Author's note: If you have not yet read my oneshot "Purple, Gold, and all things morally questionable", you absolutely need to now. Like, before you start this chapter. It will only take you a moment, but without it you will be confused as to wtf is going on.
They stared into the window, watching shadows move about in the dimly lit building. They frowned, bile rising in their throat as they pressed their ear up against the glass, listening the faint shifting of rusted metal joints.
Yes, rusted metal joints, clicking and clattering and moving their shrapnel stuffed bodies, crunching and tearing bones and flesh and skewering, skewering his eye, his leg, and he screamed, and they screamed, and the demented little figures laughed from the shadows as he danced and he writhed and he fell and the laughs faded and the screams roared and he was shaken back to reality by the brush of a leaf on his neck as he stared into the window in the shadows in the parking lot of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.
He turned away from the window, shaking. He would finish this. He would finish this and he would be free.
Soon.
He would finish this, or his name wasn't William Afton.
Soon.
He walked away, satisfied with his crude, past-trauma filled examination of the area.
###
Mike stomped down the blossoming anger in his sweater clad chest. Generic Christmas music echoed off the pizzeria walls, occasionally cutting out, replaced with static for a few uncomfortable seconds.
Scott stood in his corner, squeezing into the shadows best he could with the glaring fluorescent lights shining on his green and red, overly sequined sweater. Some of the glittery circles of plastic had fallen off, leaving worn patches of loose, faded threads.
An overly wide smile was plastered on his face as he gave small nods and waves to the crowd of children. Scott could go stick his face in a blender. The manager of Freddy's could go stick his face in a blender.
What a way to spend the day. Christmas Eve. Christmas f*cking Eve. Spent at this stuffy, mildew covered, slightly blood scented graveyard of a failing pizzeria.
Mike shifted. His sweater was itching him. He normally would never wear a Christmas weather, especially this one. This one didn't belong on him. It didn't belong on anyone.
It didn't belong anywhere other than the back of the closet, stuffed in a box with two pictures, five mothballs, and 13 sympathy cards. 13 sympathy cards, pastel blue and faded green paper peppered with inky bruises of blue and black words. Words that ran together with tears the first time, and ran together with monotony the next 12.
And yet here he was. Mike Schmidt, wearing the sweater. The sweater with faded white wool, scratchy and musty and unworn, with tiny dancing trees decorated with red and yellow cotton puffs.
Why wear it? Freddy's. Mike wouldn't dignify him by using what little was left of his sanity to remember the name, but the manger of Freddy's asked the employees to wear Christmas sweaters. He asked two things of them, to wear Christmas sweaters, and to work though the day for once.
Silly, right. He was even polite about it. Cheery smile never leaving his face as he droned on about the importance of a cheerful, festive public image around the holidays.
Mike was ready to use a (not exactly made up excuse) about his inability to wear a Christmas sweater. He was about to make an excuse, but the knowing, almost pleading look on Scott's face as he shook his head slightly at Mike silenced any words that may have come slipping out of his open mouth.
Scott had been there longer than Mike, and Mike wasn't going to go against anything the quite possibly clinically insane man had to say about Freddy's, even if that involved him insisting Mike wear a Christmas sweater.
Anyway, they were there. Mike and Fritz and Scott and a lingering sense of pointlessness all stationed around Freddy's, being friendly, entertaining wandering children, and envying the few day shift workers who got to go home for Christmas Eve.
Scott explained that the Manager of Freddy's said he, quote, "couldn't work his employees to death." Funny, thought Mike. He didn't seem to have a problem with the literal meaning of being worked to death.
In Mike's opinion, he-who-shall-not-be-named just treated the day shift workers better because they could quit if they wanted, and the night shift workers were stuck no matter what.
Night fell over the pizzeria, and as the (metaphorical, Freddy's didn't have a grandfather clock) clock chimed 7:30, the more sluggish parents, more cranky kids, and more exhausted (and most likely bored) day workers filtered out. They always closed early on Christmas Eve.
