Come on...
Come on...!
He figured he might be able to will the minutes to pass by more quickly if he focused with all his might...or maybe his mind was desperately trying to distract itself from the threat of his impending doom as his fingers glided across the surface of the tablet of their own accord, requiring little to no guidance from his brain to perform tasks that had long since become muscle memory.
5:43...
It was only his second night of employment at Freddy Fazbear's, but he was well aware of the stories and urban legends plaguing the restaurant- he'd grown up with them, after all. He would be lying if he said he hadn't been at least somewhat interested in finding out if there was any truth behind them when he sought out the job.
Well, he'd certainly confirmed his suspicions at the very least.
He wondered how he would tell his old friends...or if he would tell them at all- they'd probably think he was messing with them at best. At worst, they'd think he was insane.
5:48...
Despite his best efforts to stay focused, Mike Schmidt's mind started to wander...What if he didn't survive to see the morning? What would the world think had happened to him? What would his parents be told? Would they even be informed that he had been killed, or would they remain ignorant of his fate, left to begin a search for their missing son long after he had already passed from this world? Morbid thoughts began to seize control of his mind, rolling over it like a dense fog.
Now, Mike wasn't a superstitious man by any means, but he had always found his imagination spurred by the paranormal...and he wondered what the implications of dying in such a place as this might be. With no proper burial or rite of passing, would his spirit be trapped here in this place, fated to restlessly roam the halls of this damned pizzeria forever more? Mike couldn't help but chuckle at what sounded like the premise for a terribly corny horror flick...
-thunk thunk thunk-
His overactive imagination getting the better of him, he began to picture himself as the restaurant's day staff would find him, stuffed inside a Freddy Fazbear suit, just as the man on the phone had described the first night, his eyeballs drooping out the front of the mask comically as his flayed flesh soaked the inside of the costume with gore...
-THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK-
Mike was pulled from his reverie a moment too late- he hadn't been watching the cameras, or his power. As he turned away from his desk towards the source of the noise, he noticed that his power was critically low.
Overwhelmed by thoughts of being forgotten, of breaking his parents' hearts, of the cruel and, frankly, embarrassing fate that awaited him, he found himself springing up out of his chair as if it were on fire. Acting purely on animal instinct, he lashed out and swung his fist at the first thing that moved into his field of vision from the hallway—and connected.
. . .
Now, Mike would have probably been experiencing a great deal of pain if he hadn't been in such a state of adrenaline induced shock. Time seemed to crawl as he watched his fist connect with the red-furred muzzle of none other than Foxy the Pirate, who wore a look of complete and utter surprise that mirrored his attacker's, his eye-patch flipped up in an almost comical fashion.
That brief glimpse was all Mike got, before the restaurant was plunged into darkness. For a moment, the only sound was the foreboding groan of the power dying out, before...
"BLOODY HELL! WRETCHED BILGE-BLASTED SON OF A SEA WENCH! FILTHY BARNACLE-RIDDLED BASTAR-"
Mike was rooted to the spot, completely paralyzed by shock and fear as a veritable geyser of curses spilled forth from somewhere in the darkness in front of him. Mike couldn't even make out what was being said, he was far too busy focused on his impending death, when the furious outburst began to fade out, only to be replaced by...laughter?
Suddenly, a shrill but familiar beeping broke out from the watch he wore on his wrist as the lights flickered back on.
6:00...
He'd survived. He couldn't believe it. Mike's self-congratulatory mood was dampened however when he realized that Foxy was still sitting on the ground outside his office, still laughing a gruff and throaty laugh.
Mike flinched and readied himself as Foxy stood and shot him a seemingly bemused glance before turning and walking back down the hallway, rubbing his snout.
Confused, and going against the already pathetically weak sense of judgment that had led him to come back to this hellhole two nights in a row, Mike leaned out into the hallway.
"The lad's go' some fight in 'im! Best watch yerselves around this one, buckos. He don' pull 'is punches one bit!" Foxy called excitedly to seemingly nobody as he continued to walk back to the cove. Who was he talking to...?
Oh. The other animatronics. Of course. Logic would dictate that if Foxy could talk, the others could too...
Rather than allow the implications of that terrifying discovery to blossom in his mind, Mike elected to grab his belongings and flee from the office as fast as his legs would carry him. He caught a glimpse of the star-spangled curtains of Pirate's Cove falling closed as he turned sharply at the end of the hall and launched himself through the restaurant's main entrance before whirling around and locking the doors behind him.
Not stopping to catch his breath, Mike bolted to his car, threw himself inside, jammed his keys into the ignition and proceeded to run three red lights as he sped home, adrenaline still screaming through his veins.
It was only when he had entered his apartment and collapsed on his well-worn and tattered sofa that he released the breath that he felt like he'd been holding since the power went out at the restaurant. His mind was reeling and his body was so exhausted that he was unable to grasp onto a single coherent thought and, mercifully, he succumbed to sleep almost immediately...