Friday, November 12, 1993
Mike ran his flashlight over the ten drawings just outside his office as he walked by them.
Smiling families. Party balloons. At least three of Freddy, some of them happily singing and playing with the children. He lingered a moment on the one of the strange yellow Bonnie.
She fought the hardest, the Puppet had told him.
It spoke in regards to the well-known purple Bonnie, not the yellow one, yet the words rang clearly in his mind upon looking at this particular picture. Of a little girl who almost avoided her horrible fate from the smiling man.
Mike glanced down at his badge at the thought. He moved a hand over it, the metal cold under his touch, smooth until his fingers reached the embossed detailing.
The very badge that damned him and marked him as a dead man.
He looked up to see the Puppet had gotten far ahead, and quickly picked up his pace to keep up with it. They passed the supply closet, with Mike breathing a small sigh of relief when nothing jumped from it. He gripped the badge as he walked, slipping it from his breast pocket and holding it tightly in his hand.
Mike kept pace, but held the badge up in the light. Freddy's face smiled back at him. He turned the badge around, where his own blue eyes looked right back at him from the smooth surface, the little clip that held the badge in place. His hand shook, distorting the reflection even more, and with it, his brows lifted, his eyes widening in horror.
This isn't my face, he thought.
Not with how the curve of the badge elongated his cheekbones and chin, how the gold-colored metal dulled his black hair to a dark brown.
Mike winced and dropped the badge. It hit the tile and clattered ahead of him. He followed where it went with the flashlight...and caught it glimmer just before the -Sorry!- Out of Order sign.
His heart jumped, and he immediately shone the beam on the curtains, which hung partially open. Mike froze, looking through the small gap. He waited for the old pirate fox to peer out at him.
He will not harm you.
Mike looked toward the voice, and nearly dropped the flashlight as the Puppet's mask hung right in front of him.
"D-don't do that!" he exclaimed, clutching at his chest.
The Puppet held still, then turned to the main dining room, making a grand gesture with one hand.
Look.
Mike obeyed, running the flashlight over the tables, the stage, the prize counter. He saw their eyes first, glowing in the dark, but he picked them out with ease.
Bonnie stood by the stage, his paws up to his chest with one ear bent forward. He tilted his head as the flashlight ran over him. Chica peeked out from east hallway at the other side of the room, her old eyelids down and almost...sad. Freddy lingered between two game cabinets. He held his microphone with pride, but like Chica, there was a softness to his eyes.
All of them stayed in place. None of them made any attempts to move any closer.
They will keep their promise, the Puppet assured him.
It returned to its task of leading him. Mike quickened his pace to follow it, but turned his body so he faced the dining room, not trusting any of the other animatronics to not simply sneak up behind him. The gentle whine of robotic movement caught his attention, and he shone the flashlight over at Pirate Cove.
Foxy peered out now. Mike winced and stepped back, giving a glance behind him only to ensure he stayed by the Puppet before turning back to the fox. The animatronic tilted his head, but stayed like a dog at the ready. Slowly, his old, broken jaw began to move.
Didn' I tell ye, lad, that ye'd be out b'fore th' morn?
Mike felt three other sets of eyes on him, but didn't bother looking around the room. If they tried to come any closer, their servos and footsteps would give them away.
"Sh-shut up," Mike whispered, though he shot a glance to his watch.
5:38am.
They left him alone for well over an hour, he realized. Just as the Puppet promised.
Come. We are almost to him.
Mike turned around to follow, having nearly forgotten about the strange yellow Bonnie. He also nearly forgot what Puppet said before, something about one of them calling out to him. Mike stopped at the stage, then turned around, running his flashlight over the room.
Foxy taunted him. Bonnie gave him decent advice. Chica showed him sympathy. And Freddy granted him mercy. All of them spoke with him in one way or another, cryptic words to keep him guessing. Mike quickly thought about tonight's strange happenings, the Puppet's story, the pictures on the wall…how had this one spoken to him? "Called out," as the Puppet put it?
And then it happened again.
The entire dining room disappeared this time, leaving only an animatronic mask, marked by its dark nose. The strange sounds echoed in his ears, distorted voices with no meaning. Blue human eyes stared right at him, the red veins pulsing and shifting, the subtle movement granting a vibe of fear. The strange digital letters flickered, It's Me over and over. And unlike before, he picked out the color of the animatronic's fur.
