Chapter 1: Still Breathing
Book 1: The Most Dangerous Game
A/N: Hey yall. Welcome to my first real attempt at a story on this site. This story takes inspiration from a few things, another story on here included, but it's my full intention to make this wholly original (as much as a fanfiction can be). Criticism is welcome, so as long as you aren't just taking the piss out of me and are at least trying to be respectful, don't hold anything back. Updates will be infrequent, so please don't hold your breath, this will get updated when I can, this is just a hobby for me. Not a whole lot going on this chapter, it's mostly setup for the next two chapters and for the story as a whole. I'm sure you noticed how I put "Book 1" up at the top, so I'll quickly explain that. I already have an outline for how I want most of this story to go, with details getting filled in as I go. A lot of book 1 will be pretty wordy, as it will be dedicated in part to establishing the setting and propping up the rest of the narrative. I have no clue how long each book will be, so we'll just have to see. I'll answer any questions at the end of each chapter, though I don't want to show all my cards just yet, so you might not get the answer you want from me here.
Update 12/2/24: I'm making revisions throughout the story; re-reading is optional. The revisions aim to improve upon what's already there. Chapters 2 through 5 will also be revised in the same way in the coming days.
Update 12/2/2024 (Again I know): changes weren't what I wanted, slightly shorter now but gets everything across
Wednesday, September 26th, 2001
The bulkhead door slid open with a quiet hiss, sealing shut behind him with a muted thud. The chamber was sterile, its dim lighting casting sharp shadows across the cold, metallic walls. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the row of four metal benches. Each one was occupied, the figures lying motionless but for the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests.
Pausing, he eyed the displays beside each bench, his pen scratching against the clipboard as he took notes. Heart rate, neural activity, metabolic levels—all as expected. Routine. Safe. Controlled.
Satisfied, he moved to the desk at the far end of the room. The monitor blinked to life as he logged in, fingers flying across the keyboard to update the day's report. His eyes flicked back to the benches occasionally, the steady hum of machinery filling the silence.
Standing, he returned to the displays, methodically pressing the buttons to update the readouts. One by one, the graphs refreshed, scrolling across the screens in neat, predictable patterns.
Until they weren't.
He stopped at the third display, his brow furrowing. A spike? He stared at the jagged line on the graph, his breath catching for an instant before exhaling slowly. It leveled out just as quickly as it had appeared.
An anomaly. Nothing more.
But then came the chirps.
One by one, the machines beeped in sharp, discordant unison. His stomach churned as he looked at the displays. The lines were no longer neat or predictable—they were erratic, jagged, and wild.
He stumbled back, the clipboard slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor. The sound barely registered. His eyes were fixed on the screens as his pulse thundered in his ears.
Each figure on the benches twitched now, faint but unmistakable. Their breathing quickened, matching the frenzied rhythms displayed on the monitors.
His mouth went dry as he whispered, "Dear God..."
Monday, January 4th, 2016
Mike shivered, gripping the steering wheel as his old truck rattled down the road. The heater struggled against the biting cold, leaving his fingers numb despite his gloves. The cracked windshield caught the reflection of the pale winter sun as he turned into the driveway, the shocks groaning in protest when the tires bumped over the curb.
The truck came to a halt, sputtering before he killed the engine. He climbed out, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary. On his way to the house, he glanced back at the vehicle—a battered '06 Dodge Dakota. The once-vivid blue paint was now a patchwork of rust and chipped metal, the tires worn thin, the left fender sagging from a long-forgotten accident.
Mike groaned. "Piece of junk."
His dad's voice echoed in his mind: "Bought it brand new, and it's been falling apart ever since. American engineering just ain't what it used to be."
Mike shook his head, pulling open the screen door. His keys jingled as he unlocked the front door to the house, a squat white brick structure that had seen better days. The hinges squealed in protest when he stepped inside. Dropping his worn-out high school backpack on the kitchen counter, he trudged down the narrow hallway to his room.
On his way, he passed a door just past the closet. It was ajar, revealing a small, lifeless room. Faded pink paint peeled from the walls, and the rusting metal frame of a twin bed stood bare in the center. He stared for a moment, a strange heaviness settling in his chest, before gently shutting the door.
In his own room at the end of the hall, Mike collapsed into his desk chair, the cushion sagging under his weight. He tilted his head back, staring at the popcorn ceiling, speckled with cobwebs in the corners. After a long moment, he powered on his laptop—a beat-up ThinkPad he'd salvaged and patched together from a roadside junk pile.
The familiar hum of the hard drive filled the room, its sluggish startup giving him too much time to think. He muttered, "Should've swapped it for an SSD."
