Author's Note: Perhaps the biggest theme of Last Shift is this: 'What we do about our fear makes us human. For better…or for worse.'

At first crock-crow, the ghosts must go, back to their quiet graves below… –Theodore Garrison

ACT III.
Chapter 15. Something Remains

The Past, 1987

"What you're speaking is nonsense, Will. Look, come here and sit down, and talk with me."

"No! No, Henry, no it's not nonsense. It happened, because I saw it happen, so I know it did. Understand?" William hissed, his eyes wide enough the whites were showing. The sure sign of an unstable mind. "He came back, it worked. Not for long, just for a moment, but it did."

"You brought young Michael back to life. Using one of Springbonnie's spare costumes." Henry repeated, voice narrow and tight. He was hoping, if he mirrored his friend's words, the man might come to his senses. Hear how crazy he sounded.

The least of which being that for Michael to be brought to life, he would have had to have been dead first. And while the kid was late for his shift—like he always was—he had been very much alive the last time Henry'd seen him. He'd been teaching Freddy a few new sign language tips, things like 'yes' and 'no' and 'I understand.'

"Yes! Yes," but William laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. "Which means—do you know what this means? Arthur, I can get Arthur back."

"At the cost of your first born, paltry as that sounds." Henry retorted, sarcastic and angry. Perhaps a little bit scared.

Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Alexander much either, although William had muttered something snide about punishment and being locked away.

Henry assumed the boy's bedroom. But now…

"I'll bring Michael back later." Will replied with an uncaring wave of his hand. "His was a test run, but it worked, didn't it? I can move on to other projects now. You and I can—"

"You can stop yourself right there, William." And with that, Henry stood. "Because I'll have none of it. What you're speaking of is murder, plain and simple. And trading one life for—for another is madness! It's not possible, for one thing, this supernatural horror show you're talking about! And even if it were, how are you to explain it?"

William Afton, the man who'd lost so much in the span of a handful of weeks, who'd aged a lifetime between Then and Now, stared at him silently. His look was grave and stony, but he seemed to come to some inner decision as Henry talked.

"Bringing the dead back isn't possible, Will," Henry tried a different route, tried pleading and begging. "This is just your grief, getting the better of you. Please, try and think…"

"I have been thinking, Henry. I've been thinking I've had enough of living in your shadow. I've had enough loss and disappointment and grief, and it's time I got what I deserved. What I want. Who are you to deny me my son?"

"Who are you to kill yours?!" Henry shouted.

"I told you," snapped Afton, tone nasty as he flicked his wrist. The door behind him opened, and Springbonnie lurched in, ears upright and pretty optics shining. "I'll fix him later. He's in the back room. Right now I need to get Arthur back, because he's been gone the longest. If you're not with me, you're against us."

"Springbonnie? What are you doing off your stage?"

The brightly colored Bonnie model smiled cheerfully at Henry.

"Springbonnie, show Henry the door. He's not going to be of any use, so he can leave. And if he comes back…well." William shrugged. "Kill him."

Springbonnie's smile twitched, but his eyes glowed purple, and a second later he had Henry fully in the tight mitts of his paws.

"Let go of me—Springbonnie, listen to me—I am your Creator—"

"You made them, Henry. But I gave them Life." William purred, the only answer the other man received before he was dragged and bodily thrown from the little diner.

The P_st, 19? ?

The main sage was empty. Fredbear was decommissioned and stashed of course, because of the accident. Springbonnie was certainly no longer on stage. He hadn't been for a while. Because of…because of…?

Some reason. They didn't know why. It didn't occur to any of them to ask.

The Prize Puppet hadn't come out of its box in a while, but then, there hadn't been any children in the diner either as of late. So that made some logical sense.

The night guard had come by, in his usual purple shirt and pressed, dark pants. He'd been carrying someone or something, and while the limp form looked vaguely familiar it wasn't moving or speaking much, so Freddy had put it from his mind as something to forget.

He turned to eye Bonnie, who was plucking his guitar. Freddy watched, and listened, and recognized the notes as one of the song Michael listened to.

"…Bon?" He grunted, speakers a little staticy from lack of use.

