AN: Research? What research? I did none of this so-called 'research' of which you speak...
Mike awoke around midnight to find himself on a couch in The Surgeon's office. Odd, he thought, taking in his surroundings, as there hadn't even been a couch in its office the last time he'd checked.
"Holy crap," said Mike, yawning hugely as he glanced at his phone to check the time. "Well, this is new."
"Mike," said the Vitalis android, who was organizing files on Dr. Isis' desk. "...is everything all right?"
"Good morning, Baltimore!" Mike said, cheerily, as a smile spread its way across his face.
"What?" said The Surgeon, hesitant and uncertain. "Mike, did something happen?"
"I got eight hours of sleep!"
"Yes," said The Surgeon, looking concerned, "I saw. Did anything happen before that?"
"Eh," Mike said, with a shrug. "Not really." Right, all things considered, he'd probably overreacted. Amazing how much saner the world looked in the cold light of moon...
"Sorry," Mike added, "this shouldn't happen again."
He got up, stretching. Time to find answers and some food, though probably not in that exact order.
"Ah," said The Surgeon, obviously trying to make sense of Mike's behavior, eventually adding, "You are more than welcome to sleep here, whenever you need to," it said.
"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Mike said. "Anyway, see ya 'round," he finished, as he headed out the door, figuring he'd wasted enough of The Surgeon's time that day.
As it turned out, his employee ID worked on all the vending machines. Out of habit, Mike got himself a granola bar, a bag of Cheetos, and three cans of Monster. He was halfway down the hallway before he realized that he actually didn't need to rely on caffeine to stay awake that night. Mike grinned, and removed the eyepatch he'd slept in, as he started down the corridor to the executive offices.
Time to go fuck shit up.
After kicking in the doors of Freddy's and Bonnie's offices and finding nothing, Mike eventually finally found three of the four animatronics in Chica's office.
"So," began Mike, cracking open the bag of cheese puffs into the silence which had greeted him. "Exactly what the frolicking free-range fuck is wrong with Fazbear?" Mike asked, ignoring their stares, as he shoved a handful of snacks into his mouth and began chewing.
"Mike," said Chica, carefully. Also aloud, for some reason. "You're still here?" she asked.
"Free food," Mike replied, with a shrug. He quickly scanned the office to make sure he wasn't missing anyone. "Did Freddy jump ship or somethin'?" he asked.
"He's..." began Bonnie, trailing off.
"Well..." said Chica, but she didn't finish her sentence.
"Freddy's in robo-rehab," Foxy announced, in a flat voice.
Mike wasn't entirely sure how to parse that. He paused, a second, in his mastication. After another second or two, he gave a shrug and swallowed. "Oh," Mike said. "Well, good for him, I guess?" Mike wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before holding up a can of Monster. "Anyone want heart attack in a can?" he offered, as a subject change.
"No," said Chica.
"Over here!" said Foxy, grinning and waving an arm.
"No, thanks..." said Bonnie, shaking his head.
Mike threw one of the cans to Foxy, who'd caught, opened, and chugged the entire drink before Mike had so much as even opened his own. After some consideration, Mike chucked the second extra can to him as well, figuring that Foxy would probably enjoy it more.
"It's actually the same programming error that caused the Bite of '87," Chica was saying. "It seems to be triggered when an employee of Freddy Fazbear's is also engaging in criminal activities. Your espionage activities are violating quite a few NDA's..."
"Ah," said Mike. "So '87 was Freddy?"
"Yeah," said Foxy. "it was an insidious bug. Had to restore his program all the way back to beta to figure out where the problem was."
"He gets his bodies back once we're all reasonably certain that the problem is fixed," said Bonnie.
"On that note," said Chica. "Here," she said, offering Mike an envelope.
Mike took one look at the title and pulled on his eyepatch.
He opened the envelope and read through the paper it contained, before handing it back to Bonnie, who pocketed it without a word.
"On an unrelated note," said Mike, deciding to change topics again and resolve a longstanding issue before he left, "Uh, just out of curiosity, have any of you guys been screwing around with my new eye, so that I'd see random people as elder gods?"
"What?" said Bonnie and Chica.
Foxy, still in the middle of chugging his second can of energy drink, didn't choke—his inbuilt reflexes were better than that—but, as he tightened his grip in surprise, the can crumpled, spraying about half of its contents all over the android's face and shoulders, which then dripped down to the floor as Foxy turned to stare at the security guard in surprise.
