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Mike stays where he is, staring blankly at the empty doorway. Even as the silence of the night is being slowly broken, he doesn't move. Linoleum squeaks under the shoes of the day shift. A horde of kitchen implements begin to clatter with use. Far away, he can faintly pick up the murmur of voices. Compared to all that, the sound of running footsteps is so unexpected that Mike doesn't have time to put up his guard. His legs aren't cooperating and whatever part of the brain is responsible for the fight or flight response seems to have broken from overuse.

Thankfully, it's Scott who lurches into view, screeching to a stop just outside the far door.

“Mike? You all right?”

Mike nods, feeling almost giddy. Not punch-drunk like last night, but definitely not calm.

“I thought running was against the rules.”

“Was someone running?” Scott laughs, running a hand through hair even more flyaway than usual. “That's, uh, that's not good. I'll give them a warning if I catch them, okay? More importantly–”

His jaw snaps shut as he catches sight of N. For a long moment, the incomplete android just stares. Mike thought N's stiff expression was unsettling, but that was nothing compared to this. It shouldn't be possible for an immobile face to display such – longing, that was the only word for it. N looked at Scott the way a starving man looked at a feast. The way an orphan looked at another child's parents. Hunger, hurt, raw animalistic need.

And then the android turns away, that seething aura buried as quickly as it arose. He pushes himself off the wall and walks down the hall. Mike can barely hear N's departure over the blood roaring in his ears.

Something almost happened. Hell if he knows what, but he's so, so glad it didn't.

“I didn't know he was here.” Scott gives the empty doorway a worried glance. Then he remembers Mike is in the room and the plastic smile returns. “A-anyway! Let's get out of here before the day shift get moving.”

He doesn't have to say that twice. Mike lays the Monitor down and eases himself out of his seat. Yesterday's bruises ache as he moves. Why do injuries always hurt more the day after?

Scott meets him halfway across the room, shrinking down to make his size less threatening. Mike has no idea how he's doing it, but it's working. His survival instinct doesn't so much as twinge when he takes Scott's arm and lets the older man support him.

“I heard you yell something earlier, but I couldn't quite make it out,” Scott admits as they leave the office. “If you want to communicate with the other guards after hours, you, uh, need to try some more effective methods. But don't worry!” he says hastily. “We, uh, we already have a few methods nailed down. Cell phones aren't allowed on the premises, but walkie talkies are okay. And I once rigged up something crazy for a guy who could pick up radio waves on a filling.”

“Doesn't Fritz bring his phone in?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, well... Fritz is Fritz. We can't stop him from doing stuff like that. Believe me, we've tried.”

Fair enough.

“Won't be a problem for me. I don't have a phone.”

Scott stiffens.

“You don't?”

Mike tilts his head curiously.

“Yeah. Mine broke a while back. Haven't got a new one yet.”

The tension leaves.

“Okay. Okay. You, uh, might want to see about fixing that. Cell phones may not be allowed on the premises, but they are invaluable for staying in touch with your employer. And, uh, your coworkers.”

“Your coworkers?” Mike echoes. “Why?”

“Well, now that you're part of the official Fazbear Family, it's kind of our job to keep you alive and healthy for as long as possible. Really, it's in the contract and everything.” This close, some of the artifice in Scott's good cheer is lost. Mike can see the dark circles under his eyes, the stress lines on his forehead. “And besides, it's good to talk to people who know what you're going through. We don't lose as many employees to mental health issues as we do to, well, physical health issues, but it's still not a small number. Talk to us, Mike. We're all family now.”

“For better or worse,” a new voice cuts in.

Mike jumps and jerks his head toward the sound. Fritz?

Yup, it's Fritz, all right. Mike has no idea where he came from, but there he is, in all his sullen punk glory. The latex jacket from yesterday has made a return, as have the steel-toed boots. The rest of the ensemble is new, though – acid washed jeans and a distressed grey dress shirt. Mike does a double take at the top. Is that part of a shredded work uniform?

No. Colour's too dark. Must have come from somewhere else.

“You're out early,” Scott says, stopping in his tracks.

“Heard you were talking shit.” Fritz keeps walking forward until he's within grabbing distance. Then he takes advantage of the proximity to steal Mike's arm. “I'll take this.”

Mike struggles on reflex.

“What are you–”

“Pam's looking for you,” Fritz tells Scott, completely ignoring Mike's feeble attempts to pry himself loose.

Scott looks torn. After a few seconds of deliberation, he gives Mike an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, gotta take this. But hey, now might be a good time to flex those socialization muscles!”

Mike groans, watching Scott's back disappear around the corner.

“Really? That's the metaphor you're going with?”

The words “Sorry! Can't be helped!” drift down the hall toward them.

