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When he woke up this morning, Mike wasn't expecting to have a good day, but this still feels like overkill. This is the kind of day that Russian authors write books about. The kind of awfulness that kicks off tragedies. Mike was never able to stand tragedies. Life is bad enough without people adding to it.

Case in point, life has given him a killer robot – one that's actually killed someone he knew – on the verge of some kind of breakdown. Mike has no goddamn idea what to do. He's painfully aware of the open door behind him. He could run. Slam the door. Make up some excuse to Fritz and never bring this up again. Somehow he doubts Bonnie would ever bring this up, assuming the android is intact enough to record anything. He could leave right now and no one would be the wiser.

But Mike would know. And if he turned his back on someone's suffering with Lissa so fresh in his mind, he wouldn't be her brother anymore.

Also, who is he kidding. He'd die before he was halfway out the door.

Okay. Leaving isn't an option. What should he do, then?

Bonnie's slender frame jerks with another helpless twitch. Stripped down, shaking, and torn open is a new look for the rabbit. Mike's not exactly up to appreciating the view right now. The towering automaton looks... fragile. Even as the shudders become more violent, his wide-eyed face stays frozen. His pupils are barely more than pinpricks. He looks like...

Like he's trying to disappear.

Slowly, carefully, Mike shifts his gaze away from the robot. He looks into the bathroom mirror instead, praying he hasn't made a mistake.

His guess was right on the money. As soon as they break eye contact, the twitching begins to calm. In seconds, it's stopped completely. Bonnie is still bent over the sink, half-dressed and bleeding, but the android is utterly still. He might as well be a statue. A beautiful gargoyle, coiled on himself, gripping an unlikely pedestal.

This beast isn't made of stone. But he's not snarling, either. He's just... watching. Waiting.

Waiting for what?

Mike exhales slowly, collecting himself. Then he does what he opens his mouth and says the least threatening thing he can think of.

“Thanks. For fixing my jacket yesterday.”

Red eyes stare at him from the mirror, fixed and unmoving. Mike lets his own eyes glaze over rather than meet them directly. Eye contact is a threat. He keeps talking, his tone soft and soothing. Just white noise.

“You're really good at sewing, you know? I'm kinda jealous. I never was the handy one in the family.” That was all Lissa. “I should've picked it up at some point, but there never seemed to be time. Maybe I was just making up excuses. Seems like I do that a lot.”

A tiny shift in position. Mike can't read anything into the motion, but it doesn't seem bad, per se.

“I was never that into crafts, I guess. Too much of an active kid. Running around, breaking things – mostly by accident – and always tracking mud in the house. I never came here when I was younger, but you guys would've hated me. I was a real terror.” He pauses for a second. “You'd probably have liked my sister, though. I know she'd have loved you.”

Bonnie's voice is hardly more than a metallic rasp. “Lissa?”

Mike's pulse jumps. Hold still, he tells himself. Hold still and don't smile.

“Yeah. Melissa Schmidt. Lissa. Pint-sized bane of my existence. Though at this point, I can hardly remember why.” The words are flowing fast now, as faux-casual as he can get. “I remember being annoyed, frustrated, and sometimes even scared of her, just not why. The details got blurry. Sucks to me, I guess.”

The rabbit is still looking at him. Hasn't blinked once. Something like hysteria is building up in Mike's chest. He pushes it down with all his might.

“Lose the memory, keep the pain. The human brain is screwy that way.” He has to stop a moment to choke down a tight little laugh. “They say time heals all wounds. What a load of bull.”

“Language,” Bonnie murmurs. His voice is softer now, the hard edges sanded off.

Please let that be a good sign.

“Sorry. Not too many people to correct my bad habits, I guess.”

The android is – not relaxing, exactly, but spreading out. His back looks straighter, his neck longer. His ears are tilted towards Mike. It's encouraging. It also reveals more of the mess that Bonnie's made of himself. Or that someone's made of Bonnie. Mike watches the delicate mechanisms of the flayed cheek pump and turn in the mirror. They're so delicate. Like living jewellery.

A fresh stream of dark liquid streams over them as Bonnie opens his mouth. “Why are you here?”

Oh, good. A simple question.

