Mitch stood by the doorway of Mike Schmidt's trailer home, anxiously fidgeting with his cellphone. Honestly, he was just staring at the screen, repeatedly going to text conversations, staring, typing something up then deleting it. Wash, rinse, repeat. Was it right to tell them what was going on? Any minute now they'd text him, asking where he was and why he hadn't picked them up. Even though their meet up was arranged for hours from now, it still felt like he'd get a text pop up. He rubbed the space between his brows, attempting to sort himself out, telling himself it was just because he was with the guard and who he'd realized the guard was. Mitch looked up towards the bathroom where Mike was. He could hear faint clatter of the man treating himself, he'd turned down any offer to help. Probably to spare Mitch the grisly sight of his stab wounds. Mitch thought it was a bit late, considering he already seen him stabbed, but hadn't felt the urge to argue. He still felt out of place, useless, in the situation and was just existing in this moment.

Out of a combination of wanting to do something- and sudden impulse, Mitch ventured towards a bathroom door. His steps slow and uncertain. He reflexively apologized to a cat that darted away from him as he passed by. Carefully, he craned his neck out to get a glimpse of the inside of the bathroom, which could house three people standing side by side (if one were to stand in the shower). He pulled back when he caught sight of the blood-spattered mess and Mike's brief eye contact.

"Uh, how's…it going?" Mitch groaned at his wavering voice. He meant to ask if he was doing alright but it came out sounding like he was trying to start casual conversation, and failing.

Mike didn't seem to care about this and cordially answered, judging by his tone he was too tired to care, "Well, no blood was in the vomit I puked up. So, no internally bleeding by the looks of it."

It took Mitch a moment to process the fact he'd just heard that sentence with his own ears. This, was not...the night he'd expected. He'd gone from playing video games, chilling with his friends, and having a good, regular, old time to chatting with a dude stitching himself up inside a trailer home. A guy, possibly, attacked by an animatronic or ghost. The fact he used to be so into and fascinated by the related unsolved crime/ghost story, was not lost on him. He wondered if he was actually cut out for being a detective, or had he just been captivated by the romanization media made it out to be?

"Good, that's good." He said finally, looking down at his shoes. Mitch swallowed, listening to the sound of Mike hiss to himself, still stitching apparently. Should he ask if he needed help, again? But if he said yes, Mitch found himself woefully uncertain if he could actually do anything to help, fearing he'd freeze up if presented with a task.

"Hey," Mike spoke up, Mitch's head snapped up in attention, "Can you get me another rag?"

The response was automatic. "S-sure, where are they?"

"There should be some piled on the kitchen sink still."

Mitch's mind flashed back to shortly after he helped Mike into his home. He'd stumbled about for a minute, pulling some rags out from a drawer by the sink. Pushing aside the inward beratement, Mitch found himself already heading over, "Got it." He grabbed one off the top of the pile and then passed it off to Mike. His voice came out quitter when he saw the man's condition, shirtless and blood still staining his skin, "Here."

"Thanks." Mike responded simply.

As the guard wetted the rag to finish cleaning himself up, Mitch found himself standing there staring. The stitch work looked fine, serviceable, at least from what he could tell, though Mitch didn't know anything about the craft at all- least if stitching up a person was the same at all. The area around the thread was red with soreness. The old rag, green now turned crimson, sat discarded on the sink, watered down blood pooled around it. Bandages and medical tape lying in wait to be used beside him. Cut up work short tossed at his feet, looking somehow less haggard and worn out than the man himself. It was like the scene from a TV show or movie, but more intense with the fact he was standing just a few feet away.

"What were you doing by Freddy's at night?" Mike suddenly questioned.

Mitch fumbled to answer, caught off guard he felt put on the spot, "Uh, I happened to be passing by. The pizzeria was all light up, past closing." He shifted on his feet, "I wondered why."

Mike hummed, unconvinced, "A kid, who knows about the pizzeria's past, just so happened to be passing by at night." Words caught in Mitch's throat as he froze in place, caught. Mike turned his gaze up to him. The reaction validating his thoughts he continued, "Get to see what you expected?"

"No." Mitch answered, feeling ashamed, "Now I don't know what I expected to see. My friends and I wanted to ask you questions after your shift. I really was just passing by though, I got worried something could be happening."

There was a moment of pause as Mike looked him over, discerning if he was being truthful, eventually he answered, "Well, thanks for stopping. Not sure what would've happened if you didn't."

"Yeah."

"I wouldn't have answered you friend's questions, just so you know." Mike added, while he began to bandage himself up, "And I don't think I need to anymore."

Mitch laughed wryly, "Yeah, I get that feeling now." He stilled at his later words, one sentence answering so many questions he had. Mitch swallowed a lump in his throat, words falling from his mouth, "Yeah…yeah, you don't." Uncertain what to say next, he asked something that'd been pressing onto a question that being at the forefront of his thoughts, purely out of worry, "Are you going to go back?"

