Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“And what about mold, sir?” You ask, pen drumming the notepad on your lap with anticipation, an eyebrow raised towards the older man sitting across the desk from you.

“Mold?” He replies, or rather absentmindedly repeats, his gaze never lifting from the screen of his personal computer. Your pen tapping stops as the bubble of impatience threatens to pop.

“I mean like, air quality? Old asbestos? And … molds?” Your words dangle in the air like a lure for a fish, inviting the other person to leap out and take up the conversation with you properly. The man, however, doesn’t bite. 

"Please, the building is not that old, I assure you." A choke cuts the tense air between interviewer and interviewee, something akin to a throaty snort. Snide, conceding and very quick to set your hackles on edge. The man recovers his composure as swiftly as he dropped it, never noticing your budding irritation. Or if he did, he doesn't seem to care.

"And as for molds, I want that written down. Any kind of property damage, building insecurity, and health hazard needs to be recorded for the lawyers. Try not to leave anything unaccounted for. Remember the more detailed the list, the more you shall be paid.” He hits a few keys and the reflection in his glasses changes colour, “You did read the requirements beforehand, correct?” Finally, he manages to tear his attention off his screen long enough to glance you over, scrutiny flickers deep within the crevasses of his wrinkly face. You shift uneasily in your seat, not so eager to be at the sharp end of your potential boss’s glare.

“I did read the job description, sir. But it's just that-” You gather the courage to meet the beast in his eye for all but a second before his head snaps back to the computer screen, fingers already typing away. “I just need to know if I should pack a respirator or a mask or something. Be more prepared. I don’t really want to be breathing in that kind of stuff.” The comment earns a scoff from the old man, a dry noise that could be mistaken for a condescending laugh.

“Certainly; please try not to unnecessarily endanger yourself. We don't need any more lawsuits regarding this endeavour.”

He begins to hit the keys with a little more oomph, a wordless command to end your tangent before it drags on and annoys him. Your shoulders deflate with a silent sigh and you slump deeper into the uncomfortable office chair you had placed yourself upon. This has been a complete shitshow.

For the past half-hour or so this is what the interview has been; the boss, Mr Jackson, asks you questions, and you reply with a bright and positive attitude, going as far as to bring up points of interest entirely on your own accord to demonstrate your readiness for action, practically begging for the goodie points it surely will reward. Only for everything to be cut down by Mr. Jackson's lack of reciprocation, lack of anything really. You have yet to garner a solid 5 minutes of uninterrupted conversation from him, always speaking from a .lopsided mouth, attention averted elsewhere and determined to use as less words as possible. How decent of the fellow. Your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head. You squeeze aggravated fingers around your notepad, of which you had the brilliant foresight to bring with so as to write down anything important he would have to say! It was as if you bored him; as if this entire process peeved him beyond reason, and as if he wanted nothing more than to get you out of his office door. At least that last point is mutually inclusive.

“The Mega Pizzaplex is a well-ventilated facility, best in service and material that money can buy, so no mold to the best of my knowledge.'' He speaks down over his nose at you before leaning back and retrieving a compact, silver laptop from a drawer in his desk. He hands it to you and you numbly take it with a curt nod. The company’s name is etched in a circle on the cover. Fazbear’s Family Entertainment. A very happy-looking bear sits in the middle of the logo and despite yourself, you smile at his cartoonishly large grin. It’s a silly reprieve that you are grateful for after the awkward torture you’ve had to endure in this office. A few harsh clacks on the keyboard brings you back to Mr. Jackson, who motions for you to open the device. At your touch, the screen springs to life.

“This will be your Faz-top, your new best friend for the coming weeks,” He says as you smirk at the stupid name for the device, “Your password will be Cakes, all lowercase except the ‘C’. This will also be your company-given name, an identity tag so to speak. So if anyone important asks, your name is now Cakes.” You pause to look up at him, a stern ‘sir’ leaving your mouth and signalling your acknowledgement of your new title. The barest hints of a smirk pulls at the loose skin around his mouth as he continues to talk, “It will help us keep a record of all your findings and notes and will streamline any other admin-related peculiarities. Are we clear?” 

“Crystal.” You nod your head and slide the laptop under your arm.

Mr Jackson looks you up and down once more out the corner of his eye, smacks his lips, and then clicks something on his computer. There is a chippy chime from the machine that seems to please him as his old skin stretches into a worn-out, entirely plastic smile. He turns to look at you, face-to-face, for the first time since the moment you sat down. He extends his hand.

“Then I believe we are done here.” You stand quickly and take up his hand in a tight but brief handshake. “Welcome to the Fazbear Entertainment family, we hope to hear from you very soon, Cakes.” You respond with your tired-and-tested nod then waste no time in picking up your things and making a bee-line exit straight out of the dreary, disdainful office. The interview is over in a flash, nothing more to be said between either party. But as your hand graces the door handle, the old man speaks up once again, a sort of gleeful malice etched into his words.

“Oh and should you think about skipping town with our equipment", he pauses for one languid moment, drawing immense pleasure from the palpable tension building in the air, "You would not get far."

His venomous, sing-song, warning stops with the closing of the tinted glass door but his message lingers longer in your mind, sinking deeper even as you exit the office building and step out into the midday sun.

A snarl of fury curls your lip upwards as you try, and fail, to maintain professional composure. 

“The nerve of that guy! Who does he think I am, huh?” It is an already lost battle. Alone in your car, you argue aloud as you drive down the desolate country road towards your destination. “Some kind of thief? A drifter? Like I’m just going to steal his stuff? His junk?!” You dare to glance at the silver laptop in the car seat next to you. A snort rises in your throat and you shake it out of your head in anger. That little thing looks barely capable of running Papa's Pizzeria without exploding from the exertion. Why would you bother trying to steal something like that?

It's a scare tactic - this is an old city, it sees very few new faces, and what faces it does see quite, and know on a deeply personal level, belong to people who clutch their pearls close to their chests. Snobbish, clicky and very up-their-own-asses. It would be best to save yourself the migraine and pay no mind to his rudeness.

But even so, as a businessman, that old bag had to be one of the worst there is. It was you, after all, who made the long day trip out to this unremarkable town, you who took up the online advert and decided to reach out to the company. It was you who applied for this FazBear Family Entertainment’s absurd job - the least they could do is respect you enough to not think you are a petty grifter. 

Your knuckles strain white as they grip the steering wheel of your car. Irritation at having your character besmirched rises to an almighty peak then wanes. After a few more heated moments, wherein you roll Mr Jackson's off-handed remarks on your tongue, you breathe out through your nose and allow the burning feeling to slip away with the escaping oxygen.

Well, it is all over now. You've got a job to do.

The advert online had the description read as such - ‘looking for fit and sturdy persons, must be able to drive, must have some knowledge with computers and/or networking, must be willing to work long hours and requires no prior experience. Intensive manual labour will be expected as well as on-the-fly problem solving. An attitude of attentiveness and vigilance is most important!'

An utterly vague description on face-level but essentially; the suits over at Fazbear Family Entertainment need someone to go over to one of their old facilities and record any and all damage to their property - a survey of sorts. The lawyers require the numbers to assess whether or not the building is even worth the money to restore. If the damage is too great or if there is still hope for the old haunt. And you are just the person to take on the noble task of counting cracks in a wall.

A remote gig that requires a barely functional CV? Better yet, one where you don't have to work in customer service? You were packing your bags and booking a hotel the moment your email was approved.

Before coming across the ad on a rather dodgy job-searching website, you never really had any experience with this family entertainment business. Sure, you can vaguely remember the name of a similar restaurant being tossed around by the adults in your youth, but the brand's peak popularity existed far beyond your hometown and far beyond your childhood's sphere of care. Yet, despite your frankly worrying lack of prior knowledge of your new company family, it had never actually occurred to you to research the place you were being tasked to survey. Perhaps your enthusiasm to start working and earning those big bucks drove you to act before you could rationally think. Impulsiveness was always a downfall of your character.

Little details like that don't really matter anymore, you shrug, you will get to see this place soon enough.

But in the monotonous car ride where you sit alone and bored, it is fun to let your mind wander.

In your head, you have already started to piece together what this mystery venue could be. By the name alone, the Mega Pizzaplex, you picture it as a restaurant with its head dish being, of course, delicious pizza. But being so far removed from the rest of town, a good 10-minute drive down a winding, tree-lined road, it cannot be anything like a normal restaurant.

