AN: This chapter is brought to you by—Procrastination. Because why put off until tomorrow what you can instead put off until two months have passed?
Interesting as his jobs were, it was always nice to have a day off, every now and then. And Mike was taking the opportunity to, as it were:
"Whoo!" yelled Mike. "Party all day long!"
It was one o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and Mike, after having had dinner at a fancy restaurant that required a dress code, was spending the rest of the 'evening' at the zoo, marveling at the exotic animals, eating ridiculously overpriced junk food, running from the peacocks like a scared little baby, and then falling asleep in the aquarium building, just to see what would happen.
As it turned out, what happened when you fell asleep at the zoo in a three piece suit was that you awoke at eight in the evening, to the muffled conversation of a huddle of custodians. From the sound of things, they were debating the pros and cons of trying to steal his wallet versus waking him up. Cracking open an eye revealed that they had cordoned off the bench Mike was on with no fewer than five 'wet floor' signs.
A few bribes later and he was on his way.
Mike decided that he quite liked being a rich asshole.
Weekends couldn't last forever, though, and two days of wasted time later saw Mike back at the Organization for another night of guard duty.
Three hours of ignoring Golden's attempts to subvert him against the Organization and Mike decided to break for lunch.
In many ways, the Organization was a worse employer than even Freddy Fazbear's had been, Mike reflected, as he made his way through the halls. Their employees seemed to die even more frequently than the pizzeria's security guards had, and yet they still claimed to work for the benefit of humanity. The Organization Members were so secretive with their goals and their resources, that Mike wouldn't have been surprised in the least to learn that, in truth, there was no larger goal, or, if there were, that it had been forgotten a long time ago. And then there was their sheer ignorance about anything related to AI and their capabilities. Granted, Mike couldn't speak about other areas of expertise, such as demons or parahumans, but the fact that they were so very wrong about the one subject Mike had any experience with didn't bode well for their knowledge in other subject areas.
On the other hand, a lot of the Organization's important employees worked Night Shift, so the cafeteria was open when Mike wanted to use it.
Score one for the government.
Upon entering the cafeteria, Mike saw something that made him stop in his tracks.
All six of the animatronics were sitting at a table. Why? Dare he look to see what they were eating?
Thinking he could pull a one-eighty and walk straight back out, Mike spun around to face the door again.
Only to run straight into a familiar face.
"Hey, Schmidt," said Welles.
Mike was sidetracked by the unexpected appearance. "You're working nights?" he asked.
The man? elder god? Detective shook his head. "Just working late on a case. You leaving?"
"Eh..."
"New Mission: There's fifty bucks in it for you if you socialize," Bonnie sent him. "We could really use the intelligence."
"Just getting here actually," Mike said. "Thought I'd forgot my wallet, but..." he pulled it out of his pocket to show that he still had it. He fell into step with Welles and went to get in line. "How've you been?"
"Well, I'm here," said Welles, picking up a tray and then nearly dropping it. "It could be worse. Yourself?"
"Fan-tucking-fastic," said Mike, scowling immensely.
"Ah, right," said Welles in realization. "You had to deal with the containment shipment from Florida."
"We do not talk about Gatorgate," said Mike, as he piled fat and protein onto his tray.
"Sorry about that, by the way," said Welles, adding significantly healthier food to his own tray.
"Why?" said Mike. "it's not your fault..."
"Er..." said Welles, trailing off.
Mike gave him a side-glance.
"I was actually the one who cracked that case, so technically..."
Mike waved a hand, magnanimously. "Doesn't work like that," he said, now fishing out a credit card to pay for his food and handing it to the cashier.
After they'd both paid, Mike paused, trying to decide which would be the farthest table from the animatronics.
"Come on," said Welles, heading in precisely the wrong direction.
"That's not a corner away from everyone else," said Mike.
"You know, Schmidt, you could really stand to be more of a team player," said Welles, taking a seat next to the animatronics.
"Make that a hundred," sent Bonnie.
