Author's Notes: Me my gf while I write this: people might deadass come for me over this chapter.

my gf: good because you deserve it.

"Walls have ears.
Doors have eyes.
Trees have voices.
Beasts tell lies."

ACT II
Chapter 11. Michael's Sentimentality

The Past, 1986

He'd felt off all day.

It was hard to explain, especially early when his anxiety felt more like some scenes in Jaws—empty of any actual terror but still creepy nonetheless. Foreboding as all Hell, but only for him. No one else seemed to understand him, seemed to echo his reality. So he felt even more alone, but then, when didn't he? By the end of the day it was definitely more Friday the 13th level of fear, something really was wrong and he just couldn't figure out what. It almost felt like the walls were closing in on Michael slowly. First on the bus to school, then the halls and classrooms were all too loud, and everyone's little noises or cheerful comments rubbed him entirely the wrong way, and he didn't know why. His hard work and endless studying in-between shifts at the diner earned him a measly C- over a Math test. Mathew Evans struck him out in gym, his team lost Home, and even though no one seemed to blame him, he still felt shame darken his cheeks and pinch his back. Even Linda, the girl he was kind of sweet on, took his quiet mood as rude and reacted in a slightly hurt and snubbed manner. But she had the common fucking sense and left him alone. On the way home he felt some of the tension release him so slowly, but by the time Michael was in the middle of his chores at the diner, minding his own business and just trying to finish so he could eat and go home…

Something in him…snapped.

It felt strangely satisfying, for a second. Like a damn bursting free. But only for a second. The Good went bye-bye and Feelings flooded his systems.

And then the hyperventilating started, and that didn't feel good at all. It graduated from a few gasps to a series of heaves, and right after that exhaustive episode his lungs went. And even though he slept through science he knew what happened to a body without enough air. The rest of his brain collapsed like a house of cards too, as if to say 'well since we're all having a meltdown, might as well make it a doozy!'

A doozy it was. And it was only getting worse.

Would this one actually stop his heart, and kill him? Could he be so lucky?

No, of course not. That was like someone dying of fear. It just didn't happen.

And even if it could happen, see the above note about his luck, or more specifically his question of its existence at all.

Michael whimpered. He vaguely heard his broom hit the linoleum with a sad thunk because his fingers weren't listening to his brain anymore, and he felt his hip smack into a table as he tried to catch himself and sit into a seat before he wiped out and hurt himself like last time.

Michael failed in his weak scramble and clutch, and swayed upward with the last strength in his legs, gripping the table like a drowning man in an ocean. Oh, of course he fucked up at trying to save himself, he was always flunking at something—he was a nobody, a loser his whole life, just like Marty Mcfly. Only unlike Marty there was no Delorean and no flux capacitor coming to take Michael Afton away to another time where he could maybe right some universal injustices so that by the time the credits rolled, his life was just a little more back on track.

Nope. None of that. Just right here, right now, sticky sweat on his neck and cold hands and fear gripping his heart with cruel, callous claws. He was alone in the old joint, too, to make matters worse. Dad and Scott were out, Alex was at soccer practice, Arthur and Henri were who knows where, Mom was dead—god, that's right, Mom was dead and it was—

Oh god, stop thinking about that! Stop!

"Mnnh," Michael managed, stifling a noise that wanted to be a wailing keen of despair that he choked down to a whine. The rapid breathing was alarming his brain further, no surprise there. And so, with nothing else to do, he knit his eyes shut at the clouds of tiny black dots threatening to blind him anyway.

"Stopit," he wheezed, "You can do this, fight this, you dumbass,"

Music. Where was his walkman? Oh right, at home. Batteries were dead.

And then, just as that dam emptied in his soul, just as everything became Too Much and All At Once, something big and heavy griped his shoulder and yanked at him upright, keeping him from collapsing.

It was a bit too hard of a tug to be anything but painful at worst and firm at best, but in that moment he'd take anything he could get. Because the brief ache startled the teenager, and he gasped, floundering hopelessly toward whatever had grabbed him. Fingers scrabbling against crinkling, deep brown fur as that giant paw squeezed him steady and held him upright—

Not whatever, whoever. Michael peeked up, and stared helplessly up into the bright optics of none other than Freddy Fazbear himself. The bear's look was blank as usual, but something at the edges of his glass eyes, the way his mouth was set, seemed slightly off enough. Or maybe Michael was just lonely and scared, and would take any sign as comfort he could find to appease his hurt.

He whimpered again, louder, and crumpled forward into the animatronic's soft, still new fur.

How had…? Freddy must have left his stage. He was across the restaurant, closer to the Prize Counter than the head of the room where the two stages sat, but Michael decided he didn't care. That someone had come over to check on him, and had reached out for him was enough in those moments.

