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FNAF

5:00 PM
Vincent clicked his tongue, mostly out of distaste than anything else, as he leaned back against the prize box. The Marionette had recovered from his zapped state and hung over the edge of the box, rubbing his head with grumbled complaints. After the stunning declaration Mike had made telling Foxy to kill him, hell broke out in the studio.
Foxy refused the demand, of course; the two were best friends and Foxy was also programmed not to harm people, same as all the animatronics. Mike flipped out, flying from anguish to rage in an instant as he leaped up at the fox, screaming unintelligibly. The others reacted, Scott rushing forward with Boss to grab Mike and hold him back. The man had grabbed fistfuls of Foxy's fur between punches and ripped them free when he was finally pulled off. Vincent winced at the enraged screaming, hands covering his ears protectively and rendering further clicks useless.
There was something about Golden Freddy mentioned, and then more scuffling sounds. He lowered his hands to grab his cane, ready to move in case the fighting got close to his area. A strange smell wafted in the air past him, along with a strangely electric feeling that made his skin crawl. Vincent tensed, gripping his cane tightly, and jumped slightly when a hand came to rest against his back.
"It's me," a soft voice told him. Ah, Goldie, Freddy's special events episodes counterpart. Vincent relaxed; while he was good friends with Freddy, it was Goldie that developed an oddly protective streak towards him. It was strangely comforting to hear 'It's me' off script.
The screaming began to fade, muffled now, until the struggling ceased and only murmurs remained. "Panther put him to sleep. His hands are bleeding, likely cracked a few knuckles. They'll probably ask you to do a deep search," Goldie reported in his calm manner, as though merely observing an act on a stage and just recounting parts of the scene that were plot relevant. Vincent nodded, frowning thoughtfully.
"Vincent, come. We need you to examine Mike's hands after the medic tends to them." Panther's voice drew close and Vincent found himself with his heart racing, ready to fight or flee. Why? What was triggering this response?
Goldie snorted lightly and Vincent reached out, groping air a few times before his fingers found plush fur covering sturdy metal. He petted it a bit for comfort before nodding. Scott took his hand -he knew it was him because Scott tangled their fingers together with nearly indecent fondling that never failed to make his ears burn from a surge of emotions- and tugged him along. He had overlooked him, in a manner of speaking, too focused on his sudden adverse reaction to Panther's presence to register Scott approaching.
He examined Mike's hands some time later, listening to Jeremy outside the med station babbling in a panic to Foxy and Chirp. They were the closest to Mike, emotionally, so this turn of events shook them badly.
Fingertips traced lightly over knuckles and down wrapped fingers. Imperfections and varying thickness in bone and joints told him a story. Many punches against materials meant to shatter bone but only cracked or dislocated these; bone that did break set hastily and healed quickly enough to leave only slight changes of density; calluses and chipped nails from gripping various items and digging fingertips into materials that didn't give. Further proof this Mike was not the actor the others believed him to be.
"Such beautiful hands the pretty bird has. I never truly noticed until he attacked Foxy," Panther murmured quietly, and Vincent froze in alarm. His skin crawled again and he carefully set Mike's hand down, listening to his subdued breathing to calm himself. "Such wanton violence. If only you could have seen it. Heheh."
"Mike is safe. You can leave." Vincent growled out between his teeth, baring them in a grimace as he narrowed his eyes, subconsciously taking on the expressions of his killer role.
"Fine, fine. I'm going. ...Interesting how you react, however." And now the voice was too close for comfort. "You default to The Killer's look for strength. It's a good look on you. Heheheh."
By the time Vincent could lash out with his cane, the bodyguard's presence was gone, his heart was pounding, and he had grabbed onto Mike's arm to assure himself the man was still there. Like part of him feared he wouldn't be....
That brought him to now, leaning against the box as the director asked him how Mike was doing. He wanted to demand Panther's termination of employment, but he'd been hired for Mike's protection and did a good job of it so oddities were allowed to slide. "He's sleeping now. Mike's still in shock from whatever took place, so it'll be some time before he can perform for the cameras," he replied carefully. Maybe he could buy time to figure out what to do by stalling the show's filming for a few days.
