Parley

	Sunday morning. First things first: use the restroom. Wash hands. Rinse face with water and take a moment to look in the mirror to confirm I'm alive. The bathroom's illuminated by the hollow golden Freddy suit slouched in the corner. Even that hallucination plays by rules, sticking around to see me wash my hands like a model employee. It's better than Freddy’s perverted laughter that comes with using the ladies' restroom. He'd stand there guffawing that three note clip of mirth repeatedly until I finished my business. Hands clean and face dry, I straighten my tie as the golden bathroom attendant winks out of existence. I calmly make my way to the exit before saying goodbyes. A salute for Foxy, hiding away in Pirate's Cove, toss a sign of the horns to Bonnie cradling his guitar, give two waves to Chica; one for her, the second for her cupcake, and finally a nod of respect to Freddy. They don't give any of their few prerecorded farewells in return. Those were for the kids, not security guards who were lucky to see dawn.

I throw my arms up in a cheer before throwing up the contents of my stomach in the parking lot bushes.

Driving home I take it slow, not because of sleep pulling at my eyes, but to enjoy the sensation of the city waking. As if the world is celebrating to see me still among the living. Pure fantasy on my part of course, neither my life or death will ever get that sort of widespread attention. When, if, I die I'll be forgotten as soon as the last of the blood is scrubbed out of the suit the animatronics use to bury me. Complimentary funeral services wasn't exactly listed in the fine print as a benefit for Fazbear employees. I wonder if with tenure I can get my remains cremated instead of thrown in the trash. Something to strive for, right next to being named employee of the month.

Home sweet home after an hour's journey. I kick off my shoes, unbutton my sweat soaked shirt and loosen the tie. My baby's waiting for me in the kitchen. Automatic brewing means the cup is still steaming as I fry an egg and unwrap a muffin.  The coffee fills my mug to the chipped rim and tastes like heaven. It's my best breakfast of the week and I savor it with minimal spillage from the occasional tremor in my hands.

A quick shower, making the most out of the hot water available and pushing sleep further away with the cold water that follows. I throw on the only other nice clothes I own; dingy brown slacks and a pale blue dress shirt. It's meant for interviews, but also doubles as a spare work uniform to pick up my check. Freddy doesn't like his employees showing up in thrift shop jeans and a rumpled tee shirt. I learned that the hard way my first week when, at the stroke of midnight, Bonnie put me in a painfully playful headlock to deliver a message.

“Freddy says show some pride in your appearance or I get to twist your head off. Oh and keep up the good work.”

Coughing and gasping on the floor while the introduction tape repeat I took the warning to heart.

The phantom sensation of his arm squeezing my neck makes my paltry meal churn in my stomach. I should quit, but I need the money, and am paranoid Freddy Fazbear’s won’t let me. Not a single employer has returned my calls since I got hired at the pizza chain. Unfortunately, I’ve become a company man. Finishing the pot of coffee, I head back to the pizzeria.

The drive is worse this time, all the ignorant people going about their lives with higher paying and safer jobs. Even that motorcycle cop giving me a sidelong glance, no doubt from how strung out I look, has it better. At least the weapons strapped to his belt will slay the monsters that wish him harm. I can only defend with my shields that get harder and harder to use after each attack. For a moment I'm seized by an impulse to go borrow the gun on his belt. All I'd have to do is ram him with my car, grab it, flip off the safety, aim, then pull the trigger. He'd get it right back and I'd be free. Failing to get ahold of the gun myself would probably net me enough bullets to die anyway. Maybe. It's the thought of waking up in the hospital that stops me, knowing the first thing I'd lay eyes on would be a card with Freddy's cheerful smile wishing me a speedy recovery and saying to enjoy the time off from my sudden company approved vacation.

Who am I kidding? Deep down, a small part of me likes the rush and I take a twisted pride in victory. The light turns green, the policeman rumbles away, and I get to work without further incident.