The bunny turned to him instantly, ears upright. When Freddy spoke, you listened. Bonnie and Chica and even Freddy knew that cardinal rule.

"Michael?" He tried. Bonnie and Chica had long since made the connection what this name meant. 'Where was he? Do you know?'

Bonnie blinked, then scanned the dining hall himself, his tall ears upright. Freddy knew Bonnie could do things he could not do, and vice versa. Michael said this made them "a good team" and so it must be something positive, because of the word 'good.'

"Dunno." Bonnie's relaxed way of talking was so different from his own smooth, country dialect. (Or it would be if Freddy spoke more.) But it was normal for Bonnie, and so it was normal for Freddy too, and so he never questioned it.

Freddy turned to ask Chica, who had mastered her thought to speech patterns a bit easier. Freddy did not know why this was, and he did not know what jealousy or envy were. But he knew Chica was doing well, because both Henry and Michael were always pleased when she interacted for a long time with costumers.

"Not sure!" Chica answered in her bright, happy manner. "Michael?" She called out, voice loud and pitched slightly to sound questioning like she'd learned.

All the Fazes turned to look. Freddy even eyed Foxy's stage, but it was still closed and there was no answer, lately if the three of them spoke a lot, this would prompt Foxy to jerkily draw his velvety curtain and tilt out slowly, eyes on them as his AI observed and listened for prompted script words.

The last time Foxy had done that was before the last party they'd had. Freddy wondered why, but did not question it, because he couldn't yet.

And Michael did not visit Foxy often, so there was no reason to venture behind the curtain to see for himself. Besides, they were locked on stage, and content to do so.

The Fazes stared across the empty building, sharing confused, dulled looks with one another. Freddy looked around the most, but no matter what he did or how long he looked, his cameras could not find Michael.

There were a lot of things the Fazgang did not understand yet.

And it would be years before they did.

T_e P_s_, 1_8_?

When Michael came to, it was dark.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark.

When he tried to sit up, whimpering at the tug and pull of fresh stitches and the inner ache of his being, it seemed a little less dark.

This was mostly because there was a little white face staring down at him.

That wasn't what startled him. What startled him the fact he'd been tossed into Parts and Services, and the gaping, broken jawed face of Fredbear was grinning emptily at him. He gave a choked cry, and dragged himself to the nearest corner to get as much space as possible between him and the animatronic that killed his baby brother.

"S-shit," he gasped, "Fuck…god…"

A few memories came back to him, slamming into him forcefully and making him tremble with the rattling repercussions of his memories. Dad talking to him when he got home from school. Michael had grabbed an opened soda he left in the fridge and listened, staying dutifully until whatever riot act was read.

But then he'd felt…fuzzy. And tired. And he'd been moving. The diner's ceiling had come into view.

He thought he heard Freddy's voice, and it only stuck out in his mind because the sound was so rare.

But then he'd heard nothing. And felt less.

Across the room there was a lilting chime that broke him from his trauma, and he turned with confused eyes to watch the Marionette crawl off Fredbear from where it had been clinging. He'd never seen the Marionette do anything more than lean out of its box. He'd never seen it move. And now he wished he'd never had to. It wasn't moving like how it used to, jerking it's limbs with the prize children asked for, playing it's friendly music box as it counted tokens and tickets methodically.

It moved like a boneless, spindly little spider now, stretching it's nearly four foot long frame into view and slinking toward him. Thin fingers caught his chest and pressed him in place, but when he stiffened, the pressure was stopped. The creature crested upwards and loomed closer, as if studying something beyond his face.

"Please…" Michael begged, because what else could he do in this situation?

'Shh.' It leaned forward, as if to threaten, but then the teenager noticed the Marionette was staring at the door to the rest of the diner. What was it listening for? Was Dad still here? His hearing was fantastic lately, almost as if he was using Springbonnie's ears to…

But no. That was impossible, wasn't it?

He stayed quiet, realizing he wasn't breathing anymore and tried not to panic over that little factoid.

Apparently satisfied, the Puppet suddenly pushed off him and hovered backwards, lifting itself so slowly off the ground. Its string wires threaded lazily as it stared down at him.

