Night 1: I'm Back! Revamped!

"Listen to me, Michael. When I'm gone, someone's going to need to step up in my place. That someone will be you. I know it. You're my flesh and blood, after all."

He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, those words echoing through his mind. They always stood out to him, because the older he got, the more he realized he took the wrong message from it. His father had said that to him when he was about...six? Seven, maybe? Hard to remember. He was young, though. That starry-eyed, hopeful little boy was long gone and had left a gangly husk in his place, with sunken eyes and shoulder-length hair that was always greasy, no matter how much shampoo he put in it. At the time, he thought those words were important, a secret his father had told him because he was his first child. That he was special. When he was sixteen, he thought William was trying to stoke his own ego by grooming Michael into becoming him; a shrewd businessman who would step on anyone to get his name in the history books. Now...

Now he didn't really know what to think. All he knew was that he hated it. He hated the idea of it. He hated being that bastard's son.

Michael finished brushing his teeth and combing his hair before he left the bathroom and meandered into the kitchen, trying to shake those thoughts from his head. The house was small, ranch-style, too small for five people, but too much for only one. Sometimes, he wished for company, but knew it was a pipe dream at this point. He'd actually woken up several hours earlier, at about seven'o'clock, and now it was about midday. Michael threw open one of the kitchen cabinets to find a whole lot of disappointment. All he had were some crackers, Spam, and instant noodles. The cheapest shit he could get his hands on at Walmart.

He'd spent all morning shotgunning his resume to online job boards, and was getting hungry. Maybe he could at least go out just this once. It had been awhile since he'd had any food that wasn't instant noodles or Spam sandwiches. He racked his brains for a moment, trying to think of a place to go that was both tasty and wouldn't break the bank. That eliminated...just about everything in the area, except the fast food joints (which of course, was also stretching it, if buying a combo meal for anywhere between thirteen to seventeen dollars for one person was anything to go by). Michael just groaned in defeat, huffed, and stomped into the mudroom, grabbing his keys. "Fuck it, I'll go to...bloody Wendy's, or something," he muttered to himself as he grabbed his purple overcoat and went out the door.

He took one glance at his credit card after he'd settled into the driver's seat, silently ruminating on what to do when the charges got too high. He didn't want to go beg Evan for money, but with the way things were going, he might not have a choice. Michael breathed in and let out a long, defeated, weary sigh as he slumped forward to rest his head on the steering wheel, and he stewed in his own misery for a moment before he reluctantly started the car up (Goddammit, he mentally cursed, I'm getting low on gas, too), backed out of the driveway, and made toward Hurricane proper.

The drive into Hurricane took only a few minutes, and the hunt for a suitable Wendy's was even shorter, being right off State Street. Unfortunately, it seemed like everyone and their mother had the same idea that Michael did, because turning off the road and into the parking lot revealed almost every single parking space was taken, save for one that someone was pulling out of; the drive-thru was almost backed up to the street and Michael could only thank his lucky stars no one had been in front of him to snag the parking spot.

He pulled in behind the person going out very, very closely and he was pretty sure he saw the person driving shoot him a nasty look that read "if you had hit my car, I would've got out and killed your sorry ass." Michael snorted and shrugged it off as he slowed the car and brought it to a stop (killing him would be a mercy at this point). After stepping out, he quickly adjusted his coat and crossed the road, and made for the front doors. When he got close enough, however, he noted with immense displeasure that the dining room was very, very crowded; the number of people in proportion to the number of cars in the parking lot did not add up, but, though Michael paused a moment before he actually laid his hands on the front entrance, he steeled himself and thought, you know, maybe this wouldn't be so bad. He needed to stop having a negative attitude about life, and he could start right now. Fully confident in his new outlook, he breathed in, and pushed the doors open.

The sound of server staff shouting orders to the kitchen while trying to assuage angry customers immediately assaulted his ears. The sounds of customers either ranting at the workers or trying to talk over the rest of the commotion grated on his mind, rapidly eroding his resolve. This was to say nothing of the number of kids running around and shouting because they were hungry, or, as is usually the case, because they just fucking felt like it.

Michael stopped instantly as he had the door half open and quickly pivoted around to walk back toward his car. The door slamming shut barely registered over the cacophony. "Absolutely fucking not," he muttered to himself, "Drive-thru it is."

He hurriedly got back into his car, not wanting to be too far in the back of the line for the drive-thru, pulled out, and made his way around to the street to pull back into the lot again. It was a messy job and he almost got hit for his trouble (an exchange of horns let him know he wasn't the only asshat on the road today), but he pulled it off. He was also about twelve cars away from the damn speaker to place his order, and whoever was in front of him was taking their sweet-ass time. All he could really do was let out a long, weary sigh and sink back into his carseat and just try to relax for the next twenty-something minutes.

It was something he did admirably. Eventually, he acclimated to the car's AC buzzing in the background and just allowed himself to exist for a moment. It wasn't going to last, and once he was done placing his order and eating it, he'd have to be a normal person in the normal world again, but for now...he was fine. Just him, his car, and no worries. Financial strain and joblessness was Future Michael's problem.

The peace was completely shattered when his right hip started vibrating and he heard his phone's ringtone go off, which caused him to jerk so hard, he slammed his knee on the steering wheel. One loud cry of pain and a few muttered curses later, he quickly fished his phone out of his pocket and fumbled with it to check the caller ID. It wasn't familiar, but his phone wasn't reading it as a scam and said it was a verified number, so, biting back the growing apprehension, he answered the call. "Hello?" he asked as he brought the phone to his ear.

"Hel-lo, hello, hello! Is 'Michael Schmidt' available?" came an unfamiliar voice on the other end.

"You're speaking to him," he replied coolly, though Michael noted the person calling him sounded too excited. The apprehension was coming back.

"Oh, perfect! Absolutely excellent!" the voice exclaimed. "Lemme introduce myself: my name's Vincent Morelli, and I was reaching out to you about a resume you recently sent us. I looked it over...thought it looked great! You got a minute to chat?"

Michael paused and glanced up. The line had been moving slowly but surely; he was now about four cars away from the speaker. He pursed his lips, but didn't have to think long. If this led him to a new opportunity, he may as well take it. Plus, this guy didn't sound like a scammer...just way too enthusiastic. Michael wondered for a minute if he was gonna be career-shifting into being a used-car salesman. "Yeah, I got time," he replied. "Though...would you mind jogging my memory a bit? You haven't even mentioned what company you're reaching out for."

"Oh, right, right, of course! My mistake," Vincent said. He cleared his throat and continued, "I'm the general manager at Freddy and Friends' Pizzeria, and after reviewing your profile, I just can't let a candidate like you pass us by!"

His car skidded to a stop after only crawling forward a couple inches when the line started moving. The car behind him honked, but Michael barely registered it. He felt his whole body go cold, and all the color drained from his face. He then felt his phone slipping from his hand but amazingly retained enough of his senses to scramble for it to keep it from falling. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. The string of curses he started screaming in his head would have opened a gate to Hell right under him then and there if he said them out loud. Of course, the one place, the one place he didn't want to be anywhere near, didn't want to associate with anymore, was willing to hire him. Every time he thought he was free, the past sunk its claws back into him and dragged him back.

He couldn't escape.

At this rate, even death wouldn't be an escape. He'd close his eyes on his deathbed and end up inside the run-down halls of Fredbear's, with his luck.

Vincent's voice brought him back down to earth. "Mister Schmidt? You there...?"