There are families milling about in the parking lot, excited children pulling along harried parents, likely wondering what their kids see in the fuzzy metal goliaths. I thought the same thing until more pressing questions were presented like "Where's Bonnie?", "Is Chica still busy in the kitchen?", "When's Foxy going to sprint for the office?", and the most agonizing of all, "Will I outlast Freddy’s march this week?"

To any normal person I was a body with a name-tag meaning I worked here. Other employees were too busy with their own jobs to care about someone from night shift. Fewer cared that it was even the same guy reporting in for the position. A couple might remember my name. Nobody but me realizes the animatronics have been intently watching my every move from the moment I came through the doors.

I used to think I was crazy. That I had lost my mind under all the pressure. Now I chalk it up to the fantasy and fun at Freddy's being very real, yet not exactly enjoyable for those older than eighteen.

An eye peers at me through the gap in violet star spangled curtains, flinching away as I take my seat by Pirate's Cove. For some unfathomable reason patrons don't feel safe sitting next to an attraction marked out of order. Staff, however, treat the area normally and with due care. Tables get cleaned, decorative sheets are replaced, party hats are arranged in neat columns, and the coloring books always have crayons fresh from the box available. Today a cupcake is waiting on the table, a number seven candle burning atop pink frosting. Glued onto the paper wrapper are a pair of blue googly eyes. Perturbed at Chica’s sense of humor, I glance at the chicken and turn the sweet to its larger counterpart. She twists and rocks in a delighted clunky jig to the children’s surprise and amusement.

Taking a pack of crayons and coloring book, I sidle over to the cove, sliding both under the musty cloth. After some delay, Foxy shoves a fist-full of doubloons in return, exposed metal fingers dragging roughly on wood. I didn't think I was building a friendship with the pirate or that a few cheap booklets would stop him from slicing me neck to groin at night. Far as I know Foxy was treating me like he would any child who had something they wanted to give away and the doubloons were an automated response. It didn't feel right that Foxy spent his day watching the others entertain the kids when he was still functional and, if their welfare was concerned, any animatronic was equally capable of killing. Not wanting to be rude, I reach out to collect my reward.

Foxy ensnares my wrist in the manacle of his good hand in a reddish blur of movement. I feel bones grate together as my vision tinges black around the edges. My screams sound distorted as if coming from underwater. Frantic scrabbling at Foxy’s unyielding grip attracts no attention from oblivious customers.

“At ease, sailor, I mean yeh no harm,” rasps the pirate, contrary to his painful hold. He stoops level with me, sharp, multicolored, fangs glinting in the florescent lights. The stench of rotting fish, seaweed, and brine washes across my face as his unhinged maw draws near.

“Have yeh decided whose flag yeh want to sail under, lad?” Foxy growls inquisitively. “Neptune knows I be in need of a new first mate.”

“Is this how you treat your crew, then?” I pant, not liking the implication of what caused a vacancy.  Though bewildered, I use my supposed leverage over the animatronic. “I might consider joining someone who offers improved conditions.”

Lantern yellow eyeballs dart between my swelling wrist and Freddy’s stage, “Ye can only dock a ship in the port for so long, matey,” he warns. “Sooner or later ye’ll have to weigh anchor.”

“Any other sage advice?” I hiss through clenched teeth.

Foxy taps my temple with his hook,  “Ye be off the map, landlubber. Consider sailing with a captain who knows these treacherous waters.”

His ears perk, and Foxy releases me, “All hands on deck!”

Rubbing my injured joint, I quickly put space between Foxy and me, nearly bowling over a kid standing behind me. Shaking and sweating, I give a smile to the curious and traumatized little onlooker, affecting my best accent.

“Ahoy bucko, we were just practicing a part of Foxy’s new show,” I wink. “Ain’t that right, skipper?”

Foxy’s rooted to the spot, fixated on the youth, as if unsure how to interact after his time spent marooned.

“Think like a pirate lest ye hang from the gallows!” he screeches, bare digits spasming at his side. “Remember fruit prevents scurvy!”

Alarmed at Foxy’s malfunctioning, I scramble to get the whelp out of biting distance.

“How’d you like a piece of cursed treasure?” I faux-whisper, handing him a doubloon.