'I've been thinking, you know.' Said the Marionette, and for a long while Michael didn't move. He didn't speak, just let his jaw hang and stared. He'd never heard the voice for the Puppet—and right now in his state of mind he couldn't even remember if the creature was ever supposed to have a voice.

But it had one now.

"…you…you have, huh?" That was certainly New. Michael regarded the strange, haunted creature with a new wariness. He felt like he'd just been thrown into a lion's den.

'Yes. It has taken quite a lot to do so. The first Son but the second attempt. You didn't take correctly, either. You aren't supposed to be alive.'

Well, what do you say to that?

"Sorry to disappoint." He choked before he could stop himself. The sarcasm was either lost or ignored on the entity that had taken over their Prize Puppet. "Fucked everything else up, might as well add this to the list, thanks for that."

'You've felt like a failure all your life. You've never been the one in control. Not even for your death, which was only used to prove the extent of my powers for someone else to use. Still, I have to wonder…what's end game?'

"W-what?"

"The finale. How does it all end? The same way it started? No. I think not." Its fingers tapped along it's folded arms in lazily contemplation. "It seems that, as far as I can tell, your story ends here Michael. But what if it didn't? What if you could prove to yourself, and to others, you were more than what they see, child?' The voice wasn't necessarily kind, in fact it seemed distant, cold, and spoke slow, as if just now learning for the first time how to voice it's thoughts into words.

This chilled Michael all over, and made him swallow. Because it proved the Puppet had been more than aware of its surroundings for a while now. The strings behind it glinted and swayed in the dim light. Three of them flicked upright and held out before him, like fingers counting.

I have been hearing three voices' It's strings twitched. ' One, the voice of a child. He is leaking from his optics.'

"…cryin'." The teenager cleared his suddenly dry throat. "We call that….crying."

'Crying. Thank you for the word. The Crying Child cries an awful lot. This is upsetting to me. The second voice belongs to the loud, angry man. He is a strange shade. What color is this?' A black finger taped the paint under its porcelain eye. Michael could never remember seeing it before. It looked shiny, and fresh.

"…purple." The color of their work shirts. The color Dad and Henry always wore.

'I see. The Purple Man is very angry. And controlling. The Crying Child hates it. I have no opinion one way or the other, but I do think I should try and keep my Crying Child happy. I like happy children, don't you?'

"Y...yeah, sure." Answered the eldest sibling, who wondered when he'd been thrown threw open a door to the Twilight Zone.

'The third voice…the third voice comes and goes. But I think I remember where it belongs. Will you help me put them back together?'

Michael stared at the Puppet.

"Who…who does the voice belong to?"

'I like that you ask questions. I ask questions too. Close your eyes, and I'll give you a hint, Michael.'

If pressed for answer, Michael would never have one for you. He had no explanation for why he did what he did then. But it felt…right. It felt like, by process of elimination, it was the only choice he had left to make.

He was scared. He didn't want to die.

All he knows is the fear he felt over this entity, was just slightly less than the fear of his own father—William Afton, the Purple Man—being allowed to do as he pleased. To experiment and murder and control. And somehow, without understanding why, he had a feeling this odd little creature was going to help him put a stop to it.

So he closed his eyes.

And what settled over his head, was heavy, and smelled of iron and death.

He opened his eyes, but could not see through the purple haze of what appeared to be it or his eyes. He wasn't sure.

'This is going to take a while. Your Animatronic is empty, you see, but not anymore. That's where the Purple Man went wrong. You can't run on an empty fur suit, it needs Something Special. Now it's got you. You are its Suit. Let's try this again. You'll be a unique one, but with a little luck, and some of your spirit, I think you'll both work out in the end…

He felt tired, and drained. The Marionette's low voice was fading in and out.

After all. We simply cannot have a…without a…'

His world exploded into a shower of sparks, and he knew nothing other than he and whatever was on him was hitting the floor.

'Sometimes grief can make you feel like you've split in two, can't it?'

l'p vwloo khuh, ?

Michael didn't need to open his eyes to know it was raining.

He could feel it, sort of. In a dull muted way, like when you were underwater and brushed your hand against the side of the pool. He could hear it too, thankfully. There wasn't any ringing or muttering or chiming in his ears to muddle his thoughts and confuse him.

