Mike's day had remained wholly uneventful; aside from the continuously-swirling phantom fog, that is. He had watched a whole lot of television, attempted to ignore the sudden drops in temperature that would strike his small bedroom, and promptly slept like a log at around 11:45AM.
He had almost forgotten about his nightmares.
However, he was swiftly reminded of them upon waking up to the ever-unwelcome sight of black and white checkered floor mere millimetres away from his face. Sighing resignedly, Mike slowly clambered onto his feet. The dirty, scuffed trainers on his feet, his favourite shoes, felt heavier than usual as he began to walk around mindlessly.
Having had plenty of prior experience with these types of dreams, Mike was rather surprised upon noticing that nothing awaited him in any of the rooms he had inspected. There were no decrepit old piss-soaked bear costumes waiting for him; no squirming, writhing masses of human heads. Not even his animatronic friends, or their masks, greeted him in the Party Room.
The pizzeria was completely desolate.
Upon further investigation, Mike quickly realised it seemed as though the small restaurant had not been visited or cleaned in years; dust and scratches coated the thick metal walls of the establishment, and the tiled floor had lost its glossy sheen. The Show Stage looked rotten, its old wooden floorboards having degraded to the point where Mike was hesitant in walking on them.
Swallowing a spontaneous lump in his throat, the man proceeded onwards hesitantly.
Mike decided that he could explore a little bit, considering there was nothing stopping him. Even with his Christmas scouting session under his belt, he felt as though it wouldn't hurt to refresh his memory. Moving to adjust his cap, Mike was momentarily startled upon feeling his fingers reach at nothing but thin air.
Upon coming to his realisation, his shock quickly gave way to sadness.
Chica flashed into his mind for but a moment.
Shaking his head to clear the thought, Mike headed towards the Kitchen uncertainly. Upon opening the cobweb-coated doors, he could not help but cringe as a loud, piercing creaking sound reached his ears. Spiders scuttled out of cracks and holes that had been imposed into the aluminium surface over the course of many years, causing Mike to leap backwards with a scream.
After ensuring that all of the eight-legged horrors had scuttled away, he finally mustered up enough courage to enter the imposingly claustrophobic Kitchen. Mike had never really got a very good look at the Kitchen, as it was always dark inside the small room.
However, things were different this time around.
Almost as soon as the man stepped into the mysterious room, a previously unnoticeable set of lights reluctantly flickered to life. The rectangular glowing objects activated row-by-row, beginning with the first four and ending with the final set after a ten second wait. Mike wasted no time in taking advantage of the situation, almost immediately searching for the glinting object he had seen the last time he had visited the room back in the real world.
He caught sight of it, or what he assumed had been it, rather quickly.
Lying on one of the room's many counters haphazardly, mere metres away from him, was a large knife. A carving knife, more specifically. The blade of the object looked to be about twelve inches long; an immense length, all things considered. It looked used, its handle worn, and its normally spotless steel surface seemed flecked with a dark liquid.
Mike felt uneasy just looking at it.
He hesitantly walked over to the large object, picking it up carefully and slotting it into a knife rack that he had caught in the corner of his eye. The blade had been jutting out from the worktop it had lain on rather dangerously; had he stumbled somehow, and managed to collide with the counter…well, the results certainly would not have been very pretty.
Even in the box-shaped rack, the handle was a good six inches or so away from meeting the wooden surface of its sheath. Mike gulped, fully aware of the fact that the knife could have easily been used for far more than merely preparing food. The Kitchen had belonged to the Puppet, after all.
Satisfied with his discovery, Mike decided to inspect a few other things that had caught his attention.
Stopping at an assortment of rusty pots and pans, Mike narrowed his eyes.
These are still full of food. He thought to himself.
With the pizzeria in its current state, how could that have been the case? Had someone forgotten to wash the dishes before the place had apparently closed down?
It was almost as if everyone that had been in the restaurant at some point in time had just upped and disappeared.
