08/08/1970 06:23:19pm
ERROR: Improper shutdown detected.
Activating recovery process.
Auto update date and time: 08/08/1970 06:23:19pm
Recovering…
Recovery complete.
Restoration in process.
The cameras blinked into view once the restoration process finished updating all of its files. Puppet once more found itself looking up at the ceiling in the back room. It stared at the gray ceiling tiles while it tried to recover the last moments before it shut down.
When it realized Miss Bonnie stopped functioning.
Activating emotional_algorithm.
Determining factors.
Processing emotional output…
Puppet quickly halted the process to prevent another overload. It took a moment for its AI to override the algorithm, but once it did, it felt…
Nothing.
Puppet tried to play back the last video file before its shutdown, to get a clearer picture.
The file cut in and out.
All it saw was Miss Bonnie motionless on the floor, and a strange man's smile.
"...You awake, little one?"
Puppet turned to the source of the voice. It wasn't Miss Bonnie's soft timbre, but a coarser, gruffer tone that it immediately recognized as Will. Will sat in Miss Bonnie's usual place at the work table. It took in his face, his dark skin and brown eyes, his beard that started to gain white flecks, a soft blue hat over his hair.
It looked away from him to examine the room with only one question on its mind:
Where was Miss Bonnie?
"Gonna take that as a yes," Will said, quietly. "The place is closed for a time while a few things get sorted out. It's just you'n me right now."
Puppet pushed itself up, then stared at Will. It gripped his shoulder to look over him, taking in the back room. The red oil was gone, as was the yellow rabbit. The tiles shone, almost new again with their luster. Its box sat in its corner, untouched in days. All around the work table were rags and bottles of cleaner. The rags held wet, recent red stains.
"I know you can understand things to an extent," Will said, letting it look around, "but there's somethin' you need to understand now, more than anything."
Puppet stopped its examination of the room to look back to him. It crawled down from his shoulders and sat down on the desk. Its arms propped its heavier chest and head up to better face Will.
"...I found you beside her," Will whispered, once it settled, "after she...I know you tried, but Bon…"
He tried not to choke up as he reached for one of Puppet's hands. Will gently set his hand over the three long fingers and curled his own thick fingers around them.
"...She's not comin' back."
Puppet tilted its head in confusion, then looked over at the open door leading into the dining room.
Even from here, it picked up the silence.
"I'm sorry, little one," Will said, quietly. "She was…"
He paused, trying to put it in terms it would understand.
"...Broken. Her...internal wiring...was too damaged to repair. She doesn't work anymore."
Puppet remained still as it stared at the open door. Gently, it pulled away from Will, then slid itself off the table. The old man let it crawl and slide along the tiles as it quickly pulled itself to the door and peered out of the room.
Round tables and chairs dotted the room. The stage's purple curtains were closed, the gold glitter shimmering with faint movement from the ventilation. It saw video game cabinets, a glass case of sorts holding strange and colorful things, a small, round Freddy-bear with partially-deflated balloons around its wrists standing beside it.
But no Miss Bonnie.
Puppet crawled out of the room, already looking between the tables and ringing a gentle chime to call for her.
Miss Bonnie said her Freddy was always here. And if he was here…
Another glance around the room, another chime.
No one answered.
Puppet found itself by the glass case, staring at the toys. It recognized a lot of the things behind the glass as Freddy-bears, and Bonnie-rabbits.
Here, perhaps?
It shifted for a better look, and caught something in the glass. A careful tilt of its head better revealed its own reflection: its smiling face, the blue LED eyes glowing from behind the mask, the gentle pucker of red lips, the long tears painted down its cheeks. Puppet gently traced its features in the glass.
A face like hers.
Our dream never died, she once told it, and you will keep it alive when I can't.
Puppet glanced over the little trinkets behind the counter, the simple remnants of Miss Bonnie and her Freddy.
Your task is to silently watch, listen, and when necessary, take action to protect what Freddy and I built.
It pulled away from the counter, and turned to head for the back room. Will was already there behind it. He gently reached down to pick up Puppet.
Remember that, little one.
"I'm sorry, little one," Will said. His lips trembled with his voice. "But...thank you. For bein' there. At least her last moments were...with someone she cared about, and cared about her."
No one else can know.
Puppet leaned over his shoulder. It watched the prize counter shrink as Will carried it into the back room.
"I know it's gonna to take time to get used to," Will said, gently setting Puppet back in its box, "but when you're ready, we'll continue what she started."
Puppet slipped back inside, already better comforted with its familiarity. It held the edge as it glanced up at Will. The old man removed his hat and ran a hand over his coarse, tightly-curled hair. He gripped it for a moment, before he pulled the hat back on. Will took a long breath, then turned back to Puppet.
"We'll figure things out," he promised. "For now, little one, try to get some rest."
