Author's Notes: Today's my birthday 8) I didn't think I'd get this done in time but I did lol.
"I dare you all to go into
the Haunted House on Howlin' Hill
where squiggly things with yellow eyes
peek past the wormy window sill.." –Haunted, Shel Silverstien
Act II
Chapter 7. A Sleep Like Death
The newly dubbed Max Afton stepped back, eyeing the entirety of the grand, large room he had spent the last several hours mopping. The table cloths were out of the way, the chairs lifted with their many legs branched upward. The floor gleamed, and with the heavy and healthy dose of wax, would only need one more swipe before opening day. Not bad work for a dead kid, if he said so himself!
He tugged off his little orange headphones, exhaling a mimic of breath but relaxing his shoulders in relief.
"What do you think, man?" Max asked cheerfully as he heard Scraptrap lurch up behind him.
"Whadd'ya want, a darn' medal? Fer moppin' the floor?" that unmistakable deep country tenor demanded of him, and Max would not be proud to say he squeaked. He skidded a few steps to the side, whirling in spot to stare up at Freddy Fazbear himself.
"F-Freddy!"
Freddy's look was icy, those blue glass optics just about the exact opposite Mike's gaze seemed to be. He hadn't a clue why Schmidt seemed to like him, or at the very least tolerate him. Freddy sure didn't, and it was clear Freddy was Mike's favorite.
…so why hadn't the possessive bear told him off yet? Why hadn't he told Mike all about their tangled up, rotted history?
Max's nervous purple fingers fumbled over the walkman at his hip. It was still on, and quickly he paused it. The tape halted, and Max realized he was still being stared at like the only deer in the herd with a limp. He fought a shiver.
"Uh—nothing. Nevermind." Brittle, irritated anger curdled in his hollow chest. He swallowed, and tried not to get angry. Getting angry would only prove Freddy right. And prove Mike wrong, and Mike had been kind enough to take them in.
…give him his music back…
Focus, he could do this!
"Job's done. You can tell Mike." Max grabbed the bucket and mop and hurried for the cleaning room.
And then, because perhaps he had been stapled together to a Bonnie model for far too long, he pitched over his shoulder,
"You're welcome." And quickly hurried before Freddy could register the raw, unashamed teenage snark in his hurt tone.
Freddy Fazbear stayed where he was, glaring at nothing in particular when movement caught his eye.
"Michael told you to watch after that little nuisance." Freddy growled down at Helpy, who had frozen with a small shred of common sense. "Now git!"
Helpy, for his part, scattered after the dead teenager.
Freddy growled, rubbed his face tiredly, and strode toward the kitchens.
It was going to be One of Those Days. He could feel it.
"What the heck happened to you, Captain!?" Mike exclaimed when he saw Foxy's loose jaw.
"…nuthin' lad, just got loose again. Didn't come to ya when I should've, that's all." Which wasn't entirely unlike Foxy, to be honest. Mike shot him a look but closed the distance on long legs, inspecting the animatronic for himself with gentle, memory-moving hands.
"Yeah?" Mike didn't look terribly convinced, but he dug out his favorite screw driver anyway and leaned under the old fox's chin, propping the metal jaw up into place as he went to work.
"Gimmie a second," Mike hummed, "There, how's that feel?"
"Perfect, matey. My thanks to ya," and while Foxy almost always thanked him, this time seemed…different. A little softer.
"Everything okay, buddy?" Mike's hand ran a few comforting strokes up and down the top of that pale pink puzzle, thumb catching the little black bumps of Foxy's six matching freckle-spots. "I know it's been a couple long days but, soon enough it'll be Saturday, and we can do the opening, get paid and get outta dodge."
"Be a shame to leave this ship, wouldn't it?" Foxy seemed more than willing to keep the subject on the restaurant, and Mike shrugged.
"Sure, yeah, but it's…been made pretty clear we're only guests, huh?" Mike's smile turned bittersweet, "The Rockstars alone…"
"They sound remarkable, from what ah'heard. And that rough lookin' fellow over there? Think he belongs in a place like this?"