Of gold.
The flashlight clattered to the floor, its head loosening enough to cut the circuit to the battery. The vision disappeared with the light, leaving only four sets of glowing eyes peering out at him from the dark. Mike stepped back, considering the flashlight a lost cause at this point. He let his eyes adjust to the shadows, the midnight blue sky outside providing just enough light from the front windows to pick out forms.
The points of the party hats. A faint reflection off the glass prize counter. A set of tall ears near the stage, a round head by the east hallway.
His blood chilled under his skin, and his heart hardly dared to beat as he picked out each set of eyes, just waiting for them to come closer.
None of them moved.
Come, came the Puppet's voice. He is waiting.
Mike looked to his right, over at the backstage room. He picked out the door's frame, the dark void inside. Two little pinpricks marked the Puppet's location. An educated guess determined it now lingered at the front of the table where the strange yellow Bonnie lied in wait.
That feeling he got before, that feeling of need, forced him to step forward.
Something that tugged his spirit and called out to him.
Like a...string.
His foot kicked something small and a little heavy, pulling him out of the trance for a moment. Judging by the distinct rolling sound it made, Mike realized he just found the flashlight. He bent down, feeling around for the long metal handle until he gripped it tightly. The night guard turned back around, fiddling with the switch and twisting its head as he glanced back at the dining room.
Four pairs of white pinpricks stared back, watching him. Mike swallowed hard. He barely got the flashlight working again. Whether the batteries started to wear out or it simply no longer connected properly, the light that shone now hardly lit up anything in front of him. Mike ran the light over the room, barely picking out Bonnie's form by the stage, some tables, Foxy's snarling face staring back at him. The beam was too weak to pick out anything else.
Slowly, he turned to the backstage room, and stepped through the gap between the last video game cabinet and the stage.
He reached out a hand to keep himself from falling. In the fading twilight, another hand grabbed his. It grasped two of his fingers, then one as his own hand slipped away.
He fell, sliding down into the dark.
Mike gasped as he found himself standing in front of the backstage door. He looked at his hands and flexed his fingers. His left hand still retained the feeling of slipping away, but he knew one thing for certain:
The hand he saw was not his own.
The Puppet waited patiently for him, shifting a bit in the faint flashlight beam. Mike looked up, still shaken, but brushed his thoughts aside as he entered the back room. The Puppet gently turned to the strange yellow Bonnie.
Mike carefully approached it, though he still listened for the others. He shot a glance over his shoulder, but heard no servos or footsteps. Warily, he turned back to broken yellow Bonnie.
It still hadn't moved.
It rested on the table like a battered, decaying corpse. Its silver eyes stared at the ceiling, quiet and unblinking. Mike carefully ran the flashlight over it, taking in its frayed costume, loose wires, and bits of endoskeleton that poked out from under the dusty old cloth.
What was he looking for?
A voice entered his mind. Robotic, broken, and unlike any of the others he heard so far.
I...I-I-I-I…m…
The voice struggled, as though it tried to re-learn to speak after an era of forced silence.
I-I-I...I'm...I'm st-st-st-
Mike turned to look back at the face, shining the flashlight over to the animatronic's head. He first saw the silver eyes glimmer back at him, a sight he had gotten used to from the cameras as the night went on. But as Mike took in its face, he realized that the one intact ear stood straighter now, the silver eyes more circular than ovular, the nose a bit more forward, its teeth slightly more visible.
Because now the creature's head tilted up a bit to better take a look.
To see him.
Mike jolted when he noticed it, clinging tighter to the flashlight. The weak beam flickered, threatening to give out. He twisted the flashlight, trying to give it more life, but the light continued to fade. The strange yellow Bonnie still stared up at him, silent once more. Behind the silver discs, two soft pinpricks shone, signifying a new life. His good ear slowly twitched, the old mechanics struggling to complete even the simplest of movements.
It neither spoke nor moved, just kept its face on his.
The Puppet quietly hung behind it, though with the tilt of its mask, Mike got a sense of expectancy.
What did it want him to do?
