Chapter 7 - Ghosts of gab

The smell of rain filled the halls of the old pizzeria, invigorating, seeming to breathe new life into the stale, stagnant air of the decrepit establishment as the uneven drum-beat of the storm on the shingles kept the rhythm of a torrential downpour. Having sent Chica on her way with a parting puff of lavender-scented air freshener, Mike Schmidt now wondered what to do with the rest of his shift. He supposed he ought to still check the cameras – it was his job, after all – but, truth be told, if anyone did break in the ensuing awkwardness would be nigh unavoidable. He idly considered how the animatronics might react to intruders; he immediately wished that he hadn't.

He picked up his tablet, groaned, and put it back down. The bots would probably still associate active cameras with, ah, unpleasant things, wouldn't they? Best not to risk it, then; spying on people wasn't his style, anyway – not unless his life was on the line, he corrected himself, thinking back on his first couple of weeks in the office. Amazing what an impact a few small decisions could have, eh…

He swiveled in his chair a couple of times, stopping when he began to grow dizzy, and sighed. After everything that had happened, and out of everything that could happen, he would have hardly believed that his job could ever be so, so... boring. He felt almost tempted to go out and try to mingle in with the bots, but jaded as he may be he wasn't outright suicidal. He was beginning to trust the chicken, and the others didn't seem all that bad either, but she was supposedly the sanest of the lot and yet still had temper issues that would make an anger management veteran cringe in sympathy. It made sense, of course – hell, he'd probably be quite cranky too if somebody murdered him and walked off scot-free; but when you dealt with robots twice your size that could probably part your head from your body with next to no effort, "quite cranky" could very easily translate to "quite dead", and he was hardly in the market for that. It was a shame, though… he wasn't particularly good with kids, but he could tell that these were good children. He wondered what they could have become, if only things had gone differently…

His musings were interrupted by the last sound that he would have expected to hear, one that nevertheless caused his blood to curdle: the old plastic phone on his desk began ringing. After a moment of hesitation, he reached towards it, his trembling hand hovering above the matte-black receiver.

This has to be some kind of a prank call, it has got to be.

Thusly reassuring himself, he picked up and droned in as monotonous and nasal a voice as he could possibly muster: "Hello and good evening, you've reached the security office of Freddy Fazbear's Family Pizzeria, a magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where your dreams and nightmares can and will come to life. We're very sorry, but the restaurant is closed for the night, so please try again later."

...mister Schmidt...

Thunder rolled. Mike stood there, frozen, wanting to slam down the receiver but unable to, as though some unseen force had pinned him in place; he wasn't even sure that the pained, guttural whisper calling his name had come through the earpiece – it felt rather as though it had come from directly behind him, or that it had wormed its way inside of his brain without ever bothering with his ears.

"H- hello?" he answered eventually.

There was a pause, long enough for him to begin hoping that he was merely imagining things; then:

Hello, good sir! Are you by chance experiencing paranormal activity? Robots that move by themselves, strange phone calls in the mid of the night? Here at Ghostbusters inc. (all rights reserved), we have just the thing! Quality service 24/7, payment up-front, no refunds ever. Call now!

The young man elected to simply stand still, mouth agape, failing to muster any words in response.

He he, sorry; couldn't help but respond in kind, though I think my voice may have ruined the effect just a little bit. So say, mister Schmidt, do you by chance enjoy riddles?

"I- what? Sorry?" he managed, more with the strength of confusion than that of conviction.

You seemed preoccupied, and I figured it might brighten you up, so I thought of a few.

At this point, the little gears in Mike's brain finally started turning again, alerting him that he should probably at least attempt to string together a coherent sentence or two; he completely ignored them.

"Goldy?" he guessed.

There was a slight chuckle, like the rattling of dry leaves on the pavement.

Yes! Sorry, I got excited and forgot to even introduce myself properly until now.

The night-guard sighed in relief, and even cracked a thin smile. "Trespass excused, but only on grounds of exceptional circumstances."

No, no, that shouldn't be an excuse. Just because you're dead that's no reason to be forgetting one's manners.

(I've been meaning to use that line since forever.)

"And, uh, to what do I owe the honor?"

I've been watching you for a while now. And, well, no offense – but it's kind of weird having a night-guard just out and about through the restaurant, and if I'm being honest even a bit… unsettling. Chica trusts you though, and that's enough for me to at least give you a chance. So, about those riddles? There may even be a prize in it for you if you do well enough... she added conversationally.

"Um… sure! Shoot."

There was a sound that, with some imagination, could be construed as someone clearing their throat (quite possibly Cthulhu).

I can live only where there is light, yet should light shine upon me I shall wither and die. What am I?

