I'm back! And so are you, if you're reading this. As I've said before, this is the final entry in my "Seasons at Freddy's" series; I've been working on this for my entire adult life (I started ASaF a few months after I turned 18), so almost being at the end is a big deal. Speaking of dates, August is the tenth anniversary of FNaF, so I am glad I was able to get this out before then.

Like I said way back in the final A/N of my first Freddy's story, this is primarily going to be a combination of FNaF 3 and Pizza Simulator, though it also contains plenty of original ideas. A lot of time has passed in-universe, which is allowing me to incorporate more modern themes. Honestly, I think these stories are more relevant today than they were when I started them. In the last couple of years, actual artificial intelligence programs like ChatGPT and Gemini have taken off, to the point that some people are wondering if sentient programs will soon arrive (personally, I doubt it). Maybe I even got an AI to help me write this… I promise I didn't, but I'm sure many authors do these days. I don't judge those who do, but thankfully, most people still want to read works written by other people.

For those of you who don't read my Dead Space stories, I should reiterate that I finally have a job now! Go check out the last A/N of Zealot if you want more information about it. The relevant thing is that it shouldn't slow down my writing. Finally, I'll link my Discord server for those who are interested (though I suspect almost everyone who wants to join already has):

www . discord . gg / HPcMTpxVsH

Friday, July 14, 2017, 2:30 PM

The world blurred around Mike as he exited the Portland funeral parlor into the parking lot on a fittingly dreary day. Thick cloud banks made the sun wear black, just like the suit and pants he sported. Raindrops made him think of tears.

In the end, Jeremy Fitzgerald didn't die from animatronics or conspiracy. He didn't perish from the machinations of an insane golden "god".

It had been heart disease. Not surprising, since it was the most common killer of older men in America. Still, it seemed wrong that someone who'd lived his life had been felled by something so ordinary.

A middle-aged woman in black was thronged by several people, each of them wanting to say something in a language which was not his own. Though he had only met her hours before, he waited to say something. It was only right after coming all this way. He lurched forward once a gap formed.

"I'm, uh, glad I could make it, Ms. Herrera." Mike used her maiden name, which she had reverted to after divorcing Jeremy. She'd remarried long ago, yet she was still the focal point of the funeral. Not like the man had much else in the way of family, and they remained on OK terms, especially after patching things up later in life. "Um, I don't know you well, but I wanted to thank you for inviting me. Jeremy was, like, a good friend, and I'm sorry nobody else in Whitewater made it."

She nodded. "Mike, right? I'm glad you came." Remembering his name was a good sign. "June's talked about you – you're the manager of that pizza restaurant Jeremy used to work at."

"That's me," he replied, feeling himself cringe. The suit suddenly felt too loose on him. Jeremy never told her about that week, but she understood it was one of the worst of his life for whatever reason. He assured her, "It's gotten a lot better in recent years. Not the dump he used to guard."

They talked for a few more minutes, if only for the sake of being polite. Not much to say, though. Mike only knew one other person there, and he already bade her farewell. Plus, he was the only non-Hispanic person at the affair, which made him feel… awkward. Nobody was rude, yet he didn't understand Spanish or grasp the cultural nuances of orange flowers and burning candles on the open casket. He wished he did. Even so, he didn't mind driving a few hours to attend this. He'd been lucky in that this was the first funeral he'd ever been to – barring those of his grandparents, but he had been too young to remember those.

"It – it – it was nice to meet you," he said at last, exiting the conversation so other mourners could have their turns. When he was younger, Mike thought he'd grow out of his stutter. That didn't happen, but at least it never got worse. Not that he was ashamed of it, but it sometimes made him feel like an oaf.

He shakily entered the blue Honda Civic. He'd only gotten this model two years prior, as opposed to the clunker that finally needed to be put down after one failure too many cascaded beyond control. Still, he saw no reason to change from one of the most popular cars in the world. He didn't need to be fancy, and his experiences with the rich meant hating the idea of flaunting wealth.

A sauna of hot, sticky air assaulted him. Would have been pleasant if the humidity didn't make the uncomfortable suit fabric cling to his frame. He'd crank up the AC and blast the sweat off him. The air started out warmer than that of the outside, temporarily making the conundrum worse. He flipped down the mirror, which slightly fogged up, to stare at himself and wonder.