Michael reached back.

Freddy stood there quietly, with that odd infinite patience machines were so good at utilizing, and let the teenager crumble and crack apart in his hold. He didn't really speak, which was normal and comforting too. Right now Michael didn't want to hear empty promises and flowery statements, he just wanted to ride this out and empty himself against someone who would be quiet and not hold it against him later.

God, it felt good almost. Safe. Protected.

Somewhere in that time the tears started, and with no one else around but nonjudgmental, stoic Freddy, he cried them out. He didn't feel an ounce of shame, not when the tears became a gush of salty dampness, not when Freddy leaned back just hair in alarm, not when a big brown thumb brushed under his eye. Michael watched Freddy wonder at the tears and gripped the wrist beyond that massive paw, and hiccupped when he realized Freddy's robotic, inhuman touch was the kindest thing he'd felt in months, maybe a year.

The eldest Afton sibling cried for a long while, until his body stopped shaking. Then he cried some more, and trailed off into quiet, depressed silence when the tears finally, blessedly, stopped. His eyes were sore, probably puffy as hell, and his cheeks felt all hot. He wondered for a moment if Freddy noticed that like he had the leaking from his eyes, and was given his answer when a heavy paw rested against his cheek a second time. And then the pad of the bear's thumb brushed lightly against where the skin felt the hottest, and was probably still damp.

"I'm okay," The teenager croaked out, managing a small smile that he hoped looked stronger than he felt.

Freddy's blank, flat look remained relatively the same, save for the lower of his eyebrows, as if challenging the kid in silent, stilted disagreement.

"Really, Fred...honest. Ya big old bear," despite his words of assurances, Michael noticed the paw didn't remove itself until a few minutes after, and he swiped at his other wet cheek quickly, before Freddy thought he had to remove those tears too.

The animatronic grumbled under his speakers at him, but seemed more at ease once he heard Michael say one of his more frequently heard nicknames from the kid, especially said in fond exasperation.

Michael glanced at his watch. What had felt like an eternity and a day was just cresting past twenty minutes. A lot had happened in twenty minutes, damn.

"C'mon, man, if someone comes in and sees you off your stage…" Uncle Henry might not mind, and maybe not even Dad, he certainly let Springbonnie wander around to the point the yellow rabbit sometimes let his curiosity get him into innocent trouble. But the odds against them were enough, and now Michael felt a strange urgency to protect Freddy right back.

Across the restaurant, a now alert Bonnie and Chica watched their leader and boy with interest.

"I'll be alright, Freddy. Honest." And then, because he felt it necessary, "Thank you, big guy. You're the best."

Only then did the big bear move, tossing one last glance at the kid before he locked himself down on stage between Bonnie and Chica, who closed their eyes to mimic Freddy's gestures like they were programmed.

Michael, despite himself, smiled weakly and went to retrieve his broom.

Okay, so maybe there was no super cool Sci-Fi car or knowledgeable half-mad scientist to help him through his troubles. Maybe his life was his own and would continue down whatever road it was headed, and maybe going back in time wasn't ever gunna happen either.

Maybe that was okay, because if nothing else, he had Freddy Fazbear, didn't he?

Mike studied the crumpled, purple teenager with a critical, if worried eye. The kid's panic attack had come on strong, and between Max's and Scrap's response, it was clear this wasn't some new, strange phenomenon. Max suffered from them frequently enough they had a game plan in place, although he was touched that Scraptrap allowed him to be included into it this time. Seemed he really was getting somewhere with the kid after all. But the trust wouldn't put Mike at ease until he was certain poor Max would be alright. He didn't want to hover, though…

"You can stop looking at me like that now, y'know." A voice cut through his thoughts. "M'not gunna keel over on you, Mike."

The night guard winced sheepishly. Oops, mission failed. Mike weighed his options, then went for levity. "No, I guess not. Already did once anyway, huh?"

It earned him a surprised but delighted snort, and a low smirk from Max that made Mike's characteristic lopsided grin return. He relaxed a little, sitting back on his legs and watched Max slowly heave his frame from against the wall he'd collapsed after he eased reluctantly away from Mike's shoulder.

"What can I do?" Mike asked immediately, wanting to help.

"Help me fix Scraptrap. He's in worse shape than me—hey!" Max dodged the swipe of a grimy four fingered paw, "Knock that off, jerk. You are, look at this mess! You can't walk."

And if Scraptrap couldn't walk, he couldn't get away from anything. And if Max was separated from him, they couldn't rejoin easily. Mike's look returned to grim and he rose obediently, snatching tools and bolts and a spare set of gloves along with his soddering gun.

"It won't be a clean job but we can get him back up and moving well enough, I think. Low on supplies, though." The night guard warned, but he was given a nod of agreement and a motion to hurry over.

