Sorry it took so long to update. Even then, the end is extremely rushed and it probably shows. The overall lack of response on this story is making it harder and harder to force these out. Unless things change and more people give me feedback on whether I'm doing this right or wrong, chapter 15 will probably be the last. I hope this was worth the wait, anyway.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Risky Business

The Freddy on the roof had seemed so cheery not so long ago, waving him on to success and good fortune with a doff of its hat.

Ash stared at it for moments, minutes, all of them too long—it stared back. The dying sun glittered in its eyes. What were once encouraging gestures became taunts, threats, daring him to step forward and enter its waiting jaws. Was he willing to lay down his life in pursuit of the truth? Come in, come in, don't be shy!

It was amazing how things could change in just twenty-four hours.

The backpack was heavy on his shoulders as he pushed open the door. Voices rose from somewhere inside, one he recognised, one he didn't, both oblivious to his presence. He wished that the door squeaking closed behind him didn't sound so final—even the kiss of the ocean wasn't as cold as the shadows within this building.

"That's not funny, I could've lost a hand!"

"Um, it was, like, totally funny?" Said Jeremy as the two of them rounded the corner and into the foyer, hands and eyes raised to the sky. His eyebrows, too, or at least to his hairline. "Everyone heard you screaming. Like, everyone."

"Seriously, man—"

"Look, I got it on video!"

Ash didn't know the other staff member. He was tall, blond. Furious, too, but he still leaned in to watch whatever travesty unfolded on Jeremy's phone.

He was right—that was a distinctive squeal.

"What happened?" He asked as he clocked in at the desk.

"Some kid shoved a bit of pizza in Freddy's mouth during his scheduled walk around the floor," the tall one scowled, "so I thought I'd take one for the team and try and get it out, right? 'Cept the asshole damn near bit my arm off."

"Yeah, but, like, you stuck your freaking hand in there. What else was gonna happen?"

The blood drained from Ash's face. "They let those things walk around? In the middle of the day?"

"Um, yeah? It's not like anyone else is dumb enough to, like, shove their limbs in a working machine, Adam." Jeremy cocked an eyebrow, the last word very much directed at his companion, who turned away his gaze and muttered under his breath.

No. No, that couldn't be right. Johnson, Carver, they knew what these animatronics were capable of. That there was something fundamentally wrong with them, right to the core, something that couldn't be fixed. How many of his predecessors had they killed? And at any moment that could happen to a customer, an innocent kid… they wouldn't just…

The fist at Ash's side clenched tighter still, until the nails dug into the palm of his hand. Johnson let the day shift treat them like props, like toys covered in cake crumbs and glitter. And they had no idea. "What if they malfunction? Do you have any idea how strong they are? Because I do." His other hand strayed to his ribs, where the bruises Foxy left behind still stood out dark and purple on his skin. But at least they were only bruises. He was lucky, and thankful.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the other one, Adam, snapped as he strode to the door. "You're preaching to the choir. It's not me you've got to convince."

At once Jeremy descended upon him with battered notebook in hand. "You heard him, they're, like, dangerous. This could be the scoop I need—that makes you the witness. Wanna make a statement before you go?"

"Yeah," the teen said, looking at him like he was insane—which was entirely possible, "fuck you." With that, he pushed outside to nurse his pride in peace.

"Adam Higgins, quote… fuck… you…" Jeremy repeated as he scribbled it down, then tucked pen and paper away with a knowing wink. "Y'know, it would be a reeeal shame if that video just, like, happened to show up on Instagram."

"I'm not getting involved," Ash muttered, stepping around him. He was too tired and too sore for this, and longed for the relative comfort of his chair. But a hand pushed him back by his sternum and he had to bite down on his words before they struck.

"Hey, come on! You got a minute? I wanna talk… business with you."

His eyes went to the clock mounted on the wall behind the desk. It wasn't midnight—yet. "I've got five," he said, removing the hand from his torso. "Is this 'blackmailing me with my baby photos' business or something actually important?"

