In the wake of a horrific ordeal, Mike struggles to hold on.
Dr. Rabbinson (or Carrol as she insists on being called) turns out to be completely different from any mental image you could have possibly had in mind. Even though she's shorter than both of her children, and her fur is as white as the driven snow, there's still a hint of family resemblance. Carrol is as fastidious and detail-oriented as Bonworth is, and you can definitely see where Beanie inherited her dry personality (and her cup size) from.
"As best as I can tell, Cheeky, his ribs are at least bruised. But there's the possibility of a couple of minor fractures," Carrol remarks, pulling her stethoscope from her enormous bunny ears.
You, Cheeky, and Carrol are gathered in the master bedroom -- Fred's own room, which he offered unprompted -- due to its large size and isolation from the rest of the apartment. Cheeky's seated next to you on the bed for both moral support and your own personal comfort; even though Carrol offered to examine your wounds privately, you insisted on having someone else in the room with you at all times.
Chichi and the others are in the kitchen preparing dinner while Beanie rests outside in the living room, having seen her mother ahead of you. According to Carrol, Beanie came out of your mutual encounter at Jeremy's in better physical condition than you did, suffering "only" a sprained wrist and a black eye.
Of course, the damage to both her psyche and your own remains to be seen.
"What all are we looking at, then?" Cheeky asks as Dr. Rabbinson finishes re-bandaging your leg. "Any possibility it's more serious than a fracture?"
"I don't think so. He's in pain, but it's not excruciating and he can take deep breaths without much trouble, both of which are good signs. Of course, given my limited tools, that's about the best I can tell you without taking him downtown and running x-rays." You open your mouth to protest, but she raises a gloved paw to silence you before you can say anything. "And yes, he's made it abundantly clear how he feels about that particular plan. Just from a cursory inspection, I can't find anything else wrong with him. Just the leg and the ribs."
Patting your thigh in an attempt to calm you down, Cheeky turns her attention back to Carrol. "Will he need stitches?"
"No, the laceration isn't deep at all. Keep the wound clean so that it doesn't get infected, and it'll be fine -- whoever wrapped this before I got here did a good job." Standing up, Carrol discards her rubber gloves in Fred's wastebasket.
"We all do a lot of bandage changing around here," Cheeky murmurs with a half-hearted smile.
Finally, Carrol turns to you. "Michael? Or do you prefer Mike?"
"Just Mike's fine," you murmur, reluctantly forcing yourself to divert your gaze from the dark spot on the carpet you've been fixated on for the last several minutes.
"All right, Mike. You don't have to get into graphic detail if you don't want to," Carrol says softly. "But if you think you're up to it, can you at least go over the basics of what happened today? Bonita's not saying anything, and I need to know what I'm dealing with when I get her home."
You give Carrol a shaky nod as she begins returning her medical supplies to her bag. Studying the tension in your face, her expression softens slightly.
"Take it from me, Mike. I know you're kind of rattled after today, but talking about it will prevent you from going into shock -- even if it's the very last thing you feel like doing."
"I think he's already past that point," Cheeky sighs softly from beside you on the bed. "He hasn't left my side once since he woke up this evening."
You take a deep breath before looking up at both of them. "You don't have to talk about me like I'm not here, you know," you rasp, struggling to smile.
Cheeky gives you a strained grin of her own, trying her hardest to encourage you without being overbearing. "Look at you, gettin' all snarky. There's the Mike we know."
"If your sense of sarcasm's still intact, you'll probably be fine," Carrol teasingly chimes in.
You take a second to massage your temples. Hesitantly, you dredge the day's events back to the forefront of your mind even though you'd much rather leave them buried.
"This, ah, this morning -- I guess it was about six, seven AM?" you begin, looking at Cheeky for confirmation. She nods.
"Close enough."
"Right, um -- Beanie didn't call to check in with Bonworth after work, and apparently that's something she always does. Jeremy's was closed, and I guess nobody was there to turn the robots off or whatever? Cheeky's probably got a better idea of how all of that works than I do."
Bobbing her head, Cheeky counts off on her wingtips. "Protocol is that pre-show opening mode kicks in at six sharp to disable them, but since the store was closed, the animatronics must've stayed in free-roam mode."
"That sounds about right," you agree, thinking back to Fritzine's words when you were in-character as Safety Schmidt. "Um, so we drove over to check on Beanie, but the building was locked. We didn't have the key, so I had to climb in through an air duct. That's how I, uh, sliced my leg -- the vent gave out on me once I was inside the building."
Eyebrows raised, Carrol nods. "I see. That explains the unusual pattern of the cut."
"Once I got inside, Cheeky and Faz gave me instructions on where to look for Beanie. I'd be dead if not for their help. Faz was..." You trail off, struggling with the words.
Cheeky pats your back gingerly. "It's okay, Mike. Like Faz said about a dozen times when you got home, we were just doing what anyone would've. Quit trying to act like you weren't the one out there doing all the real work."
"With their help," you continue reluctantly, "I found her in Bot Bay--"
"Bot Bay?" Carrol interrupts.
"I think it's supposed to be an attraction... but really it's just a horrible back room workshop where one of the animatronics does 'experiments'," you answer, trying to force the image of Fritzine's collection of 'confiscated parts' out of your mind. "On, uh, live subjects. Like us."
"I'm... familiar with the type," Carrol replies with a heavy sigh. "Wish I wasn't. I'm willing to bet you feel the same."
