Ethan drove to Freddy's, thinking along the way. Once again, he found the second to last line picking at his brain. What in the hell was up with that? Ethan had his suspicions. One of his many past times other than gaming was researching urban legends and going down some of the most random rabbit holes and finding the craziest conspiracy theories that existed. In this regard, he had read that a few security guards at one particular kid's restaurant had reported the animatronic mascots supposedly had been moving at night, roaming around the restaurant.
Official explanation was that they had a "night mode" in which the animatronic would move through their motions randomly at night to keep their joints loose and to prevent any mechanisms from locking up. Ethan found that both an interesting way to keep the mascots from needing plenty of maintenance and oddly suspicious at the same time. If the mascots just "did their daytime routine at specific intervals during the night," to quote the article from the restaurant, and considering the fact that they were bolted to the stage, what was with the reports of movement around the restaurant? All very odd, very odd indeed.
Ethan pulled into the parking lot of Freddy's, taking in the old but still functional sign on the front of the front of the restaurant. So many childhood memories were held here. Looking around the nearly empty parking lot, Ethan spotted Mr. Sinclair's pickup truck at the side entrance. Ethan smiled. "Good, now I have a way in." Ethan parked his truck by the owner's, pulled the key out, and locked up his truck as he entered the building.
Ethan walked into the parts and service room, the familiar rows of animatronic heads and the endoskeleton on the table greeting him. He'd been back here too many times, playing hide and seek with his friends. For some reason or another, this room's lock never quite seemed to work. And even better, the room felt welcoming, safe, even if all the other kids found the room creepy, and rightfully so.
Ethan smiled as he walked out of the room, entering the main building, his eyes naturally drifting to the main stage with the stars of the show, Freddy and friends. They were powered down, and the lights were turned off, once again giving the restaurant a foreboding aura of unseen horror.
He turned his head toward Pirate Cove, where, unsurprisingly, Foxy was still out of order. Ethan wasn't quite sure why he still was unfunctional, but recent rumor's had it that Sinclair was possibly bringing Foxy back to order after a year of being defunct. That'd be fun for sure. The younger kids would love it, Ethan was positive.
As he turned toward the hall leading to the supply closet and the security office, he saw a figure standing there, a firearm leveled at Ethan. The boy raised his hands, expecting nothing less.
"You got about two seconds to tell me who the hell you are before you feel bullets through your body there, boy." The voice was low and gruff, almost most like truck tires going over loose gravel.
"Jeez, Mr. Sinclair, I was expecting a gun pointed at me, but I wasn't looking forward to getting shot today. Kinda gotta pass high school, ya know?"
The hammer of the pistol disengaged as the man sighed in annoyance. "You got a death wish, boy? I was about to blow a hole in you. No-one teach you about breaking and entering, Ethan?"
Ethan laughed. "Not exactly breaking and entering if you leave the side door unlocked, now is it? At that point everything's free game."
Sinclair shook his head and holstered his gun. "Still don't give you the right to come breaking before hours, Ethan." Ethan shrugged casually. "Well, I knew you wouldn't shoot me, and I kinda figured that you wanted a new night guard, so here I am."
Sinclair visibly blanched when Ethan said that. "N-no, no siree, we already have a new guard." His stutter gave it all away.
"Okay, now I know you're lying, Mr. Sinclair. You stammer when you lie or you're nervous. So, when can I start?"
Sinclair stared at Ethan now, a very serious look on his face. "Go on home, Ethan. Heed my words, you do not want this job."
Ethan threw his arms up. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't, Mr. Sinclair."
"Boy, if you don-"
"All you're doing is proving that you're hiding something, Sinclair."
Sinclair sighed, defeated. "Fine, but we have a protocol, you know. Interview and all that."
"That's why I'm here."
Sinclair gestured for Ethan to follow him, walking back to his office, located directly through front of the kitchen and to the left of the pizza ovens. Sinclair fiddled with the lock for a second, then let both of them in. Ethan, walked in, sat in one of the chairs of his soon to be bosses desk, and looked around at the room, having seen inside a few times before.