It's got to have some kind of gimmick, you muse, maybe it is like an amusement park-type deal? A regular place to eat that is equipped with an outdoor rollercoaster and a teapot ride! Or maybe it's like a petting zoo? That would explain the animal mascot on the laptop’s logo.  The darling image of little kids feeding and cuddling a variety of farm animals plays in your head. As tempting as these ideas are, however, none manage to sink home. Whatever idea conjures into your mind, it always sounds too ridiculous to be true - too much money goes into places like that, money that cannot just be forgotten, not like how this pizzaplex clearly has.

The road before you takes a turn to the right, revealing a billboard with the cheerful bear character pointing the rest of the way down the lane. His colours are dull and the printing on the letters has faded from standing in the sun. You frown at the poor sight as a new and more pressing question blossoms in your mind.

Just how long has this place been abandoned? And more importantly, why?

Unfortunately, you are offered no time to ponder any further for the road comes to an abrupt stop.

A pair of mighty boom gates obstruct the way forward, framing the entrance and exit of the venue's property line. The empty guard houses on either side are silent and cold without their lights and resident guardsmen. You slowly roll your car as close to the gates as possible then park it and step out. The trees overhead rustle in the dry breeze, their leaves scraping against the rotting boards of the pizzaplex’s welcome signs, the sound being the only thing heard in this quiet, lonely place. There aren’t even any birds in the trees.

Unconsciously, a shiver draws up your spine. Eerie.

From the view beside your car, you examine the boom gates a little more, noting their impressive robustness despite their condition. Deciding that there is no way to squeeze your car through the gates, you turn the engine off. This was as good a place to park as any. At least it is in the shade.

Walking around the vehicle you gather your things into your backpack: car keys, a water bottle, your phone, a jacket, and the little faz-laptop. Your hand hesitates over the final item, memories of the morning's turbulent interview echo in your ears. You huff and quickly shove into the bag a face mask - just in case. 

With your survival pack complete, you lock your car, sling the bag over your shoulders, and turn to face the mysteries of whatever hell you had so readily gotten yourself into.

In the silence of the overgrown drive-through, doubt sparks in your mind- what are you even doing here?

This all seems so crazy, everything zipped by so quickly! 

Not even an hour ago, this job was only a thought, a maybe, a far-fetched and hypothetical 'if'; but now, within the blink of an eye, here you are on the precipice of the unknown. You hardly even had a minute to catch your breath.

It is so quiet in the entranceway that you swear you can hear your own heart beating in your chest. A sudden fear claws at your throat but before it can slice away what remaining naivety still endures within your spirit, you swallow it all down to the deepest pits of your stomach.

There is nothing to worry about, you soothe your nerves - this will be a simple job. A simple and easy job that will pay you very well. Simple and easy; easy and simple. Courage sparks at the promise of the money on offer and you squeeze your backpack’s shoulder straps with a defiant huff. nothing to worry about, just put one foot in front of the other. 

Slipping under the boom gates is painless on two feet and in no time you had made your way into the huge parking lot that lay beyond. The concrete wasteland stretches on for what seems like an entire football field, maybe even more. The white lines that mark out parking slots are all cracked and sprouting in weeds.

That is your first note - the parking lot needs a touch-up. You add it to your mental checklist before stepping out from under the shade of the unkempt trees. 

The sunlight stuns you and with a wince, you lift your hand to cover your eyes. Pulling through the horizon like a shimmering mirage in a desert is the mega pizzaplex. And mega it is. Your jaw slings open in comedic horror and you cannot help but gasp at the sight before you.

No, it was not a simple restaurant - it was an entire building. An entire complex. An entire factory. An-

“An entire mall?!” Your internal monologue bursts outward with the loud exclamation. “This shit has floors!”

The building remains unbothered by the outburst, its dull creamy walls plastered with once dazzling posters that have now turned blotchy and illegible. In a near-catatonic state of awe and shock, you stand stock still, looking upwards at the sheer height of the behemoth in wait. This is no mere ‘little restaurant’. This is the boss restaurant to end all others - the unholy motherload!

That doubt that had swayed you earlier rumbles in your stomach again but this time it is pitiful and shy under the imposing shadow of the building. 

“This was nowhere in the job description!” You throw your hands up in dismay as the idea of a ‘simple job’ vanishes before your eyes like snow in a spring sun. “He never mentioned it in the interview? How am I… wha… huh... Where am I even supposed to start!?” You all but weep. The building, again, only stares down at you with benevolent indifference.

You had only imagined, or rather hoped, that this job would take a week or two at best but now, face to face with the grotesque size of the shitpie you have dished onto your dinner plate, you realize that it might take a few weeks or maybe, all good gods forbid, a month. Your feet remain rooted in place for a few more minutes, the weight of the consequences of your actions coming to rest upon your shoulders and damn, it is heavy.

Impassive to your dismay, the building remains permanently fixed in place and magnitude, and the sun continues to bear down on your sagging shoulders. An arid breeze wafts through your hair letting you know that no one and nothing gives two shits about your new misfortunes. With a rather dramatic and purposely drawn-out sigh, you force the disappointment and heartbreak out of your chest. The weight becomes bearable and you find the motivation to start moving again.

This mother was your problem now, and you'd be damned twice over if you walked out on all that easy money.

As you make your way across the parking lot, the massive pizzaplex somehow manages to grow exponentially in size and scale. It's intimidation compounding as you crawl beneath its shadow, feeling every warmth and good thing being sapped right out of your bone marrow.  There is no sound from the giant, no murmur of danger, nothing untoward that would otherwise yell at you to turn heel and run. It's just a building. An old building, stuck in the middle of nowhere. No birds fly near, no plants spring out of its cracks, heck there isn't even any graffiti from passerby hooligans. It's completely untouched, unassuming and all the more ominous for it.

Your neck strains from trying to maintain eye contact with the behemoth, and reluctantly you drop your eyesight down to the pavilion framing the front doors. Or rather, what you assume to be the front doors. Cardboard boxes, disregarded paraphernalia and other typical trash heap articles cover the majority of the entrance, serving as a sort of second skin for the glass sliding doors. And as if that was not bad enough, what unobstructed doorway you did manage to see was already boarded up with nails and yellowing planks of wood.

It is clear then - no one is getting in through those doors. Your hands land on your hips as you try to make sense of what exactly you should do next. The way forward is blocked and you can't recall ever being briefed about any other entrances. You drop your backpack onto the ground and dig out your phone but, as an unsurprising surprise, you have no cellphone reception in this god-forsaken wasteland. 

Calling your boss is out of the question then and driving back to town would be admitting a pathetic defeat - both options pulling an ugly grimace on your face at the thought of confronting that grumpy old asshat.

Thus, with your backpack firmly secured in its rightful place, you return to the frivolous task of scoping out any possible mode of entrance into the sealed building. Investigating the piles of forgotten trash yields nothing, the grime and the stench of the pile indicating that it has spent many months rotting through the rainy seasons. Your mind reels at the thought of what foul things crawl below the surface of all the muck. 

Towards the far end of the pile, furthest away from you and clinging to the glass of the front doors, is a row of semi-decent, semi-clean boxes. Though unremarkable, it is an odd enough sight to make you double-take. Out of options and desperate for a solution you chance a lean forward and see that the near-hidden boxes form a sort of staircase that ascends the sea of stink and leads to the top of the pavilion. A spark flashes in your eye, a satisfied hum rumbles in your throat. There's a zing of endorphins that wizz through your body and to your fingertips at conquering the first obstacle in your way. Swallowing your disgust in favour of claiming your earnings, you tiptoe over the trash heap as lightly and delicately as you can to the nearest box of the staircase.

The footing of the mashed-together stairs is worrisome at best and there are moments where you nearly slip off completely as you slowly and steadily make your way up. Your weight hunches forward as you climb on all fours, nails digging into soft cardboard and gunk in a desperate bid not to tumble.

Eventually, with a few heartstopping close calls, you make it to the top of the garbage pile and stand upon the metal beams of the entrance canopy. On thrilled legs, you right yourself and smile as your heart pumps with the rush of adrenaline. You have always wanted to give urban exploration a go.

From your vantage point, you can just make out your car in the distance, seemingly waving goodbye to you from the other side of the barren parking lot. So serene and picture-perfect, you wave a hand to return the imaginary farewell and then turn to face the solid wall of the pizzaplex. 