Michael looked down at his phone and quickly righted himself (as well as starting to move the car forward again). "Y-yes, I'm..." he stammered. He stopped and gritted his teeth. He hated how that sounded. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to stomp the anxiety and dread down before he tried again, in a more even tone of voice, "Yeah, I'm still here."

"Alright, great! Like I said, you're a very promising candidate, and I'd like to talk to you in-person as soon as possible! What's your availability look like?" Vincent questioned.

Michael opened his mouth, but stopped himself for a second, momentarily struck dumb. In truth, he wanted to answer something else. He wanted to say he'd changed his mind, that he'd actually found another job by now, but he was stuck between two choices: say no and allow himself to be free and also not have to worry about most likely flipping burgers (tossing pizzas, same difference) for the rest of his miserable life. Or say yes.

Say yes, and willingly allow the past to come back and consume him. And if he did, maybe, just maybe, he could find out who actually sent that letter all those years ago.

"...I can talk with you anytime this week," he answered, even though the lump in his throat felt like it was choking him.

"Perfect!" came Vincent's overly-enthusiastic reply over the receiver. "If you could swing by in...oh, let's say two hours? We can hash things out. Whaddaya say...?"

Michael blanched and then let out a quiet sigh and smacked the back of his head into the headrest of his chair. He hadn't even got an offer letter and was already regretting this, but then...he had agreed to this, debasing himself as he was. "...Sure thing, mate. I'll see you in two hours."

"Excellent! See you soon, Mister Schmidt, and it's an honor and a privilege to meet you!" was Vincent's last sentence before he ended the call. Michael pulled the phone away and stared at it for a moment before he sighed again, louder now that Vincent couldn't hear his inner apathy come out. After another moment spent recomposing himself, Michael refocused on just surviving until he got through the drive-thru, which he accomplished within the next ten minutes. He placed his order, a Dave's Double meal, extra onions, small Coke, and a chocolate Frosty, because by God, he needed something to take his mind off of this mess that wasn't alcohol. This came down to way too much for greasy fast-food fare, and he almost hit the car in front of him after his mind wandered and started wondering just how much shit he'd stepped in. The guy who handed him his food also looked and sounded like he'd rather be anywhere else, which while Michael didn't blame him, he was pretty sure the dude might've spit in his drink out of spite.

And to top it all off, the food was lukewarm. Michael grimaced as he continued stuffing the mediocre burger down his gullet in the Lowe's parking lot next door, because like hell he was going to give the universe the satisfaction of making him waste sixteen dollars and forty-six cents.

After a trip back home and a breather, Michael quickly wrote up a cheat sheet of answers he could refer to before his talk with Vincent and threw on the closest thing he had to formal interview clothes, that being a white shirt with blue and yellow plaid and tan khakis. He combed his messy hair for good measure, and while he looked like a fashion travesty, at least he looked like a well-groomed fashion travesty. On his way out, he stuffed a pack of gum into his pocket, but not before popping one stick into his mouth and started chewing (maybe a bit too hastily, but anxiety tended to do that). All it took after that was a walk back out to the car and and minute to reflect on how many fuck-ups got him to this point before Michael gunned the engine and drove back to downtown Hurricane.

This time, instead of turning left on State Street, he went right and drove until he could see the slopes of Hurricane Hill looming just beyond the trail that led up the hill. Nestled into the side, just a couple blocks from the local fire station, was Freddy and Friends' Pizzeria, metaphorically built over the remains of Fredbear's Family Diner; the original location had been on State Street to increase business, but now, Freddy and Friends' was the only trace left of Henry and William's legacy.

Michael suddenly felt his stomach twist thinking about it, and he began to wonder if even coming here was a good idea. He pulled into the parking lot and chose a space. Despite a growing sense that he should just call Vincent and tell him he'd changed his mind, Michael stepped out and looked back at the building.

The pizzeria itself wasn't very special, red-roofed and given rustic wooden siding. It almost looked like a more kitschy Pizza Hut. Over the front entrance was a neon sign depicting cartoon versions of Freddy and the band. The main bear himself was holding his microphone in one hand and waving with the other, Bonnie was on the left side playing a lick on his trusty guitar while Chica, on the right, was holding a plate with a slice of pizza on it, dangerously close to falling off. Foxy was in the background, holding up his hook and flashing a mischievous smile. Michael noted nothing had really changed except the overall state of the place; the neon sign itself was damaged in some places, a little rusted, and paint was chipping and peeling off the roof. Water streaks could be seen under the windows, which themselves were grimey. Michael could only stare at it for a bit longer before he looked down at the pavement and hastily made his way across the parking lot.

By now, the bitter cocktail of apprehension and dread in his stomach was making him almost sick. As he walked toward the front door, he tried to keep his head down and look at the sidewalk, but he couldn't keep it going forever. After he pulled out and tossed his used chewing gum into a trash can, he eventually lifted his head slightly to look for the handle on the front door. His vision caught something, as luck would have it, and it caught his attention enough that he inadvertently glanced up to come face-to-face with a "help wanted" sign:

Now Hiring!

All positions. Up to $10.35/hour. Inquire within or on our website.

Are you a child at heart? Do you love

making someone's birthday that much more special?

We at Fazbear Enterprises feel the same way.

Apply now and start your career with us!

Michael felt his throat constrict and his stomach tighten up enough to trick his brain into thinking he was going to puke. "Up to" ten thirty-five. He grimaced and a choked half-sob escaped his throat. He hated his luck, and he hated his life. He should not have stayed alive past twenty, but he couldn't bring himself to take the final step over the edge because the only thing that scared him about there being nothing after death was being wrong.

He came close, though. When he was nineteen. There was only so much a man could take, after all.

Michael tore his gaze away from the accursed poster and hastily popped another wad of gum in his mouth before he forced himself to go inside into the customer waiting area, which had a few things to keep guests entertained while they waited, mainly just some vending machines that gave out cheap, small plastic figures and gum. The other thing that was there, however, was someone working the host podium, a woman who only looked a couple years younger than Michael, wearing a purple dress shirt and dark violet slacks. She'd been looking at her phone, but her head lifted when she heard him walk through the door.

"Hey, welcome to Freddy and Friends' Pizzeria, where we serve good food, good memories, and good fun," she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. The woman moved some of her blonde hair out of her face. Michael couldn't help but grimace when he looked into her eyes. They were a very striking shade of yellow, but the bags under them made him wince, not least of all because he figured it was most likely how his eyes looked. She continued, "My name's Vanessa. How many?"

"Uh..." Michael drawled as he struggled with how to phrase his next sentence. "I'm, uh...not here for—"

"Sorry pal, can't let anyone over the age of eighteen in alone. Strict company policy. Please leave, okay? I don't wanna have to throw you out," she interrupted.

Michael was stunned for a moment from how blasé this woman was being, but the indignation sparked something in him, because he quickly fired back, "I'm not here to buy shit, I'm here on Vincent Morelli's bloody orders! He told me to come in for an interview!"

Vanessa paused at that, and actually seemed to perk up. "Morelli sent you?" she repeated.

"...Yes," Michael reiterated after another surprised pause.

Vanessa went quiet again and pursed her lips, and seemed adamant on not making eye contact with him for the next minute before she straightened up and muttered, "Wait here," before she turned and stalked her way through the main dining area and swiftly around a corner. Michael watched her until she was out of sight, and then went around staring at the waiting area. With nothing to do, he took a seat and waited. And waited. He checked his phone after it felt like thirty minutes had gone by to discover only ten real-world minutes had passed. He couldn't help but groan and roll his head back.

