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Arnold failed the security lock for the seventh time in a row. The frustration only showed its hand after the fifth; it had been routine to not get things correct for the first, second, third, or fourth, but once he had to restart the machine for the fifth time did he finally take notice of his repeated errors. He had good excuses not to be thinking straight. How long he'd been awake, those things that were out to find him and taunting the possibility of getting to see tomorrow… how tantalizing the idea of disrespecting his job was. But those didn't mean anything to his self-inflicting mind as he continued to get it wrong.
He was almost too tired to feel angry, but the clinical beep from the machine alerting him that he hadn't succeeded for the eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh time, was enough to snap a nerve in him that he didn't know he had. His gloved fist launched at the side of the terminal, and white hot pain pulses through his knuckles at the moment of contact, kicking up adrenaline that brought a momentary clarity to Arnold's mind. This damn puzzle is so easy, he thought, why is this so difficult to actually do?! I should be clocked out by now, but instead I'm wasting my time with ancient technology that wants to kill me! Why is this happening to me..?
It takes a second for him to realize his eyes are closed. His lids are too dry and too tear-stained, they offered him no reprieve. Yet with the calm darkness washes an immediate sense of guilt, removing his hand from the terminal's shell. He rarely expressed his anger physically. He felt an extreme amount of shame whenever he treated inanimate objects with anything less than respect, he never quite understood the pleasure other people took in smashing old microwaves or shooting glass with paintballs. It seemed cruel to pass along rage like an everlasting currency, as it always turned into, especially to things that cannot fight back—that cannot feel pain or have thoughts of revenge, and that have no idea why. He supposes that's why he became a technician, for the sole existence of fixing objects rather than finding new and humanly creative ways to dispose of them. The tactile feeling of repairing a tangible thing was one of the few consistently satisfying parts of his job.
You know why. You know why. He rubs the spot of the terminal his hand connected with, only a small scratch in the casing is evidence of what he did. It's not your fault. It's not the machine's fault, either. It's not anyone's fault here—
“Hey now, let's not damage potentially salvageable hardware–” The sudden noise of the Dispatch's voice elicited a startled yelp from Arnold. The blame-game was easier with third-party assistance. “–Now that Edwin Murray's estate belongs to Fazbear Entertainment, we can feasibly dock your pay for messing with our property.”
Arnold grumbled, but didn't dignify him with a response, as badly as he wanted to. NOW you care about destruction of property? Not when Edwin's homicidal creation started blowing holes through walls and flinging me through several stories of ventilation?
Arnold looked at the digital clock next to the terminal. It was late enough to be early. Somehow actually viewing the time unlocked the gates that trapped all his adrenaline and terror inside of him. The feelings keeping him awake and alive were quickly running dry.
He slowly turns around with his back facing the terminal. He nearly forgets to take out his Data Diver when the coord pulls at him until he nearly trips before noticing, grunting as he hastily removes the device to clip it to his belt.
“What are you doing?” The voice on the intercom says. “You haven't gotten the necessary clearance yet.”
“I'll get to it.” Arnold droned, starting to walk away with a gait comparable to a zombie's, something he was getting closer to becoming with every waking minute. Only a delirious version of himself would get snappy with his higher-ups, coworkers, or whatever they wanted to be to him. He wasn't entirely sure where his Dispatch and the other cynical white-collars making bets on his fate fell on the Fazbear corporate hierarchy. All Arnold knew was that he was at rock bottom, and that was enough for him to be the silent confluence collecting everyone else's debts.
He had no idea where he was going. A lot of the landmarks were empty suits that Edwin's creation decided needed attention. Things tended to move around and it made finding his way in his state of delirium a task bordering on impossible.
“You're out in the open. It could find you.” Dispatch's voice pierced his brain and all his vocal inhibitions parted.
“I don't care.” Arnold breaths. He's lying, he does care. His body cares enough to still be quaking in terror, his blood buzzing through his fingertips with his heart flirting with the idea of giving out. But he doesn't care enough at this point to heed Dispatch's warning in any meaningful way. He knows to do better, and with his sanity dripping away, he chooses to tempt fate.
He decides he needs to find the office, or his van. Somewhere with a modicum of safety, any little he could take. He just needs to sit for a while. He can get this job over with, he just needs a break.
“Do you know where you're going?” Said Dispatch, and Arnold didn't register how strange of a question that was to ask.
“No.” Arnold murmured as he dragged his feet. “...Office. Where is it?”
The voice tsked. “Arnie, are you trying to slack during work hours? You haven't finished up here, so I'm not super inclined to offer directions if it's to encourage rebellion.”
Arnold felt his nose curling in contempt, but made no vocal rebuttal. Help never came to him when he actually needed it.
He wandered for a few more minutes, not in the right state of mind to triangulate where in the facility he was headed. He only strayed through parts with the lights on overhead, never daring to step foot into the darkness beyond his pay-grade.
The mimicking creation hadn't shown itself in a while. Arnold didn't know if that was a good sign or not. He wasn't mentally ready for a confrontation if it came to that. All the running from beforehand had taken its toll, and whatever hormone-inducing fear keeping him standing wasn't going to last forever. He already felt his knees beginning to cramp. He didn't eat or drink anything since leaving his van, so further pain was down the road from here on.
There was a box of wind-up mice right next to him, and he mindlessly plucked one to hold like delicate origami. It was one of the few toys in this place that didn't remind him of anything remotely killer-machine-out-to-get-him. And right as the mouse sits comfortably in his hands does some malevolent divine being decide to punish his theft by making the overhead lights putter. His brain doesn't register it happening until it's already too late, and the lights have flickered off, shrouding an already dimly lit corridor into a vat of inky black. The power in this part of the building had shut down.