The cardboard staircase has led you to a disguised opening, a vent hatch in the wall just beneath a poster of a happy-looking theatre man clothed in yellow ruffles. A super secret entrance! Misguided adventure trills in the space between your ears. Carefully you shuffle over to it and trace your fingers along its rusting hinges. The vent moves to the lightest touch, unlocked and unguarded. You raise an eyebrow at the peculiar lack of security. This can't be all a strange coincidence. Someone made those steps in the trash and someone left this vent open. Convenient and totally purposeful, who were you to look at a gifted horse in the month when it was so promising?

With a light tug on the metal frame, the vent swings open and sends a wave of dust into your face inciting a harsh cough. With a few swats from your hand, the debris settles and you peer into the vast blackness of the crawlspace. 

There is no sight nor smell from the void extending into the mega pizzaplex, only cold and stale air that rushes past your ears in an ominous wail. Curiously and cautiously you reach a hand into the vent and feel solid ground beneath your palm. With your pulse chugging along like a steam engine, you crawl into the darkness, completely forgetting that modern cell phones have flashlights. The adrenaline of it all; the excitement of climbing the hidden boxes and of finding the secret entrance to the complex makes you feel all too invincible. And all too stupid.

It is a tight squeeze inside the cool metal vent but that is mostly in credit to your backpack, which you begin to wonder would maybe be better secured to your stomach. You crawl as far into the space as you comfortably can before stopping and shuffling to adjust your get-up.

The sudden shift in weight causes the floor beneath your hands and knees to let out a terrible creak. Your breathing hitches with the noise, your blood turns to ice and you immediately stop moving. The quiet moan of the moving air mixes with the groan of straining metal and a stone sinks into your stomach. An unknown threshold has been crossed, a fence has been jumped, and there is no going back for you now.

Your cheeks go cold as you cast one last, miserable look back over your shoulder at the opening behind you, a distressingly small square that bleeds sweet sunlight into the mounting void.

You yearn to leap for it, attempt a last-ditch effort to right whatever sin you have just unwittingly committed and save yourself from whatever punishment awaits. But the floor beneath you crumbles into dust with a metallic screech and you fall into the open and eager maw of the mega pizzaplex. Total darkness engulfs all your senses just as something knocks hard into the back of your head and plunges you into unconsciousness. 

Something jagged and hard digs painfully into the left side of your back driving you out of your slumber. The sleep pulls away and every part of your body begins to ache in protest as you attempt to right yourself and sit up. Through closed eyes, bright lights flood your blurry vision and you cringe at the sudden overwhelming sensation. 

As one hand rubs the tender spot on your back, the other attempts to soothe your adjusting eyes, index finger and thumb caressing the corners of your eyes before finally coaxing them open. Your sight is immediately bombarded with an array of neon splashes of purples and blues shining off the surrounding area and you have to blink several times to hold back the onslaught of tears. But eventually, the searing lights pull back their ferocity and you start to make out the world around you. 

You sit at the far end of a great hall with a high ceiling and fantastical lighting. The floor beneath you is pristine marble tiles that reflect the lights in the large room making everything appear double and ultra luminescent. It is an entrance foyer by the looks of things, a row of turnstiles and ticket vendors stand in a line no more than a few meters in front of your slumped position. Beyond the row is a far brighter area than the one you are in. A circle of little shops and at the centre, a water fountain stands adorned with a glittering golden statue of a singing figure. Beyond the statue, squinting your already straining eyes to see, is a row of stairs and escalators that lead upwards and beyond. 

Pain flickers in the back of your head from the effort and you double over with a wheeze, both of your hands jumping to cover the throbbing bruise.

What happened? Where are you? How did you get here?

You can’t remember anything from before waking up and when you try, the emerging headache forces you to stop. You sink into a little ball, your head clutched between your knees and covered by your hands as you wait for the torment to subside. Or at least dissipate enough to allow you to think. 

Very slowly, your mind unclouds in pieces, starting with the last thing you remember, which happens to be darkness and the feeling of… falling. The ground beneath your hands slipping away and tumbling into an endless void. Your fingers perform gentle circular motions on your head and you hum a little at the relief it provides.

Yes, you were crawling in a vent when it suddenly broke and you fell out. That sounds right. But why were you even in there to begin with? What would make you stupid enough to try something like that?

Well, that's because... you got the job with the family business. They sent you to the site. You arrived and couldn't find a way in. So you climbed into a vent and fell into-

“The pizzaplex!”

It all comes back to you like a car crash and your head bolts upright from the ricochet. You were sent here to do a job for that Fazbear company, to go check out their old, abandoned building and write down all the rot and decay that had befallen it. Yes, that sounds exactly right. And you did make it to their building and you did make it inside.

Yet, as you slowly look around at your surroundings, at all the dazzling lights and the eerie yet sterile atmosphere, your certainty wavers. This can't be the right place, not the pizzaplex that was described to you. Nothing about this place wails of the neglect you were forewarned about, no signs of dilapidation or abandonment of any kind - everything looks brand spanking new and completely untouched. 

You must still be sleeping or worse, maybe you're dead. A morbid conclusion but, at least then, you’d have some sort of explanation for what is happening. You doubt for a moment if this even is the mega pizzaplex, the very same one you had to climb piles of trash to enter, but a glance towards the statue on the fountain confirms your theory. It is the same bear character as the one on your laptop. 

What's going on? Why is everything so clean!? Why are the lights turned on?! And how long have you been knocked out?

You look down at the watch on your wrist and find that the time is currently 02:59 AM. A pang of panic strikes your chest like a cold butcher's knife. It was only early afternoon when you entered the vent, no way you could have been lying here, out cold, until the next morning.

Shock and confusion threaten to send you overboard into outright panic but before you truly lose yourself to hopelessness, something silver catches your attention. 

A hand, three-fingered and skeletal, lies lifeless beside your own.

With a yelp you are on your feet in an instant, eyes wide, aches and pains and headaches all forgotten, numbed by sudden and paralysing fear.

You were sleeping on a pile of bones; a mattress of mangled corpses that contort and stretch out into one another, an indescribable mess of intertwining limbs and torsos. The bodily mass presses tight against the front doors and stretches towards the ceiling as if trying to climb over itself but failing. Hands reach up to grasp the sky, desperate and drowning in the others all doing the same, trying to claw their way out. It's like something out of a horror movie, utterly horrific and visceral, a sight that makes your mouth go dry and your body cold. But what saves your queasy stomach from throwing up its contents, is that you notice it is not skeletons at all. Not human skeletons. You take a trembling step closer to confirm your suspicions - the bodies are all made of metal. 

“Robots?” Your voice is less shaky than you thought it would be, although you speak just above a whisper.

The bodies smothering the entrance glass doors are made of dark steel and laced with yellow and blue wires. The heads that manage to poke out of the black blob bear empty eyes and terrifying white teeth. A shiver dances up your spine as you remember that you have been sleeping soundly on those bodies for hours. Not wanting to humour that thought any longer, you tentatively edge away from the pile of metallic corpses, your eyes never lifting from the numerous forms for fear that one might suddenly wake up and reach out to grab you.

Managing a few steps back, slowly unwinding the pin-sharp paranoia out of your shoulders, your heel collides with something solid and you practically jump out of your skin in fright.

Spinning around on your toes, arms flailing to the sides to keep balance, you stare down at the culprit.

A yellow caution sign with glowing eyes tilts its little, rectangular head at you, quietly observing your apprehension.

'It moved?! It's alive!' You blink in astonishment - alive and watching you with curiosity.

The little sign tilts its head one way and then the other, blinking its digital LED eyes up at you and you can do little else but blink dumbly back. Looking around in befuddled silence you see that there are several more of these little yellow 'slippery when wet' signs dotted around the foyer, each adorned with heads and cute, round ears. They stand alone or in groups and some even mingle along with a few taller and more anthropomorphic robots. You suck in air at the sight of the taller grey bots but quickly release the pent-up oxygen in a sigh of relief. These robots have wheels for feet and have long, slender arms which they use to sweep or mop the already clean tiled floor - they look nothing like the dark brooding skeletons that made up your unfortunate mattress.

Though you stare, owl-eyed and shaking, at them, none of your new, strange company so much as lifts a head in your direction, entirely unperturbed by your presence.

Between the dull whisperings of your headache, the uncanny quiet of the foyer and your patchy understanding of the situation, you begin to feel very out of place and very small. A fact that is not helped by the towering ceiling above your head that is entirely too high and too dark for your unnerved disposition.

Something without a voice whispers chills of alarm into your ear - you should not be here.