Mike just looked at him.

Even though he said nothing the answer was clear. Posture stiffened, Mitch responded reflexively, "You are."

"I have a job to do." Mike's tone was flat, final.

"Ah," Mitch couldn't believe what he heard. He struggled to gather words, managing a few choppy noises before he blurted the obvious, "You've been stabbed." Feverishly he gestured a hand towards Mike himself, "More than once!" Mike continued to mend himself, silently. Mitch shook his head, seeing that the adult wasn't going easily be moved, but he pressed further anyway, "Whatever was in there- nearly killed you in less than an hour. I-I don't know why you're going came back. Again." The mention caught Mike's attention, but he let him finish. "But your injuries will get you killed."

"Probably." Mike admitted, "but I've got a job to do."

"You can't be talking about the paycheck." Mitch responded dryly. He really didn't know and it showed in his voice.

"How would you know if it wasn't?" Mike asked dully, sounding only partly rhetorical.

"You worked here before, the last site before it shut down." Mitch began, Mike looked unsurprised, "You knew what would be happen." He looked somewhat hesitate to go on before he asked, "Was it because of something that happened, the last time you worked there? Or are you just trying to stop the franchise from returning?"

"Bit of both." Mike answered.

"Whatever it is, you can't go back. You'll die before you can do it!" Mitch's voice raised empathically, nearly cracking midway.

"And what do you suggest I do? Not go back?" Mike began to sound irate with the teenager's insistent worry. He leveled his gaze sternly at him, "This isn't any of your business, stay out of it."

Mitch stiffened, intimidated by the guard's authoritative tone. Teens; however, had a fitting reputation to defy authority and Mitch was no exception. "It kind of is when somebody could die." Even still, he wavered somewhat under the gaze aimed at him, "You know, as fellow citizen of Hurricane."

The awkward wording got Mike's gaze to lighten, but he remained unmoved, "And what can you do about it? You can't change my mind."

"Can't say," Mitch started, "Unless, you tell me what's going on."

Mike's response was immediate, "No. You aren't getting involved with this. You're a kid. I can't and won't let you put your life in danger."

This time, Mitch's voice didn't falter, "And I'm just supposed to let you put yours in danger?"

Mike stilled staring at the teenager, he didn't really know, stare back at him so firmly. Before any thoughts of reconsidering solidified, Mike jerked back into his assertiveness, "That doesn't matter. You don't even know me kid and you have your whole life ahead of you. Probably a family and friends, can you really think of throwing all that away for a guy you don't even know? For a situation you really don't know anything about?"

"Then tell me what's going on." Mitch replied in a leveled tone, "So I can decide."

There was a pause, then a tired exhale, "Fine. If it'll turn you away."

And so, Mike told Mitch everything. From his first time working there. His last run in with Foxy, leaving him with the scar on his shoulder- which would have a friend nearby judging by the gash on the side of his arm, to the ghost kids begging for help, and Golden Freddy. This caught Mitch's attention, his eyes went wide, face pale. It was more than the normal expression of held back horror, so, Mike asked, "What's with the face. You look like you know something about Goldie. Read something online?"

"No, no," Mitch started, shaking his head, "There wasn't anything online about Golden Freddy- er, well, there was Fredbear but not a phantom version of it. Least, not that I can remember. My head isn't focused at the moment." Seeing the dull look of "get on with it" from Mike, Mitch got to the point, "My girlfriend's little brother, Ethan. Long story short, he can see ghosts." He waited, a scarce moment, to see if the guard would object. Of course, he didn't. "He saw Golden Freddy," He mimicked the motion of putting something up on the wall, "putting up cryptic pictures. You know, trying to tell people what was going on, I guess."

"I get the idea." Mike answered.

"Yeah..." Mitch looked to the guard, worried, "Is... he in danger?"

The question caught Mike off guard, "What?"

"Like, will the ghosts go after him. Cause he saw them?"

Mike waved the thought off, "No, that's not how they work. They've never gone after kids. Just adults that run the place." He rested his hurt arms on his lap. He felt heavy. Weighed down by something, at the center of his chest, or his back, he couldn't tell which. Didn't matter, he probably was tired, real tired. He hadn't felt this tired in a long time. He looked back up at the teen, "Besides, Goldie...isn't aggressive anymore. She's been helping me, lately."

A spark of what may be hope lit Mark's eyes, "Really?"

Mike nodded, and continued explaining, he went onto his return to Freddy's this year. Skipping over the gritty in between part. His life fell apart, he was sure the kid could guess that much. He went over the new, yet similarly corrupt owners who could give a rat's ass about the suffering of the children's spirits.

"Are you sure? They can't all..." Mitch found himself unable to finish speaking. He didn't know.

With a huff, Mike responded, "No, I don't, but sitting by while the kids suffer isn't much better. They could do something but they don't. Their priorities speak for themself."