Mike felt a cold chill tingle its way down his spine, shivering slightly in response. At least, he hoped that it was a mere chill. Running a sweaty palm through his matted hair, Mike attempted to gather his nerves and man up. As he had proven with his patrol of the restaurant, nothing was in there to hurt him. He was safe this time, it seemed.
Could his safety have had something to do with the loss of his job? Now, because he was gone, none of his dream ghouls saw any reason to attack him anymore, was that it?
Funnily enough, footsteps began to steadily make their way towards Mike almost as soon as he had completed the train of thought.
Whirling around rapidly, the young man was taken aback upon seeing a humanoid figure standing between him and the Kitchen doorway. It shone a deep violet, its eyes a pure white colour. Clutched in its hand was the carving knife Mike had attempted to put away, the dangerous kitchen implement now being uncaringly twiddled between the entity's bony fingers.
The blade just barely avoided carving out a considerable chunk of the thing's wrist multiple times as it was effortlessly spun from purple digit to purple digit. The humanoid chuckled sinisterly to itself, its laughter sounding like a muffled sound effect straight out of Space Invaders. As its head moved, Mike could have sworn that he had seen a hat of some sort amidst the near-blinding glow the creature constantly emitted.
It took a shaky step towards him, laughing in short bursts of low-quality growling noises all the way. It then took another. Then another. Every step the glowing videogame monster took forced Mike ever-further into the counter behind him, his back beginning to ache with the strain of being bent so unnaturally.
Mike looked around frantically, desperately attempting to catch sight of something that he could potentially use in self-defence. His hands immediately began feeling around the counter behind him in an anxious frenzy.
The creature, which had been standing mere meters away from him, began to sprint towards him abruptly.
Mike felt his adrenaline kick in, his hand finally grasping something as the invigorating sensation flowed through his veins. His grip tightened around the object, his arm shooting out towards his attacker.
He heard the nauseating sound of bones being broken as the rolling pin that he had been holding splintered upon meeting the face of his assailant.
However, what made Mike's stomach really turn was the fact that the hit, which would have sent any ordinary man to the ground, had almost no effect on the creature. The thing merely stopped for a moment, regarding the man opposite it with a cold, patronising stare. Then, acting as though Mike hadn't even hit it in the first place, it nonchalantly grasped at its own jaw before cracking it back into place.
It began to laugh again almost immediately afterwards.
Mike bottled up his shock, attempting to push the creature aside and dart for the exit to the Kitchen. However, the creature latched onto his arm with its bony digits as soon as his hand made contact with its glowing chest.
It felt cold, as he had anticipated it would.
Mike barely had time to think before a jarring feeling shook his body; it was as if the glowing being in front of him had shoved him backwards slightly, yet Mike had not seen it move its arms. All of Mike's breath had immediately left his body. It pulled him slightly closer, its cold hand clutching the back of his neck. The feeling of the thing's hand on his chest had not left him. It felt warm.
He looked down, and only then did the pain begin to flare within him.
Mike cried out in a combination of agony and horror as he stared at his own chest, having finally noticed the carving knife embedded deep within its fleshy confines. The entire blade had been rammed into his ribcage, Mike unknowing of whether or not it had hit any vital organs. Blood oozed out from the gruesome wound, bubbling and dribbling down his chest as it attempted to find ways around the foreign object.
And then, just as rapidly as he had been stabbed in the first place, the knife was retracted from Mike's flesh, the blade swinging by its wielder's hip once again. A thin string of blood continued connecting the weapon to Mike for a moment or two, before the string slackened and soon fell to the checkered floor.
By that point, a horrendously painful burning sensation had filled Mike's body, his hands having already moved down to the massive slit in his chest in a pathetic attempt at preventing the bleeding. Of course, his gradually weakening efforts were all in vain.
