Author's Notes: Last Shift is based off FNAF6: Pizzeria Simulator, and that was arguably one of my favorite games next to FNAF2. I'm VERY excited to tell this story, and coincidently, wrap up some loose ends from Finding Freddy. Please enjoy the "most-likely-last-in-the-series" of the knight guard au. Just covering my bases, because I swear to god Scott. Killing me.

Obviously the previous 4 works are required to know most things mentioned in this story. However, Another Five Nights, the series of one shots, will fill in some blanks too. I'm particularly proud of Autobiography of a Foxy, in chapter 4.


"Welcome to the show, and like it or not
It's time to play a game…Let's play a game…"-Dawko & CG5


ACT I
Chapter 1. Like It or Not

It was a very small restaurant, and it had been closed down for years.

Despite this, and despite the cracked pavement and the unkempt shrubbery and the strange sour wind that blew sometimes, the little restaurant high upon the hill was aglow with lights more nights than it wasn't. It was late, deep fall, with winter creeping her brittle limbs round the corner, and it was downright chilly. The trees that crowded the exterior had not ventured much closer over the years, either due to their small size or lack of willingness—not much grew well where the dead roamed, after all. The forest's edge remained high and thin, more junk than substance. The neon sign was light up, and the 'S' in Freddy's had finally gone out, and could no longer muster even a flicker. But most of the sign was still decipherable, even from a distance. A half moon watched from the deep west in the dark night with slanted disinterest, but soon it would be gone, for there was a streak of orange in the east. Thing were, for all intense purposes, back to normal. Well, as normal as a place that was old and haunted as Freddy's could get, anyway.

Yes, the restaurant was closed. But the building was not.

The building, what made Freddy's, Freddy's was still in use, and in use it would stay until children stopped having birthday parties. As you know, all children must grow up (save for one of course, but he has gone to bed already, and taken his Toy with him) but then, there are new children coming along every day, which is something Freddy and his friends are always thankful for. And so there would be new birthday parties. And so Freddy and his friends would still be needed, at least for as long as they could function on the borrowed (stolen) parts from Circus Baby's Pizza World.

Mike Schmidt woke to the sound of his alarm, forcing open bleary blue and yellow eyes to squint tiredly at the number. 5-freaking-am. Bright and early. He smacked the off button and sighed, trying to stretch.

This was no easy feat, but then neither was sleeping under twenty-something feet of mechanical fox, who was a bed hog even when she tried very hard not to be. The night guard snorted to himself and tried to pull free a leg. Mixed results. He wriggled harder until he heard her whurr softly in response to his squirming.

"G'mornin, Ms Foxy." Mike cooed, chuckling when Mangle whined her displeasure at the hour and shoved both her heads under his now free pillow. He laughed, poking and prodding until the slender cage of metal parts above his comforter lifted and exposed him. He wasn't sure why Mangle liked sleeping atop him, other than maybe she just felt better resting with someone who was so much smaller than her, or that she knew Mike would look out for her, and so she felt safe. Her charger was most of Mike's nightstand, but she hadn't used it last night it seemed. He had fallen asleep alone if he recalled correctly, his current issue of Screws, Bolts and Hairpins across his chest as he snored at the ceiling. She had clearly snuck in during the night, tucked him in and then coiled over and around his frame and settled into drowsy patience. Eh, he didn't mind. Mangle was Retired, much like Foxy was when he wanted to be, and so Mike gave her the run of the joint, including his room. Besides, unless she was chasing mice, she was neat and well-behaved enough to be allowed such freedom.

He yawned, rolled over on the small mattress, forgetting where he was on the little twin and, with a too late snort of surprise, landed face down on the floor in a mess of his comforter and his limbs. He groaned, and coughed against the ice-cold tile and moaned as he heard the door open. Yeah, that thud probably was worrying…

"Oh, com'in—Ughh," Mike shoved himself up and leaned on a bony elbow, palm holding his face as he waited with a bitter look. The floor quivered to his left, and Mike glanced over to the doorway as a massive figure crossed over it, nearly blocking out the overhead that had been flicked on. Said figure stalked inside and navigated around the piles of papers and projects that was Mike's little mess of a room.

"Mornin' big guy." Mike yawned lazily, lying there on his stomach as he waited. Wouldn't make much sense to move—yep, up he went. His collar was gripped tight by a big brown paw and he was lifted up so he could curl his legs under his frame and stand. He tossed the comforter over Mangle more and smiled when she purred. Mangle liked dark places to hide.

"S'early, son." Freddy Fazbear accused, curiosity lacing his deep tenor. He dusted the young man off with a gentle paw and snorted when Mike shooed and tried to escape his fussing. What did it matter if his clothes were wrinkled?

That was why he was sleeping in the pizzeria in the first place, after all. It was closed down.

Well, mostly. Mike was still renting out the dining hall for some cash, and hauling the gang and the supplies to birthday parties at parent's homes or bowling alleys, and surprisingly that earned them quite a bit. Enough to keep coasting, anyway.

But the building itself—yeah. closed. Vacated. Thankfully not condemned, even if it was getting bigger by the day. Or so it felt like to Mike.

Or maybe Freddy and his friends were finally slowing down, and just not able to take care of it as well. Mike didn't like to think about that, and anyway, he could keep the lights on and the electricity powering his friends—his family—for a little while longer, couldn't he? He had to. He was their night guard.

Mike shot Freddy a sheepish grin.

"Got some errands today, Freddy. Nothing major, but I want an early start."

"Oh? Where ya runnin' off to, then, before even the birds have bothered to start their morning racket?" Fazbear demanded in his no-nonsense tone that warned Mike he smelled something he didn't like. Mike tried for innocent, which usually had mixed results when it came to his best friend, but, hey. Mike Schmidt was nothing if not clever. And stubborn.

