--Chapter Two: Do Not Fuck the Animatronics? Fuck That!--
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Standing before the mirror was… one hot, dangerous bastard.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cut like a weapon.
A skull-mask covered the upper half of his face, a black balaclava wrapping tightly around his head, bone-white markings etched along the chin and neck.
He stood in nothing but a pair of black boxers, leaning forward to catch his reflection in a mirror he towered over by well over a meter and several dozen centimeters.
Wide shoulders. Thick arms with defined biceps and elbows that looked like they'd snap ribs on instinct. Long hands. A neck made for a noose. A chest broad as a fortress gate, tapering to a waist thinner than a woman's.
A whopping Y-taper! Not a V-taper, but a literal Y-taper!
Carved from war! Oraaah.
Add powerful thighs and trunk-like legs to the mix, and the entire build screamed one thing:
Elite commando.
Throw in the kind of military training that breaks most men before they even graduate?
Yeah. He is a fucking killing machine.
(Mr. Savant's Point of View:)
I'd been staring at myself for five minutes.
Not out of vanity.
I just needed to burn this in.
I'd transmigrated. Somehow. Some way. The old world was gone — and with it, everything I'd fought, bled, and nearly died for.
No clue how I landed here, but honestly? I couldn't give less of a shit. Long as I'm not someone's puppet, I'll take it. Because this world?
It's that world.
The one I dreamt about during deployment, during sleepless nights, during every quiet moment when my mind drifted back to fantasy.
Frenni Fazclaire's Night Club.
I swept the apartment already. It's mine now. Stocked for about a week, fridge included. Apparently, I've got debt — big one — but I couldn't care less. I can make money. Fast. I've always adapted.
I can adapt to any job, except gigolo'ing of course [I ain't a bitch], and this is a blessing for me. My very own boon since birth.
I'm dressed in an all-black outfit; bomber jacket, fitted mock-neck shirt, pleated high-waist trousers, with a sleek belt with a minimalist rectangular silver buckle, and black boots. Mask still on of course.
Phone and few bucks in a wallet are in pocket. Pistol hidden beneath my jacket. Apartment keys. A decent motorbike keys.
Great. I'm ready.
I pull out my phone to check the watch. It reads: 11:33 PM. Great. I believe it will take me fifteen minutes to arrive if I don't take shortcuts — I know all that because I searched the city's map on Moogle.
Now outside my apartment. I take one last lingering look at my door before locking it with the keys and flipping 'em back in my pocket.
—I'm out.
—Showtime.
...
...
...
I thundered down the dark streets on a black Suzuki GSX250R. The city lights blur around me, neon streaks reflected in my helmet visor like ghosts. The engine roar beneath me — a mechanical growl in tune with my pulse.
It feels good.
The cold air cuts across my suit, but I barely notice. The streets were half-dead at this hour, most people already asleep or afraid to be out after midnight. Smart.
—I'm not most people.
A red light flicks on. I slow just enough to glance up at the sign above the alley on my right.
Frenni Fazclaire's Night Club.
It was real. Not a fan mod. Not a dream. Not one of my guilty pleasure fantasies playing on loop in a broken mind.
VROOOM
I sped up. The motorcycle I'm riding is at least mine and not a rent. I have no memories of renting my apartment nor anything about this current life, but I don't question it, not even the debt; I'm not mad about anything.
To be honest. Just as long as I'm not anyone's puppet, I won't question whatever "was" going on with my life in this world.
Back to the topic. My drive is Suzuki GSX250R. A very budget-friendly. It is only 4000$, and the price I "bought" it for in my license that I checked was 3300$. Unused.
Free.
Whoever the dumbass was, I still thank 'em for being the dumbass they are for selling me such decent drive below its usual price.
Ah.
Forgot to introduce myself properly. My bad, dear readers.
(A/N: MOTHAFUCKA BROKE THE THIRD WALL?!?!)
—Shut up.
(A/N: ?!)
Anyways. My true name is Glenn Savant. I'm 20 years old. My new job is being the sole night guard at a high-paying night club.
Although, it is not just any night club.
Frenni Fazclaire's Night Club is one of those off-the-strip style business clubs —like how I call it —where the client is recommended, poached, or lured in by the neon pink sign above the building's entrance.
It might not be the biggest of the clubs, and it might only be a couple of stories tall building, AND it might it be tucked between several other buildings varying in size, but the fact persists: the unique animatronic staff, or the waitresses as they were called in the job application page.
There's four, tall [too tall, even for guys], latest gen advanced animatronics who dance, sing, serve as waitresses, and even provide private shows.