As Mike's pupils dilated and his screams waned, he fell to the floor in a coughing fit. Yet more blood fell to the floor at this, this time dribbling from his mouth. His breaths became irregular and desperate, but were gradually slowing nonetheless. A foot stomped on his back – hard – and a cracking noise filled the ears of the dying man.
He felt warm, heavy breaths hit the back of his neck as his head found itself unable to support its own weight, his skull aching as it smacked to the floor unceremoniously. As his vision blackened and everything around him began to sound muffled, Mike heard one last thing.
With a voice that sounded similar to the croaking of a frog, laced with undertones akin to that of a bad quality videotape, Mike's murderer spoke.
"Now for the rest."
All went black, but only for a moment.
Mike shot up like a bullet in his bed, screaming at the top of his lungs. He was covered in a thick coat of sweat, despite the freezing temperature that the strange fog – which was now nowhere to be found - had brought into his room. Mike rubbed his arms briefly, sighing in annoyance as he realised that the fog had not taken the chilling temperature with it during its sudden departure.
Deciding to wear a sweater, Mike walked over to his barren closet. He stared at the three shirts, filth-flecked hoodie and tattered turtleneck that lay within, grimacing slightly. He had never truly realised just how bad his whole clothes situation was; now, though, he was getting a pretty good impression.
Grabbing the single turtleneck, which was adorned with the woolly face of a grinning reindeer standing amidst a blanket of fluffy snow, Mike chuckled as he realised that the sweater was not even in his household due to his own contributions. As a matter of fact, the fleecy insulator was a gift from his mother from mere days before – back when he'd arrived home from his Christmas party at Freddy's.
How it had already gotten as worn-looking as it had in such a short space of time, Mike may never have known.
Deciding to submerge the guilt he felt for not joining his parents during a family-centric time of year in a mixture of cheap alcohol and manufactured warmth, Mike tiredly trudged into his kitchen and began pouring himself a glass of store-brand booze.
Funny, he thought to himself. I don't remember ever buying this stuff. Must be from a while back.
It made sense; Mike had been a miserable wreck during his first two months or so in his apartment – so much so that he had gone out to nightclubs and parties for the sole purpose of attempting to drink himself silly whilst burning as little cash as humanly possible, if only so that he would be entirely oblivious to just how bad a financial situation he had gotten himself into when he finally returned home.
Nonetheless, as Mike took his first sip of the bitter liquid in a long time, he was quick in forgetting about that dark period of his life.
Finally checking the time, Mike was surprised to see that it was nearly 9:00PM.
Man, that was some nap. He thought to himself as he took another swig from his dusty glass.
As he continued to think about things, still sipping away at his hooch, Mike could not help but have his thoughts begin to focus on the dream he had woken up from not ten minutes beforehand. He always found the fact that he could always remember any and all dreams of his that were related to that infernal pizzeria with perfect clarity strange, but had never really given it much thought.
However, upon thinking back on how that glowing thing had just…attacked him with that enormous carving knife…upon thinking back on just how much it had hurt, as if it had really happened to him…
Well, Mike was fairly certain that he was beginning to see the bigger picture.
All of these dreams had to be connected somehow. In some obscure way, each and every dream had to link to one another in order to make sense. At least, Mike thought there was a possibility of them making sense. Only God really knew the truth, though; and the young man was fairly certain that not even He would want to think about Freddy's much.
Scratching his stubble in thought, Mike gulped down yet another mouthful of alcohol.
But what could it…what could it mean? He pondered, stumbling over his thoughts occasionally as his repeated sips of booze began catching up to him. Burping silently, Mike pardoned himself before realising that there was nobody else with him.
He shrunk slightly in his seat, blushing as a result of both the alcohol beginning to take effect and his awkwardness.
Yet still, his mind never strayed from the enigma that was the mysterious shining figure from his dream. Well, more nightmare, but nonetheless.
He could still picture the thing looming over him, its face a picture of dominance and victory. He could still remember how its breath smelt as though a nest of cockroaches had been burnt to death within its throat. He could still remember its odd videogame laughter, just a repeating soundtrack of booming low-quality banging noises as its head raised up and down, its neck appearing to stretch bonelessly as it followed the sounds in an unceasing loop.
