Chapter Text
“Anderson, how far are you from Milltown? I got some files I want to fax over.”
Sepia countryside smears past as you gently accelerate your car down a lonely, winding road. Fall had blown across the country, rolling in with muggy thunderstorms and chilling wind, turning lush forests and dewy meadows rugged with red and orange.
This week saw a heat spell as summer gave one last billowing breath in her custody battle over the weather.
Of course, the cool weather had been a boon after the AC in your vehicle decided to stop working. This developing heatwave actively set off a deep type of rage, one that blooms only from being in a continuous state of discomfort. As you trundled along the hours of your trip, you had rolled down all the windows and peeled off as many layers as was probably decent. A sweater and professional polo t-shirt piled into the passenger seat to ride shot-gun the rest of the way.
“Probably another half hour.” You sigh, pinching the collar of your undershirt to billow out some of the heat building against your skin, “The motel should have a fax machine available at the front desk. I’ll try to work something out with them when I get there.”
“Alright. Boss wants a real good scoop. She’s willing to dish as much as she can to make sure you can cover all the bases. So if you need extra time or a change in accommodations, just ask. You really hit a gold mine with this lead.”
“Thanks George, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Keep me posted for that fax.”
“Yep, will do. Talk later.” You end the call with the hands-free attachment in your steering wheel and turn the stereo volume back up. Out in the middle of nowhere, it was difficult to find a station that played decent pop hits. For the last little while, you had the radio locked into a jazz station that, for the most part, was doing a good job at keeping you alert.
Without really thinking about it, the drive ends in the shabby motel parking lot and you begin towing your belongings into the motel lobby. The motel itself lives on the outskirts of the town, kept away at the behest of the locals. It had been built in Milltown’s hay-day, back when the popular mill of the town had been a powerhouse of economy. In an effort to keep the town homey, while opening their arms to tourists, the residents agreed that the motel had should be built away from the major residential area, on the other side of town about two kilometres away from the mill itself. It was common for tourists to ask for a room with a view of the mill. If they wanted something less industrial, guests could take a room on the north side of the motel with a view of the majestic water tower standing proud over the rolling countryside.
As you walk in through the automatic doors, the lobby opens over creaking hardwood floors. An green carpet with white and brown vine-like patterning runs from the doors to the centrepiece of the lobby: twin winding stairs that ascend in a helix around an ancient crystal chandelier up to an entertainment loft. Years of disuse cast the loft in darkness, begging the question of if the lights upstairs even work at all. A closer look reveals cushy, likely well-upholstered furniture covered in clear tarps, stacked cautiously in a corner.
You check in at the mahogany desk, noting the decades of ware scratched into the dull surface of the counter and side panels. The receptionist is kind enough to let you use the fax machine, if only by virtue of having the rare and lucrative opportunity to assist a guest.
After a quick call to George and fifteen minutes of your time, the fax at the reception desk spits out the files and you sweep them into your briefcase. Using the room number on your borrowed key-card as guidance, you leave the lobby and walk around the building until you find your room. Its a modest accommodation with a boxy TV, double bed, and adjacent bathroom, all dressed in outdated decor.
Stowing your suitcase in the corner, you get comfortable on the bed and start consolidating the information from George’s fax with the extensive notes you already have. George’s files help you glean new information and give you a better idea on what to start with tomorrow.
The first thing you notice is the inclusion of some building files lifted from Milltown’s town hall. They provide information about permits, structure and owner history for two notable establishments: the old mill and a restaurant now known as Jeff’s Pizza.
The old mill files don’t surprise you. Your original dive - which was more of a graceless fall into a bottomless pit - into the controversial reputation of the popular Fazbear Pizzaplex revealed a sinister nature of Fazbear Entertainment’s history. Journal archives revealed interesting ties to an infamous cold-case known as the Missing Children’s Incident (referred to as the MCI in your notes). After weeks of looking into every Fazbear Entertainment property, collaboration, and re-branding, the trail lead you to Milltown - a sleepy, one-hit-wonder of a community with barely a main street or motel to its name. The old mill had shady ties to Fazbear Entertainment, with no further knowledge of the exact nature of these ties available in any of your resources.
Skimming over the files for Jeff’s Pizza sets your neurons firing as you puzzle over a new connection. It seems Fazbear Entertainment were the original contractors and owners of the building. They sold it to a man in the early ‘90s, citing repeated closures and structural issues. And ten years after that, you thought, the old mill would start to show its age as it eventually stopped all production. According to both your notes and George’s files, the old mill officially closed down in ‘08 after years of insufficient production.
You look for the build year to compare it with the mill and find that it doesn’t exist in the file. The entire record of Jeff’s Pizza had several pages of faded or redacted information and the entirety of page three didn’t even seem to exist. Reflecting on George’s nature to be thorough, you doubt these obscurities were his fault. You text him anyway, in case he knows anything else.