Jeremy hesitated. "Do you have baby photos?"

"No."

"Okay. So, I have a… proposition for you. You're looking for something, right? And I'm the kinda guy you wanna know if you're looking for things."

Ash scowled. "And how would you know that?"

His answer was a flash of his pearly whites and a coquettish flick of the wrist. "I, like, know everyone? Their business is my business. Comprenez vous?" He perched on the desk, then laced his fingers together and gazed at him artfully over the top of them. "You're looking for something. I'm looking for something. Like, we should totally work together, right?"

The offer was… tempting, if he really was the cutthroat gossip broker he claimed to be. It seemed that they had common interests—and enemies. But Ash didn't know who he was supposed to trust any more.

And he was running out of time.

The minute hand ticked closer and closer to midnight. Tick, tick, tick. Already, he could feel the building beginning to change. The shadows growing longer, the seconds growing shorter. The groan as the sea wind battered at the walls and windows. And one by one, as the notes of the song struck out from the dark, the lights snapped off.

"Here, I'll give you my number." He grabbed for his phone in his pocket with hasty fingers. "We'll talk about this later, but you really have to go."

Jeremy was in no hurry as he typed it in, tongue between his teeth. Oblivious or not to Ash dancing from foot to foot on the spot as he checked it, rechecked it, then checked it one more time just to be sure. And why would he be? As far as he knew, it was just a failing business with a proven track record of workplace accidents.

Something moved in the arcade.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he grinned, pocketing his own phone, complete with sparkly case and Vocaloid charms, into his bag as he got back to his feet and went at last to the door. "See you tomorrow maybe?"

"Maybe," said Ash, trying to ignore the fact that he stepped right through the bloody wolf footprints as if they weren't there at all. Perhaps to him, none of this was. "It's a different place at night."

Maybe being the first to move was Foxy's shtick. The computer chair wasn't even warm when Ash spied him picking his way down the steps of his spot in the arcade. Hunched, arms hanging loose in front of him, even as his legs worked in a stiff, mechanical rhythm. One knee up, forward, and down, then a pivot of the hips and the other soon followed.

Like a puppet, he thought with a shiver. Pulled along by invisible strings.

So it was him shuffling about while Jeremy was still here… but he didn't have time to dwell on that thought as he left his recording software running and flicked over to the stage camera to make sure that Freddy and friends were still in place. They weren't.

"Yeah, they're already up," he said into the office phone as he slid his tablet back under the keyboard, "is it always like this?"

"In all honesty? No," came the answer. "I've never seen them rush, and never twice in a row. They wait and try to catch you off guard. At least, that's what they did to… um, with any luck they'll stay back to lick their wounds tonight."

"They don't even have tongues!"

"Oh dear, someone's having a rough night already. I have a tin of hot chocolate somewhere if you want one."

His voice might have been soothing, but a bitter taste still burned on Ash's tongue. He couldn't reconcile the image of the man who had helped him, who patched up his injuries and came to get him when he was in danger, with the one who lied to his face—and would have continued to do so if circumstances never changed. It was hard to say for sure what he considered more important: his employee's safety, or burying the company's dirty laundry. And that made him uneasy.

But he supposed that Eric wasn't the one who called the shots around here, not really. Johnson certainly wasn't.

"How long have you put up with this?" He said as Foxy stopped to peer up at him through the camera, eyelids mismatched, his mouth gaping open in a smile that might have been goofy by daylight. False pirate laughter echoed through the halls, raking along his gooseflesh like the rusted point of a hook. Fear, cold, it all felt the same.

Eric was busy making coffee. The line did nothing to filter out the scrape of drawers, the clatter of a teaspoon in a mug. A welcome distraction from a question he didn't want to answer, perhaps; it was a long time before he did. "Since this place opened," he mused over the hiss of a kettle in the background, "so… nine years?"

"Nine years, and you never got a better job?"

