Tuesday, November 9, 1993
Mike eventually gained enough control over himself to move again. He wiped his eyes on his clean sleeve, then reached up to massage his temples, urging the headache that suddenly cropped up to go away. He still shuddered at the thought of Foxy getting that close, of the pounding on the door, and that twisted scream.
No matter how many times he recited his mantra last night, he wasn't convinced that the animatronic was just that: a toy, a lifeless object. Everything about Foxy, from the pacing, to the scratching on the tiles, to how he ran down the hall...it all felt deliberate.
Real.
That the machine was capable of things beyond its programming.
Phone Guy told him to pay specific attention to Foxy last night. Was this why? The others, he could wave off as quirky or weird. They wandered around and creeped him out, and even when they stared up into the cameras, Mike never felt too threatened by Bonnie or Chica, even when the latter followed him. Discomforted maybe, and certainly with no desire to let them in if they got too close. But neither one evoked the same sense of dread that Foxy did.
And neither of them proved so clearly why he should be afraid of them.
He forced himself out of his seat, grabbed his thermos, and, on noticing it, the striped Freddy's cup he unwittingly filled last night. Might as well dispose of it before anyone found the evidence of how badly last night got to him.
Even at his brisk pace, his feet turned to bricks with each step. The east hallway stretched into a never-ending abyss before him. Mike stumbled forward, letting the posters he passed become colored blurs as he focused on the dining room tables. The party hats in their perfect rows slowly grew larger. The Freddy's cup found its way into the first trash can he spotted, and from there, he ignored the main stage and went straight for the bathrooms.
Part of him still felt sick and queasy.
Mike flicked the lights on, wincing at the sudden brightness. He set his thermos on the sink counter, then nearly jumped out of his skin.
Like before, his hat shaded his eyes, giving him the impression of...being someone else. Unlike before, he actually saw his red, bloodshot eyes, the dark circles forming under them, the worry and fear etched into his face.
Mike took off his hat and set it on the sink counter before he took a good look at his reflection.
God, he looked like hell.
He reached down to turn the faucet handle. Mike cupped his hands under the faucet, splashed some of the water over his face, and filled his hands again. The cool water against his flesh shocked him awake. Mike sipped from some of the water pooled in his hands. It tasted of old metal pipes and he didn't want to know what else, but it moisturized his throat and soothed the residual burn.
Michael.
He perked upon hearing his name. Was someone here?
"...Hello?"
Mike shut off the faucet and looked around. He didn't hear that entrance jingle, so the building should still be empty. Maybe someone entered, and he just hadn't been paying attention. Hell, his mind was in at least six different directions right now; it was possible he wasn't alone anymore.
Or maybe he was just hearing things.
He held still to try to pick out the voice again. When he heard nothing, Mike grabbed for some paper towels, dried his face, and glanced up at his reflection. Still looked like hell, with his weary blue eyes, mussed black hair, and five o'clock stubble. But at least now he could better pass as merely tired and not traumatized.
Maybe.
The water helped the queasiness to subside, and he felt well enough to at least make it home. Mike grabbed his hat and tightly clenched his fingers around his thermos. He made it a point to keep his eyes averted from the mirror as he exited the bathroom. A quick glance to his watch showed it was 6:19am.
Upon re-entering the dining room, Mike stopped. He immediately sensed something off and instinctively glanced over at the animatronics. Bonnie still stood with his guitar, poised and ready to play. Freddy held his microphone up near his mouth. Chica held up her cupcake, her beak closed. All of them had their eyelids partway shut, giving the illusion of sleepiness...or waking up to greet the new day and new guests.
He bit back a shudder, but passed it off as nothing. They all had that expression before, right? He hadn't given them more than a passing glance when he headed off to the bathrooms, but they looked like this when he left the building yesterday. This had to be their daytime programming kicking in.
