Author's Notes: God so we're officially on second-winter here in upstate. And all I wanna do is sleep in my Optimus Prime hoodie and read spooky stories or watch A Haunting. Why do we not hibernate like bears?
We ask only to be reassured about the noises in the cellar and the window that should not have been open.- T.S. Eliot
ACT II
Chapter 6. Dead Hearts
Mike watched as Freddy stepped into the biggest supply closet, and closed the door behind him. Were it anyone else that saw Fazbear shutting the door to lock them both in here, they might be worried. Certainly, a normal person would be a little uneasy, and they would be justified. If they knew Freddy's history, they would be downright petrified, if they had any brains at all. Thankfully, even when Mike used to have every right, he lacked enough common sense to panic whenever Freddy used to corner him. But those nights were long gone, and now, the bearbot's near constant presence brought only comfort and safety for one Mike Schmidt. Freddy was big, though not as big as old Fredbear, and he and Mike knew that.
They also both knew Mike refused to pull rank on the original four if he could help it; Fredbear was the oldest, living animatronic left. His seniority backed up what his girth and presence already proclaimed very loudly. He was the leader. He was in charge. He was unquestioned, or someone was going to be dismantled, especially if they pushed enough that he bit back.
And when Gold was not out, Mike was all that. Otherwise Gold would come out, and no one wanted that. With the exception of a certain Puppet, Goldy remained relatively unchallenged, especially after Nightmare was defeated and Nightmare Foxy and his gang displayed no aggression at them. And the Marionette, as his mind so traitorously and continuously reminded Mike, was gone.
"Okay, let's hear it." Mike broached, wondering how literally he would have to be when it came to poking the bear.
"Think I said my peace already, son." For once the fond nickname was said icily. He was in trouble, and while he understood the how, he didn't quite understand the reason why. Mike's worried frown melted a bit, as he eyed the big bearbot's tight posture and down turned eye plates and slack paws that twitched every so often. All Freddy's usual signs for displeasure and growing restlessness.
Freddy was worried, but beyond that he was afraid.
"No, you didn't. Not all of it, then." Mike settled on a folding chair he kicked out, arms draped comfortably over his legs as he relaxed, and this posture also conveniently put himself visibly lower than the head of the Fazgang. It was a gesture of calm submission, and it did help. Mike had no reason to be afraid of him anymore, no desire to be controlling or to bully the stubborn bear into getting his own way. The man was maybe a little tired from general stress, but he wasn't unhappy. He was confused, Freddy could see that. And when Mike was confused, Mike wanted answers.
"What did I miss, Freddy?"
Even better, Mike wasn't Afton. He wasn't King, the man's nephew who had taken over the restaurant and also the Fazes. He wasn't even Henry, who seemed changed and absent and Not-Quite-There in a way that bothered old Faz greatly, but the details as to Why and How he couldn't place his paw on just yet. No, Mike Schmidt was uniquely Mike Schmidt. And most of the time, Freddy admired the scrawny guy a great deal, with how strongly he loved and how confident and clever he could be when the chips were down.
And yet…
Mike was stubborn as he was, just in different ways. And that could get old, especially when Freddy knew he was the pot calling the kettle black and Mike knew that too. Freddy sighed in frustration, and looked away. He knew he owed the young man an explanation, but his speakers felt frozen. Words wouldn't come. Silence smothered them both for a long while, in the closet with its one light bulb on and surrounded by bleach and mops and buckets and boxes.
"You can tell me anything big guy, you know that." Mike coaxed, in his most calmest and softest tone and, despite himself, Freddy felt a bit of him give way and crumble. "Hey, c'mon. Look, don't I come to you with all my sh—crap? You always put up with me."
"That boy's dangerous, Michael. And he don't belong here." It was an honest statement, but a loaded one.
Remembering a long ago conversation he had with the Puppet about Jeremy Fitzgerald's son, Mike nodded in ponderous thought. Alright then. Right to it. Mike loved and missed the Puppet, but you had to admire Fazbear's refusal at beating around a bush. He tended to chop it off with one go, blunt as a knife.
"…okay. Uh, fair. New restaurant. Nice, shiny new restaurant. And I know you. You're worried about the joint because of your programming, about the kids that will be here on Saturday because you remember, and you're definitely worried about me. Because you always worry about me, because you care." Mike's touched little smirk made Freddy grumble, having absolutely been caught. He folded his thick arms and let Mike pick apart his words, hearing nothing that wasn't truthful, and so not bothering to protest what were facts. Clever little punk!
"Lots of rooms to hide, a whole other freakin' building out back that could still be hiding god knows what. SP might not be able to do her job and track kids if she's so skittish. Add in a Suit we've never met before that looks just like Springtrap and Afton. One that seems…as bonded as me and Goldy. That means they're strong, made of tougher stuff than our usual threats. They don't argue like Springtrap and Afton. They aren't unhinged like Circ and her Funtimes." Mike puzzled through his words, trying to latch onto Freddy's logic with what little he had to go off of. That was just like Mike, always taking things apart, needing to know how it worked. He did it with tech, and he did it with people. To him, Freddy was both. And to him, Freddy was one of his favorite peoples.
"ButI'm here. And Gold's here. And you're here—and you'd never let anything happen to me or this joint." The night guard's tone was so assured and trusting it almost made Freddy ache—he knew he was a rare AI, knew that by all rights he shouldn't be able to Understand and Feel like any living soul as much as he could—but that didn't stop his damnable emotions from carrying on like they were.
"And if he's not with us, he'd be somewhere else." Mike went on, "Getting up to who knows what. And that is dangerous—here, I can keep an eye on him. We all can."
A good, logical statement from a good, logical man. Freddy huffed, glaring into the storage space moodily.
"Fine. Then I'll put 'em both down if I have to, Michael." Fazbear warned without hesitation, and Mike winced.