He snatches the offered trinket and delightfully scampers away without a care. Foxy looms beside me, having approached like a ghost ship, and together we watch the mini buccaneer disappear into the throng. The scent emanating from Foxy is less pungent and his wistful sigh makes me wonder what programing can emulate melancholy. Up on the main stage, Chica and Bonnie regard Freddy with apprehension. Freddy coldly meets Foxy’s insolent glare. An askew jaw, a missing hand, and damaged torso. A handprint and golden rule. Their feelings of hostility ran deeper than built-in pizzeria rivalry. In fact, Bonnie and Chica weren’t on friendly terms either; acting solo rather than as a team. Contradictory to slogans of being family Freddy’s was an animatronic free for all. One purpose binds them. The epiphany suddenly dawns that it’s me they’re vying over. The question is:

“Why?”

“For sport,” Foxy drawls, “We’ve naught but games to amuse ourselves.”

“What if I don’t choose you?”  I ask in a dead voice, focusing on transforming the lurching deck beneath me back into stable tile flooring.

Foxy shrugs, misaligned muzzle swaying grotesquely with the movement, “I shan’t begrudge yer choice. I’ll give no quarter all the same.”

Freddy’s booming laugh cuts in, “That’s enough shore leave, Foxy,” he orders, jovial tone brooking no argument.

Foxy twitches, upturned eyepatch falling with a squeak, “By your command, Freddy.”

I blink.

Pirate’s Cove’s as empty and forlorn as ever, starry curtains drawn tightly shut, and its condemned resident languishing in the brig. No, Foxy wasn’t alive. Merely a broken machine awaiting the scrap heap. Out of order.

I'm left with two souvenirs of Foxy's surreal act, a wrist marred by bruises and fake currency in a cramping palm. The vertigo gradually slows to bearable levels, allowing me to stumble back to my seat. Pocketing the leftover plastic gold coins, I tell myself it’s my keys clinking with each step. While cheap, Freddy's exorbitant prizes compensated by coming infused with supernatural phenomena. My dreams have involved sailing ever since I brought the fox’s innocent trinkets home, a blessing compared to the usual nightmares that plagued me. Back when I was Bonnie’s “favorite little rockstar” I could faintly hear rock and roll throughout my apartment courtesy of his guitar picks. I pause to imagine what owning Freddy’s and Chica’s gifts would entail and why they refused to peddle their wares unlike their peers.

Exhausted and rattled from Foxy’s coercion, I collapse in my chair and wait out the trio's performance. I pointedly ignore how the cupcake’s facing me again. A veritable stampede of children thunders by, signaling the break between shows. Most flock to the arcade with stragglers remaining behind to chow down lukewarm pizza. Parents pay me no mind as I hustle past the many rows of tables, inhale deeply, and slip into the employee lounge. While complaints about the lack of a radio, busted snack machine, and no smoking policy were rampant, the room was a haven for those seeking peace, quiet and free instant coffee.

Nowadays, I have other gripes about the place.

I'm met with a cheery wave from the lone occupant bumming around on their break. A sallow, middle-aged, blonde haired man nervously tapping on his paper cup of coffee, humming a hauntingly familiar tune. I didn't know his name and he wasn't much of a talker, which was fine by me. He smiles broadly as I join in whistling to finish the final few bars of the song. I was about to start Foxy’s tune when the coffee held in his hands begins to ripple and slosh. His worried eyes flick past me, and a chill goes down my spine despite the abrupt sweltering heat.

"Mike!" greets reason number three, dull yellow suit searing my taxed eyes.

I brace myself as Chica plods over, her arms outstretched.

“Not today, Chica I’m-”

The breath is crushed out of me as the chicken gives a mighty bear hug. “You’re dead!” She clucks good-naturedly, squeezing harder. “This is me killing you Mike.”