"That's fine. We've run on much less in the past." The words were distracted, but laced with bitterness.

"Been on your own for a while, huh?" Mike had quickly learned that Max rambled when he was doing something else, and that the best time to pick his brain for information was when he was elbow deep in repairing Scraptrap. If Max noticed he didn't care. Scraptrap most certainly did, likely because all he had to do during these sessions was look at them both and listen, but it seemed he didn't care either.

Perhaps Mike was getting through to both of them, or perhaps Scraptrap was rewarding him in some small way for earlier—but the bunny said nothing and watched Mike with glittering yellow optics, the original color as Springtrap's before his went silver.

"Huh? No, I ain't been on my own." The tone seemed confused, "I had Scrap."

"Right. But even with the two of you, that's a lot to ask. Out there day and night, nowhere to go or sleep…"

"The dead don't sleep, Mike." Max reminded absentmindedly. The teenage corpse chewed his bottom lip and started easing the broken and busted joint out of the bunny's frame, slipping it past his frayed and weather-worn down suit.

'This is like watching that kid from the story repair the Velveteen Rabbit, Mari. Only the kid is a murdered teenager and the Rabbit is a Springtrap model beat to all shit…I…damn. And there's so much damage.'

"This is gunna take forever," Max moaned, interpreting the man's thoughts. "Gimmie that awl, dude?"

"Gotcha," Mike refocused on the current task.

Get these two back and up in working order. Or at least, what passed as 'working order' for the duo.

Then worry about the rest after.

"Noticed your shadow sure bolted fast. When did he leave, anyway? Before or after my little fuckin' meltdown?" No Freddy meant free reign on swearing, and for once Mike didn't even bother with his own reflexive 'swear jar' scold. After the day's events and narrow misses, Max had earned a few curses.

"He uh…well, round the middle, I guess." Mike glanced at Scraptrap, who had been at a better angle than he was at the time, having had his back to the door and Scrap looking over their shoulders from his slumped position against the wall.

Scrap nodded quietly in agreement.

"…yeah. I figured." Said Max.

"Max—hey, he never meant—look, Freddy is a complex—" Mike saw the quirked eyebrow from the corpse and deflated. "Okay, he's a grouchy old bear, yeah. But he's got a protective streak a mile wide, whatever it was happened between you guys I'm sure can be—"

"Stop, Mike." Max tore his gaze from Scratrap's gaping hip and clenched the tool tight as his gaze was. "Don't even go there. Don't—don't meddle so much, hell. You're as bad as the freakin' Marione—"

Max halted himself as if the word was the mother of all curses, jaw set but blinked when Mike sat up a little straighter.

"You knew Mari?" The night guard blinked.

Now it was Max's turn to look startled.

"…y-yeah? Dude. Everybody did. That thing, that creepy little shit—it was always thinking and—"

"'And it could go anywhere.'" Mike finished his Uncle Scott's words, and for some reason he had a softer look on his face than Max could ever really remember seeing before. What was…?

"Did you know him?" Max ventured, almost wary before he went back to his task.

"He…did me a favor once." Mike offered a low grin and handed out a screwdriver.

The teenager took it, but not without a curious glance as well.

"I find that hard to believe." The kid snorted in a mix of incredulousness and disgust. "That nightmare hated every Adult it so much as looked at, even worse than Freddy. Not that I blamed it, I guess. Suppose Artie got tired of being scared of everything and everyone all the time. Guess it made him mean, and when he got mean he—"

Max has finally realized how long he'd been speaking, and stopped.

"I'm sorry, Max." Mike offered suddenly, the words small and soft between them and the listening bunny. "I'm sorry you had to lose so much of your family because of your father's choices."

"…it's okay." The standard staple reply, only somehow Max knew Mike understood.

"Least Alex's better off, like you said. And the Puppet's been gone for years now, we all felt it." Max shivered. "Felt the strings get severed. Wonder what horror show managed to take it down."

"A real nightmare," Mike caught himself, "…So I heard."

"Hnn, yeah. That'd do it." Max seemed less focused on him suddenly, trying to prop Scrap's joints as perfectly together as he could before going to work. "Takes one to kill one."

At this, Mike held his tongue.

"We'll take care of your—of Afton, Max. And your sister. I promise we won't let this go on for any longer."

"Yeah?" Max offered a slow attempt at a smile, but it was dry as the desert and twice as gritty. His eyes glinted, purple and venomous but Mike could tell it wasn't aimed at him.

"That's one thing you never did, yanno? Despite being Freddy's favorite. How come?" Max queried almost lazily, his fingers twirling the driver.

"How come what?" Mike asked, surprised at the supposed shift in conversation.

