If there was one thing Mike Schmidt excelled at, it was not being noticed. After their initial hostility, Mike remembered a few times when the Freddy and the gang simply forgot he was there, and startled them whenever he stepped out of his office. Or, more than once when Ralph entered the pizzeria and nearly had a heart attack when he saw him. Heck, if it wasn't for the fact that his chest currently felt like someone had tap-danced on it for a few hours, Mike was pretty sure that his entire situation was just one bad dream that he'd wake up from as soon as Chica shook him awake and asked for help in baking something toxic.

He rifled through the closet, looking for the most drab piece of clothing he could muster. Mostly a collection of splotchy camo jackets, he finally found a rather oversized, brown jacket to his liking. Along with that, a hunter's cap, and some black pants, he looked like any normal schmoe on the streets. He probably wouldn't get stopped by the cops in any case, but better safe then sorry. Dressed to his satisfaction, he walked over to the giant yellow phonebook placed on the desk, sat down and reached over to flip through his pages. He paused for a moment when he noticed two large sets of indentations on the cover, sinking into the book for a few dozen pages.

Bite marks.

"Really, Chica?" he asked. He quickly flipped to the 'f's and began to thumb down each page, saying a name aloud each dozen names or so. "Farma, Fenn, Fini, Fitzgerald!"

He checked the first name. Jeremy Fitzgerald, as plain as day. Mike looked up and scrounged around for some scrap paper. Finding none, he settled on ripping one of the pages from the phonebook and writing down the number with a nearby pen. He wrote it several times, just to make sure it was the right one.

Right. He'd call Fitzgerald. Assuming he didn't hang up as soon as he mentioned Mangle or Freddy or anything related to the pizzeria at all, Mike would then ask if he knew what Mangle did with the Puppet. Or Mangle. Or the "toy" versions of Freddy and co.

"Huh," Mike said. "This made a lot more sense a few minutes ago."

He shook his head. No, now was not that time for doubt. One way or the other, he'd stop that endoskeleton from whatever the hell it was planning. Freddy believed it was going to try and revive the Puppet, somehow. Mike wasn't so sure; if that endoskeleton really was "Mangle", it was probably just as clueless as he was on how to go about reviving the Puppet.

There was also the matter of Freddy and the others themselves. Even after all that had happened, Mike still suspected they hadn't told him the whole story. What really happened in 1987, maybe, but not why they were "alive".

Whatever. He'd cross that bridge when came to it. Since his friends had just undergone a diagnostic, he had a five month window to stop the thing before they shut back down and it almost certainly came for him. The memory of that monster's red eyes staring straight into his own made him reflexively pull his index finger as if he was holding the gun again, slightly confused at first when nothing fired. He remembered that he'd put Ralph's revolver back inside the glove box on the drive over.

Judging from Freddy's story and his own experience, at least the endoskeleton wasn't invincible. If it came down to it, he could always try running it over with the truck.

He had everything he needed. He checked the number one more time before stuffing it into his pocket and heading out. The others will still milling about, and waved to them as he walked over to the truck. Foxy was standing next to it, one eyebrow raised.

"Aye w-wouldn't be r-recommendin' ye b-b-be usin' the truck," he said.

"And why's that?" he asked.

Foxy pointed to the truck's ruined windshield with his hook.

Mike didn't get what Foxy was trying to say until a moment later, responding with a curt "oh."

"If the t-townsfolk b-be seein' that, they mi-mi-might start askin' questions."

Mike rubbed in chin in contemplation. "You're right. I still really want to call Fitzgerald. Hmmmmm."

He thought for a second before lighting up with realization. "Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure there's a gas station down the road that has a payphone. It's sort-of within walking distance."

"Ye d-don't mean to be g-goin' alone, do you?"

"I'm pretty sure you following me would cause more problems than it'd solve."

"I'm n-not d-daft, lad. I'll st-st-stick to the w-woods, out of sight."

Foxy sound like he had made up his mind in any case. Mike shrugged, but still opened the door to the truck and leaned over, popping open the glovebox. He grabbed some spare change and the revolver. The trip would probably be uneventful, but it was nice to have insurance.

He leaned back out and placed the gun into the back of his pants, then turned to the others. "Alright. Me and Foxy are gonna head to the gas station. We'll be back in a few hours."

"Bye, Mike!" Chica called. Bonnie and Freddy simply waved, watching the fox and the guard slowly retreat and eventually disappear into the thickening trees and brush.

With their backs turned to the cabin, none of them noticed a gray blur swiftly move from the forest's canopy to the ground, scuttling away with unnatural speed.

Meanwhile, Mike's chest began to throb once more. While at first he was afraid he'd broken some ribs, now he believed he was fortunate enough to get away with some very nasty bruises. But that pain felt...different. Like how he felt someone who suffered from arthritis complained about the onset of a storm. Foxy kept close, his unpatched eye slowly scanning the trees.