Another five minutes went by before he heard footsteps getting closer to the waiting room and a quick glance to his right allowed him to catch a glimpse of Vanessa as she came back. Michael stood up as she came to a stop at the host's podium and she said, "Alright, just talked to Mister Morelli to be sure." She took a step back, still facing Michael, as she continued, "Follow me Mister...?"

"Michael," he replied. "Schmidt."

Vanessa nodded in acknowledgement and she led him forward, into the main dining room. They had only walked a couple feet before she turned her head slightly to say, "Sorry for—hey!" She cut herself off and Michael covered his ears on reflex due to how surprisingly loud she was. He followed her gaze across the room to see a group of three kids who had most likely just been engaged in a brutal foodfight, and one of them was frozen with his left leg up on the table. "You move that leg any further, and you'll be walking with a limp!" Michael could have sworn he saw a flash of color in her eyes that wasn't yellow, but it went so fast he figured it was just the light.

She quickly cleared her throat and turned back to Michael, who pried his eyes away from the now-quiet kids to look back at her as she continued, "Excuse me...sorry for the misunderstanding earlier. Standing at the front of the restaurant for eight hours at a time's bled away all my patience for people who don't get to the point."

"...Apology accepted...?" Michael ventured hesitantly.

"Don't apologize," Vanessa snorted as she turned back around and kept walking. Michael followed behind her. "Just giving you a heads-up so you don't waste my time."

Michael raised an eyebrow. He debated whether or not he should fire back...but quickly remembered he was at Freddy's and wanted to be literally anywhere else, even if it was six feet under. "Right, I forgot doing fuck all at the front of the house for eight hours is very important. I'll be sure to let you waste your time staring at your phone," he sniped.

To his surprise, he heard Vanessa chuckle, though she didn't turn to look at him when she replied, "You kiss your mother with that mouth, buddy?"

The urge to reply "My mum's dead, cunt," was overwhelming, but Michael had enough sense not to phrase it like that and get smacked in the mouth and fired before he even started the job. He instead opted for the gentler but no less biting, "Not since she bit it about ten years ago."

Vanessa slowed her walk slightly. Not enough for Michael to bump into her before she resumed, but enough that he figured he'd put her off, which was fine by him. All her response consisted of was a curt, "...I see," and they continued through the main room. Michael took the downtime to look around; the pizzeria was similar but different from Fredbear's, though this had been the first time he'd ever been inside the pizzeria offshoot; Evan's accident had basically put him off ever going into another Freddy's location, and all the bad memories associated with William had ensured he'd think that way for the rest of time. But in terms of what there was, there were the same decorations of plastic pizza decorations on the wall, posters of the animatronics that were probably made to cut corners; they weren't hand-drawn cartoons anymore, just pictures of the animatronics superimposed over text and a bland, single-color background, and the same old tacky balloons and checkered tablecloths. And at the moment, he was lucky enough to hear music playing, and chatter in the background that wasn't coming from children (there were too few for that). All of it was coming from the main stage, where Michael could see the three old stars Michael remembered from the mid two-thousands.

As soon as he got a good look at them, he grimaced. They looked worse than he remembered, and that was not an indictment of his past being worse than he thought it was and he'd finally decided to take off the rose-tinted glass (he was also fairly sure he'd never been wearing them, and if he had, they were jade to start with). The three robots looked like they hadn't had a full maintenance routine done in twenty years, and Michael could very well imagine how their shells and endoskeletons must have smelled, and really didn't want to. The state of the three of them combined with just how empty the place seemed made Michael think Hurricane could power itself in perpetuity if they found a way to hook up Uncle Henry's body to a generator, considering how many times he must have been turning over in his grave.

"This way."

Vanessa's brief command snapped Michael out of his musings and he quickly pivoted and followed her around the same corner she'd taken several minutes earlier. They walked down a hallway with more sparse, kitschy party decorations, and then made another turn to the right about halfway down. The next hallway was similar, but they passed by two very large doors on the left side that read "Storage" in military-stenciled letters that clashed horribly with the font used on doors for party rooms they had passed. But at the end of the hall was another door with "Manager's Office" on a brass plaque hung on it. As they approached, Vanessa stepped to the side and folded her hands behind her back. Michael stopped and stared at her for a second, but the way she stood straight up and nodded her head to the side indicated for him to continue on, and with no other way to make progress, as much as he hated it, Michael obliged and stepped up to the office door. He debated knocking for a moment before he remembered Vanessa had made the trip already to verify his identity, so he opted to just grab the knob, turn, and open the door.

Pushing it open, Michael was greeted with an office where the only thing that didn't look sketchy was the desk in front of him, and even that wasn't on the high end, just a standard grey and black plastic desk that radiated all the class of some C-suite manager's office, along with the plain plastic chair in front of it. The rest of the room looked just as grimy as the rest of the building, but with less wear and tear and poorly-cleaned pizza sauce stains. There were shelves behind the desk holding accounting books and folders, and in the middle of it was a man about ten years older than Michael with black hair that was probably made more of hair gel than keratin at this point and a very distinctive, angular nose; he wore a purple blazer, grey slacks and a Hawaiian shirt with the collar unbuttoned, as well as a gold chain that would have been in style during the time the pizzeria was founded; no doubt, this was what Vincent Morelli looked like. Michael tried to keep his lips from turning downward into a disgusted sneer, but boy, the reaction was knee-jerk, like trying to automatically pull one's hand away from a hot stove.

Michael figured the guy must have seen his revulsion but either didn't care or was ignorant of just how much "yuck" he radiated. Either way, once Michael had entered the office and the man had looked up from his current work, he beamed at Michael; though to him, it just made him look even more off-putting, and then he held out his hand. Michael hesitated and even recoiled slightly, but remembered he had to make a good impression in order to get a job, so he swallowed his disgust and put on his best stoic face as he shook the man's hand. He noted, to his horror, his palm was a mix of grease and sweat. The urge to puke was getting stronger by the minute.

"Michael!" Vincent exclaimed. "Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael. My friend. How ya doin'?"

"Well enough," Michael replied as calmly as he could. "You must be Vincent, then? Pleased to meet you."

Vincent let go of Michael's hand and leaned back in his chair, clapping his hands. "Ah, please, please! Pleasure's all mine!" He paused for just a second before he gestured to the chair. "Oh, have a seat, please! I insist!"

He glared at the chair for a moment and, as he rounded it, scanned the back and seat to make sure there weren't any suspicious stains on it, and finding none, quickly sat down. Once his full attention was on Vincent, the man quickly pulled one of the drawers on the desk open and retrieved a stack of papers from it. After a few seconds of sifting he muttered a proud "Aha...!" and pulled on out, placing the rest of the stack on the far right side of the desk. "So...!" he began as he held the piece of paper up, "I just wanted to cover some of the things that weren't in the initial interview...bits'n'bobs and some more in-depth questions about your style of work."

Michael squinted at Vincent. His "initial interview" was a one-way video interview that asked him to record his answers and send them off; what "further details" he wanted to get into, Michael could only imagine.

"All in all, shouldn't take too long, just want to...get a read on your working style," Vincent explained. He then adjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat before asking, "So...your resume states you...your last job was at 'Milton's Steakhouse,' yes? Why did you leave?"

Michael paused for a moment to consider his answer, not because he needed to lie about it, he just needed to translate it into PR-ese. "...My manager and I had differing opinions on how to deal with...difficult customers. We couldn't agree on the best course of action, so I left voluntarily to avoid causing lasting damage."