“I slept late and missed my other job. Didn't really have anywhere else to go. Thought I'd wait around here until my shift began. In retrospect, I don't know what I was thinking. I'd just be asking for someone like whatever her name was to start on me again. Anyways, I got stuck in the parking lot for – a while. Leaving seemed like too much trouble after that.”

There's no change of expression on that pale face when Mike dances around the subject of Scott. He's not surprised. Those injuries don't seem like something a mere human could leave.

“I thought I'd wash up and see if that helped, but.” A helpless look. “Guess the restroom was occupied. Sorry about barging in like that.”

“It's no trouble,” the android says quietly, his fingers beginning to tighten on the sink again.

He's lying. Is Mike suicidal enough to call him out on it?

No. He isn't. But something equally stupid pops into his head. Before he can think twice, Mike grabs the towel and holds it out, still looking into the mirror.

Bonnie goes utterly still, a statue once more. Mike wishes he could do the same. This is quite possibly the dumbest thing he's ever tried. He is absolutely, one hundred percent going to get himself killed. There's a certain freedom in that knowledge, even as his hands begin to shake. Blood roars in his ears, drowning out every other sound. The floor is beginning to tilt and shimmer. He stays where he is, watching Bonnie watch him watch their reflections.

Seconds stretch into hours into weeks into months into years. Finally, a pale hand rises toward him. Bonnie approaches the towel with a level of caution more suited to a rattlesnake. Or maybe it's Mike that lends his movements that air of hesitation. Either way, he takes the towel and retreats. His white fingers barely graze Mike's in the hand off. They leave spots of dizzying warmth behind.

“I should go,” the guard says, carefully lowering his arm. “Fritz is waiting.”

A slow nod.

“All right. Be seeing you.”

Mike heads for the doorway at a deliberately even pace, not too fast, not too slow. There's no urgency as he steps back into the hallway, blinking in the sunlight. He feels – distant. Buoyant. Like he's floating above himself, looking down at his body as it retraces his steps.

I'm alive, he thinks. Bonnie let me go.

The words don't sound right, even in his head. They rattle around like stones in a blender as he stumbles back to the Dining Hall. It's unchanged. Same tables, same chairs, same subtle dents in the kitchen door. Shafts of sunlight fall in the exact same spots. Fritz is tucked into the same staff only table, looking at his phone with the same lack of expression.

“You've been gone a while,” he notes in a bland tone. “Dare I speculate what horrors went on in there?”

The laughter Mike's been choking down for the last god knows how long finally bursts out. His whole body shakes with it. Feels like he's going to break apart. His legs give out and he slumps to the ground, still shuddering with hysteria.

Fritz is looking at him now, he notes absently. Mike didn't know his eyes could get that wide. It seems like it must hurt.

“What the fuck? What happened?” There's a screech as Fritz gets up, a fresh note of urgency in his voice. “Come on, Mike. Deep breaths.”

“Not in shock,” he manages after a second. “Just... dumb. How am I even alive?”

“You'd better not be looking for an answer,” Fritz says, crouching down in front of him. “C'mon. Breathe. In-out.”

Mike shakes his head and slumps back, looking up at the ceiling. Plaster fills his vision. The scent of pizza fills his nose. It almost feels cleansing.

“We should all be dead,” he says aloud. “So why aren't we?”

Fritz huffs. “Because there is no god. Because there is one and he hates us. Because the magical murder machines need to recharge between kills. Because we're on naughty list and Santa gets dibs. I don't fucking know, Mike. Just breathe before you go into shock.”

“Not going into shock,” Mike grumbles.

It sounds like a good plan, though. He sits there on the floor, wraps his arms around himself, and breathes.

A few hours later, Mike's calm enough to sit at the table and explain himself. Or try to, anyway. He's not sure what happened in the bathroom can actually be explained. Judging by Fritz's increasingly disturbed expression, his coworker agrees with him.

“I have absolutely no fucking idea how you survived that.”

Mike smiles weakly. “That makes two of us.”

“Either you're the luckiest man who ever lived or he decided you were just too pathetic to kill.” Fritz sighs. “Can't believe he talked to you again.”

“I wonder what carved him up like that,” Mike wonders aloud.