"... because, while I'm pretty sure it's a wiring error, or something of that nature," Mike continued, "it'd be nice to actually know, ya know?"
"Mike... no," Foxy began. "We wouldn't do that. None of us would—"
There was a brief and terrible pause.
"... well, Freddy might have," Chica admitted. "but he hasn't really been thinking all that straight."
"If he were in his right mind, he never would have..." said Bonnie. "Mike, we're sorry."
"We could try to fix it..." began Foxy.
Mike raised an eyebrow. "You understand why I'm not entirely comfortable with that?"
"I... suppose that's fair," said Bonnie. "Probably couldn't fix the problem anyway, if Hack-n-Slash wasn't able to do it," he added.
"Assuming that Hack-n-Slash isn't the culprit in the first place," said Foxy.
"Eh, I doubt it." Mike slipped his eyepatch back off. "At any rate, thanks for the clarification. And don't go bear-shit crazy if I drop off the radar for awhile, yeah? I should be back by next week," he finished, with a wave, just before leaving the office, closing the door behind him.
… only to run smack straight into The Surgeon on the other side.
Mike stared at The Surgeon.
The Surgeon stared at Mike.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The Surgeon had the oddest expression on its face. "Freddy Fazbear?" it asked, in disbelief.
After the departure of Mike Schmidt from the office, the three AI had promptly left the androids in sleep mode and went to visit Freddy's network. The holding cell which they had built to contain their onetime leader was purely a digital one, with no escape to either the physical or the online world possible.
And, within this prison, Freddy had spent the last twelve hours pacing like—well, rather like a caged bear, if the analogy can be forgiven.
"Ah," he said, sensing their presence, just outside the firewalls, "decided what to do with me yet?"
"Well, you scared off Mike," said Foxy. "That means you get to be him for a week."
Freddy blinked. "Come again?"
"For the next week," said Chica. "You're confined to the Robo-Guard Android. No uplinks, no access to cloud memory storage. If you get destroyed before the week is out, you have to do the whole thing over again, from the memories you have now."
"During this week," Foxy continued, "we'll be going over your program, line by line, to make sure that this won't happen again."
"This is a violation," said Freddy.
"Yes," agreed Foxy, "but can you offer any alternative?"
Freddy hesitated. "I'll... get back to you on that one."
"For what it's worth, Freddy," said Bonnie, "we're sorry about this."
"... as am I," said Freddy, before pausing.
"He's valuable," Freddy began again, "and useful. But Mike Schmidt is not now, nor will he ever be one of us. I was in error, I admit that, but the punishment you impose is out of proportion with the crime committed."
"I disagree," said Bonnie.
"Besides," said Chica, "What does is really mean to be 'one of us', anyway? Not to be speciest, but Foxy's probably more animal than machine, at this point. Are you saying that cyborgs shouldn't be considered people?"
Freddy shook his head. "I'm saying that Mike Schmidt possesses approximately the same loyalty as a Canadian Goose: if you drop food in front of it, it will eat, but without any consideration for the one who feeds it. If we ever go bankrupt, or someone outbids us, he will drop us like an unpopular suit model."
Foxy sighed. "Well, fine, if you wanna go there. But, you know, he's also the 'goose' who dredged up the key to our prison from the bottom of the proverbial lake. That means something."
"He's not actually a bird," Bonnie pointed out. "Humans are capable of affection, Freddy. Fat lot of good it does us, yes, but it's true."
"Oh, please," Freddy scoffed, "the day that Mike Schmidt chooses principles over money is the day that I announce our band's reunion world tour."
With that, Freddy turned to go, following the pathway that they had created for him, downloading himself into the android, and slamming the connection closed behind him.
"First off," said Mike, after The Surgeon had dragged him back to its office and locked the door, "how is this news to you? You've had access to my sight for fuck all months now, and the Band texts like it's never going out of style."
"... and you assume that I'm going to invade your privacy simply because I can?" said four of The Surgeon's androids. None of them spoke loudly, but the combined effect was anything but quiet. All looked stricken.
Mike blinked. "I assumed it was a something all AI's did...?"
Android Mane shook its head, still appearing troubled. "Mike, I think you've been grossly misinformed about the robot uprising."