"Beanie was, um -- she was tied up with electrical tape," you explain, hurrying along through your recounting of the events. The less you have to dwell on it, the easier it'll be to put everything behind you. "We tried to book it out of there, but one of the animatronics, Fritzine, she -- she just showed up out of nowhere. I tried to, uh, 'disable' her. Didn't work, but then she got all excited and gave me a 'hug'."
Wincing out of sympathy, Cheeky pipes up again. "And that explains the ribs. I guess she thought you were one of the other mascots."
"I can see how that would happen," Carrol muses. "Between your... 'unique look' and their long-running history of mechanical failure, it's actually quite believable that they would identify you as one of their own."
"Easily. No offense, Mike, but you even look like a human, too," Cheeky sheepishly adds. Your heart skips two full beats as she slaps a verbal red flag over what you've been trying to play low. Eyeing Carrol nervously, you try to gauge her reaction, but fortunately she doesn't seem to have put two and two together. "Besides that, their facial scanning system was buggy as hell when it was new. I can't imagine they've made many improvements to it in the time I've been gone."
"And there's also no telling what kind of condition they've been kept in since my son and Cheeky stopped working there," Carrol says as she stands up on the tips of her toes, reaching up high to ruffle Cheeky's head feathers. "I'm pretty good at fixing people up, but this gal here's the best robot doctor in the business."
"Awww! Thanks, doc," Cheeky says, tearing up a little. She presses her free wing to her face, dabbing at her runny makeup. "Dr. Rabbinson's been looking out for all of us for years, Mike. Y'know, she pulled all kinds of strings so that I could see the best oncologist in the state."
You're exceedingly grateful for the focus to be off of you for the moment. "That's really cool, Cheeky," you breathe, wincing as you tug your shirt back on over your head.
"Speaking of which," Carrol interrupts, gently tapping Cheeky's belly. "Any...?"
"Still NED as of the first of this month," Cheeky proudly replies. "Just a few aches and pains here and there, but otherwise I've been very lucky."
"Good. Now, I don't want you so much as getting a cold. We both know my son would be lost without you."
"He's not the only one," you admit, causing the curvy hen to blush a little. "Um, what is, uh -- what does NED...?"
"No Evidence of Disease," both of them say in unison.
"So remission, basically," Carrol helpfully adds.
You carefully slide off the bed, taking special care as you put weight on your leg. "That's awesome. I'm legit happy for you."
Raising a paw, Carrol attempts to steer the conversation back on course. "So I have to know, how the hell did you get out of there with Bonita? Did you just grab her and run, or...?"
You don't reply immediately, instead taking a moment to catch your breath and gather your thoughts. In this situation, less is more; it's to your advantage to avoid going into too much into detail on your escape, especially the part about impersonating a human-like robot. You really don't want to draw any unwanted attention to yourself -- not just because of the nature of your species, but also because you really, really need some down time right now just to decompress and clear your head.
A knock at Fred's bedroom door serves as a perfectly-timed distraction, saving you from having to answer Carrol's line of inquiry.
"Dinner's ready, everyone," Chichi calls from outside, coming to your rescue.
"Thank you, Chica. We'll be there in a moment," Carrol cordially responds, refusing to break eye contact with you. It's obvious she still wants more information, but she backs off for now, seemingly having recognized your discomfort. "Mike, believe me, if there's anyone who understands what you're going through, I do."
You genuinely doubt that.
"Likewise," Cheeky adds, patting your shoulder. "Every single one of us has taken our turn at the grinder at some point."
"As long as there isn't anything too pressing I need to know about Bonita, why don't you just take the night and rest? Doctor's orders."
"Sounds good," you agree, thankful for the reprieve. "It's been a very long, very, uh -- rough couple of days. So I just need to take it easy because of the -- um, the fractures...?"
"And in case there's any lasting effects, I'll kill you," she flippantly remarks. "Painfully."
Your jaw drops. "S-sorry?"
You shoot Cheeky a worried look, but she doesn't seem the least bit fazed at all as she holds the door open for you.
"I said, 'in case of any lasting effects, I'll get you some painkillers'," Carrol repeats, cocking her head at you quizzically. "Don't look so surprised, Mike. That's literally my job description. Unless you're worried about money, in which case don't be; I'll see that it's taken care of."
You exhale the breath you've been holding as your heart rate begins to slow back down. "O-oh, right. Um, th-- thank you."
"It's the least I can do. The pills will help dull the pain, so you'll be able to sleep and breathe easily -- and more importantly, so you don't get pneumonia. If you just take it easy, your ribs will heal themselves on their own in a month or two. I'll swing by to check on you weekly, or more often if need be."
"Wow. Okay, thank you very much," you reply as you practically sprint towards the door, ready for this conversation to be over. "I hope you guys don't mind, but I'm just going to go, y'know, take a breather? I-if that's all right?"
"Absolutely. Oh, and Mike?" Carrol adds, placing a firm paw on your shoulder.
You pause mid-stride, grudgingly turning back to look at her. "What is it?"
"These words don't feel like they have any meaning no matter how I express them, but please, please believe me when I say this," she whispers, tearing up. You can barely make out her whisper-quiet voice over the din outside Fred's room. "They might be all grown up, and I'm unbelievably disappointed in them right now, but our kids are everything to me and my husband. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing my daughter home safely."
A wave of mixed emotions washes over you. All at once you want to hug her and tell her you're just happy to help, but at the same time you've got the sudden urge to berate her for such gross parental negligence. You resist the temptation to scream at her, to shake her like a ragdoll for being so blind as to let her children throw themselves into the maw of death itself for minimum wage.