The silence was all he needed to know why. He knew better than to ask on what terms Carver kept him tied here, so he clicked back to the main hall and tried to pretend that Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, they weren't looking at him. They were just admiring the pretty, pretty light of the camera, flashing on and off. Off and on. He could see it reflected in their eyes.

"You know, since you asked…" Eric's voice was low when he spoke again. He sounded so... tired. "If I could hand in my notice tomorrow, I'd like to be a florist. Acting never worked out for me and that was next on my wish list."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, I have quite the pair of green thumbs. Award-winning, even, not to blow my own trumpet—Bayou the Sea, 2009, 2010 and 2013."

"That's an awful name for a magazine."

"I'm glad you share my disdain for puns. Now keep an eye on them, shout if you see them coming this way. I'm bringing hot drinks and cookies."

Ash clicked obediently back to the arcade camera, only to find a tipping hourglass where his cursor used to be. Each turn sent his hopes tumbling deeper and deeper into the pit of despair gathering in the bottom of his heart; he never knew that despair stank of hot dust and wires. The screen froze on the image of an empty room, the software unresponsive, and booting the task manager only confirmed his suspicions.

Oh. Oh no.

"Hey, um, are you there? Eric?" But there was no answer—he had already hung up.

He bit his lip as he returned his own handset to its cradle. He was going to be okay. Eric was okay. He'd be over here in a minute with snacks, and they could shut the door and figure this out in safety. Everything was under control—

Something slammed into the window. He jolted away with a cry and caught his foot on the bottom of the chair, bouncing off the filing cabinets and onto the tiles. His palms stung from the impact. Winded, he rolled onto his back and scrambled for the door, never once taking his eyes off that dark figure in the window. The mirrored surface meant that Foxy couldn't see him, but he heard him scream. Amber eyes raked blindly across the room.

Just a little further. Almost to the door. Almost…

His hand knocked against one of the mugs left discarded on the floor and sent it rolling into a cabinet. He froze, a rabbit caught in headlights, when that burning stare locked onto him. Then in a flash of crimson the fox was gone. He threw himself onto his feet and at the door as those footfalls echoed like thunder through the foyer. "ERIC!"

Muffled cursing, the clatter and smash of a laden tray. He was there at the door to his office, favouring his left leg with a grimace of pain. The previous night took its toll on his body—he could barely walk. "I'm coming—damn it!"

Ash didn't wait. One arm around his waist, weight pivoted off his knee, just like before. Like an ungainly machine they hobbled for the security office, but Foxy was faster. The force of him hitting the door a second after Ash slammed it sent him flying. But the the bars locked into place and kept him from smashing it open.

He looked up at Eric from the tiles, aching in bones he couldn't even name. If he was going to become this well acquainted with the floor he'd put down a rug. "I'm glad you have longer arms than me."

Eric's smile was thin. "You're welcome."

"Did you know he could sprint like that?"

"I've been told, but… seeing is believing. Maybe from now on we should just stay in here."

The office was too small for one person, let alone two. The very thought made the clamps tighten around his chest. But it was better than death. He found and switched on a couple of spare desk lamps; their light couldn't chase away the shadow of fear, not completely, but made it easier to ignore. Eric watched this little ritual but didn't comment, and for that he was thankful.

Foxy watched, too, from the larger window beside the door, his efforts at kicking it down abandoned. The pinpricks of his eyes tracked him as he approached. They looked at each other through the bars, and one hand rose to trace a finger down the face of Ash's reflection. Then it curled into a fist against the glass.

"I thought I told you to keep an eye on them?"

"Can't. The network's down," he said as he watched the animatronic turn and stump away. The moment was… human. He didn't want to think about how that made him feel, so he shut the blinds.

Eric frowned. "That's…"

"A disaster waiting to happen?"

"Put more eloquently than I had in mind." He pushed one of the cabinets aside to make a little nook for himself to sit in, then found a few sturdy boxes that made for a functional enough chair when stacked. They scrunched when he sat down, but held. He leaned back and stretched his stiff leg out with a click and a sigh of obvious relief. "But I suppose there's nothing to be done about it."

