Chapter Text
After pouring over leases and job applications in nearby cities for countless fruitless, uninterrupted hours, Henry almost misses it. He startles, rereading the words he’d just scanned his eyes across without taking in. Bingo. Mike Schmidt.
Michael had gotten careless, reusing an old pseudonym from many years ago, but Henry supposes it’s lucky for him. William had disappeared years ago, leaving behind no trace, and Henry had kept in tentative touch with Michael, never able to tell if Michael actually wanted to talk to Henry or if Michael was simply humoring him. Then, two months ago as of this Monday, Michael had vanished without a word, and Henry was hard-pressed to find him. His room in William's house had been of no help, everything looking as lifeless and empty of personality as it had when Michael and his family had lived there.
Henry had begun worrying about Michael, what with his family's track record of tragedies and William's deep-seated resentment for Michael. He had to see for himself that Michael was alright, and this time, he was going to try harder to be there for Michael. The last remaining Afton was alone now, as far as he knew.
Michael's apartment is locked, the windows dark, and no matter how earnestly Henry asks the woman at the front desk for a key, she refuses. He gives up on the apartment, starting the ignition and pulling up directions to Michael's last known place of work.
“STORAGE FACILITY,” a sign beside the unassuming metal door reads. Henry has the faintest of ideas that he might know what this place is, even though he’s never been here before, and the poster in the staff elevator showing a familiar ballerina with the imperative “DANCE!” printed over it in fun colors confirms his suspicions.
The first thing he notices is how musty the air is down below, as though no fresh oxygen ever manages to escape into the depths of the place. It’s dark, and while Henry isn’t exactly claustrophobic, he can say for certain that he isn’t a fan of the tight ventilation system that employees must crawl through to reach the main facility. He’s going to be sneezing for days, he thinks.
If Henry hadn’t already been hesitant to venture deeper, the dark silhouettes of two people hanging from the ceiling would have done it. That wouldn’t be Michael, he thinks, Michael is too smart and far too experienced dealing with these animatronics to die like that.
The Funtimes had always been William’s babies, his pride and joy, and Henry had kept his nose out of it except to offer minimal suggestions regarding certain areas of their designs that he thought might be too scary for children. He’s beginning to suspect that he should have stepped in sooner.
Nothing moves anywhere in the facility, its rooms dark and vacant, but something stops Henry from calling out for Michael. There’s a tug in his gut that tells him that he is in danger.
Were it not for the flashlight he’d fortunately picked up from his home at the last minute, he would’ve missed the door in Funtime Foxy’s enclosure altogether. As it was, his eyes and flashlight had scanned the room in tandem several times before the dull metal gleam of the door caught his attention.
Henry remembers seeing the blueprints for this facility in William’s study, but there was never a room here. He opens the door with growing trepidation, and for good reason. A foul stench hits his nostrils with horrifyingly sudden abruptness, and he fights the urge to purge his lunch all over the shiny white tiles under his feet.
Henry’s flashlight finds the middle of the room, and Henry’s eyes find Michael. Or rather, what once must have been his remains; if Henry remembers high school health class, that would be a stomach, and that’s a liver. (Blood coats the walls.) Henry vomits in the corner, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
He forces himself to focus, on everything else wrong with this picture, on anything other than Michael’s certain death. The outer casings of two of the Funtimes lay on the floor in pieces. But what’s this…? Henry frowns.
For reasons unknown, Funtime Foxy appears relatively undamaged compared to Ballora and Freddy, their outer casing somewhat chipped and dented but altogether in one piece. Henry knows it’s a mistake to get closer, but he isn’t thinking clearly in the wake of the revelation of what must have happened to Michael.
Foxy’s fingers seize Henry’s ankle, and he freezes. This is it—he’s finally slipped up, and one of William’s creations will be his inevitable end.
But Foxy doesn’t move, and, instead, a gurgling sound emanates from their chest.
As far as Henry knows, Foxy had never been given a voice, and William’s blueprints confirmed that. Their speaker was purely decorative to better match the other three. So why then, how then is it creating any sort of sound at all?
“Henry…” Henry’s heart stops for a second. He knows that voice, despite the definite mechanical echo underlining the words and the crackle of a damaged voicebox. It has been a very, very long day, and he’s lucky he’s dehydrated, because he can feel himself wanting to cry. “Find… my… daughter…”
“Michael?”