They walked for a while further, until they finally reached the highway. Foxy had already wandered off to the side, barely visible behind the thick line of trees. He waved to Mike, and the guard nodded, stepping onto the asphalt and walking eastward.

A lonesome road stretched out in front of him, slowly disappearing over the horizon. The gas station in question was lay beyond that, and it would probably be evening before they even got back.

With a single sigh, Mike began to walk. A car would pass him every so often, and one person even offered him a lift. He declined, not wanting to leave Foxy behind in the woods. Besides the pirate, he had a really uneasy feeling that something else was following him, and he had a pretty good idea who.

The sun had moved quite a bit in the sky as the gas station's price sign slowly appeared over a hill, along with the covered roof of the fuel pumps. Foxy had been rather quiet for most of the walk, mostly sharpening his hook as if anticipating trouble.

Before the got any closer, he called over to the pirate. "Hey, you might wanna sit there. If you get any closer, people might see you."

Foxy nodded, and Mike resumed his walk towards the station. He walked past the pumps with no interruptions, and the cashier paid him barely any mind as a dull tone sounded as he opened the glass door. He looked around once, finding the blue payphone on the far side of the store, covered in scratches and crude graffiti.

He walked over, pulling out the piece of paper to read the number. After inserting a few coins into the slot, he carefully dialed Fitzgerald's number, and listened to the ring tone with slow breaths.

One ring. Nothing.

Two rings. Nothing.

Three rings. He probably wasn't even home.

Just as the fourth ring was about to end, Mike heard the phone being taken off the hook.

"Hello?" an older male voice answered.

Mike froze up. He honestly hadn't thought about what he'd say to Fitzgerald.

"Hello?" the voice asked again, with a twinge of impatience in his tone. Mike once again failed to give an answer, and he heard an annoyed grunt flow out form the speaker, followed by a soft click.

He put the rest of his change into the phone and dialed the number again. This time, it was answered immediately, and from the sound of it, forcefully.

"Hello?" the voice asked again, now downright cross.

"Hey, is this Jeremy Fitzgerald?"

The voice softened slightly. "Yeah? You a telemarketer?"

"Er, no."

"Then why are you calling?"

"Well—"

"Look, I'm not in the mood for crank calls right now. Goodbye."

Mike heard rustling on the other end of the line, and he raced to think of anything to catch Fitzgerald's attention.

"1987!" he shouted. The cashier briefly glanced over to Mike, then resumed reading her magazine.

He heard breathing on the other end, so he knew the man hadn't hung up. "What'd you say?"

"1987."

What sounded like a chair being scraped across the floor came out from the phone, and then a harried, long breath. "Who is this?"

"My name's Mike Schmidt."

"Who?"

"Uh, have you been watching the news?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"Did you hear anything about a certain pizzeria burning down?"

A beat. "Yeah?"

"I...worked the night shift there."

"The news said the manager and night shift guy died in the fire."

Mike covered the speaker and whispered his next sentence. "That's not entirely true. You used to work for Freddy Fazbear's, yeah? And then something happened in 1987 that made you quit?"

"If you don't want me to call the cops right this second, you're going to tell me how you know this."

"Freddy."

Another beat. "Keep talking."

"Look, I didn't bring much change with me for this payphone, so I'll have to keep it short. I was staying overtime, and the manager came in. Then...something came out of the backstage area, and killed him. Almost killed me. I started the fire so they wouldn't think I was the one who murdered him."

"What's the 'something' that killed him? Those fu—"

"Before you say anything, it wasn't the robots. Not really."

There was another long beat. Mike hoped he wouldn't run out of time before he could explain what was happening.

"Where are you?" he finally asked. "We're not going to discuss this over the phone."

"I'm, uh, at the gas station. The one a few miles east out of town. You know where it is?"

"Yeah. I'll be in the red car. Goodbye."

And with that, Fitzgerald hung up. It would likely be a good half-hour before the car in question showed up, so with a shrug he hung up the phone and walked back outside. He slowly scanned around the highway. He couldn't see Foxy, which was the whole point.

Still, he had to let him know that he was able to call Fitzgerald. He jogged across the highway, and carefully walked into the treeline. He called Foxy's name once, then saw the pirate slowly slide out from behind a tree.

"Ye able t-t-to call h-h-him?" he asked, while sharpening his hook. Once again, it was a mystery as to where he got the flint.

"Yep. He didn't want to talk over the phone, though. He said he'll come by in a red car and we'll see what happens from there."

"F-f-fair enough. I'll be k-keepin' watch here, th-then."

Mike nodded and turned around, walking back to the highway. He stepped across the road, heading back inside the store. He didn't want them to accuse him of loitering, so he bought a tabloid from the magazine rack, then sat down in the small diner area and read while he wait for the car in question.