"Between you an' Foxy? I think Michael Afton and Scraptrap are the ones in the most danger…"
"Good." said Freddy, who finally seemed to be loosening up, letting his anger make his words flow. "Then the little brat will be here finally and answer for what he did, and not slip out of it like he always—" and then Freddy saw Mike's eyes flash in interest, and clammed up.
"What did he do?" Mike demanded. Saint's preserve him; Mike's curiosity would forever be leading them both into trouble. And usually, Freddy could get them both out of it. But this time…this time, Freddy wasn't so sure. The game and it's rules seemed different this time, and these long nights seemed to be building up to something. Really, it had everyone on edge.
"Ya' found yer answers when ya stumbled on the purple man's office down in Pizza World."
"Maybe I didn't find everything." Mike mused, half to himself, half to his best friend. "I'm starting to see the bigger picture here, and I won't be getting any more clues from Afton's writing and research notes. Too skewed."
"An' you won't be getting nuthin' from that whippersnapper, either." Faz jerked his thumb over his shoulder before he could stop himself.
"Especially not if we keep jumping on him for everything little thing." It was about as scolding as Mike wanted to get, but Freddy couldn't blame him.
"If we all expect Michael Afton to misbehave and act like the villain, then that's what he's going to end up as. Right, Freddy? He's just a kid…" Mike paused,
"Come to think of it, he's a teenager, right? Well, he died as a teenager. Eighteen is still a kid. Which means Bonnie should have already started easing off him…"
"Bon knows better, that's why."
"And Bonnie also follows you over his protocols." Mike pointed out. "As much as that's a conflict of interest…I can't say I'm surprised. And I can't ask Bonnie to do what he did for Danny, either, and try to bond with him. Scraptrap's sure as heck not gunna let that happen."
It was a well known fact most Bonnie models did not get along. Especially Springtrap and their purple bunny. Mike had learned that years ago when he booted up Springtrap and got to know the bunny sans Afton's terrible and controlling presence. For as immature and cocky and loud Bonnie the bunny was, Springtrap was his polar opposite. He was calm and assured and quiet. He even liked reading, and would go hours with a book in his grimy paws, devouring every readable thing silently whatever Mike brought him. Sometimes he liked music, but it was always classical, and demure and soft tunes made with pianos or saxophones. Even then, he never listened to much. And he only ever seemed miserable when he heard music with a guitar in it.
After meeting Bonnie, Springtrap, and even Toy Bon, Mike had decided one thing.
'The only thing two Bonnie models will agree on—is that the third Bonnie model is wrong.'
Freddy eyed the night guard's expression, and like always, seemed to read his mind.
"…ah'reckon yer right. Even if they're as good together as you say, that rotted fellow's still a rabbit. No one can top you an' Fredbear, though.""
"Cept maybe Mari and Arthur, yeah." But those two were gone, and this time it was Freddy's turn to stare at Mike sympathetically and sadly, especially when the night guard's two toned eyes widened in sheepish remorse and surprise at his own instinct.
"Well—erh, they were, anyway." Mike coughed in embarrassment, "Thick as thieves, I mean."
"Ah'know you miss him, Michael." Freddy rumbled. "And…and ah' know this ain't easy for ya, what with the little Security Gal and that brat here." You could be surrounded by family and still feel alone, Freddy supposed.
"He just…he promised me he'd always be there for me, Freddy." Mike was suddenly fidgeting, rubbed his fist into his golden eye wearily. "And the one time I screw up, the one time he needed me most…and I wasn't there, was I? And now he'll never be here again."
"Oh, son…" with everything going on in the recent day or so, it was easy to forget Mike's internal monologue these days seemed nothing more than weary, annoyed disgust at himself. That no matter how much time passed, the Puppet's traumatic death had gouged such deep wounds into Mike's soul they might never heal. Oh, sure, he'd been doing well for a while, as the years had leaked by Mike and Gold had gotten closer. He and Freddy had too. The night guard got Springtrap up and running in Parts and Services—though the bunny's legs were rusted and ruined and he couldn't leave the battery he was hooked up to. Springtrap didn't seem to mind, and Mike was happy to keep him company. The restaurant slowed in business, until one day they turned twenty tables, and then the next week only eight or so. Then nothing. The customers stopped, but the bills did not. The restaurant closed. The gang withered away, bit by ancient bit.
Through it all, Mike was still alright. Still himself. He didn't seem to have time to mourn the missing Puppet, or perhaps he was this entire time and Freddy was too focused on other things to notice his friend's quiet heartache.
After Circus Baby had tricked Mike, the man's resolve had been weakened like the old stage. He felt that if he were smarter, or faster or stronger, he wouldn't have fallen for the trap set by the Funtimes. Danny wouldn't have come down to find him, almost losing his life too. Mike couldn't have dealt with that, Freddy knew. Bonnie wasn't the only one relieved that the day guard had made it through unscathed, even if he was a bit suspicious on how the kid managed to do it. (He bought the story about Springtrap helping him, but beyond that? Freddy wasn't sure—but the idea of Something Else that they couldn't place helping Danny still put him on edge.)
And Freddy was sure that Mike also felt that if Marion were with him, he wouldn't have gotten into the trouble he did. Even Freddy had to agree to that. The Puppet would have known what Mike was up to, would have followed him down and dragged him back out, and not given a damn if Mike hated or feared him or not. That was the nice thing about being the Marionette—it did not care about Fredbear's opinion at the end of the day, and could wholly be regarded as selfish as it was expectant to get its way. And while Marion was fond of them all, especially his Goldy, the Puppet absolutely regarded the golden Suit as a tool and a weapon, a safety measure. That cold, computer-calculating personality was part of the reason everyone—especially Freddy—was so surprised when the deadly little creature started becoming so outwardly fond of Mike Schmidt, especially during those first five nights. Mike was, on paper, every bit the sort of person the Marionette usually refused to bother with. Chatty, over-friendly, curious as a puppy and ten times as good-hearted. He thought the best revenge for any ill will was good hearted fun, and it took a lot to get the man actually upset. The Puppet was not in the business of being good hearted, it was in the business of dead hearts. More specifically, bringing dead hearts back to life when it—or Arthur—felt they should be brought back.
