A/N: Something different. Hello, FNaF fandom!

Michael Schmidt sits back in the crappy aluminum chair, yawning widely, a cup of cheap coffee in one hand. He glances across the desk at the faded paraphernalia adorning the crusty walls and wonders for what has to be the thirty-seventh time this night why in God's good name he decided to take the night shift at such a dingy-ass, miserable place as Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. For the thirty-seventh time, he reminds himself that this is one-hundred twenty bucks a pop, so he probably shouldn't complain.

Then the phone rings. Michael sighs. Reaches over and picks up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"Hello, hello?"

"Yeah, this is Mike Schmidt. What is it?"

The guy keeps talking. This whole message must be pre-recorded. Great. He sets the phone down.

"...get settled in on your first night. Um, I actually worked in that office before you. I'm finishing up my last week now, as a matter of fact. So, I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I'm here to tell you there's nothing to worry about."

Michael suppresses a guffaw of disgust. What kind of dream job does this moron think this is?

"So, let's just focus on getting you through your first week. Okay?"

Sure, Michael thinks. I'll bite, old man. He presumes the other guy is at least a few years his senior, from his croaky voice.

"Uh, let's see, first there's an introductory greeting from the company that I'm supposed to read. Uh, it's kind of a legal thing, you know."

There's a break where the sound of pages flipping cuts over what the guy is saying. It's loud, too. The aged speakers crackle a bit, and Michael winces.

"Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. A magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life. Fazbear Entertainment is not responsible for damage to property or person. Upon discovering that damage or death has occurred, a missing person report will be filed within 90 days, or as soon property and premises have been thoroughly cleaned and bleached, and the carpets have been replaced."

Michael finds himself slumping in his chair. Palms sticky, stomach churning. He's queasy. Hot under the glaring fluorescent lights. His mouth is dry. He shouldn't have drank all that fucking coffee.

"Blah blah blah, now that might sound bad, I know, but there's really nothing to worry about. Uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit quirky at night, but do I blame them? No. If I were forced to sing those same stupid songs for twenty years and I never got a bath? I'd probably be a bit irritable at night too. So, remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children and we need to show them a little respect, right? Okay."

By now, Michael is starting to doubt this other guy's grip on reality.

"So, just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit. Uh, they're left in some kind of free roaming mode at night. Uh...Something about their servos locking up if they get turned off for too long. Uh, they used to be allowed to walk around during the day too. But then there was The Bite of '87. Yeah. I-It's amazing that the human body can live without the frontal lobe, you know?"

Michael squints at the dingy answering machine and wonders if he heard that correctly. Chalk that up to the employee having a sick sense of humor. It would explain everything else he's heard.

"Uh, now concerning your safety, the only real risk to you as a night watchman here, if any, is the fact that these characters, uh, if they happen to see you after hours probably won't recognize you as a person. They'll p-most likely see you as a metal endoskeleton without its costume on. Now since that's against the rules here at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, they'll probably try to...forcefully stuff you inside a Freddy Fazbear suit. Um, now, that wouldn't be so bad if the suits themselves weren't filled with crossbeams, wires, and animatronic devices, especially around the facial area. So, you could imagine how having your head forcefully pressed inside one of those could cause a bit of discomfort...and death."

This guy's clearly joking. Whatever, Michael thinks.

"Can we get to the important shit, old man?" he grumbles to the air.

"Uh, the only parts of you that would likely see the light of day again would be your eyeballs and teeth when they pop out the front of the mask, heh."

Yep, Michael thinks to himself. Definitely a fucked-up sense of humor. The creep even chuckled.

"Y-Yeah, they don't tell you these things when you sign up. But hey, first day should be a breeze. I'll chat with you tomorrow. Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, good night."

The message stops with an electronic boop. He's alone.

Cameras. Power. Okay.

Michael shakes himself up a bit to get the blood flowing. It doesn't help much, but he's got a long night ahead of him.