His eyes are wide open and he immediately crouches close to the floor. He's careful not to squeeze the toy mouse too hard, the noise it might make would be the cherry on top of all the unfortunate things that have happened to him today. Luckily, it remains silent, and the only sound Arnold can hear is his own breathing–too loud, always too loud.
It's too early for his vision to adjust, so he gropes around his belt and work pants to find something to help, a nearly impossible feat without the light. He remembers stuffing a small flashlight in his pocket and goes searching for it; Fazbear's would always entail horror levels of pitch black ventilation that followed no safety codes under any jurisdiction, and he quickly learned to stop trusting the company's judgement and come prepared on his own accord. He eventually feels a flashlight-shaped lump and pulls it out of his pocket, quickly flipping the switch to find out the batteries had already died. The light burned for a second before fading into nothing.
He feels like screaming. Instead a long mewling whimper draws from his lungs and he can't find it in him to feel embarrassed. His head is in his knees. He's still holding on to the mouse even though he can no longer see it in his palms. His thumbs play with the winder, and an image of the mouse forms through the details he can make out through his gloves.
It gives him an idea, and he starts to slowly stand. His clothes crinkle, and it makes him wince, but he perseveres as he takes his first few steps forward. With one hand out he feels in front of him, searching for purchase or a wall to guide him. Terror fills him as he cannot see where his arm is and where he is headed. His whole body prickles when his fingertips touch something, allowing his palm to flatten and examine. It was some kind of crate, nothing out of the ordinary, so he continues on.
He's feeling for things in the pitch dark, knowing he must look absolutely ridiculous with how he was moving. They could judge all they wanted, Arnold was too busy trying not to trip on his own feet to care. Each crate or box he found became his guides. He once came upon something large and plush, yet too anatomical and human. His spine went cold and he quickly moved on. He's had enough encounters with those costumes to have any need of sticking by them.
Eventually he comes across something metallic. The little clank it emits with contact is enough to worry him, but his opinion changes the longer his hands investigate. Rectangular, ridges against his knuckles. He searches for a handle and he finds it. The locker door opens.
Arnold swallows loudly. He carefully feels around the inside of the locker. He doesn't want any surprises, and is relieved to have found nothing but metal walls and empty space. He doesn't process another thought after that. He steps forward and closes the door behind him.
He expected it to be quieter on the inside. Instead, the sound of his disgruntled breathing is amplified. He can hear his heartbeat now, it's too fast for how exhausted he's felt. Only now does the noise not bother him, because it's his, not the building's or the machine's or Dispatch's. It's contained in this tiny place. He's confined, but safe.
It's so dark he could be dreaming. I hope I am dreaming. His eyes are closed, and then opened, soon realizing the light would not tell him which was which. He holds the mouse to his chest and leans against the back of the locker. His quivering breathing slowly turned into crying. It's a difficult thing to do silently, choked tears turn into whimpers he isn't able to deafen. Everything came crashing down the moment he felt free in his metal prison.
“Arnie.”
He's already crying, so the voice doesn't startle him. He can't tell where exactly Dispatch's voice is coming from.
“I can’t–” Arnold heaves, and it almost sounds like laughter. “I c-can't do this anymore.”
“Why not?”
“T-This is supposed to be my job, not some, some death circus! I've always felt, angry at my job, b-but this is beyond insanity.” He dries his tears with a rough glove. “I just want a break. I'm so s-scared, and… so tired.”
Dispatch is silent again and Arnold feels a flicker of resentment build up in him. He wants to lash out, or would've, if his outburst wasn't so selfishly pitiful. Even at his worst possible moment, he couldn't bring himself to say anything he might regret. Dispatch wouldn't care either way, no matter how hurtful he could make his words.
He's still silent, and Arnold doesn't know what to do. Dispatch always announced his exit from conversations, and the quiet he was left with was too promise filled to have any peace.
“Dispatch.”
It's quiet again and Arnold assumes his plea was in vain, until the echoing voice permeates in his mind.
“Hmm, oh, you're talking to me? Wow, this is exciting, it usually starts with me being the yapper informant. What do ya need?”
Arnold's mouth is agape, confused as to why he needed him for anything.
“I…” He rubs the toy mouse in hopes of staying in reality. “Just, say things to me? Your voice can help keep me awake.” He doesn't at all comprehend how that statement might be taken as rude, but Dispatch seemed to not mind one bit.
“Oh. Oh! A sound strategy, we wouldn't want you falling asleep on the job. That would be very unprofessional, and make us look bad as a company. Anything in particular to stimulate your thinking cap?”
“I dunno Faz-guy, just… read me something.” The thought of Dispatch reading to him already causes a yawn to rise, the first he'd noticed for a long time.
“Alright, let's see…” Arnold hears faint static beyond the voice, and his breathing starts to slow. “Here's a story I've always loved! Ahem, once upon a time…”
His lids droop down as Dispatch tells his story. His tears have dried, and his muscles untensed. Somehow the sound of the person's voice he so vehemently despised was the opposite of upsetting. He put the toy mouse in his pant pocket, giving it one last pet before everything went zen.
Dispatch didn't stop talking long after he finally succumbed to sleep. He must have noticed Arnold's lack of response, finishing up the story and letting the rest of the night stow in silence.
“They all started a band and lived happily ever after. The end.”