Mike's second hunch was Pirate Cove. Unlike his first night, where approaching Foxy amounted to harmless curiosity to see if the thing was still even there, every fiber in his being screamed at him to avoid it. He happily obeyed, giving the purple curtains only a quick glance before turning his attention to the other parts of the dining room.
The door jingle played. Mike jumped as he quickly turned to see who had arrived. He saw the thick white polo shirt and black slacks first, then the tanned skin, greased back brown hair, and thin mustache. One part of him groaned, but the rest of him felt a wave of relief.
Waylon Kent, the middle-aged head manager, had just gotten in. His brown sweater-jacket hung part way open, revealing his polo underneath.
"Geeze, it's getting cold," Waylon muttered. "Wind's really picking up."
He pulled off his sweater-jacket, better revealing the Freddy's logo just above the polo pocket. Mike hurried over to him. Resignation still hung on his mind.
"Oh, god, just who I wanted to see!"
Waylon perked up, quirking a brow. His keys swayed in his tightened grip, and he balled his hands, pushing them against his pudgy waist.
"Schmidt? You're still here?"
"Not for much longer," Mike said, more than a little exasperated. "I-"
"-Should have been out twenty minutes ago!" Waylon exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. He lifted a hand and wagged a stray finger in Mike's face. "What in god's name are you still doing here? I'm not paying out any overtime!"
Mike ignored him, uncertain if he was more frustrated at the interruption or at the manager's attempts to ignore his explanation.
"I'm getting over a goddamn heart attack, is what!" he cried, wildly gesturing to Pirate Cove. "No one told me the damn fox still works!"
That shut Waylon up for a second. The manager immediately glanced across the room to the curtains, watched them for a moment, then turned back to Mike.
"Impossible," he scoffed, hanging his jacket over one arm. "Foxy's been decommissioned for months."
"Obviously not," Mike said, his tone raising in volume with each word, "because he fucking ran at me!"
For a brief second, Mike swore he saw a shocked glint in the manager's eyes. It passed as Waylon looked him over. The manager's eyebrows lowered. His mouth formed into a scowl as his brown eyes darted over Mike's features, his posture, honing in on any sign that the night guard messing with him.
"That one shouldn't even be on," Waylon said at last.
"Well, it was! And it could have skewered me alive!"
Mike took a breath, trying to regain a level head.
"Just fuck all this nonsense. I-"
"Schmidt."
Based on the last several weeks, Waylon knew how that sentence would end. One needed only to glance around the room to know the destitution of the restaurant, and the last thing he wanted was to go through the hiring process again. Therefore, he quickly engaged damage control mode before Mike could finish.
"Don't let whatever happened last night scare you off," Waylon said, his tone softening. "I'll investigate it personally, and find whoever did this."
"Uh-uh," Mike said. "I'm not sticking around. Find someone-"
"Schmidt!"
The swift, authoritative tone caught Mike off-guard enough to go silent for two seconds. Waylon stepped closer to him, his gaze stern, his posture strong.
"You're going to come back tonight," he said, "because I'm going to find out which of my staff thinks it's funny to tamper with those very expensive and very delicate machines, and fire them."
Mike instantly remembered the loud banging on the door last night, how Foxy's strength shook the walls down to the very floor. He crossed his arms as he glared at Waylon.
"Delicate, my ass."
"Cut the attitude, Schmidt, and watch your language," Waylon warned. "This is a family establishment."
"Like there's anyone here to give a fuck."
Waylon glowered, but dismissed it for the moment, as having someone on the night shift took priority. His upper lip twitched a bit in frustration as he forced a calmer tone.
"It's the principle of the matter," he said, almost gently. "Now go home and get some rest."
Mike glared at him.
"I'm not-"
The sudden cold look from the manager set him on edge.
"Sure you are," Waylon said. "You need the money. Why else would you take this job?"
"I-!"
Mike gaped as he struggled to think of a response. This wasn't worth the paycheck, far from it. But he hated to admit there was something else, that he longed for answers he doubted the manager could, or even would give him if he knew. That inner desire drew him into this spider's web and refused to let him leave until he reached the heart of it.
