Author's Note: Is anyone else thrilled that since there are plans for an FNaF movie, some lucky writer is probably going to be starting soon on a movie novelization, i.e. an FNaF paperback? I can't wait for that book!


December 2014

Mike Schmidt's lanky form sprawled awkwardly in the plastic chair at the local police station, his mind working desperately to find a way to make anyone believe him. Across the desk, the chief fixed him with a clear expression of bewilderment, trying to process the wild claims that the brash former security guard had made.

"Let me get this straight," Chief Carswell asked with his usual dry wit, "you're trying to say that our local missing person was actually shoved into, what, a pizza robot suit, by the other pizza robots? You'll have to forgive me for finding that a little hard to swallow." His frown deepened, for he recognized the man in front of him, for once in the station of his own volition, all too well. "Mister Schmidt, you're hardly unknown to law enforcement yourself, but just between you and me, while I can't say much about your judgement nor your common sense, at least until now I never detected any signs that you were delusional."

"Maybe your tune will change once you search the place," Mike insisted, sweat forming on his brow. He should have known this would be a fool's quest and that nobody would believe him. It had taken him an excruciatingly long time to gather the courage to request an interview with the police chief, and he felt strange being in the station without the customary handcuffs. "Please, just do it before the contents of the building end up sold off or whatever. Check everything in that backstage room, especially, and look inside the animatronics. That's what he wanted, only I was fired so abruptly I was never allowed to search anywhere."

Carswell raised an eyebrow in surprise. "What he wanted, you say? Clyde Miller was last seen two weeks before your date of hire. Are you implying you were in contact with him after his disappearance?" As downright insane as Mike's theory was as to the missing man's fate, the chief remained curious about his passionate concern for a former employee, who by his own word the fired security guard had never even met.

"No, sir. Like I told you, he left recordings in the phone system at the pizzeria; that seemed to be the company's preferred way of training new hires. I dunno, I guess it was cheaper than paying him to actually come back in and train me in person after he'd quit the job." His gaze fell to a small photograph clipped to the missing-person file, seeing for the first time what his late mentor had looked like. In what was clearly a terrible driver's license photo requested from the department of motor vehicles, Clyde appeared...nondescript. Eyeglasses, thinning brown hair just a little longer than what would have been conventional for his age, and a kindly if somewhat careworn face.

"In his last call, he sounded so defeated, and I don't think he was making it up, taking into account he made that tape so close to the last time he can be accounted for. I swear for all I'm worth, the guy knew he was doomed, and he practically begged me to check the back room."

"...But you couldn't, because then the killer pizza robots would have attacked you as well," offered the chief, tenting his fingers under his chin and smirking less than kindly. Mike slapped a hand to his damp forehead.

"I'd tell you to check the phone system so you could hear the messages for yourself, but I know that old boss of mine well enough; he pulled a Watergate and erased anything incriminating." He looked imploringly into Carswell's eyes for any flicker of belief but found only the twinkle of amusement, and rose from his chair. "Fine," Mike snapped, "you're right, I'm just wasting both our time and I never wanted to be here anyway." Just as he turned the doorknob, the chief cleared his throat, his actions all business once more.

"Schmidt, I know you well enough to tell what you're planning. You're going to go investigate yourself, aren't you? I need to remind you that breaking and entering and criminal trespass are hardly misdemeanors." He sighed, shaking his head. "We did do a general search of the building as part of our investigation into the disappearance," he informed Mike, suddenly recalling how strangely anxious the owner had been about allowing his officers access to the backstage room.

"If I conducted a more thorough search of that room and, uh, checked inside the animatronics, would that satisfy your curiosity? If so, then get out, and in return, don't let me see you dragged back in here by one of my men anytime soon. Heaven knows they've spent - some might even say wasted - enough time and manpower trying to keep you straightened out." Staring down at the file folder in front of him, he muttered, "and exactly who died and made you a security guard, anyway?"

"Thank you, sir," Mike said, chafing at the reminder of his past mistakes. Then, just to let the chief know he had overheard his barely audible slight, he added, "his photo's right on your desk. Just check, okay?"


"Well, this has been interesting," Chief Carswell said as Nathan Faz, back at his defunct business, begrudgingly assisted him in opening the hinges on the last of the four animatronic costumes. While the suits could ostensibly hold a human body and they did indeed contain the lethal-looking crossbeams and other mechanical devices that Mike had described in startlingly accurate detail, there didn't appear to be a chance any of the characters had ever served as someone's not-quite-final resting place. Aside from a sheen of lubricating oil on the moving parts, the machinery was completely pristine, untainted by any trace of human remains. Or it was meticulously cleaned by an expert, Carswell mused before shaking his head at almost buying into a fantastical story told by the local ne'er-do-well.

"Thanks for your time today, I do appreciate it, and I take it Mike was pretty sore at being let go? This sorta has 'false report as revenge' written all over it," he confided in the manager, peering with his flashlight into the complex animatronic devices mounted within the costume. Faz had just started to enumerate the many ways Mike Schmidt had failed to live up to his company's expectations when Carswell reached between two gears in the headpiece, extracting a slender length of metal. They both stared in speechless horror at the twisted and mangled item, still recognizable as the stem from a pair of eyeglasses with a plastic earpiece attached.