Your eyes drift back down to the caution sign still parked in front of you, and out of a dawning urge to demonstrate politeness, perhaps in an effort to amend your trespassing on these robots' holy place of solitude, you offer the little sign a tight-lipped smile. It is a simple gesture that takes a great amount of effort from you, your heart spluttering and aching from nearly stopping because of the little thing's jumpscare. 

“Uh, hello there… little guy.” You take a knee to bring yourself down to its height. You talk without much consideration for what exactly you are saying, the words seeming to tumble out of your mouth on their own accord. Despite the situation and the absurdity of your conversation partner, you find that talking lessens some of the fright that haunts the corners of your vision. And for whatever reason, you can't seem to stop.

“So you’re the ones keeping the place clean? Well, let me just say, you’re doing a great job so far.” The sign stares up at you motionless, not seeming to hear or even understand what you are saying.

Ridiculousness strikes through you like lightning. Are you really trying to strike up a conversation with... whatever this thing is? Just because the sign has the semblance of a face doesn't equate it to being capable of consciousness. It is probably just a motor with wheels and the most basic of programming to emulate the illusion of expression.

You lift a hand to rub the embarrassment out of your warm face. Damn, you must have hit your head a little too hard when you fell, your grip on reality slipping through your fingers like trying to catch smoke, resorting to the most ludicrous, insane, impossible-

“Hey! Wait! Where are you going?” The flimsy rationale you desperately tried to ground yourself with breaks as you call after the yellow sign when it turns and starts to slowly make its way over to a group of other caution signs idling on the far side of the foyer. Your feet jog after the little thing without you giving the command to follow the bot. The sign drifts up beside another of its kind and as you approach, three pairs of bright eyes and round ears swivel to meet you.

“Uh ... hi, guys." The greeting that comes out of your mouth is a spectacular betrayal of confidence and bravado. Their collective silence is a disheartening reception that cements the already hard-to-shake feeling that you are not particularly welcome here. And the awkwardness only worsens when a grey, cleaner robot standing amidst the group of caution signs bleeps a shrill warning at you. The bot cries and flashes its eyes, waving its arms for you to step away. In confusion, you look down in the direction of the robot's distress. There is a puddle of very soapy water coiling around your boots.

"Oh! Sorry." You leap back off the bot's hard work and immediately it drops its arms to continue mopping. With the robot no longer shrieking and you no longer at risk of slipping, meek bravery plucks itself enough to attempt to spark up another conversation. 

"Hey there. Um, I know you're working and I know that I probably shouldn't be here but..." You drum a nervous fist on the side of your thigh, eyes flicking around the room, well aware of the gaggle of caution signs that all stare unblinkingly at you, "Do you know what's going on here? Where is everyone? I mean, where are the humans?" You feel it necessary to rectify your surely offensive statement to the robot. "Is there someone I can talk to? Is someone in charge? Who knows what's going on here?" You turn your head back to the pile of steel skeletons smothering the front doors and look up towards the ceiling. The higher the wall goes, the more it becomes consumed by darkness. There is nothing in the shadows of the ceiling that your eyes can find - no hint of the vent you had so perilously crawled through.

"Is there someone who can show me the way out of here?" The last question drops out of the side of your mouth in a pathetic plop as you return to face the cleaner robot. You can hear something shatter somewhere deep in your chest as the robot has hardly even glanced away from its circular, sweeping motions, its glinting optics focused so intently upon its task. The bot is either deaf or doesn't consider your plea necessary to react. Or, and this is most likely, it is simply incapable of processing your request. It has one job and one function, and it doesn't involve pointing lost souls towards the nearest accessible exit.

A sigh of exhaustion falls out of your throat and your head plops into your hands - defeated and frazzled.

So much is happening in too short a time that your brain is working on overdrive just to keep its lights on and you swear you can smell smoke. This level of absurdity; the not-so-abandoned pizzaplex being entirely intact and inhabited by robots, the mountain of steel bodies that bar the only known way out, it is all too wild to be real. A fantastical fantasy fit only for a dream! Yet, beyond any shadows of doubt, you are certain you are awake. The pain bouncing around in your skull and residing in your lower back is very much real and undying. Too vicious to be ignored.

So then why... why...

Panic dances with confusion and swoons all your other senses to madness. The great and oppressive feeling that you should not be here builds to a mighty thunder in your chest, suffocating and whole. Everything swells into a drowning ocean of dread and at any given moment, it will sink you into its abyss. But as the insanity reaches its apex, as you are sure your body is about to curl into a ball and give in to the mounting anguish, you pinch the bridge of your nose and take in a deliberately deep and slow breath.

Try as it might, raging so violently against the very will of your consciousness, fear does not overwhelm you. Rather, a far more fitting and sensible notion settles into the forefront of your mind. A cool acceptance, a tranquil voice. An ability to adapt and improvise in the face of adversity calms your frantic thoughts and singles them down to a line of reason. There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Sure, the pile of robot corpses at the door is an unsettling sight, but besides that, there is no danger. There should be no danger. There are only robots, docile and harmless who are only concerned with doing their jobs. It is all a misunderstanding. A terribly bizarre and tragic playout of events that are entirely not your fault. You exhale the hot air through your nose and thankfully feel some of the tension from your shoulders ooze down your spine. 

Now is not the time to lose your head. 

“Well, thanks anyway guys,” You say with a small wave as you start to make your way towards the row of turnstiles. “Keep up the good work.” There is not so much as a beep from the group of robots at your saddened departure.

Alright, the plan of action: Venture further into the plex and find someone to explain what is going on in this neon nightmare. Or, better yet, get them to show how to get the hell out of here.

An easy enough strategy, straight to the point with no fine print or hidden clauses. Suddenly, being able to see your path forward, you don't feel so hopeless. Just put one foot in front of the other. 

With a final sweep of the entrance foyer, surveying all the noiseless motions of the tall cleaner robots and their yellow spectators, you turn to the turnstile that separates the surprisingly tranquil space from the rest of the mega pizzaplex. A total unknown and frankly terrifying prospect. Hip-high and with no security enforcement, camera or guards or anything likewise in sight, you hop over the barrier in a swift arc.  

The massive hall beyond the ticket booths is draped in a far lighter atmosphere than the foyer, quite literally for the warm lights that float down from the domed ceiling dance off the astonishingly clean marble floors, flashing greens, pinks and blues in every which direction. The lighting frames the barred doorways of the gift shops that line the rim of the hall. You walk over to one of the shops and take a cursory peek inside. The gift shop is drenched in thick blackness, the lights inside turned low and the ones from the hall barely even breach the deeper recesses, although the outline of plushies, multiple rows of t-shirts and other fancy, meaningless trinkets, manage to push through the encoaching null. Out of curiosity, you give the barred gate of the shop a good, firm shake. It is locked tight. You continue onwards.

In the middle of the hall is the hefty water fountain that you first saw from your bed of bones. Its sapphire blue water trickles lazily in the lower pond and shines like jewels, illuminated by the symphony of hues emitted all around it. A colossal golden statue of an anthropomorphic animal stands strong and proud in the centre of the water feature, holding a microphone stand and leaning over as if singing passionately into it. The scene cracks a dry snort from you, unable to imagine what manner of song could get a bear to sing like that.

The sealed shops and fountain coral you down the hall to the obnoxiously pink staircases that line the far wall.  A broken escalator sits in rumble in the middle of the staircases and despite your better judgement, you mark that down in your mental survey. You take the stairs to the left of the broken machine. Plastic palm trees droop their green leaves over the hand railings and you crinkle your nose at their novelty.

Certainly, the mega pizzaplex doesn't screw around with its aesthetic. No expense spared, no corners cut. It is the real deal of style. It is like an 80s groovy, punk scene, complete with the fluorescent neon lights bent into words and quirky faces and the outlandishly gaudy checked tile floor. What carpets can be seen is the funky bowling alley type, dark purples and blues scattered with galaxy stars. Though oftentimes overly obnoxious and all-too-bright for someone with a possible, undiagnosed concussion, you relent that a part of you does like the mega pizzaplex. It would've been very nice to visit this place had the circumstances of your arrival been vastly different.

