Chapter Text
Michael used to hate walking his brother to school every day; now the black hole left by his absence was sickening. Several times during his routine stroll, he lost his capacity to walk, nausea devouring him as he would collapse to the gravel road. He considered hiding in the woods, as if that would cure all of his woes.
Somehow, he stumbled all the way to school. Normally this would be when he would tease Cassidy with some stupid joke, or sometimes hype him up to gain the confidence to try and talk to some of his classmates, but a silent entry to school felt as though his insides were being ripped out.
Once he pushed through the glass doors, it was almost like a movie the way the hall abruptly hushed, dozens of students now rubbernecking at him. What else would he have expected? Since the last time he’d attended school, he’d killed critically injured his own brother in front of an entire crowd, had four children disappear mysteriously from his family's restaurant and his uncle released from jail after being ruled not guilty for the crime, leaving the perpetrator a mystery – he was practically the local cryptic at this point, and with how small the town was, everyone knew.
Michael gritted his teeth and marched ahead, his gaze fixed on the ground, the silence surrounding him thick as molasses. There was the occasional whisper, but he was so intent on walking like a normal person that he was unable to discern anything. He reached his locker via muscle memory, astounded that he could recall the combination to his lock.
“Heeeyyyy, there he is,” A nervous Jeremy approached, timidly patting his shoulder as he leaned against the lockers to face him, “How you doing?”
“If you talk to me like that again, I'm gonna punch you.” Michael growled while rummaging through the dusty articles of his locker. Mouth making a popping noise, Jeremy held his palms out towards him.
“Wow – okay, got it. Well, it's good to see you back. It's been sh*t here without you,” Jeremy confided, “Frank and Crystal have decided we no longer exist, I haven't talked to either of em since…you know.”
Michael flinched, his jawline sharpening and his nails clawing against a notebook. As Jeremy jumped, his eyes widened with panic, blurting, “sh*t, I'm sorry man, I shouldn't have brought it up–”
“It's fine.” Michael snapped while slamming his locker. Running his fingers through his hair, he took a deep breath before side-eyeing him. “What are they saying about me?”
Jeremy hesitated, averting his attention to his hands as he anxiously wrung them before stating, “I don't really know, to be honest, but you've definitely been a hot topic.”
“Don't bullsh*t me. Tell me the truth, dude.” Michael pressed. Despite his pathetic efforts, his friend was an atrocious liar.
Jeremy massaged his nape as he admitted, “Well, almost everyone knows what actually happened at the party thanks to the court trial – plus Frank and Crystal – and right now it's a hot debate over who did the sh*t at Freddy's.”
“The missing children?” Michael asked. Of course Frank and Crystal would've told everyone – he's not quite sure what he would've expected. At least he wasn't the closest to either of them, but felt some sympathy for Jeremy considering Crystal was his first girlfriend.
“Yeah. It's mostly between your uncle and your dad. Since your dad’s basically the face of the brand – besides the bear – most people think it's your uncle.” Jeremy explained with a nod. Arching an eyebrow, Michael squinted at him.
“Mostly?”
Jeremy's lips pressed to a tight line as he searched over his shoulder, now soothing his neck, “Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Well, there's a stupid rumor going around, probably started by some asshole, but,” Jeremy apprehensively started while his lips rolled over his teeth, “There's a rumor going around that you did it.”
Michael stiffened, the books within his grasp slipping to the floor as his hands numbed. Almost immediately, Jeremy dived down to retrieve them, as if in an attempt to reconcile the statement, “I'm sorry dude, I shouldn't have said anything.”
“It's fine.” Michael bluntly replied as he crouched down to stop him from frantically collecting the books.
“It's stupid, not many people believe it. I don't even know why people are saying it – you can't even fit in the suits,” Jeremy rambled as he handed a notebook to his friend, “Well, they might not know that, but anyone with a fraction of a brain can put two and two together.”
“Who do you think did it?” Michael quietly questioned once he’d gathered all his belongings, now staring at them. Jeremy didn't respond at first, his shoulders tensing as he bit his lip.
“I…I don't know.” Jeremy mumbled while scratching his elbow. Brows furrowing, Michael fired a furious glare at him.
“Answer the question, Jeremy.” Michael demanded. Grimacing, his friend diverts his focus to the right.
“Okay fine, gun to my head? I think it was your dad.” Jeremy confessed. As his gaze flared, Michael shot up to his feet and fled down the hall. Jeremy stood while calling out, “Mike, come on! You asked me!”
Jeremy was right – Michael did ask him to answer truthfully, but that didn't prevent him from despising the answer, as it only spread the cracks of his fragile belief even further. His friend was virtually the only one in the world outside of his family who had the slightest clue as to what kind of person was beneath the charming mask his father wore for public eyes; if anything, the words hurt so severely due to just how much Michael valued Jeremy’s opinion on the subject.
The day never improved. Nearly at every moment, there was at least one pair of eyes sizing him up and down, or whispers tailing him like campfire smoke wherever he walked. It wasn't until his last class before lunch that someone eventually spoke up enough for him to eavesdrop.
“What do you think happened to them?” A girl asked obnoxiously to a group of friends, giggling as though they were discussing the latest rom-com to hit theaters.
“Do you think they're like, haunting the place now?” Another girl added.
“We don't know if they're dead yet, Barbara.” The first girl responded.
“What if the reason they haven't found the bodies is because they're in the pizza!” A boy, obviously not within their circle, chimed in, howling as he did so. The girls all dramatically gasped, offended at the barbaric suggestion.