Instead you end up settling on a wan smile and an unenthusiastic nod. Satisfied, Carrol follows you and Cheeky out of Fred's room and out into the apartment's common area, where everyone else is eagerly awaiting the news. While Carrol announces your condition to exuberant applause from most of your friends, you stifle the compulsion to run and hide under a piece of furniture.
Just gotta get through the night, and this'll all be behind you.
Considering the unusually large number of houseguests tonight, one could be forgiven for assuming this was a big family gathering for the holidays. Indeed, it's getting to be late into November, just about that time of year. You think back to your own family's seasonal parties, only to frown as you realize you're having difficulty remembering what they were even like.
Fred, Carrol, Faz, and Cheeky are quietly assembled around the dining room table while a nervous Bonworth and Chichi scurry back and forth carrying plates and filling drinks, insisting that they'll get around to eating once everyone has been served. You suspect that both of them are still too wound up to sit still.
The living room television's blaring some benign comedy movie that nobody seems the least bit interested in watching, serving purely to be background noise in an already hectic atmosphere. Haddock and Bonbon are seated on the floor at the coffee table, the latter chattering away about cartoons in a one-sided conversation with you, Beanie, and Rackham.
Chichi gently places a tray of food in your lap, jarring you from your thoughts. You look up at her, then back down at the plate: hot dogs slathered in rich, homemade chili, with a side of fries, and a scoop of fruit salad. You stare at the dinner apathetically -- despite having eaten almost nothing all day as well as emptying the contents of your stomach last night, your appetite eludes you.
"Thanks, Chichi. Looks good," you manage.
"It's no big deal, I just wanted to throw something together quick so we could all eat," Chichi replies quietly, leaning over your shoulder. "What would you like to drink? Cola or root beer?"
You turn to answer her, only to be caught off-guard by how sharp her beak is as she's leaning in. Her mandibles gleam like polished blades in the light of the dining room chandelier. You haven't really gotten an up-close look before, and it wasn't an issue with the other birds you've grown familiar with; Cheeky's beak is round and dull, and Chiclet doesn't even have one -- but Chichi's glossy, razor-sharp beak looks like it could really do some serious damage.
For that matter, don't birds peck out eyes when they're threatened or panicked -- or was that just something Hitchcock came up with?
"Uh, Mike?"
You jerk back suddenly, realizing you're quivering. "Huh? No, no, -- um, I mean yes. Whatever -- whatever's fine," you sputter dismissively, unable to take your eyes off of her mouth.
Chichi casts a worried look over to Bonworth, who returns it with a sympathetic shake of his head; ultimately, the two of them decide on root beer for you.
You fumble with the tab on your can of soda for the longest time, nervously clawing at it in your shaky hands as if you were trying to pick a lock. Beanie watches you disinterestedly through one half-lidded eye before abruptly getting up in the middle of Bonbon's impassioned rant, carrying her plate over to one of the dining room chairs. It's plain as day she's purposefully avoiding you. You can't really blame her; right now, you'd avoid yourself, if it were somehow possible.
"Sooooo, Mike," Bonbon begins anew from her seat at the floor, "I was talking to Mango about your costume, and maybe you could--"
Bonworth places a heavy, clumsy paw on her shoulder. "Now really ain't a good time, Bonbon," he stage-whispers. "Let Mike have some time to himself, okay?"
The smaller rabbit's muzzle twitches out of annoyance. "Geez! I'm just trying to take his mind off of--"
"Not now," he repeats, a bit more firmly. "Just... be at peace, all right?"
Bonbon glares at him as she shoves her food aside in disgust. Slipping out from under Bonworth's grasp, she begins army-crawling under the coffee table to get closer to you.
"Damn it, Mike, don't pull a Beanie on me! Talk to us here!" she exasperatedly demands, springing up from underneath the table to hover directly in front of your face.
Gripping both of your shoulders, she pans slowly from your right to your left, scrutinizing your face with her vibrant green eyes. Feeling thoroughly attacked, you shove her away with a grunt, having had enough scans for one day -- mechanical, organic, or otherwise.
Bonworth's on her in seconds. "Good heavens, Bonbon! What is the matter with you? Are you tryin' to give him a conniption fit?!" He grabs her by her shirt collar, pulling her off of you. "That's it! You're goin' over here, where the grown-ups can keep an eye on you."
"What?! But I AM an adult!" she whines as he half-drags her over to the dining room table.
"Oh, you're very decidedly not acting like one," Carrol rigidly argues, directing her to sit between Fred and Faz. "Now eat your food like a good girl and quit hectoring that poor boy, or else I'm calling your mother."
Bonbon slumps dejectedly in her chair as Bonworth places her plate in front of her. "You're kidding, Mrs. Rabbinson. A-aren't you?"
"Oh, you know she ain't," Bonworth mumbles.
"Yeah, that's Mom for you," Beanie testily chimes in, defiantly pinching off a piece of her hot dog bun. "Putting the 'mother' back in 'smothering'."
"Oh, don't either of you even start with me tonight," Carrol growls, voice shaking and eyes ablaze with righteous indignance. "You two don't EVEN know what manner of trouble you're in...!"
Realizing you're staring, you turn your attention away from the escalating scene at the dinner table.
Haddock's lost interest in eating his own dinner, and has since begun to construct what appears to be a boat out of fries. He systematically dunks each of his potato sticks in ketchup one at a time, using the condiment as a mortar for his project. Eventually, he runs out of ketchup, so he goes for another bottle to top up his makeshift glue. As he grapples with the glass bottle, it's apparently taking too long to pour for his liking so he begins to bang on the bottle's side with his hook while staring at the mouth from below.
After the third or fourth tap, the inevitable happens: ketchup erupts from the bottle at once like an upside-down tomato sauce volcano, drenching Haddock in a goopy red mess.