Perhaps everyone answered to Golden Freddy (and subsequently Mike,) but Golden Freddy answered to the Puppet.
Not for the first time, Freddy wondered who the Puppet answered to.
But, alas, Mike had snuck off to the underground the first few times by himself, utterly alone and completely out of his element. All alone and confused and hopeful against the Fazgang's and Springtrap's wishes. Freddy blamed himself for a lot of what happened, too. Mike had, of course, refused this. It wasn't Faz's fault Mike had disobeyed them. It wasn't Faz's fault Mike had assumed he could get through to the Funtimes and befriend them.
Freddy knew he had Mike's forgiveness already. But it was now he was realizing the young man wasn't even close to forgiving himself.
"C'mere, Michael," and that was all it took.
Mike rose, stumbled into the bear's space and collapsed his skinny self forward, burying his damp face in Freddy's front and hugging back when the bear swept him to his girth and hugged him just tight enough to be secure and protective but not enough to hurt.
"Yer'alright," Freddy attempted, deep voice calm as he could muster, and passed a cursory paw down the man's bony shoulders until they stopped quivering so.
It was what Mike needed to hear, and perhaps from anyone else he wouldn't have bought it. But Freddy had a way of making you feel that, truly, you were alright and so would everything else be. Eventually, anyway. Henry was right, when he was recalling Freddy Fazbear's personality. The old fellow was loyal to the last screw.
Mike sank deeper into that familiar bear hug a moment longer, and when Freddy shifted Mike misread his action—thinking the big gruff leader was pulling away. When the night guard tightened his grip in response, the action was so childish and charming Freddy froze then laughed, his voice a soft little tenor that reverberated gently into Mike's lean frame.
"No, ah'ain't goin' nowhere, son." Freddy chuckled again, and a paw the size of Mike's head ruffled his dark brown hair fondly. "Haven't left ya alone, yet, have I?"
Mike sniffed, and trusted himself to pull back, his grip slackening to a more comfortable lean.
"Nope." He popped the p, and slowly cracked a smile. "And you better not, either, Mr. Fazbear. I'd be lost without you."
"Well—while I don't quite agree with ya there, son," Freddy drew back and straightened the man's clothes with a firm but fond tug and fussing motion. He even straightened the man's official little gold badge. "I appreciate the sentiment. But you, Michael Schmidt, can do anything ya set that mind a'yours to.
You always have."
Mike smiled, but it was weak and thin and didn't quite meet his eyes.
Daybreak was coming, and it was coming very slowly. Foxy was sure there was a sun behind those stale, grey clouds somewhere, but for the life of him he had no idea where it was. Only, that it was up. It must be.
No night lasted forever, not even after Death. Not before it neither, and Foxy supposed he could consider himself Reasonably and Mostly Still Alive, which was odd as it was comforting. Sure, he was a walking, talking, animatronic fox that was only so clever and so natural because he had a teenager stuffed inside of him and the lad's soul had lingered. Alongside Alex Afton, Foxy the Pirate had come to Life. And not just that, but his personality had developed too, blossoming like one of the little herbs cook kept in her kitchen on the sill.
Many people called the Fazes' personalities glitches. Problems. Errors.
Foxy never liked those people.
And Foxy knew he was, technically and if you asked anyone who wasn't Mike Schmidt, an oddity. Strange. Perhaps creepy, if he cocked his head just so, swung his jaw and lumbered with his hook raised.
And if that didn't work, a good hard and fast jaunt certainly convinced any scallywag that Captain Foxy was capable of holy hellfire and brimsmoke when he had to be. Made said scallywags scatter like spooked chickens in a hen house, in fact. Foxy was always very proud of himself—every now and then, he enjoyed a good prank. He supposed he inherited that from Alex, too.
And so when Scraptrap and his little corpse of a Suit reappeared for the first time—how long had it been? Damn memory—Foxy was confident he would soon be on the hunt again. It was only a matter time, in fact. The lad was a screw up, everyone here knew—save maybe Mike, who would soon learn it.
He was only somewhat disappointed to discover his hunting time was not so, and that Mike, as Mike was apt to do, had taken the brat under his wing. And for some reason this seemed, in some small manner, to get through to Michael Afton. The teenager was not sneaking, not looking around shiftily or like he wanted to escape. He didn't look happy, certainly not, but he also didn't look like the slippery, angry eyed Springbonnie that they had first encountered over in the warehouse. Despite being a strange, sickly shade of purple and tinted blue and black, and covered in stitches so much he looked like a patch work quilt; Michael Afton looked like a normal teenager.
More specifically, he looked like the teenager Foxy could just vaguely remember seeing all those years ago.
He growled, tapped his hook thoughtfully to his chin and eyed the purple corpse of a teenager as he shuffled out of Parts and Services.
Immediately, Michael Afton froze.
"What?" He finally demanded, and the fox had to give the lad some credit.
"Ye expected someone else in me metal bones, aye?" Foxy demanded, for he was as direct as their other Captain was.
Michael Afton swallowed. Behind him, Scraptrap halted with a soft noise of confusion and concern, optics locked solely on the young man he nearly ran into. The bunnybot had been right on the heel of the teen's muddy high tops. When Scraptrap saw where Michael's tense gaze was aimed, the bunny tossed a warning, narrowed glare of his own over the kid's shoulder, but made no more outwardly aggressive moves. His ears flicked in dislike, which Foxy understood from being good friends with their purple rabbit all these years, but Foxy ignored that too.
