Work Text:
The beginnings of a sunrise are beginning to peek over the horizon as Arnold jumps in his van, fumbling with his keys before speeding off towards Fazbear HQ. His heart feels like it’s about to pound out his chest, unable to believe that he's really made it out of that building. His legs ache, and his eyes still beg to be allowed to close, but he is alive. He's alive.
He's alive.
He's just about to allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief when his car radio crackles to life.
“Arnold, there you are! How was the shift?” Dispatch's irritatingly cheerful voice asks, seemingly oblivious to everything Arnold has just gone through.
“What the hell was that thing?” Arnold demands. “You said you sent other teams to capture it– did you tell them it wanted to kill them? Didn’t you know what it could do?”
Dispatch laughs, that stupid fucking fake laugh that Arnold considers to be entirely out of place in most situations, let alone this one. “Well, to be honest with you, we had our suspicions. We thought the first team just went AWOL, but after the second and third teams failed to respond, we figured we might be dealing with something bigger. So, we thought we'd give our best technician a crack at it!”
“You sent me in there to die?!”
“Of course not! You lived, didn't you? And all of us here at Fazbear Entertainment want you to know that we're very proud of you for that.”
Arnold almost can't believe what he's hearing. Five years of working at this damn company, and they treat him like their guinea pig. “You– you can’t just do that! I saw them! The other teams, I saw them! Do you know what that thing did to them?” He realizes his voice is rising, bordering on hysterical, but can’t find it in himself to reel it in.
“As I said, we had our suspicions. But that doesn’t matter now, does it, Arnie?” The man on the radio sounds entirely too upbeat, his chipper, corporate-friendly voice never breaking character. It makes Arnold sick. Everything about this makes him sick.
“Yes it does! It pulled them apart, it stuffed them into the suits! It hung one of them from the ceiling, Dispatch!” Arnold cries, noticing too late he's approaching a T-junction and cranking the wheel left so hard he nearly forces the van into a spin. “That could've been me! And you don't even care!”
Dispatch is silent for a moment before exhaling harshly, almost annoyed. “I hear you. But let's just calm down, alright? Head for HQ, I'll pick up your equipment there.”
“I’m already on my way– and don't tell me to calm down.” Arnold snaps, realizing that tears are starting to slip down his face, staining his work jacket with tiny wet dots.
“Then I'll tell you to wait to shout at me in person. Where there are security cameras present.”
Arnold shakes his head, wiping his eyes. “As soon as I wake up tomorrow, I'm putting in my two weeks. I-I can't keep doing this– keep risking my life for this company.”
Dispatch sighs, and Arnold thinks he can make out the faint sound of the man tutting at him like a misbehaving child. “We'll talk about that when you arrive. But really, your former colleagues considered it an honor to–”
Arnold hits the radio’s off button so hard, he worries for a second that it may have broken. His head hurts. Really, the more he focuses on his body, the more he realizes that everything hurts. All he wants to do is go home, fall on his bed, and sleep for the next week. Just one more stop. One more stop stands between him and hopefully never having to hear Dispatch’s voice again.
Twenty minutes of blissful silence go by before the gray Fazbear Entertainment office buildings slowly enter Arnold’s view. In the time since last speaking with Dispatch, he’s realized that he may not have escaped the manor unscathed after all. Everything is sore, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and his right elbow is beginning to hurt something fierce. He tries to tell himself it’s alright. He can take it. Just a few minutes with Dispatch, then he’s home free. He turns off into the parking lot, pulling up next to the front doors where he can see the outline of a person standing. With a long sigh, he exits the van, wincing as his feet hit the ground.
Dispatch grins as Arnold comes around to the front of the building, giving him a wave. “Hey there, Arnold! Looks like you’ve seen better days, huh?”
It’s all Arnold can do not to start screaming again, so he settles for a harsh glare as he opens the side door to grab his toolbox. Five minutes, he promises himself. Five minutes before he can sit down again, give his already aching body a break. Anyone can do anything for five minutes, and given the ten he spent hiding in a sweat-scented locker back at the manor, he’s living proof of that.
“Cat got your tongue?” Dispatch tries to joke, giving a small laugh when Arnold refuses to oblige him. Arnold just stares at him, handing off his toolbox and stepping away. Dispatch seems to realize wisecracks won’t get him anywhere, exhaling softly.