Mike thought for a second. "Shadow?"

Uh-huh, you guessed it. Don't get too smug though, I was taking you easy. Your turn!

"Wait, you want me to think of a riddle now? Uuuh… what has hands but can't clap?"

A clock! That was too obvious though, so I'll give you another shot.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he replied awkwardly. "Can't say I ever was any good at this. What, um, what gets wet when drying?"

What gets wet when… huh. A towel?

"Yep."

Heh, that was pretty clever actually. My turn now!

I am always there, somewhere between the land or the sea and the skies above. No matter how long you chase, you shan't ever catch me. What am I?

"The… the horizon?" he answered after no more than a moment of hesitation.

...wow that was fast. I guess I might have some fun after all! Come on, let's hear it.

"Give me a moment. Um… mine aren't as fancy and elaborate as yours, I guess, but here goes: what has four eyes but can't see?"

Aw man, that's a classic. Mississippi? Step up your game, buster!

"Well, I thought it was sort of hard when I heard it," he retorted, slightly vexed.

Eh, it wasn't that bad. Let's see… Okay, here goes.

Shorter than string, and the same length as tall, I sound like a duck, and you need me now most of all.

"Wh- what? Where do you even find these?"

It's a passion of mine, the voice answered dismissively. So?

"Let me think. The same length as tall… so four letters. I sound like a duck?"

Don't let Chica hear you, the ghost intervened in clear amusement.

The man began mumbling under his breath, bringing a hand to his chin. "Is is… is it luck?"

Darn. And I liked that one, too. Well, I'm listening.

"How… do you make the number one disappear?"

There was a long silence; then, finally:

You add the letter "g", because that makes it gone. Did you think that one up on your own?

"Nah, I remembered it from somewhere. Don't tell me you just came up with all of that poetry and stuff on the spot?"

He he, nah, though I wish that I had. But clearly poetry isn't getting through to you so let's try something else:

What sort of a room has no doors nor windows?

"I… a mausoleum?"

Just sealing doors doesn't make them go away, so no. Giving up yet?

"Not a chance." Then, to himself: "Now, what sort of a room doesn't… is it man-made, or..."

Just a small hint, but I played a little dirty with that one. Nature's trying to give you a helping hand though, it seems.

Mike listened to the rain pattering on the roof of the pizzeria.

"Something to do with rain, thunder… give me a second."

Sometimes they're not even rooms. Sometimes they're harbingers of destruction.

"What? That just makes it even more confusing! Um, it's a room, but not really, it's got something to do with rain and/or dirt and it sometimes… what? Blows up or something?"

The silence on the other end of the phone was the sort that you normally get when a baby is teetering on the edge of his very first step and everybody else has their hands on the cameras.

"Has no doors, likes rain and dirt, but blows up. Or… the one that blows up isn't the same thing?"

More expectative silence.

"...no door, likes rain, looks like something that blows up." Something seemed to click in his head. "Wait, no! It looks like something blowing up, it likes rain and mud and it's a room with no doors, goddamn... it's a mushroom! The answer is mushroom!"

A girlish giggle echoed down the halls to his office, this time clearly not coming out of the earpiece.

Good job, mister Schmidt. There's no empiric evidence that criminals aren't good with riddles, but at the very least you seem to be patient. As a prize, look into the lower-most drawer in your desk, on the left!

Mike did as instructed and, after sifting through a few yellowed documents and assorted knick-knacks, found a pair of old walkie-talkies in what appeared to be still functioning order.

You'll only need one, the voice explained. This way I can contact you even if you're away from your office, though I'm still strictly limited to the bounds of the restaurant. You're the only night-guard so far not to immediately slam the receiver on me, so a more direct means of communication seemed only appropriate.

"That's pretty cool," the young man admitted. "These were probably standard issue at some point, not sure why somebody decided to hide them away like that; either way, thanks!"

Don't mention it. Oh, and before I forget… one last test of your faith.

The security office seemed to suddenly become colder and somehow darker, the air rippling and filled with a maddening, ubiquitous buzz.

I am behind you now, mister Schmidt, the voice said, with a definite echo.

"That's not ominous at all," the night-guard retorted, trying and failing to feign some form of calm.

Mentally preparing himself, Mike swiveled round slowly… and outright fell from his chair with a scream. The apparition was gone in an instant, like the lingering after-image of a Polaroid flash, but it had been more than enough to burn what he saw into the back of his mind for as long as he'd live. Not an empty costume, however rotten and creepy, no, but a corpse – a desiccate corpse, shriveled skin pallid and mummified, hanging on to stick-thin, fragile limbs, grey hip-length hair swaying in ethereal wind, face bared of flesh staring down at him with empty sockets lit from within by a spiteful white flame. Her clothes had been tattered rags, sullied by grave dirt and stained with decomposition, her feet dangling in the air as she floated a good meter above the aged carpet. The buzzing stopped, the room returning to normal temperature; the two-way radio on the iron desk crackled, and the familiar voice of the ghost in the golden suit could be heard:

You pass muster, mister Schmidt. There was fear in your eyes, but no guilt, nor even a sparkle of recognition. Sorry to have scared you like that.

