Rating: T for graphic violence, mild swearing, perilous situations, psychological trauma
Setting: Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, during the events of the game
Summary: Nearly unemployable because of his criminal record, Mike is shocked to land an overnight security gig. As the nights pass by at the pizzeria, he's starting to lose it, but when he discovers hidden messages from a previous night guard, he struggles to hold it together, fight for his life and find out what happened to the other guard. Slight AU in that Mike leaves the office.
Author's Note: Five Nights at Freddy's and all canon characters, settings, etc. are the property of Scott Cawthon. This is a non-commercial fan tribute and was not written for profit.
You are free to use any original concepts, headcanons and characters from this fanfiction in your own work (fanfiction, art, etc.) if you'd like.
Some rooms and attractions appear in this fanfiction but not the game, such as the arcade and ball pit, but just because the camera angles didn't capture them in the game doesn't mean they can't be there. (Surely Freddy's has a few attractions besides the trio of singing characters. That alone wouldn't impress most kids at parties. Then again, maybe that's why the place is closing.)
Views expressed in this fanfiction do not necessarily match the writer's.
"Mike Schmidt? Strange, but I'd have expected you to be...younger," Nathan Faz remarked dryly, regarding his newly-hired overnight security guard as the man sat and fidgeted in his chair at the training office. Between his long and stringy but thinning hair and the fine lines crossing his face, Mike was clearly about twice the age of the fresh-out-of-college guys typically hired for the position, and not that sturdily built, either. On the bright side, his threadbare clothing and knockoff-brand tennis shoes suggested he was desperate enough to stick the job out for the meager wages advertised in the help wanted ad he'd answered - a mere $120 a week. Making hiring decisions over the telephone without the benefit of an in-person interview or a fitness test had its drawbacks, but it was the way Faz was forced to do business, at least for this position at his pizzeria.
"I'm forty, not ninety. Believe you me, I can do this." Mike shrugged, already feeling indignant that he was being judged on his ability to perform the job before he'd had a chance to prove himself. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning forward even more in the chair. "Besides, you're no kid yourself."
Fresh. Faz blinked in surprise at the comeback, but anger never came. "True, that. Anyway, sorry to have raised your defenses, but you have my word that so long as you fulfill the job requirements, your employment with Fazbear Entertainment is secure. We discussed salary, code of conduct and all other formalities over the phone, so now there's just the matter of finding you a work uniform." He gestured to a rack of generic blue workshirts and navy pants, some of them considerably faded and others practically new. "Go ahead, look through them, but good luck finding one that fits just right. It's been a long time since we had a night watch as scraw-I mean, as slim as you." His own portly figure rumbled with silent laughter at his wisecrack.
Faz took malicious glee from seeing the corner of Mike's mouth twitch as he registered the insult, but he obediently examined the garments, the metal hangers chiming against each other as he slid them aside.
"Speaking of which, you know one thing we didn't discuss? The wording in your ad. 'Not responsible for injury or dismemberment?' The heck's that supposed to mean?" Ever defensive, Mike held two shirts at arm's length, grimaced at a large stain across the collar and shoulders of one, and tossed his choice onto the chair that held his jacket.
"Oh, that? Good catch. That language was little more than a long-standing family joke. We are always striving to keep our target audience - children - loyal to our brand as long as possible, and we throw in a few harmless but clever messages like that in our promotional material. Older kids appreciate edgy humor that still plays it safe, and then they'll be less apt to dismiss this facility as an overgrown kiddie rumpus room. So it even carries over to our help wanted ads. Consistency, you know."
Mike nodded in understanding. Finally locating a pair of polyester slacks that would almost work with his unique combination of gawky height and slight build, he excused himself to change, remembering seeing a hallway with restroom signage just off the expansive dining area. He stepped out of the office into the main room, impressed to see the transformation that had taken place since his arrival less than an hour before. He had entered into the din of a hundred screaming children, with eternally cheerful yet frazzled teenage "party hosts" trying in vain to corral them to the tables so they could be present for the usual litany of children's birthday events: blowing out the candles. Serving the cake and ice cream. Whining during the opening of the gifts because it was somebody else's party. Maybe a pinata if Mom and Dad sprung extra for it (available for fifteen dollars at the concession counter, and no, you cannot bring your own from home.) Watching the animatronic band perform, of course. Then the distribution of tokens so everyone could be set free once again to feed the arcade games and visit the prize counter for plastic trinkets.
Now the room stood in stark contrast, still and placid with neat rows of party hats down the lengths of the long tables awaiting the next day's celebrations, every chair slid back into place and no traces remaining of the discarded food that had littered the floors. The teenage crew must have worked with amazing efficiency to be able to leave so quickly, almost as if they wanted to get home early instead of clocking in extra time, but the real mystery was why the lights had already been shut off. Not just the main lights, either, but everything save for a pitifully undersized set of bulbs that cast a dismal glow over the tables. The games had been powered down and someone had even seen fit to turn off the glowing exit signs, surely a safety violation. Wouldn't it make more sense to leave the lights on if they're trying to deter intruders? Idiots.