Little by little, things like sensations and sight and sound were coming back to him. Which was weird.

Since he was dead.

He was pretty sure, anyway. Wasn't he? By Dad. His dad had…

Dad and the…someone else. Something else had been there. Watching over his shoulder. Something small and black with a white, brittle face and little red dots for eyes. Erh, or cheeks, maybe. Purple streaks under the eyes, yes that was it…

The Puppet.

Or…something in approximation to the Puppet model they'd had. They thing didn't seem any more aware of him than Michael did of it by the end. It looked hollow, angry, and horrifying.

It hadn't looked as crazy as Dad though.

Something heavy and warm and hard was around him kind of, slumped sideways and shielding his body but keeping him pressed into the gritty, unforgiving cement of the back alley.

He cracked open an eye, and stared at the brick wall through what the tiny yellow bulb above provided. The rain kept coming.

'I'm outside. Why am I outside?'

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. So he blinked, clearing his vision and was relieved when that at least worked. He stretches a pale, purpling hand across from his chest and curved aching, clumsy fingers into the cement and tugged.

He heard more than felt the heavy weight kind of dip off him, but when he sat up, the yellow animatronic arm draped over his stomach remained.

"Sp…" He choked, understanding better why he had been somewhat sheltered from the rain and cold and wind. "Spring…?"

The spare animatronic suit wasn't the original Springbonnie model, though. This was an extra one. He knew it had no hardware powering it, that it was just an empty suit, void of life. Maybe, in another life, it might have been used to replace Springbonnie's suit when his got too worn or faded. Maybe in time, it could have been filled with an AI and taught to work the floor alongside the Fazes.

But not now. Not anymore.

It was his coffin.

Or…it had been.

Why couldn't he remember?

'Someone pulled me out. Dad…?'

He shivered, teeth clacking, and froze when the silent and empty animatronic suit suddenly gave a twitch.

"Wha…wait…"

It did not wait. It withdrew its once limp arm, got its paws under it, and started to carefully, tentatively, sit up.

Michael Afton froze, watching with wide purple eyes as the spare suit moved. All on its own. It's endoskeleton was probably okay, sure, only it was soaked now.

No sparks. Nothing electrical was making it move.

But someone—something—was making it stare back at him.

"What…what are you?" Michael rasped, his voice unused and scratchy. He coughed, and they both stared at the gob of pink goo that bubbled past his lips. He wiped at it, but it didn't taste bad or smell—it didn't taste like anything. And he couldn't smell. The alley behind the diner always smelled like something, pizza or garbage or grease, but not anymore. Even rain used to smell good to him, comforting.

All of that was gone. Because he was dead.

Michael dragged his gaze from his grayed hands and eyed the Springbonnie suit.

"I don't even know what I am, so what does it matter what you are, huh?"

The Bonnie model said nothing.

"…sorry. That was shitty."

The Bonnie model said nothing again.

Before either of them could do or say anything else, the back door to the diner was thrown open.

He froze when his father stepped out, and took small comfort in seeing the way William froze too.

"…Michael?" He said. He had to hand it to his old man, because he sounded equally relieved and disappointed at the sight of them.

"…Hey…Dad." He was at a loss for words. He couldn't remember the last few weeks, but he remembered enough to know a few things.

He was dead. This man before him had killed him.

And it was all an experiment.

'Guess it worked. Shove a human in an animatronic suit, murder them, their ghost comes back and, boom. Twilight Zone special, only instead of once a week it's every day now. This is my life.'

If he ran, if he left, where would he go? He'd never have a normal life again.

"Son, what are you doing out here? Get…get in here. Before someone sees you. Let's go." William commanded, and he almost sounded concerned. It was nice to pretend, anyway.

Michael stood, joints protecting quietly. The cold kind of hurt him now, and he wondered if it was as warm in the Springbonnie model as it looked to be.

'Can't call him Springbonnie, that's too confusing. He's a little shorter than Spring too, I think. Kinda scrappy looking.' Michael wondered if there was a moment in a person's life—afterlife?—where they could mark down the exact point their sanity snapped.