The question earns him a shrug. “They get like that sometimes. Just start bleeding sludge everywhere. No reason.”

“You've seen it before?” he asks.

“Couple times. It's usually Foxy, but I saw Freddy walking around with a busted hand once.”

“And you just... let him.”

“Yes,” Fritz says. “Because I, unlike you, have the sense not to poke a bleeding murder machine.”

Mike raises an eyebrow at him. “Really? Because I have my doubts.”

“I'm shocked. Shock and appalled. Why would you say something so defamatory.”

Defama-what? Mike opts to cover his confusion with a slightly nervous grin.

“You're still working here, aren't you?”

Fritz glares at him for a second, then sighs. “Point.”

There's nothing precisely awkward about the conversation, but there is an uncomfortable silence between sentences. Neither of them are willing to mention Scott. Everything they say is structured around his absence. It puts Mike on edge. So, when a soft beep echoes through the still air, it startles him more than it should. Like, a lot more. 'Knock-your-chair-over-and-leap-across-the-room' level more.

“Holy shit.” Fritz sounds awed. “How far was that?”

Mike grits his teeth and levers himself up into a sitting position. “Shut up.”

“I'm thinking at least ten feet.”

“Shut up,” he says, breathless, and begins taking stock of his injuries. Doesn't seem to be anything new, but his neck twinges whenever he moves it and his hand is screaming at him again. Also, he should probably change the bandages on his arm.

“Starting to see how you survived Bonnie getting his hands on you.”

He stands up, wincing. “I said, shut up.”

“Whatever.” Fritz smirks. Then he glances at his phone – of course it was his phone that beeped, how stupid can Mike get? – and his face goes blank. “Jeremy's coming.”

It takes a second for Mike to process. “Jeremy's coming?”

A brisk nod. Fritz leans back in his chair, thumbs flying across the screen.

“Looks like they finally finished the clean-up. He'll be by to help hash out the new schedule.”

A grimace works its way onto Mike's face. “He doesn't have to.”

“He does, actually,” Fritz says. “Company policy.”

That's annoying. Fine. Mike can do this. Besides, Scott... Scott asked them to work together. Get to know each other. And now that Mike's tried reaching out to a literal murder machine, he's officially run out of excuses to not reach out to his jittery coworker. He settles back into his seat and props his chin up with his hands. He's probably been holding this grudge too long, anyhow.

“When's he getting here?”

“Soon,” Fritz tells him. How informative. “Get ready for a safety lecture when he does.”

Mike laughs helplessly. “What safety?”

The other night guard pauses to think for a second. “Fire alarms?”

“Freddy's has fire alarms?”

“Yup,” Fritz says, popping the 'p' sound obnoxiously. “Near the supply closet in the west hall. You know, in case of regular emergencies.”

Mike eyes him suspiciously. “...do they work?”

“Fuck if I know. I look like the kind of guy who pulls fire alarms?”

No, Mike thinks, you look like the kind of guy who sets fires.

He doesn't say anything. Fritz seems content to sit with him in silence while they both wait for their missing coworker. It's just the three of them now. Feels odd to think about it, so Mike tilts his head down and traces the lines of plastic with his eyes instead.

Time flies when you're spacing out. It feels like it's been just seconds – a few minutes, max – when the sound of running footsteps comes echoing down the halls. Jeremy has the presence of mind to skid to a stop just outside the doorway. He still all but flies into the dining hall. When he lays eyes on the two of them, he looks like he might faint from relief.

“No running indoors,” Fritz deadpans without looking up from his phone.

“You said Mike had been cornered by a bloody Bonnie and you didn't know what to do about it!” Jeremy snapped. “I thought someone was going to die!”

That brings Fritz's eyes up. “I did not. I said he had been cornered and I didn't know why. Learn to text properly.”

“I can text just fine!” the blond retorts hotly, his words accompanied with some of the most impressive angry hand gestures Mike's seen. “Learn to use past tense to indicate past events!”

“It's not my fault you can't read.”

Ah, Mike thinks, settling down after the initial burst of loud noise-induced panic, Another familiar argument.