"To be fair, I hear Bonnie playing Foreigner over in the arcade, that's kind of the same thing—"

On cue, there was a grumpy growl from a salty seadog, who was stalking down the hall toward Mike's repurposed bedroom.

"Turn that noise down, varmit!"Foxy shouted irritably in the direction of the arcade room.

"It's a classic man!" Bonnie whined back immediately, his voice more distant.

Mike laughed as Foxy came storming into the Prize Room—er, Mike's room. Bedroom.

"'Classics' me hook! Blasted bunny, playing that rock-crap," Foxy grumbled to himself, "A sea shanty be a classic, even Alex knew that, but no, we have'ta play that jarring malarkey before the damn sun is over the waves…"

"Good morning to you too, Captain." Mike saluted playfully, moving out of the fox's way, since he knew where the big old pirate was headed.

"Aye, lad." Foxy seemed to notice something off and his ears twitched upward even as he beelined for Mike's not-abandoned but still warm bed "Early fer you, ain't it boyo? ….budge up there, darlin', ye be much bigger than ole'Foxy."

For Foxy, Mangle roused brightly, chirping merrily when she saw her Captain. Mike had never found direct coding in either of them that linked Mangle to Foxy, but she adored him nevertheless. It was cute as hell, especially when Mike found them napping together. His bed was just one of their many napping spots when it was a lazy day for the restaurant.

"Why's everyone so suspicious?" Mike demanded, trying to hide his pout as he quickly grabbed a fresh shirt from a trunk by his bed and buttoned it up. He groped for his jeans and hummed when Freddy shoved them into his hands, tugging them over his boxers. Foxy, as he often did, clambered atop Mike's little twin mattress that was shoved in the back corner of the Prize Room, just under the window, and collapsed in a content heap among the blankets and pillow and Mangle. Foxy did this a lot, he said it felt good on his joints and sometimes it didn't matter if Mike was out of the bed or not. If he wasn't, then Mike tended to have a lie in and lay around, reading on his phone with one hand on Foxy's big muzzle as the tired animatronic dozed, most of his frame flopped over the skinny young guy. Mike was not just clever, but surprisingly sturdy. Which was good, since he tended to play and wrestle with things nearly three times his weight and certainly taller than even him.

"S'not like you matey, that's all." Foxy remarked with a yawn of big, wide jaws. Some of his back teeth had fallen out a year ago, but that didn't seem to bother the old pirate. "And you know us. We Fazes are used to routine, and we don't like when it's broken. Could mean trouble on the horizon."

"There's nothing wrong, Foxy, I promise." Mike tossed a spare blanket over the lazy fox and smiled when he was given a growl of approval and warmth. He turned to Freddy, about to ask if Freddy had seen his boots when they were held before him.

Mike's sheepish grin blossomed and Freddy only snorted, eyeing him with that sharp, critical stare he had.

"Come get breakfast with me, big guy?" Mike offered a proverbial olive branch as he laced his boots, and was relieved when those illuminated glass eyes softened a hair, and Freddy nodded.

Freddy, of course, didn't eat, but that wasn't the point. It was the point that whatever Mike Schmidt got himself into, he often did it with Freddy Fazbear these days. And Mike wouldn't have it any other way.

LINEBREAK

For nearly ten years now, Mike had worked here. In that time, he'd seen enough oddities to know the supernatural was real, and often brutal and violent and terrifying. Things-that-went-bump-in-the-night were occasionally bad, but humanity was sometimes the real monster. True, Mike had met plenty of people that were good and bad. And grey-area, too. Plenty of villains and good guys and monsters and do-goods. He had some friends outside the Fazes but almost nothing left in the way of family, blood-family that is. Just a mother in a nursing home due to her Alzheimer's, a shitty studio apartment because most of his money went to said nursing home, and a father who'd walked out on them when Mike was six. Maybe he had died by now, it was hard to know. Mike's poor genes would suggest that, certainly. Mike's mother didn't remember, and she wasn't talking anytime soon. A good day was a day she remembered Mike, in fact. A bad day was one where she thought he was his father and got so upset the staff would ask him to leave, but with sad, pitying glances. A worse day was one he wasn't allowed to see her at all, and those scared him the most.

Mike wasn't big on pity for himself. He didn't need it. It wouldn't change anything. Others had it worse than him, didn't they? He had his humor and his smarts, and his dreams.

It wasn't his mom's fault, anyway. In some way, it wasn't his old man's fault either. Mike hadn't been a normal kid. Sure, he'd been friendly, and smart. He took apart their washing machine at age nine and had it back together with the minor change that the door flew open randomly and spewed water everywhere.

But Mike had been small. And he had been so sick. For a dad who wanted a kid to run around with, to play ball or to simply behave like other kids, well. That wasn't in the cards, and so it didn't happen. Not once. And hospitals and sick kids that weren't supposed to live past five but blew out seven candles through his coughing weren't cheap. Mike was no exception. One day he woke up in the clinical hospital room, and only his mother was there, relieved to see him awake after his surgery, as well as a stuffed bear with a pink heart that said 'Get Well Soon!' which Mike thought was funny since he was one of the terminal kids. He had groggily questioned where his father was, and his mother had asked him to rest and regain his strength so they could go home soon.

And that was the end of that.

Mike used to joke to himself that there was a revolving door built for him at the hospital. Because joking was easier than the truth. It always had been.

And, funnily enough, the social school system was not all that kind and accepting of sickly, hospitalized kids who were in beds more than they were in their seats during class. Mike's brains kept him afloat, but they didn't let him be a kid, and as he got old enough to live on his own, his mother's own mental health began to decline. Sometimes it felt to Mike like she'd made a deal with a devil at the crossroads, her health in exchange for his. He was friendly enough he blended, yes, but Mike didn't feel like he truly belonged anywhere. That was hard, especially on a kid who was told over and over he wouldn't see his next birthday, and yet kept doing so. After all, Mike was stubborn.

