Really hoping that this damn chapter uploads okay, this document for some reason has NOT been working with me.

I'm back with a greatly revised version of the 'Introductions' chapter. I'm going to be more cautious and mindful of the content I put out from now on, though it may take a little longer.

This chapter is now about 10,000 words, now. It's been expanded greatly at the end.

If you're new here, then pay no mind to this message!

I'm hoping you guys can see when I upload a change to a chapter, so I hope those of you that have already read this will come back and give it a reread.

Enough talk. Enjoy!

Songs: Daylight (David Kushner), Gasoline (Halsey), One More Light (Linkin Park)


Sometimes, I really wish I could feel the brisk morning air I loved before

I remember when I was much younger, I'd hear kids complain all the time about how much they hate mornings in middle school. I'd wake up early on purpose, put on my favorite light purple sweatshirt (ironic, yes), and sit and watch the sunrise, reveling in that smell of fresh air.

It's far too early for this unhappy train of thought, let's switch it up.

It's… I think it's about sunrise time?

I check my cracked watch… an old Laco pilot's design watch, the band a dark leather with tan stitching, a bland gray face casing, the face itself a clear sapphire crystal.

Well, clear except for the ugly crack, of course.

I say my watch… It was one of Henry's gifts to my father, a testament to a time much happier and simpler. I found it in one of father's 'workspaces'. I almost burned it after I died, in case somehow, some way father's soul was attached to it, or he possessed it, or any of a hundred other possible ways he could still plague this world.

I couldn't bring myself to do it. So here it is, still on my wrist.

And here I am, back on the damn topic.

It's truly shocking, how I still think about all of it every single day, without fail.

But lately it's been different. It's the only thing I've thought about for the last couple weeks since the interview. It stands to reason it's especially bad today, considering this will be my orientation day.

Of course, I applied for the nightguard position and I was promised the nightguard spot, but they want me to start on the daytime guard. The reasoning for that, I don't know. It makes more sense to me to have the new guard start on the night shift as there's less chance of a security crisis in the night.

Yes, I recognize the irony in me saying that. But that is the truth for normal places, in my experience.

Anyways, yeah, it's 6:15. The sunrise is beginning.

I do this most mornings, come out and sit on my back deck on my swinging couch at my small, abandoned property on my middle-of-nowhere road.

I suppose I'm a bit of a hermit. The last thing I want to do is be around people. If I'm going to be stuck here for all of eternity, then I'm going to do it on my own damn terms. Plus, the less people who know me, that I connect with, the less of a chance I raise suspicion.

No one knows who I am. People have forgotten about the old locations. It's my duty to ensure it stays that way.

The light starts to pour over the field from overtop the trees, coating the world in a blanket of warm, orange light, a shine visible on the grass due to the dew created by the temperature change between night and day. It looks… magical.

There are plenty of things that have totally lost flavor to me, things that I used to love and now hate, things that I used to enjoy but now can't stand the sight of.

But the sunsets and sunrises I never tire of.

You'd think I would, as they are the very symbol of passing time, the very same thing I'm cursed to never fall victim to.

But, if I could choose, a loop of the visual of sunrises and sunsets are all I would see. That is all I would ever see until the end of days.

And now the sunrise is over, as well as the peace it blessed me with.

I have no idea whether this new Fazbear location is exactly what I wanted and needed or the thing I feared the most.

I've been roaming this damned place for so many years now, looking for a purpose. And now, it would seem I have one.

But that purpose is brought on by a continuation of the thing that cursed me to eternally exist to begin with. And the thought of more murders or tragic events…

It sickens me.

The thought that I didn't truly end it, or I missed some rogue abomination, or some animatronic with murderous programming is still out there, or any number of outlandish possibilities disturbs me to my very core.

If, somehow, some way, my father survived it all…

I blink back into focus, and I feel a weight in my right hand. I look down to see that I've picked up the knife I keep in my pocket and am holding it to my wrist, ready to slice.

I guess it's like muscle memory at this point.

I usually do… that, in the mornings while I watch the sunrise.

It's with that recollection that I realize this is the first morning I can remember where I'm not actively thinking about cutting.

Funny how those things work, isn't it?

Maybe that's a sign I shouldn't do it?

Whatever, I've already got the knife to my wrist. I got to go to the yard, first, though.

I'd like to say that was relieving, but it never truly is. I never hate myself any less after doing it.

Jesus Christ, a therapist would have a field day with me.

Well, a couple have now that I'm thinking about it.

I have tried seeking help before, to try and cope with my immortality. Of course I could never tell them anything about the whole story, nor could I ever say the reasoning behind how I really felt. It's for that reason I could never get anywhere. It just ended up making me feel worse in the long run because every time I ran through a therapist, I was reminded of how truly, helplessly, hopelessly alone I am.

I kept getting recommendations to see different psychiatrists every time I ever got anywhere progressive.

I really gotta stop thinking about this shit.

I came in this bathroom to shower, not stare into the mirror and have an existential crisis.

Well, I got the shower part out of the way, I guess. As I stare into the mirror after zoning back in, I glare at the large, ugly scar spanning across my abdomen. Thanks, scooper.

For some reason, that spot never did heal. The wound would close after injury, but it never just disappeared like literally every other imperfection on my body. It just… didn't.

It's as if it's some kind of mark on my soul, because during my first half a decade of… adventures, every time my body suffered catastrophic damage, my body healed up to the point of that exact scar.

It's always looked slightly irritated, a little bit puffy sometimes, with mild and faded purple streaks leaking out of it.

A constant reminder of the beginning of my mortal end.

Okay, yeah, I've done enough thinking about this stuff for the day already. It's time to get dressed and go into my first day at the latest location, see what I'm dealing with. I am walking into completely uncharted territory, so it's time to get my game face on.