The time on your phone tells you its too late to be awake and definitely too late to eat. A place like Milltown probably wouldn’t have a twenty-four-seven Taco Bell anyway.
How tragic.
In the morning, you take a subpar shower in the somewhat grimy bathroom. The water barely has any satisfying pressure and the nozzle sprays you inconsistently. At least the soap smells nice.
While you were sleeping, George had answered your text with an apology about the state of the files. He encouraged you to dig around the city hall, the library, and, of course, Jeff’s Pizza for old records and information.
On your way out to the car, you take a muffin and a coffee from the motel cafe and snag a town map from the reception desk.
You start your day by going by the old mill. Allegedly, nobody has been inside the building since it shut down several years ago. Still, you take a lap around the building and snap pictures with a digital camera for later review. You come upon a heap of scraps and trash as you round the back of the building. It carries the stench of rotting metal. A feeling of unease settles over you and twice you flinch as the shapes in the trash pile cast terrible, vengeful figures in your peripheral.
Thoroughly discomforted, you make quick stride back to your car and take course to the library and city hall.
The kind, elderly librarian explained that you’d need a temporary card in order to access any of the archives. She said an invoice from the motel outlining the duration of your stay would be sufficient. You make a note to ask the motel reception for a copy of your invoice and decide to swing by the library again tomorrow.
You approach the doors to the town hall all to discover that they are locked. A sign has been posted to the inside.
Closed to public due to heavy leakage in basement.
With only mild annoyance, you get back into your car to drive to your last stop. The heat of the sun beats down harder as the afternoon sets in and, even with the windows open, the sticky humidity seems content to cling to the inside of the car. At least your coffee hasn’t gone cold yet.
The building now known as Jeff’s Pizza looks exactly how you would expect a children’s entertainment facility built in the late ‘70s to look. Flat roof across, beige cement over the walls, and large open windows to showcase the bright, open entertainment areas to passing strangers. The neon sign over the double doors flickers with dying discontent. In the daylight, you can tell that it had replaced the previous sign on the building, as a faded impression of the old Fazbear sign is still somewhat visible under Jeff’s new sign.
Some of the windows have been tinted black either half way up or all the way. You assume this is partially for the privacy of the diners, and, perhaps, to hide away less presentable pieces of the pizzeria from potential customers.
The heavy door glides silently on its hinges as you let yourself in. A jolly bell tolls over your head, singing news of probable profit to the empty ordering counter. A pneumatic arm hisses as it keeps the door from slamming closed on itself.
You wait for somebody to appear at the counter as you peruse the menu. You have little in the way of a plan, but it might a good start to act like a regular customer. Fitting in with the locals will probably lend itself to your benefit.
No outside food or drinks, thank you, reads a print-off posted beneath the menu on the wall. You glance at your half-finished coffee and frown.
“Hi, welcome to Jeff’s Pizza.” A gruff, disinterested voice catches your attention as a man in an orange and blue uniform takes the empty spot behind the counter. He has a stocky build that fills out his uniform, especially around his chest and midsection. You meet his stare, which seems deliberately walled-off and strictly cordial. Auto-pilot kicks in and you give him a small smile. Hopefully he reads it as friendly.
“Hi, can I please get a...” none of the menu options particularly speak to you, “double slice of pepperoni?”
“Sure.” He punches the amount into the register. Your eyes skirt down to the shiny nameplate pined to his shirt. Jeff, it reads, Director.
“Anything else?” he asks, “Parmesan bites are half off today. Ten for a buck fifty.”
“Wait - seriously?”
“Uh, yeah.” His expression, somehow, becomes more unimpressed.
“Fu -- uh yeah I’ll take twenty of those.”
“Okay. Is that all?”
“Sort of... your sign says no drinks but,” you show him the nondescript coffee cup in your hand, “I’m not ready to let go of this yet. Is there any way you’d be willing to make an exception.”
He takes a moment to think, “If you pay the entire order in cash and include a little extra in the tip, I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything.”
“Bless, thank you.” You slide a twenty over the counter, “Keep the change.”
Something like disbelief cracks through his passive expression as he puts the bill away and closes the register.
He clears his throat and waves a hand in the direction of the dining area, “You can have a seat at table four.”
“Cool, thanks.”
You make yourself comfortable, taking your notebook, pen, and digital camera out to work with. You leave George’s documents in the briefcase, feeling secretive and afraid the locals may catch on if somebody catches you reading them. At least your notes are hand written and private, and the digital camera at least looks like something a tourist would plausibly have.