And then college happened, somehow. A trust fund from his grandparents that dried up before the semesters did. Loans. Three jobs. No time for anything, least of all friends and no resources for his own medicine to help his ever-weakening and wobbly heart.

Then the ad in Freddy's. A risk. A gamble. A choice in a moment. If Mike knew how scary the job would have been those first five nights, in hindsight he probably would have skipped over that damn ad.

But he didn't. He tried it anyway, even though he was scared and lost and more at risk for a heart attack than the average kid his age. And that bravery—or perhaps stupidity, depending on who you ask—caught the eye of a certain puppet master and set a lot of dominoes falling into motion.

And the rest they might say is history.

Best of all? Mike had a family, now. One that didn't just need him for money, one that remembered him and would always remember him. Oh, he adored his mother and visited her twice a week, as often as he could honestly, but he knew one day he'd wake up and be an orphan.

Which was an odd thought. He was nearly 28, and that wasn't exactly orphan age.

But that's how it felt. And it scared him.

The only thing that scared him worse was the realization his family was getting on in years too. Freddy was rattling apart some nights, and the pieces to fix him were harder and harder to come by. Chica's dexterous, delicate joints like her wrists and fingers were locking up and starting to collect rust, and she was more expensive to fix than anyone save perhaps Bonnie, whose limp and processors were so bad he couldn't play his guitar for more than four songs. Foxy, of course, was the most physically damaged of them all, since he had had a teenager stuffed into him—Alex Afton to be more specific—and not a smaller child like the other three. Foxy's lazy days were more frequent than his active ones, and he could only work every two or three party for every seven they booked.

The moment Mike realized what was happening, he sold his apartment and moved into the restaurant, almost overnight. It had everything he needed, really. He took Mari's Prize Room for his bedroom, which had a window overlooking the back parking lot (all it needed was some new glass) and was somewhat cozy on cool nights, especially when Freddy joined him and kept the room heated with his massive inner workings. The bathrooms were fine for almost everything, and Mike had even spent eighty or so bucks at the hardware store throwing up a showerhead in the back stall complete with floor drain. It wasn't perfect, but he kept the kitchen stocked for birthday parties and for himself, buying what he could to keep Chica happy so she could cook for him when she felt like it—which she always did, even if he tried telling her once that, yes, he could in fact make his own toast or coffee, and that she didn't need to be his personal chef.

But just like their kid, the Fazes were a stubborn lot. Chica almost never let him make food for himself; she only gave him a grocery list every once a week or so, or let him help with dishes or cleaning her kitchen in exchange for food. (Which was a fair trade in Mike's mind, he'd scrub the floors with a tooth brush for Chica's cooking,) and Foxy and Bonnie worked when they could, or fixed up the few remaining arcade games to sell as vintage for a couple hundred when needed. Freddy cleaned, as he always did, even if he took twice as long to do so or had to cut down on rooms due to his power levels. Mostly, he looked after Mike, who was often getting into something he shouldn't and who, despite his disagreements, did need someone sensible keeping an eye on him.

More than once Mike found his bed made and he had to gently remind Freddy he didn't need a mom, just a best friend. But Mike appreciated them looking after him nonetheless. Mike had been used to living alone in a shady part of town, but now? No one approached the old restaurant on the hill after dark, and even if they did, no one was getting past Bon's sharp ears or Freddy's protective ire when it came to looking out for his pizzeria or their night guard.

Not that Mike blamed wary humans; even with the Nightmares gone, the place still looked spooky even in the best evening light. He did most of their business during day time, over the phone, booking places and moving money. He had less to worry about after the staff left; though he tried making sure all of them had jobs or places to go when he did so.

"You alright son? Ya look bout a million miles away." Freddy's deep, bell-like voice broke the night guard from his thoughts and for a second, he stared over the mug of his coffee at the bear sitting across from him at one of the few remaining tables they hadn't stacked up to the side or sold.

"Huh? Oh, yeah—no, I'm good Freddy." Mike swallowed a gulp and tried to look convincing. "Just, old ghosts."

"Mh-hm." Freddy didn't buy it, but Mike decided now was a good a time as any to poke the bear. He'd hoped it could have waited, but if he didn't hit the road soon he'd lose most of the day.

"I did actually need to tell you something."Mike said.

"Oh?" Freddy hummed.

"Do you…ever think about moving? To another town? Or state…?" Mike hedged, not looking up from his eggs and bacon. He'd never know how she did it, but Chica's cooking was always soul-healing and delicious.

"A new town, eh?" Freddy lapsed into thoughtful silence. "New restaurant."

"New kids. But…kids are everywhere. Our past isn't. Freddy's history—there's places where we could just be us, and start fresh."

Freddy nodded, slowly. He didn't look happy, but he also hadn't halted the conversation.

"I dunno, it's just…this place, big guy." Mike's gaze slid across the sad Dining Hall. It was dusty. The stage was ruined when Springtrap had to get the keys Mike had hidden. The curtains were moth eaten. Fresh air was only a guest some days, when Mike forgot to air the old joint out.

"Not happy here with us, son?"

"What!?" Mike startled, blinking. "No! No, it's not that, Fred, jeez—I'm happy here! But it's complicated. Ever since Pizza World, when I saw all the new chrome and the tech there…I guess I've been jealous." Mike caught Faz's stare, and snorted. "Well, not of it being underground, no, but of all the space and room they had. I love this place too, but ya gotta admit we were cramped even before…"

"Place has a lotta memories, don't it?" Freddy mused, watching Mike's two-toned eyes glance toward Parts and Services, whose letters had fallen of long ago. Now it was called Arts and Vices, much to the humor of Mike.