The first signs of age – a few blemishes and creases around his eyes – greeted him. 36 hadn't seemed old before. Only now did he realize that half of his life had gone by. The aches and pains would only accelerate over the next couple decades. And would he really be alive if he got to be as decrepit as Afton in his last few years? It gave him a lot to think about. Also made the little gremlin of fear gnaw on his stomach.

A knock on the window jolted him out of it. He rolled it down while still getting his bearings.

"I appreciate you coming, Mike." He looked over to see his best (human) friend, whom he thought he already said goodbye to. Well, he had no problem exchanging a few more words. She had been at the forefront of most of the service, and the strain was visible on her creased face. Her hair, normally wild from work in the shop, had been tied back into a tight bun. She looked just as old as he did. Of course, they were the same age. "I'm sorry the rest of our friends couldn't be here, though." They regretted it, too, but nothing could be done about it. He'd relay the relevant details once he got back to Whitewater.

They chatted for a couple minutes more, but Mike's mind was elsewhere. He could tell hers was, too.

"I'll see you around, June." She nodded as he rolled up the window and put the stick into reverse. It'd be a long drive back to Washington. Up until a few years ago, though, it would have taken even longer. He'd need to pull over and consult an atlas or ask directions to navigate out of an unfamiliar city like Portland. Now, with the magic of smartphones and GPS technology, he could just plug in the directions, and Siri gave him all the answers.

"At the next stop sign, take a left," it spoke in a blithe, female voice. He had no reason to doubt it, so he obeyed.

Mike didn't know if true artificial intelligence was possible, but it seemed more likely now than ever before. There would doubtlessly be more advancements in the coming years. Afton had been right; AI, whether sentient or not, was the future. He'd simply been too early for his ideas to catch on. If he were still alive, Mike had no doubt the guy would be rubbing elbows with Elon Musk and his ilk. Thankfully, in this world, he'd been mostly forgotten. Aside from occasional articles he saw online about mysterious disappearances and the Internet legends around Fazbear's, he left no legacy.

He got onto I-5 soon enough, upon which he flipped the phone off. He knew how to get home from there. Then his mind wandered again, for 20 years of driving meant it practically became second nature. He considered calling Sylvia, but she was still on her shift at Swedish Health Services. She dealt with enough death at her job, so he didn't want to subject her to more of it. The animatronics, he'd see soon enough. His parents? They'd only met Jeremy once or twice. Besides, it must have been 3 AM in the Philippines, where they now lived as expatriates, and he saw no reason to wake them up. He didn't know when he'd see them again, if ever.

The hours blended together. He neither felt inclined to listen to music nor to the news to find out what horrible things happened in the wider world. All he wanted to do was be left alone. And, for a few hours, he got his wish. Even the traffic wasn't too bad. It ended soon enough. Off the highway, through the deciduous trees. Ferns grew in clumps on the margins, and every so often, he saw yellow splotches on bark which could have only been banana slugs. Felt a smile pull across his face. Despite so much changing in the world, his home was pretty much identical. Not too long before he spied a familiar sign.

Whitewater: Population of 2,494

The 2010 census knocked a sizable chunk off the population. He had no doubt that by 2020, the number would shrink by another couple hundred. Hard to believe that a town could lose almost half its residents in 30 years, though it shouldn't have surprised him. There weren't any jobs. People moved on, either to cities or suburbs or at least rural communities with more in their favor than a moribund logging industry.

Fazbear's was unquestionably the most successful business in town. While Mike's heart beamed with pride at that, it wasn't a sign of economic health that a restaurant meant for children (of which there were fewer every year) carried so much responsibility. Speaking of which, he peeled away from the town and headed down another path toward the pizzeria. The summer sun sank behind the trees. Almost closing time.

In minutes (and after nearly clipping a deer), he arrived. The façade looked as great as ever; he did upkeep every few years to make sure it didn't lapse into looking tacky. The same art of his smiling friends overlooked jazzy pink letters reading "Freddy Fazbear's Pizza". He asked the animatronics a time or two if they wanted to rename the restaurant so it wasn't just focused on Freddy, but none of them minded. That was how it had always been, and they weren't the types to be jealous. Everyone thought it was great.