Just as he was getting to the last article, which accused the queen of England of being a secret reptile in disguise, he saw a flash of red. He looked up to see a rather expensive crimson car pulling into the lot. He saw the door open, and out stepped a rather beleaguered-looking man in a white shirt and tie. The man looked a bit older than Mike, with with just barely graying hair and a slight tan. He shut the door and stepped inside the gas station, looking around intently.

Mike raised his hand, not looking up from the magazine. He caught the man's eye and he walked over, hesitantly sitting down in the filthy seat and leaning in.

"Mike Schmidt?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We'll talk in the car."

"But—"

"I was home for lunch and had to take the rest of the day off for our little meeting. I said: we'll talk in the car."

Mike didn't want to argue. He set the magazine down, following the man to the red sports car. After they had both sat inside, he turned the ignition. The car hummed to life, and they backed up and turned around, gliding out of the parking lot. Mike did his best to wave from the window to where he thought Foxy was, letting him know everything was okay.

They drove for a few minutes, until they pulled off to the side of the road. The car went silent as the man twisted the key, then turned to Mike with a glare.

"In 1987 I was a security guard for Fazbear Entertainment. On November 16th of that same year, I stopped being a security guard for Fazbear Entertainment. And apparently you know why. How?"

"Well, you weren't the only witness."

"The only other man there that night died. I was there when it happened."

"You weren't the only human witness," Mike corrected.

Fitzgerald rolled his eyes. "What, did one of the robots tell you?"

"Yes, actually."

The man opened his mouth to shoot back some retort, but his reply was cut short as realization washed over his face.

"Who?" he demanded.

"Freddy."

"The older one, I'm guessing. The new one had a mean streak a mile long. All the toys ones did."

"That's the gist of it, yeah."

Fizgerald stared ahead for a moment, then resumed his questions. "So what do you want? You set the pizzeria on fire, then come running to me? If you're hoping I'll protect you just because we both—"

Mike waved his hands defensively. "Nononono. It's—a lot more complex than that. Look, do you remember the Puppet?"

He groaned. "I still get nightmares about that thing. What of it?"

"Do you remember what happened to it after that night in November? Like, what the police or the company did with it? Or any of the toy animatronics?"

Fitzgerald crossed his arms. "What happened that night was sort of a wake-up call for me. Almost dying for a minimum wage job? No thanks. So I went back to college, and managed to land myself a pretty nice career."

"In what?"

"IT."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Right after it happened, I figured the robots that got wrecked were sold off for scrap or something. But a few years ago, I got curious. Did some searching. Not all of it was entirely legal, if you catch my drift. Anyway, after the pizzeria closed down the first time, the police kept the wrecked robots for a while, then actually did just send them to the city dump. As far as I know, they're still there. Except that one that was basically a skeleton anyway. For whatever reason, the company sued to keep it for 'spare parts' or some crap."

"Foxy ripped her in half, right?"

Jeremy nodded. "Yeah," he said, the raised a finger. "But get this: that long, skinny bastard? The police van that was gonna take it to the station for evidence crashed. Like, rolled five times on the highway and then wrapped itself around a tree. Then caught on fire."

"And the Puppet?"

He cleared his throat. "The official report was 'evidence assumed destroyed in the crash'. But they didn't find anything. No metal, no plastic, not one chip of paint. And here's the part where...my searching wasn't entirely legal. The cops in the van didn't die from the crash, or even the fire."

"What from?"

"The coroner noted crushed windpipes on the driver and the passenger. They just kind of ignored it since the crash itself was so bad, but normally they'd give only one verdict. Strangulation."

"You don't think—"

"Before we go any further, I need to know what's going on with you. From what I can tell, you're apparently on speaking terms with the older animatronics. How, and why did you burn down the pizzeria?"

Mike sucked in a new breath of air. "After I spent a few weeks at the place and refused to quit, I actually started getting along with them pretty well."

Jeremy simply listened. "Alright."

"Well, one night they told me they'd be turning off for the rest of the night to do some kind of system diagnostic."

"Kay."

"That night, we got robbed. I ended up having wrestle one guy over his taser, and I got shot by the other one. He would have killed me if Freddy and the others hadn't 'woken up'."

"I heard about that. They never found the other robber."

"You can probably guess why. Anyway, when I was fighting the first guy over his taser, I ended up shocking this endoskeleton that'd been sitting in the room for years. One of the halves of Mangle they tried to repair, apparently."

"Uh huh...?"

"Fast forward to really early this morning. During the night I find this old costume. I call the manager so he can haul it off. When he gets there, the endoskeleton busted out of the room and attacked us."

"And then what?"

"It bit his face off. Beat the hell out of me. The guys were doing another diagnostic and only just were able to wake up again to save me. I was pretty sure I'd get blamed for Ralph dying, so I...burned down the pizzeria. Apparently, the cops bought it. Now I'm holed up at my dad's old cabin with the others while we think of what to do next."