His seemed to be fraying, anyway. He didn't feel crazy. He felt kind of…tired. And cold. And worn. But he felt clear, too. Like he was seeing things as they were for the first time in a while.

"Coming, dad." And so he did.

He looked as astonished as dad when the Scrapped Bonnie model lurched upright after watching him and swayed behind. He didn't say anything, or move much beyond that, but it was clear he was going to stick by Michael.

The corpse felt a small flare of affection for the Bonnie model.

"Can he come too?" Michael asked, somehow knowing it wouldn't matter the answer, yet felt the burning, childish desire to ask his father anyway.

William eyed them both, looking as unhappy as he ever did, but there was a spark of interest in his gaze as he eyed Scrap. He nodded, then turned and lead the way into the diner.

'Someone pulled me out. I don't think it was Dad.' Michael Afton stared beside the empty, walking Suit, and studied their surroundings, both the ones before and behind them. He eyed the alley then closed the door behind them.

'Someone threw us out, but put us back together. And I know it wasn't Dad.'

? ? ? ? ? ?

It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder claps mumbled above, rain hitting the tin roof in plits and plats as wind whistled through the old building. There was no power anymore, and the forks of lightning weren't providing much to see by aside the occasional spew of illumination.

That was fine. What was happening certainly wasn't something you wanted someone to see. The darker, the better.

"I can't let you guys do this, Freddy."

"And yer gunna stop us, son? Ya think that's yer call to make, is it?"

"I guess it is. Someone might as well take responsibility. Dad sure as hell never will."

"Oohh, someone's a big boy now. Thinkin' he knows everythin'."

"I don't, Bonnie. But what I do know is you guys can't go in there. None of you can. It's not possible." Locked coding wasn't their fault, but no one seemed to understand or accept their limitations.

"Then we'll wait." Chica hissed, her tone icy and brittle. "We've become very patient."

"No. The clock's ticking, we don't have time for this." Michael—Scraptrap—both of them, argued.

Scraptrap stood before the four, his back to the hidden room, their frame tall in defiance to the Fazgang. Even from where he stood, the ghostly presences coming them all were crushing.

"This be the hill you wanna die on, matey?" Alexander's face half-split from Foxy's broken muzzle, contorted and angry and soulless as he glared, his own teeth bared just like Foxy's more impressive ones were.

The axe's handle slipped lower, settling heavily into their paw.

"Already did die." There was no time for hesitation, because he knew the original four were past the point of kindness and warmth. The animatronics he'd taught so much to, the friendship and the learning and the jokes…of course, Alex himself. Killed by Dad's sick idea of revenge and the catalyst to all this.

He held on to the memories tighter than he had anything in his life.

Their glowing eyes and hollow glares were more than enough evidence that this was no longer them.

He'd failed them too, certainly the kids Dad had trapped and killed. What was a few more people to the list?

And though it hurt, it hurt like a pain he'd never felt until now, Scraptrap swung.

And when he was done, and when the animatronics laid scattered in pieces across the tile, and when the ghosts had slipped into the ether, he went and found what he would need to brick up the back room.

Dad had stopped twitching by the time he returned. Good. That was good.

He was aware of it watching him well before he acknowledged it.

"You're a little late."

'And you have never been on time in your life.'

Scraptrap snorted, but peered into the gloom, the miserable little window of what remained, what he hadn't covered up yet.

Springbonnie's slack face smiled out at him, the plastic eyes empty as sin. But there was no movement. No spark of life.

"…this was right, right? I did what—I made the right call? This is it? It's over?" he finally asked the Marionette.

The answer was silence, which was never good. And when it spoke, the Puppet answered as it usually did. With a riddle.

'Do you know what a ghost is? Maybe a second, trapped in time. Something dead which still seems to be alive. Maybe a loop. A tragedy commended to repeat itself, time and time again. Like a blurred photograph.

Like an insect trapped in amber.'

In any case, the Puppet let him finish his task.

It was gone by the time Michael and Scrap left.

But, obviously not everything was gone. Or at least, enough things remained.

And the rest returned.

And then they got out.

The Present

Max stared upward into the face of Lefty the bear, trying to comprehend what he saw before him.