I haven't seen the new place yet. My interview was online over a zoom meeting since the boss was out of town at the time. He didn't say what for and it's not my business anyhow. But of course, my mind immediately jumped to the absolute worst. I think I almost blew the interview because I got nosy about it and sorta started tweaking the hell out in fear he was doing something shady.

Yeah. Not one of my prouder moments.

But whaddayaknow. I got the job on the spot. Probably because this is a job no one seeks to have, but I'll take what victories I can get.

Nick (the boss), said the dress code was just a standard security uniform, and he was right to assume I already had a couple uniform sets, though he said I'd be provided one by law on my orientation day.

Regardless, gotta make sure to wear my best suit and my most presentable attitude, however unimpressive it is.

After all, no one expects the guy excited for his first day to be the guy waiting to burn the place down.

I throw on my shoes, my cap, brew a fat cup o' joe, grab my truck keys, and head to the pizza plex.

Oh. My. God.

"Holy shit."

This place is enormous.

I pull into the parking lot, and I can't help but look on in wonder at the building before me.

It's the size of a Costco, hell, probably bigger. There's a large icon of the official title of the location at the top of the building, a logo of… some kind of orange and blue variant of Freddy, with the words Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizza Plex appearing around said bear in a light-up text fashion. The words themselves are formatted in a very retro-like manner, with neon pink and yellow reverberating off the letters and the letters themselves being a vibrant silver.

It reminds me of arcades I saw as a kid.

Oh damn, is this place like an 80's themed pizza… mall, of some kind?

Not even in the door yet and my expectations are already blown out of the water.

This is going to be a damn adventure; I can feel it.

I make my way to the front door past the empty parking lot, I'm guessing it doesn't officially open until 11 or 12. Nobody's coming to a pizza themed entertainment establishment before noon, surely.

I open the front entrance and enter the building. Well, not before I'm met with a second door to defeat before gaining passage to the lobby.

What the hell do they need two doors for? Seriously? As if I wasn't satisfied with the first door, I need to apparently experience the magic of an entrance twice.

It's been a while since doors pissed me off.

Wow. I just had a mental pissing contest about doors.

Nice to meet you, I'm Mike, the man who fought off bloodthirsty animatronics for years on end.

Anyways, I enter the building to see a massively open area, my eyes catching a fountain a bit farther past the entry turnstiles decorated with a large statue of…

Is that Chica? In a punk rock outfit? With an 80's… piano guitar thing? And a Mohawk?

What an… interesting concept. Can't wait to see how Freddy looks. He'd look funny all decked out in punk rock gear.

Come to think of it, how come its Chica who's displayed as the first thing the customers see? Freddy is the face of the franchise; it stands to reason it'd be a figure of him.

Whatever, not my place to judge. Well, that's exactly what I'm doing here, but… YaknowwhatImean.

The building looks so… new. Clean. Untouched. At first glance you wouldn't think this building has any association with run down, small, local pizza places famous for their sketchy cleanliness and child homicide stories.

I check the watch on my wrist, fingering the crack out of force of habit. It's 9:06.

I… have no idea what to do here. The place is empty, void of all life save for these maintenance bots mopping… the exact same area they've been mopping for the last few minutes.

Wonders of technology.

I was told to meet the boss here just inside of the entrance, but there appears to be no boss in sight. I'd pick up my phone to call him, but I'd hate to look incompetent on my first day on the job, calling the person who hired you the minute you arrive and asking what to do makes you look incompetent and dependent.

Plus, if I'm going to scour this place's dark corners and files, I need to be trusted enough for them to leave me alone here.

It's as if it's right on cue that I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. "Ryan is calling you."

I answer the phone and bring it up to my ear and start pacing aimlessly, like normal people do when they take a call.

"Hey Mike, how are-"his voice cuts off very quickly, and only silence follows.

"Ryan? Hello?" I ask, not receiving an answer. I shake the phone, as if that would have any logical effect on the quality of long-range cell service. I'm just… so smart.

I take the phone away from my ear and, sure enough, the call failed. I grunt as I read the words on the screen confirming my suspicion. I tap my thumb on the green button to retry the call, and after ringing for a few moments, it picks up on the other end.

"Mike, is that you?" He speaks.

No, it's the other Mike that you literally JUST CALLED.

I need to take a chill pill.

I'm just a little on edge today, can you blame me?

"Hey Ryan. Yeah, I'm here." I reply with an accidental sigh.

"Sorry about that, I'm going through dead zones here. I'll make it quick. As you probably noticed, I'm not there." He rushed to explain. I can tell he's in the car, I can hear the wind noise on the other end. Probably trying to avoid getting cut off again.

"Is something going on?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with. Something just came up and it couldn't wait. I totally blanked on letting you know, that's my bad."

That's… a little sloppy on your part, man. Well, who am I to judge.

"It's alright, so is the day cancelled?" I almost hope he says no. I freaked myself out so much for this day, so if it turns out to be nothing, I just might lose it.

"Nah, but I wouldn't call it an official orientation," he ends on a note signaling he's going to continue, "tell you what. Take a quick tour down through the building, get a feel for the environment. There's no official punch-in spot, just let me know when you leave and if you have any questions or worries. I'd say you're good to go by the time the place opens at midday, other employees won't be there til' about 11."

That's not super unusual, I suppose.

"Ok."

"Be sure you take extra time in Rockstar Row. That's where all the animatronics rooms are. Go ahead and meet with each of them, they'll appreciate the gesture, and you'll better understand the dynamic."

Come again, there?

"I'm sorry… meet them?"

There's silence on the other side for a moment, as if he's confused. Well, I'm confused too, brother. And I will wait for an answer.

"Ah… I forgot, you probably dunno what I'm on about. You'll see. Buh-bye!"

That is not a comfort nor an explanation nor a sensible response.

"Wait, what?" I hope for a response, but it would appear that I am talking to myself.

"Ryan?!" I call again, desperate. I look at the phone screen and, of course, no call screen.

Well then, I suppose I'll just go fuck myself.