Puppet nodded and gently pulled the box closed.
Normally, it went into its default stasis...but for now, it needed to process its new purpose, and a life without Miss Bonnie.
Saturday, November 13, 1993
As the day went on, Jeremy tried to rest and settle in. With the suit plugged in and still, it often went into sleep mode, interrupted only when someone entered the back room. Each time, Jeremy tensed and listened for Greg, and only eased when he heard someone else. Then he would watch the ceiling overhead and listen to what went on in the dining room until the suit inevitably re-entered its sleep mode again. He listened to the beeps of the video games, the songs from the show, the children laughing, running, and shouting, and their parents trying to reign them in.
Greg never appeared, not since he worked on the animatronics that morning, and came into the back room to rummage for spare parts. Updates he got from the Fazbear band told him nothing suspicious: Greg simply removed their casings, checked their joints, and cleaned and oiled them. He tightened some bolts, made some adjustments, and fixed some wiring. The parts he took, he used to replace older ones, before spot-cleaning their suits.
So far as Jeremy knew, it was simple routine maintenance with no access to their programming. He still couldn't help but feel Greg had done something to them, and wished he could see for certain. His only condolence was Greg didn't have time to examine him too closely before starting his shift. The man knew the Spring Bonnie suit still worked, and that alone gave him cause for concern.
What are you up to? Jeremy thought.
The question haunted him throughout the day as the suit slept and woke to the atmospheric background noise as the employees came into the back room. One woman in particular, Gwen, came by more often than the others. He heard her moving the animatronic heads and shifting something under them, often to a different place than before.
"Gotta hurry," he heard her mutter to herself on one trip as she pulled something from the shelves. "I probably won't get another chance."
Another chance for what? Jeremy wondered.
But he never got an answer.
The day dragged on into evening, where he heard the final birthday party settling down and getting ready to leave, and the staff cleaning up.
In mere hours, he would be alone with Greg.
Even as a ghost, Jeremy's heart sickened with dread at the thought. In the eerie quiet, the suit once more went into sleep mode.
11/13/1993 07:13:53pm
Override complete.
Auto update date and time: 11/13/1993 07:13:53pm
Recovery complete.
Restoration complete.
Puppet found itself back in its box. Outside, it heard the familiar sound of a small birthday party winding down. It listened carefully for each human, then gently lifted the top of its lid when it felt safe. It peered out into the room, where children played games or colored at the tables. Judy refilled a table's drinks while Franklin made a run around the room to tidy up.
Content at the current normality, Puppet glanced up at the camera above the stage. Its eyes flickered, before it gently slid back into its box. In the back of its mind, it heard quiet sobbing.
This will end, little one, the Puppet promised. The Smiling Man is among us once more. I will take a gift from him and give it to you, so that you and the others will smile once more.
It found the little ballerina card, and its accompanying sketch.
Soon, we will right the wrongs of the past.
The beep of the alarm pulled him from his sleep. Mike slammed down on the button. He groaned as he forced himself up. A glance at the time showed it was 9pm. He rubbed the last dregs of sleep from his eyes and glanced around the room. His work uniform lay in pieces all over the floor, abandoned where he left them.
Mike slipped out of bed, his feet sinking into the carpet below. He stumbled over to the closet, where his few packed boxes waited for him.
Right. He needed to get that old tape recorder.
At the back of the closet, he saw a bright bit of yellow: his old Chica toy.
Mike pulled the box closer to him and picked up Chica. His hands sank into her waist, where the stuffing shifted from being held. Her plastic eyes held a loving warmth. The plush Dulcie hung onto her arm, though the threads holding him in place were starting to come loose. She was the last gift his parents had given him before the accident, removed from the back of their car. Jeremy found it among his belongings when he moved in with the Fitzgerald family. It inspired that trip long ago. Mike slipped Chica under his arm, her smashed-in plush still familiar. He then turned back to the box.
Jeremy's journal rested on top of the other things he haphazardly threw into it the other day. Mike picked it up, the leather cool in his hands. He ran his fingers over the cover, then gently gripped the edges.
Mike's hands shook as he pulled it open. His throat tightened at the smell of ink and paper. Flashes of his nightmare from his last reading attempt haunted his mind: the brightening eyes in the journal pages, the undiscerned whispers of children, and Spring Bonnie leaning out of the video game cabinet. Yet they no longer held any horror for him.
The spell broken, Mike ran his hand over the pages. Jeremy's permission, the knowledge that he'd never come back to collect his private thoughts, finally allowed him to investigate something so close and so personal. He flipped through the entries, trying to locate November of 1987.
