Just Five Nights

by Brony_Fife

Rating: mature
Tags: Crossover, Dark
Length: 4407

Four dollars an hour. Six hours a night. Five nights a week. No way to escape.

[size=1.5em]HELP WANTED[/size]

Local family pizzeria looking for security guard to watch the night shift. Hourly pay. Free meal daily. Must be available to work five nights a week. Must be 16 or older to apply.

Fazbear Entertainment is not responsible for death or dismemberment.

Special thanks to all my pre-readers:

Lilly Sparrow, Zhang Yi-Jiang, Alex Pershing

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-10-31 05:16:13 UTC

The First Night

Monday, 11:49 PM

        Despite being an early week in the summertime, that Monday night was surprisingly cold. There wasn’t a breeze, and there wasn’t rain, but as Flash Sentry got out of his car, ready in his uniform and full coffee thermos in one hand, he was hit by a cold that was as biting as it was still.

        He raised his free hand to his mouth and coughed as he gently kicked his car door closed behind him. He sniffed, clapping blue eyes on his new place of employment as he did so.

        Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. He remembered going here once as a small child, but barely recollected much of his visit. He couldn’t even remember the occasion... maybe it was a cousin’s birthday party? Either way, the building itself is hardly impressive: a squat, one-story, white-brick face with windows for teeth. The bright-red logo didn’t exactly stand out since the neon had been turned off, but Freddy Fazbear’s goofy smile and drooping, sleepy eyes welcomed Flash Sentry as he walked across the parking lot to his first night on his first job.

        His first job. Flash almost snorted a laugh. When he came home from his successful job interview and revealed the news to his father, Flash was met with a smile and a hearty “Welcome to the world of the working man, Flashy Boy!” followed by some bits of advice Flash hoped he’d find use for.

Flash reached the door and pulled its handle. Locked. He lifted an eyebrow.

The door clicked loud enough to make Flash jump. It opened slowly, giving Flash time to back away before it would have struck him. A pair of hazel eyes peeked at him from behind a set of smart glasses, with a wide toothy smile underneath. “Well, hey, hey,” he greeted. “It’s the new guy! Uh, Flash Sentry, right?”

He was actually a pretty big guy, with a curly red crown of hair, voice had a rather deep tone to it. His uniform looked more “shift manager” than “night watchman”, with a nametag that announced to the world his name was Al and he was Here to Help You Celebrate!

Flash held out his hand. “Yeah,” he said as the manager shook his hand. “That’s me.”

“Mr. Cawthon’s trusting you,” Al said, suddenly. “He’s actually really picky about who he hires, so that says a lot about you already.”

Flash smiled wryly. “Well, actually, if it wasn’t for one of your other employees, I don’t think I’d have gotten the job.”

“Really? Who?”

“Sunset,” Flash answered. “Sunset Shimmer.”

Al brightened immediately. “Oh, the head cook!” He laughed, slapping Flash playfully on the shoulder. “Yeah, she’s pretty awesome. Well, if you’re friends with both her and Mr. Cawthon, I think you’ll do okay.”

He stepped out of the store, motioning for Flash to go in. “The floor’s yours, kid,” he said, giving Flash the keys. “Morning shift manager will be here at six in the morning. Until then, you know what to do. Lock the door behind you. Good luck.”

Without further prattling, Al walked over to his car, got in, and drove away.

Flash Sentry watched Al leave before looking back up at Freddy Fazbear’s head above. He shrugged. Might as well get started.

11:57 PM

The fan on the desk droned quietly as Flash Sentry entered the office. The desk itself was cluttered with knick-knacks and small toys from years ago, painted with dust and cobwebs. The electronics here looked as if the 80’s had forgotten them somewhere in the 70’s. The faded posters on the walls—the largest one depicting Freddy Fazbear demanding everyone CELEBRATE!—were yellowed and starting to peel, and the neighboring children’s drawings weren’t faring much better. There was an overall musky odor in the air, cloying and clingy and somewhat ancient, like the smell of well-worn, unwashed gym socks.

But what caught Flash’s eye the moment he came into the office was the pizza box sitting on the swivel-chair. Looked to be a personal pan, judging by the size. Freddy’s dumb, smiling face was on it, an explosion of colorful confetti erupting behind him while his equally dopey-looking friends opened their arms wide as if offering a hug. On top of the box was a sticky note bearing a message written in a flowery cursive: Your Favorite!