Hmph.

He probably just meant that as a figure of speech.

Well, got nothing else to do and a building to explore. Might as well start in Rockstar Row.

Where is Rockstar Row?

Ah, here's a map…

Damn, there are multiple levels too. How on Earth did they manage to convert this franchise from standalone pizzerias to what's basically a whole kid's themed resort?

Looks like it's across the building and down a flight of stairs. Amazing. Love it.

After a nice walk around the pizzeria, I arrive at this Rockstar Row, and what I see is… somewhat strange to me.

It's a long hallway shaped to be a slight curve, portrait shaped electronic screens alternating between attractions and animatronics. There are couches spread out evenly across the place. This could be a nice place to sit down and relax, the dark carpeted flooring complements the lively neon light strips strewn about where walls and the ceiling connect.

That's not the unusual part. The unusual part is the themed rooms, four of them, one for each animatronic, coordinated by the bright neon signs indicating which room represents which animatronic.

Glamrock Freddy, Roxanne Wolf, Montgomery Gator, Glamrock Chica, in that exact order.

The windows on each one of them are entirely blacked out. There is an area indicated by red velvet ropes shaped to form a zig zag line by the entrance door to each room. So, are these tour attractions just spaces to walk through? Are there areas the animatronics are programmed to shut down at?

I could always just investigate the rooms instead of guessing at something I know literally nothing about. I think I might do that.

I walk up to the entrance to the room labeled 'Freddy', stepping over the rope. Rebellious, I know. Separated from the orange walls is a white door, with a vibrant red light where a handle would be on a normal door. It would appear the door is locked, and there is in fact no handle. Luckily, I've got a superpower.

The keycard code Ryan left on my phone.

It's actually a pretty neat system. Since smart phones are a life necessity that pretty much everyone has, the company uses an app for everything for their employees. Pay periods, individual paychecks, summaries of hours worked, and we're given a QR code assigned to each employee uniquely stating their identity and security level. There are 10 levels, I'm at… I think 6?

So I put the scanner up to the reader and with an audible high pitched beep the light turns blue and the door opens… up.

That's fun. Unnecessary, but fun.

The room is decorated all sorts of Freddy merchandise, wall posters, a neon light sign with an outline of his face, with bright red walls and blue carpet flooring with… again, icons of Freddy's face and a lightning symbol. Decorating the wall is a thin stripe of checkered tile, an homage to the original look of Freddy's.

It looks like a green room that an actor would use.

I finally enter having cased the environment to walk in and see Freddy laid up on his couch with a magazine about AI in his hand.

Wait.

Wait.

Hold on just a goddamn minute.

That is Freddy.

Reading.

Okay, relax. Maybe he's just programmed to sit like this as decoration in the off hours. That's it, right? Yeah! Just a gimmick from… the… programming…

And he just turned his head to look at me. And now he's analyzing.

"Why, hello there. You're the new security guard, I presume?" This hunk of plastic and metal asks me politely, putting the magazine aside and the arm holding it behind his head to rest on.

You know, I like to think of myself as a calm, collected man who knows what to say. A guy who can think on his feet, form an explanation for things that can't be explained.

But at the moment?

Yeah, nope. Nah, got nothing for ya.

C'mon Mikey, say something, anything. Do something.

"Are… you alright? Is there something on my face?" The animatronic bear asks again, sitting up and rubbing his face in a self-conscious manner.

I finally find the strength to speak and open my mouth, hoping to say something profound.

"I… you…" Goddamn it.

"Sir, are you having an episode of some kind?" Freddy stands and begins walking toward me. I can't help but instinctively back away, a pang of fear hitting my chest when I see his hand reach towards me.

He notices, and responds with silence, pulling his hand away slowly, backing away a step.

"I'm… fine." That's a lie. A complete and utter lie. I'm dying inside. I have so many thoughts and concerns I couldn't possibly pick one to speak up about.

So this is what Ryan meant. He treated it as if it were some joke, we'd have a laugh at. He just played with every traumatic event I've ever endured with these things.

I'm about to engage in a conversation with an animatronic. The very thing I spent my mortal days attempting to end, something that should have no personality whatsoever.

"Are you sure? You're… turning pale." Freddy takes a small step towards me again, this time I don't flinch, regaining my composure.

"Yes, I just… didn't expect… you can talk?" I ask moronically.

"… Yes, indeed." Freddy answers confidently, raising an eyebrow at me as if I'd asked something I should instinctively know the answer to.

Now that I'm somewhat calmed down, I can look at… him. He's about 7 feet high, a light brown bear with a shine to the plastic shell he wears with red colored shoulders and lower legs, assumingly meant to act as pads. He has a black bowtie and small top hat, the signature Freddy look. He's got a lighter colored belly with a light blue lightning bolt across his chest plate. This same color blue can be found on the stripes on his cheeks, his chin, accenting the outside of his eyes, his pupils in his eyes, and on his claws on his hands and feet.

"Why does that surprise you?" Freddy asks again, noticing I'm unable to continue the conversation. Sorry, Freddy, I'm not a very conversational guy, you're stuck with this.

"Just… not used to it. I've never met an animatronic that could talk." I explain, crossing my arms, stepping just inside the doorway allowing the entrance to close. A risky move in case I'm in need of escape.

"Well, I'm honored to be your first, I hope I can do us justice. As you might have guessed, my name is Freddy Fazbear. You are…?" He extends his arm to me with a friendly expression on his face, I don't extend mine. I can't help but be cautious. What's the use of pleasantries, anyway? It's a robot.

His ears lower a bit. He slowly retracts his arm, seemingly hurt by my lack of reciprocating the handshake.

Well, now I feel like an asshole.

"Michael Schmidt. It's my first day." I explain, adjusting my hat.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Michael."

"Just Mike is fine."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stick with Michael. We're professionals after all," He says, stepping back in front of his couch, he points to a chair on the other side of a coffee table in front of it, "now please, have a seat."