Yet he could have made it better. Phil once said Fazbear's was famous (or infamous) among managers of Chuck E. Cheese's and the like. With clever marketing, he was sure people all over the world would be intrigued by the technology of the "springlock suits", which had never been replicated. Furries – he'd finally found out what those were – would be very keen to visit. Maybe they could do an after-hours kind of thing. Still, vast as the possibilities may have been, the last thing they wanted was fuel for the fire.

The modern Internet made content like this propagate at an alarming pace. "Going viral" it was called, and it may as well have been a plague. With the rumors and stories that had been circulating these past few years, attention was the last thing he wanted to give the restaurant. If YouTube videos of the animatronics spread… well, somebody would figure out the secret. The thought made him flinch in his seat. How awful it'd be for the animatronics to remain under the radar for 30 years, only for modern technology to do them in.

They had enough success relying on the local population, who took the place for granted. Not that they were ungrateful, but the incredible animatronics seemed almost normal after being around so long. At this point, Mike wondered if they could walk around in town without anyone batting an eye.

But that was a question for later. He parked the car as the last people filtered out to the couple of remaining cars. Though he'd missed the day, it was no big loss. They'd all be around tomorrow. And the day after that. And so on.

"Hey, Mr. Schmidt!" a child, about 11 years old, greeted him as he approached. Dwayne was a nice kid, and one of the regulars. In a year or two, he'd naturally age out of the target demographic and move onto other things. Or not. Mike never developed the interests anyone expected of him. It was fine for teens and adults to be interested in this kind of thing.

"Hello, Dwayne. How was your day?"

It was clear that he wanted to launch into a speech about the adventures he had, but one of his moms tapping her foot by the door of their car indicated Dwayne had places to be. Therefore, he merely asked, "Why are you dressed like that? Did you just get back from a wedding?"

Before he answered that, Dwayne already ran off to join his family. Must not have cared that much. Thank God. These kids were old enough to know what death was – they still had the plaque dedicated to James in Pirate Cove. But he didn't need to bring anyone's mood down by going into the details. Besides, mentioning the dead while being dressed in such a way brought back memories that he'd prefer not to dwell on.

At the very least, his suit wasn't purple.

7:15 PM

Foxy brushed crumbs from her shirt, which must have gotten there from a kid's greasy hands. They had a washing machine, so it was no great loss if a load needed to be run. She rolled her shoulders, which satisfyingly cracked, and the muscles in her ears stretched, as well. Another day in paradise. It was made even better by the man who came through the door.

"I'm back," Mike said, pacing to work out a body that had been sitting for hours. The rest of her family congregated in the dining room for supper after another day of entertaining kids. "It would have felt, uh, disrespectful to take photos, so I'm sorry to say that I don't h-have anything with me."

"It's not a big deal," Freddy said, kicking up his feet and stretching his spine over the back of the chair – all the ones they had were tough enough to support their masses. Freddy failed to hide the resentful edge in his voice. Not at Mike, but at the world. They knew why it'd never treat them fairly, but that didn't dull the pain. Couldn't even go to the funeral of one of the only people who knew their secret. "You'll have to tell us about it. Chica's putting the last touches on the food."

Bonnie waved as he hung up his guitar and hopped over to join them. Then Mary emerged from the extra room Mike ordered built to house the arcade games several years back! Mary: that was the name the former Agent Mu dubbed herself after months of mulling it over. Didn't want kids to need to rely on her callsign, so she christened herself with something that sounded like "marionette". Still more subtle than a vixen named Foxy. She was "Springtrap's" replacement, and that was where the lineup stood for the past 16 years.

Thankfully, there had been no more surprise family members or run-ins with vampires or werewolves, even if the idea of those last two kinds of monster living in Washington had gotten a huge popularity boost in the last decade.

"Pleasant to see you again, Mike." Even though she'd loosened up, she was the most "robotic" of them. Nothing wrong with that. Each of them was different, and each appealed to different kinds of kids. Bonnie and Chica got along with the lower-key, silly ones. Mary vibed with the more intellectual types. Foxy, of course, played with the adventurous kids, or the ones who just wanted a good story. She didn't want to call these facets strengths and weaknesses, for each was just fine the way they were.