"Maybe that's it. Maybe I just wanna find us a new home, somewhere we can set down roots without worrying about finding a body under it. Again." Mike grumbled sourly, and Freddy snorted in understanding.

"Well. It's something to consider." Freddy finally said.

Mike perked up, dragging his fork out of his mouth, chewing and swallowing before he said, "Yeah? You mean it?"

Freddy nodded.

"I said it before, an' I'll say it again. I followed you in, an' I'll follow you out. Just gotta lead the way, son."

That was a lot of responsibility, but somehow it was exactly what Mike needed to hear.


For Mike Schmidt, night guard, manager and handyman for Freddy Fazbear's Party Rental, the day passed in relative ease. He finished his errands, didn't have to contend with snow on the road, and came in from the cold to the intoxicating aroma of Chica's beef stew with rolls. He devoured three bowls and four rolls, head bobbing to Bonnie's music—the rabbit was on an oldies kick, as Aerosmith crowed through the little restaurant while he ate dinner and leafed through Screws, Bolts and Hairpins, scribbling in his notebook as he mumbled the words to Sweet Emotion. Then it was helping Chica with dishes whether she liked it or not—she loved it, but she often scolded him for doing her job, even if he smiled and grabbed a towel anyway— then it was fixing Foxy's jaw and hook, and tightening some of Mangle's more stubborn parts that she had strained terrorizing the few mice that tried to live in Fazbear's.

He was organizing his sad little work bench in the old Prize Room when it happened.

He ignored it the first time, thinking it only a trick of his mind. Then it happened again, the insistent shrill ring of the land line down the hall, all the way in his office, buried somewhere on his desk.

"Weird." Mike mumbled, standing up from the epicenter of destruction he called organizing and scrambling over boxes and bits and ends. As he walked under the threshold, something whined up on the ceiling and clambered after him nosily, taking reproach at having to move when the massive thing had just settled down and gotten comfy. Mangle moved with less grace than even Mike did, which was saying something.

"I know," Mike said soothingly to the ceiling as he strode along the dark hall to his old office. "That old landline never rings anymore…who still has our number?"

His little tag-along, all eighteen and a half feet of her, clicked her plastic teeth together in inquisitive agreement. She coiled her long jammed together parts carefully, dangling off the ceiling and 'hssking' when she 'spoke' down at him.

"Better stay out there, sweetie." Mike asked the fox amalgamation nicely, smiling at her lowering triangle ears. "You know you and phones don't get along much. It's alright. I won't be long."

As Mangle loitered up above him in the hall, her parts dangling and clinking, Mike jumped the last distance to snag the receiver off the hook just before the final ring.

"Uh, hello?" Mike said.

"Hello? Yes?" The connection was still poor quality, even with Mangle out of range. Static roared like Freddy before dying down with minor flicks and spits.

"Yeah? Is—is someone there?" Mike remembered his manners and cleared his throat. "If you'd like to schedule a birthday party for your kid, you might wanna call my cell. It will be easier to hear you and—"

"Eh? No—no I'm not calling for—birthday parties? Hello? Is this…is this the night guard at Freddy's?" The voice sounded like it knew it was. Odd. On instinct, Mike hesitated.

"Speaking." He answered.

"Good. Now, ah, Rich told me to tell you myself—something about—who was it? The bear? Freddy? Not liking him. Heh." Poor contained laughter that caught Mike off guard. "Old Rich never did like those fellas—is Freddy your favorite, then?"

"I'm…sorry?" Mike managed, polite from confusion more than any real attempt to be.

"He must be—if you're his favorite. Alright—here's the skinny, Schmidt. We're opening a new one. And I want you to come over and take a look at it. That sound good?"

"I'm sorry, I don't—a new—hello? Who is this?"

"Henry. This is Henry—surely Drummond's told you about me? No? Feh—well, whaddya want from an accountant?" The man said the word as if account was synonymous with 'rodent.' Mike wasn't about to disagree, but something still seemed…odd. And Mike Schmidt had held on to many of his extra lives by trusting his gut.

"Henry-? Uh, I know Mr. Drummond but he's never said anything about you."

"Oh, he didn't, did he? No surprise. Well—I own the company, Schmidt. What's left of it. I used to work with Afton. I made allll your little friends over there—the older ones, anyway. I assume you've kept them in tip-top shape? Freddy? Bonnie? Can't forget about him. Every Freddy needs a Bonnie. And then there's Chica…and Foxy the pirate, right?"

Mike nodded, then realized he was talking on a phone and quickly, blurted, "Yes! I mean—yes. I, the restaurant went under but I…I take them to kid's parties. They, they love it."

"I bet they do." The warmth in Henry's voice was brief but palpable. Mike's grip on the phone tightened, the plastic cracking in warning as Golden Freddy roused in Mike's bones.

"I know what happened last month, Mike." Henry's warmth was gone, and Mike stayed silent from shame and confusion. How had…? "And I'm going to give you the chance to fix what happened, too. Provided you do what I want in exchange of course."

"…come to the new location, right?" Mike hesitated. "You just want me to make sure it's safe?"

"Smart boy." Henry praised. "You can even bring the others, how's that? If there's room for them in the show, I'll pay you triple your normal rate. After all, we need you here quick. Got to have everything ready for Saturday. Got to have em all here."

"Why me?"

"Why you?' Well—why not! You're the night guard—the best one we've got, sounds like!"

'The only one you've got.' Mike kept that grim thought to himself.

"Saturday, you said…?" Mike managed. "What's Saturday? The grand opening?"

"I've had Drummond send you the address. Shouldn't take you more than a day of travel." Henry spoke on, as if he hadn't heard Schmidt or was ignoring him. "See you then, Michael."

The line went dead.