"How come you never looked at me, and saw my father? Treated me like him?"

'The same reason I looked at the Marionette and saw a frightened child, I guess.'

"Freddy's always said I'm too trusting." Mike answered with a supplicating smile and shrug. "The day we met, you looked as frightened as I was. I figured, hell, any fellow that looks as spooked as me that can't be all bad. Truthfully? Guess you reminded me of someone I used to know."

"Even with the purple?" Max tapped a finger into his cheek, just below his glowing, supernatural gaze.

Mike snorted, but nodded ruefully.

"Even with the purple." He agreed.

"They weren't always this shade, yanno?" Max said, seemingly off the cuff once more.

"…no?"

"Yeah. I used to have eyes like my mother." Max finally admitted with a small, reverent murmur. His smile was so sad as he glanced at Mike that is made his own heart ache briefly. He opened his mouth to say something several times, but the words wouldn't come. What do you even say to that? He frowned severely, and laid a hand on the kid's shoulder. His old t shirt was worn and threadbare under his palm, and he made a mental note to look into some new clothes for the kid.

"I'm sorry, Max." He felt like an idiot repeating himself. "I know that isn't enough, but…"

"Hey. It's cool, man. It's more than anyone else has offered me." Max replied, and his smile was low but a bit warmer. "Thanks, Mike. Uh, guess now I owe you, one."

"We'll call it even." Said Mike with a smirk, "Friends don't owe friends, right?"

Max snorted, but finally nodded and it felt a bit like something that had gotten planted between them earlier was finally starting to cultivate. Bit by bit.

"How is he, Captain?" Foxy asked of a terse and disgruntled looking Freddy almost as soon as the old animatronic lumbered in from the hall that led to Parts and Services. He halted in place, paws fists at his side, but one look at his family—at Foxy's calm, warning glare of reproach—and Fazbear loosened his stance. His ears drooped a bit. He was getting to old for this nonsense.

Freddy paused only once more, glancing across the loose circle of his waiting friends, and considered the question a second time.

"You mean Micha—Max?"

"He was almost Swiss cheese, Freddy!" Bonnie asserted, his eyelid plates lowering. "Of course him! We're worried about him, he just…he looked so…"

Bonnie shifted on his flat feet nervously, fiddling with his guitar.

Young. Helpless. Petrified.

Familiar.

Bonnie didn't have to spell it out beyond that, and the Fazes exchanged their own set of worried, unhappy glances.

"Not ta' mention who he almost got dismantled for," That was Foxy still in front of him, his tone lowered and droll, but his look was sly and unhappy. "I'da think you'd be slightly more grateful, Faz. Sure clever Mike spotted it, so that'll be on his radar now."

Freddy shot the fox a dirty look, but said nothing. Sharp Foxy knew this was the closest thing to an agreement Freddy could ever manage to give. His pride kept his jaw wired shut better than any lock in his systems ever could.

"I never really noticed before how…how unstable those two are even in Suit mode. You know?" Chica chimed in, tapping Cakey's pink frosting head to calm herself and focus. "Maxie and Scrap…they're just so…cobbled together."

Beside her, Bonnie nodded.

"I mean, Fredbear is old and he and Mike have been together for years now, but aside from Nightmare, Mike's never not been on top of a situation when he uses Goldy!" Freddy's sidekick bunny yelped. "So what gives?"

"The lad's also got a different Suit, and unlike Max, he was made a Suit by the—by you-know-who." Foxy reminded sourly, and that caught Freddy off guard for a while different reason. The old fox had never avoided the Puppet's name before, and if he did he happily refereed to it as The Black Devil instead. Their distaste for one another was never really a cause for alarm, even 'why can't we be friends' Mike left them alone over it. But they also never equally feared each other. Freddy always assumed it was because Foxy had been Alexander Afton's Suit, and so he felt no true obedience or warmth toward the Puppet, who usually made the ghostly Alex's life Hell whenever it could. Foxy hadn't been Brought to Life by the Puppet, but by William Afton. Everyone knew that.

The Marionette hated it, and so it hated Foxy and Alex.

Foxy's Gift of Life had come from Revenge and Disgust, not from Love and Hope. Freddy wondered suddenly if Max and Scraptrap had been made the same as Foxy, as he first and always assumed…

Or if by the other way…

It would certainly explain a few things here and there.

"That's true, Foxy." Chica perked up hopefully. "Thank Heavens Mikey's here, he can put them back together!"

All at once, a collective chill ran through the four, and Foxy suddenly wouldn't look anywhere but the stage, exactly as he had done earlier when they'd been worrying over Mike.

"…careful, sis, with those words." Bonnie winced, and Chica shivered again and nodded her regret.