"…fine, I did. Yeah. Can you blame me?" Michael demanded.
'Mike's right. Those two be…close. Closer than they should be. Close as if the Black Devil himself stitched 'em together.' They already had the Suit of Golden Freddy, but Foxy wouldn't lie that he wasn't now considering the merits of two healthily bonded Suits on their team. The question wasn't a matter of power though, it was a matter of loyalties and where they lie.
'Let's see how far gone this bucko is…besides, Alexander would want me to try.'
"Eh, suppose' not." Foxy acquiesced, going for nonchalant. "But Mikey was right about wha' he told ya earlier. Stories are over, stories are ending, lad."
"What did he mean by that? Is Alex…? Where did Alex go?" The older brother managed finally, fingers fidgeting at his hip. Foxy eyed the little yellow cassette player hanging off the kid's belt and hummed in surprise. He hadn't seen that thing in ages, but the appearance of the little music device kicked some of his files in gear. Indeed, even the sad orange headphones were in their place, hanging from the teen's discolored neck. They hid a very thick and suspicious set of stitches that smiled creepily around Michael's throat almost entirely from sight.
The kid really was a walking, talking corpse. Hadn't Foxy and the others been that, not so long ago? The comparison made the old fox uncomfortable, and he sighed.
"…is he okay, Foxy?" asked Michael Afton, in such a raw and small voice that Foxy's ears lifted in growing interest. His orange optics slid from the walkman to Michael's purple gaze.
"Aye." Foxy said carefully, with a slight nod. "Lad's…he ain't at rest, but he's at ease. He's safe, and he's living with his demons. Making up for what he done."
"But he's not with you." Filled in the eldest Afton sibling, and he seemed both comforted and unhappy at this statement. He only seemed to deflate in tired acceptance more when Foxy nodded.
"No, matey. He out grew this old pirate a long time ago." Foxy hummed. "All kiddos must grow up, matey."
Behind the kid, Scraptrap made a noise of general unease and uncertainty. He poked the kid in the shoulder, and moved his fingers with strategic creaks and swings, wrist joints whining.
"…h-huh? No—no that'd never happen to us, dude." Michael assured so quickly he was only being honest and nothing more. No hint of trickery or anger in his gentle tone. "You know I'd never leave you."
And apparently, Michael's conversation with Foxy was done. The teen headed past him, only pausing to motion with a hand missing a pinky for Scraptrap to stick close to him. The green and patchy Bonnie model obeyed, tossing only a passing glance at Foxy as the two moved on their way, deeper into the restaurant.
Foxy's thoughts meandered from Michael Afton to Alex, and from there they slid naturally down the line to the younger members of the Afton clan. Namely, the one who's Puppet was thought to be dead and should have very much stayed that way. But who hadn't.
Foxy turned and critically eyed the stage, then wandered up the stairs toward the inactive and silent Lefty. It was just them in the room, and that he was sure of. His slow meander became a prowl as his anger grew the more he stared down the infuriatingly frozen and inactivated bearbot.
"Yer gunna stay, yer gunna work. Now, that Michael Afton…" Foxy frowned, wondering how much he didn't even have to bother explaining. The thought of the Puppet knowing everything when they didn't unsettled him. For some reason, it wasn't talking either. The rest of the gang hadn't even picked up on its presence once. He brandished his gleaming hook with a warning level and said,
"Ye keep an optic on him. Don't let him do nuthin', Mike involved or not, aye? Don't know what yer up to, ye black devil, but I got a good mind to tell Mike yer lurking around again."
And unlike the first time he addressed the Freddy-knock off, this time, Foxy received an answer. Immediately, he wished he hadn't.
Lefty's one optic slid slowly to its left, rolling over to stare at Foxy.
'But you wouldn't do that, would you Captain?' The Puppet's voice was a whisper-hiss, silky as velvet and twice as strong. 'You are too afraid of the consequences of revealing me to our dear night guard. I know you, perhaps not as well as Alexander knew you—but well enough.'
"He ain't yours no more, Puppet—" Foxy warned without thinking, only for a black paw to snatch out and clutch his jaw. It clamped shut, and held him fast. Foxy growled and tugged once; raising his hook in warning but holding it when he stared at the mike in the bear's other clenched paw. Lefty was always holding a mike. How did the lad not know yet…?
Before he could say or do anything else, the Puppet was seething down at him from behind Lefty's slack face.
'Michael is still mine. He will always be mine.' The Marionette's voice darkened as it drew Foxy in close, so close that his muzzle tipped down, his optics nearing the bear's slack jawed and lifeless head. And then strings threaded out from that wrist, snaring his hook by its curved base and pushing it back and tangling until he couldn't move it. The strings were usual—thin and glinting like silver spider web arms come to life. But before they attacked they braided together. The Puppet had gotten wiser, learning to strength its strings by doing this. It was most certainly an idea Mike had taught it, and Foxy inwardly sent a tired, if fond, curse to their night guard.
Just beyond the back teeth, Foxy could make out the barest hint of porcelain. It was smudged with dirt and dust. And it was cracked. A tiny white light, not brighter than the farthest star in the night sky, twinkled out at him once or twice from above a streak of faded violet. Foxy allowed himself the smallest of shivers at the color. But that tiny star-light pinprick was strongest when the Puppet was speaking—and even then, Foxy more felt than heard its low murmur of a voice.
'And, oh, I can assure you, Foxy. That the Purple Man's oldest and his little Bonnie will not get between me and Michael. Or our prey~'
Realizing he could perhaps use this moment to his advantage, Foxy allowed himself to be held in place. It was a good way to gauge the Puppet—and Lefty's—strength. See what they were up against, what he could expect to warn Mike about if he absolutely had to. (For the Puppet was right, unfortunately. He didn't want the cat out of the bag—erh, the Puppet out of the bear—if it could be helped. A distracted Mike was a liability, and the lad could get hurt. …in more ways than one, if the damned Puppet was only visiting.)
