Chapter Text
“Happy, happy birthday; from all of us to you!” He claps along to his own chant. “We wish it was our birthday, so we could party too!”
A popper goes off.
“How’s the cake?”
“Oh, um. It’s… great. Thanks. Fo-For all of this. You didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did.” He shuffles out of the dim lighting and into a dark corner of the room. “I’ll get your gifts, sit tight.”
Silence. Nausea. Pain.
Heart racing. A cold sweat.
Nausea. The room spins. The smell.
Pain. Rust. Rotten eggs. Cake.
Agonizing, searing, persistent p—
* * * *
Melon jolts awake, limbs scrambling to find purchase for just a moment before he freezes to make himself stop. There’s no danger to run from. There never is. He just as soon goes limp again, his shoulder protesting all the movement that just occurred with even more stabbing pain. He groans softly even as the pain fades away, as it only dilutes back down to the dull ache affecting most of his body.
He should’ve stayed another week at the hospital. Maybe two.
He forces himself to move again. He sits up and feels around blindly for his phone. With it, he illuminates the cramped tent he’s currently calling home. He has to squint for a bit while his eyes adjust, but he finds what he’s looking for.
“Fuck me.” He grumbles, giving the neon orange pill bottle a shake. He was going to run out of pain meds if he didn’t make a miraculous recovery in three days.
He needs a job, desperately. Not just because he’s running low on funds, but because he needs a job to get an apartment. It’s mid-June, so he has time before freezing to death is a concern, but he knows he’s a magnet for danger. Not just because of the streak of “bad luck” currently plaguing him, but because of his appearance.
His peach-colored hair paired with his dark complexion always drew attention. It made him—and his brother—stand out wherever they went. As children, adults would make a fuss about the seemingly neglectful parents dying their children’s hair. As teenagers, the concerns would be raised directly with them. But it wasn’t dye. People… had a hard time wrapping their heads around that.
Regardless, the only thing between him and a potential attacker is a tent flap, and that’s not exactly comforting.
Melon tucks the pills away without taking any, deciding to save it for another day. The current pain level was manageable with a normal dose of Ibuprofen… hopefully.
It isn’t. But Melon already committed to not taking it, so he tosses and turns for the next few hours until the sun rises. He doesn’t feel any better, but he doesn’t feel any worse either. That’s something.
It’s slow going, but he packs up all his belongings and his tent into the oversized backpack he’s been traveling with. Not that he has much. A sleeping bag, a pillow, a notebook, a few pencils, two laptops and their chargers, his phone charger, two alternate outfits he could cycle through in case anyone was paying attention to that, and miscellaneous hygiene items. And an orange, stuffed bear Melon thought was an olive branch, but now he isn’t so sure. He doesn’t like the implications of it being anything but that, so he keeps it and remains in denial. It’s always the first thing he unpacks, and the last thing he packs away.
Putting the heavy backpack on stings like usual, but it’s still tolerable. With a deep breath, he sets off to the library to take advantage of their electricity, air conditioning, and free Wi-Fi.
The people of this town seem nice enough. Not much different from where he came from: Nevada. And yet, everywhere he went seemed weirdly apprehensive about hiring someone who’s just blown into town for no particular reason. At least, that’s what the issue seemed to be.
They call him for an interview, so they clearly don’t mind his limited experience. In fact, they seem pretty interested until they start prying into the fact that they’d never seen him before. This town didn’t seem that small. Was it? Why does it matter so much that he moved states for absolutely no reason at all?
Perhaps he should come up with a reason, just to have something.
The library’s security guard’s gaze lingers on Melon as he enters, but they politely greet each other nonetheless. Seeing the guard reminds him of his last interview that ended after the interviewer began to inquire about Melon’s sudden relocation. He danced around the topic as well as one could, but they weren’t deterred.
The job seemed almost too good to be true. A high-paying security guard role with no experience required inside the Mega PizzaPlex? Most of the security gigs Melon had seen were also offering a good hourly rate, but they required fancy certifications he doesn’t exactly have the time or resources to get right now.
He settles in a corner by the historical fiction on the second floor. He opens up the sleek, black laptop while he lets the other charge. This one wasn’t his, but he took it with him when he left, hopeful he’d find some answers once he guessed the password. This laptop belonged to his brother, Barry. Melon would’ve preferred to have his phone—they looked similar enough that the Face ID usually let him in—but it was locked in an evidence locker somewhere. Melon barely managed to get his own phone back.
Melon was allowed five guesses every 12 hours and, fortunately for him, there were no permanent consequences to repeatedly getting it wrong. In fact, he’d gotten in wrong so many times, the device offered a different way to get in: a 4-digit PIN. Which would be much easier to brute force now that he’d run out of guesses.
He pulls out a notebook he’s using to track what combinations he’d tried. He tries the next four in the sequence: 0215, 0216, 0217, 0218, and 0219. Today isn’t the day either. Maybe tonight. He’s fairly certain it’s a date, so he can find solace in the fact that he probably won’t have to test past 1231. He just doesn’t know what date Barry would pick. He tried the obvious ones. His birthday, his girlfriend’s birthday, his ex-girlfriend’s birthday. The day after his birthday, in case he was being a cheeky asshole. Anniversary dates, holidays, days of notable accomplishments, even their graduation dates. Alas, nothing.
Melon shuts the laptop and trades it out for his own. The internet had become slightly more usable again recently as it moved on to the next interesting topic, though Melon still had to make new accounts for everything. When he has the money, he’ll be changing his phone number as well. Even with all his social media apps deleted, his phone constantly receives messages since someone leaked it.
