Author's Note: Five Nights at Freddy's does not, and never will, belong to me. (The Purple Guy's dialogue, at least in the beginning, is based on the fan song "Follow Me" by Tryhardninja.)
"Follow me-"
The golden head bobs, encouraging, voice hushed as if conferring a great gift on the cluster of children whose parents are distracted (they will regret that later, they will cry and scream and drown their sorrows in handfuls of prescription pills and convulsive swallows of foul-smelling alcohol). The nearest girl hangs back, suspicious, but a golden-furred paw extends, and she takes it.
"Follow follow follow-"
The safe room isn't safe at all. But it's small and it's quiet and more importantly, it's hidden-
A scream spirals up into the rafters, cut short and hidden by the chintzy pop music blaring through the restaurant, by the animatronics' three-piece band. The golden Bonnie head sits discarded on the table, the suit hastily shrugged out of and laid across its customary place. Blood stains the checkered tiles, soaking the edges red.
Save them-
He walks out, calm, though his work boots have blood in the treads and the bottom of his uniform slacks are similarly sodden. The children will not be found for at least another hour. He will be long gone. The management will not pursue. They have an understanding. The place will almost certainly close, but what does that matter? There are so many establishments where children congregate-
He stops short. It's impossible for the Puppet to be out of its box, but it hangs in the gloomy service hallway anyway, pupil-less eyes nevertheless managing to glare. Spindly fingers reach toward him.
"Too late," he tells the Puppet, striving for a jovial tone, though he cannot deny the shiver that slides down his back. "Much too late." He laughs, jingling his keys in his pocket. They open up all the rooms in the building, and he knows every nook and cranny.
The Puppet hesitates, arms dropping to its sides. Its eyes dart behind him.
"Good luck," he tells the Puppet in all sincerity, stepping past it and out the back door, cutting short the muffled shouts of children's laughter and the jangle of piano keys.
-You can't.