But Lefty was solid, that was for sure. And his ragged appearance was most certainly just that; for appearances sake and nothing more. A ruse, a ploy. The Puppet's mind hadn't lost its edge over the years wherever it was. The fox's tail switched to display irritation, but he phrased himself cautiously.
"Then…then the lad did call ye back." Foxy felt cold, which was strange for many obvious reasons. But he knew the phantom chill of unease when the moment struck him. And right now he was certainly feeling it.
"Called ye back…because of what happened down to him in Circ's world…?"
'Hnn…yes and no.'
"You an' yer damn riddles!" Foxy finally growled, then wrenched himself backwards from the black bear's iron grip. He wriggled his loose jaw and shoved it somewhat back into place. The strings recoiled in a single swift sliver of motion—here and gone.
'You should go see our dear night guard—get him to repair your jaw.' The Puppet's voice held its usual razor-edge. 'You never know when you might need to bite at someone with something other than your feeble words, Foxy.'
"…and you? Still be right here, aye? Hiding in plain sight?" Foxy watched with a lemon-sour glare as Lefty began to slide mechanically back into his usual stance. He couldn't tell if it was an act on the Puppet's part, or because Lefty was that hard to move for the Marionette after his initial knee jerk reaction of grabbing Foxy. It certainly was still following its old rule of going anywhere, it seemed, despite the fact Lefty stayed rooted on stage.
Misdirection. One of the oldest, and easiest tricks in a performer's book, as far as Foxy was concerned. Show the audience something strange and odd—say, a tattered, worn animatronic who just so happened to be a model their night guard favored—and no one noticed the smaller and more deadly shadow creeping round, the soft slither of strings rustling together like so many snakes sharing secrets, the motions in the corner of your eye in a dark room, when you thought you were alone.
'It has worked for me so far.' The Marionette admitted with no small hint of smugness. 'I just had to…think outside the box. I feel rather clever actually. Michael would think of something like this, don't you think?'
There was a faint, almost musical chime to itself.
And it was then Foxy realized something else. Yes, the Puppet was back. And yes, it was dangerous as ever, how and why didn't matter when it could pin Foxy in place.
But, no. It wasn't quite the same Puppet that Foxy and Alex had hidden from all those years. It was the Puppet that they had seen around Mike those last few months before its death. It was the Puppet that followed, conversed, defended, one scared and out-of-his-depth-night guard for whatever reason—a reason that extended slowly beyond providing Goldy with a human Suit so it could protect the pizzeria once more, and free the Fazes from Afton's family. It was the Puppet that genuinely seemed bonded to Mike Schmidt, as much as the man enjoyed the strange animatronic.
And that affection was going to be the only thing that kept the rest of them functioning. So long as Mike was safe and still himself, the Marionette wouldn't turn on them.
At least, Foxy sure hoped so.
The Puppet being back really was a Yes and No. More riddles, and Foxy had a feeling the solutions were going to come down on all of them whether he liked it or not. He just hoped none came down too hard on Mike…either of them, now.
When Mike returned to the Dining Hall, nothing much was out of place. Freddy was in one of the smaller side party rooms, and Bonnie was helping him fix one of the tables they had discovered was so mistakenly screwed together it was a waiting disaster for anyone who expected it to do what it was meant for, such as hold a cup or plate, let alone if a child or adult dared to lean on the thing. And since it was Freddy, Mike knew that meant the old bear would now be assuming they'd gone and screwed up other tables, so he and Bon would be at it for a few hours, flipping and testing tables and correcting any they felt posed a threat to the safety of a kid. Chica and Foxy were in the kitchen, and if Mike's stomach and nose were in agreement—which they usually were—it was calzone night for dinner and she likely had a two pound meat and cheese calzone in the oven, which—he checked his watch—was only four hours away.
"Day's nearly come and gone, and Henry hasn't come back yet…but he said he'd be busy, and couldn't babysit me. Dunno Marion, that sort of long-distance management seems to be asking for trouble." As usual, the Puppet did not answer.
Michael Afton and Scraptrap had been lingering around the hall a while ago, that much Mike knew. He had checked Security Puppet out when the poor thing did her hourly check and spotted a new animatronic—in this case Scraptrap—and made such a racket Michael had rushed to calm her and promise they weren't a threat all over again. SP didn't seem wholly convinced but she did relax, enough that she settled back into her box, only after eyeing the green-rotted bunnymodel with adorable suspicion and soft bell-tinkles of warning.
But the two weren't here now, though. Where had they run off to? Somewhere Bonnie hadn't felt the need to tattle about. Maybe the kitchen. Did corpses eat?
"And, of course, nothing from you, yet." Mike tossed a disappointed glance up at the silent Lefty the bear. "Guess Henry was right about you after all, huh buddy? You're harmless, just a little spooky looking."
Over by the arcade game line up, Candy Cadet sat slumped, innocuous as ever. Mike, hands in pockets and unsure of what else to get into, strutted over and crouched, pushing a few quarters into Cadet's coin slot.
"I am Candy Ca-det, come get your candy here." droned Candy Cadet, his colors flashing and twinkling merrily. "I have candy all day, every-day. Candy. Candy. Candy."
The few pieces rolled out, tumbled into Mike's palm and the machine buzzed once more.
"Return to Candy Cadet again and ma-ybe I will tell you a sto-ry?"
"Yeah, you said that last time, fella." Mike popped the grape hard candy into his mouth and chuckled. "But if it brings kids back, means more money for us. Erh, and more cavities for them."