Michael’s features drew taut, the faces of the children from the photo flashing before his mind. They were his brother's age, with their whole lives ahead of them, yet were robbed of everything and made a mockery by the insensitive students. Even now, the photo of Spring Bonnie guiding the Susie girl haunted him – that would be the last her family ever sees of her. What happened to them? You would think with it being his own family's restaurant, he would have some sort of idea, but he was utterly clueless.
“You know, I bet he knows,” The boy who spit the cruel joke announced, slapping his friends’ arms to turn their attention to Michael, “Hey, Afton kid, did they put them in the pizza or not?”
Temples throbbing, Michael shot a dagger-like glare to the group as he stabbed his pencil into the wooden surface of his desk, snapping it in half with the tension. The boys belted hoots and hollers as they shoved each other.
“Whoa, somebody's moody!” The boy shouted.
“Don't mess with him dude, I heard he killed his own brother.” Another boy jokingly urged in a hushed tone. Gaze honing, Michael dipped his head, hand constricting around the splintered pencil as he pondered just how much trouble he would get in if he were to barge over to the boy and plunge it into his neck.
“I thought the dude’s brother got taken with the rest of those kids?” Another boy added.
“Dude, I heard from a guy who talked to Oliver, and he said they think it's some kind of cover up so like, he doesn't go to jail for murder, or something.”
“That's enough, boys.” The teacher lectured from her desk, only half engaged as she was nose deep in a novel. The group continued to snicker undoubtedly revolting comments to each other, often sneaking not-so-subtle glimpses at Michael.
As soon as the bell rang, Michael snatched his bag and sped out of the room, tearing down the hall as swiftly as he possibly could. While contemplating if he should hide in the bathroom during lunch, an unknown force jerked his shirt collar from behind and slammed him against the lockers.
Michael wasn't permitted much time to process before a fist hammered against his cheek, knocking him to the side until a firm hand clutched his shirt to prevent him from falling. Groggily, he blinks, hand on the searing wound as his sight unblurred and now registering his assaulter, the ringing in his ears subsiding.
It was a blonde boy, one Michael had seen before as they were in the same grade, but didn't really know his name – for some reason he wanted to say Oliver – who was beet red in the face with steam spewing from his ears. Though he dressed preppy with a green crew neck sweater and white collar shirt beneath, that attitude certainly didn't match his expression, as his blue eyes seethed with a wrath only worn by those who'd endured unfathomable amounts of grief. The boy seemed abnormally familiar though, but Michael couldn't quite put a finger on it.
“You bastard. Where the f*ck is my sister?” Oliver spat, heaving Michael closer only to bash his head against the metal lockers. Feebly latching onto the blonde's wrist, Michael squinched at him, struggling to figure out just why he was so upset with him.
Then, it clicked.
He'd seen him at the trial.
“You're Susie's brother, aren't you?” Michael whispered, more of a statement than a question, as he's fairly positive he's put the pieces together by the similar features. Bloodshot eyes blazing, Oliver strikes him again – this time to his nose – and allows him to crumble to the ground.
“Don't you dare say her name!” Oliver bellowed, delivering a vehement kick to Michael's abdomen. A debilitated groan hissed from his gritted teeth and Michael shriveled around the sharp soreness in his gut, the wind forced out of his lungs. He probably could’ve attempted to fight back, but restrained due to a single thought: why would he? Unfortunately, Michael understood the feeling of rage towards the one who’d murdered your sibling all too well, and if he could be the outlet for this boy, so be it. He could accept that – he felt it was deserved. Oliver stomped his side, thankfully missing his ribs, though now there was a burning twinge in his kidney that he faintly yelped over. “You piece of sh*t! I hope you die!”
Michael could agree with him on that, at least.
“Hey, the f*ck is going on!” Jeremy shouted, bulldozing Oliver away from his condensed form. Coughing, Michael painstakingly lifts himself to his knees, his body recoiling around his abdomen as he does so. Jeremy and Oliver exchange pushes, Oliver preparing to throw a fist when his friend snatched his collar.
“It's fine, dude.” Michael croaked between hacks and pants. Wiping his runny nose, his hazy vision noticed blood now smeared on the back of his hand. Jeremy's grip on Oliver's shirt eases while he reluctantly peers at his friend.
“The hell do you mean?” Jeremy interrogated.
“I said it's fine.” Michael reiterated. Begrudgingly, Jeremy released his grasp, to which Oliver shoves him back one more time before turning to Michael. The blonde seizes his collar to force him to meet his boiling glower.
“This isn't over. Not until I get my sister back.” Oliver swore, flinging Michael back against the lockers with a thunderous clap amongst the silent hallway. With that, Oliver stormed off, leaving Michael propped up against the lockers, vacantly transfixed with the floor.
“You alright, man? The hell was that about?” Jeremy asked as he crouched down next to his friend and set a hand on his shoulder, brows narrowing his inquisitive look. Michael sniffled and rubbed the drop of blood trickling from his nose.
“Yeah. Don't worry about it.” Michael muttered, unmoving. Jeremy’s eyelids pulled together as he examined him bafflingly.
“So, Mr. Popular gives you a random beat down, and I'm supposed to just not worry about it? You lose your mind or something?” Jeremy criticized, “What was he saying about a sister?”
“Just forget it, okay? It's fine.”
“It's not fine, dude! And honestly, I'm getting kinda sick of you saying that about everything.” Jeremy argued. Eyes closed, Michael released an exhausted exhaled while resting his head against the icy locker.
“That guy, I don't remember his name but I think it's Oliver, or something. He's…I saw him at the trial. He's the brother of…of one of the kids that…” Michael trailed off.
“Oh.” Jeremy uttered, his features elongating.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, that doesn't mean he can just beat your ass up like that. You didn't have anything to do with it!” Jeremy protested. Reeling his legs into his chest, Michael set his elbow on his knee and clutched a fistful of hair, wincing as he did so; his organs felt like they had been stir fried.