I-I'm… the new voice tried, I'm st-still…
The flashlight finally gave out. All Mike saw anymore was a single set of pinprick eyes, two faint circles around them reflecting off the metal. After a long while, the old robot struggled to turn its head. With how the lights shifted, it now glanced over at the door. The old Bonnie tilted his head back down, the silver eyes now gazing out of the only exit in the room. Everything about the movement exerted an aura of exhaustion, the sense of one on their deathbed.
…St-sti…ill...
Mike watched it carefully, listened to the thing finally coerce the word out.
...Here.
The lights in its eyes faded, leaving the entire room in darkness. From outside the room, he heard heavy footsteps moving and coming closer.
The others?
Something bright and green caught his attention. A second later, Mike realized the glowing digits came from his watch, now reading 6:00am.
Activating…
Facial recognition engaged.
Auto update date and time: 11/12/1993 5:59:01am
Uploading known database.
Searching…
Power source detected.
Charging: 15%
Auto update date and time: 11/12/1993 06:00:00am
Retrying search.
Searching…
Power source undetected.
Charge: 15%
Auto update date and time: 11/12/1993 06:02:54am
Power source detected.
Charging: 15%
Auto update date and time: 11/12/1993 06:03:01am
Retrying search.
Searching…
Mike cradled the flashlight in his arm. He then felt for the button on the watch to turn the alarm off before it beeped a minute later.
The animatronics were going back to their places now, and the power should now divert off the generator and back into the building. Carefully, he felt along the wall for the light switch. When the old bulb flickered on overhead, Mike found himself alone with the weird yellow Bonnie, all the spare animatronic masks staring back at him, and then endoskeleton now sitting in the far corner beside the shelf, in the little alcove under the camera. Mike turned away from its staring eyes to examine the yellow Bonnie.
It still faced the door, its torn and creepy smile even more noticeable now that he saw the tear going almost up to its ear. Mike carefully moved closer, still wary of the thing, but started to circle around the table, his eyes looking for...well, he was sure he'd know when he saw it. He crouched down a little, not daring to touch it or get too close now that he knew it wasn't immune to the same weirdness that possessed the others.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
It looked up at him in the last moments of the night, and just...stared at him.
Like it did all those years ago.
He took another step and yelped in surprise as something tangled in his legs. Mike fell forward, barely missing the table as he smacked down into the floor. Growling a little, he pushed himself up to see what he tripped on...and noticed an old power cord coming from the table. After untangling himself from it, he traced it with his eyes. One end came from the animatronic's waist. The other end went under one of the shelves, attached to a hidden socket in the wall.
Mike gaped for a second, then glared when he realized what it meant.
"You motherfucking-!"
He couldn't think of a word that properly expressed his fury, and fumed for a minute. When nothing came to mind, Mike pulled himself back onto his feet, then bent down with the intent to pull the cord away. He yanked it out of the wall, then stared at the limp plug at the end.
This was why the power drained so fast last night.
He tossed the plug away from him. After a moment of consideration, Mike grabbed the plug and put it back in. If they did this last night, they would probably just do it again tonight. And truth be told, if this thing was going to charge anyway, it was best to do it in the day, damn the power it wasted. Let Waylon deal with it later. And speaking of Waylon…
He shot a glance to his watch.
6:04am.
Mike carefully stepped over the cord, then walked around to the other side of the table to retrieve the now useless flashlight. He gave one more glance at the strange yellow Bonnie, unnerved now that he for sure knew it had some life...and wondered what secret it held for him.
Nothing more he could do right now, he knew. Mike hit the light switch and carefully walked back into the dining room.
One more night, he told himself. One more night to see what they wanted.
Then he could put all of this behind him.
Mike entered the dining room as the overhead lights came back on. He turned to the stage, where the animatronic band now stood, ready to sing as usual. For a second, their plush looked brighter and new again. Bonnie's guitar no longer had small scratches on it from years of putting it down every night and picking it up again. Freddy's fur had no more patches missing. And Chica's yellow shone once more, no longer covered in dust and neglect.
He blinked, feeling out of place, but the whole room suddenly gained a new life. The old stage curtains brightened. The tile floors glowed from fresh wax. From behind him, children laughed and games beeped. Mike turned, seeing only an empty room save for the table closest to the stage.
