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Description
This bus ride is only a bit less awkward than the last one. Mike's retrieved his scarf and his gloves are covering his mangled fingers, but that doesn't hide everything. His bruises have had an extra day to bloom, and bloom they have. He looks like a Jackson Pollock painting. And then there's Fritz, hair half-shaved and half wild, wearing a lethal glare and a shirt more hole than fabric. His shoulders are deliberately slouched. He's scowling fiercely so it draws more attention to the posts in his lip, ears, and tongue than to the face behind them. People are staring, and not in a good way.

Mike can't really bring himself to complain or even resent it. He's still so tired. Every part of him is too heavy, even his thoughts. Especially his thoughts.

“You didn't need to come with me,” he says after five minutes of silence.

“Who's doing what now?” Fritz replies, tapping aggressively at his phone screen. “I've got business where you're going, that's all.”

“Uh huh. What kind of business?”

“Microdermal piercing. Right here.” He taps the back of his neck. “There's a studio in the strip mall nearby. Been meaning to drop in for a while.”

“Isn't that expensive?” Mike asks.

Minimum wage isn't much to live on, let alone get new piercings. Though he's not sure Fritz cares.

Dark brown eyes flick up just long enough to catch Mike's attention. Then they're gone, their owner once again immersed in his game.

“Got some associates who work there. They give me better prices.”

Mike sighs and looks out the window. Fair enough.

He's not sure what to say to Fritz. It's all well and good to talk about wanting to connect with people, but when it comes time to walk the walk, Mike backs down. He's not good at people. Not in any meaningful way. He can argue or engage in smalltalk or fake a smile and feign interest like the best of them, but anything with real weight behind it? No. It's just so much easier to keep smiling and drift away. Or lash out and drive everyone else away.

Yesterday, he had indignation and fear to drive him. Today, he's just... empty. So he sits in his slightly stained blue seat, avoiding the gum stuck to the floor in front of him, and watches the world outside.

Small town grunge is different from city grunge. In a place small enough for everyone to know everyone else, by sight if not by name, grunge takes the form of quietly abandoned buildings with overgrown lawns and fields full of crumbling refuse. In cities, grunge is flickering neon and broken windows, tall skinny buildings bound with rusty fire exits and streets that no one bothers to pave. It doesn't come in tiny hidden pockets, pasted over with deliberate ignorance. You can always tell when part of a city is bleeding.

Even Freddy's, with its very foundation built upon lies, is honest in that regard. One broken-down restaurant surrounded by empty lots, marketing itself with publicly acknowledged robots. It's not like anyone's pretending the pizzeria is normal. They didn't have to. Mike knew something was off the moment he saw it and he still went in. That's how urban grunge works: it tricks you into thinking you know what you're walking into. That you know the risks. That the worst thing that could happen is a mugging, or a beating, or a rape. And yet somehow, he's far more comfortable with this than the deceptive nature of small towns. Take these last few nights into account, and the two years he spent with Uncle Jack were still the most unpleasant of his life. Aunt Sharon – he doesn't like her, doesn't trust her, but she's better than the alternative.

He still wants out, though, which is what brought him to this part of town in the first place. The real irony is that it's not that far from her house. He could walk there right now, if he pressed himself. He doesn't. He waits for his stop and disembarks just a block or so away from his destination. Fritz stays on the bus. They hardly spoke – hardly even looked at each other – but Mike is still acutely aware of his coworkers' absence. He walks faster than usual, goosebumps prickling beneath his mended jacket, and nearly drowns in relief when he spots the tell-tale neon sign.

The corner store never really changes. Same stained sidewalk, same ugly facade, same annoying chime when the door opens. He doesn't recognize the girl at the counter, but judging by the blank look on her face, she doesn't recognize him, either. This job isn't really a social position. At least, not for him.