Melon pops over to his email, trying not to get his hopes up, even when he sees a new one from Fazbear Entertainment. His finger wavers over it for a moment, hesitant to open it. He scolds himself for being dramatic and gets it over with. It’s probably another rejection, since it’s apparently so weird to completely uproot your life, leave all your family and friends behind, and hop on a bus for no—
We are pleased to offer you a full-time position as our Flex Security Guard at the Mega PizzaPlex.
He has to remind himself he’s in a library. Still, he taps his feet with excitement, a grin spreading across his face as he continues to read the details of the offer. Paid vacation? Health insurance? Paid training? Bonuses? A uniform? Discounts!? Maybe his bad luck’s finally running out. He knocks on wood just in case. He said something similar a few months ago and, well, now he’s here.
He has to print out the offer letter, sign it, then scan it with the library’s printers. He expresses his gratitude via email with the attached form. The contract is signed, and his fate sealed.
Surprisingly fast, Melon receives a response. This time with various employment forms and waivers, plus further details on the position. He tries to be quick about filling these out as well, opting to just hope that he filled out the tax form correctly. He idles on the waivers, however, which waives Fazbear Entertainment’s responsibility for “death or bodily harm”. He justifies it with it being a guard position, guests probably get violent once in a blue moon. Bodily harm was part of the job.
The second form raises a red flag he can’t do away with. It waives one’s autonomy in the case of severe injury. He wasn’t really sure what that entailed, but he knows it’s not optional. So, he signs it, because he needs the job. There’s a thick NDA as well that he only skims before signing. He sends over everything they asked for, and they again respond surprisingly fast.
They want to know if he can start tomorrow.
Now, Melon doesn’t have a lot of job experience… but he knows that’s a red flag. Not as big a flag as that waiver, but something to be wary of regardless. He agrees though. The sooner he starts working, the sooner he’ll get paid. And it’s not like he has anything better to do.
Melon spends his afternoon looking at apartments and furniture he would fill it with. Though securing a job fills him with a sense of relief, he tries not to go too crazy with spending money yet. Based on the details of the employment contract he signed, he wouldn’t be getting paid for at least two more weeks. And it turns out that applying for apartments, even crappy ones, costs money. So, he continues his habit of skipping lunch, filling up on water from the fountain and powdered Gatorade.
He stays until the library closes for the evening, the security guard—a different one from earlier, but the same one from yesterday—acknowledging him as he leaves. He hopes they were just being polite and not keeping any tabs on him. He has a few hours to wander before it starts to be weird for someone to be out and about. He’s been sleeping under the same bridge for a week now, so he’d sort of like to find some place new to sleep, in case anyone has noticed him.
He could go sleep in the woods that decorated the town in patches, but something about the weirdly dense brush gave him a bad feeling. Maybe he just doesn’t like the woods, he considers.
He places himself somewhat close to the PizzaPlex. He can’t get that close, considering how much land their parking lot took up, but he manages to find a secluded patch of grass under a different bridge. This bridge seems more decorative than anything, Melon can touch the bottom of it if he jumps, and he’s only 5’2”.
‘Maybe they just don’t use this area anymore.’ He thinks.
It looks like there may have once been a stream here, artificially made or otherwise, but now it’s just a dumping ground for broken junk. He can vaguely make out what looks like machinery, but his phone flashlight isn’t nearly good enough to expose exactly what kind. The PizzaPlex still seems to be active, though he can see a line of cars slowly making their way out the lot; none of which are coming anywhere near where he is.
Satisfied with what he’s found, he sets up his tent. He decides to test the waters and leave the tent unattended, though he takes the rest of his stuff with him. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the nearest McDonald’s, and fifteen minutes back. He’s pleased to find his tent still standing and seemingly untouched. He settles in and eats his now lukewarm food.
Melon couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so genuinely excited about something. So eager to do something. Why, it had to be when he managed to land a spot as an opener for a far more popular band. It was his senior year, and what started as a bid for attention—from someone, anyone—suddenly developed into a small following of people who seemed to legitimately like his music. Not his face, not his body. His music.
Not that they didn’t like those other things too.
The sweet memory suddenly sours as he remembers how that night ended for him. Barry—who was supposed to be across the country for a tournament—dropped everything to make it to Melon’s first live performance... so that he could pull a Carrie. At least he was kind enough to allow Melon to perform a song first. And it was fake blood, not pigs’ blood. Melon figured he couldn’t acquire a pig fast enough.
Melon grimaces, letting the memory sit for a bit longer. Before he pushes it away, a thought occurs to him. A thought that was going to ruin his night if it held true.
He pulls out Barry’s laptop after he finishes eating. He’s early. He has to wait a few more minutes before it will let him try again. He doesn’t bother with the notebook this time; he has a guess. A date. 1123. The laptop thinks for a few seconds. And then he’s in, a pin-up of Barry’s girlfriend greeting him on the home screen.
“…Fucking asshole.” He slams the lid shut harder than he needs to.
He packs most of his things away, so he can just break down the tent in the morning and go. He takes two of his pills, just so he can ensure he’ll be well-rested for tomorrow. They’ll wear off mid-day, but hopefully the training will be low-effort and he’ll be able to get by on half a dose.
He sets his alarm (three, actually), tucks into his sleeping bag, and drifts off once the pain fades away.