Epilogues: Ringer - Chapter 8

“Bonworth, I need to borrow Michael for a moment.” You hear from behind you, a voice somehow gruff and warm simultaneously. Turning about you find yourself congratulating your correct guess, as Fred Fazbear regards you with a placid, almost unreadable expression. “We need to talk.” He says, addressing you directly. “I assume you remember where my office is?” He asks, and you nod numbly before he turns and threads his way through the party crowd.

“I'll catch you later, Bon. Assuming I'm still alive.” You half-jest, getting a puzzled look from the lanky buck.

“It's probably nothing, Mike. You know how Fred is.” He says, trying to reassure you.

“That's precisely my point.” You reply, setting your jaw slightly askance as you ponder the situation yourself. Resolving to handle this like a man, or at least the kind of man Fred seems to think you should be, you slip through the crowd after him.

Shutting the office door behind you, you're again in a room that holds many uncomfortable memories for you. Fred is seated at his desk, hands steepled in the lap of his cream-colored slacks, a tasteful burgundy button-down with white cuffs and collar completing the ensemble. “Please, have a seat.” He says, half offering and half ordering. You're a little miffed at the treatment, but brush it off as Fred being Fred, and take the proffered seat next to the desk.

“How are things?” He asks affably, for him at least.

“Doing all right, I suppose. Work's work.” You reply neutrally, unsure of where he's going with this conversation.

“Life’s good, eh?” He asks, a loaded question if you've ever heard one.

“Look, if this is about me and Beanie…” you begin, already psyching yourself up to go toe to toe with the large bear.

“It isn't.” He says nonchalantly. Noting your surprise, he continues. “You're both adults, handle yourselves accordingly.” He says calmly.

“But…” you begin, flabbergasted at Fred’s calm demeanor.

“Before? I was protecting one of my own against an unknown quantity. Now? You're family, Mike. Bonnie could do far worse. As much as it may surprise you to hear this, I'm genuinely happy for you both.” He adds, leaning back in easily the more comfortable chair of the two in the room.

“O...kay.” you manage to utter, now quite confused.

“No, this is about you and you alone. More specifically, your injuries and recovery. Do you remember, the time I visited you in the hospital?”

“Barely. I was pretty out of it the first few weeks.”

“I regret that the aftermath of the restaurant folding prevented me from any social calls. Fourteen hour days of dealing with lawyers, testifying in inquests, giving depositions, that sort of thing.”

“I understand, Fred.” You reply, rather enjoying the near humility on display from the otherwise assertive bear.

“Well, that, too, was a business call. You remember signing paperwork for me?”

“Maybe?” You respond, racking your brain for the memory he's citing and coming up foggily short.

“That was a power of attorney, allowing me to act on your behalf during your convalescence. I needed to be able to get you your due before all the proceedings terminated and you were left in the cold, so to speak.”

“I'm not following.”

“Doctor Rabbinson, for all her offers to take care of things, was not forced to bear the burden of your medical expenses. That would have been a lot to ask of her, and totally unnecessary. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to fully set up a proper trust for your recovery, due to the fact that technically, and by every measure we tried to establish, you didn't *actually* exist.” He says, seemingly as puzzled as you are now.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your thoughts lest you betray yourself; you're already so close to the truth here that one slip could lead to disaster. “Yeah. I've tried to dig on my own since I got home, but I haven't found anything. No record for my name and date of birth anywhere in the state of Colorado.”

“Which is exactly what we discovered as well.”

“We?” You ask, leery of yet another animal looking into your past.

“Mister Dent. He's been my family's attorney since I was a cub.” He says, almost nostalgically. You, for one, are having trouble imagining Fred as a bear toddler, climbing trees after a honey comb or whatever bear kids do for fun. “Well, it's very hard to get a court to sign off on a settlement going to a John Doe, so we did the next best thing.” He says, sliding open the top drawer of his desk and retrieving a thick manila envelope and flopping it down on the desktop in front of you.

You raise an eyebrow, now genuinely curious, before you reach forward to retrieve what is obviously yours, given that your name is centered on a small laser printer label. The red string comes off the two paperboard washers easily, and you slide out a sheaf of papers, along with a smaller envelope the size of a brochure. Small cellophane stickers have arrows denoting where you're… supposed to sign?