He says hi and heads for the back, unwinding Lissa's scarf as he does so. These clothes aren't suitable – there is a dress code, after all – but he's got in the habit of leaving a spare set in his locker. Keeps him from having to double back to Aunt Sharon's house to change. He gets dressed in the tiny bathroom, with its moldy smell and graffiti-covered tiles, and gets on the till just in time for his shift. His arm aches. The girl gives him a quiet nod and leaves, colourful bag slung over her shoulder. He's alone, with only the buzz of old light fixtures and the whir of the slush machine.

When he closes his eyes, he sees red staring back at him.

It's a slow day, thank god, because nap or no nap, Mike's nerves can't handle any more than this. Everything's too bright. The constant hum is wearing him down. His shirt is too thick, the heavy fabric trapping heat and sweat until it's uncomfortable to move. And when he does get a customer, he keeps tripping over his lines. He's been working here for three years, ever since he left school, and he's never done such an awful job of it before.

Fritz comes in at 5:25, carrying his jacket, and heads straight for the slush machine. A surge of relief brings a smile to Mike's face.

“Hey,” he says. “You're early.”

“You get a discount on these things?”

“Are you seriously asking me to buy food for you?”

“It was implied,” Fritz says, unashamed. “And if you're defining slushies as food, you need to go back to school.”

The words are careless, no more barbed than anything else that comes out of Fritz's mouth, but Mike finds himself stiffening up anyway. He keeps smiling, but it still gets noticed. Fritz, Mike is starting to realize, is a very observant individual.

He doesn't apologize. What he does is take three giant paper cups, plop them under the spout, and say, “Not like I should talk, but whatever. I'll take three.”

On one hand, being read so easily leaves him wanting to hiss and bite something. On the other hand, it's kind of nice to have his feelings acknowledged. Mike doesn't want to spend too much time thinking about that, so he spends the last minutes of his shift being horrified at how full those cups end up instead. Fritz doesn't even pretend he'd going to put the lids on – there's no way they would fit. It's just three mountains of blue ice juice, towering over their containers, threatening to stain everything nearby. When the guy with the next shift comes out of the back, tugging nervously at his collar, Mike nearly jumps over the counter in his haste to escape.

“I'm clocking out,” he says in a rush. “Ring these up, will you?”

The guy stares for a second, then looks past him and freezes in place. Mike seizes the opportunity to slip away. The door to the back is open, and he closes it and reaches for the lock without thinking. He's got his locker halfway open before he remembers this is the wrong backroom. They're supposed to leave this door open. Company policy. He retraces his steps awkwardly and fumbled with the lock, letting the door swing open just a bit. It feels wrong. He backs away, shuddering, and empties out his locker so he can leave faster.

When he emerges, Fritz is standing by the counter, effortlessly balancing all three overfull cups and his jacket, lapping at the first slushie. The new clerk is still staring at him wordlessly. Mike doesn't want to know what he's thinking. The expression on his face – pure horror mixed with confused arousal – is more than enough already.

“Do you, um, need help with those?” he asks, more to be polite than out of any real concern.

Fritz gives him a contemptuous look and strolls pointedly outside, leaving Mike to follow suit. After five and a half hours of shelter and artificial lighting, outside is blindingly bright. Mike trails along behind Fritz for five minutes, rubbing his eyes, before he thinks to ask where they're going.

“To get you a phone,” Fritz says, with an implied duh at the end.

Right, right. One problem.

“I don't really have the money for that.”

A thin smile. “Good news – Scott does. Thanks to him, there's a little budget dedicated to getting us work phones. He does most of the shopping, but he always gets the shitty ones from this one place, so fuck that noise, I'm getting you something that's more than a glorified walkie talkie. It won't be military grade, but it'll actually let you connect to the internet, which is more than Jeremy can say.”

Mike takes a second to absorb that.

“Is this in the contract?”

If rolling your eyes was a sport, Fritz would be an Olympian.

“When do you think that contract was written? Smartphones weren't even a thing back then. No, this is just a little agreement between night guards. There's a lot of them, try and keep up.”