I sputter, flailing in Chica's embrace. Smothered against her steel shell, I gag at the smell of dust, rotten food, mold, and disturbingly, a putrid whiff of dead animal. Apparently, soap was not in the Fazbear budget. She drops me softly, like an egg into a nest, which fails to soothe my palpitations and smarting ribs. This onset of daylight hours friendliness has been killer on my body. Turning to downplay my humiliating encounter with Chica, I see no sign of my coworker. He must've returned to work while I was getting a free chiropractic treatment. I can’t blame him for leaving.

"You're not so hard to catch during the day," Chica gloats, looking down at me with hungry mauve orbs. A flicker of concern replaces her voracious stare. “You need to practice surviving without those pesky doors. Learn to spread your wings.”

“Should I learn by playing pretend in the kitchen?" I snap, coins like frozen discs in my pocket.

Where did that come from? I liked living too much to sass bloodthirsty children mascots during these grace periods. Chica's response is immediate and waspish, all trace of teasing gone.

“I’m busy making pizza!" she declares, making the floor quake with a stomp of her foot. “I’ll prove it: what’re you in the mood for? Come on. Tell me-EEEE!”

I clap my hands over my ears at the squealing feedback. Her piercing cry reverberates in the small space, drilling into my skull. Convinced I was now a believer, Chica patiently waits for me to recuperate enough to decide on my order. Her beak gapes in what I hazard is eagerness, excitement rising like dough.

"Hawaiian."

Silence. The stink of burnt crust pervades the air.

I can feel the disdain rolling off her, optics clicking and whirring in judgement. I fearlessly hold Chica's furious gaze, refusing to back down on my taste in pizza.

"Perhaps you'd like to try-"

"No thank you," I reply flatly.

Like this bucket of bolts has the capacity to appreciate such exquisite toppings. Forget life and death, this stalemate was on a higher plane than such trivial concerns. Right and Wrong. Correct customer and Incorrect pretend chef. Enlightened human and ignorant automaton.

"One Hawaiian pizza, coming up!" Chica brightly concedes.

I smirk as, once again, Man triumphs over Machine. Sulking at her defeat, Chica waddles for the exit.  My victory is short-lived as she halts, spinning her grimy countenance backwards with a sickening crunch.

”Your order will be ready in," Chica spasms, beak and head thrashing, "twelve hours and fifty minutes.”

I suppress the urge to recoil in horror. Fed up with the poultry I shout, "Better not skimp on the pineapple!” above the door slamming shut.

Alone for the moment, I beeline to the far right nook where the dented coffee maker was calling my name. I go through the motions of preparing a cup, fingers shaking and mind racing. Was this itch spreading across my skin a result of stress or contact with unwashed felt? Where did I find the nerve to say that to Chica anyway? I may have stupidly goaded her into being more active at night under pretense of delivering my pizza. She could burn herself or the restaurant down fiddling with the ovens. I could figuratively and literally be fired over an argument about toppings. Worst of all, Chica had a point, I was powerless without the generator’s juice. God, I needed sleep. Trying not panic, I rub an icy plastic token between thumb and forefinger.

Calmed, I plop sugar cubes into my drink, one by one, adding to the buzz of sugar and caffeine coursing throughout my veins from earlier. At eight white blocks my teeth sting like I was chewing foil and the coffee’s aroma is overridden by the tang of ozone. I crumble the tenth square and sprinkle it in my saturated cup.

“Run out of autographs for your groupies?”

Bonnie’s hulking mass lurks in my left peripheral vision, light and motes of dust accommodating displaced reality. He glowers at me by way of greeting, prized guitar leaning against the wall. I've heard people say with his eyes half-lidded he looks sleepy or relaxed. I’m of the opinion it makes him look surly. Hearing gears strain as Bonnie balls his hands into fists does little to alter my outlook. Yep, still upset I rejected his unsettling offer for a private music showcase. I stir my concoction, unsurprised to find Bonnie’s crossed the distance. He towers above me, articulated ears giving extra height, relishing in me having to be in his shadow. Looking up at him, I break eye contact after a scant few seconds, taking a slurp of piping hot sweetness. His fixed smile is absent of family marketed joy as he nods at my brew.

“Enjoying the coffee, Mike?” Bonnie leers, voice deep and rough without tiny ears to sing-song around. “I made it myself.”