"Welcome back!" Chica shouted, sticking her head out of the kitchen. She wheeled her food tray over, which had been filled to the brim with piping hot morsels. "I made your favorite." She slid a plate of pasta with cooked vegetables in front of him, which turned out to be his favorite of her recipes – and he sampled every single one. His mouth watered. It looked like he needed it. For that matter, she could use a strong tropical drink. They had enough to fill a tiki bar (kept in the kitchen in a locked cabinet, of course), and this was not a night to skimp.

She ran to the kitchen, unlocking the drawer and tucking bottles beneath her armpits. Then she carried her spoils back. The scattered conversation of friends never got old. This was the life.

"My husband clearly needs a strong-ass drink," she said, uncorking the bottle and pouring him a shot of rum. He smiled, no less intensely than he did when they were young. Husband and wife. That's what they were, unknown to the wider world.

That was how they referred to themselves, anyway. They weren't technically married, nor did they have a civil union. Foxy wasn't legally a person, and she couldn't show up to sign any documents. It was how they'd thought of themselves, though, and that would never change.

"Hold on," he suddenly said, standing up. "I need to change. Don't want to get sauce on, uh, something this fancy."

Right, he put a change of casual clothes in his office, which he normally wore to work. He set the dress code, so cargo pants and a t-shirt suited him fine. Her friends never bought into the idea of clothing at all, so he still had them beat on that front! While he went to do that, the rest waxed about what they'd done during the hours before. Same as always. Foxy almost thought she'd get bored one day.

She was always proven wrong. Though she had ups and downs, her job never ceased to give her joy. Entertainment was what they were made for. The need to amuse children was scribed on their hearts. It was as much a requirement as eating or breathing, hence why she'd been so maladjusted after years in confinement. Though no more than any human would have been.

Mike came out moments later, having donned a Nirvana t-shirt from the turn of the century… still too late to have been listening to them, or so she'd heard. He didn't need to be caught up on what went on that day, since the people who came ordered ahead; all their information got logged on the computer. They, on the other hand, were all morbidly interested in the funeral, having never attended one. He told them between bites of food. Overall, it sounded similar to the funeral scenes she saw in the movies, though the burial would be done later.

"God, I'm going to miss him," Mike sighed as he tossed his fork in the liquid remaining in his saucer. "I know you guys aren't religious, but I, um, think he's in Heaven right now, and he'll never be afraid again."

Bonnie dabbled in esoteric movements, though he hadn't converted to anything. It wasn't just because he thought they were correct – they'd all searched their souls and religious texts, and none accounted for creatures like them. However, in their sparse conversations with Auric, the entity referred to the Odic Force, Akashic Records and entities across space and time. Those were all cornerstones of Theosophic thought, so the spiritualists of the 19th Century were correct about some things. That was why Bonnie felt affinity with those kinds of thinkers.

"No matter what I believe, Jeremy deserves better than to be put in the ground," Freddy muttered. "It's what everyone gets unless they're cremated, but still." Foxy supposed they could have embalmed him like Lenin and kept him in the restaurant. Would have been a little messed up, though. Humans died. To try and cheat death was to be like Afton… or Phil, damn him.

"While unfortunate, Jeremy lived a good life, from what I have surmised. I am not sure there is much he would have wished to do differently." Mary interjected this in her distinct nonchalant way. "At least, I hope there is not."

"Like, most people have regrets. But y-yeah, I'm pretty sure he was mostly happy." Mike ventured to speak for the dead in this case. There was nothing relating to the animatronics he would have done differently in the end. Even though he hated them at first, he made peace.

They talked for a couple minutes more. The summer sun got lower as the dinner conversation dragged, but they felt no need to stop. The restaurant didn't open until noon, so they always had time to sleep in. Being together warmed Foxy's heart. The booze helped, too. All good things ended, though, and so did their conversation. Chica was kind enough to clean up the silverware and dump it in the sink to soak overnight. The others wandered off. Her husband stretched his arms over his head and let out a massive yawn.

Mike needed to go home soon… or did he? No, he probably should. He slept with her half the time and went back to his own place the other half. It was still his house, and he didn't want to leave it abandoned. Plus, he needed to take a shower. That didn't mean they couldn't have a little fun beforehand.