There's not as much staring as they make their way to the strip mall. Probably because they don't really stick out anymore. The thing about living in this part of town? There's a lot of people with weird haircuts and too many piercings, even more with sallow skin and baggage under their eyes. The bruises might have drawn attention, but Mike's still wearing his work outfit. That plus gloves plus scarf means he's almost totally covered. It'd be different if his injured arm was exposed – probably – but it was dressed so neatly that you can't even tell it's been hurt. Most of last night, he honestly forgot the wound was there. Adrenaline and exhaustion are not a good mix.

Now it's definitely making its presence known, but Mike bears with it. Last night – no, two nights ago – he was caught off guard. His feet are on firmer ground now. And he's not in the habit of showing weakness.

Inside the mall, Fritz wastes no time herding him over to a tiny little electronics shop. Mike's nineteen, but he's only bought a phone once, back in high school. It was a flip-phone but almost no features, basically a tiny brick. These devices all look too good for him. He hangs back and lets Fritz handle most of it. Fritz is the one with the money, after all.

The process doesn't take as long as he thought it would. Fifteen minutes of skulking in the back, trying not to breath on the glass displays, and then Fritz is stomping out with a plastic bag he dumps in Mike's hand as he passes, somehow managing not to drop any of his drinks. Mike's not expecting that. He fumbles and ends up jarring his arm. Fritz pauses and gives him a careful once-over.
“Your arm's fucked up, isn't it.”

It's not a question. Mike holds the bag in his other hand and tucks the offending limb carefully behind him. His lack of an answer is answer enough. Fritz's mouth twists as he turns away. Mike watches him, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Well?” Fritz snaps after a second. “You coming or what?”

Anger. Frustration. Something that might be labelled concern. He doesn't lash out and his hands stay by his sides, so Mike moves to follow him. And follow he does, because he's not particularly familiar with the path Fritz takes him down. Mike isn't the kind of outsider who attracts or gravitates toward other misfits. Fritz, on the other hand...

The new piercing on the back of his neck says it all, really. Two silver studs placed side by side in the middle of his spine. They look uncomfortable, rebellious, like they were probably dangerous to insert. They get twice the staring Mike does, most of it from Mike himself. He can't help it, okay? He really can't. He's walking right behind Fritz, half his attention on the pizzeria – on Bonnie – and the other half trying vainly to keep himself anchored to the present so he doesn't walk into something. Watching the little silver balls in their nest of reddened skin gives him something to focus on. The way they move with each step is kind of mesmerizing.

By the time he comes back to his senses, they're tucked into a corner at the back of a rundown piercing salon. There's chairs. Plastic chairs. And not the good kind. Fritz puts his drinks on one, then grabs a second and turns it around so he can straddle it, resting his arms on the back. Mike wishes he were tall enough to do that. But he isn't, so he sits normally and without comment.

Not on the chairs, anyways.

“Why are we here?”

Fritz smirks. “Fun fact. This salon? Belongs to an ex-employee. We can talk about whatever we like here.”

“Ex-employee?” Mike parrots. His eyes feel like they're popping out of their sockets.
A nod. “Her name's Aimee. She did dishwashing for the day shift till they ran low on night guards and asked her to transfer. She stayed one night and got out while the getting was good. Cursed me out for a good half hour when she heard I'd taken the job, but she lets me bitch about it to her, so it can't be that traumatizing a memory.”

Mike thinks of his first night, of the strange calm that had settled over him as Bonnie loomed over him. The way the fear blended with the awe and the anger to produce something indescribable, some nameless, wordless thing that lasted only until the bell. Is that a traumatic memory? He's not sure. He wouldn't call it one, but he's also seeing red every time he closes his eyes, so.

“So,” Fritz says, drumming his fingers on the chairback. “Your arm. The fuck happened?”

“My shoulder,” Mike says, fingers twitching toward the area in question. “It happened before my shift. There was this girl. She was... saying things. Scott got me out of the conversation by asking me to find a kid who'd wandered into Pirate's Cove.”