Even so, Foxy's deliberation to get to him conflicted with those thoughts: the scratching against the tiles, the attempts to get inside, the frustrated screech at being denied his prey. More than that, he had the other animatronics to worry about as well.
Were the answers he sought worth the risks?
Waylon honed in on his silence like a bloodthirsty shark to break him out of his thoughts.
"That's what I thought."
He started towards the office again, before the lights suddenly flickered off.
"Damn it," Waylon muttered. "That's the second time this month."
He turned to Mike, picking him out from the light coming in from the front windows.
"Schmidt, go in the back and jiggle the fuses. One of them probably just got loose again."
"I thought I had to get my ass out the door?" Mike asked, crossing his arms.
"If you're gonna be here, make yourself useful."
"I don't recall it being in my job description," Mike said, turning towards the door. "I already don't get paid enough for this."
"I'll throw you a quarter on your next check," Waylon said sardonically. "Two if you get it done in two minutes. Just do it."
Mike rolled his eyes and reached for his flashlight.
"Fine."
He clicked it on and headed for the back room, fueled by his annoyance at Waylon. It faded as he passed the last video game cabinet by the stage, his footsteps slowing with dread. Mike swallowed hard as he stood in front of the entrance to the back room.
Just get in, fiddle with the fuses, get out.
Mike checked his watch quickly, the glowing green digits reading at 6:26am. He shone the flashlight on the stage behind him. Bonnie's profile came into view, with Freddy's top hat and Chica's microphone showing behind him. The rabbit's gentle expression and forward-facing eyes eased him. They were in daytime mode now, and couldn't move.
A quick shine on the curtains at Pirate Cove as a further assurance, before Mike stepped into the back room.
He ignored the empty heads, suit pieces, and boxes of parts as he quickly searched for the fusebox. The flashlight caught something glinting with silver movement as he stepped further into the room. Mike quickly shone the light back where he saw it. The endoskeleton sitting on the end of the table remained still.
The night guard made it a point to pass by it quickly.
He found the fusebox in the corner under the camera, just out of sight behind the shelf. Mike pulled it open and looked at the small diagram pasted to the inside of the door to try to decipher the fuses.
A metallic creak got his attention.
Mike whipped around with the flashlight, shining it on the endoskeleton again.
Was its hand...twitching?
The building lights suddenly powered back on. Mike jumped with a gasp, bumping into the wall behind him. He watched the endoskeleton for a full minute.
It remained completely still.
Fucking Foxy. I'm freaking myself out, he thought. They don't move after 6am.
He slammed the fuse box shut and headed out of the room. Let Waylon think he did something useful; he didn't want to be here any longer.
As he entered the dining room again, he heard a door slam. A normal, wooden door, not the steel doors in the security office. Mike frowned as he realized Waylon probably went into his office. He wove through the tables to get to the front entrance, stopping just before the small door near the kitchen. A thought went through his mind, one he had the other day when he first noticed the office.
"...There has to be a way to get inside," Mike said, quietly.
A soft thud caught his attention, like something just closed. Not a door; the sound was too soft. Mike glanced around the room until his eyes fell upon the Puppet's box.
Had it been listening?
He decided not to find out. Alone now, Mike swallowed hard and gripped his thermos. He gave another glance around the dining room.
Everything looked just as it should.
Mike looked to the stage, where the Fazbear band stood, ready to play. None of them moved an inch. He looked over his shoulder at Pirate Cove, where the curtains hung, silent and unmoving.
Warily, he walked to the front door, not even registering the familiar jingle as it shut behind him. Mike hardly remembered getting his keys out, unlocking the driver's door, and sinking into the driver's seat. He fumbled to pull out his cigarette pack and lighter. His hands shook as he grabbed a smoke and clicked the lighter once, twice, four times.
The familiar smell brought him the same sense of comfort he felt years ago, when Johan held him close. By the time Mike finished the cigarette and snuffed it in the small tray beside him, his hands no longer shook. He finally trusted himself to start the car, pull out and head home.