Eventually, the screen flickered to life, and he pulled up the bookmarked job listing site. It was an exercise in futility, but he scanned the page anyway, hoping for something new. Ravenswood didn't offer much—most businesses had shuttered, leaving a skeleton of a town behind. There were jobs out of town, sure, but his truck wouldn't survive the commute.
His eyes landed on a familiar listing. HELP WANTED. It was always there, staring back at him like a challenge.
He shut the laptop with a sharp click, leaning forward to rest his head on his folded arms. His breath came heavier now, the weight of his situation pressing down like a vice. After a moment, he stood, brushing it off as best he could.
Passing down the hallway toward the bathroom, his gaze lingered on a photo hanging crookedly on the wall. A younger version of himself grinned at the camera, his face and hands smeared with oil. Beside him, his dad stood proudly, his arm resting on Mike's shoulder. The old Dodge sat behind them, gleaming in its prime.
"Sorry, Dad," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The shower offered little solace. He sat in the basin, letting the hot water pour over him as his thoughts churned. Tears welled up, unbidden, but he didn't fight them. His breathing quickened, each gasp echoing in the tiled walls. Then, as abruptly as it began, he stopped. He wiped his face, turned off the water, and dried himself mechanically.
Back in his room, he stared at the laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he opened it again. The job listing glared back at him.
HELP WANTED
Freddy Fazbear's Pizza
Family pizzeria looking for security guard to work the nightshift.
Mon – Fri, 12am-6am.
Monitor cameras, ensure safety of equipment and animatronic characters.
Not responsible for injury.
Mike's stomach churned as he filled in his information and hit submit. Anxiety buzzed in his chest, his heart hammering as he shut the laptop. He barely had time to take a breath before his phone buzzed on the desk.
He hesitated before answering. "Hello?"
"Yes, hello! Is this a Mr… Michael Schmidt?" The voice was that of an older man, upbeat but strained, like he was forcing the cheer.
"Yeah, that's me."
"Wonderful! I saw your application. When would you be available for an interview?"
Mike swallowed hard. "I can come by anytime."
"Excellent! We're open until 7:30 tonight, so if you can swing by at least 30 minutes before closing, we'll get started. Any questions before then?"
"No, sir. I'll save 'em for later."
"Great! See you soon!"
The line went dead.
Mike stared at the phone in his hand, his nerves fraying. Finally, he set it down and slumped back in his chair. There was no turning back now.
The sun was already sinking below the horizon as Mike eased his dad's old pickup into the cracked parking lot. The truck's suspension groaned as he navigated around potholes, trying to avoid the worst of them. The pizzeria stood alone, surrounded by thick stretches of trees for miles. Across the road, the Ohio River glinted faintly in the fading light.
He checked the time on the dashboard. 6:49. The lot was almost empty now—only a handful of cars scattered about, likely belonging to the staff finishing up for the day.
Mike stepped out of the truck, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he approached the building. Up close, it looked worse than it did from the road. The yellow paint was faded and peeling in several spots, exposing weathered wood beneath. A checkered black-and-white pattern ran along the lower half of the walls, clashing oddly with the sickly yellow above.
His gaze drifted upward to the sign mounted over the entrance. The pizzeria's name curved in a semi-classy font, flanked by painted depictions of the mascots. Three faces smiled down at him. Three.
Mike froze.
Three? Wasn't there a fourth?
A cold shiver crawled up his spine. He blinked, shook his head, and forced himself to move toward the door. Focus. Don't let your nerves get the better of you.
The smell hit him as soon as he stepped inside—stale grease, cheap pizza, and something sour lurking just beneath it. His stomach twisted as he glanced around. The source wasn't hard to find: a puddle of vomit under one of the party tables, with a janitor halfheartedly scrubbing at it.
Great start, he thought.
The main dining hall was cavernous, its corners dim despite the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Staff moved about, collecting trash and wiping down tables. Some glanced his way, but no one lingered.
The stage dominated the front and center of the room, its red curtain drawn tight. Off to the side, a weary employee stood guard over the ball pit, looking like they might puke themselves. To the left of the stage was the main entrance he'd just come through, and beside it, a locked door marked Parts and Service.
Mike's gaze swept the room. Kitchen doors stood at the far end, flanked by a line of aging arcade machines with screens that flickered weakly, their colors faded. Further down, he spotted two closed bathroom doors and a sad-looking merry-go-round tucked into the corner, its paint chipped and peeling.
Finally, his eyes landed on a doorway near the opposite wall, draped with a wide purple curtain. A wooden sign stood in front, its letters faded:
SORRY, OUT OF ORDER!
Mike's hands trembled. His gaze lingered on the curtain longer than he meant to. The uneasy feeling crept back, stronger this time, clawing at the edges of his thoughts.
"Hey there!"
The voice snapped him out of his trance. He turned to see a man approaching, his steps brisk, his smile a little too wide.