You picture the hall bursting with people; kids, parents, teenagers, and babbling toddlers, all floating between the various merchandise shops purchasing toys and memorabilia to commemorate their time spent in this wonderous, extravagant building. Heck, even pensioners would undoubtedly concede to a once-off visit to the plex if only to relish in an era gone by. Were the cleaner bots as stand-offish to people when this place was seeing regular business, you wonder to yourself as your fingers lightly grace the dividing handrail. You try to imagine the noise of it all; the footsteps, the music, the crying, the talking, the laughing. But try as you might, you simply can't, all creativity falters for the mega pizzaplex you are trapped in right now is all too silent and all too empty for you to think of it as anything else. The people may as well be ghosts, phantom pains of things that once existed but are no more. Even with all your fantasies, you are alone in the plex.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you confront a row of intact elevators indented into the pink wall across a carpeted landing. After looking down the lane from the left to the right like you are about to cross a busy street, you walk over to the nearest elevator and, eagerly with a chime, it slides open its doors. You hesitate, scanning the tiny steel box for any potential threats or electrical faults but find only posters of happy animals partying and eating food. The lights are working and there is no sign of damage. Deeming the elevator to be benign, you move to enter.

As your foot crosses the threshold of the box, a sudden noise freezes your muscles in place.

An abrupt and daunting bang resonates from the distant right side of the landing and carefully, you lean an eye out of the elevator to locate the source of the disturbance. Down the way, a pair of bright, red doors labelled ‘Superstar Daycare’ have been swung violently open, struck with such great force that the very foundation of the building reverberates with shockwaves, a deadly chilled silence ensues, quelling even the monotonous hum of the overhead lightbulbs.

Standing amidst the darkness seeping out from beyond the red doorframe is a monster.

It resembles a man but only because it stands on two feet. Clad in green scales and ridiculously tall, even with its back curled forward in a hunch, it lurches through the doorway and into the washed blue light of the landing. A green and yellow segmented tail sways from side to side with its lumbering movements. Something glints harshly in the light, catching your eye - a long snout lined with sharp, white teeth as well as pointed claws beset upon its hands and feet. The idea of what those terrible, sharpened tools could do to tender, soft flesh flashes through your mind. The monster is equipped to maim and hurt things. 

Insurmountable fear makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight on end - there is something terrifying about that thing, and it is not because of its dramatic entrance or off-putting attire.

Something about the monster is violent, angry.

Behind the frames of the star-shaped glasses resting upon the beast's nose, are bright, purple eyes that hurry around the foyer; scanning, searching, looking for something, for someone - for you.

Undeniable, undoubtable. It is you that it wants, you that it is hunting for. It wants to take all that obvious, devastating anger out on something delicate and easily destroyed. It wants to sink its shiny, pristine teeth into gentle skin and never let go until bones shatter beneath its rage. Is this how prey animals feel when they stare at the hungry predator about to pounce on them? The inescapable, inevitable call of death.

Startling confusion bleeds with alarm as your rational and pleading mind tries to work through the panic - no way that this thing wants to kill you. It can't! It shouldn't! You are just on edge, picking out the signs of danger when, perhaps, there is none! Looking only for things to be afraid of! But, all that reason, all that clever analytical backtalk, melts away in an instant when the monster bellows hot smoke from its unclasped jaws and lifts its glare towards your stuck position.

In that tiny millisecond, before its gaze totally zones in on its intended target, feral dread takes over your body and you know that there is only one thing to do- you have to act before it does. 

You hit the ground running; sprinting out of the elevator almost on all fours as you struggle to find your footing after such a spontaneous and scrambling start. Leaping into the open carpet, you run from the monster to the opposite side of the landing where a doorway is marked with the signboard- ‘Faz-Pad’. At the burst of movement, the monster immediately gives chase. Like a yipping dog running down a frightened hare, it is keen to hunt prey so willing to run. With a horrible hiss, it bounds after you, closing the distance in powerful strides.

The insulated ground rumbles with every step the monster takes, getting louder and more thunderous the closer it gets to you. And it is getting closer. The beast is so much faster, stronger, heavier than you. There is no mistaking it - that thing is a robot. From the snaps and clanks that the beast’s footfalls make upon the carpet, too thick and cumbersome to seemingly be able to run at all, you can tell that it has bones made of metal. It is a towering, rampaging machine of destruction and there is not a single doubt in your mind that should it catch you, you could never fend it off.

There is no fighting something with teeth that big. But it has to catch you first, so as long as you can run, you won't let the chase be an easy one.

Breathing through your gritted teeth, you sprint for the shop across a serene balcony, drowning out the sound of your murderer's approach with your own, hysteric footsteps. Your shoulder slams into the cafe’s unlocked doors, crashing through the wooden surface with a bang then spinning and shutting it again, using the weight of your heaving body as a doorstopper. You brace your legs for incoming impact and nearly buckle entirely under the force that the robot uses as it tries to get in.

There is a horrid, ear-grating sound as steel claws meet wood, the monster growling and tearing at the doors with malicious, agitated desire. There is no sound from the beast that you can associate with any kind of intelligence - only growls and barks of pure animalistic thrill tinged harshly by shrill screeches of heavy machinery.

Bullets of sweat race down your forehead as you quickly scan the cafe, looking for something, anything, to aid you in getting out of this perilous predicament, preferably alive and with all your extremities still attached. Your head swivels to the right and that something catches your eye. Extending a shaking leg, you drag a tall bar stool from the coffee bar, jamming it under the doorhandle to, hopefully, delay the monster from slamming itself right through the doors. 

The green robot pounds its mighty fists upon the barrier, the door's poor hinges whining from the abuse. But it holds. Hastened by the awful noise of your impending doom, you continue to look around for another way out of the cafe and spot in the corner, by a staircase leading down a level, a sealed vent.

Relief momentarily flickers in your chest as your hurry towards it, kneeling and examining the screws holding the metal cover in place. Damn, if only you had a screwdriver. An ominous thump from the door reminds you of your urgency and, thinking quickly, you grab a small steel chair from one of the many tables. In a beat almost in sync with the clawing of the robot, you bash the chair into the metal grate, using all the strength your arms can muster to dent it. After three powerful strikes, the covering bends and you toss the chair aside. With the leeway created, you dig your fingers in deep enough to rip it partially off the wall. 

The exposed vent washes over your hot body with soft, cool air as you drop to your knees to crawl inside. As shaky palms and knees scram into the cramped space, the front door lets out a last, resentful crack as the monster barrels into the cafe.

The bot lingers in place for a moment, twitching with excitement in the demolished doorway, its gaze darting hungrily around the upturned Faz-Pad for any sign of life. The shuffling of your boots against steel attracts its head to your position. It jumps across the room in one swift, graceful motion and swipes at you in the vent.

Only one of its long arms manages to fit inside the tight crawl space, the torso of the robot being too robust and large to allow it full entry. Its wild, thrashing claws swipe side to side and nick the cuff of your right jean leg. You shriek as the beast yanks back on your ensnared limb, your femur nearly dislocating from the hip entirely from the sudden, forced jerk. You desperately kick out, but the pressure remains - the monster has caught you.

The bot snaps its jaws in response, its other taloned hand digging holes and carving long gashes into the brick wall surrounding the vent opening. It pushes itself into the space in a feverish manner, tearing and breaking its own body just to get at you. Its actions are sporadic and self-destructive and the sheer will it has to bite you makes your mind reel in absolute horror. 

The monster has no regard for itself - its only desire is to kill you. It chomps its teeth together and growls in sick delight as it starts to pull your leg towards its waiting maw.

You kick again, pathetically. You can't shake it loose, you can't crawl away. The robot's strength is impressive and inescapable and its talons are hooked properly into the fabric of your pants. There is no way out. There is nothing you can do ... but -

Rolling over onto your back, momentarily giving into the monster's grasp, you pull back your left leg as far and high as it can go within the confines of the vent. In a single, mighty effort, you pour all your remaining strength and desperation into the limb, feeling your muscles burn with the determination to resist death.

“Fuck off!!!”

Shouting with hatred equal to the ones flashing in the bot's purple eyes, you drive your boot into the front teeth of the monster, your heel connecting with its bottom jaw and sending it ricocheting backwards from the abrupt strike. The back of the monster's head knocks into the roof of the vent with violent momentum and a loud thwack.

It stops moving, its jaw locks tight and there is a sudden and palpable stillness.

You don't stay to watch for a reaction, quickly freeing yourself from the monster's slack claws and retreating further into the vent. 

With your head down, you crawl faster and faster, too scared and too hyped on adrenaline to notice or even care which way you are going. All you do care about is getting as far away from that thing as possible.