"…huh." Was all Mike said after a long minute of staring at the phone in his hand.

Mangle chattered above him somewhere.

"Oh—sorry, coming girl."

But the strange conversation followed Mike from his old office and back into his second workshop. He stepped into the room, staring at his latest project on the floor and counter top. Old prizes and toys stared down at him from their dust covered shelves. Mike glanced at the very old and very faded Present box sitting behind the counter and sighed wearily. He walked closer to it, then round the counter and settled back against the formica. His hand patted the dusty purple bow. It crinkled sadly under his light touch and he withdrew his hand.

Mike stared at the faded drawings of the puppet on the wall, and chewed his cheek in thought.

"Weird, isn't it Marion? That guy sounded familiar, almost. But the connection was so shitty, almost like Mangle's interference. But…well, I think that was just me being paranoid. Everyone on that line sounds like they're talkin' through a static snow storm, yanno?"

The drawings and the Present Box did not reply. They never did. So Mike spoke on, rambling out loud as he often did these days, because it helped him replace the silence in the old, dark building.

"Eh…I should be grateful, though. That's…a lotta money for just a walkthrough of a new restaurant. And the gang would flip to meet new kids and be on a stage again, even for just a week. Man, a real stage—with new connectors and better speakers! Can you imagine? Bonnie would give his left ear to play for a big crowd again." Mike sighed and fiddled with the end of the fraying silk bow.

"…I know, I know. You'd tell me to go for it…especially if it means I can keep the lights on here a bit longer. You'd say, 'one open mind,' or something that would make sense later after I thought about it." Mike rolled his blue eyes thoughtfully and smiled wanly at the memory.

Birthday parties didn't quite pay the bills all the time, after all. Especially not the electricity the original four sucked up.

The Mangle finally wandered in after him, chirping and clicking in her strange little language. Mike tore himself from his thoughts and addressed the Toy Foxy model with affection.

"Can you go get your Captain, sweetie? I…I think we need to call a staff meeting."

Like she always did when Foxy was mentioned, Mangle cooed happily and quickly obliged. Her centipede like frame looped backward. She curled upside down across the ceiling, vanishing down the hall. Mike picked his train of thought back up, running hand through his messy hair in mild frustration. He glanced back over his shoulder to address the Present box.

"I dunno, Mari. The gang is gunna be for this, I know that. But…how come I don't feel excited?"

Maybe, Mike thought to himself in a very Puppet-like tone, it was because he had finally grown wiser over the years.

Maybe.


Locking up the old restaurant was easier than it would have been when they were an open establishment. Mangle was given explicit instructions to watch the building, opening the door only for Danny and Bonnet, who were asked to come once every few days to check on Mangle and make sure nothing was odd. Maybe it was too much security on Mike's part, but he believed in being prepared for any avenue.

And, if nothing else, it calmed Freddy Fazbear himself, who worried after his beloved restaurant like the papa bear he was. And if Freddy was content, then Mike was too.

The old van had hauled the original four and Mike across the state, leaving Hurricane and the gray clouds and eventually the sunset far behind.

"Fazbear Entertainment." Mike read the sign out loud, throwing on the break as he peered through the dark of the night. He cranked the radio down so he could himself think over Hendrix, ignoring the protests of a certain purple bunny in the back and craned himself around, arm thrown over the passenger's seat.

"Now, listen you four. I want you guys on your best behavior. This isn't like Fazbear's Fright, and it isn't like Circus Baby's Pizza World. Drummond confirmed Henry's story—this is a human, this is the CEO of our butts, age aside. Until I get a read on the situation, you guys are to stay on the stage during the day, and act exactly as you're expected to act."

"Ye mean we gotta be lifeless, preprogrammed layabouts, lad?" Foxy griped, snapping his sharp jaw to broadcast his dislike of this plan.

"When there are other people in the building, yes." Mike stressed. "If it's just us, and there's no camera…"

"Even if there is," Bonnie grinned, "You could just erase em~ You're the night guard after all, the tape sees all and you see the tape!"

"C'mon Mikey, let us have a little fun." Chica purred. "I wanna see the kitchen, and I bet you're starving."

He was. Mike had driven past the last two Exits once he noticed the sun going down. His off hours meant he was more of a night owl than most, and he liked it that way. Less people about to question and remember. They had arrived just after twilight; the sleepy little town was pitch black and everything was closed save for a single, leaning gas station they had passed four miles ago. Fazbear's Entertainment was nestled up into the outer skirts of nowhere, roughly in the central location of: 'What do you mean we're lost!?'

It was a familiar placement, one Mike recognized. He wondered idly if that was by design.

"Later. I promise." Mike's assertion ended the discussion, because those two words were sacred and rarely used. Mike never broke his promises.

So Schmidt parked, killed the engine and hopped out. He wasn't surprised to hear the loud, clanking sound of an animatronic moving out of the van, and he turned as Fazbear rounded the flank of their ride.

"You were pretty quiet just then, big guy. And this doesn't look like waiting for me to get a read on the situation." Mike observed in a soft voice. The only light they had was the little street lamps that surrounded the small parking lot. Another building that looked like a little warehouse was around behind Fazbear's Entertainment, creating a little alley that was pitch black from the angle Mike could see.

"Lot ta'take in, is all. And I'd feel better if I was with ya. Sides. S'after midnight. My free roam is Active." Freddy's low tenor muttered down to him, earning a little nod from Mike.

"Big place. Real done up, too." Freddy observed in his country way.

Fazbear Entertainment was nice. New-nice, with shiny windows, and likely unused doors with silent hinges. If the inside was as clean as the outside, Mike knew the gang would be unwilling to leave such a promising atmosphere. He couldn't blame them.