“Cut yourself back there? Don't blame you. Lots of sharp edges.”

Mike shakes his head. “I ran into Foxy. He wasn't happy to see me.”

Fritz snaps his head up so fast Mike's surprised he doesn't break his neck. “You what?”

“Ran into Foxy. He kind of...” Mike drags his fingers through the air above his shoulder in a clawing motion. “Thought he was gonna rip me apart, but he just scratched me a bit. Even called Bonnie to come fix me up. Probably because the kid noticed the blood.”

“The fuck,” Fritz says, eyes still a little too wide. “First Bonnie gets his hand around your neck, then Foxy scratches up your shoulder. If Freddy bites you, I'm washing my hands of this whole shitstorm.”

“Is it that weird?”

“So weird. So, so weird. How are you still alive?”

Mike opens his mouth and realizes he has nothing to say. He settles for shrugging, which is the worst idea he's had all week, up to and including taking the night guard job. Ow, ow ow.

“Keep that still, dumbass,” Fritz says, getting up to take a look. His hands are quick but steady as he peels back the coat, running one finger carefully over the bandage. “It's good work. Guess that's to be expected. Bonnie's a professional.”

“Yeah. He is.”

Having someone so close is odd, and these gentle touches are raising the hairs on the back of Mike's neck. He's quietly grateful when Fritz moves away, sprawling back over his own shitty chair.

“While we're talking about the rabbit, I need to know – exactly what has he been saying to you?”

“Uh. Normal stuff, mostly. He asked if he could take my order yesterday, when it looked like he was going to grab me or something. This morning, though...” Mike shivers, despite having his jacket back. “He commented on my shoulder injury. Said it was 'just a scratch.' And then he asked for my jacket and said I'd get it back tomorrow – that's today. And then...”

Red blood.

Red eyes.

Red red red.

“He knew my name,” Mike says softly, as if being quiet about it could change the facts. “And he said he'd be the one to kill me.”

Description
This bus ride is only a bit less awkward than the last one. Mike's retrieved his scarf and his gloves are covering his mangled fingers, but that doesn't hide everything. His bruises have had an extra day to bloom, and bloom they have. He looks like a Jackson Pollock painting. And then there's Fritz, hair half-shaved and half wild, wearing a lethal glare and a shirt more hole than fabric. His shoulders are deliberately slouched. He's scowling fiercely so it draws more attention to the posts in his lip, ears, and tongue than to the face behind them. People are staring, and not in a good way.

Mike can't really bring himself to complain or even resent it. He's still so tired. Every part of him is too heavy, even his thoughts. Especially his thoughts.

“You didn't need to come with me,” he says after five minutes of silence.

“Who's doing what now?” Fritz replies, tapping aggressively at his phone screen. “I've got business where you're going, that's all.”

“Uh huh. What kind of business?”

“Microdermal piercing. Right here.” He taps the back of his neck. “There's a studio in the strip mall nearby. Been meaning to drop in for a while.”

“Isn't that expensive?” Mike asks.

Minimum wage isn't much to live on, let alone get new piercings. Though he's not sure Fritz cares.

Dark brown eyes flick up just long enough to catch Mike's attention. Then they're gone, their owner once again immersed in his game.

“Got some associates who work there. They give me better prices.”

Mike sighs and looks out the window. Fair enough.

He's not sure what to say to Fritz. It's all well and good to talk about wanting to connect with people, but when it comes time to walk the walk, Mike backs down. He's not good at people. Not in any meaningful way. He can argue or engage in smalltalk or fake a smile and feign interest like the best of them, but anything with real weight behind it? No. It's just so much easier to keep smiling and drift away. Or lash out and drive everyone else away.

Yesterday, he had indignation and fear to drive him. Today, he's just... empty. So he sits in his slightly stained blue seat, avoiding the gum stuck to the floor in front of him, and watches the world outside.

