[ i hope this works! let me know if you'd like anything changed, and i wrote in prose but i can swap to brackets if you'd rather as i have no preference c: ]



An entirely automated restaurant is something of a novelty. Something that already stands out in a sea of novelty restaurants. But it is something especially noteworthy when it's a particular and recognizeable brand, a familiar and rather infamous franchise wearing the label of the "first fully-automated family restaurant in town!" that it had been advertising itself as for so long. People were skeptical, reluctant at first. Remember what happened in the 80's, the 90's?

But hey, the food's decent, it keeps the kids occupied, and one can never truly put a price on childhood nostalgia or morbid curiosity. So the restaurant remains operating as normal. As ... normal as it can be. The little white robo-bear host at the front doors is charming and adorable, the STAFF bots keep the dining and play areas cleaned, the kitchen bots bring mildly appetizing pizzas and cakes out on time as ordered. There only ever seem to be one human (or human-ish?) seen around the place during opening hours, but they say he tends to mainly hang out in the office, or spotted occasionally at the prize counter handing out toys and other winnings while a white bear paper mask hides his face.

Surprisingly? Very few problems had occurred at this particular location, compared to the Fazbear Inc. regularly reported-on incidents and tragedies of the past. Not a single missing child report. Occasional minor injuries, often dismissed as an unreliable party attempting to swindle a brand known for lawsuits, or blatant disregard for bright and clearly displayed warning signs. No sensationalized news reports, no police raids. Business as usual, despite how unusual it really was.

Everything appears normal on the surface, of course. During opening hours, the public only ever sees what they're supposed to see. It's when the doors close and lock up for the night, after the sun begins to set and the city's quiet night life begins, that there's something decidedly off about the place. But only to those who are willing to listen, willing to lend their trained ear to the quiet ones in need of help.

The STAFF bot taking the garbage out one night ends up stumbling over rubble in the alleyway. Scraps pop loose and empty bits of cardboard and other roadside junk get caught in the bot's wheels, knocking loose just as it slips back through the back exit door - conventiently stuck right in the doorframe, leaving the door unintentionally propped open to any curious passerby.

From what can be seen inside just backstage from it all, it's dark. Dimly lit by only a few stage lights in the center of the dining area, the only sounds being an old fuzzy radio quietly playing a classic rock station. It feels cold. There's a bit of clattering and tinkering in the kitchen area, some brooms sweeping across the floor and running water from the kitchen sinks as dishes are washed. And a soft, but clearly irritated bit of grumbling from up on the front stage, obscured from view by the curtains and an unfathomably tangled mess of wires and scaffolding that the audience is rarely meant to see.

"No, no-- no, fuck's sake, it's spelled with a "C." I've told you twice now."

[ ;w;b ]

The curtains are a bright red, made of a thick and heavy fabric that smells vaguely of cotton candy and sprinkles. Closer inspection does reveal that the curtains are several smaller strips rather than one massive sheet, and therefore there are multiple little gaps between each curtain, making it easy for any prying eyes to get a peak at whatever strange occurrences may or may not be happening on stage.

Of course, the first and most obvious thing - group of things, really - to notice are the four animal mascot animatronics standing just in front of the curtains. They're the standard and recognizeable characters for anyone familiar with the notorious franchise, with a few different little touches to their design to make them stand out amongst their counterparts, but a closer look does reveal that unlike said counterparts these animatronics are bolted to the stage floor itself. ("Free-roaming was the stupidest fucking thing this franchise ever came up with, what the fuck, everyone in this company is an idiot I swear--")

Thankfully, the animatronics are powered down for the night. And empty. While there are most certainly other presences lingering around the mostly empty pizzeria, the frequently passed around rumours that the animatronics themselves are haunted and carrying lost souls within them doesn't appear to be the case here. Those haunted presences are elsewhere. And at least one of them is on stage, irritably gesturing and barking at something out in the dining area.

"Well, now you're going to have to do the whole thing over again, dumbass."

From behind, the guy seems ... more or less normal. Average height, maybe a little too skinny, the tan suit and blue vest clearly a bit oversized on his scrawny frame, and what appears to be a white paper bear mask strapped to the side of his head. The area isn't brightly lit, only a few of the stage lights lit up compared to regular daytime hours, so it's hard to tell much else about him. And that vantage point from behind the curtain makes it difficult to tell who he's speaking to, as well. But it does seem that, at least for now, he's not aware of anyone else in the building who shouldn't be there.

"You know it's spelled out on the reservation card right in front of you, right?" the stranger asks this unseeable ... whoever it is on the dining floor. He steps closer to the edge of the stage, and he doesn't walk normal either, with his knees bent at awkward angles and feet dragging heavily across the stage floor. "That's why I gave it to you in the first place, you know."