“What's this, Fred?” You ask, legalese never having been a strong suit of yours.

“Well, let's see.” He begins, pulling the papers from your hand and perusing them briefly before peeling off the first document, flipping to the last page and pushing it back to you, placing his personal gold ink pen on top of it. “*This* terminates my power of attorney. Don't think you need me making decisions for you anymore.” He says, and you can tell he's almost regretting saying that. With a grunt of concurrence, you pick up the pen, quickly scrawling your signature where indicated.

“As you have no lingering medical issues requiring treatment, *this* one is you ordering the liquidation of your annuity, application of it to what outstanding medical debts you have, which are none, Carrol tells me, and direct payment of the balance to you.” He finishes, exchanging one document for another.

Curiosity even more piqued now, you set up to sign this paperwork as well. “How much?” You ask offhandedly, prompting Fred to rifle through another sheaf of papers, searching out a number and damn near spoiling your handwriting.

“Seventeen thousand four hundred thirty-two dollars and twelve cents.” He says, almost bored, as if he didn't just drastically alter your fortunes. Seeing your wide-eyed reaction, the barest smile ticks at the corner of his lips as his gaze flicks up to meet yours. “Don't spend it all in one place.”

“No kidding.” You reply softly.

“All right, the rest of these are applications, more or less. Bank account.” He says, sliding a form to you. “I bank there, and they're the most solid firm in the state. The rest of these pertain to everything in the small envelope.” He says, and you open this, sliding the contents out and giving a startled gasp. Paperclipped together is a state ID card, a social security card, debit card, and, surprisingly, a passport, which you open to find your name and picture within. It's the same photo as on the ID, and you're again racking your brain to try and remember when it was taken.

Fred sees you peering intently at the passport photo, and decides to enlighten you. “Got you cleaned up enough to take a decent picture while you were in recovery.”

“Oh.” You reply, trying to not be creeped out by all of this. There's one other piece of paper here, and you unfold it, feeling the high quality bond paper under your fingertips, intaglio printing forming an ornate frame around surprisingly few words. “Certificate of live birth, Conejos County, Colorado?” You mumble, scanning down a few more lines to find, eerily, your name printed upon it. “Parents… John Doe and Jane Roe?” You mutter, even more confused than a second ago.

“We weren't able to find any records in Colorado for you, but a brush fire took the courthouse in Conejos County twelve years ago. Had to be the only explanation.” He adds sagely, and for the second time today, you're grateful to friends finding a better excuse than you could ever fabricate yourself.

“I still don't understand.”

“That's you. *Legally*. I know Marion has to be paying you under the table; social security didn't have you on file either. That's your life back, all the parts that matter, Mike.” He concludes, waiting for you to sign everything before leaning forward again to neatly collate the various documents together, sliding them back into the envelope, and refastening it with the string.

“Huh.” You manage eloquently. “So how much do I owe you?” You ask, unwilling to be a charity case, certainly not to Fred of all people.

“Nothing. The balance sheet between us is still tilted in your favor; I didn't add to it this time. All the legal work was done pro bono. My attorney is Doctor Rabbinson’s brother, after all. He felt compelled to help you once I explained things to him.”

“Please thank him for me?” You ask, humbled and awed by how well connected your family is.

“You can thank him yourself, he should be by later. Just be warned, he's a little odd-looking.” Fred adds cryptically.

“Oh?”

“He's got a chimera coat. Split right down the middle of his face, poor rabbit. Damnedest thing I've ever seen. ‘Til I met you, anyway.” He gruffly jokes. Stick to pizza, Fred, comedy is not your strong suit. That last you wisely keep to yourself.

“I'll keep that in mind.” You say evenly, extracting your wallet and slipping the relevant cards inside. The birth certificate goes back into the envelope with your passport, both of which you slip into the inside pocket of your coat. A soft knock at the door startles you slightly, before Beanie pokes her head through.