Small town grunge is different from city grunge. In a place small enough for everyone to know everyone else, by sight if not by name, grunge takes the form of quietly abandoned buildings with overgrown lawns and fields full of crumbling refuse. In cities, grunge is flickering neon and broken windows, tall skinny buildings bound with rusty fire exits and streets that no one bothers to pave. It doesn't come in tiny hidden pockets, pasted over with deliberate ignorance. You can always tell when part of a city is bleeding.

Even Freddy's, with its very foundation built upon lies, is honest in that regard. One broken-down restaurant surrounded by empty lots, marketing itself with publicly acknowledged robots. It's not like anyone's pretending the pizzeria is normal. They didn't have to. Mike knew something was off the moment he saw it and he still went in. That's how urban grunge works: it tricks you into thinking you know what you're walking into. That you know the risks. That the worst thing that could happen is a mugging, or a beating, or a rape. And yet somehow, he's far more comfortable with this than the deceptive nature of small towns. Take these last few nights into account, and the two years he spent with Uncle Jack were still the most unpleasant of his life. Aunt Sharon – he doesn't like her, doesn't trust her, but she's better than the alternative.

He still wants out, though, which is what brought him to this part of town in the first place. The real irony is that it's not that far from her house. He could walk there right now, if he pressed himself. He doesn't. He waits for his stop and disembarks just a block or so away from his destination. Fritz stays on the bus. They hardly spoke – hardly even looked at each other – but Mike is still acutely aware of his coworkers' absence. He walks faster than usual, goosebumps prickling beneath his mended jacket, and nearly drowns in relief when he spots the tell-tale neon sign.

The corner store never really changes. Same stained sidewalk, same ugly facade, same annoying chime when the door opens. He doesn't recognize the girl at the counter, but judging by the blank look on her face, she doesn't recognize him, either. This job isn't really a social position. At least, not for him.

He says hi and heads for the back, unwinding Lissa's scarf as he does so. These clothes aren't suitable – there is a dress code, after all – but he's got in the habit of leaving a spare set in his locker. Keeps him from having to double back to Aunt Sharon's house to change. He gets dressed in the tiny bathroom, with its moldy smell and graffiti-covered tiles, and gets on the till just in time for his shift. His arm aches. The girl gives him a quiet nod and leaves, colourful bag slung over her shoulder. He's alone, with only the buzz of old light fixtures and the whir of the slush machine.

When he closes his eyes, he sees red staring back at him.

It's a slow day, thank god, because nap or no nap, Mike's nerves can't handle any more than this. Everything's too bright. The constant hum is wearing him down. His shirt is too thick, the heavy fabric trapping heat and sweat until it's uncomfortable to move. And when he does get a customer, he keeps tripping over his lines. He's been working here for three years, ever since he left school, and he's never done such an awful job of it before.

Fritz comes in at 5:25, carrying his jacket, and heads straight for the slush machine. A surge of relief brings a smile to Mike's face.

“Hey,” he says. “You're early.”

“You get a discount on these things?”

“Are you seriously asking me to buy food for you?”

“It was implied,” Fritz says, unashamed. “And if you're defining slushies as food, you need to go back to school.”

The words are careless, no more barbed than anything else that comes out of Fritz's mouth, but Mike finds himself stiffening up anyway. He keeps smiling, but it still gets noticed. Fritz, Mike is starting to realize, is a very observant individual.

He doesn't apologize. What he does is take three giant paper cups, plop them under the spout, and say, “Not like I should talk, but whatever. I'll take three.”

On one hand, being read so easily leaves him wanting to hiss and bite something. On the other hand, it's kind of nice to have his feelings acknowledged. Mike doesn't want to spend too much time thinking about that, so he spends the last minutes of his shift being horrified at how full those cups end up instead. Fritz doesn't even pretend he'd going to put the lids on – there's no way they would fit. It's just three mountains of blue ice juice, towering over their containers, threatening to stain everything nearby. When the guy with the next shift comes out of the back, tugging nervously at his collar, Mike nearly jumps over the counter in his haste to escape.