Two young boys sat with their backs to him. He couldn't pick out much, only that both had dark, straight hair, and the younger boy was crying while his - friend? older brother? - comforted him.
And just like that, the grim darkness from the front windows mingled with the overhead lights. No more laughter or music, no more little boys crying at the table, and the old animatronics returned to their current fading selves.
...Mostly.
When Mike turned to them again, he noticed Bonnie's ears now drooped forward as far as they could go. Freddy's microphone hand hung at his waist, his fingers barely clutching it. Chica held Dulcie closer to her chest, almost protectively. And their eyelids drooped beyond their normal lazy expressions, giving off an air of sadness. Whatever they knew...
A soft closing sound reached his ears from across the room. Mike quickly turned around, looking for the source of it. His eyes went to the prize counter, and the present box beside it. He remembered how the box opened and came over to investigate it. As he got closer, he noticed something sticking out of the lid like a tag.
Mike picked up his pace when he better caught a glimpse of it, of the sharp colors on thick paper.
A photograph.
He snatched it from the box and held it up, running his thumb over the matte finish to confirm its tangibility. The slightly rough texture did more for him than Vanna's smiling face, but she sat there happily, purple lips stretched into a smile, blue cocktail dress perfectly catching the light, the drinks in front of her practically dancing to the loud club music.
Mike looked from the photograph, to the box, and back to the photograph again. He quickly recalled the drawing he saw last night, directly based on the picture he now held in his hands.
"...Why did you take this?" he whispered. "What does she have to do with it?"
A few small chimes played, the noise soft, but so sudden that Mike dropped the photograph. It fluttered to the ground, its back now facing the ceiling. The night guard bent down to pick it up, his hand shaking as he grabbed the photograph again.
On the back, he long ago wrote, "Vanna, 10/22/91" in tiny pen strokes. Now, he saw something else written under it in black crayon, the handwriting shaky and inconsistent...like a small child's.
I MisS HEr.
Mike stared at the writing, then glanced back at the box.
"...Who are you?" he whispered. "What are you?"
The box stood silent. Not even a chime rang from it.
Mike looked back at the picture in his hand, running his thumb over the matte finish. If anything, he at least had it back. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, then unfolded it to slip the picture back in its proper place behind the few dollar bills. Only then did he remember something.
"...There were two..."
He turned back to the box, glaring at it. Of the two pictures, he wanted the other one more.
The one he couldn't replace.
"Where's the other one?"
Mike waited for the box to do something: for movement, a chime, even for that strange voice to call out to him. Only silence greeted him after several moments. Figuring he'd get no answer, Mike grabbed the top of the box to open it. He yanked on the wooden marionette X that sat on the top, setting it on the prize counter to get to the Puppet underneath it.
Mike grabbed the Puppet under its arms and yanked it out of its box. Its long limbs dragged on the tile floor below it.
"I know you took it!" he cried, shaking it. "What did you do with it?"
The Puppet hung limp in his hands, its head tilted back, its smile triumphant, mocking. With a frustrated cry, Mike tossed it to the floor, not caring if the strings tangled. He then bent over to dig through the box. A moment's search turned up nothing but the mechanisms to open the lid, some metal odds and ends, pieces of broken crayons, some small stuffed toys, and a few children's drawings that must have fallen in over the years. He tossed the drawings aside, looking under them for his personal treasure.
Whatever the Puppet did with it, it anticipated him looking here. The only pictures of any sort that he found were the drawings.
The sound of the door jingle rang into the room, then footsteps on tile.
"Kid?"
Mike grabbed the drawings to look under them one more time, ignoring the janitor for a moment. Finding nothing, he threw the papers down, then gripped the edge of the box to hoist himself back up. Sharp, angry breaths passed through his lungs, before his eyes went down to the Puppet on the floor. Mike bent down to pick it up, his fingers tightening around the thing's throat as he scooped up its legs in his other arm.
"Kid? What are you-?"
"It doesn't...fucking matter," Mike whispered, trying to keep his voice steady.
His throat hurt from yelling and the healing bruise. He heard the janitor's footsteps approach behind him, and soon enough caught the smell of clean soap and November chill right behind him. Mike felt a hand on his shoulder, and whatever internal rage remained quickly drained away.
"It's gone."