Mitch hung his head. Unfortunately, that made sense much as he wished it didn't. Seeing he got the point, Mike continued, explaining what he knew now. Who had attacked him. The one that started it all and how his victims were stuck with him. As Mike finished cleaning himself up, he wrapped up his recap, "I don't think the kids knew he was there. They didn't recognize him over the intercom." He paused, recalling how uneasy they appeared. "Least, not completely. They...might now, don't know for sure."

It took Mitch a bit to regather himself enough to be able to speak again. Quickly he became frantic, "That's- we can't leave them there we him. That's- that's worse than death!"

Tossing the rag into the sink, Mike pulled himself up, hand gripping the side for the sink's top. He cringed, pain clearly racking him as he forced himself to stand. Through the strenuous action, Mike ground out words, "Yeah, it-it is." He was panting by the time he was upright, leaning on the counter. "But," He said pointedly, "there's no we about it. I've told you what danger is lurking in there. You're old enough, the kids will probably think you're an adult. Anyone that can work there is an adult to them, teens included. Speaking from experience. But, him? No way in hell I'm letting you anywhere near that monster."

"But I-I can't do nothing!" Mitch protested. It looked like he was struggling to stay in place, his whole body shook. "And what about you? Do you have a plan? At all? Other than putting yourself through animatronic hell?"

"I've been putting myself through that to try and figure out what to do. Find some sort of clue." Mike looked down at the bloodstained rag, listlessly admitting, "I hoped to get something out of that bastard tonight...but, he told me to my face that he wouldn't...so, no... I don't really have a plan."

Mitch strode over to the adult, voice firm, "Then at least let me help you come up with a plan."

To that, Mike couldn't come up with an argument and so, limply, he answered with a, "Fine."

That put Mitch in higher spirits, standing in place he shifted his feet. Okay, he had an in now. He couldn't screw this up, but he knew just about as Mike did. Maybe, and this was a slight maybe, he knew more about the place's history. They'd need more time though...no doubt finding the bodies was the way to putting the kids to rest, but he didn't want them to just being suffering in the meantime. Much less, killing people tricked into being chew toys. What could they do that'd keep them from getting to people and keep the owners from hiring new guards to fill Mike's role? His eyes widened as something from Fazbear's history came to mind.

"-Fire."

Mike had been sifting through a bout of dizziness when the kid spoke up again. Unsure of what he'd really heard he asked, "What?"

"We set a fire." Mitch repeated more clearly, then explained, "Like with Fazbear's Frights. It'll give us time and keep the kids away from innocent people. And, you know, cost the new owners a good amount of money." Mitch smirked a little at that thought before continuing, "The kids are upset about being woken up right?"

Mike nodded to this.

"Then a fire will free them from their suits and maybe, I dunno, let them rest while we try and figure out where their bodies are. We'll have to find a lead...but, we'll have time to do that while they rest. You wouldn't happen to have any, would you? Cause, this is all I got." Mitch admitted.

"Heh," Mike's laugh was faint as he sat back down on the toilet seat cover, "yeah, and I wish I'd come up with that soon." He ran his hands over his face, muttering into them, "I really do have a death wish..."

"What was that?" Mitch asked confusedly.

"Nothing." Mike briskly answered, repeating, "Nothing." He looked up at the teen, tiredly, "I might have...some sort of a lead: the killer's name, Davey Moore."

"Davey Moore?" Mitch echoed, trying to recall what he remembered of the guy. "I... think I recalled that in my research, not much though."

"He used to be the actor that played Spring Bonnie." Mike looked off at the pale, scuffed tiled floor of his bathroom, "I might've seen him briefly while he was alive. Didn't even know just who I was looking at." He put the thought aside, nothing he could've done then, "With his name we might be able to find some clues as to what he liked to do in his spare time. Where he could've hid bodies."

Mitch nodded along to this. Then thought more, aloud, "Okay, okay, so what about the killer? His body I mean."

"His body?" Mike questioned, sounding a bit out of it. He'd need to lay down soon.

"Where'd they hid it? It wasn't on display last I saw." Mitch snapped his fingers, "I just remembered. I read this on a forum board, that some guys for the new Freddy's dug around the burnt down site of Fazbear Frights. They advertised that they got an animatronic the week before it burned. So, that could've been him." Suddenly, Mitch seemed to be unsure of what he was saying, "Just a hunch, but there must be a reason he's there. Can't just be because it's a Freddy's."

Mike's mind went back to his nightmare. Of the shadow rabbit, peeling its skin of to reveal something...even worse underneath. "No, I think you're onto something...but, I don't know where it could be. They must have locked it away, or something." He tried thinking, but nothing but haze greeted him. Mike shook his head. "We..." Mike couldn't believe he was really entertaining this kid helping him, but he'd come up with a better idea than he had all week. Fresh pair of eyes was helping, one not distracted by the terror of killer robots like he was. "We can talk about this more later, I need rest..."