The hourglass was still turning, turning, waiting for a solution that would never come. Neither of them could leave the office now. Ash never realised how much he liked knowing where everyone was at all times until that privilege was taken from him—it was an itch he couldn't scratch.

He didn't like this, feeling… blind.

"I'll be the judge of that." The tiles were hard on his hands and knees, and cold. Crawling and sneezing his way through the dust and cobwebs under his desk revealed that the computer had wired internet, as he suspected, and the cable was still plugged in at the back. He followed its length, checking for any signs of hungry and adventurous mice, all the way to where it disappeared into the wall.

It had to be the servers. Where did they even keep them? He was certain that he'd been round the whole building at this point, but couldn't remember seeing any.

"I wish I could say that this was unexpected." Drawers opened, rattled and closed behind him. "But this wouldn't be the first time I've had to while away the hours. Good thing I'm well prepared—damn it, I know there's some board games in here somewhere—"

But Ash was only half listening as he got back to his feet. His mind ticked and turned, and strayed unbidden to thoughts of legal blackmail, to all those forgotten names and faces who came before. To Eric, trapped here against his will, and the look on his face as he watched his dreams crumble in his hands. And to the tablet gathering covert footage under the keyboard.

With the security cameras out of action, it wouldn't find much in the way of evidence. And without evidence he hadn't a leg to stand on in court. The rational part of his brain told him that he had plenty of time, that he could go and fix the server in the morning and one night would make no difference. But the emotional part fixated on the image of Carver's face, sneering at him as she tore down his father's memory.

"Where are the servers kept?" He blurted, realising a second too late that his boss had in fact been talking.

Eric gaped at him, halfway through digging a battered game of Monopoly—Doctor Who edition—out of the bottom drawer of the cabinet behind him. "Ash, you can't be serious. Are you thinking of going out there?"

"I'm just asking a question."

The response was about as lukewarm as he expected. He threw him a wary glance from the corner of narrowed eyes as he tugged the lid from the box and released a very confused moth into the light of the lamps. "It's in the supply closet by the staff room, behind one of the racks—which, by the way, is a dead end and if the animatronics corner you in there, there's no way out. Or we could do the smart thing and stay in here where it's safe. Oh… some of the hotels appear to be missing."

"In the closet?" Ash gaped. "You keep servers in a closet?" No wonder they weren't working! They needed airflow to stay cool, and all the dust and lint would wreak havoc on the fans, and—he pinched the bridge of his nose and suppressed the urge to sigh. No, no, Eric wouldn't understand. He didn't use his laptop for anything more than Word, Outlook and Internet Explorer. "Say we do the smart thing, and an unexpected 'visitor' decides tonight is the night to steal all the arcade tokens?"

"Then we do what we always do, and turn on our patented incredibly loud alarm that frightens off even the most hardened of criminals," came the answer as he dealt out the money, his tone mild, "and call the police in the morning."

"Yeah, but without the cameras, if someone comes in anywhere other than the front door we'll have no idea. They'll be eaten alive." Ash shuddered at the memory of what he saw inside Freddy's mouth. "Literally."

Eric shifted uncomfortably, and there was a noticeable pause before he started sorting through the fifties, but he said nothing.

Well, that settled that. But Ash decided he'd had his fill of other people's nonsense for the week and was in no mood to listen. He ignored him as his eyes scanned the room, searching for something, anything, that would help. Soon enough they landed on a ceiling panel that wasn't quite sitting properly in its frame. "What's up there?"

"I thought we came to an agreement."

"I'm just asking a—"

He threw down the money with a huff. "Damn it, you made me lose count. There's nothing up there, just rotting insulation. The electricians go up to fix the wiring sometimes." With that he resumed his counting, and realised too late that he'd said the complete wrong thing.

"So, hypothetically, I should be able to get anywhere in the building in complete safety until I pop out a tile and drop down."

"Yes," said Eric miserably.

