Spike screamed as the hot knife punched through one side of his face and out the other so that what should have sounded like, "Bloody hell, Buffy, watch it with that thing, will you?" came out as, "Blaaaaarghgurgle-aaaaarrrrrrrgh!"

And as for the other sharp objects digging into him from all directions? Well…

Anyway, somewhere in the surrounding metal-smelling gloom that was NOT Joyce's kitchen on Alvarado Street, someone said, "Shhhhh…"

Which was quite frankly, a bloody stupid thing to say because when one has what feels like a red-hot steak knife going through one's face like something out of a vintage Monty Python sketch about an astonishingly unappetizing box of assorted chocolates (many of them raw frog flavored), the LAST thing one wants to BE is QUIET.

"Don't move. You've already tripped more than one springlock. If I'm careful, I think I can get you out of this thing without tripping any more."

"Arghleblargle…helllll, arghle…" This was one of the most painful things Spike'd endured to date, though once having a Hellgod play Cat's Cradle with his intestines after she got bored with making like a stress ball with his gallbladder without bothering to remove it from him first ranked pretty high on Spike's, "Things I Do Not Care to Repeat" list. (Anyway, Spike thought it might have been his gallbladder that Glory had gleefully shown him; it had all been so sudden! All he could remember from that particular really bad day was that whatever it had been, it was purplish, wobbly, shaped like a cucumber, and hurt like hell whenever Glory squeezed it. Anyway, it was his very own personal private thing from his very own personal private body, and Glory had no damned business mucking about with it, thank-you-very-much!)

Somewhere also on that list, was the time when Buffy broke his back by dropping a pipe organ on him while setting him on fire at the same time… which had been marginally less painful than having Drusilla take care of him afterwards when she remembered to.

Which was only surpassed by Angelus showing up and deciding to "help".

Realizing that yes indeed, things could be worse, far, far worse, Spike shut up.

"Hold still," The voice, which sounded like an adolescent boy's voice because it kept cracking, "I think I can deactivate the locks. Hold your breath!"

Spike would have laughed at this simple mistake on his rescuer's part if it weren't for something pressing down on one of his eyes with worrisome intensity – any second now he would start having Initiative flashbacks. He swallowed hard, realizing at the same time that something gripped him along the spine, feeling like a dozen sharp teeth eager to snap it.

Hell no, not going through that again!

Something cold slithered up his back, not too far from where Glory'd had her very much big fun with his innards. Sweat began trickling down Spike's back and into his eyes— something he'd not experienced for years outside of certain, uh, more pleasurable activities.

"Just a little longer, aaaaaand…" Something clicked, the teeth retreated. "Whew, got it. Now for the torso…" Snap. "A few more, you okay?"

Spike snarled something that would have been an obscenity if his mouth wasn't now ready for some truly original body jewelry, say, something along the line of a ½" copper water line from ohhh, one of Buffy's toilet's tanks? Complete with black plastic floaty valve bulb thingy? And don't forget to include the attached beaded chain! He'd done the whole safety pin thing back in the 70s and 80s, but bloody hell, nothing like THIS!

Snap, click, "Arms and legs, check! I'm gonna release the headlocks. When I tell you to, move forward, fast as you can!" Something shifted around the base of Spike's skull, "Hold on… I'm going to do one after the other, move when you feel the second one release!"

Click. That wasn't so bad. Spike tensed, ready to escape from what felt like a pile of rattraps that had been tripped, minus the gnawed cheese and dead rats.

He yelled, landing knees down hard on the greasy concrete as whatever was piercing both cheeks while pinning his tongue in place was abruptly pulled out in a gush of cool blood and saliva tinged with WD-40 even as he felt his uniform shirt tear in about a dozen places.

Spike knelt, clawing at his face, trying hard not to remember what had been done to him by the Initiative. Eyes wide, the vampire looked around; in the gloom two glowing yellow eyes abruptly backed away, fading into the shadows, leaving him alone on the floor of the dimly lit Parts and Service department if his nose wasn't lying. He stiffened, drool and blood trickling out of the two neat punctures. Crouched rocking back in forth in front of him was a 14 year old boy with slit-pupil eyes the color of old brass coins and curly hair so red it all but glowed in the dim pre-dawn light trickling in through the dirty skylight overhead.

As somewhere deep in the building a grandfather clock slowly tolled six, Spike stood, one hand on his face, reaching for the boy with his other as light footsteps as if a small crowd of children had run past the Parts and Service door while a puff of confetti blew under it.

The boy faded before he could touch him, leaving behind a battered pirate's eye-patch and a rusty metal hook.

Wiping blood, sweat, and pickled hot pepper juice out of his eyes, Spike staggered out of Parts and Service away from the now standing Fredbear, it's body cavity wide open - spring locks and all, and into the security office. The monitors showed no indication that anything had ever happened, except for the reek of pickled hot peppers wafting in from the kitchen. The animatronics were all obediently filing onto the show stage. Grinning, he shook his head even if it made his face hurt like hell. "Damn, what a night!"

Kitchen mess hastily tidied and face throbbing, Spike ambled through the building to the time clock in the break room. Pulling on his duster as he walked past a broken grandfather clock, which was half-hidden by the refrigerator, he reached for the card marked Jeremy Fitzgerald and punched out at exactly 6:25 a.m.

He passed the elderly office manager whom had shown him around the night before clocking out herself, complete with helmet hair, frowsy cardigan, and gaudy Harlequin glasses. Sniffing suspiciously, she looked him up and down, watery eyes glaring out at him from behind thick trifocals at the bloody remains of his shredded uniform shirt where it showed from beneath his duster and rasped, "That'll come out of your paycheck at the end of the week."

She turned back to the time clock and punched in.

6:30 a.m.

Swaggering out the open loading dock door towards a conveniently open manhole cover while reeking of pickled hot peppers, Spike flipped her an unseen jaunty double-fingered salute behind her back mumbling, "Worth it, you stroppy old cow, worth it!"

"Oh, God, ow, my face… bloody hell!" came drifting up through a storm drain two blocks over, startling a small dog in a little red coat marked, "Killer" out for it's early morning walkies into widdling it's way fifteen feet up the street.