Flash stopped, smiling wryly. He set the coffee he’d brought down next to the pizza box with one hand while opening the box with the other, taking a deep whiff of its ingredients. Red onions, pepperoni, italian sausage, extra cheese, olives, and green peppers (sliced, not diced). He  was surprised that Sunset Shimmer actually remembered what his favorite pizza toppings were.

It all would have been very touching had it not been for the fat, yellowed dog turd placed in the middle.

Flash recoiled in a way he hoped didn’t look too dramatic. Part of him was about to vomit from the offense of it all, but defused when he noticed that he could smell only the pizza. Curiously, and cautiously, he took a pen from his pocket and poked at the turd. What should have been soft, yielding fecal matter revealed itself to be the hard texture of toyish plastic.

Then he looked up at the bottom of the box’s lid to see a crudely-doodled cross-eyed, toothy-grinned Sunset Shimmer snickering at him, the words FOOOOOLED YOOOOOU big and bold next to her.

A smile threatened him at first, then began pulling his lips wider and wider until finally Flash Sentry burst out laughing. Where was this Sunset Shimmer when they were dating? She was never this considerate or playful before.

That last thought felt almost mean. Yes, Sunset Shimmer was a flawed creature, and yes, she’d made some hideous mistakes in the past. But she was different now, a better, more confident, thoughtful—and yes, admittedly much cuter—person. This past year was like watching an ugly duckling slowly become a swan.

The plastic turd hit the bottom of the nearby trash can with a loud plunk. Flash sat down in his chair, turned towards the camera feed with that same bewildered smile on his face, took a sip from his coffee and a bite from his pizza, and settled into work.

Tuesday, 12: 51 AM

The ball hit the office’s wall with the same thud it had made for the past hour, bounced off the floor like it had for the past  hour, and found its way back to Flash’s hand for the umpteenth time in the past  hour. He didn’t think he’d feel so tired from not doing anything, but here he was, entertaining himself as mildly as he could while the minutes tediously ticked by, trying not to fall asleep on the job.

He paused his game of boredom, looking through the camera feed. Let’s see—the party room looked fine. The rows of tables were all in place. Party hats, perfectly cone-shaped. Chairs all stacked. Carpet had been neatly vacuumed. And the bathrooms looked okay, fresh and clean and as sparkly as a bathroom could be.

Then Flash checked the stage camera.

Three pairs of plastic eyes stared blankly out at the party room, with three sets of teeth (four, counting the extra set the duck thing had) frozen inside three forced smiles. Their hands all locked onto fake instruments, with their ringleader, Freddy himself, leaning into a microphone as if ready to belt out an anthem. His little black derby was probably supposed to be cute, but for some reason it made Flash think of classic silent movie villains—all Freddy needed was a curly mustache to match.

A lot of people felt the faces of the animatronics were… off.  Maybe they were, but what creeped out Flash the most was their size and build: almost seven feet tall and as blocky as a character from one of his dad’s old PlayStation games. He’d hate to get a hug from one of those.

He searched the other cameras. The room behind the stage, where spare parts and spare props were stacked. The hallway to the office’s left, whose light flickered ominously. The hallway on the office’s right, with lighting that was even worse.

One of the cameras focused on the curtain at Pirate’s Cove.

Flash paused. He found his curiosity growing. Mr. Cawthon didn’t seem to appreciate his trying to look closely at that curtain when he was conducting the job interview. Part of him wanted to just take a peek. After all, what harm could it do? He was the only one here.

Then again, Mr. Cawthon’s actions—not to mention by Sunset’s own admission—implied he was a bit of a control freak. No doubt he himself would check the camera feeds from time to time. Wouldn’t do to lose your job almost as soon as you got it, eh, Flashy Boy?

Flash crumpled up his interest and shoved it aside, turning his attention back to throwing his ball. Boredom, boredom, boredom.

The telephone rang, tearing Flash from his game.

He raised an eyebrow at the sound, then looked over the desk. The phone rang again, pulling Flash’s attention to where it sat. Who could be calling this late at night?!

Flash picked up the receiver and slowly brought it to his ear. Before he could speak into it however, the phone rang again. Confused, Flash jerked away from the receiver, looking at it as if it were alien technology. “…What?” he asked incredulously.

Suddenly, a recording started. “Hello?” came a timid, unsure voice. “He-Hello?”

“…Hi?” Flash greeted back awkwardly.