"Shock?! The laddie begged me to kill him! Why would he ask for that?! What be so despairing that it would drive me first mate to seek Davy Jones' locker on land?!" Foxy cried, wounded expression on his face.
"It all started when he saw the memorial!" Jeremy chipped in, and Vincent lifted his head, puzzled for a moment before gaping in realization. "What?"
"She's alive! Fucking hell, she's alive in that world!" he exclaimed, grabbing his head, "He even told me that he was going home to her! How the hell did I not catch that?!" Now it made sense why Mike flew into such a storm of rage and grief.
"You're not making any sense, Vince," Scott told him, confusion in his voice as he drew closer. Vincent blinked at the feel of a hand resting on his forehead. "You're burning up. Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," he muttered, "but Mike won't be until we can convince him that this isn't his world."
"You're supposed to pretend to be a crazy man, not actually be one," BonBon snarked, Fritz snickering and failing badly at smothering behind his hands. "Mike's just cracked from all the extra work we put in for the new season and getting zapped by like a bajillion volts. Sorta like Marionette."
"Not funny, Rabbit." Marionette grumbled.
They didn't believe him. Vincent sighed, reaching up to lightly grip the hand still pressed comfortingly against his forehead. If only there was some way to prove it.
Static crackled nearby and Vincent reached down to run his fingers over Mangle's smooth shell. The nightmarish animatronic liked hanging around him as much as Goldie, and often acted as a seeing eye dog for him. He could hear her click her jaws together, her soft voice transmitting in broken intervals with her white noise. Strangely soothing.
"May as well call it a day and let Mike get some rest," Freddy sighed, exasperation and irritation in his tone. His scene was supposed to have been filmed next and he disliked not being in front of the camera without good reason. Mike having a breakdown didn't qualify. Vincent had one when his ex-wife divorced him and proceeded to undermine his attempts to have shared custody of their daughter. Freddy pulled him backstage, goaded him into a screaming match, then pushed him back out in front of the camera and declared that he use that rage to make The Killer number one in the list of scary fictional serial killers.
Anything for the camera.
"Rest seems to be a good idea. I'm going to stay here with Mike; make sure he's got a familiar face to keep him from flying off the handle again," Vincent agreed.
"Panther can stay behind. Mike'll be fine," the director commented, voice trailing as he left. Vincent tensed, a feeling of dread twisting his stomach and making him feel sick. No, not a good idea. For reasons he couldn't understand Panther no longer had that air of stalwart guard about him. He'd always been a bit intense when it came to looking after Mike, but everyone shrugged it off. Now there was a wrongness added to his intensity. Mike should not be left alone with that man.
"I'm staying," he repeated weakly, turning to go back into the med station. He was just about to close the curtain when a hand -warm, familiar, safe- touched on his wrist.
"Hey, I'll stay with you, okay?" Scott told him, concern in his tone, "Something's bothering you, and I'd be a piss-poor friend if I didn't stick around to help you through it."
Vincent managed a small smile at the words.
--
Sluggish.
Foggy.
Heavy.
Mike struggled to pull himself from the dark and back to waking. Memories were jumbled, strange, and connected by the sickly sweet smell of something that had covered his face....
Panther.
Fucking damn it!
"...hhhnnnngh!" Mike's attempt at a furious growl came out a weakened groan as he turned in place, trying to get his limbs to work with him. Hands grabbed his arms and he bared his teeth, cracking open one eye in a squint to see how bad of a situation he got himself into. His hands hurt, bad idea to bust knuckles on Foxy's stupid shell, but if he could get his legs working, kick a few soft spots, maybe he could get loose and get to Doll....
Blood red letters over her face.
Deceased.
And all the fight left him, left him sagging in place and closing his eyes again. Why keep going? His precious Doll; she was why he struggled to survive Freddy's, and now she was gone. What was the point?
"...up, Mike. Wake up! Scott, where's that adrenaline shot?"
"Um, in the med kit. But I don't know how to use it!"
"Get it anyway!"
Voices he didn't know, didn't trust. For a moment, Mike felt the urge to lash out, get free, run from them. And then it faded, and sleep called for him again, the memory of Panther's hand over his mouth and nose, arm around his waist and lifting him off the floor, room spinning as he clawed at the wet glove, trying to breathe and only sinking deeper into black....