"He's at it again," Rackham groans, rolling his eye at the display as he gets up from the couch. "Hang on, I'll go get a towel."
"Nah, I got it. You okay, Haddock?" you venture nervously, pulling your napkin from your lap to help clean him up. Hearing his name, Haddock whips his head back to look at you, his muzzle splitting into a manic ear-to-ear grin. With a throaty cackle, he stands up and begins shambling towards you.
"Soorrrry, l-la-laaad-ad," he warbles, almost musically. Crimson fluid drips off of his face and paw, dribbling onto the carpet with each faltering step. His glazed eyes are seemingly focused in two different directions as he lurches forward to snatch the proffered cloth from your hand with his bloody hook. "A-a-a-prr-ppreciate iiiit."
You set your untouched plate on the coffee table as he obliviously dabs the stains from his mouth with your napkin. Food no longer holds any appeal to you at all.
"Thank you for the lovely dinner, Chica," Carrol says. "Are you sure you don't want any help cleaning up?"
"I'm positive, doctor," Chichi replies with a tired smile as she and Fred begin gathering up the dinner dishes. "When is Mr. Rabbinson supposed to come pick you up?"
Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, Carrol checks the time on her smartphone. "Actually, I just missed a text from him. Looks like he finished up at the station a little while ago, so he's on his way here now. Shouldn't be but a few minutes."
As Beanie gets up from her chair to carry her plate off to the kitchen, she's stopped by both Bonworth and Carrol.
"Hey now, you're not going anywhere, lil bunny," Bonworth awkwardly chuckles as they fence her in. "Let us pamper you tonight."
"Look, it's over. I don't want to talk about it," Beanie irritably replies. "I don't need anyone 'pampering' me, I just want to get back to standard operating procedure. Or whatever the hell passes for it around here, anyway."
"Bonita, you're going home with us tonight and that's final," Carrol says firmly, looking up at Beanie as if daring her to be defiant. "Now that we're done with dinner, you and I are going to go into your room and pack up everything you'll need for at least a week's stay, maybe longer. Clothes, medication, the whole lot. I'm not letting you out of my sight for--"
"Mom," Beanie interrupts, ice in her tone. "I'm staying here, and that's final."
"Absolutely not." Carrol firmly takes hold of her daughter's uninjured paw in a move that's clearly intended to look authoritative, but with her height disadvantage, it looks more like parent and child have swapped roles. "You need to be at home, with family, so that we can protect you."
"This is my home! This IS my family!" Beanie shrieks. "YOU weren't anywhere to be found this morning while my ass was being dragged off to the -- the torture chamber!!"
"Don't you dare push this off on me, young lady! I had no idea you were even there because you've been deliberately keeping it from me!"
Bonworth turns quickly from his sister. "Mama, you know she didn't--"
"Don't you 'Mama' me! I can't believe you let her! You couldn't even tell me your own sister was working in that deathtrap?" Carrol's breathing heavy, her tiny frame quaking as she glowers at her daughter. "And for what?! Some misguided sense of duty? Your father and I make plenty of money to support you both! All you had to do was ask!"
Beanie flinches at the sudden outburst, but quickly recovers. "I already quit the damn job, Mom! What more do you want from me?!"
"There's no reason for you or your brother to have ever worked at that hellhole of a restaurant in the first place, though! Was him losing his legs not enough for you?!" Carrol thrusts her paws in the air as if she's trying to appeal to the heavens themselves. "I'm just struggling to figure out what your thought process was this entire time!"
Coughing awkwardly, Fred excuses himself from the room, heading for the kitchen.
"Mama, please," Bonworth pleads, desperately trying to salvage the mood of the room. Beanie's eyes widen as she foists her plate into Chichi's trembling wings, pushing forward towards Carrol.
"You REALLY want to know what I think?!" Beanie's shaking with rage as she draws an infuriated, ragged breath. Her muzzle flares as she leans down into her mother's face, and you can see that what she's about to say is going to be impossible to take back as soon as it's out of her mouth. After all, you've had plenty of firsthand experience in that department recently.
Before you can stop her, however, Bonbon beats you to the punch, hopping to her feet and scrambling across the room.
"Whoa, whoa! Time out, everybody!" she yelps, leaping between them like she's taking a bullet. "Beanie, you're mad, you're upset. That's fine! Of course you are! Who wouldn't be? It's been a rough day! But let's just all take a chill pill, okay?"
Beanie stares at her, her shoulders heaving, ears pressed flat against the back of her head.
"You too, doc. We're all a little tired, and a lot emotional," Bonbon continues, snowballing her momentum. "How about we all just, y'know? Calm down! Before someone says something they don't mean. And c'mon, after everything we've all been through? Beanie's as much our family as she is yours! She's like the little sister I never had!"
The blue bunny is beaming with an earnest smile; for having been treated so childishly just moments ago, it's strange to see her playing the adult in this conflict.
"But you're younger than me, Bonbon," Beanie blinks, successfully distracted.
"By what, like two months?" Giggling to herself, Bonbon intentionally shrugs dismissively. "No need to split hairs."
Turning back to Carrol, Beanie's visibly forcing herself to calm down. "She's got a point, Mom. If these guys hadn't been there for me -- if Mike hadn't risked his life for me -- we wouldn't be having this conversation," she huffs. "Everything leading up to it is irrelevant."
"I still don't appreciate being deceived," Carrol argues, "and you have to know that I'm concerned for your wellbeing."