Mike turned back to the blue-glass optics trained on him, and the night guard studied his best friend's expression. He knew, once Freddy was on stage or if children were around, the bear's features would turn robotic. He would mimic lifelessness while keeping himself very much aware of his surroundings.

Mike savored the natural features of Freddy for a moment, and then smiled lazily.

"Whatever is in there, we'll be okay. C'mon, Freddy." Mike decided not to give another lecture on the importance of playing it cool, trusting the big old bear to have heard him the first time.

Freddy pushed the wide door open for his night guard, leaning his girth back to let Mike venture in first.

Before he could stop himself, the night guard whistled in appreciation, stopping to take it all in.

It wasn't just new, it was huge. The main room was the entire Dining Hall, customers walked right in and would be hit with all the loud, bright and fun sights and sounds an active Freddy's would offer in its running hours. The stage alone was twice the size of Freddy's Pizzeria, with sparkling ruby curtains. Nine long tables boasted a huge capacity, maybe even double their limit from back in the day. Strange but colorful arcade machines circled the tables on both sides—children could play almost all of the games and still see the stage.

The stage was empty, but Mike eyed the LEDs and stage lights with no small amount of envy, for they looked brand new just like everything else in the joint. Still, he'd better give them a once over in technician mode. Foxy was the most sensitive of the gang when it came to his tired optics, and Mike especially didn't want to worry about a little kid with a risk of seizures when the show was going full tilt.

The room was empty, but there were stainless steel doors leading to what Mike presumed was a kitchen, and four more doors that lead to…somewhere. There were no signs labeling the doors, and Mike's curiosity was on them immediately. A big room with lots of avenues for escape? In Freddy's history, this was not usually a good thing. It was more like a curse, and possible way for some very familiar and very terrible events.

Filing that criticism away for later, Mike went back to scanning the room, eyeing the big play area with its heavy-duty build and the slide that wound down into a little pit of brightly colored plastic balls.

"Hey, they got a ball pit!" Mike pointed out, grinning when Freddy snorted in amusement at his comment. "What? I never got to go in those as a kid, remember?"

"Jump on in, then." Freddy grunted, gesturing with a paw as big as Mike's head.

"Funny." Mike went to elbow the bear in his stomach when he noticed Freddy's sudden intense stare across the room, and on instinct Mike followed his gaze.

"Ahh, you must be Mr. Schmidt. And with my Freddy, too."

Had the man heard? Upon second glance, Mike's doubts eased slowly. The man was…old. Ancient, if Mike was going to be honest. And he was across the entire spacious area. His grizzled hand gripped a black and white striped cane, but the rest of him was grey and plain looking. Worn, but neat and tidy clothes. His shoulders, once wide and strong were hunched, but his eyes glittered. There was a strange betrayal to them, for Mike could see no glasses or cataracts.

"Hi." Mike found his voice after a cough, walking over so the man didn't have to labor across the huge room.

"You're-?"

"Henry. Call me Henry." The man's free hand moved for Mike's and he returned the gesture. "Good grip there. Clever hands. Can always tell a person by their hands. You work well with machines?"

"Yeah—I mean, uh, yes, sir." Mike paused, "…do my hands tell you that too, or…?"

"No. That there does." The man's accent was faded, but it was faintly southern. Mike realized this with a startled blink, and turned to look at the bear that was forever his shadow, who even now was looming over him like always. Of course Freddy had followed him across the room, but the fact he had done so silently was telling. Either Freddy's acting was getting bad, or he was on guard and uneasy about something.

Henry's voice broke Mike's thoughts.

"Been taking care of my little friends, have you? Looks alright, for his age." Henry swept a critical, sharp gaze over the old bear, from his top hat to his flat feet.

"You built…Freddy?" Mike said, and the old man nodded.

"Freddy Fazbear. Now, he's always been a tough one. Took me the longest to program, save for one other. Wanted someone to be the leader, like Goldy was. Someone big, but warm. Real gentleman, to set a good example for the children…" Henry's voice grew distant, laced across with a clouded memory. As Mike stepped to the side, he watched Henry and Freddy stare at each other evenly. Fazbear's expression was carefully blank, not a hint of the strange, surreal lifelikeness to him that Mike loved and relied on.

Henry didn't seem to notice.

Mike lapsed into silence, feeling his posture loosen, like he should move away further. He felt…like he was interrupting a very intimate, if strange, moment. Before he noticed it was bothering him, it had wormed its way deep into his chest, like a knot of snakes. Henry rambled on, settled lazily on his cane.

"The top hat was my daughter's idea. Said it gave him class, and smarts. She said if Freddy was going to be a gentleman then he ought to look the part—of course, the bow too. And Bonnie, well, he needed a bow, because he was Freddy's best friend, and he liked to copy the bear. But he wouldn't want a hat, of course, on account of his ears." Henry jabbed a finger to his own crown and nodded knowingly. "Get in the way of 'em, and Bonnie's are very particular about their ears."

That was true, of course. All of it. Mike had just never realized that there was someone out here besides Afton who was left who gave a damn. But he had seen the character in the gang for ten years, and it was startling to see someone else speak about the gang the way Mike would to others who didn't know their secrets. To speak so openly and matter-of-factly.

"Someone to be pals with. Yes, that was Freddy. Brave, and big, like a bear out to be. But kind, mind you, and warm—did I say that already? Freddy's the sort who Remembers. Even if you grew up, why, you'd return, and no matter how many years it'd been, no matter how old or tall or different ya were, he'd be there to welcome ya back. With a big bear hug and a big bear smile, and those years would just melt away."

Freddy stayed silent, suddenly more animatronic, more machine, than anything else, but his eyelids lowered subtly, his intense stare softening. After a long beat, where something passed between creator and creation, only then did Freddy's glass eyes click to his right, now watching Mike quietly.

"…sir?" Mike took the cue, still watching the old man, whose gaze looked to be about a lifetime away. Mike knew that look. Freddy wore it often on long nights.

