Chapter Text
"That would be $8, sir," Michael said with little interest.
"$8? I think you're mistaken, young man,” The middle-aged ape roared at Michael.
Michael refrained from rolling his eyes. It was just another Thursday afternoon. In a couple of hours, he would be lying in his bed, putting on music from his Walkman.
Typically, customers complained about the loud funky kids' music, the wrong-colored decorations, the incorrect gifts that came with each meal.
Michael handled all of these complaints without breaking a sweat.
However, a parent arguing over whether a full $8 family dinner was justified was not the kind of conversation that brightened up his day.
Sighing, Michael checked the receipt.
The fifteen-year-old pointed to the menu and said coldly, "Two sodas, two pepperoni pizzas. That will be eight dollars, sir."
Regardless of whether it was a family business or not, he had better prospects in life than being ordered around by a crusty old man.
He was relieved that his father wasn't present to witness his graceful handling of the customer.
However, he could imagine what his father would say. It didn't matter that Dad would respond with equal coldness to any rude customer, or that he would simply direct another employee to do the mundane task that comes with owning a restaurant.
The patriarch of the Afton family always managed to put the blame on Michael when something went wrong.
He had grown used to this. Was that why he had become kinder to his father's guests? Not particularly.
"The food arrived cold, and my double-layered Foxy Burgers were missing the pickles. I don't pay for food that I don't like," the customer complained.
Michael looked at his dirty mustache, which was covered in dried mustard and bread crumbs, and then at the empty plate.
He retorted, "You obviously enjoyed that burger so much that you ate it."
"Listen, kid, with eight bucks, I could buy a week's worth of food for my entire family and my two dogs. I thought this was a family dinner, not a rip-off. I demand to speak to an adult," he said while scanning Michael from his red hat to his greasy shoes.
"Whatever," Michael muttered, and left the table to find the only other manager loitering somewhere in the restaurant.
If you were to ask Michael why Fredbear´s Family Dinner was so famous, he would answer with two words: kid trap.
The restaurant offered everything a successful family establishment needed to thrive, including cheap food, fun cutlery and plates, daily parties, silly decorations, funky kids' music with catchy verses, kid-friendly seats, and, of course, a free gift with every meal.
Usually, these were crayons, a Freddy bracelet, or an action figure, making it pure paradise for children.
However, for adults, it was a nightmare: seats were too small, bright colors were everywhere, kids threw tantrums when it was time to leave, and alcohol was banned throughout the restaurant. Parents had to watch their offspring run to the singing animatronics, beg for some money for the arcade games, or run up and down the indoor playground.
Despite how difficult it was for some parents with their spoiled children, working in customer service had taught Michael one thing: some adults behaved worse than kids.
This was why he had to explain several times a day that adults did not receive a free gift with their food.
It was also why a part of him died every time some parents snapped their fingers at him like he was a dog.
It was the reason the phrase "Employees are forbidden to reimburse meals without the permission of the restaurant manager" existed.
Customers behaved like children and required someone with an authoritative personality to treat them accordingly.
This was one of the first things that every Fazbear employee learned when they began working at the restaurant.
Uncle Henry being off, Michael made his way towards the employee-only door that led to his father's office.
The moment the door slammed shut, all the voices of the children faded away.
The hallway felt eerie, with its purple-black walls concealing the magical land of Fredbear and his friends.
The pictures of the animatronics adorned the peeling walls, barely visible under the dim lighting of the lamps.
Michael disliked walking through this place. The temperature was always extreme, either freezing cold or scorching hot, with no comfortable middle ground.
The frigid air caused him to shiver and rub his arms, while the hot air made him sweat and fan himself.
The hallway smelled musty, with a hint of something metallic, perhaps from the inner workings of the animatronics.
It felt like a haunted place that he couldn't wait to leave behind. But all that was bearable for what was about to come.
Oh, how he looked forward to hearing his father's never-ending nagging:
'Michael, are you incapable of handling the slightest conflict?'
`When I gave you this job, I thought I could trust you with a few simple tasks. If I had known you were such a pain in the ass, I would have hired someone else.'
'That's why nobody likes you, Michael. You're always relying on others to do your dirty work.'
'Just three more years,' Michael muttered softly to himself. Three more years, and then he would get a real job that made real money.
Something with computers.
Who knows what the future would bring him, with technology advancing so fast? Anything is better than this.
When he arrived at his office, he prepared himself in his mind for what was to come.
Three knocks.
No answer.
"Dad?" He cautiously opened the door, preparing himself for a stern look, maybe even some yelling.
Once his father had even thrown a tube of paper clips through when he forgot to knock.
Michael was the one who picked them back up.
But nothing came.
The office was empty. Dusty, framed newspaper articles hung on the blue walls.
The computer screen blinked mockingly at Michael, as if to remind him that he wasn't allowed to touch it.
