Act 2 – Veiled Threats
The medicine tasted vile, like biting into an overripe lemon. It sent an aftertaste through his mouth which made him cringe.
"Remember," His doctor, a kind middle-aged man with greying hair, had told him, "You're going to need to take them twice a day. It's to help with the concussion."
"Which is the one that tastes like…?"
His doctor had patiently smiled, "Both of them, Michael."
Giving an irritable sigh as he walked, Mike stopped on a bridge with a small stream channel underneath. He sat down, shivering in spite of the relatively warm weather. His head thumped, dishing out another wave of pain.
It'd been two weeks, he'd been told. There were flickers of memories when he'd arrived at the hospital, but after a brief medically-induced coma, he'd woken up and had spent the next week in a hospital bed.
Once Mike was aware of his surroundings, he'd been waiting for the Police to arrive. They had, as he'd expected, but it hadn't gone as it should've done. He was expecting a questioning by stone-faced investigators, a brief foreboding farewell, and a summoning to court.
What he'd instead got were a couple of sympathetic patrolmen and even a visit from Mr Garfield himself. Only a few moments into the conversation, Mike had figured out what had happened, but any room for misinterpretation was washed away when the conversation had neared its end.
"I just can't remember the last time something like this happened," One of the patrolmen, a friendly man named Hank, had said.
Garfield had simply shaken his head, "This town is known for many problems, but armed robberies? No."
It had taken Mike little time to work it out from there: Somehow, someway, the Police had been led to believe that Mike was the victim of the shooting rather than the perpetrator.
That could only mean that someone had done some tampering.
As far as Mike's position on the case was concerned, he'd been found where he'd lost consciousness; In the toilet stall, with a head injury that he "must have managed to take care of, if the head bandage was anything to go by". The animatronics were all found to be heavily damaged, but still operational and on-stage.
Garfield had given the explanation that the animatronics were equipped to deal with any intruders, so it could only mean that they'd managed to scare the robbers off after Mike suffered the head injury. Naturally, Mike had kept quiet and gave his reasonings as "I can't remember much", and luckily they hadn't pushed him.
It would have still been counted as suspicious, in Mike's opinion, if it hadn't been for the phone call.
Half an hour after the shooting, a 911 call had been taken from within the pizzeria. The caller had insisted that there'd been 'multiple armed attackers' and that the night guard was injured. Police still couldn't figure out who'd given the call, but it had helped to sway the chances of Mike being anything more than a victim.
So as far as the Police were concerned, a small group of armed gunmen broke in, shot up the place, injured Mike and damaged the animatronics, before fleeing the scene. There was no evidence that raised any other questions.
Which naturally left Mike with his own.
There was no point denying it; somehow, the animatronics had covered up the crime scene. Tampered with whatever evidence there was to incriminate Mike and left only the basic details. None of Mike's weapons had been found and they'd even been sure to stop him from bleeding out in that stall.
He sighed roughly, wanting nothing more than to just collapse in his bed. But he knew his job wasn't quite done yet.
Continuing on with the walk back home, he continued to ponder the meaning of the animatronics' actions. Had they intentionally saved his skin? No matter his own thoughts of the ill-conceived revenge he all-so desired, there was no denying the fact that if it hadn't been for them, he'd either be dead or sitting in a jail cell.
He didn't know how he felt about that.
Arriving back in his apartment, he struggled as per usual to get the door open, before collapsing onto the sofa. One of his other windows had been smashed, to his chagrin; the rock still lay on his living room floor, along with the shards of glass. He'd take care of it once he was in the mood.
His head was still hurting, though a little less since he'd taken the medication. It was good he still had some savings. It was the only reason he likely wasn't getting kicked out of his apartment, what with the ever-so-slowly expiring cash flow of his bank account.
Speaking of which…
He lazily grabbed the phone from the coffee table and punched in the numbers. Very soon, his boss answered.
"Ah, sport!" Mr Garfield spoke up, "How are you feeling?"
Mike shrugged to himself, "Could be worse. Was wondering if you needed that position filled?"
"Already? You might want to give yourself a couple of days to recover."
"I've spent the last two weeks recovering. When's the next open shift?"
Garfield went quiet for a bit, the shuffling of pages coming from the other end of the phone.
"Seems this weekend is open," Garfield finally answered, "One of the day guards had filled in for you the last two weeks. Been quiet, according to him."
Mike nodded, "I'll be there."
"Good to hear, sport. I'm happy to hear you're back on your feet."
Setting the phone down, Mike contemplated the meaning of his words.
It's been quiet.
If what Garfield was saying was indeed the truth, then the implications of it were practically undeniable: The animatronics weren't hostile anymore.
Which meant that when Mike stepped into those halls, he wasn't confronting the monsters under his bed; he was confronting the things that he'd tried to kill, which they returned the favour by saving his life and his freedom.
"Not sure which one I prefer," Mike grumbled to himself.