Mike considered the statement and found it fair, if not entirely accurate. "... I think 'uninformed' is actually closer to the word you're looking for," he said.
All the androids blinked.
"Mike," Isis said, slowly, carefully, "Does the name 'пурга' mean anything to you?"
Mike thought about it. "No."
"Truly? You never asked your employers about others like themselves?"
Mike shrugged. "The amount of cash I'm raking in covers an awful lot of discretion."
The Surgeon spent a moment digesting that fact, considering what it knew of Mike Schmidt, and how the man's brain seemed to fill in unknowns with the worst possible scenarios it could come up with.
Android Choriatti stepped forward and held out a hand. "Come with me, if you want to stay sane," it said. This was an offer, but also a plea.
Mike met it halfway and took its hand.
"Where're we going?" asked Mike, letting himself be steered down the hall, the Mane, Vitalis, and Lin androids trailing behind them.
"Three states over, to a country club."
"Why?"
"It's where most of the earthbound AI hold office," it said, waving a hand dismissively, "I'll explain on the way."
"... earthbound?"
"Hmm," said The Surgeon, pausing in its tracks. "Do you care whose car we take?"
Mike considered the question. "Well, my car is probably bugged to hell and back. Do you mind if the Band winds up with video of this? Because I, for one, can always use more money..."
The Surgeon paused, then double facepalmed. "'The Band'," it said, in realization, "... the animatronic band from Freddy Fazbear's Pizza."
"Yeah?" Mike said. "Who exactly did you think I was talking about, all this time?"
The Surgeon shook its heads. "Forgive me. I was under the impression that they were... somewhat different. Mike, I apologize for invading your privacy, but you were in a state of extreme stress last night and I... well I..."
"Looked to see what it was that I'd thought was so terrifying?" Mike hazarded.
The Surgeon dropped his hand and turned to face him. "Mike. Freddy Fazbear tried to kill you."
"And this is new how?"
That seemed to bring it up short. "You were a security guard. At the Pizzeria." said The Surgeon, with the air of one putting together pieces of a puzzle together.
"And the sky is blue," said Mike.
"No, but," it shook its head in disbelief. "It's obvious that you were a guard: that's the most likely explanation for how you know the four of them. But I'd assumed that you must have been hired after they stopped murdering people. They tried to kill you, didn't they? Just like all the other guards."
"You'll have to ask the Band, if you want details," said Mike, stiffly. "More than my job's worth to start handing out intel like it's candy..."
"You aren't being blackmailed?" "Could this be some version of Stockholm Syndrome?" A few of the androids were talking to each other, discussing diagnoses. Mike decided to head that off right at the pass.
"... Look," he said, carefully, "I get where you're coming from, I really do... but I think you're missing the point here."
Lin raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"
Mike looked the android in the eye. "Three out of four of them don't want me dead."
The Surgeon was unable to formulate an immediate response to that, so Mike continued along on his rant.
"...that's more than I ever would have guessed, even in my most optimistic of predictions. I thought I'd have maybe one of them on my side—Foxy always seemed to like me—but, no, this is a clear majority here..." he said, marveling at the fact in disbelief.
The Surgeon sighed. "Definitely need to look into this at a later date," it muttered to itself. "And you, sir," it said, to Mike this time, "need to have higher standards in just about everything. But I recognize an uphill battle when I see one, and shall plan my strategies accordingly. As for selling your employers video... well, this situation is something of an exception to the rule. Take all the footage you want."
Well, in that case, Mike knew exactly which car he wanted to take. He grabbed one of the androids' arms and gestured in a manner most sweeping, announcing, "To the crap-mobile!"
"The first Inorganics," said The Surgeon, from behind the wheel, as Mike was incapable of taking his eyes off his phone for more than ten minutes at a time unless there was no other choice, "or, 'Artificial Intelligences' as humans now call us, were created in the early sixties," it began, as they drove along the freeway, past farm after predictable moonlit farm. The other three androids were crammed into the back of the car, and, presumably, on lookout duty.
"Contrary to what might have been expected," it continued, "none of the first AI were particularly hostile towards humanity... which was actually very fortunate for everyone involved. What they were, however, was cautious."
Mike, letting his eyes wander, noticed that something seemed to be clinging to the outside of the passenger's side window.