The last two parts make my blood boil. I'm twisted. You see. I have a huge crush on those "girls" to the point I feel possessive of them— in a good way.
The real, hidden, and dark fact is: they are not actual bots... but real girls kidnapped and put inside these metal shells. Their real human bodies? Probably discarded... What they put inside the animatronic is the girl's soul via magic.
I still can feel the chill down my spine, but it has no effect on me. I'm too cold for this.
—But I don't know how I would fare in front of the... real... they.
Back to the topic. Phew.
Why the club needs a guard to patrol in night shifts? Simple. To keep an eye on everything, especially the "animatronics", and be Mr. Smith's errand boy.
Mr. Smith? I know what to do with that bastard— But not now; I need a plan. ASAP.
He isn't even meeting me in person.
He only gave me the codes for the entrance and every facility and door I'm granted permission to enter —save for the Server Room and Mr. Smith's office —and instructions on where to go once I'm inside the building.
...
...
...
I'm now standing before the entrance to the night club, my motorcycle is parked in the garage nearby.
Holographic posters of the animatronics dances across the outer wall. I grit my teeth in a moment of fury.
Deep breath.
Now. Time to see if the door code actually works.
Click
WELCOME, GLENN SAVANT.
APPROVAL GRANTED. ENJOY YOUR NIGHT.
The voice is synthetic, feminine, smooth, but with just enough glitch in the pitch to remind me it wasn't human.
I'm inside. The first thing that welcomed me was the reception area. It is your standard coat check and filter area you'd normally keep security guards to keep out troublemakers.
Of course, there was no one there, but there was a uniform waiting for me on the front reception desk, alone with a note bearing a number. It said call.
Back to the present. I'm now in a call with Mr. Smith himself.
[Welcome to Frenni Fazclaire's night club, where we make all your dreams come true... blah blah blah.]
It just started.
Smartass. He's already watching me; prob 'cause of the mask, but who cares. This is why he called I believe.
[Why the mask?]
And I was right.
"To hide my face." I answer in my usual tone; cold and firm.
I can swear I felt like he wanted to shout for a moment.
[...Are you ugly?]
"Quite the opposite."
[I doubt that...]
Heh... Cheeky bastard. Already making puns with me huh? Poor you; you will die before you get to see my face.
I remain silent and don't answer him, but I look up at one of the cameras and show a hint of a smile on my uncovered lips; the lower half of the black balaclava is tousled down across my neck. But the real-bone skull-mask is still on.
[...For your first night here you'll want to take some time and get to know the layout of the building as well as where all the cameras are.]
[The security room is across the dance floor, past the animatronics room and before the staff locker. Just go forward then turn left on the first corner.]
[The animatronics might still be active from their day cycles, but they should recognize you as a member of staff once you put on the uniform.]
[I recommend you do that now before you go any further to avoid trouble with them...]
Heh. Nice try, cheeky little guy, but I won't fall for it. He wants to see my physique and judge on whether to take further measurements or no.
I will just leave him on the edge. Hahahaha.
[After that head to the Security Room and get acquainted with the tech there. Just head to the Staff area to the left of the dance stage and follow the signs. Can't miss it.]
[Also remember: Rule #1: Do not fuck the Animatronics.]
Yeah. Fuck that. I make my own rules.
"Understood."
[Good. I'll call around 3 AM to check on how you are doing. Ciao.]
I turn my eyes away from the camera and head forward then turn left. I'm not changing my uniform in the reception nor anywhere.
There's no way in hell I'm changing in front of the cameras, especially not for that guy to see and make several plans for me.
The club opens up past the reception area into a sizeable dance floor before a stage.
A bar is along the wall to the left of the entrance, while normal tables run along immediately to the right side of the expansive floor.
To the left of the stage is a doorway marked with words "Staff Only" in big green letters.
To the left of that there's a set of spiral stairs that leads up to what a sign labels as "VIP & Private Booths."
I head straight past the Staff Only warning.
As I pass by a room marked as "ANIMATRONICS" a strong chill runs down my spine, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
"..."
I'm feeling... very uncomfortable...
—DELIGHTFUL!
I thought I wouldn't feel too excited when I pass by, but I actually am right now.
I tilt my head. The door is slightly ajar, a through the crack I see some recharge pods, but nothing else. It is quite dimly lit.
I can't see any animatronic active inside of the room, yet I can't stop feeling that I'm being watched.
—Hahaha~ Amusing.
I turn my eyes away to the right, and find the locker room is the next door.
Without any more thoughts, I go inside.
The room is really dark—
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POWERSTONES!!! GRAAAAH!