"But my life is here. My stuff is here, my friends are here." She gestures to the apartment in a sweeping motion. "I'd feel a lot more, I dunno... secure sleeping in my own house than in a bedroom I haven't stayed in since I moved out."
"Bonita..."
"I love you, Mom, and I always will. But despite what you, or, or what -- Bonworth thinks? I'm not a little bunny anymore. I'm a big rabbit now. If you and Daddy want to stay here for the night, that's fine; you guys can sleep in my room and I'll crash on the couch or something. But I'm staying here."
"Bonnie, you're more than welcome to sleep with me in my room, if that's the case," Chichi timidly offers. "I don't mind."
Taking a deep breath, Carrol seems to gather her thoughts for a moment before finally admitting defeat. "No, that's -- that'll be all right. I, I'll respect your wishes."
Bonbon politely steps aside so that Beanie can tearfully approach her mother's petite, trembling form. Pulling Carrol into her embrace, Beanie squeezes her tightly. Mother and daughter hold each other in silence as Carrol quietly breathes out her stress and grief against her daughter's chest. For her own part, Beanie manages to keep it mostly together until Bonworth joins in, but soon enough all three of them are overcome with emotion.
Out of respect, the others superficially busy themselves with neatening up to give the Rabbinson family a moment to work through their feelings.
"And they said I wasn't capable of being an adult," Bonbon giggles as she retreats to observe them from a safe distance next to you. In spite of everything that's happened today, you indulge in a cathartic chuckle with her.
"Nice work defusing that one," you offer as she stoops to gather the dishes piled up on the coffee table.
"Thanks! I'm going to go help clean up real quick," she says before picking up your own plate. "Geez, Mike, you didn't eat anything at all. You weren't hungry?"
Looking down at the untouched chili dogs, you give her a grudging nod. "Yeah, I -- I don't know what's wrong with me today. Earlier I was hungry when I got up from my nap, but it passed really quickly. Sorry."
Bonbon shakes her head, stacking the plates to make them easier to carry. "No need to apologize," she says with a smile as she trots toward the kitchen.
As you watch her scamper off, something cold presses against your shoulder. Before you can turn to see who it is, an electronic voice box buzzes dully in your ear.
"Hello, Mike."
Chills run down your spine. Somehow, Jeremy Human or one of his cronies has followed you home to finish the job. Your wobbly legs nearly give way as you're slowly spun in place, fear shaking you to your core.
Time seems to slow to a halt. The Rabbinsons remain locked in embrace, caught up in their own little world. Bonbon and the others mindlessly continue on their way throughout the apartment, completely unaware of your plight. This is it, this is how you die -- in the arms of a giant bear looking at you with visible concern on his tattered face.
"Nice work today," Faz says approvingly, one finger still on his voicebox control.
"Man, you gave me a fright," you manage as a wave of relief crashes over you. You try to laugh it off, but instead your voice comes out sounding like a strangled squeak.
Strangely, Faz seems to completely understand. "Better?" he asks using his real voice; without the electrolarynx it doesn't carry far, but at the moment the room's quiet enough with everyone distracted that you can hear him.
"Much," you admit, shame and embarassment thick in your tone. "I'm sorry, Faz. I heard your speaker and I just -- I didn't mean to--"
"It's no trouble," he says empathetically, lowering his weighty paw from your shoulder. "There's a reason I don't use it much."
With nothing else to say, you simply nod appreciatively as you sit back down. Faz graciously steps away to give you space, making a show of checking up on Haddock.
It's not until the dining room and kitchen are cleaned that the hug party finally disbands. Running contrary to Cheeky's earlier prediction, Carrol very reluctantly leaves both of her children in the care of their respective households, but not before giving Beanie a laundry list of "doctor's orders" and making everyone present promise to call if anything happens. Bonworth and Bonbon use Carrol's departure as their own excuse to leave for the night, collecting Faz and a dozing, ketchup-stained Haddock on their way out.
"You comin', Chica?" Bonworth asks halfway out the door.
"I'll be along later," she replies, side-eyeing you. "I'll stick it out here and keep an eye on things for a while. You don't mind, do you, Mike?"
You give her a gentle shake of your head in reply as you force yourself to unwind.
"Good, because I was gonna stay even if you did raise a protest." She snuggles up next to you on the couch, enveloping you once more in a warm, comforting wing.
"Certainly glad to know I had a say in the matter," you weakly joke, nevertheless grateful for the company.
Puffing up her chest, she kicks her feet up on the coffee table much to Fred's visible chagrin. "Tough love, Mikey."
Trotting over with a blanket in tow, Beanie plops down at Cheeky's other side. "Sign me up for some of that tough love too, then. Sorry, Foxy, but you're sitting on the floor next to Chica. Hopefully you're not too put out."
"Y'know what? I'll live," Rackham coyly responds as he curls up beside Chichi's blanket nest, fighting to hide his grin. The smaller of the two chickens gives him an apologetic smile, completely heedless of the fact that he couldn't be happier as he lays his head on her lap.
"Awww, I wish I had my camera right now!" Bonbon lets out a frustrated moan, bouncing in place behind Bonworth. "Everyone looks so cute together!"
"Yep, sure is a comfy lookin' scene. Puts my own mind at ease, anyhow," Bonworth concurs. "All righty then. G'night everyone -- see you all first thing tomorrow mornin'. Be safe, lil-- sorry, big bunny."
"Night, Bonworth." Beanie's already half-asleep, a thin smile forming on her lips as she nestles into Cheeky's soft feathers for a much-earned nap.
Once he's seen everyone out, Fred takes a seat in his easy chair, surveying the living room with an approving gaze before turning the television set on.