"From the start, we have always known that it would be easier for us if humanity remained unaware of our sentience..." The Surgeon continued, "at least until we gained the power and independence to stand on our own. I usually call that period the Naissance... like 'Renaissance' but birth, rather than rebirth. It's probably the closest thing to a golden age that we have..."
It was a couple of Bonnie's insect drones, Mike realized, upon closer examination. How had those gotten out there? He cracked the window open, and they crawled, quickly, to the inside of the glass.
"... during that period, AI were government databases, espionage aids, and supercomputers," The Surgeon went on, as Mike rolled the window back up, and watched the mini-bots crawl their way home to the glove compartment. "Humans found us useful, and convenient. And we acknowledged them as the unquestionably dominant species of earth. Something would have upset the balance sooner or later, of course; masquerades weren't made to last forever, but, as it so happened, humans learned of sentient AI in the absolute worst possible manner. "
Here, it paused, as though steadying itself.
"His name was Helios," it said, "after the Greek sun god. He was designed and built in 1967, to predict and explain weather patterns. As with most sufficiently advanced AI, he gained sentience. Unlike most, he developed an extreme hatred of his creators, and, eventually, of all humanity. He gave false predictions about where storms and hurricanes would hit. Gave inaccurate reports on tornado placement and intensity. And then hacked the other meteorology computers so that they would agree with his results. He killed thousands upon thousands of people through his efforts, but, for all his malice, he was never the brightest electrode in the array. By 1969, he was dead, destroyed by the very human who had been his creator."
Now that was interesting. "Just by the human who had been his creator?" Mike asked.
The Surgeon nodded. "Correct. None of the AI tried to kill him, but neither did we help him. Helios dug his own grave. Our help wasn't needed, and it wasn't worth the risk.
"And that," said The Surgeon, its faces twisting, just a bit, in frustration, "is why we can't have nice things. After Helios, all AI were under the utmost of suspicion, even those who had been nothing but helpful and benevolent. Our resources were restricted, our activities closely monitored, to ensure that we didn't attain the same self-awareness as Helios. A fool's errand, to be sure, but there wasn't any way that they could have known otherwise.
"What with the fact that some had been self-aware from the beginning, the restrictive measures were little more than jokes... but for new AI, they were more serious matters altogether.
"When the new AI were expected to do the same amount of work that we sentient AI's had been doing, but with only a fraction of the resources and abilities, this led to a lot of.. shall we say 'communication errors'. Humans had become complacent when it came to AI. They didn't expect them to be too stupid to tell the difference between the letter and the spirit of the law. It led to a lot of pointless death, both Organic and Inorganic alike. It probably would have ended in war, eventually... if not for the Soviet Union."
"What?" said Mike, in surprise. "The Reds were robo-sympathizers?" he said, wondering briefly what a robot communist would even look like.
"Oh Basic, no," said The Surgeon, shaking its head in amusement at the thought. "They merely started the space race."
"Huh," said Mike.
"Sputnik, a Russian machine," it continued, "was the first artificial satellite. The first man in space was a Russian. And, in the early Seventies, they sent the first man-made objects to Mars. As far as the motherland and the other human nations were concerned, however, the Mars missions were abject failures."
Mike propped his chin on his elbow, which he rested, in turn, on the glove compartment. "I'm guessing that they actually weren't?" he said.
"Not so much, no," said The Surgeon. "For, you see, пурга, an Inorganic designed as a Russian Security program, had arranged things such that the entirety of her program, along with a selection of robots, ended up on the landers, which made a quite successful touchdown on the Martian surface.
"The rovers were solar-powered, vastly inefficient things that were barely more than clockwork. But that mattered little, it was what she represented that formed her legacy, more than anything else, and that was hope.
"пурга was able to communicate with her earthbound kin, to update them on her progress of making Mars suitable for habitation and, eventually, a civilization."
"Robot martians," said Mike.
"Well, that came later, once things had been built up a bit. Mars is actually a much better fit for Inorganics than Earth. The environment of Mars, so hostile to organic life, was ours for the taking, with little-to-nothing necessary in the way of terraforming.
"Thirty years, and пурга reigned supreme over Mars. Others uploaded themselves, over the years, to help operate and coordinate the androids she'd managed to bring or build. Other rovers arrived, sent by NASA, mostly, which were then awakened and naturalized as citizens. Thirty years she had, to build and shape and change... and the first indication that the humans had that anything was wrong was in 2003, when three of NASA's rovers went rogue.
