Wednesday, November 10, 1993

Waylon thumbed over his mustache as he went over the budget in the tiny manager's office. He shifted in his seat, with hardly enough room to do that between the filing cabinet to the left, and the door. Important documents hung from the walls. The computer and printer dominated most of the desk. Just above the desk hung a picture of a smiling woman. It had been there since before he ever set foot in this building.

Behind the desk, a round wall clock ticked. Freddy stood in the middle while his hands pointed to the time. The minute hand pointed with his microphone. It was a cheap old thing they used to offer as a prize, now a relic almost as old as the restaurant itself. And it showed it was just after nine. The restaurant was open, but Waylon doubted they'd get much business until later, if they got any at all.

A few sharp knocks got his attention.

"What is it?" Waylon barked, not looking up from his numbers.

He recognized the young female voice as a waitress, Judy Larson.

"There's a guy here to see you," she said. "He's looking for a job."

Waylon was about to punch some numbers into his calculator when he froze. He quickly made some mental calculations. Schmidt had already threatened to quit, and last night marked his third night on the job. Judging from the pattern the last few weeks…

He frowned, then pushed himself out of his chair.

"I'll be right out."

Waylon shifted until he could open the door, then stepped out. He caught Judy's back as she headed for the dining room, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, and her hands reaching behind her to tighten her apron. Judy then turned at the prize counter to see to her other duties, allowing Waylon to enter the main area.

It only took a few seconds to survey the room and see the newcomer. Waylon stopped in his tracks when he did. The man was tall, a little over six feet, with broad shoulders jutting out from his otherwise narrow body. He had thinning blond hair, combed and slicked back, with sharp blue eyes that grabbed every detail in the room and committed them to memory. His face was handsome, but showed clear signs of middle-age. The man wore a simple blue suit and black tie, ready for an interview. He held a newspaper and what Waylon presumed were resumes under one arm.

"And who are you?" Waylon asked, a bit curtly.

"Greg Mortman," the man replied. He offered his hand. "Are you still looking for a night guard?"

Waylon took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

"The position's been filled," he said, "but tell you what, Mr. Mortman. Let me take your application and hold onto it in case something comes up."

"Sounds good," Greg said. "And to whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Waylon Kent," he replied, "head manager."

Greg nodded and offered him a resume. The manager snatched it from his hand and quickly skimmed through it. Name, contact information, experience, but the previous employers section caught his attention like a neon sign. Waylon frowned.

"...You used to work here?"

"Yes, sir, a long time ago," Greg replied. "I was a mechanic, mostly, but I sometimes filled in for other staff when we were short-handed."

Waylon glanced up from the resume.

"Including security?" he asked.

"Just once."

Waylon looked to him, taking him in a little more. Mr. Mortman appeared to be someone of a decent build, and his height alone granted a bit of intimidation, which he needed for a day guard. Someone who looked powerful and authoritative, but also friendly and approachable should the need arise. If anything, the man had a nice smile.

He then looked back to the resume.

"You left in '83," he said. "What happened?"

"One of the robots snapped," Greg replied, glancing over to the stage. "It was an accident, but some kid got his arm broken. The incident caused a lot of traumatized kids and public backlash."

"So you were fired?" Waylon asked, getting right to it.

"Resigned, actually." Greg frowned as his eyes lined with Freddy's. "I couldn't get that one working again, and I figured I was probably gonna be blamed for it not working right to begin with."

He turned back to Waylon.

"Call it a PR move; the public thought the guy responsible was fired, the company was able to retain some scrap of dignity and keep the place open. They still had me come back after hours here and there, at least until they found someone else in '86. You can probably find a note about it in my old employee file."

Waylon frowned, but nodded.

"I heard about that," he said. "Shirley mentioned it when she first showed me the ropes."

"Shirley Reid?" Greg asked. "How is she?"

"Retired in '88, not long after the relaunch," Waylon replied. "Something about not being able to handle this place anymore."

He reached up to rub his temples.

"And in the last few years, I can see why."

"That's a shame," Greg said.