They must spend a lot of their time bickering, because they know this routine too well. He can all but see the pattern his coworkers are trying to settle into. He can also see the cracks in it. Fritz's eyes flicker and dart around the room, landing everywhere but on Jeremy's face. Mike suffers no such restraint. He catches a glimpse of red-rimmed green before Jeremy hunches down, hiding behind his snarled bangs. Looks like the last remaining night guard has taken the news badly as well. Mike lowers his eyes and clears his throat. Then, when that fails to break up the faux-argument, he does it again, louder.

“Knock it off,” he says when they finally look his way. “We have a schedule to work out, don't we? Let's... let's get that done instead of going for each other's throats. That's the androids' job.”

It's a weak joke, and in poor taste, but it gets an equally weak smile out of Jeremy. Mike's going to chalk that one up as a win. Fritz huffs, rolls his eyes, and tips his chair back enough to rest his boots on the table.

“Fine. Let's get this over with.”

The safety lecture doesn't happen. Either Jeremy is too flustered to remember about it or Fritz was teasing Mike. At any rate, arranging the schedule proves to be relatively simple, at least on Fritz and Jeremy's parts. Neither of them have a second job. They don't even seem to have lives outside of work. Literally any shift will do for them. Mike's situation is a bit trickier.

“Can't you just call in sick?” Jeremy whines, digging a hand into his unruly hair and tugging.

“No,” Mike says patiently. “If you call in sick every week, you get fired. Freddy Fazbear's is an exception.”

Fritz snorts. “You could write swearwords on the androids' backs in spraypaint and still not get fired from this place. I know, I've done it. But seriously, Mike, your schedule is insane. Either cut down on shifts or quit.”

Mike glares at him. “I'm not quitting. I've been working there for four years. It's my main source of income.”

“Then cut your hours. Take more part-time shifts.”

“I need money to live, Fritz.”

The brunet scoffs, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Ask Pam for a raise, then. She knows she's in deep shit without us. 'sides, she's always more generous after she's lost someone.”

The whole table goes quiet as they all avoid each other's gazes. It's still too soon.

“Maybe,” Mike says after a minute.

“Not maybe,” Fritz replies, his voice flatter than usual. “You need sleep to live, Mike. Try and keep this kind of schedule and you'll die.”

Mike lowers his head, staring bitterly at the tabletop. He wants to protest. Shove all his years of work in Fritz's indifferent face and scream for them to be acknowledged. But Fritz is objectively right.

“I could just quit this job,” he mutters rebelliously.

“You could,” Fritz agrees.

“Will you?” Jeremy asks with a cautious sort of optimism. It makes his face light up – not like the sun, but like a candle, at least. Mike feels bad bursting his bubble.

“No. I won't. I'll... I'll see about quitting the corner store.”

“Good,” Fritz says. “Their slushies were shit anyway.”

It's smoother after that. Soon enough, they have a new schedule. Weekdays alternate between 'Mike and Fritz' and 'Mike and Jeremy', weekends are 'Jeremy and Fritz' unless otherwise noted. If someone's sick, Fritz will take over; if Fritz is sick, Jeremy will stand in. Mike protests about being left out of the sick day rotation, so they agree to reschedule after he's got a month of experience under his belt. It's the furthest he's planned ahead in... longer than he'd like to admit. Feels good to have it laid out, though.

“All right,” Jeremy says finally. “I'll just... bring this to Pamela.” He sneaks Mike a worried look.

Mike is too tired to bite back the sigh building up in his chest. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” the blond says quickly. “I just... I know it's you and Fritz tonight, but would you mind if I stayed in the office? For moral support.”

“Moral support.”

“It helps,” Jeremy says quickly. “When someone disappears. Being alone in the office, after – that – can be unpleasant.”

Mike remembers the irrational dread that drove him from the dining hall earlier and shivers. 'Unpleasant' sounds like sugar-coating it.

“Is there a second chair?” he asks.

“Supply closet,” Fritz tells them, scratching at the back of his neck again. As soon as he touches the skin, he hisses and brings his hand back down. “Get it before your shift and things should be all right.”

“Then I guess there's no problem. Feel free to hammer any door buttons I miss.” This might work out, actually. “Do you have a phone? I forgot mine.”

Jeremy nods. The candle is back, and rapidly growing. It's at least a candelabra now.

