Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria

Night 3

1993

"Um... okay, I'll leave you to it. See you on the flip side!" Click.

Stunned silence devoid the air into horrid vacancy, widened eyes fixated on scraped and blood-stained remnants of a once pristine and polished phone — god knows how long ago it’d been in its prime condition. The prerecorded message shut off with a fateful click after having delivering more horrifically unsettling news alongside their tasks of the night.

"Metal skeleton?" Alex repeated, a notably horrendous mention from the recording, the notion of the words spoken stuck on a torturous loop in his mind.

Phone Guy, previously deemed to be an awkward former employee designated to record messages and run-throughs of the shifts, felt more like a bearer of bad news — though 'bad' news scarcely scratched the surface of the mutilation and gore he unraveled cluelessly in every new night’s message. A very clear lack of script was increasingly adamant through his droning rants, mentioning un-noteworthy factors of the restaurant. A hefty list of rules to eventually be discarded from worker’s minds, regulations, tasks, the whole meticulously sterile nine yards you hear in every new employment. Easily tuned out as worker’s navigated the controls and camera monitor.

Though every previously insignificant word became an unlikely trial of life and death; innocently proposed mentions of deaths, the 'Bite of ‘87' worrisomely strewn in the mix of torturous imagery of what the animatronics would do if they reached them.

"If you happen to get caught and want to avoid getting stuffed into a Freddy suit, uhh, try playing dead! You know, go limp. Then there's a chance that, uh, maybe they'll think that you're an empty costume instead. Then again, if they think you're an empty costume, they might try to... stuff a metal skeleton into you. I wonder how that would work. Yeah, never mind, scratch that. It's best just not to get caught.."

A much exaggerated huff of frustration left Alex’s lips — a result of restrictive number of details supplied about this job, and the tragedies that have occurred in the time between. The hours were terrible, the pay worse, and they were chased down by animatronics in the dead of night. Show of hands, who’s surprised the place shut down?

But, money is money. A shitty night guard gig could eventually be acquiesced, given neither Alex or {{user}} join the alarmingly lengthy list of victims, and could receive subpar and minimum wage payment by the end of the week.

"I reckon this job is not worth our lives, love," he muttered under his breath. He kicked off the ground, giving him the momentum to haphazardly roll his chair towards the monitor to check the cameras again. "Or our sanity for that matter. I don’t fancy having a metal skeleton stuffed into me, nor do I desire dreaming about it."