The office was small and well decorated. Pictures of Sinclair's army unit from his time in Vietnam hung on one wall, along with his helmet and flak jacket, while directly behind his desk was a tall stand up safe, a few medals he had earned, and other memorabilia from his past jobs. The third wall had a few small windows and was left mostly unadorned except for a few drawing's that could only be from Sinclair's grandchildren. Most depicted Freddy and the gang, and Ethan was quick to spot his own drawing from when he was four. A simply, crudely drawn picture of Foxy and Freddy, by far his two favorites. He found both Chica and Bonnie a little on the creepy side, and as a kid he tended to stray away from them.
Sinclair plopped down in his chair, somehow seeming to sigh both in anger and sadness as he looked over Ethan. The boy finally turned his head toward his boss and waited for the questions to start flowing. Instead, however, Sinclair handed him a sheet and a clipboard, the paper on the board a simple survey.
The questions on the survey were easy enough, though a few might've been considered cryptic.
Do you have any previous job experience as a night guard?
Easy enough, no.
Do you have any known medical or mental issues in your family, such as being prone to heart attacks or having dementia?
Guess they had to dumb down that first part slightly for some people. Ethan thought, then circled no, not sure if his mother counted.
Do you, or have you ever, smoked weed or done any kind of drugs?
Headache medication. Ethan was rather prone to them. But still, no.
Do you have any anger management problems or issues with depression?
Ethan scoffed. Finally, a question he had a 'yes' to. Both a short temper (on certain days) and depression found their way into his body. At the final question, Ethan paused.
Are you afraid of dying?
What the hell? Ethan's brain immediately thought back to the ad, connecting dots. This job had a lot more going on behind the scenes, he figured that out now. Still, he managed to keep his face passive, circling 'no.' The rest of the questions were simple, asking about work ethic and approachability, along with the ability to "put on a bright and happy smile." Must be standardized for everyone, considering the fact that Freddy's was indeed a place where "fun and joy come to life." Guess you don't want a worker bringing down the usually happy atmosphere of the place.
Ethan handed the clipboard back to Sinclair. The old man glanced over it, a smirk making its way onto his face as he read. Finally, he turned around, filed the survey, and chuckled as he swiveled back.
"I expected nothing less from you, Ethan. You're a good kid. I knew there was a reason I started letting my grandaughter date you"
Ethan chuckled. "Thanks, Mr. Sinclair, but Emma and I are only friends at the moment."
"That's what they all say." Sinclair clapped his hand together. "Okay then, down to business. This part is non-negotiable." Sinclair had a warm, grandfatherly smile on his face as he spoke. "Your work week will be Monday through Friday, twelve to six."
Ethan scoffed. "Yeah, I totally need a reason not to sleep."
"You got weekends for that, bucko. If you make it a week without quitting, I'll consider raising your pay and letting you choose your own work days."
Ethan shrugged, figuring it was more money in his pocket. "Fair enough. What else is there?"
Sinclair smiled. "Well, considering the day is Sunday, I might as well give you the tour of the office."
"No need, Mr. Sinclair. Give me a few minutes and I'll know that thing like the back of my hands. I'm definitely a quick learner."
Sinclair laughed heartily. "Okay then, so if that's the case, work starts tomorrow, twelve sharp. Me personally, I'd show up around eleven thirty, just to settle in, ya know?"
Ethan nodded. Sinclair stood up, offering the teenager his hand. "So, you'll take the job?"
Ethan considered all the dots he had so far connected. If he did, he would find whatever the hell Sinclair and the other employees were hiding. This was his chance. Ethan nodded, stood up, and shook Sinclair's hand.
Sinclair was caught slightly off guard by what happened next. Ethan pulled him in close, only six inches between their faces. His voice was calm and smooth, but his tone hinted at a threat.
"Listen, Sinclair. I know for a damn fact that this restaurant," he poke Sinclair's chest, "and you are hiding something. I don't know what yet, but when I do figure it out, it'll be the least of your problems."
Sinclair simply put his other hand on Ethan's shoulder and patted him.
"I'd expect nothing less, Ethan."