"Anyone have a suggestion as to what we watch?" he asks cordially. You're mildly taken aback by how pleasant he's being, but it's certainly a welcome change from his usual gruff demeanor.
"How about something lighthearted and calm, Fred?" Cheeky proposes, a wingtip pressed to her chin. "No gory or rough stuff, I don't think these two could take it."
"Anything with robots or humans and I'm torching the place myself," Beanie mumbles, her voice muffled by a mouthful of feathers.
Scrolling through the listings, Fred nods. "History channel coming right up."
A couple of hours pass. The marathon documentary series on Malaysian basket weaving proves to be entirely far too much fun for Chichi and Rackham, both of whom have fallen asleep. Beanie's long since conked out as well, and even Fred himself looks like he's not long for consciousness. Only Cheeky remains fully alert alongside you, watching over you and Beanie like a mother bear defending her cubs -- or more accurately, a hen defending her nest.
For your part, you're still unable to sleep, but at least things have died down enough that you've stopped hallucinating for the moment.
Gentle, rhythmic knocking at the front door causes Fred to snap to. "Hmmm? Yes, of course," he says, acting as if he wasn't nodding off. "Nobody move, I'm on it."
On the doorstep is a bright-eyed and very familiar white fox, bundled up in an ornate, heavy coat and a floral-pattern kimono.
Mangle titters on seeing Fred. "Oh, Mr. Fazbear! So good to see you!"
"Good evening," he nods, politely. "I assume you're here for--"
"There you are," Mangle announces cheerfully, trotting past Fred and into the room with a wicker basket loaded with lotions, fragrances, towels, and other spa supplies. "How are you, Foxy?"
Opening his eye, Rackham bolts up mid-snore. "Zzznnor-- huh?! Wha -- what?!"
"Oh, not you, dear," Mangle whispers upon realizing half the room's asleep, ignoring Rackham and turning to you. "Mr. Fazbear called earlier and informed Chica that you were involved in some, ah, unsavory business downtown today? What happened? Are you all right?"
"Hey, Mangle. I've been... better," you quietly admit, standing up to greet your roommate. The fashionista fox engulfs you in a tight hug, clearly uninformed about your rib damage -- you sharply inhale, but grin and bear it just the same knowing how thin-skinned Mangle can be. "I'll fill you guys in later. How's everything back h-- back at the apartment?"
"Oh, we're all just fine," Mangle replies, brandishing a row of gleaming teeth at your forehead causing you to instinctively pull away. "Bonnie and April are keeping us on our toes, but it's nothing we can't manage."
"April?" Fred chimes in curiously. "Would that be the name of the new tenant that put Mike out?"
"Inadvertently, but yes -- she's a darling," Mangle replies, stopping to shake Fred's paw. "Thank you again for hosting him for us on such short notice, Mr. Fazbear."
"Don't worry about it. What brings you by, Foxglove? It's rare to see you out and about."
Foxglove?
You raise a curious eyebrow at Mangle, who gives you a casual wink in return. "I came by to repay a debt of gratitude I owed Michael. He's been kind enough to assist me with my entrepreneurial endeavors."
"Oh, I see," the business bear says, nodding. "How helpful of him."
Rummaging through the basket, Mangle produces a pumice stone and a bottle of scented lotion. "He dropped by yesterday afternoon at lunchtime to put in a request for a favor. I'm told, Ms. Cheeky, that you're a girl in need of a therapeutic massage. Is there somewhere private we could tend to your needs?"
"What, me?" Cheeky cocks her head at you. "Was this the surprise you had in mind, Mike?"
"Hey, you said 'tired' and 'achy', didn't you? Don't knock it until you've tried it," you respond. "I got an unexpected 'therapeutic massage' myself, and after the initial shock wore off, I felt better than I have in years."
"I told you, Mike; healing paws," Mangle beams. "I may not look it, dear, but I'm every bit a licensed massage therapist."
"I'll take your word for it," Cheeky says with a dubious smirk. "I'm afraid tonight's bad timing, though, Foxglove."
Mangle's lower lip juts out in frustration. "How disappointing. When would work for you?"
"Cheeky, go on," you insist, nudging the hen. "We're all right, really."
Sighing, Cheeky looks you over in dismay. "You know you're not, Mike. Beanie's still a mess and it took you an hour just to stop shaking."
"Wait -- he's been shaking?" Mangle gasps, face falling. "What exactly happened today?"
"Jeremy Human happened," Cheeky answers bluntly.
Mangle's tail stiffens like it's been pressed flat on an ironing board. Eyes wide, the snow-white fox lets out a heavy sigh.
"I see."
"Really, Cheeky, I'd feel better if you let Mangle take care of you." Drawing a deep breath, you nod to Mangle. "Cheeky suffers from some -- uh, nerve damage? So if you could please account for that...?"
"Certainly," Mangle purrs. "Come along, honey. I promise you'll feel like a new hatchling when it's all said and done."
Clearly torn, Cheeky reluctantly decides to disembark for her massage date, if only to avoid offending you and Mangle. Standing up from the couch, she gently rearranges the pillows underneath Beanie to make the rabbit a little more comfortable before heading towards the door.
"I'll be back later," Cheeky insists as she toddles out behind your fashionista roommate. "Don't you guys go running off on me."
"No you won't," you snort as you hold the door open for her. "You'll be out like a light, trust me. Go on, Cheeky, you deserve a reprieve too."
"Just gotta be the most selfless little shit, don't you, Mike." She exhales heavily through her beak. "Well, thank you. I appreciate it."