This was usually when Foxy would warn her of "speakin' ill o' the dead" but that comment never came. An alarm sounded in the back of Faz's processors.

Fazbear stopped paying much attention to the gang then, and replayed a memory for clarification. Yes, then and on that date too, he had done the same. And always the same side of the stage, as well. And occasionally he'd even shuddered or glares, too. Yet only recently, in the past day or so. Coincidence? Mike wouldn't think so. Freddy's blue optics flicked toward where the shabby black likeness of himself stood. Where Foxy's orange, fever bright eye seemed drawn to hover warily more and more. Foxy may have looked like he'd been through the wringer, but he was in mentally sound as they came. Had a better head on his shoulders than half the souls Freddy had seen come and go in his many years of Activation.

He was their best ghost spotter of the lot, and one Mike utilized often.

By all accounts, Lefty the bear was about the only thing in this grand new restaurant that hadn't come to life or done some strange wrathful magic on them or Mike. Helpy wasn't dangerous, but he was kind of a pest, and didn't really land on Freddy's radar for Dangerous Things Likely to Try and Kill Their Night Guard. (Oh, how long the list had become over the years. He really was an old bear ready for retirement.)

And, more interestingly, shabby old Lefty did not match the interior or exterior of the joint. He also didn't pass as innocuous either, nothing at all like the once shiny and gleaming Funtimes, or the lithe and gentle little Security Puppet. Freddy eyed the strange old animatronic with growing unease, from his black fur suit to the mike in his lax hand, to the strange unsteady tilt the bear seemed to forever stand at. Like something was missing in his endoskeleton. He vaguely recalled that a few times Mike had absently tried to correct the poor bear's stance, but realized that within a few hours, without fail, Lefty would be slouched softly into the same pose as before.

Like maybe his endoskeleton wasn't really doing its job at all.

Like maybe the tiny slips of red curtain he could see through the gaps in Lefty's joints was a hint at something that Freddy should have seen days ago. Or the mike in his lax grip. Or his position on stage, replacing an already jealous Foxy. Placed here by their creator, their Henry, who seemed less and less like himself and more and more like a man possessed.

Like maybe there was more of Grave than to gravy of Lefty, the opposite of what an old scrooge once remarked to his ghostly partner.

Freddy glanced up higher. And he noticed then, that for the first time he could see something strange and very distressing.

Lefty had finally, finally decided to move. And he was staring down at Freddy with that one terrible, golden eye.

And then Freddy could hear it suddenly. The unease rippled through him and he knew without looking the others had picked up on it too, not just Foxy. A cold, sweeping dread of death and power and anger. The first soft, playfully lilting notes of a tune about a monkey chasing a weasel. He wondered idly, this time, who the weasels were. But he had a good clue.

He felt more than saw the rest of the gang still and stiffen, making various noises of confusion and then, to his left, a low snarl of warning. There was faded red in his peripheral as Foxy stepped defensively closer to his side, but he didn't dare look away from the animatronic whose mouth was now sliding open, his jaw unhinge with a tiny eek. The noise sounded like the tolling of a bell, if you asked Freddy.

Foxy knew. Foxy had known, and Foxy was always their best ghost spotter.

"Foxy?" Freddy said the name with a single tenor of warning, of hurt and betrayal but mostly plain old confusion.

"He forced me quiet, Cap'n." Foxy's growl paused and there was true remorse in his tone now and he pleaded guiltily, "Forgive an' old fool for his loyalties. I-I was tryin' ta protect Mike…"

Fear prickled Freddy's computer nerves. Of all of them, protecting Mike from the Marionette should have been the last of their worries. So why had Foxy…?

"H-hey, uh…Freddy…?" That was Bonnie, his ears arched high in alarm as he and Chica shirked slightly behind him. "You don't think he's gunna…?"

"Don't nobody move." He warned immediately. "Don't say a word. Follow my lead."

By the time the spidery black fingers were curling outward from Lefty's too-wide jaw, Freddy could see the strings glinting. They went…nowhere. Not down the hall, not to the ceiling, not anywhere. They were ragged and worn, fluttering in a ghostly breeze.

So who, then? Who was it tethered to? How was it here?

Why? That was the worst question of all.

Foxy's growls raised an octave but Freddy quieted him, watching with morbid fascination as that memorable little porcelain face rose out. The gentle splinter across it's once white mask that the Marionette had been buried with was a gaping fracture now, splitting down sideways so that the painted black of its wooden head was visible in a thick gash. Dirt and dust and grime covered the once opalescent face, and one of its red cheeks was utterly gone, and it's characteristic purple tears streaked and smeared away. Faded with time, and heartache, and maybe something else. One of its eyes was cracked almost as bad as its mask itself.

