Assorted Housekeeping Two
Waking up was never pleasant, but having to wake up and immediately listen to Oswald Weatherby screaming over the phone was a whole new low for both Mike and Jeremy. The man sounded livid, and they guessed his incoherent ranting meant he wanted the both of them at work immediately. Mike nearly drifted off on the ride over, unlike Jeremy, who'd been up the whole night pacing across his room. Mike didn't know why the man was so worried; there was very little chance of them getting fired, and even if they did, he was certain the Puppet had a "Plan B" to drag them back in.
But if it didn't, he sure as hell wouldn't complain.
They pulled in from Paulsin Boulevard and into the parking lot of Freddy's, and Jeremy was the only one who noticed the place was near empty, which he pointed out to Mike. "There ain't even any cars in the employee parkin'," he said, bringing the van to a stop. "Looks like there's only...five other people in there."
"Sounds great, let's go home."
Jeremy glared over at Mike as he popped the door open and climbed out. Mike followed, reluctantly, when Jeremy opened the door on his side and they both entered the restaurant. As soon as they entered, they saw that a lot of the structural damage had been left over from last night, and there were three of the day janitors doing their best to pick out loose and broken tiles and plaster from around the main area. Once they heard an extra pair of shoes crossing the floor, one of them looked up and called, "Sir, the other two're here!" over his shoulder.
"Oh, thanks, you conniving little horseshit-shoveling snitch," Mike hissed under his breath.
No sooner had he finished that comment than Oswald himself stormed out from around the corner to a connecting hallway, and he was more red in the face than a ripe tomato sitting on the hood of a crimson Ferrari, and the boys could practically see the steam pouring out of his ears. "Fitzgerald!"
Jeremy clenched his teeth and snapped his gaze down to the floor. "Schmidt!"
Mike rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically while trying to keep the action well-concealed. Oswald stomped up to them, ashes going up in smoke on the Cuban he had in his mouth. "You boys have some explaining to do!"
"Why, what happened?" Mike asked sarcastically. Jeremy tried (and failed) to make him say anything else by use of hand signals.
"Don't get wise with me, Schmidt!" Oswald roared, "We had to close on short notice because of you!"
Close on short notice? That meant there weren't gonna be any noisy kids in the restaurant for their whole shift. Mike tried his best not to smile too big, considering having fun as an employee was obviously forbidden. "Praise the Lord," he whispered to himself
"That doesn't mean you two are off the hook, by God, far from it!" Oswald continued, "If the others have to clean up...whatever bullshit happened last night that caused this, then you're gonna suffer with'em!"
"Will ya let us at least eat first?" Mike implored.
This was met with another puff of smoke from Oswald's cigar and a flat, "No," before he walked away. Mike watched him go and shrugged, and he headed back to the main area with Jeremy in tow, and made for the kitchen.
"Mike…" Jeremy whispered, "Where're ya goin'?"
Mike only shrugged in response. "I'm fuckin' hungry and if fat-boy's got a problem with it, he can fire me." He disappeared into the kitchen before Jeremy could keep the argument up.
Had it been two hours? Twenty? Jeremy didn't know. All he knew for certain was that he'd been roped into throwing out chunks of plaster from the walls that had been broken off, and patching up the holes with new pieces. And the janitors that had been called in kept giving him the death glare.
He wanted to say it was mostly Mike's fault. He wanted to say he wasn't the one who spilled blood on the tiles in the main show area; he wanted to say what actually happened, too, but he wasn't ready for anyone to call a shrink on him. Either way, he finished helping with that job and quickly ducked into a nearby hallway to lose the two other people with him. Jeremy continued walking away until he caught a whiff of something...pretty nasty. Moldy, too. He kept walking, against all better judgement, until he realized he was walking toward the hole in the wall Mike had told him about.
It was still in the same place it was last night, he'd be terrified if it wasn't, and the smell had died off a bit. He approached the hole, hoping to get a better look inside now that he wasn't tired from being on the night shift and also getting beaten harder than the Red Wings in 1985.
"Hm? Who's that?"
Jeremy shot his gaze up, as his footsteps must have alerted someone of his presence. That someone being none other than Shannon, who quickly poked her head out of the hole, and she sighed. Jeremy could have sworn it was a sigh of relief. "Oh, Mister Fitzgerald, it's you."
