HOME | DD

Description
Whoever they are, these people know what they're doing. The stretcher and its contents are bundled into the truck in seconds, with most of the guards following suit. The driver hits the throttle immediately, tearing out of the parking lot like a lunatic. Mike stays where he is, frozen at the very edge of the pavement, until the roar of the engine fades.

Just a few guards left. They still look jumpy, but some of the urgency has gone out of them. Weariness slows their steps. After giving Mike a wary look, a few even lower their guns.

“Hey!” one of them calls, cupping his hand around his mouth. “You with the night shift?”

Slowly, Mike shifts his gaze toward the speaker. He doesn't recognize this man, with his short-cropped hair and dishevelled suit. It's like he's stepped into an urban legend, complete with men in black.

The man is waiting is waiting for a response. One Mike doesn't have. His words are dead in his chest.

“Hey! Can you hear me?” The man waits for a second before turning back to the building. “Has anyone seen Sanchez?”

No answer.

The talkative guard sighs. “Right. Jones, cover me. I'm getting our witness out of the way.”

Being 'gotten out of the way' apparently means being guided, surprisingly gently, to the side of the parking lot, where a number of uniformed personnel are loitering. Mike doesn't recognize any of them, but they must recognize him. Why else would they be putting so much effort into pretending not to looking at him? He doesn't react. Can't react, maybe. The part of him that should be on edge from their whispers is far away, tucked into the back of that truck with Scott.

It's kind of funny. Mike knew he could die here, but somehow he never expected anyone else to. Now Scott's gone and gotten himself killed and it seems like cheating, somehow.

Mike has no way of knowing how long he sits there, staring into the cracked, dirty pavement, but eventually, a familiar voice jars him out of his thoughts.

“Oi, the fuck you doing here?”

“I don't know,” he says haltingly. “What about you?”

Fritz looks about as good as Mike feels, but the unimpressed tilt to his mouth is the same as ever. As anchors go, it's small, but Mike will take what he can get. Any port in a storm.

“Came to identify the body. It's tradition, after a solo shift.” Stray tarmac crunches as Fritz sits down beside him. “I've got no life, so it's usually me who checks the office.”

“Did you... find him?”

Chain necklaces clink as Fritz shakes his head. “There was screaming.”

Scott's face shimmers in front of them, twisted in pain and terror. Bile rises in Mike's throat. He leans down, cradling his head, and tries to banish the image. It isn't working.

“What – what happened?”

“Fuck if I know. The shrieking started after 5 and didn't stop until 8. Clean-up crew wouldn't even go inside until the noise stopped. Cowards.”

“Scott screamed for three hours?” Mike asks. The words sound odd. Distant. Like a recording, played back at a lower quality.

“No,” Fritz says grimly. “Foxy did.”

Pirate's Cove is dark and dank, filled with pain and broken things. Streaks of red and black blood mar the checkered floor. Stray droplets pool in fresh gouges. Bonnie circles the room in silence, keeping an eye on his maddened target. The tarp has been taken down – the second casualty of Foxy's rampage. It's largely in one piece, aside from a few new tears, which is more than can be said for a certain night guard.

There's no joy in that knowledge. Just the bitter taste of grief and the grim satisfaction of blood spilled.

Foxy crouches on all fours, ears twitching violently, eye staring vacantly ahead. His shoulders quiver and jerk as the servos in his back misfire. The redhead seems terribly frail like this. Each convulsion threatens to rip him apart.

One final jerk and Foxy slams his hook through the flooring with an awful ripping sound, savagely scratching out the words carved into it. Bonnie tenses, ready to lunge forward. His skin is torn in a hundred places, the soft edges steadily leaking black fluid. It hurts, but not half as much as the glazed-over emptiness on Foxy's face.

“I remember him,” Foxy rasps. “He was such a wee little thing, Bon.”

“I know.”

Another drag of the hook. “He used t' follow me on me rounds. Always tuggin' at me coat 'n chatterin' away.”

Bonnie lowers his head. “I know.”