"Apology...accepted..." he managed, in between panting and trying to calm down his heart, "...but only on grounds of exceptional circumstances."

Are you implying I've forgotten my manners? she asked, amused.

"No, but you certainly don't make it a secret that you are deceased," he replied. "Oh my..."

Try not to faint, mister Schmidt. Really, I am sorry about that. But I had to make sure.

"Yeah. I understand. So, uh… what now?"

I'll leave you to your own devices, I suppose. Though, if you have the time… I'd really appreciate it if you checked up on Bonnie. He's hanging out on his own in the spare parts room, and looks to be in one of his funks.

"Bonnie doesn't, ah, seem to like me a lot, though," Mike countered. "Meaning, I think he hates my guts. Not sure what help I could be of, except maybe as a punching bag, which I'd rather avoid."

What? Bonnie doesn't hate you! I don't think Bonnie's even capable of hating anyone… well, except for the obvious, of course. And I get the feeling he might react better to somebody he doesn't know quite as well, anyway.

"If you say so," the guard accepted, uncertain.

[ooo]

Tap tap tap, went the rain on the checkered floor, dripping from thin, damp cracks in the ceiling. This place is really on its last legs, the young night-guard thought as he made his way towards the backroom, silently praying that the storm would not cause a black-out. Lights flickering and odd noises half-heard in the shadows, this already felt enough like a horror-themed suicide mission without it being pitch dark – he wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to this in the first place, besides his apparent status as everyone's doormat. He knew enough of their tale now to feel at least sympathetic, but the fact remained that these robots had killed people, actual people with actual lives that were probably worth a lot more than his own; some of them may have even had families, loved ones, someone who would still wait for them long after they were declared missing, with hope in their voice and pain in their eyes. So yeah, he could understand, but it was not his place to forgive, nor was he ready to trust quite just yet.

He stopped with a jolt – what with his musings, he'd nearly run head-first into the spare parts room. Deciding to employ caution first, he took a quick peek of the chamber: empty costume heads staring at him, same as always, same old spectacle of limp suits strewn about; the one immediate difference was the lifeless endoskeleton propped against a corner, moved from its usual spot to make room for the purple animatronic bunny currently perched in its place. Mike knocked on the door-frame, entered, tried to tip his hat before remembering that he'd taken it off when he changed his uniform.

"Hey there."

The bot snapped his head around to face him, staring him down with those crimson eyes.

"...hey," Bonnie answered after a moment of hesitation. His voice dropped an octave, becoming the vaguely menacing growl that it always did when the rabbit talked to the night-guard; this time it was forced though, almost… tired. "D'you need anything, or-"

Mike sighed – this was a bad idea, he knew, but he no longer cared. He sat next to the killer mascot, noting with a cringe that the metal workbench had buckled slightly under the robot's weight.

"Nah, but I think you do. If there's anything that you wanna talk about… you seem down."

"Me? Down?" Bonnie laughed, and it was the fakest laugh the guard had ever heard. "Mister Schmidt, I have everything that a fourteen-year-old could possibly dream of – I'm a rock star, forever young, and as tall as they get." He clenched his fist, hard enough to make the steel in his fingers groan. "What's there to feel down about?"

The young man shrugged. "I dunno, seems to me like you're missing a thing or two."

"Such as?"

Mike only looked at him, feeling nothing but genuine pity for the uncanny thing. They were alike, in a way; and what would a lost child miss most, after all? Bonnie's optics seemed to actually widen, and he swiftly turned his gaze away from the man.

„I miss my parents too, you know," the night-guard said softly after a while. "Sometimes..." he trailed off.

„Oh, don't tell me that, mister Schmidt," the robot countered, embittered. "It's easy for you. You could just go and see 'em, if you actually wanted to."

The young man simply shook his head in response, but something about the motion – the somber slowness of it, or perhaps a glint in the night-guard's eye – set the rabbit on edge.

„Big row?" the bot asked, now looking at him once more.

„Car crash," the man answered drily.

"Oh." The rabbit fidgeted awkwardly in his seat. "Ouch. Sorry. Do you want to, uh, talk about it?"

"Hey, now," Mike chuckled, "that's my line and you know it."