I hesitate.

"I insist. I promise I don't bite!" He says lightheartedly. I'm sure you understand why that is just a teensy bit distasteful. I can't hide the frown that forms on my face.

However, regardless of my feelings on the matter, this bear has shown me nothing but kindness so far. I'll have a seat for a little while. The jury's still out on my opinion of all this, though. I sit and so does he, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

"So… what brings you to the Pizza Plex?"

What is this, an interview? Hate to disappoint you pal, but I already took that step.

"Seemed like a good place to work. The job's simple and I've done it before. Pays well." I explain, trying to cover all the bases in as few words as possible. This just might be the nearest thing I've had to a normal conversation in years.

"Where have you worked before? Places like this?" He asks, genuinely interested, gesturing with his hand to the window as if to indicate the building.

One thing is for sure, this bear has an incredible sense for situational awareness. He respected my boundaries when he stepped away and let me come to him, and he makes me feel listened to by interacting with what I say.

Come to think of it, the second I entered the room, I felt something, I suppose. Like a sense of familiarity. I felt trusted, and trusting, in the same way. I have no idea why.

I'm probably just thrown off my game.

"Just similar places. You wouldn't know them." I say, attempting to avoid the question.

"Nonsense! I can access the internet and look it up. Give it to me!" The bear insists, his eyes glowing a light blue.

"Freddy, I don't want to talk about it. Sorry." I dismiss, I can't think of another way to manipulate this conversation, I'm a bit out of practice. He doesn't look disappointed or disapproving, rather understanding.

"I understand." He says, blinking hard and nodding his head. A few moments of silence pass.

I'm still… processing all this. How is it possible this robot can converse like a human? Act human? Feel human things? Is artificial intelligence just that advanced anymore? Or…

Oh… I really hope there isn't some kind of soul play at work here. If that's true…

I need to get ahold of the blueprints for these animatronics, a list of third-party suppliers and partnered companies and such.

But after dealing with this shit before, I've gained a sense for when something is wrong when it comes to animatronics. And, even after having my world shaken by this sentient bot, I just…

I don't see it.

In my limited experience here, this place feels clean. I felt it when I first entered, a cleanliness in spirit, not just lack of grime, although that's true as well.

Freddy must have noticed a shift in dynamic, deciding to speak up after the moments of silence.

"I'm sorry if I pried too much, it was not my intention to intrude." He speaks. There's that situational awareness I mentioned.

"It's fine, I know."

He stands from the couch, and I follow suit.

"Well, Michael, it's been a pleasure speaking with you, I'm glad I got to meet you this morning. Unfortunately, we open relatively soon and need to begin preparations. I'd imagine you aren't staying after opening?" He walks me to the door, speaking all the while. I put my hands in my pockets, feeling relaxed enough to do so.

"Ryan suggested I leave at opening, yes."

"I would like for you to meet my friends today as well, so I will not keep you." He balls his fists and holds them at his side.

"What time is it?"

"It is currently 10:30."

Damn. Time flies when you're having an existential crisis about sentient animatronics I suppose. How long was I just sitting there?

I probably don't want to know.

"Alright, I'll leave you to it." I say, exiting the door Freddy has opened for me.

"Thank you again, Michael. I look forward to working with you." He turns away and the door shuts before me.

Where to next?

Probably Chica, she's the only other familiar face. Familiar in the sense that past iterations of her and I have battled fiercely. But judging by my conversation with the latest iteration of the typical leader of the past onslaughts against me, maybe it won't be that bad.

Chica in the past was always the sweetheart animatronic, she was always programmed to have a motherly and older sister kind of aura. I'm intrigued to see what's become of her with sentience.

I can't help but ponder as I walk to her room.

At the complete opposite end of the hall.

Love it.

How the hell can they possibly be sentient? Some kind of advanced AI chip or something? I know a brief bit about programming due to the kind of skillset I needed to upend my father's work. It is not easy to try and manufacture a personality based on commands and coding segments.

Is it possible this is some kind of work of my father's I didn't know about? Plans for new animatronics, possibly?

No, there's no way that kind of technology was even invented by then. My father was a technological engineering genius, but he couldn't have even had the means to implement anything beyond pre-recorded voice lines.

I really need to get ahold of the animatronics' schematics and see what I'm up against. If I'm even up against them. If I see a single mention of remnant…

Shove the thoughts away, Michael. You're here.

I scan my phone into the QR reader, and the door slides open, filling the silence. It's a nice complement to the silence, actually. Makes it feel like I'm alone in an abandoned warehouse, the only sound being the echo of my own actions.

"BAWK!"

Goddamn, I was just talking about the comfort of silence.

I stop in my tracks, barely making it through the entrance until I'm halted by an unearthly loud shriek. I can't help but flinch at the sound.

What I see before me when I open my eyes to look at the sound is the chicken herself.

With an entirely new look.

Chica, unlike Freddy, has actual feathers covering her in a neat and put-together fashion. Well faux feathers of course, probably a kind of shaped pillow fluff or something. There's a bow wrapped around the top of her head holding up a tuft of feathers at the very top with a mild sideways mohawk look. She wears a tunic of pink and magenta over her midsection, plastic shoulder pads, similar to Freddy but in a pink color. She wears spiked bracelets about halfway up her forearms with fingerless green gloves over her hands, and leopard and tiger print green and magenta sleeves covering the bottom half of her legs.

Way more 80's punk than Freddy.

At this particular second, she's quite frightened, her hands up in front of her face in a scared, defensive fashion. I hate to think I did that.

Do I hate to think I did that?

I don't think I do. I feel dirty thinking that.

This time it may be my turn to speak up first.

"Hi there. I'm the new security guard." I say, filling the silence. She lowers her hands and seems to calm down a bit in relief.

"Oh, Hi! It's so nice to meet you! Are you new here?" She is… quite loud still. And possibly lame-brained, considering I literally just answered the question she felt the need to ask.