'Fuck my life,' thought Mike, approaching the table and pulling back a chair.
It was rather inconvenient that the weekend was over, Mike mused, as he shut the car door and walked across the parking lot towards the hospital, because that meant that now he didn't have the option of ignoring his problems nearly as easily as before.
He passed the new hires on his way to the Conference Room, and nodded to them in greeting. He had confirmed from the hospital records that the two of them were real, and not products of his glitched-out eye, but Mike didn't remember their names—those he'd have to look up later. One was a middle-aged woman who looked completely ordinary to Mike, except for the fact that her fingers all seemed to be capable of curling in any direction, and that she seemed to be able to invert which side of her hand had a palm and which side had tendons. Based on the metallic-silver nail polish she always wore, Mike was starting to suspect that she was an AI.
The other was a young heavyset man with impeccable fashion sense... except for his secondary-color tie-dye hair that clashed horribly with anything and everything he could possibly have worn.
Mike hadn't yet asked the Surgeon if other people saw them the same way that he did, but he probably should. Because while, theoretically, he could always look through his normal eye for the purposes of fact checking, Mike wasn't above believing that, if one eye could be tampered with, so could the other.
In addition, ever since learning that the Band might have been responsible for Mike's cyborg hallucinations of Welles, part of him had immediately and unquestioningly accepted it as truth.
Granted, Mike recognized that this impulsive part of his mind was often wrong about its assertions: the guy at Dairy Queen hadn't actually been an assassin from the CIA sent to slash his car tires (had to have been FBI); Global Warming was not an Illuminati ploy to reduce the world population (it was actually to increase population, and the number of wage slaves); and the Chuck E. Cheese robots did not, in fact, live on the flesh of children who'd drowned in the ball pit (it was the Fazbear animatronics. Who'd have known?).
… but knowing that they probably weren't true didn't make the theories feel any less true to Mike, if that made any sense at all.
Mike's usual method of dealing with his off-the-wall theories was to examine them in his mind from all plausible angles until they crumbled under force of sheer logic, while taking absolutely no action in the real world. Because, the more he talked about things like that, experience had taught him, the crazier people tended to take him for.
This time, though, things were different. Because this time, Mike had a partner in his conspiracy theorizing.
Mike hadn't even bothered to listen to Freddy's rant today, instead heading over to the Isis/Mane Operating Theater, where The Surgeon worked. Time to talk.
"Are you sure we can't just take the direct approach?" The Surgeon was saying, currently possessing the MRI machine.
"No way," said Mike, from where he was lying inside the machine, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the ceiling. "If they're not actually screwing around with my vision, it'll sow discord. And if it is true, then there's no way they'd admit to it."
"Are you really so convinced that your employers want to, ah, 'get rid of you'?'' said The Surgeon, over the knocking and vibrations of the machine. "It seems a rather irrational idea to me. Aren't you spying for them on the SCP Foundation?"
"Nah," said Mike. "I'm at some place that just calls itself 'The Organization.' At least, that's the only name us grunts know it by..."
"I'm fairly certain that it is part of the Foundation... or at least a branch of it. And you do realize that my point still stands?" said The Surgeon.
"No, of course I'm not convinced of it," said Mike, annoyed, "but I also haven't come across any other AI before. If I were going to switch sides, I now have that option... and it might be worth looking into."
Silence fell once more from the machine before The Surgeon made its answer. "Continue," it said, making no comment on the idea of Mike turning traitor.
"The thing is," said Mike, "I specifically told them that I didn't want to be distracted while on the job. If they pulled that octopus stunt after I told them, in no uncertain terms, that I was worried about being compromised... it's really mean-spirited and, frankly, very hostile."
The Surgeon considered that. "Have you rejected my theory about this being intended as a joke, then?"
"Well..." said Mike, drawing out the word as he thought it over. "No. I haven't. They do have a pretty... singular, sense of humor. And a history of getting people killed through misunderstanding."
"Oh?"