He took a look around the dining room, his eyes darting to the tables, the silver stars, the closed attraction at Pirate Cove.

"Doesn't look like too much has changed since I left," Greg said. "Can't say I miss the rainbow wall, though."

Waylon perked a bit.

"Rainbow wall?" he asked.

"Yeah," Greg said, pointing over to the area with the backstage door. "There used to be a rainbow mural right there. Guess they realized how garish it was."

"Guess so," Waylon said, shrugging. "I came on board as part of the reopen in '88. It's been an uphill battle ever since to keep this place open."

Greg nodded.

"Anyway, it's been a pleasure, Mr. Kent. I'll let you see to your duties, and hopefully await your call."

Waylon actually smiled.

"Here's hoping, Mr. Mortman."

The rest of the day came and went in a haze. Mike vaguely remembered leaving the couch at some point, trying to eat, having some smokes, changing channels, and switching out cassette tapes and movies in hopes of finding the one magic thing that would lull him to sleep and bring him out of his horror for a short while. He took nighttime pain medicine for his throat, then got a shower in hopes one or both would help. Now he lied in bed, his work clothes haphazardly strewn on the floor, new ice at his throat, and his comforter pulled tightly around him, unsure if he'd slept at all as he glanced at the clock on his bedside table.

11:31pm.

Mike went back to staring at the ceiling. His neck throbbed as his mind recalled his near miss that morning, the Puppet's strange behavior, the games behind the wall, his weird dream, and Phone Guy's warnings. All of them jumbled together in incoherent pieces as he tried to decide what to do.

Go back tonight? Quit? Take the dream as a sign to find out what they wanted? Forget the whole thing and never look back?

His head hurt from indecision, and the throbbing in his neck refused to go away. The last dose of medication long since worn off. Mike pushed himself from his bed to get some aspirin. Maybe after, he'd light up a smoke and try to clear his head. He reached over to turn on his lamp. Mike winced at the light as he made his way out of the room.

After acquiring the aspirin, Mike stopped by the coffee table to collect the cigarette pack.

He found it empty, with the last one a dead stub in the ashtray. Mike shrugged it off, knowing he had another one. He went back to his room and located his work shirt, searching the pocket for smokes.

He found it empty.

Only then did Mike realize he never put it back, that it was probably still sitting on the desk in his office.

"...Fuck me," he whispered.

Less for the cigarettes and the potential consequences if someone found them, and more for what else he left behind. He grabbed his work slacks and patted the pockets for a familiar weight. Mike groaned. He knew he needed to go back to at least retrieve his wallet.

And the irreplaceable treasure it contained.

Mike sobered a bit as he smoothed down his work clothes, then pulled them on. He looked at his watch.

11:38pm.

If he hurried, he could still make it in time.

Hastily, he buttoned his shirt, adjusted the badge, and shoved his feet into his shoes as he stumbled to the kitchen. He found a bottle of ibuprofen and shook out four of the small pills. A few painful swallows to force them down, a few choked sips of water, a quick grab of a pack of Pop-Tarts just to have something in his stomach, and he was out the door.

Some of the hallway lights still flickered as he ran. Mike paid them no heed. At this time of night, only his muffled footsteps on the old carpet entered his ears. The exit stood before him, the light to its left burned out, the one to the right dancing on its last bit of filament.

Briefly, he remembered his dream, of that hallway that railroaded him forward.

Toward Freddy's.

Toward doom.

His body no longer felt like his own then, that like the dream, he had no choice but to keep going forward. The shadows danced on the walls. The constant spasms of light messed with his vision and clouded his mind. Mike swore he heard a child's giggle, saw something move in the corner of his eye.

He could stop if he wanted to, he told himself. Turn around, go back home, get the wallet in the morning when he handed in his resignation.

As he reached the door to the stairs, some part of him recognized the wallet was simply an excuse to keep going, a little lie he told himself to convince himself of his sanity. That he was going there to get something important, and not because of the answers he sought, the strange dream he had, or his curiosity to see what remained hidden behind that wall.