“I'm the most readily available to direct his revenge at, I guess. It is my family, after all,” Michael mumbled, “I don't blame him.”
“It's still not fair, man.” Jeremy frowned.
“After what I've done, it's definitely fair.” Michael chuckled, his head hung as he swayed it.
“You didn't do that alone, dude.” Jeremy reminded him. As he held his head with his hand, Michael’s expression soured.
“You're not the one who killed their own brother.” Michael scoffed, eyelids sweeping tears away, unsure if they were from his battering or the swell of emotions now engulfing him. In that moment, he hadn't realized how he'd blatantly admitted the truth of Cassidy’s fate to Jeremy, and frankly, he didn't care enough right now.
“I…I know it's not the same, but…I really did care for Cass, you know? I've known him since he was born, man. I don't have any siblings – he was the closest thing to a little brother I'll ever get.” Jeremy lamented, his hands shuffling anxiously as he stared at them.
“You're right. It's not the same.” Michael spit bitterly after a few moments of silence, his forehead creased and Adam's apple pulsating. Though Jeremy cringed, he inhaled then rose to his feet.
“C'mon, we still have some time left for lunch.” Jeremy announced while offering a hand to him. Michael’s body and mind seemed to float above his head for a minute, possessed by the memory of Cassidy with eyes disengaged at his knees, not registering his friend's hand before him; he could almost hear his brother's disembodied screeches echoing down the halls calling his name. Noticing this, Jeremy waved lower, “Hey, Earth-to-Mike?”
Michael jolted with a gasp and gripped his thighs, a crunch wracking his body once more. As he observed the hand below his face, he squeezed the tears from his ducts and accepted the hand, his friend then hauling him to his feet. Michael doubled over, arms wrapped around his stomach, and Jeremy placed a hand on his back.
“You good, dude?” Jeremy asked, ducking slightly to meet his friend’s dangling head. Wordlessly, Michael responded with a strained nod, his face contorted tightly. Although Jeremy stared at him suspiciously, the two carried on towards the cafeteria.
Miraculously, Michael survived the day, thankfully forgetting most of it as he'd blanked out for the remainder after his brawl with Oliver. Due to his disoriented state, his legs subconsciously carried him where they always would, and his heart sank once he realized he stood beneath the tree that he met Cassidy at every day. As his eyes studied the markings of the bark, his jaw tightened and he swung a punch at the tree, releasing a grunt as he did so.
Panting against the tree, an accumulation of “oh my god”s and murmurs surrounded him, and he peeked over his shoulder to spot clusters of students observing him, muttering amongst themselves. Michael scowled, white knuckling the straps of his backpack before marching home.
His fathers car – his precious violet 1979 Ford Fairmont that he likely loved more than any family member within their home – was absent from their driveway, leaving only his mother's. Entering the front door, blabbering from the television stuffed the usual void, his mother camped in the chair and inattentively zoned out at the show. She didn't react at all to his arrival, so Michael crept past her towards the hallway.
She still hadn't uttered a single word to him since Cassidy’s party, and Michael ached for the sound of her voice to speak to him, even if she screamed at the top of her lungs. Although, he couldn't entirely blame her if she were to never speak to him again. He'd overheard her arguing with his father, but was unable to make out most of it. Likely, it had something to do with his father's relentless absence as of late; the man was nearly never home anymore, even more than he normally was.
Usually, Michael could expect an occasional run-in with him, now his father only returned home for a brief few hours in the most ungodly hours of the night, otherwise occupied at Freddy's or his study. Although, having seen his father's study, he couldn't fathom how the man could spend entire days there in dead silence. Michael never dared to investigate given how his last incident in that room unfolded.
As he dragged down the hall, his sister's door swung open, the toddler then flying out to race towards him. Elizabeth giggled as she threw herself around his calves and proclaimed, “Finally! I alone all. day.”
Sighing, Michael stepped back, sticking his leg out with his sister dangling off it as he groaned, “Not now, Liz.”
Elizabeth unenthusiastically released her hug and her hands flew to her back, her face puckered to the side as she shifted her weight between her feet – she was obviously hiding something.
“What?” Michael exasperatedly barked. Taking no consideration of his tone, her arms ascended towards her brother to reveal tiny hands grasping as many markers as they could possibly carry.
“Come draw with me! You draw so cool!” Elizabeth exclaimed with her eyes beaming with zeal before they narrowed, “Why your face look weird?”
Grimacing, Michael turned away and trudged to his room. “No.” He grumbled before slamming the door behind himself.
“Meanie!” Elizabeth dramatically huffed before stomping back to her room. Expelling a breath, Michael hurled his bag across the room, the all-too-familiar burrowing sensation taking over his torso. While he had no doubt his sister was enduring some serious Charlie withdrawals considering they’d spent so much time together recently, if only Elizabeth knew just how sh*t his day was. Besides, anytime he was around his sister, he only seemed to rub salt in the wound and worsen her mood. Keeping his distance was for the best.
His face crimsoned as he fixated on the golden bear plush on his bed. Fuming, he snatched the bear and launched it into the gap between his sliding closet doors, belting a modest curse. Hands shaking, he gravitated towards the carton of cigarettes within his backpack and lit one up.
He thought he could run; he was soon proven wrong. As he retreated to his windowsill and pivoted his head to the surrounding woodland, it was there. Again.
Fredbear now stood at the tree line, the edges enveloped by shadows as its silver eyes monitored Michael. Why was it standing now?Given the eyes remained hollow, there certainly wasn't an endoskeleton within it.
His face blanched, eyelids clenched together and he clutched his hair, violently thrashing his head.
Go away. Go away.
It's Me.