"Huh?" Mike's gaze flitted toward the stage where Foxy's cruel hook was gesturing. "Lefty? Well—" Mike chuckled, "I can't really judge him can I? I let you perform back when we still had a restaurant."
"Aye, that ye did." Foxy sounded and looked disappointed for a moment, only for the expression to smooth away, as if the old captain had come to some inner decision.
"Besides," Mike shoved his screw driver away into his jacket pocket. The cracked leather jacket had reminded Mike of Freddy, he had teased, and he had been wearing it ever since. Even better, it hid a multitude of scaring on his arm and hand from his adventures. "Henry wanted Lefty up there. Your guess is as good as mine why, but I get the feeling he has a soft spot for Freddy models like me."
"Just…stay sharp, lad. Ah too ain't fond of this place. It's so…welcomin'. Fake-friendly-like."
"A weird critique but I'll take your word for it anyway, Captain." Mike grinned, patting the fox's shoulder.
"See that you do, lad. Ole Foxy ain't talkin' just to entertain the fish." And with that, Foxy wandered to wherever he was headed.
Mike tossed a proprietary glance over the main room. He checked his watch—not near the hour, which meant SP wasn't coming out of her box unless and until he took his blue band over a threshold out of the joint. Having no desire to do that, and not willing to force the timid little thing out of her comfort zone unless there was an emergency he needed her for, he wandered toward one of the walls where the arcade games sat.
Mike studied Candy Cadet, then shook his head. Nah. Maybe later.
"Let's see…here we are," Mike stopped before Midnight Motorist, eyeing the squat machine with a critical eye. The strange game was wider than it was long, with a big, shiny screen. Two red buttons and a joystick were the controls, but there were four sets of them.
"…erh…racing game, huh?" Mike guessed, fingers tapping the Crying Child's flashlight in thought. "Okay. Test one. Solo first I guess, then we'll try the multiplayer…" his smile faded.
"Wish you were here to test 'em out with me, Marion. You'd love some of these…" Honestly, Mike just wanted to see the Puppet interact with a ball pit for the first time in his life.
One quarter later, and the game was loaded.
"Kinda vintage graphics for all the tech we got in here," Mike mused to himself as he played the first round.
Lap one through three passed without incident. On Lap four, however, Mike's sharp gaze caught something at the bottom of the screen.
"Shit, dead pixels?" But he had been going too fast, and a second later he won the game.
"Dammit," he mumbled, ducking to jam another quarter into the slot. He mumbled a running commentary, committing his notes to Gold's ever-listening computer brain. Being part machine meant total recall, and that came in handy. "Third lap, possible glitch, let's see…"
This time, knowing what to look for, Mike kept his eyes trained on the bottom of the road track. One…two…nothing. Wondering how far the problem went into the system, he moved his racer against the black separation after clearing lap three. If the little racer kept on his way, and the game could still be completed even with interacting with the glitch, all the better. It would just be 'one of those quirks,' and Mike wouldn't have to open the arcade machine and go digging around in its hardware and or software.
Lap four. The break was coming soon. Sooner…
If this altered the game, though, and affected a kid's ability to enjoy said game…
"…annd, yep. Just my luck." Mike sighed as the screen flickered to black. He leaned on the edge with one elbow, huffing in disappointment for a second.
And then the game powered back on.
Mike's expression smoothed to open intrigue, his eyes widening as he straightened up.
"…uh?"
Little pixel trees, black background and a grey road. Mike's car, at least he presumed it was his, was now at a different angle with more detail than before. Little pixel rain crossed the screen. Twin headlights were on. The car had a windshield and all.
Raising one eyebrow, Mike moved his joystick.
The little car went down on command.
"Erh…" Well! This seemed…less kid friendly than before. Underneath his skin, Golden Freddy prickled. Mike felt a shiver creep down between his shoulderblades.