"Ah," he said, tipping his hat. "Evenin', ma'am. What're ya doin' in there?"
"You don't need to call me 'ma'am', Mister Fitzgerald," she replied as she took a few steps back and looked around the hole. "Anyway, I've just been taking inventory of the supplies we found inside." She wiped her brow and added, "It's been hell, if you'll excuse my French."
Jeremy quirked an eyebrow and looked over at her quizzically. "How so?"
"For everything I've found in there, I've had to run it through the company database to match it up with stock from nineteen eighty-four. I'm only thankful nothing was stolen."
"...I thought one'a the suits got stolen?" Jeremy questioned back.
Shannon froze and immediately turned back around to face him. "...What?"
And it was then Jeremy immediately regretted bringing the problem up. "Uh…"
"What got stolen?" Shannon repeated. She didn't sound angry, or even disappointed. There was audible panic in her voice.
"I, uh…"
"Mister Fitzgerald?"
Jeremy was quiet for a minute before, after scratching the back of his neck over, sighed and looked around to make sure no one else was close by. He walked over to Shannon and whispered, "One of the suits from the old diner got snatched."
"By who…?"
Jeremy bit his lip, and opted to lie through his teeth, "Dunno. None'a the cameras caught it, but everything was quiet, then we heard the wall break, and when we checked, the wall was opened up an' the suit was gone."
The silence laid heavy and thick, and they both stood there, unmoving, for minutes that carried themselves like hours. Eventually, Shannon nodded, slowly, and turned away. "...I'll...tell Oswald about that," she murmured. She made good on that word, and left Jeremy alone to stare at the hole in the wall. He sighed, mainly because he couldn't believe Shannon had bought it.
"...What…?"
"You heard me."
Oswald's gaze remained transfixed on Mike and Jeremy, the silence between them all only punctuated by the occasional popping of the gum Mike was chewing on. The both of them, Oswald, and Shannon were cooped up in a small, antiquated office. The walls were made of polished oak, as was the floor. Behind Oswald, sitting at his desk, were two cabinets containing hundreds of books, mostly record files, though there were a couple in the vein of "How to Run a Successful Business." Jeremy and Mike sat in chairs in front of him, and Shannon stood at his right as well. The light coming from the window on Oswald's right lent a dull orange glow to the whole room. Shannon had, apparently, informed him of the missing suit, and had called Mike and Jeremy to his office. He didn't seem to be taking the news well, and Mike wasn't taking his reactions well either.
"You better not be talking about the 'Bonnie Rabbit' suit," Oswald growled.
"Sir, if I may-"
"Shut up!" Shannon recoiled and took a frightful step back before shakily adjusting her glasses. Oswald recomposed himself and sighed deeply. "...You two realize that if word of this ever gets out, that a murderer's costume's been stolen, the press is gonna have a field day with it."
Mike scoffed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and legs. "But you're still gonna cover the wall and cover it all up, right?" He smirked and flipped some hair out of his face before blowing another bubble. "'Cause that's what we're known for, if I ain't mistaken."
Oswald stared at Mike before lighting another cigar and taking one puff. "Know what? Maybe you're right. Thank God I've got that two-legged PR disaster out of my hair. Let someone else deal with it," Oswald said. "Now both of you get out of my office and stop wasting my goddamn time."
Mike had spent the past forty-five minutes mopping the floor, and by now his hair was glistening with sweat. He checked his watch. It was only ten after four. "This job suuuu-ucks," he muttered.
"Psst."
Mike looked up to see Freddy peeking out from behind the curtains of the stage, motioning for him to come over to them. It was a sight better than cleaning the floors, so he naturally bolted over and ducked backstage.
"What's up, boss?" Mike asked, gingerly propping himself up against a plastic column used for stage decoration.
Chica and Bonnie were waiting somewhere a few feet away from them, Bonnie entertaining himself with tuning his guitar. Freddy looked back at them, cleared his throat, and adjusted the cuff on his left sleeve. "You, erm...know that we're scheduled for maintenance tomorrow, right, son?"
Mike scoffed and nodded. He remembered the talking-to Oswald gave him a few days earlier, because, apparently, no one else wanted to stay in the same room as the "animatronics." He didn't blame them. "Santa's vodka-chuggin' uncle made me very well aware of that," he replied with a grin. He looked up with a bit more curiosity in his eye. "Speaking of, how the hell do you they even do that kinda stuff to you, anyway?"
