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Henry wasn't much for plans.
He liked building things. Tell him a problem and his hands will itch for pen and paper to jot down ideas and scribble rough schematics for a robotic solution. Machines were his bread and butter.
But ask him how he would sell his creations and he would shrug and say put a price tag, place it on a clean pedestal, give your best smile, and hope for the best.
He's not ashamed to admit that the intricacies of running a business and figuring out what people will and won't like were lost on him. All of that had been solely Bill’s responsibilities. There's a reason Henry decided to step down as CEO when Bill left Fazbear Entertainment. He still worked for them, creating animatronics and nothing more.
So his plan to lure all of Bill's monsters (and Bill himself) was less of a plan and more of an item he created that he has no idea how to sell.
A pizzeria with an intricate underground maze to trap and confuse the haunted animatronics for days on end until they were all gathered together. A pizzeria that could function by itself to lessen prying eyes and unwanted casualties. He made sure everything could be automated, from ordering food to cleaning toilets.
The challenge would be creating a good enough lure. Make the pizzeria attract customers, which will then attract the animatronics. He knows how to run a family diner, he did fine by himself after he barred Bill from Junior's (and he should have done more than just kick him out, he should have poked into the holes of Bill’s excuses and alibis, he should have dug deeper while his tracks were still fresh).
Serve decent food, have bright and colorful decorations, play bubbly music. It would get a few customers at least. He'd wing it from there.
Once the lure was set, the next challenge would be finding a worker willing to keep the maze running. Making sure the animatronics will stay inside by tiring them out constantly in the maze.
He needed someone willing to scavenge and check for the animatronics, to be both their keeper and jailor.
Perhaps if this was years ago, when sitting too long didn't upset his back and standing up too quickly didn't make his hips creak in protest, he would have the body needed to chase animatronics designed to free roam. He could have faced Bill without dragging anyone into this.
Just another tally to his too little, too late regrets.
The thing about night guards who have defended their office for hours against violent animatronics is that they come in two categories:
- They died trying
- They survived and want nothing to do with Fazbear animatronics anymore
It limits his pool of candidates to a single person. One man who was a security guard for six nights until he resigned due to his head injury.
"Can't do it," Jeremy Fitzgerald declares after reading the contract and listening to his plan.
One man who refused in less than an hour in his job offer.
"If I still had a whole brain, then maybe. But now?” He shakes his head. “I get migraines at random ass times and my hearing ain't like it used to.”
Jeremy rotates his arm slowly, then punches the air several times. He grimaces. “Not to mention I'm not as spry. I'd die in the first hour."
“This isn’t a night shift job, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“That’s not the point and you know it,” Jeremy says flatly. “Also, pretty sure that’s worse. The one thing that saved my dumb ass years ago was the fact that they were programmed to go on rest mode at 6 AM on the dot.”
He slides the contract back to him, then leans against his chair.
Henry takes it back, putting it in his folder. He stares at it dejectedly. "Perhaps you know anyone who could?" he asks.
Jeremy raises an eyebrow. "You think I'd lead them into this deathtrap of a job?"
His shoulders droop. That had been one of his worries when he sought the ex-security guard. Night shifts for any job in the Fazbear pizzerias were notorious for having a high resignation rate. He didn’t think the company had gone that bad, but should he be surprised considering a lot of people were chosen by Bill?
Damn.
There goes his only candidate for the job, he doubts even the offer of keeping all the profits in the pizzeria will do any good either.
He could try and create a machine that could control and manage the maze, but he doesn’t know if he has any money for it (much less time). He’s spent a lot to get this pizzeria built, any more and the company will likely get suspicious and cut off his budget.
“Thank you for your time,” he says, standing up. “I’m sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement."
He offers Jeremy a handshake. Jeremy stares at it unblinkingly, long enough that his arm starts to ache and he resists the urge to fidget.
Jeremy then looks up and sighs. “... I might know a guy," he admits, crossing his arms.
He blinks. “I thought you didn’t want to risk anybody.”
“Look, you’re the first person in that company that seems to actively want to have those things gone for good instead of, I dunno.” Jeremy waves his hands lazily. “Slapping a paint job and calling them the Superstars or whatever.”
“I should have dealt with them sooner,” he mutters, dropping his hand and looking away.
“Yeah, well, better late than never and all that,” Jeremy says. “This guy isn't anybody, he can handle shit like this scarily well.”
Jeremy barks out a laugh. “Fuck, he might even take this job happily!”
“Oh?” He sits down again and leans forward. “Was he working in Fazbear when the animatronics were in commission?”
“Yeah, worked in a lot of branches before they closed down.” Jeremy rolled his eyes. “If he wasn’t such an annoying shit, he likely would have kept his jobs instead of being fired every goddamn time.”