He was sure it was nothing. Maybe a cool Easter Egg for kids to find…though a pretty damn obvious one at that.
Mike swallowed, but leaned closer to the screen. Moving the strange car down the road was taking up his concentration. Then more of it. Soon, he wasn't quite aware of anything around him anymore. Even Gold's urgency, his protective sense of warning, seemed faded and far away, like something had numbed his mind and senses. All that mattered was getting that little car to where it needed to go, but where that was and how long it would take weren't concerns to Mike anymore.
Just had to do it. Keep playing. Down. Down. Left. Right. Little to the left again…stay on the road. Stay on the road.
Stay.
Over on the table, little Security Puppet did her hourly check. When she spotted the blue band wearer slouched so oddly and not responding to her friendly chimes of recognition, she hesitated. He was wearing her blue band, wasn't he? Well, then she would like an answer from him, please! Right now! She had to check up on him!
Security Puppet gave a puzzled trill, and ventured from her box.
Three tiny black fingers were maybe two inches from touching Mike's shoulder when a warning chime startled her.
SP drew back, instinctively flinching despite the owner of that music box having not once left the confines of the black bear that was still leaning tiredly on stage. She glanced doubtfully to make sure, but no. There Lefty the bear stood. Even his one optic was rolled downward lifelessly, not making contact with her.
Her bell twinkled softly, and she floated around instead to peer at Mike from the side. His normally expressive, friendly face was stony and blank. His sharp eyes were glazed and glossy. He made no reaction to the small puppet in his space, and though she floated closer than she usually dared, she made no move to touch him again. She lapsed into unhappy silence, lingering close by in hopes she would, at some point, be allowed to rouse the night guard from his odd, controlled trance.
"Forgive me, my dear night guard. But you did want answers."
Midnight Motorist's game music drawled on, eerier and lower than before. Mike's watched had stopped moving. The world held its breath.
"C'mon, you can't be here. Don't make this more difficult than it has to be."
So he returned to the car, wobbly, vision-hazed, body feeling light and heavy at the same time. And he drove.
That was a bad idea.
At least Mike thought it was. But this body he was in didn't seem to give a flying fuck what he thought, and even though he was seeing and hearing everything, he wasn't quite sure he was doing anything anymore. He wasn't the one in control. This was something he was used to, but his yellow bear was never like this. Speaking of...hadn't that yellow fellow been trying to tell him something earlier? What was its name again? Strange.
Hadn't he, Mike Schmidt, been doing something before this…? Playing something? A button? A quarter.
No. no, nothing. There was just this. Driving. Rain slicked windshield, road that wouldn't seem to stay straight and kept swerving off under his tires.
It was the road, wasn't it? Yes. Had to be. No use for it.
Road was getting thinner. Then—no, driveway. It was a driveway, yes. That was it. He was home.
Be it ever so humble. Mike thought quietly.
He got out. Headed for the blue house.
Mike pushed open the door, hand straying along the woodgrain, fingers slipping lazily as he staggered into the dark room. Living room, he knew without asking, saw without a light. Oh, no. There was light, wasn't there? Off to the right. Flickering. Warm, blue and familiar. Watching tv at night was fun, when it wasn't a screen where sometimes you saw a fox getting ready to bolt at you—fox, what was the fox's name? Foxes chased chickens, not people.
The fox'd never hurt ch—chi…the chicken, though. Mike frowned, puzzled beyond belief.
What was he thinking? Hnn. Didn't matter. Not done yet, Schmidt. Afton. Either of you.
He staggered deeper into the living room. Made a step toward the easy chair, eying the mop of hair just peeking over the cushy thing. He recognized that little unkempt bundle of dark brown hair, and Mike smiled. Here was a friend! Thought he had never seen the kid anything other than see-through, and he didn't see the strings that connected him to the—
'Leave him alone tonight. He had a rough day.'
Didn't they all? Mike stood still, staring. Swaying. He still felt lighter, but less so. More…sober. Emotions petered in. Emotions he thought were better left kept out of him.