The sound was like a drum pounding against his skull.
GO AWAY.
It's Me.
As he warily peeked, Fredbear took a rigid step back, incrementally swallowed by shadows until its ghastly form disappeared. Michael inhaled sharply, folding the cigarette within his grasp as he bolted up.
He'd never seen the illusion move prior to this. Was he slipping further into madness? Was this Cassidy’s ghost tormenting him for his despicable actions?
Was this Cassidy trying to tell him something?
Not that he believed in ghosts, but Michael demanded answers; he snuffed out the cigarette and hurried off his bed, snatching his switchblade before fleeing his room. He slipped out the back door, briefly standing below the door frame with his mouth sealed to a tight line. Checking behind himself, he listened to the chattering of the television his mother watched, figuring she would hardly notice his departure, and Elizabeth was likely upset with him enough to ignore him for the time being. His attention was drawn back to the forest, where a pair of silver eyes lurked within the darkness, beckoning him.
Unsure if it was due to officially succumbing to utter insanity or his formidable desire to distance himself from what afflictive pieces remained of his broken home, he fled into the woods after the illusion.
Twigs and thorns shredded his skin as he persisted onward aimlessly. The illusion dissipated the moment he neared it, and now, he had no clue where to go; all he could do was trek forward.
He traversed the woods, the trees gradually becoming more familiar to him until he approached a clearing with the closed Fredbear's before him. Though now shut down, from what he'd heard, due to investors pressuring his father, Uncle Henry was now ejected from the business and decided to take over Fredbear's; supposedly soon to reopen it as some sort of smaller Freddy's, or even it's own thing depending on legality issues. He'd yet to speak with his uncle regarding his opinion on that considering he hadn't seen him since their conversation after the final day of the trial, which was several days ago.
It’d almost become akin to a divorce between his father and uncle, with Freddy Fazbear the child they needed to decide custody on. Michael wasn't aware of much, but based on his father's late night grumbles, there was a substantial conflict due to a majority of the animatronic's equipment and tools belonging to his uncle, as he was the main technician.
With Fredbear's vacant, Michael drew one conclusion: he would go to Freddy's to investigate. He needed to find out what happened to those children – maybe that's what the bear was trying to tell him.
Though the journey to Freddy's was considerably further, he managed it in decent time. He was surprised to find the parking lot lacking the substantial traffic it normally housed, but he couldn't be too shocked considering the latest tragedy. However, he did notice his father and uncle's cars parked as well, which his brows knitted at. What was his uncle doing here?
Stealthily, he prowled into the building, cautiously noting his surroundings to prevent a confrontation with his father. Upon his entry, a frigid chill seemed to grip his spine and goosebumps accentuated along his arms. His ears were immediately assaulted by the speakers blaring “Good For Your Soul” by Oingo Boingo, combined with buzzes and chimes of the surrounding arcade games, which he desperately wished to avoid for now with the bulging headache he already suffered from.
As he stepped forward, he spotted movement in the corner of his eye and he sluggishly peered towards a white box gift wrapped with a purple ribbon. He visually did a quick gloss over the area, second guessing his sanity as if he had hallucinated the movement, when a set of slender black fingers wrapped around the lid and inched it up. A white face with black eyes, rosy cheeks and a stretched, toothless smile peeked at him, prompting a gasp from the teen. The, well, thing (almost looking like a mime) seemed to stare at him, as though it were assessing Michael, then descended back into the box at a snail's pace. Well, that's new.
He's not certain where he's going, but he needs to thoroughly scavenge the place; the police had examined every crumb, but perhaps there was something they missed. Besides, the police didn't know this place anywhere near as well as Michael did. Perhaps he could find something, if not for the police, but at least for himself.
As he neared the dining area, giggling children devoured their disgustingly soggy pizzas, with Freddy, Chica and Bonnie on stage singing to the overhead music, their limbs robotically shifting through their programmed dances. He clung to the checkered walls, scanning the area to ensure neither of his relatives currently resided within it.
He took in a lungful and the hairs of his nose singed; there was a pungent, foul scent in the air. Not that he wasn't accustomed to repulsive scents – the place always reeked of pizza, urine, burnt rubber and throw up – but this smell was rotten. He couldn't quite place a finger on it, but reminded him of the moldy plates he would uncover underneath his bed after forgetting about them for weeks. Although, this odor was much, much worse.
Peering at Pirate's Cove, Foxy was in full force (for once), rigidly swinging its hook as it extravagantly told its tale of its latest pirate adventure to the gathering of children on the floor. As Michael found himself entranced by his favorite animatronic, Foxy’s motions abruptly ceased, its voice now glitchy as it repeated the line “A storm’s a-brewin!”, progressively becoming more guttural until it sounded downright demonic. Children screeched with fright, scattering further into the pizzeria as smoke wafted from the fox’s jaw. Of course.
“Not again!” His father griped from backstage, and Michael slipped behind the nearest table, espying his father's movement. The man barged out of the room, dressed in his typical button up, fingers combing through his hair as he distastefully inspected the Foxy animatronic. “Henry!”
Henry? Why was Uncle Henry here, and more importantly, why was his father calling for him? Michael hunkered lower when a kid smacking on his pizza nearby goggled at him.
“Why are you hiding, mister?” The boy asked while chewing.
“Shut up, okay?” Michael hissed, fearful his father would notice his presence.
“You're kinda mean.” The kid retorted. Chuckling, Michael thought, thanks, I get that a lot.
“What, William?” Uncle Henry spat as he paced into the dining room, a screwdriver in hand.
“The blasted Foxy animatronic is broken again. That's some handiwork of yours.” His father bickered, his arms crossed. With a livid glare, Uncle Henry loomed forward, pointing the tool at his brother threateningly.