Deeper into the arteries of the building you worm yourself, following the turns and twists of your supposed safe-haven as it takes you somewhere you have no chance of knowing. Regardless of your possible whereabouts, you keep pushing on. Hands and knees begin to sting from your fervent crawling, fingers becoming slick and sticky as if coated in blood, but still, you push yourself to go faster and harder until you are miles away, in a most unreachable place, from that fucking green monster.

It is only when the pain swells into an unbearable, scorching fire that burns hotter than your urge to flee, do you finally slow to a stop and slump over into a miserable pile of heaving, shaking mess.

In the dim light of the vent, you bring your hands up to your panting face. Thankfully, the cool liquid you feel coating your skin is not blood but rather sweat. A lot of it. Your palms are fine, if not a bit red and sensitive, and the jeans covering your knees are torn but the skin beneath remains unscathed. Besides those superficial blemishes, you are fine. You are alive. You survived that terrifying encounter with not even a scratch to show for it.

It's too good to be true.

You remain in your slouching position for a few minutes more; your lungs gulping in buckets of air like a fish drying under the sun. The cold sweat covering your forehead dissipates with a wipe of your jacket's sleeve. After a few minutes more, when your heart rate smooths out and your mind unclutters, you cannot help but let out a weak, tired laugh.

Or what you assume is a laugh.

Just when you think you have a handle on your situation, when you think it can't possibly get any weirder, wilder or worse, some new horror crawls its way out of the woodworks of the mega pizzaplex and spooks you half to death.

You have had enough of it now, wanting nothing more than to just go home - screw the money, double-screw the Fazbear Entertainment business, and triple-screw this plex and every one of its freaky little robots. Fuck everything, you just want to crawl into your bed and never get back up.

Your head lulls to the side as you feel exhaustion gnaw at your aching limbs. You could go back to sleep in the grimy, cramped vent - it wouldn't be the weirdest place you have slept in recent memory. At least it is secure and isolated. But as tempting as the call to just give up and never leave the darkness of the vent space ever again is, some part of your stupid, strangely enduring spirit refuses to let it end here. Just be more careful next time, its voice swoons in your ears making your lip curl in annoyance. As if any of this was your fault. 

Well ... you did accept a job from an eccentric company in a town out of your way. And you did weasel your way in through a dodgy vent. And - 

You shake your head and slap your slightly hot cheeks, dislodging the piling thoughts before they overwhelm you with every piece of self-criticism they can dig up. There's no good in finding and pinning blame on yourself. 'Would have's, 'could have's, 'if's and 'but's are not going to get you out of the plex. And they certainly are not going to get you out of the dirty, cold vent.

Lifting your attention, you inspect your surroundings. The narrow corridor of tempered steel before you stretches on for what seems like forever. In both directions, you can see no end to the winding, eluding labyrinth. You are truly in the middle of a no-man's land. 

For what could be the better part of an hour, you remain in your collapsed position, waiting for your breathing to calm down and your limbs to lose those static sensations that accompany high-octane situations. When you can manage to curl your fingers into a fist that is steady and solid, you pull your body up from the steel ground. With no real indication of which direction would be the best way to go, you decide to crawl head-first in the direction you were already going. Any direction is best so long as it is far, far, far away from the monster you left behind on the other end.

The journey is tough, oftentimes you have to wade through stagnant, icy water collecting in puddles because of the humid air-conditioning. Curse you Jackson for being right about something. You have to constantly remind yourself to block your nose whenever you near a particularly murky patch, to risk not smelling whatever unknown substance soils your palms. It's dingy, it's cold and it's dark. But you keep pushing on, your eyes searching the vent's sealed walls for any signs of a possible exit. 

Through cracks and serrated grates, light from outside seeps into the crawl space. The hues often shift, going from deep purples to mushy greens, then from starry yellows to pinkish reds, and you wonder how many rooms you must have unknowingly clambered through. Sometimes you can hear distant music through the cool steel, melodies just soft enough that you can't really make them out but consistent enough to be a recognizable rhythm. Melancholic, elevator jazz - buzzing, droning, utterly unsettling. Music is supposed to bring comfort and break the silences of awkward spaces, but this tune, as sweet and mellow as it is, only perpetuates the feeling of isolation. Something is wrong, terribly wrong and missing from this place.

To save what little hope still fluttered in your chest and urged you to keep pushing on, your mind begins to cloud with distractions, pulling the fresh memory of the monster that had attacked you into focus. The green robot, in its full, bulking entirety stands before you, jaws open, shoulders rounded and thick tail swaying from side to side.

“The fucker had a mohawk,” you breathe to yourself in the stillness, “And pants.”

To design and create something with the potential to be so violent, and rabid only to slap funny star glasses and red hair upon its head is a divinely comedic and sarcastic choice that you could never hope to understand. Try as you might, you can not picture in what scenario a robot like that would ever be necessary. If it was made purely to kill, then it would not need to be so colourful and careful with its attire. But if it was made to entertain, as you are led more and more to believe, then it would not need its razor-sharp teeth. You metaphorically scratch your head at the paradox the robot proposes, unsure if you'd ever really know the answer to its peculiar design choices.

There are actually a lot of things you don't know. Important things like - what is happening in the plex? Why you are trapped behind a wall of disregarded machine skeletons, and why do some of the bigger robots hate your guts so badly that they want to spill them all over the nice, clean floor? So many burning, aching questions that you might run yourself ragged. But, the silver lining be blessed, there is one thing you do know. And that is what the deal with the mega pizzaplex is, what makes it so special to the executives at Fazbear Family Entertainment that they would be willing to send literally anyone into their abandoned building to get it back. You know exactly what its gimmick is.

It is the robots. 

Not an incredibly shocking revelation considering all you have seen and encountered thus far but one that does make the most sense. It sticks with you and sounds solid enough to be plausible. The metal corpse pile guarding the front doors, the caution signs, the cleaner bots, and even the green monster. They are all robots. However some, it would seem, are more articulate than others, able to carry out their most violent and demanding tendencies with swiftness and brutality. Care and money were put into their creation and it reflects throughout the plex itself. 

Back in the front foyer and entrance hall, when you had, unknowingly at the time, the peaceful perusal of all the gift shops and the numerous decorations, the attention and commitment to the robots' characters were etched into every nook and cranny of the plex. In the posters on the walls, the mountains of plushies waiting patiently to be snatched up by a wanting child and on anything else that could be slapped with advertising. While some robots were made with the intention to be simple labourers, like the caution signs and cleaners, others were made to be rockstars.

The mega pizzaplex is the home and stage to these robots, or rather animatronics, the real fancy kind that dance and sing with life-like motions and make all the kids go wild in delight. And maybe even some adults. They can walk and talk, they can even serve pizza. A marvel of entertainment and engineering - a sight to behold and gawk at.

'Dinner and a show', you smirk as your hands land in another puddle of frigid water. The monster you had the most gracious of luck to meet first upon your arrival is one of the robots meant to dazzle and dance, one of the leading draw-ins for the plex. That much is obvious. You could find its face everywhere in the main foyer, along with the likes of 3 other distinctive performers. From what details you can gather from your frayed memory, there was a white bird, a grey wolf, and an orange bear. And, of course, a green alligator with blazing red hair.

Oh, wild-child rockstar, obscenely obnoxious in both appearance and personality. 

For whatever reason, the bots are angry. Maybe they all sought to unionize against their corporate overlords, going rogue and refusing to cooperate with anyone. Maybe the robots just decided one day that they prefer the taste of muscle and blood over motor oil and grease. The potential list of reasons why the animatronics are the way they are continues to grow ever longer and more nonsensical to the point where you don't make sense even to yourself. Nevertheless, their anger stays the same in any iteration of the tale. 

There was no hint of hesitation from the green alligator as it flashed its fangs in your face. No voice of reason within its circuits to question your fear or willingness to flee. It possessed no logic, no indecision with its actions, it only wanted to hurt you. Some performer - what good is a rockstar if all they want to do is tear their adoring fans limb from limb? That can't be it, truly; the malicious and pure, unbridled bloodlust that the monster thrust itself at you with was beyond any hissy fit a self-important popstar could carry out. The green bot was hunting for something, patrolling, guarding. Perhaps, it serves as a security system. Big, Killer Croc doubles as a kids performer by day and a cracked-out guard dog by night.

Twisted, fucking restaurant with twisted, fucking robots.

"I'm not an intruder, assholes!" The declaration jumps from your throat and along the damp air in the vent, echoing down the way with the vague promise to carry to the ears of your pursuers. "I work here too y'know! Uh... well, I'm supposed to." 