The plan was simple. Following the floor plan they found in one of the many cabinets, a locked one that required one of Eric's keys—Ash made a mental note of this—he would make his way to the supply closet and lift out a panel before carefully climbing down the shelves. The door should be shut and locked, and that was the only real reason the scheme might work at all. The animatronics, Eric said, were drawn to light and sound. They knew that people couldn't see in the dark. As long as he kept the light off and didn't so much as squeak, they would have no real reason to assume there was anyone inside a locked closet with only one door.

"I still can't reach it," Ash said as his fingers fell just short of the loose panel.

"If you can't get to it while sitting on my shoulders," Eric groused, but straightened up as much as his bones would allow. His knee wobbled dangerously, "I don't know how you expect to climb down without me. Thank goodness you're so light."

"Got it!" It lifted free easily, no more than painted foam board, and he pushed it to one side as he flashed a light into the space beyond. The way the darkness pushed back against it, reluctant to move out of the way… it was the darkness of a confined space. His throat closed in around quickening breath. He would not be able to stand up once in its grasp.

"Having second thoughts?"

"N—no!" If there was one motive that could force him into this tomb shaft of fluff and cobwebs, it was spite. He had to do this just to prove that he could. To Eric, and himself. The dark wouldn't rule him.

He didn't like the way the beams creaked as he scrambled into the hole. He liked the stench of must and rot even less. Kneeling there in the dust and the dark, he tried to gather his thoughts, but every breath tickled at his throat. Light seeping between the panels beneath him cut through the blackness, but it wasn't enough to keep its weight from pressing down on his heart. It beat faster and faster.

"I—I'm okay." He felt blindly above his head, fingers sinking into glass wool. Something scuttled over his knuckles and he tugged his hand away with a yelp.

Breathe. Just breathe. He could do this.

He tested the next panel over, decided very quickly that he didn't trust them with his weight, and mapped out a course over the beams instead, studying the floor plan by flashlight as he went. One hand after the other knee, slowly, slowly. Wiring glinted as he passed. Here and there, loose insulation would brush at the top of his head and he tried to ignore the way it felt like the darkness itself was reaching out to touch him.

Just breathe.

It was with great relief that he came at last to the spot he wanted. Lifting out a panel revealed that he managed to stay true to direction, even in the gloom; his flashlight picked out the outlines of shelving, standing shoulder to shoulder beneath him. They hardly looked sturdy, but he didn't wait. The moment he spotted the closed door on the edge of the circle of light, he pulled away from the cobwebs, the dark, the clutching hands that whispered 'little star', and swung his feet over the edge and onto the first shelf.

Squeak.

Ash froze, listened, and stepped again. Squeak. He heard shuffling feet somewhere outside but they didn't approach the door. Something clattered onto the tiles in the break room. Biting his lip, now, he shimmied down the last two shelves and onto the floor. A carpet of dust muffled his footsteps as he crept over to the corner Eric mentioned, where, now the silence of night had fallen, the whine of stricken hardware was plain to hear. Lights blinked at him in a panic, a voiceless cry for help.

Tugging clods of filth from the air intakes brought them some respite. But it didn't fix the root of the problem, and there was yet more to be done. His fingers itched with the desire to open the case and clean every last component with compressed air. It would have to wait for another time. The best he could hope for was that a diagnostic scan and reboot would keep them running for the rest of the night.

Except that he had to leave his tablet under the keyboard and hope like hell that Eric wouldn't find it.

Last time he did this, the dark found him. Maybe it would find him again and come to take him away. He didn't know why that was important, or why it frightened him. Adults weren't afraid of the dark.

Breathe in, breathe out. He grounded any static he picked up from his attic crawl, then brushed his fingers against the rails. None of the parts moved, but he could see them, see the way they each fitted together and how their energy flowed from one to another. His light revealed everything. And it revealed him.

Footsteps thumped to a halt outside the door. Adults weren't afraid of the dark—but they were afraid of what lurked in it.

