Letting out a yawn, Mike rolled his shoulders as he looked out the car window. It'd still be an hour before the sun was fully up in the morning sky. Regardless, the very edges of its light were just beginning to peek over the buildings on the horizon as Mike neared the FBF Grand Coliseum.
He shifted his foot over to the brake and lightly padded it, slowing the vehicle down to a near stop before it got to the turn. As Mike got closer and closer to the turn, he slowly realized that at the car's current pace, he would unfortunately overshoot it by at least a yard. He slammed his foot down. The car slid a bit more before eventually coming to a complete stop. Damn ice, Mike thought with an irritated grumble. Impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the man looked with tired eyes to see if any cars were leaving the arena's parking lot.
None. Of course not.
Shouldn't have even bothered, thought Mike as he turned and drove down the dimly-lit road. ...at least they got some poor schmuck to plow the snow last night. That last thought did little to cheer Mike up as he quickly found a parking spot near the entrance and pulled the car to a stop.
The car lurched as it was turned off. He threw off his seatbelt and grunted. Briefly, he considered taking the keys with him—then decided that no sane person would want to steal the piece of shit bucket of bolts that was his personal car. While his family had more than enough money to get Mike a high-end vehicle, his parents had decided that a good way to make him learn the "value of money" was for him to have to buy one himself.
...with his own money.
...that money being the $200 or so he had actually managed to make by boxing before challenging the Freddy Circuit.
While Mike appreciated the sentiment—and understood why his parents did it—there were just some dreadful days when it pissed him off anyway. One of those days being this very cold, and icy Tuesday. Plus, even though he had been holding this same 10-to-6 sleep schedule for a week and a half now, he was still tired.
In spite of all these issues, though, Mike couldn't stop the small, groggy smile that graced his face when he looked toward the arena's front entrance. Work. Sure, the looming arena still uneased him a bit. But nothing made him happier than being able to finally train again. That, and he'd get to see Foxy again.
Mike was just opening the car door when memories of the night before finally hit him, and he paused. "What the hell...was that last night...?" he mumbled, absentmindedly closing the door.
He yawned again, then shook his head to try and clear the tiredness from his system. I really wasn't expecting her to get so...teary-eyed last night. Mike frowned, scratching his chin. After a few more seconds of silently sitting there in the driver's seat, Mike released a sigh and let his head recline back onto the seat cushion. "Guess I can't really blame her, though. If she's really been alone ever since that...that one match…." As Mike came to a realization, his head shot off the cushion so abruptly it let out a squeak.
He still wasn't sure which "match" the vixen was talking about.
All he knew about it is that it was when Foxy had lost her hand all those years ago. And by extension; when she had lost her career. It was against one of those original three—he was sure of it. Though the question was...which one of them? And an even better question was—how did she lose her hand, anyway?
"Foxy probably wouldn't like me asking..." noted Mike, reaching with a hand to open the car door again. He quickly grabbed his sports bag, then stepped out into the chilly winter air, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to shake the whole vehicle. "...guess I'll just have to wait and see if she'll ever bring it up herself."
Since he was wearing his winter coat again, it took a little more effort than usual for Mike to get the bag over his shoulder, but eventually he managed it. Starting out at a walking pace, it was a few seconds before the cold finally started to wake Mike up. His pace picked up as he did.
Along with Mike's breathing, his footsteps were the only sound in the vicinity, echoing off the tall, steel walls of the rapidly approaching arena. Through the fogged-up glass of both the windows and doors, he could already tell that the lights in the lobby were turned on. Meaning that there had been activity there recently. For only a second, Mike found himself minusculy worried about that fact—then he realized it was probably just Foxy walking around in there, and shook his head clear of those thoughts.
The air within the lobby was warm—much more comfortable than it was outdoors. In response to the stark change in temperature, Mike unzipped the coat he had worn over his t-shirt, and hung it on the coatrack still sitting to the left of the door. Right as was readjusting the bag over his shoulders, he heard a voice from behind him.
"Mike."
He recognized that voice. It wasn't Foxy.