But where the physical edge subsided, the haunting thoughts had not. He turned on the radio, forcing his focus on the morning DJ and the road.
Anything to keep the horror back for the ten minutes he needed to get home.
Mike stumbled up the stairs to reach his fourth floor apartment, his keys already dug out, and the correct one drawn to let him into his sanctuary. The doors on either side blurred as he trudged along, wishing that his own apartment was closer. His gaze found the old green carpet, and he used that as a guide to lead him home.
You need the money, Waylon's voice echoed, for perhaps the fifth time since he pulled out of the Freddy's parking lot. Why else would you take this job?
He forced the thought back, not quite ready to reopen those old wounds.
Not that they ever truly healed.
One of the doors down the hall opened. He saw a pair of slippers merged with loose pajama pants, a green robe, and wet black waves of hair hanging below the robe's belt. He heard a soft hum and a set of jingling keys. The slippers stopped, as did the jingling.
"...Mike?"
Mike looked up. It spoke enough of his mental state that it took him another few seconds to recognize her voice, to place her face. She looked very different without her makeup: her green eyes looked bigger, more angular. Her lips were thinner, her face rounder. Both brought out tells of her partial Chinese heritage. Her olive-gold skin held an after-shower luster that he only noticed due to focusing so hard on her familiarity.
"You're getting in a little late, aren't you?"
The cheerful tone snapped his mind into fully comprehending Vanna, his other horrific thoughts forgotten for a moment. God fucking damn it. She was the last person he wanted to see him like this. Still, he tried to brush it off. Mike forced up a smile. At least here, things needed to feel normal.
"Long night," Mike said quickly.
"Must have been," Vanna said. "You look exhausted."
"I didn't sleep well yesterday," he lied.
Vanna looked him over, taking in his features, his posture. Mike briefly wondered if she believed him. A surge of relief shot through him when she nodded in understanding.
"I can tell," Vanna said. "Night shift can be a bitch, but you'll get used to it."
She ran a hand through her hair, then shook off a bit of residual shower water.
"I was just going to get my mail, Mike. Want me to get yours while I'm down?"
"No. Oh, that reminds me," Mike said. He gestured for her to follow, latching on the excuse to not have to directly face her. "Got a thing from your mother. She wrote my apartment number on it by mistake."
Vanna rolled her eyes.
You're not the first neighbor she's 'mistakenly' sent things to," she said, tagging behind him. "Sorry, Mike. I told her to stop sending me shit."
"It's fine," Mike said, walking to his apartment to get the door unlocked.
He dashed inside, taking only a few seconds to trade his thermos for the faint pink envelope on his coffee table to bring back to her. As he handed it to Vanna, her face fell upon seeing the writing on the envelope.
"...It's not only the apartment number she forgot," Mike said.
Vanna didn't face him. She just gave a somber nod in agreement as she looked at the careful penmanship on the envelope from a Bailey Belrose addressed to a Vesper Belrose.
"...Yeah," she said quietly. "Forgot. Like she forgets every damn year."
She put the envelope and the obvious card it contained into her robe pocket.
"Do me a favor, Mike?" she asked.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"If she 'accidentally' sends anything else to you, just throw it away."
Mike glanced at her.
"...Bad blood?" he asked.
"You don't know the half of it," Vanna said. "There's a reason I've never introduced her to you. Let's just say we're not on speaking terms and leave it there."
Mike nodded as he awkwardly lingered beside his open door. Vanna took a breath before turning back to him.
"Anyway," she said, turning back to him, "you sure you're okay?"
Mike nodded. He gave her a forced, weary smile.
"...I'll be fine."
Vanna gave him a silent nod.
"I'll see you later, then," she said. "Get some rest."
"I'll try to. Night."
Mike entered the apartment again as Vanna headed down the hallway to leave, her keys jingling. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and held still as he listened to her retreating footsteps. The parallel of a door between him and certain danger walking away wasn't lost on him. Mike kept his back against the door to keep himself stable. Only when he felt truly alone did he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.