Er, someone's emotions, anyway.
The emotions went from vacant and watered-down, erh, liquored-down, to louder. More insistent. He lurched forward.
Hallway. Worn carpet. Closed door.
….why was the door closed? The door shouldn't be closed. Not-Mike's mind insisted with a hiss of rising irritation. It made Mike angry too, though he didn't know why. The hell did a closed door matter—
And then he was just before it, knocking a fist onto it. Heavy, mean, and forceful.
"I told you not to close your door!"
Knock-knock!
Nothing.
Weird. Mike thought, mind still hazy and awash under the drunkness of Whoever-This-Was. He wobbled backwards, grumbling like a bear.
"This is MY house. He can't ignore me like that!"
Damn right. Mike thought, then frowned. No, this didn't seem right. None of this seemed right.
"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"
They were walking again. Heading for the door in the kitchen, the door they had entered.
"I'll find a way in from outside…"
Okay. Mike thought tiredly. Out we go, I guess.
Outside, it was still raining. Pouring, even. The night was thick and foggy, and the all around them crickets and peppers sang their songs. The ground was soft, and spongy from the heavy, steady rain they were dealing with. Mike's boots squelched and slid. Mostly, his body and inebriated state was the cause of it. If he were sober—and actually Mike—he had a feeling this whole walking thing wouldn't be such a damn issue.
Round back, they headed. Slow going, but assured. They'd done this before.
The window was broken. The damn window was broken!
Why not? Mike wondered. When you lock a kid in his room, even lock the windows, how else was he going to get out?
There was no glass outside, under the window. Mike stared, wondering then, in his clever Mike way, who had broken the kid out. He had a feeling he knew, that this piece of the puzzle was presented to him before.
Footprints, however, were under the sill. They were scuffled and sloppy, but easy enough to trail.
The foot prints split eventually, into wide, flat paws. The other sneaker prints stayed intact, but were deeper. The huge and familiar paw prints followed.
Running.
"Ran off to that place again. He will be sorry when he gets back."
And you? Mike thought. You will be sorry in the morning. God, my head fuckin hurts. How much did you drink? …I wish Freddy were here.
He forced his heavy eyes to look up, up into the night sky. Too cloudy, no stars.
So why were the stars spinning?
All two of them?
…Freddy? Why did that name seem so important? Familiar. Warm. Freddy. He…had to get back to…had to wake up…
"Son? Son!" the voice sounded scared, but Mike didn't know why, and couldn't quite place where it was coming from.
Mike swayed, head tipping back. The stars were still rolling, ignorant of his nausea and his distress, but he reached up for them nonetheless. He couldn't find his voice, couldn't think, couldn't breathe—
His hand stretched out, staring at his right hand as it reached so uselessly for the sky and the two drunken fireflies—
Where are my scars? Mike questioned. Or my watch?
The world went black, black as the devil.
'Interesting. You weren't supposed to wake up yet, dear night guard. How did you manage to remember his name—? Well, no matter. Can't be helped. Go on. Back to your favorite, I suppose.
Everything will be alright, Michael. One way…or another.'
Mike opened his eyes as his palm pressed against stout fur, and he blinked stupidly.
Above him, holding him securely in his lap with a thick arm round his frame, and the other paw shaking his shoulder, Freddy Fazbear stared into his two-toned eyes.
"Heey," Mike slurred, unaware of what to say besides starting with the obvious. "Whass'amatter, big guy?"
"Son." Freddy grinded from his acrylic teeth, his grip tightening just so. "Blazes, don't you scare me like that!"
Mike knew this mode; this was 'Spooked Protective Freddy' mode, as Mike called it. It wasn't good, and it had been a while since he'd seen Freddy this shaken up over him. Maybe since Pizza World at least…
"I'm okay," Mike grinned, and let his hand flop off the poor bear's face. Freddy grumbled down at him, but Mike's weak grin widened. Where were they? Oh, he could see a little bit of Lefty, and a lot of the stage's rich, velvet bright curtains. Stage. Pretty far from the arcade line up on the right side of the dining hall, then.