Turning around, Mike found himself looking at Toy Chica as she ran down the left hallway. She stopped only a few feet away from him, an unreadable expression on her face.
"Y-you're...here."
Crossing his arms, Mike nodded and plainly stated, "Yes."
She swallowed, but was otherwise silent. Her gaze alternated looking him in the eyes, with looking at something else on his face. It's the scrape she's looking at, Mike realized after a second of confusion.
"Listen," he began, subconsciously rubbing the nearly forgotten wound. "There aren't any hard feelings about this little thing, you know. It was an accident."
"It's not...it's not that, Mike. I've just never, well...h-had to talk to somebody after I've gone against them. Let alone twice," she replied, her southern drawl as clear as ever.
Mike frowned. "I find that difficult to believe."
"I ain't lyin'."
"..."
"Anyway, so um...what brings ya' here?"
"As usual—training," answered Mike, already tired enough of the conversation to try to simply walk past Toy Chica.
She intercepted him, taking a hurried step in front of him to halt any continued progress. "Still?!" Toy Chica exclaimed, bewildered by the man's decision. Her beak opened and closed a few times as she tried to think of what to say. "You're still gonna try and fight on? Why?"
"I already told you why," said Mike. Anger was already showing through the young man's voice, something which surprised even himself.
"And I told ya' why would ya' shouldn't, Mike!" Toy Chica shot back.
Reeling in his irritation to the best of his ability, Mike huffed. "I know. Mr. Fazbear?"
"YES—!"
"But he's just some old man!" interjected Mike, throwing his hands up. "Why would I ever need to be worried about him? He's the one who called me in the first place!"
"I-it wasn't him—!"
"Would you kindly STOP fuckin' lying to him, please?"
Shocked, both Mike and Toy Chica turned toward the new, third voice in the lobby. Leaning against the corner of the lobby and right hallway's walls, it was the russet animatronic herself: Foxy. She pushed off of the wall with an irritated grunt and stomped across the green carpet toward Toy Chica.
"I'll be takin' him now," said Foxy, glaring holes into the chicken.
"Foxy, please listen—!"
"ENOUGH," Foxy snarled, her growl making the yellow feathered animatronic step timidly back against the wall. "These intimidation tactics of yours aren't working."
Part of Foxy wanted to take another step toward Toy Chica, to prove her point...and make herself feel better. But she decided that the chicken was already scared enough as it was and managed to stop herself. Turning, she reached out and took Mike's hand in her own. Despite the anger showing through Foxy's voice and body language—her grip on his hand was surprisingly gentle.
"Ya' ready?" Foxy asked him, her voice a lot softer now that she was apparently now completely ignoring Toy Chica's presence right next to them.
Mike nodded.
"Good!" Foxy smirked, and with Mike in tow, she took off in a brisk walk toward the hallway.
Not even a second later, the avian animatronic quietly spoke again. Her voice no longer shook, a harsh absoluteness overtaking the previous panic that had choked it. "Ya' won't beat the other two, Mike. Ya' can't."
"Watch us," replied Foxy confidently. They left the speechless Toy Chica alone in the lobby.
"So...what was that about?" Mike eventually asked after a few minutes of them walking silently through the corridor. They had originally started out jogging in the opposite direction of the main entrance area, but once that yellow animatronic was out of sight, and they were sure she wasn't just trailing behind them at a safe distance, they settled down into a casually slow walk. Neither of them had spoken a word since the encounter with the chicken—until now, that is.
Foxy merely shrugged in response, her eyes still looking ahead as she said, "Probably just pissed that ya' whipped her tail-feathers on Sunday, to be frank."
Mike couldn't help but smile at not only what she said, but also at how matter-of-factly it had been just thrown out there. "Maybe."
With that said, there was quiet in the hall once again. Mike shook his head, taking his eyes off the animatronic still gripping his hand, and looked ahead at the subtly curved hall. So many doors. At this point in his training, Mike had come down this exact same path countless times, but even then it still baffled him at how gargantuan the FBF actually was. Were all of these unmarked rooms even used at any point? Were half, even? There were only so many offices and meeting spaces a building actually needed before it eventually became superfluous.