Henry jerked his head a bit, smoothed his hair back and turned to the night guard.

"Henry. None of this 'sir' nonsense now, Mike." The man assured smoothly with a calm smile, and Mike hated himself for his previous surge of jealousy. "Why don't we get your little friends installed on stage, and then call it a night, eh? Tour can come tomorrow."

Mike saw his chance.

"If it's alright, Henry, I'd like the chance to stay here over night."

"Over night?" Henry parroted in disbelief, and eyed the scrawny man with a new glint in his eye.

"Well, if I'm to…to play night guard, and really do my job correctly, I need to see this place at all hours. Running and closed. It just…it makes me feel better. Freddy's never sleeps—at least, ours didn't." Mike felt a puncture of pride jab at his jealousy, as he reminded Henry of their own restaurant, lost to time though it was. Besides, the business—Freddy and the gang included—were still running. Mike would take all the minor accomplishments he could get, because this job wasn't easy.

Henry regarded him a moment, then nodded.

"I suppose you're on to something, my boy. We're opening Saturday, but I want your official sign off when it comes to every inch of this place. Guess that does mean off-hours, eh? That's not all—I want you to help me set up the new animatronics, and I need you to help me find some old ones for parts. Think you can manage all that, and work here nights? Not gunna drop on me, are you?" Henry demanded, sounding so much like a stern father Mike had to stifle a smile.

"I'm pretty tough, I'm told." Mike affirmed with a secret smile to Freddy, who was wandering after Mike as the two humans headed for the van.

"I see." Henry nodded in thought, and seemed to mull Mike's words over a great deal as he moved toward the front doors.

"Alright, then, Mike Schmidt. I'll give you the keys. List of duties is in your office."

"Okay." Mike waited, and when the old man stayed silent, he prompted, "Where is my office?"

"You bring Freddy's Bonnie model?" Henry demanded, seemingly off the cuff. "The original, not the Toy one. I'm sure by now you've learned they're not interchangeable."

"…uh, yeah! Of course, but—"

"Then you'll find it just fine. If you're as good with the rest of em as you are with my Freddy here, then I expect you to be capable of working relatively independently, Mike. I have a right laundry list of tasks to get through myself, and while I don't mind a question or two, I'm afraid I can't hand hold or chat, though I'd love nothing more." Henry's playful, calm tone seemed to tighten, and Mike noticed right away. Huh.

Mike nodded, still unused to someone knowing the full extent of the gang's capabilities. 'And yet…he doesn't seem to expect them to be…Alive. Haunted, I mean. Isn't that weird, Marion?' Mike puzzled to himself.

The Puppet, of course, did not answer. But Golden Freddy, who still haunted Mike's bones, thrummed in single-note, sleepy agreement.

'Odd, indeed.' Rumbled the ghostly animatronic.


Unsurprisingly, Henry was less than pleased with Foxy's state. Even less unsurprising was his complete and total lack of acknowledging why Foxy was the way he was. Typical FazCo behavior, as far as the slightly embittered Mike was concerned, but he hid his own displeasure best he could. A good first impression was important, especially if he wanted roaming rights at night for himself and the gang. He couldn't see them staying locked to their stages for six long nights. Chica liked being busy at night in her kitchen, Bonnie and Foxy were always playing games and getting into something they shouldn't, and Freddy went wherever Mike went.

But Foxy wasn't even placed on the stage with the others, even though there was ample room for him on Bonnie's right, and a whole other stage port to hold the old pirate up. And without a Pirate's Cove in the large, rectangle of a main hall, the old fox was simply placed in the corner by one of the doors. Mike caught the old man watching Foxy's still form once or twice. He even caught a sad, somber shake of Henry's head before he turned to adjust Chica's bib just so.

Mike had moved Foxy last, who was off the dolly and standing in his locked stage-pose. Things had been going well, but the second he saw that furious orange optic illuminate and click toward Henry, the night guard lunged in front of that turning head.

"Take it easy, Captain." Mike hushed under his breath, sensing the slow start of an angry hiss from the back of the old fox's pipes. The night guard stood, checked out of the corner of his eye the old man wasn't watching, and ran his hand comfortingly up and down Foxy's muzzle to force the ragged pirate to watch him back, "Stay calm. I'll talk to him."

He was given a low, warning glare from the mean fox that steadily softened, especially when Mike only quirked a brow coaxingly, keeping up his gentle strokes from muzzle bridge to tip of the fox's black polished nose.

"Promise." Mike added. And with a slow grunt of resignation, Mike felt that crocodile-wide jaw relax closed obediently. In reward Mike freed a screw driver from the back pocket of his jeans and quickly tightened the screws that would keep Foxy able to work his bottom jaw. So long as he didn't use it to take a bit out of anyone, they'd be golden.

"Thanks." He whispered in relief before moving over in case Henry needed help down the stage steps at the far end, though he seemed to move alright, even given the cane.

As Henry eased his way down the steps, he caught the curtain, which shifted. Mike caught the white edge and a purple bow and his heart clenched hard enough to make him gasp.

"What?" Henry heard him, even as behind him Freddy's head whipped down to Mike. The other three's optics were alight on the night guard with interest.

"You have—" Forgetting himself, Mike tugged the curtain up and stopped.

The bow was the wrong shade, and it was dark red, not purple. And the box was too short too.

"Mike?" Henry asked in concern, and he followed the young man's gaze. "Oh, the Security Puppet? That poor girl's never worked right, but if you want to have a go at getting her up and running, by all means, be my guest."

"Security Puppet?" Mike parroted in disbelief. "But there was only one Puppet—"

"There was only one Prize Puppet." Henry corrected as he hobbled himself easily down the stairs and collapsed in a nearby chair, against a table. Cane between his legs and hands laid over the other, he saw Mike's look and chuckled.