There's silence, but something grabs his attention and he quickly jerks and points to his right, another unseen something getting a grumpy finger-wag. "Shut up, I am not raising my voice."

And he was having such a nice evening, too.

He's accustomed to the usual sounds of the pizzeria late at night. The crackling electrical zaps of wires and cables in various states of disrepair, the repetitive 8-bit looping jingles and chimes from the arcade machines, and the faint and hushed whispers whenever certain someones were more active and restless than other nights. Stupid little bear robots tripping over themselves and spilling trays full of dishes or crayons or whatever. But it's not often at all - in fact, entirely unheard of - that another, decidedly not dead voice starts speaking to him in the middle of the night.

The sound that escapes him is something reminiscent of a robotic screech, sharp and piercing but cut off when he whips his head around, as fast as he can manage. Belatedly, muttering a curse under his breath, he tugs the goofy paper bear mask over his face. She would've only caught a glimpse ... surely.

Seemingly frozen in place, everything suddenly seems to get much, much quieter in the restaurant. Any whispers, the classic rock tunes on the radio, even the ever-busy STAFF bots are all hushed and eerily still, intently focused on the situation at hand. Oh ... oh, dear. This isn't supposed to happen. Check the back door?! How did she manage to get in, why is she here, what does she want, what all did she see--


Before the silence gets to be too awkward, there's suddenly a loud, booming, somewhat condescending-sounding voice over the stage speakers.

"It appears you have entered an unauthorized area of the pizzeria, without being given express written or verbal permission to do so. Please exit the building as quickly and as quietly as possible, for everyone's safety."


Before this intruding stranger can feel too intimidated, however, there's the sound of tiny footsteps approaching from the side of the stage. Those footsteps scramble up the small set of stairs there, and soon enough a small white bear robot skitters on over into view. Out of everyone (or everything--) there that night, clearly the little bear is the happiest among them to see her, hurrying over and waving his little bear hands excitedly to greet their surprise guest.


"Please pay no attention to the stupid bear."

Oh, she's definitely seen enough.

To be perfectly honest, he could deal with a thief. He could deal with someone trying to sneak their way in to attempt stealing from the cash box, or overzealous franchise fanatics trying to make off with authentic Freddy Fazbear™ memorabillia. At least those troublesome pests, he has experience dealing with. Easy enough to give them a fright with a STAFF bot on high alert. Annoying, but little more than that. But it has been a considerable amount of time since the last break-in, and maybe he really should look into replacing the bolts on that back door.

This is new. She's determined (stubborn,) persistent (irritating,) and clearly here on a mission. What exactly for, that remains to be seen. She says she's not here to rob him, not here to cause havoc just because. Not that he's about to take any stranger at their word. But she talks about--

... and, well, she saw--

This is new, indeed. He doesn't know what to do. He's cornered. He hates that.

A faint tremble wracks through his gloved fingers before he clenches his fists. Troublemakers are just troublemakers. But someone who knows, or at least has some sort of awareness and inclination towards the sort of thing that infamous restaurant tales are known for, it's a different ballpark. She could be here for so many reasons. He can't think of any good ones. She knows about them, hovering and hiding in the corners and shadows, staring, whispering. He takes a half step backwards, but the edge of the stage's front end is too close. He opts to stick to speaking through the loudspeakers, for now. Fear of being caught has nothing on fear of being known.


"Trespassing is a criminal offense. It is in your best benefit to leave now, and avoid any unfortunate legal consequences for unwise decisions."


Worth a shot. He isn't much of a threat. Loud noises, legal threats, that's about all he can do. And his efforts are steamrolled when there's a silly little bear trying to give their intruder crayons. But if she's seen his face, and she leaves ... that's a problem.

She makes a valid point. He hates that. Hates the police more. Fuck.

Interesting, really, that she's otherwise calm and collected. The confirmation she's seen his face under the mask, that's bad enough. But seeing his face and not reacting how one would normally react upon seeing a disturbed, grotesque walking skeleton of what was once a person (i.e. screaming, pointing, shouting "what the fuck?!" etc,) that's ... concerning. She's either used to it, which is strange enough, or she already knows. And if she knows, that presents a whole slew of other problems, ones he isn't nearly prepared enough to deal with.

He watches the crayon exchange with mild annoyance, wretched little thing undermining his authority by being cute and friendly. The bear seems more than happy to have made a new friend, and after sharing the art materials with her, it turns back around to scurry back over to the large dining table in front of the stage floor, where a large work-in-progress party banner is spread out. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRISHA" it says.

...

Fine.