Fritz snorts and gives Mike's shoulder a small shove.

“Can you walk on your own?”

He steps back, rubbing the sore area.

“I'm fine.”

The other night guard looks down at him with piercing eyes. Mike steps back again, resisting the urge to cover himself. He's not actually in danger from Fritz's clinical gaze, no matter how much it feels like hes being flayed alive.

“Good.” Fritz nods and turns on his heel, gesturing for Mike to follow. “Jeremy's waiting in the break room. We'll talk there.”

Oh, joy. Apology or no apology, he can't say he's looking forward to seeing the blond again. But Scott was right – he should at least talk to the other night guards. They've been doing this a lot longer than Mike has. And it's strangely easy to talk to Fritz. Probably because it's so clear that he doesn't care enough to judge. All the fears that led Mike to isolate himself after high school don't apply here. It's not like they're friends. Just two guys stuck in the same deathtrap, unwilling to escape for reasons they can't quite explain.

Yeah, okay. Mike sets his jaw and starts walking. He can handle this.

Mike was wrong. He can't handle this. Somehow, in the space of twenty-four hours, he forgot how much of an emotional wreck Jeremy is. The instant he gets through the door, he can feel the blond's eyes on him. He's not even glaring, just giving Mike the most pitiful pair of puppydog eyes ever. Mike hasn't done anything, but he still feels guilty on principle.

“Hi?”

It wasn't meant to be a question, but it comes out like one.

“H-hello.” Jeremy fidgets and looks down. “How was your night?”

“It sucked.”

“Ah. That's. Um.”

Fritz sighs heavily and kicks the door shut. “Okay, that's enough. Mike, sit the fuck down. Jeremy, shut the fuck up. Why are you even here? It's your day off.”

Mike sits down. Jeremy follows suit, shrinking into himself. He's even better at it than Scott. Intellectually, Mike knows that Jeremy is about 5' 10'' and packs a lethal glare, but it's really hard to remember that when he's trembling like a puppy.

“I just – just wanted to make sure Mike was all right.”

And here comes the guilt again. Mike takes one out of Scott's book and plasters on a smile.

“I'm fine. Worst thing that happened was my hand getting a bit more banged up.” He holds up the limb in question. “See?”

Jeremy gives the hand a thorough once-over, wincing at the stark purple bruises. Fritz leans over and whistles.

“Damn, that's impressive.”

“Thanks,” Mike deadpans. “Seriously though, unless you have some sort of magic anti-bruise cream, I don't think there's much you can do for me.”

“Don't be stupid,” Fritz says, cross-legged on his bench. “Magic doesn't do nice shit like that. All it's good for is building and housing murder machines.”

“Magic isn't real,” Jeremy grumbles, but he lets Mike reclaim his hand without protest. “Did anything strange happen last night?”

“'Strange?'”

“Stranger than usual. Like, um. Hallucinations?”

Mike pretends to think for a moment. “Does it count as a hallucination if I can't remember what I thought I saw?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy rasps. “It counts.”

“You found the thing on your second night? Moving awfully fast, new guy.” Despite the scolding words, Fritz sounds impressed. “I only saw Goldie on my second week, and Jeremy made it almost a year before his first encounter.”

Oh, thank god.

“You've seen it too?”

“Of course,” Fritz says. “He's just one of many occupational hazards at the pizzeria.”

“D-don't worry, though!” Jeremy adds. “We've figured out how to make him go away before anything happens.”

That... that's good. Mike remembers the awful certainty that he was going to die – going to be killed in some unspeakable way – and can't hold back a shudder. He's never felt so powerless before, even with Bonnie's hand around his throat. He never wants to feel like that again.

“I'd love to hear it.”

The trick is laughably straightforward. All you have to do is, after the thing shows up, grab the monitor and look at it until the thing goes away. It's that simple. Mike did it by complete accident.

Fritz shakes his head. “You were lucky.”

His tone is dark. Mike wonders how many other night guards weren't lucky.

Jeremy leans forward, expression painfully earnest.

“Did anything else happen?”

Did anything else happen? Mike racks his brain, trying to sift through the sleep-deprived ramblings and the voices in his head.

“I thought I was hearing voices all night, but I haven't slept since–” Since before he took this job. God, no wonder he's hearing things. “–too long. And, um, N came by.”

Both his coworkers stiffen.

“The unfinished N?” Fritz asks, eyes sharp. “Tall guy, shitty fashion sense, no skin?”

Mike nods.

“Scott said he'd be harmless, but a good listener.”

A bark of laughter.

“Scott would say that.”

“It's not that N is dangerous,” Jeremy says, hands raised defensively. “It's just... he's very...”