"Everyone go home, get a few hours of sleep, chug some coffee and meet back here at the normal time." Scott absentmindedly glanced around the darkened pizzeria, eyes lingering on the animatronics for a half-second.
Mike sighed internally. It wasn't his night, but he would be working anyway, something about the animatronics being especially... aggressive on Christmas Eve. He had sort of stopped listening after the first few minutes of explanations.
Mike turned, scratching at his sweater clad arms as he stepped towards the door. Fritz followed, ginger hair bouncing in ringlets around his neck as he stepped into the waning evening light.
Scott turned from where he had been watching his coworker's friend's silhouettes. His brown eyes stared intently at the unmoving animatronics. He reached out a tentative hand, silently staring at the faded scars covering his skin as he traced Bonnie's crimson bow tie.
Those faded pink and white scars, some jagged, others looking as clean cut as if someone had taken a razor blade to his knuckles. A small price to pay for his life. He had thrown up his hands that one night, fingernails digging into the skin of his face as he shielded his head from the metal filled Freddy head lowering down.
For being concussed and already beginning to bleed from various other gashes around his partially suited up body, he liked to think he had protected his vital organs pretty well. Emphasis on vital, he was never getting his left kidney and two of his ribs back.
He turned away from the animatronics, heading to the office at the end of the hall, ready for a fitful, much needed nap in his rickety office chair.
###
He jolted awake from a knock on the door. Scott jumped up and reached out, slamming the metal door shut as his eyes snapped open, frantically darting about the dimly lit room.
Cade jumped back, pulling his hand out of the way of the descending metal door with a quick shout of surprise. He paused for a moment, steadying his racing heart, before letting out a sigh. He cupped his hands into the shape of a spyglass, pressing his fingers to the tempered glass window as he peered inside.
'Sorry,' Scott mouthed, looking though the window with a sheepish expression.
Cade waved his hand dismissively. He paused. 'Open the door.'
Scott pressed his palm onto his forehead in embarrassment, pressing the door button.
"Sorry." He mumbled, giving a shaky smile. "Christmas Eve always makes me a little jumpy. The animatronics get all antsy."
Cade smiled. "Yeah, you've told me before. Sorry for sneaking up on you, but don'tcha think slicing my hand off is a slight overreaction?"
"Whoops," Scott laughed.
"Anyway," Cade said. "It's 11:30, thought you may want to wake up."
"Thanks." Scott yawned, standing up and stretching.
The front door opened, and two sets of footsteps clambered in. Fritz and Mike had arrived.
"Well, I better start finishing up and head out." Cade turned to walk away, pausing in the doorway. He frowned, looking over his shoulder at Scott. "Stay safe. I left it on the front middle table, like always."
"What this time?"
"A coloring book and a pack of 16 jumbo crayons."
"Gotcha."
###
He opened the window, sliding the rusted metal frame open slowly, cringing back with each squeak in hopes that nobody would hear the it opening. He smiled to himself. It was nice having a window, there and ready and at the end of the hallway holding the doors to the bathrooms and the manager's office.
It was nice. Nice having a plan, a purpose, a way to get his life back, his breath back, his peace back.
They had stolen his eye, his career, his peace of mind, his sanity, had even tried to steal his life. To rip his breath from his body, his blood from his veins. They had failed, needless to say. But he would finish this.
He would finish this.
The window opened fully, and, balancing on a box outside the window, he pushed himself up onto the ledge. He leaned in, feet first, and dropped down with a muffled thud. He let out a hiss, left knee buckling momentary.
He gripped his axe tighter, slipping into the bathroom before the blinking light of the camera could spot him. He would really need to take out the guards first.
Author's note: Shiz getting real now. Anyway, happy Christmas Eve, if you celebrate that. Happy holidays, if you celebrate something different. If you don't celebrate anything at all, happy December (and Winter Solstice) anyway! Let's end 2020 as soon as possible! *nervous laughter* Please… before the zombies come…