Spitting the mouthful of liquid back into my cup, Bonnie’s baleful expression deepens, although his speech is an octave higher in an attempt at camaraderie.

“Aw shucks, it’s safe,” he twangs in melodic baritone. “Everyone knows rockstars need to stay awake for the whole venue and I’d hate if you fell asleep before our duet.”

Bonnie waves in a dismissive gesture, “Besides, poison’s Chica’s department. I wouldn’t eat anything she touches.”

“Our duet?” I repeat dumbly.

“Well of course! We’ll have lots of room in our studio to jam together and the coffee will help you focus.”

I grimace at the steaming murky java and say nothing. Coldness radiates from my traded goods and the decision is obvious.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

My ears pop, filling with the drone of an amp, and my chest tightens under the burden of Bonnie’s malice. I’m acutely aware I’m trapped in a cramped spot with a spurned animatronic.

“Have a sip.”

It’s not a request.

Bonnie lunges forward the second I move for the trashcan. One of his large hands wraps around my throat with crushing force while the other wrenches the arm holding the coffee. Forearm drenched in burning expresso, I seal my lips despite the urge to scream as Bonnie tilts the remains of the drink.

“Don’t make me pour this on your face, Mike.” Bonnie pleads, his grin implacable. “I thought you liked french roast.”

Bonnie increases the pressure of his stranglehold, and my world dims to pinpricks of white. In my desperation, I clutch a piece of fool's gold in a white-knuckled grip, and pray Foxy watches over his prospective buccaneers.

"Help me," I mentally plead, and to my amazement, a chilly draft buffets us.

Gasping for air, Bonnie forces the rim against my teeth, pouring molten sludge down my gullet.

Curls of steam billow from my mouth, but I feel no pain with every gulp of what tastes like ordinary water. Freed from Bonnie’s chokehold, his immobile features convey a sneer. “There that wasn’t so bad-“

I spit the frigid dregs up at Bonnie, aiming for his face, and hitting his crimson bowtie. A grating noise erupts from Bonnie’s voicebox as he grabs my shirt collar, violently shaking me.

“Well. That. Was. RUDE!”

Cranked to full volume his fury is palpable, overpowering the weathered sea-dog’s protection. I was helpless.

“I think you need a timeout.” he beams, fist cocked.

“No fighting, Bonnie,” Freddy chides smoothly, the frosty atmosphere deepening upon his arrival. “This is a family restaurant.”

Bonnie’s eyelids settle into their perpetually scowling configuration, emoting a malevolent smirk.

“Mike tripped,” Bonnie lies as he helpfully dusts me off, swatting at my body with bone jarring impact. Freddy crosses his arms impatiently.

The guitarist gets in a final blow, and it’s a miracle of willpower I remain standing.

“All better,” he proclaims.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he teleports towards the doorway.

Bonnie retrieves his red V-shaped axe, hefting it over his shoulder, “Catch you at rehearsal, rockstar.”

“I do apologize for that,” Freddy rumbles merrily, doffing his hat in apology over his chest. “The boys tend to get rambunctious at this phase and Bonnie’s always had a short fuse.”

He sweeps his microphone to the rickety table, “Where are my manners? Sit, sit.”

“I’m done playing games,” I snarl, breath fogging in the cold, “I want my money. Now.”

Thick eyebrows narrow and his polite timbre takes a suspicious edge.

“What else did Foxy give you in exchange for coloring books, Mike?”

Confused by Freddy’s wary nature, I fish for my plastic loot, and withdraw hastily as sharp pain catches my fingers. Inspecting the wound, my skin’s been torn at whatever Foxy stowed away with his cargo, rubies oozing from my ripped flesh.

“Oh dear,” Freddy frets, wringing the brim of his top-hat. “I’ll get the first aid kit, don’t bloody your uniform.”

Cradling my bleeding hand, I reluctantly await Freddy’s assistance at his proffered seat. Blood pools in my palm, dripping through the cracks while Freddy hunts for a bandage. Freddy returns, setting a medical kit on the table and hovering over me with concern.