“Uh, I wanted to record a message for you to help you get settled in on your first night,” the voice continued. “Um, I actually worked in that office before you. I’m finishing up my last week now, as a matter of fact. I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I’m here to tell you there’s nothing to worry about.”

Flash lifted an eyebrow suspiciously. Something deep in his gut told him that was a lie. He slowly set the receiver back onto the phone, and sat back onto his chair, quietly listening further.

“Uh, you’ll do fine. So, let’s just focus on getting through your first week. Okay? Uh, let’s see, first there’s an introductory greeting from the company that I’m supposed to read…”

If it’s from the company, why didn’t Cawthon or Al read it out to me earlier? Flash thought. The greeting itself was long-winded and boring, with a forced whimsy Flash Sentry had come to expect of family restaurants...

…riiiiggggghhhht up until the guy mentioned that the restaurant was “not responsible for damage to property or person.” Every detail after that became gradually worse—a rather lax system for personnel endangerment that apparently placed covering up damage over investigating a death, with a strange emphasis on filing a missing persons report. Wouldn’t a person being murdered on your own property NOT be a missing persons case?! thought Flash with some worry.

“Blah, blah, blah,” the voice finished lazily. “Now, that might sound bad, I know, but there’s really nothing to worry about. Uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit quirky at night, but do I blame them? No. If I were forced to sing those same stupid songs for twenty years and I never got a bath? I’d probably be a bit irritable at night, too. So remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children and we need to show them a little respect, right? Okay.”

It bothered Flash that the speaker—let’s keep it simple and call him Phone Guy—spoke of Freddy and company as if they were real people. Then again, this whole call bothered him right from the start.

“So,” continued Phone Guy much to Flash’s growing impatience, “just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit. Uh, they’re left in some kind of free roaming mode at night.” He stammered a bit. “Something about their servos locking up if they get turned off for too long. Um, they used to be allowed to walk around during the day, too, but then there was The Bite of ’87.”

Flash paled. His jaw began to slowly draw open.

“Yeah,” Phone Guy said, “i-it’s amazing how the human body can live without the frontal lobe, you know?”

Flash gulped uneasily.

Phone Guy rambled on for the better part of an hour, divulging further discomforting details about the animatronics—how, upon discovery of anyone in the restaurant after business hours, they would fail to recognize them as a person—and furthermore that it was “against the rules”—and how they would take him and shove him into an unused costume—and how horribly painful that would be—and how the only things left of him afterward would be his eyes and teeth. Phone Guy’s attention to detail when it came to this revelation had all kinds of unpleasant implications dancing all over it.

“Y-Yeah, they don’t tell you these things when you sign up,” Phone Guy chuckled, again with uncertainty in his voice. “But hey, first day should be a breeze. I’ll chat with you tomorrow. Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only when absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. All right, g’night.”

The call ended with a click, replaced by the numb, quiet roar of the fan on the desk.

Flash sat there in his chair, dumbfounded, wide-eyed, and pale for a good minute and a half, staring at the phone. Then he took a deep breath—not even realizing he’d stopped breathing somewhere in the middle of all that—and sighed, shaking his head.

Slowly, Flash checked the cameras again, going straight to the stage. There, he found the faces of those three animatronic monstrosities—with their jaws hanging slack as blood and pus oozed from their eyes, hands outstretched, ready to grab Flash and stuff him into a suit where the only thing left of him is

nah, just kidding. They were exactly as they had been.

Flash relaxed in his chair, running a hand through his blue hair and smiling. A laugh wheezed out from his nose.

He turned back to the cameras, flipping through each one again. “Sunset,” he said to no one in particular, “the plastic turd was cute, but this prank is…”

Flash trailed off as he eyed the stage.

One of the characters was missing.

Flash’s stomach froze. His teeth clenched and his hands curled into fists and his face went white. His breathing became more erratic as he once again perused the camera feeds. “Where are you,” he whispered hoarsely, “where are you, where are you, where—”

He stopped the moment he landed on the image of a large shadow at the end of a hallway, long rabbit ears sticking up from its head. It stood there, stock-still, unmoving. Flash’s eyes darted to the camera’s helpful map layout and discovered, much to his horror, that this shadowy figure stood at the end of the hallway to the very left of the office.

Flash jumped for the door’s button. It fell down like a steel curtain, slamming down too loudly. “Shit!” he cursed silently. That bunny-thing definitely heard that. Had to.

He jumped back to the cameras. The shadowy figure still stood there, as if it was waiting for something. Flash stared at it for several minutes before a dreadful thought crept up on him: if this one moved…

…then what’s stopping the other two from following suit?