“I dunno how it happened. When did he stop bein' a kid? He was right in front o' me the whole time. Got so big I didn' even recognize him.” Foxy shudders and knocks his head against the floor. “He was... right there. And I... I...”

It happens fast, but Bonnie is faster. He's diving forward before the hook can sink into the pirate's remaining eye. The moment Foxy's wrist is caught, he goes wild. They slam into the floor together, a mess of jagged edges and flailing limbs. Bonnie grits his jaw as Foxy's teeth sink into him, slicing through fabric and flesh and digging into the metal underneath. His clothes are ruined. He feels filthy, covered in his own drying insides. If someone were to see him like this...

No one will see me like this, he tells himself. And even if they do, Foxy's safety takes priority.

Claws rake down the side of Bonnie's face. One of them bursts through his cheek, filling his mouth with oil and coolant. Bonnie kicks out, driving them away from the wall, and grabs at Foxy's other arm. As soon as he has both wrists under control, there are teeth at his neck, and he has to let go or risk having his throat torn out. He skips back, bleeding from a dozen fresh wounds, while Foxy lays silently on the floor, still except for the twitching.

It should be Freddy doing this. Foxy trusts him most. There was a time when one touch of Freddy's big hands could calm Foxy's demons. Those days are gone, but Freddy is still the strongest of them, and the biggest – the only one who can restrain Foxy during a fit without sustaining major injury. Bonnie and Chica do their best, but they're both smaller and slighter than Foxy, built for speed and grace. Bonnie might be able to take down Foxy in an open area, with room to move and no restrictions on how hard he could kick, but in an enclosed space he's just buying time for Foxy to return to his senses.

Movement. Bonnie flinches, but it's just Foxy turning his head. His eye stares blankly upward, past the ceiling.

“He was right there.”

“I know,” Bonnie says.

“Right under me hands. All this time.”

“I know.”

It's been a while since Foxy had an episode like this. When he's in control, he restricts his destructive impulses to property damage – broken kitchen implements, bent utensils, furniture reduced to kindling. Any of that, Bonnie wouldn't hesitate to scold Foxy for, but this... this isn't something Foxy can help.

'Just hold on and keep him from hurting himself,' Freddy had said the first time Bonnie took this responsibility on himself. That's all he can do when Foxy's mind slips, trapping him in a loop of remembered pain. All any of them can do now that Freddy's stuck in a loop of his own.

“He was right there. 'n I didn' even know 'im 'til he was bleedin' out.” Without changing expression, Foxy raises his good hand and begins raking his claws down his torso, flaying the healing skin from his body.

“I know,” Bonnie says, inching forward warily. If the scratches get any deeper, he'll have to try and stop the pirate, and that won't go well for either of them.

Foxy isn't the only one who remembers what Callahan used to be. It's just easier not to think about who the night guards were before they became night guards. Children are innocent. Simple. Full of light and hope and everything that should never be sullied with blood. Bonnie won't allow Foxy to hurt himself, but the drive behind it is something he understands perfectly.

The child Scott, who never intended to become a monster, deserves to be mourned.

Claws trace the shifting lines of Foxy's musculature, their strokes almost contemplative. It's a familiar pattern. Bonnie squeezes his eyes shut, forcing back memories of their early years. Back when they were still getting used to their bodies, when everything was new and confusing, when it was just the four of them. The four of them, and –

Metal screeches as it crumples. Bonnie's head snaps up as he prepares to dive forward. Just before he makes the leap, a shadow falls over him. The darkness is as comforting as it is absolute. He aborts the motion and cranes his neck up to catch a glimpse of shining blue.

“Freddy?”

The oldest of them places one huge hand on Bonnie's shoulder, the white of his gloves stark against Bonnie's ruined waistcoat. As soon as they touch, black ooze begins seeping into the clean fabric. Bonnie watches it, horrified and spellbound. Freddy is trying to comfort him, even though he's filthy. And he – he's staining Freddy. He can feel his ears beginning to shake.

“It's all right, Bonnie,” Freddy murmurs, his mouth curved in a faint smile. “I'll handle him.”