Bang. Raise head. Bang. Lower head. Bang. Raise head. Bang. Lower head, etcetera, etcetera.
He could still remember just how cold what had presumably been the thing's skin had felt beneath his fingers; it was as if he had been touching a bag of ice cubes.
He could still remember the feeling of being stabbed. Of feeling as though his chest was going to melt away into nothingness due to how severely his flesh had been burning, the nerves within having been severed with utmost ease. The more he thought about the moment of his 'death', the stronger an odd coppery taste that lay at the back of his throat would become.
Whenever the taste got strong enough, Mike would feel just about ready to release all of the alcohol he had drank right back onto the floor. But he never did, of course.
Instead, his body broke out into an intense sweat to deal with the intense waves of nausea, steadily expelling the booze from his body droplet by crystalline droplet. Despite the lingering cold, Mike soon found himself taking off his turtleneck sweater. The reindeer face on the front served no purpose other than mocking him, its blissful ignorance of everything around it instilling a sense of jealousy within the man. How he wished he could have that same level of ignorance towards all of this crap.
As he walked out of the kitchen to put the sweater back into his closet, Mike's booze-soaked mind came to a shocking start. He stopped in his tracks, sweater in hand, to process the information his brain had just brought up.
What if that glowing thing had something to do with that phone call from this morning?
Swallowing a massive lump in his throat, Mike bore a hole into the wall opposite him with a piercing gaze as he thought about the revelation.
The phone call. Whoever had called…said they were coming to the pizzeria. Right? S-So…that dream thing was in there, too. It…It had a knife. What do humans use to kill one another? Knives. Even though I've seen some weird shit over the course of these past few days, I'm certain that voice belonged to a human. No goddamn lemon-coloured bear's gonna pull the wool over my eyes this time.
Mike chuckled at the unintentional pun, his eyes darting to his woolly sweater for a moment.
Yes. Yes, it had to be. Otherwise, what else could it have been? That weird puppet thing? No. That's inside that creepy old Freddy suit. That had to be the connection. That had to be the hint.
So, Mr. Cold Caller WAS dangerous, as Mike had suspected.
And he was going to the pizzeria.
A pizzeria that had not yet closed for the night.
A pizzeria full of children.
How hadn't Mike realised earlier?!
Mike started as he heard a loud burst of static coming from his bedroom, followed by muffled voices. Cautiously walking in, holding his sweater up in defence, he was shocked to see that the TV had turned itself on, immediately flicking over to the news channel from earlier.
That same gaunt-faced news reporter from earlier was there, too, reading out yet another update on the whole prison break fiasco. Except this time, the report was based around a single convict.
The man. The man that Mike thought he had recognised.
Scar, purple gums, flecks of grey hair, pencil beard.
Hector Morado. Mr. Serial Killer.
Unable to stop himself from staring at the face of the man, Mike listened to what the news reporter had to say. Perhaps it was important? After all, the TV had never turned itself on before, and anything that happened that was out of the ordinary whilst Freddy's was in the picture seemed to have some kind of meaning behind it.
The news reporter cleared her throat, beginning her story.
"This man – Hector Morado, a confirmed serial killer, escaped from Folsom State Prison, California, mere hours ago following a prison riot that resulted in the deaths of eighteen wardens and three prisoners. He got out along with twenty three other convicts; now he's the last one left on the run.
Police have managed to catch the others due to a multitude of eyewitness accounts and reports over the course of these past few hours, yet have found nothing but loose ends whilst dealing with this man."
She briefly paused to gesture to the mugshot hovering at the top right of the screen.
"However, multiple accounts have begun surfacing of a tall man with a thick scar running down the side of his face rushing through the streets in a thick trenchcoat. Many of these witnesses told the police that 'he seemed very focused on something'.