“I'm clocking out,” he says in a rush. “Ring these up, will you?”

The guy stares for a second, then looks past him and freezes in place. Mike seizes the opportunity to slip away. The door to the back is open, and he closes it and reaches for the lock without thinking. He's got his locker halfway open before he remembers this is the wrong backroom. They're supposed to leave this door open. Company policy. He retraces his steps awkwardly and fumbled with the lock, letting the door swing open just a bit. It feels wrong. He backs away, shuddering, and empties out his locker so he can leave faster.

When he emerges, Fritz is standing by the counter, effortlessly balancing all three overfull cups and his jacket, lapping at the first slushie. The new clerk is still staring at him wordlessly. Mike doesn't want to know what he's thinking. The expression on his face – pure horror mixed with confused arousal – is more than enough already.

“Do you, um, need help with those?” he asks, more to be polite than out of any real concern.

Fritz gives him a contemptuous look and strolls pointedly outside, leaving Mike to follow suit. After five and a half hours of shelter and artificial lighting, outside is blindingly bright. Mike trails along behind Fritz for five minutes, rubbing his eyes, before he thinks to ask where they're going.

“To get you a phone,” Fritz says, with an implied duh at the end.

Right, right. One problem.

“I don't really have the money for that.”

A thin smile. “Good news – Scott does. Thanks to him, there's a little budget dedicated to getting us work phones. He does most of the shopping, but he always gets the shitty ones from this one place, so fuck that noise, I'm getting you something that's more than a glorified walkie talkie. It won't be military grade, but it'll actually let you connect to the internet, which is more than Jeremy can say.”

Mike takes a second to absorb that.

“Is this in the contract?”

If rolling your eyes was a sport, Fritz would be an Olympian.

“When do you think that contract was written? Smartphones weren't even a thing back then. No, this is just a little agreement between night guards. There's a lot of them, try and keep up.”

There's not as much staring as they make their way to the strip mall. Probably because they don't really stick out anymore. The thing about living in this part of town? There's a lot of people with weird haircuts and too many piercings, even more with sallow skin and baggage under their eyes. The bruises might have drawn attention, but Mike's still wearing his work outfit. That plus gloves plus scarf means he's almost totally covered. It'd be different if his injured arm was exposed – probably – but it was dressed so neatly that you can't even tell it's been hurt. Most of last night, he honestly forgot the wound was there. Adrenaline and exhaustion are not a good mix.

Now it's definitely making its presence known, but Mike bears with it. Last night – no, two nights ago – he was caught off guard. His feet are on firmer ground now. And he's not in the habit of showing weakness.

Inside the mall, Fritz wastes no time herding him over to a tiny little electronics shop. Mike's nineteen, but he's only bought a phone once, back in high school. It was a flip-phone but almost no features, basically a tiny brick. These devices all look too good for him. He hangs back and lets Fritz handle most of it. Fritz is the one with the money, after all.

The process doesn't take as long as he thought it would. Fifteen minutes of skulking in the back, trying not to breath on the glass displays, and then Fritz is stomping out with a plastic bag he dumps in Mike's hand as he passes, somehow managing not to drop any of his drinks. Mike's not expecting that. He fumbles and ends up jarring his arm. Fritz pauses and gives him a careful once-over.
“Your arm's fucked up, isn't it.”

It's not a question. Mike holds the bag in his other hand and tucks the offending limb carefully behind him. His lack of an answer is answer enough. Fritz's mouth twists as he turns away. Mike watches him, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Well?” Fritz snaps after a second. “You coming or what?”

Anger. Frustration. Something that might be labelled concern. He doesn't lash out and his hands stay by his sides, so Mike moves to follow him. And follow he does, because he's not particularly familiar with the path Fritz takes him down. Mike isn't the kind of outsider who attracts or gravitates toward other misfits. Fritz, on the other hand...