"I'm the new security guard, yes." I confirm.

"Oh, you already said that, huh?" Her pitch drops a bit.

"Yep." Maybe she's not lame-brained. I suppose I was a complete moron for the whole first half of my interaction with Freddy. Maybe we aren't that different, chicken.

"Oh! This place is a mess, isn't it?" It is in fact not messy. It's actually impressively well-kept and clean, there's no perceivable amount of dust anywhere and everything is organized in a sensible manner.

"I'm sorry about that, I wasn't expecting company!" There's the volume again. She moves in a flurry around the room, almost as fast as the eye can see. She moves her keytar from one corner to… another corner, readjusts pillows on her couch to move them literal centimeters. I can faintly hear her mumbling narrations of what she's doing.

It's like when Mom tells you she's expecting company and she goes and cleans up the exact same thing multiple times over and in a different way each time.

"Don't be, your room looks clean." I reassure her, hoping she takes the hint to stop rushing around the room and panicking herself. While entertaining, and slightly endearing, I'd rather not waste time.

She slows down when she gets to the couch and sits in relief. I take an extra step in to convey I'm engaged in conversation, a mistake I'll likely soon regret.

"Oh, well thanks. I try to keep the place, you know. These vents let in a lot of dust. I've put in work orders to have them cleaned; nothing ever happens! And don't even get me started on the service bots. I've completely locked them out after they kept letting food fall on the floor. Seriously, those things need to be calbriateded."

That's… not how you say that word.

So, I guess those thin and rather cheaply made droids kind of act as staff, too. It's a smart idea from a business perspective, if technological advancement allows it then companies can avoid a lot of hourly cost for maintenance and service.

But I've seen firsthand what the downsides can be. I'd burn them all if I could.

"Calibrated," I correct, "I think you mean calibrated."

"Hm? Ah, I see, sorry! Big words, not my thing." Yes, I noticed.

"So anyways, what's your name mister?"

"Michael Schmidt. Call me Mike." I say, moving towards the chair across from the couch. I place my hand on the top of the chair, feeling its fibers.

"I'm Chica! Yaknow, like, the chicken!" She vividly describes. Her eyes light up just a bit, she's proud of her model, I suppose.

It's a little weird, determining her facial expressions, as she doesn't have a mouth that can curve and alter shape. Kinda interesting how much just that one detail makes it that much harder to pick out. But she telegraphs her emotion with her eyes and hands quite a bit.

"I guessed, yeah."

"Go ahead, sit down! Tell me about yourself!" She beckons.

I'm… not as comfortable about it as I was with Freddy. Chica's less predictable.

"I'm alright, thanks." I fix my hat to face forward and shove my hands in my pockets, turning my head to look at, well, anywhere else but the bot.

I feel her cock her head just a bit to the side and squint her eyes.

"You don't trust me." She says, her tone and volume lowering, resting her hands on her knees.

Damn right, I don't.

"I trust you just fine." I dismiss, still not facing her.

"Oh no, you're scared of me too?" I can't help but look at her in mild surprise. She looks straight ahead, avoiding my gaze.

How the hell did you come to that one?

Well great, now it's awkward because I couldn't keep the face up. Nice one, Mike.

I got to know how she did that…. But I don't want to make her feel bad about herself.

I am now empathizing with a pile of parts. Riveting.

"How did you do that?" I ask, she looks at me with mild wonder.

"Do what, hon?" She replies with a brow kicked up.

For some reason, that 'hon' is really comforting. It feels like an older sister, or like a close aunt or something is reassuring you. It's a strange thing for a machine to be able to convey.

"I mean what you just did. How'd you figure it out."

"Oh, that! Well, no offense, but it's all over you." Her voice is really loud again. That's something I'll have to get used to.

"In what way?" I ask, facing her slightly, relaxing my legs a bit.

"Well, until when I sat down across the room from you, you stood still with one shoulder back and one foot sideways from the other. When I sat down then offered you a seat, you refused to sit as well. Which I respect, by the way!" She puts her hands out in defense. I take no offense, so it's wasted anyways. She continues,

"When I looked at you closer, I noticed you felt awkward. Then I saw the fear. Your posture changed. From casually facing forward with your hands in your pockets, you bent your knees just slightly, reverted back to your first posture with one foot sideways behind the other. Your eyes avoided me, too. That was the tell."

I'm staring at her like a blubbering fool.

How the hell can she determine all that from my physical orientations? How did she even notice all that? She preoccupied herself with her room so much and has such a short attention span…

I did not see that coming, is what I'm trying to say.

"That's… really impressive, actually." I can see how she's designed to handle kids. Come to think of it, Freddy too.

Chica seems to be more emotionally aware, rather than Freddy's situational awareness. Chica's the ethos, Freddy's the logos. Both of them have their own unique 'caretaker' kind of vibe.

Chica looks sad and disappointed.

"I'm sorry you're scared. I don't know why, but you probably don't wanna talk about it. That's fine!" She picks herself back up like nothing happened, standing proudly from the couch.

"I want you to know I would never do anything to hurt you or anybody else. It's my job to keep our cute little customers safe and entertained!" She speaks with excitement, with a true liking for children.

I wonder if that's programmed or developed? Probably programmed.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"If you do ever wanna talk about that, or just things, I'll be right here!" She reassures me.

It's… welcome, I suppose.

"Thank you. I should… probably get going." I say, shifting my weight on my back foot.

"Okay! Bye now! It was nice meeting you!"

Fatigued, I leave the room.

It's interesting how even though I am incapable of feeling natural exhaustion, my interaction with Chica was truly tiring.

She's such a bundle of… energy. I can understand the dynamic of her appeal to children, I suppose.

Alright, now the gator. The room is right next to Chica's, so I don't walk much distance at all. When I reach the door, I hear noises. Voices, some stomping… signs of an argument?

But between who?

