A Man Chooses

Unrelenting pain. Heavy pressure. A booming laugh. That was all Mike could remember of his night shift. He dreamed of children's laughter. It was dark when he woke up. Quiet, as well. Still stuck in that enjoyable post-sleep haze, Mike tried to stretch his strangely cramped arms and legs out.

They wouldn't move.

A seed of panic sprouted in Mike's mind. Memories of his pleasant dream vanished like wisps of smoke in a breeze. Yet, his thoughts remained sluggish. None of his limbs would respond, no matter how hard he flailed. Not even his eyes would open. He was locked in place: unable to move; unable to see; barely able to even think.

It wasn't until hours later when he heard a sound. Footsteps echoing on a tile floor. Quiet muttering. A light was turned on, and Mike felt his eyelids open. He recognized where he was — backstage at Freddy Fazbear's. Some of the day workers had just walked into the room. They were the same as Mike remembered. Tired, in every meaning of the word. Worn down by life, with faces that hadn't seen a smile in years.

Mike tried to call to them, to say something, anything. His voice wouldn't come out, however. He could only sit and watch as the day workers collected cleaning supplies and brought in buckets of water and mops. They quietly went about their work, cleaning up a dark liquid that was pooled on the floor and splattered across the walls. Whatever the liquid was, it clung to their shoes and fingers. Mike realized with a start that it was blood.

The screams in Mike's head finally spilled from his lips as gurgles and groans. When the day workers failed to react Mike tried again, and again, and again, until finally he understood what was happening. It wasn't that they couldn't hear them, they were simply ignoring him.

One of the workers walked up to Mike and lifted his arm, and memories of the night before slammed into his mind at the sight of the brown costumed arm holding a microphone. He had been caught, he remembered, in a moment of distraction. Then he'd been dragged backstage and messily shoved limb by limb into an animatronic suit. He was stuck in a prison of crossbeams and rubber, an iron maiden of faux fur.

No matter how much he struggled Mike couldn't move. No matter how much he yelled his voice did no more than quietly moan. As his suit was cleaned of his own blood the pain started to return. Aches set deep within his bones, cold agony pierced his very being. And throughout it, the janitors never even made eye contact.

Mike was left alone for a few more hours after that. Time for introspection and suffering that was desperately unnecessary. Then, he stood up. Was it a miracle, he wondered. Could he find help? As he walked onto the stage and joined the two animatronics already waiting, Mike's hopes were squashed. Although he walked, his footsteps were out of his control. Although he spoke, his words were not his own.

Mike was trapped in a living prison, unable to affect the outside world.

The day passed in a haze of sorrow. This can't be happening to me, he thought. I'll just close my eyes, and when I open them I'll be in my bed at home. The denial was sort lived. Minutes turned to hours, song after song was performed, children screamed with joy as they saw him completely unaware of the horror that lay underneath. Freddy's deep voice boomed directly into his skull, and were it not for his lack of ears Mike was sure he would have been deafened.

Everything grew dim during one of the birthday parties. Sound was muted until only a ringing played in Mike's ears. His consciousness grew hazy, the room grew dark. When he next came to, the restaurant was dark and he stood on the stage.

A few more hours passed, and all at once Mike felt his limbs unlock. Chica shook her limbs beside him and then hopped off the stage. Bonnie was soon to follow. Mike attempted to go as well, but Freddy kept his feet firmly rooted in place. They stayed there on the stage for several hours, until an ear-piercing shriek echoed through the restaurant.

Freddy began to walk. Mike was forced to watch as the bear took him around the corner backstage. He could hear pleading and cries for help behind the door, and when the door was opened Mike could see someone held down on a table. He looked young, too young to be working a night shift. One of the animatronics handed Freddy a helmet, and suddenly Mike could move.

Mike tested his freedom the moment he realized he had it. His limbs followed his commands. He walked around the backstage, heedless of the 3 pairs of eyes that followed him. Mike laughed and Freddy laughed with him. He spun around, ready to run out the door, and froze.

Freddy would not let him move. The moment the intention to leave the backstage area crossed his mind, Freddy locked up. Mike fought hard, but the animatronic would not move. Unwilling to give up, Mike turned to face the captured guard. His plans to speak with the guard failed. Freddy had gone quiet.

Against Mike's wishes, Freddy slowly crossed the room and purposefully picked up the discarded Freddy helmet. Then, Freddy once more stood over the guard and stared down at him. Mike regained control immediately after. He understood, with a terrible clarity, what was going on.

He had to perform the action of his own will.

It was a horrible choice, one that could scarcely even be called one. Yet, Mike refused. Freddy's eyes flickered, and the light danced across the young guard's terrified face. Mike stood there, resolute, with only the sound of sobbing accompanying him. Hours passed, and then, the night shift ended.

The young guard bolted through the door the moment 6 AM chimed. Freddy carefully placed the helmet back in its spot on a shelf and walked back to the stage alongside Bonnie and Chica. Janitors cleaned the red trail of tears leaking from Freddy's eyes.

Weeks passed. Every day was Mike was filled with phantom pain, every night he was given a choice. It was a different guard each time, every new hire unable to last even a single night. A part of Mike, deep down, felt disappointed in them. Sometimes he would find himself mocking their impotence, their inability to do their job as well as he had. Every time, Mike would ruthlessly crush those thoughts and grind them until not even dust was left. Yet, it took longer to do so whenever it happened.

A night like all the others. The guard had lasted an exceptionally short hour-and-a-half. Mike felt a tinge of annoyance at it. Just as always, Freddy walked him to the backstage, and just as always Mike passed the time watching the fear on the guard's face. The chime sounded, the animatronics returned to the stage, and the guard smashed into the door frame in his haste to escape.

That same guard returned the next night.

That part of Mike that scorned the night guards' incompetence went wild. The phantom pains ached and throbbed and fed Mike's anger, until he was fully whipped into a fury. That night, Mike took his first step off the stage under his own power. How dare that man come back! Why was he spitted in the face of Mike's kindness? How could he be so arrogant?

In the end, it was a quick thing. The guard hadn't even checked the cameras or closed the doors, secure in his belief that he would be fine even if he was caught. His screams had been liberating for Mike, even though he also felt regret for what he was doing.

When the deed was done, Mike felt a calmness settle over him. It embraced him like a warm blanket, and when he looked down he marveled at the sight of his own flesh. His pale skin glowed in the darkness of the backstage, unhidden by the brown suit he had come so acquainted with. The room began to fade from his view, and Mike knew that he was passing on.

And wherever he ended up, be it salvation or damnation, he knew that it would be better than this Hell.