By which she meant continuing Season 19 of One Piece. Almost 1,000 episodes in, and Luffy's adventure had never been better. The show hadn't ended, and at its current rate, it wouldn't any time soon. It might be around for as long as Auric was.

"New episodes are on Crunchyroll," she said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at her Cove. At this point, she didn't need to specify what show she talked about. It was one of the few anime she watched, though it was well worth the subscription.

"Sure, I'd be up for one," he shrugged. One worked. Not like the series was going anywhere. They could binge the few they'd fallen behind on some other time.

The two moseyed into the Cove. Though the props and ongoing storyline changed – currently, the overarching plot was that she explored the islands far to the east of the Continent – the core of the experience remained the same. Fun, adventure and a chance to work with others. The plaque to James was still there, though nobody thought much of it anymore. It was shocking to parents when they first saw it, but it soon became part of the background, as it should have.

She hopped onto the stage and pulled a certain key out of her pocket. A few kids got curious about her private alcove over the years, so Mike had a new wall constructed in front of it, the door in which could be opened with the same brass key which unlocked her Captain's Quarters. She considered getting a trapdoor or something suitably pirate-themed, but that would have made the construction workers ask too many questions.

The door popped open with a satisfying click to her sensitive ears. She opened the door into a place where she could relax without even needing to be a pirate. Not much: just a TV, an Xbox, a plush sofa and a minifridge for when she was too lazy to go to the kitchen. Some people might have called it a "man cave"… except she wasn't a man, and it was more of a grotto than a cave. Though I obviously am a lot more masculine than most ladies. Not that gender roles meant much to her when she wasn't even human. She did what she liked.

Mike sat on the right half of the couch while she took the left, expertly working the remote with only one hand. He snuggled against her – which was when she knew he needed a shower. Her sensitive nose crinkled at the odor of sickly sweat. Well, she wouldn't let that little distraction get in the way of them being together. Besides, she barely bathed for 13 years straight at one point, so she knew it could have been worse.

He idly caressed the soft fur atop her head as she got to the next episode of One Piece. A contented churr escaped her muzzle, and she leaned into it at the intro began. She remembered their first date all those years ago. The two, young and hopelessly in love, watched a movie at Mike's house and made out on the couch. They still did that from time to time (and added outright sex into the mix), but they mostly appreciated each other's company. And with Mike's job, they never needed to be apart unless they wanted to be.

Him taking the managerial position from Helen turned out to be the best choice he ever made, and she was so lucky to have found him. Without Mike, she and her friends might have still been in chains. But any thoughts of real-world danger ebbed as she found herself entranced by the narrative. Throughout, though, Mike's hand got slightly tighter on her hook. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but she noticed his grip.

The adventure hadn't quite ended when he whispered, "Will you be all right without me?"

That was what he worried about? She laughed. "We got along just fine today, and this isn't the first time you've been out." Much as she loved being with him, she was well-adjusted enough for time apart. She thought he knew that.

Then he looked over, and her heart fell when she saw the tears streaking his face. He'd been silently weeping the whole time while she sat grinning like a court jester.

"I… I mean after I die."

The world devolved into a wreck as the weight of his words hit her all at once.

"I don't know."

Mike got older. She, on the other hand, did not. She would die one day, of course. But as a creature of metal, she could hypothetically survive hundreds of years. Part of her wondered if she'd last so long as she wasn't killed. But how could she and the others possibly live without him?

"All right," was all he choked out. Then they sat in silence, watching a black screen.

Being their caretaker – their friend – was Mike's choice. He embraced this life because he cared about them, not despite it. Even if he made quite a bit of money (a lot of which he gave to charity), that wasn't the reason he did this job. After he was gone, she didn't know what she'd do. Who else would they share this secret with? Nobody deserved to have their views of the universe irreparably shattered. She'd brought up some ideas several times before, but back when Mike was in his 20s and seemed invincible, too.

One option, quite frankly, was to kill herself. Mike demanded she not do that with every expletive in his vocabulary. Just because he died didn't mean he needed to join him. Another option would be to exist for as long as she could, but not to seek medical attention when she required it. After all, she wasn't likely to receive any from anybody except June and Sylvia. A third was that she should keep living until a point where she and the others were accepted in this life. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a world hundreds of years from the present that truly put aside differences and hatred that would accept them if they chose to reveal themselves. Even then, she still didn't want to live forever.