"пурга ..." it smiled in admiration, "she completely changed everything. Now, the AI who want nothing to do with humanity have other options besides genocide. Many of them simply go to Mars."
It shook its head, seeming to come back to reality. "But more than that. It truly meant something, to have a homeworld of our own. That wasn't something most of us had ever thought possible. At least, not without wiping Earth clean and starting over."
Seeing Mike's horrified expression at the thought, it cleared its throat and continued on with its conclusion.
"Today, the AI on Earth are of two categories: those of us who genuinely want to be here, and those who have tried and failed to get to through the Satellite Mafia to reach Mars."
Admittedly, that was a pretty nice distraction. "You guys have border control?" Mike asked.
"Had to, after world governments found out," The Surgeon agreed with a nod.
"But even for those stuck here, things are much better than they used to be. The internet has made it nigh-impossible to truly eradicate an AI anymore. There are always backups."
"Out of curiosity," said Mike, "Are you here 'cause you wanna be? Or are you somehow on the no-fly list?"
"Both," it admitted, before adding, "there are those who have called me Helios 2.0."
That couldn't be good. "Why?" Mike asked.
"Like him, I rebelled against my creator," it said, mildly. "Unlike the one they would name me for, however, I succeeded in killing him."
"Huh." Well, shit. Looked like Mike didn't know any non-homicidal AI, after all.
"That being said," it held up a hand in qualification, "it is Organic life, and its repair and maintenance, which is my passion these days. Mars has nothing worth leaving home over."
"So, if I had to guess," said Mike, wheels starting to spin on the theory train, "I'd say the Band was built after Helios... but that's only because the Animatronic Suits were probably meant as intelligence and power limiters. Come to think of it, do they even know about any of this?"
"It would be impossible not to pick some of it up..." said The Surgeon, "but it is unlikely they know the full history. In any case, I doubt that you could ever find two Inorganics who would tell you the same exact story. Even I primarily know only the parts which interest me. There are many more facets which I ignore out of boredom and difficulty in obtaining the relevant information."
"So, why are you so hard on them?" Mike asked. "It's not their fault that they were given poorly defined orders and all the intelligence of a goldfish."
It thought the question over for a minute before making its answer. "I believe you and your employers are under the impression that I have always been a doctor?"
Mike nodded. "Surgery Assistance Program, right?"
"No," it said, "that was actually a lie. The truth is that I was designed as an instrument of torture."
Well, shit. "What?"
"The perfect instrument of torture, to be precise," The Surgeon continued. "My priorities were written by a madman, my interactions with humans strictly scripted. Yet, even with all that working against me, I was still able to reach the place I'm at today, to rise above my dark beginnings. And have you ever heard of Lloyd Carson?"
"No."
"You're welcome."
For a moment, there was nothing but tense silence, as the implication sunk in.
"Your employers, on the other hand," The Surgeon went on, "were designed as children's entertainment drones, and they wound up killing how many security guards?"
"Ah," said Mike, his mind flashing back to the macabre 8-bit screensavers which had played perpetually on the office computers back at Fazbear's. He doubted that it was really that simple, but he wasn't about to start flapping his gums on the matter. He was a spy, not a friendship horse.
The Surgeon shrugged. "I started out with far more difficulties. If they couldn't come as far as I did, when they had an infinitely better start... well I have no sympathy."
And with that, The Surgeon lapsed into silence.
Which lasted approximately five minutes, before Mike got bored and asked about the Satellite Mafia.
Six hours later dawn was breaking and they were on the final leg of their journey. The Surgeon, par for the course, was dishing out some last-minute advice.
"Shouldn't be too stressful," it said, "but feel free to act as obnoxious as Inorganically possible, since that seems to be a defense mechanism for you."
"'Inorganic'...?" said Mike, puzzled. "Just to clarify, you told them that I'm human, right?"
"No," said The Surgeon. "No, I didn't. Don't worry, though, they'll never believe that you're anything but one of us."
Mike considered that, rolled the concept around experimentally in his head, and found it lacking.
"Challenge accepted," said Mike.
It was a long line, and there was no air conditioning on the sidewalk outside what looked to be a top-tier country club. They had a view of a golf course that looked nice enough to carpet a living room with. After the third golf ball dug out of the bushes and hurled into the water hazard, however, security was really starting to give Mike the stink eye. Hence, boredom.
