I wrote this on mobile as well. If you see any spelling errors, it was probably autocorrect XP

Anyway, have some angst! Love you all!

~xXLoveThatAccentXx

Chica was concerned. Not wholly because Jeremy was dead (although that did make her heart ache considerably), but more because of the impact it made on Mike. He may have been an eighteen year old man but Chica still saw him as a little kid, and heaven knew Chica couldn't stand to see children so sad.

She gripped him tightly in an embrace of comfort. He didn't cry like when he lost Amy. No shouts of denial, no dry sobs; just a tight hug and his face buried in her neck.

Shock. Awareness without fully believing it. Without fully accepting it.

"Have you seen Goldie, Chica?" Freddy asked suddenly, peeking into the office. He looked a little worried.

"No. Is he gone?" Chica asked, blinking. She felt Mike tense up a bit, but she didn't know why.

"He's not in the back room, no. If you see him, let me know." Freddy left, calling Goldie's name.

Chica frowned. Goldie had a reputation among them for being shady and disappearing once and a while. The only problem they really had with him though was keeping track of him. The idiot thought he was all-powerful just because he could teleport, but truly, he was just as vulnerable as the rest of them. After all, he was a victim of the Purple Man, as they all had been.

Well, who could really blame him for being introverted? This year should've been his fifteenth birthday. They'd all moved on, but he was still pretty sore about not growing up. Maybe he was sulking in the basement somewhere.

"Who's the new guard?" Chica asked Mike, remembering the issue at hand.

"Some guy named Fritz. He's really weird."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"Not sure. It's just that... when I was teaching him last night, he didn't seem to need any pointers at all. In fact, he was really good at it. That made me really suspicious. No one's supposed to know what sort of job we have, so how was he so... chill about it?"

"...Friend of Jeremy's?"

"Couldn't be. They're way too different. I don't think they've ever met."

"Friend of Scott's?"

"Scott's the one who told me not to tell anyone."

"It's strange. Are you going to tell your boss?"

"Not yet. I want to ask him a few things."

Chica nodded. She pulled away from him and looked straight into his bright blue eyes. He was tense; she wanted answers.

"Something's on your mind. What's the matter?"

"...I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Chica hugged him again, then stood up. "It's almost seven. You should go home and rest. I'll tell Scott what happened."

Mike nodded dully.

WARNING! Dark content ahead. Skip if necessary.

He stared out the window of his apartment. A brick wall full of graffiti met his gaze on the other side. Rain pattered onto the glass, and a gray sky loomed sadly above. It was nine and he still hadn't been able to sleep, although it'd nearly been thirty hours since he had decent rest. But all he felt was just... emptiness. Loneliness. He didn't exactly miss anyone at the moment... but more like, felt as though he were the only one in the world with a broken heart.

Selfish, yes. But the feelings would linger no matter how much he'd tell himself he wasn't alone in this; how could anyone know how this felt? How could anyone know the effect Jeremy and Amy had on him? The pieces of him that they took?

His wrist was a canvas. Red lines in slashes, tainting his skin. He couldn't remember when it was clear. He hated the pictures he drew. But he couldn't stand the thought of stopping.

It was like looking at a gruesome art gallery; the pictures disturbed him, but the art still held so much meaning. Not to mention the time and thought the artists put into each sketch.

Now Mike added to his art gallery, letting the sharp ends of the tool glide over his skin, letting old wounds reopen, letting new ones bloom with red.

Each new cut represented the emotions he felt. One for love. One for betrayal. One for loneliness. One for loss.

He'd let them bleed for a moment. It'd run down his arm and soak into the rolled-up sleeves of his sweatshirt, staining them.

Stop. He told himself halfheartedly. Stop this. This won't solve anything.

But maybe Mike didn't do this to solve anything. He didn't want pity or attention or lectures.

This was simply his twisted way of communicating with himself.

His sick way of recording his mistakes. Just to ensure they'd never repeat.

With a deep sigh he looked at the phone on the windowsill. The time read nine thirty. Rain still tapped the window, running down the glass like tears down a cheek. It was time to return to reality.

Mike stood up, taking a wet rag and dabbing away the blood. He took a roll of medical tape and wrapped it around his wrist. He wasn't looking for attention. No one could know.

After all, your diary wasn't something you wanted read.

Content ended. Continue reading.

The phone chirped.

Mike felt his eyes flicker open. Outside, the sky was dark as ebony, and rain still pattered steady. He was still in his stained sweatshirt, over the covers. His new scars hurt. His apartment was dark. The only thing that pierced the black was the light of his phone on the bed next to him. The time read eleven o'three P.M. Had he really slept that long?

He swiped the password and looked to see who messaged him. Fritz? He opened the message, curious.

'Come NOW. Don't text back.'

Mike felt slightly agitated and extremely confused at the air this message gave off. Then he felt a growing concern. What was happening to Fritz that was so urgent?

He slipped out of bed and the first thing he did was remove his bandage. He couldn't raise questions. Then he changed into something more approachable - with long sleeves, of course. Then, a little more hurried than usual, rushed outside to catch the bus.

When he arrived, the pizzeria was lone and dark. A bit intimidating to say the least.

The rain soaked into his hair as he approached the door. Wouldn't the robots attack him? It was the middle of the night.

The doors were unlocked. Mike pushed them open and walked inside.

"...Fritz?" Mike called quietly. His message sounded urgent. He assumed he'd need to be quiet. "...Fritz?"

Only silence, and an ominous whistle through the air vents. Mike walked a little farther. Not even the robots seemed to be roaming.

"Fritz -?"

Mike was cut off as somebody suddenly grabbed him from behind and shoved him up against the wall. His first instinct was to struggle and fight back, but a sharp "shh!" stopped him momentarily, making clear who this was. When his attacker's hand finally came away from Mike's mouth, he began again.

"Fritz, what the actual -?!"

"No! Shh!" Fritz ordered again, quietly. "Look, something happened. I'm not quite sure what to do."

"What happened?"

"I..." Fritz flinched a little. "I did a kind of... illegal... thing. I... turned off the robots' facial scanners."

"What?!"

"It was to stop them from killing me! But that's not the point." Fritz sounded dead serious. "Okay, so the robots have facial scanners. Isn't that a little suspicious? Why would a kid's restaurant have robots with such a high tech identification system? Mike, the robots were looking for someone."

"...That is a little weird. But what's that got to do with us?"

"I was in the office when I heard a racket from the stage room. I look on the cameras and the front door's open. None of the robots are gone. No one left." Fritz kept a straight face but his eyes revealed his terror. "When I turned off the robots' scanners, they stopped hunting. They wouldn't have stopped anyone from coming inside."

"Are you saying...?"

"Someone broke into the restaurant. And I think its the person Freddy's looking for."