"Here!" The hands on his arms tightened their grip almost painfully, a fingertip circling a spot on his skin. He tried to lift a leg, knee the guy and push him off. And then he felt the sting of a needle, a rush of fluids, heart jolted, racing, eyes snapping open and then shutting tight again as Mike gasped, hand reaching up to grab at the injection site once his arms were freed.
"What the fuck did you do to me?!" he yelled, blood rushing through his body, waking his limbs with the tingle-pain that let him know to wait a moment, they'll recover, and there'll be hell to pay.
"Helped you metabolize whatever it was that Panther used on you," Vincent told him. Mike struggled to sit up, jerking his hand away from the sudden contact with another person before allowing the help. Fingertips ran lightly over his face and down his closed eyes, setting him to shiver in discomfort. "Hm, sorry about that. Just checking to be sure nothing more damaging was done. How are your eyes? Can you open them? Scott, check his vision."
Scott... the phone guy? Mike opened his eyes slowly, cracking open one, then the other, squinting as he reached up to grip Vincent's hands on his shoulders, steadying himself as the world continued to tilt and sway. Light flashed into them and he cursed sharply, pitching forward as his stomach protested the entire day.
"Oh, for the love of god, Scott, please tell me he did not just vomit on my casuals!"
The room with the squeaky cot and the medical supplies was called a 'med station', as Vincent and the guy called Scott who didn't look at all like the Scott Mike knew and hated said. It also had a small shower area set aside with curtains as a flimsy barrier.
Once Mike's head stopped pounding painfully and his vision cleared a decent amount, and Vincent finished using it to clean himself off, Mike took his turn at the shower. He hoped running water would wake him up, get him out of this nightmare where Doll was gone and Jeremy looked at him like he was insane and a man who should be dead was given free reign to manhandle him.
But while it washed him clean of the mess he'd made, it didn't wash away the world surrounding him, the memory of that bastard bodily lifting him like he weighed nothing, whispering weird words to him while he struggled, the blood red letters burned into his brain.
He sat on the floor, letting the water pound down on him, and buried his face in his arms and knees, weeping. She was gone. She was gone, and he was lost and he was tired and why couldn't he just die now? Why wouldn't those stupid fuckboy animatronics just finish him off and stuff him in a suit like they've always fucking wanted to do?
The water slowed, then stopped, and Mike registered the tail end of a set of odd clicking noises as he lifted his head. A purple arm withdrew from the shower faucet, the shadow of the taller man cast through the thin plastic curtain; Vincent stood outside the shower.
"A lil privacy?" Mike grumbled.
"What part of 'I am blind' do you not understand?" Vincent sighed in exasperation. His shadow shifted in place. "Scott brought some casuals from our Mike's wardrobe. They should fit you."
Oh. Mike glanced away, hugging himself a bit tighter. "Thanks, I guess. Still don't get what the fuck you're going on about," he muttered, "but I guess it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
"Get dressed. I have a few things to show you." Vincent told him curtly.
The clothes were nice, like money-nice. Mike almost felt bad putting them on, but hey, Vincent said they were technically his and possession was nine-tenths of the law, right? Comfy jeans -though they hung a bit low at the waist, resting barely on his hips, he'd have to get a belt for that-, nice running shoes -Mike was appreciative of running shoes-, soft sweater in a shade of blue that made him puff up his chest and smirk at a mirror....
Yeah, lookin' nice, lookin' verrry nice.
The only thing missing was a cap to cover his head. He grabbed his security hat, pulled it on, and blinked as the mirror seemed to fog for a second. A dim shadowy figure appeared to be leaning forward, looking out of the mirror at him. Then the figure moved away, out of sight, and the mirror cleared to show Mike's reflection again.
"I switched to decaf way too soon," Mike sighed in irritation.
He came out of the shower room into the rest of the med station, pausing at the sight of an unfamiliar man sitting in a plastic chair next to Vincent, who now wore something that looked like a Freddy Fazbear security uniform but completely purple as well, and sifting through several photographs. The newcomer raised a hand with a somber smile. "Hey, Mike," he greeted, "feeling better?"
