Chapter 8: Tag
"Local pizzeria threatened with shutdown due to sanitation."
The place had grown empty and quiet, and it would remain that way for a while. Management shut it down under the pretense of maintenance, which wasn't technically a lie.
A meeting was held, where the executive members of Fazbear Entertainment tried to brainstorm a way out of the logistical and legal labyrinth they had found themselves trapped in.
During those last few days, more and more figurative rain clouds were gathering on the horizon, and a storm of lawsuits would flood their company if they were to make even a single wrong move.
The CEO of the company, who was also the owner, wiped his brow with a soaked handkerchief, as he and another board member were walking over to Pirate Cove.
"Are you sure the cameras are off?" he asked, his voice hoarse after years of smoking.
Stan Connors, a man in his early thirties, tried his best to retain his composure, even though he had been asked this exact question a minimum of five times up to that point.
"Yes, sir, I am."
"Good…good. Can't be digging our own graves here. Hurry up and hand me that flashlight now, will ya?"
With a sigh, the subordinate did as he was told, and soon enough, a beam of light illuminated the circular stage before them. Foxy was just about visible through the gap of the curtains, which the CEO roughly pulled to the side.
"Ugh, what a reek! Well, go on! I'll hold the flashlight steady."
"What? Why do I have to do it!?" Stan asked, bewildered.
"He's your favorite, not mine. Come on, we don't have all night! This place is giving me the creeps."
Stan frowned, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and stepped onto the platform. Foxy's still form was within reach.
He hesitated for a moment. If the rumors held any merit, then he honestly did not want to see what was inside the animatronic's chest cavity. He genuinely hoped that it was just a dead rat, or something like that.
Gulping, he reached out his arm, and pressed down the buttons on Foxy's sides, which loosened the latches that held the chest plate shut.
The owner stepped closer, covering his nose with the crook of his elbow, as Stan grabbed the plate, and swung it to the side.
They saw what was hidden within.
Two seconds. Exactly two seconds later, the flashlight slipped from the president's hand, and fell to the floor with a deafening clang. As a result, the room fell into darkness.
Stan hunched forward, as vomit shot out of his mouth and splattered on the floor beneath him. He tried to take a breath, as his throat stung from the acid, and his eyes from tears. Even with his eyes closed though, there was no way to unsee what he had seen.
The owner frantically searched for the flashlight, though if he had to see that sight again, he would almost prefer to just stay in the dark. After some searching, and even more cursing, he found it.
The two haphazardly stepped off the stage, and sat down on the first table they could find, with the elegance of an overweight drunkard. As Stan continued to heave, his superior spoke.
"We have to check the rest of them, too. The other bodies must be in there."
Stan's eyes were still wide open, and his tongue was practically paralyzed.
"What…who…who does…what…"
"I know, damn it! I know! We'll check the cameras later. For now, we gotta get our act straight."
"We need to call the cops!" Stan declared, uttering a complete and coherent sentence for the first time since he saw what had become of Grace.
The owner slammed his fist on the table.
"Are you insane? That's the last thing we need to do! Do you realize the nightmare we'll find ourselves in? We'll be going in and out of court for the rest of our lives!"
"But-"
"Stan. We'll never find a job again. We'll be ruined! How will we feed our families?"
"Oh…oh, but, what about the bodies? What will…uh, what will we do!?"
"We'll find a solution later. We're gonna have to be discreet about it… Anyway, come on, let's move! Now or never!"
Stan took a deep breath, and steeled his nerves. His superior was right, this was something that needed to be done.
So, they repeated the process to the other three animatronics. Strangely enough, they both had a…quaint feeling, churning deep inside their stomachs. It could have been their conscience… It could have been the sight and smell of decomposing flesh…
Or maybe, they were simply being watched…
...
The deed had been done. As they heard the cracking of the boiler's flames die down, they knew that there was no way the bodies were going to be found now...
Even though the smell of burning skin and hair had etched itself into their nostrils (not to mention how it had filled the underground room), they were simply glad this was over and done with.
'Those poor kids… May they rest in peace.'
They left the basement, and found themselves back on the first floor. The next task on the agenda was thankfully less taxing than the previous one. They got to the security office, and inserted each day's security tape into the TV terminal, one after the other. They started from last Monday's footage, and worked their way up to the current date.
Nothing notable happened on Monday and Tuesday, but Wednesday's footage contained one particular moment that had some very worrying connotations. Spring Bonnie, or rather, someone wearing the Spring Bonnie suit, led those two girls toward the general direction of the safe room, which was an off camera location…
The two men exchanged glances, before pausing the video.
"Stan. Do you realize what this means?"
"Ηm…Spring Bonnie is a spring lock suit… Not just anyone knows how to operate one… That must mean that…this was an inside job!"
The owner looked stunned. He remained in that state for a while, before bursting into laughter.
"What are you doing here, wasting your life, Stan? You should be a detective, not a phone guy! Ha ha!"
"...uh, sir?"
"I…I was simply gonna say that he was the murderer... Thanks for the laugh."
"...Yeah, no problem, sir."