“What’s the damage?”

Surrendering myself, Freddy cleans up the worst of the injury, an ugly slash across my digits, with utmost precision.

“You’re good at this,” I comment, having thought the extent of Freddy’s healthcare started and ended with a cute Band-Aid.

“We’re used to dealing with injured kids,” Freddy replies cordially. “Luckily you won’t need stitches.”

His moves are smooth, made with the ease of practice, and I know the same deftness would be present in applying the pieces of the iron maiden to my body if I was caught.

”This might sting,” he chuckles, administering disinfectant then wrapping my gashed extremity in gauze.

It does, but I hold my tongue.

“This’ll heal nicely. I would’ve intervened sooner, but you were handling yourself admirably.” The bear's deadened stare bores into me as he ties my dressing. “Now if you’d be so kind as to empty your pockets.”

“I’d prefer not to.” I deadpan.

“I insist,” His genial demeanor at odds with the loaded threat.

I gingerly dip my swathed hand into my pocket, extracting keys, rime encrusted coins, and a jagged stick of circuitry, presenting each item as if they were contraband. Freddy slides a slip of green paper, my meagre earnings, across the table and plucks the foreign object from the collection. Warmth returns to the room as Foxy’s presence is snuffed out. Rid of the smuggled fragment, a heavy weight lifts off my chest and I breathe deep, body and mind cleared of an oppressive fog. Freddy observes Foxy’s microchip with disapproval and I half expect him to smash it to pieces. Instead a rueful grin stretches his features before disposing of the shard in the trashcan.

“Blasted pirate never did learn to play nice. He must’ve taken a real shine to you.”

Confronted with Foxy’s treachery, I resolve to give the cutthroat a wide berth from now on lest he try to pressgang me into his crew again. However, I’m hesitant to discard his bounty, its potential danger outweighed by a selfish want to keep taking advantage of a good night’s rest. If Freddy takes any offense to me scooping my belongings, including Foxy’s gifts, into my pockets he doesn’t show it.

“Thanks,” I offer a handshake in gratitude. "For everything.”

His paw engulfs my own, “You have until your shift ends to make your decision. Otherwise you play alone.”

I nod, resigned, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Freddy’s pitiless laughter at my gaffe follows me outside the lounge as I stagger to my chair. There’s a trove of goodies left for me by my not so secret admirers. In addition to Chica’s cupcake there’s a warm thermos of coffee, a small pile of tokens, and a bottle of aspirin. Their expectant gazes linger on me as I contemplate my offerings. Raising the confection to my lips, Bonnie’s sopping wet bowtie catches my attention. Unbidden, the bunny’s words spring to mind and the frosted treat is no longer appetizing to me. I leave the food untouched, toss the medication, and pass the gathered tribute to the last kid I see heading for my car. My day’s remaining affairs go by quickly, an unimportant haze of routine ending in sleep.

I wake to my alarm’s shrill beeping, exhausted in spite of the nap. The deserted pizzeria takes on a new life after normal business hours, its cheer and glitz replaced with foreboding. Arriving early, I’m the sole living person in the area; the darkened building welcoming me to another round of terror. My steps are too loud in the silence, walking past the inert machines to the security office. The clock tells me I have fifteen minutes ‘till the reckoning. I jog, footfalls echoing, the rest of the way to my station.

Approaching the desk, I spy something underneath the tablet. Lifting the device, I reveal a page torn from a kid’s coloring book. It’s yellowed with age and smells of mildew, depicting Foxy and a small outline with a space for the name of whoever imagined themselves as “Foxy’s First Mate” on a dotted line. In crude handwriting someone had taken the liberty of writing “Mike Schmidt” in the blank and adding two spots of blue to the figure’s face. I crumple the paper, refusing to fall for Foxy’s underhanded tricks.

Powering on the tablet I’m bathed in its comforting glow. My steadfast companion throughout these troubled times. I detect a hint of motion in the corner of my eye and reflexively slam the button for the right side. Automatically clicking the light for my opposite blindspot reveals nothing. The clock shows it’s ten to midnight.  Adrenaline pumping, I flick on the light and wish I hadn’t.