“Need I remind you that the only reason I am here is because nearly all the equipment here is mine and I’m packing everything up; I could not care less about this bloody thing. You're on your own.” Uncle Henry spewed before spinning to storm off.
“Come on, Henry, how long are you going to act this childish?” His father mocked. As a response, Uncle Henry chucked the screwdriver at him, to which his father dodged, the tool clanked while ricocheting off the Foxy animatronic.
“Count your blessings that there are children around at this moment.” Uncle Henry bellowed before he retreated down the hall. His father scowled, pinching the bridge of his nose as his shoulders heaved with a hefty sigh. Furiously, he drew the purple curtains for Pirate’s Cove and returned backstage.
“Mike?” A faint voice appeared from behind and Michael jumped, frantically whirling his head over his shoulder to see Charlie standing, her pigtails swaying as her head tilted, “Why you hiding?”
“I'm, uh, playing hide and seek.” Michael licked his lips as he lied. The toddler lit up.
“Lizzie here?” She eagerly asked, head swiveling as she now surveyed the room.
Michael shook his head, “No, she's at home.”
“Then who you play with?” Charlie interrogated as she tapered her eyes on him. Michael evaded her stare, now scratching his neck with an index finger.
“You sure ask a lotta questions. Can't you like, go play or something?” Michael suggested, glancing around to ensure they were safe from prying ears.
“Why you acting weird?” Charlie pressed further with her hands on her hips. Sighing, Michael hung his head, shaking it for a moment before he brushed his bangs out of the way to face her.
“Okay, listen, just don't tell my father or your dad that I'm here, alright?” Michael explained. His cousin made a wry face.
“Why?”
“Because…reasons. And other stuff. Grown up stuff.” Michael hoped that would suffice for the nosy toddler. It didn't seem to, as the suspicious girl leaned closer, evidently attempting to read him, himself sweating under her intense scrutiny.
“Fine. But next time, bring Lizzie. She funner than you. Also, you not grown up.” Charlie chastised, her face softening before she skipped off. Shoulders sinking with a massive exhale of relief, he visually skimmed the room, then worked his way across the dining room.
Michael had one lead: the safe room. The only rooms they didn't have cameras set up with – considering how much of a cheapskate his father was – were the parts and service (where his uncle likely currently resided), back stage (where he knew his father was) and the safe room, which was an employees only backroom mostly used just for storage. He would start there.
As he approached the safe room next to the stage, the stench grew fouler, his nose now clamped shut by his fingers. What the hell was causing it? He began to wonder if a raccoon had died in a vent or something. Before entering the room, he cast a quick look over his shoulder, then pushed on the hefty metal door.
Door closed behind him, that scent significantly reduced, the room pitch dark until he flipped the switch and lights flickered to life. His pupils darted over the articles of the room, almost overstimulated by all the junk; it was a combination of decommissioned arcade games, assorted animatronics parts scattered on the numerous shelves, spare chairs and tables, as well as accumulated party decorations.
Michael meticulously rummaged through every shelf, basket and box, as well as checking around the arcade machines. Nothing. Teeth grinding with frustration, he huffed, hands subconsciously snatching the nearest box to hurl it. As the occupants dispersed across the floor, there was a faint bell ring, which his brows furrowed at.
Crouching down, he sorted through the items (mostly random party hats and cups) until he stumbled upon a collar. He retrieved it, reeling it closer for further examination, his head co*cked to the side once he realized it's a dog’s collar. Why would his father have this? It was certainly far too small to have ever been worn by their dog, Sparky. His nails scraped off stray specks of pink glitter as he reeled it closer to read the tag, noticing specks of blood embedded between the sparkles. Why was there blood on it – or, more importantly, whose blood was it?
Fluffy
(XXX)535-1900
When he flipped the tag, his nostrils and eyes dialed.
If lost, return to Susie Alexander
His fingers constricted around the collar as he swiftly shoved it to his chest. Even though he came here for the sole purpose of finding evidence, he'd secretly hoped otherwise.
Michael shoved the collar into his pocket and fled the room, cracking the door to check for his father before exiting. Immediately, the sour odor restored and he glanced around in hopes of finding some sort of source, his face puckered.
As he backed up towards the nearest hall, he collided into a soft object and stiffened, fearing it to be his father.
“Well, hello there, kiddo! Long time no see!” Guy exclaimed as he threw an arm around Michael's shoulders, the teen slouching under the weight. Michael unraveled from the embrace and spun to face him. “Whoa there, you sick? You definitely look under the weather, Mikey. You should probably head home and get some rest. Also, you uh, get in a fight, or something?”
“I thought you were out of town?” Michael asked, half his face curved upward, ignoring the man's comments about his current state – he probably could use the sleep though, if he could actually manage to acquire some, for once. He'd yet to inspect the purple bruises forming on his cheek and nose either.
“Just got back yesterday! Boy, did I come back to quite the show.” Guy laughed nervously – a common habit of his, as much as it is weirded Michael out at times. The teen did a swift scan of the pizzeria, then leaned closer to the man.
“Hey, has anything been strange around here since you got back?” Michael whispered. Guy avoided the teen's questioning gaze as his mouth formed a tight smile.
“Nope! Aside from, you know, everything's been just fine. Your dad and uncle certainly do argue a lot more now, though, haha.” Guy laughed again, then attempted to carry on down the hall. Arching an eyebrow, Michael seized his wrist and yanked him back, to which the man’s eyes expanded.
“Come on, Guy. There's obviously something you know. Also, what's up with the smell?” Michael pressed further. Guy scratched his neck as he struggled to evade the teen’s sight, then sighed.
