John left the restaurant immediately and drove straight from California to Texas where the diner had first opened in 1977. It was a long drive, and he stopped once to get some food and coffee to stay awake. By evening the next day, he had arrived at the diner only to see that night was approaching fast, and he decided to check in at a motel and explore the old building tomorrow.
Back at the current location, the animatronics decided to toy with Mike after John left. They all agreed not to kill him, and Bonnie and Chica appeared at his door frequently and stayed for large amounts of time, draining Schmidt's power. Finally, at dawn he emerged, sweaty and terrified, from the office, gave the band the bird, then stormed out.
John woke up at dawn and took a flashlight and a gun to the old diner. It was a large rectangular building with the dining area covering the entire front of the building, with three large windows on each side of the double doors. Some of the brick wall of the building had fallen out, displaying cables and wood. The doors were barricaded shut, but John found that one of the windows on the side was open. He climbed into the dark building and switched on his flashlight.
He was inside the supply closet. The floor was mostly tiled, but grass poked through cracks in the red-and-white floor. The wallpaper was a pale blue, with the paint peeling off in places. The ceiling had a crack running through it and a single broken light bulb hung from a string. A few broken brooms anda rusty bucket occupied what little space was taken by John, who left the supply room through the doorway.
The hallway was in a similar state of disrepair to the closet. Bits of paper, rubbish and old food occupied the corners of the room, next to the door to the office where he worked years ago. He decided to check it later, and moved into the dining area.
What he found was surprising. The dining area was surprising neat and orderly. Sunlight shone through the boarded up windows, and John turned his flashlight off. The floor was tiled blue-and-green and apart for a few cracks, it was completely clean and undamaged. Some tables and chairs were broken or damaged, but most of them were in their proper place. Opposite the doors, which were blocked by board nailed to either side of the wall, was a counter where staff would place orders. Behind it, he could see the remains of the kitchen.
John felt his foot land on something other than tile and he looked down, to see an old drawing on paper. It was torn at one corner, dirty, and wrinkled. John picked it up and read the text.
MY DAY AT FREDBEAR'S FAMILY DINER, the text read. Below it was a crude drawing of a small child with brown hair and a wide smile next to Bonnie the Bunny. Something registered in John's mind, and he looked down at the name on the bottom.
JONATHAN WILSON, read the sloppy text. Then he heard the shotgun cocking.
"Drop it," A voice growled.
John dropped the drawing and put his hands up.
"Now turn around, slowly," the voice said.
John turned around slowly, keeping his hands up. At the hallway leading to the office stood a man of around 50 or so, with graying hair that was short and scruffy. He had a light stubble, and John was convinced that he'd disturbed a homeless man... with a shotgun.
"Sir," John began," I don't want any tr-"
"I don't really care what you want," the man cut him off, "What are you doing here?"
"I-I'm looking for someone," John stuttered. The man scoffed.
"And who would that be?"
"The guy who opened this place," John replied.
The man stopped, and looked at me.
"You're looking for Fred Fazbear?" he asked, staring.
"You know him?" John asked, hopeful.
"Knew him?" the man replied, "I am him."
"Mr Fazbear," John said, "I need your help."
"Unless it involves the animatronics, I probably can't help you," Fred told him, sitting down at a table.
"It does involve the animatronics," John replied, sitting down opposite him."
"What is it?" Fred asked immediately, "Are they in danger?" John nodded.
"Well," Fred said, "You've got my attention. Hang on, I'll get us some drinks from my office."
He returned a minute later with two cans of Coke. John didn't ask how they were ice cold.
"The health department's shutting the place down," John said as he took his seat, "There's blood and mucus leaking from their suits, and they'll go to scrap if the restaurant folds."
"Blood and mucus, you say?" Fred inquired, half lost in his thoughts, "Has anything terrible happened that involved them?"
"Well there was the bite of '87," John told him, "AN employee reprogrammed Foxy and made him bite a customer. They put him in storage after that."
John explained how the five children had gone missing not long after that. How the parents complained about the stench coming from the band. How the pizzeria had lost money. How the animatronics had come to him for help.
"So does anyone else know about them?" Fred asked.
"Only Mike Schmidt," replied John.
"So this Mike Schmidt," asked Fred, "He's the one who's caused all this?"
"If what the animatronics told me is true, then yes."
John sighed and paced the room.
"I never intended for them to end up in a pizza parlor," he said as he walked, "I was a scientist before I opened this place, obsessed with creating artificial life. I didn't try and get the government involved. I was worried that they'd interfere. I realize now that I was just paranoid, but I'm glad I kept my work away from them.
"I saw when I created Freddy that the world wasn't ready for artificial life, nor is it ready for it now. People feared what they don't understand, as they did back then. So I disguised them as animatronic mascots and opened this place. It worked, and I could give my "children" a chance to live."
"So they are alive?" asked John, "What about the blood and mucus?"
"I saw that happen once too in '81. Thank God nobody noticed. When Chica returned to the backstage area, I saw that she had a bit of blood and mucus leaking out of her eye sockets. She didn't know what caused it, nor did I or the other three animatronics, but she'd been upset that a child was scared of her and didn't want to sit with her. She loves kids, and hates seeing them terrified. I think that the blood and mucus comes whenever something terrible happens that involves one of them in some way. I never found out why. Perhaps it was my doing. Perhaps it was meant to be that way. Either way, when they get upset, that stuff seems to leak."
"So what's the answer?"
'Since Schimdt is the cause of all this, knowing that he suffered would likely be enough to ease the band's mind's and stop the negative thoughts and emotions. Hopefully that will be enough. When does the health department inspect the place next?"
"This Monday coming up," John replied.
"Then you need to get back there," Fred told him, "Kill Schmidt, and make sure they see it. Get the hate out of them, and hopefully they'll be saved from the scrape yard."
"Mike's more trouble than you think," John told him, "Can you help me?"
"Me?" Fred asked, "I don't know. I don't think I could live with blood on my hands. I could give you something, though..."
He rushed to his office, and returned with a small round object. He pressed it into John's hand, and I felt what it was.
"Are you crazy?" John asked him, "This will destroy the place!"
"It's been modified," Fred assured him, "It'll only take out a small area. Maybe five meters or so."
"You're sure?" asked John. Fred seemed sane enough, but he'd clearly been isolated for a long time.
"I promise," Fred assured him, stepping back, "Good luck John, and please keep those four alive."
"I'll do my best, sir," John replied, the grenade in his hand, "I give you my word."