Jeremy held up his hand. "Wait wait wait. They followed you?"

"I guess? I mean, they're my friends. Hell, Foxy followed me to the gas station to make sure that thing didn't ambush me on the way here."

"What the—is he out there right now?"

"I think so," Mike said, opening the car door against Jeremy's protests. He looked down the highway both ways before shouting out into the treeline. "Hey, Foxy! You there?"

He heard some rustling, and they both saw a red fox head peek out from behind a tree quite a ways behind him. Foxy waved his hook a few times before retreating back into hiding.

Jeremy simply stared. "We were going like seventy miles an hour. How—"

"You've never seen Foxy move," Mike replied with a half-laugh. "But uh, about the Puppet. Freddy thinks that somehow, that endoskeleton...Mangle's going to try and find the Puppet. Bring him back, somehow."

"How?"

"I didn't think to ask. Finding you's been my top priority. I was hoping you'd know where the Puppet was, but considering it just straight-up vanished..."

Mike's well-dressed counterpart leaned his head back in the vinyl chair and blew air. "God help me. Look, I can't guarantee anything, but when I found out what happened to that van the first time I went delving, I pretty much stopped my digging right then and there. Didn't sleep for like three days. I'll...do some more digging. Where's this cabin you're at?"

Mike pointed behind them. "A good ways back that way. You'll see turn off the main highway that has this old rotted house next to it. Go down that road, and you'll find the cabin."

"Right. I guess if you sit tight there for a few days, I'll come back with whatever I scan scrounge up."

"Yeah. Wait, the road to the cabin is pretty rough. You sure this car can make it?"

"I have a truck, too. Don't want to be a jerk, but you're probably gonna have to walk back. I'm risking enough as it is with a guy in my car that's supposed to be dead."

"Yeah, good point. I guess I'll see myself out."

Mike opened the car door, but as he turned around to close it, Jeremy pointed at him. "And hey, we never talked, and we never met, right?"

"Ri—"

Mike's words trailed off as he saw something rise over the horizon. A huge column of smoke and fire, billowing out into a vaguely mushroom shape as it rose higher and higher. Jeremy saw it too, and slowly got out of the car to stare at the fireball behind them.

The sound came a few seconds later. A low, deep thud.

"The gas station," Jeremy breathed. He turned to Mike. "Get in!"

Mike jumped back inside as Jeremy hit the ignition. The car's engine roared to life and he stamped the pedal. Smoke poured out from the car's tires as it quickly turned around and headed toward the inferno. Behind the trees, Foxy kept pace an even pace alongside the sports car, hook raised.

Blatantly ignoring the speed limit, the flaming remnants of the station appeared into view it just a few minutes. There was little left, save the blackened frame of the store, burning vehicles and—

"No," Mike whispered.

In front of the red glow of fire and black columns of smoke, he could see a figure standing amongst the flames, yellow suit glowing in front of the fire. It slowly turned around. Two eyes, one glowing red and the other dark and nonfunctioning, stared at them.

Even when partly obscured by its ill-fitting Golden Freddy head, he could see its metal lips move up and down to its electronic voice. Over the roar of the flames, he made out the words.

"It's me."

"No!" Mike screamed at the figure. He slammed his fists on the dashboard as it began walking toward them.

"Jesus Christ!" Jeremy shouted, throwing the car into reverse.

The endoskeleton screeched, throwing its arms wide and charging the car. It moved with unnatural speed, coming upon them before they'd even turned around. As it raised one fist to smash the windshield, they both felt a sold thunk that accompanied a dent appearing on the roof of their car. The endoskeleton looked up, and screeched once more before Foxy's hit it square in the chest with a dropkick. Foxy fell out of view behind the front of the car, and the endoskeleton was thrown several feet back. It scrambled up quickly, but paused when Foxy rose to his feet, hook raised.

It let out a final screech before running into the flames, out of sight.

Foxy turned to them both. "What are y-ye waitin f-fer? Get outta here!" he shouted with a wave of his hook. He turned back, sprinting into the fire after the monstrosity.

He didn't have to tell Jeremy twice. He put the car into drive and flew down the highway. After a few seconds, he slammed on the brakes and turned to Mike.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I'll stay behind. Tell the cops something hit my roof. If they find you, they'll know you started that fire. Hell, they'll probably think you did this one. Get out! Get back to the cabin!"

The former guard weakly nodded and scrambled out of the car. As soon he shut the door, the car once again turned around on a dime and headed back to the inferno.

He ran towards the treeline, hoping to be out of sight before the authorities arrived. When he reached the rows of bark, he took one last look at the carnage before heading into the woods.

Somewhere, not too far away, a metallic roar echoed through the forest.