Three Weeks Ago:
Ever since they'd gotten a secure line into Mike's head, the animatronics had been giving Mike 'missions' which seemed to be related to maintaining their human facade.
One, for example, had been to watch a series of movies in view of a mirror. Mike thought that was probably so that they could get better at mimicking human emotional reactions.
Another had been to go out to a sports bar during a particularly heated game.
Several of the missions had simply been to go out into public places and people-watch for an hour or two.
Missions automatically counted as overtime, so Mike completed them with all the enthusiasm of a loot-rich side-quest.
Sometimes, however, he suspected that they were just screwing with him.
"New mission: refuse this mission," they had sent him.
Okay, mission refused.
… which meant he was accepting the mission, crap.
But if he said 'yes', trying to accept the mission, then he was accepting the mission to refuse the mission, and he'd failed by accepting it in the first place.
Wait a minute...
"Hardy Har har," sent Mike.
Two Weeks Ago:
Mike walked into the board room, to see all the animatronics wearing old android models and watching a movie.
"How are we gonna get out of here?" one of the characters was saying. "All these doors are electrically powered."
"Hi, Mike!" said Chica.
"Jesus Christ," said Mike, staring. They hardly ever used vocal communication, and Mike was startled by the fact that they were using it now. The wave Freddy was giving him was done using a hand that was at least three times larger than normal.
Bonnie was wearing a foam finger which read 'Go Team Silicon!'
Mike backed out of the room, slowly.
"I don't even wanna know," he said, closing the door carefully behind him.
Present:
Mike Schmidt removed his hands from his face and instead ran them through his hair.
"They're all motherfuckin' trolls," said Mike.
"Trolls?" said The Surgeon, to itself. "Ah, Antagonists. Insurgents," it said, probably looking up the reference online. "To what degree?" it continued.
"The highest degree," said Mike, who had wasted way too many hours trying to figure their motives out.
"Interesting," said the Surgeon. "Well then, if you were planning on joining me, my own goal is to advance the art of medical science. … and If your ambitions lie with those of your own species," it said, delicately, "I would assume that the agenda of your own 'Organization' should be clear enough to you."
"You're into research?" said Mike in surprise. "Huh, I would have thought any interest in you had in anatomy would be more, uh... mechanical?"
The Surgeon took offense to that. "I see," it said, tone turning frosty. "So, an Organic can find machinery absolutely fascinating, but an Inorganic can't feel the same way about biology?"
Mike considered the point, eventually nodding. "Fair enough."
"Of course," The Surgeon continued, ''mine will never be the most profitable of enterprises, so I'm not sure how much appeal it would hold for you."
He'd thought that doctors usually made money by the bucket, but considering that Mike had yet to be charged by The Surgeon for any services rendered, he could see where money might get scarce. "Yeah," said Mike in agreement. "I'm in it for the cash, so I'll probably stick with The Band. But... It's always nice to have options."
He sighed.
"Ya know, ever since I got this job," said Mike, "I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. There's no such thing as a free lunch, and some deals are just too good to be true. I know a lot more about my employers than they're probably comfortable with. They get rid of me, and a lot of potential problems for them will just vanish into the ether."
Here, Mike spoke with reluctant gratitude. He didn't like owing people, and even less if he had to admit to it. "What I don't think any of us ever envisioned is that there might be people outside the five of us interested my welfare. So... thanks. For caring and shit."
"You are welcome."
After this, there were several minutes of silence.
"By the way," said Mike, "isn't the metal in my head going to screw with the MRI?"
"There is no metal in your new eye, Schmidt," said The Surgeon. "At any rate, if we were going by normal rules, then you wouldn't be allowed to speak or move during the imaging portion. As you might imagine, things are a bit... different, in this particular instance."
"How so?" asked Mike.
"As I am the one doing the imaging, you could break dance in there for all I care, so long as the equipment remains undamaged."
The bed slid out of the machine and Mike sat up. "How's it looking?"