A squeeze on his hand caught Mike's attention, and he blinked. They had reached the gym. Looking over to Foxy again, Mike found that she was already looking at him. Anxiously, she cleared her throat before speaking.
"Do ya' mind if we...um...if we talk, before training today?"
Memories of the previous day instantly sprung up in his mind. Mike swallowed what felt like a rusted pinecone full of nails in his throat, but nodded regardless.
Foxy gave him a weak smile, then, as if coming to a sudden realization, yanked her hand away from his. She tried to play it off with a laugh, quickly transitioning the near violent movement into opening the gym door. As soon as it was open even a little, Foxy bolted through the opening and ran toward the storage closet in the back. Mike stared. What's the issue with her now?
Doorknob in hand, Mike took one last cautious look down the hall before shutting the door behind him.
By the time he finally walked through the doorway of the closet, Foxy had already taken a seat in her chair. Mike took his time getting to his usual spot. "Is something wrong, Foxy?" he asked, carelessly dropping his sports bag somewhere nearby at his feet.
"Not really, I just want to…"—she snapped her fingers, searching for the correct words—"to apologize for a couple things."
"What? You don't need to apologize for anythi—"
Foxy held up a hand to stop him.
"First off," she began. "I want to apologize for stopping practice so damn early yesterday." Tilting her head back to look up at the blank ceiling, Foxy let out a shaking breath. "Truth be told, I just didn't think I'd be able to refocus on your training after what you asked. ...fuckin' caught me off guard like you would not believe!"
"As long as we get back to work today, it's fine."
Laughing, Foxy glanced back at him with a smirk. "Ya' know...I was hoping you'd say somethin' like that." She snorted, then her gaze returned to the ceiling. "Anyway—I showed ya' my room because...well…"—she shrugged—"I thought it'd be interesting, I guess. ...say, did ya' know you're actually the first one I've let into my room?"
"I...didn't know that," Mike replied after a pause. Though I had a suspicion.
"Yep! Didn't even let any of the old models in back during the 'golden days'. Not that I even fuckin' liked any of them, anyway. Assholes…. Every. Single. One of them."
Back aching from the uncomfortable folding chair, Mike took a second to pop it, then turned to look back at Foxy. "You told me about them before. ...hm. This might be weird to ask, but—why did you hate Chica so much in particular?"
With a huff, Foxy closed her eyes. "I hated all of 'em, but...her…. They all disliked the fact that I had come up outta pretty much nowhere and beaten 'em. Sure, I mean—it was a major blow to their pride. But Chica always made a point to be a real bitch about it.
"Just beginner's LUCK," said Foxy, suddenly doing an exaggerated imitation of the chicken's voice. "We're all just goin' EASY on ya', Fox'. You only beat us because you're quick, Fox', and you rely on cheap tricks…."
Mike rolled his eyes, but still couldn't stop himself from grinning a bit, too. Foxy noticed this and continued the mockery tenfold.
"Blahblahblah—in reality, I'm actually extremely JEALOUS of your skill, Miss Fox'! I'm a dumb featherbrain! I'm just DISAPPOINTED these tacky yellow feathers of mine don't look nearly as stylish or as slick as that red fur of yours, the oh-so-amazing Fox'!"
To the vixen's surprise, the usually stoic Mike Schmidt literally fell out of his chair in hysterical laughter. Back arched, hands clutching madly at his gut, the man's whole form quaked with each high-pitched guffaw.
Foxy's first reaction was to want to ask Mike if was alright. Falling onto your side against a floor made of hard concrete could not have been too pleasant an experience, after all. Yet, Foxy couldn't bring herself to ask him. Infact—she actually found herself...smiling at the sight. Happy. Even with how unusual the whole thing had looked to her.
Is this what having a friend is like?
Still laying on the floor, Mike made no efforts to try and halt or even restrain the laughter, instead just letting the amusement run its course. From full, out of control chortling—his laughing eventually settled.
