Hello everyone. Thanks for returning to read. Once again, a difficult couple of weeks. Still, I really enjoy writing; it's quite rewarding. Anyway, as promised, I tried to make this chapter a bit more substantial - it's the longest "night" chapter so far (even without the A/N). I'm not the best at writing these, but I think I did a decent job with this one. With that said, constructive criticism is extremely helpful, especially about character development and pacing. Reviews are also great.

A couple more things. First, the next couple chapters will hopefully introduce some new questions for you to ponder over. Second, if you're confused about anything happening so far, feel free to shoot me a PM. I probably won't give too much away, but maybe enough to go on.

Wednesday, May 24, 11:48 PM

Mike felt more reserved than anything else as he trudged toward his office. It was more than halfway over. Eighteen hours were behind him; twelve remained. The nights crept along like chilled molasses, but he dragged himself through with luck, hyperactive adrenal glands, sheer tenacity, and possibly the protection of a God whose existence he now doubted. No, no. A spiritual crisis can wait two more days.

The squeak of rubber on linoleum alerted the three remaining janitors to his presence as he entered the dining hall. Their expressions were hard and callous as ever, but Mike couldn't care less; it didn't matter what some hired goons thought. Still, he wondered where Mr. Fazbear got these people – and how much they were paid. After a few seconds, they returned to silently mopping the chipped floor.

With a last glance around the room, he noticed Freddy glaring at him from stage, a simmering fire in his eyes. This time, though, Mike wouldn't retreat. Yeah, you remember last night. They stayed that way for several seconds, neither flinching. Bonnie and Chica nervously looked between them, strangely concerned.

"So Freddy," Mike finally spoke, "how does it feel to have even more metal in your head?" His voice seemed to echo longer than it should have in the silent chamber. All was quiet, dead even. Then the thugs started laughing uproariously, apparently thrilled by his non-joke.

"You're fucking dead, kid!" Freddy exploded in his resounding bass voice, making Mike jump backwards. "I'll thrash you to death with that goddamn computer! They'll have to scrape you off the floor!" Bonnie and Chica vainly tried to calm him down, but the howling guards didn't help.

Now regretting speaking, Mike skulked off down the hall, tailed by vague curses and giggling jeers. He wouldn't forget this any time soon, much to his dismay. Passing the colorful posters and drawings, he arrived at his office, his second home.

Sitting down in the chair, he felt comforted, if only a little. The ugly wallpaper, tacky gray carpet, even the single uncovered lightbulb provided a sense of sanctuary. Unappealing as they were, at least they didn't try to kill him. I already miss the fan.

…

The office was quiet that night. Various small sounds – the drip of a leaky faucet, an air conditioner's rumbling – had faded away. Mike barely noticed them before, but the building felt like a hollow husk without them. Only the hum remained, a sentinel at the edge of reality.

It was muted yet omnipresent, like the golden blur that haunted his peripheral vision. Calm down. It can't hurt you.

That's what he wanted to believe.

Taking a deep breath, he spun around in his chair a few times. Instead of feeling whimsical, though, it was nauseating. This would be one Hell of a night.

There were still three very long minutes to Zero Hour, inching past like sickly snails. On a whim, he flipped through the cameras; dim and creepy as ever. If anything, the building seemed to decay with each passing night. The halls felt more cramped, the colors more muted. Even the camera lenses seemed smudged. Finally, he landed on the stage monitor. The animatronics stood unmoving, waiting to be infected by whatever malicious program lurked deep within their artificial synapses.

He actually felt sorry for them, even Freddy. Years and years of the same songs, the same jokes, the same routine, all while trapped in a single corroding room. Maybe they found some enjoyment in it, he didn't know. But killing him was something they must have looked forward to, even if it wasn't really them; at the very least it was different, exciting.

These ruminations were brought to a halt by the ringing phone. The lights dimmed, casting a dull yellow glow and allowing shadows to expand their territory. With that, the penultimate message began to play.