The Surgeon shook Choriatti's head. "I've run every plausible test, both biological and mechanical, but can find no medical reason for your altered vision."
"Well, crap," said Mike.
"As you have theorized," said The Surgeon, "This problem could also be psychological or psychosomatic. If this is so, then your sense of sight might correct itself, in time."
"All right," said Mike. "Thanks."
Just then, he got a text from Freddy, asking Mike to see him before he left the hospital for the day.
"Well, the boss wants something. I'll see you later."
"Have a nice day, Mike. Try not to overthink things"
Feeling no urgency whatsoever, Mike meandered his way over to The Band's research lab, inside which were, Mike estimated, twenty-five people.
Twenty or so of them were Bonnie, testing the limits of how many avatars he could control at once and still merge into a cohesive whole afterwards. Each of them was performing a different task, with varying degrees of success.
Chica was designing a new body for herself, with Swiss Army arms that would seriously overbalance the android, but which looked completely awesome, nonetheless.
Foxy was recording range of motion with his cyborg combat body. Foxy didn't have the talent for mirroring his program that Bonnie seemed to possess, and having biological components meant a constant input of energy was required to keep them 'fed' and healthy. This sometimes meant splitting his processing power to control multiple avatars, as well as designing special 'recharging stations' which kept his bodies in good working condition, both mechanically and biologically. It was a lot of extra work, but it allowed him to access advantages that most would have considered purely biological: a sense of smell, venom, and enough buoyancy and water-resistance to allow swimming.
They were really starting to branch out into their own talents and personal interests. The thought occurred to Mike that it could be only one or two of them that was screwing with his sight, if it was even them in the first place.
"Anybody seen Freddy?" Mike asked.
Five or six Bonnies pointed to the machine shop.
"Thanks," said Mike, making his way to the back of the lab.
"What's up, Fazzie?" said Mike, closing the door behind him to block out some of the noise from the main lab. He waved at Freddy's android before taking a seat and helping himself to the cup of ballpoint pens sitting on the drafting table. Mike then proceeded to unscrew them and begin the process of switching all the blue and black ink cartridges, while he listened halfheartedly to whatever it was his employer had called him in for. Man, he just wanted to go home and sleep.
"Mike, my boy," sent Freddy. "How have you been?"
"Not too bad," said Mike. One of the pens was red. Jackpot. "Yourself?"
"Very well." sent Freddy. "Very well indeed."
"Oh?"
Freddy smiled at him. He still didn't have the expression down completely. "Finally finished a project I've been working on."
Footsteps sounded from the other side of the room. Presumably, Freddy had created a new body for himself. Must have wanted Mike's opinion on it.
Mike obligingly looked up from his island of dismantled pens.
And met the gaze of a robotic replica of himself.
"What's this for?" Mike asked, hoping like hell that his first guess was wrong.
Freddy chuckled aloud: the same creepy laugh he'd always used back at Fazbear's Pizza. "We have made our own security guard, Mike," he sent. "You are no longer necessary."
Shit. "What's it really for?" he asked, as a last ditch Hail Mary.
Freddy just chuckled, darkly. This one was much closer to human, and all the more unsettling for that fact. Fuck.
Mike flinched. His eyes went to the door, gauging distance. It would probably be locked, anyway. Double fuck.
Even if he did get out, there was nothing good waiting for him on the other side. It was a trap, and he had walked straight into it. Triple scoop of fuck with shit on top.
Sure enough, Mike heard something start banging on the door from the outside. If he were still at Freddy's, then it would have been Foxy. He was the only one who ever pounded on the door...
"He has over thirty phrases and quips programmed in," continued Freddy, nodding at robo-Mike, still maintaining the facade of a pleasant conversation.
"Hello," said the robot, in a pitch-perfect imitation. "My name is Mike Schmidt, and I'm an asshole."
Even through the rapidly mounting panic and adrenaline, Mike still felt insulted.
"You have no human friends, no contact with family to speak of," Freddy went on. "I doubt that anyone will be able to tell the difference."