"They don't." Freddy crossed his arms. "Whenever we're scheduled to be 'upgraded,' or otherwise get 'worked on,' we just wait for whoever's doin' the work to come into the back room an'-"
"Ice 'im?"
Bonnie heard Mike's comment and started snickering. Freddy, of course, sighed and rubbed his forehead. "No," he stated flatly, "We wait for'em to come in, close the door, and then someone knocks the guy out. Then we get Puppet in to work their magic an' he makes'em think everything's taken care of."
"And that means what to me?"
"You're the one who's gotta knock the next guy who comes in out cold," Freddy explained. "They've been gettin' the same...I think six folks t'come in an' try to fix us, and I imagine their reports're gonna start lookin' pretty stale by now. You gotta do the honors this time to spice it up. Try an' keep suspicion t' the min'mum, y'know." Freddy crossed his arms. "Believe me, I never liked doin' it, but we have'ta keep up appearances."
Mike nodded and sighed. "I get'cha, I get'cha." He shot a sideways glance up at Freddy. "You're an oversized teddy-bear, boss," he added jokingly, and left before Freddy could flash his eyes that spectral shade of blue.
Toy Foxy had been skulking around the same party room for over an hour and a half. Constantly circling through the shadows like a shark; she'd been watching Jeremy almost the whole time. Somehow, he hadn't noticed her eyes glowing faintly in the dark (thanks in part to the otherworldly energy permeating both her and the entire location), which she was banking on as a conversation starter.
Of course, Billy, Chica, and Blue kept telling her to just "go up and talk to him" instead of using cheap tactics, but they didn't get it. I can't just go up and 'talk' to him, she thought as she poked her head out from behind another booth to get another look at him. I don't...I don't know him well enough to just go up and...
She swallowed hard. ...Talk to him.
Jeremy had remained in the same seat he had been in since the nightshift started, still doodling away in his sketchbook, with his iPhone playing some of his favorite music from his childhood: Bad, I Wanna Dance with Somebody, Heaven is a Place on Earth, The River of Dreams...the list went on. He had been scribbling body and hand poses that came to mind.
Normally, sneaking around through the dark wasn't a problem for Toy Foxy, except for the fact that this time, she had her eyes mostly glued on Jeremy. That meant she wasn't always watching her step. Before she could even register what had happened, she felt something stop her from moving forward, and before she could change direction, she'd collided with the wall. Toy Foxy yelped, as quietly as she could, but the actual, dull *thud* she made on impact was pretty loud.
Loud enough to catch Jeremy's attention as his head shot up and he pulled out one of his guns from thin air. "Whozzat…?" he called.
Toy Foxy was frozen. If she came out of hiding, she'd be forced into conversation. If she didn't, Jeremy would most likely find her hiding in the dark like a creeper. "...Oh, God…" she whispered to herself.
She must have said that louder than she expected, because Jeremy scrambled up from his table and started moving forward. "I said whozzat? I know I heard somthin'." Toy Foxy continued to panic, trying to form a decent sentence that wouldn't rouse any suspicion from Jeremy to indicate she had been watching him longer than he expected.
"'I...I was watching you drawing…?'" she asked herself almost silently. "...No, J-Jeremy won't like that, um… 'I...got...distract-' No, he won'tbuy it...Maybe something about food…?" she muttered, "He could be hungry, um, 'Hi, Jeremy, I was, uh, on my way to th-the kitchen-"
She froze abruptly when a bright white light punctured the darkness, and quickly revealed her huddled up against the wall she'd bumped into. Toy Foxy whipped her head around to see Jeremy holding a ball of white light in the palm of his hand. Jeremy seemed surprised at first, but quickly relaxed and dimmed the light of the sphere he was holding, and even smiled, albeit weakly. "Heya, Cherry, what're y'all...what're y'all doin' down there?"
There were hundreds of thoughts racing through Toy Foxy's head, chief among them being "Ohgod ohgod ohgod, whatdoIdo?" After a minute of silence, her brain eventually stopped running itself in circles and she managed to focus. A little. Jeremy was still staring at her, though by now, he looked about ready to come closer and check on her. Toy Foxy blinked a couple times, and upon realizing there was no easy way out of this, took a deep breath and tried not to visibly shake.