Freddy had gotten him away from the game and then he'd woken up, but how long had it all taken? Had it taken any time at all? Mike's head swam.
"Honest, I'm good." it felt like he needed reassurance as much as his best friend did. "I just, uh...had a vision?"
"Great, we're here three days and Mike's having visions and fainting on the main floor." Bonnie snapped in concern from somewhere to Mike's left. The night guard snorted and turned to look at his family.
"Take it easy, laddie, ya set us all off when we came in to find ya flopped over like a dead fish on the deck!" Foxy lamented with a scolding switch of his ragged tail. Helpy nodded from where he was, but patted his leg when it swung into reach.
"Here, sweetie," Chica offered a glass of cool water instead of criticism on his unconscious pose, and Mike took the cup and downed it gratefully.
"Alright, alright." Mike sat up, wincing as he rubbed his shoulder. Had he passed out? Must've. And hit said wounded shoulder on Midnight—wait!
"The game! That's what did it!" Mike gasped, swaying dangerously when the events came rushing back to him. "The game we just placed, over there!"
"Aye, lad?" Foxy drawled. "…if it's got them flashing lights, it ain't safe fer no kids…"
"We should unplug it and tell Henry." Chica agreed quickly.
"Yeah, but Mike's never had seizures to light shows before, not even when his right eye went all screwy." Bonnie reminded with interest lacing his young tone. "That's kind of Foxy's thing."
"True," Freddy's troubled look got more severe. Mike stood, waving them all off, but he let a brown paw steady him from behind when he wobbled a fraction of a second too long.
"No, no! I mean—yes, okay, we should definitely unplug and move it the heck out of here. But not because it causes seizures! There's a glitch on level 4, lap 4, I mean!" Mike flailed his hands to puncture his point. "It triggered this…scene? I guess? To play. Only I wasn't playing it, guys, I was living it, I was there!"
"You were living. In…in the game?" That was Max, who was behind everyone and eyeing Freddy warily, but he and Scraptrap both looked bewildered and concerned at Mike's state and words.
"…ya only put water in his glass, right, sis?" Bonnie demanded of Chica after a beat, who rolled her pretty optics but nodded.
"Does this sort of thing happen to Mike a lot?" Max finally asked, bewildered.
"I'd lie and say no, but I think my ears might grow." Bonnie gripped with fond exhaustion, shaking his head at their night guard.
"Lad's sensitive." Foxy defended, then groaned. "Sound like onna' them difficult parents, don't I, chef…"
"You do." Chica and Cakey giggled. "But you're right. And whatever Mike saw must have had a purpose. He wasn't shown it on accident, not in this place."
"I think you're right, Chica." Mike relaxed, realizing they were listening to him finally. "And I think I need to play it again…"
Freddy, for a long moment, said and did nothing. Finally he stood—Max shifted back behind Foxy's shoulder—and strode toward the arcade games with a march of aggression and fury.
"…uh, Freddy?"
"Oh, he's pissed." Bon mumbled, half to Foxy, half to Max as if in gentle warning.
"Freddy!" Mike groaned and hurried after the bearbot. "Freddy, stop,"
But the bear wouldn't have it. Mike deflated, and it was his turn to grouse as Freddy wrenched Midnight Motorist from its power strip and hauled the arcade game out of place so it could be picked up easier.
"You're not doing this, son." Freddy commanded. "Not again. I've had enough of this place."
"But I think I saw—"
"I don't care what you think you saw, or what you didn't think you saw, or felt, or—NUTHIN'!" roared the lead animatronic.
And this time, even Mike winced back, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up as Freddy rounded on him and slammed his fist down so hard Midnight Motorist rattled feebly. If the game wasn't busted from Mike's play through, it sure as hell had a few issues now.
Mike gazed at those black and white pinpricks for a long moment, realizing those had been the stars he saw. Freddy hadn't been worried, he'd been incensed over it. Almost unable to process. Horrified to the point of mindless rage.
