Chapter Five: Ravioli (1983)

"Look, Mifford!"

Milford gazed over the restaurant floor at Andrew, who was finding a great deal of entertainment value in the metal endoskeleton that was stood rigidly next to him. As Milford watched, the janitor stuck a hand inside the robot's steel snout, feigning an expression of pain as the animatronic fox appeared to take a bite out of his flesh.

"Be careful, Andy," Milford exclaimed, nervously eying the spring-controlled mechanism that held Foxy's jaw together.

Andrew withdrew his hand, which was thankfully still attached to his body, and beamed.

The atmosphere in the diner was jovial. After six months of renovations, it was nearly time for the grand re-opening. The new carpet, a regal red adorned with gold checkers, seemed to buzz with more than just static electricity as Milford walked across it, admiring the rebirth of his workplace.

Fazzes Entertainment had injected nearly $500'000 into the restaurants rejuvenation, and it showed. Nothing looked cheap or tacky anymore. The kitchen, once a grease-trap of filth, was now a shiny silver everywhere Milford looked, with brand-new friers and ovens glittering in the light of the energy-saving green bulbs. The wallpaper, previously flaky, was now a beautiful creamy white like a patch of fresh snow.

Even the mascot costumes looked expensive now, although Milford was assured that they remained a creation of felt and stuffing.

Watching Foxy, his own brainchild, come to life had been the most rewarding process, however. Seeing the autumnal-brown and red costume come to life was a feeling akin to bringing a son into the world, and Milford was awestruck to this day. It was if the seafaring fox had snuck right out of his papery confines to plunder Milford's world. His grey hook was gorgeously-rusty and his eyepatch told more of his story than could ever be conveyed through words. He was a mascot with personality, that was for sure. Even his endoskeleton bones were a thing of majesty and prestige, a symbol of the passion from which he had been born.

In a way, the change from humans in costume to animatronic performers saddened Milford, in spite of James' assurances that his job would remain intact. And yet, there was something magical about the idea of the diner's characters being awarded a life of their own. It made them feel less like the culminations of cynical, wealth-seeking designers and more like the conjurations of the children's hearts of which they would be touching.

Milford was more proud of his workplace than he cares to admit aloud. There was a part of him that felt like his soul had become entwined with the place, and in its lease of new life, he too was reborn.

Taking a step out into the parking lot brought him back to reality. This was still the same town with all the break-ins, muggings and graffiti.

Milford gazed back at the restaurant. His eyes were immediately drawn to the new sign that stood proud above the lot.

Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.

Freddy himself was the only thing that hadn't really changed since the first time Milford had stepped over that threshold for the first time. The bear remained a constant presence throughout the renovations, a silent guardian that kept watch over his keep. Even now, after two years and one subtle name alteration, Freddy's face was still youthful and energetic upon the sign, his eyes - like bright white spotlights - sweeping over his territory, both welcoming and foreboding.

Milford was stunned out of his thoughts when a pair of arms came around his back, pulling him into a familiar and soft embrace.

"I suppose you must miss that old fella," Jenny whispered, her hot breath tickling the hairs on the back of Milford's neck.

"Maybe," Milford replied, turning to look from the candle that kept him warm to the hearth that soothed his bones. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, sweetie," Jenny smiled, gently kissing Milford's cheek. "You're not so bad yourself."

"Hey!"

James' voice cut across the parking lot like the crack of a sniper rifle. "Get back to work you two love doves!"

Milford rolled his eyes, and Jenny grinned.

Some things never changed.

(-)

The time on the clock was 11.26.

Milford had been lightly asleep, slipping deeper into his nocturnal grave, but the sharp ringing brought him back out. Sighing, he reached over to his bedside table, taking the phone and lifting the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

Silence. Then, "Mifford!"

"Andrew?"

Milford rubbed at his eyes groggily. "What's going on?"

Andrew replied in a hushed whisper. From the shakiness of his speech, coupled with its low volume, Milford could tell that he was terrified.

"They smashed the winda, Mifford. Big bricks, threw em right through. Now they're coming inside."

Milford sat up straighter, feeling his body tense up. "Where are you, Andrew?"

"The kitchen. I can hear em' coming in the diner."

"You need to call the cops, Andrew," Milford stated. "Hang up and call 911."

More silence. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Andrew started to breathe harder, and Milford could almost feel his hot breath in his inner ear. "I just can't, Mifford. Please, you have to come."

Milford pressed his thumbs against his temples, feeling the blood flow against his skin.

"Alright. I'm coming."

"Hurry."

As the line went dead, Jenny rolled over, letting out a cavernous yawn. Milford moved quietly so as to avoid waking her, crossing the room and opening his wardrobe. In the alcove left of the door was his old hockey stick, practically unused since his preteens. He took it in both hands, trying to get a feel on his makeshift weapon - imagining bludgeoning a burglar with it.

After taking a few practice swings, he put on a jacket and headed out into the pale blue moonlight.

(-)

He was at the Pizzeria by 12.30.

The shopfront was unfathomably eerie in the absence of light, with the enormous Freddy head casting its grizzly shadow across the darkened tarmac.

Immediately, Milford noticed the shards of broken glass scattered about near one of the front windows. Just the thought of encountering the yob who had smashed it made him clench the handle of his weapon harder. His hands were clammy in the cold night air, and he feared he would not able to wield it effectively when the time came.