"N...no…" she murmured. "I mean not...um…"
Jeremy quirked an eyebrow, but oddly enough, a smile crept across his lips. "Ah, right," he said, standing straight up, "y'all not the talkative one." He paused and then added, "Hey, y'all get up outta the dark, huh?"
Toy Foxy was still trying not to show she was sweating, but did as Jeremy asked, and took a couple tentative steps forward, then stopped. Jeremy motioned her closer after a second, and although still hesitant, she played along. After another few steps, she was right next to Jeremy, who quickly placed his hand on her shoulder and led her out into the well-lit area of the room; considering it happened so fast, she could feel her head spinning and struggled not to stare at him longer than five seconds. Jeremy sat back down at the table he'd been using and glanced back up at Toy Foxy. His neutral expression changed quickly. "Jesus, ma'am, ya'll look pale," Jeremy said with a small chuckle. "Or maybe it's your fur. Hard t'tell."
Toy Foxy felt her heart jump into her throat. She'd never been called "ma'am" before. Her delayed smile and laugh didn't really help her nerves, either.
He didn't notice her tense posture, but laughed after she did. Just to make him look like he was calmer than he was. Jeremy picked up his sketchpad and pencil again. He looked over at Toy Foxy, and pointed to the seat at his left, indicating for her to sit down. She gestured to herself, just to confirm if Jeremy meant her. He nodded, and she scampered into her seat.
And then she saw what Jeremy was drawing. His style was based in realism, with soft shadows, rough shapes, and liberal use of curves. The bodies he had drawn were human enough, but had varied shapes that could be seen through the lines: round, square, broad, skinny. She saw so much variation; it was an astoundingly different sight from all the kids' drawings that plastered the walls "...Wow…"
Jeremy looked up from his work suddenly, his concentration broken. "Huh?" Toy Foxy quickly whipped her head around and covered her mouth, and tried to hide her face turning bright red. Upon seeing her reaction, Jeremy couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "Relax," he said, "I ain't gonna bite ya. Takin' an interest in art?"
Toy Foxy didn't talk for awhile, but she nodded after a moment of silence, slowly looking back at Jeremy. She only hoped she wasn't blushing as brightly as before. "It...looks nice," she murmured. "I feel like I could...touch them."
Jeremy's eyes widened, and then he threw his head back and laughed. "Really? Shoot, my art ain't that good."
"...I think it is…" Toy Foxy muttered.
Jeremy heard her, and paused a moment before saying, "Well, thanks."
"Um, Jeremy?"
"Yeah?"
"I...I have a question-"
And then, just in time to cut her off, there was a loud *CRASH!* from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of panicked screaming, mainly from Chica, Toy Bonnie, Balloon Boy, and Freddy. Jeremy could also vaguely make out the word "fire" from the commotion. He bit his lip and looked back at Toy Foxy. "Can I, ah...get back to y'all on that?"
She blinked a couple times and raised her finger as to stop him, but relented in the end. Jeremy tipped his cap and turned, running out of the room as fast as he could. "Damn it, what did y'all do now!?"
Toy Foxy could only sigh as she watched him go.
The old complex was comprised of only one building and a moderately-sized warehouse attached to it. It had been condemned for years, and the most recent inhabitant that wasn't a small animal was a man in his twenties, who, at the moment, had just kicked the front door down. He was holding an animatronic suit over his shoulder, which he carried into the back of the building until he came to another door, clad in stainless steel. Without hesitating, Francisco tore the door open with his free hand and stepped inside, into a circular elevator.
And so he went down, below the surface of Earth and exited into a large waiting room. Royal blue paint was peeling off the walls, but unlike the mass amounts of debris and clutter upstairs, everything in this room had remained mostly the same. The chairs and benches on each side had only been coated in dust, never moved. He entered the double doors just ahead of him and came into a large hallway that looked much like the waiting room before: covered in dust and paint coming off the walls, but otherwise untouched.