All Vincent did was look back down at the resume and nod solemnly.

"Alright...uh, you studied at Southern Utah University...degree in mechanical engineering...what made you want to pursue that degree?"

Michael opened his mouth, but suddenly, he felt a hole open up in his stomach. No matter what he said about that, he'd be lying, but then again...Vincent would probably never find out. And if he did, Michael doubted he'd care, though he still shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he said, "My...dad...was a mechanical engineer. Wanted to follow in his footsteps."

Vincent nodded his head, seemingly satisfied. "Pretty noble. Sounds like your old man's a real stand-up guy!"

Michael felt his stomach lurch.

Vincent stared back down at Michael's resume for another two minutes, the way he tilted his head and pursed his lips clued Mike into he must have been searching for another question to ask. Being unprepared for an interview might have been a red flag, but considering this was Freddy's, Michael wasn't the least bit surprised. Finally, after several minutes of awkward silence, Vincent spoke up, "Okay, one last thing I wanted to talk about...it seems you have worked for Fazbear Enterprises before..."

Michael couldn't help the "Yes" that came out of his mouth, though he could feel bile rising and following swiftly after it.

"Specifically," Vincent continued, oblivious to Michael's discomfort, "at Circus Baby's Party Carnival? As a technician?" With his mouth suddenly dry, and not trusting himself to vomit if he opened it, Michael could only nod shakily. "You mind giving me a little detail on that? Like what did you fix, how did you handle problems...?"

Michael bit back the queasy feeling rising in his throat and attempted to formulate an answer that wouldn't get him thrown in an asylum (though it might not have even mattered, Fazbear Enterprises didn't seem concerned with the mental acuity of their employees if Vincent was anything to go by). "I had..." he began and stopped when he felt his stomach lurch. The cold sweat that passed over him had saturated his armpits and palms by now. He desperately tried to put on a brave face, keep his voice steady as he continued, "I learned...how to work under pressure. Every night. Because something new was wrong with the animatronics there. I...fixed...four...all four of them...each night I was there."

Vincent kept staring at him. Michael knew he could tell he was uncomfortable, but what he was searching for, he didn't know. Maybe he was just secretly relishing in the fact he was making Michael squirm? He winced. Michael figured it wasn't out of the question, but he quickly sat up straight and stared forward at Vincent dead-eyed, silently screaming that he wouldn't play this asshole's game, or at least give him the satisfaction of causing him visible distress.

But all the while, the memories swirled. The dark rooms. Eyes of green, purple, and yellow piercing the darkness. A voice, mocking him through the intercoms. He could practically taste oil on his tongue.

"Sounds great!"

Michael nearly choked as Vincent's exclamation snapped him back to reality, and he became acutely aware he was gripping the armrests of the chair so hard that he could feel his fingers going numb. "I gotta say, Michael, you're a real Renaissance man! Like I said, it really would be a shame to just...let you pass by!" He didn't even have the chance to respond before Vincent reached over to the pile of papers he'd left on the desk and pulled a few out of the middle, rifled through them, and placed a smaller stack in front of him. Michael froze for a couple seconds before he looked down at them and the growing enormity of what he'd just stepped in made his stomach sink lower. "Here's an offer letter," Vincent said. "If you can go home and fill it out, I can start you tonight."

All Michael could do was stare at it dumbly. Eventually, he was able to form words again and raised his head slightly, enough to look at Vincent from under his brow. "I..." he stuttered. He cleared his throat and got his thoughts in order as best he could before he asked, "As an engineer?"

That got Vincent to pause for a moment...and all the hope that had been building up in Michael's chest was shattered and crumbled when he started laughing.

"Ha-ha-ha...! Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no," Vincent chortled. He took another ten seconds to compose himself and stop giggling; Michael believed, deep in his soul, he was doing it to torture him. "I'm sorry, Mister Schmidt, but, uh, in case you haven't noticed...we really don't have the budget for that. Besides, the animatronics still work just as well as they did back in oh-four, so there's really no need." Vincent pointed down at the offer letter, and Michael followed his hand due to not having the brainpower to do much else, and saw that the offer letter was for the position of security guard. "We do, however, need a new night watchman to keep an eye on the place during the wee hours, and since you have history with the company, you might be able to make something out of it. Pays better than daytime security, too." He retracted his hand, and Michael looked back up at him; at this point, he had enough sense to shut his open jaw and stop gawking. There was blessed silence for a couple minutes, before Vincent must have started to feel awkward and gestured with his hands, showing his palms for a moment before clasping them again. "Entirely up to you, of course."

Vincent's words barely registered, as Michael was busy fighting a war in his mind, caught between saying "enough is enough" and walking away, or selling his soul. This war, while brutal, was brief; to him, Michael reasoned, a shit job was better than no job at all. Regaining control of his body, he jerked forward and picked up the offer letter; below it was a W-2, below that was an NDA, all of which he picked up. He looked back up at Vincent, and all he could croak out was, "...I'll take it."

Another smile broke out across Vincent's face, and it made Michael sick. Not because he detected malice behind it, but because there was no malice behind it. Michael realized Vincent was worse than cartoonishly evil; he was just an idiot. "Aw, wonderful, Mike, that's just wonderful! Uh, d'you mind if I call ya 'Mike?' Great!" he exclaimed as he stood up and reached out, and grabbed Michael's free hand, shaking it vigorously. Michael didn't have any time to react after he was done, as Vincent quickly walked around his desk and began escorting Michael out of the office and back down the hall. "There'll be a uniform waiting for you in one of the lockers in the security office...which is just down that hall," he explained as they passed a T-junction and continued straight. As they rounded the corner at the end of the hall, he continued, "Make sure you're back here by ten-thirty, at the latest! Otherwise you, uh, might get locked out. We wouldn't want that happening now, would we?"

They soon entered the main dining hall, still just as empty as it was when Michael walked in, though now made even emptier with the curtains on the main stage closed, hiding Freddy and his gang from view. Vincent stopped walking after a couple more steps, leaving Michael alone. He did stop for a second to look back and, upon seeing that Vincent wasn't following him, slowly turned back around, and headed toward the front entrance. Vanessa was back at the host's podium, too, still checking her phone. Michael walked past her, trying to keep his breathing calm and his steps steady, though he was holding the documents that might end up killing him.

"Hey."

Michael stopped and glanced back at Vanessa, who looked up from her phone long enough to tip her hat and say, "Welcome to Freddy's."

Michael stared at her for a couple seconds before he nodded to her and hastily stumbled out the door. He sucked in a few deep breaths before he turned and lurched down the walkway, then across the parking lot, toward his car.

He couldn't even get in before his stomach lost its battle and he had to walk into the bushes nearby to vomit.

All things considered...Michael was feeling better as he got back into his car for his first day (night, whatever) on the job. Now, granted, by no means was he happy; he just didn't feel like he was going to blow chunks at the drop of a hat. After he plopped into the driver's seat, he looked over himself, made sure he had the three papers needed to solidify his employment, and then started the car. The drive went quickly, considering it was almost ten-twenty at night, and Michael soon found himself pulling into one of the many empty spots at Freddy and Friends'. As he gathered his paperwork and got out of the car he noted, to his dismay, the place looked even worse at night, somehow. The sign with Freddy and the gang on it was broken, Foxy and Bonnie weren't lit up, and several letters in the title flickered. The rest of them must have stopped working years ago.