Milford started to walk towards the pizzeria when he heard a loud bang from inside. It sounded like the cacophony of a tower of neatly-stacked cardboard boxes toppling unceremoniously to the ground. Tightening his grip on the hockey stick, Milford climbed through the shattered window frame and entered the pizzeria.

The first evidence he noticed of the burglar's trail of destruction was the collection of overturned tables. Some were broken at the base - apparently just for the fun of it. The floor, darkened like the choppy Atlantic waters, was akin to a makeshift sea, with the tables bobbing about like wooden buoys.

The chaotic trail lead across the room to the animatronics' performance area, where the back wall was labelled with obscene language written in a coarse, blood-red taint.

"James is going to flip out," Milford thought to himself. "All of the renovations and then this."

It was odd that the most immediate danger to his well-being was not the most prominent thought on Milford's mind. But then again, these burglars didn't know James. Maybe if they did they would have steered well clear of his property.

Surrounded by such thoughts, Milford nearly got his head caved in by a stealthy assailant who had emerged from a side office room. As it was, the floorboard creaking as he stepped closer was enough of an alarm to snap Milford out of his trance just in time to avoid the swing of a rather-pointy hammer.

The attacker drew back as a panicked Milford struck out with his hockey bat, wildly missing the opponent but succeeding in putting a reassuring distance between himself and the hammer.

"Get out of here," Milford cried, trying to sound intimidating but hampering this notion with an almost-asthmatic amount of panting.

His attacker laughed from underneath the black knit of his ski mask. "You ever even used that thing, bro? You're fucking shaking."

Milford knew he was trembling, but it wasn't until now that he'd associated it with anything other than adrenaline. Now he realised he was utterly terrified.

"I called the cops," Milford stammered. "They'll be here soon."

Not for the first time, Milford wished he had. Why had he let Andrew convince him otherwise?

The burglar didn't even pause. "If the cops were coming, then you wouldn't be here. So why don't you back off?"

Milford swallowed and started to move away. The burglar laughed again, but was cut off sharply by one of the most terrifying things Milford had ever heard in his entire life.

It may be a cliche to describe a particularly-perturbing scream as being like that of a banshee, but this wail was no better suited to another description. It was an animalistic noise, spurred on by a definitive danger to that person's life.

Milford's blood ran like an ice flow. The burglar with the hammer promptly dropped his weapon and fled through the window, practically leaving dust clouds in his wake. Milford tried to leave too, but his legs were filled with cement that was churning in the inside of a mixer. He daren't even try to move for fear of having them snap off like breadsticks.

Eventually, something forced him forwards, but not out of the restaurant as his brain was urging him to. Instead, he was propelled towards the back room where the sound had emanated from, pushing open the door and revealing a nightmarish scene.

Another burglar, similarly garbed to his fleeing companion, was lying face-down in a pool of blood. Andrew, quivering violently, stood by his body, hands covered in sticky red.

Milford's eyes doubled in size at the picture before his eyes. Andrew, harrowed into an unusual silence, simply pointed to the animatronic that stood in the corner of the room.

That was when Milford noticed.

The silver claws of the animatronic - clearly Freddy himself - were stained in blood.

Judging by the rips and tears in the fallen burglar's clothing, it had quite literally ripped him open.

But surely, it couldn't have. It must have been Andrew operating the suit. The animatronics didn't even have fuel in them yet.

The world was a white noise, but through it, Milford heard his own voice.

"Is he still alive, Andrew?"

The janitor nodded quickly, before tears sprung to his eyes and he collapsed, sobbing noisily, to the floor.

Milford approached the bloodied burglar, feeling for a pulse. Andrew was right - the man was still alive.

But he wouldn't be for long.

"Wait here, Andrew," Milford cried, getting up quickly. "I'm calling 911."

It was then that Andrew spoke for the first time in the interchange. Six words that would haunt Milford for the rest of his life.

"It weren't supposed to do that."

(-)

The police investigation did not last long. All the evidence they needed to make an arrest had been handed to them on a silver platter.

Andrew's 'attack' was sufficiently vicious and extreme that it hardly seemed justified as an act of self-defense. He was held by the police station for nearly 24 hours before being given a psychiatric evaluation - the result determining him as a mentally-unstable individual.

Once the hospitalised burglar had been administered an elixir of painkillers he was offered a shorter sentence for the identification of his hammer-wielding colleague. Unfortunately, the name given turned out to be fake, and the culprit was never taken to account for his crimes.

The damages caused to the Pizzeria delayed its opening by three months. As predicted, James had nearly blown his brains out of his earholes when he saw his renovation money squandered, and the redux work was almost solely carried out by Milford and Joe, the employees deemed to be the best manual labourers.

And so, as it was fated to be, Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria was opened for the first time in the summer of 1983, minus its original janitor. James claimed that it was for the best, and that he had been intending to replace Andrew with a full janitorial team anyway, as the size of the property now required a greater amount of manpower.

Yet, in spite of this logic, there was just something hollow about not working with Andrew any more. Milford quickly missed the sight of the hunched man swiping away in the corner of the storeroom when he came in every day to store his valuables.

But he didn't have the time to mope about, as within the first few weeks of opening the Pizzeria, he was completely swept up by his work; and in particular, his new duty.

The management of the animatronics.