"I'll feel better when someone tells me Doll's not dead, Panther's a smear on the asphalt, why Vincent looks like a grape jelly security guard, and who the fuck you are," Mike growled back, stalking over to sit on the cot and make it squeak again, "'cause I'm this close to saying 'Fuck it!' to all of ya and shoving myself into that goddamned suit in the back!"
"It was the only clean outfit left in my wardrobe," Vincent muttered sourly.
The other man looked at Mike like he was insane -and to be honest, he felt like he was one good reason away from it- and pointed at himself. "Mike, dude, it's me," -and Mike felt his eye twitch at those words- "Scott, man. Did that shock mess up your memory? Need a trip to the ER?"
"The hell you are! I've seen that lying asshole and you don't look anything like him!" Mike snapped, jumping to his feet and ready to walk out on them both. Vincent reached out to pick up a photo and held it out in Mike's general direction.
"Hush, and take a look at this. Maybe then you'll believe me when I say you are not the Mike that belongs in this world," the purple man told him sternly.
Mike raised an eyebrow, still dubious of anything told to him by two complete strangers. He reached out, took the photo, and brought it up to look at curiously.
He saw himself, grinning as he held up a small golden statuette, with Jeremy to one side of him with a thumb's up and Foxy on the other with a wide smile. A beautiful woman stood by him, microphone in her hand and professionally cheerful smile plastered on.
"What the fuck-?" Mike breathed in shock, bringing the photo closer to study more intently. That couldn't be right! Was this fake? It had to be, right? But that was definitely him on that stage with Jeremy, Foxy, and the nameless woman. Those were his blue eyes, his smile that he only ever got around Doll or Jeremy or when he had a day off to spend with them; how the hell could this picture exist? "This can't be me!" he blurted out, waving the picture in the air and gesturing at it.
Vincent groped around until the man called Scott grabbed his hand, squeezed it a little, and held a couple more photos out to Mike. He took those as well, staring between them in stunned silence. In one photo his mirror image grinned out at him, standing on red carpet with other richly dressed people while dressed in a tuxedo. Next to him was a slender person also dressed in a tux with shiny black high heels, long black hair curled and styled and pale face neatly made up to accent lovely almond-shaped eyes.
Not Doll. He pointed at the picture accusingly, turning it to show the two other men with a scowl.
"Tracy Lang. They played Doll for Series One, Season Two," the man called Scott told him. "Showed in person for about five episodes, voiced five others, left at the end of the season to go into acting on a detective drama. They're doing well."
The other picture Mike looked at was -again- of himself sitting on the floor and half slumped over a Foxy that was laying beside him like a giant dog. Both of them had their eyes closed, like they were having a peaceful nap together. The sight made Mike's head hurt, conflicting with all his memories of the robot either being a depressed creature, an overly affectionate idiot, or straight up murderous. The way he kept flipping through the three modes didn't leave any reason for Mike to trust the animatronic pirate in any way.
"And this shit? This is completely not me," Mike growled, pointing at the photo.
"Of course it isn't. Because that's our Mike Schmidt, not you," Vincent agreed, gesturing around the room. "Look around. It's still day, if nearing evening. If this is supposed to be your Freddy's, where are the punters? The customers, I mean. Where is the actual hustle and bustle of a pizzeria business?" Mike straightened, looking around himself and seeing, truly seeing, that the building was empty, quiet and still. "It's not here because it doesn't exist here. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza is simply a fictional business for a program about an angry, mentally damaged security guard trying to survive his job at a pizzeria full of deadly animatronics to purchase a ring for his beloved."
"Hey!" Mike protested, "What the hell?! Don't be turning my life into some fucking trash TV show! At least not without cutting me a check too!"
"Okay, I'm completely lost here. Mind filling me in, Vince?" the man called Scott asked in confusion, raising his hand.
"This man before us is the Mike Schmidt of another world, who was accidentally exchanged for our Mike," Vincent told him flatly. "Seems that electrical storm we had during filming was somehow responsible, given that Mike was electrocuted and hasn't been himself since waking from it." He turned his face towards Mike's direction again. "You don't understand; we didn't turn your life into a television program. It just happens to mirror your life in your world. There are differences as well as similarities." He gestured aimlessly.