Jeremy's small, meticulous handwriting just as meticulously detailed the most memorable moments of his life. As Mike searched the pages, he caught snippets of those moments: the ceramic scroll with an angel poem he got Moira for Mother's Day that year, with the hope she'd like it. Arranging a test day with one of his professors so he could come to Mike's high school graduation. A weekend that he, Mike, and Ronan took for a camping trip not long after. The stresses of law school making it necessary to take the fall semester off for college. The aftermath of a date with Thomas. Hosting a Halloween horror night with their friends.
Mike smiled a little at Jeremy's detailed recollection of the miscommunication that lead them both to dress as Jason, instead of one of them donning Michael Myers. The smile faded as the next entry went into how Jeremy lost a part-time job. He ran into his manager while on another date with Thomas. Jeremy suspected that was the true reason he was let go...and it was the catalyst that lead him to the last job one he'd ever work.
Mike adjusted himself inside the closet and leaned against the inner wall to be more comfortable. He clutched Chica a little tighter as he braced himself for what he'd find.
11/8/1987
I successfully completed my first night at my new job. It was more trying than I expected. That place Mike and I liked as kids, Freddy Fazbear's, opened a new location. I needed a new part time job, and this one lets me study before going in and weekends off. Or so I thought.
Truthfully, I'm still shaking from tonight. I told Ma it was just coffee jitters. I'm sitting in my room right now, trying to relax, but I just can't get what happened last night out of my head…
As Mike read the first entry, he found similar parallels to his own first night:
Strange phone calls at the start of his shift, and wondering if it was just a prank. Having a brief run-in with an animatronic that convinced him to stay in the office. Questioning if what he experienced was for real.
Mike kept reading. Each entry added more horror, from Toy Bonnie coming in to stare, to the broken-down old models that still worked, to the weirdness that was the Mangle. He tensed as Jeremy discussed the mask he wore to keep them out of the office, only to become sadness as his brother discussed the music box, and comfort it brought him at the time.
By the third entry, Jeremy's experiences took a stranger turn.
11/10/1987
Last night's phone call won't leave my mind. Rumors? I know the old place had some incidents. A little girl went missing around there a few years ago, and there were rumors of a golden bear haunting the place even before Mike got bit by an actual one. But something about last night's call bugs me. I forgot to ask for his name again, but the man on the phone brought it up kind of out of nowhere.
I spoke to Shirley after my shift. She said there was an incident of sorts, but wouldn't go into much detail about it…
Mike skimmed the rest of the entry. Nothing but a rundown of another terrifying night of the mask and the continuing crusade of fighting them off until 6am, with a brief mention of going to the library later to see what Jeremy could find about the older place.
He turned the page as he recalled that last week at the Fitzgerald house. Jeremy always went straight to bed when he came home, only to arise hours a few hours later for food and study. Mike and Ronan went to their day jobs, while Moira kept house and ran her errands. By the time Mike got home, he only had a small window to see his brother before Jeremy went back to bed to refresh himself for the night shift. In that time, Jeremy occasionally seemed distracted and withdrawn, but Mike always believed him when he said he was fine.
Just like Vanna believed you at first, he thought.
Mike bit back the uneasiness of that parallel.
Jeremy also hid it far better than I ever did.
Realization dawned on Mike that Jeremy had most of the day to process the horrors of his job, to plan his assurances in advance. He gave no sign that anything was wrong, and even went on a date with Thomas a few hours before his last shift.
Mike understood. Jeremy wanted to protect his family from the weirdness that the night shift at Freddy's always brought with it.
11/11/1987
...leads me to last night. The place is under lockdown - not that I'd leave in the middle of the night anyway, with all those
things walking around. But there was an investigation. I keep thinking of what I found at the library, about that accident with the spring suit. All I can think is whatever happened yesterday, it was bad. Someone probably got hurt, or worse, killed…
...usually tells me anything I need to know, but tonight, she waited for me. Shirley said she trusts me, but she suspects something might be going on after hours, and to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. No one's allowed to be here except me...
His heart ached, knowing the next entry would be the last one. Mike clutched Chica a little tighter as he turned the page.
11/12/1987
...got in early. There was an employee there. He was doing something to Toy Bonnie, I think maybe fixing its jaw. I didn't recognize him, but he had one of those green staff polos on. I remembered what Shirley said last night and asked him what he was doing there just so I could see his nametag. His name is Greg, and he said he was doing routine maintenance. I just nodded and went to the office.
I was so panicked this morning, I forgot to tell Shirley about it on the way out. I remembered after I got some sleep, though. I've been trying to call her all day, but no one's picking up the phone...
Mike carefully read those last two paragraphs again. Will said he didn't remember seeing Greg much at the other location, but he did odd jobs. That Greg was still free meant no one else knew he'd been there after hours.
"...He was there before," Mike whispered, "and now we can prove it."