Bonnie gets a hold of himself long enough to peer over his shoulder. Foxy is... trying to carve his chest open. He's not having much luck, but there's fluid everywhere. Dimly, Bonnie is aware that he's begun to tremble.

Foxy is hurting himself. He needs to stop Foxy. He needs to get the mess cleaned up before anyone sees. Before anyone sees. Before anyone–

“It's all right,” Freddy repeats, giving him a gentle push toward the doorway. “Go get yourself cleaned up.”

“You weren't well,” Bonnie says, hands clenching and unclenching in his soiled gloves. The fabric is wet and slick with his own dark blood. “I thought – you'd need time.”

Freddy turns away and kneels down beside Foxy's spasming form, reaching for the redhead's twisting arms. Slowly, inexorably, he forces them to the floor. Only when Foxy's pinned, shredded chest heaving, does Freddy speak. “Don't worry about me. I know what I have to do.”

A weight vanishes from Bonnie's shoulders. There's a sureness to Freddy's tone that's been missing for a while. It speaks of certainty. Purpose. And underneath, a quiet promise of violence. Still, he has to know.

“What will you do?”

“Finish the game,” Freddy says, calm, detached, and professional. “We've got three more targets to remove. Foxy, you need to stop struggling. You have to be ready for tonight. Do you think you can do that for me, captain?”

Bonnie bows his head and moves briskly toward the exit. “Let me know when you're done. I'll clean up.”

The tarp hung over the empty door frame sloughs off oil as easily as it does ketchup, but he avoids touching it with his hands. He doesn't want to dirty anything else. The Cove fills with sound as he leaves – the shift of cloth as Freddy pulls Foxy closer, the faint rustle of a fox tail brushing limply against the ground.

“Right under me hands,” rasps out from behind the curtain. “Right under me hands.”

“I know,” Freddy says. “You couldn't have saved him. It was already too late.”

“Right under me hands.”

Bonnie raises his chin and forces himself into motion. Freddy seems to be under control, and as long as Freddy's there, Foxy won't be able to do anything. Bonnie's assistance isn't necessary. He can move to his next priority.

He needs... he needs to be clean.

The hallways are empty. There's no one to see him break into a run.

The suits leave around noon, after a long meeting with Ms. Sanchez that involves a lot of stealthy glances at the corner two of the three surviving night guards are curled up in. The conversation happens too quietly for Mike to pick up on anything useful. All he has to go off of is Ms. Sanchez's tired expression as she watches them leave. With her dark suit and neat bun, she looks dressed for a funeral. He wonders if she did it on purpose.

“You boys all right?”

“No, never.” Fritz stands up slowly, working the stiffness out of his bones. “Business as usual?”

She gives him a shallow nod and turns away, looking back at the building. “Day shift will be a bit late. We'll call them once the cleaning's underway.”

“What–” It comes out as a harsh rasp. Mike coughs and tries again. “What should we do until then?”

Under the line of her suit, her shoulders stiffen. “Protocol requests that surviving night guards meet to determine a new schedule. You don't... have to go back inside until the next shift. But the schedule has to be determined on company property.”

“In short, we're stuck here until we decide who gets the next shift.” Fritz reaches up to rub the back of his neck, wincing as his fingers make contact with the skin. “Fuck it. I'm not waiting in the parking lot.”

There's no room for protest in that tone, but there's a question in his eyes when he glances down. Mike stares up at him for a moment, just processing. Then, finally, he nods.

“Let's go.”

It's quiet inside the pizzeria. Nothing's moving. The androids are nowhere to be seen. The scent of cheese is lessened, reduced, replaced with the acrid stench of cleaning products and... something else. Something that tickles the dark recesses of Mike's thoughts, bringing back old sense-memories he'd thought lost. Fritz shudders on his first breath in, hand rising again to the back of his neck. Then he catches himself, squares his shoulders, and walks into the building like a soldier storming the battlefield. Mike drifts, ghost-like, in his wake.

The hall unfolds around them, silent, lined with row upon row of childish drawings. A distant scratching noise can be heard from deeper inside, like a knife scraping against concrete. It would send chills down Mike's spin, but he already feels like he's made of ice.