"Well, 'focused' is right. Hector, or whom we assume to be Hector, has been darting through the streets of America – on foot – for four hours straight, according to what our eyes in the sky tell us. Looking at his job history, the police think they have an idea of where he may be headed."
Mike leaned in closer to the television, his hands clenched tightly. Even in his half-drunken stupor, he managed to retain his focus on the serious matter at hand.
"They believe that Hector has taken to the aisles of Walmart, having been fired from the store mere weeks before he began his killings all those years ago."
Oh.
Well, that was anticlimactic. Hell, I don't think Freddy's is even near a Walmart. Mike thought to himself, rather disappointed in having wasted so much of his time. Hell, he could have just given Cold Caller a head start! The blood of innocent children may have been on his hands if he didn't haul his sorry ass to the pizzeria as quickly as possible!
Turning off his TV, Mike rushed to grab his turtleneck sweater and put it on, unwilling to endure the cold of the winter months for any longer than he had to.
Bolting out of the front door of his home and down the corridor that led the way out of the apartment building, Mike could not help but become frantic as a thought crossed his mind.
Oh, God, if he gets there before me…what if he does something to Chica?!
Mike began picking up speed as the thought made itself increasingly prominent in his head, his brain being filled with terrible thoughts that stemmed from the panic-fuelled notion.
Upon finally reaching the exit doors of the building, Mike began running at full velocity – he even surprised himself with the rate at which he sprinted down the multiple streets that separated him from his goal. It was likely due to both the concern that had planted itself within his mind and the adrenaline that had begun pumping through his veins, but he had never run to a bus stop as quickly as he had that night.
Upon reaching the stop, Mike became frustrated upon finding no buses in sight. He growled to himself amidst a series of deep breaths, tapping his foot onto the ground in an impatient pattern as time began to stretch.
Soon enough, however, one of the large red vehicles came to a slow stop in front of him, Mike hopping on eagerly. Checking his watch, he grimaced upon seeing that the time was 10:33PM. Would he get there in time? Only time will tell, Mike thought to himself.
Mike received many odd stares on the bus as a result of his decision to don his turtleneck rather than a jacket, as many other people appeared to be wearing. However, their gawks only served to increase the amount of pressure that he was feeling. He had never liked having too many pairs of eyes on him at once, and this situation was no different.
Mike arrived at the pizzeria for what felt like the millionth time that week by around 11:20PM, regarding the building with a hesitant gaze; the look was akin to that of a child's when checking for monsters underneath their beds. Palming open the double doors that led into the dingy establishment nervously, Mike walked inside with an audible gulp.
The silence that filled the restaurant was suffocating; it felt as though something was seriously wrong, and the persistent possibility of such a feeling being true was…unnerving, to say the least. Mike felt as though something was going to attack him at any given moment as he walked down the entrance hallway of the building, which seemed far longer than it ever had before.
The only sound that Mike could hear was that of his trainers meeting the floor, the echoing footsteps doing little to conceal his anxiety. Upon walking into the Dining Area, Mike couldn't help but take note of the fact that both Chica and Bonnie were absent from the Show Stage.
A pristine-looking electric guitar sat where the latter animatronic would have usually been resting, its plastic surface practically gleaming in the dim light that shone through the windows of the pizzeria. Mike could not help but wonder where its purple owner had wondered off to.
Continuing to wander around the deathly silent building obliviously, Mike began to listen out for any sounds that could give away the locations of the animatronics that now seemed oh-so-familiar to him. A few minutes of this passed, the attentive man's breathing becoming slightly erratic as time dragged on, before a clattering noise sounded from somewhere within the pizzeria.
Mike's head instinctively turned to face the source of the noise, his eyes meeting nothing but inky blackness. Through the darkness, he could make out a door.
Pirate Cove.
Mike groaned to himself as he realised that he had to go inside the room, lest he risk once again losing track of his friends. Tiptoeing up to the door vigilantly, he began to push it open. An agonisingly loud creaking noise resounded through the Dining Area, causing Mike to grit his teeth and wince.