This is Montgomery's room, so he's most likely a part of it. Durr, Michael.

One of the voices almost sounds feminine. Could it be Roxanne Wolf?

Do these animatronics argue? If so, what would they argue about? What disagreements could they have, how can they produce so much emotion TO argue about?

I can't help but want to eavesdrop just a little bit. I mean… it is my duty as the security guard, isn't it? Right?

However, just as I put my ear to the door, I hear the feminine voice rise in volume, signaling it's getting closer. Then, the door opens.

"Move!" A large figure pushes past me faster than I can get a look at it. I take a double take between the doorway and the figure that left, now walking away down the hall.

It is in fact, Roxanne.

I still have to meet Roxanne. I have a sixth sense that will not go smoothly in her current state.

She's gone down the hall, stomped off before I can even get a decent look at her.

Let's hope the gator is in a better mood.

Alright, here goes nothing.

I enter the doorway and case the environment. It looks pretty much the same as the other rooms, except with a green and slight purple theme to it, reflecting Montgomery's colorway. The room is significantly more of a mess in comparison with the other two rooms. Blankets, action figures, various small decorations strewn about the room in an unorganized fashion.

The room isn't a complete pigsty, but it's nowhere near the cleanliness and… extra, that Chica's room sported.

There's the bot himself. Leaned forward over his desk, hands placed at the edge. The stance of remorseful thought.

Montgomery Gator's appearance is… pretty straightforward. Plastic looking, similar to Freddy, with more breaks to indicate more of a scaly skin texture. A lighter colored belly while the rest of his body is green. Purple accents the green with purple shoulder pads, purple hands, and purple feet. Unique to him, however, is his brawler stature and tail. He is significantly more physically imposing than the others. Being the broadest and tallest with a large mechanical tail, not to mention incredibly thick and rigid claws, makes Monty a tough threat should a conflict between us arise.

He doesn't seem to know I'm here, as the door remained open after Roxanne left. I should probably announce my presence, rather than let him find out I'm in here.

"Hello?" I say timidly. I really don't want to provoke this guy.

"GAH!" He whips around, his tail following behind him, the momentum from said tail knocking over the chair beside. Once he sees it's just me, he calms down.

"Ah, heya there. Didn't see ya there! How'd you sneak up on me like that?" He asks, wiping his hand across his forehead as if to wipe off sweat.

Makes sense, seeing as he is totally a biological creature that sweats.

That was sarcasm.

"The door was open already." I say.

I really need to brush up on my conversation skills.

"Ah, alrighty then. I'm guessing you probably caught some of… that." He says, gesturing to the hallway Roxanne stormed down with his hand.

His voice has a sort of… jock-like playfulness to it. A little bit gruff, pirate-y, definitely more appealing to the male population.

"I just saw her walk out. Didn't hear the conversation." I don't want to pry too much, though it would probably help me to know what that was about. It could be important.

Montgomery nods his head and exhales heavily. His snout picks up slightly.

"Oh, excuse me! Where is ma' manners," he steps towards me, extending his hand for, not a handshake, but a fist bump, "I'm Montgomery Gator. Ya-know, the fun one! Call me Monty. Gimme some!"

I don't know what to do in this situation, but I have no choice but to comply with this elaborate greeting. I bump his fist back.

"Yeah, there ya go!" He moves back over to the couch, to sit down.

I'm noticing a theme with the couch and these animatronics. I'm thankful, I'd rather they be sitting than standing at the ready. Gives me a tactical advantage.

But, as I go on here, I'm questioning whether there's a need for a tactical advantage or not.

So far I have been treated with nothing but kindness, understanding and respect, and not in the programmed kiss-ass kind of way, but in the peer-to-peer kind of way.

It's…

It's a complex thing to think about.

Something I'll consider later.

Monty lifts his bass off the table and sits on the couch with his back against the arm rest, one foot laying on the couch and the other resting on the ground.

"Take a seat! I ain't gonna bite you, I promise." Again, with the biting thing, seriously?

Reluctantly, I sit.

"So, what's your name then, stranger? You a new guard?"

"Michael Schmidt. Yeah, soon to be nightguard."

"Pfft, Schmidt. That's a funny one." He laughs insensitively.

Uhh… thanks, gator.

"Ah, I'm sorry, that was rude, just sounds funny. That's all." He looks at me with a sincere expression. I really took no offense, just caught me off guard. It is a fake last name, to be fair.

"I see. It's fine, didn't bother me." I reassure.

"Good, I'd hate to get off on the wrong foot. I'm already on a bad one, I figure." He says that second half a little more silent. I assume he means the argument.

"You curious about it?" He stops plucking and turns to look at me. I get the feeling he wants to vent about this based on the excitement behind his voice.

"I don't want to pry." That's a lie. I would love to pry.

"Oh, nonsense. Y'aint prying at all! Figure you oughta know anyways, considerin' you bein' the new guard, and all." He sets the bass aside and rests his arms behind his head.

"I'm all ears." I say, leaning slightly forward to show I'm interested. He takes a deep breath and moves his right hand out in front of him, probably trying to get the story straight.

"Yesterday, her spot, the Raceway, was real slow. Every one of us has those days, yaknow? Anyhow, during the show we did yesterday, the numbers were pretty light in general. A slow day. You followin'?"

Yes gator, I follow this complex tale.

"Go on."

"Right, so people actually started leavin' before the show's end. Roxanne had a solo segment towards the end and she noticed a pretty big amount of people leaving. Between that and the Raceway bein' slow, she thought it was somethin' she did. But here's what reeeeaaallly set her off." He plants both his feet on the ground as we get to the meat of the story. He's actually doing pretty well at keeping me engaged, I'll give him credit for that.

"After the show, she heard one of the kids say that they wished my solo lasted longer, which would be cutting into her part. Every one's got different tastes! Until about 20 minutes ago, she'd been ignorin' me, mostly. She came in to give me a piece a' her mind, I tried to calm her down, and you saw how that worked out." He finishes the story with a lowered voice, almost like he feels guilty about it.