“Well, the smell I have no idea, I've even brought it up to the bossman and he said he'd look into it, but it definitely hasn't gotten any better. Probably a dead rat, or something. But, uh…” Guy trailed off, his cheek hollowing as he glimpsed at the stage. The “bossman” was likely referring to Michael’s father.
“But, what?”
“I'm probably just making it up, or maybe I'm seeing things – I probably shouldn't even be telling you this – but…the animatronics,” Guy paused, his hand massaging his nape, “They've been a little, uh, quirky lately.”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked, his attention drawn to the animatronics, where he could've sworn that Freddy twisted his head to look directly at him. He shivered.
“I dunno. Again, maybe I'm crazy, but there's been times when, even when they're fully shut off, they'll still move,” Guy rambled, “I mean, it's probably just left over tension built up or something from them moving all day, or uh, maybe they were left in free roam and I didn't realize it, but…something about their eyes is different. Like, they're actually watching me.”
Michael’s face wrinkled as he skeptically side-eyed the man, “You hit your head or something? What are you talking about?”
“Again, I dunno. Maybe I have fully lost it, I know my family certainly thinks so, ha! But, I know I don't like being here alone at night with them anymore, the energy, it's just, uh, different. It always feels like I'm being watched,” Guy explained, then shifted his focus towards the front entrance, “Same thing with that puppet, I sure don't like that thing.”
“What is that thing, by the way?”
“Oh, you don't know? Henry just made it, it's supposed to be some kind of security system, I think. Keeps the kids from just walking out the building without an adult. He calls it the Security Puppet, it freaks me out though – it feels like it's always, uh…thinking. I sure hope he takes it with him when he eventually moves everything to Fredbear's.” Guy explained. Michael could agree with him on that, at least; that puppet certainly unnerved him.
“What's gonna happen now that Uncle Henry's gone?” Michael inquired further. Guy stroked his jaw stubble in contemplation.
“To be honest, kiddo – and don't go blabbing around about this, either, I'm only telling you this because you're, well, you – I have no idea. Sure, your dad's decent with the animatronics, but uh, his skill level is nowhere near that of Henry's. He'll probably need to hire some outside technicians,” Guy expressed, “Surprisingly, your dad's been the one trying to get Henry to stick around. Who knows why, considering everything, but your uncle's definitely against it. Plus, things are getting a lot slower around here, I uh, don't know how we're gonna be able to bounce back after something like this.”
“But also, your dad’s been talking a lot lately about some new idea. I'm not sure what it is, but it sounds like he wants to open a new location. Not sure how he's gonna pull that one off with the investors and without Henry, but it might not be a terrible idea to start something fresh to get away from all this uh, bad publicity lately. Sounds like he's wanting it to be under a new mascot and everything. Don't go telling anyone I told you that, though. Classified info.” Guy revealed.
“I won't. Thanks, Guy. Also…” Michael began, biting his lips as he hesitated for a moment, “Who do you think did it?”
“Did what?”
“Seriously? You know what I mean.” Michael hammered. Guy's head frantically rotated as he scouted the surroundings, then bent forward to the teen to maneuver him from the neighboring crowd of children.
“Come on, kid, you can't be just talking about that kinda stuff out in the open like that,” Guy said in a hushed tone, then took a deep breath before chanting in his corporate voice, “Remember, if anyone asks you, nothing was ever proven in a court of law. Fazbear denies any wrongdoings.”
“But–”
“Mike, you're the owner’s kid, you have a responsibility; your actions reflect directly on the brand.” Guy advised, uncharacteristically serious. Michael chewed on his inner cheek, his chin tucked into his neck as he sulked.
“Things are definitely, uh, weird around here lately, that's for sure. But, that can't stop us from bringing joy to all these kids!” Guy exclaimed, returning to his standard playful nature, with a pat to the teen's back, “I gotta get back to work, I'll see you around, kiddo!”
With that, Guy departed down the hall towards the main office. Michael was left standing, and though he’d come here in search of answers, it seemed he only acquired even more questions. Why was Susie's dog’s collar in the safe room with blood on it? Why did the restaurant smell so putrid? Why did his father want Uncle Henry to stay with Fazbear, despite everything? On top of that, why would his father want to open a new location now, of all times?
And, although Michael figured Guy had officially gone off the deep end, his comments about the animatronics lingered within him for an unknown reason. He couldn't pinpoint why, but he understood some of Guy’s words, as since he'd entered the pizzeria, an odd feeling had washed over him; it was an uneasiness, like something was constantly breathing down his neck and his legs felt significantly weighed down, almost as though he were walking through a river. He'd never been one to believe in the supernatural though, so he decided to chalk it up to nerves – it made sense considering how anxious he was to avoid his father – and Guy’s words simply indulged it for a moment. There was no such thing as ghosts, and besides, they still hadn't confirmed if the missing children were dead. If anything, the children could still be in this pizzeria, alive.
Michael vowed to find them; whether they be dead or alive, he had to figure out what happened to those children. It seemed to be his obligation at this point, and the only option for the sake of his own sanity. He needed to confirm just who had taken them and the reasons behind the disappearance, or he was going to lose his mind.
Plus, he couldn't deny, his curiosity was piqued with the animatronics, so that would be another thing for him to investigate as well. He decided he would return tomorrow after dark, once his father had returned home for the night, to more thoroughly search the place. Maybe then, that Fredbear animatronic would cease its relentless torment.
The next day, Michael was restless pondering his plans for once night fell. His mind was far too occupied to possibly pay attention to any lessons at school, constantly bouncing his leg and tapping his fingers on the desks, often receiving a reprimanding from the teachers about it. He didn't care, though – he had far more important things on his mind.