All Michael could do was shake his head at how bad becoming publicly-traded had been for Uncle Henry's company.

After a short walk up to the front doors and going in, Michael took a look around the waiting area. Nothing had really changed; it was still very, very empty. Completely empty. He didn't think the difference between "completely" empty and "mostly" empty would have been that jarring, but somehow, the all-consuming silence where only the low buzzing of the building's power supply could be heard was just...oppressive. Michael shook it off, however, and with a deep breath, he walked into the main dining area.

The curtains were still drawn over the animatronics, and the tables had been cleared of balloons, plates, and party hats. This time, the only person he could see was Vanessa, standing near the far right corner, apparently mopping the floor. She wasn't listening to music or anything, though, which must have allowed her to hear him come in. She raised her head and Michael saw the faintest smile cross her lips. "I'll be damned," she said, "you actually came back."

"Uh...yeah," Michael muttered. "Kind of...need to pay bills, and all." The trailed off and the silence lingered for a bit before he cleared his throat and raised the papers he'd been holding. "Do you know where I need to put this...?"

"Just put'em on Vince's desk," Vanessa replied with a shrug. "He'll look at'em tomorrow."

Michael furrowed his brows. "...He's not here?"

"Nope!" Vanessa exclaimed with a now-visible grin. "He fucked off at, like, four-thirty."

Michael stared at her for a second before he grimaced. "Not surprising."

"Heh...I know, right?" Vanessa replied. "Guy who does the least amount of work around here's the first lo leave. 'What's that, the floors gotta be mopped? Well, you have fun with that!'" She paused to chuckle to herself. "Won't even stick around to pretend to supervise."

"Typical manager. Overpaid and underworked," Michael agreed.

That got another bitter laugh out of her, seemingly in a better mood now that she had someone to commiserate with. However, Vanessa quickly replaced the mop into the bucket she'd been using and then began to walk back toward the security office. It was at that point Michael realized there were two halls running parallel with each other toward the back. He followed Vanessa, simply due to not knowing what exactly to do, though he couldn't help but comment, "...That was quick."

"Uh, for your information, I started two hours ago," Vanessa replied. "Time actually passes when you're not here, y'know." Michael just sighed quietly to himself and rolled his eyes; he really wasn't getting paid enough to deal with a shit boss and a coworker with anger issues. When they reached the intersection in one of the back hallways and Michael turned to go toward the manager's office, he heard Vanessa call, "So, I'm gonna clock out and lock up." Michael stopped and turned around to look at her as she continued, "There's a program on the office PC that'll log your time, you just have to enter your name and Social Security. Oh, and there should be a uniform in one of the lockers, too, you'll be expected to wear that for your shift." Michael just nodded and turned back to go down the hall before she stopped him again. "And I don't think I need to tell you that losing it will come out of your paycheck."

Michael stopped mid-stride. "Meanwhile, water is wet," he sighed dryly.

He heard Vanessa chuckle again; at this point, he couldn't tell if it was because she was latching onto his sarcasm or she enjoyed watching him suffer. Knowing his luck, it might have been both. Michael just kept his head up as he went further back in the restaurant, sparing another curious glance at the Storage door before he pushed the door open to Vincent's office. It was very much the same as Michael remembered, so he dropped the papers on Vincent's desk and left.

He didn't see Vanessa walking out on the way back, but Michael figured she'd gone down the opposite hall. He turned to follow the path she had taken, and quickly came to a door to his left that led to an office that, to him, looked like it used to be a janitorial closet. He sauntered in, making sure to avoid some large spotlights that were hanging outside and apparently jury-rigged up to the building's power supply, if the mess of wires hanging around them and disappearing into the ceiling's paneling were anything to go by. To his right side were four lockers, all a sickening, discolored, rusty yellow, and on his left was a desk that filled in a quarter of the office's total space, cluttered with paperwork, old paper cups, and bulky monitors that must have been purchased in the 1990s and never replaced or upgraded; in the middle was a small plastic chair that looked like it would collapse if anyone over one-hundred pounds sat on it. Michael could only stare at it, disappointed, but not really surprised. "...On the bright side," he muttered to himself, "space usage is ergonomically-friendly."

He decided his first order of business was to check the lockers. None of them had padlocks on them, which Michael assumed was because the company was cutting more corners at the expense of employee privacy. After quickly scanning three, however, he just figured they used to be important several years ago, but had been cleaned out by the employees who used them. Still cutting costs, just in a different way. The second one he opened had a purple t-shirt and pants hanging up in it, as well as a matching security cap on the upper shelf with a shiny gold badge embossed with Freddy's head on the front. Michael stared at it, then sneered and shut the door before turning and maneuvering around the chair to sit down.

The dinky thing was just as uncomfortable as it looked. Michael tried to stifle a pained grunt as he felt sharp plastic dig into his hips.

Taking in what was in front of him, Michael found himself facing a cluttered desk, as mentioned, and on said desk were several monitors as well as a switchboard that had the outlines of several rooms of the pizzeria, as well as tape under the buttons that corresponded to the informal names of the cameras; "1A" was the main stage, "1B" was the main dining room, and so on. There was also a phone, an old, landline model. Michael knew for a fact the place really hadn't been updated since the mid two-thousands now. However, there was something he hadn't noticed before; two notes were close to the phone, one sticky note and one actual notepad. The sticky note pointed down, to a drawer directly below that read "keyboard in drawer," and the notepad read:

Hey there, Mike! Glad to see you made it for your first shift! We're thrilled to have you, but before we let you loose, please listen to the messages left on this phone to help new hires do their jobs more effectively. Mr. Calhoun knows his stuff!

~ Vincent

Michael frowned as he opened the drawer and pulled out said 90s keyboard model. Another employee he hadn't been told about? Sure looked like it. Why the hell would Vincent or Vanessa hide the fact someone else was working here? He paused a moment to consider that line of thinking. Going off the fact they hadn't told him about the guy...and this was Freddy's...

He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. Yeah, he was definitely dead.

Despite his growing anxiety, Michael clicked the "play message" button on the phone and then turned the monitor on, and plugged the keyboard into a socket on the front. He was greeted with a stilted, robotic voice saying, "You have–four–messages. Message playback..." before the dial tone went off and a different voice played through the receiver.

"Uh, hello? Hello, hello? Uh, hey! Welcome to your first night on the job at Freddy and Friends' Pizzeria!"

Michael snorted derisively as he opened up the punch-clock program and entered his name and SSN. This Calhoun guy sounded way too cheery. Kind of like Vincent, except hearing his voice didn't want to make him rip out his own eardrums. And he actually sounded earnest.

"Uh, before I get too deep into it, I've got a message for you...uh, just a mandatory greeting from corporate," Mr. Calhoun continued. "Erm, l-legal thing, y-you understand. Um...'Hello! From the Board to you, welcome to Freddy and Friends' Pizzeria, where fantasy and fun come to life. We're pleased you have chosen to start your career with us and look forward to seeing what you bring to the party table. Please note, Fazbear Enterprises is not responsible for damage to property or person, including but not limited to, loss of personal items, damage to company property, or vicious maiming." Michael stopped typing for a second and stared at the phone before cautiously continuing, listening more intently out of morbid curiosity. "Upon discovering that damage to an individual has occurred, next of kin shall be contacted, or if next of kin has not been specified, a missing person's report shall be filed within ninety days,' yada, yada, yada, look, that might sound bad, I know, but I can tell you from experience, you've got nothing to worry about."