There's an audible crackle of static as the loudspeakers are shut off. The masked man presses a hand against his chest, pushes, and his shoulders jerk and spasm as another, slightly less audible click is heard. He folds his arms over his chest next, his stance less deer-in-headlights now, more resembling a stern and disappointed high school teacher. But the mask remains for now. When he speaks again, thankfully, he sounds normal.

"Talk, then." As much as he hates to give up control, she's more stubborn than he's willing to give her credit for. And the others, those little whispers in the shadows, they're curious. He knows better than to cross them. "As long as you leave the minute you're done."

Oh, wonderful. An internet psychic.

Presumably. Everyone's an internet-something nowadays.

It's not as though he hadn't spent a good deal of time considering the idea. It's been over thirty years, after all. He's had a lot of time on his hands, and there were several times where he'd been desperate enough that mediums and wards were last resorts, of sorts. But they would get details and facts wrong, they would charge far too much for bullshit services. None of them actually did what he'd paid them to do, so he'd written off the idea entirely. The whispers haven't stopped.

Her job, she calls it. She's here without being contacted, without a shady and scammy newspaper ad to her name. Sent here by powers that be, it seems. So there's more people who know? About the whispers, the shadows? About him?

"I am ever so honoured to be your first reanimated corpse," he answers, just as enthusiastically. How dare she point at him like that. Rude.

"Unfortunately, as eager as I'm sure you are to get started with ... whatever," vague gesturing, "you're going to have a rough go of it. They're all not going anywhere."

Ah. The uncomfortable part of the conversation. Even an exciteable little robot bear drawing on a banner doesn't brighten up what is a very gloomy and disturbing atmosphere of the restaurant late at night. Death is heavy and pungent here. The whispers, now that they're being properly addressed, appear to draw in closer to the show stage. They aren't immediately visible of course, but a buzz of static in the speakers, a little wisp in the curtain shadows. Visible if one knows what to look for, perhaps.

Of course, he knows they're there. They're surrounding him, here because of him, because of his connection. Bloodline. He feels their gaze staring at him, boring holes through his decayed and rotting body, feels when their tiny little hands wrap around his throat or cling to his fingers.

"They remain because their killer remains." He might as well give some ... context, for his unique (though perhaps not as unique as he'd originally believed,) situation. She should know what she's walking into, so she can walk out of it at her discretion. "So unless you're about to prowl the streets for a monstrous and deranged serial killer and-- what, ask him to kindly fuck off, or whatever it is you do-- then I don't imagine your investigative skills will be doing any good here."

He gestures again towards the shadows behind him, those icy cold little voices hiding in the curtains, in the electronic equipment surrounding them. "But of course, feel free to ask their opinion on the idea."

Not all of them move right away, most hesitant and seemingly puzzled, as if trying to recall something that's just out of reach. But when one, maybe two of the crying spirits raise their little hands and point their little fingers at the masked man two steps away from falling off the edge of the stage, that's probably enough of a nudge for him to finally agree that some ... clarification is probably needed here. She's probably already sure it's not him, but the last thing he needs is lingering spirits trying to sway her opinion.

There's a sag in his bony shoulders, something akin to a sigh huffed out against the bear mask covering his face before he finally reaches up and takes the stupid thing off. She's already caught a glimpse, before. And she's familiar (she says,) with the concept. The mask gets tossed aside into a pile of tools and metal scraps on a nearby bench, there's a slight whirring sound not entirely unlike the buzz of a camera lens coming into focus. His skin is a dark and ugly colour, face decorated in old scars, expression reading you win and I'm not happy about it.

"Before you start getting all accusatory," he begins with a dismissive wave of his hand, as though it's a tale he's told a thousand times despite never having done so at all, "they're children. Which means they're stupid."

"The Purple Man." "He killed us."

"As I've explained to them many a time, it's not me." Their whispers grow quieter, but the spirits remain persistent. It does appear that it'll be difficult to convince them otherwise, at least while the real perpetrator remains elusive. "I'm merely cursed by genetics."

He turns his head then, snapping his fingers at the little bear still trying to re-do the banner on the table. "Helpy! Grab the briefcase from the office." The robot bear, clearly all too eager to live up to his namesake, quickly hops off the table and scurries towards the heavy office door. A tiny button (perfectly small robot bear-height off the floor--) opens said door with a loud thunk, and the bear shuffles on inside where various sounds of rattling and mucking about are heard.

With that in progress, he turns his attention back to the girl, and all the little ghosts staying close to her. As though she'll protect them. Who knows? Maybe she will.

"I imagine you're not going to need more convincing than any normal person would," which is already a step in her favour, he thinks to himself. But this particular conversation is going to be one he's never had before, not with anyone outside of the other residents of the restaurant building. And they don't like him all that much. "But if you really do want to help them out, then you're going to have to believe all of the really weird shit I tell you."