For a man whose brother had just disappeared in an unfamiliar location heavily associated with glitter and suspected murder, Ford appeared completely nonplussed. Maybe a bit annoyed, his brow knit and his lip slightly downturned, but, on the whole, he couldn't be less interested as Dave frantically paced in the restaurant's atrium and panicked into the phone.
"I don't know—he was with us one moment, a-and then he disappeared!"
Ford continued scrawling in his notebook, postulating theories and assembling a plan. Every time his pen paused, he reached for a brass object in his coat, one wholly useless in his hands and foreign to his possession. The harmonica was a comforting weight in his pocket, its smooth surface soothing as a security blanket. Initially, like Dave, Ford had panicked at Stan's mysterious absence; the instrument, found on the floor and surreptitiously slipped out of sight, immediately told him that his brother had ghosted of his own volition. What, precisely, he had planned, remained a mystery, and kept him uneasy. At least he could be reasonably certain that Stan wasn't dead.
"No, no one's seen him."
Beside him, Eggs huffed. He had the ill luck of being the last employee in the building when Stan vanished; when Dave locked the doors, he insisted that no one could leave until there was some sort of definitive answer to the disappearance. The teen made his frustration apparent with his rapid texting and unapologetic side eye every time Ford paused his writing. Whenever Ford made eye contact, Eggs scowled and engrossed himself in his phone.
"It's only Eggs and me, yes."
The teen perked up at his moniker, pausing his quick fingers to eavesdrop.
"No, he hasn't had any night shift training, so I'd rather, uh…I'd recommend not…" Dave sighed. "And, you know, he's already put in too many hours this week—I should, uh, I should send him home, right? We did search the building…uh…no…"
Eggs glowered at the continually diminishing opportunity to leave. "This is ridiculous," he grumbled. "Whenever we lose a kid, Dave always lets us leave. Don't know why he doesn't think an old dude can't take care of himself." On noticing Ford listening, he awkwardly added, "Uh, no offense."
Ford waved off the comment. "Do children disappear here often?"
"I mean, 'disappear' is kind of intense. It's a building full of unsupervised little kids hopped up on sugar—it's not weird for them to get lost or whatever." He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Dave and Mike usually don't make us stay to look for them. I mean, I guess Bill does, but he's not really here a lot. And it's not even like Dave is making me do anything useful anymore, anyway. Just paying me now to stand here."
"They don't have you look for the missing children?"
"That's what I'm saying. Weird, right?" Again, Eggs huffed. "I guess the rumors have to start somehow."
"Interesting."
Dave's sudden yelp startled them both.
"Eggs!"
The teen jerked his head up at the call, hope returning to his expression.
Dave ushered him to the front door. "C'mon, Mr. Afton says you're good to go. I'll clock you out, don't worry about it. Just, uh, head home and, uh, you know, don't, uh, mention any of this to any sort of media or insurance representatives."
Eggs barely managed to babble out some incoherent agreement before darting out of the door, lest his boss change his mind and make him stay. When the teen had disappeared into the frosty parking lot, Dave returned his attention to Ford.
"Mr. Afton thought that, you know, the less people involved, uh, the better." Dave ran a hand through his hair. "He said he'd be here, uh, as soon as possible to, you know, help out."
Ford offered a weak smile. "I'm sorry. My brother has a knack for trouble. I wish I could tell you where he went."
"I-I wish I could do the same." Dave's eyes shifted. "I can't imagine, you know, where he could be. Your-your car is still here, he wasn't in any of the rooms…uh…none of the rooms he could have gotten into, anyway…"
A frown wormed its way onto Ford's face. That one could probably take me in a fight. Of course, he had the utmost faith in his brother to take care of himself, more or less—where he may not have necessarily been learned or skilled, he was inventive and tenacious. But Stan had a knack for finding himself in precarious situations, whether through his own designs or someone else's. Ford stuffed his hand into his pocket, carefully tracing the edges of the harmonica.