Mike shut the journal and set Chica down, then forced himself to stand. His stomach tightened as he glanced at the shirts hanging before him. Jeremy's words hung in his mind as he pulled out a light blue button-down. Mike got the rest of his fresh clothes from the drawer, and headed for the bathroom to shower and change. He took his time getting ready as he went over the plan again. Instead of fluttering butterflies, a torrent of bats tore at his chest and stomach as he forced his hands to still long enough to shave.
It's not too late, he thought. You don't have to do this.
His fingers fumbled over the buttons as he pulled on his shirt, then tried to smooth down the rumpled tie he pulled from yesterday's pants pocket. The remains of Jeremy's watch sat at the edge of the sink, as a small reminder of what they were fighting for.
He's counting on you, Mike reminded himself. They're all counting on you.
His spine ached as dread rode up and down his vertebrae in a never-ending elevator. The back of his mind brought forth the memory of hiding in that back room to get away from Foxy, of the fear of a larger, stronger monster coming for him.
Bite it back, he told himself, just as he had when he was six. You're brave.
Show them you're brave.
Mike gripped the edge of the sink to keep himself standing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Michael.
The voice in his mind wasn't his anymore, but his father's.
I am proud of you for trying to overcome this on your own.
Mike let the words from that day sink in. He heard the German accent, the calming tone. He remembered Johan's cologne mingled with cigarettes as that lesson eased some of the fearful torment. The voice in his mind softened to a more feminine timbre as Charlotte Schmidt took her turn to reflect words of comfort:
It'll be okay, Mikey.
Mike opened his eyes and looked up, half-expecting to see them in the mirror.
Only his own haunted face stared back, longing and empty. His heart sank as he reached for the glass. They weren't here anymore.
Mike wandered back to his room, and into the closet. He bent down to pick up Chica, the last thing they had given him before the car crash. Mike sat back against the wall and held Chica tightly while he let his mind focus on his parents' words of comfort. He let them briefly bring him back to a time where the world felt right and safe.
Where no murderer waited for him.
Where his brother was still alive, and both of his families were still together.
Both...
Mike tightened his grip on Chica.
Neither Moira nor Ronan Fitzgerald knew what he did these days. Neither of them knew he followed in their son's footsteps to take a night shift at Freddy's, to look for the truth, to risk his life...and he couldn't remember the last thing he told either of them. He last spoke on the phone sometime before Halloween, and last wrote them...an even longer time ago.
Mike closed his eyes and forced in another breath.
Focus, he told himself.
Breathe.
You're not alone in this.
You will have friends with you.
They won't let him hurt you.
You can do this. You can all do this.
And after this, you'll go home and tell your foster parents everything.
Calmer now, Mike found himself gently twisting Dulcie in his fingers. The little cupcake threatened to snap off the remainder of its threads. He stopped himself before he separated Chica from her cupcake companion, and slowly pushed himself up.
But...
Mike took another long breath and opened the journal back up to the last entry, then to the next page. His hands shook as he quickly wrote down 11/13/1993 followed by a short note detailing what he found out, and what he intended to do tonight. If things went badly…
They won't, he told himself. But just in case…
He signed his name, and closed the journal before placing it on his bed in clear view of the door. If things went badly, at least their family would know what happened, this time.
A knock at the front door pulled him from his thoughts. Mike quickly set Chica back in the box and raced to answer it.
Vanna stood there with her red coat for once zipped up over her chest. Her purse hung over her shoulder, and in her gloved hands, she held a cardboard tray with two coffees. Her face bore no makeup, not even her favorite purple lipstick. Her long, wavy hair hung freely down her back instead of in its usual ponytail.
"I got the best," Vanna said, as stepped inside. "I got in just before they closed. You'll have just enough time to enjoy it before we go in."
Mike simply nodded his thanks and gestured to the couch to offer her a seat. Vanna sat down and picked up her own cup.
"I still can't believe we're doing this," she muttered, taking a sip.
Mike came over to join her, and took his cup. He smiled a little at the rich flavor. If anything, Vanna made good on his request for a good cup of coffee. He took another sip, then set it down.
"...I had second thoughts," he confessed.
"Then you're not doing this?" Vanna asked.
"No, I still am," Mike said. "I just...needed to make peace with it."
He took another sip of his coffee. Vanna simply nodded.
"...I did too," she said, quietly. "The more I thought about it - and I mean, really thought about it - the more I wanted to take this bastard down. I want justice, and no one else is doing anything about it."
She slugged down a mouthful of coffee.
"Will's right. He fucked up our families. It's kind of fitting that we're the ones who are going to bring his ass down."
Mike nodded.
"You ready?"
"I will be," Vanna said. "I still have something I need to do first."
Mike checked the time. It was a little after 10:42pm.
"Then you should probably get it done," he said.
"After I finish my coffee," Vanna promised.