What he had seen.

What he was remembering.

"…y-you? It was you," Max choked on the final word and sank back against the wall, compliant with grief and fear and heartache. "You brought me back. I was just a tool. For you and Dad."

'For what it's worth, I had faith in you.'

The Marionette had come back for him. Once, to bind him to Scraptrap, using his soul.

Twice, when he split open the Fazes, letting the ghosts swarm and circle and torture his living father.

Three, just now. Ripping him from the dying—dead?—Mike and hauling him off to Parts and Services. Max was alone. It was just him the Marionette, and there was no one coming to save him this time.

Apparently his time was up. It was only small consolation the Marionette repaired his memory and let him have some answers about why he was so different from his father, from Circus Baby, even from Alexander.

He had been murdered once, but stuffed into a Suit twice. The first son but the second attempt. Dad had never known about the Marionette's manipulations, but it was clear from early on that the Puppet didn't seem to settle well with William Afton.

No wonder he had enough free will to remain himself. Enough to coax Scraptrap's AI to develop into something—something he was missing. A friend. A partner. The bunny had never spoken a day in his life but he loved Max, and Max loved him. Still…to what end? What good was he?

The Marionette choose wrong. He'd chosen wrong. He'd broken apart the Fazes, thinking that was right.

The spirits came back.

He'd helped them murder his father, letting him bleed out in the back room and boarded it up.

Springtrap got out.

He'd tried. He'd tried so goddamn hard, and he'd failed.

And his time was up.

'Well, my little insect.' The Marionette sounded…strange. Max couldn't place it. 'Time to free you from your amber~'

And then ragged black paws stretched down his face, tracing a line from mind to heart.

It banked suddenly, drifting to the right and before Max could react, the clutching paw grasped hold of his walkman, ripped it off his belt and began to squeeze.

"N-no, wait," He tried, he really did. "I don'-don't wanna die again…p-please—"

'That isn't for us to decide, Michael.'

Something snagged in the strainer of his frantic mind. 'us.'

"S-someone's controlling y-you?" His eyes raked around the dark Parts and Services, but Lefty's grip on him and the walkman was too tight, and he couldn't muster an ounce of strength. "W-who? How? Maybe—"

"SILENCE!"

And Max knew then, exactly what was off about the Puppet.

Inflection. Emotion. Passion.

…fear. It was scared.

Where the absolute fuck had it picked up emotions? The Marionette never changed, not over the years. It was always cold, calculating, quiet. Like Dad. In the background somewhere, pulling it's strings. Changing fates and reversing time when it thought something was to be gained, or there was a lesson to be learned.

Trying to find one person to be the protector, to be the night guard and keep watch.

Max was pretty sure Arthur was gone. And, besides, Arthur never would have been okay with this, right?

"Stop," he tried, but his voice weakened in the few moments, hearing plastic crack as Lefty forced more weight on both him and his cassette player.

Wherever Scraptrap was, he'd probably be paralyzed with pain too. Max whimpered, letting his aching eyes drop closed. If he could still cry, he would. But he can't. So he isn't.

And then the floor thuds, calm and paced but short, and that's strange. Tiredly, uncaringly, Max cracked open an eye, wincing at the bright light that has suddenly backlit the focused Lefty.

And that's how Max is given a front row seat to watch a set of massive jaws come down onto Lefty's shoulder and bite, deep. Lefty shrieks, the noise chilling and too high pitched to be anything but the Marionette. But those jaws only clench and heavy paws appear, grasping Lefty round the middle to unceremoniously rip him backwards. The walkman goes flying, and Max clumsily catches it even as he too topples, flopped onto his side as a giant, glowing Freddy model drives Lefty into the far wall and delivers a punch that makes the plaster crack behind the black bear's head. Lefty's jaw snaps half off, dangling wide, but the shrieks continue of course. Lefty was nothing more than a façade, there's no speakers in him.

Max could puke at the sight of the horrifying, terrible frame of Fredbear as he absolutely lays into Lefty. He's still the same in some ways, and yet horribly, tellingly different. He's still huge, sure. Still towers, all bulk and metal and massive girth that makes Fredbear slow but packing a wallop. His teeth, stained and slightly chipped, flash a brittle brown and yellow from age and misuse. Arthur's blood is still there. Some new stains are there too, along with some cracks.