Mike heard the other man shift behind him. The janitor got down on his knees to be at his level and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Kid…" the janitor started.
"I don't...want to talk about it."
Mike shifted out of his grip and throttled the Puppet for a few more seconds. He felt only slightly better as he let go of its throat, letting its head hit the tile floor. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then carefully slipped his fingers under the Puppet's head. As furious as he had been with it before, now he was gentle. Mike shifted out of the janitor's grip to stand, the Puppet now cradled in his arms.
The distinct creak of old shoes and the shift of denim fabric said enough that the older man stood up with him. The janitor glanced down at the Puppet, at how its fingers and legs gently brushed against the floor. Something softened in his face, a flicker of knowing gone in a moment. The janitor opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head as though thinking better of it.
"...That one was always strange," he said a moment later. "Swear it's got a mind of its own at times."
Mike ignored him. He took a deep breath to better calm his nerves, then lifted the Puppet over the edge of the box to unceremoniously drop it back inside. As it fell, he caught part of one of the drawings that he tossed aside and ignored in search of the photograph.
The brittle yellow paper spoke well of its age. The drawing depicted the Puppet, with its usual smile turned into a frown. Blue teardrops arched out from its eyes. A box was drawn around it in green crayon. Just outside the box, he saw part of what he assumed to be a child, and judging by the black pigtails, a little girl.
Vanna?
"Kid?"
Mike didn't have time to think about it too much. He picked up the wooden cross and gently set it back into place. He then reached to grab the flaps of the lid, gently setting them back one at a time. Another deep breath to force back residual emotion, a quick flick of his thumb to catch one more stray tear. Mike leaned over the box when he finished, his hands holding the flaps down as if keeping the creature inside trapped.
"...I have to go," he said after a moment.
"Before you do, kid," the janitor said, gently, "are you gonna be alright?"
"No."
Mike stared at the top of the box, still perturbed by all of this. The weird golden suit, the smiling man, the children, Vanna...it seemed like every piece the Puppet gave him only created more questions instead of answering the ones he already had.
He pushed himself away from the box, knowing he needed to get home now. Mike headed for the door, paying the janitor no mind. The entire night left him raw and vulnerable, and he no longer felt the beating of his own heart under the numbness that now covered his skin. The morning light broke through the windows to call out to him, a faint reprieve from this horror. He heard nothing save for the sound of his own footsteps on the tile, just kept walking towards the front door.
Towards her.
Warm fingers wrapped around his arm, their grip only tight enough to keep him from taking another step.
"Kid."
Mike yanked out of his grasp.
"Mike," he said, firmly.
"What?"
Mike turned to him with a glare. He made sure to align his eyes to the janitor's, and practically savored the other man's sudden discomfort.
"Mike," he said again. "I've been here for almost a week; you can use my damn name."
The janitor watched him, taken aback less for Mike's correction, and more that...something in his voice didn't sit quite right with him. He looked over his younger coworker. Without the guard hat, the janitor better took in Mike's face: his blue eyes and the dark circles under them, the strands of his black hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, the grim lines that formed his mouth.
Yesterday's conversation came to mind as the janitor's face softened again. The kid dealt with some crazy things on the night shift. He chose to take the outburst as stress and to not push him any further.
"Right," the janitor corrected. "Mike. Sorry."
Mike glared at him for another moment, relishing in this newly-ignited fury. It allowed him to focus, even to forget about last night for a few brief seconds. But upon hearing his name, Mike backed down a little, taking in another breath.
"...I need to get home," he said after a moment, his tone forcibly polite.
The janitor simply gave him a nod.
"You don't have to be in tonight," he said. "Day off. You should probably get some rest."
Mike ignored him as he stepped towards the front door again.
"Ki-Mike!"
"I can't," Mike answered, his voice hardly louder than a whisper.
He heard the footsteps behind him. They stopped suddenly, as though the janitor thought better of it.
"...Then you'll be in tonight?" the old man asked.
Mike reached the front door, his hand now gripping the handle. He didn't want to talk or try to explain right now. Just to get home.
The door flashed for a moment, completely open, the sunlit parking lot before him. The frame changed to a different color, and while he didn't see them, he knew the posters on either side of the little alcove leading into the parking lot changed too.