Five cups of tea lay among the stacks of papers that covered the desk and floor.
The red fan sat between the only two framed pictures of his father and Uncle Henry.
His own family was not there.
Michael began to think.
Where else could he be at this time of day?
Then it occurred to him: the security room. He had been complaining about some employees messing with the animatronics again.
Come to think of it, Chica had disappeared on stage today.
At a certain point, a mother had attempted to steal a Fazbear skull from the vault.
She had snuck in unnoticed, followed the employees to the back room, seized the first animatronic she could find, shoved Freddy's head into her bag, and fled the scene. Thankfully, Henry and Dad had a replacement on hand.
However, as a result of the incident, the backup was moved to the very end of the hallway and concealed in plain sight.
As a consequence, a child in Utah now possesses a stolen Fredbear Head from the infamous Fazbear's Pizza Place.
Since the door matches the dark blue colour of the wall, trespassers could easily miss it if they didn't know what to look for.
But Michael knew. Since the door was soundproof, Michael didn't think twice and yanked the door open. He stepped further inside, his footsteps echoing off the walls.
The animatronics, their metal frames empty and lifeless, hung on the walls like twisted corpses.
The room was pitch black, the darkness swallowing him up like a thick blanket. It felt like a crypt, suffocating and oppressive.
Michael's heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
And then he saw it: the silhouette of a man standing in the center of the room. His back was turned to Michael.
At his feet lay a lifeless girl, her head twisted unnaturally towards Michael. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her cheeks were streaked with dried tears.
A pool of blood oozed from her neck and slowly spread toward the doorframe where Michael stood.
An invisible hand crept up Michael's back until it reached his head.
Carefully, the force lifted his chin from the child's corpse to the bloody blade, to the brown curly ponytail, to the purple cap.
Foul blood filled his nose, the taste of iron was on his tongue. Voices screamed at him to go, just get away from here, but he couldn't move.
The figure, the phantom, slowly turned its head in his direction.
Now he could make out the brown stumbling blocks.
Now he could make out the sadistic grin.
Now he was looking directly into the silver eyes that had become so familiar.
BANG!
Michael didn't remember slamming the door.
All he could think about was running.
Run away, far away from here. He had to get out of here! The corridor cast long shadows on the floor.
They seemed to want to grab him, to taunt him. In the distance, he thought he heard footsteps following him.
Michael ran faster, ignoring the burning in his legs. He must get away. He must make it. A sharp pain spread from his side to his ribs.
His mouth demanded water. But he let nothing distract him.
There, the door!
He swung it open and was instantly startled. Bright, aggressive lights, glowing neon green, pink and orange, blinded him.
Michael cautiously lifted his hand from his face and took in his surroundings.
Somewhere, far away, music was playing.
Children laughed.
A child cried.
A dog barked.
The click of heels on the restaurant floor.
It was all too loud.
Too familiar.
Out.
He had to get out.
Everything was too bright.
Someone crashed into him.
Michael groaned.
A child whimpered.
"Hey, that's my son!" an angry voice came rushing toward him.
In his confusion, Michael could only pick up the crying figure lying on his feet.
Blood was pouring from her wound. The head was twisted in a ghastly way.
The blade blinded him.
Those silver eyes ...
"First you overload our table and then you attack my boy. What if this service?"
Michael could only stare at the crumbs falling from the man's mustache as his eyes grew red with anger.
"Please excuse my son." A hand gripped Michael's shoulders. Michael tensed. A cold chill filled his insides.
"What can I do for you?" His father's cold voice still had that same professional, uncaring tone.
Without hesitation, the man began to complain.
Michael ignored the fact that his story had changed in more ways than one.
The pizza was cold, and the lemonade was made of grapefruit instead of lemons. He could hear his father's grumbling before he summoned another employee.
"Give this man a refund. The order is on the house."
The employee nodded and went her way.
Michael's heart pounded in his chest as his father led him back into the hallway.
Should he bolt? Scream for help? Could he trust the man in front of him was really his father?
"Michael, we need to talk, about before...." his father said.
Michael's throat tightened, unable to make a sound. He was sure this was it. He was going to die here and now.
"Michael?" His father lifted his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
Michael tried to hide his fear, summoning all his strength to croak out a quiet, "Yes?"
His father's gaze bore into him, scrutinizing every inch of him. "When I hired you for this job, I was under the impression that you would be able to handle these situations without me having to help you every time a problem came up."
Michael blinked, "What..."
"That's what you wanted to ask me, isn't it?" his father interrupted, his voice laced with a sharp edge that made Michael's heart pound. "You came to ask me what you should do with the customer."
"...Yes."
"Good, then there's no need for further discussion."
Now that Michael looked at his father, he noticed that his sleeves were not soaked in blood. When had he had time to change his clothes?
Had he imagined the whole incident?
"Oh, and Michael? This 'incident' will not leave this room, do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."