"You must be Mr. Schmidt," the man said, extending a hand.
Mike forced himself to focus, shaking it firmly. "Yes, sir. Nice to meet you. I'm here for the interview."
The man's grip was warm and strong, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Glad you could make it. I'm Mr. Afton. Let's step into my office and get started."
As Afton led him down the hall, Mike took in the details of the man's appearance: a black sports jacket over a light purple button up shirt, paired with a checkered tie all tucked neatly into khaki pants. He wore polished black shoes, and a bronze-finished analog watch peeked out from beneath his sleeve. Though the watch's metal was tarnished, giving away its age.
Mike felt underdressed in comparison. His black pants and blue polo shirt had seen better days, but at least his dad's old leather jacket covered the worst of it.
"Right in here," Afton said, opening a dark wooden door with a frosted glass window.
The office was small and tidy. Kids' drawings covered one wall, their cheerful colors a stark contrast to the rest of the drab surroundings. On the opposite wall hung framed certificates and what looked like an old degree. A wooden desk sat in the center, with a well-worn chair behind it.
"Sorry, no guest chair," Afton said as he rounded the desk. "Haven't gotten around to replacing it yet." He gestured for Mike to stand. "Let's get started. First off, I must thank you for responding so quickly. We're in a bit of a pinch, you see. Our last night guard quit over the weekend."
"Is that...common?" Mike asked.
Afton sighed, his smile faltering. "More than I'd like. Working nights here isn't for everyone. Being alone in the woods, with just the animatronics for company... well, it can get to some people. But you seem like a sturdy fellow."
Mike shifted uncomfortably, wringing his hands. "Yeah, I guess. I've had...uh...issues at other jobs, though. Panic attacks, mostly."
Afton tilted his head, studying Mike for a moment. Then he smiled again, softer this time. "I don't think that'll be a problem here. Freddy and the gang aren't exactly judgmental."
The interview moved quickly after that. Afton's questions were straightforward, and Mike answered as best he could. When they finished, Afton handed him a badge shaped like a shield, engraved with SECURITY. The bronze finish was tarnished, much like Afton's watch.
"One last thing," Afton said, standing. "Let me show you to your office."
Mike followed him down another hall, this one lined with more kids' drawings. At the end of the hall, Afton had led him to a cramped room with a desk, an old computer, and two doors on either side, each fitted with large square windows.
"This'll be your base," Afton explained, demonstrating the light and door controls. "Use the cameras to keep an eye on things. If you ever feel uneasy, the door buttons are there for emergencies."
Mike nodded, taking it all in. The setup was simple, though the heavy security doors struck him as overkill.
"Think you've got it?" Afton asked.
"Yeah," Mike replied, pocketing the badge.
"Great," Afton said, handing him a set of keys. "I'll see you in the morning."
Mike left the office, heading back to the front door. The uneasy feeling from earlier still lingered, but he brushed it aside. It's just an easy gig. Sit around all night, maybe mess with the cameras a bit. What's the worst that could happen?
William stood in the threshold of the east hall, his gaze fixed on the young man walking out into the night. The fading echo of footsteps was the only sound in the quiet building. With a heavy sigh, he turned to head back to his office, the weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders like a familiar, unwelcome companion.
Just as he took a step, a whisper curled through the air behind him.
"It's been too long since we've had someone like him."
The voice was soft, almost playful, but it froze him in place. His stomach twisted as he slowly turned toward the sound.
A shadow moved near the kitchen door—silent, fluid. The figure slipped past just as the door clicked shut, the faint creak of hinges fading into the stillness.
He lingered for a moment, staring at the now-quiet door.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to move, stepping into his office and closing the door behind him with more force than he intended.
Inside, the small, cluttered room seemed to close in around him. He stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk, each page a reminder of the tangled mess he was trapped in. His jaw tightened, and frustration boiled over.
With a sharp motion, his arm swept across the desk, sending papers fluttering to the floor in a chaotic storm. The momentary satisfaction of release was gone almost as quickly as it came, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
He sank into his chair, the silence wrapping around him like a shroud. I shouldn't have let this happen. I shouldn't have let them force my hand.
The familiar claws of regret crept into his chest, sharp and unforgiving. He let his head fall onto his arms, resting on the desk as the memories pressed in—brighter days when this place was something different.
His eyes grew heavy, his breath slowing. The weight of his exhaustion pulled him under, and he slipped into a restless slumber.
In his dreams, the past came alive again. The laughter of children, the warm glow of the pizzeria, the sound of his family's voices—clear and vivid. For a fleeting moment, it was all there. Hope. Joy. Love.
But even in dreams, shadows lurked. Whispers in the corners of his mind, the kind he could never quite escape.
See you next chapter. Take it easy, drive safe, and don't go making promises you can't keep.