“Hey, Fred? I know your name is on the utilities and all, but can we turn the heater up?” She asks, apparently a sore subject with the taciturn head of household.

“Hadn’t noticed it was cold.” He says, eyebrows raising in curiosity.

“You never do.” Beanie observes dryly, her eyes narrowing.

“Me either.” You reply, finding yourself in the odd place of taking Fred’s side.

“And *you* haven't taken your coat off.” Beanie counters quickly.

“Could've sworn I'd turned it up this morning when I got up.” Fred grumbles, his chair creaking in protest as he lifts his substantial bulk out of it. You follow him toward the door, stopping to wrap your doefriend in a hug, giving her an affectionate peck on the nose.

“Feeling better?”

“Now I am.” She says with a shy smile, returning the embrace. You're interrupted by a grumbling bear, tapping angrily at the thermostat with a massive finger.

“Not working?” You ask, stepping closer.

“Getting air blowing, it's just not warm.” He answers, clearly displeased. A quick glance over the bear's shoulder tells you the device is set to a balmy 72 degrees, but the actual ambient temperature is hovering at 62.

“Check the breakers?” You ask helpfully.

“Furnace is gas, the only building in the complex.This used to be a bottle factory.” He adds, before looking over his shoulder and calling down the hall. “Chica, check the ovens!”

You hear an unintelligible reply from down the hall, before the three of you jump out of your pelts.

“Gas leak, Foxy. The smell is everywhere on the other end of the building.” Comes Mangle's voice from the air register immediately above your heads.

“Thanks, Mangle.” You reply, looking up and favoring the fox with a smile.

“I'm always glad to be of service, especially when you three are involved.” She says, that cryptic grin of hers only slightly visible through a vent that's not yet been altered for convenience by the eccentric masseuse.

“Mango’s classroom should be big enough for everyone, right Fred?” You ask, making the gruff bear jump slightly.

“What? Oh, yes. That should work well enough. Probably decorated, also.” He adds, before the three of you hear more than see Mangle slither off down the ventway. “Damnedest thing I've ever seen.” He mutters.

“You get used to it.” you reassure him.

“Riiiiight.” He replies dubiously before moving down the hall.

“All right, everyone. Apparently we've got a gas leak, so we're going to have to switch venues. Miss Mango, can we use your classroom?” He asks with as much charm as he can muster, reminding you of your first day trip to Jeremy Human’s.

“Of course, Mister Fazbear. It's closer than any of our apartments anyway.” She says cheerfully, with that wide smile of hers.

“Excellent. Everyone grab what you're able, and follow the pink fox.” He begins, before getting more detailed and personal with his orders, managing to get everyone productively moving in short order.

The first wave of people starts to slowly funnel through the front door, and you cast about before electing to grab the delicious-smelling baked ham, the roasting pan being both heavy, and having carry handles making it an easy choice.

“Fred, you have the number to the gas company? My phone's dead.” You tack on.

“Already called it in.” Bonworth pipes up, balancing two casserole dishes of green beans in his paws.

“Thanks. Beanie, you wanna grab the plasticware?” You ask.

She looks at you pointedly, before lifting the punch bowl, gingerly padding past you as to not spill a drop. “Make a hole!” She barks, clearly not in the mood for politeness at the moment.

"What the hell was that about?" You mutter softly.

You manage to get your cargo safely across the parking lot and stationed on a low desk, the Christmas feast being slowly pieced together by, and much like, your new family. Casting about, you can't spot Beanie anywhere, and in any case, there's still stuff to move, especially given the plethora of food that everyone brought. Making your way back to 93A, you allow the next relay of bearers past, then get into the kitchen. Surprisingly, the only person present is Chichi, who's got her feathered head stuck into one of her ovens.

"Hey, Chichi?" you ask, and immediately regret it as she bonks her head in startled response. "Oh, shit, sorry." you say, embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it, Mike. Was making sure the pilot lights were shut off. They get the gas going again, I don't want to come home to an explosive kitchen." she says, her typically brilliant smile on full display now. "Just glad I was already done baking." She adds.

"Good fortune, that." You reply, pausing a moment. "There anything else that needs to be moved? The table was empty, just making sure."