But those eyes burned down at them from behind that terribly splintered mask, tiny twin spits of embers that flared the more it hauled itself from Lefty's lifeless, hollow frame. Foxy growled louder. The Marionette lurched within the confines of inanimate, useless Lefty, and let its mask slip wider with the jolt, but the broken porcelain did not part or fall away. Like the rest of Marion, the mask clung to some borrowed—perhaps stolen?—life and pushed stubbornly on.

"Puppet." Freddy spoke, tried for geniality.

A dark chime answered him. Well, that hadn't worked.

"See yer takin' orders from someone else these days." He had to think fast. Mike was too far away, and anyway Max wasn't in the shape that their night guard would just leave him, not even for the Marionette's return. He felt his volume lower, felt his systems start to freeze and stiffen.

Even if he wanted to bring Mike into this horrible predicament, he couldn't anymore. The Marionette's power washed over them, bleeding wide and horrid.

"Wouldn't be someone we know, would it?" Freddy broached, and received a silken hiss that no animatronic meant to entertain children should utter.

Whatever Warmth and Love it had learned from Arthur (and a great deal from Mike) was utterly gone, and Freddy tried frantically and uselessly to figure out who had taken the Crying Child's place before the music box reached the finale.

Surely not…?

"We been doing our jobs." Freddy spoke on, feeling his friends' unease grow tenfold the more the silent Puppet advanced on them, ragged strings fluttering across the stage toward them. "Restaurant's closed, but we do parties now. At other locations. S'not a bad life, an we like ta think we can still keep the kids happy. Seeing their little yards, a park here and there. Been…heh! We been to a bowling alley once. Quite a treat for us too, kids kept wanting us to play with em. Too old fer that nonsense, course. Can't bend too well neither. Best part…best part is seeing their faces when we get outta the old van. Ain't nothin' like that joy, is there?"

No response. Damn. Well, if Foxy was protecting Mike from the Marionette now, maybe he ought too as well.

Freddy worked his jaw. This next one was for all the marbles.

"Was Michael's idea." Those slender fingers twitched. There. Freddy could have closed his eyes in relief at the slight reaction, but he fought through his fear and spoke on. That boy of theirs. He was something else.

"You remember Michael, don't ya? Bout ya high, skinny as a rake, the Suit of old Gold, just about the stupidest fool we ever seen. Brave, good hearted. I'd lay my life down fer him. Reckon I'm about to, actually." Freddy was at peace with that. Michael would figure this out, even if he had to do it without help this time. "He…he loved you, ah'know it, and thought the world of you. Still thinks the world of you—"

"I remember." The hiss of its strange tone wasn't entirely unwelcome. Finally. Something. The lithe creature hesitated in its lunge, hovering with one leg still half inside the suit it used to get by them all. 'Be silent. I remember.'

"Then you remember how he handles loss?" Freddy volleyed back, feeling himself loosen as his anger rose. He had to protect Mike. He didn't give a damn against who, he wouldn't let the lad down.

"That is, not at all." Bonnie muttered from behind him, earning a snort of exasperation from Freddy and a low warning grind of gears from the looming Puppet as it approached with a smooth shift of its skeletal limbs. The head lolled to one side as it studied them all.

"You gunna take us from 'im, too?" The thought of their boy being alone in this restaurant with Molten Freddy and lord knows what else breathing down his neck…the mere thought of Mike being alone at all without their comfort, scared Freddy more than the topic of his own demise ever could. He knew without having to ask that the rest of the gang agreed with him.

'I am.' A finger of black spider legs half raised, as if beckoning.

"Fer…fer what!? Can we at least know why?" He tried, paw stretching out.

But he wasn't Mike, and the spell was broken. The Marionette's docility sharpened to icicles, it's immovable face actually tightening, it's cracked smile molding downwards to convey an open-mouth frown.

"Henry." Answered the Puppet simply, and Freddy felt cold. "He wants no strings left to hold our dear night guard down. He wants revenge. He wants death. He built Golden Freddy. He knows how to use him."

Freddy's eyes widened, but the strings snapped at them all, and were slipping under their suits in the time it took for them to try to react.

Foxy growled, and somehow his hook lifted a few inches, clearly fighting the Marionette's paralytic control. Freddy couldn't manage it, but he tried, and so did the rest of them.

"I warned you before Freddy, all those years ago. Well, I still haven't mastered Michael's sentimentality. I'm afraid by now…I never will." The Black Devil sounded a touch regretful, but maybe that was only Freddy's imagination.

And the Marionette leapt.

And then it was over. No grand fanfare, no loud roars, no noises.

When a lion drags a fresh kill into its den, there is not a sound to be made. It doesn't want any attention drawn to it, after all.