With a shrug, Mike rose and glanced at the long eating benches and blinked.
"Hello—what's this? That wasn't there before…"
Mike eyed the tape cassette sitting on the table by Security's box. It was too old to be just left here, and after a moment he recognized it as the same one he saw Scraptrap remove from his center when he thought Michael wanted it earlier. Music poured from the tinny headphones, which were metal and black and as old as the walkman. The old player purred in his hand, and seemed oddly warm for the normal, plain looking tech it was.
"Huh…" Mike drew closer, common sense being over ridden by his innate curiousness and he scooped the little humming device up. It was playing, and he hit Stop, then unclasped the side and opened it. His eyebrows rose at the tape inside, a copy of Aerosmith's hits that had yellowed with age. Thinking back to the old van's cassette player, and the box of tapes Bonnie made him keep for it for all these years, Mike's confused look melted into something old and sad enough that he felt Gold stir and curl the bulk of his presence around their shared mindspace—a comforting gesture.
"…another piece to the puzzle, huh Mari…"
A soft tinkle of confusion answered him. Mike glanced to his left and spotted SP peeking out at him. She rose out higher and chimed again at him, soft and sweet and even quieter than the Puppet used to speak.
"Sorry. Talking to an old friend." Mike smiled, "Go back to sleep, sweetie."
SP vanished back into her box with a rolling chime as if to say, 'Don't have to tell me twice!' and Mike was alone again.
"There's no way that's a coincidence—not in this place. So why then…? Why are they so hostile to him…?"
Mike, having snapped the walkman closed, turned the heavy plastic square around in his scarred hand, studying it as if it would spill all of Michael Afton's secrets, and maybe some of his family's too. Something out of place caught his trained eye, and it looked like writing. He loosened the belt clip and pulled the piece back just enough to see three stout letters had been written behind the holder.
"M…A…X?" Mike snorted, turning the walkman over to its front as he replaced the belt clip's turn screw quickly.
"Hey—hey! Please, don't touch that—!" Michael Afton dived into the man's space out of nowhere it seemed like, and Mike handed over the tape player with amusement in his friendly gaze.
"Sorry. What's that on the back? In sharpie?"
"Jeez, dude," Michael complained, "You ask like, a million questions an hour. You must drive Freddy up a wall."
"Freddy says he likes my questions." Mike grinned, "And you didn't answer me yet."
"MA, that's my initials." Michael Afton's cheeks had flushed a richer shade of purple, almost black and it took Mike a second to realize what he was seeing. The kid was blushing. Mike's grin widened, and he paid polite attention to Scraptrap, who was lumbering in from the hall that lead to Parts and Services—so that's where they'd been for a while. But they'd clearly been out here, otherwise Mike wouldn't have found the cassette player.
"…so what does the X stand for?"
"Scraptrap can't spell, but he wanted to sign his name on it, too." Michael Afton blinked as if just now realizing how strange that seemed, then shrugged. "I dunno, okay? Bonnie models are weirdos sometimes…"
"You don't have to tell me twice on that." Mike snorted.
"I heard that, Bambi!" Bonnie's voice drawled in lazy humor from the side room's closed door and all, causing Michael Afton to spook briefly and Mike to snicker.
Mike Schmidt studied the young man a beat longer. The walkman was shoved safely into a pocket, the headphones tossed over his neck, and Michael himself tossed a wary look at Mike that made the man soften a bit. In that moment, Mike made a choice.
"Alrighty then, Max—what? This way you know I'm addressing the two of you!—time for your first official shift as a night guard. Are you excited?" Mike asked, clapping his hands together cheerfully.
"Over the moon." The newly dubbed Max drawled, his tone as dead as he was. Beside him, Scraptrap chuckled under his pipes.
"So…what do we gotta do?"
"What Freddy tells me you used to do, clean the joint." Mike shrugged. "Place isn't terribly dirty, but we're supposed to keep it in prime shape for the opening on Saturday. That's what your Uncle keeps telling me, anyway."
As if on cue, Max groaned softly but surprisingly, nodded.
"Faz tell you I used to always listen to music, too?" Max said as he lifted the headphones over his ears. "Cause I'm gunna."
Mike grinned. "Deal. But maybe you'd like to listen to something else for once?...Ah, hang on," Mike shed the blue band with a wink and sat it by SP's box before he strolled for the front door.
"Follow me."
Max shot the man an odd look, and interestingly, followed Mike out to the van without much complaint. Either the kid trusted him a bit more, or felt he was safer with it just being Mike and Scraptrap, or perhaps, Max was just that enticed at the prospect of changing his tape out for the first time in…well, years, proably.
"These look familiar?" The night guard hummed, tugging out the box from under the bench seat in the back and hauling it over to rest before the dead kid.
"Oh man—how'd you find—yeah! These are mine from—from, from like forever ago," purple fingers scrambled, pulling out Zeppelin, the Doors, more Aerosmith and even the Police with barely filtered excitement.
"Bonnie kept these." Mike admitted, watching Scraptrap lumber after them, and grunt in interest at his Suit, who turned to show him the crate. Mike noticed the way both their eyes light up in delight, or the way Scraptrap rustily purred when Max flashed the Smiths at him, and picked up a copy of Echo and the Bunnymen, as if understanding the humor behind him choosing such an artist.
"What, all this time? Why'd he…they look great for their age—" said Max, unintentionally confirming Mike's assumption of the yellowed copy of Aerosmith in the walkman on the kid's hip.
"Well, he played them a lot, too. I always wondered where he picked up his taste in music, since the stuff they play on the stage is definitely kids stuff."
"Huh? Oh, yeah—it has to be. Kid friendly, I mean. Fredbear and Springbonnie used to play bubblegum pop, yanno, like really sappy, sweet stuff?" it seemed pouring over his old cassettes had loosened the kid's tongue. He wasn't looking at Mike as he rambled down at the box, checking on the state of some of the older rough trades—but Bonnie had looked after those, too.
