Entry 1 for the 100_Men LJ comm.
Mike Schmidt; 40 - Reality.
If there was one thing the security guard hated more than anything else at the moment, he thought with a deep frown, while straining his ears to listen for any noises behind the closed doors, was life and his current situation. The same situation that forced him to take a ridiculously deadly job watching over animatronics that should have been a cake walk, especially at this pay, but life had other, crueler plans.
It was his third night there and already he was in the confidence that he should have been getting paid a lot more for this. If the options were available to him, the guard would have quit on the first night, wondering who in the hell designed these things and why the owners had to be such cheapskates to endanger workers live like this. Because there was no way these things weren't broken. He didn't buy the whole servos bull that he was given, but was in no position to argue. Bills didn't know about these things and people collecting them cared about as much as he did at the moment.
"Wouldn't be surprised if those things weren't possessed." He muttered grumpily to himself, being made aware of the story of the place recently, given more details by the guy on the phone than what the news did those years ago.
Quietly moving in the room and straining his ears once more for any sign of the chicken, fox, bunny or bear, his feeling of unease had grown a bit as it had been a few minutes since he last heard anything from the quartet. His fingers twitched with the urge to shut the doors and leave them there. If the power supply he had left would have allowed it, the guard would have in a heartbeat.
Checking the camera, the guard was quick to react when he saw the fox running his way at a speed that shouldn't have, in his opinion, been possible and quickly hit the button to close the right door, heart hammered in his chest while he heard the too loud banging against the metal.
On edge, he check the time and noticed with what relief he was allowed saw it was five am. "Just one more hour," he spoke to himself once more quietly, if for nothing more than a distraction from this twisted horror show in which he wanted no participation. These things seemed too intent on finding and killing him for it to be anything other than faulty programming than them being free roaming machines at night.
Shaking his head, and willing the remains of the last hour to pass by quickly, he was all too ready to grab a beer(or three) and throw himself in bed to imagine this nightmare never happened and keep his thoughts off of it until he was forced to return to re-live it again and again and again until Friday's shift was done.
Going back to the cameras, Mike Schmidt was certain he hated life right now.