Calhoun's voice kept rambling. "Uh, just one thing you need to note, the characters here...uh, from what I know, the company's tried to keep them, uh, as up-to-date as p-possible, but, um...th-they're still prone to...odd...behavior. I-it's a, uh, glitch in the system they've had for the past...uh, I don't know, ten years? Maybe more?" Michael scoffed again. "Glitches" in the robots' systems seemed par for the course at this point. "I can't r-really blame them, though...I mean, if I was forced to go through the same showtime routine, day in and day out, and I never got a break or even a bath? I'd be a bit antsy, too. Look, just remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of kids, so we need to treat them with a little respect, okay? Okay." Michael barked out a mirthless, bitter laugh.

"So, onto your job duties...um, 'the night watchman role is expected to observe the location and ensure no damage or theft occurs to or on company property.' There is, uh, there's a little more to it than that, see, as I mentioned, the characters here do tend to...wander a bit." Michael felt his muscles freeze at that. The bad memories were coming back.

"And, uh, they'll more than likely wander by your office, a-and...and if they see you...well, uh, they'll see you as one of the metal endoskeletons in the maintenance room. Y'know, because, uh...uh, people aren't supposed to be here at night. And the endoskeletons are supposed to be in costume if they're not being worked on, so they'll...they'll try to put you in one. Th-this wouldn't be so bad, if, y'know, the costumes didn't have so many crossbeams, rods, locks, and other metal pieces in them to allow them to hook onto the skeleton and allow the joints to move fluidly. Uh, if, somehow, you do get caught and forced into a suit, don't panic! Um...just keep your breathing steady and don't move. Once someone comes back in the morning, they'll be able to call an ambulance."

Michael's eyes widened and he muttered a quiet, whispered, "What the fuck...?" Some small, animalistic part of his brain decided no, this was a bad idea, we want out, and his frontal cortex immediately began to rationalize. This would be fine, he thought, there was no way the animatronics posed a real threat. Maybe the worst they'd do was go through their showtime programming and talk to guests who weren't there. Mr. Calhoun was talking out his ass. Nobody was in danger working this position, right? If they were, the police would find out and the location would have been closed down years ago. This was not going to be like Baby's Party Carnival, no way.

He mulled over his own thoughts, then nodded. He even smiled to himself. That was a damn good explanation. This was an elaborate setup to some prank and he could look back on and laugh. He chuckled and popped another stick of gum into his mouth.

Mr. Calhoun continued, "Now, that leaves the question of what to do if they approach your office. Um, see the buttons to your left and right? One of them says 'door' and the other says 'light.' Pressing the 'light' button will activate one of the spotlights outside your office, lighting up one of the blindspots in the hallway cameras. If one of the animatronics is there, just hit the 'door' button to lower one of the blast doors the company has installed. They're tungsten-carbide steel, it'd take an atom bomb to open one of'em up! Heh-heh..."

Michael glanced to his left at the panel and, deciding he'd better test it now, touched the button labeled "door," and was almost immediately met with a large slab of steel coming down from an opening in the ceiling and smashing into the ground with a loud, metallic clang. He jerked away and shut his eyes, and when he looked back, the door was closed. He huffed and turned back to the phone and quickly reminded himself it was just a precautionary measure and he probably wouldn't need it. That was in case some nutjob wandered in, pulled out a Sig-Sauer, and started lighting the place up. The man on the phone kept rambling. "I, um...I think that takes care of ever—oh, right! Uh, due to rising energy costs, the company needs to disconnect from the city power grid after eleven PM. The building then runs on a backup generator from eleven PM to six AM. And um, using the doors, cameras, and office lights takes up power, so only use them when absolutely necessary. That's it. Good night!" Michael paused again and whipped his head down to look at the phone even though it couldn't react to his stunned disbelief.

"...You fuckin' what?" he breathed. Alas, no answer came, and he just settled into the chair over the course of the next two minutes, still staring wide-eyed at the phone.

Eventually, he came back to his senses, and Michael had a look around. Nothing had changed, of course, but somehow, he became acutely aware of the noise. Or lack thereof, to be more precise. His ears were attuned to the low, droning buzz of the building's electricity, the quiet but noticeable creak of the building settling in the chill of night, the almost imperceptible sound of the wind blowing outside. He listened, and then took a deep, calming breath. He remembered that this wasn't as bad as he was expecting. Worst-case scenario, he lost out on sleep and he'd already been behind since high school, so nothing new there. Michael spun himself around in the chair a couple times to get a good look around the office, but stopped after his third rotation to look at the bulky monitors in front of him, then down at the switchboard. "Guess I should probably do my job," he mused as he pursed his lips and leaned forward and clicked on the program he assumed allowed him to view the security cameras.

Michael was immediately greeted by a boot-up screen that took about five minutes (it sure felt like five minutes) for the loading bar to finish. The camera that came up, according to the switchboard, was the main stage. He got an uncomfortably close look at the three main animatronics standing stock-still, light hitting them from the opposite side, cloaking the side closest to the camera in shadow. Michael couldn't help the cold chill that ran down his back and he shuddered inadvertently. He shook it off and decided to familiarize himself with the other cameras, which didn't take that long; checking the left and right hall cameras were quick, and he only spent a couple minutes getting familiar with a camera in the janitor's closet and another one hooked up in the maintenance room. There were also cameras in the storage area, facing the restrooms, and one in each of the four separate party rooms, as well as two in the secondary dining area that had been constructed next to the main one, down a short hall and around a corner. Last was a camera placed over the entrance to the arcade off to the right from where Michael was; he shrugged and switched the active camera back to the show stage.

It took him microseconds to see that Bonnie was gone. It took him an eternity to process it.

Once he did, however, he opened his mouth to utter some expletive, but it died in his throat when he almost swallowed the now-flavorless gum he'd been chewing and proceeded to cough like a plague victim as his gag reflex kicked in. After choking enough to force the gum back into his mouth and spitting it out, he stared at the monitor before he reminded himself that this...was fine. This was going to be fine. He had nothing to worry about, and not because the guy on the phone said so, it was because Michael knew he wasn't in any danger. The disclaimer Calhoun read was due to mechanical mishaps, it had to be. Michael let out the breath he didn't even realize he was holding and scooted back up to the desk, and started clicking on buttons on the switchboard. From the left hall, to the restrooms, to the secondary dining room, back to the main dining room where he finally found Bonnie.

Standing there.

Staring straight ahead.

Michael just stared at him for a moment. The dim lighting swallowed the area outside the two remaining lights left on for the night, and it left Bonnie alone on a small island in the middle of darkness. And then, he slowly turned to his left and Michael watched on bated breath as the animatronic stomped out of frame, swallowed up by the black. Michael blinked a couple times before he brought out his whole pack of gum, placed it on the table, and popped another piece into his mouth. Then he started flipping through cameras again as he muttered, "You cheeky little bastard...Where'd you go?" Michael did manage to get his answer quickly, as the cameras Bonnie could have realistically gone to were confined to the left side of the location, and he found him in the maintenance area.

Staring directly at the camera.

"D'ohh...fock," Michael hissed after he jumped in his seat; he'd allowed his accent to really slip through on that one. Another deep breath, and Michael rubbed his forehead, fighting off a sudden headache, most likely brought on by the surprise and the constant buzzing from the building's electrical supply. He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands and rubbed at his eyes to work out some tiredness and went back to watching the camera.

Bonnie was no longer in the backstage area.