"Now that's a sick joke, even for Mike!" Faz sputtered in outrage, finally breaking the silence. He was relieved when Carswell stepped back from the purple rabbit costume, which was, in contrast, showing its advanced age at least from the outside, and shrugged, but not before he dropped the eyeglass stem into a paper envelope. The chief was quick to reassure him that an obviously-planted personal effect found at the scene of a supposed crime was far from a smoking gun, and expressed his condolences for the loss of his business before declaring his investigation over for the time being.

Back at the station, Carswell rubbed his temples thoughtfully, the broken stem sitting on the desk before him next to the grainy photograph of the security guard, whose glasses were indeed a thin, metal-framed variety. He already feared the region's only missing-adult case in recent memory had all the hallmarks of becoming cold, but as he sat twirling the stem between his fingers, he had already decided he was not going to accuse Mike Schmidt of any wrongdoing, at least for the time being. That wasn't to say he was about to believe him anytime soon, either.


1982

"Hold it right there," Derrick said with a tone of authority that clashed with his attempt at a friendly grin, stepping in front of Clyde as he prepared to file out after the other employees for the night. "A little birdie told me it's your birthday, so you're not leaving that easily!"

Clyde chuckled and tugged on Derrick's sleeve, thrilled the guard was not being his usual surly self for once. "I wouldn't exactly say Chica's a little birdie, but if the band really knows it's my birthday, I'm outta here and you'd better split as well, while we still can. That is, unless you're up for hearing them sing those awful, syrupy-sweet songs to celebrate all night. Besides, I'm twenty-one, not five. How about we adults hit up The Hideaway down the road instead? It'll be my treat." He nonetheless let himself be pulled back inside at Derrick's insistence, and they were soon seated at a table in the dining area. The band mercifully remained on stage, eerily silent and motionless and seemingly unaware of the special occasion.

"Sorry, pal, but at my salary we're celebrating here, and the drinks are on me tonight, or should I say on Fazbear Entertainment. You work so hard, like you're trying to make up for your age, and you never relax," the security guard scolded, bringing over the first round of ill-gotten beer from the tap at the concessions counter. And you don't learn, either, he thought gleefully, tapping glasses with the other man.


"So, tell me more about the spring-trap suit you put in time-out," Derrick asked, his arm around Clyde's shoulder. The two had spent the last two hours laughing and joking like the long-time friends the training coordinator really believed they were, and now that his target had taken on a sufficiently glassy-eyed look, Derrick felt it safe to ask some pointed questions.

"Oh, is that what you call Spring Bonnie now?" Clyde asked, his cigarette nearly falling as his lips curved into a frown. "I guess it's an apt title, though. I feel bad for what happened to you, but also for him." Realizing what he'd said, he regarded Derrick with alarm. "I-I mean, I get it if you don't feel sorry for him one bit, but he got the bad end of the deal, too.

I thought I was doing what was best, pressing management to restrict the two classic costumes to animatronic-mode only, but before I knew it they decided to deep-six them altogether." His eyes misted over, remembering his emotional farewell to the rabbit character. "When it came down to it, it was crushing to have to tell him he was going to get sealed up in that room for who-knows-how-long." Clyde swirled a finger in his beer, trying to catch up a speck of dust that had landed in the beverage. "To this day, I really think he got it. He knew I probably won't ever be able to get him out of there someday, even if I promised him otherwise." His lips loosened by the alcohol, the training coordinator was grateful Derrick for once wasn't making fun of his fascination with the animatronic characters.

The guard leaned in close, his voice conspiratorial. "We have all night, and I wouldn't mind seeing him again myself. It would bring me some closure." He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket, twisting it between his fingers and smiling widely. Although Derrick had perverse motives for accessing the safe room, he did have a deep need to put the entire incident behind him as well, to finally prove to himself that he had overcome his injuries. Passing the boarded-up wall during his rounds had never failed to create a pervasive sense of unease in him.

"Sorry, no can do. Didn't anybody tell you?" Clyde asked in surprise. "Spring Bonnie really has left the building. They felt it would be wisest to move him back to the flagship location, the one where I work most of the time, and seal him up in our safe room instead." Frustration clouded Derrick's face as he took in the news. "So he's there, you're here and besides, we have our own security officer and he is good. Nothing gets past him, so I can't see how you'd sneak in without getting yourself fired."


"I can't believe this!" Clyde gasped, seeing for himself the damage caused by an overnight fire at the satellite location only three weeks later. What had happened already seemed clear; someone had slipped inside the unoccupied and unguarded restaurant, made his way to the men's restroom and strewn paper towels and toilet tissue throughout the room before igniting the whole mess.

"You're telling me. If this kinda stuff keeps on happening, we're going to need an overnight security guard, or at least some alarms," fretted Mitch, shaking his head at the blackened, warped metal stalls and the trash can, which had been reduced to a molten puddle of plastic on the tiled floor. At least the fire had been contained to the restroom, but he had a nightmare on his hands that was only just beginning, with smoke damage throughout the building and yet another dreaded call that had to be made to the insurance company.

"Speaking of security guards, be sure to tell Derrick that even though we're going to have to close for a while, we're sending him over to your restaurant," the manager continued, quickly thinking to appease the employee who had graciously never sued for his injuries. "Have your guard reassigned anywhere else you can use him for the time being." He scratched his head. "Oh, and be sure to mention in your incident report that there's no sign of forced entry. Isn't that strange?"