"I think that's it, actually. Is something wrong?" She asks, her brow furrowing slightly.

"No, I... why do you ask?" You query, puzzled.

"Just that Bonnie seemed in a huff, and *you're* looking a little lost." She says astutely.

"Well, okay. We were getting ready to start moving things and I asked her to grab the plasticware and stuff. She just looks at me like I'm being dumber than usual, grabs the punch bowl and marches off."

"Oh, well, that might be because she doesn't like not pulling her own weight. Sometimes even more than that. She got really upset, oh, must've been a month after her first breakdown. We were all really trying to help and we kind of ended up treating her like a little kid. That was *quite* the blowup, let me tell you."

"Well, shit. Any idea where she's gotten off to?"

"She'll be back once she calms down. Just be nice and apologize once she does. You don't want to let things fester with her. I've never met anyone better at holding a grudge." She adds sagely. You ponder the yellow bird's advice for a moment, then step forward and give her a hug.

"Thanks, Chichi." You whisper softly.

"Oh, well, you're welcome. Just looking out for my best friend. And my star pupil." She tacks on, ruffling your hair affectionately.

"Better not let her see that." You say snarkily.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure she knows exactly where my loyalties lie, Mike." She says, smiling before paffing your shoulder with her wing. “Go on ahead, I just need to lock up.” Chichi adds, shooing you off like she's dusting crumbs from an imaginary table.

You make your way through the door, shutting it loosely behind you and stepping back out into the cold. You're torn between waiting for your friend, and searching out your doe, even at the risk of being ripped into. Casting your gaze about, you can't see her anywhere outside, and you grimace slightly, hoping you both can work this out before it gets ugly. Trudging back through the snow and then inside, you're at last able to shed your coat, given that the thermostat's been set to something other than 'off'. Seeing the clear plastic housing open, you wonder where Faz managed to find the key to it. You've certainly tried every single key on the boat anchor, and none of them came even close to doing the job.

You're still pondering the mystery when you turn towards the buffet and almost trip over the small bunny standing next to you. "Oh, hey, Bonson. Merry Christmas!" You say warmly, ruffling the boy's ears as is your wont.

"Hey, Mister Mike." he says flatly.

"What's wrong?" You ask. "Can't be the lump of coal I got you, we haven't opened presents yet." you joke, at a loss for dealing with the young rabbit without his customary energy.

"Lily should be here." he grumps. "Second year in a row she's missed Christmas."

"I've always wanted to meet your sister. She sounds like a really nice lady." You add hopefully. You've grown close to the boy over the last few months, and can't say that you've ever seen him this down before. "I'm sure she'd want to be here."

"Mom says she's in Africa with the Peace Corps still."

"Well, that's a pretty good cause, Bonson. I don't know if I could do that. It's a tough job, and she's doing a lot of good for those people." You add optimistically. You don't *know* that you're lying, at least. "I don't even *remember* if I have a sister. Not for sure anyway." You continue, hoping to buoy the lad's spirits. You're not the only one fond of the boy around these parts.

"Mom says that she thinks they're probably dead. Your family." He says aloud, clearly having not yet learned the value of conversational discretion. Granted, it's not like you haven't gone down that same path and come to the conclusion that they're the functional equivalent of deceased, at any rate. "Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you." He says, clearly abashed.

At least he's getting more observant.

"Don't worry about it, buddy. I've got all the family I could ever ask for right here." You reply, heart swelling with pride and warmth. For emphasis, you clutch the small rabbit to you, squeezing him almost as tightly as he usually does you. He returns the hug with his typically ferocious affection, and you're once again left wondering where he finds such strength in his sparse frame. Must be a rabbit thing, if Bonworth is any indication.

Speaking of, where is that goofball? "Hey, Bonson, have you seen Mister Bonworth? I need to ask him something."

"I think he went over towards the front office. Maybe." The young buck offers with a shrug.

“Thanks, little buddy.” You reply with a casual ruffle of his headfur.

“You didn't *really* get me a lump of coal, did you?” He asks skeptically.

“Of course not.” You fire back with a soft smirk. “We *all* pitched in on it.”