Chapter 5: Birds of a Feather
3:00 A.M. – Office
Michael glanced towards the digital clock mounted above the door—still shaped like a pair of breasts…
He glanced at the logbook. Page half-filled with his half-assed floorplans, smudged from Bonfie's earlier ambush-by-thighs. He sighed and flipped to a fresh sheet.
The intercom crackled.
"Corpsey, it's me, your boss… I have a phone for a head. Remember?" chimed a slightly annoying–digital–voice.
Nope. Nope. That voice was too high-pitched. Too irritating to his ears.
He reached to lower the volume. Too late.
"Newbie! We—and by we, I mean you—got some business to do!"
"You've been holed up in that office for a while now," the manchild of a boss whined. "And the plot's getting boring!"
Michael blinked.
"…The hell does that mean—"
The intercom screeched again.
"You hear that? That's the sound of the audience yawning. Yawning! You're gonna get me canceled, Corpsey!"
Michael stared up at the camera lens in the corner of the room. The little red dot blinked back at him like a smug asshole.
"I didn't know my life was a show."
"It's not! But it could be. Think of the merchandising! We could slap your face on a lunchbox."
Who would even buy that… He paused, no point dwelling on the ramblings of a madman.
He grabbed the flashlight—which unfortunately resembled a fleshlight—and clicked it on. The beam flickered a little, like it didn't want to be here. He could relate.
With a grunt, he pushed the door button. It hissed open like it was exhaling disappointment.
Michael took a breath. Instantly regretted it. The hallway reeked. Foul odors clung to the air like glue. He watched his step, careful to avoid puddles of… bodily fluids. Plural. None of them his.
Michael shuddered at the thought. Who knew his already cold body could get even colder?
He moved quietly, deliberately, doing his best impression of someone who absolutely did not want to be noticed.
The corpse would really rather not run into Fredina.
Or Bonfie.
The floors were stained with unidentifiable fluids. They squeaked. Or squished. Or both—every time he took a step.
Booths littered the main floor, upholstered with cracked pleather and coated in a fine sheen of sadness. Cup-holder ashtrays overflowed. Greasy, half-eaten plates sat abandoned… was that a sock?
Michael scratched absently at his decaying neck. He was a clean freak. Not by choice—just a product of his environment (and William's neurotic control).
The smell? Somewhere between a hotbox of regret and the lingering stench of a male loneliness epidemic. He read that phrase on the internet once. Fit too well.
Posters plastered the walls. Not drawings—photos.
Glamour shots of the animatronics: Bonfie, Fredina, Chiku, and… Fexa.
Well, at least this shitstain of a place kept the band together.
His eyes lingered on the Fexa poster a moment too long.
Don't get any ideas—it wasn't like that. He'd always been a fan of Foxy, ever since the Fredbear & Friends (1993) VHS tapes came out. Nostalgia, that's all.
He shook the thought.
Why did he leave the comforts of his dank little office again?
Oh. Right. Phone-Man rambling about the plot.
Not that it mattered. Because two of the four animatronics were missing from the stage.
Not that he cared. At all.
A loud clatter echoed from the hallway, metal on tile—something like a tray being dropped, or a body slipping on meat grease.
Michael froze. The sound came from the kitchen.
He sighed.
Kitchen it was. Not because he cared—God no—but because if he didn't check it out, Phone-Man would start narrating again. And that was a fate worse than… well, everything.
A flickering sign overhead pointed toward the kitchen:
"Staff Only—Unless You're Hot."
He pushed through the swinging doors. The smell hit him first—burnt cheese, raw dough, seasoning, and various cooking supplies.
Michael ignored the rat scurrying around with a half-eaten pepperoni in its mouth.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bathing the kitchen in a sickly green tint. Grease coated every surface. A fryer bubbled suspiciously in the corner, even though no one had turned it on in years.
Then he heard it.
A crunch. Followed by a loud, satisfied "Mmmmmm~!"
Michael slowly turned the corner, flashlight beam sweeping across cracked tiles and mountains of pizza boxes.
And there she was.
Chiku.
She didn't notice him at first, surprising since he smelt like death (his words, not mine). The animatronic chicken was crouched on the kitchen counter, her silicone, squishy… legs kicked up in the air like a wacky inflatable tube man.
Her oversized hands held an entire cheesecake, which she was devouring like a feral raccoon.
Michael crept backwards. If she was anything like her sisters, he had no intention of dealing with her.
If it wasn't for his less-than-stellar vision—and the dark room with a sickly green hue—he would've seen the wet floor sign. And the spilled water underneath it.
Slick.
His foot flew out from under him like a Looney Tunes pratfall with none of the whimsy.
The flashlight spiraled.
His back met the floor with a wet slap. He winced at the stinging sensation.
The room went silent, save for the squelch of his clothes soaking up a mysterious fluid.
Probably water. Probably not.
A beat passed.
Then—
"Ohhhh my gosh! You okay, mister?"
Too late.
She hopped down. Her silicone thighs wobbled with enough force to register on the Richter scale.
Michael groaned. Not in pain. In despair.
Oh. She's still there.
He had to stop spacing out while monologuing in his head.
Chiku's design, like her sisters', was absurd. Anthropomorphic. Stylized. Adult-oriented. No understanding of bras. Built like someone gave a hormonal 15-year-old a 3D rig and said, "Go nuts."
And she had. Absurd hips. Chest straining against an apron.
Compared to her, Bonfie and Fredina looked modest.
Not that he was staring at these… parodies of a corrupted franchise. He was just… cataloging threats.
Yeah. That's what it was.
Even if those "threats" were jiggling like they had independent physics engines.
Chiku leaned closer—her eyes sparkling, yet somehow dead.
"You're not hurt too bad, right? I didn't mean to scare you!"
She cupped her cheeks—the animatronic equivalent of one.
Michael didn't have time to formulate a response before the 163 cm (five feet four inches) gigantess of a robot picked him up off the floor. Plopped him onto his feet like a sack of potatoes.
"There! All better," she chirped, then tilted her head. "Wait... are you... leaking?"
He followed her gaze to his sleeve. A slow, viscous drip of embalming fluid was oozing out of a seam near his elbow.
"Ah. Great. My juices are showing."
Chiku gasped like he'd confessed a secret. "That's so cool! I didn't know boys could do that!"
Michael side-eyed the fryer again. Still bubbling ominously.
Could he just… step into it? Would that be rude?
Probably, whispered his Jiminy Cricket (self-consciousness, for the unaware).
He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, entertaining the bubbly, hyperactive, cheesecake-obsessed chicken. But eventually, he glanced down at his Fazwatch.
4:00 A.M.
He sighed.
"Might as well interact with the last one… Fexa." He didn't want to admit it, but he was actually looking forward to this one.
Hopefully, they kept the pirate gimmick. If not… well, he'd done enough putting a stop to his father's weird machinima projects (with Henry's help, of course).