6:25 a.m.-Tuesday.
He awkwardly taps his foot against grimy tile. Vincent stretches his arms above his head and yawns.
''And you've been doing this how long?'' Another attempt at small talk. (He did it all through night shift, and Scott actually started to answer him for a few minutes before the building creaked and panic shot through him like lightning in his nerves.) Scott draws in a shaky breath, trying to will away the nausea rolling around in his stomach.
''Two years.'' Scott glances at the man, who looks back at him, right in the eyes. It's painfully tense, and it stops, shatters like fragile glass when Vincent pushes the cheap swivel chair across the floor so that he's close to him. The arms of their respective chairs bump together with a thump. Vincent smiles at him.
''Guess you've gotten pretty good at this? Employees kind of come-and-go after a while.'' His tone is casual, his posture is open and inviting.
And yet he doesn't like this. The proximity, the closeness, how Vincent won't stop trying to talk to him, and Scott knows he's just trying to be friendly, but that almost makes him mad. Can you not take a hint? He thinks. I just want to do my job. Everything is tight inside his head, and his nerves are snapping. He just wants to go home.
''So,'' Scott rubs at the back of his neck. ''I think we can do the regular training tomorrow, and Boss' called the technician in so you can finish that before I get back.'' Vincent stands up, pushes the chair back into place under the chair. He knocks the ever-present empty soda cup into the plastic trash-bin, and pulls his coat off the chair. ''Okay. See you tonight, then, Scott Markey.'' He grins at him as he heads out of the office, and a moment passes before he pokes his head back around the frame.
''Uh, where do I meet this technician?'' He smiles sheepishly.
''Oh,'' Scott says. ''Go past Boss' office, and it's four doors down from the storage closet. There'll be a sign on the door-'parts and service'. Can't miss it.'' He makes vague hand gestures. Vincent smiles again-all that smiling must hurt his face-and disappears with the sound of footsteps. He pulls his coat off the other chair, shoving it with his foot back into place.
Scott zips his own jacket up to his throat, ignoring the scratch of the metal. It's in the low fifties this morning, and he'd rather not get hypothermia. It's five or so miles from his apartment to work, and he's got to walk them; he can't afford a car, and the bus doesn't run this early. Usually takes a bit under an hour.
His breath comes out in opaque clouds as he walks home, and the cold seeps through his clothes. Scott's fingers are alarmingly numb when he fumbles with his keys;the kind of cold-numb that almost makes you feel warm. Heated, blessed air washes over him when he opens his door, and he eagerly tosses his keys on the coffee table and starts to shuck his layers of outerwear, shoes, and socks. Changes into sweatpants and an old, soft grey t-shirt and crawls into bed, curling up to get warm, pulling the oversized comforter around him, breathing hot air into his ice-cold hands until he falls asleep.
He wakes up at 2:47 P.M-four hours before his shift starts. He should probably go back to sleep, get those extra two or three hours, but now he can't-he's always been horrible at going back to sleep after waking up.
The carpet of his apartment is soft under his feet, and he rubs at his chilly arms, now erupting in goosepimples. He turns the thermostat up two degrees as he waits for the coffeemaker to finish brewing, then puts his uniform in the washer along with a load of regular clothes. He's just finished closing the washer lid when he hears the coffeemaker bleat, and pours a practically scalding mug full, burning his tongue on the first sip. Scott settles in his favorite nook of the couch to drink it. Once he's done with that cup, he drinks another because he's going to be up all night.
The washer goes off forty minutes later, so he transfers the clothes to the dryer and washes the mug and sets it in the little drying rack. He feels loose and fresh, and takes a short shower to let his mind wander, from how his dad is doing today to if it will still be cold tomorrow.
Hair still damp, he makes himself breakfast, eats, and cleans that up. He's still got a little over two hours until his shift after this, so he opens his computer bag and pulls out a sheaf of paperwork he'd offered to do for Byron. He spends the next hour-and-fifteen getting acquainted with a felt-tip pen and maintenance costs for the building and animatronics.
At 5:30, he dresses and jogs to the bus stop around the corner. It's a smaller bus, the driver a quiet older African-American woman who smiles a gap-toothed grin at everyone, including Scott. He takes a seat near the back.
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He gets to work ten minutes before six. The sun is already starting to set and casts mysterious shadows across the ground. He pushes the door open with one hand; the other is pushed into his jacket pocket. The familiar smell of fatty, greasy food and motor oil washes over him like a typhoon. Scott walks toward the security office, oh-so-conveniently located in the smack dab middle of the building. Kids are always getting in and screwing around in there.
Vincent's waiting for him inside, arms crossed behind his head, legs stretched on top of the desk.