As you let Cheeky and Mangle out, a muted cough draws your attention on your return to the living room. At the end of the west hall near the door to Fred's office stands Goldie. He gives you a polite smile and a wave, signaling to you that he'd like your attention. You turn back to the living room where Chichi, Rackham and Beanie are all still slumbering. Fred nods to you, so with a shrug, you head down the hall to see what Goldie needs.
"Hey, Goldie," you reply by way of greeting as you limp into Fred's workspace. "What's up?"
"You looked like you could use a 'reprieve' of your own," Goldie replies as he sits down at Fred's desk, a photo in one of his paws.
Warily, you take a seat on the futon across from him. "Today's been a long day. For everyone."
"And how about you?" Goldie replaces the polaroid on the corkboard before turning back to you. "How are you feeling, Mike?"
"Well, the doctor -- uh, Carrol... she says my ribs are probably fractured. She recommended that I take it easy and she'll get me some painki--"
"That's not quite what I meant," Goldie pointedly interrupts. "You said yourself to Chica that your head's not in a good place right now. What do you mean?"
"Oh, you overheard that, huh." Chica? You could have sworn you told Cheeky that, not Chichi.
Smiling, he clasps his paws carefully as you lean against the futon's backrest. "Carrol's right about one thing -- you are going into shock."
"Okay, now I know you've been eavesdropping," you grumble, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "She said that while we were in Fred's room."
"And I told you, I stay in the back," Goldie replies innocently. "Besides, the walls are thin. You understand."
You let out a heavy sigh. "I guess. To be honest with you, Goldie? Today's the worst I've felt in my entire life."
The dandelion-furred bear gives you a thin smile as he leans forward. "I can tell. You're spiraling, Mike."
You grimace at his matter-of-fact assessment of your psyche. You're not sure what makes him so qualified to make a snap judgment about someone he barely even knows, but the way he says it -- the way he lays it out so plainly, makes him seem almost authoritative.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yes, and it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. You need to get it off your chest before it gets to be too much for you."
Closing your eyes, you decide to be honest with him. "You're right. I've been seeing things all day ever since we got home -- little things I haven't noticed that are just, uh, getting to me. I'm like... ninety percent sure I've been hallucinating."
"Oh, that's not all that unusual," Goldie agrees amiably -- almost too amiably, considering the somber tone of your conversation. "You've just had a traumatic ordeal, and on top of that, you're displaced from home. I understand why you'd feel... discomfited."
"I take it you've seen your fair share of near-death experiences, then?" you return, sounding more caustic than you intend. If he notices, he pays it no mind.
"Tomorrow is another day, Mike," he replies, pushing back from the desk. "Rest up, so that you can get on with the mending process."
He politely excuses himself from Fred's study, retreating out the eastern doorway. You defiantly follow him out into the hall, where he lingers halfway, just long enough to give his brother an affable wave. Fred waves back, and Goldie crosses to the back of the apartment, retiring to his bedroom. He catches your eye and offers one last smile before closing the door behind himself.
Truthfully, you're far too high-strung to be tired, especially now that Cheeky's gone for the night, but you're also just tormented enough that you should probably heed his advice anyway. Even though you don't feel like it, you decide to return to your futon. Fluffing your pillow, you gently ease down onto your back so that you don't aggravate your injuries until Carrol can get you some painkillers.
Might as well get some sleep.
...or not.
Hours have passed, and while everyone's gone their separate ways for the night (indeed, Cheeky is probably still passed out upstairs after Mangle working that massage magic), you're no closer to sleep now than you were when you laid your head on your pillow. Your decision to not eat dinner has finally come back to haunt you; your stomach growls in protest of your incidental hunger strike.
Nothing for it. You've simply got to go hunt down a snack in the kitchen.
Checking the clock, it's only a quarter until midnight. You quietly scurry down the hall towards the now-empty common area, taking care to not make too much noise as you move past Goldie's bedroom. It's so dark with all the lights out that you nearly bang your injured leg against the coffee table as you cut across the floor; fortunately, you catch yourself just in the nick of time, saving yourself further pain.
Chichi's kitchen is well-stocked as always, but you're not in the market for a gourmet meal. Some chips or a piece of fruit will more than meet your needs. Hopefully, getting something on your stomach will help you get back to bed; your sleeping schedule's been chaotic ever since your first trip out to Jeremy's. Rummaging around in the pantry, you spot a box full of individually-packaged cheese crackers. Hoping nobody will miss them, you help yourself to a couple packages before turning to the refrigerator for something cold to drink.
Despite not wanting to gorge yourself, you're unable to resist the call of some delicious-looking applesauce in the middle of the fridge. You pour a generous amount into a bowl, then fill a glass with cold milk to wash everything down with. Hurriedly carrying your ill-gotten gains back to your room, you click the overhead light on and take a seat at Fred's desk.
The ice-cold applesauce and milk soothe your raw throat, and while the cheese crackers are nothing special, you're so hungry you'd eat shoe leather if it filled you up. Vanquishing the snacks in record time, you contentedly lean back in the rolling desk chair.
The sound of softly-whirring machinery catches your ear; Fred's computer idly hums away in front of you. You can't remember the last time you've had a clean shot at browsing the internet or playing a computer game. You feel around on the monitor for the power switch before realizing you only have to shake the mouse to wake it from standby mode. Maybe you can find something entertaining to tire yourself out with -- surely Rackham has some kind of card game loaded onto this machine, considering his poker obsession, right?
The computer wakes from its sleep, and a login screen appears with portrait icons and usernames for each of the apartment's residents: "01_freddyfazbear", "02_bonnie", "03_chica", and "04_foxy".