I see you.

There, he could see it! The wires took him by the hand and led him in, showed him the part that was broken. Overheated components that had burnt out in rack three. He wouldn't be able to fix it, not tonight, but he could switch it off, reroute the others so they—

Something tried the doorhandle. He was dimly aware of it, somewhere far away beyond the black talons slowly wrapping around his arms—then the circuits and wires let him go and he was on his knees, staring down at ugly carpet. His chest burned and he sucked in forgotten breath with a gasp.

The rattling stopped. Then the door jumped in its frame under the blow of a fist.

No! His legs trembled under him as he threw himself back onto his feet and at the servers and yanked the cable from the back of the third rack. He should've turned it off first, he knew he should, but there was no time. His hands fumbled on the cables. Rack two into four… he'd have to hard reset. But he was already running to the shelves before the board was even green, just as the door ripped free and bounced off the wall.

"H—h—hey kids! It—it's your best pal B—Bonnie the—"

Blunt fingers scrabbled for his ankle, but it was thin and slipped through them. Steel bit into his hand as he grabbed hold and pulled himself up onto a shelf. Then another. Where was the panel he came down through, he swore it was—

"It's m—me y—your best friend!" Lumbering weight hit the shelving, trying to knock him from its top. No time! He blindly lashed out above him and knocked out a panel that cracked over Bonnie's head. It gave him the split second longer he needed to grab for the edge and scramble through the hole. Any longer, and he would still have been there when the whole unit went toppling over.

But he couldn't stop to think about that. He was already crawling back over the beams when he heard his flashlight shatter under trampling feet and his world went black.

Show me.

Show me more.

Something touched his arms. Cobwebs? No, claws. Gentle, ushering, tugging him back down into the wires. He kicked out and screamed and it covered his mouth. Pinned down his arms. Dragged him down—

A hand, a metal one, caught him around the wrist. And it pulled him out, scrabbling on steel, and he clung to it like a drowning child to a lifeguard.

He was in a vent. Light filtered through the grate on his left. Below, a room that tugged at memories not quite forgotten, peeling wallpaper and puddles of water on the flagstones. Something moved in the space, between the light and the shadow, and a familiar song tinkled merrily over the crash of its feet. It was hunting, yanking open doors. Looking for him.

The hand was still on his wrist. Don't look, he told himself. Don't, don't—

It belonged to a grotesque jumble of parts, five limbs, three jaws hinged in the wrong places with cables spilling freely from within. Another hand pressed a frayed yellow plush of a rabbit to its chest, and another, its finger to what passed for lips.

He told himself not to look, didn't he? He knew he couldn't stop the scream. Terror wrenched his hand from its grip and he scrambled backwards down the vent, anything to get away.

And then the metal gave way beneath him and he was falling. The hunting wolf of metal bones turned. He saw the second set of teeth in its jaws as it lunged.

He hit the floor and there was no water, no vent. Flat on his back and staring up at where a panel once was, dust and plaster raining down after him, and Freddy charging down the hallway.

"T—he restaurant is closed, it's time t—t—to go home!"

Everything hurt. Muscles shrieked as Ash rolled and forced himself back onto his feet. The office was there, right there. He could see the door. It swung open and a long arm dragged him in by the front of his shirt. For a second he couldn't recognise Eric's face, and he swore it was another Freddy looking back at him with empty eyes.

Maybe he passed out in the crawlspace and this was all a fever dream.

"That's not the way you were supposed to come down!" Eric pushed him across the office at the desk and slammed the door, bracing himself against the force that hit it from the other side. Yet he held, his broken bones against merciless steel. "Ash, the bars!" His features twisted in a grimace as his heels scrabbled for purchase but steadily scraped across the tiles, inch by painful inch. "ASH!"

He limped for the red button. Not even the hiss and clank of the hydraulics pushing into place brought him relief, stopped the shaking in his limbs.

"Ashley?"

It wasn't until Freddy stopped banging on the door that he finally let himself cry.