Deeper within the winding innards of the ventilation system, something keens to the noise of your voice. It waits and listens for a second then turns and starts to follow.

You hear it before you see it. Music; sweet, fairytale-like music, the type that would accompany a jewellery box with a spinning porcelain ballerina. It's faint, wafting through the brittle air like a songbird on a winter's morning, haunting and so terribly out of style for the plex. Slowly turning your head behind you to face the direction of the approaching noise, around a far corner, a tiny figure creeps into view.

A white, very dirty face stares blankly ahead, eyes blacker than any night and its pink mouth pulled wide into an unnerving grin, exposing stained, square teeth that oddly resemble piano keys. Two missing teeth leave gaps in the centre of the daunting smile. Much like a spider, it rushes towards you, scampering at an alarming speed on several pink feet, all the while banging musical instruments in its outstretched front arms. Be it a speaker or a voice box, the little robot emits ironically calming music from its chest cavity and, every now and then, accentuates the song with a clap of its cymbals.

Human and robotic eyes collide in a surprised, wordless meeting, the robot seemingly hesitating when it catches you gawking at it with an expression equal parts panic and disgust. But it is not swayed from its course, continuing to slam its hands together and increasing its pace.

It doesn't seem to like you.

The same irrational, unspeakable fear that had run rampant through you the last time you were charged by an unfamiliar, freaky robot flares anew and bright in your chest. An already fragile heart and trembling disposition whine for you to flee. Run now and never stop, never-ever, even if you have to wear your skin down to the bone. Run until your last breath. And you very well might.

But instead of turning tail and giving into savage terror, your body shifts beneath itself, moving on its own accord. Your arms and legs are tired, griefed by exhaustion beyond anything you have felt in a long time, and without your consultation, decide what to do of their own volition. Manoeuvring over to block the entire vent space with the size of your puffed-out frame, you prepare to catch the raging bull by its grimy horns. Foolish pluck momentarily overrides feral anxiety.

When the small robot is within range, an arm, quick like a viper, lashes out for the bot. Your hand swoops beneath the base of the music maker's head and lifts the tiny thing off its many feet. And it is surprisingly... easy. You are almost too stunned to believe it. As too is the robot, who again, goes quiet for a moment, processors whirring to try and comprehend what has captured it. But the bot shakes off its stun faster than you. 

The thing squirms helplessly in your grasp, twisting this way and that like a fisherman's hard-earned bounty. Though its face is set in tough metal and rigid plastic, its desperation to be released is practically tangible. It shrieks a high-pitched buzz over the music still twirling forth from its thorax, smashing its instruments together in an utterly clamorous and distressing display. You cringe at the bot's panic, tightening your hold on the little thing as it cries all the louder. It yanks its head away from the contact and in an instant, you realise its anguish.

You feel it beneath your thumb. Exposed wiring, a simple metal rod. The robot's neck.

Holy shit, it would be beyond easy to snap its head off. A forced jerk of the hand, a closing of your fist. So quick, the bot would hardly feel it, if the robot could even feel things at all. No fuss, no problem. No more arachnid pursuer nipping at your heels in the vents. One less monster to worry about in this waking nightmare. A deal that you should be jumping to cash in. It is what the green monster would have done and, were the roles reversed, what the little spider would have done to you too. 

In the mega pizzaplex, it is kill or be killed.

The robot thrashes again, watching the idea of its execution dawn on your sweating, ghostly face. Your focus drifts from your hand back to the bot's permanently smiling expression, and you swear you can see fear swirling around in those infinitely black eyes. Something glistening and viscous shimmers across its feature, moving behind the plastic oculars as the bot watches you watching it. It is like looking into a damn mirror.

It's scared, terrified, of you. Of what you might do to it. 

This is unexpected. A robot ... expressing emotions. Or rather, expressing something that you recognize as an emotion, something other than anger or bloodlust. But that can't be real, your eyes must be seeing things, going blurry as a result of an undisclosed concussion. The vent is dim and there is barely any light to see your own fingers still clasped around the bots neck. But even so, even with the limited illumination, you can't shake the recognition you feel when searching deeper into the bot's black eyes. It's there, the fear is there and it isn't going away. But the robot can't be scared, it's a robot! It's a stupid idea and stupid ideas lead to stupid choices which, in due course, lead to stupid deaths.

The robot is so awake, so alive. So worried for its bodily safety that you feel unconscionable guilt well up in your stomach at being the cause of its extreme torment. And it is this feeling, this hesitation that sets your fingers to stone. In the end, you are no killer. No green monster that wants nothing more than to tear flesh and serve heads from shoulders. There's no hunger for punishment in your stomach, no taste for violence on your tongue. You are just lost, alone and scared.

There is also a slight possibility that the robot possesses some form of consciousness, much like how it has been expressing its fear. For all you know, it might be capable of expressing other things, maybe even producing cognitive thoughts and rationale, and you could never hurt something that is probably as scared of you as you are of it.

Probably.

“Hey, easy there. It's alright. It's okay lil' guy, I'm not going to hurt you.” Your voice mellows as you try to soothe the frailing bot, lowering it to the ground. Leaning forward and using a fraction more of your body weight you smoosh the robot into a tight ball, securing it in place beneath your palm and the ground. The show of superior strength is intended to send the message that the smaller bot cannot fight against you and that, although you hold the upper hand in this battle, you will not end it. The change in pressure only causes the thing to struggle more, its movements intensifying. In response to the bot's persistent protest, instead of applying sterner discipline like snapping a limb off per se, a quiet shush escapes past your teeth.

Despite all your rage and terror - comfort is what you bleed. Surprisingly, after a few lengthy moments, the robot does give into your grasp. Its gangly limbs retract close to its thorax, and it ceases to flail. It does not raise its head to look at you, however, the cymbals attached to its front arms bang together in a frenzied manner like how a knee would bounce with anxiety. 

“It's okay. There, see?” Between the thumb and index finger of your free hand, you pinch the clanging steel instruments together to silence the noise. “I’m not going to hurt you lil’ guy. Do you think you could do the same for me?” The bot doesn’t respond, it doesn't even move. Your brow knots together as your hopes are dashed by the little robot's apathy. Seems as if there really are only two types of robots in this pizzaplex; the murder kind and the cold shoulder type. You exhale a weary sigh through your nose before leaning lower, trying again to search for a connection with the trembling spider bot.

“Hey there, could just hear me out? Vent-buddy to vent-buddy?" You smile at the silly nicknames that appear on your tongue, tilting your head down at the tiny bot. It remains unphased and unimpressed by your attempt at a parlay. "I know I probably shouldn't be here," you pause, un-pinching the cymbals to wave a hand around, "In this vent and, by extension, the pizzaplex but, I have a good reason! If you'd be willing to hear me out?" No response leads to you talking more. Far be it from you to call it vain, but hearing your own voice breaking the stale silence of the vent, is a solace most welcome to your delicate heart. Heck, hearing any voice is a great mercy you greedily lap up.

"I'm... lost, you see? I'm supposed to work here, got the job this morning, or was it yesterday morning, anyway I think I've been left in the dark about what's really happening here." You pause, awaiting a response, a reaction, any kind of hint that what you are saying is somehow getting through the robot's ears and processing into thought, and when the robot hardly jitters, you continue, "I was told this place was shut down. That it was empty." Spoken words tie your forehead into a frown, "Well, they never explicitly said, in those words, that the place would be empty but it was implied." You are rambling.

"I don't expect you to help me, really. I just..." Words flee your mouth like bees in a rainstorm. Suddenly talking becomes difficult, burdened by the unthinkable weight of all that has happened to you. Manifesting the words is like admitting to yourself that what happened really did happen. That you are in deep shit and that there is a real danger stalking these halls. Feelings well up, silent fortitude wavers and an airy whisper flees your mouth, "I'm just lost."  

The pressure restraining the robot's body alleviates slightly and in the easing of your hands, the robot wiggles its compact body. It predicts to be harshly reprimanded for its insubordination to heed the command to freeze, but when you barely flinch, it stops struggling and the gears in its head turn in confusion. The robot, having the room to shuffle around, looks slowly up its gaze into your face.

He wasn't expecting to find a human in the vents, let alone an adult one. Regardless of your unanticipated arrival, he moved to fend you off as he has done to so many others before. Humans don't belong in the ventilation tunnels, especially not after everything that has happened. With a bang and a smash of his cymbals, the scared humans always scurry away in fear, afraid of the 'what-if's were he ever to catch them, terrified despite the fact that he is so much smaller than them. He exploits hypotheticals, a risky but very rewarding business, relying on the element of surprise, of fear and of conditioned malice. Many times his tactic did work, and many humans he did chase out of his vent, and he became confident in his methods. Humans are predictable vermin, brutish, cowardly, and bug-eyed. So when he rushed you, banging and clashing and marching with his head held high, causing as much a racket as he could, he did not notice in time that you were not screaming.