The next hour struck, and like clockwork the little Security Puppet peeked out of her comfy box, one hand idly tapping the side as she swept the area. The blue band wearer was somewhere deeper in her back zone, and that was fine with her, because he hadn't crossed beyond a threshold that blue band weren't allowed. Good! This pleased her greatly, she didn't like wanderers that much.

She turned her little face to the stage, and eyed the four animatronics up there. The little animatronic gave a tinkling bell noise, half unsure and half accepting of such a strange sight that, up until now, she'd only seen once or twice.

Well, nevermind them, she supposed. She liked staying in her box enough, maybe they all just liked staying on stage, and pretending to be statues?

Without an idea that anything was wrong, Security Puppet hunkered back down and let her box lid close with a soft paff.

Beside Chica, Lefty the bear stood at his eternal, casual slouch.

"Man, I never did get something to eat."

It was two hours later, and behind him and Alex limped a rather stable and surprisingly limber Scraptrap. The bunny groused in time with his Suit and both eyed the lean man with rising confusion. Max spoke for them both and demanded,

"Dude, seriously do you have a tapeworm in there? Or like a family of them?" Purple eyes tossed a critical glance over Mike's towering, lean frame. "You eat almost faster than Chica can cook!"

"Would you believe it if I told you I'm eating for two?" Mike laughed and ducked the light swat of the teenager wandering beside him.

"No, and that's weird. You are weird, Mike."

"Thank you." The night guard chuckled, sounding pleased. "'Weird can be wonderful' y'know."

'Remember that one Mari? You loved telling me that.'

"Huh. Where have I heard that before?" Max mused in mild confusion, half to Mike and half to himself it sounded.

So Mike didn't answer, just smirked and strutted round the last corner into the grand dining hall. He paused at the sight of his coworker standing on stage and posing in their usual shut down positions, then his grin returned.

"Hey gang, what's this? One little attack by those Nuts and Bolts Molten and suddenly its bedtime?" He teased, stopping before the stage in front of Freddy. "Very funny, now come one, we've got work to do, and Chica, I'm starved—"

Mike paused.

"…Chica?" Odd. Usually by now she'd dragged him to the kitchen and laden his arms with a plate heavier than he was and reminded him to rinse his plate after.

Behind his heart, something ancient and mechanical stirred. It was the equivalent to Gold peeking open one eye and grunting in confusion. Mike's confusion was simmering up toward apprehension.

"Let's go, gang." Mike's tone caught Max and his bunny's attention, and the two stopped and turned to watch the scene. Mike's eyes had flitted from chicken to bunny to bear, then to fox in the corner.

"Foxy?" Mike eyed the old pirate, his hook leveled proudly in his direction on stage, his jaw loose like always. "Tell them this is enough. Seriously? I'm in no mood for jokes and anyway…Foxy? Captain?"

Something curdled in Mike's chest and rose to the back of his throat, tasting like bile and the color yellow. He shivered at the chilly air of the closed up, perfectly thermo-controlled restaurant. He could see his breath, but didn't notice it. Didn't care.

This wasn't a prank. It wasn't even amusing. And anyway, Chica and Freddy didn't join Foxy and Bon on their endless pranking war. Goldy stirred more and opened both 'eyes' and watched with worried interest from Mike's soul.

Apprehension bubbled to alarm.

"Freddy." Mike scrambled right up the stage front, forgoing the stairs, and slipped once until his limbs caught up with his mind. Mike froze on the stage before his best friend and then reached out, grabbing either side of the bear's head. He gripped Faz's round head tight, and waited.

Nothing. Quiet. Like the dead.

Mike's world tilted on its axis.

"Freddy, look at me. Hey. You in there?" Mike swallowed, his eyebrows knitting tight as he sucked in a useless bout of air and let it trail out in a whimper of confusion and hurt. "This is officially not funny and I'm about to get annoyed, gang." He already was, but he'd lie to save face. He was gunna give them a helluva chewing out though for a stint like this.

He knew what would work!"

"Staff meeting." Just to be a shit, he tapped the side of that faded brown head with a knuckle, two smart raps. "Freddy."

Not even a twitch. Mike's shivering frame rocked unsteadily and he took a step closer to his favorite.

"I…? Bonnie—Chica? F…Foxy?" Schmidt's voice started to crack. "Guys."

He went to guide Freddy's head down, waited to hear servos whisper and Freddy's inner workings to hum and for the big grumpy fellow to break his blank stare of Emptiness and Unlife. It would melt down to that soft buttery look Mike and only Mike seemed to get anymore.

And Freddy would flash his square teeth like he did when he got one over on his night guard, and ruffle his hair and then patiently let Mike push and shove against him like he wasn't a massive metal animatronic that could snap his neck with a paw if he wanted. He let Mike rough house with him but never so much as left a bruise on the young man, not in years.