Jeremy taps the table with his fingers, giving a considering hum. “The problem’s finding him,” he muses. “Guy doesn’t have a phone number or address I can check. Last I saw him was years ago, when he took a job in some horror show.”
He blinks.
Jeremy shrugs. “Sounded really giddy when he told me about it—still don’t know how the fuck he found my new apartment—so that place must have had another haunted piece of shit that he could play around with.”
“I see.” He didn’t. “Well, he sounds like he has potential.” He had nobody else anyways.
“He’s hard to find,” Jeremy warns. “Can’t even say if he’s alive now. Most people hide from killer robots, he laughs and dances around them.”
He's not sure if he should be happy or wary with that. “Then it’s best to start looking right away. What’s his name?”
“When we were working together, he used Fritz Smith.” Jeremy furrows his brow. “He went by another name when he got that horror gig.”
He blinks again. “Why would he use a fake name?”
Jeremy shrugs. “How else would he get hired again? The fucker got blacklisted in several Fazbear branches because he was toying with creepy robots.”
That was incredibly concerning, he's really not sure if he should be happy or wary with this potential candidate.
“Ugh, what was his new name? Something stupid, like he just threw a dart in a breakfast menu and said that’ll do.”
“Eggs Benedict, at your service!” the man in front of him declares. He had barged into the pizzeria early in the morning, dragging a half-asleep Jeremy with him.
“Found me,” Jeremy announces, yawning. He shakes his arm away from the man’s clinging grip.
“... You mean you found him?” Henry corrects questioningly.
“Nope.” And that's all Jeremy says about that.
“Dear Jeremy said you were looking to hire a guard for some exceptionally energetic performers!” Eggs exclaims, and Henry half-expects him to burst into confetti as he spins around. “I’m not one to boast-!”
Jeremy snorts.
“-But I’m likely the most qualified being for your conundrum!” Eggs finishes, puffing up his chest. Jeremy steps back and ducks under his wide-spread arms as he starts another spin. “Luring and capturing individuals? Why I daresay, I was practically born for it!”
“Ah, that’s… good?” is all Henry can say, gaping at the man. When Jeremy said he was odd, he did not expect this.
Eggs ( Eggs? ) Benedict is a man of average height, maybe an inch or so taller than him. Pale skin that spoke of rarely going out, as if he had been living under a basement all his life. His hair was dyed a bubblegum pink, cut in a short bob that bounced when he moved his head.
He reminds him of strawberry creme savers. White and pink all swirled together into a hard but sweet piece of candy. A pink vest over his white long-sleeved top, with a red bowtie on his neck, white slacks, and white shoes.
Everything about him was bright and vibrant, looking at him for too long made him dizzy.
He has a microphone with him, long and metallic, like something out of a vintage show. He holds it like a baton, twirling it around and making Jeremy duck and dodge in exasperation.
“Uh, Jack Kennedy,” Henry introduces himself, offering his hand. Eggs hums and brings out a handkerchief, covering his hand with it before shaking as well.
“Pleasure to meet you!” Eggs says, grinning. He gives Henry’s hand one firm shake and quickly pulls away, pocketing his handkerchief in his vest.
Henry realizes, with odd fascination, that Eggs constantly uses his microphone to speak. He notices his voice is always loud and booming as if there was a speaker somewhere in his clothes. The tinny quality reminded him of an old radio.
Good God, was he reenacting an old radio show host?
The man even speaks an attempt on a transatlantic accent. A blend of American and British that reminds him of Bill’s kids, all of them growing up here and assimilating a bit of the local pronunciation.
Another pang of regret tugs at his heart as he thinks of Bill’s kids, wondering if they all could have grown up if he had shaped up sooner and watched them. He should have worried for their safety when Evan died. He knows the springlock animatronics shouldn’t be strong enough to crush a skull, and even if they did, why weren’t there any employees watching them?
(But he was still so empty and drained, he barely remembers going to Evan’s funeral or talking to Bill and his kids.)
“Jack Kennedy, hm?" Eggs tilts his head. "I must say, you don’t look much like a Jack.”
He chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “I can say the same with Eggs. That can’t be your real name, can it?”
Eggs looks at him with blue eyes that sparkle with amusement and mischief, as if laughing at a joke he thought up. Somehow reminding him of-
He takes in a sharp breath.
Another pang tugs in his heart.
(The last time he saw Michael was in a coffin, looking like he was sleeping peacefully. He died in an accident while working as a technician he’d been told, mutilated so badly that they needed to sew and reconstruct parts of his face.)
He blinks again and removes his glasses to rub his eyes. Looking at Eggs hurts in more ways than he expected.
(Bill had gone missing for a while, so he was the one who prepared his funeral. Michael deserved that, at least.)
“It’s something that’s grown on me,” Eggs says, leaning against his microphone. “Now, Mr. Kennedy, who exactly is my target?”