"…okay, Freddy." Mike said softly to the quiet, still air of the shocked still restaurant. He held his hands out, and took a step with a gentle, placating flex of his fingers. "I won't play the game again. I promise."
Finally, Freddy began to relax.
Mike sighed, and kept his disappointment stifled.
"…but I still have to check the other games out—ah! Stop with the growlie-bear noises!" Mike heard the noises start from Freddy's deep chest, the noise more machine than animal. He waved a finger and shook his head, not budging on this and not seeing the stunned jaw drop of Max Afton behind him. "Henry's orders, honest! I'll only play them if you or one of the gang is nearby, though. The minute something—IF anything that is—goes south, you snap me out of it. Alright? Deal?"
Fazbear eyed him, then the gang over his shoulder, then back down at the hopeful and tentative Mike. He made the fatal mistake of looking into those puppy dog eyes and rolled his own up tiredly, puffing in fatigued recognition.
"…tch. Deal." Freddy scowled before shaking his head tiredly. "Bonnie!" He barked.
"Yo!"
"Get the blasted dolly," Freddy pointed with a paw, "Help me get this cursed thing outta here…"
"One trip back to the old warehouse across the way, comin' right up!" Even in the face of Faz's still smoldering anger, Bonnie seemed unabashedly chill and pleasant. It helped the rest of the gang relax—even poor Max, who slunk toward Mike's side the second Freddy was more focused on removing Midnight Motorist than he was looking after Mike like some great big mother hen.
"…so…" and then Max trailed off, shifting back and forth on his old high tops. Mike glanced down at them, then at Scraptrap's wide, flat paws that were his feet. Unlike the rotted and rusted Springtrap, Scrap's were mostly intact and distinguishable as his outer suit.
All at once, Mike seemed to deflate.
"Max…I'm…sorry…" he weighed his words. Apologies seemed cheap. And he felt bad dredging up the past but… "He…he used to lock you up, didn't he?"
The look on the eldest Afton sibling's face said everything, and then some.
"How did you…know…that?" But Max, the clever kid, let his inhuman purple gaze flicker toward the now moving arcade game. He swallowed, fists clenched at his sides.
"Sometimes. Yeah. He did." Max gritted out, quiet and careful of his words. "When you make a Suit, Mike, the whole idea is to keep them together. Not separate. Right?"
"…right?" Mike managed uneasily. Did Max know about him and Gold? He was sure not. He was afraid if Max knew it would color their interactions. He didn't want the kid to hate him, or worse, fear him.
"Foxy and Alex didn't separate. The freakin' Puppet and Artie, yeah, no way. But, me?" Max's thin lipped smile turned ice cold and bitter. "Dad made a mistake. He made me. He made us."
The purple teen gestured with a four fingered hand at him and his looming bunny, who thrummed softly in comfort down at his other half.
"And when we were a problem, well, the only way to control us was to keep us apart."
"You'd break out to be with your…" Mike eyed the bunny, humming in thought. "To be with your best friend."
"Wull, yeah. I mean." Max shrugged. "What else could I do? The only reason I'm worth anything is because of Scraptrap. It's because of him. Without him…?"
Max laughed, but it's dead as cemetery wind. "I'm just the killer's son, Mike."
"You're more than what you think, Max." The night guard reached out, laying an assured hand on the teen's shoulder. "You both are."
Max was silent for a long, long while.
And when he finally opened his mouth to speak, the door behind them burst open with such a crash poor SP pushed open her box and chimed in fright.
"Mike!" it was Bonnie, ears upright and pink eyes wide. "We found one!"
Mike froze, hand rising from Max's shoulder as anxiety and adrenaline flooded his system.
"Out—out back!?" Mike demanded.
Bonnie nodded, then grinned, his optics darkening in vicious glee.
"And you'll never guess who our first fly in the web is~"
My birthday gift to yall is to leave you with a humdinger of a cliffhangar XD Sorry! (Or am I…)
