Five Nights at Fazbear's -- Awake.

Chapter One: Small Beginnings.

- 09/08/1985 -

Dave Miller stood outside in the pouring rain, wondering exactly when the fuck his new roommate was planning on opening the door.

Was he even sure the guy was home? In theory, he would have called the man before showing up, but, well- a lack of a cellphone makes it kind of hard to do that. Dave decided he'd try his hand at knocking one more time before giving up.

How did it all come to this? Well, no. he knew that was a stupid question- he was well aware of how it all came to this. He decided to flee the nest out of nowhere, and now he was stuck trying to get into a tiny, apartment-sized house that, frankly, looked like shit.

He had found the property in a rented ad space- one of those ones you found tucked away in the corner of the newspaper. It seemed promising enough; two bed, one bath, rent only one grand a month. To say that the advertisement was brief would be a gross understatement. The entire thing was about three sentences, - he says sentences, but really, the whole thing was written in odd bullet point statements - and the excitement of it's author toward the prospect of a roommate could be felt in it's phrasing. Dave had spoken with the owner only once, personally, through a payphone. He spoke with a heavily relaxed air, doing things like saying he expects Dave to pitch in on rent- before appending that he "shouldn't sweat it, man." Dave knew for a fact he had been given the man's name, but it was escaping him as of the moment. Martin? Michael?

Dave raised his fist and knocked firmly on the door. His voice came out surprisingly raspy, worn from fatigue.

"Hello? It's Dave Miller, I've been in contact about the apartment?"

A thump came from deep inside, before a familiar voice hollered out to him.

"Oh, yeah man, just let yourself in, it's unlocked...! I'd come greet you myself, but I'm, ah..." The man paused to chuckle sheepishly.

"...Frankly, naked."

This information would serve to bother Dave far more, if he weren't seething over the fact that the door had been unlocked this entire goddamn time. Grumbling, he grabbed the doorknob, and pushed open the door.

The interior of the place just about met Dave's expectations.

It was nice enough- spacious, warm. It wasn't disgusting, but Dave wouldn't exactly call it spick and span, either. They were little things- like the occasional dirty plate, or a couple of papers strewn about, an empty beer can- little things, yes, but they added up. Dave tried to swallow his inner snob.

The home itself didn't have many walls- it being one room in majority. The one big room made up the living room, kitchen, and a small dining area. The kitchen itself, was sectioned off by merely a counter island, and a switch in flooring from the wood floorboards that covered the rest of the house, to a more befitting, grungy tile. It had the basics- an oven, a microwave, fridge, cupboard space- even a small pantry. Dave found himself somewhat pleasantly surprised by just how nice this place actually seemed. The couch served as a kind of 'wall' to separate the living room from the rest of the house. There was a television set, and a few small stacks of DVDs, propped up on top of a small table. The T.V. was currently playing the news - a news-lady with a droning, nasally voice babbling on about an ongoing auto theft case - and on the arm of the couch, a dirty dinner plate was precariously balanced. Off to the side of the house, was a hallway. There were three doors shooting off, but only one of them was open- the one to the left.

The owner walked out of the left door, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He was dripping water on the floor where he stood, but he didn't seem to notice, or care. He had a tired smile plastered across his face. His blonde hair tied into a shitty ponytail in the back of his head. His face was unshaven- a few scruffy beard hairs covering his cheeks.

Dave's immediate response was irritation.

The man spoke, with a cheery nonchalance.

"Hey, man! Found the place alright? I know the back-roads around this place can be a bitch."

Dave began to untie his shoes, replying.

"Yeah- Yeah, no, I was alright."

He looked up, putting his sneakers neatly away behind the door, next to a pair of beat up vans, which were thrown unceremoniously into the corner- seemingly belonging to the owner.

"Hey, uh, thanks again for," Dave ran a hand through his hair. "...y'know, giving me a place to stay. Erm- Michael, was it?"

The guy chuckled heartily.

"Close, my dude- but no cigar." Faux-Michael extended a hand. "Mitchell Taylor, but- most just call me Mitch, yeah?"

Dave reluctantly took Mitch's damp hand, and gave it a halfhearted shake.

"Dave Miller. Or, uhm, you already knew that, I guess-"

Mitch laughs warmly, sauntering into the kitchen, supporting his towel with one of his hands.

"Relax, dude, I get you. Nice to meet you in the flesh, David Miller."

Dave. Just Dave.

Mitch seems entirely oblivious to Dave's irritation, continuing to speak.

"And it's no problem, brohammed. Clean up after yourself, pitch in on the rent, and mi casa es su casa, as far as I'm concerned."

Clean up after yourself. By the looks of things, it doesn't look like this guy's cleaned a day in his life.

Mitch grabs an electric kettle off the counter, taking it over to the sink.

"It's late man, you must be pooped. I'll put some coffee on- instant okay with you?"

Dave walked over to the dining area, and took a seat at the table.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm not picky."

Coffee sounded good right about now.