Chica gawks through the window, crosseyed optics serving to boost her menace. She scrutinies me with ravenous longing, on the verge of pecking at the reinforced glass barrier that separates us. Restraining herself, Chica dips her beak downward indicating the cardboard box in her hands.

“Delivery,” she crows, unceremoniously dropping it. “Personal sized Hawaiian style pizza for Mike Schmidt.”

Swallowing a lump of dread and pride, I fold my arms.

“What, no drink?” I scoff.

Chica’s beak grinds in a scowl and she departs into the restaurant’s gloom. Once the coast is clear, I raise the steel barricade, growling stomach and curiosity getting the better of me. The box has a note attached, “I hope you choke on it,” and is signed “Love, Chica” complete with a heart. It’s undeniably fresh, looks delicious, and most importantly; edible. I’m both impressed and leery of the free dinner. I set it aside to cool in front of the fan.

Leaning in my chair, my thoughts drift to the four factions hoping to recruit me. I immediately rule out Bonnie, the bunny was a live wire of animosity and the stunt with the coffee emphasized that. Any use his teleportation had was exceeded by the risk of him embedding me in a wall to settle his grudge. Foxy was too manipulative, his track record marred by a loss, and I needed to be lucid when working. I’m tempted to choose Freddy, his skills as a medic would be invaluable, and he was pleasant by animatronic standards. Nevertheless, I can’t shake the sense he’d be content to wait and act when it suited him and by then it would be too late.

Which leaves Chica. She’s stubborn, intimidating, and disturbingly candid about my death. Her behavior was slightly less prone to violence, which was a plus, and she had no discernible ulterior motive. Not to mention she seemed genuinely concerned about my physical wellbeing. I’m not averse to the idea of siding with the hen if she can be persuaded to quit being handsy.

A  distant soft tapping alerts me to Chica’s reappearance. I hit the light-switch, illuminating the alcove where she liked to roost and leave the door open. Chica steps into view, carrying a cup with a bendy straw, with minutes to spare. She blinks in surprise at the unobstructed path, uncertain how to proceed. No point beating around the bush.

“Hey Chica, let’s team up.”

She digests what I said with a rattling wheeze, her purple irises flaring. The cup hits the ground, splashing dishwater at her feet, as the six am chime plays an enthusiastic “Yay!” in celebration.

Chica bounces happily in place, giving an exuberant whoop, “Alright! Hold down the coop, I’ll get cooking a fresh pizza.”

I frown, “What’s wrong with this one?”

She doesn’t hesitate to answer, “I spiked the toppings.”

Gut churning, I wonder if I’ve made the best choice in regards to my survival. The clock ticks and a beep informs me it’s now morning.

“Hey Mike,” Chica parrots, beak widening in glee. “Think fast!”

She rushes the office, and I realize I’m a fool for having trusted any of them, as Chica swoops for me. I hurl myself sideways to avoid her talons and go with the momentum, looping behind her, and into the corridor. Skidding on the water, I slide into a box jutting from the wall. In the dim  lighting, I recognize what’s inside the locked container and that I’m lacking a key. This definitely qualifies as an emergency. I smash my elbow into the glass and yank the fire extinguisher free, wielding it like a bludgeon.

Silhouetted in the doorframe, Chica’s amethyst eyes smolder in the darkness.

“You’re learning!” she cheers, standing aside and extending the offline tablet to me.

Incredulous, I lug the fire extinguisher along, take my possession, and reenter the security office.

“Was the cupcake poisoned too?”

”Mike, don’t be ridiculous,” Chica responds, sounding offended. “I added broken glass to the batter.”

Taking position, she blockades the darkened right side while I check the left for Bonnie and reboot the tablet. Flickering to life, I notice a segmented pizza has replaced the familiar battery icon in the corner of the screen. A no backsies rule was definitely in effect.

“We’re gonna kick some crust!” Chica hollers down the hallway.

I sigh.

This week is already proving to be a challenge.