Mike waited. Patiently, might he add.

Alarm flowed over the lip of the pot into horror. Horror he hadn't felt since all those teeth in his Animatronic's likeness came down at him, horror since learning the Crying Child's fate, horror since the broken body of a little puppet was tossed down at his feet and cruel laughter rang in his hears until he was sick.

He'd gladly go back to any of those moments, any at all, just to leave this one.

No. No, he couldn't be alone.

'…Gold?' Mike begged, clinging to their bond like a barrel in a stormy sea. Wrong answer and he'd slip. Get his fears confirmed and he'd down in his misery.

'…nothing, Michael.' Gold's voice was seldom heard so clearly, but now it was all Mike could focus on with some semblance of sanity. That and the pounding of his own shared heart and the rushing in his ears.

"What the hell do you mean nothing?' Mike wailed back, but received a solemn, sad silence.

'They're Alive! They've been Alive since I've known them!'

"Freddy? Freddy! Let's go! Hey! C'mon! Up an'attem! T-time to start another day! Just like you always tell me!" Mike tried shaking the locked down bear, as if the lack of physical touch was the problem, and Freddy would magically awaken.

"C'mon! Don't make me say it! Please?" Mike pleaded, and then shouted, "Fine—Fuck!"

His scarred hand groped to his wallet in his back pocket on sheer reflex, waiting for the cuff at his head like a naught kitten, and the paw that'd flatten for his money.

Freddy Fazbear and all of his friends stayed stock still and stone silent.

Mike's hands shook so hard it was a wonder he managed to regrab back at the bear's shoulder and muzzle. He tried again, even summoned Gold's strength a hair, trying to force the bear's doll-eyed stare over the invisible crowd to down to him. The head creaked a little, and finally inched down.

Freddy staring at him like this was worse than him not, and Mike quietly whimpered, feeling his heart shatter and crumble.

"What happened?" He begged, as if he'd get an answer. His next words weren't a choke of despair but something primal and lower down, and he growled out in the darkest snarl he had ever done, "What the hell happened?! Did something do this to you guys!? Tell me, and I can fix it! I can fix it, just like always—"

Freddy, of course, didn't answer. Mike felt hysteria sink it's fangs into him and he flinched when a new voice entered the scene without his concession.

"Mike, hey…"

The night guard whipped around, glaring down at Max until he realized and he snapped to attention, eyes widening.

"Max, have you ever seen them do this? Ever?" Mike demanded without letting the kid finish whatever it was he was about to say.

Unhappily, the corpse shook his head.

"Well…I mean?" Max bit his lip, and looked like he'd rather do anything than say what he was about to say. "They look kinda like…like they were…like how they used to be. When I knew them. Before…" He trailed off and seemed to shrink under Mike's wide-eyed, terror filled stare of realization. Because, goddamn, Max was right. Before.

The haunting. The murders. The Gift. The Marionette.

"The Marionette—" Mike hissed in relief, and felt hope flare in his chest so hard he felt dizzy. He stopped himself from falling over by grabbing Freddy's one outstretch arm. Even now, Freddy still had him. He clung to it and thought, hard.

"Huh?" Beside him, Scraptrap shuffled uneasily at the creature's name.

"The Marionette brought them to Life, so what could undo its power? Afton? You think your dad is here?" Make demanded, mind thrown into overdrive.

"Maybe." Max eyed the gang warily and shivered. If he ever found Scraptrap like this? Yeah, no. He didn't envy Mike right now.

"And now what? He's hiding?" Mike growled and pushed away from Freddy, face twisted into something deadly and unMike like. "Then we just bring the bastard out of hiding. He wants to face me one on one, fine by me."

"Whoa, whoa, wait, you? Take on—Mike!"

"No, Max. I mean it. This ends now." Mike cut in firmly. "Are you with me?"

"I…yeah, Mike. We're with you." Max swallowed and offered a quiet, "You…you still got us."

Mike Schmidt paused in that moment, like a switch had been flipped.

"…I know, kid. And thank you."

Maybe if Mike had been more focused on the Now instead of the Then, he would have better noticed Foxy's pose.

The triumphant reach at the stage was up too high, to the left a little too much to truly be his original stock stance that he fell into when playing Dead. It was off, just a fraction. Enough to pass, but not enough to fool sharp minded night guards and their penchant for spotting when the pattern broke and the game shifted.

But for now, Foxy's hook remained level, pointing dead on at Lefty the bear and nothing more. And when the time was right, perhaps their night guard would notice then.

Or, perhaps like Freddy's realization, the clue would come too late.

END ACT II.
Beware the rain.
Beware the snow.
Beware the man
You think you know.
- Catherine Fisher

Notes: Uh, hey. So…how bout them Yankees?