“Alright, I understand. I can see how being asked to chase around a possibly murderous endoskeleton might be a little unpleasant. I can see you’re tired, Arnold. I know you want to go home. And you will!” Dispatch offers, taking a few steps closer to Arnold’s van. “We just need you to come inside for a little while and sign a couple of forms. Just something to legitimize the job, it won’t take long.”
Alarm bells immediately start ringing in Arnold’s head. This is not standard procedure for after a shift. Signing forms at Fazbear only happens if someone is getting hired or signing an NDA.
“Can’t this wait? I’ve already been up for 42 hours, I-I don’t think I’ll be able to stay awake for much longer.”
Dispatch smiles and pats him on the shoulder before he can duck away, sending a shooting pain down his spine that nearly sends him to the ground. He manages to catch himself on the van’s door handle, gritting his teeth, and he thinks he notices Dispatch almost look taken aback. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, anyone with eyes can see he looks horrible.
“It’ll only be a few minutes. Besides, we can’t process your paycheck until you sign them– company policy, you know. I’ll help you inside, come on.”
Arnold has a feeling something about that isn’t legal, but he can’t manage to make his brain focus on it. The awful pang sent down his spine has seemingly transferred to his lower body, and all of his mental energy is being spent on just keeping him upright. He grips the door handle like it’s a life raft, his eyes beginning to water as the muscles in his legs spasm with pain.
“...Are you alright, Arnold?” He faintly hears Dispatch ask, his voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater.
What the hell do you think? Arnold wants to respond, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a choked cry as his knees finally buckle under him. The next thing he knows, he’s on the ground, looking up at Dispatch, who appears to be calling out to someone inside the building. Black spots encroach on his vision, and just before it all goes dark, Arnold manages to weakly roll his eyes.
What a stupid way to die, he thinks.
----------------------------
Arnold is dying. That's all his brain can manage as he begins to comprehend the throbbing in his head, aching in his throat, and general sensation of being hit by a truck writhing throughout the rest of his body, concentrated in his back and joints. A terrible feeling of thirst has settled into his mouth as well, his tongue and lips already as dry as a desert. Vaguely, he remembers the manor, remembers the frequency in which he was forced to jump from or was knocked from a great height, remembers the long stretches he had been running without any water and nothing but an order of fries in his stomach from the past 24 hours. Any adrenaline that carried him through his previous shift has completely disappeared, leaving him lying here half paralyzed with pain.
Though, now that he's thinking about it, where is here? He manages to move a few fingers, realizing that his gloves are gone and that his fingers are tracing over cool, smooth sheets decidedly unlike the ones he has at home. Some sort of light blanket lies over him, and his jacket has disappeared, leaving him in his undershirt. Did someone take him to the hospital? He really must be dying then, he can't imagine Fazbear would be so generous as to call an ambulance for someone like him (Really, he's surprised they didn't hide his body in a dumpster and vacate the building as soon as he hit the ground. Being their go-to technician must mean something after all).
A door clicks open, and Arnold hears someone shuffling inside, closing it behind them. The smell of coffee follows his new visitor, but he doesn’t catch anyone speaking, no machinery beeping or other ambiance present to indicate he really is in a hospital. Where is he?
Slowly, he forces his eyes open in a squint, trying to make sense of the world around him. The pain in his head intensifies as light begins to enter his vision, a yellowish beam he assumes is a lamp uncomfortably close to his bedside, casting light what feels like directly into his brain. He can just barely make out a wood paneled room, some odd squares of bright color on the walls, and is in the process of trying to focus his eyes enough to look at them when the person in the room begins to speak.
“Hey, you're awake! I knew you'd make it.”
Fuck.
Arnold groans, shifting his gaze over to Dispatch’s blurry form, sitting cross-legged in a chair facing the foot of his bed.
“How are you feeling? You were asleep for a long time, those bets you wouldn't wake up were starting to get pretty high. I believed you would pull through, of course; I’ll have a good eighty dollars lined up after this.” Arnold can almost hear the smile in his voice, retaining that jovial smugness he remembers from the manor.
“W-where–” Arnold begins in a horribly scratchy voice that disturbs even him, cutting himself off when a terrible ache stabs through his throat.
“Ah. Thirsty, Arnold?” Dispatch asks, standing and dragging his chair over to the side of the bed. “I figured as such. I suppose you didn’t have much time for water breaks in between defending yourself against that endoskeleton. I don’t think I ever told you, fantastic job with that, by the way!”