Mike turned back to voice a request for some illumination, then decided against it. Whoever heard of a night watchman unable to navigate in the dark, anyway? He already disliked Nathan Faz, as he imagined most people did within five minutes of meeting him, and he didn't want to get on his boss's bad side on the first day. It was hard to believe such an abrasive personality could have designed the beloved mascot characters who populated the restaurant's performance stage and became a fondly-remembered part of the young patrons' childhoods.
He emerged from the restroom with his street clothes folded under his arm, unsure how he looked since the lights in the restroom wouldn't even turn on when he flipped the switch. He hoped he had at least buttoned his shirt up correctly.
Passing the stage with its trio of deactivated robots (animatronics, he reminded himself) in the forms of a bear wearing a bowler hat, a rabbit and some kind of yellow barnyard fowl, he paused momentarily, caught where he stood in the terminal stare of the band yet oddly fascinated. "Neat," he said aloud to the empty room, then jumped when Faz stepped out from behind the namesake of the business, grinning at his joke.
"These are your charges, Mike. Meet Freddy, Bonnie and Chica. If you have any downtime - and you won't - you should read up on their biographies in the employee's handbook. All of the daytime workers are required to 'know' the characters as well as they know their best friends, should a child ask about them. They have distinct personalities, favorite activities and even their own preferred items from our menu." Rocking on his heels, the proprietor and founder of the pizzeria took in the sight of his creations with pride. "They're what make us stand apart from the dime-a-dozen pizzerias and arcades, something exotic and mysterious a child won't see at the local shopping mall or anywhere else." Faz affectionately ruffled the fluff atop Chica's head. "They're worth hiring the overnight security detail."
"How come the duck has teeth?" Mike cut in irreverently, unable to withstand the suspense any longer and jabbing a finger at what looked to him like an overgrown duckling wearing a bib that proclaimed "Let's Eat!" in childish text. One look at his supervisor's face made him realized he had crossed the line on his first day despite his intentions not to; evidently the guy took criticism poorly.
"'How come,' or should I say, why does the duck have teeth, do you ask? First of all, it should be bleeding obvious that Chica is a chicken, and a young one at that, since she still has her yellow down. She has a story, and should you someday ask somebody to read it to you, you would learn that she has a great appetite, both for our delicious fresh-baked pizzas as well as for the spirit of fun and adventure. I strongly suggest you memorize all their biographies. Get to know them."
Mike exhaled sharply, backing away defensively and disliking the way he felt so small standing several feet below the animatronics and his boss on the raised stage. Yeesh. He vowed to never again question the design of Faz's beloved creations, and wisely decided not to follow up with a question about why the rabbit wore a bow tie but had a girl's name.
As if reading his mind, Faz cracked into a jovial smile once more. "You might as well ask why they stand on two legs instead of four. You seem unnerved by them. Please don't tell me you're scared of animatronic characters, Mike. You could save us a lot of trouble and expense by backing out now if you are."
Mike straightened in response to the challenge. "Are you kidding? That's insulting. I grew up on a steady diet of Sid and Marty Krofft TV shows and I was a kid right when these 'singing animal bands' first became so popular at theme parks, so if those freaky-deaky characters and costumes didn't scare me to death I highly doubt your creations have much of a chance." He snorted. "The day I whizz my pants over a five-foot-tall bunny rabbit is the day I hang up my security badge. My job is to keep the bad guys out, vandals and the like, right? I wouldn't be able to do that if I was afraid of what's inside."
Faz's sinister laugh unnerved him. "You have a good handle on the situation, Mr. Schmidt." The business owner, perhaps twenty years his senior, effortlessly leapt from the stage, strode forward and leaned in close to his face. "I must warn you, Mike, this job has an astoundingly high turnover rate, or it was until our long-time guard, Clyde, up and quit on us." He shook his head. "Poor Clyde. But you won't become one of those statistics, will you? I may not have performed a formal interview or fitness test but I can assure you that subsequent to your hiring I did take the liberty of running a background check."
A lump formed in Mike's throat; he had been counting on the likelihood that in his rush to hire for the position, Faz had overlooked this step. "And...?"
"You have quite the record, even if most of it is for criminal mischief. You've basically made yourself unemployable in the past two years, have you not?"
Crud. Mike hadn't been counting on this. "Er, mistakes were made. My record's been clean for the last few months, since you say you checked." Beads of sweat broke across his face and soaked into his shirt collar as he awaited his fate.
The business owner laughed in the face of the employee who he now fully controlled. "That may be so, but there are hardly employers fist-fighting in the parking lot over who gets to hire you first. Appreciate and treasure your employment at Fazbear's, son, because it's damn well your only option. Don't screw this up."
Mike gulped as he found himself being led to the security office at the end of a remote hallway. His shift began in less than an hour - midnight.