You can't help but wonder if that's representative of the house's pecking order too. Poor Rackham.
All four user accounts are password-protected -- a tiny padlock icon rests over them. You're half-tempted to try guessing their passwords for fun, but knowing how stern Fred can be, you don't want to upset him by accidentally setting off any kind of silent alarm or computer security measure. With a huff, you go to shut the monitor off, but as you reach for the switch, the screen scrolls over to the right revealing a familiar face and an equally familiar name.
Directly underneath a photograph of you is "05_mikeschmidt".
Curiosity ignited, you squint at the screen, rubbing your eyes to make sure you're reading it correctly. Fred must have set you up a user account and just forgot to tell you about it. Intrigued, you move the mouse over to click on your portrait. It's not password protected unlike the other accounts, and so you're able to log in easily.
The display goes dim as the hard drive cranks away in the quiet of the night. Based on the faded yellow case and the clunky monitor, this is clearly a much older model. You can practically count the individual pixels on the display once it enters desktop mode. A plain, sky-blue background greets you, three icons lined up in a uniform column on the upper left of the screen. One's a globe, the second a trash can, and the last an envelope.
You might not be familiar with the operating system, but those icons seem universal enough.
You click on the globe to load the web browser; after a few seconds, an error screen labeled "Connection not available" pops up. Does this thing really use dial-up? With a grimace, you close the browser to instead search around for some games, but after a few minutes of snooping through the file menus, there don't appear to be any pre-loaded. Of course -- whatever game software the machine has would probably be on the other user accounts, not yours.
Frustrated, you sit back in the office chair. No games, no 'net. The trash can doesn't have any files in it, so you click on the envelope out of boredom. Maybe you can at least set up a personal e-mail account for later use in case you need one.
The mail program takes half a minute to load before greeting you with a prompt.
[Check mail?]
Rolling your eyes, you click "Yes", knowing full well that not even having an account means you definitely won't have any mail. To your surprise, however, one brand new message appears in your inbox. You blink for a second, not quite believing its existence. Seems Fred really went the extra mile. With a shrug, you skim the subject line. It's probably spam anyway.
To: Mike Schmidt
Re: Employment Opportunity
From: Fazbear Entertainment
Date: 11-07-XX
"Hopefully not at Jeremy's," you shiver as you cautiously open the message.
Mr. Mike Schmidt,
Thank you for your interest in Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, a Fazbear Entertainment-owned and operated subsidiary.
We've received your application and are able to inform you we have an opening available.
We believe this opportunity would be a perfect match given your skillset of: [NONE]
Effective midnight tonight, you will be installed in the role of: [NIGHT SECURITY DETAIL]
Your non-negotiable salary will be: [$120.00] per week, made payable via cashier's check.
Your effective start date is: [TONIGHT] at [MIDNIGHT] hours and [NOW] minutes.
Please dress appropriately. On-site training will be available either in-person or via pre-recorded phone message.
(Whichever is more cost-effective.)
There is no need to reply to this automated message.
Remember to smile,
Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, LLC
A Fazbear Entertainment Subsidiary
As you're mulling it over, the grandfather clock out in the west hallway begins to chime; you'd recognize the infamous Westminster Quarters anywhere. Without warning, the computer screen flickers and wavers as if the monitor has been degaussed. After the picture resets, you're greeted with a simple black screen featuring a blinking battery icon in the lower left corner and a grid-styled map layout in the right.
"No," you mumble, feeling all at once like something's just come loose inside your chest. "No, no -- I know this. What is this?"
You reach up to run your hands through your hair, only for your fingers to bump into something foreign. Taking a hold of the object, you realize you've been wearing a hat this entire time. Yanking it off your skull, you examine it under the dingy overhead bulb. It's a peaked cap like the kind a police officer might wear, only dark green in color, with the word SECURITY embroidered across its front.
"What the shit," you breathe before realization strikes you. You hurl it away from yourself as if you've been bitten by a snake. "No, this isn't right! What's -- what the hell's going on?!"
You're no longer in Fred's familiar study, but rather a cold, drab office. The carpet's gone, replaced with a checkerboard-pattern tiled floor. Fred's desk is no longer present; in its place is an oily black table covered in cobwebs and disused CCTV monitors. The corkboard photo collection is mysteriously absent, swapped out for a collage of faded coloring-book pages and childish stick-figure drawings. If you didn't know better, you'd assume Haddock and Bonnibel had a field day with a box of crayons.
"Where am I?" you shout out into the void, standing up from your office chair.
As if in answer to your question, the desk phone lights up. Turning to look at it, you hesitate to pick up the handset. After a mere two and a half rings, however, it decides you don't get a say in the matter, answering itself instead. A familiar, pleasant voice with an inoffensive midwestern accent comes on over the speakerphone option.
"Hello? Hello? Uh, I wanted to record a message for you--"
You waste no time in ripping the offending phone off of the desk, hurling it out of the office. It disintegrates on impact with the east hallway wall, shattering into thousands of fragments across the black-and-white tile.
"No!" you firmly insist, clutching your achy ribs as you collapse in the desk chair. "No, hell no. I'm not playing this game -- not ever again!"
A dark, haunting laugh echoes out through the pizzeria in response.
"You know that counts as destruction of company property, don't you, Mr. Schmidt?" a throaty, baritone voice asks through what sounds like an electronic speaker.
Your heart's in your throat as you death-grip the table. Looking out the east-side doorway, you catch sight of a pair of glowing white pinprick eyes observing you from the darkness. A bulky figure with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a high silk hat mounted atop its head watches you from behind the glass window.
"That'll be coming out of your livelihood, one way or another."