Michael spluttered and hastily sat up straight and began flipping through cameras again, though he found Bonnie back in the main dining room quickly (couldn't have gone that far, anyway). Michael sat there and watched as the animatronic stomped into view and came to a stop at, going by the camera placement, the south side, close to the entrance. But Bonnie...kept moving. He stood there, his head jerking left and right, as if...

It's like he's searching for something. Michael couldn't help the chill that ran up his spine.

And then, the chill got more intense and Michael felt it creep down his arms into the tips of his fingers as he watched Bonnie's head slowly turn, far enough that a person would have broken his own neck, to stare at the camera. And then stopped.

It was then Michael became astutely aware that things were quieter than usual. Or maybe he imagined it.

The camera equipment shrieked as a burst of static scrambled the tv monitor, and Michael jumped and covered his ears.

"Oh, Lord in fucking in Christ in heaven," Michael muttered hastily as he looked for a switch to, hopefully, turn the monitor off and on again. Once he did, he found the screen still covered in snow, though luckily it had gone quiet. He grimaced and slammed the top of the monitor with his fist a couple times, and it seemed to do the trick, the camera feed flickering back to life. Michael noted, with some apprehension beginning to gnaw its way into his chest, that Bonnie was gone again. He sighed deeply and began flipping through the dining room cameras and the ones adjacent to them.

And found nothing.

Michael frowned. Bonnie couldn't have gone far, that much he was certain of. It wasn't like they'd had jet engines installed on them. He scowled at the monitor, currently pointed at the main dining room again. And then he glanced down at the switchboard, looking at the other locations he hadn't checked. The secondary dining room, the four party rooms, the arcade, which was disturbingly close to his office (except not really that disturbing. He was in no danger. Certainly not), and the kitchen (directly in front of the office). Michael glared at them for a bit longer before he sighed and clicked on the secondary dining room to find it empty (to his mild relief).

He kept going. The four party rooms were empty, as was the arcade. When Michael switched to the kitchen, he was dismayed, though not entirely surprised, to find that the camera feed read "Camera unavailable. Please contact a technician."

"Brilliant," he grunted. "Nothing here really has been updated since oh-four. Fucking peachy." He sighed and looked back at the switchboard for the last couple cameras he needed to check; one in pirate's cove, and one each two of the janitorial closets, one of said closets in the left hall that led to his office, and one at the junction between the manager's office and Party Room Four. Michael noted that there were no cameras placed in the storage area, manager's office, or, most odd, the main entrance; considering how much of a reputation Freddy's had garnered over the years, it was more than suspicious, as was the lack of cameras in the storage area. Why would the company not want to keep tabs on its inventory? Were they just not worried about theft? All these questions swirled in Michael's mind for a few seconds, and were quickly banished as he switched to the first janitorial closet.

Standing almost directly under the camera was Bonnie, illuminated by a single, hanging light bulb. This, of course, was no cause for panic. Michael was certain he was still in no danger, even though every neuron in his brain was screaming at him, begging for him to leave.

That was, until he saw Bonnie tilt his head up to glare directly into the camera. He looked no different, of course; an animatronic rabbit costume hung over an endoskeleton with flat, plastic magenta eyes. But Michael remembered. Another animatronic had looked at him that way before, and had proven to be anything but helpful or anything even approaching benign. To the uninitiated, it was impossible to tell, but Michael could. It wasn't blank to him. There was something animalistic hiding behind the lights set into the pupils.

He wrenched himself away from the monitor and all but slammed his head on what little empty space there was on the desk. Michael's hands subconsciously found their way to his head and began pulling at his scalp. "No, no, no. No, no, no, no, no no no no no, this is not happening," he gasped. His head shot up, staring wide-eyed at the screen. "This is not happening. This is not fucking happening."

To his displeasure, he noticed there was a lot more visual static filtering in on the screen than before, and Michael forced himself up to switch the active camera, lest the earlier situation happen again. It was fine with him, in all honesty, he was getting sick of looking at Bonnie's ugly—

He froze. He'd switched to the main stage, on a whim, mostly, but just to be sure none of the others were moving. Chica was now gone, but that barely registered to Michael because Freddy had turned his head to stare at the camera and straight into his soul. "Nope." Michael shot up, holding his hands up in surrender. "Nope. Fuck this. I'm not doing this shit again." He whipped to his right and stormed out of the office, down the dimly lit hallway. "This job can kiss my a—"

Michael stopped short when he saw a hulking figure in front of him at the end of the hall, and more importantly, blocking the entryway. It was hard to make out details with the low light, and the backlight coming from the dining room wasn't helping, but the overall silhouette and bright pink eyes told him it was Chica. She was about ten feet away from him, and Michael then became aware he was about seventy-some odd feet away from the office...and Chica was staring him down like a rabbit caught in a trap.

His body suddenly acted on pure instinct and bolted back down the hall, and by the time he dove back through the office door, he realized he could hear heavy metal thudding hitting the linoleum behind him. He didn't even hesitate to slam the red button to close the blast door, and less than a second later, it slammed shut. Michael noted, to his horror, the steps almost immediately stopped after the door went down.

She had probably been close enough to grab him.

It was enough to make his muscles seize up and Michael choked as he stumbled back and sat down in the chair. Or more accurately, fell back into his chair, sheer happenstance giving him a decent seat instead of buckling and falling to the floor in shock. Breathing heavily, Michael stared at the port window that let him see into the right hallway; it was completely dark and he couldn't see anything moving outside, but he didn't trust himself to reopen the door, not after coming so close to death. Instead, he forced himself to turn (he could feel his bones and joints creak as they did so) and look at the monitor, which he switched to the camera facing the back of the right hall, "South Hall Corner." When the static cleared, Michael was greeted by Chica standing against the wall and staring directly up into the camera.

Michael recoiled away in fearful surprise, but quickly reminded himself she was only on the camera and couldn't reach him from there as long as he kept that door closed. He let out a long, shaky breath, slumping on the desk, holding his head in his hands, all the while wondering where it all went wrong. That was sort of a lie, he knew it had basically gone wrong the second he popped out of his mother's womb. Sighing again, he decided to check the cameras and hit the button to refresh the monitor. Once the monitor flickered to life, Michael saw Bonnie was not in the supply closet anymore.

"Shit." He hissed and leaned forward in the chair, flipping through cameras; the pit forming in his stomach kept growing when he didn't find the robot anywhere until he had checked every single one, and by then he felt like it was going to eat him from the inside out. But then, he remembered the lighting rigs outside the office. Remembered Mr. Calhoun's instructions. Michael slowly turned his head to the left, staring into the darkness in the hallway; he could barely see anything. Despite his arms suddenly feeling like jelly and his brain screaming at him not to, he reached out and clicked the button labeled "light" on the panel.

The floodlight in the hallway flared to life, casting a pale blue glow in a small circle on the threshold of his office. It lit up the floor, some of the walls, and the eight-foot tall robotic hulk standing directly in front of the door.

This time, Michael couldn't help the scream that left his mouth and he slammed the door button so hard, his nerves went fuzzy for a few seconds. The door slammed into the ground with a loud, hollow thud, and much like with Chica, everything went still; Michael stayed looking at where Bonnie had been, his breathing shallow and hurried, still unsure if he was actually alive or had just imagined shutting the office door. However, after a couple minutes passed, the adrenaline slowly filtered out of his system, and he started to groan. It continued, first low, but gradually got louder as he turned away from the left side of the office and slowly sunk into his chair and held his head in his hands.