Arnold can only roll his eyes as Dispatch leans over to a table behind him, grabbing a tall glass of water and a stack of papers. “But speaking of that night, we do need to go over a few things before anything else. As I was saying before you passed out, we need you to sign a few forms confirming that you do not hold Fazbear Entertainment liable for any damage to property, person, or mental state that may or may not have occurred during your last shift. You accept all responsibility for damage to Fazbear property, and acknowledge that you will be expected to work for us until cost of said damage is paid off, which our contractors estimate may come out to around–” Dispatch pauses, and Arnold’s stomach sinks as what looks like genuine shock comes over his face. “...Well, that can be a conversation for after you sign the forms. I’ll find you a pen.”
“What if I don’t?” Arnold manages a weak whisper, reducing the pain in his throat to something easier to ignore. He’s nonetheless all too aware of his cracked lips and the way his tongue uncomfortably sticks to the roof of his mouth, finding his gaze drifting over to the glass of water that Dispatch is holding.
Dispatch just stares at him for a few moments, in something that resembles disbelief before he cracks a smile. “Oh, I get it. Being in a coma gave you time to think of jokes, huh, Arnie? Hilarious. I’ll find you that pen.”
Arnold shelves the thought that working for Fazbear apparently sent him into a fucking coma, shaking his head. “You guys almost killed me…”
“If you look at page 7, section 2, paragraph 4, you’ll find that any potential danger you found yourself in was the result of willfully ignoring the instructions of superiors, as well as going to work while under the influence of sleep deprivation.”
Arnold can think of a few words he’d like to say if he ever meets Fazbear’s inhumanly heartless legal team, none of them appropriate for a family-friendly corporation. “You were the one who–”
“Save your breath, Arnie.” Dispatch cuts him off, holding up a pen. “Either you sign these, or Fazbear will have no choice but to let you go. I’m aware of what you said before you collapsed, but our lawyers will be calling you either way, so having a steady source of income can’t hurt, can it?”
A steady source of income. I can get a steady source of fucking income flipping burgers, pumping gas, cleaning toilets, fucking anything else that isn’t trying to kill me or cover up some crime the minute I clock in. I didn’t even want to keep working here after MCM. You know how many other minimum wage jobs have you chasing after a robot that wants to kill you? Zero. You’re insane if you think I’d choose to sign that. Arnold’s tired mind seems to have experienced a moment of clarity, running a thousand miles a minute and spinning with all the traitorous thoughts he’s ignored since transferring to Fazbear. Thoughts he knows would get him fired and blacklisted if he even breathed a hint of them out loud are now on the tip of his tongue, ready to fire if it weren’t for the fact that even thinking them is making his head feel like it's about to explode and speaking anything above a whisper still feels like a herculean task. He still hasn’t fully looked away from that glass of water, and attempts to gesture at it by tilting his head in its direction. Dispatch raises an eyebrow, shifting his eyes to the water as well.
“I’m sure you’re thirsty, as I said. There’ll be time for that after you sign these forms. Management has been on me to make sure these are signed before you have the chance to, er, pursue other avenues of council. You understand, I’m sure.”
It isn’t even that Arnold wants to sue. He’d never be able to afford an attorney’s fees, and by now he knows enough about Fazbear to know that half the lawsuits lobbied against them are thrown out on some technicality before they even reach court. For all the pennies they pinch on vehicle maintenance and fresh food, he imagines the excess is put towards hiring the best damn lawyers in the state. Anyway, he has a hard time believing that any jury would have much sympathy for a man complaining of nearly being crushed by a sentient carnival attraction (he knows he wouldn’t believe it if that case was brought before him). It’s not about money. It's about not being stuck working for them for the rest of his life, legally bound to silence. It’s about being able to pursue the possibility of working a normal 9-to-5, where the concept of working 42 hours straight would be absurd. It’s about not fearing for his life every time he gets a new job assignment.
“Please…” He mutters, breathy and despaired. A coma implies that he’s been asleep for at least a few days, and throwing in the six hours of dehydration prior, he thinks he may actually die if doesn’t get fluids in his body soon. His vision is beginning to blur at the edges, yet he can still make out Dispatch’s odd look of curiosity.
“How much do you really want this, Arnie?” He asks, holding up the glass. Arnold begins to make a move to grab for it, only to gasp in pain as his elbow brushes against the mattress, sending white-hot shocks through his arm. Dispatch seems to notice, lifting up the section of blanket covering his right arm and wincing.