Luckily for him, or perhaps unluckily, it appeared as though nobody had heard the noise. Nothing stirred behind the frayed curtain of Pirate Cove. However, despite the apparent stillness of the cordoned off area, paper stars swung wildly from the roof, attached there by string. Brushing them aside whilst walking through the unsettling room, Mike almost immediately knew that something was wrong.
Looking to Foxy's curtain in grim expectation, Mike waited for a moment.
Once again, nothing looked out of the ordinary.
Facing directly ahead once again, towards the door on the opposite side of the room, Mike screamed. A purple hand grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him off of the floor in one clean movement.
Bonnie stared at Mike through black eyes, the bunny's white pupils angrily searching the terrified man's face. He no longer bore the ragged visage of Springtrap; he had been repaired. He opened his purple mouth only slightly, giving Mike a chilling glimpse of his snapping endoskeleton jaws.
After a few seconds of this, the bunny spoke. The gruff voice that Mike had once known was back, and this time it was angry.
"WHY ARE YOU BACK? HERE TO GLOAT? TO LAUGH? IS THAT IT?" He yelled at the struggling man, doing little to calm him down. His grip on Mike's shirt tightened with every word, causing the man to begin scrambling for freedom. His legs kicked out his arms clutched at Bonnie's large hand desperately, but still the mammal did not relinquish his grip.
"YOU'VE RUINED US, MIKE. CHICA'S A WRECK, AND FOXY HAS GONE INSANE. IT WAS YOUR FAULT THAT FREDDY DIED, AND YOU CAUSED CHICA TO BREAK DOWN INTO AN EMOTIONAL MESS." The bunny continued, watching as Mike's face contorted into an expression of guilt that increased with every word.
"WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT? FOR ALL THE TROUBLE YOU'VE WENT THROUGH TO MAKE OUR LIVES A MISERY, I THINK YOU DESERVE A REAL FAZBEAR DEPARTING GIFT." He finished coldly, making Mike pause in his struggling momentarily.
"Wh-What do y-you…what do you mean?!" He bumbled, unable to contain the terror within his voice.
Bonnie did not reply, simply staring at Mike for a few seconds more as he suspended the man in mid-air. Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, the bunny turned and walked out Pirate Cove – still clutching Mike in his hand. He made sure to scrape the unfortunate man along any and every wall that he came across, growling as he did so.
Mike glanced ahead as Bonnie walked through a doorway, gasping in horror as he did.
Animatronic heads everywhere. Lining shelves, sitting on desks, and even nailed onto the walls themselves. In the centre of the room, there sat a lifeless endoskeleton. However, what really got Mike's attention was the steadily rocking animatronic fox that lay in the corner of the steel room, mumbling near-incoherent sailor shanties as he slammed random wads of steel into his hips.
Backstage.
Bonnie threw Mike onto the iron table which served as a seat for the endoskeleton, the man's spine voicing its discomfort as it met the hard surface headlong. Propping himself up with a groan, Mike looked at his abductor. The bunny had begun rummaging through a pile of suit parts, his back turned to the former night guard.
Mike attempted to surge away from the table and make a break for it, but a thin pair of arms held him down. His eyes met with the hollow, porcelain golden eyes of the endoskeleton that had been sitting limply beside him mere moments ago, the animatronic frame having perked up at an inhuman speed.
No matter how frantically he thrashed, Mike simply could not break free of the metal construct's death grip. It held him firmly, its eyes blank and devoid of emotion. As he stared into the unresponsive pupils of the endoskeleton, Mike heard Bonnie trudge to the table.
Looking at the animatronic, Mike was momentarily confused. The bunny clutched a spare Freddy head, the mask's jaw piece dangling limply beneath it. However, the robot's intentions became apparent mere seconds later, when he placed the mask onto the table and began picking out random suit pieces to join it.