Once he caught his breath, the owner took on a serious expression.
"You're right, though. We will look into that shortly. For now, let's keep watching, shall we?"
They resumed the video footage. Almost half an hour later, a man dressed in the security uniform returned from where Spring Bonnie and the two girls had gone.
"There! Can you tell who that is, Mr. Holmes?"
Stan squinted, yet try as he might, the footage was too blurry to make out anything definitive.
"I'm not sure, sir."
"Damn it! I never would have believed that investing in security blast doors over better cameras was gonna bite us in the ass like this! Quick! Fetch me the catalog of all workers' schedules."
Drawing open one of the cabinets, Stan grabbed a binder and flipped it open. He sifted through the pages, until he landed on Wednesday's schedule.
"Uh, it says here that the security guard who was on duty that day is…Dave Miller!?"
Stan was nothing short of shocked. He didn't know the man in question all that well, but Dave seemed like a fairly upstanding man from what he had seen. The owner meanwhile, snapped his fingers.
"Miller, of course! I knew it; never trust an Englishman! I have to ask, though… When did he manage to stuff the bodies in the animatronics, if they were on stage the entire time…?"
The two continued watching thoroughly. Nothing of value happened for the rest of that day. Around midnight, though, static filled the screen.
They reversed the video, and slowed it down, trying as hard as they could to make out something. Anything of note.
And they did.
There, through the visual interruption, they saw the children's bodies being carried by a figure that effortlessly blended in the shadows, as though it was one with the environment. They kept staring at the still frame, hoping it would finally start making sense to them, but to no avail.
For the figure that hid the corpses inside the animatronics was not Dave Miller.
Or a guard…
Or a man…
Or even a human.
They could see the mask clearly, as it reflected what little light there was. The mask of the Puppet. A feeling of dread, about as cold as their sweat, enveloped them.
Like Spring Bonnie, the Puppet wasn't any regular old animatronic, either. It originally played the role of a security guard. It had been part of the company's vision to have a fully automated staff. Its purpose was altered relatively quickly, after one incident in particular that is better left buried.
Put simply, it was the reason that animatronics had to be specially programmed not to wander near exits.
The two men snapped out of their trance. Grunting, the manager got off the swivel chair, knocking it over in the process, and reached for the emergency crowbar that had been stored under the desk. He stormed out of the office, causing Stan to scurry after him once he picked up the flashlight.
"Uh, sir! I don't think we should do anything hasty here!" he called.
"What the hell are you on about?" barked the manager, without altering his course. "Don't tell me you're scared of a f***ing doll!"
"With all due respect sir, did we even watch the same footage?" asked Stan, sidestepping a table in his attempt to catch up.
"I could ask you the same damn thing! It's clearly corrupt! Now quit talking like a coward and hurry up. I'm destroying that snake-armed freak before it damns us all!"
Stan sighed, but obeyed regardless. Maybe his boss was right; perhaps the tape really was corrupted. After all, how can a machine as frail as the Puppet have the strength to carry something as heavy as a body? Sure, it was creepy, but it wasn't inherently threatening.
That train of reassuring thoughts derailed and crashed catastrophically inside his skull, as the manager pushed the Prize Corner's doors open. He shone the flashlight over the gift box. The Puppet was being suspended in mid-air, looking towards their general direction.
Both of them froze. It appeared as though the mechanism had malfunctioned, but the timing was far too suspicious. Almost like she had been expecting them. The manager cursed under his breath, and gripped the crowbar tighter. He went to take a step, but a sharp thud that resounded from the dining room, interrupted his advance. Both men looked through the glass.
It sounded like a chair falling over. A pretty common sound during the day, when this pizzeria is a place of joy, filled with careless children. But this was nighttime, and they were the only people in the building.
At least, so they hoped.
Their attention returned over to where the Puppet had been, and Stan almost dropped the flashlight when he saw that the gift box had gone empty. He frantically pointed the light at various spots around them, but found nothing.
"Calm down, you're giving me a seizure over here!" shouted the manager. "Okay, change of plan; let's check out whatever that ruckus was."
"A-alright, sir."
At a first glance, nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the dining room. Things were relatively quiet, save for some sort of mechanical droning noise. That's why they nearly flinched once a series of rapid footfalls echoed around them, growing louder by the second.
Stan directed the beam of light across them, and saw Foxy standing roughly half the room's length away from them. His hook was raised, and his jaw was hanging wide open. At this rate, Stan was seriously considering the possibility that he was having a fever dream.
Out of morbid curiosity, he decided to check the stage. Freddy and Chica were standing in their designated positions, but the stepping soon returned. Glancing over again, he noticed that Foxy had come even closer, with roughly five steps' worth of distance separating them.
"Hey, Stan? How about we call it a night?" whispered the manager.
"Good idea, sir."
Whether they were under real threat or were just being paranoid, neither of them dared to break eye contact. Foxy's head was twitching.
"Listen up. Sit here and keep the flashlight on, okay? I'll go and unlock the front door."