“Creepy,” Fritz says. “He'll stand in the doorway for hours if you let him. Every once in a while he'll jerk or reach toward you, but that's it. He won't do anything else. He just stares.” Brown eyes narrow appraisingly. “Kinda thought you might have a problem with it. Most people do.”

“No, he was – he was nice. Stayed back when I asked him to. Listened when I talked. And...” Should he tell them about Lissa? Mike considers it and finds he doesn't want to. Not yet. Later, maybe, but for now the story's already been heard. It's enough to know she'll live on. “And the oddest thing he did was give Scott this – this look.”

Jeremy shudders violently. Fritz reaches over to steady him. Then he takes out his phone.

“Don't elaborate. We all know what you're talking about.”

Oh, good. Mike's honestly not sure how he'd put that look into words, anyway. He stares at Fritz's phone instead, screen filled by a colourful logo as it turns on, and remembers something.

“Um, Fritz? Scott said I should buy a phone today. To keep in contact with you guys.”

Fritz glances up.

“Huh. So that's why you haven't offered us your number yet. Jeremy thought he was being snubbed.”

Mike laughs awkwardly.

“Of course not.”

The blond is wilting again. God, Mike's tired.

“Whatever. Anyways, you should probably get that over with. Take Jeremy with you – he needs to get out of here, fucker showed up the moment the clock hit six just so he could catch you.”

He what?

“That... doesn't sound safe.”

“It's not.”

Jeremy buries his head in his hands.

“I can't,” he mumbles.

“I'm sorry, what was that?" Fritz asks. "I thought I heard something stupid.”

“I can't,” Jeremy repeats a bit louder. “I have to get home soon – my dad...”

Fritz gives him a hard look, then sighs.

“Right. Shit. Mike, looks like you're stuck with me for the day.”

“Okay?” Mike's not entirely sure what's happening at this point. He rubs his eyes, jaw cracking in a monster yawn. “That's... that's cool.”

“Sure,” Fritz says flatly. “All right, you've got half an hour to pull yourself together. Breakfast is at 6:45 sharp. Then we're hitting the mall.”

Are electronic stores usually open that early? Mike has no idea. The corner store where he works doesn't stock fancy devices, and it's not in a good part of town.

The corner store –

Shit.

“I have – I have a shift at noon.”

Fritz's eyes narrow beneath his fringe.

“Part-time or full-time?”

“Part-time. Um, 12 to 5:30.”

“We can work with that.”

“Mike, you may want to get some sleep,” Jeremy suggests. Is he wringing his hands? No, just picking at the skin around one raw nail. “You seem... a bit more put together than last time, but do you think you can handle another job right now?”

No. He definitely can't. If Mike has to handle anything more difficult than this, he may cry.

“All right,” he says. “I'll try and sleep.”

“After breakfast.”

Fritz's tone brooks no argument. Mike has no choice but to agree.

Breakfast is pizza, as expected, ferried to the break room by Jeremy. Mike manages to eat about half of his before his appetite runs out. This room, with its scuffed, bare floorboards and faded wallpaper and buzzing fluorescent lights, isn't the most pleasant environment to try and rest in, but he's napped in worse places. Still, sleep doesn't come easy. Every time Mike closes his eyes, he sees that red glow.

When he finally manages to drift off, he dreams of Bonnie's awful, beautiful smile.

Fritz wakes Mike up by kicking him in the side. Gently, but still – ouch.

“10 o'clock. Wake the fuck up.”

Mike stays silent out of habit, blinking until his surroundings fall into place. He's in the backroom, no, the break room, stretched out on a bench with something draped over him. He's still wearing his uniform.

“What's going on?”

His voice cracks embarrassingly. Fritz's mouth quirks up, but he lets it pass without comment.

“10 o'clock. Up and at 'em or whatever.”

Mike sits up, fabric pooling in his lap. It's his jacket. The tear has been mended with stitching so small it's invisible. He can only find it by searching with the pads of his fingers. A lump forms in his throat.

“Where did this come from?”

“Dunno. I left to do a thing, it was there when I got back.” Fritz shrugs. “Didn't Scott or Jeremy leave it for you?”

Mike shakes his head, clutching the jacket tightly. “Bonnie took it yesterday. He said – he said I'd get it back, but...”

All of a sudden, Fritz is right up in his face.

“Wait a fucking second. Bonnie talked to you?”

“Yes? I mean, it was general stuff, probably just pre-recorded, but yeah. He talked to me.”

Fritz's mouth thins, his eyes hard.

“Let's get out of here. We'll talk after your shift.”

There's no arguing with eyes like that. Mike's not even sure he wants to. If there's something odd about the way Bonnie treats him, he wants to know.