You study your notes with a surface level focus, choosing instead to make discrete observations of the establishment and its “director.” Everything at Jeff’s Pizza has a worn and well-cared for quality. The table cloths, though thinning, show now signs of blemishes or discoloration. They are the same pristine off-white they probably were when they came out of the factory. At each table, a metal spire, home to happy little salt, pepper, and parm shakers, glimmers without rust. The chairs all seem to have fresh upholstery. You don’t find any glaring imperfections in the paint on the walls or the hardwood in the floors.
The smell of pizza wafts through the establishment with intrigue. Any cloying smell of burning or cooked oil has a distinct absence, allowing the fresh warmth of baked cheesy dough to ease the mind and reassure the senses.
Though seemingly bereft of any diners, Jeff’s Pizza, you think, is actually kind of nice.
When Jeff brings your order to the table, the glass plates and silverware, though terribly plane and nondescript, show no signs of wear or damage. They feel smooth in your hands and cleanly reflect the warm lights overhead. The pizza, settled nicely in a rectangular plate, sizzles like a friendly greeting on the table. The parm bites wait patiently in a red basket, swathed in checkered wax paper. He also places an empty glass in front of you and fills it with water from an iced pitcher.
Focused as he is on not over-pouring, you take an opportunity to observe Jeff. A list forms in your head with the intention of being put to paper for later reference. Uniform - rumpled and clean. Dark hair - frizzy, looks to be badly tampered with a comb and some type of styling product. Dark circles and bags under eyes. Unblemished work smock. Black shoes - probably discount Nike’s. Round and short nails, unpolished even shapes, cuticles badly chewed or -
“Enjoy your meal.” He interrupts.
You tear your eyes away from his hands - thick, sturdy, stout fingers - and hope to play it off as watching the water in the jug.
“Thanks.” You return with a smile as he leaves.
You eat as you work, spilling your observations about Jeff’s Pizza into a clean page before making a log of your day and taking notes on the pictures you captured with your camera earlier. To be thorough, you make a note of the excellent pizza that had been prepared and plated for you, distantly aware of Jeff bustling around the establishment.
After tending to the Smiths - a small family of three - at table thirteen, Jeff notes the passing of the hour and crosses the dining area to do a basic cleaning for the afternoon. He replaces table cloths, menus, and dinnerware on the two tables that were occupied earlier. He reminds himself that the used dishes, though placed in the sink immediately after the diners left, still need a good wash.
As he works, he steals glances at the customer seated at table four. Since the closing of the mill, tourists have become a rare breed in Milltown. Being one of only three dining establishments in Milltown, Jeff sees just about every stranger that breezes through on a whim. Something about a home-style meal holds a great sway of nostalgia-colored appeal over most outsiders.
He thinks about the twenty in his register.
He thinks about the customer at table four.
Jeff would describe the customer’s outfit as chic. He has never been personally acquainted with the word, but the feel of it reminds him of buildings that glitter at dizzying heights, streets that bustle at every hour, and complex, slightly dysfunctional metro systems that shuttle the middle class to and from their nine-to-fives.
The customer’s shoes catch his attention first. They look at least comfortable, though they were obviously created with aesthetic intentions first. At their most simple definition, they are sneakers. He doubts these shoes have, if ever, known the feeling of mud caked into their soles. Either they are new or this customer has never worn them for anything wilder than a paved walk-way.
The most striking thing about this customer is their briefcase. It features simple black leather and two codified latches. A strange curiosity takes Jeff by surprise and he feels compelled to understand the contents of the briefcase and this customer’s intentions for them. He has not recently felt an emotion stronger than subtle happiness or mild apathy. His thoughts tend to flicker by with muted emotional undertones, shadowed by his mental list of never-ending tasks.
He leaves the question of the briefcase alone to focus on other details.
The navy polo the customer has on has an emblem of a man riding a horse embroidered on the left side of their chest. A brand shirt. Likely manufactured for cheap and sold at a staggering mark-up. It tucks neatly into the band of cargo pants that have what Jeffs thinks is an interesting shape. Unlike the baggy jeans that live in Jeff’s casual closet at home, these pants, designed to emphasize the figure, start fitted around the hips before taking their requisite baggy shape at the thigh all the way down the leg. He misses the why of the design, and doesn’t even entertain any sort of questions relating to the how.
All he knows is the summary of all the parts of this stranger’s ensemble resemble an idea of urban modernity. Beholding to the unwritten rules of society, and doing their part to continue pushing boundaries of innovation.
Jeff scoffs at the latter idea. A single city at the forefront of technological development does not a nation make. His home town was pushed out of obscurity towards a bright future by those same modern forces of commerce that propel towering cities to new heights. When the bigwigs packed up and shipped out, Milltown to plummeted into decay with nothing else to fall back on.
He finishes sweeping by the entrance to the dining area and goes into the kitchen to start on the dishes.
Sleepy town or bustling city, he thinks as he rolls up his sleeves, we all still got bills to pay.