All he could really think was: why? Why must this happen to me? Why here, of all places? Why couldn't I have just had a normal family? Why? Why? Why...?

Michael shook himself out of his thoughts when he remembered he had a job to do, and was also reminded he needed to be smarter with his power supply after he looked at the corner of the monitor screen and saw he was hovering at about eighty-six percent. He looked to his left and, though he still had a lot of reservations, he reached out and pressed the light button. The floodlight turned back on, and Michael could see there was some sort of shadow being cast on the wall and window. He grimaced, figuring Bonnie was still standing guard out there. Michael was perfectly content to let him, though, much as it unnerved him thinking the only thing between him and certain death was a slab of metal and some plexiglass only a few centimeters thick.

That was, until a loud clang got him to jump as Bonnie pressed his head up against the hall window. It was angled so that his cheek was pressed up against the glass, but...his eyes.

His eyes were still trained directly on Michael.

And panic gripped him again. "P...Piss off! Go away...!" he cried.

At that moment, the floodlight shut off.

And Michael was back to staring into darkness.

He stayed that way. He didn't know how long, but it couldn't have been longer than a few minutes (especially because any longer, and he might have died through some bullshit condition he wasn't aware of that would let one of the animatronics in his office). He looked back at the monitor, checking his power again; down to seventy-nine percent. Michael grimaced and looked back up at the opposite window. There was nothing but darkness out there too, but he couldn't help but wonder if Chica was still there. She couldn't be, could she? Would she really wait around that long just to jump him after getting locked out? Michael paused to consider it for a second, but he still tapped the light button to check. The floodlight came on, but unlike the left side, Michael saw no shadows nor Chica's face leering at him in the window, and deciding that was as good a sign as any, he tapped the door button, though his hand stayed over it to slam it shut again, just in case. The floodlight revealed no one behind the door, which was good enough for Michael. He returned to looking at the monitor, and began absentmindedly clicking through cameras. Bonnie had gone back to the threshold of the left hallway. Freddy was still onstage. Chica, he noted with apprehension, was still in the right hall, and uncomfortably close to the office. He didn't know where exactly Foxy was, but his best guesses were Storage or Pirate's Cove; the Cove was still and labeled "Out of Order," and if Foxy was in Storage, he was really screwed, since he wouldn't be able to track him.

Another quick glance at the corner of the monitor told him power was now at seventy-five percent. Michael stared at it, his heart sinking by the second until he finally groaned and held his head in his hands again.

This was going to be the third-longest night of his life.

The drive to Freddy and Friends' was short; in actuality, Vincent probably didn't even need to drive, but he did so anyway, because how else would anyone know he was rich without seeing his Mercedes-Benz? Honestly.

He pulled his car into the lot, noting that Michael's car was still there. It meant he hadn't decided to quit halfway through his shift, which was good. Or he'd find what was left of Michael's body in the maintenance room. Or he tried to run and would find what was left of Michael's body in the maintenance room. Vincent clicked his tongue regretfully. Such was the cost of doing business, but luckily a lot of folks around here still seemed to have enough good memories of the franchise that they'd be willing to work there. Even for wages so low, they bordered on illegal.

Vincent clambered out of his car, locked it, and made his way to the front door. After unlocking it, he entered the restaurant. Walking through the entrance, he looked up at the stage to see the three animatronic performers standing at attention on the stage. Vincent nodded to himself and then turned to go down the south hall, toward the security office. While he wasn't expecting good news, he wanted to check the office first so that, if he didn't find Michael in there he could go straight to the manager's office and pawn any "messes" off to Vanessa when she clocked in.

Upon approaching the door to the office and rounding the corner, however, Vincent was face-to-face with a horribly pale Michael, who, upon noticing movement in his peripheral, snapped to the right and wound his hand back to slam the door button, but he stopped himself when he saw it was only Vincent standing in the doorway. They stared at each other for a couple seconds before Vincent quickly summoned his confidence and flashed a wide smile at his employee. "Michael! Good to see you, buddy, how was it? Not too bad, I'm guessing, almost everyone survives their first night!" He saw Michael's eyes widen, and his right one twitched. Vincent quickly continued, "Metaphorically, of course. Some of'em, eh, y'know, they come back to me and say 'Vince, 'preciate it, but this ain't for me,' and they leave. Not implying they died or anything."

"It—"

"That being said, you look great! I've seen people finish their shift and come out lookin' like death, lemme tell ya..."

"I'm—"

Vincent took a step forward and slapped Michael on the shoulder, still grinning. "Anyway, go ahead and clock out if you haven't already and get'cher self home to rest up for your next shift." He patted his shoulder a couple more times before he turned away and added, "Can't wait to see you again, Mike! I think you got what it takes to be a star performer...!"

Michael just watched him leave, his jaw hanging open, listening to Vincent's retreating footsteps, until it was just him and the buzzing lights overhead. Michael looked down and slowly slipped his hand into his pocket until he'd pulled out his phone and he turned the screen on. The time read 6:06 AM. His shoulders sagged and he put his phone away as slowly as he retrieved it, and eventually Michael forced himself to stand up, turn, and walk forward, down the south hall. It was still quiet. It took him longer than usual, as he was on edge and looking for any sign he was going to get jumped by the animatronics.

But he got to the dining room without incident, and he looked up at the stage. The three animatronics were standing stock-still. He'd heard a distinct chiming six minutes ago, and the building's lights went back on. He'd seen the robots walking back to the stage on the cameras, and could still scarcely believe it. It didn't take Michael long to hurriedly walk to the front of the restaurant and exit, power walking to his car.

He didn't even wait for the engine to warm up, Michael just wanted to gun it and get as far away from that accursed place as he could. His mind was so all over the place that he remembered he'd left his still-unfinished pack of gum on the office table halfway back to his house, and the craziest part was he didn't give a damn. After a span of minutes that felt like hours, Michael pulled into his driveway, turned off his car, and stumbled out and through his front door. Once back in the safety of his own home, Michael leaned back up against the front door and slowly slid down into a hunched sitting position. After a minute of trying to think of the best way to get himself out of the mess he'd gotten himself into, he was hit with the full reality of what he was doing: working a terrible job for low pay with the added complication of fending off malfunctioning robots that would kill him if they got their mitts on him, at a company he had a history with. The only difference was, one, this time his father was actively running around (he had to be), and now there was no way out. It was either work this job, or lose his livelihood.

All Michael could really do now was pull his knees up to his chest, break down, and cry.

A/N: in this chapter, Michael gets emotionally tortured by a terrible boss and terrible coworkers (Don't worry! It gets worse!). Also, God, trying to describe how the animatronics look in the new locations I made up for this fic is going to suck. Totally not the reason I skimped out on details and ended the chapter early, though. Not at all.

Quick fact, Vincent's interview is loosely based on the interview I had when I got my job working in landscaping; difference being, my boss and work environment is actually good. As I said, it's loosely based on reality. Also, fuck you FF for deleting the website title I put in the fake job ad for this chapter and forcing me to alter my original vision.

I also finally have a piece to change the cover art to until I can get off my ass and finish my own version that's been languishing in limbo for the past 2 or so years, made by www . artstation amethystthorne 2. Goes without saying I don't recommend her services unless she gets it through her head that AI is a lazy shortcut and there is no such things as an "AI artist": you either use the talents given to you, or you are a leech. Simple as.

And if you're reading this, Amethyst, remember I said I'd share a link and credit; never said I had to be nice or recommend against you.