~Author's Note~

Normally I wouldn't put an AN, but since this can be a difficult fandom at times, I decided it would be best to mention this now. This fanfic takes place in an alternate reality and as a result will not follow the games exactly. There are definitely points that won't follow someone's theories, but keep in mind that this story doesn't even follow my own FNaF theories. Please, just think of this as a retelling of the beloved franchise because that's exactly what it is. Scott Cawthon is telling his story; if I follow everything he does, then what would be the point of fan fiction? I'm already using his characters and setting, so might as well give this plot a little twist.

~Disclaimer~

Scott Cawthon owns the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise. All credits and rights go directly to him. I only claim the original characters as my own. The cover art was made by two images I found on Google (all rights go to the creators!) and put together with Microsoft Word. Enjoy!

Utah - 1998

It always seems that when life's going great, the universe decides that you need to be knocked off your feet, kicked while still on the ground, and spend some time at rock bottom.

Or at least that's how it felt for Mike Schmidt.

Typical to the start of a stereotypical drama film, rain seemingly poured with no end from the sky during his mother's funeral. The weather was miserable as Mike, and it stayed that way during the two weeks the twenty-four-year-old spent going through his mother's paperwork and bank statements. With a sigh, Mike realized that as much as he didn't want to, he had to sell the house he was raised in.

The house he grew up in was large and boasted the wealth his father had acquired while living, but as it was still not paid off and the inheritance Mike just received already running dry, Mike had to let go of that sentimental value. He was unemployed, and there were still medical bills and funeral expenses that demanded to be paid. As much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, the sooner he sold the house the better off he would be.

Momo, Mike's orange tabby and only other resident at the home, stared at Mike as he went through the last of the files. Wanting attention, the tomcat jumped onto the table and rubbed against the papers Mike held in hand. Mike didn't react, however. Instead he was swallowed with frustration at his inability to find his life's biggest question, one he never thought to ask either of this parents while they were still alive.

Were did all the money come from?

"Stocks" and "Investments" were words Mike never thought much of when he was younger. Now that he was an adult, he understood that this was perhaps the reason his family was so wealthy during his early life; having an electrician for a father only provided so much income. Not to mention that it wasn't until Mike was about nine or ten that his father told Mike and his mother that money would have to be handled more tightly, something that never would have been a problem if all the money from before came entirely from Mr. Schmidt's profession.

Mindlessly reaching out to stroke Momo's ears, Mike sighed with the realization that he might never know what it was that his father invested in to earn so much money. By this point he had been through every document, bank statement, and file in the house. It was as if this investment never happened. It was as if his parents never wanted any proof that they were at one point linked to whatever corporation gave them such wealth.

Putting down the papers and pulling away from Momo, much to the tomcat's dissatisfaction, Mike began to rub his forehead. He stopped abruptly when his fingers ran over the rugged line of skin above his eyebrow. His scar - the only physical proof that Mike had not imagined his early childhood.

A girl's laugh flashed in Mike's memory, something that always scared him when he was younger. He had long forgotten her name or what she looked like, but Mike could never forget the laugh that kept his younger self awake at night. A people who had disappeared without a trace similar to the proof of his father's investment were the Browns. At one point the Schmidts and the Browns spent all their time together, which meant that Mike spent a lot of time with their cruel daughter. The last time Mike saw any of them was a few short weeks before his father announced how money would be used restrictedly in the household, and even as a child Mike wondered if it had something to do with the Browns.

Needless to say, Mike did his best to not think of them often.

Their daughter, who was about Mike's age, would mock him, torment him, and had even locked him in the closet more than once. He received his scar when she pushed him down the stairs on his eight birthday. The younger Mike never thought of her as a friend, and even now he didn't care enough to wonder where she was now. Not even pictures of her and her parents where found in Mike's search through the house, but that was one loss Mike could live with.

Whatever the mystery behind this complete disappearance of this facet of Mike's childhood was, it wasn't going to help him with his current issues. Maybe he will never figure out which corporation his father invested in that seemingly no longer exists. Maybe he will never run into the Browns again. Either way, he had things that needed to be done, and dwelling on a past that did not appear to want to be dug up was not going to take him anywhere.

Within two months of his mother's funeral, Mike sold the home, paid the last of the bills, and moved into a small apartment on the far side of a nearby town. His new living space consisted of a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and a dainty living room - it was much smaller than what Mike was used to, but the place was just the right size for a single man and his pet cat. Still, the place had a rent, and rents had to be paid. Trying to push away the stress that he was still unemployed and it was only a matter of time before he went completely broke, Mike browsed the papers daily in search of a job.

He responded to ads and filled out applications, but it was difficult. Weeks passed with no results. It was as if nobody really needed him even though he desperately needed them. Hope began to fade.

While looking over the Want Ad for what felt like the millionth time, Momo sitting contently on Mike's lap, a certain advertisement caught Mike's eye. On the left of the ad was a black and white picture of a bear. An animatronic bear wearing a top and holding a microphone, a bear that looked awfully familiar. Next to the picture read this:

HELP WANTED

Freddy Fazbear's Pizza

Family pizzeria looking for security guard to work the nightshift. 12am-6am.

Monitor cameras, ensure safety of equipment and animatronic characters.

Not responsible for injury/dismemberment.

$120 a week. To apply call: 1-888-FAZ-FAZBEAR

For $120 a week, Mike knew he would be working for minimum wage. A night shift no less. He would be all alone, something that scarred Mike more than staying up through the ungodly hours of the night. However, with his unsatisfactory conditions, Mike knew he couldn't afford to be picky.

Besides, maybe the experience would come in handy some day.

Forcing Momo off his lap, an action Mike always regretted, Mike picked up the phone and dialed the number. He intended to plan what he was going to say while he waited for someone to answer, but the wait didn't last long. Somebody picked up after the first ring.

"Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. May I help you?"

Mike froze for a second before he blurted, "Hi? Yes! I'm calling about the ad in today's paper."

"The night guard position?" The person on the other line laughed. Mike jumped. "Didn't think we'd get a response so quick."

The rest of the phone conversation was a blur in Mike's memory. He hoped that he sounded professional, yet he most likely came across as anything but. However, by some miracle, he was asked to come over immediately for an interview.

Maybe Mike's luck was beginning to turn around.