"Uh, hey," said the Phone Guy, panting heavily. "Great job, um… not dying, I guess?"

Mike knew he should shout the recording down as in previous nights, but simply didn't care anymore. Anger wasn't worth the effort.

"But seriously, you've – you've done well. Better than most…" he said with increasing melancholy.

He wasn't sure where this was going, but he didn't like it. In the background, a familiar buzzing appeared.

"Well, it's, uh, been nice talking to you." The buzzing continued to slowly grow, making Mike tense up in his seat. Phone Guy's voice began to distort. "I won't make, um, one of these tomorrow. You can handle yourself." It was now as loud as a car engine, but still increasing. "Hey, j-just – I gotta go now!" he shouted, bumping things as he stood up.

"I – I left some pizza under your desk! Don't worry, it keeps pretty well!" With that, he rushed out of the office, not bothering to hang up. The noise grew ever louder, finally entering the room.

Though it was only a recording, Mike still barely breathed, wanting to know what produced the infernal drone. Then there was silence, punctuated by static muttering. At length, the sound retreated, leaving only dead air, and the recording clicked off.

As he was wont to do, Mike began to shiver, though not as strongly as earlier in the week. What even is that thing? Not expecting an answer, he wiped his clammy palms on the front his khakis and got to work.

Checking the cameras, Bonnie had already moved to the hall, backlit by a flickering bulb. Only his eyes, burning with intense hatred, could be made out. A deep, animalistic growl slithered down the corridor.

Mike sighed, laying his head on the desk. Wait, Phone Guy said something about food under here. Inspecting both doors for safety, he leaned over and plucked a cold pizza box from the carpet. Surprised by the gesture, he put it to the side for later.

Thursday, May 25, 12:28 AM 88% Power

It was getting louder. As the minutes passed, Mike could tell the strange ringing in his ears increased in strength and frequency. So did the attacks. Both Bonnie and Chica were already going strong, popping up at random in the doorways with open-mouthed grins that said "you look tasty".

He'd given up on using witty humor or small tricks to stay alive; those coping mechanisms failed him in the face of death. There was no reward. All he could do was sit. And watch. And listen. With persistence, it might be enough.

Let's see. Bonnie's backstage, Freddy hasn't moved yet, Chica's in the hall corner. He recoiled as the animatronic's head began to violently twitch. That wasn't normal. Either she's broken or trying to psyche me out. If so, it was definitely a winning strategy. Maybe these things were smarter than he thought. Trying to ignore the spasming bird, he checked Pirate Cove.

Foxy stood halfway out, glaring at the camera with a single eye, a mouth full of razor-sharp metal teeth and a pointed hook. What sadist designed her? She could kill someone. He immediately regretted the image that came to mind. She did kill someone – someone important to him. Even after the talks they'd had, the questions she'd answered, he couldn't forgive her. And she must have been alive at the time; there was no way it could have been an accident. Machinery didn't malfunction like that. It had to have been a conscious decision.

Still, he had to keep visiting her. After all, she was a living machine, something only dreamed of by madmen and in science-fiction. This was an experience that most would kill for, and he wouldn't let it slip away. Something good had to come out of this deranged place.

A twinge of guilt pecked at his conscious for taking advantage her like that, only pretending to care about her problems. It was sort of sick, now that he thought about it. No! She's a robot, not a person! It's different.

Mike's thoughts were derailed when he heard a scraping noise outside. Without hesitation, he closed the door, and Bonnie shuffled over to the window, twitching intently.

1:34 AM 68% Power

His head began to ache. Occasionally, the hum would whisper to him. He couldn't understand it, but the tone was agitated. More and more, Mike was convinced this force was real, not merely an inhabitant of his shaken mind.

The hallucinations had begun, too, clawing their way out of his darkest fantasies. For an instant, visions of blood and metal would fill his head before fleeing off into the vast darkness. He knew it would get worse before it got better, assuming it ever did.