His father had a tendency to return home around 3 am, so he decided that on his arrival, Michael would sneak out back to Freddy's to snoop. If he played his cards right, his father would never know.
When the bell rang, signifying the day’s end, Michael rushed out of the building to prepare for his late night investigation. Before he could, a familiar face glared at him from behind one of the trees surrounding the school, as though he knew exactly where Michael walked home everyday.
Michael froze, his grip on his backpack tightening as he turned to Oliver. Accepting his fate, he dropped his backpack to the ground and braced for the boy to release some of his undeniably gnawing fury. He couldn't help but feel sympathy for Oliver – his sister was stolen from him by someone in his family, and obviously it emotionally ravaged him considering the shadows clinging beneath his dull eyes, shoulders shuddering with shallow breaths and his ghastly expression. If Michael could be a way for him to alleviate some of his agony, he would cooperate.
Thankfully, Michael got off the hook with a black eye and some harrowing kicks to his torso, leaving his stomach shriveling and strained. As he lay on his side curled into a ball, Oliver panted over him, his fists trembling.
“Why…why aren't you fighting back?” Oliver huffed, his face flushed with a perplexed frustration. Michael’s body eased some and he stared at his hands by his face, wincing as he drew in a shaky breath.
“I don't blame you. I'm…I'm sorry.” Michael revealed as his fingers dug between the blades of grass as a wave of pain from his gut washed through him. Exhaling gravely, Oliver plopped on the grass next to Michael’s crumpled form.
“You don't know anything about it, do you?” Oliver announced apathetically, seemingly mostly to himself. Features contorted tightly, Michael resistantly sits up to join him and shakes his head.
“I'm sorry, I don't. I wish I did.” Michael revealed, his hands gravitating to his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, but then retrieved the collar he’d found, having brought it purposely for Oliver, “I've been looking for her. This is all I've found so far, I'm sorry.”
Oliver's eyes broadened as he studied the pink dog collar dangling off Michael’s fingers. Delicately, he grasped it and cradled it closely.
“This was her dog's. The ankle-biter would never shut up, but she…she loved him more than anything–” Oliver's throat constricted around his words, cutting them off abruptly as he ducked his head, the collar now pressed against his chest, “It died in front of Freddy's. Hit by a car. She was devastated.”
“Do you know anything else about it? How long did the dog die before she…” Michael started, but didn't dare finish, given the blonde’s current state; his shoulders tense, body quivering and blue eyes rapidly fading to red.
“It was the day before.” Oliver rasped, now holding his head in his hands.
“I…I know it probably doesn't mean much, coming from me. But I promise I'm trying to find her. All of them.” Michael promised. The blonde sniffled intensely as he shot up, now fiercely wiping his eyes and nose and fixing his hair. After stilly gazing at the grass below them for a few moments, he squeezed the collar.
“Thanks.”
Once Michael arrived home, he stole a pack of frozen peas from the freezer to ice the sore throb in his eye, glancing at his zombified mother on the couch before retreating to his room, where he tiptoed in hopes that his sister wouldn't notice his arrival.
He was mistaken, though, having underestimated his sister's keen ears; perhaps it was a trait that ran in the family. Elizabeth brazenly shoved the door open, a toothy smile captivating half her face with an object clearly hidden behind her back.
“What, Liz?” Michael sighed, flinching when he pressed the frozen bag too firmly to his eye. Looking askance, Elizabeth's head tilted as she pointed at the bag of peas.
“Why you have that?” Elizabeth innocently inquired. As his tongue ran along his teeth, Michael bit his lip before gingerly lifting the bag to reveal his swollen black eye beneath. His sister gasped. “What happen?”
“You don't wanna know,” Michael assured with a head shake, “What do you want?”
“I'm bored.”
“That sucks. Now, go away.” Michael ridiculed, facing aside to set his bag on the ground and crouching to sort through, hoping to locate the carton of cigarettes within.
“Come on. I alone all day!” Elizabeth stubbornly cried with a stomp.
“Not my problem.”
“Please, Mike!” Elizabeth pleaded. Vexed, Michael cast his backpack backwards to twist his head to his sister, his jaw clenched.
“Leave me alone, you spoiled brat,” Michael hissed, “God, you're so annoying. I know you're unfamiliar with the word ‘no’, but it means to go. away.”
His sister stared at him with mouth unhinged from shock. Frowning, she tucked her head into her shoulders, the object hidden within her hands floating to the floor as she whispered, “I'm sorry…”
With that, Elizabeth dashed down the hall, leaving a piece of paper on the floor where she once stood. He grudgingly strode to the object and scooped it up to examine.
His heart dropped to the floor. It was a crude drawing of Cassidy, Elizabeth and himself, with the words “We Miss Casede” scribbled with a red marker. As his face pinched, he shrank within himself, his fingers wrinkling the drawing with it wobbling under the tension. The paper darkened as teardrops dripped onto it from his chin.
Maybe, in another life, Michael could've been a better brother to his siblings.
Once nightfall hit, Michael waited with baited breath for his father's entry. For hours he alternated between frantically pacing, chain-smoking and shredding papers out of his notebook. After his quarrel with his sister, he’d tenderly stored the drawing within his top dresser drawer for safe keeping, and dug the Fredbear plush out of the closet due to guilt eating him alive; the plush now on his bed, purposely placed within an arm's reach for when the burrowing in his chest became intolerable.
Just as expected, around 3 am, the front door slammed shut, the entire house shuddering in its wake. Michael's hands squeezed around the plush in his lap frightfully at the sound, but once settled, he gently set the plush on his bed and slithered to his door to eavesdrop.
His father commanded the air with his typical groans and grunts of displeasure, mumbling under his breath – something about Uncle Henry, most likely.
