Angel of Vengeance, Chapter Two
a Five Nights at Freddy's/Doctor Who crossover
Dark.
Dark is good. Dark is alone, dark is safe.
Or is it?
It wasn't always. Once, dark had been very very much not safe, and very much not alone. Huddling in the comforting darkness of the storeroom, she knew this had happened before. Or something like it. Or maybe nothing at all; her mind was jumbled and fuzzy, and memories were elusive, slipping from her thoughts like oily eels, flashing silvery in the darkness and evading capture.
She pulled her mangled frame closer about herself, tucking into a tight corner. She should be out there, but the thought of facing the newcomer terrified her. She didn't understand why. Nothing should terrify her! She is the terrifying one!
But no, that wasn't really true.
There was something much more terrifying out there.
A memory slithered up from the depths, flashing through the darkness of her mind. Before it slipped away, a thought passed through her mind.
-It's all happening again . . .
"Jeremy? Jeremy!"
The Doctor's voice cut through Jeremy's terror. He tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. So he licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again. "Yeah? Got any ideas, Doc? Because if not, I'm gonna be dead in a few minutes. That door's gonna eat up the power, and then the animatronics are gonna come in. I don't think they'll care about this angel."
"Yes, erm. About that," said the Doctor. "Look, the animatronics want you gone, but I rather think they'll want that thing gone even more."
"What?" asked Jeremy. "Look, it's my life that's at stake here! I'm not betting my life that they're more interested in the angel."
"Yes, well, you'll just have to trust me," said the Doctor. He sounded impatient. "You have to get out of that room. The Angel has a plan, and it depends on capturing you, specifically. Amy, do you have the blueprints yet?"
The girl's voice replied. "Got 'em."
"Good! Good . . . ah. Jeremy, there's a storeroom down the left hallway. It has a door, and if you can get in there, the angel won't be able to reach you."
Jeremy wanted to laugh and cry at once. "It has hands, you idiot, and it's made of stone! How's a door supposed to stop it?"
"It won't, but the animatronics will."
Jeremy was starting to shiver. Whether from adrenalin or the chill of sweat drying on his skin, he neither knew nor cared. "I see where you're going with this," he said. "But I don't like it. You're trying to help me, but if I run to that storeroom, I'm just as trapped. And I won't be able to watch the cameras."
"I know", said the Doctor. "I . . . I know. But you're almost out of time. Er . . . hang on, I have an idea . . . stand perfectly still. I'll need to disconnect, but I'll be back in seconds."
"Wait . . . what?"
But it was too late. The phone had already clicked silent.
Jeremy was alone with the Angel again.
It was a uniform gray, but weathered, and Jeremy had the sense of great age. He'd completely believe it was a statue if not for the vicious teeth-bared snarl on its face, which had definitely not been there before. Time stretched out . . . the Doctor said he'd only be seconds, but the seconds were way too long already, and he didn't dare check his watch.
His nose tickled.
No, no, no, no sneezing! He'd blink, and it'd get him! So Jeremy carefully scratched his nose, but the discomfort remained. He wrinkled his nose, and realized it wasn't just allergies; there was a foul odor permeating the room. The Angel? It didn't smell like stone. It smelled . . . musty and sour. Like mildew, and the foul stench of the trashcan after Thanksgiving, with the turkey carcass rotting away.
Yeah, that's it. Rotting meat. That was the smell.
Oh no.
He'd gotten whiffs of the smell before, but it had never had enough time to fill the office like this. But suddenly he remembered what he'd been doing before he saw the Angel. Why he'd turned towards the right door control.
Chica was right outside.
The guard was right inside. Chica had heard the other door slam; had the others come down that way, or was the guard just panicking?
She studied the newcomer's face from the side. If the guard had panicked, maybe he had a good reason, she thought. The newcomer's needle-sharp teeth gave hers a run for their money. But which was stronger, she wondered - stone or steel?
Would she get to find out?
The guard, they could kill, or stuff in a suit, to be killed when the springlocks released. The newcomer did not look . . . bendy enough for that. And then there were the wings.
Wings! The injustice of it suddenly filled her with rage. Chica did not have wings.
*She* should have wings.
It really wasn't fair.
Really not fair at all.
Her eyes narrowed, and in the dim light, a faint red glow appeared in each.
Jeremy's heart pounded in his chest.
Where was the Doctor? Was there any point continuing to wait? Maybe he should just close his eyes and let it happen. Get it over with, and then start his life over again. Sure, he'd be flat broke and stranded god knows where or when . . . but it couldn't be worse than this.
Jeremy stared at the Angel for an agonizingly long moment. It looked ravenously hungry, ready to pounce the instant its chance came. The Doctor said it wouldn't kill him; it would just send him into the past. So what were the teeth for, then? Scaring the crap out of him?
It was working.
He didn't dare blink. His eyes burned and his nose wrinkled from the stench but he didn't blink. But oh, how he wanted to. It would finally be over. He'd been such a failure the last ten years; would it really be so awful to let it come, take his life, and let him start all over again?
He closed his eyes.
Had it happened? Was it over? Would it hurt?
He cautiously opened his eyes.
The Angel was still there, exactly as he'd last seen it.
He exhaled. So the Doctor was right; the animatronics were able to freeze the Angel too. On the plus side, that did maybe give him a chance. On the downside, it meant he'd need the animatronics to get out of this. And it meant one of them was very, very close, and he had only the Doctor's word that the animatronics would be more worried about the Angel than him. And the Doctor was CRAZY.