"Fredbear played the piano sometimes, Spring played the guitar," Max nudged aside Whitesnake to check on the Blackhearts. "Springbonnie was built when I was a little kid, and he was always so…dunno, chipper? Like, really sweet. But Bonnie? Even before they could talk, he was always interested in whatever Freddy was up to, and Freddy always hung around me an' Uncle Henry, and one day he saw heard my music from my walkman, and I guess from there…" as if realizing what he was talking about, Max trailed off.
"Bonnie's guitar?" Mike watched Max replace Springsteen and select Dire Straits for a moment. He decided to pretend like he'd only taken interest in the first part of the kid's words. Scraptrap eyed him but said nothing, merely loomed and smiled when Max handed him some chosen tapes.
"Yeah, it used to be light pink, but Uncle Henry had it recased to 'rockstar red' when it went to Bonnie." Max now held Foreigner's Double Vision and, after some consideration, snatched a home-recorded tape scrawled in blue pen that read: Boston on one side, and Huey/News: Sports on the other.
"I remember making this one," Max gave a half smirk when he caught Mike watching him. "…ah, thanks. Look, don't—don't tell Bonnie, awright? He'll prolly flip out…"
"I don't think he will as much as you think, Max." Mike answered gently, but he pushed the crate back into place. "I'll leave the back unlocked—if you want to grab any others, they're out here for you, okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
And so Max, both sides of them, followed Mike Schmidt back into the new and unopened restaurant. And for once, stacking chairs, mopping and vacuuming didn't seem like such a total chore.
For the first time in over a decade, he had a job, and 'somewhat' new music to do it too.
For a moment, the world seemed to relax around the building.
Mike stood on the stage, smiling over the crowd of patrons, eating pizza, laughing, talking. The bustling air of a busy restaurant would never not bring him comfort and ease. Sure, it was crowded, sometimes noisy, and kids were always sticky and wild but the air seemed abuzz with an element of electricity of some sort. Mike was a people person, and he loved mechanics but even he knew this wonderful sensation had nothing to do with his robotic, ghostly self and all to do with his own desire to be around people. To feel a sense of community—to know he was, in some small part, responsible for this air of enjoyment and pleasure. To feel the pulse of others excitement, share in their happiness, or their pain. Mike was an empathetic dude, a bit of a live wire, as Freddy often touted out. And he liked that. (He liked it even better than the Fazes understood, and almost always shared this enjoyment of crowds with him—so long as there were more children than adults, that is.)
By the time Mike glanced to his right and saw a pair of bobbing golden ears, his entire mood shifted. His posture fell, at least, he thought it did. His arms remained spread and moving, jerking up and down, back and forth. They were heavy, and servos strained with mechanical whines.
He was dreaming. He had to be. Well, not dreaming. Remembering.
'Gold?' He muttered, having long ago mastered the art of talking to one's inner voice and becoming quite reliant on that voice being able to talk back.
'YES?' Rumbled Golden Freddy, who could only talk these days in short bursts, so old and ancient was he.
'…what's…what's eating you, big fella?' Mike broached, carefully trying to side step across the stage of Fredbear's Diner, so that he could see Gold and be himself at the same time. 'You don't usually think so loud that I get caught up in it anymore. Kinda worries me when we share these…memories.'
'NOTTA MEMORY, MICHAEL.' Fredbear's deep tenor hummed back. The deep voice was calm, even if it was assertive in Mike's misassumptions.
'…what?' Mike swallowed. 'But we're—it has to be! How else-? I fell asleep, didn't I?'
'YOU DID.'
"On the stage at the new restaurant? After I helped Freddy and Bonnie, I ate waay too much calzone and kinda fell into a food coma, right?'
A deep chuckle. 'YOU DID.'
"Then that means we're sharing a memory!' As few and fleeting as these moments were, they had happened. Mike occasionally even enjoyed them, getting to see the past through Fredbear's optics. There was only one day he did not enjoy reliving, and that was the birthday for a crying child.
But a quick check of the scenery reassured Mike that this moment was not that day.
'WE'RE NOT.' Fredbear, now fully separate and standing in his stage, turned down to stare at Mike. One eye socket was pitch black, but the other, the same eye that on Mike's side was yellow, was blue now. Scars gouged down the golden bear's suit. The same scars that sat on his outer Suit, on Mike Schmidt himself.
In his dreams and his other's memories, Fredbear always looked brand spanking New. This was not normal, and seemed to signal to the clever young man that Something was Amiss, and his Animatronic was correct. Mike gaped, only for a moment, before he noticed the towering bearbot was now looking back out into his diner.
Mike's eyes snapped to the back of the diner, across the small room, to the speckled red and white polished counter. His heart had taken up residence in his throat.
'THERE.' Gold pointed with the paw not holding his mike.
The Box. The Present Box. Gleaming white, bow so shimmery and crisp it could be heard from here as the top was pushed open. No one was approaching it though. The customers had no faces, the room seemed cast in dark, smothering shadows. The comforting waves of noises died down to a soft din. The world held its breath, and Mike did too.
It was only Mike, and Gold, and across from them, the Marionette.
'Come here, night guard.' Purred a voice from that strange little puppet creature. It's black, spider-leg finger crooked at him.
'It's been so long.'
Had the Puppet done it to anyone else, they likely would have fled in terror. Mike did not. Mike bolted, practically fell off the shallow stage and beelined for the original and old Prize Counter. Unlike the nightmares where he could never reach the Puppet calling to him, Mike made it.
Fredbear stayed behind, rooted in place as he always had been. He was there, though, in the moment. Mike knew he and Gold were never apart anymore. It was a comforting weight, like a heavy blanket or a thick jacket.