"There are some, uh, areas of the pizzeria that he might be in," Dave continued as though Ford had actually responded. "I, uh, I don't know how he could have gotten into any of them or, uh, how he would get out. Most employees aren't even allowed in them, you know, so I can't bring you with me to check, and I can't leave you unattended…"
When Michael arrived, he appeared more panicked than Dave; he may well have run to the pizzeria for how heavily he breathed. He held his hand out, asking for something, as he regained control of his respiration. Dave obliged by returning the key.
"How did you manage to lose him?" he asked. "We don't even lose children here—how did you displace an entire adult human being?"
"I don't know!" Dave wrung his hands, anxious. "I don't know where he could be—I locked the doors, and he was with us in Circus Gallery…"
Admittedly, Ford found himself too amused. It was his brother that was missing, and yet he was the only person in the room not moments away from a horrific mental breakdown; in fact, he was quite calm. He felt confident that Stan would appear at any moment, perhaps a bit ruffled but generally not worse for the wear, with that toothy grin and an elegantly simple (and completely false) explanation for his absence. He didn't let the fact that Stan had been missing for hours weigh too heavily on his mind.
"I'll check the storage room," Michael said, resolute. "Dave, wait here with Stanford—"
"I'd rather accompany you, Michael, if that's not a problem." Ford snapped his book shut and slid it into his coat pocket. "I would feel, um, more assured for my brother's safety if I were aiding the search."
Michael motioned to deny the request, thought about it for a moment longer, and changed his mind. "I suppose it's better for you to be where you can be monitored…"
Silently relieved, Ford followed Michael into the "employees only" area; Dave lagged behind them, conspicuously speechless. Their footsteps echoed sharply off the hall's linoleum floor, impatient and exaggerated in the eerie silence. The elevator clanged its way to their floor when called. Its metallic noises rang louder and more disconcertingly as the three descended deep underground. When they finally reached the bottom, Michael led them through the concrete corridor, directly to the storage room.
"Best to check here before they wake." Michael shoved the key into the lock, missing Ford's surprised sound.
"Not that that, uh, would be a problem," Dave quickly cut in. "They're not dangerous or anything…except, you know, the whole 'thinking you're an endoskeleton and stuffing you into a suit' thing."
"No, I suppose that's not much of a problem." Ford could perfectly imagine Stan's reaction: the incredulous pique of his brother's brow, the half-slack of his jaw, the shift of his eyes as he searched for confirmation that he'd heard correctly. A twinge of anxiety cut through his ironic amusement, though it was sated when he reached for the harmonica in his pocket. After all, Stan wouldn't have left behind a token if he were in any sort of real danger.
The storage room, too, was quiet, absent of typical ambient noises—the hum of an air conditioner or the din of static electronics. Even their breathing and footsteps seemed unnaturally dull. Plastic eyes followed them down the aisles, unwelcoming of their presence. Ford had become accustomed to the persistence of innumerable eyes watching him ("I can see lots of things, I.Q., lots of things…"), but none of the eyes minded him. For once, he wasn't the one being monitored; if anything, the synthetic, unblinking eyes exclusively followed Dave, who keenly avoided meeting any of the stares.
"You, uh, you don't really think Stan could be in here, do you?" Dave's awkward laugh broke the insistent silence. "I-I was sure to lock the doors when we left."
Michael halted at the end of a row. He glanced at the Funtime Foxy standing beside him, frowned, and turned to his employee. "Dave, is Funtime Foxy still upstairs?"
"No, uh, the staff brought him here for the tomorrow's, uh, class. Should be him right there."
As when the other Aftons spoke, the sudden lightness in Michael's voice indicated nothing good. Tense, Ford investigated the animatronic. He didn't need twelve P.h.D.s to see what had startled Michael: Foxy's usually pristine white teeth dripped with blood—not a lethal amount, but enough to pool worryingly at their feet.
"Not again…"
Ford swallowed hard. The musical weight in his pocket no longer placated his anxiety.