The new piercing on the back of his neck says it all, really. Two silver studs placed side by side in the middle of his spine. They look uncomfortable, rebellious, like they were probably dangerous to insert. They get twice the staring Mike does, most of it from Mike himself. He can't help it, okay? He really can't. He's walking right behind Fritz, half his attention on the pizzeria – on Bonnie – and the other half trying vainly to keep himself anchored to the present so he doesn't walk into something. Watching the little silver balls in their nest of reddened skin gives him something to focus on. The way they move with each step is kind of mesmerizing.

By the time he comes back to his senses, they're tucked into a corner at the back of a rundown piercing salon. There's chairs. Plastic chairs. And not the good kind. Fritz puts his drinks on one, then grabs a second and turns it around so he can straddle it, resting his arms on the back. Mike wishes he were tall enough to do that. But he isn't, so he sits normally and without comment.

Not on the chairs, anyways.

“Why are we here?”

Fritz smirks. “Fun fact. This salon? Belongs to an ex-employee. We can talk about whatever we like here.”

“Ex-employee?” Mike parrots. His eyes feel like they're popping out of their sockets.
A nod. “Her name's Aimee. She did dishwashing for the day shift till they ran low on night guards and asked her to transfer. She stayed one night and got out while the getting was good. Cursed me out for a good half hour when she heard I'd taken the job, but she lets me bitch about it to her, so it can't be that traumatizing a memory.”

Mike thinks of his first night, of the strange calm that had settled over him as Bonnie loomed over him. The way the fear blended with the awe and the anger to produce something indescribable, some nameless, wordless thing that lasted only until the bell. Is that a traumatic memory? He's not sure. He wouldn't call it one, but he's also seeing red every time he closes his eyes, so.

“So,” Fritz says, drumming his fingers on the chairback. “Your arm. The fuck happened?”

“My shoulder,” Mike says, fingers twitching toward the area in question. “It happened before my shift. There was this girl. She was... saying things. Scott got me out of the conversation by asking me to find a kid who'd wandered into Pirate's Cove.”

“Cut yourself back there? Don't blame you. Lots of sharp edges.”

Mike shakes his head. “I ran into Foxy. He wasn't happy to see me.”

Fritz snaps his head up so fast Mike's surprised he doesn't break his neck. “You what?”

“Ran into Foxy. He kind of...” Mike drags his fingers through the air above his shoulder in a clawing motion. “Thought he was gonna rip me apart, but he just scratched me a bit. Even called Bonnie to come fix me up. Probably because the kid noticed the blood.”

“The fuck,” Fritz says, eyes still a little too wide. “First Bonnie gets his hand around your neck, then Foxy scratches up your shoulder. If Freddy bites you, I'm washing my hands of this whole shitstorm.”

“Is it that weird?”

“So weird. So, so weird. How are you still alive?”

Mike opens his mouth and realizes he has nothing to say. He settles for shrugging, which is the worst idea he's had all week, up to and including taking the night guard job. Ow, ow ow.

“Keep that still, dumbass,” Fritz says, getting up to take a look. His hands are quick but steady as he peels back the coat, running one finger carefully over the bandage. “It's good work. Guess that's to be expected. Bonnie's a professional.”

“Yeah. He is.”

Having someone so close is odd, and these gentle touches are raising the hairs on the back of Mike's neck. He's quietly grateful when Fritz moves away, sprawling back over his own shitty chair.

“While we're talking about the rabbit, I need to know – exactly what has he been saying to you?”

“Uh. Normal stuff, mostly. He asked if he could take my order yesterday, when it looked like he was going to grab me or something. This morning, though...” Mike shivers, despite having his jacket back. “He commented on my shoulder injury. Said it was 'just a scratch.' And then he asked for my jacket and said I'd get it back tomorrow – that's today. And then...”

Red blood.

Red eyes.

Red red red.

“He knew my name,” Mike says softly, as if being quiet about it could change the facts. “And he said he'd be the one to kill me.”