A spare Bonnie arm here, a Chica leg there. Foxy shoulder-plates, and even a bowtie.
No. it couldn't be.
"B-…BONNIE?!" Mike screamed out, terror filling his body. "WHAT ARE Y-YOU DOING?"
The animatronic remained silent for a good few moments, picking up the Freddy suit head and bouncing it in his arms slightly.
He then turned to face Mike entirely, staring into the man's eyes once more as his hands moved to the hole in the bottom of the Freddy mask as if he were about to put it on. Without even looking at the empty head, he turned it so that the back of the mask faced Mike.
"…Something I should have done six nights ago."
He raised the Freddy head above Mike's own organic cranium.
The man screamed as it was lowered further and further down, the multiple crossbeams, wires and steel gadgets lying within shining in the sparse light.
A shrill screech broke the still air within the pizzeria, but Mike was surprised to find that it was not his.
"BONNIE?!" Chica exclaimed from the doorway, her lithe figure blotting out light. "WHAT'RE YA DOIN', YA NUTCASE?!"
The chicken bolted towards the large bunny, said bunny having been taking completely by surprise, and attempted to wrestle the Freddy head out of his grip. As this went on, Mike finally mustered up the courage to attack the robot that held him in place; he bit down on the neck of the endoskeleton as hard as he could, growling like a dog.
However, the assault ended up hurting him more than it did the endoskeleton, the robot having failed to react to the attack entirely whilst Mike yelled out profanities and attempted to clutch his teeth in agony. Evidently, biting through steel was tougher than the movies made it seem.
Eventually, through a combination of her surprise attack and Bonnie's fear of hurting her, Chica managed to throw the Freddy mask out of his hands. The bear head clattered along the floor, making a hollow thumping noise every time it did so.
Chica then pushed the endoskeleton that had been the source of Mike's misery for the past few minutes off of the table, the animatronic's thin metal legs almost immediately shooting out from beneath it to catch itself mid-flight and land safely. It then proceeded to lifelessly stand where it had landed, lanky arms down by its sides.
Foxy had continued mumbling his sea-songs throughout the whole ordeal, either having been completely uncaring towards the series of events or having been in his own world the entire time.
A few moments passed where Chica and Bonnie merely panted, staring at one another with conflicting expressions. Chica stared at Bonnie with anger, whilst Bonnie fixed Chica with a look of grim determination.
"What do ya think yer doin'?" Chica asked once again, speaking through gritted…beak.
"What's best for all of us." Bonnie replied curtly, his red eyes unblinking.
"Wrong. Yer doin' what's best fer you. Right now, at least. Come tamawrrow, yer gonna be regrettin' ever even considerin' doin' dis. Just…think about whatcher about ta do, Bon."
The bunny's heart quivered upon hearing Chica utter her pet name for him, despite the situation. Looking at Mike, Bonnie was quick in realising that Chica was right. The man lay on the table, frozen, whilst tears welled up in his blue eyes. His breath was jittery, and he flinched away from the animatronic bunny's gaze.
What am I doing? He thought to himself. This wasn't Mike's fault. Hell, none of this has been Mike's fault.
Well, actually, maybe Chica getting hurt has been Mike's fault.
Suppressing the urge to pummel the man at the mere thought of his girl being hurt, Bonnie continued thinking.
If anything, most of this has been caused by the Puppet, and, well…it's gone now. Forgive and forget, right? Freddy wouldn't want me doing this. Mike was like a son to him. A son that…a son that wanted to date his dad's sister. A son that is a BASTAR-…no, back to your previous train of thought, Bon.
"Bon?" Chica muttered again, breaking the bunny opposite her out of his guilt-induced trance. Bonnie remained quiet for a moment, before he looked to the floor in guilt. He could not gaze into Chica's hypnotic pink irises for too long, or he feared that he would melt from his remorse.