''Those chairs are cheap as fuck. They tip over when you so much as breathe in their direction, so I wouldn't do that if I were you.'' Scott sighs as unzips his coat. Vincent pushes off the desk with one foot, sending the swivel chair spinning into the center of the room. His coworker twines his fingers together across his lap.
''I've noticed.'' Vincent chuckles quietly. Scott shrugs out of his coat and lays it across the other swivel chair. ''Okay. Training. Hopefully you clocked in-'' Nod from Vincent. ''-so all we have to do is the actual training.''
He briefly runs through emergency protocols-fire, earthquake, blah-blah-blah. Vincent listens attentively, unlike every other prospective employee he's had to train. Once he's done with that, he leads him to the main party room. ''Okay, this is the main party room. Most of the time, this is the center of all the attention. The heart of the building, if you will.'' Festive tablecloths are draped across metal frames, and brightly-colored party hats neatly placed to correspond with each folding chair. The stage where the animatronics perform framed by bright red velveteen curtains. The polished wooden floor glimmers in the fading light of the windows. ''The animatronics perform on the stage over there. Behind the curtain we keep emergency control panels in case the built-in programmed routine software goes haywire.'' He points at the mammoth, shimmery platform. ''During the day, we let the animatronics roam around. Of course, limits have been programmed in, like they can't go past a certain point. Everything's covered by cameras except a few random blind spots, so if you're on day, you can keep track of everything. Part of day is making sure the animatronics don't wander to some obscure corner and we can't find them.'' The cameras are already on, red recording lights blinking steadily. Scott singles each out. ''Try to keep all the kids in this area. If someone tries to leave, kind of corral and herd them back in.'' Vincent nods empathetically. They move to the hallways. ''These are hallways, as you can see. Again, all covered by cameras.'' Various posters and advertisements adorn the walls. Vincent follows as Scott shows him the kitchen. Steam is already puffing from various appliances. It's warm and slightly humid inside. The smell of food makes Scott's mouth water a bit. ''Kitchen. They've got pretty strict rules about hygiene, so stay away from touching anything. Also, the cooks are pretty territorial. They're kind of like wolves sometimes.'' A stout, middle aged brunette turns to him and waves a spatula.
''Ah, Mr. Markey. Who's your handsome friend?'' Mischief dances in her eyes.
''He's off-limits, Marnie. Vincent here is the new security guard.'' Marnie fakes a pout and whimpers. ''You bring the cute ones by just to tease us girls.'' Scott chuckles. Marnie was sweet, quite grandmotherly and playful. She was divorced with two grown kids, and one grandchild on the way. ''Keep telling yourself that. Don't work too hard.'' Scott gives her a friendly little wave as they leave the kitchen area to head toward the bathrooms. ''Bathrooms. The janitor, bless him, does his best to keep them in good condition, but there's only one of him and six bathrooms in the whole building.'' The tile inside is almost completely free of mold and mildew, reflecting the fluorescent lights. The mirror is smeared and foggy in spots around the edges, and there are hard water stains around the sink drains, but otherwise, it was well-maintained. ''I've tried to, ah, talk with Byron about hiring more janitors, but he's pretty satisfied with the current staff.'' Scott taps his fingers against the door handle. ''This is pretty much it. With the tech training and this, you should be good to go. Did you fill out those legal forms yet?'' Vincent leans against the doorframe (Why does he lean against everything like that? How does he not get splinters in his shoulders or something?)
''You mean the ones about how 'Freddy Fazbear's Entertainment is not responsible for any personal or bodily harm, including loss of valuable items or theft of personal property'?'' Scott lets the door to the bathroom close. Vincent moves out of the way swiftly to lean against the wall. A gnat buzzes around a ceiling light in crooked circles.
''Yeah, that sounds about right.'' He swallows thickly and breathes, careful and deep; if he's slow enough, he can feel his lungs expanding and collapsing over and over again with each inhale and exhale.
''It's about time to start prepping for nightshift. If I were you, I'd go to the bathroom now.'' He taps his watch face with his index finger, and Vincent disappears behind the dark blue swinging door as if reading his thoughts. Scott heads back to the office at a brisk walk, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the patterned, dusty floor. He always thinks best staring at the floor. (Maybe because it keeps him grounded, ha!) His shoes click quietly with each step. He runs a clammy hand through his hair, sliding into the swivel chair, shrugging his jacket back on; Byron always has the heat turned off after ten to save money. Vincent arrives a minute later, plopping into the other chair. ''Eleven-fifty-eight. You ready?'' Vincent spins around in a 360˚ to face the back of the office. Scott tugs the tablet into his lap and holds his thumb against the power button; the screen begins to faintly glow.
''As ready as I can be.''