Like most of his other hallucinations, it disappeared before he could question it too much. He still felt the handle, and now saw the front door closed in front of him again.
Just a glimpse into the past.
Mike took another breath, pushing it to the back of his mind where it belonged. He pulled the door open.
If the janitor said anything else, he didn't hear it over the cutesy welcome jingle that played when his foot hit the welcome mat. Mike stepped into the still-dark parking lot. His boxy little '83 Suzuki FX sat in its place, waiting patiently for him. The parking lot looked different, and for a few seconds, red and blue lights flashed over the car. Mike blinked, and the lights went away, leaving only the overcast morning dulling the chipping light blue paint.
He dug out his keys as he forced the memory back. Mike made a point to avoid looking at the old building as he pulled out of his parking spot and turned to leave the shopping center.
Something about this place enjoyed messing with his mind.
For several minutes, the janitor watched the night guard through the front windows. He took in Mike's moment of hesitation before the night guard got into his car, the forlorn look in his eyes as he pulled out of the lot. The kid was a complete wreck.
Yet he'd be back.
He always came back, even against his better judgement.
The janitor took a long, deep breath as he shook his head. In a way, he understood Mike's need to come back, to find answers. Every wall held a memory, every floor tile a question, and some of them best left where they lied.
The empty room resonated with silence around him. It took but a thought to hear the sounds of laughing children and games, the songs from the stage, a young woman's cheerful voice over it all. The janitor ran his eyes over the tables and to the stages, where he gave a brief, sad smile to the Fazbear band. All of them stood upright and ready to play for the day's crowd, just as they had since the place first opened. The janitor's gaze wandered over to the present box where he found Mike that morning. Whatever the night guard had been looking for wasn't there, and he caught that some of the kid's anger was directed at the box's sole occupant.
And likely not unwarranted.
The janitor carefully approached the prize counter until he stood in front of the present box.
"Always were strange," he said. "Always...thinking."
He gently tapped the box, a sad smile on his lips.
"What're you thinkin' of now, little one?" he asked, gently. "What are you hiding?"
The janitor received no answer, not even a chime as he occasionally got in response.
"...Been a while since we've seen our old friend," he said, in an attempt to coax out a reaction. "Been a while since you've been this active, too."
Once more, the Puppet remained silent. The janitor simply nodded and headed for the backstage room.
A glimmer of gold caught his attention as he walked by Pirate Cove. The janitor bent down to pick up the object, knowing what it was before his fingers touched the cold, smooth surface.
A security badge.
Mike had been missing his guard hat too. Given the kid's state just that morning, he likely had a meltdown the night before, maybe even considered quitting. The janitor looked down the hallway towards the office. If anything, he'd put it where Mike would easily find it tomorrow.
The office was dark, and it took a moment to find the switch to turn the light back on. The janitor found the night guard's hat and tie haphazardly thrown onto the desk. He gathered the items together to place by one of the monitors. If Mike came back, he'd have his full uniform again.
He briskly walked back down the hall, heading for the backstage room again. The janitor hardly stepped through the frame when a pair of silver eyes met his. He stepped back, his heart jolting for a second before he realized the old Bonnie's head simply moved at some point in the night. Whether it did it of its own volition or not was unclear, only that it startled him.
A quick glance around the room showed nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from the yellow Bonnie's head, nothing else on the table moved the night before. The janitor watched it expectantly for a moment. When the yellow Bonnie remained still, he gave it a small nod and turned to go.
From what he could tell, it left the kid alone last night, but Mike wasn't willing to talk or listen. Not that he could blame him too much, now that he better knew what the kid dealt with on the night shift. He checked his watch, knowing Waylon would get in soon. Not wanting to explain what he was doing here, the janitor dug for his keys as he headed for the front door.
"Tonight," he promised himself, giving one final glance to the Puppet's box. "The kid needs to know what he's dealing with."
The jingle played as he left the building, following soon with a key turning in the lock. A shifting sound came from within the box, then a few gentle chimes sang to the empty room.
Facial recognition engaged.
Auto update date and time: 11/12/1993 6:22:12am
Uploading known database.
Searching…
File found.