His empty sockets glowed, though, signaling a haunted frame. A Suit. Because of course he's a Suit, but where…

And then Fredbear turns, following Lefty across the room as the bears grapple with one another. And Max sees it. He sees it, and whatever stands in for his blood runs cold and makes his skin prickle.

Because one side of Fredbear's face was covered in a familiar row of scars.

Because one of his paws was also marred, though it doesn't affect his ability to throw a proper punch apparently.

Because one glowing center was gold, and the other was warm blue.

Because Max realized he's staring at Michael Schmidt and Fredbear. And everything, everything makes sense.

Fredbear ducked a swing from Lefty, whose recovered the surprise attack and immediately retailed with angry, sharp cries of a music box being wound backwards as he tried to cleave his arm to knock Fredbear off balance.

Instead, Fredbear smartly dodged and roared defiance and rage. He backed up a second time, bodily blocking Max from view instead of continuing his full on assault. But the statement and body language was clear—Fredbear wasn't going to let the Marionette snuff out Max's life like a candle.

When Lefty hissed and took a step, Fredbear only seemed to bristle more, letting a ripple of irritation ring between them that halted the Marionette sensibly in its tracks. Lefty was far worse than before, his casing dented and gouged, his head half off and jaw dangling by the left connector parts. His already black eye had been knocked out, and something white and dirty was just in sight if you looked at the right angle.

Lefty gave a rattling, roiling chime and raised his mike as if to use it as a bludgeon. Or perhaps it meant something else, because Fredbear perked up for an instant.

But then Fredbear sneered and readied his stance, shaking his head.

Max couldn't tell you what they were discussing, though it clearly involved him in some sense and the conversation was intense. And then the discussion seemed to tilt, and Fredbear grunted in low, soft pain. For a second Max's felt fear but then realized it wasn't physical, but emotional.

He waited. Fredbear waited too. The world held its breath.

Lefty gave a single, strange, soft quiver and lapsed into gentle silence.

For a second, Max wondered if the Marionette had simply vanished, with how still and silent both of them had gone.

Fredbear raised that scarred hand hopefully, and the moment shattered into a thousand little pieces.

Lefty snarled and fled, throwing himself through the glowing door frame that darkened the second he was gone. There was no sound down the hall of the bear fleeing.

There was just the sound of Fredbear's ghostly parts still parroting noises, like muscle memory. And the slow, heavy breathes of a tired human in a muffled costume, the pants wet and hard.

Fredbear turned in place, one eye affixing on the teenage corpse down below him, and Max swallowed, his throat clicking as he stared back at the biggest and strongest animatronic the restaurant had ever created.

Maybe he was next. Maybe Fredbear'd only wanted a piece of him and interrupted Lefty for the honor of the kill. Maybe…maybe…

An too bright to be natural electrical charge skirted around Fredbear's form, making the overheads pop and sizzle as darkness landed on top of them both.

"Max?" Mike's voice was low, soft and exhausted. There was a rustling, and the flashlight Mike always carried clicked on as the gangly man knelt before him, keeping the bright light aimed to the side. A hand gripped his shoulder, firm and steady. It was the same scarred hand that was, minutes ago, a paw delivering a horrible blow to Lefty, yet now it was warm and lean and familiar.

"Max, are you okay?" Mike hedged softly.

It was a loaded question.

And Max only closed his eyes and shivered.

"No." he whispered finally, feeling the cracks of his walkman slowly heal over. But the crack in Mike's flashlight remained, the same has it had been since he'd met the man. "But I'm better off than you, huh?"

Mike smiled sadly, and for one of the few times Max could recall, it didn't reach his eyes.

"C'mon. Can you stand?" Mike said instead of anything. "Lean on me—let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

"Ironic words coming from the goddamn Suit of Golden Freddy," Max snorted as he let Mike help him limp out of the room.

Mike sighed, but didn't reply.

Me: oh I can finish this story in 4 chapters, sure
Last Shift's plot: and I took that personally