The moon was high in the cloudless sky. Less than ten minutes until midnight. Mike grumbled, annoyed with himself for taking as long as he did to arrive; he'd lost his keys and dwelled on the fact that he wasn't walking in with his trusty pistol, which he hoped was somewhere within the pizzeria.
As he approached the front door, Mr Garfield stepped out looking anxious. His eyes lit up when he saw Mike and he smiled.
"Ah, there you are, sport! Was worried you weren't going to turn up!"
Mike shrugged, "Felt a bit shaky on the walk. Anything new happened?"
"Nothing to be worried about; the animatronics have been quieter than usual. Anyway, I'll let you get on. Stay safe!"
Mike muttered "Likewise" as Garfield took off, getting in his car and steadily driving out into the darkness. Preparing himself for an unpredictable night, Mike stepped in and went to examine the situation.
The animatronics stood on stage, lacking the damages he'd inflicted on them. They'd been repaired quickly and effectively, though Mike had to wonder what the mental damage was.
Mike snorted at the idea of the killer robots having such damage, but with the craziness of the last few weeks, he knew it would be ignorant to discount it completely. Walking around the dining area, the night guard continued to rack his brains over where the guns would be.
"The vent," He said to himself. If the animatronics had indeed hidden the guns, why not the place he'd stored them?
He strolled through the hallway and near the office, where he found the vent bolted back up. Concerned, he flicked on the flashlight and aimed it through, finding nothing but emptiness and what appeared to be a couple of rat droppings.
"Great," He said dryly to himself, "Just another health violation." He hoped that they were recent droppings; he was fairly certain he hadn't crawled through it weeks before…
Crawling.
He stood up, an idea in his head. Were the areas under the stages empty? If so, perhaps the guns had been hidden there?
He quickly walked back towards the dining area, nervous about the approaching shift. The last thing he needed was to be on the defence without a firearm in his hand, even worse if he found himself stranded out in the open.
Reaching the stage, he pulled open the banner and looked underneath, dismayed to find plenty of junk, dust, and cobwebs, but no sign of the guns.
What if someone found them? He thought to himself, dread rushing through his veins. His options were quickly running out and the likelihood of getting caught was too much for him too—
"Lad!" A voice cried behind him and Mike yelped in panic, bumping his head on the stage. He quietly cursed to himself, before turning around.
Foxy stood on the stage of Pirate's Cove, the curtains fully drawn backwards and a massive grin in his eyes.
"Yer okay!" Foxy said happily, "We thought ye be a goner!"
Mike stood up, struggling to his feet, and nodded, "Honestly didn't know what condition you guys were in, either. Looks like they fixed you up.
"Yar, they do a good job," Foxy answered, but tapped his eye and his leg, "with the others, at least. They see no reason to maintain Ol' Foxy as good, since I be in the brig for so long. They fixed me innards, but me leg be bad and me eye be gone now…"
For the first time since discovering what they were really like, Mike felt a bit guilty, which he thought was foolish. "Oh. Sorry about that…"
"No need, lad. I be comin' at ya with me hook raised and death in me eyes; ya defended yourself."
Mike nodded, the guilt not swayed, "What about the others? What…what were like after they woke up?"
Falling silent for a few moments, Foxy chose his words carefully, "They…they not be takin' it well. They remembered going looney, attacking me and ye, but they say they had no control."
Mike believed them; what he'd seen wasn't willful action. If everything they said was true, beforehand they were merely influenced; coerced into doing despicable deeds. What he saw that night was like a puppet master taking full control.
"But they won't see me as an endoskeleton, right?"
Foxy shook his head, "They be sane, now. Bosun'll want to give ya his own apology, but just wanted to say me own."
"That's…not necessary," Mike answered, not sure if he was ready to take that step towards forgiveness.
"It is, lad. Everything we done, everything we did to ya…it takes a lot to accept that ye were someone else's bogeyman. More so when ye be the last thing people seen…so for everythin' we did to ya, I be sorry. Ya won't have any more problems with us and for whatever time ye decide to spend here, we be sure to make ya life as easy as possible."
Mike bit his lip, giving a nod that he wasn't sure the meaning of, "Thanks. I'm…I'm sorry for what I said to you. What I did to you."
"All warranted," Foxy replied.
Realizing something, Mike frowned. "Hey, how are you talking to me right now?"
Foxy gestured towards the others, "Unlike me mates, Ol' Foxy never got the chip in me head. The others go under, but I stay awake on me on terms."
"That's useful."
"Sometimes. But it be lonely."
"But then…" Mike frowned again, "If you were active all those nights…"
"I still be stuck on me cove," Foxy answered, "Don't know why. Couldn't leave if I wanted to."
It started to dawn on Mike. "But if you didn't have that programming…"
"I could a' attacked ye at any time," Foxy said mournfully.
Mike sighed, "That'll help me sleep at night…"
"No," Foxy said, his voice back to upbeat, "But maybe this will."
The fox stepped back into his cove and started to rummage. Eventually, he came back out, two duffle bags in hand and hook.
Shock coursing through his body, Mike's eyes went wide. "How…?"