“One might think you're committing infidelity with your outstanding absence.” His mother seethed from the living room. Michael's heart melted at the honey-like voice.
“Oh please, like I'd have enough time to spare to do so. With Henry out of the company, I'm doing all the repairs on my own.” His father scoffed.
“Is the business all you care about, William? What about your wife and children? The ones you've abandoned here in a tomb of grief to fend for ourselves?”
“Have you forgotten that the business is precisely what provides for this family? It is because of that son of yours that we are in this position in the first place!”
“Our son may have done something irredeemably despicable, but your actions are not far off. How can you just abandon us like this?”
Michael's chest cramped at her statement and his nails burrowed into his palm.
“Everything I've done has been for this family! You know exactly why I'm doing this–”
“Stop it with that madness, William! Stop trying to play God! Cassidy is gone, he's never going to come back!” His mother screeched, her pitch raw and fraying. Michael’s eyes bulged from their sockets.
“You're far too narrow minded. I know it's possible. I am going to put everything back to the way it was – you will see.” His father declared, his rigid footsteps nearing his study.
What did his father mean by that? What the hell was going on?
“Your business is failing and you've already lost a son, do you want to lose the rest of your family as well? You will be left with nothing.” His mother threatened. His father's steps halted, and though the door prevented Michael from witnessing the scene, the thickness in the air was telling enough of his father's irate expression.
“Do not make threats you will never be able to follow through with, Clara. You would be nothing without me, just some pathetic ballet dancer whose looks would've expired long before you ever achieved a single ounce of fame.” His father sneered.
“You unimaginable bastard.”
“Your unimaginable bastard, darling. Remember, through sickness and through health, until death do us part.” His father bantered, then the door to his study slammed shut. The newfound silence was occupied by his mother's muffled sobs echoing throughout the halls.
Though still processing the conversation he'd just overheard, Michael knew he had to take this opportunity for his escape. He gathered his backpack, now emptied and replaced with a flashlight, cigarettes (just in case), lighter, a spare notebook with a pen and his switchblade, then eased his door open to prevent it from squealing. He cautiously closed the door, twisting the handle until set in place, then visually searched around to ensure the coast was clear.
As he crept down the corridor, he cringed slightly from his mother's weeps that inhabited the incredibly sullen air. Reaching the back door, he slothfully unlocked it then proceeded outside, heedful to any noises that could possibly reveal his ploy. Michael pivoted towards the woods to see it again. Of course.
Fredbear stood surrounded by shrubbery, concealed by shadows with only its head and chest unveiled, its silver eyes enticing him to follow.
It's Me.
Michael decided to listen this time and chased after the illusion. As he retreated into the woods, he was thankful the moon was nearly full tonight, permitting him ample light to navigate the wilderness without needing his flashlight. The pale glow reflected onto the greenery, the crooked branches reaching out to him like sharp talons from the darkness and the hooting of owls floated above him.
Every time he neared Fredbear, it would vanish, only to emerge further in the distance, like a mirage of water on a road during a scorching summer day. It definitely wanted Michael to follow it. His shirt and jeans snagged on brambles but he pursued the bear without falter; not that he was the kind of boy to care if his clothes suffered additional holes – if anything, it would only serve to enhance them.
Once he reached the clearing where Fredbear's Diner resided, he arched an eyebrow at the bear on the opposite side, staring at him emotionlessly and slack-jawed. So, the bear wasn't leading him to the restaurant? Where was it taking him? Michael decided he would ask questions later and bolted after it.
Though his side ached with his lungs stabbing thousands of blades into it, he continued to sprint, his palms sliced by sharp sticks as he shoved any foliage out of the way.
Eventually, he arrived at an unfamiliar field abnormally absent of any grass. Michael leaned against a tree to catch his breath, eyeing the bear that ominously stood in the middle of the clearing. Though the moon certainly should have reflected against the metal plates of the animatronic, it remained strangely dim, its silver eyes mirroring a slight rim of light around the sockets of its mask.
Michael hastened towards it, only for the apparition to (yet again) dissolve the moment he neared it. Below his feet sat a mound of dirt. The teen’s head swiveled in all directions to see where Fredbear would lead him to next, but the illusion had abandoned him. This couldn't be it.
He belted an acute cackle, contemplating how he'd completely perished to total lunacy; he'd chased after a spectre of a bear for an unknown amount of time and ended up at a pile of dirt in the middle of the woods during the dead of night.
As he crouched down with forehead in his palms to contemplate his life choices, he noticed something odd below. His fingers sifted through the pile of the dirt to find they slipped through it like sand, while the neighboring area was compacted tightly. This mound was freshly dug.
Though he still questioned his sanity, he knelt to the ground and began to dig, scooping the soil out with his hands – it wasn't like he had a shovel or anything. He excavated through the earth for what felt like eternity until a sharp pinch tumbled through his arm from his nails. Under the moonlight, he noticed a gray surface within the hole. Wildly, he scrapes around the edges until a rectangular shape emerges, and with a laborious heave, he hauled it free.
The box was roughly the size of a carry-on luggage and heavy, it had to be at least around 50 lbs, nearly completely slate gray except for 2 tawny trim pieces wrapped around it embellished with silver studs. On the front were two bronze locks that Michael inspected, but they were sealed shut. He skimmed the surface then turned it onto its other side. The moon illuminated the text scribed on it.
Property of Fredbear's Family Diner
Michael stiffened, the box slipping from his grasp as his brows lifted. As his fingers pressed against his lips, a number of questions flooded through him; What was this box doing here? Just who had buried it? Why did Fredbear lead him here? And, most importantly:
What the hell was inside this box?
At least he had one lead as to where to find these answers – Fredbear's Diner. Freddy's would have to wait, for now.
