Chapter 2: Nuts & Bolts
11:55 A.M. – Office
There wasn't much to say… except for the smell; strawberry lip gloss, stale and sour beer, with hints of burnt wood, tobacco, cheap perfume, and desperation (culmination of many poor saps before him).
"Not quite the same as the previous iterations of offices." Michael dropped onto his security chair with resigned grace (he had the experience, after all).
The room looked like a combination of a regular security station and a bachelorette party; heart-shaped string lights flickered above the dusty monitors. A desk fan (battered and held in place with duct tape) spun lazily back and forth next to a tissue box and… lube.
Michael brought his attention toward the object that resonated most with him: the security monitor.
He ignored the slight moan (chime) of the tablet.
"Welcome to Fredina's Stripperina~! Where fantasy comes first! "
Sigh…
The screen booted up, greeting him with a digital wink (courtesy of Phone-Man, he presumed). The interface gave Michael a slight pause; if his eyes could sink even more, they would. A slider graciously titled "Consent Calibration" appeared on the top left of the screen.
He slid it all the way to "no." It slid back to:
"Playfully maybe ."
His introspection had to wait. The intercom buzzed loudly, and a familiar voice rang out.
"Heyyy Corpsey! Just checking in on our newest night snack—uh, staff! Heh. Slip of the codec."
…Fucking Christ.
"So…I'll keep it brief, Mikey! You see that monitor and patented security tablet? They're worth more than your life."
Michael glared at the speaker.
"Tough crowd. Anywho… you're gonna do great tonight. Just remember to monitor the animatronics, keep your flirt levels stable, and make sure not to use all the lube."
Michael rubbed where his temples used to be.
"God, I miss the fire."
He turned to the monitor, just in time to catch something flicker past the hallway camera.
Tall. Shapely. Not entirely human.
That was fast.
Animatronics didn't usually start moving until Night 2.
"…They certainly appeal to the demographic of this shitshow." The static on CAM 4 cleared just long enough to show her.
She was standing dead center in the hallway—perfectly still. Her silhouette loomed under the dim emergency lights, all chrome, curves, and something deeply off.
Michael narrowed his eyes.
She wore the company-standard hat: small, black, with a white stripe—a faux symbol of class. A silky black ribbon sat snugly around her neck like a choker. Her shirt—if you could call it that—strained against her chest, unbuttoned just enough to violate something, though he wasn't sure if it was workplace policy or God.
It was… a lot.
He was a walking corpse, sure—but even he could admit she was engineered eye candy.
The proportions were absurd. Like someone gave a hormonal teenager a 3D rig, no oversight, and unrestricted internet access.
Michael blinked.
She was gone from the monitor.
CLANG.
His eyes darted to the office door.
The animatronic—Fredina, presumably—was now perched against the entrance frame, one leg casually bent, her head tilted with bemused curiosity. Black fingerless gloves clung to her arms. Leggings hugged her thighs like shrink wrap. She blew him a kiss and winked.
Michael didn't react. Not visibly.
But somewhere, deep inside—buried beneath the rot, and regret—He winced.