The Old Man trudged his way down the hall, then took a right at a four-way stop. He continued all the way down, took another left, then entered another door on his right. The room was dark, but at this point, Francisco was being directed, and didn't need help opening the secret door in the back of the room. He slid his hand across the motion detector hidden in the wall. A small panel opened up, and he bent down to stare into it. A matrix lit up, though it stuttered at first, rusty from years of disuse. It scanned Francisco's eye...and rejected him.
"Oh, my bloody God-" he muttered. The Old Man proceeded to set the suit up against the wall and stepped through it like a ghost. On the other side was a manual control panel, which he had a look at and began punching commands into. The wall slid to the side, and he caught the animatronic suit before it could hit the floor. He picked it up again, but only carried it a few more feet before placing it on some kind of conveyor belt. It was at that point the Old Man released control, and Francisco yelped and spat, swatting a bunch of bugs and carcasses off his body.
"Ew, ew, ew, ew, fuckin' disgusting!" he cried. After he felt calm enough to stop swatting at the arms of his jacket he looked back up and stared at the suit laying on the conveyor, which seemed to be connected to a much larger machine, but the room was so close to pitch-black he could barely see.
Magnificent, isn't it? the Old Man mused.
"The rabbit, or whatever that thing is?" Francisco asked, pointing to the machine.
...Both.
Francisco scoffed and began to wander around, his eyes and sixth sense having grown used to the dark by now. "This is some workshop you got, old man."
Yes. Where some of my most profound projects were conceived, he explained. Ah...I remember them like it only happened yesterday.
"Whatever you say, pal," Francisco replied. He took another look around before continuing, "So, by the way...why did you have me deliver this scrap heap back here? You were never real specific on those details."
In less than in instant, the Old Man went back to piloting Francisco's body for him, walking around to a control panel for what could only be the massive machine in front of him. He pressed a few buttons, which brought a low hum up to sound throughout the room, and he kept working. After a few more button presses, The Old Man leaned over and pulled a lever down and back up.
Hundreds of lights turned on, revealing that this machine was more than just some sort of assembly line; there were tanks lining the walls, and the ceiling was higher than any other place in the building. Wires and tubes connected these tanks, all filled with something; they were made of steel, rusting but intact, but the sound of rushing liquid could easily be heard alongside the deep moaning of the machine.
"It still works…!" he exclaimed breathlessly. Without even a moment of hesitation, he ran Francisco's body over to the suit, and threw all its weight on the assembly line proper, and the conveyor belt did the rest. He watched it as it went along, through arches of steel and past robotic arms that at one point, built black miracles. This suit didn't need them. What it needed…
Was the A.T.O.M.
Eventually, the suit slid into the centerpiece of the whole machine, a giant, spherical titanium chamber with hundreds of wires and hydraulics running into it. There was a glass pane built into the front that allowed a slightline inside, but by now, it was broken wide open. Francisco, and the Old Man, didn't care. He saw the suit stop under the chamber, suspended a few feet over the conveyor, and it stopped abruptly. "Now we finish the job!" he exclaimed, reaching for a control panel to his left. He punched in several keys, coordinates, and miscellaneous instructions, and heard the mean rev up from a low moan to a dull roar.
In seconds, the entire tank lowered itself on top of the conveyor, groaning from the stress of disuse. Two sides of the belt split on the left and right to allow the sphere to envelop the animatronic completely. Ten hatches opened up, from inside the machine, blue lasers pointing out, aimed at ten places on the animatronic suit: the forehead, the shoulders, upper chest, two on the lower chest, and two on each leg. The lasers hadn't even remained still for a second before small, dagger-like arms shot out of the dark and lodged themselves into the fabric of the rotting suit; they started to drip with a dark-grey liquid.
"Excellent. We have enough Remnant, and then some," the Old Man chuckled to himself. "Of course, the process won't be complete without some…" He turned Francisco around and walked a couple steps away before pivoting on his heel and blasting the whole A.T.O.M. with violet energy. It sparked, and coursed throughout the whole system, penetrating the machine without damaging it. The energy surged, and Francisco started cackling.
"Some doctoring of our own!" He poured more concentration into the blast, and the lights surged outward as the mechanisms of the A.T.O.M. continued to work. The liquid in the arms was still being pumped through, being touched, coerced, and corrupted by the Old Man's will. By Now his cackling had subsided, replaced by his standard manic grin as he rasped, "My greatest project. My return to form. My magnum opus."
The suit's fingers twitched.