'Mari!?' Mike's voice nearly cracked at the end, the quiver in his tone falling out of his lean frame as he nearly collided with the counter and Present Box. The Puppet chimed at him in obvious amusement, leaning closer with a warm crinkle of its black eyes.
'I can't believe it!" Mike cried, "After all this time—you—how are you—!?'
'You've been opening doors, dear night guard.' The Puppet cut in, voice smooth and gentle as glass. 'I thought I warned you enough about doing that.'
'H-huh? I haven't been—' Mike tensed, trying to think through his distraction, his euphoria and overwhelmed heart. 'Unless you mean…down in Pizza World?"
Mike bite his lip then immediately let it go, afraid that the pain and pressure would shatter his dreamscape and force him out of this wonderful reunion.
'So you're…are you here-here? Or just…just the result of my stressed out subconscious trying to alleviate the guilt?'
'Always so critical, aren't we?' The Puppet chimed faintly, but stopped when Mike didn't share its laughter. Its music box wound in slow, contemplative thought, and its spindly fingers tapped idly against the side of its box, the noise familiar and welcoming. The Puppet was always thinking, after all.
'So what if I am just a figment of your mind? Just a daydream? I would still be just as honored, to be considered so highly that you remember me in such perfect detail.'
'B-but then—'
'Enjoy it while it lasts.' Marion advised heavily with a gentle bow of its porcelain face.
'I...I guess you're right…that's all I can do.' That seemed answer enough. When Mike woke up, when the dream ended, so would this. He would wake up in a world of unknowns, with danger lurking and danger coming, and the Puppet would be miles away back in Hurricane—dead and buried.
Mike didn't want to wake up, but he kept that thought to himself, not even sharing it with Gold. The big old ghost lingered right behind him, both in his dream and metaphorically.
'Michael, if you don't mind me saying…for the Suit of Golden Freddy, you seem so empty as of late.' The Puppet murmured in soft concern.
'Why is that, do you think?'
And there it was. Of course any dream version of Marion would sniff out his problems, his angst, and get right to the point. Mike sighed.
'I fucked up Mari, I'm so sorry—' the words broke from his lips and he trembled, gripping the counter as he leaned in, close enough to see the different colors in Marion's star-light optics. They seemed...duller, than Mike remembered. Or maybe he was remembering incorrectly. He couldn't be sure, and somehow, right now, he didn't care.
'I let her escape. I went down there, to Pizza World, I knew something was wrong, but I thought it'd be okay. I thought I could do what she needed.' Mike gasped out finally, feeling like he only had a set amount of time to say his peace. 'Circus Baby—Henrietta—she's…out now. She lied to me.'
'Arthur's sister.' The Puppet mused, and if it was surprised by Mike's failure, it didn't show it. Not that much emotion showed at all on that painted face, but if you knew where to look—namely, the Puppet's eyes, which could move just a bit—you could see where the Puppet was thinking. Figuring things out.
'Y-yeah. I never meant for that to happen, I thought I could handle her—handle them, I wanted to s-save them.'
'Like you saved the original four.' A pause. 'Like you thought you'd saved Springbonnie.'
Mike's voice would not come anymore, but he nodded, throat painfully tight.
'Why do you cry?' The Puppet finally asked, and Mike shivered when he felt the side of a black finger brush away a few tears that had leaked down his cheek.
'B-because—' Mike gave a choking noise of distraught disbelief. 'Because you're gone, and I can't ask you for help anymore? Because now, now Michael Afton is back and he's a Suit just like me, and could hurt us if he wanted to? Because I'm hurt!? And scared!? And I don't know if I can do this, Mari. I don't feel like a night guard anymore.'
'Fear is natural. It is about what you do with your fear that makes you human.' Answered the Marionette.
'Maybe I don't feel human, then.' Mike groused back, but his tone had no edge. He sank further on his arms, head bowed and body screaming the slow descent of defeat and exhaustion.
A second later, that curled finger came back, this time under his chin. The Puppet lifted Mike's head up, tipping it back so that it could look directly into Mike's two toned eyes.
'Oh, Michael.'
Mike stared back at the Marionette, helpless and unsure.
'All that you are is enough, my dear night guard.' The Puppet's face was just barely visible now, and Mike noticed suddenly that it was deeply, irreparably cracked in two, but held together by some force nonetheless.
'If it wasn't, I could never have made you a Suit in the first place.' A black hand passed over his eyes, startling him and Gold into what honestly felt to Mike like a simple, short circuit. A reset.
And like that, Mike woke up.
His eyes adjusted as well as they could in the darkened restaurant. Behind him, solid and warm, was stout fur that he knew as well as his own skin. He relaxed almost instantly, mind sleepy and befuddled. It was mostly silence, save for Foxy's inner workings near his left somewhere, back on the stage. Bonnie wasn't even playing music, and Chica was silent in her kitchen. Max and his bunny were somewhere apparently not getting into trouble, because Helpy nor Bon had come to tattle. SP's box was still, and silent, but he thought he could hear her moving around. If Freddy knew he was awake, the old bear made no move to bother him, so maybe he was dozing too. His watch blinked to 3:03am, and Mike made no move to get up, only check it to confirm his suspicion.
But he was left wondering, as he lied there against Freddy's comforting and patient frame, arms folded behind his head and gazing at the dark ceiling. And Mike wondered a lot of things—but mostly, he wondered why the Marion in his dream would have such an utterly fractured alabaster face…
When he remembered burying the Puppet with only a crack splitting down it, and nothing more.
Mike wants answers, Max wants to be left alone, and SP wants sleep. Same lil gal, same. Also Max and I share tastes in music lmao, 100%. I mean I like /every/ type of music but those are the sorts of bands my uncle and my dad introduced me to, so they have a special place in my heart.