"I-I…I need some time to…to think. For a while. I'm sorry, Mike." He mumbled, quickly turning on his heel and lumbering out of the room. As he left, Chica immediately turned her attention to Mike, helping the horrified man down from the steel table that would have become his final resting place, if not for her help.
Letting him lie down at the foot of the counter, being propped up against it with her help, she stared into his icy blue eyes with her own crystalline pink ones.
"Ya alright, Mike?" She asked him gently, delicately cradling his cheek as though he were made of the finest china in all the world. Her reply was a rapid nod, the man being too shaken for words.
Then, like a flash, her delicate stroking became a firm smack that left an unsightly red handprint on the man's face.
NOW Mike was ready for words.
"AUGH! Wh-What the hell?!"
The animatronic chicken opposite him bore into him with a cold gaze. "THAT was fer leavin'."
Stroking his cheek, Mike could never have foreseen what his friend would do next.
"And dis is fer comin' back."
Chica detached her beak from her head, revealing a pair of cushiony lips beneath.
She slammed those same lips against Mike's own ones, the man immediately stopping everything he was doing. Lowering the arm that he had been using to stroke his cheek, Mike instead used it to pull Chica closer to him. The kiss lasted for a good minute of two, only being broken by Mike's need for oxygen.
As he panted, love-struck and dizzy, he couldn't help but utter a single phrase to his furiously blushing chicken friend.
"Maybe me leaving was a good thing, after all."
Whilst Mike and Chica laughed together at his joke, still sitting on the floor, and Foxy continued obliviously singing his sailor shanties, and Bonnie continued crying in the Bathroom, a pair of pale hands were wrapping themselves around the handle of the axe found near the pizzeria's Fire Exit.
A/N: DEAR GOD, I'M SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT, I SWEAR! It's just that I have tests next week in school, I'm working on a music video, and just…blegh. Everything's been so hectic lately, and it doesn't end here. Nonetheless, I will cross that bridge when I get to it.
Now then, Shoutout Time!
Justsomeguy91:
Hey, Ben! ;P
PikachuZahir4997:
Oh, thank goodness! I thought I had scarred him for life. Phew! Thanks man!
Guest:
*Cough* I literally only realised his name was exactly like Markiplier's after I had uploaded the chapter *Cough*
Guest:
Yes, Mike has never been the smart type. :B
Godzilla King of Monsters:
GAH, how do you keep finding me?! I've been to Moscow, Chinatown, New Delhi and even Zimbabwe! There are only so many places left that haven't been torched!
Alexis:
*Squeezes own cheeks whilst squeaking with happiness*
Tigersfury:
It happens! Some of us just fall out of the loop from time to time. No worries! :P
Shep3rdOfFire:
Yep. I was high as a kite. :P
Andrew115342:
Yup. Mike did a herp-de-derp. What's new? :B
Guest:
"Great things can come from small packages"
Guest:
Yep, I think he will. Whoops. Mike dun goofed, and now he's stolen his girl.
Aronim x3:
Thanks very much, first off. Second off, about the Puppet thing, I was attempting to convey the fact that Mike is not a very observant type of person; he is one of those people who will frequently miss out on subtle hints in favour of a more direct approach. Hence why he didn't catch on to the real reason behind Chica's coyness towards him sooner.
Sadistic and masochistic. Herp-de-derp, I dun severely goofed there. I have no idea how I missed that, but now it's bothering me. xD
Good point on the Puppet's 'tude. I will have to keep that in mind for the next time I write her. Looking back on it, I definitely agree with your point of view. You're a very insightful bloke, and I appreciate the criticism! Thanks!
Guest:
Thanks so much! I'm so sorry I don't have all that much to say to such a wonderful review, but please know of my gratitude. This was really nice to read. ^v^
Guest:
Oh, good Lord! I hope this update arrived on time! How are your testicles? Are they still alive?!
D3m0nhunter:
Inhale my dong demonhunter
Justsomeguy91:
Hello again! :P Thanks for the advertising, lol!
VictorTheOmega:
YIS!