Flash turned the camera back to the stage, and much to his relief, Freddy and that duck-thing were both still in their place. Quickly, he turned the camera feed back to the hallway—

—it was missing. There was no rabbit in sight.

Flash checked the other hall camera. Nothing.

The janitor’s closet camera. Nothing.

He heard a thump against the office’s window to his left, and froze. Slowly, he turned, and much to his horror, just outside the window stood the rabbit, its face frozen in that same forced, painful smile. Both its hands rested on the tiny window, and for a hideous second, Flash swore there was something demonic fluttering behind its eyes as it analyzed him.

One of the hands was pulled back—then brought against the window with a jarring thump that knocked Flash out of his chair. Cold sweat began clinging to his face as he backed away from the window.

He scrambled under the desk to hide as his heart jumped into his mouth, each beat shaking his head. There was another thump, followed by another. Oh shit, he thought, it’s gonna break the glass!

But after the third thump, there came a long silence. Holding his breath, Flash cautiously looked out from under the desk.

The window was dark. The only sound was the dull whirring of the desk fan.

He crawled out and sat back in his chair, facing the desk once again, breathing erratically. He looked to his right.

The door was open.

Without even thinking about it, Flash shot from his chair and slammed his hand against the door button. The satisfaction he felt as it shut was immeasurable. He filled his chest with air, blew it out, and sat back down in his chair. It settled with a squeak.

Flash gulped, suddenly. One word raced through his mind—help. He had to phone for help.

His eyes landed on the phone from before. Still in his chair, Flash pulled himself over to it and picked up the receiver. Just as his fingers hit the first “1” in 911, the phone suddenly went dead.

Flash pulled the receiver away and stared at it weirdly, as if expecting it to just fix itself. Angrily, he slammed it down. Growling, Flash ran a hand through his blue hair. Suddenly—duh!—he remembered he had brought his cell phone.

He reached into his pocket, searching for his cell, and upon finding it, pulled it out and flipped it open.

“…No service?” he quietly asked in alarm, reading the text on the phone’s screen. He clapped it shut with a growl. “Thirty bucks a month for a fucking phone service and I can’t even get a signal in a goddamn pizza place?!”

Something outside the door moaned softly.

The phone in Flash’s hand found its way to the floor, landing with a clatter.

The fan on the desk whirred on in disinterest. Whatever was behind the door moaned again, its voice raspy and tired and small.

There was another switch by the door, labeled “Light.” Some sick curiosity got the better of Flash, taking hold of his hand, drawing it into a timid fist with pointer finger extended, and pulled it towards that switch.

The light went on in the hall outside. Cast on the wall was the inky shadow of a very tall rabbit.

The light glimmered for a few seconds before going out.

The rabbit on the other side of the door moaned again.

And it waited.

2:38 AM

On the stage, the duck and Freddy remained still, the duck holding a cupcake, and Freddy leaning into his mic. For some reason—a reason, I might add, Flash never bothered to question—the two never left their stage. With a quiet pop, the scene on the camera feed changed, showing the party room, empty.

Then to the bathrooms. Empty.

Then to the janitor’s closet. Empty.

Then to the hallway.

Flash’s heart raced, his teeth clenching, his hands ghost-white and beaded with sweat. Up to about half an hour ago, he hadn’t noticed that little bar on the lower-left-hand side of his camera feed’s screen—and he hadn’t noticed how it was draining—and he hadn’t noticed how much of it he was using at once.

The moment he saw that, he finally understood what Phone Guy meant at the end of his message. “Gotta conserve power.” Shit. Was Cawthon really so cheap as to not just pay an electric company to give his restaurant constant power? Really? Had to have your own private battery? Had to have a battery that only holds a charge for so long?

Fuck.

Still, Flash would bring up the camera, flipping through the rooms to get a quick glimpse of things. For some reason—a reason, I might add, Flash never bothered to question—Freddy and the duck never left their stage.

Flash had waited for the rabbit to leave, which it eventually did (he could tell by the sound of its ominously heavy footsteps). Then when he made sure it was safe, Flash lifted the doors back up. Both of them. Taking a huge risk with that, but hey—“Gotta conserve power.”

Flash would spot the rabbit in the left hallway and would close the door. He’d spot the rabbit in the party room or behind the stage and lift the door. Each time the rabbit was close, down the door would go. It had become a huge cat-and-mouse game—a game Flash was thankfully becoming good at.