[ERROR]/13/19[ERROR]7 07:14:54am
The man's face came into view, his brown eyes, his dark skin, his salt-and-pepper beard. It was part of a video image, one that paused for the facial recognition software to start matching against the scan it just took in. Same cheekbones, same space between the eyes, same small forehead. Even the man's beard remained at a similar length, properly trimmed.
It tried to play more of the video file. The man held a cloth in one hand, and while using it, reached to grasp its mask under the chin. The cameras blurred a bit as he lifted the mask to face the ceiling. The man said something, the voice muffled and jarred.
The rest of the video glitched in and out, with no decipherable content.
Facial recognition match: 99.2%
ERROR: Corrupted data.
Attempting to retrieve.
Retrieval processing.
Re-engaging prior database search.
Searching...
After all the commotion last night, Waylon Kent arrived much later than usual at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. By the time he pulled up into the deserted parking lot, the dashboard clock showed it was just past seven. He got out of his car, and headed for the front entrance. The lights were off, and a sign reading, "Sorry! We're Closed!" hung behind the glass. A test of the doorknob revealed it to be locked.
Whether or not Schmidt left on time for once, he at least made sure the building was secure first. Waylon pulled out his keys to get inside. He never really had time to investigate the damage in the wall, and with what went on at night, he knew it was best to check it in the morning. Now was as good of a time as any to take a look.
The welcome jingle played as he unlocked the door and headed inside. Upon getting the lights, all of the floors shone, the tables were set, and the animatronic band all stood in their proper places. Waylon paid them no mind as he walked toward the bathrooms. There, he found the damaged plaster and the dark void behind it. It started from the middle of the floor and sort of angled up to the ceiling, the jagged edge creating a strange doorway that stood as a barrier between the pizzeria and the hidden room. Some plaster dust and small chunks had fallen out over the night, but by the looks of the floor, the worst of it had been swept up and mopped.
Waylon came to the edge of the wall and carefully peered inside. The overhead lights showed the outline of three video game cabinets, and as he let his eyes adjust, he picked out art of Chica on the side of the one closest to him. Scattered on the floor were a few miscellaneous personal items. To the right, he barely made out parts of the tile that looked cleaner than the dusty areas around it, a hint that something used to sit there in the dust. Waylon narrowed his eyes. The size and shape of the bulky outline spoke enough of what used to sit there. In only a moment, he realized where it got moved to.
He headed for the backstage area and unsurprisingly found another animatronic on the work table. Waylon got a closer look at the thing, wrinkling his nose at the weird pungence that came from it. Maybe a mouse crawled into it and died.
"Why in God's name did someone wall up that part of the restaurant?" Waylon demanded, not expecting an answer. "We could have made a bit more money! Hell, we could have replaced the fox!"
He ran his eyes over the old robot. The yellow costume it wore needed to be replaced, but from what he glanced of the endoskeleton, it appeared to be in good order. Maybe the owner could clean it up and auction it off when this place inevitably closed down.
But that didn't matter right now. First, Waylon needed to call a repair crew and get the rest of the wall taken down. If those video games still worked, they needed to be cleaned off and turned on. And then he had to find a day shift security guard. The doctors determined that while Bell fortunately had no broken bones, the accident caused a minor concussion and several bruised ribs, the damage extensive enough to require at least a few days off. The only upside Waylon saw was he only needed a temporary replacement.
He gave the old animatronic another once-over, then headed back to his office to settle some business and see if he had anyone who could cover for a few days...and realized he did.
Waylon's pace quickened to a march to look for Gregory Mortman's application.
A few phone calls later, Waylon managed to not only get a temporary replacement for Andrew Bell, but arranged for repairs late in the afternoon. He'd have to close early, but at least the two birthday parties he had lined up could still go on. As soon as Franklin, Gwen, and Judy got in, he had them pin two spare tablecloths together, then tack them up to temporarily seal off the area.
Now to wait for his new day shift security guard.
The door jingle heralded his arrival. Greg Mortman entered, in dark slacks, dress shoes, and a white T-shirt under his coat. A small flash of gold gleamed at his neck. Greg reached up to push back a stray blond lock that fell into his face. Waylon rushed to greet him, and quickly took his hand to shake.
"Got your shirt and badge waiting in my office," he said. "Thanks for being available on such short notice."
"My pleasure," Greg said, giving the manager a soft smile. "It's good to be back. Got to admit, I've kind of missed this place."