"Go on! Bring her out, bring her out." His grizzled hand swept welcomingly." I can see the look on your face, boy. You like the Puppet models, too? Rare, you are. The adults never like the Puppets—and I can assure you, I think the feeling became mutual rather quickly. Prize Puppet especially, since he always seemed to be thinking, and could go anywhere."

Mike swallowed, but nodded. It seemed everything Marion used to be able to do that unnerved Adults only made Mike feel more at ease. No one messed with the Puppet, not Adult or Animatronic alike. Well, no that is, except Nightmare…

Mike eyed the box but bent down to collect it gently.

"Did Drummond tell you about…?"

"About what happened to the original Prize Puppet? Oh, yes. Right shame. But then, I can't believe it was still running at all by your time. That little fellow was old as the other two."

"As…as old as Goldy and SpringBonnie, right?" Mike hedged as he backed out of the small backstage, arms full of a present box that was a bit smaller than Marion's. It was heavier, cluing Mike into whatever was in the box was very real, and not very ghostly, and probably was as Henry said. Broken and normal.

Henry's silence to Mike's question was answer enough.

"Be careful about speaking about old ghosts, young man." Henry leaned close to Mike as the man set down the present box. "Y'know what they say about names? Man's not gone til his names no longer spoken.'"

"I… haven't heard that one." Mike acquiesced as he fiddled with the box's shiny, crinkly bow.

"Well, best you remember it, then. Speak the dead's names too frequently and they're liable to start poking outta their graves, and come looking for you."

"What is Security Puppet supposed to do?" Mike decided to divert the conversation so the hairs on the back of his neck stopped standing up. Henry was sitting sideways but could see the stage, and a quick glance confirmed what Mike assumed—the gang was silent and deactivated. Or at least, playing the part.

As he asked this, he lifted the lid of the box, the bow rustling in such a familiar tone Mike's heartache doubled. He peered into the box, studying the little bent up figure with a frown. She was small, and fully stretched out would have been half the size of Marion. She had more stripes, too, and more buttons. Marion had been fast when he wanted to—teleporting aside—but if she was smaller and presumably lighter, she'd be even faster. She was black and white, but had a little jester's bell and her mask was varied from the one Mike remembered. Her face was hard plastic, unlike Mari's chilly porcelain, and her paint was fresh yet some of her joints looked rusted. There was no way of knowing her optic color—behind her naturally split in half mask, her black little optics were dark and inactive. When he reached in and hefted her out, her thin limbs flopped loosely and her bell tinkled, the noise almost meek.

"Well, frankly, even when she was online we could never quite get her kinks out. Perhaps it was too adventurous of me, but I thought at the time that I could bring a certain…level of safety that the restaurants needed at the time. Adults paid a fee, and they borrowed a colored band for their children. One band, one child. There's still some in there, I think."

"These?"

"That's them. See, there were a few colors." Henry watched Mike pick up a blue one. "Color meant priority, reds being the highest and blue being mild. You might rent a red band for a youngster who was prone to wander, but a teenager who'd stick to one booth all day and grumble, well, he'd only need a blue one."

"Huh. Okay. So, a kid wears a band," Mike clasped the band to his wrist, just under his watch. He taped the button a few time, and surprisingly it light up. "Then what?"

"That's it. Only time something happens—er, something that was supposed to happen—was if the child wearing the band tried leaving the restaurant, or going out of bounds, say, in the kitchen or the offices."

"Or Parts and Service." Mike realized with a tone of marvel and awe. This little animatronic in his grip could have prevented…so much. Even just one…

"Exactly." Henry's face was stony, and serious. "She'd go fetch them. And she was programmed to stop at nothing to do so."

"Why is she rusty?" 'Where had she come from? The original diner?'The first question was aimed at Henry, but the second at the ghost in his bones.

'Don't remember her.' Admitted Gold after he took a drowsy peek through Mike's eyes.

"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid. Her tech is advanced, and with advancement comes weakness. She's very prone to water damage, and somehow, someway…she got wet. " Henry shook his head regretfully. "I haven't had time to work on her."

"Does she still power on?"

Henry shrugged. "If her battery isn't busted, she'll need to be charged regardless. Her box is her charging station. There's a few spares lying around—far as I'm concerned, if it's not powering something, you can use it on her. You're welcome to try, Mike."

"…alright. Thank you, Henry." Mike glanced at the man before he settled the crumpled little puppet back into her box. "I mean it, thank you."

"Be careful, though. No, I don't mean that she's dangerous—but she's much more advanced than your friends. I don't need a fried night guard on my hands before the doors even open, you hear me?"

"Understood, sir—uh, Henry." Mike smiled as the man rose and headed for the door, clearly intending on taking his leave.

"And remember," Henry rounded sharply on Mike, moving much too fast for a man of his advanced age. Mike startled back into Freddy on instinct, but Henry was only holding a finger playfully in front of the man's face.

"You get up to anything you shouldn't," Henry said with a grin, "and Freddy will tell me."

Mike swallowed but nodded, staying silent. He felt strange, not because he worried about Freddy tattling on him, but because that implied there was something here to get into.

If Mike wanted to do his job the way the Marionette had told him to all those years ago, he would have to find what that was.

And with the Grand Opening on Saturday, he would only have one week to uncover it all.


And we're off~ It's nice to get running with Mike and the gang again, although Mike himself might want a minute for rebuttal. I'm thinking of updating once every two weeks, so I'll see on December 18th, dear reader~

You can find my rough designs for Michael and Scrap on my tumblr under this tag, as well as the teaser posters for Last Shift ;) BC FFN doesn't link, a search of: charlieslowartsies + tumblr should point you in the right direction. Tag for everything is FNAF !