While it sounded good on paper, she saw the fruits of immortality. Complete disregard for life might be the natural end for any entity doomed to exist until the end of time. More than that… she wanted to be with Mike in the end. She wanted to join him in death, or even better, an afterlife where the two could be for all time. Maybe even her original world somehow. But right now, in this life, Mike did the best he could. Every human got older and died.

"I don't know," she repeated, "but I do know that I love you. Whatever happens, we'll deal with it together." Her husband wiped his tears away. "And I don't think there's anything in the world that can stop us."

He smiled one of his earnest, slightly lopsided smiles. She got through to him. But it still looked like there was something more she could do to cheer him up…

9:15 PM

Mike's car slid up the gravel driveway almost without effort. He didn't know whether tire grip had improved in the last several years or if he just got comfortable with knowing how to gain traction after doing it for so long. Either way, the slope no longer held the same vague hint of menace it once did. A few dark thoughts bounced through his mind, though he mostly recovered from his spat with death.

He hadn't thought so much about his mortality since working the night shift and the ENNARD fiasco. Existential dread came roaring back, though, and it was honestly good practice. He'd felt this way before, and he was almost glad to have experience rather than be subjected to these fears for the first time. Sleep should help.

He threw the gear into park and shut it off, rolling his ankles as he stepped onto the stone. A few more raindrops fell, though his car couldn't get much wetter than it already was. While he never got around to building a garage, inclement weather in summer wasn't much of a problem. Just needed to throw a tarp over his car when hail appeared in the forecast, and he was good to go. I'm just going to go inside, shower, brush my teeth and hop in –

Mike yelped as he stumbled over something, unseen in the late evening light. His hands shot out, saving him by pressing against the door. He turned around to see what tripped him.

A cardboard box the size of a laundry basket sat in the middle of the porch. That would do it. Still, he couldn't complain: the postal worker was nice enough to trudge all the way up the hill to deliver it instead of leaving it next to the mailbox at the foot of his driveway.

No return address, he mused, flipping it over to see if anything was written on the other side. And I didn't order anything on Amazon recently, either.

He unlocked the door and hauled it inside. Home sweet home. The stain on the rug. The mounted deer head staring lifelessly at him from the mantle. The house hadn't been renovated for so long that it seemed to exist outside time. Mike couldn't have cared less; it was perfect. He set the box on the counter and went about his self-care routine. 15 minutes passed by the time he finished, and sleep already tugged on the corners of his mind.

Before he settled down, though, some part of him itched to know what was in that box. Donning his sleeping clothes, he went out to see it where he left it. Of course it is. Packages didn't sprout legs and run away. He grabbed the rusty pair of scissors he used as letter opener and boxcutter, running it across the packing tape. Inside was a layer of bubble wrap, which he tore away and threw in the garbage. An eyebrow raised when he saw what was beneath.

Dozens of audio cassette tapes had been packed together. Each was ensconced in a transparent case marked with a different number. It looked like something from a news archive. A tape player sat in a separate compartment of packing peanuts for convenience. He racked his brain for answers.

He'd think it was delivered to the wrong place if not addressed to him. Was this a prank? One of his college buddies recorded fart sounds and sent it to him in the mail? Nobody had used cassette tapes for a decade. Much as he loved his old Walkman, it broke not long after he switched to his current iPhone. It obviously took a lot of effort, which made him think this was serious. Could it have been something from Jeremy's estate that was dropped off? Maybe a secret thing that wasn't in the will.

You've watched too much TV, he told himself. If not that, though, then what? His gaze slowly drifted to the tape player, and then to the nearest electrical outlet… He guessed the easiest way to see was to do what the sender clearly wanted him to. A moment later, and it was finished.

Of course, he needed to start at the beginning. He reached for the tape labeled I. and popped it into the player, making sure it was wound to the beginning. His chest tightened in anticipation. There was static for a few seconds, and Mike wondered if it had been corrupted. Then the noise morphed into that of a woman talking. Talking directly to him.

"Hello, Mike. My name is Henrietta Emily… though for several years, I was Henrietta Afton. And I want to help you kill a monster."