Waylon nodded, trying not to look too exasperated.
"To tell you the truth, I can't wait for it to finally be done. After last night, I deeply considered closing this place down earlier than planned."
"What happened?" Greg asked.
Waylon pointed down toward the bathrooms.
"That."
Greg turned around to peer down the hallway, immediately catching the pinned tablecloths providing a barrier between two worlds.
"I've got a guy coming in later today to finish taking it down, and check around to make sure nothing else is ready to cave in," Waylon continued. "Already got an employee hurt."
Greg nodded.
"If you don't mind me asking," he said, "what's back there?"
"Just some video game cabinets and old junk," Waylon replied. "Nothing special."
He then gestured for Greg take a seat at one of the tables. Greg nodded and grabbed a chair.
"Wait here," the manager said. "I'm going to get your uniform."
Waylon headed for the office. While Greg waited for the manager's return, he took a glance around the room. The animatronic band caught his attention first. Back when he first worked on them, all of them were bulkier with bigger heads and stronger jaws. He always thought the plush toys of Chica looked more like ducks; now the animatronic actually did. Bonnie and Freddy no longer had buttons down their fronts, and both of them had smaller heads and more streamlined faces.
The company started to go through changes when he left for good in '86. Maybe this was the end result. Greg's attention then went over to the bathrooms, at the tablecloth curtains hiding the once-secret room. That, he knew, hadn't been sealed up when he left.
A soft shutting sound caught his attention. Greg looked behind him, expecting Waylon to have returned. He saw no one and heard no footsteps, so what could have made…?
Sunlight hit the prize counter, reflecting into his eyes for a second. He quickly shifted his chair. Just as his eyes took in the blue-green present box, another shutting sound caught his attention. This time, Greg heard the accompaniment of footsteps and the jingle of keys.
"Thanks for your patience, Mr. Mortman," Waylon said.
He held a pile consisting of a folded purple shirt, security hat, badge, and cheap black tie. Greg took it with a nod. Under the pile, Waylon held a few papers and a pen.
"Just your basic employee contract and other legal papers," he said, taking a seat beside Greg. "Now, before we begin, I have just one more question: what brought you back to Freddy Fazbear's after all these years?"
"If we're being honest," Greg replied, "I'm a little desperate right now."
"Aren't we all?" Waylon muttered as he handed him the paperwork.
Greg smiled at him.
"Work is work, even if it's for a week."
"Until Bell gets back," Waylon said. "After that, I'm cutting you a check."
"Understood, sir."
Greg took the pen and started filling out the proper information.
"It's kind of nice to come back for a little while," he said. "Just like old times."
Database search complete.
3 files found.
07/15/1983 02:07:16pm
A teenage boy with dark hair, blue eyes, and pale skin accompanied a small boy with brown curls to one of the games in view of the stage. The little boy stayed close to him. Those guests accounted for, his head moved from side to side to watch the children in front of the stage. When he looked back at the games again, the young man and little boy were no longer there.
07/15/1983 02:22:04pm
That same teenager from earlier peeked out from the game alcove by the bathrooms. He stared right at him and his friends onstage, then ducked back into the alcove.
07/15/1983 02:26:53pm
His head turned in time to the song. A group of other teenagers held the curly-haired boy up to the stage. Freddy sang.
ERROR: Corrupted data.
Attempting to retrieve.
Retrieval processing.
Retrieving…
07/15/1983 02:28:46pm
Another part of the current video survived, still glitching, but playable. Freddy stopped singing. A human hand dangled from his mouth. Strange red paint dripped down his fur. He barely glimpsed the dark-haired youth on Freddy's other side.
He turned his head away from Freddy. His jaw kept moving in time with the song. When his head turned back to Freddy, the daytime security guard since joined the young man onstage. His programming, timed with the song, made him look down at the children, many of them now with tears in their eyes.
The feed cut off a few seconds later.
Facial recognition match: 97.8%
Retrieving corrupted files...
These three new files were of much lower quality than the previous corrupted file, some of the last footage recorded before the most recent upgrade to include better video and facial recognition.
Even so, they held just enough detail for the software to determine an accurate match to the scan it took that morning at 11/12/1993 5:59:01am.