“What do you think?” Fritz asks, voice just a little tighter than his habitual monotone. “Dining hall?”

“Dining hall,” Mike agrees after a second. It's out in the open, but so is the parking lot. “Where is everyone?”

“At home, sleeping in.”

“Not the day shift. The people who were outside.”

A shrug. “Dunno. Not here. They've got a habit of vanishing when you take your eyes off them.”

Mike glances over his shoulder. Through the glass doors, the parking lot is visible. It's empty.

“Ms. Sanchez?” he calls.

“Don't bother,” Fritz says dismissively. “She's already made her report. She's not going to come back in until the cleaning is done.”

Something twists in Mike's gut. It's a reasonable decision to make. Especially if she's already been inside – already seen what there was to see. There's nothing objectionable about the choice to wait outside. And yet, somehow, it feels like failure.

Not that he has any ground to stand on.

“The androids?”

“Off somewhere. Probably enjoying the kill.”

The rest of the walk is spent in silence, the pair of them weighed down with sorrow and bitterness. It's brighter in the dining hall, but the smell is worse. Fritz heads straight for their table, but Mike finds himself lingering in the doorway, even as his coworker grabs a seat and immediately puts his boots up. This empty room feels wrong. He keeps expects his vision to be obscured by static, mistaking floating grains of dust in the sun for the grain of the Monitor. It doesn't matter that the sun is streaming in through the windows – he can feel the adrenaline beginning to flood his system, drowning out the ache in his shoulder. At his sides, his hands are shaking.

“The night shift started early,” he mutters under his breath.

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity,” Fritz says at a significantly louder volume. His phone is out and his eyes are fixed on the screen, but Mike can feel the pressure of his coworker's attention.

“Who cares? I work here, don't I?” Mike's gaze wanders away from the table, flitting between the doorways. He feels sick. “I'm... I'll be right back. I need to wash up.”

Fritz says something as Mike leaves, but he's too deep in his own head to make out the words. Didn't sound urgent. It can wait. The walls shift and shimmer as he hurries down the hall, their dimensions twisting and warping in his peripheral vision. When he turns his head, the walls are straight, but there's something written on them.

The words 'IT'S ME' are scrawled over the paint in thick black lines. He blinks and the graffiti is gone, like it never existed.

So he's seeing things again. How nice. Mike shakes his head and grabs a towel from the closest maintenance closet before heading toward the bathroom. Maybe getting rid of the grime from the parking lot will help him collect himself. It certainly can't hurt.

Whoever's in charge of the pizzeria really likes checkered flooring. He feels vaguely like a chess piece as he walks down the hall. It makes him uncomfortable, so he puts it out of his mind. The restrooms are just ahead. Posters leer at him from the walls as he approaches, their plastic stares raking over his skin. He ducks into the men's room with a sigh of relief. Too late, he realizes it's already occupied.

A tall, slender figure stands at the sink, utterly motionless. Bonnie's a wreck. Half his face has been ripped open, pumping black oil into the air and exposing the mechanisms inside. Cuts and scratches mar his neck, his shoulders, his sides, all of them deep enough to leave dark stains on the surrounding fabric. A torn purple waistcoat is folded neatly on the counter, leaving him in dark slacks and a torn undershirt that probably used to be white. He's not wearing gloves. His hands are the only part of him that aren't covered in black liquid.

Is that... Bonnie's blood? Mike looks at the ruin of Bonnie's face and feels cold. The android is holding himself oddly, almost hunched over. Mike's never him seen look so vulnerable before. Red eyes stare back at him, unblinking, bathing the room in crimson. He's not sure how long they stand there, just looking at each other.

Then Bonnie's head jerks to the side in a swift, convulsive movement even as his ears begin to twitch and shudder. His face is blank, but his eyes are wide and staring.

He's afraid, Mike realizes. Afraid of what?

Another uncontrolled jerk. Bonnie's hands clench on the sides on the sink, porcelain fingers cracking the cast iron surface. His eyes are still fixed on Mike.

It can't be. There's no way.

Bonnie is... afraid of me?