“All right,” Fritz says. “Go run that down to Sanchez. I'll get your chair.”

Jeremy smiles almost giddily at them both and dashes off, papers in hand.

Fritz twists around to shout after him. “And no running in the halls!”

Ms. Sanchez approves their schedule, but she doesn't come back to the pizzeria. Mike resents her for it and he doesn't know why. It makes perfect sense, he reasons as he struggles with the buttons of a new dress shirt. She has every right to preserve her own life, health, and sanity. It just feels wrong to see her doing that while sending the three of them out to risk everything. This must be how foot soldiers feel about armchair generals.

He pulls the tie around his neck, arranges the cap on his head, and tries to look professional. No dice. Oh well. The only ones who'll see him are his coworkers, who don't care, and the androids, who think he'd look better in pieces. Mike steps out of the bathroom with his head held high, which is already a massive improvement on the last time he went near it.

11:30. Half an hour until his shift begins.

Jeremy's already in the little office, idly wheeling his chair back and forth. Fritz finally showed Mike where the other, larger office – the one with the vents – is, and gave him the rundown on the music box. It'll be in the big office tonight, but if it migrates, Mike will know what to do. He hasn't seen the Marionette yet. He's sure he will eventually, if he lives long enough.

Look at him, thinking like a veteran daredevil. It's hard to believe to believe this is only his third day of actual work. Fourth day, total. Doesn't feel like it. Even the creepy paintings in the hallway are starting to seem familiar. He walks down to the office in a state of bizarre relaxation, taking a weird sense of comfort in his surroundings.

He's still afraid, but he knows this place now. You'd think Scott's death would've changed that. Maybe it will, once the last dregs of shock wear off. Until then, Mike is going to milk this high for all it's worth.

“Hey,” he says as he ducks through the door. “You doing okay?”

Jeremy jerks his head up, then relaxes. “Yeah.”

Mike gestures to his usual desk buddies. “I hope these little guys have been keeping you company.”

The fan whirs obligingly. The cupcake remains still. It seems almost thoughtful in its silence.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, they've been good.”

Jeremy doesn't seem nearly as relaxed as Mike. He fidgets constantly, his gaze jumping from one doorway to the other. His phone is in his lap, switched off to save battery. It'll be switched on at midnight to give them a communication line with Fritz. Mike wonders what it'll be like talking to an actual person during his shift.

“Well,” he says, taking a seat in his usual chair. “I guess it's just a waiting game at this point.”

“Guess so,” Jeremy murmurs.

The clock ticks onward. 11:45. 11:50. 11:55. Midnight.

Time to get to work.

There was a tape for tonight, but the two of them silently agreed to leave it be. Right now, it won't help either of them to hear Scott's voice. Mike brings up the Monitor instead, flipping systematically through each screen.

Show Stage. Kitchen. Pirate's Cove. All clear. Everything is empty until he reaches the backroom. Like the last two nights, the door is open. But this time, it isn't Bonnie or Chica who steps out.

Mike hasn't seen Freddy all that often. When he has, it's been from a distance, the bear safely contained on his stage and utterly lost in his music. If Mike had to describe Freddy, he would probably have used the words 'spacey' and 'solid.' He would have been terribly wrong.

Bonnie and Chica glide soundlessly through the hall. Freddy storms down it, wreathed in his own crackling rage. He's huge. He's furious. His footsteps shake the ground. He stares down the security camera as he approaches, eyes searingly bright. They're blue, pale and hard as ice. The eyes of a monster.

Chica smiles on the hunt. Bonnie's expression is politely blank. Foxy cackles and sneers and glowers. All of them are preferable to the rage on Freddy's inhumanly perfect face. There's no trace of enjoyment or duty – just wrath. The screen dissolves into static when he gets too close, but not before Mike sees him reach out and drag his fingers across one wall. The tile splinters under his nails.

A sharp intake of breath next to him reminds Mike of Jeremy's presence. When he looks up, he finds his partner for the evening pressed right up beside him. As he watches, layers of anxiety are stripped away from Jeremy's face, leaving something cold and calculating in their wake.

“This isn't good,” the blond notes clinically.

“Yeah,” Mike whispers. “I figured.”