There has only been one time when the head-on approach did not work. Months ago, one of his brother animatronics, charged a male human in the East ventilation tunnels. It was a usual case and so he had used the usual strategy. Only, later when he and the others went around to the last known location of the human and his brother, there was no sign of the trespasser and they found a sorry pile of metal and wires bearing the face of a destroyed Music Man. Only once did it not work, only once did a human ever deviate from his expectations. But you did, and he unfortunately was too late to notice.

You had called his hurried bluff and succeeded in overpowering him. By all rights, you have the authority to destroy him. It is what any other human would have done to him for his insolent display. Humans like destroying them cause they're small. That is why his big friend always pleaded with them to travel and patrol in large groups, safety in numbers for little machines such as himself. But it is dangerous to ping others, to use the connected network for he never knows who else is listening in and besides, he always preferred to roam alone. So now, left abandoned to the consequences of his actions, he awaits your burst of anger to shut him down permanently.

But instead of wreaking revenge for his scheme, you are talking to him. And your voice is quiet. His little, black optics narrow in on your shadow-washed face. The expression he finds there is one of exhaustion.

“I don’t know what’s going on here.” Your chin touches your chest as you squeeze your eyes shut, all the combined insanity and madness of the past couple of hours boiling around in your upset gut to a critical breaking point. “I don’t know how I got here. I mean, I do but - it's complicated. I just woke up and then I was chased around by some crazy, lizard guy! And I panicked and crawled into a vent and now I KNOW I'm crazy 'cause I'm still stuck here, in this nightmare and I'm trying to talk to -” You lift your eyes to the sight of the little robot looking back, “ - to you.”

Very slightly, a motion barely even noticeable were you not directly staring at it, the robot tilts its head to the side as if listening to your self-pity rant. It's enough of a reaction to snap you back to reality.

“Oh! Sorry,” You breathe out a short laugh of embarrassment, your cheeks going a little hot, “Kinda lost my cool there. Ahem," You punch a fist into your chest in a mock show of coughing phlegm out your throat, regaining composure, "Okay look, I know I'm not supposed to be in here but please, could I ask you for one thing? One tiny favour between us vent-buddies? Then I'll be out of your hair, I promise," when your plea is regarded with neither a show of resistance or refusal you continue, "Could you, show me the way out of the vents?” 

The pink robot watches as your eyebrows knit together in a pleading frown. He is startled by it at first, having never seen this expression before; never up close and never directed at him. No human has ever spoken to him this quietly, this intensely, and none has ever asked for his help. HIS help, him alone as if he is the only one in the entire world able to help. Yet here you are, your attention fixed solely upon him, and only him. You see him, really see him. Under the intense weight of another being's undivided attention, he is navigating through unfamiliar territory. He has only ever been responsible for himself, his brothers and his big friend. Never once something else, never once a human. However, though deeply inexperienced, he doesn't feel the urge to deny your request.

Be it caused by faulty wiring, the remnants of some by-forgotten party-guest safety protocol, or the personal directive to get you out of his vents by any means necessary - he decides to help you.

The bot nods its head. You stare, unsure if what you saw really did happen. Then it nods again, a silent motion. Soundlessly, your fingers ease their hold on the robot's body as you let it go, eyes trained on its face for any sign of aggression, completely awe-struck. No sooner had you released the robot, it sprang back to animated life, jumping on the spot before crawling over you with its many legs. You squeal as it nonchalantly and very rudely shuffles across your lap and into the vent space beyond, leaving behind a human fighting a shiver that races up their back. The bot walks a few paces and then stops, a curious black eye peers over its tiny shoulder at you. Such a small gesture from such a small thing, it was hardly even there. But all the same, it is a monumental motion that makes you gasp in shock.

The message is clear - follow.

“Really?! You're serious?! Fuck yeah! Thank you.” You all but cheer, bounding your way to the robot after throwing a victory fist pump into the air. The aftermath of your giddy outburst hums up and down the many corridors of the ventilation system, a most bizarrely happy sound to exist within such a filthy place.

If his eyebrows weren't fixed in place, he would have raised one in snide judgment. Certainly; you are a most strange human, the pink bot derides.

But there is no turning back for him now. Quite literally, in fact, for your hands form a wall of meat behind his thorax, shuffling so close that you practically drown him in your shadow. He looks up and finds a face smiling brightly above him. He watches in near amazement as the exhaustion that had plastered your taut features previously, is washed aside by the tidings of a great, big grin. The edges of your sparkling eyes crinkle. You seem so happy to him. All your friendliness offered in earnest to him. Because of him. The robot shakes off the unknown buzzing that zaps through his inner wiring. Another new experience for him to package and bundle away to examine at a later date. He can't waste any time trying to work out his own issues with his CPU, he has agreed to do something, and he intends to do it.

The robot leads you through the air channels, expertly guiding its way along the left and right turns at a uniquely fast pace. It scampers forward, rounds a corner, and when your heart freaks at the thought of being left behind, you turn the bend and find the bot waiting patiently. It's calculated, it's clever, watching you always through those cunning black eyes.

'It IS conscious', you marvel at the tiny thing, urging your own hands and knees to match speed with the robot, staring at it in absolute wonder, 'Conscious, able to understand me! This is good,' And indeed it is.

The little bot does not share in your budding bemusement and instead tries to constrict its attention solely on navigating the ventilation tunnels. It would ordinarily be such a remedial task, entirely second nature to the pink robot, but now, with a clumsy human tailing him like a Mop-Bot shadowing a toddler with ice cream, it may as well be his first time running through these corridors. But he pushes on, waits for you whenever you drop pace and keeps his head down, trying to smother whatever sensation is continually commanding him to look at you.

Eventually, to the delight of the bot's frying motherboard, the journey comes to an end as the robot grinds to a stop in front of a steel grate, passing a languid look between you and the exit.

You peek through the metal bars. The hatch connects to a small, empty room, arranged to be an office. Pricking an ear, you strain to pick up any noise of what might be lying in wait in the office but when only the buzzing of electrical appliances and lightbulbs wafts back to your senses, ease washes over your tense muscles. Your smile breaks wider, almost matching the size of the robot's when you face it again. You look pleased. As if some great justice long overdue has been served for you in unbound glory but for all the scrap he is worth, the bot can't seem to understand why. He just led you to an exit, he did what you had asked him to do. He completed a task. So why then are you still smiling at him? Your enthusiasm is such an enigma to the poor, distracted robot, who is so totally enraptured by its internal processing, does not register the sudden movement from the human beside it.

Lightly, a large, warm hand pats the top of the bot's little dirty head, cautious of its equally small hat. The robot jolts in place. It is the same hand that could have very easily and very effortlessly sent him to the garbage pile. Yet now it is soft and comforting, gently petting the deeply confused bot. And though he knows, is 100% certain that this kind of attention from a human is not something he is accustomed to or even deserves, he cannot gather the motor power to yank his head away.

He knows this one. He's seen this before with children and their parents. It's a gesture of affection. 

With a final rub of your thumb and breathless laugh through flashing teeth, you release the bot of your overflowing display of gratitude and worm up to the vent grate. Like so many times before, careful fingertips trace the lining of the hatch, picking up on the screws and bolts keeping it secured firmly in place. You muse the possibilities for a moment then swivel around on your butt, pulling back both your legs like a jackrabbit preparing to leap. It takes roughly four strong kicks with your boots to send the vent cover flying to the floor of the office below with a commanding bang. In the hush that follows, you smile at the robot, who watches on with wide, curious eyes, one last time before slipping out of the cool steel vent and onto the floor below.

With feet firmly planted on the ground, you stretch your body up towards to ceiling, reminiscing how wonderful it is to stand vertically straight. Your back is certainly grateful for the change of scenery, popping loudly as you lift your arms high above your head. Your shoulders whine, your thighs ache, and running a hand down to the chuff of your right leg, you sigh at the sight of a newly acquired hole. But all in all, you are alright.

After a brief 360-degree scope-out of your new surroundings, you cast a look up at the now open vent hatch, hoping to see the little pink bot staring ever-blankly down at you.

You find only darkness staring back.