running along the edge of his wrist, shaving off a few tufts of matted fur. It hardly made a difference in the status of the suit, but over time, there would be nothing left to cut away.
"My memories keep me in check. At least I don't believe I'm Chica. Certain things start to fade, Phillip...it'll get dangerous if you let yourself forget too much. You have to remember more than just...that day. You'll never be at peace if you don't. It's not right. It's not...good for you." she uttered softly to the rattled bot, finding the intimidating stare nothing more than an understandable tantrum of an angered soul.
"Good fer me? Nothin' in this situation is, was, or ever will be, good fer me. The on'y thing I've been good at is pretendin'. Pretendin' this body is mine. Pretendin' life hasn't fergotten me. Pretendin' people still have the slightest curiosity o' what happened t'a few kids all those years ago." the bot growled, thrusting a finger toward her, "I'm at unrest, an' don't y'dare deny yer not at unrest, too. We were ripped away from somethin' irreplaceable, an' I won't rest until I can do somethin' about it. I'm...I'm tired o' pretending."
His eyes shifted slowly, mimicking an ancient weariness as his gears settled, and all was silent for the moment.
"Then let's do something about it."
His ears twitched as the gentle voice rang through, full of determination. Full of confidence.
"If you won't rest, then neither will I. And if I don't rest, the others won't either. This is about all of us. No one gets left behind. Not ever again."
He gazed at her curiously, her posture firm against her chosen body, arm flicking toward the door.
"What if he's still out there, Phillip? What if there are others like us? We can't just let this fade away into an old myth to be twisted around to scare people for fun. It was real, and someone has to know. We can't let this happen again. If we can get people to remember...get them curious...to save some lives...wouldn't you want to be apart of that?"
She gazed at the bot gently...understandingly...leaning against Chica's head once more.
"...It's okay to be scared, Cap'n..."
His head tilted slowly, ears twitching.
"But for us," she offered softly, "...there's nothing left to be scared of."
A short of static escaped the fox, mimicking a slight sigh, and with a slight slap of the knee, he lifted himself, abandoning the project he had been working on. "Aye," he muttered, resting his claw along his hip, "...even if the world moves on without ye'."
Her head tilted gently.
"...As long as it wasn't in vain...I wouldn't mind it. But we're still here, and this isn't our world. Not out there" she noted, pointing toward the door, "and not in here." she added, resting a hand along Chica's head. "If we can get out a message...something...anything..."
Her brows pressed firmly.
"We have a job to do. And until we can succeed, I'm not moving on." she noted firmly, head dipping a bit, "...But, we have to work together...We need you."
The silence ticked by as a slow thump bypassed the room, unaware of the lifeforms within. It thudded down the hall and around the corner, and the office door slammed once more. Ignoring the failed attempt, the pirate rubbed along his chin with his thumb, gazing off toward the walls. Faded drawings still idolizing the character. Still remembered in their child-like hieroglyphics. He had been Foxy longer than he had been a boy...but it was dangerous to become complacent. Frustrating to have grown comfortable in a skin that was not his own. And still, he felt a kind of kinship with the old bot, as battered and ruined as it was, for he, too...knew what that was like.
"So...Foxy was yer favorite, eh?"
A small smile curved along her face.
"He might've been. I remember him most."
He pointed a thoughtful finger toward her, wagging it gently as it gained momentum, shifting his gaze back.
"He was. You'd walk around with a plush ye'd won from the game corner. It was the jackpot prize..."
The words swirled around her, finding the images murky, but lingering somewhere. The jackpot prize. Did that ring a bell? That would have been important. Not just anyone won the jackpot prize. It required a ridiculous amount of tickets. Tickets or...It had...been…
Her smile softened tenderly, pointing a finger back, "The spinning dial game. I...almost forgot about that! Foxy the Pirate plush...stubby little arms and legs...and just the right size...I loved it more than anything..."
"I remember." he uttered softly, patting his head lightly before gazing aside her stance, "Not all's lost." His ears lifted a bit before turning back toward the innards of the stage, "S'ppose I can't be much help t'ye' tonight. Sun's risin'."
Peering over her shoulder in a jolt, the young spirit realized the earliest rays were stretching through the hallway, and soon enough, the next shift would be in, as well as most of the usual day staff. They would be expecting her in her proper place, of course. A night lost...and perhaps gained. She sighed gently, sliding back into Chica, waking her from stasis. The gears hummed back as her head lifted, beak pacing as she spoke, "Well...tomorrow is another day." A cheerful tune. One of hope.
She watched the fox loom about in his space, lost in his own world. Years of anti socialization had taken its toll on the weary robot, and the force that kept it alive, even more so. But they needed him. In whatever shape or form, they still needed him. They needed each other. It was truly all they had. "Midnight...if you can." she noted softly, hands resting along her gut in pensive thought. He had either heard, or ignored her plea, neither of which she could ever quite tell with him. The robots did a rather good job of expressing limited emotions, but an even better job at expressing robotic emotions. He simply fell into the motions of things. She took a slight step forward, resting her palms along the edge of the stage. A minute wasted. It was important.
"...Phil?"
He paused, head tilting toward her. Still here? The shop would open up soon. And if they found her in here, they might start to lock the door. Not that it made a rather large difference in his status, but he liked the option of roaming when he could. It felt less like a prison when he did.
"Mm?"
Her beady eyes peered at him, and an odd sense of curiosity filled them, as plastic and faux as they were. She required a solid vow of his word. A pirate promise, from the old days.
"Was there a Typhoon Tessie?"
He froze for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he could form words for his confusion.
"Er...Aye, there was."
The chick gazed expectantly as he gazed back, a silent plea in those beady eyes. Sighing defiantly, his hook swayed as his personal metronome with a slight smile, voice a bit softer as he recalled the tune, "Met 'er on the coast o' Java...when we kissed I...bubbled up like molten lava...then she gave me, the scare o' my young life. Blow me down an' pick me up, she was the captain's wife."
The Chica bot chuckled lightly in a bout of static as she pivoted, pushing back against the stage to maintain her balance. He seated himself back down, watching as the other bot made its way toward the exit, waddling in its own personal way to her own humming, the tune fresh in her mind. Her hand reached out for the door, pausing for a moment as she lifted out of the bot for a brief second to peer back.
"...Tomorrow?"
The fox stared for a moment, and the boy leaned out, a gentle nod, "Tomorrow."
A small smile curled along her face, slipping back into full control once more. "I'll hold you to it." she noted quietly, lifting the bot back to its faulty shuffle.
Vvwee-shoomp….Vvwee-shoomp….Vvwee-shoomp….
The door creaked open, then shut, cascading the room in total darkness. The young soul sighed, slipping back to where he felt safe most. He eyed the wax ship he had been making. "I know y'will." he uttered, listening to the static filled audio crackling through the air. He had a few hours to...work with. With a careful hand, he tilted the craft, gently carving designs with precise precision along the sticky wax.
"Da da dum dum dee da dum dum...whale o'a tale an' it's all true, I swear by my tattoo…"
Author's Note: Wanted to try a hand at something a tad dark.