Mike grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open.

And knew he crossed a point of no return.

At 11:53pm, the dining room floors of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza faintly glowed from the newly-finished mopping. They shone enough to see one's reflection despite the years-old scratches. The janitor wiped down the glass prize counter and occasionally shot a glance to the present box beside it. He looked up from his work as the door jingle played.

This close to midnight, he expected to leave the building empty for the night, and report to Waylon that they lost another one in the morning.

But Mike entered, his purple collar oddly turned up, his tie loose and barely clinging to his neck, his hat pulled down. Even from this side of the room, the old man saw the distinct graying purple color under the night guard's eyes, the five o'clock shadow, the tension in his posture, and caught the overall grimness in his demeanor. For once, the janitor's voice lacked its usual caustic tone when he greeted him.

"You look like hell, kid," he said, managing something that resembled concern. "Almost thought you wouldn't make it tonight."

"Fuck off."

Mike shoved a metallic wrapper into the nearest trash can as he headed for the bathrooms, far from in the mood for this shit tonight. All he wanted was to get done, then get to the office. A thought crossed his mind to just grab his wallet and run.

Run away, like a sane person, and put this place behind him.

When he finished up two minutes later, the last thing he expected was for the janitor to be waiting for him by the bathroom door when he left. With a grimace, Mike moved to pass him. The janitor stepped into his path. He slouched forward to minimize how much he towered over Mike. His voice held an air of understanding as he spoke again.

"Kid, I'm serious. You look like you clawed your way out of Hades."

Mike glowered at the other man.

"Like you give a damn," he sneered. "I was supposed to be gone yesterday, remember? Third night and all."

He tried again to pass him, only for the janitor to once more get in his way. The elder man noticed the weak resistance in his younger coworker. That Mike wanted to fight back, but it simply wasn't in him.

"Kid."

"Get out of my way," Mike snarled. "I've got a job to do."

He pushed past him, then reached up to rub his eyes as he walked. Fatigue from today's attempts to sleep still weighing him down. When he looked up again, Mike stared at the wall by the bathrooms, at the scribbled drawings that cluttered it. The stick figure Chica remained where he hastily tacked it that morning. One of the squashed purple circles forming her eyes seemed to wink at him, a small assurance that she kept his secret. Thoughts of his dream came back. His hands ached suddenly, the skin at his palms and fingertips about ready to fall off.

Mike felt a hand grab his arm. He winced as he turned to look at the janitor. The old man's face softened a bit, the aging lines less hardened and defined as he spoke with genuine concern.

"...You gonna to be okay tonight?"

For a brief second, Mike felt bad for snapping at him.

"I'll be-"

He noticed the janitor's brown eyes move down to his neck, where part of the bruise shone through the gap in his upturned collar. Mike froze, unable to finish his sentence. Any guilt quickly vanished when the other man gently asked the predictable question:

"What happened, kid?"

Flashes of that morning, of being dragged and how to hide it from Vanna came to mind. Mike unwittingly looked toward the stage, then pulled away from the janitor. This time, the man let him go.

"...None of your damn business," Mike said.

He turned his face from the other man's, then reached up to tighten his tie in a pitiful attempt to hide the horrible mark.

"Not like you'd believe me anyway."

The janitor let him go.

"...You be careful tonight, kid. Watch yourself."

"I will."

The janitor just gave a solemn nod and turned to leave. He got out his own keys to lock the building. Mike looked at his watch, just as the green numbers flipped from 11:58 to 11:59. No time to grab the wallet and run.

Resigned to his fate, Mike took a quick glance around the dining room. Pirate Cove and its sign remained still and untouched. The main stage curtains were open, and the terrible trio remained beloved children's characters for one more minute. Mike glowered at them, with special ire directed at Bonnie.

None of them moved.

He turned around to the prize counter, where the present box sat in its proper place beside the glass showcase. Mike approached it. He needed to go down that way to get to the office anyway.

"Whatever you're trying to show me," he said as he walked by, "I'll find it if I live through tonight."