He spared a glance at the phone. The light was blinking. Jeremy pressed the button.
"Hallo! It's me again!" The Doctor sounded way too cheerful, and Jeremy felt a sudden rage swell up inside of him. Who the hell was he to be so cheerful about this? He wasn't the guy with his ass on the line.
"Where the hell were you, Doctor? I'm gonna die here!"
"Yes, I mean no, I mean, not if we can help it," said the Doctor. "Okay, I cheated a little. There's now a lock on the storeroom door. It's a special lock, won't activate until you personally pass through it."
Now Jeremy actually did laugh. "How the hell's that supposed to work."
The Doctor muttered something unintelligible.
"Doctor," said the Scottish girl, "be nice. He can't possibly know, and honestly, I don't really understand it either and I've seen it."
"All right," the Doctor said, exasperated. "Jeremy, just trust me."
"Trust you? The even crazier phone guy? The other phone guy, he's at least trying to give me advice for surviving; all you're doing is scaring the crap out of me!"
"Yes, I know. Um."
The Doctor went silent for a moment.
In front of Jeremy, the Angel loomed large. Even knowing that the repulsive smell meant it was being watched and could not attack, Jeremy could not bring himself to relax.
Statues had always frightened Jeremy. He wasn't sure why; maybe it was their empty eyes, or the frozen expressions that never quite seemed right. Something primal, reaching right down into his subconscious and giving it a sharp twist. He'd spent most of his life convincing himself that was bull, and the last two days realizing it totally wasn't, and now here was this thing.
"Look," said the Doctor, and then said nothing else for a while.
Huh. So he's lost for words too.
But not for long. The Doctor spoke more gently this time. "I know you're afraid, Jeremy. I don't know if you want me to lie to you and tell you it's all going to be fine, but you're not a child. You may be a *human*, but you're a grown one, and . . . oh, what does it matter. All right. It's going to be fine. I promise. I *will* save you. But first you have to trust me."
Oh, that made him feel SO much better . . . .
The harsh sound of Chica's mechanisms broke his train of thought. Jeremy's eyes widened as he saw her - it - whatever - lean in to peer over the Angel's shoulder. Chica's gaze swept the room, but did not linger on Jeremy. Whatever she wanted, it didn't have anything to do with him.
She stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, and Jeremy realized his time was almost up. She was going to leave, and then the Angel would have only him looking at it.
"Okay, Doc, where's this storeroom?"
Freddy was searching one of the party rooms. He had been in here before, oh, so many, many times before. All those smiling faces, laughing faces, taunting faces, screaming faces . . . . And, oh, there were children too. The children were important.
There. In the back. No stranger here, but oh, there were pictures. Pictures that changed, just like Foxy claimed the stranger changed. When you weren't looking, the children's drawings taped to the wall would change.
Freddy didn't linger to look at the pictures. He knew them too well. They were nearly always pictures of him. As the public face of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, he was "loved and adored by children everywhere", or so the posters would claim.
He didn't notice that today one of them was different.
There was a blue box in one of the drawings.
Chica could lose interest in the Angel at any moment; if we going to run, it had to be now. Jeremy wiped his sweaty palms dry on his khakis. His mom had bought them, wanting him to look a little more professional in this job, hoping he could hold it down for more than a week, long enough to make the social worker happier at least, and he hoped she wouldn't lecture him about sweat stains and proper garment care AGAIN, and then he wondered why he was worrying about his pants at a time like this . . . .
Stalling. Delaying the inevitable. But he didn't have any more time left.
He took a deep breath, picked up his flashlight, hit the door control, and ran.
His cheap tennis shoes squeaked on the linoleum, and his heart pounded in his chest, pulsing in his ears, and he ran. He was out of physical condition, but this was a short run, just fifteen yards, but it seemed an eternity running down the hall, maybe with a murderous lawn ornament at his heels, maybe with a murderous bear or rabbit ahead of him. He still had no idea where the other animatronics were, and every moment expected to see Foxy's vicious hook swinging out the darkness at his head . . . .
And then he was at the door. In his panic, it took two tries to get a decent grip on the handle, but once he did, it opened easily and he dashed inside, slamming the door behind him.
He heard a click as the door locked, and he collapsed to the floor, panting for breath, his legs shaking as adrenalin coursed through his system. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether he was going to cry or throw up, but in the end, neither happened. His breathing began to ease a little and he started to look around.
There were shelves. He'd seen this place on the cameras before. Sometimes Bonnie came in, so now he was very glad for the lock.
Wait . . . lock? How the hell had this room gotten a lock? It didn't have one before . . . or did it?
He blinked. There was a very unsettling feeling, as he both remembered the room having a lock, and the room *not* having a lock. If there had been a lock, why was the door always open when he'd check the camera? How was Bonnie getting in? Or maybe it just hadn't been locked before.
The Doctor had seemed to say he'd changed it somehow, so it would lock only after Jeremy himself entered. But that didn't make sense. How could the Doctor have gotten in here to fix that?
And that made him think of something else.
He didn't have the phone anymore. He couldn't talk to the Doctor anymore. No more crazy English phone guy.
He'd never missed him more.
Now what?
And then he heard something. A scraping sound. Something was moving.
He wasn't alone.
-*** TO BE CONTINUED ***-
(c) 2017 Kirstin Jones/Calli Arcale, all rights reserved except those granted under terms of service