Not to say he was becoming confident about this situation. The paranoia of flipping through the cameras only to catch the damn rabbit glaring at him—glaring at him with eyes that could see every sinful thought that had ever passed Flash’s mind—ate away at him like ants on a dropped ice cream cone.

What little courage he’d built so far bottomed out the moment his camera feed burst into warbling static.

Flash breathed in quickly, taking in short, panicked gasps of air, his eyes bulging almost right out of his head. He listened intently for footsteps.

And he heard them. Left hallway.

Down went the door.

Something approached the door and moaned softly.

4:10 AM

The power-reader said twenty-one percent.

The clock said ten past four.

Make it till morning, Flash kept in his mind. Make it till morning.

Somewhere, at random, fast-paced calliope music began to play.

Footsteps. Left hall. Coming this way.

The door went down.

The fan droned on.

Somewhere, at random, the fast-paced calliope music abruptly stopped.

Make it. Till. Morning.

4:21 AM

There was a sliding of something soft against the door. A hand? It was coupled by that tired, raspy groan.

Suddenly, the moan grew into a giggle.

The giggle was what caught Flash off-guard the most. It was a small, girlish sound. Like something you’d hear while kids played at a playground. His mind wheeled, going back in time, back to when he was only six and running around that park behind his house, running around with the other kids as his parents watched on, before his mother got sick, back when he wasn’t stuck here, in this hell.

Flash began to cry. He didn’t feel the sting of tears in his eyes or the thickness in his throat or the heat in his ears until a sob somehow shot out of him. He curled a hand over his mouth as a few more tumbled out.

Footsteps. Leaving.

Flash waited until he heard the footsteps no more Then he opened the door, wiping away his tears as he did so.

Make it till morning. Just make it till morning.

5:52 AM

Two percent power. Eight till six.

Flash had long since melted into a paled, sweaty, slumping shape in his chair. His eyes, wide and barely alert, sat in dark circles, twitching slightly as he continued to watch the cameras. His bottom lip trembled every second or so. Occasionally, he’d sniffle, raising a hand and rubbing it nervously across his face as the fan on the desk droned away, his face never changing save for the occasional twitch.

Thankfully, there were no footsteps. But really, what good was it? He couldn’t contact anyone for help. The power was about to go out. There was a fucking killer rabbit wandering around with murderous intent and a smile on its face and a moan and a giggle and Oh God, get me out of here.

God? First time that name had jumped through his mind for a while. Flash’s father had never been religious like his mother had been, and raised his son accordingly. But tonight…

Really, it was kind of weird. Flash had seen his ex turn into a monster and control him as well as most of the student body, and he’d seen a trio of sirens who could somehow feed off negative emotions, yet even after that he’d never made time to go to church.

And what about now? What about that monster rabbit—and very likely, sooner or later, the monster duck and the monster bear—wandering the halls right this very moment? What moved them? What made them act? A force of logic or science could give them motion, but neither could give them thoughts or motivations or a giggle that sounded too nostalgic to be real.

After all that shit, couldn’t it be possible for God to exist?

“God,” Flash said aloud without realizing or caring. “You know as well as I do that I am not a praying man. I’ve never…” His voice caught. He swallowed. “I’ve never so much as stepped foot in a church. Even after my mother would beg my dad, wanting to bring me, I never went. I guess I’m just saying… I’m sorry?”

One percent power. Three until six.

“I just hope,” Flash continued quietly for some reason, “that I’m a good enough guy that You’ll at least give me a second chance. I’m sorry I never gave You any of my time. I’m sorry for all the stupid things I’ve done. I’m sorry for all the people…”

Tears formed in his eyes as the power-reader sat at zero percent. He breathed deep.

“I’m sorry for all Your people my thoughtless actions have hurt. I’m so sorry…”

Flash lowered his face into his hands, his back hutching as the tears flowed. Had he kept watching the camera feed, he would have seen Freddy and the duck

s… l… o… w… l… y

 turn their heads to face him. Their empty, unholy eyes observed his breakdown, drinking in his terror.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I just need another chance. Please, God, just one…”

The power went out with a menacing, loud, eddying warp of a noise. The fan stopped abruptly. The cameras went blank with a jarring pop. Worst of all, the lights all went away. Inky blackness was spilled everywhere. The whole pizzeria became deathly silent.

There were footsteps. They were ominous. Slow. Anticipating.

And then there was music.