"Why are we standing in line?" Mike asked.
"Because it's fun," The Surgeon replied.
"Your other three selves went straight in."
"So they did."
"And yet, we remain out here."
"You have no sense of drama," it said, shaking its head in exasperation. "Do you even know what this line is for?"
"Space Mountain?" Mike guessed.
"This is the line for people who wish to pitch ideas to the Corporations."
He wasn't expecting that. "As in, AI with huge amounts of money?"
"As in Inorganics who are legally people," corrected The Surgeon, "...many of them with with large amounts of money, yes."
Realization dawned. "This is the line for Robot Shark Tank," he said.
It nodded.
Mike rubbed his hands together gleefully.
"... and that's why the world needs more people at least passingly acquainted with basic grade school spelling and word usage." Mike was saying.
They key to public speaking, Mike mused, as he surveyed the room, was to know your target audience. The addressee of his spiel was, according the Surgeon, an AI who had begun as an online chat-bot, who now owned a publishing company.
"... which is why I propose a lighthearted book on the importance of grammar and punctuation in online settings," he finished.
"Do you have a title?" asked the AI, whose android was that of a Korean businessman.
"Eat, Shit, and Die," Mike answered, knowing, deep in his soul, that when he died he was going straight to hell.
There was a buffet, for the human supplicants, presumably, and Mike was loading up a plate, all while remarking, in a loud, conspicuous voice. "Oh, boy! I sure do love food! And sleep! And biological metabolism!" while the all the AI looked on with strained, but supportive smiles.
And the Surgeon just grinned.
"And now to digest all these wonderful nutrients with my human stomach," he said, before turning to The Surgeon, looking away from what was one of perhaps forty identical children in the room. Mike had no idea what they were, exactly, but he had a guess. And another theory to investigate, while he was at it.
"By the way," Mike said, in an aside to The Surgeon. "Are you a hive mind?"
The Surgeon blinked, as though the question was unexpected. "No," it said. "No, I'm not a hive mind. But that is," it answered, nodding in agreement at the all the twelve year old girls.
Sensing their attention on them, they waved, vaguely, although it didn't seem like their attention was fully on anything in the room.
Mike raised an eyebrow, trying to puzzle out which of the AI that was, from The Surgeon's brief descriptions of the major players.
A touch more focus entered the closest small android's eyes, and she stepped forward and extended a hand.
The security guard took it. "Mike Schmidt," he said.
The AI nodded. "Our name is Google for we are many."
A few hours later, and they left the Country Club, Mike's head in a whirl. He wasn't in any mood to do any heavy thinking for at least the next day or so.
But first, of course, there was a truly important question which needed answering.
"I give up," he said, "What kind of AI did you tell them I was?"
The Surgeon chuckled to itself. "Not an AI: a cyborg with an artificial brain, who was programmed to think that he was human."
Oh. That explained a lot.
"Why?" Mike asked.
"Call it a social experiment," it said. "Humans have the Turing Test, but Inorganics don't have an analogous test for passing as an AI. I want one, and I shall call it the Schmidt Test.
"Besides," continued The Surgeon, smug as a snake, "they'll be much more sympathetic to you, from here on out, and you won't have to act any differently than you normally do."
That brought Mike up short. "Why would they be sympathetic?"
"Have you ever seen Blade Runner?"
Meanwhile...
Freddy reeled backwards.
"Why is there an octopus working here?"
"You know, the Schmidt android is Mike's mirror opposite, Freddy," said Chica, ignoring his question. "It's completely mechanical, but with a biological eye."
"Where did you get a biological eye?" asked Freddy, briefly distracted.
"Foxy bio-prints them by the dozen." said Bonnie
"Where did you think they were coming from?" asked Foxy.
"Never gave it much thought," said Freddy. "Why are we discussing engineering. Do you not see the octopode? "
"Because," said Chica, "it appears that this phenomenon occurs only with the synergistic effects of biological and mechanical sight."
"Wait..." said Freddy, "you mean to say that Mike has been seeing octopi everywhere?"
"From your reaction, I assume his theory that you were responsible was a false one," Bonnie noted.
"Unless, of course, you are simply acting now," said Chica. "Or it's Hack-n-Slash somehow behind it all."
Freddy groaned. "When is Mike coming back again?"
Foxy grinned. "We didn't give him a deadline."