Mike shuddered as he undid his tie. He legs gradually slipped out from under him, and sunk lower and lower until he firmly sat against the front door.
What was it the janitor said? That most people left before their third night?
Like clockwork.
You're not most people.
Mike shook his head to clear the thought from his mind. He forced himself to stand and used the side table by the door to pull himself up. He trudged to his room with the speed of a prisoner dragging heavy chains behind him as he made his way to his room, each step slow, heavy, and forced.
The tie fell to the ground as he walked, and so did each of his shoes, slipping from his feet as his trembling fingers undid the buttons of his shirt. He let it fall where it might before he worked on his pants. By the time he got to bed, he wore only his socks and a pair of dark blue boxer-briefs.
Mike collapsed onto the old twin mattress, the bed frame groaning a bit under his weight. He glanced up at the bedside table, at the digital clock reading 7:13am.
Early, considering he only worked six hours, but everything in him drained as he succumbed to sleep.
Vanna stormed down the four flights of stairs to the main floor, into the little chamber just inside their building that held the mailboxes. She quickly unlocked hers and pulled out a few bills and the week's ads.
As she made her way back upstairs, Vanna yanked the envelope out of her pocket and glared at the writing on it, before shoving it under the mail pile. She recognized the card as the Trojan horse it was, her mother's attempt to twist a knife that remained embedded in her back since she was a child.
"I know," she muttered. "You wish I was her."
She continued her march to the fourth floor. The thought of trashing the card with the ads filled her mind.
"And you're weeks late," Vanna said to herself. "Our birthday was last month."
She stopped on the third floor stairwell as a small thought reached her mind.
Mike had it.
She smiled as she cleared the last flight of stairs.
"I should buy him a drink just for that," she said cheerfully. "She couldn't ruin it this year."
The sound of a door opening startled her. Vanna glanced down the hall as a blonde woman in a pink coat left her apartment, locked it, and headed for the set of stairs at the other end of the hall.
It's just Magda heading to work, she thought.
Vanna yawned, her own long night wearing down on her. At least The Sanctuary didn't run out of glassware like they did the night before.
She entered her cluttered apartment. Her kitchen, while clean, had about every useful gadget sitting on the counters, with more barely fitting in the cupboards below. Over to the right, a large entertainment center held her TV set and cable box, with every remaining inch of space crammed with books, VHS tapes and various trinkets, a lot of them themed around ballet. More shelves held other possessions around the room. What little available wall space held art, posters, and scarves that hung from the ceiling in a strange array of decoration. One dining room chair was placed by one of the bookshelves, and in addition to the couch, she had a circular purple lounge chair and a black beanbag chair right beside it.
Vanna circled her couch to toss her mail on her coffee table, then turned behind her to the table that separated the living room from the kitchen.
Scattered parts and textbooks covered it, with a partially dismantled cassette player sitting in pieces. The other three dining room chairs surrounded it, the two on either side holding boxes of spare parts and disassembled electronics and toys, including an old Teddy Ruxpin and a Mickey Mouse doll that worked similarly.
The remains of dreams broken long ago, with pieces she was slowly putting back together, just like the cassette player. Her mother supported her up until she found out she switched her major to mechanical engineering. Then she pulled all her financial support until Vanna "came to her senses." Too dangerous, her mother told her. Stick to teaching, like a sensible woman. Better yet, find a nice man to marry.
Vanna rolled her eyes at the thought. Even if she had any desire to find a romantic partner, it would never be someone her mother approved of. She sighed as she walked up to the table and glanced at her notes and textbooks, at the progress she inched along on her own when she found time.
Just another wound to join so many more.
Vanna frowned as she headed for her room.
Only on hold, she reminded herself. I'm making good money at the bar. I'll be able pay for classes again soon. I don't need her.
She smiled a little as she pulled off her robe and collapsed into bed.