Chapter thirteen: Waking nightmares

Paul awoke, his eyes wide. He gasped in a breath of dust.

What happened last night was a dream. It wasn't reality, it couldn't be. Running around in the dark—one moment he chased it, the next moment it chased him. He had been lucky that he still remembered his training well enough to shoot properly—and to run when he got the chance.

He realized he wasn't in his bed. He was sitting in his armchair, still wearing his clothes. After he got home yesterday—and sweeping the place in a fit of paranoia—he had all but collapsed. His shirt was cold and damp with lingering sweat.

With a grunt he stood up, took off his holster and shirt and threw them onto the couch, leaving his chest bare. He took a few deep breaths.

His wandering gaze found the whiteboard. Messy notes had been scribbled all over it in a facsimile of his usual handwriting. Had he really written those…? Yes. Yes, he had. After coming home.

He looked them over. Part of it he already knew: keywords relating to the events in the warehouse, connections his scrambled mind had made in his fit of madness.

One was obvious enough: Old move—new move? If the old, discarded animatronics in the warehouse were activated and following a program at night, it wasn't too much of a stretch to think that the new models might do so as well.

Guard calm. Conspiracy? Douglas' reactions to seeing the moving camera that other night still felt significant. He didn't panic, didn't run to the office, didn't show even a hint of fear until he saw Paul. What was up with that?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mortar, but we can't let you leave" was something the animatronic at the warehouse had said. He wasn't sure how he remembered that after panicking so much, but he did—and that voice had sounded uncannily human. Why had they gone after him? Better yet, how did they know his name? He didn't want to think about what would've happened if he hadn't gotten away.

Douglas didn't seem to have any fear at the restaurant. Maybe the newer models weren't as hostile. Or maybe they left him alone because of his badge.

Regardless, Paul wasn't exactly dying to return to the warehouse. He might have to hand over his findings to the police after all; maybe they could deal with it.

Not yet though.

He eyed his phone. His client wanted to be kept up-to-date regularly. This felt like a significant enough development to report.

Well, assuming the man believed it.

Trying to ignore his tiredness, Douglas entered the restaurant. It was still early, so there were few customers. The three main performers were on stage all the same, singing a particular song that emphasized the restaurant's anime vibe. They seemed a bit more relaxed now than they had during the past few nights.

Douglas was glad to see there wasn't anyone at pirate cove, though the deserted purple curtains only worsened the pit in his stomach. No audience meant no excuse to delay the inevitable.

With no small amount of hesitation in his step, he started towards the purple curtains.

"'Scuse me, sir."

He turned to see a middle-aged man approach him. His features were vaguely familiar… Had he been here before? Most customers were a little younger.

"Can I help you?" Douglas said.

"Yeah," the man said. "You're the nightguard, right?"

Douglas started. "How do you know that?"

"You're still wearing your uniform."

Right—he didn't have time to take it off yet. "Yes…but how'd you know I work at night?"

The man fell silent. Between the purple curtains behind him, Douglas glimpsed a yellowish pinprick of light. Foxy was listening.

The man extended his hand. "My apologies. My name is Hector."

Douglas shook it, but he didn't say anything. Hector…? Why did that name sound so familiar? He narrowed his eyes at the man's face.

Then he got it.

"Hector Maxwell," Douglas said. "Blake's father. You hired Mortar."

Hector nodded. "I heard you were a nightguard here. I just had a talk with the manager."

So he talked with Griffiths. He probably feared for his son.

"Anyway," Hector said, "I've heard you didn't want to go back to college…?"

Douglas said nothing. Mortar had known about that; he must've relayed his findings to Hector earlier. Why bring it up now, though?

"If you don't mind me asking," the middle-aged man continued, "what is it about this place that made you want to keep working here?"

"I made friends."

"Ah, yes, of course. It's always hard to part with friends…but I thought this was a parttime job? Surely, you can find a way to do both."

Douglas glanced away. The man wasn't wrong about that, but…

"None of my business." Hector cracked an embarrassed smile. "I apologize. I should be going."

He started towards the entrance. Douglas watched him go. He could count the number of times he'd met with Hector Maxwell on one hand; it wasn't like they really knew each other. This particular visit was probably about Mortar, but…

Think later. Now…

Douglas glanced around, then turned to pirate cove. Foxy's yellow eyes were still looking at him from the darkness.

He approached. "Mind if I come in?" he whispered.

Foxy grunted, stepping away from the curtains. Douglas entered the cove. He soon noticed another pair of eyes, also yellow.