"I see. I… wouldn't think that could cause so much grief."

"Have you actually met Roxanne yet?" Monty cocks his head a bit with a sort of surprise to his voice.

"No, she's the only one I have yet to meet."

"Yeah, don't tell her that when you do meet her. The story'll add up more when you get to know her." He relaxes himself, leaning back onto the cushion.

"Noted," I reply, making a mental note to recall that.

What time is it, actually? I don't want to meet her too late.

Oh, shit. It's about 11:00. I should probably get a move on before people get here.

"I should probably get going and meet Roxanne."

Monty checks my watch with me and his eyes open wide.

"Uh, yeah, I'd get on that. Dressers are gon' be here at 11:30 for her so you got until then."

"Dressers?"

"Well, she'll probably shoo 'em off anyhow, but the point is that's when things get set up, yeah?"

I follow, that makes sense.

Kinda bizarre how animatronics have dressers.

You know what, everything right now is bizarre.

"Well, Mikey, it was nice meetin' ya, I had some fun! Lookin' forward to messin' around with you here." He says, waving goodbye to me with the two finger salute off his head. I nod my head and leave.

Well, alright.

Nothing else to do but venture to the wolf.

Thus far, meeting these animatronics, while a bit of a shock, has been… pleasant.

It feels wrong, somehow, that my introductions with them are so peaceful, civil, friendly, even.

It feels like it goes against everything in my nature to befriend these machines. Past renditions of these animatronics were the architects of my suffering.

I suppose that's not quite fair.

It was me that sent dear old Dad over the edge. Me with, erm…

Yeah, you know. I'm not explaining that again.

But to me it seems like it's almost a disservice to not wish absolute destruction upon these horrid creations.

But as I've seen thus far, these are not horrid creations.

Before, I was so keen on stopping my father, and more often than not, a necessary evil required to do that was to destroy the animatronics.

But that was fine, they were just robots. Mere machines programmed with repetitive instructions, simple reactive functions to know where to walk and which voice lines to play.

The only essence of humanity any animatronic in the past possessed was because they were… well, possessed.

Clever, Mike.

Back then, destroying the animatronics was actually more of a service rather than an evil, I suppose. The children's souls had to be freed, and usually for that to happen the animatronics would have to be cleansed or broken.

Maybe I had the wrong idea walking in here?

No, Mike, stop it. You are NOT in the clear yet.

Keep your damn wits about you.

The walk is quiet, only noise apparent being that which is inside my mind preparing for a storm.

By storm, I mean a likely to be angsty female animatronic wolf that has probably 7 inches and 40 pounds on me.

All the others seem to kind of reflect their animals perceived temperaments and tendencies, at least in a kid's storytelling sort of way.

Freddy is the cool and relaxed bear, the biggest of the animatronics, possibly not in stature, but definitely in status and maturity.

Chica is the squirrelly chicken. Short of memory and mental capacity, but not to say she is uninitelligent.

Monty is the goofy, fun and… sort of simple minded gator that's there as a representation of a good time.

Let's see…

What are the traits of a wolf?

Probably… loyal, social creatures. I know that in packs they rely on social structure and hierarchy. Maybe that means she's a stickler for rules?

Wolves in stories are portrayed to be either the valiant heroes high in honor or the cunning trickster antagonists that pull strings and manipulate weaknesses.

So upon identifying the possibilities, along with my limited knowledge of her temperament as of now…

You know what, fuck it.

We're due for a villain, the others have been absolute saints, frustratingly so.

I'm gonna bet Roxanne will fall into the latter.

That's disrespectful, isn't it? Betting what someone will be like based on personal prejudices and expectations?

Eh, I've displayed no shortness of disrespect. Gotta follow the theme.

We're about to find out anyways. I'm currently standing at the door.

Taking a deep breath and fixing my shirt collar, I enter.

The room is a nice purple, a relaxing warm shade that is inviting to the eyes.

Well, Roxanne, you're already winning me over with the purple, my favorite color. Not that it was your choice. Unless it was? I don't know, it's unimportant.

And yes I am aware that the purple thing is ironic.

The room is certainly picked up, not flawless, but clean. Somewhere between Freddy and Chica levels of clean.

As I expected, there is Roxanne Wolf. Laying on the couch… face down.

She must be upset from her prior interaction with Monty.

As I advance into the room, the door crashes down behind me, making a much more significant sound than when it opened. Her ear flicks just a bit. She speaks, voice muffled by the pillow she's shoved her face into.

"Monty, I swear to the great fucking Sun God above, if you're here to apologize then just go."

Oooookay.

Do I want to do this?

I could just leave.

The door is literally right there.

That would be irresponsible, I suppose. I also suppose I owe her a response.

Would she be more upset knowing it is or isn't Monty? Based on the information I've just gathered I have literally no idea.

"It's not Monty."

My voice gets a stark reaction, indeed.

She picks her head up and rears it around to look at me. The current look she's giving me is quite the expression. It's as if I'm a fire breathing dragon with six heads.

I shove my hands in my pockets in mild insecurity.

"Who the fuck are you?" She asks with no regard for professionalism or basic decency. I respect that.

"Michael Schmidt, or just Mike. I'm the new security guard." She stands up in response, my sixth sense tells me she's about to size me up from across the room.

She walks over to the exact other side of the room from me, against the glass, with her arms crossed, eyeing my up and down like I'm the other team's coach trying to steal her playbook.

Bad analogy, yeah. My bad. But you know what I mean.

She seems to be modeled after a grey wolf. She's colored a clean deep matte silver all over as her base color. But, she's got some paint and makeup on as well. She has black lines on her face accenting her eyes, which are a brilliant amber. For clothing, she wears red shoulder guards and and a red tight crop top with a black filled in asterisk on it. She wears tight red short shorts, as well.

