GAPS

As the golden sun pierced the clouds, and began rising, the day shift at Freddy Fazbear's pizzeria began once again.

The day progressed without incident; a refreshing break for Phin, Fritz , and the rest of the day staff. Jeremy's bite and his subsequent surplus increase in chromosomes,  and his recent death proved stressful for not only the little guys working janitorial, but the fat cats as well. Freddy merchandise clogged up store shelves like crazy, and remained on shelves, the cancellation of the franchise's comic book, and the lawsuits. It truly seemed to be the end times, these days. Enough to make Fritz spend his breaks smoking.

Bob Calebs spent his day differently, however. It seemed that he didn't quite get the memo; which was that it was the end times for the establishment.

He performed to the highest standards of company policy- which meant very little when you considered the state of the pizzeria and it's management. However, he still worked harder than anybody else was working that day. Didn't mean much in that context, but he was a one man army. Quite literally, considering the rest of the janitorial and custodial staff members had been laid off by that point in time. The place was cleaner than it had been in months; he even scrubbed the blood on the sidewalk outside away!

It was around 2 pm that Bob and Phin decided to have lunch together in the break room, which was really just Jeremy's old office.  The

"What're you gonna do after all this shit blows over?", Phin asked, while sipping cold vegetable soup.

Bob took a second to think about it.

"I dunno. I'll probably go find some other hellhole to work for. Not like I have much choice, right?"


"We never do, do we?", Phin grimly chuckled, and took another swig of his cup.

"I feel like we're just pawns in a playing field, you know?"

"Holy shit, yes. All the kids missing, lawsuits... Jesus, feels like we're bouncing back and forth in a pinball machine, y'know?", Phin said. He ran his hands through his hair, and moaned. "God, these past few months have been terrible."

Bob wasn't sure of what he should say. "Well, it won't really be our problem after this place closes down."

"Actually, it will, Bob. It comes back. It always comes back. And they'll ask you to come back and work here, I guaran-fucking-tee it.  I worked at the older establishment- you probably know already about the springsuits; back when this place was in the blueprints stage, they called me first thing to ask me to supervise and help with the robots. It's a cycle, Bob. When you're down on your luck, they'll drag you back in and leave you in a worse place than you started off in."

An alarm sounded off from some corner of the ceiling.

"Whelp, that's my cue," Bob said as he got up; hoping he wouldn't have to listen to anymore of the senior's rantings.

The time was about 8:30 when Bob decided to head towards the supplies closet to refill his cart. All of the few customers they had  left hours ago,  leaving the restaurant silent, with the exception of  footsteps echoing down the halls. The silence started to get to Bo He reached the doorway, at which point a shadow descended in front of him.  He found his passage blocked by a familiar tall, lanky silhouette. It's cheap, shiny plastic mask swiveled down from an unseen joint and stared at him, the black parts of it's body filling the frame completely.

He felt a lump in his throat and said, "Uhm, I'd like to finish cleaning up here"

The Puppet's mask stared at him for a little longer, and from somewhere on it's body- Bob couldn't place the source- a metallic grinding sound emitted, somewhat like a screech, before some words started to emit.

"Hell-hello, sport! Welcome to Fr-fur-edbear's Fa-family Die-Diner! Juh-just pass right through, into a world of pu-your imagination!"

Bob had never heard the Puppet speak- even while he was passing by some stage shows involving it's performances- but he was pretty damn sure it didn't sound like Freddy, the company mascot. Nor was it supposed to spew out lines from an entirely different era of merchandising and robotics technology.

 He tried not to dwell on this while looking straight at the robot, which was now beginning to unnerve him greatly.


The Puppet said nothing more, and stepped aside to grant Bob access to the kitchen.

Bob's mouth went dry. He was standing in front of the supplies closet, looking into the kitchen.

Shit, it wasn't even the kitchen. It had cutlery, and pans and tables, sure. But it wasn't the small, cramped kitchen he had known for the six months or so the pizzeria managed to run. It was much bigger, and had cabinets and fridges that were placed higher than the kneecaps. It also didn't have an exact sense of cleanliness.

 He wasn't a religious man, but he was pretty damn sure Hell looked a lot like this.

Body parts and organs strewn about, pots and pans scattered carelessly.

And blood. Lots, and lots of blood. The room was more red and maroon than it was tiled. And the speckled roof was replaced with a dark black- like the color of crusted blood.

He felt a shove from behind, and was thrown to the floor. He put his hands out to stop his fall with something, and they landed on a piece of blood-soaked metal. The metal was slippery enough that they dropped off of it, and did not cushion Bob's fall.

Slowly moving himself up, Bob saw it was an animatronic's arm.

It had what looked like red sausage inside it, wrapping around the bicep joints. It took Bob a second to realize that it was somebody's intestines.

Panicking, Bob stood up, and turned to  bolt for the exit behind him. When he turned around, he saw it replaced only by a smiling mural  of Freddy-the older model, a bit more monstrous, on a red background with black splotches on it. He hammered and howled against it, only to feel the wall's thickness echo and bounce back his blow's noises at him.

He felt something behind him grab his hair, and slam his head down towards the mural rubbing his face in Freddy. Bob blacked out.

Bob felt an initial relief upon waking up, that it was all just a nightmare. It had to be.

And then he woke up on a table. The kind the chefs put their dishes on.

Bob felt a pressure around his head, and whimpered.

"Calm down, calm down. We're not gonna tear your head off or anything", a voice echoed out from the darkness; accompanied by footsteps.

A  bright purple light flooded his vision, hurting his eyes to even look. They shut closed instinctively from the sudden shock.

A human's silhouette eased some of the blindness. Bob tried to move his hands to shield his eyes anyways, only to feel them bound at his sides. Bob shook his head to try to face away from the light, only to be met with firm resistance. Bob turned back to face the shadow.

"Whatcha got around your head and...Well, most of your body there; is a little toy called The Onion. ", the voice said. It was echoing and muffled, to the point that he couldn't pinpoint an accent or gender.

Bob tried moving his jaw to test the device's boundaries.

"I wouldn't try talking, if I were you. It might break, and well, I don't think you'd want that. It'd become a very red Onion, most likely. Oh, and you're wearing history, right there. This is the same thing that snapped shut inside of Bonnie on stage, years ago. 1984, to be exact. " the voice continued. "You're about to be recruited into something greater, soldier. You're the perfect candidate to start things off."

"Fuhcf oo!"

A low, aggravated sigh emitted from... Someplace. Wherever it came from, it was obviously pissed.

The silhouette dissipated for a second, and faded back into view. The purple light hurt even more, somehow.

"...The honors? Awright."

"Yeah, uh sorry about this I guess. We never have much choice, do we?" said the voice.

He raised what was obviously from it's shape a tire iron, and brought it down upon Bob's cage, and face.

The last thing he heard was the metal frame collapsing into his flesh