"There be a hidden compartment in me cove," Foxy explained, "Landlubbers never came in. Scared o' me, as they should be."
"So you're telling me," Mike spoke with amazement, "That after I'd shot the four of you up, you managed to wake up, recover from your guilt enough to find me in the bathroom stall, bandage my head up, hide the guns, and call the Police up all within what, a couple hours?"
Foxy shrugged, "Least we could a' done."
Mike wasn't able to help but laugh, "You guys are an odd bunch, you know that?"
Midnight soon came and Mike found himself watching nervously through the cameras, making sure not to miss a single detail out. He was half expecting the same outcome as usual; camera freezes, missing animatronics, and horrific dread.
Instead, he watched as they awoke, avoiding looking into the stage camera. Chica and Bonnie walked off camera, sullenly, while Freddy gave a knowing glance through the lens before also doing so.
His paranoia was unsated, so Mike continued watching them. At no point did any of them even seem to think about walking down one of his hallways; they wandered, with Bonnie switching between the backstage room and standing aimlessly on stage. Chica patrolled the restrooms and kitchen.
Meanwhile, the head honcho Freddy stood in the dining area looking lost. Mike started to ponder the fact that without an 'endoskeleton' to hunt, the animatronics didn't have any real clue what to do. It was sad, really; what hobbies could they really have?
In fact, Mike considered, maybe they do have hobbies. But there's something in the way.
Guilt, Mike supposed. Although he still found the idea ridiculous, the fact that they had personalities was becoming unavoidable. However artificial, they each had their own little quirks that were either in line with their character or otherwise.
It was ridiculous because androids with any self-awareness were…well, science-fiction. Mike remembered watching Terminator for the first time and finding the android in it fascinating, but he never even pondered the possibility of a self-aware robot walking around.
But he was wrong. The living proof of that was the four things he once considered monsters. He didn't know if he still considered them as such.
He sighed, shaking his head irritably. Three weeks ago, he was set on killing them at the risk of his own life. It was easier to consider them as monsters that needed to be slain because how could he even try to justify killing them now? Foxy had risked his neck to save Mike and after being shot to hell, they'd made the effort to save his life afterwards.
At least the shifts will be quieter, Mike mused.
Minutes turned to hours and Mike found himself bored. He would occasionally check through the cameras, finding no changes, and wondered how he'd make the shifts go faster. Sitting there bored out of his mind wasn't going to do at all.
That was when Freddy started walking down the hallway.
Panic surged in Mike's body as he watched the bear stomp towards his safe haven. His mind tugged against his body as doubts travelled through his head. What if the bear was simply wanting to talk?
Do you really want to take that risk?
Cursing himself and hoping he was making the right call, Mike stood up and slammed both the doors down.
Moments later, Freddy came into view. The undeniable flicker of understanding pain in his eyes made Mike feel guilty, but he knew he was making the right call.
"I just wanted to come down and talk," Freddy explained,
Mike nodded. "Okay."
A brief moment of awkward silence passed.
"Um," Freddy said, rubbing the back of his head, "Are you doing well?"
"For the most part. Er…thank you, for helping me afterwards."
"Of course."
More silence. That was the worst part; Mike was never exactly the biggest social bunny out there. He could talk, but he was never much good at it.
Freddy gave a sigh, "I understand that you might not want to talk to us. I completely understand if you'd prefer never to even so much as look at us. But I just wanted to say…I'm sorry."
Mike didn't say anything. He couldn't trust himself to speak.
"I'm sorry for everything we've done to you. I'm sorry for everything we've done to…the others. I know that Foxy spoke to you earlier and what he said was true; we won't bother you again. As long as you are the night guard, we will make sure your life is as easy as possible."
This was the part that Mike knew he would struggle with. The act of forgiveness was never going to be easy. Everything he had gone through…all those doubts that had rummaged through his head…how could he expect himself to forgive them? To forgive himself?
He knew what the answer was.
"I can't forgive you." He responded quietly.
"I understand."
"Yet. I can't forgive you yet. There's still too much…give me some time. To adjust. I might have a different answer for you then."
Though he did his best to hide it, Freddy's happiness was obvious. "I appreciate that, Mr…" He seemed to realize something, "Odd. I don't think I ever got your name."
"Mike. My name is Mike Schmidt."
"Michael." Freddy said aloud, "Yes. That feels right. I will leave you alone then, Michael Schmidt."
Freddy left, and Mike sat back down after opening his doors. It hadn't been easy, giving his answer to Freddy. But he knew it was the right move. Perhaps, in a few weeks' time, the night guard would find himself able to move on. Perhaps not.
Either way, it seemed like a new start for Mike Schmidt. It was a scary, unknown start; but beggars couldn't be choosers.
Fantom Knight: Appreciate it! I'd understand the first night, but yeah; I'd certainly never have another shift there without a weapon in hand.
TU4QU0I53T4IAN6L3: Indeed. Something's seeming very fishy in Freddy Fazbear's.
Guest: Just need a Creative mode and he'd be all set.
vaetta: Things are only going to get crazier, trust me on that.