"Sniff—HAHAhaha—ha—ha…"
Mike collapsed on the floor; lying on his back, he let his head gently slump down against the hard surface. Red-faced, he wiped his eyes free of tears, while simultaneously trying to take in deep gulps of air. All the while an exasperated 'ha' occasionally escaped his lips.
"Heh, I...I'm sorry for um, for losing a hold of myself, I guess," said Mike, quietly eyeing Foxy from his position on the floor.
Getting to her feet, Foxy stood and held out a hand to him. "No biggie, slugger."
Both of them returned to their seats.
A sigh left Foxy's muzzle as she was brought back to the previous topic of discussion. "I was the one who got off-topic in the first place, anyway. Gettin' back on-topic, Mike, I also wanted to apologize for—"
This time it was Mike who stopped Foxy's talking. A hand held up, he said, "Look—um, if this is about what happened last night before we took you back, Foxy, let me just stop you right there."
"...why?"
"Because it was completely understandable, Foxy. I knew that was something you weren't used to, and adjusting to it wasn't going to be easy either way."
"I shouldn't have gotten so damn emotional like that though, Mike! Completely ruined the whole thing with my whole 'sobbin'-sally' thing, and now your family probably thinks I'm some vulnerable emotional wreck," lamented Foxy, looking away with a crossing of her arms.
"You didn't ruin anything," stated Mike. "And my family? They actually enjoyed last night. A lot."
Foxy looked back at him. "They...they did?"
Nodding, Mike smiled and said, "Yeah. They're just glad I found somebody to interact with outside of the family. You know...in a way involving at least slightly fewer punches than a boxing match."
"Ha!" Snickering, Foxy once again punched Mike in the shoulder, her fist landing in almost the exact same spot it had the day before.
"Fuck! Stop that!" exclaimed an irritated Mike, rubbing the bruised muscle.
Foxy, still snickering, just shook her head and stood. "Say, speakin' of boxing matches...we should probably get to work actually preparing ya' for your next one now."
"Who is it, anyway?"
Standing by the doorway leading into the heavy illuminated gymnasium, Foxy was a mere silhouette as she turned to face Mike. "Her name's Toy Bonnie. I ain't surprised you're unfamiliar with her, though. Not many have made it far enough to face her."
Mike followed the vixen back into the much larger gym area, and walked aside her as she made her way toward their usual warm-up spot. Said spot was a section of the room where both the floors and certain parts of the wall were covered with blue exercise mats. After the previous week (and part of yesterday) of nearly the same training routine, it had all become near automatic for the two of them.
"Toy Bonnie?" repeated Mike after a moment. "So, I assume she'll fight in a style similar to that Bonnie from your day, right?"
"That's the assumption, though...I'm ain't too sure about this one."
Mike laid face-down on a random part of the mat, with Foxy standing only a couple feet away from him. He looked up at her, a brow raised as he asked, "You're not sure?"
Shrugging, Foxy admitted, "It's been quite a few years since I've seen her box, slugger... Can't remember her style."
"That's...unfortunate."
After they went through a few of their routine stretches without anything said between the pair, Foxy eventually brought her hook to her chin, using the point to softly scratch the underside of her muzzle in thought. "Tell ya' what, Mike. I'll...I'll bug Mr. Fazbear about it sometime today—see if he has any recordings of Toy Bonnie fights, ya' know?"
"Sounds like a plan to me," said Mike, pushing himself to his feet. Automatically moving into the next warm-up, he started slowly rotating his arms in a vertical manner. He was a silent a few seconds before hesitantly asking, "...I'm curious—does he know you're training me?"
Foxy shook her head. "No, but I doubt it'll be a big deal."
"I, uh, sure hope not."
"Trust me, Mike...despite him sharing a last name with that damn bear, Mr. Fazbear is a pretty decent guy most of the time. Shoot, man's the reason I'm still allowed to live here, after all."
"Well, if he's that decent of a man, then it shouldn't be a problem," replied Mike. Then, he clapped his hands together, rubbing them together anxiously. "Anyway, let's move onto weightlifting now. Back to work before we start practicing technique."
"Ya' gonna do better than yesterday, slugger?" Foxy asked with a teasing grin.
"...screw off."