With no further coordination, they split up. Stan was left alone, with his favorite animatronic. As he kept eyeing the pirate's sharp hook, he couldn't help but get curious. What would actually happen if Foxy were to get to him? Would he get hurt? Killed, even?
What if they were making a fuss over nothing? What if he just let the room go dark? He was genuinely considering it; turning off the flashlight. But a muffled shout coming from his right prevented him from putting his experiment to motion.
Recognizing the voice as his boss', he dashed over to where he had gone. Foxy chased after him, and the noise of metal clashing on the floor reverberated all over the hall, but Stan was able to outrun him.
Just a few feet away from the now-unlocked exit, he saw Bonnie standing behind the manager. His large blue hands were squeezing his neck. Pointing his flashlight at the bunny's eyes stunned it for just long enough so that the manager could free himself.
Making a beeline for it, the two men dashed out of the building, and firmly shut the doors behind them. The manager was wheezing, gasping for air, while Stan felt ready to just collapse onto the solid, warm pavement..
Glancing back at the glass doors, revealed that Bonnie and Foxy were still standing there, watching them. Foxy scraped his hook against the glass, but soon gave up, and they both left.
"See? They can't pass through exits anymore. Isn't that just…*pant* lovely…" The owner commented, still out of breath. He appeared relatively calm considering he came so close to dying. To an animatronic bunny, no less.
That was the truth, then. Somehow, someway, these robots acted as if they were sentient. Not only that, but they were also hostile. Stan couldn't wait to see how they would manage to dodge the incoming legal trouble.
"My friend," continued the manager, resting his hand on Stan's shoulder. "Sleep with one eye open tonight, ya hear?"
…
Brenda was pacing up and down agitatedly, and her footsteps drilled everyone's hearing sensors, like the constant, irritating ticking of a metronome. Despite the auditory annoyance, no one had the heart to tell her to stop. Besides, they weren't feeling any better, either.
"Guys, are you alright? What happened?" asked Charlotte, who had just emerged from the Prize Corner.
"They took-k our bodies!" shouted Brenda, practically at the top of her non-existent lungs. "Can you believe it!? They just-t threw us away-y like trash!"
"They won't even call the police!" Susie added.
"Those two…if I see 'em again…I'll slit their throats…" Grace growled, glaring at her hook. Foxy was still twitching, albeit, in a more subdued manner.
"What about you, Charlotte? Are you okay-y?" Gabriel suddenly queried.
"Huh? Why do you ask?" she wondered, a little off-put.
"...That man walked into the Prize Corner with a crowbar-r."
"Oh, yeah! Did he hurt you?" Susie joined.
"Ah…Uh, no, I'm okay, thanks. I got a little scared, but I managed to get away. Who knocked down that chair, by the way?"
Bonnie slowly raised his hand.
"I heard him say he'd destroy-y you…"
"Well, thank you for the rescue, Brenda…It means a lot."
With that out of the way, Charlotte let all that information sink in. It would appear her attempts at keeping this incident hidden from the public eye had failed… In hindsight, she should have expected this outcome, but…she had been optimistic enough - or maybe even desperate enough, to assume that they would have gotten their revenge by then.
Alas, that had not been the case. Now, a question was looming over her head, like a spider that's hanging from the ceiling above. A question that Susie was quick to put into words.
"What will h-happen to us, Charlotte?"
They all looked at her. Four pairs of eyes pinned her down. Blue, red, pink and yellow. Why…? Why were they all looking at her like that? What did they expect her to say? What made them think she was in any way more knowledgeable or mature than they were? She wasn't an adult, or a leader. So why!?
She clenched her fists. No. She knew exactly why. It was because that was the role she chose for herself. Good intentions or not, she was partially responsible for this debacle. She was the one who had stuffed their bodies into the animatronics, and had given them 'life'. She was the one who tried to comfort them once they were awakened.
This was her role. Her cross. And she was going to bear it for as long as it would take. Even if it meant she would have to stand by these lost souls for eternity! This was what they needed, and what she was willing to give them.
Charlotte allowed herself to smile. Even with the newly found determination, however, the question still lingered in the air. What would become of them?
She had to accept the truth. Sammy's death was the single most devastating event she had witnessed in her short time alive. That said, it had only been an accident. This murder spree was objectively more horrific, which meant that if the police were to get involved, Freddy's would shut down for good.
This, in turn, meant that their killer would get away without paying a cent, while all five of them would be left to rot. It was a terrifying scenario, one that she could hardly fathom.
Charlotte racked her brain. Just what could she suggest that would make this situation just a tiny bit better?
...
"I don't know. I'm sorry, but I truly have no idea what awaits us."
She took Chica's hand in hers.
"What I do know is that no matter what happens, we'll be okay. We are not little kids anymore. We are giant robots. Nothing will harm us if we are united. So long as we stick together, I believe we can overcome any obstacle thrown our way! Tell me, don't you all think so, too?"
Initially, Charlotte was faced with deafening silence. As they say, though, actions speak louder than words. One by one, they all nodded. It was subtle, but it was there. She could still feel a leftover sense of unease, but it was comforting to know that her words got through to them, at least partially.
"Thank you. All of you…"