On her arms she bears forearm sleeves colored purple with even black stripes overtop, the same goes for her lower legs. Her hands are decorated with metal small spiked bracelets and she has green, small claws.

She has a striking, flowing mane of hair and a soft, groomed tail. She has a section of her hair at the very front dyed green to accent her purple eyeshadow and grey-ish purple fur. Her voice somehow suits this look, too. It's a bit deeper than Chica's but very much a rebellious and strong voice. Fitting for the sassy guitar player.

Roxanne's figure has more… realism to it. Curves at the chest and hips, more so than Chica's more plastic, toy-looking figure, a mysterious design choice.

Her body is covered in authentic looking realistic hair, fur, almost. Her hands and foot-paws seem to have a softness that the others don't have.

Roxanne is just… beautiful.

And that difference right there compared to the others bothers me.

"Mhm, okay, so why are you HERE, then? What did I do to get the security guard in here?!" I can feel her anger rising.

I don't really know how to ease her nerves right now, so I'm just going to try and play this as calmly and kindly as I can.

"Well, I-"

"Oh, this better not be some shit about earlier. How else did I screw the pooch yesterday?! I get it, I sucked. Just let that shit go!"

That is literally nowhere close to why I'm here.

"I'm just meeting everyone before the day starts. It's my first day here, I'm getting acquainted with the place."

"Uh huh, right. I'm Roxanne. You're Michael Schmidt. Or 'MiKe.'"

Ouch.

"What kind of fake ass last name is 'Schmidt', anyway?" She asks, relaxing her arms and putting one hand on her hip, letting the other rest.

Double ouch.

"I… don't know." I take my hands out of my pockets and cross my arms in front of me.

I didn't plan on being exposed to unrelenting criticism at this moment, so I'm a bit unprepared in retorts.

How exactly do you respond to that anyways? 'Yeah, that is the fake last name I have been living under.' Doesn't exactly help my case.

"Impressive save, champ." She says, going over to her desk mirror with a blending brush to do… something with makeup. Look, I don't know. I'm not well versed in the ways of makeup.

I'm not sure what to do here. Should I attempt conversation?

Probably not.

But it's just quiet. I haven't been exactly dismissed, yet.

Here goes nothing.

"… The others seem nice." I throw my hands in my jacket pockets.

Outstanding recovery, Mike.

She stops blending the second the words hit her ears, her arm drops just a bit and I can see her eyes droop just a bit. Not sad, annoyed.

"Huh?"

Nice one, Mikey boy. Literally the one thing Monty advised you not to do is the very thing you've just done.

I'm definitely beginning to understand more about what he was saying earlier, though.

"I just… I mean you all seem great from what I've heard."

Fucking stupendous recovery, Mike.

She turns to face me with a flat expression, obviously squeezing the brush harder.

"You've seriously met everyone else already? Even the goddamn DJ and that stupid-ass daycare attendant?!" She raises her voice at me, flailing her arms just a bit to accentuate her point.

DJ and a daycare attendant? I definitely owe them a visit at some point. Especially this… daycare attendant.

I don't even know where they would be. I have much to learn, I suppose.

"I didn't know they existed until you just said, actually."

It was probably unwise of me to say that. I swear I can see her eyes twitch just a bit.

"Oh, wow! So I'm NOT the last choice. Except that I fucking am because you didn't know they were fucking here!" Her voice continues to rise.

I should to calm her down.

I don't think I can possibly calm her down.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, I honestly just picked randomly, there's no preference from me."

She looks at me closer, taking a step towards me as she cocks her head to the side. Her ears flop down just a bit, conveying an emotion I'm entirely unsure of.

"Hang on, that was you outside Monty's room, wasn't it?"

Uh-oh. In her eyes she probably thinks I was spying.

Which to be fair, that was kind of my intention to begin with. It just happened that the door opened faster than I could eavesdrop on them.

"Yes, it was. I only got there as soon as you left."

"Sure, perv." She turns back around and picks up a differently sized brush with a purple powder, patting the tool in the powder and delicately bringing it to her face.

Ironically, she seems to have calmed herself down miraculously quickly.

The makeup process must be the cause, she seems entranced.

Now I really don't know how to continue this conversation. Everything I say just seems to set her off.

"The hell are you still doing here, perv?" She asks, still patting her face as her eyes dart over to me.

"Please, stop calling me 'perv.'"

"Why? It's what you are."

"No, it's not."

"Sure."

Being called a pervert very much irritates me. I can't show her that though, I'd imagine that will only entice her to continue with the jokes.

"What?" She cocks her head just a bit to show she's acknowledging me.

"What?"

"You know it really doesn't help your whole 'perv' case that you're staring at me, right?"

Shit, I am aren't I?

I guarantee it's not why you think, Roxanne.

"Sorry." I look away.

"I understand. I'd be admiring me too if I was you." Her tail wags slightly as she says so.

Evidently egotistical in nature, she is. Not an impossible trait, given the animal she's based on.

I choose not to respond. Sometimes silence is the best answer I'm learning.

"Michael."

"Hmm?" I direct my attention back to her.

"I'm Roxanne, you're Mike. We've met. Now make like a tree, and fuck off somewhere else."

What does that even mean? In what scenario do trees 'fuck off'?

But she is right, I've lingered long enough.

"Alright, it was nice to meet you." I make a final attempt at being decent.

"No, it wasn't. Now leave." She doesn't at all turn from the mirror.

I remove my hands from my pockets and leave the room, at her request.

That was… an experience.

That was a much shorter interaction than I expected to be honest.

She probably didn't have much emotional bandwidth left after her previous confrontation. I can't fault her for that, I suppose.

I have met and spoken with four of the most unique and advanced figures of technology in the world.

So, what can we conclude?

That I need to get to those goddamn blueprints.

… And that I need a drink.

Bourbon.

No, whiskey.

Nah, tequila.

You know what?

Fuckin' all of it.