But even with the distractions and disturbing imagery, he kept focused with massive amounts of lukewarm coffee. All in all, it seemed to be an average night at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.

Inspecting the cameras for the thirtieth time or so, everyone appeared to be where they should. Bonnie and Chica were in their respective hallways, both intermittently vellicating. They look like they're about to throw up. Foxy skulked in Pirate Cove. Freddy – nope he was gone. Mike let out a disappointed sigh, yet knew it was bound to happen eventually.

He was in the dining hall in the same position as yesterday; sitting in a chair, one leg over the other, a hand propping his head toward the camera. Actually, he resembled "The Thinker", but with a grin drenched in malice. And the fact he's a bear.

Out of all the animatronics, Freddy scared him the worst by far. In their trancelike states, the other three were stupid machines with little strategy or tact. Freddy was smart, even sophisticated. He knew what he was doing and absolutely relished it.

As if in response, the bear gave the camera a tip of his hat, making Mike's stomach turn. From far away, he could hear his trademark garbled laugh echoing down the halls.

2:45 AM 49% Power

The hallucinations were getting worse. By this point, Mike was having one every ten minutes or so, and they'd moved beyond simple visions. The worst happened about twenty minutes prior. He saw Chica by the bathrooms on camera, but when he looked up, she was right outside. Not knowing which was real, he smashed the door shut.

But there were smaller things, too. Children's drawing were now more surreal than he remembered, slowly transitioning to uncanny. The black and white floor tiles seemed to switch places every time he looked away. The bathroom doors alternated between open and shut. Reality itself was starting to unravel, and Mike could do nothing expect watch.

He also really had to take a leak, but obviously couldn't get to the bathroom. Seriously, this is a huge design flaw, leaving someone in a room for six hours without a toilet and expect them to be OK. Now that he thought about it, that "don't poop on the floor" rule might not have been aimed at children.

Then the phone started ringing. Heh, that's a new one, he thought, almost amused. These hallucinations were getting more and more realistic. What distraction would pop up next? But it didn't stop, it kept going. Deciding to tempt fate, he picked up the receiver and answered "hello," fully expecting to be attacked by static screeching.

"Mr. Schmidt! I was worried for a minute!" Mike froze as a sickeningly cheerful voice crept out of the telephone and into his ear. "Glad you haven't checked out early."

Collecting himself, Mike managed to speak with a pretense of civility. "Phil, why are you calling me at three in the morning?" he asked, desperately making sure no one was too close.

"Ah, yes. I just wanted to inform you of the abdication procedure we have here," Phil said, completely serious.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, tomorrow's your final shift. After that, there are a few extraneous things you have to do. There's a short follow-up survey, a quick photo-op, assuming you're interested, and you get paid."

Mike was getting angrier by the second, but managed to keep it in. "I'm busy right now! Can't we talk about this later?!" he asked, trying to keep himself from flying off the handle.

"Of course, Mr. Schmidt. I should have been more considerate."

Scrutinizing the cameras as he talked, Mike saw Pirate Cove's curtains splayed open. Without a second thought, he threw down the phone and slammed the "door" button with his cold palm. A couple moments later, Foxy arrived, pounding the metal slab with her usual vigor. It wobbled slightly, but ultimately stood firm. Only takes a second… Letting out a sharp exhale, he turned his attention back toward the conversation.

"You were saying?"

"We'll talk some other time. Now I should let you go; you clearly have a lot on your hands. Have a nice night, Mr. Schmidt." With a muttered goodbye, he put the phone away. Mike briefly pondered ways to get his boss arrested for murder, but nothing came to mind. That was the most infuriating part of his job, even beyond the fear he went through on a nightly basis; knowing that the one behind it couldn't be touched thanks to an elaborate set-up and lots of money.

Then the whispers returned.