"You said that you didn't know who this man beside me is; he's Scott, the man who plays the Phone Guy in our production." Vincent went on. Mike looked over at the tawny-haired man in clear disbelief. The man called Scott rolled his eyes, coughed into one fist, then spoke through cupped hands.
"Uh, hello? Hello, hello? I wanted to record a message for you-"
Mike flipped him off, glowering at him. "Stop talking before I come over there and knock your teeth into the back of your fucking throat," he growled. Scott dropped his hands, eyes wide, face paling, and he gave an audible gulp. "You don't look anything like the lying asshole I know, but I'd recognize that fucking voice anywhere."
Vincent nodded, tapping his cane against the floor to get Mike's attention back to him. "See? Different appearance but same name and voice." He leaned forward on the cane. "As for the woman you know as Doll; in this world, she died a year ago, a tragic and deeply-felt loss for all of us. Our Mike was in just as much anguish as you displayed."
Mike staggered back, like the words were a physical blow that sent real pain through his chest. "A y-year?!" The world got spinny again; he didn't like the spinny.
"Hey, hey! Steady now, easy," Scott exclaimed, jumping up to grab his arms and keep him upright. Mike tried to push him away, dizzy but still wanting nothing to do with this world's version of the Phone Guy.
Shit, now he was thinking of his situation in terms of 'worlds'.
"Get off! A year...! Fuck me sideways, then what... who....?" Mike tried to gather his thoughts. He knew Doll was alive, she had been the last he heard of her, which was in a late night call just before the power went out. But now these people he'd never seen before but stood around in the building like they belonged were saying the Doll he knew had been dead for a year. But not his Doll, just a woman who looked like her, pretending to be Doll for TV. That lady was dead and had been dead for a whole year.
So if this was really another world, with another Mike who had a way different life, then did that mean his Doll, the real Doll, was still safe and sound at home?
She had to be. She must be! And Mike laughed brokenly as hope surged back into him. He was in the wrong world; Doll was alive and waiting for him to come home!
"She's okay! She's okay...!" he breathed, flopping back down on the squeaky cot. He held his head in his hands, shaking in place from relief. Now he had a goal, something to put in front of himself so he could focus properly. He didn't belong here. He was gonna find a way home, get that other Mike and throw his ass back here to deal with that psycho....
"Wait. Panther. He's supposed to be dead." Mike said flatly, gears slowly grinding away in his mind as he pieced together something very wrong.
"Yes, we've heard you scream that before. Why would you say that?" Vincent asked in a strange tone. Like he also smelled a rat but didn't know enough to see it.
"Because in my world he is. So is it flipped? My Doll lives and Panther dies, but here it's the other way around?" Mike turned a faint shade of green as a sudden insight flashed through his mind. "Your Mike ain't with that maniac... right?"
Both Vincent and Scott shook their heads, grimacing. "No way! After that Doll actor's death, our Mike refused to get involved with anyone else." Scott told him, "A few months after, in fact, he was forced to hire Panther for his protection."
Forced to? Mike tilted his head, puzzled, and Vincent continued the explanation in a somber tone, eyes cast downward in grief. "For the sake of simplicity, let's refer to her as 'Doll'. As for the reason our Mike was pressured into taking a bodyguard? It is because Doll didn't just die; she was murdered, by someone who saw her as an obstacle to their own pursuit of him." His lips thinned for a moment, a glower on his face for a brief moment. "That was when the network pushed for him to hire protection, and Mike ended up with Panther as his shadow. There were no further attempts made against him, so everyone thought Panther was a blessing. Now... now I'm not so sure."
Scott gave Vincent a startled look, making an audible 'Bweh?' that Mike figured was just to let the blind guy know what he was thinking. "Whaddya mean?! Yeah the guy can be intense, but isn't that the point of a big, beefy bodyguard?!" he blurted out. Vincent just gave him a sidelong glare.
"You weren't here when he snuck in and creeped me the hell out," he grumbled.
Murdered.... Mike couldn't stop the chill that ran through him at the word. The Doll for this world had been murdered, by someone trying to get close to their Mike. He couldn't think of how he'd go on if anything happened to his sweet Doll; actually, he already knew. For the few hours he thought she was dead, he wanted his own life to end as well. But this world's Mike kept going, smiled for the fucking cameras and put on a show.