"Hey, Mangle," Douglas greeted, mildly caught off-guard.

"Hey Douglas.".

"What was that about you refusin' school?" Foxy demanded.

Douglas held back a wince. Crap, of course she heard that. "… My Dad called me a while back," he finally said. "He offered money so I could go back to college."

"And ya said no?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

Douglas shrugged.

Foxy started to the far wall. "That Hector lubber was right, ya know. We ain't goin' to force you to stay."

"Combining it with a night job sounds tiring," Douglas muttered halfheartedly, glancing away. He wasn't comfortable talking about this.

"Maybe Kyle can get ya a day job then." She flicked the switch on the wall, and Douglas squinted against the light that suddenly flooded down from the ceiling. "Anyway, I'm guessin' this ain't a social call…"

Right. He came here for a reason. The pit in his stomach came back tenfold. "I, ah… I've got some news. You're probably not going to like it."

That really got their attention.

"It's about the protos," Douglas said. He scratched his head but forced himself to hold her gaze. "You know how Mortar broke into the warehouse?"

"Yeah, what 'bout it?" Foxy demanded. "What'd he do?"

"He shot them."

Mangle gasped. "Are they okay?!"

"Bill said they were going to be alright, but…" He grimaced at remembering Proto-Bonnie's damaged face. "It was bad."

Foxy quietly eyed him. Finally she said, "What's more?"

"Ah, well, erm…"

"Well?"

"… Mr. Griffiths…" Douglas said slowly. "…is going to bring the protos here."

Silence fell. He glanced at both foxes. Mangle looked back at him, then stole a glance from Foxy. With all of his willpower, Douglas dared to hold the red fox's gaze.

Said red fox's face was unreadable as she stared back.

"They're goin' to be moved here," she finally said. "To the restaurant."

Douglas nodded slowly.

She stared more. Finally she crossed her arms, glancing away. "Hmph. Least they'll be safe from that lunatic, I s'pose."

Douglas blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Somehow this was…almost worse than what he'd braced himself for.

"Where're they gonna crash?" she asked. "There ain't a lotta room we can hide them in. Is Kyle gonna let them onstage?"

"I don't think so," Douglas said, trying to keep his voice normal. He remembered what Foxy had said about him being too careful with his words around her. "If I had to guess, I'd say Parts and Service."

"Parts 'n Service? Hmph, I almost feel bad for 'em. Guess Spring and Golden will have to move elsewhere."

"… Yeah. Uh, probably.

"Ya should go tell 'em that too." She returned to the light switch. "While you're doin' that, I'mma go back to sleep."

"Right." The animatronics didn't even need sleep; she just wanted them gone. "See you later."

"See ya."

He left, with Mangle following. He glanced back to see Foxy had extinguished the lights.

He wordlessly accompanied Mangle as she started walking. They paid no heed to the guests present as they made their way towards the office. Once there, Douglas let out a quiet sigh. "That…wasn't good, was it?"

"It's not your fault," Mangle said, rubbing her arm. "None of this is. It's erm…us."

He looked up at her. "Us?"

"Me and the others," she quickly corrected. "If…if we'd been more careful with the guards in the past, Mortar wouldn't be here now."

"But you tried your best to reason with them, didn't you?"

"Maybe not well enough."

"Don't say that. They-they just weren't used to…you know, you. Mortar is here because…you protected me. And Hector, he…" His gaze wandered.

"If we're not to blame, you can't blame yourself either," Mangle said softly.

He fell silent. Maybe that was fair. Maybe…

… Wait a minute.

"Douglas…?"

He became aware of the frown on his face. "Hector Maxwell…" he muttered. "He knew a lot about me, didn't he? He said he was here to talk to Mr. Griffiths… He knows Blake was involved in the incident, and he hired Mortar, right? Mortar told him I refused to go back to college, but…who told Mortar?"

"You don't think Mortar tapped your phone…?"

"No," Douglas said. "I think he either interrogated my relatives …or…" He trailed off. "My relatives…"

His eyes went to the phone on his desk. Zach knew about his job, but knowing him, there was no way he'd talk. He wasn't sure if his mother knew, but he was absolutely certain that she had nothing to do with this either.

That left one more. One who never approved of his job at the restaurant, who knew about his college deal, who had a tendency to get obsessed when things didn't go his way.

Douglas stood frozen, eyeing the phone.

"We need to talk to Mr. Griffiths," he whispered. "Now."