"Fuck the police," agreed robo-Mike.
Mike carefully sucked in a breath, then let it out again. There wasn't any point in hyperventilating. It couldn't possibly improve the situation in the slightest.
The banging on the door had given way to the sound of someone operating machinery on the other side of it. Oh fuck, they had power tools.
"I expected to have this done months ago," said Freddy. "So sad about the delay. Ah well, we're back on schedule now, so no harm done."
Freddy grinned widely and took a step towards Mike.
The door splintered and broke apart. Mike froze. Stupid flashbacks. He really should be running for it.
Standing in the doorway were Chica, and Foxy, and behind those two were all of the Bonnies.
The intent was the same from all of them, but Foxy, as always, was the fastest. He took hold, got a firm grip on his target.
And then shoved Freddy's android into one of the ventilation ducts. Not one that was big enough for a human to fit inside, incidentally. And he didn't remove the grille on the front before he did so.
As a result, Freddy's avatar was turned into a shredded pastiche of plastic, metal, and coolant.
Chica stormed out of the room, dragging one Bonnie with her on each of her arms, and shortly after followed the sound of smashing from the main lab. Presumably, Freddy's other androids were receiving the same treatment.
"Mike, we are so sorry about this," Bonnie was sending.
"I don't know what that lunatic was thinking," added a different Bonnie.
More messages joined the rest, until Mike couldn't keep up with the pace and decided to ignore them.
Mike just stared. Like everything to do with The Band, things had happened far too quickly for him to properly react to them.
He turned to robo-Mike, who was probably Freddy, since he didn't think that they'd created anyone else recently. "What was that about?" he demanded.
Robo-Mike held up his hands. "It was a joke," he said. "They simply took it too seriously."
Mike sure as shit didn't believe that. The others' reactions were way too overblown, if that had been the case. The interesting thing was that Freddy, for once, didn't seem to speak for all of them.
Bonnie grabbed Robo-Mike by the skull. "Vacate the android," he ordered. "We need to talk."
Freddy complied, and Robo-Mike's eyes went translucent.
Not even a second later, all of Bonnie's androids followed suit.
Going back out into the main lab, Mike saw that the same was true of Foxy and Chica.
One of the Bonnie's reactivated. "Sorry," he sent. "Forgot you might have questions."
"A few come to mind, yeah," said Mike, looking at his robot doppelganger. "First off, what's that really for?"
Bonnie sighed. "When you inevitably decide that going to work everyday like a normal person is too much trouble, one of us can go in your place, and we won't have to miss out on a day's worth of reconnaissance."
He considered it. "I'd say I was insulted," Mike began, "but that would imply that I'm not taking the next week off."
Mike left the room shortly afterwards, not quite feeling his legs underneath him.
Well then, so much for sleeping.
His house was full of robots and Mike was way too paranoid to let his guard down after what had just happened to him, and how it had dredged up what had happened to him far too many times before that.
He may not have had to go to work that night, but, based on previous experience, he was probably going to need that entire week off just to regain his emotional equilibrium. Goodbye regular sleep schedule, hello insomnia and sleep-deprived hallucinations.
Maybe he should go to a bar and drink himself into a stupor first.
Nah, might say something he'd regret. He'd always been a bitchy drunk.
Forget alcohol, just being able to get some distance from all this would have helped immensely. But it wasn't like he had human friends with couches he could crash on to get away from his problems, which was a goddamned shame. And it wasn't like he could trust any of the AI he knew not to eviscerate him while he was unconscious...
... hold the motherfucking phone.
After pulling on an eyepatch, Mike went straight back to The Surgeon's exam room. He then faceplanted on the MRI bed and curled up into the fetal position.
"Mike?" said the voice of The Surgeon. "Aren't you off for the day? I thought that you were going home to get some rest."
Mike considered answering the question and decided, on balance, that it was a good idea to roll over and stare at the ceiling, as though it were missing something obvious.
"This is my bed," Mike announced, "I sleep here now."