He was either stronger than Mike gave him credit for, or the guy was a helluva lot more broken than anyone knew.
Broken...?
"I remember... Panther said something," he began slowly, trying to pull memories from the haze of rage, despair, and panic. He rubbed his head, feeling a faint headache from the effort. "He said he was wondering when the woman's death would finally break me... but he doesn't know I'm not that actor guy, right?" Vincent nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "So he was waiting for that other Mike to snap like I did?"
"But he never did. Our Mike just went... quiet." Scott rubbed an arm with a restless shrug, "Used to be the laugh of the party, pulling pranks and shit with Jeremy and Foxy during downtime. Now he just hangs out in a corner, sippin' beers. If we're lucky, he'll talk to Chirp about her beak fallin' off all the time. She's the only chick he'll talk to, no pun intended."
"Really? Fucking Japanese bird," Mike growled, folding his arms over his chest to hide another shiver. Why did he feel like he was being watched?
"He called you 'pretty bird'," Vincent said suddenly, and Mike grimaced, one hand dropping to press to his left side, the memory of a gun barrel pressed to his jaw sending another stream of shivers down his back. "Scott... do you remember that note that was left in Doll's apartment? The one the police found and let us know that she'd been killed as a threat to our Mike?" He groped air again and the other man grabbed on, squeezing gently again. "Those words were in it, too, weren't they?"
"Something about setting their pretty bird free?" Scott questioned, alarm on his face, "Oh shit...."
"You assholes let Doll's murderer get exactly what he wanted?!" Mike exclaimed in furious disbelief, "Could you be any more stupid?!! He kills her to spook your show into getting your Mike some protection, and fucking Panther shows up and is practically handed your Mike in a prize box! Might as well have tied a fucking bow around his ass!"
"But he's been following Mike for a year and never did anything!" Scott pointed out, "Why is he being all crazy stalker now?!"
"Because Panther wasn't interested in a meek and quiet Mike," Vincent realized, clutching his cane tightly. "He wanted the Mike from the show; the aggressive and angry Mike Schmidt!"
"He wanted to get his hands on me," Mike muttered bitterly, shoulders slumping. This was that nightmare shift all over again. "Fuck me sideways, what the hell is his obsession with me?"
Before anyone could answer, a small metal canister rolled into the room and stopped at their feet, catching them all by surprise. "The smell of old blood; ah, it's sweet on you, my pretty bird," Panther's voice purred as the canister hissed and spun, spraying forth a thick fog of something that blinded the three men, displacing air and making them choke.
"D-Don't breath it!" Scott coughed, reaching out to grab Vincent and getting a solid blow to the head by a black-gloved fist instead. He went down heavily, crashing against a mobile tray and laying sprawled and still on the floor.
"Scott!" Vincent cried, staggering in place as the gas made it harder to stay conscious. Mike reached out, trying to grab his sleeve to pull him to safety as he coughed into one hand. Another hand reached through the fog, looped around and covered his face with that sickly sweet smell in fabric.
'No! God fucking dammit, not again!'
"Don't worry, pretty bird," the low voice crooned close to him, breathe hot against his neck, "I'll be taking a precious gem to keep you company."
'Wha-?!'
A blur of black lashed out, Vincent's surprised grunt of pain, and Mike could just about make out the purple guy slumped over Panther's arm. 'No... dammit....'
Was this it? Was this how it all ends? Him and that Vincent guy, dragged off by a nutcase who was supposed to be dead, for reasons Mike didn't want to think about? And all in a world that wasn't even his?!
A familiar crackle of static suddenly burst into the air as Panther began dragging him and Vincent out of the room, Mike weakly digging in his heels to slow him down. The rapid thud-thud-thud of heavy footsteps joined them.
As Mike began finally sinking into the shadows calling to him, brought on by the sweet aroma of the glove and the choking gas from the canister, two mechanical foxes leaped at them from the shadows and ceiling, roaring in a fury and eyes gleaming black.
'Hngh!'
A flicker, a burst of pain.
He remembered.
And then all was dark.
7:50 PM