4:06 AM 33% Power

The hum was right outside, a rusty drill boring through Mike's skull. Nothing was physically there, but that didn't suppress his fear. Phone Guy had the right idea, running from it. Mike, though, couldn't leave. The most he could do was hope it didn't drift inside for the next two hours. Having eaten most of his food, he started to dig into the cardboard-like pizza, if only for stimulation.

Somewhere in the building's dark recesses, Freddy chuckled. Shit, he's getting closer. The bear was in the hallway now, casually leaning against the wall. Always a gentleman, he waved to the camera and winked before resuming his stoic posture.

Of course, he might not have been there at all; it was getting very difficult to tell. Mike never tried anything stronger than an occasional beer before, but this had all the marks of a bad trip. The walls trembled and pulsed, as if taking their dying breaths. The drawings had completed their transitions, now showing sobbing children and demented, manic animatronics. One poster was a picture of Freddy ripping off his own head. If he didn't know any better, he might think Phone Guy laced that pizza with mescaline or LSD.

Either way, Mike was grateful. If he was going to die, it would be far less painful in this hazy state. He would believe the attacker to be a phantasm until the very end, at which point he wouldn't care, being dead and all. Actually, that might have already happened. Maybe this was a dying dream, an instantaneous fantasy right before whatever dwelled behind our world.

Why stop there? This could very well have been Hell itself. Yes, he was dead and in Hell. That made far more sense than any other explanation he could concoct.

Muffled footsteps snapped him out of his philosophical lethargy, and he closed the door right as Bonnie peeked around the corner.

"Get out of here, you purple shit!" he shouted, startling himself. "I won't let you eat me! I won't!" Assuming he wasn't already dead, he refused to go without a fight. They might get him, but not without scars. Freddy learned that the hard way.

To his surprise, the rabbit made a strange gurgling noise while jerking his head around.

IT'S ME. IT'SMEIT'SMEIT'SME. These familiar words flew in front of Mike's eyes, a cloud of biting mosquitos. He yelled and futilely tried to swat them away with a piece of paper. Apparently satisfied, Bonnie again produced his twisted laugh before slowly slinking away.

5:48 AM 3% Power

Through some miracle, he was almost there. A mere ten minutes from the end of his shift, Mike was a nervous wreck, sustained only by the last of his coffee and pizza. Truth be told, he half-wished Phone Guy spiked it with poison. No such luck.

Every few seconds, his droopy eyes flew to his watch, cursing the passage of time. 600 more to go, each slower than the last. His sole comfort was that the hallucinations had mostly passed. They gradually faded away; the floor and ceiling were once again distinguishable, and burning visions no longer seared his brain. Even the hum had retreated.

While he was grateful, the following emptiness was terrifying in its own right. It was too quiet. Something had to be happening. That's when Mike realized it was the animatronics; they were gone. He slowly checked the doors. Nothing. The kitchen camera was silent, so they weren't in there. Finally, he found them all back on stage in their normal positions.

Oh, good. It's over. Despite his exhausted thoughts, deep down he knew something was wrong with this situation. Whatever. I have enough power to close both doors. Not concious enough to feel joyous or accomplished, Mike collapsed on the carpet to drown in the ocean of sleep.

…

Auric frowned, slightly peeved. The Warden escaped him that night. Even after utilizing all but the most vulgar tactics, the man simply refused to go quietly. He was surprisingly resilient to his illusions and artifices; men and women much older fell victim to them over the years, but this one seemed to possess either great persistence or luck. More likely the second.

No matter, this only made the game more exciting. For far too long, the only challengers were novices not skilled enough to win the first match. A more professional bout was certainly welcome.

Tomorrow was the final round, and both players were sure to exploit their best strategies. Auric briefly considered plaguing the man with phantasms throughout the day to push his advantage. What am I thinking?! A true gentleman would never stoop that low. Secure in his inevitable victory, the entity quickly faded.