"No, it's just, I didn't know that…" The mascot brought a hand to his face, and rubbed at his temples.

"Sorry, Mike, I swear I'm not normally this much of a jerk." Then, catching up with his own choice of words: "Uh, I mean, mister-"

"No, no, it's okay," the night-guard interrupted. "I'm really not the sort of person that warrants addressing as 'mister last name' anyway; just call me Mike."

"Right. Mike." The purple animatronic pounded a fist on the table, startling the human, and hopped down from his perch – though the rigid mask of his face had not visibly changed, something in his demeanor made it clear he was smiling now. "Look at me, spouting angsty nonsense when I really do have nothing to be complainin' about. I'm alive, my friends are alive, and we're all here together when by rights we ought to be dead an' gone. Isn't that enough, after all?"

"Yeah, that's the spirit!" the night-guard cheered him on.

"So what about you, mister Mike? Anyone special in your life so far?"

The young man stifled a laugh. "Mister Mike? Really?"

"Don't change the subject," the rabbit retorted, giving him a sly look.

"Not really, no," he answered after a moment of thought. "I live alone in a shitty flat in the old-people neighborhood, and I spend most of the day sleeping so I don't black out on the shift. Really, I've had more interaction tonight than in the past few weeks put together; but that's okay, because I'm more of a loner anyway. It suits me just fine."

"...nah, I don't buy that,"the mascot responded after a pause. "I mean, I believe that you live alone, but I think you and I both know that's not healthy. Were you seriously never in a relationship?"

"Why are we even having this discussion right now?" the guard shot back, somewhat flustered.

"Because undeath is boring and spending a decade stuck in a restaurant will teach you to appreciate gossip," the bot answered deadpan. "And more relevantly, because if you're going to hang around here you'll end up becoming the sixth member of this five-man band, I can tell. And If that happens, I'd rather know what sort of person you are first. Granted, the fact that it makes you hilariously uncomfortable is also a welcome bonus," he finished with a shrug.

"Well, there was this girl at uni..." Mike recounted awkwardly. "But it would never have worked, especially not after I had to drop out. I bet she doesn't even remember me now."

"I don't know, mister Mike," the animatronic retorted in a serious tone. "Maybe it isn't my place to talk, but these sort of things tend to be more serious at your age, more… lasting." He brightened up. "Have you tried calling her?"

The night-guard made a strangled noise, and hid his face in his palms. "Seriously? Come on, I was counting on you to kick me out the door by this point, not badger me about my failed love life!"

The bot started laughing, like a cross between a malfunctioning TV set and a gleeful buzz-saw, falling backwards onto one of the auxiliary tables. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just messing with ya'. Still, it was fairly effective at lightening up the atmosphere, don't you think?"

"At my expense, yeah," the young man shot back morosely.

"And in your benefit too, I'd say. Look, uh, I was never a very good judge of character; it's what got us into this mess in the first place, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't blame myself for it. But I'm starting to actually hope that I'm right about you so, for what it's worth, I'll go ahead and say that I trust you." For a moment the two locked gazes, and it seemed to the night-guard that there was something fragile, and pleading, in the cold light of the robot's optics. "So please, just, please don't make me regret it." Then, looking up at the clock: "Aw man, it's nearly six o'clock! I better get back to the stage before-"

Bonnie's voice cut off with a burst of static, his frame shuddering momentarily as he got up and, mindlessly, made his way back to the designated morning position. Mike watched him go, remaining himself as silent and still as a statue. They were murderers too, he had to remember that. So why did it hurt so much, knowing that he didn't get to say "yes, you can trust me, I promise"?

A/N: Well this took (marginally) less than the last one, at least. Thing is, I'll be having final exams for more or less the entirety of this month (I've started already, as a matter of fact) so it's slowing me down quite a bit - even when I do get some time for myself, I'm usually too tired and/or stressed to focus on writing. Now, I'm not going to promise that updates will be much faster once I'm done with this, because that never does turn out well, but alas we can at the very least hope. I'n the meanwhile, I hope you'll enjoy this excruciatingly long update! I'm still not entirely satisfied with it, but it contains Bonnie-Mike dialogue and I've been waiting to make those two nerds interact properly since forever so I won't complain overmuch.

Excerpt from Freddy's notebook, hidden away in one of the mascot heads in the back room:

Aimless astride at the edge of oblivion,
Hanging on to this cheap imitation of life
With the will of the ghost in the carrion,
We are specters of vengeance, of unfinished strife.
Upon my copper veins and iron bones,
We shall not stop, no hesitation nor misguided pride
In lost humanity, no mercy,
Not one of myriad guilty thoughts that pierce me
Shall keep your blood from spilling on the flagstones:
We could not run, but neither can you hide.