“Ah. Our medic did mention the possibility of fractures. I’ll tell you what, Arnold– you sign these, and we’ll include a car ride to the nearest doctor’s office, free of charge.”
Arnold’s dead. He’s died and gone to hell, he’s sure of it. He halfway wonders if the devil is creative enough to construct half of Fazbear Entertainment’s company policies. “No, just… water, please…”
“Not until you sign these.” Dispatch’s voice hardens ever so slightly, setting the pen in Arnold’s hand. “Don’t forget, Arnold, I haven’t told anyone you’re awake yet. How much longer do you think you’ll survive if I leave you here? I’ve heard a human can survive for three days without water, and you’ve been asleep for two. I wouldn’t bet on those odds.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Somewhere inside, Arnold knows Dispatch is right. If the pain across his body is anything to go off of, he doubts he’ll survive the next hour, much less the next day. His options are signing his life away and probably ending up dead on his next shift (if his previous one is any precedent) or slowly rotting away in… wherever this is. He doesn’t know which option is sadder.
Fuck.
Arnold sighs, closing his eyes for a moment in an attempt to calm the pounding behind them. All that’s standing between him and survival is his signature. He can do this.
“Where do I sign?” He whispers, defeated.
He hears a paper be placed on the mattress in front of his hand, Dispatch tapping it. “Just initial the bottom of this page. Let me know when you’re ready for the next one.”
----------------------------
The whole process realistically can’t take more than a few minutes, but in Arnold’s mind, every second feels like hours. Dispatch does his best to place the forms as close as he can to Arnold’s hand, but even the miniscule movements associated with writing his name agitate his elbow to no end. Just when he’s starting to wonder how many legal agreements Fazbear really needs to cover their ass, Dispatch grabs up the forms, sighing in relief.
“Thank you, Arnold. Fazbear Entertainment appreciates your cooperation and looks forward to doing business with you. Now, how much can you move your arms?”
Arnold tries his left arm and finds it weak, but significantly less injured than his right. He carefully lifts it, reaching out towards Dispatch for the glass of water. Dispatch, thankfully, finally, obliges.
Arnold’s thought before that the best sensation one could ever feel is the taste of a cool glass of water when they wake up thirsty in the middle of the night. He was wrong. The best thing anyone could ever feel is right here in this moment as his dry mouth is finally flooded with water. The drink is lukewarm, likely sitting out for at least a few hours, but it may as well be transported directly from some faraway mountain waterfall. He drinks it down so quickly he briefly fears he might choke, before holding the glass out to Dispatch again.
“More.” He rasps, a little louder than before. “Please.”
Dispatch smiles, taking the glass. “Of course, Arnold. I’ll talk to someone about ordering you some lunch as well; I’m sure you’re hungry. We’ll get you to the doctor by tonight, gotta make sure you’re all healed up for your next shift!”
The euphoria caused by the relief of Arnold’s thrist fades as quickly as it appeared. He somehow almost managed to forget what he’d done to get to this point. “Next shift?”
“Of course! We had you scheduled for tonight, but considering the circumstances, that might be a bit of a tall order. How does tomorrow night work for you?”
Arnold seriously thinks he may end up killing Dispatch the second he’s strong enough to leave this bed on his own. “Um– you don’t think I need some more time to rest?”
“What for? I believe in you, Arnie. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that $25 gift certificate either!” Dispatch flashes him one last grin, standing from his chair and heading to the door. “Plus, if you do well on the job, I’ll consider cutting you in on my eighty bucks!”
Arnold groans, shaking his head. “I really hate you.”
“Good to know! I’ll be right back, Arnie. Don’t go anywhere!” The door shuts, finally granting Arnold a few moments of peace.
He sighs, closing his eyes. He supposes he should appreciate the quiet, the calm before the storm that is his foreseeable future. How Dispatch expects him to be ready for work by tomorrow night, he has no idea (unless the doctor they know happens to be able to bring people back from the dead). With his mind cleared up the slightest bit, he begins to comprehend the true gravity of the deal he’s just made. He’s just signed his life away for a glass of water. It’s entirely possible he might have died without it, true, but it all sounds so stupid, even to him. His right arm may be out of commission, but his left is more or less fine. That glass was within his reach. He could’ve grabbed it if he tried.
“You’re so fucking stupid.” He mutters to himself. Maybe death wouldn’t have been so bad. He imagines he’ll find out soon enough.